TURN 1b: OPERATION BAROQUE CHASTISEMENT
New
- Location
- boundless optimism
"The arch-heretic! Kill the heretic, kin! Die for the Emperor!"
You are pleased to allow the fanatic their wish. Flesh and fanaticism are never a match for a firing line of hotshot lasguns. You and your squadron step over the still twitching bodies, boots crunching the pages of the Imperial Litany blanketing the plasteel floors. Never saved any of your boys, didn't save them, either. There is a vox signal deeper in this sub-spire, that which Kaeman Mael directed you towards. No reason, no explanation, just a snigger and a 'it would be particularly interesting for you.'
Spooky witch bastard. You hope he contracts foot fungus.
You're annoyed at this. You thought you had a monopoly on voxes on this planet, but one cannot control everything, particularly if one is only a paranoid sigint tech and not, say, Kaeman Mael if you're bringing up the vile and despicable side of the enemy, or… Or… you can't think of any good precognitives that you-- the Imperium has, minus, Urasakar Creed. Anyway, enough woolgathering.
You have Tech Priest Vess' servo-skulls scouting ahead of you. With the extra power of your squad's lasguns, cover becomes concealment becomes nothing. You almost feel sorry for the poor bastards. A foot of concrete is nothing when a heretek is feeding the enemy your positions in real time over comms.
Each room is taken by storm. Stealthed servo-skulls are sent out, enemies marked, and then you have your boys shoot them from a floor up, or a wall away. It's not really a fight at this point, it's pest control.
How would you fight this battle? Well, you'd turn the vox into a jammer, first and foremost. Throw up a solid wall of fuzz that might degrade the signals on the skulls. Or you could pop smoke and rely on mines. Actually, being fair to the defenses' bravery, you probably wouldn't even fight-- you'd have set up escape tunnels the moment you took the spire, and then set the place to blow after giving enough of a fight to entice the enemy commander into storming the citadel.
Oh dear. Things are going a little bit too easy for you now, right? You turn an eye over your squadron of veterans. The only casualty is Corporal Barnes, who's got a broken leg after falling down a hole two floors up. She's being carried out.
…No, you're just second guessing yourself. "Onwards!"
What remains, especially after they gathered the last of the chainsword and flamer fanatic brigade and tried to swamp you with numbers (unfortunately for them, you have directional mines) is an old priest and his assistants, kneeling in front of the vox receptor set on the table like it's a relic.
"Oh maker on the golden throne," he whispers as you come in, unheeding, "blessed be your instruments of vengeance upon the traitor. Let their hand be unshaking in their duty. Let the flesh of the sinner sear in the fires of the Warp-" an altar boy shakes his shoulder. The boy looks at you like how freshie boots look at Commissars. "-and do not remember the cries of your faithful, oh lord, but bear them in your mind with a fiery-"
Now he notices. "Well? Don't let me interrupt you, father."
"The arch-heretic!" he sputters. "Oh, Emperor's Angel, this is the one! The eldar consorter! Of both kinds! Protect me, messenger of the Lord!"
You stroll towards the vox machine with the greatest ease in the world. Your squadron follows you like loyal dogs, and the priest, he shakes when you sit on the table he is praying to.
To your surprise, the voice on the other end wants to talk to you. "Calm yourself, father, and fine refuge in the litany. Is this the rebel commander?"
"T-they consort with all sorts of witchcraft," the priest is almost weeping now, "and they still had the terminity to beg for the Emperor's aid!"
You connect the dots in your mind. "Wait. You were the old Planetary Governor's priest? You set a servitor to answer confessions, you lazy sod!"
Before the priest can answer, the vox cuts back in. "I recognize that voice. Were you at Pelanor?"
Your augmentic eye weeps pus. "I was."
"Command Camp Drexa?"
Yes, you remember. "As a matter of fact, I was. You… are you Brother Sergeant Andronicus or Brother Captain Antonius?"
"Brother Captain Andronicus. I remember you. You were that sensor technician from the guard, Colonel--" You cut off the vox. Count the syllables of your name, and then "--Without your recommendations, we would still be running around Pelanor."
The memory is… not terrible. "Yes. Miles and miles of swamp up to your waist. Fighting the only Ork Kommando boss. Hunting down orks called groxshit like 'Da Great an' Kunnin' Klaw.'"
"You lost your arm there."
Someone remembers. For a moment, you feel that there would be nothing more sensible than to break down in tears. Someone remembers. Your losses, they weren't for nothing. All your hurts, all your pain, it touched someone. A messenger of the Emperor remembers. A part of you-- a small, despised part that the officer school would have flogged as an object lesson for weakness-- has wild, lurid fantasies. Turning yourself in. The Emperor accepting your surrender, and lifting you back up to grace. Sector governor or saint?
Except…
Those are just fantasies. Words are weapons. Brother Captain Andronicus over on the other line is just employing psychological warfare.
"I remember every wound lost in the service of the Emperor, Commander." Very nice of him to use your rebel rank. Your brain, suspicious, calculated, is working at his words. "You've had a hard deal. I sympathize. The Sector Governor is… derelict in their duties. There's an inquisition probe going into them."
"That so? Who's the replacement, then?"
"Hey, don't ask me. Adeptus Astartes keep our fingers out of Imperial buisness. I got this from the rumor mill."
"That's a funny joke, Brother Captain. You're acting like the last five governors here didn't come from your Fortress World."
"Doesn't prove anything. Yea, it is right and proper for the Left and Right hands of the Emperor the work in unison. It's better than being an Eldar pawn." You don't say anything. After a moment, Brother Captain Andronicus continues. "Listen. I can get you off. There's a Deathwatch team on their destroyer with us. I know them, they're only here for Kaeman Mael. Give him up and I can ensure that the Star Ultima chapter can take custody of you. We fought the same wars. No one who does that should die in an Inquisition blacksite. I can put you as a serf-commander in repentant crusade up north."
You grip the receiver until your knuckles are white. Somewhere along the line, your intent of coolness has sublimated into rage. You'll get off. Because this superhuman likes you.
When you were on your first tour of service, you noted that you got all the groxshit jobs. When you confronted Drakholt about it, she looked at you like you were the shit on her boots. Of course you get all the shit jobs, she told you, you're a menial and I have no idea why you're here. The lads at the club decided it.
You raised the fact that you were a commissioned officer and she laughed at you. Like that has any relevance. There's a club and you're not in it. Simple as.
There's a club and Drakholt isn't in it. Neither is Lucayn Vorst-Carayn, or Vess, or the thousand poor sodding Guardsmen the Inquisition shot because they were fighting Traitor Guard and someone flashed what might have been a Chaos-Glyph in their eyes. Meanwhile the hundred or so Scion Storm Troopers in that regiment got off with a checkup.
There's a club. There's always a club.
[]- Kill the priest
Bash his karking head in. Right in front of the vox. Make Brother Captain Andronicus hear it. Make him hurt.
[]- Click off the Vox.
There's nothing useful to be done here.
Commander, now is the time for you to come up with the plan to counter the Space Marine response force. A Charter ship captain friendly with the Vorst-Carayns have sent you augur data of the strike force, tentatively dubbed Charlie. Many of these ships are renowned and venerable, storied in song.
For instance, the Sword-class cruiser Indomitable Radiance, which was the spearpoint of the operation to seize the Craftworld Tain-Helseth that nearly almost succeeded, before a foully burning Eldar Titan of some kind counterboarded it. It has a complement of four frigates, two of which came from Holy Terra itself, and the last one, Johnny Be True, once initiated and almost survived a suicide run at a Tau battleship. You do not have much information on the matte-black destroyer with Ordo Xenos livery plastered all over it, other than it is obviously loaded to bear with anti-ship torpedoes.
Standard naval operating procedure dictates a planet hopping route, so they will first travel to Zeta Elipson, then the asteroid belt, and finally to Zelung Delta.
On your side against this, you have two combat capable cruisers, enough macrocannon batteries to seriously gut a ship scattered in orbit, and roughly a dozen fireships, each rattling and mostly crewed by servitors. Not very good odds voidside. On planetside things are looking up and up.
Kaeman Mael casted his predictions. The locus of forces have dissolved. Mother Superiors, clerics, and commisars are gone, and only an undirected riot of their more numerous supporters remain, corraled by chem-gangs and your pet Arbites for now. You have enough Hydras to turn the atmospheric composition of Zelung Delta to include a significant minority of steel at an order. Against their hundred and ten Space Marines and miscellaneous support up in orbit, you have five regiments of guard proper, some forty thousand odd of infantry, armor, and artillery, as well as the more risky planetary defence forces, consulting the last known census, roughly one million men strong.
You have always known that you were going up against the Adeptus Astartes, so your regiments have a higher proportion of plasma guns, krak missiles, and anti-tank guns. This is a winnable fight.
The Order Pool
Unlike the orders at the initial Turn post, there are no points associated with these. Select one of each catagory as a plan. The vote before this catagory should not be included in this plan.
As a side note, without voting for the Prepare a Trap options, you would not have been able to choose how to respond to the Space Marines.
The Cruisers
[]- Hide in Orbit of Zelung Elipson
Use the Zelung Elipson's mega orbital as bait and hide two cruisers in the confusion of orbits to attack the strike force.
[]- Keep close to Zelung Delta
Keep your strongest naval units closer to your primary planet and allow them to launch attacks while the Strike Force is supporting planetside operations.
[]- Remain on Standby
Allow the captains to hold their ships in reserve and exercise their best judgement as the situation develops.
The Macrocannons
[]- Seed them in Orbit of Zelung Elipson
Hide these small, difficult to detect macrocannon satellites among the orbital debris.
[]- Hide them in the Asteroid Belt
Generate the illusion of a stronger force in the asteroid belt taking long range potshots at Charlie.
[]- Fortify Zelung Delta's Orbit
Make it immensely difficult for a ship to exist in orbit.
The Fire Ships
[]- Set them to blow in Zelung Elipson
Swarm Charlie with contacts in a cluttered environment.
[]- Keep them lurking on Zelung Delta
Use them when they are just focusing on planetary bombardment.
[]- Fake Distress
Broadcast a faked distress signal, purporting to be loyalist charter ship captains, hopefully drawing in part or all of Charlie away from their objectives.
You are pleased to allow the fanatic their wish. Flesh and fanaticism are never a match for a firing line of hotshot lasguns. You and your squadron step over the still twitching bodies, boots crunching the pages of the Imperial Litany blanketing the plasteel floors. Never saved any of your boys, didn't save them, either. There is a vox signal deeper in this sub-spire, that which Kaeman Mael directed you towards. No reason, no explanation, just a snigger and a 'it would be particularly interesting for you.'
Spooky witch bastard. You hope he contracts foot fungus.
You're annoyed at this. You thought you had a monopoly on voxes on this planet, but one cannot control everything, particularly if one is only a paranoid sigint tech and not, say, Kaeman Mael if you're bringing up the vile and despicable side of the enemy, or… Or… you can't think of any good precognitives that you-- the Imperium has, minus, Urasakar Creed. Anyway, enough woolgathering.
You have Tech Priest Vess' servo-skulls scouting ahead of you. With the extra power of your squad's lasguns, cover becomes concealment becomes nothing. You almost feel sorry for the poor bastards. A foot of concrete is nothing when a heretek is feeding the enemy your positions in real time over comms.
Each room is taken by storm. Stealthed servo-skulls are sent out, enemies marked, and then you have your boys shoot them from a floor up, or a wall away. It's not really a fight at this point, it's pest control.
How would you fight this battle? Well, you'd turn the vox into a jammer, first and foremost. Throw up a solid wall of fuzz that might degrade the signals on the skulls. Or you could pop smoke and rely on mines. Actually, being fair to the defenses' bravery, you probably wouldn't even fight-- you'd have set up escape tunnels the moment you took the spire, and then set the place to blow after giving enough of a fight to entice the enemy commander into storming the citadel.
Oh dear. Things are going a little bit too easy for you now, right? You turn an eye over your squadron of veterans. The only casualty is Corporal Barnes, who's got a broken leg after falling down a hole two floors up. She's being carried out.
…No, you're just second guessing yourself. "Onwards!"
What remains, especially after they gathered the last of the chainsword and flamer fanatic brigade and tried to swamp you with numbers (unfortunately for them, you have directional mines) is an old priest and his assistants, kneeling in front of the vox receptor set on the table like it's a relic.
"Oh maker on the golden throne," he whispers as you come in, unheeding, "blessed be your instruments of vengeance upon the traitor. Let their hand be unshaking in their duty. Let the flesh of the sinner sear in the fires of the Warp-" an altar boy shakes his shoulder. The boy looks at you like how freshie boots look at Commissars. "-and do not remember the cries of your faithful, oh lord, but bear them in your mind with a fiery-"
Now he notices. "Well? Don't let me interrupt you, father."
"The arch-heretic!" he sputters. "Oh, Emperor's Angel, this is the one! The eldar consorter! Of both kinds! Protect me, messenger of the Lord!"
You stroll towards the vox machine with the greatest ease in the world. Your squadron follows you like loyal dogs, and the priest, he shakes when you sit on the table he is praying to.
To your surprise, the voice on the other end wants to talk to you. "Calm yourself, father, and fine refuge in the litany. Is this the rebel commander?"
"T-they consort with all sorts of witchcraft," the priest is almost weeping now, "and they still had the terminity to beg for the Emperor's aid!"
You connect the dots in your mind. "Wait. You were the old Planetary Governor's priest? You set a servitor to answer confessions, you lazy sod!"
Before the priest can answer, the vox cuts back in. "I recognize that voice. Were you at Pelanor?"
Your augmentic eye weeps pus. "I was."
"Command Camp Drexa?"
Yes, you remember. "As a matter of fact, I was. You… are you Brother Sergeant Andronicus or Brother Captain Antonius?"
"Brother Captain Andronicus. I remember you. You were that sensor technician from the guard, Colonel--" You cut off the vox. Count the syllables of your name, and then "--Without your recommendations, we would still be running around Pelanor."
The memory is… not terrible. "Yes. Miles and miles of swamp up to your waist. Fighting the only Ork Kommando boss. Hunting down orks called groxshit like 'Da Great an' Kunnin' Klaw.'"
"You lost your arm there."
Someone remembers. For a moment, you feel that there would be nothing more sensible than to break down in tears. Someone remembers. Your losses, they weren't for nothing. All your hurts, all your pain, it touched someone. A messenger of the Emperor remembers. A part of you-- a small, despised part that the officer school would have flogged as an object lesson for weakness-- has wild, lurid fantasies. Turning yourself in. The Emperor accepting your surrender, and lifting you back up to grace. Sector governor or saint?
Except…
Those are just fantasies. Words are weapons. Brother Captain Andronicus over on the other line is just employing psychological warfare.
"I remember every wound lost in the service of the Emperor, Commander." Very nice of him to use your rebel rank. Your brain, suspicious, calculated, is working at his words. "You've had a hard deal. I sympathize. The Sector Governor is… derelict in their duties. There's an inquisition probe going into them."
"That so? Who's the replacement, then?"
"Hey, don't ask me. Adeptus Astartes keep our fingers out of Imperial buisness. I got this from the rumor mill."
"That's a funny joke, Brother Captain. You're acting like the last five governors here didn't come from your Fortress World."
"Doesn't prove anything. Yea, it is right and proper for the Left and Right hands of the Emperor the work in unison. It's better than being an Eldar pawn." You don't say anything. After a moment, Brother Captain Andronicus continues. "Listen. I can get you off. There's a Deathwatch team on their destroyer with us. I know them, they're only here for Kaeman Mael. Give him up and I can ensure that the Star Ultima chapter can take custody of you. We fought the same wars. No one who does that should die in an Inquisition blacksite. I can put you as a serf-commander in repentant crusade up north."
You grip the receiver until your knuckles are white. Somewhere along the line, your intent of coolness has sublimated into rage. You'll get off. Because this superhuman likes you.
When you were on your first tour of service, you noted that you got all the groxshit jobs. When you confronted Drakholt about it, she looked at you like you were the shit on her boots. Of course you get all the shit jobs, she told you, you're a menial and I have no idea why you're here. The lads at the club decided it.
You raised the fact that you were a commissioned officer and she laughed at you. Like that has any relevance. There's a club and you're not in it. Simple as.
There's a club and Drakholt isn't in it. Neither is Lucayn Vorst-Carayn, or Vess, or the thousand poor sodding Guardsmen the Inquisition shot because they were fighting Traitor Guard and someone flashed what might have been a Chaos-Glyph in their eyes. Meanwhile the hundred or so Scion Storm Troopers in that regiment got off with a checkup.
There's a club. There's always a club.
[]- Kill the priest
Bash his karking head in. Right in front of the vox. Make Brother Captain Andronicus hear it. Make him hurt.
[]- Click off the Vox.
There's nothing useful to be done here.
Commander, now is the time for you to come up with the plan to counter the Space Marine response force. A Charter ship captain friendly with the Vorst-Carayns have sent you augur data of the strike force, tentatively dubbed Charlie. Many of these ships are renowned and venerable, storied in song.
For instance, the Sword-class cruiser Indomitable Radiance, which was the spearpoint of the operation to seize the Craftworld Tain-Helseth that nearly almost succeeded, before a foully burning Eldar Titan of some kind counterboarded it. It has a complement of four frigates, two of which came from Holy Terra itself, and the last one, Johnny Be True, once initiated and almost survived a suicide run at a Tau battleship. You do not have much information on the matte-black destroyer with Ordo Xenos livery plastered all over it, other than it is obviously loaded to bear with anti-ship torpedoes.
Standard naval operating procedure dictates a planet hopping route, so they will first travel to Zeta Elipson, then the asteroid belt, and finally to Zelung Delta.
On your side against this, you have two combat capable cruisers, enough macrocannon batteries to seriously gut a ship scattered in orbit, and roughly a dozen fireships, each rattling and mostly crewed by servitors. Not very good odds voidside. On planetside things are looking up and up.
Kaeman Mael casted his predictions. The locus of forces have dissolved. Mother Superiors, clerics, and commisars are gone, and only an undirected riot of their more numerous supporters remain, corraled by chem-gangs and your pet Arbites for now. You have enough Hydras to turn the atmospheric composition of Zelung Delta to include a significant minority of steel at an order. Against their hundred and ten Space Marines and miscellaneous support up in orbit, you have five regiments of guard proper, some forty thousand odd of infantry, armor, and artillery, as well as the more risky planetary defence forces, consulting the last known census, roughly one million men strong.
You have always known that you were going up against the Adeptus Astartes, so your regiments have a higher proportion of plasma guns, krak missiles, and anti-tank guns. This is a winnable fight.
The Order Pool
Unlike the orders at the initial Turn post, there are no points associated with these. Select one of each catagory as a plan. The vote before this catagory should not be included in this plan.
As a side note, without voting for the Prepare a Trap options, you would not have been able to choose how to respond to the Space Marines.
The Cruisers
[]- Hide in Orbit of Zelung Elipson
Use the Zelung Elipson's mega orbital as bait and hide two cruisers in the confusion of orbits to attack the strike force.
[]- Keep close to Zelung Delta
Keep your strongest naval units closer to your primary planet and allow them to launch attacks while the Strike Force is supporting planetside operations.
[]- Remain on Standby
Allow the captains to hold their ships in reserve and exercise their best judgement as the situation develops.
The Macrocannons
[]- Seed them in Orbit of Zelung Elipson
Hide these small, difficult to detect macrocannon satellites among the orbital debris.
[]- Hide them in the Asteroid Belt
Generate the illusion of a stronger force in the asteroid belt taking long range potshots at Charlie.
[]- Fortify Zelung Delta's Orbit
Make it immensely difficult for a ship to exist in orbit.
The Fire Ships
[]- Set them to blow in Zelung Elipson
Swarm Charlie with contacts in a cluttered environment.
[]- Keep them lurking on Zelung Delta
Use them when they are just focusing on planetary bombardment.
[]- Fake Distress
Broadcast a faked distress signal, purporting to be loyalist charter ship captains, hopefully drawing in part or all of Charlie away from their objectives.
