Raiders stand on the edge as they board the transports one by one. Squads of them are climbing on board; their rifles, machine guns, and all manner of weaponry are loaded and ready. Some of them smile and even laugh, joking among themselves about another successful raid.
Others argue with each other in the back before they are brought to order by their officers. In contrast, others simply expressed apathy and utter callousness.
Explosives and demolition charges by the basket load are secured, and watching from one of the platforms overlooking the hangar stands Brianah, arms behind her back and with her officers by her side. As the raider companies secured themselves and as the ramps started to close, Brianah turned around.
Her officers follow her, though they are merely the officers of this ship; it feels as if they are riding high with her presence.
The mighty commander Brianah - even the mention of that name is enough to get the most unruly of raiders back in shape.
Brianah glances at the officers behind her. She knew who they were; some of them she had even seen in the prison colony that birthed the Black Host.
Still, even the origins of their entire organization have become little more than a distant memory. But to the tall lady leading them all, the nature of their origin is like a fire that will never die.
She knows what they were. They may style themselves as officers but in truth, they are little more than glorified raider leaders who happen to be more competent.
Much has changed since the great escape from that penal colony, which the Black Host has since claimed and turned into their fortress world. But Brianah knows they could not defy who they truly are.
Escaped criminals, scum of the galaxy, and those who were set aside for their misdeeds, given power and an abundance of ships and weapons.
“Captain, what is the status of our targets?”
“We have two targets, a small mining operation and a group of Teuton soldiers who are going in to clear them out and evacuate them.”
One of the officers said, his smile growing wider, confidence shining through it.
“According to some of our scouts, those Teuton troops are lightly armed and are carrying some supplies with them.”
“There's only one feasible route for them to take, so we planned an ambush there with machine guns and raiders. We can loot the bodies later.” Another officer added.
Brianah stares him down, “And the mines?”
“That’s where most of the raider companies will be concentrated. There’s only a handful of them with guns and the others are just a bunch of unarmed miners. The plan is that after we deal with the guards, we plunder and loot the site, take all the heavy mining equipment and the materials they mined… After that we deal with the miners - bayonets and bullets should do the job.”
Brianah nods, this is just another raid. Things really hadn’t changed since their prisoner days.
She has been the commander of the Brianah Host for years and her numbers, weapons and wealth only grew. And yet all she sees around her is an organization that doesn’t seem to change.
Other Hosts are warlord armies, raiders, glorified pirates, and more.
Indeed, the only thing that differentiates her Host from the others is that her Host is far more disciplined, and its officers were paragons of humility compared to their counterparts elsewhere; even if that humility is fuelled by fear of their Host commander.
“Proceed. Leave me, I have something to do in my chambers, dont disturb me.”
“Yes, Host commander!”
Her subordinates run away at breakneck speed, as though they are rats running away from a cat that had just made its presence known.
When all is quiet, she makes her way to her room, the ice-cold air rushing out as she opens the doors, to be immediately greeted by her bedroom and the study directly adjacent to it.
The lady of the Black Host’s shadow looms over the desks, maps, and attack diagrams shrouded in darkness, like the worlds she has attacked, like those soon to follow.
She reviews it all in detail once again. The weapons are in place, the necessary forces and ships have been gathered and the targets are clear. A small smile broke the stone of her gaze, ‘all according to plan.’
…
Dromon’s ethereal body navigates the twists and turns of the snow-covered forests that seem intent on swallowing him whole. Not that he, as a ship spirit, would be in any real danger. The real danger is when void sirens lure your ship in and threaten to consume all psychic energy within, including his own.
No, there is something else here for any predators to deal with, that being, visitors from the galaxy beyond.
No less than a few minutes into his walk when he already finds evidence that there are people here. Footprints that could only have been caused by the movement of hundreds are everywhere. The paths are huge, and most importantly of all, trash was ever abundant amidst the ice.
All of this is before he can even sense the presence of souls nearby. Their psychic signatures suggest strong young men.
“Oh? What’s this now?”
Dromon thinks to himself. He can feel something more in the general direction of where he could feel the souls.
The earth is cracking, and rocks are smashing apart.
The roar of machines as vicious as the greatest void dragons. And of the power consumption, there can be no doubt that there is something huge; he could feel it surging through his very being.
“Ah, I see… A mining operation.”
Dromon closes his eyes and for a brief moment, a sense of calm overcomes him.
A feeling that shatters when the thunderous roar of machines came from the sky, racing down to the surface like comets in a race across space and time.
They are moving fast and hard, too much for the standard landing procedure. Dromon hisses, eyes fixed as he trails the blazing balls of fire, terminating mid-air and metamorphosing into the recognizable shapes of hulls, armored and heavy, weapons systems of all kinds.
Soon, this initial wave is followed by a dozen other smaller transports, unarmed but crawling full of people.
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He can feel it, their souls, and the vile hearts that they all have. The supreme wickedness wants to burst out of the frame.
Dromon surges forward, phasing through trees and rocks until he comes upon a large cliff overlooking a massive, ancient, valley.
Within its gargantuan confines is a large hole in the earth, machines and drones concentrated around it like needles all stitching a massive wound on the continent. He can see shapes, the silhouettes of people running around the place, the echoes of gunfire following soon after.
The ship spirit scoffs, his thoughts replaying memories of an all too familiar scene, ‘Once more, you fools couldn't help yourselves, and beyond the border, you are but lambs.’
Dromon turns around and rushes back to the others, as the sound of battle grows louder and louder, Black Host rockets and heavy machine gun fire fill the air like the ghosts of war screaming their praises to the carnage.
He would be lying if he said he didn't think miners are idiots with more bravado than common sense. Coming out here all on their own, beyond the Imperial borders, and putting themselves at risk of attack from the likes of the Black Host.
And now here they are again, another group of like-minded people performing the same song and dance.
Still, something has to be done.
The ship’s comms systems are still working and Teuton warships operate close by; he could feel them, his kind within those vessels of war.
Yet as he rushes back and comes across his ship, the sound of battle echoes through the forests, gunfire once more. His eyes narrow and become as unyielding as tank armor. What he sees disgusts him.
His ship, the vessel that serves as his house, is riddled with the scars of battle, energy bolts, and bullets, hitting it all over.
Yet as he looks at the source of the incoming fire, his expression changes to that of cold determination. A squad of Teuton soldiers holds their ground, their elemental energy weapons firing away as they make a stand between their foe and the ship behind them.
These soldiers of the empire fight on with relentless, iron discipline. Their fire became a shield against the groups of raiders against them.
Like marauding berserkers the Black Host charges, raiders moving between cover and making expert use of their small arms. Grenades are thrown, and war cries are yelled as other raider squads flanked around, only to be pinned in place by energy machine guns.
“Sarge, these ain’t fresh criminals, these guys are way too organized for that!” screams one of the Teutons, he ducks down as a bullet nearly hits him.
“Damn!” the Sergeant in command looks around his men, only ten Imperial troopers against thrice as many enemies.
“These guys must be Black Host raiders… Pin them in place, dont let them get up here!”
He then grabs the comms specialist, “Call it in, we need mortars!”
The comms specialist signals reach out to nearby mortar teams, and the situation makes itself clear to the sergeant. Behind him and his men is a civilian ship, with people inside. He looks closer with his battle helmet’s built-in binoculars, focusing on two individuals, an old lady and a young man, watching from the viewports. Dangling from their clothes is a familiar symbol, the sergeant freezes when he sees it: the Eye of Heaven. Those two are Teutons, kin.
“Damn!” the sergeant yells, “We got countrymen in that vessel, we push these raiders back!”
The raiders' fire is already rattling its hull, soon enough, this amplifies even further as the raiders bring up their own light machine guns, at the same time, under the cover of their own supporting fire, the others push forward, advancing through the storm of fire.
But the Kovenant soldiers held firm. As the enemy advanced, they were cut down, two or three foes at a time, with superior Imperial army drill and discipline holding the troopers firm.
The sergeant joins his troops and throws a stick grenade, as it erupts, and the final gasp for air is heard from its victims. One of the troopers says, “Sir, just got word from the mortar teams, they can't give us support; they’ve been committed to the push for the mine… The good news is that the others got there in time, and the civilians inside have a shot at getting rescued.”
The pair ducks for cover as a spray of bullets showers their positions. All except the machine gun crew.
The MG-6 light elemental energy machine gun is truly a marvel of weapons technology, boasting large elemental batteries that enable continuous firing, combined with lightness and reliability. The very weapon that has slain more enemies than the standard Laser-gewehr, some would say the workhorse of a squad — The LMG crew fires relentlessly, another half dozen raiders are killed, while others are pinned down or wounded, only to be put down on the spot.
Still, more are coming; from the corner of his eye, he could see more Black Host troops coming their way, adding their assault rifles to the torrent of fire.
It feels like it was never going to end, like a game of infinitely respawning enemies.
“Damn, get your grenades ready!”
Just as the words escaped his mouth, however, the Teutons are caught off guard by a sudden ethereal presence.
And in that brief moment, purple electricity shot forth from behind them, catching the soldiers off guard while their eyes followed the current.
The thundering wave of power crashes against the trees, setting them on fire, other currents are arcing towards their intended targets. The first group of raiders that were hit died instantly; the sheer power of the shocks is immense.
Their clothes are burned away in mere seconds, their skin charred, and their internal organs turned into a barbecue before spreading to the nearest enemies, doing it all over again, their mere existence acting like a magnet of malice.
Another stream of purple thunder arcs forth, immediately turning the bodies of those who are left into darkened husks.
Those who are not killed scream in agony as the thunder hits their legs and arms, they are wounded and downed as their limbs suffered serious burns, some of which featured deep holes as some of the currents ate through them, digging deeper.
The remainder who weren’t hit continued to fire. Their minds are wild with soul-crushing fear and confusion. Some turn tail and start running, and those who remain empty their magazine and drag their wounded comrades back with them, disappearing amidst the ice and snow, but not before the Teuton troops could see their new ally.
Dromon looks at the fleeing raiders with a maddening stare, his face oriented, and his eyes bulging with that most primal emotion.
He runs forward, his form melding with the snow kicked up by the raiders as he catches one. Dromon shoots a lightning bolt at the man’s legs, punching a hole straight through it as he tumbled down to the ground, screaming as he fires wildly at the spirit.
The bullets simply phased right through him, as he stood there, arms crossed, and with the Teutons right behind him.
“Why won't you die?!”
Suddenly, however, the raider is silenced when Dromon raises his hand and points a finger right at the man’s head, the raider’s blood-rage-infested eyes shaking wildly like an animal knowing it would die.
At this moment, a rock hit him in the head, Dromon’s psychic power guiding it into place as the Teutons got hold of him.
Dromon had one more look at the raider before turning around, only to see the squad leader standing before him. A big, burly man, yet one who is still in the prime of his youth.
“You’re the ship spirit of that vessel back there, right? Thanks for the assist.”
Dromon answers, “No need, but please, are the people in that ship alright?”
“Ja, they’ve held up in that ship like we would in a bunker. But I must ask, who are you people, and why are you out here? There’s an active clean-up operation going on here!”
Dromon smiles, “Ah, so that’s why… In that case, let’s head back to the ship; the others would be better at explaining it than I, as for this prisoner? Well, do with him what you normally would.”
