Machellus did not move from his station overlooking the rows of pods far off in the hangar. Two rows of five steel hulks containing the Astartes suspended themselves above the gates into the atmosphere, locked in mag cages ready to drop on his word. Before he did, he tapped into the vox at the last minute.
"Alright Gerad, I'm sure you don't need me to repeat your plan back into your face so I won't. I'll get you down there safely for you to do your duty. Good luck Captain."
"Thanks for the pity." Gerad blurted bitterly, unaware that Machellus had already left the channel.
Outside of the pods, alarms rang across the hanger like a mechanical cacophony. Red spotlights spiraled. Tech-priests shepherded their tech slaves off-site and the chapter serfs scurried off into their chambers. The clouds of servo-skulls dispersed and retreated into service vents. The wails of the warning lights repeated until none remained in the hanger but the lone Techmarine. The master of mechanics; he controlled the fate of the 7th Company on the tip of his spindly steel fingers, which hung over the void-lock release.
"Emperor with you boys." His muttering escaped into the silence.
His hand came down without thinking twice. The metal bays shuffled and screeched open, exposing the hangar to open space and slurping the artificial atmosphere of the ship into the gullet of space. The scream of the alarms was muted and drowned out by the drone of the cold exosphere. Machellus' posture snapped, needing him to take a shunted step forward to stop himself from being thrown forward by the sheer force of the vacuum. His breath was stolen as soon as it left him, scrunching his artificial lungs into prune-like sacs within seconds. The mag-rails plummeted toward the planet on their tracks, spraying magnificent showers of auburn sparks. The Ultramarines held their breath as the chambers holding them hit the braces, unbuckling them from the rails and hurling them into the low atmosphere of the blue planet. The void-locks slammed back shut and gravity returned to the hangar. Machellus corrected his stance before making his lungs wealthy with air in a more comfortable environment.
"Right then, let's get them on the ground."
No one spoke within the ironclad walls of the pods; none dared to utter a word in order to retain their focus. It was unusual for the sons of Guilliman to choke their pride in any circumstance, even more before a grand entrance unto the battlefield. Every loose buckle and brace rattled anxiously as the transport spun in mid-air. Gerad was towed along in his safety belt to the clockwise rotation of the pod as it carved through the heavens and plunged into the frozen calamity of Macragge's southern hemisphere. The inertia of the drop forced his stomach into his chest. Or his throat. He couldn't tell just where it was, but he felt numb everywhere below his ribs. Contrarily, his mind was operating at full tactical efficiency. Every command, order, and response he would bellow to his battle-brothers he repeated to himself. In body and martial capability, he was not dissimilar from the fellow captains of his chapter. However mentally, he stood out from his colleagues.
Every company captain of every chapter of the Adeptus Astartes was a figurative library; a cornucopia of tactical prowess and martial knowledge drilled into their flawless psyche since their induction into the space marines. They had to be the shepherd of their brothers and a paragon of peak humanity. Many unlearn the habits that bar them from peak performance in every field, yet Gerad still held onto his greatest flaw.
Gerad was raised on Macragge itself, he was the son of a politician and a social scientist. From his privileged upbringing, he was convinced of the dominance humanity held on the galactic front. He learned of the space marines; the indomitable champions of mankind forged from the template of the Emperor's firstborn sons. Once he became a marine himself, his previous beliefs of the Astartes fuelled his ascension through his company. He was an avid perfectionist, striving to unfold his plans exactly as he wanted. He held an unwavering superstition that any imperfect decision or action was not worth undertaking, as it stunted the possibility of victory little by little. His determination to succeed was a double-edged blade, with every strike of divine resolve he landed wounding himself with an intense self-consciousness. If he does not perfect every warcry he shouts down to the syllables he considers it a wasted effort. He considered himself more of an artisan of war than he was a stoic warlord, and yet despite his differences, his position was fit for a schemer.
His plotting was interrupted by a blip in his helmet interface of an incoming vox-link. He received the transmission, allowing the familiar voice of Machellus to climb into his ear.
"Unit's 1, 3, 5, 6 prepare for readjustments. Landing coordinations have been compromised due to atmospheric debris. You will be redirected to a low-risk path to planetfall."
"What debris would be at this altitude?" Gerad chimed in.
"Biological, Sir," Machellus replied briefly and drearily.
The communications cut, abandoning the marines to confused contemplation. How anything alive could survive at this height was circling through Gerad's head. A perturbing thought invaded his mind; a grim realization that he had no clue what enemy he was fighting. The Imperium has had to eradicate smaller Xenos civilization in every pocket of the galaxy, but the rumours detailing the gruesome efficiency of this new terror were too horrifying to believe. All sparse sightings of these beasts describe them as unthinking raveners, consuming all they see in a feral blitz. Entire planets had been rendered devoid of life in the wake of their occupation. Some theorize they were agents of the ruinous powers. Some believed them a product of orkoid evolution. Some believed they were the champions of an exceptionally mad Haemonculus. What every tale held in common was their scarcity. It was a common statistic that the survivors of these planetary devastations were numbered only in the millions, and sometimes even less. Whatever they were they were deathly efficient in their work, a work the Ultramarines would not let be completed.
The vox blipped back to life for Machellus to deliver another message as the turbulence of the transport rattled the hull. Gerad swallowed in disturbed anticipation.
"Prepare for landing in ETA 5 minutes. Emperor blesses you all."
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