An Unwelcome Surprise

General Van Buram breathed out a long sigh of steam as the cold drizzle caressed his face, leeching out the last of the warmth and feeling in his skin. Up here at the top of the spire the rain fell constantly, fed by the endless towers of smoke and steam belched out by the foundaries below. The general was indignant at his current predicament, saddled with greeting guests at the landing pad. Beneath his perfect mask of neutral politeness, he cursed the smug-faced governor who had ordered him here, to stand in the rain and cold on his own time. The fact that Lord Brooke stood a few feet away from him did not alleviate this indignation, for he was cosy and dry beneath a huge umbrella, something that had naturally not been offered to the general. As he muttered another curse under his breath, his adjutant Sergeant Helna appeared at his side, and wordlessly passed over a container of recaff.

"Transport’s just broke the Stratosphere, should be here shortly." The general grunted in reply and took a rash gulp of recaff straight from the bottle, instantly regretting it as the scalding liquid burnt his tongue. He poured a cupful into the lid and paused before taking his second swig, the rapidly cooling liquid still painful on the sensitive flesh. Inwardly cursing his stupidity, he shifted on his feet, stretching aching calves as he stared up to the sky. The general’s mind was at a quandary with these visitors. They were after all here because of his failure. There was a sickness on this world, a sinister cult growing in the underhive, which in turn had driven the former scum of the underhive up into the foundaries, where he could no longer turn a blind eye to their deeds. For six months he had fought a dirty war against that tide of scum and villainy, the PDF and Enforcers fighting side by side and they had held their ground. But they had not cleansed the rot, the underhive, unaware of the true threat and when they finally understood it was too late. The smug-faced lord had demanded a solution, off the records to save face, for he had already declared victory. No more deaths could be added to the official tallies, off world meat was needed for the grinder... and quietly.

The general had no idea who or what contacts had secured Astartes for the governor, let alone mercenary ones for hire, truth be told he did not want to know either. Ignorance kept him safe. He had been required to meet the astartes in his role as senior military advisor, much to his displeasure. The warriors had certainly looked impressive, their power armour immaculate, polished to such a shine that it looked as though made of black glass. An entourage of similarly pristine serfs accompanied them, wearing armour of an ornate and baroque design that reminded him of old tapestries of the Great Crusade. The astartes had spoken well, charmingly even, surprising the general with their eloquence.

A soft hum brought his attention back from memory, he followed Helna in looking up at the source. A gunship powered roughly down to the landing pad, battle worn and scorched with countless atmospheric re-entries. A sharp contrast to the spotless vessel which had brought the previous party. The first creeping doubts began to form in his mind, as the ramp began to lower.

“Attention!” His company snapped smartly into position, mirrored by the detachment of enforcers beside them. The passengers filed out, a mob of humans carrying various duffle bags and weapon cases.

For a fraction of a second the general’s right hand twitched, instinctively moving for his sidearm. The closest man looked identical to an underhive ganger that had nearly taken his life a few weeks earlier, the same patchwork scrap armour, long unkempt hair and bionics. Yet it could not be a trick, the ident codes, the secrecy, these could only be part of the astartes force. The general passed the recaff to his right hand to occupy it but at the same time gently rested his left upon the hilt of his sword, less overtly threatening yet still a comfort to his rapidly fraying nerves. More of the passengers were disembarking, an assortment of serfs, no two of which appeared alike. A squadron of enginseers scuttled out after them and immediately scurried across the landing pad to examine the parked vehicles that sat there. The servitors that attended these machines awoke and instinctively moved to defend them, squaring up to the newcomers. Shouts and derisive muttering broke out between the two in the omnissiah’s babble but to the general’s pride his guards remained resolute, waiting for his order.

The booming command to heel came from an astartes, the first to appear from the transport, carrying a chain axe loosely in one hand.

“Form ranks, you shower of Ork filth!” The astartes’ voice once more rang out in a vox distorted shout. The serfs had spread out around the gunship loosely much as civilians would, though the pattern mirrored the same spread that stormtroopers would have, at the order they swiftly fell back into loose ranks, one returning a half-eaten sandwich to the webbing of his helmet.
As they did this more astartes exited the Gunship bringing their number to six in total. Three of the group wore black painted armour, though a dull matt rather than the obsidian sheen he had seen previously and with copious patches of bare ceramite where they had worn the coating off. The remainder wore armour which was a patchwork of colours, reds, blues and yellows, again faded with age and use. They stalked forward with a predator’s movements, openly evaluating the arrayed defences and the general’s soldiers, their hands never straying far from weapons. Some wore pelts of fur, often across where their insignias would be displayed. Their weapons looked old, worn and patchworked like their armour.

The general stole a look at the governor, and the open look of horror upon the noble’s face was almost worth the hour of cold and wet. He had bragged privately about how the immaculate demi-gods would cleanse the underhives, yet now the assembled mercenaries were here, the astartes were as tattered as the same underhive scum he refused to acknowledge as human. Van Buram drank deeply from his stone cold recaff to hide his growing smirk.

The first astartes detached from the group and strode over, halting in front of the lord. “I understand you have a genestealer problem?” The astartes bluntly asked.
“I… I… “ The governor dithered.
The general replied for him. “Yes, as discussed with your… associates. Would you like to start now?”
“Naturally.”
The general nodded and gave the order to his guard to move out. As the precise ranks of the guard and the enforcers marched off, followed by the ragged amble of the serfs, the astartes leant across, and with the vox amplification reduced to barely a whisper, confided. “I must warn you general, that I don't have eyes everywhere, I can’t guarantee the behaviour of the more… local… elements of my force.” The General was taken aback by the humorous undertone of the Astartes but acknowledged the advice, hoping it was not the tip of a much larger iceberg. The general mounted his horse and fell in alongside the astartes’ leader, the column heading across the bridge to the main spire.