Kenneth raises an eyebrow and answers in a low voice "A good plan. But your forget that one of the missions was to blow up this place. Hiding that long will not work. If we find a different station or if the enemy leaves in time for us to return then that'd work fine thought. But I'll need your help in the 'hiding' department. I am not gifted in staying hidden."
I can help you in hiding. Don't fret there. As for blowing things up, we may have to trust that the other crews completed that objective. I don't know about you, but I have nothing highly explosive left. It's time to fall back and evaluate.
"Err, yes my point was not that WE need to blow the place. My point was if we stay too long then it will get blown up with us still in it. I'm absolutely with you that our task is done and we just need to get out as best as we can."
Ahh Yes. Sorry. Head's still a bit shook up. Ok then. Plan set. If we can evac with the last Astartes, we do. If not, we go with our plan.
MacGuyver returns to his position and prays that what's coming doesn't kill them all first.
Liam very carefully slips into the cargo tube, having quite a bit if trouble preventing his bulky frame from touching any of the simmering hot metal ingots.
Once in a far corner, he sits down with a groan. Well, that was one day, actually only five-ish hours but it sure felt like years.
Next in comes the still unconscious form of Kira, carried in by four ratlings and put down in between Liam and the edge of the stacked adamantium.
Then Jeff is squeezing in on the opposite end of the cargo tube. And lastly, Ikrit and his loader trickle in, having to disconnect the power cabling to press against the walls of the tube on the left and right of Kira.
Even before the cargo lid is sliding close, everyone aboard is feeling hot - but once the lid is closed and your comrades are suddenly out of sight, it gets worse. Then the tube starts to move, slow at first but then suddenly and violently accelerating to a degree that makes you nearly black out. Some of the ingots actually topple and fall off the stack, one each hitting Ikrit and Jeff. It feels like getting hit by a glowing hot hammer. It also makes the rapidly growing heat within the hold even worse for those two.
Before long, everyone is sweating horribly and gasping, longing for cool air.
The voyage is interrupted twice, intermediate stops at junctions, where the lid would open for a few minutes allowing some fresh and cool air to get in before the whole procedure starts anew.
Then at the third stop, you are faced with a familiar looking deck and a bunch of waiting personal - and a lot of ordnance pointing your way.
There is the Astartes leader, looking grim and if you had to guess, very upset to see you instead of his men as was the plan.
There are a trio of robed Tech-Priest(looking more interested in the cache of ingots than you) as well as an entire squad of local Skitarii and even a tracked, heavy combat servitor, as well as Cpt. Jutr with two Storm Troopers of the command squad.
Before any of the others can speak up, the reverberating voice of the bulky Cpt. Jutr fills the chamber.
"Weapons down, they are some of mine!"
Kenneth, MacGyver and the ratfolk look after the outbound cargo tube with very mixed feelings.
There is relief that some of their numbers will soon be out of trouble. Intermixed with the unspoken question if they would ever see them again.
Soon after, the remaining Magos is declaring:
"Inbound movement at the 300 meter mark, main approach.
Confirmed individual readings of mutated human pattern: 21.
Confirmed power readings matching with Mark III Power Armor: 7
Unconfirmed, intermittent contacts: 49."
And then you all can hear the sombre tolling of bells and chanting and buzzing.
At that, one of the Astartes turn towards MacGyver:
"There seems to be a full host of the Arch Enemy inbound to this location. While the forces of the Decayed are slow they are hard to stop and they will arrive close to the scheduled arrival of the next cargo tube. We overheard your discussion and deem it considerably more likely to achieve a positive outcome than the initial plan."
The Magos approaches MacGyver too and faces him with a series of sensor lenses that is difficult to count let alone decide to concentrate on one.
"My calculations match with that of the Astartes. I have deviced a plan for all of them and myself to fit into one cargo tube, allowing for a complete extraction with the next lift. However, this will require some ... changes in my configuration. My superior has marked you as a potential initiate with a developed if rudimentary understanding of the mysteries of the Omnissiah. Thus, I will put those parts I cannot take with me in your care."
And with that, he starts to disconnect various bits and pieces of his mechanic body and places it in front of MacGyver with surprising care and deference as well as some chanting in what must be binaric.
The process takes less than three minutes, after which the Magos is considerably less bulky and ... Unwieldy.
"Now go, and by the will of the Omnissiah, we will see each other again, Novice.", he tells MacGyver and makes the cog sign of the Omnissiah in front of his chest, then turns to the Astartes who have formed up around the spot where the next pod would open its lid and allow entry.
MacGuyver, with all possible reverence for someone who is currently on the verge of outright tremors from exhaustion, stores the Magos' bits in his pack. He doesn't respond verbally. None is needed. He instead turns to Kenneth. I have received orders to leave and preserve some parts of the Magos, and from the sounds of the analysis it would be an exceedingly bad idea to stay. I think it's time to move up our plan to survive and fight another day. Please don't make me leave you behind.
Suddenly, MacGuyver realizes just how HEAVY his pack is. And I could use some of your flock to carry a mechadendrite or armor plate. My pack is super heavy right now.
And it's true. MacGuyver is currently trying to carry fully half of the Magos' mass.
Ikrit climbs into the tube along with his loader. The adrenaline already draining a little with the potential for safety. The heat grows and Ikrit is very quickly struggling against being overcome. As the stack moves and he is clubbed by one of the hot ingots, it just a speeding up of the inevitable oblivion. The stops at stations and the cool air that washes in barely touch Ikrit's state and he murmurs at most as he lies comatose on the floor.
The heat and pressure doesn't affect Liam in the slightest, at some point he probably just found a fifth wind and decided to simply ignore all protests of his body.
Instead he begins to busy himself with caring for Kira, it would be a shame if she didn't make it through this considering everything that had happened already.
At first, his hands slip, perhaps he is a little too tired after all, but his pride forces him to refocus.
He was a medic first and foremost emperor dammit!
He would NOT fail here!
He then quickly checks on Ikrit, to make sure he is only out cold but without damage.
As they arrive, Liam decides to speak up before anyone has a chance to make accusations or anything like that.
"Captain. Reporting.
The Magos in charge decided that the cargo here was too important to delay, and since it was too bulky for the remaining Astartes and Adeptus Mechanicus to travel with, we were ordered to go instead."
Captain Jutr nods crisply, replying:
"Very well. The Emperor protects. You've accomplished much today...",
his gaze wanders to the mostly unconscious forms of the ratlings.
"Prisoners of war too? You really want that promotion, eh?"
"Not....quite sir.
They seem to be a strand of Abhumans sir, a collection of them have been fighting the ancient enemy here sir.
They were instrumental in our success.
The wounded one is their leader.
Assuming she survives, she is likely to be able to offer a lot of local intel."
Kenneth nods at MacGuyver. "No need my friend. I stayed to extend his majesties blessing to those still fighting - not to die in vain when everyone leaves to hopefully fight another day."
He then turns to the ratlings. It seems pitiful how few still remain from the population of this hive. But every single one, both dead and alive, did something worthy this day. They stood up against the arch enemy. When the time came to test their soul it was not found wanting, despite corruption already gnawing at their physical bodies.
"I am proud of you my friends. Every single one of you stood tall in the face of corruption. Now it is time to trust in his majesty one more time. We cannot hold this train station but we will pray that we find another one that will carry us out of here together. But we need some help. Trooper MacGyver here carries a heavy burden in his backpack. He cannot share it since a priest of the machine gods aspect of his majesty gave it to him but how about helping carrying the backpack? I'm sure no could complain about that much."
And with that Kenneth and his "congregation" set out, to help MacGuyver and to have him help them by leading the way and showing them how to hide from the enemy.
- 3Dos at least
MacGuyver gladly accepts the help and even manages to separate out some of the more awkward bits into separate parts of his pack/gear so that not everything was in one unwieldy pack. He'd be sure to get that all back together before arriving back at base, to be sure.
With a final look back at the remaining forces, he nods. Emperor Protects. he whispers before sliding into the darkness.
"Partisans, ey? Even better.
Less torturing, more reliable information - don't let Commissar Yeta hear you repeating my words though, understood?
Well done, Specialist First Class McGregor. You lads managed to procure some serious credits with the local Brass. Maybe they will start to listen to the Colonel instead of wasting all of us in the north trenches...
Now follow these jolly Skitarii to the decon showers and join with Sergeant Simmins and Corporal O'Connor.
After that's done, there will be brief, preliminary debriefing by the Colonel and then you get your R&R period. Dismissed."
While the Captain is talking, the three existed, robed Tech Adepts have started to blurb binaric at the ceiling and multi-jointed heavy duty arms descent from it, embrace the entirety of the cargo tube and lift it off the magrails. Soon after, a compliment of heavy duty servitors appear from a side door and start the process of unloading the metal ingots.
Meanwhile Stormtroopers and Skitarii are fetching the unconscious forms of the Ratlings and carry them off another direction, as you are lead by the decidedly unjolly Skitarii towards the decontamination showers.
What follows is a process better left undiscussed as it involving not only a chemical shower which makes your body feel on fire but also a series of radiation and light exposures that hurts in the eye, ear and head.
It does get a lot better on the other side however as you are greeted by a very enthusiastic if slightly teary hug-and-kiss by Cecil.
The withdrawal from the station is quick and quiet, despite the need to diatribe half-a-magos worth of tech gubbins among a bunch of ratlings. Just as you leave through the west-facing side door, the Astartes open up with their boltguns, sending short bursts of fire through the main bulkhead at yet unseen targets. As a result, you all hear the bells ringing more loudly and the buzzing sound of insects grow much more audible, nearly drowning out the chanting and rattling gunfire.
Then you are out and around a corner hurrying away with the sound of a heavy fight quickly starting to fade away behind you. With the help of the ratlings and the maps found of MacGyver's slate - a copy granted to him by Anatoly - it is easy to find another station. Then Kenneth raises the question whether that station is attached to the same transit cycle as the one they just left - which causes some blanching faces and quick discussion and re-consulting of the maps and then another station a bit further off is selected to make sure you all will not just end up in the same place you are trying very hard to get away from after all...
A thirty minute hike later, you find a rather small station with only two servitors and not too much later the first cargo tube skitters in, opens and is quickly unloaded by the servitors. It seemed to have carried a full load of sandbags. Once it is empty, the servitors actually have to manually reverse its facing on the single magrail. A process which takes them long enough for the first batch of your assorted crew to enter. This process repeats four times without any incident, much to the relief of those anxiously waiting for their turn. As the last batch, including Kenneth, finally leaves, the ratlings surrounding him praise him like a living saint for his deliverance with a fervor that (probably) makes him blush visibly. Never before has he encountered such deep, heartfelt gratitude and faith from a congregation.
Your tube circuit seems to be one of the lesser ones and it takes you a full eight stops to reach the forge hive you started on, and you actually come out in another station than the ones before you.
Which means you are receives by a full complement of Skitarii, combat Servitors and one overseeing combat-geared Magos looking a lot like the one you left behind - before he geared down.
As the tube's side door slides open, he hails you with a mechanical voice that sounds particularly cold.
"Identify yourself or be purged in the name of the Omnissiah!"
The hike to the new tube station isn't harrowing, but MacGuyver's nerves are so frayed and his task to deliver half of a magos back to base so important that he has to actively reign in a creeping paranoia. The passages are cramped and dark which doesn't help, but the nearby fight seems to have drawn off all the local forces, so there aren't any patrols to dodge. He nearly cries with joy when they finally arrive at the right tram and no defending forces are present.
The ride back is jarring. This secondary track has a habit of jolting him and his massive, reconstituted pack of magos bits every few minutes. When they finally slide to a halt, the harsh voice of a magos is as sweet to his ears as the ministorum choirs on Sanguinalia.
He immediately tries to stand, fails, and stumbles under his overloaded pack, hands raised. Hold your fire! I'm MacGuyver of the Sernus 1st! I was forced to take a separate tube from my squad due to enemy activity! I have partisan allies and a Ministorum priest coming with and after me!
Liam returns the hug, though he is worn to the bone by now and so he can't put too much strength in it, even allowing Cecil to steady him a little.
He didn't need it, but he suspected making a show of being "vulnerable" might help her focusing on something besides the horrors she had seen.
"Told you, didn't I? told you I'd make it out of there.
You should listen to your medic, we're the smart lot, so we are.
Besides, I'm almost as tough as an Ogryn, you saw that yourself."
The Magos does blurt a bit of binary and shouts:
"Stop there.
Requesting data...
Waiting...
Inloading...
Identity check required. Hold still."
A servo skull disconnects from the massive power backpack of the Magos and floats over, carrying a spiked instrument attached to its underside.
For a moment it hovers right beside you before, surprisingly gently an slowly, pierces your left biceps with a thin needle appearing at the tip of the instrument, drawing in a bit of blood then reverses and floats back to the Magos.
"Analyzing...
Sending gene sequence...
Inloading...
Identity confirmed.
Welcome back, Novice Enginseer MacGyver, Skitarii Unit 2789-Zeta will lead you through decontamination procedures and then to Magos-Strategus-Dominus Astramos Phi for the induction progress to begin and parallel debriefing.
May I add my gratitude for delivering him back to us?
Surely your mission was blessed by the Omnissiah himself and it is an honor to have you join our ranks."
During the wait period, the next pod has already arrived, disgorging another batch of ruffled and weary ratlings, looking around angsty at their new-old surroundings.
Kenneth, as promised, arrives with the last batch of praying and actually chanting ratling in the same, now rather busy, smaller station with the Magos and Skitarii on guard duties.
Your identification is gathered, confirmed and then the Magos calls out another Skitarii trooper to lead you towards decontamination whilst another trooper is assigned with leading the ratlings away.
Kenneth indeed sees trouble brewing and does not meekly follow the orders of the Magos. Rather than wait for the Skitaari to lead them anywhere he challenges him.
"My friend I have come through fire and plague with these fine people. I am aware of the taint that gnaws at their flesh but I can attest that their souls are untainted and shone bright in the darkness. I'll have you explain where you intend to bring them before I go anywhere."
The Magos looks perplexed at having his orders not followed through immediately.
"The abhumans are scheduled for mass decontamination, data exloading, medical examination, reconditioning and then redistribution among the local workforce of course.
Did you not unload mementory package '0x7fb0336ccef: Processing of captured workforce indentured to other forges'?"
The ratlings look dubious at this announcement and throw glances at Kenneth.
He is able to calm them down though and explain to them that they will be allowed to settle down and continue their life as faithful workers, they are more than willing to go with the metal men.
Kenneth then goes through decontamination and soon joins the few survivors of Mission 'Probe' for debrief and a well earned rest period.
Ludicus is going through the after action reports of the various missions the regiment had taken care of.
Normally, that wasn't part of what he did, usually he was relegated to the punishment details, since that was the typical Commissar fare.
However, these were not normal circumstances, and you had to make do with what you were offered.
He came across several names that he recognised as he thumbed through the reports.
It seemed neither flame trooper Ulric, nor Sergeant Henner had survived, though by all accounts, Ulric had acquitted himself well until his weapon had misfired, and Henner had died in what could be called an Heroic fashion.
Trooper Cecil had survived, and Corporal Simmins had not only survived but earned another promotion.
A fairly quick rise indeed, but not an unexpected one.
The regiment was quite fresh, and a lot of non coms and junior officers had died due to inexperience, mistakes and sheer bad luck.
And of course, those holes needed to be filled.
By all accounts, there were quite a need for Corporals, a few Sergeants and by all accounts, one or two cadets and/or Lieutenants.
Ludicuse's hands twitched, and he felt a strong urge to reach for a Lho stick, but as always, he refrained from giving in to temptation.
When you give up a vice, you really need to give it up for good, not just for when it is not convenient.
As such, the packet remained on the side of the desk, unopened and untouched, a constant temptation, but one that was once again successfully resisted.
I wonder if this is enough? These successes may make a dent in the heretics forces and plans.
Or perhaps they will have no greater purpose in the long run. Only the emperor can know for sure.
Sighing, Ludicus reached for his cap and carefully placed it on his head.
He needed a break, and a short and brisk patrol might help his mind clear.
Taking a quick look in the mirror to make sure he was presentable, he then stepped out of his office and began to patrol, his unusual red Commissar uniform making him stan out amongst the black and yellow troopers, as well as his colleagues.
MacGuyver enters the barracks several hours after the rest. He looks like death, but days nothing into he's had several stuff drinks. With a heavy sigh he lets spill that he's been formally inducted into the AdMech. The next time they saw him he's probably have extra limbs. He also regals then with a story of how he would be instructed by one of the Magi himself.
The only good news is that he's still be second to the regiment.
After getting well and truly hammered, he collapses into his bunk and enjoys his last good night's sleep as a guardsman.
Later that night, a giant of deepest shadow ducks under the barracks door frame. It is wholly black and carries a massive slab of night on its left arm like a shield. In any other company this would have been cause for alarm. In the 1st, the duty watch just sighs.
Thud! Hey, big guy! You forgot where the scrubber is again, eh?
The giant opens its eyes which look like white nebulas in a vacant sky.
I goes to dem, and mecus say screechy go away!
The guard groans and rolls his eyes over to his buddy. One game of Rock, Paper Scissors later he's grumbling about the Emperor not protecting squat and leading Thud to the industrial water scrubbers that served as showers for the Ogryn.
Once cleaned of a ridiculous amount of oil, carbon flecks, and who knows what else, Thud returns to the barracks and lovingly flips his way through his Emprahbuk. Against all odds he has yet to rip a single page. Perhaps the Emperor does protect after all.
Naturally, coming from an agri-world, many members of the regiment were ill suited for the cramped and claustrophobic feel of an admech facility complex like this.
However, there were few soldiers of the Serenus 1st regiment that had a harder time adjusting to this than Asbjörn.
Already a bundle of energy at the best of times, frustration from being coped up was making things worse.
He had taken to constantly bouncing on his feet, heel to to and back again.
Fingers itching, longing for something to do, repairs, maintaining a hightech weapon, driving a tank, setting up explosives, ANYTHING!
And the fact that he had gone from such a high adrenaline situation as taking a bunker and then holding it, to being coped up like this, ESPECIALLY since he had spent some time bed bound due to his broken rib...
This was literal hell for someone like him.
"Gnnngh! Grrrrr....Gnargh!"
You all have been summoned by Col. Daan to a room with a lengthy numerical number a few levels above your officer quarters for a deployment and tactics meeting.
Most of you are commoners at the Colonel's strategic table and you know how they usually go: the Colonel would have tasked everyone to gather some Intel beforehand, present them at the meeting. Then Daan would present the assignment and ask everyone for their opinion of how best to proceed. Everyone is encouraged to discuss the proposals of each other and after an hour, 60 minutes on the point, Daan would rise, thank everyone for their "input" and retreat to his chamber for "evaluation". Typically within the next hour, commands are then issued to the command staff and regiment as a whole as necessary.
You are standing in for Arana Zerkov, the most senior Commissar of the regiment, and notorious hater of this kind of meetings and thus prone to push this duty towards her fellow Commissars. This time, and not for the first, it is your turn to attend.
You are a regular participant of those meetings and the "third source" with respect to the combat strength between the Commissariat estimates of morale and the Munitorums hard numbers.
Beside that, you are regularly requested to provide insights into battlefield conditions and their effect on "effective combat rotations", meaning how long a group of soldiers will remain on the front before rotating back for R&R.
You are also frequently asked for insights into religious matters, e.g. whether or not something is heresy and how to deal with it (whether it is or not).
You are the regimental commander's trigger finger on his personal gun: the few batteries of towed earthshakers your regiment has access to.
Daan uses it sparingly - not at last because you have always been short on shells - but (in your mind) expertly to put pressure and destruction where it matters most.
Today, you come back from the so-called "Northern Trenches", a three hundred and fifty kilometer wide area north of this forge hive, with downright ancient trencheworks criss-crossing a pockmarked hellscape of artillery and bombing craters. The good news is, that your pieces are now stationed in every artilleryman's dream position. Each in its own well dug and reinforced trench with a honest railway leading to each, such that the heavy carts filled with ammunition can be driven all the way to every gun. And the autoforges of the hive produce very nearly enough shells to make you say it out loud.
What sucks pretty bad is that you lost a gun with all hands this morning - and no one knows how. They just stopped firing and once a team came to check them out, everything was over. You've seen the trench yourself. Covered in blood and gore with eye watering symbols formed by intestines which look as if they had fallen by chance into that arrangement. No heads were found and the gun was all but hacked to tiny pieces by something very sharp and very, very hot judging by the fact that the cuts were still lightly glowing ba the time you got there, which was at least an hour later.
You are one of Col. Daan's most vital advisors. It's simple math really. The amount of data you collect, compile into neat reports and hand in for review by the Colonel is orders of magnitude greater than those of all the others, maybe excluding Vi's.
As preparation for this meeting, Daan has asked you to access and compile historical data of this world to find out what is actually going on here - beside the evident fact that the local AdMech is on the loosing end of a long, grinding civil war against its dark kin.
You've spent some long hours convincing the local lexmechanic to grant you unsupervised access to the data engines and only after you demonstrated the local rites of data retrieval nine times in a row without so much as missing a beat were you lead to an cogitators with elevated access rights.
This was five hours ago and in that time you have gone through three hundred years of war reports, casualty lists, production ratios (in particular their steady decline as one forge after the other turned, was captured or destroyed) and expenditure of ammunition, tanks, rations, servitors, "Kriegers", Skitarii forces and even Astartes of the "Omnissiah's Shield" chapter as well as a thousand other minutiae of warfare.
And you don't have the impression of having reached anything remotely resembling the actual outbreak of hostilities.
This war is old. Very, very old.
As befitting a member of the Commissariat, Ludicus had been present even before the appointed hour, and was sitting at the table, hands clasped together, his chin resting on top of them.
Situated before him was a steaming cup of recaf and a half eaten grox bun.
Luckily, the regimental stores were still full enough that they did not need to make do with the typical reconstituted paste that passed for "nourishment" to the Adeptus Mechanicus.
The table of to the side of the room held a large selection of such treats, since a meeting of this nature could be quite pressing on the constitution.
Besides, it was always better to eat while they were warm and fresh.
In typical Commissar fashion, Ludicus unblinking, completely black artificial eyes were observing the door to the room, waiting to see who would be the first to join him.
Joe was early, only a couple of minutes maybe, but despite his wish to be back in the trenches with his guns, he still stuck to the old traditions he had been brought up on where possible and one of those was punctuality. A large man, his bulk was that of the ageing scrumball player that he was, but there was still plenty of strength and clarity of mind behind his watery blue eyes. They needed hefty assistance these days to see anything closer than the healthy range to shoot orks (basilisk effective range for those wondering!), but his monocle did the job, mostly.
As he entered, Joe threw a smart salute to the regimental standard, laying his battered auto shotgun at its base for now, a hasty salute to the colonel who as a friend of many regicide games was used to him, and a perfunctory nod to the commisar seated at the table before he proceeded to the table of food. Grabbing a grox bun in one hand and the recaff pot in the other, he turned to the room. Around a mouthful of his bun, Joe's over loud voice (a symptom of the constant tinnitus in his ears) asked the room at large "Top-up boys", before pouring his own. Grabbing a second bun to replace the already demolished one, he eased himself into his usual place at the table. "Finally got my appetite back after this morning and I'm famished, I need to get me a batman who can cook like yours Sir"
Viola storms into the meeting room on the cusp of being "late". Not that it is anything new.
Her black Hospitaller variant power armor is splattered with blood at the front except for a large rectangular area that gives you the impression that a surgical apron or gown should be there.
She is about to grab a snack while passing the food table but stops and takes a look at her hands. They are caked in blood both dried and still somewhat "fresh" so she grabs the armor gauntlets which have been dangling from the back of the armors "belt" and slides them on. Flexing her hands she gets a satisfied grin for a moment. Most likely enjoying the moment of being fully armored. Then she continues to grab some handfuls of food before proceeding to her place at the table.
There is such a thing as being overly familiar or undiplomatic...
However, certain...eccentricities are often allowable in the upper strata of the regiments.
I believe I shall however, tactfully, avoid mentioning anything in my official report to the Commissariat.
Virgil strides into the room with exactly zero time to spare, as intended. He is, perhaps, the least stereotypical of the bunch. Instead of flowing robes over a hunched old man with pasty skin and quills for fingers, a spry youth strides in. He still has the robes, but his hands seem abnormally normal. Everyone here knows from experience that this is a carefully constructed façade. The man has multiple parallel cogitator augmentations, a skill with data that borders on preternatural, and a pair of autoscribe mechadendrites that hide on his back when he isn't using them.
He ignores the table of refreshments and measures his stride such that he arrives at his seat perfectly spaced to pull out the chair and sit. If not for the Munitorum robes you'd swear he was an AdMech adept.
The cast is gathering, now we merely await the director for this little pict drama.
I wonder what role I shall play today?
The Colonel is entering through a well concealed sliding door in the rear the moment everyone has sat down.
He is wearing full formal attire and even his cap and ceremonial weaponry - although everyone present knows him to be ... pretty far from an expert fighter and also a lousy shot.
Mere moments after the slide door closes, he has his cap, jacket, weapon belt and high-sheen boots off and (neatly) stacked on a sideboard. A pair of civil and pretty comfy looking shoes appear out from somewhere and he slides into them in the same practiced movement he uses to take the head seat, casually waving away any salutations or attempts to rise into attention.
With his signature soft, measured and calm voice he addresses the assembled officers, including not only you but also the following personal:
Maj. MacKencie (Tanks & Stormtroopers)
Maj. Gnutr (Infranty Commander)
Enginseer Primus Dezimus Vi (AdMech)
Deacon Han Chub (Ecclesiarchy)
Cpt. 'Bale Eye' (Navy Liaison)
"Paleman" (Adepts Astra Telepathica)
"Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen. Today's agenda: How to end a war that went on for far too long and avoid joining the meat grinder.
First item of the order as usual, is a quick round of reports from everyone, please, the usual order if you will."
Virgil rises first. As head Munitorum scribe his reports usually inform the others. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Karakathonia, Minkara Sector, Ultima Segmentum. It took me a tremendous amount of effort to get unrestricted, or at least less restricted, access to the local Adeptus Mechanicus Data stacks and cold archives. What I have found is concerning.
As of this moment local allied forces control 47.58% of viable combat corridors, 70.55% of which are rated "Moderately Defensible" or better according to Munitorum Standard Defensibility Scale Sigma 42b revision 3.12.
I was unable to access specific numbers on Skitarii detachments or Clades, but reports from field Commanders put the number of specialist forces resulting from wounded baseline Skitarii soldiery high.
Current forge output is sufficient only for -0.035% replacement rate average, with a notably high rate deviation among servitor and menial populations. Aphrodisiacs have been introduced into local menial water supply and air refiltration ducts to stabilize population losses, but servitor loss rates have necessitated Vat-grown replacements in the interim.
Communications have been severed between this planet and the wider Imperium for centuries, and between us and the other hive clusters recently. One year ago the data links between hives were cut due to a data phage that was infecting cogitator systems.
In coming up with these numbers I have reviewed 300 years of data in five hours. The volume was such that I had to employ thermal shunts five separate times to avoid overheating. My internal data processors are still physically warm from the experience. My conclusion? This is more than a war of attrition. The war itself is festering upon the planet.
He then takes his seat.
Ludicus is next to speak, his calm and well modulated tones designed to grab peoples attention and then keep it.
"I have been studying the after reports of our latest missions, and as many after reports of previous missions that has been undertaken before our arrival.
One reason our mission went so well seems to be the aid our squads received from the local Ratling population.
These Abhumans have been living in the battlefield for generations, and know the area better than anyone.
And yet it seems that anytime a group of them are discovered, they are immediately processed and returned to the workforce rather than utilised in a way to help win the war, as scouts for example.
On paper, it may seem logical to stabilise production, but won't help the overall goal of winning the war necessarily.
I do believe that if make contact and recruit a force of them, we might be able to use them to make a number of surgical strikes at vital positions from unexpected angles, and destabilise the enemy significantly.
It may be somewhat...unorthodox, but a war that has staled as long as this one, requires so called "out of the box" thinking."
Joe nods along as if deep in thought at each summary, probably only taking in 1 word in 5, but supplementing with some lip reading.
Taking the space as his turn, he jumps in with his overloud, almost shouting.
"WHAT'S THAT, EH... USE ABHUMANS FOR THEIR SPECIFIC TOPOGRAPHICAL KNOWLEDGE. SOUNDS LIKE A TOP IDEA TO ME. THEY ARE ALL THE EMPEROR'S SERVANTS AFTER ALL. MY OGRYN MORTAR SQUADS HAVE HAD SOME GREAT SUCCESS, SO WHY NOT THE LITTLE ONES AS WELL, SMALL AND SNEAKY EH!
MY BOYS ARE DUG IN AT THE NORTHERN TRENCHES. POSITION IS EXCELLENT, HIGHLY DEFENSIBLE WITH GOOD SUPPORT LINES, SO I'M SURE WE WON'T BE THERE LONG! WE ARE GETTING A STEADY TRICKLE OF AMMUNITION THROUGH, BUT WOULD BE NICE TO HAVE A LITTLE MORE.
THE BIG ISSUE WE HAVE CURRENTLY, IS THAT ONE OF MY GUNS, CREW AND ALL WAS DESTROYED THIS MORNING IN UNSETTLING CIRCUMSTANCES. WHAT WAS LEFT OF THE CREW WAS IN UNSETTLING PATTERNS THAT HURT THE EYES AND THEY HAD NO HEADS, WHATS MORE THE GUN WAS STILL WARM WHERE IT HAD BEEN CHOPPED APART. WOULDN'T MIND HAVING A PRIEST COME AND HAVE A LOOK AND MAYBE ONE OF THE FRIENDLY COGBOYS AS WELL. PUT ME RIGHT OFF MY BREAKFAST."
Virgil knows a fair bit more about this than he should probably let on with a Sister of Battle (even if she's a Hospitaller) sitting right there. He's managed to read a couple Inquisitorial AAR's over the years. Yes, it's probably Bloodletter of Khorne. The lack of slaughter anywhere other than the gun implies that they were summoned. But instead of saying all that out loud, he decides to share what he knows in a more oblique way.
Sister, Paleman, Deacon, isn't there a faction of the Arch-Enemy that prizes heads? Would devastation like his be within the capabilities of some kind of lightning strike or infiltration?
"I was in the field before we made contact with the local Admechs. We encountered a daemon, setting up an altar that was at least partially made out of skulls.
It was a large creature, horned, red and wielding a sword of some sort."
"Paleman" nods jerkily.
"En-Encounters with th-the never-neverborn are to be exp-expected on a wo-world surrounded by such a powerf-f-ful warp storm and so-so blig-g-g-hted by the ruinous po-powers."
Deacon Chub seemingly cannot keep an outburst in at this point.
"Heresy! This world is overflowing with it. Only complete and utter orbital annihilation would be ever enough to cleanse this emperor forsaken world of the taint it is suffering since times before ..."
Decimus Vi, Head Enginseer and someone you know to be a rather calm person, interrupts with quite some compassion.
"This is a forge world, Deacon, you do not have the jurisdiction to declare exterminatus on a world of ours!"
With deliberate slowness, Ludicus draws his boltgun and drops it loudly on top of the table.
"Kindly keep this on a civil level gentlemen. This is a discussion of what is to be done, it is not a shouting match in a low hive public house."
Ludicus leans forward, his black eyes unblinking as he looks from the Deacon to the Enginseer.
"Should you feel you have just been scolded like pre school juvies, kindly remember that the best way to avoid such is to not ACT like such."
In any case, we have neither the resources nor the authority to order such a thing, unless I have been grossly misinformed. he says like he's trying a vile curse. For now or orders are to win. What can you each tell us about our immaterial foe that might help us actually pull this off?
Both, the Deacon and the Enginseer Primus seem ready to quarrel when the Colonel lifts a small hand with 8 delicate flesh fingers and two augmentics.
"Please keep with you reports and practicalities for now. We will have discussions later - although Mr. Samin is quite right: we do not have the capacity to enact exterminatus on this world even if the locals would beg us for it - which they certainly will not, considering they have fought for many centuries as we were just informed without any external aid."
He turns to the commander of the infantry brigades:
"Major, would you be so kind as to continue with how deployment of the third and fourth is going?"
Maj. Gnutr nods.
"As of fourty minutes ago, 3rd and 4th have reached their assigned trench positions and relieved two badly depleted local Regiments, the ...", he consults a data slate,
"the 4381st and 5002nd Death Korps Line Regiments."
The Colonel nods.
"Alright then. To give you a quick overview...,Enginseer, please light the hololith."
Decimus Vi waves a complex gesture with two manipulator mechadendrites through the air above the converence table, squeaking in high speed binaric. Moments later a three dimensional map of light is overlaid over the table, creating a classic strategic deployment map of a dense trench network criss-crossing the north of the forge hive, securing a nearly 150km long area between two massive, impassable landmarks: a pitch-black abyssal crater in the west and a poisonous yellow-green sludge-lake to the east.
Virgil examines the map carefully to make sure it aligns with his own expectations. As it does, he starts running numbers in the background for resupply, reinforcement rates, attrition numbers, average morale deterioration, supply reserves, and a hundred other things.
The numbers weren't good.
After a few seconds of lighting up the local Noosphere with data, Virgil gives a worried report, Current supply situation good for two weeks if we maintain a tight rotation schedule. Material is not an issue. We have an entire forge at our backs. Our biggest challenge will be personnel with proper food and medical supplies a close second and thrid. The AdMech in the area only offers "nutritional packs" and no medical to speak of that doesn't end in either an augmentic or servitor conversion. I have no idea how these other off-world regiments are getting their replacement troopers, but we certainly aren't getting any that would be trainable in two weeks. The only force that I see is fully reinforceable from the forge is the local skitarii detachments. Supplies are stretched thin across the board here, as is to be expected after well over three centuries of constant conflict.
In short, the less time we spend here the better. We are supposed to fight the Tyrannids after we get out of this forge. I'd prefer to not engage them when already depleted.
Decimus Vi shakes her half-and-half head with vigor.
"I have read the damage report of our steadfast transport vessel. Even under best conditions, it will not be ready within a month, disregarding all issues with navigation and procuring priority support from the locals.
Whatever the outcome of this detour - one thing is practically guaranteed: we will not be part of the initial wave of reinforcements arriving at Atria Six, let alone..."
She suddenly halts and a flickering, emerald light glows within her bionic eye.
She raises her (mostly) human hand in a halting gesture and blares a short, ill modulated sentence: "Priority inload in progress".
Several long moments pass before the flickering light stops and Vi comes round with a brief moment of not-quite confusion.
"The Triumagistrata of Karakathonia B-45 has finished initial appraisal of the gathered data provided by the successful special operation codenamed 'Probe'. It seems that several hitherto unknown enemy installations of great importance have been referenced in the dataset. One is very close to the northern trencheworks, barely twenty point one kilometers beyond the nominal front line.
According to a yet-unprovable hypothesis laid forth by ArchMagos Helliozotroff, these installations have an empyric aspect and may be the reason for the unprecedented stability of the surrounding, local warp storm as well as the frequent appearance of the illogical.
The Triumagistrata has issued preliminary plans for a concentrated offensive to break through and destroy this installation."