Difference between revisions of "Category:Down Time Fiction"

E14

Attack Drukari Base Cerastes,Dunrega, Von den Totten, Rexus, Lupus, Kasputin, Borovich (Success)

In a dark corner of space, surrounded by the shattered remnants of an unformed world a Drukhari base sits in shadow. Spread across multiple asteroids the base provides refuge and rest to a fleet of vicious raiders who revel in the terror they spread around the civilisations in striking distance. The denizens of this base are used to being the predator waiting to rush the herd and cut out the choicest meat, but with the arrival of the Arkangel Fleet it is time for them to see and feel what it is like from the opposite side.

It begins with ships of the Cerastes and Dunrega Dynasties creeping quietly into the system, gently probing for information and mapping the layout of the asteroid field, finding the best places for the rest of the assault to form up and prevent any of the Xenos from escaping. Disaster almost strikes immediately as The Fist of Ichadon stumbles onto an entire fleet of raiders on their way out the system; a fleet the advanced scouts had warned was heading for Arkangel space. Lord Captain Slate immediately turns and in an attempt to act as if assaulting the fleet was the original intention draws them into a running battle all the way into Arkangel space.

Refusing to allow a single ship to dissuade them, the Drukhari gleefully attempt to swarm the Durega ship whose careful manoeuvring and judicious use of its overpowered macrocannons keep the battle running for weeks. Weeks the Van Den Totten Dynasty made good use of. Erupting from the Empyrean amongst the Drukhari fleet, a positioning made possible by the constant coordination and plotting sent by Lord Captain Slate’s astropaths. The mighty Imperial warship The Nightfall burst forth, the energy bleed from the translation alone destroying or crippling dozens of the raider vessels even before point blank weapon fire overwhelmed the shadow fields that normally wrap the Aeldari ships in a cloak of protection. As each field overloads and shuts down, Lord Captain Sev unleashes her shock troopers upon the Drukhari, and now these dark and cruel Xenos gain firsthand knowledge of what it feels like to be hunted and terrorised by black clad remorseless killers. Very few have time to recognise the irony before having their life taken from them. In the end only a handful of the raiders get the chance to flee, their assault on territory

As the Dunrega act as bait and draw the fleet away the Cerastes complete their investigations and hand over to Lord Captain Rexus who carefully primes the jaws of the trap. Setting up artillery and stormtrooper outposts across the edges of the asteroid field which make it difficult for Drukhari vessels to defend the base or flee when the attack goes in, all is in readiness.

Like the calm before the storm, a quiet tension fills Valhalla’s Regards as it awaits the arrival of their allies. If they are noticed before everyone else arrives they will gladly assault but plans are made for a reason, and this success is greater if the plan is followed. Conception of Hope, Zoya’s Triumph, and The Frank Exchange of Views soon arrive however and the time for the assault arrives.

Multiple fighter and bomber wings launched by The Frank Exchange of Views lead the attack, and guided by the emplaced stormtrooper outposts, precision strikes take out the anti capital ship defence weapons allowing the cruisers to approach in relative safety and bombard directly. Drukhari vessels use shadow field technology to hide their location and coupled with speed and manoeuvrability most weapons struggle to land a shot, a base however, has none of these protections. Their best defence is that none know where to attack in the first place and careful scouting and planning has taken this strength from the defenders.

Troops of the Kasputin dynasty that while they are no longer of the Astra Militarum in name, in spirit they still are, assault in a manner that would make the commissariat proud. Borovich landing teams may have less discipline but no less ferocity and there is still an echo of tactics any officer of the Imperial Guard would recognise in how they fire and manoeuvre across the field.

It happens suddenly, all at once the xeno ships which had been putting up a strong if forlorn defence attempt to flee. Only to discover that between Lupus Astra Nova fighter wings and the emplaced stormtroopers there is nowhere to go, it looks to all as though none will escape this punishing assault by the Rogue Trader ships. For whomever is in charge of the Drukari capture or destruction seems to not be an option and in order to make an opening a several corvette sized vessels attempt suicidal ramming attacks to clear a path for the largest of the Drukhari ships to flee.

The Suicidal ramming attacks take the Rogue Trader ships by surprise and Valhalla’s Regards chose to protect others before itself was struck a glancing blow. The damage, though minor, is lasting and forces the ship to give way just far enough for a Drukhari cruiser named Otbaunir Kotar to escape to safety.

With the departure of their leadership, organised resistance within the base soon falls apart and the ground forces quickly overwhelm the defenders. Before long the Drukhari base is in Imperial hands and loot can be claimed. The time spent by the stormtroopers before the attack wasn’t wasted as they are able to point out the locations of valuable resources to their Lord Captain ensuring a quick and efficient stripping of the base. The only potential problem occurs when in the process of clearing anything valuable the search parties find that the slave pens are nearly full. It seems the timing of the attack caught the facility between delivery cycles and thousands of humans who claim membership in the BMTF and The Font are found locked in cages. A decision on what to do with these refugees is now in front of the Captains Table.

Defend Arkangel against Orks Victoria, Alexander

Space churns and twists in a spot not too far from Arkangel. Sensor warnings flare up on ships belonging to the Alexander and Victoria Dynasties. Something is coming and it's certainly not friendly. With a screech of realspace being wounded on a fundamental level the immaterium opens up. Coils and tendrils of madness and entropy made manifest reach out into the cold dark and find nothing.

With a cough made through destruction of baseline reality and physics a number of ships are vomited out of the warp and into the prime material. Each one has flaring, oversized orange and red thrusters and they accelerate to full speed almost immediately. Every ship seems like it was made as an insult to the Omnissiah, ramshackle and disorganised, bodged together from the carcasses and pieces of anything that the crew could get their grubby hands on. In fact one of the forerunner ships seems to have an Aeldari Solar Sail mounted onto the top, so maybe they are attempting to insult any God that looks in their general direction.

There is no formation or any form of strategic backing to the Ork ships as they careen forwards into what is hopefully a fight. At the very front is a massive ship, the prow hammered and melted to the point that it looks like a giant fist flying through space, the word "GROT HAMMA" is hastily painted on the flank of the vessel in a multitude of bright, garish colours. Smaller vessels soar ahead of it and screams and cries of excitement and joy blast out on all vox channels, adding a sonic assault to what should be a silent display.

Like a blade through the shadow of the void, The Glorious Endeavour cruises forwards, light sparkling across its hull like a fresh golden sunrise and setting its gunports into deep shadow, as though it were a great beast sleeping, eyes shut and claws retracted. A lone ship with no allies was simply too juicy a target. Especially when a message cut through the vox traffic to the Ork ship, insulting the Captain, everything he stood for, even his boss, almost perfectly crafted to entice him into blind, reckless rage.

With a roar of fury, Captain Squigbyta orders a full ahead and even slams his hand down onto a giant red button, sending the engines into overdrive and causing the fuselage of the Hamma to groan and squeal as though it were in pain. It was already growing closer to The Glorious Endeavour as the Imperial vessel's weapons started to cycle up and charge.

Then another message came through the vox to Squigbyta. A code signal, traded for and given as a deal with a freeboota. A signal to treat the ship as an ally. The ship that was such a juicy target, so perfectly set up to be crashed into, to give them a glorious fight and some prime loot! The realisation of the fact he had just become prey hit Captain Squigbyta like a torpedo, knocking him and his assault off course.

Or perhaps that was the actual torpedo striking the belowdecks of the Grot Hamma. Generators cycling to full power another ship came screaming out of the shadow, weapons charged and flashing death into the void. Torpedoes shredded metal and vented oxygen into space, decompression tossing green corpses out like gory confetti. The Pride of Victoria had snapped shut the jaws of the trap.

The Victoria Dynasty, masters of xenology that they were, had carefully crafted this plan to ensure maximum Ork aggression and to be certain that when the fighting began they were as confused and off-balance as they could be; maximum effect for minimum effort.

This was all the signal that was needed. The weapons of the Alexander Dynasty roared fury, casting out plasma, laser and torpedo. Caught between the might of two grand vessels of the Imperium, these ragtag ships were nothing more than salvage to be had and wreckage to be made.

The Grot Hamma burned and couldn't arrest its momentum, it listed to the side as its reactors were struck, plasma blasting out as an impromptu side thruster causing the ship to roll. The Glorious Endeavour slid past it smoothly, unleashing broadsides into the dying vessel, stripping its hull away like a hunter strips the hide from a kill.

A smaller ship, the Dakka Dansur bled gas as it was sliced open with lance fire from The Pride of Victoria, the cuts almost surgical in precision. It wasn't enough to just win this engagement, it had to be decisive, to show that facing the Pride of Arkangel was a fool's errand. The imperial ship didn't spare a second glance at the Dakka Dansur as it bled to death. It cut through expanding vapours and plasma runoff and sank its fangs into the next ship. The jagged darts of torpedoes laid waste to the ship easily and by the time it was done, The Glorious Endeavour had finished off the last of the Ork Raiders. Other than small amounts of return fire crashing against the shields like waves against a fortress, the imperial vessels were none the worse for wear.

With their kills fresh, just like the predators they were, they set about feasting, gathering salvage to trade away or use.

E15

When Angels Cry Dunrega (Complete Success)

It was a pretty normal day in Arkangel, all things considered. Sure she'd had to carefully reposition some preachers that were getting in the way of moving bloody cargo and she'd stopped two of the dockworkers from putting up another tag of the bloody Slugger but in all honesty morale was pretty high. Elaine gave a soft sigh and ran her hand over her head before putting a stamp on a cargo manifest and putting it back into an envelope.

It was getting into the night cycle now, the lights beginning to ebb low and she was looking forwards to heading back to her hab and getting a solid five hours of sleep before her shift the next day. Just as she was clearing away the rest of her desk, there was a knock at the door to the tiny cramped office she was entitled to as the leader of the Union around these parts. She gave a grunt to come in and the door cracked open, the head of one of her boys poking in, a large stony faced Ogryn by the name of Garth.

"Alrigh' boss, got some gangs 'ere sayin' they's got a permit to sees ya." He gravelled and Elaine's eyebrows furrowed.

"They say who it was from?" She returned with a frown.

"No... Didn't 'hink ta ask, lemme che-"

As Garth turned back there was a grunt, the sound of metal hitting flesh and then a loud pop that filled the air with the scent of blood and ozone, fragments of bone spattering against her desk and the wall like pieces of shrapnel. Garth fell back, missing his head and two figures pushed through the door.

Decked out in black and yellow and hazard stripes, there was a thin, wiry looking man with a blazing yellow mohawk and a shorter, stocky woman whose dreadlocks were dyed various shades of red, pink and purple. The woman was cleaning off the powerfist over her left hand that was currently coated in sticky, burned blood. Elaine spent a moment in shock before standing up, pulling open a drawer on her desk.

Before she could even reach the laspistol there was a roar that was utterly deafening in the tiny room and her left leg was blown out from under her as a bolt shell took her in the knee. She screamed and dropped as the wiry man leaped over the desk and immediately stuck her with a shot of Coag, stopping her from bleeding out before he tied up her hands. She only managed to hear the woman speak into the vox for a moment before there was a meaty thud and unconsciousness took her over.

"Get the party started."

Across the docks of Arkangel, a small-scale gang war broke out.

The dock workers weren't weak people but they were massively unprepared to be attacked by the most vicious elements of an underhive gang that had been released with distinct instructions by a very ruthless man.

Windows were shattered and any of the workers that attempted to fight back found themselves on the receiving end of chainblades and bolters, combat blades and autoguns. Strangely the gangers weren't looting anything and they were leaving the servitors and various pieces of equipment completely intact, not even giving them a second glance, instead focusing entirely on hunting down and killing the dock workers wherever they could get their hands on them.

Although this was mostly a ruse to hide their true intentions. Focused, driven hit squads of well-armed, utterly cruel gangers were breaking into offices, snatching up any and all leaders of the Union and dragging them away to a warehouse deep within Arkangel, a location almost forgotten about except to people that needed a dark place to take some prisoners.

Even the ones off-duty weren't safe as their doors were kicked down and they were kidnapped while they slept, waking up to steel-shod boots and bags being pulled over their heads. Any resistance was met by broken bones and painful, if non-lethal wounds, from blades and small calibre rounds. There was a lesson that needed to be taught and it needed all the ring-leaders alive for it.

They were all awoken to a cold splash of stinking water inside the warehouse, tied up and left on the floor. The gangers surrounding them didn't have a single ounce of mirth on their faces, simply staring at them with cold indifference; like they weren't even people, just targets, just part of the job.

When the Council came to survey the results, they were met by a smiling woman with multi-coloured dreads who escorted them to a meeting with the surviving dock workers. Before leaving she offered the Council of Angels a parting gift; a series of custom-servitors, only implanted with the barest minimum of commands and intelligence, all of them designed only for cleaning and to ensure things stayed spic-and-span. This gift was given in full view of the remnants of the Union, making it clear that they were under new management.

The uneasy looks among the various workers as they recognised the faces of the servitors did a lot to keep everything quiet and moving quickly. If people got in the way, they got removed, everyone at the meeting would be reminded of that at every opportunity whenever they looked at the servitors.

The simple, casual brutality sent a quieter message; even the Council wouldn't be safe if they decided to cross the wrong person.

Convert Svartalf vs Khir Alexander (Success)

Finding people who disliked Maugur Khir was not difficult. In the years he’d exerted his malign influence over Svartal station he’d systematically bullied, harassed, scared, hurt and terrorised just about every single faction on board. The trouble was no one trusts anyone on Svartalf so it was functionally impossible to put together a coalition to go against him as Lord Captain Maxilillian had discovered. He'd been basking his head against a brick wall for about 2 weeks solid. No matter how many councillors and their attendants she schmoozed, how much military analytical data showing that Khirs Cabal were absolutely over committed, no matter how many “Gifts” and offers of hospitality he gives, most of the movers and shakers of Svartalf just do not want to play that game. It made sense he reasoned…what with the heads on spikes and the flaying.

Maximilian sat in one of the myriad Bars off the main concourse of Svartalf Station. This was the single busiest street in the labyrinth of steel that made up the station proper. “Fuck it” he said to no one in particular and downed his drink. Looking at the freshly scarred wounds on his hands. He walked out on the concourse, grabbed a waste barrel, flipped it over and climbed on top. He straightened up, pulled his shoulders back and in a voice that barely sounded like his own he announced, “Hark! Listen and understand! You good people, you humans, lost children of Terra! Heirs of the Star Father and God-Emperor! I see your suffering! The God Emperor sees your suffering! Too long have we lived in fear! Too long have these foul Drukhari terrorised us! These ancient creatures see us as lesser, treat us as their food, their playthings! They smirk as they say that their Empire spanned the Galaxy when we humans were discovering fire. Well to this I say, we have yet to reach our peak and your empire is naught but a bitter memory! A story to be told! Your blood spent, you are the last of your line! Humans, Children of Terra look not at your feet but look aloft to the stars, our destiny, your birthright! Understand that The God-Emperor is the fire in your heart and the steel in your hand! The God-Emperor gave his life and the life of his Sons that we might inherit the Stars, not these godless monsters! If you wish to see the Tyranny of Khir Come to an end, if you wish to see his Kabal trampled into the Dust then I am your ally; The God-Emperor is your ally!” A sizable crowd had gathered, dumbstruck at Max’s words, on the busiest concourse of a station home to untold millions, somehow you could've heard a pin drop. Max could scarcely believe what he’d done, he just…let go and it happened. He realised his wounds had started bleeding again. He realised the crowd's attention had slowly shifted to huge screens over the concourse that projected news of various new events on the station in the sector. In huge letters a message scrolled “Arkangel Fleet victorious over Drukhari Raiders. The Arbour of Righteousness has been liberated.” A fire burned inside Max as he turned to the crowd and bellowed “Ave Imperator!”

It took several hours to quell the riot that Max started on Svartalf. When it was done, Khir was still an Iron councillor. He still had allies, he was still feared. But his aura of invincibility was gone. The great and the good of Svartalf saw how little stood between them and the mob, how quickly they could turn. This filled all of them with a deep dread. The people of Svartalf saw something different. They saw a man ready to stand up and fight a terrible foe. They saw someone willing to give his life to help them. When he spoke they saw a man ascendant.

They saw Man Ascendant.

Convert BMTF to leave Arbour alone Alexander (Success)

Gunboat diplomacy was a very ugly phrase though Lord Captain Blair as he sipped tea, impassively sizing up the BMTF “Captain”. He hasn't introduced himself as a Captain, he had said he was the “Vessel Executive Director” or some such foolishness. But he was the Captain of the vessel that the “Pride of Victoria” was currently playing chicken with. Gunboat diplomacy was the phrase this “Captain” had used. Which was poppycock of course. For a start the Pride of Victoria was a ship, not a boat. Also at this range the guns were not this fellow's problem unlike the torpedo batteries. Those same batteries that he knew Europa would be cycling excess atmo through to ensure they all appeared on scanners. Or perhaps he meant the Fighter Bomber formations that Artemisia had been buzzing them with for the last 45 minutes? Once again, those were void attack craft, not boats. And they were sent as part of this diplomatic mission, a show of respect. Pageantry to show this “Captain” how important the Victoria Dynasty thing he is. Adelaide spoke in even tones, “You must accept our sincerest apologies Director, according to our Astral charts and the transponder idents from the closest star cluster, we are in Arbour space?” There was a deeply uncomfortable pause. Lord Captain Blair summoned every ounce of self control and discipline to not smirk as Adelaide went in for the kill, “Unless you, Vessel Executive Director, are claiming this…as BMTF space?” There was rumble through the Pride of Victoria, and proximity alarms sounded, as right on cue, Lord Captain Maxillian Alexander's vessel “The Glorious Endeavour” translated from the warp, its golden hull twinking against the crackling energies emitting from the Warp.

He sipped his tea slowly, he let there be a beat of silence in the air before he spoke.

“I think it's very unfair to suggest this is Gunboat Diplomacy. For a start these are ships…” said Lord Captain Blair in his most reasonable tone.

E16

Convert Svartalf vs Khir Alexander (Success)

Mhaugir Khir knelt in his private sanctum, a spartan chamber of polished obsidian. He was using every ounce of his inhuman willpower to maintain his focus, his control, his breathing. He had lived a hundred mortal lifetimes and he was being outplayed by a rabble of Mon’Keigh, of primates. His lungs slowly filled and he envisioned his hatred as a black ichor slithering through his veins. “I will master my Rage as I master myself” he intoned, the sharp cadence of the ancient Drukhai incantation echoed on the smooth glistening walls. In a single fluid motion he stood and drew his klaive and took stance III of the “Flower of Flesh and Blood” martial form. Slowly his body moved through each strike of the form, perfected through innumerable hours of practice and thousands of lives taken. His breathing was measured and controlled, his heartbeat perfectly in time with his movements. His body had muscle memory older than the lifetimes of men. For all his rote precision his mind rushed and roared like a storm wracked sea. His web of spies had reported a great deal of disquieting information. His once iron grip on this station and this sector were slipping. While his raids on The Arbour had been extremely successful they had come at great cost, he could not quickly recoup the losses to his Kabal. As the form continued the speed of his movements increased. His klaive whirled in the empty chamber, each stroke delivered with enough force to bisect any human who stood before it. His mind was as polished as his blade, his near eidetic memory remembering every name and every face of Arkangel’s Captains table and their crews. In extreme,surgical detail he envisioned the horrors he would inflict upon these dung hurling chimps. The one who attempted to converse with him using a clumsy approximation of Drukhari Etiquette would have the tongue torn from his mouth. He would kill another's lover before their very eyes, eat their heart and drink their tears like spring water. He would sign his name on charter using their blood. One in particular would be spared to the very end; however, one had earned his special attention.

He was a blur of sinew, wraithbone and seething, frothing, utter hatred. His muscles, tendons, nerves, and weapon were now as one. Every movement was a finely honed expression of sadistic intent. With every lethal step he thought of one Mon’Keigh. The colour of his eyes, the sound of his voice, his grunting primate voice, his foetid animal stink.

As his rage reached its crescendo, he turned about and swung his Klaive and felt the unmistakable sensation of his blade slicing through flesh. He closed his eyes and stood still as he was drenched in gore. He trembled slightly and listened to a symphony of carnage, warm blood ran down his body and spattered on the floor, the slithering sounds of entrails escaping the body. He opened his eyes to see a frantic terrified gaze, he savoured the helplessness of that begging stare. More than anything Maugur Khir hated the sounds Mon’Keigh make with their mouths. Their voices were somewhere between belching and retching, even their screams had a certain vulgarity that he could not abide. All of his personal stock would have their vocal cords removed prior to use so he could savour their torment in exquisite silence.

He turned from his victim, as they sobbed mutely and summoned one of his attendants with a gesture. A pale bald headed Drukhari entered and bowed silently. “We must conserve our strength” he seethed. “Cut our losses on Svartalf for now and be prepared to withdraw if the time comes. Gaius should keep them busy for now at least.” The attendant stood and moved to leave as quietly as he entered but was stopped dead in his tracks by Khir making direct eye contact. His eyes, black as the void, staring stabbing into him. “Bring me everything you can find on Lord Captain Maximillian Alexander” he smirked mirthlessly. “This creature shall be taught a lesson, I shall teach it the Philosophy of a Blade.”