Strange Bedfellows

by BRBrony9

Flight

A squadron of Lightning strike fighters consisted of twelve aircraft in total. Despite being optimised for ground attack, they could still tackle all but the most advanced or well-piloted enemy air units in a straight-up dogfight, or wreak havoc on the ground with rockets, missiles and bombs. They were fast, agile, and well armed. And they were all wiped out with but a single flick of the Daemon's wrist, so subtle that it was barely even visible to the naked eye.

A thick wall of warp energy appeared from the empty air in front of the jets, leaving them no chance to climb over or dive beneath. The entire squadron slammed into the barrier at high speed, and each aircraft exploded on impact, transforming into a million minuscule fragments of shrapnel which poured down the warp barrier like rain. A dozen good pilots, good men and women, gone in a heartbeat. The Daemon Lord was not content with that.

The head of its staff crackled with arcane energy, and suddenly there was warp fire all around. It leaped after the Marauder bombers which had been heading back to their airbases, leaving the combat area. The flames of the Immaterium played over their fuselages and wings, and another half dozen aircraft went down in pieces, shredded by the explosion of their fuel tanks or any remaining ordnance on board. Their added distance from the Daemon had been no saviour for the crews of the heavy bombers.

More Lightning swept in to try and counter the threat, their lascannon flashing brightly, autocannon chattering. This time they had a definite target, not just a morass of atmospheric phenomena into which to aim their weapons. They could focus their fire, hit the target directly, and do it in unison with their fellow pilots, teaming up to bring down the Daemon Lord.

The Daemon Lord in question, however, had other ideas, and with another simple gesture, broke the minds of two of the incoming pilots, without their even realising it. It could have destroyed the flight of Lightnings itself, as it had with the first squadron, but what would the machinations of Tzeentch be without some alterations here and there, without some more complex actions? Without some change?

The two pilots who had been afflicted by the psychic powers of the Daemon pulled in behind their fellow aircrew. Their target now was not the same as the others. Their target now was the others. Their lascannon blazed into life, and four Imperial pilots met their deaths at the hands of their own. The two survivors, brains warped by madness, proceeded to dive their aircraft straight into the river below, with nary a thought for any other course of action, simply because that was what the Daemon wished them to do.

Captain Muran watched on with confusion and horror as his fellow pilots were wiped from the sky, swatted down with no effort by this beast from another realm. Their firepower had failed against it. Their courage, while admirable, was also futile. Their heaviest ordnance had been expended upon the target and it had done no damage whatsoever. What else could they do? Even as he brought his jet around for another run, he watched several more Lightnings destroyed in the blink of an eye, brought down without explanation by their own wingmen. The foulness of Chaos had infected them, it seemed, and there was no telling who might be the next ones to become afflicted by the blight. Only the Daemon knew the answer to that. In that sense, attacking it was no different to attacking any other target; there was always the uncertainty and randomness of battle to contend with. There was no way for an infantryman to know which bullet might find him, or when. Each artillery shell that passed overhead was one which would not kill him, but it was always the one you didn't hear that got you. Pilots had no idea if they would be next on the targeting list of enemy flak gunners until the puffs of smoke began to burst around them, although they did, at least, have the presence of a missile warning receiver that alerted them to any Auspex targeting locks on their aircraft.

Even that limited luxury would be denied them here. This Daemon would not be attacking them with missiles or guns, but with the power of its mind, its very essence, its dark, twisted soul, unleashed upon the mortal plane. That was something for the theologians of the Ecclesiarchy to discuss more than the frontline soldier, but its effects were just as real and just as terrifying as any physical weapon in the possession of any of mankind's enemies. More so, if anything, because it was not a device, not technology that was doing the killing. The intent of the weapon itself was just as malevolent as that of the being which wielded it.

There were orders over the vox, insisting the assault from the air continue, while other dissenting voices were trying to order the opposite. It was a clash of callsigns, with squadron officers requesting instructions from their wing commanders, who in turn were trying to juggle replies to their subordinates with calls further up the chain of command. The attacks were having no effect, men were being driven mad by their proximity to such a powerful psychic being. Surely it was folly to continue trying to destroy this creature in such a way?

But the orders from high command were insistent. An attempt had to be made to destroy this creature at once, however costly it might prove to be in human lives and materiel. At least one more wave of aircraft had to be sent in, doing whatever they could, expending any remaining ordnance and, if necessary, their lives, in the pursuit of the destruction of this foul blight descending upon the city. It would be, perhaps, a futile gesture, but then again, some lucky pilot might find the weak spot and strike the death blow the Imperials were seeking.

Captain Muran turned once more to face the enemy, looking into the disturbing visage of change itself, entropy personified. A reptilian appearance, this thing possessed; puzzling to Muran, who had never been afraid of snakes, lizards or other similar creatures, though he knew it was a phobia shared by many across humanity. Was this really the true face of this Daemon? Was this what it really looked like in its natural form? Or was this merely yet another conceit, another attempt at confusion by a creature bound in service to a god of deceit and trickery?

Perhaps there was not a single man in the Imperium who knew the real answers to those questions. Most would baulk at the process of even attempting to find out, as it would lead one down a very dark and dangerous path. Chaos was so insidious that merely to try and study it in an academic context could lead one straight to madness, or worse, to the same treason which had befallen so many formerly loyal men, and even the superhuman Astartes, during the Horus Heresy and at various points in history since.

Orders were orders, and, as men and women had been doing since the dawn of the Imperial age, it was their duty to follow them and obey, without question or hesitation. Muran targeted the creature in his heads-up display, getting it in his gunsight once more. He could at least try, drain his power packs, empty his autocannon magazine. The order had not exactly been given for ramming attacks, but if it came down to it, he knew that there would be those among the aircrew, probably those among his own squadron, who would willingly sacrifice their lives in a suicidal final dive if it meant a chance, however small, of destroying this Daemon for good.

He did not count himself among those men. While a combat mission always carried risks, some more than others, and loyalty to the Imperial cause was always a trait worth carrying close to one's heart, there was a fine line between bravery and foolishness. If it could somehow be known, with reasonable certainty, that a Lightning on full afterburner smashing into the Daemon would destroy it or banish it, then that was one thing; a loss of one pilot and one jet in return for the destruction of one of the most potent enemies of mankind was the kind of simple arithmetic that theatre commanders always hoped to achieve, and Commissars and Ecclesiarch Confessors longed for, because it gave them the chance to call for volunteers for the heroic sacrifice, and give a rousing speech to those left behind as they saluted their comrade on his desperate ride, just the kind of thing which would play well on the propaganda vid-picts played to civilians back home.

It was doubtful whether any such vid-records would ever be shown of this particular battle, regardless of the outcome. It was such a backwater part of the galaxy, and news of strange, enigmatic new species with potent psychic powers did not make good viewing for the masses. They were fearful enough as it was without new Xenos to concern themselves with, however benign the aliens might actually be. Their true nemesis, of course, was Chaos, which was exactly why they were fighting this battle.

The creature was dead centre in his crosshairs. Muran pulled the trigger again, and the autocannon blared, the twin lascannon, slaved to the main trigger so all guns could be fired in unison, flashed brightly. Other aircraft were making their runs, too, striking hard as they swooped down from above, out of the sun. Once again, just like the last wave, it did nothing. The Daemon continued to float down toward the city below, and it continued to defend itself, no longer with trickery, but with raw power. Several Lightnings disintegrated in mid-air, while others simply continued their dive all the way into the river below, their pilots either dead or captivated by inexplicable visions only they could see.

Muran's autocannon clicked empty. He had expended its entire ammunition supply, an easy task if one held down the trigger for more than a few seconds, given its prodigious rate of fire. The two lascannon continued to spit fury, but even their power packs would run dry soon enough. A few more shots was all Muran could manage before he had to turn and break left to avoid a collision, which he doubted would affect the Daemon in any way. The more firepower was hurled at it, the more questions arose as to why it was allowing itself to endure such punishment, even if it was not feeling any physical pain. It was not the usual tactic of such a Daemon to engage on the field of battle directly.

Behind him, several more Lightnings were struck down from the sky with ease, the Daemon seeming to delight in plucking their wings one by one. Suddenly its attention, seemingly on a whim, turned to Muran's aircraft, and a mixture of blue and purple light played over the fuselage and canopy, crackling like electricity, and having a similar effect to a huge surge of that fundamental force running through the Lightning's systems. Lights went out, while others illuminated, blood red warnings and amber cautions, at least temporarily before they all went dim as well. The engines suddenly cut out, and even the control column became heavy, the electrically-assisted hydraulic elevators and ailerons losing their boost and relying entirely on mechanical effort to move them. The Lightning had lost all power, just as it had when he had been flying through the storm clouds near Manehattan. That time, a simple restart procedure had resolved the issue, but this was no normal electrical overload. This was warp energy, and as Muran feared, the restart operation did nothing. The engines would not light, the vox was dead, his controls sluggish. He looked around for Rall, and found that his wingman was still there beside him.

So far as Muran could determine, Rall's jet was unaffected by the attack which had crippled his own. He made a gesture to signal that he was alright, which Rall returned. He then pointed his fingers down before making a flat shape with his hand, signalling that he would have to land. He then signalled for Rall to rejoin the attack, but his wingman shook his head firmly, trying to signal something else that didn't quite come across in translation.

Rall remained alongside him as Muran's Lightning began to descend gradually, gliding as it was powerless, losing height as it headed away to the north. Muran started looking for a suitable place to land. The emergency diversion airbases were too far away, and a quick systems check told him that his orbital injection engine was out as well, meaning he could not make it back to the Emperor's Judgement either. An emergency landing was the only option, either that or ejecting, and given the effect of the warp energy on the Lightning's other systems, Muran didn't much fancy relying on the separate, isolated, but still electrically-actuated canopy release or automatic grav-chute deployment mechanisms for survival. Far better to trust his own hand and the hydraulic and mechanical connections to the aircraft's control surfaces.

The Lightning could belly land anywhere that was relatively flat and smooth. Rough terrain was a no-go, and if the chosen landing area was too hilly, disaster was just as likely to result. The Lightning normally landed using skids rather than wheels, as it was frequently deployed from, and had to return to, starship docking bays, whose metallic floors would offer little resistance to tires, being rather like ice when compared to ferrocrete or tarmac which would be used in forward airbases to coat runways. A belly landing was a risky proposition, but, when setting down anywhere other than a prepared airbase, it was the only sensible option. The landing skids could catch easily in branches, bushes, animal warrens, depressions in the ground, craters, tree roots, boulders or any number of other obstacles which could end up in the Lightning's path, resulting in the craft likely flipping over. Landing with the relatively flat underside of the craft spread the weight across a larger surface area and gave far more stability and control. The only downside was that there was the potential for rupturing the ventral and wing fuel tanks or underwing armament. Normally, external stores would be jettisoned before such a landing, and the fuel dumped through wingtip vents. But with no electrical control whatsoever, flying a dead aircraft, Muran could not activate the fuel dumping mechanism. At least, he thought, I've already used up my missiles.

Ahead lay the grasslands of southern Equestria. He had been over the middle of the city, where the river ran through it, when his jet had been struck, and now he was passing over the friendly lines on the outskirts. Though he had only been at a few thousand feet, he still had plenty of lift and could potentially glide for several more miles if necessary, but there was a large expanse of seemingly smooth terrain just beyond the trenches, where the Imperial long-range artillery had set up. That would be his landing spot, he decided. Best to set down in range of friendly forces who could pick him up, maybe get him to an airbase where he could take a spare fighter back up, back into battle.

The joystick was heavy in his hand as he manipulated the control surfaces of the Lightning, having to reply on mechanical backup linkages instead of the electrically-aided hydraulics. The craft was entirely dead, all of its systems fried. It was hard work using his feet to move the rudder pedals, and his arms to move the stick and control the elevators and ailerons, but he managed to bring the Lightning in on a steady glide, getting lower. The ground ahead grew in the canopy as he lost more and more height. Rall stayed just behind him, ready to start circling over the landing site as was standard practice to guide in rescue teams, assuming any would be sent. Failing that, Muran knew he could just walk to the artillery positions which were less than a mile behind him.

As well as the digital readouts, the Lightning did possess a purely mechanical altimeter, which gave a broadly accurate reading of Muran's height above mean sea level, having been calculated for this particular planet when the fleet deployed for landing operations; not entirely useful given that he was not trying to land at sea level, but a broad indicator of how high he was. As the jet came lower and lower, its shadow began to grow, cast on the ground below it. Muran used it as a better guide to his altitude above the grasslands. The ground ahead appeared mercifully flat, just a few scattered bumps here and there, and he knew he had picked a good spot for setting down. The backup airspeed indicator showed his approach speed; a touch on the high side, countered by raising the nose slightly. One false move at the wrong time could see the jet tumbling end over end, ripping itself apart and turning into a blazing fireball as the fuel tanks ignited, since he had not been able to vent them as he normally would. Lower, lower, still lower, the shadow sweeping across the land below. Still too fast, raise the nose again. A little more. Flat grass in front, angle of attack good. One hundred feet. Fifty, perhaps. Thirty, twenty. Landing flare, lift the nose, bleeding the speed off, losing lift, slowing, slowing, sinking...

With a sharp jolt, the Lightning struck the ground and began to slide across the grass, churning up the dirt in its wake. It juddered and shook as the belly of the craft scraped along, mercifully not tearing through the relatively thin outer shell and exposing the fuel tanks inside. The remaining speed of the Lightning rapidly bled off as it tore up the field, slewing to the left before coming to a halt, left wing down, scuffed and battered but intact and upright. Muran felt a sudden urge to slump in his seat; a belly landing was always hazardous, and one where the controls were unresponsive due to the electrical failure and where the tanks were still half-full of fuel was one that no pilot would wish to have to navigate.

But navigate it he had, successfully, and now it was time to get out of the jet. There was still the danger of fire; nothing had yet been ignited, but it was always possible that the skin of the aircraft's underside had been penetrated enough to cause a leak of Promethium, and even a small spark, or contact with a hot exhaust or the engine intakes, which were still cooling, could be fatal. Muran reached up for the emergency canopy jettison latches. They had to be pulled down and then flipped up, to avoid any possibility of an impact during flight setting them loose and depressurising the cockpit. Though Muran wore full oxygen gear during flight at all times, a depressurisation could still prove fatal by way of rapidly fogging up the cockpit due to the sudden pressure drop, which would cause visibility to drop almost to zero, and if he couldn't see out of the jet, he couldn't see where the enemy were, or what was in front of him.

With the latches released, he was able to push at the canopy, making it rise up. He disconnected his oxygen supply, removing his mask and unfastening his harness. Rall circled overhead, and Muran gave him a thumbs up to signal that he was alright. Rall responded by waggling his wings in acknowledgement. Beyond simple communication like that, there was no way for the two men to talk to each other, thanks to the vox of Muran's lightning being knocked out. He tried again to signal for Rall to go rejoin the fight, but again, his wingman did not comply.

Muran grabbed his emergency pack from the cockpit, checking his laspistol, just in case. Yes, he was behind friendly lines, but nothing was certain. Better to be safe than sorry. He stepped down onto the wing and then hopped down onto the dirt, checking over his craft. Beyond the inevitable scratches and dings to the paintwork from a belly landing, there was barely any damage to be seen. A perfect touchdown, if I do say so myself.

He set off southward, towards the Imperial artillery positions he had flown over. They were likely to be the nearest friendly unit to him, certainly that he was aware of. They would have a working vox which he could use to relay his position to squadron command, or to the fleet if necessary. He doubted very much that any effort would be wasted in trying to pick him up, but he at least had to let them know that he was alive. Most likely he would have to spend the rest of the battle with whatever unit he came upon first. It would not be the first time; in Manehattan, he had ended up with one of the tank crews, after all.

The city lay up ahead, though most of it was out of sight due to the terrain. The artillery had positioned themselves atop a low ridge overlooking Fillydelphia, which blocked Muran's view. He began to walk, heading across the grassy terrain, leaving his downed jet behind him. It had only taken minor damage and would hopefully be recovered in due course by the maintenance personnel assigned either to the nearest airbase or the Emperor's Judgement. There was no sense in wasting a perfectly repairable aircraft, at least assuming the electrical system could be fixed. The warp energy could have completely fried it and left it, and by extension the whole aircraft, utterly useless.

As a pilot on the ground, Muran was equally useless now, deprived of his chariot and its firepower. All he could do was walk and hope to link up with another unit, then await the resolution of the battle. He could hear the sound of engines, vehicles on the move somewhere up ahead. They sounded close, and getting closer, it seemed. A convoy to the front, perhaps, he could hitch a ride with?

There was a row of small trees and bushes up ahead, whether natural or planted by ponies, he could not tell. Something suddenly pushed through, crushing several saplings beneath it. It was a Basilisk, a mobile artillery vehicle, heading toward him. They must have seen him go down and sent out a recovery team. But if that was the case, why not send one of the Salamander support vehicles? Surely the Basilisks were still standing by in case they were called upon to fire at the Daemon once more?

There was another Basilisk coming through the bushes, then another, and another farther down, a whole battery of them. There were Salamanders, too, and Trojan supply vehicles, all churning up the grass as they headed toward him. Were they repositioning, moving to a better location? He flagged down the nearest vehicle, and the Basilisk pulled up beside him, the crew peering down from the open fighting compartment.

'Climb on!' the commander urged with a gesture. 'Hurry it up!'

Muran clambered up onto the track guard and then into the compartment with the crew. 'Thanks. What's the rush, Lieutenant?' he asked the commander.

'They called the retreat!' the Lieutenant replied. 'Didn't you get the order?'

Muran shook his head. 'My vox was fried. 'Everybody's pulling out?' he questioned, leaning against the side of the compartment as the Basilisk lurched into motion once again, heading to the north, away from the city and the threat of the Daemon.

'Everybody,' the Lieutenant replied with a firm nod. 'General retreat, orders of high command. They're going to hit that bastard from orbit.'

Comments

[Booster Spice]

The Demon Lord is using The power of freindly orbital fire combined with the city sacrifice or even itself to force a Warp Portal, mini eye, to start the subsumption of the planet?