Victories of the Space Marines

by Christian Dunn (ed) - (ebook by Undead)

  Reuben waved his bolter to indicate that Wulfric should lead on and the three Space Marines plunged back into the jungle, following what was a fairly obvious trail. They did not have to travel far before they located their quarry, a few feet ahead of them, in a natural glade formed by a break in the trees.

  The creature seemed totally ignorant of their presence, affording them a brief opportunity to assess it. An overall shade of dark, almost midnight-blue, the alien was completely unfamiliar. Without any frame of visual reference, the thing could easily be one of the presumably indigenous life forms. Muted conversations amongst the group drew agreement.

  A slight adjustment to his optical sensors allowed Reuben a closer inspection. The thing had neither fur, nor scales or even insectoid chitin covering its body. It was smooth and unblemished with the same pearlescent sheen to its form that the insects seemed to have. Its limbs were long and sinewy; the musculature of the legs suggesting to Reuben’s understanding of xenobiology that it could very probably run and jump exceptionally well. The arms ended in oddly human-like five-fingered hands. Frankly, Reuben didn’t care about its lineage or whether it had ever displayed any intelligence. In accordance with every belief he held, with every hypno-doctrination he had undergone, he found it utterly repulsive.

  He reacted in accordance with those beliefs and teachings at the exact moment the alien turned its head in their direction, emitting a bone-chilling screech that tore through the jungle. It was so piercing as to be almost unbearable. Reuben’s enhanced auditory senses protected him from the worst of it, but it was the sort of noise that he genuinely suspected could shatter crystal. Unearthly. Inhuman.

  Alien.

  Acting with the intrinsic response of a thousand or more engagements, Reuben flicked his bolter to semi-automatic and squeezed the trigger. Staccato fire roared as every projectile found its target. It was joined, seconds later, by the mimicking echo of the weapons in his fellow Space Marines’ hands.

  At full stretch, the xenos was easily the size of any of the Space Marines shooting at it. It showed no reaction to the wounds that were being ripped open in its body by the hail of bolter fire. It was locked in a berserk rage, uncaring and indifferent to the relentless attack. As the explosive bolts lacerated its body, dark fluid sprayed onto the leaves, onto the ground, onto the Silver Skulls.

  Still it kept coming.

  Reuben switched to full-automatic and unloaded the remainder of the weapon’s magazine. Wulfric and Jalonis followed his example. Eventually, mortally wounded and repelled by the continuous gunfire, the abomination emitted a strangled scream of outrage. It crumpled to the ground just short of their position, spasms wracking its hideous form, and then all movement ceased.

  Smoke curled from the ends of three bolters and the moment was broken only by the crackle of the vox-bead in Reuben’s ear.

  “Report, Reuben.”

  “Sergeant, we found something. Xenos life form. Dead now.”

  Reuben could hear the scowl in his sergeant’s voice. “Remove its head to be sure it is dead, brother.” Reuben smiled. “We’re coming to your position. Hold there.”

  “Yes, brother-sergeant.”

  Not wishing to take any chances, Reuben swiftly reloaded his weapon and stepped forwards to examine the xenos. It had just taken delivery of a payload of several rounds of bolter fire and had resisted death for a preternaturally long time. As such, he was not prepared to trust to it being completely deceased. His misgivings proved unfounded.

  Moving towards the alien, any doubt of its state was dismissed: thick, purple-hued blood oozed stickily from multiple wounds in its body, pooling in the dust of the forest floor, settling on the surface and refusing to soak into the ground. It was as though the planet itself, despite being parched, rejected the fluid. The pungent, acrid scent of its essential vitae was almost sweet, sickly and cloying in the thick, humid air around them. Wrinkling his nose slightly against its stench, Reuben moved closer.

  Lying on the ground, the thing had attempted to curl into an animalistic, defensive position, but was now rapidly stiffening as rigor mortis took hold. Reuben could see its eyes, amethyst-purple, staring glassily up at him. Even in death, sheer hatred shone through. The Adeptus Astartes felt sickened to the stomach at its effrontery to all that was right.

  Just to be on the safe side, he placed the still-hot muzzle of his bolter against its head and fired a solitary shot at point-blank range into it. Grey matter and still more of the purplish blood burst forth like the contents of an over-ripe fruit.

  Reuben crouched down and considered the xenos more carefully. The head was curiously elongated, with no visible ears. The purple eyes were over-large in a comparatively small face. A closer look, despite the odour that roiled up from it, suggested that they may well have been multi-faceted. The head was triangular, coming to a small point at the end of which were two slits that Reuben could only presume were nostrils.

  Anatomically, even by xenos standards it seemed wrong. In a harsh environment like the jungle, any animal would need to adapt just in order to survive. This thing, however, seemed as though it was a vague idea of what was right rather than a practical evolution of the species. It was a complex chain of thought, and the more Reuben considered it, the more the explanation eluded him. It was as though the answer was there, but kept just out of his mental grasp.

  For countless centuries, the Silver Skulls had claimed the heads of their victims as trophies of battle, carefully extracting the skulls and coating them in silver. Thus preserved, the heads of their enemies decorated the ships and vaults of the Chapter proudly. However, the longer Reuben stared at the dead alien, any urge he may have had to make a prize of it ebbed away. Forcing himself not to think on the matter any further, he turned back to the others.

  Wulfric had resumed his search of the surrounding area and even now was gesturing. “It wasn’t alone. Look.” He indicated a series of tracks leading off in scattered directions, mostly deeper into the jungle.

  Reuben gave a sudden, involuntary growl. It had taken three of them with bolters on full-automatic to bring just one of these things to a halt, and even then he had half-suspected that if he hadn’t blasted its brains out, it would have got back up again.

  “Can you make out how many?”

  “Difficult, brother.” Wulfric crouched down and examined the ground. “There’s a lot of scuffing, plus with our passage through, it’s obscured the more obvious prints. Immediate thoughts are perhaps half a dozen, maybe more.” He looked up at Reuben expectantly, awaiting orders from the squad’s second-in-command. “Of course, that’s just in the local area. Who knows how many more of those things are out there?”

  “They probably hunt in packs.” Reuben fingered the hilt of his combat knife.

  Unspoken, the thoughts passed between them. If one was that hard to put down, imagine what half a dozen of them or more would be like to keep at bay. Reuben made a decision and nodded firmly.

  “Good work, Wulfric. See if you can determine any sort of theoretical routes that these things may have taken. Do a short-range perimeter check. Try to remain in visual range if you can. Report anything unusual.”

  “Consider it done,” replied Wulfric, getting to his feet and reloading his bolter. Without a backwards glance, the Space Marine began to trace the footprints.

  The snapping of undergrowth announced the impending arrival of the other three Adeptus Astartes. Straightening, Reuben turned to face his commanding officer. He punched his left fist to his right shoulder in the Chapter’s salute and Gileas returned the gesture.

  All eyes were immediately drawn to the dead creature on the floor.

  “Now that,” said Gileas after a few moments of assessing the look and, particularly, the stench of the alien, “is unlike anything I have ever seen before. And to be blunt, I would be perfectly happy if I never see one again.”

  Reuben dutifully reported the incident to his sergeant. “Sorry to disappoint you, but Wulfric believe
s there could be anything up to a half-dozen other creatures similar to this one in the vicinity. I sent him to track them.”

  Gileas frowned as he listened, his expression darkening thunderously. “Any obvious weaknesses or vulnerable spots?”

  “None that were obvious, no.”

  Gileas glanced at Reuben. They had been brothers-in-arms for over one hundred years and were as close as brothers born. He had never once heard uncertainty in Reuben’s tone and he didn’t like what he heard now. He raised a hand to scratch at his jaw thoughtfully.

  “These things are technically incidental to our mission,” he said coolly, “but we should complete what we have started. It may retain some memory, some thought or knowledge about those we seek.” He turned to the Prognosticator, who was standing slightly apart from the others. “Brother-Prognosticator, much as it pains me to ask you, would you divine what you can from this thing?”

  “As you command.” Bhehan lowered his head in acquiescence and moved to kneel beside the dead alien. The sight of its bloodied and mangled body turned his stomach—not because of the gore, but because of its very inhuman nature. He took a few deep, steadying breaths and laid a hand on what remained of the creature’s head.

  “I sense nothing easily recognisable,” he said, after a time. He glanced up at Reuben. “The damage to its cerebral cortex is too great. Virtually all of its residual psychic energies are gone.” His voice held the slightest hint of reproach.

  Gileas glanced sideways at Reuben, who smiled a little ruefully. “It was you who suggested I remove its head to be sure it was dead, Gil,” he said, the use of the diminutive form of his sergeant’s name reflecting the close friendship the two shared. “I merely used my initiative and modified your suggestion.”

  The sergeant’s lips twitched slightly, but he said nothing. Bhehan moved his hand to the other side of the being’s head without much optimism.

  A flash of something. Distant memories of hunting…

  As swiftly as it had been there, the sensation dwindled and died. Instinctively, and with the training that had granted him the ability to understand such things, Bhehan knew all that was needed to be known.

  “An animal,” said Bhehan. “Nothing more. Separated from the pack. Old, perhaps.” He shook his head and looked up at Gileas. “I’m sorry, brother-sergeant. I cannot give you any more than that.”

  “No matter, Prognosticator,” said Gileas, grimly. “It was worth a try.” He surveyed the surrounding area a little more, looking vaguely disappointed. “This is a waste of time and resources,” he said eventually. “I propose that we regroup, head back the way we came, destroy the ship in case it is, or contains, what the eldar were seeking, and get back to the landing site. We’ll have time to kill, but I’m sure I can think of something to keep us occupied.”

  “Not another one of your impromptu training sessions, Gileas,” objected Reuben with good-natured humour. “Don’t you ever get tired of coming up with new and interesting ways to get us to fight each other?”

  “No,” came the deadpan reply. “Never.”

  Bhehan allowed the Reckoners to discuss their next course of action amongst themselves, waiting for the inevitable request to see what the runes said. He kept his attention half on their conversation, but the other half was caught by something in the dirt beside the dead alien’s head. From his kneeling position, he reached over and scooped it up in one blue-gauntleted hand.

  Barely five centimetres across, the deep wine-red stone was attached to a sturdy length of vine: a crudely made necklace. Bhehan’s brow furrowed slightly as he glanced again at the corpse. It had felt feral and not even remotely intelligent, but then most of its synapses had been shredded by Reuben’s bolter. Putting a hand back against its head yielded nothing. He was feeling more psychic emanations from the trees themselves than from this once-living being. Of course, the charm may not have belonged to the animal; perhaps it had stolen it. It was impossible to know for sure without employing full regression techniques. For that option, however, the thing needed to be alive.

  The young Prognosticator brought the stone closer to his face to study it more intently, and another flash of memory seared through his mind. This one, though, was not the primal force of nature that he had felt from the dead xenos. This was something else entirely. Sudden flashes emblazoned themselves across his mind. Shadowy images wavered in his mind’s eye, images that were intangible and hard to make out.

  A shape. Male? Maybe. Human? Definitely not. Eldar. It was eldar. Wearing the garments of those known as warlocks. It was screaming, cowering.

  It was dying. It was being attacked. A huge shape loomed over it, blocking out the sunlight…

  “Prognosticator!”

  Gileas’ sudden bark brought the psyker out of the trance that he had not even realised he’d fallen into. He stared at the sergeant, the brief look of displacement on his face swiftly replaced by customary attentiveness.

  “My apologies, brother-sergeant,” he said, shaking his mind clear of the visions. He got to his feet and stood straight-backed and alert, the images in his mind already faded. “Here, I found this. It might give us some clue to what happened here.” He proffered the stone and Gileas stared at it with obvious distrust before taking it. He held it up at arm’s length and studied it as it spun, winking in the sunlight.

  “I’ve seen something like this before,” he said thoughtfully. “The eldar wear them. Something to do with their religion, isn’t it?”

  “In honesty, I’m not completely sure,” replied Bhehan. “I haven’t had an opportunity to study one this closely. We, I mean the company Prognosticators, have many theories…” Seeing that the sergeant wasn’t even remotely interested in theories, the psyker tailed off and accepted the object back from Gileas, who seemed more than pleased to be rid of it.

  “If this is an eldar item,” said Gileas, grimly, “then it’s not too much of a leap of faith to believe that they’ve been present, or are present, on this planet. Increases the odds of that wreck being eldar and also that this planet may well have been their ultimate destination.”

  The others concurred. The sergeant nodded abruptly. “Then we definitely return to the ship and we destroy the whole thing. We make damn sure that they find nothing when they get here. Are we in accord?”

  He glanced around and all nodded agreement. They clasped their hands together, one atop the other. Gileas looked sideways at Bhehan who, surprised by this unspoken invitation into the brotherhood of the squad, laid his hand on the others.

  “Brothers all,” said Gileas, and the squad responded in kind.

  “Fetch Wulfric back,” commanded Gileas. Tikaye nodded and voxed through to his battle-brother.

  There was no reply.

  “Wulfric, report,” Tikaye said into the vox, even as they began heading in the direction he had taken, weapons at the ready.

  They moved deeper still into the jungle.

  It was rapidly becoming far more densely packed, the vibrant green of the trees and plants creating an arboreal tunnel through which the five giants marched. Despite the overriding concern at their companion’s whereabouts, the Adeptus Astartes welcomed the moment’s relief from the constant squinting brought about by standing in the direct sunlight. As they made their way with expediency through the trees, light filtered through to mottle the dirt and scrub of the forest floor. Parched dust marked their passage, rising up in clouds around their feet.

  “Brother Wulfric, report.” Tikaye continually tried the vox, but there was still nothing. Bhehan extended the range of his psychic powers, reaching for Wulfric’s awareness, and instead received something far worse. His nostrils flared as a familiar coppery scent assailed him, and he turned slightly to the west.

  “It’s this way,” he said, with confidence.

  “You are sure, brother?”

  “Aye, brother-sergeant.”

  “Jalonis, lead the way. I will bring up the rear.” Gileas, with the practical and seeming
ly effortless ease that he did everything, organised the squad. They had travelled a little further into the trees when a crack as loud as a whip caused them all to whirl on the spot, weapons readied and primed. The first fall of raindrops announced that it was nothing more than the arrival of the tropical storm. The thunder that had barely been audible in the distance was now directly above them.

  The vox in Gileas’ ear crackled with static and he tapped at it irritably. These atmospherics caused such frustrating communication problems. It had never failed to amaze Gileas, a man raised as a savage in a tribe for whom the pinnacle of technological advancement was the longbow, that a race who could genetically engineer super-warriors still couldn’t successfully produce robust communications.

  More static flared, then Jalonis’ voice broke through. It was a scattered message, breaking up as the Space Marine spoke, but Gileas had no trouble extrapolating its meaning.

  “…Jal… found Wulfric… t’s left… him anyway. Dead ah… maybe… dred metres or so.”

  Gileas acknowledged tersely and accelerated his pace.

  Another crack of thunder reverberated so loudly that Gileas swore he could feel his teeth rattle in his jaw. The light drizzle gave way rapidly to huge, fat drops of rain. The canopy of the trees did its best to repel them, but ultimately the persisting rain triumphed. The bare heads of the Silver Skulls were soaked swiftly. Gileas’ hair, wild and untamed at the best of times, soon turned to unruly curls that clung tightly around his face and eyes. He put his helmet back on, not so much to keep his head dry, but more to reduce the risk of his vision being impaired by his own damp hair getting in the way.

  The moment he put his helmet back on, he knew what he would find when he reached Jalonis. The information feed scrolling in front of his eyes told him everything that he needed to know. A sense of foreboding stole over him, and he murmured a prayer to the Emperor under his breath.

  The precipitation did nothing to dispel the steaming heat of the forest, but merely landed on the dusty floor where it was immediately swallowed into the ground as though it had never been.