He awakes from his ancient slumber. The dust of countless millennia clings to his chrome form. He is standing in an alcove, in a wall. Around him there are millions more who are exactly the same. He stirs. Ancient command routines implanted into his synaptic network begin to fire. He does not know who he is, nor does he know that he should know who he is. There is no past; there is no memory. Only the now.
Dullness. A slow ache in the back of his mind which he cannot comprehend. Something is missing but he does not know what it is nor why it is important. He does not know the meaning of the term ''important'' except that it is what his superiors say that it is.
Along with the others he steps out onto the cold floor of the tomb. Around him there are banks of machinery, humming monoliths of glowing light. Insect-like machines skitter here and there, darting from shadow to shadow. Their role is to maintain the machines, to keep the sleepers asleep until they are needed again.
They are needed now.
He reaches for his weapon. Cold metal hands close around the Gauss Flayer. It feels familiar and for a moment - a single instant only - he remembers firing it before. In other places, he is firing it. Green light streams across the battlefield, explosions tear through the earth. He is fighting, screaming, and bleeding.
Confusion follows. He cannot scream or bleed. The memory fades and then he forgets he ever remembered it at all.
The past doesn't exist.
They muster together. The whole squad. Twenty of them in total. Twenty metal forms from before the dawn of time. They know each other. They have fought side by side for longer than the lifetime of a star. None of them speak. None of them can speak. None of them recognise the others on anything but the most basic levels. Each one exists on his or her own. A tiny dullness, the smallest candle that flickers in a great void of nothing.
It doesn't matter. Nothing matters but that they serve their purpose.
Commands flash in the centre of what remains of his mind. They stab into him like blades of ice digging at his soul. Each one is an imperative. They go beyond mere orders and become something deeper and more powerful. It is not that he cannot disobey them, it is that he cannot even conceive that disobeying them is a thing that can happen at all. They are absolutes, like gravity or the slow decay of flesh under the homeworld's deadly suns.
He is walking now. The whole squad is walking. They lumber, moving like things which have not moved under their own power in a very long time. Before them there is a portal of flickering green energy. He does not know what it is called, though perhaps he did once. He knows that it will take him to where he has to go. It will take all of them, and then they will fight and they will kill and after this they will sleep.
He has done it before. During the moments where he can, he sometimes feels what remains of his mind turn inwards towards the past.
''Soldier'' a flickering thought, a flashing remnant of the time before. His dull mind cannot comprehend what it means now but once it was important to him. No more. Now it is just so much mental detritus. It was unneeded. Like his flesh and his looks - he was always very proud of his looks once upon a time. Now he looks like everyone else. Now he marches exactly like the others. Feet hitting the ground in eerie union. His Gauss Flayer is in his hands, and they are moving through the portal.
There is an instant of confusion. Reality is not sure where they should be so it feels like they are in two places at once. Then the great power of his betters reaches out and tells it where they should end up. The nobles were always different, a species unto themselves. That at least has not changed.
He is now in a different place. The ground is dry and cracked, red and ruddy. Dust swirls around his body, sticking to his metallic visage. There are other squads arriving too. More and more of them. Their minds are tied to his but only in the most basic way. So that they can all be commanded together. Each one is a tiny flicker of green light, like a million torches on the verge of death. On the verge of it, but never quite reaching there. He has died many times now. Exploded. Run through, ripped to pieces. It's never an end. Duty never ends. In the before-time, duty ended with death but now there is no death so duty does not end.
This is simple. It is understood. The role of a Necrontyr soldier is to serve and so he will serve. He doesn't remember anything about who he is or how he came to be here yet he understands his place in things. This was deemed important during conversion. The lower orders must never forget their place under the nobles. Even now mindless and locked in service they must always know their place.
A distant explosion causes the ground to ripple. An instant later a shockwave rips into the squad. They brace against it. Before it would have crippled them, pulped organs and battered bones. Now they simply endure. They start to move again when the force is gone. No one says anything. No one can. Before they would have had a squad leader to show them the way. Someone to lead them and to show them what to do in the midst of battle, to help fight back against the panic which could so easily take root in the mortal mind.
Now there is no need. No squad leader, no words of encouragement and no panic. They advance in a slow and steady fashion.. They merge with other squads, forming a river of grim, silver death that flows towards the enemy. Explosions pepper the ground around them. Fire and impacts hurl bodies, shatter limbs. They punch gaping holes in the river.
The crippled rise again. Their bodies run like liquid, metal flowing over wounds. Damaged limbs snap back together. In moments it is as if no one was damaged at all. He himself takes a hit and staggers forwards with half of his face torn away. There is no pain. Pain was deemed pointless in the transition from flesh to metal.
Just like so much else.
Las-Rifles barked and roared, filling the space ahead full of blazing streaks of light. The approaching enemy were barraged, their metal forms glowing red hot under the ceaseless fire of the Astra Militarum. Emplaced positions on either side of the trench network opened up with a deeper boom, rapid-fire munitions scythed through the enemy ranks. First dozens fell and then hundreds. Their metal bodies were stronger than flesh but they still conducted heat, still melted and detonated. Were still blown to pieces and scattered across the dreary desert lands.
Havis was a sergeant with the Kronus First and he led his squad from the lip of the first trench. The men around him shouted and cheered as the Xenos were cut down. His las-rifle was in his hand and he was firing it. Again and again he held down the trigger. The weapon roared, spitting heat and light against the enemy.
It had been five minutes since the battle started. Five minutes since they had gotten that desperate warning on the Vox from the command bunker near the back of the network. Five minutes since the stumbling metal-coated dead had appeared from thin air, walking towards them as las-rounds rained down upon them like the bursting of a cloud during a storm.
His men were all around him. Havis had served for fifteen years now. He wasn't new to this at all. He'd fought the Orks and he'd fought the Tau, and he'd fought plenty of traitors and heretics. Those were always the worst. Blasted and demented city fighting against foes that should by all rights have been friends and comrades. Humans who had gone too far down a dark path, now made twisted and evil by it. He hated them. He hated them for their weakness and for the fact that they could have had everything but had thrown it all away.
Luckily, he wasn't fighting fellow humans today. He sighted along the scope of his rifle and loosed again. Directed a bolt right between the eyes of one of the stumbling skeletons. He felt a small flash of pride at that, the distance was still great but he'd been able to make the shot.
It didn't drop the creature of course. It still kept stumbling on. The wounded got up again, their flesh rippled and flowed like a silver liquid. Closed around their wounds and made them whole again.
"Xenos." Havis growled. " All right everyone! Focus fire on targets! Bring them down and keep them down! Don't move on until you're damn sure they're dead!"
The ground shook. Mortar teams near the back of the network were finding their range. Their explosive ordinance punched holes into the enemy ranks, hurling limp metal bodies, crushing them, blowing them apart. He wanted to laugh at the sight, the holy hatred of the alien brewing inside of him.
He didn't laugh though. He knew his duty, he knew what was expected of him. A soldier of the Emperor, a defender of the Imperium, that was him. That was what he did and who he was. Under his command the squad continued to target individuals, pouring fire onto them until they finally went down. Artillery boomed and heavy support weapons rattled, creating a kill zone that would have mortified even an Ork.
But the aliens didn't care. The Xenos couldn't care. They came on. Into the fire, into the guns, into death and destruction they marched without a trace of hesitation.
Havis continued to fire. It was a single smooth routine. Drilled into his body by countless years on the frontline. He was a veteran, a survivor. He'd seen last stands and great victories, shameful retreats and glorious upsets. They'd all come and gone and Havis Harlow had seen them all. Faith and zeal motivated him but they were tempered by experience, by knowledge. He knew exactly how things could go wrong which was why he didn't allow himself to be lost in the frenzy of justice they were bringing to their foes. His men poured on their fire, lost in the moment but he himself could be allowed no such joy. He had to be aware, constantly watching, making sure that the legendary perfidy of the alien was not about to cause some sort of upset.
That was why he was the first to shout the warning when the enemy started to fire back. Eerie light flashed across empty space. Green answered red, and the guardsmen started to die. One of the members of his squad fell back with his head gone. Another man nearby screamed when his arm was torn away. More fell soundlessly, not even given a chance to scream.
A sentinel storde past, turning to lace the enemy line with las-cannons. The far more powerful energy weapons tore into their ranks, melting and scattering them. But they got up again. Havis was starting to notice that they always got up again.
In the back of his mind, in the dark place where he put the things he knew he wasn't supposed to think or feel, Havis felt a flicker of uncertainty. There were quite a lot of the enemy, and they were hard to put down. If they kept getting up again…
No! He denied that fear, that thought. He took it in hand and crushed it with the assurance of victory. The God-Emperor would protect. Just as he always had before.
The enemy continued to fire.
More of his men started to die.
He does not know exactly where he is. He does not need to, and even in the before-time which he can remember only dimly, it was rare for any of the Nobles to actually tell the soldiers where they were going. The enemy has dug in before them. The enemy is trying to deny them. This is all they need to know.
Hiss Phalanx advances, Gauss Flayers roar. He picks his targets, blasts of writhing green light meet the hardened defences of the foes. Gauss energy reaves at the thick mounds of dirt, and the upraised walls. They have made a network of trenches and they are using it for cover. In spite of his best efforts, the Warriors does not aim very well. He cannot. Once, he had a good aim. A handsome face and a good aim, yes. He was a soldier. But now he is not. Now he does not know what a soldier is, his mind is dim, his thoughts have all gone turbid, like a river that has frozen over. There are shapes, and things in his mind which once were him but now are not.
He would be horrified if he could feel horror. His body moves, he fires. He finds a new target. It's all automated, his body is not his own. Then again, it never was. In a flash of recognition, he realises that he has stood in battlefields like this before many times. Both as he is now and before, when he was otherwise. He does not remember what it was like to be otherwise.
When he tries, he experiences a dull ache in the back of his mind.
It is all that is left of his soul.
Beside him, a warrior who has been with him for thousands of years is cut down so brutally that they cannot be reclaimed. They are lost. He doesn't feel anything about the loss. How could he? Dull eyes gaze upon the ruins of the warrior who was once his friend.
Then he turns and resumes firing.
"The Necrons continue to advance." Belus spoke, his voice was clipped and mechanical. Devoid of any sort of emotion even in a situation as dire as this. "Recommend evacuation."
Inquisitor Volus was not feeling nearly as calm as his partner. A dark haired man with a muscular build, he was clad in a dark robe with a purple cloak that had been secured around his throat. A harness of tools was thrown over his shoulder, and a belt with even more reached around his waist.
"They're coming too fast." He growled, "Too soon. How did they know what we did? It should have taken them longer. At least a day you said! At least a day! This is an absolute disaster!"
"Prior calculations were in error." Belus agreed. "Clearly, some factor that is as yet unknown has interfered. In any case it is pointless to recalculate failure. Whether they should have or not, they discovered us before we were ready. Our current position is not good."
"Not so good is putting it lightly," Volus growled. "We were luck the Guard even had an outpost so far out of the way that we could reach in time. Now the Necrons are marching and every moment of them more show up! You said we had more time, Tech-Priest."
Belus regarded him for a moment. The atmosphere of the small room in the command bunker was understandably tense, though it was shared by just the two of them.
"The Omnisiah does not simply grant knowledge to those who are unworthy." Belus said. "He grants tools and expects you to be able to discover for yourself what you need to know. My prior calculations were based on similar situations. Something this time is different. The response is faster and more powerful than anticipated. The information I gave to you before now was rooted in evidence and fact."
"It was bad information," Volus said.
"There is no such thing as bad information." Belus countered coldly. "Only incomplete information, or information not used to maximum effect. Theory, the item is more valuable than we first anticipated. The Necrons were on the brink of waking up anyway and our raid merely was the final step. Someone else has already raided them, or we were simply unfortunate and this particular tomb is more reactive in their automated defences."
"No one could have raided them before us," Volus protested. "I choose the target very carefully. In any case it doesn't matter much at the moment. Predict for me the chances of the Guard turning back this wave."
Belus said nothing for several seconds as he ran through a series of internal calculations.
"Based on standard Necron troop profiles combined with historical records of Tomb Worlds in a similar condition, almost certainly impossible. The Astra Militarum can be expected to hold for anywhere from five to twenty minutes based on leadership, a dug in position, and assuming random chance favours them over the Necrons. I estimate roughly ten minutes assuming a successful defence, or five minutes assuming a failed one. If all factors go in their favour then they might hold for as long as twenty minutes but this is absurdly unlikely and relies on the enemy making multiple crucial tactical mistakes."
"So ten minutes then." Volus said. His voice was tight, and stress lined his face. "We have ten minutes in the most ideal practical situation."
"Correct. Recommended evacuation. Ten minutes is enough time for a gunship to be dispatched from the nearest city."
Volus gave a hollow laugh.
"That would be my usual go-to as well, but I've already checked. The nearest such ship is fifteen minutes out, not ten. I've already ordered it to our location but according to your calculation it will not arrive on time."
"Most likely will not," Belus corrected. "Margin for error allows the theoretical extension of defensive viability for as long as twenty minutes. Fifteen is not an impossible goal."
"But it is an unlikely one?"
"That is correct."
"So what do you suggest we do?"
Belus was silent for a moment. He was a strange figure. Born on a feudal knight-world and inducted into the Mechanicus at an older age, he'd never quite shaken off his birth culture. His body was tall and proud, gleaming with metal plates that had been locked around his skin. He was clad in a red robe, marking him as a priest of Mars itself, and a swarm of mechadendrites fanned out from behind his back like a strange cloak of waving tendrils. He had a power sword sheathed at his side, and a plasma pistol hung by his waist. He was broader and taller than most Tech Priests, and it was said by many in his home forge that the oath the Omnisiah envisioned for him was to be a Magos Dominus, a Priest of War.
"The conclusion is obvious." He said after a moment. "As you must know yourself. You are testing me. We cannot run. Therefore, we must fight. Our primary goal is the recovery of the Xenos relic. Whether it is likely or not, evacuation remains our only real chance at survival. We should dedicate all resources to pursuing that chance."
"You are correct, of course." Volus sighed, rubbing his forehead as if to ward off an oncoming headache. "There is nothing else we can do. I was just hoping that you would have-"
"Some way to do the impossible?"
"Well, I was going to say some insight unique to the Mechanicus, but I suppose it was a bit much to ask."
Volus glanced towards the table on the far side of the room. There, they had placed the item. It was a sphere of gleaming metal, about the size of a fist. It has interface ports along its surface of various shapes and sizes, and glowed with an eerie inner power. He didn't know what it was, or what it did, but he knew the enemy wanted it. Not only that, so did his superiors in the Inquisition.
Volus was, in spite of how he liked to project himself, not particularly important or powerful as far as an Inquisitor went. He was junior in both age and responsibilities, and had served under a far more powerful master until only a few years ago when he had been elevated from interrogator to Inquisitor. Since that time, he'd struggled to prove his worth. The politics of the Inquisition were Byzantine, and he had fallen out of favour in spite of his best attempts to curry it. His current position was far indeed from the glorious future of power and comfort that he had imagined for himself when he was younger.
The device was meant to fix that. Almost two years ago one of the few contacts he'd had left had reported that a very senior and very powerful cabal of Inquisitors were looking for a very specific item. Devices like this one had been found in Tomb Worlds all over the Imperium, but only ever after a great and costly battle, and they were always recovered in pieces. The Necrons were loath to ever part with them, which meant that they were almost certainly vital to the foul creatures in some way.
The Inquisitor who could deliver one - intact and operational - would be a man who would not want for friends or fortune. Naturally Volus had set out to do so at once, spending the last of his favours and credits, even putting himself in considerable debt to certain parties. It had taken him a year to locate a device like this, and then a further year to plan a way to get at it. The infiltration of a sleeping Tomb World had offered the best chance. Belus was an expert on the Xenotechnological horror that was the Necrons. Together the two of them had delved into the tomb and retrieved the orb.
Everything should have worked out perfectly from there but it had not. Now the Necrons were waking up. He'd known they would, but it should have been a period of at least twenty four hours before they emerged. Instead, there had been less than one!
Now he was in about the worst position he could be. Trapped in the only outpost that he had been able to reach, with no way out for at least fifteen minutes. The Necrons possessed the numbers to win the battle, but could he hold out for long enough to survive? Volus knew the odds were bad but one did not become an Inquisitor by giving in when things got tough. He was still planning, still trying to come up with some sort of scheme.
"We will hold them here." He said. "It is the only way."
"Agreed." Belus moved to the other side of the room. The heavy metal door slid aside with the touch of one of his mechadendrites.
Alone now Volus looked back at the sphere sitting on the table. It was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand but right now nothing had ever looked heavier to him.
His Gauss Flayer roars again and again. Emerald green energy flashes through the air and baths his enemies in grisly death. They fall screaming, their bodies broken apart on an atomic level. Like they have been flayed layer by layer.
Around the warrior, the phalanx advances. This too is something that he has done many times before. There are no words now. No shouts or curses as there would have been long ago. But the feeling is the same, a faint echo of the comradery forged in the deepest pits of desperation. As he fights he remembers. Bits and pieces of his past sleet across what remains of his mind. Hundreds of battles on hundreds of worlds. Most of what he felt then he cannot now recall but he feels in his bones that this is not different.
The enemy is close now. Their laser weapons are firing hot and fast. Warriors to either side of him stumble and go down. He takes a shot in the leg, then one to the chest. A third follows up with a strike to the side of the head. He jerks sideways. Molten metal runs like blood.
Only for a moment. Self repair routines are automatically triggered, the damage is undone. His body flows and is made whole again.
He rights himself and kills the woman who tried to destroy him. As she falls, more people start to fire at him specifically. He takes more impacts, his body temperature rises as internal heat sinks begin to overload. The las burns spatter his metal finish.
Memories of previous battles begin to grow more and more vivid. Automatic systems ensure that he fires and fights just like any good warrior. Impacts rain against his body and crater the ground at his feet.
He remembers.
Orcos was a world that no one should have cared about in the end. It was in the middle of nowhere and it offered practically nothing to anyone. It was miles upon miles of dense jungle, absurdly deadly oceans and seas, mountains tipped with razors and sand that could gut you in a strong wind. No one should have wanted it and in a logical world, it would have been ignored by everyone concerned.
But logic was not always the tool of the Necrontyr. The world was on the border between two squabbling Dynasties. No one wanted it, but no one wanted their enemy to get it. So legions were sent out and people died over a ball of mud and water that offered nothing and drank up the blood of the soldiers sent to guard it.
He remembered the hell that was that planet. A lowborn soldier, he'd been there almost from the start. Winds that scoured the skin, disease and sickness that could kill in hours. Brutal and bloody battles that tested you to the limit.
Each day, the lords would lead them out into battles and each night the same would laugh and sing of their glories, the great victories they had won. No one ever mentioned the mountain of dead they'd climbed to do so. It had always been said that the Necrontyr were two races in truth. The lowborn and the nobles. He'd never felt it more keenly than in those bloody, chaotic days of brutal combat interspersed with the laughter and feasting of his betters.
Orcos was the world that had truly begun to teach him how to hate.
Override circuits cut in. The memory shatters and he doesn't even recall having it. He is once again in the middle of the fight. Once again standing among a million others, all of them look the same. Act the same, fight in the same way. No one is different.
A silent thrill runs through his body as the neural link which helps to coordinate the warriors is disturbed. He feels the presence of the Cryptek in the network as a small fish might feel the gentle passage of a whale. It is without a doubt one of the maintainers of the Tomb World, and a moment later he catches sight of them in the flesh. Such as it is.
Their body is made of metal like his, but clearly much more care has been taken with it. Gentle lines of filigreed gold run across their silver bones. Their skull is finely sculpted, and probably based on the one they had in life. They have a single green eye set in the centre of their forehead and a mane of weaving metal tendrils that descends from their skull to their back, each one so impossibly fine that it looks from a distance like a strand of hair. Instead of legs, the Cryptek's lower body becomes a slender snake-like tail. Each scale has been individually worked, each one is a tiny piece of art.
The difference between the Cryptek and the warriors is that between night and day. Each warrior is the same. They are mass-produced, nothing about them is individual. The Cryptek is nothing but individual. He has crafted his own body, augmented and improved it over the centuries. He is a living work of art, except that one might argue about the ''living'' descriptor.
The Cryptek's mind is his greatest weapon. The warrior can feel him prodding the neural link, pulling up facts and information at an astounding rate. He knows everything, sees everything. In the minutes after his arrival the whole strategy changes. Necron Warriors become more accurate, the Cryptek's intellect directing them and focusing them against his foes.
The Necron Warrior cannot feel jealousy, but if he could he probably would. The Cryptek is everything that he is not. Whole. Individual. Unique. The Cryptek is not a nameless warrior. The Cryptek was not a low born soldier who could be marched into slavery. The Cryptek was deemed important. He is important. He is someone who matters.
Currently, he matters because he is directing the battle. He watches through the eyes of a dozen warriors, directing squads, altering patterns of fire. He designates primary targets, and then a wave of secondary ones too. When one of the heavy gun emplacements turns to target him, he destroys it with a blast from his pistol. A searing plume of light obliterates it as well as everything around it.
By now, uncertainty had become full blown terror. Havis shouted, directing fire with the gesture of a hand. Mortars screamed overhead, but the Xenos were acting with a new life and returned fire even as the weapons burst around them. Men and women he'd served with for a decade screamed as they were scythed down. Green light flashed past him, and he was waiting for the moment when he'd feel its touch as well.
The aliens were close. The aliens were fugging right up in their faces! The guardsmen were being driven back by the sheer weight of fire. There were so many of them! People were shouting, screaming, dying. Havis had a prayer on his lips as he loosed shot after shot. Around him the remnants of his squad rallied.
"Beyonets!" He shouted, "They're coming over the top! Hand to hand! Knives and pistols! Let's show these scum the Emperor's fury!"
His words were empty. Behind him a sentinel topled as it was struck by several volleys of green light. The holy machine was spitting sparks and bleeding flame as it went over. It hit hard and didn't move again. He felt tension knotting his muscles, the fear in the back of his mind growing greater and greater.
Then the aliens were over the top of the trenches. They were horrific things. Their bodies gleaming and metal, shaped into the visage of bones and grinning skulls. Each one cradled that same weapon which had already cut such a bloody tally from the defenders, and they were still firing as they came.
The first alien stepped into the trench and Havis charged. He bellowed a roar as he did, summoning up all of his aggression and his fury. The bayonet on the tip of his rifle plunged forwards, spearing into the enemy's chest. There was no flesh to find, nor blood to draw forth but the impact did cause it to stagger. As it went down, Havis unholstered his las pistol and hit it again and again, firing until the light in its eyes went out.
More came. By now, the soldiers around him were engaged in a desperate melee. He could hear shouts and shots. Las pistols roared, broken up by the deeper screams of las-rifles as those not yet engaged fired off. The enemy were not good hand to hand fighters. They were slow and cumbersome, you could easily weave around them, they flailed with no technique nor cunning. But they were strong. He saw one shatter the skull of a guardsman. Another one smashed a man against the far wall with a glancing blow. They wielded their weapons as cudgels beating the guardsmen with clubs of heavy metal. People screamed, men and women. Weapons barked and roared. He could smell blood in the air.
Havis' instinct took over. He would describe himself as many things if you asked. A faithful man, a soldier, a defender of the humanity if he was drunk enough. More than anything else however, he was a survivor. When whispered prayers failed, his body reacted on its own. The power of the God-Emperor was distant and far away, but here and now he had a pistol and a rifle and the knowledge to use them.
He switched his rifle to full auto, blazing away at the enemy. His shots chewed them up, slashing into them and bringing several of them low. At close range the sheer power of the las rifle was a thing to respect, and they staggered around him. Only once his clip ran out did he drop the weapon, plunging forwards with another shout. His left hand closed around the hilt of a combat knife, his right wrapped about the grip of his pistol. He had no idea what he was doing except what he had done on hundreds of battlefields before.
He fought them, hurled himself into them. His knife flashed out, but found little to hurt on their metal bodies. He used it anyway, driving it into eye-sockets, plunging it between metal ribs. He ducked flailing arms, side-stepped weapons used as clubs. He was good at this, he was very good at this. It was why he had survived for so long. In a melee there was no time to plan, no chance to think everything through. You had to act, you had to listen to the screaming voice of your instincts and know when to trust them and when to ignore them. There was a knack to it and it was one that Havis had picked up a long, long time ago.
His las-pistol barked again and again, lancing shots into metal skulls, driving beams of heat into legs that could collapse and send a foe sprawling. He used his knees - though it hurt like hell - and even stamped down on them with his standard issue combat boots. Thankful for once that they were so damned heavy and awkward.
The rest of the squad fought around him. Others did too. Scattered and broken, guardsmen began to gather around this centre of resistance. The metal monsters hammered into them like an armoured first. They were slow but they didn't die, and it took so much effort to put one down for good. Knives dulled and broke, bayonets shattered or bent. Pistols ran dry, and fists became bloody and painful.
It was too much. Even as he fought Havis retained a sense of the local battle. This ability was one of the reasons he'd lasted so long. Around him, men and women battled and fought furiously. But they were being driven back. Step by step they were ceding ground. Each moment more of the creatures plunged into the trench. Above them, the emplaced guns were still roaring wildly. Then one of them exploded. The detonation shook the ground. Havis was flung from his feet, landing hard sprawled on the earth. A creature towered over him, raised its rifle to bring it crashing down. He kicked out and caught it in the chest. Its body felt like it was made of solid metal and Havis hissed as the bad angle caused one of his ankles to throb with a sudden flash of pain.. The creature fell bac and he shot upwards. He ignored the pain, ignored the cries of the dead and the dying. He poured shot after shot into the thing which had nearly killed him.
Only then did he look around. Only then did he see the truth. The trench was overrun. Guardsmen were few now. Tiny little circles of resistance against the tide of metal.
"Fall back!" He shouted, "Fall back to the second layer! This trench is gone, there's no point in dying for nothing! Fall back!"
His cry was taken up by others, and soon most of the guardsmen who could were moving backwards, making for the second and last line of defences. Havis made sure to appoint several squads to covering their retreat, barraging the enemy positions with las rifles as those who could made a break for it. Almost as soon as they had realised what was happening, the mortar teams retargeted. They hit the trench again and again, filling it with fire and death. Flame swept along the channels carved into the earth, and if any human was left there to die Havis conceded it was probably for the better.
The mortar teams would buy them a few minutes, but no more. Havis gestured and the last of the retreating guardsmen broke into a run. The final layer of defences was up ahead. More trenches combined with a series of bunkers and heavy weapons emplacements, beyond which the command bunker waited. Between here and there, a killing ground.
Havis forced himself to run even harder.
He didn't want to be here when the killing started.
He reforms. Rising to his feet again as the self-repair routines perform their intricate work. Around him fire blooms. The ground shakes. More and more munitions slam home amongst their ranks. Explosions. Shockwaves. Necrons are thrown, tumbled, hurled and broken.
Most get up again. Those that do not are whisked away to be repaired back in the Tomb. Only a few are truly gone, damaged beyond any hope of salvage, and there are always more warriors. They are a resource, inexhaustible and nigh limitless. That too is how it has always been. He does not remember that this is so, but some deep part of him knows it even now. Whether they were clad in gleaming metal or mortal flesh, it was always thus.
He pulls himself over the lip of the trench as fire continues to hammer the area behind him. More Necrons are doing the same, the first rank advancing towards the second line of defences. The Cryptek peaks through his eyes, he can feel the ancient mind. So complex, full of spinning wheels and flashing emotions. Burning, blazing, a glorious conflagration of thought and feeling.
The Cryptek looks through his eyes and this is what he sees. A large expanse of flatness. There is no cover, anything that could have been used as such has been cleared away. Beyond this there is a second trench with more weapon emplacements. Heavy gunner teams scurry like insects to arm their weapons. There are large, reinforced bunkers, like thick slabs of metal. The barrels of powerful weapons peak out of them, sleek and lethal. Behind those, mortar teams continue to fire, raining destruction down on the Necrons. Large metal striders - big boxy things in two legs - move back and forth as they fall into position. They spit explosive munitions, or sometimes heavy versions of the laser weapons that the soldiers use. One good hit can easily mission kill a warrior.
It is a sight to blunt the teeth of any approach. To kill and to bleed an enemy as they push onwards. Doubtless, many would suggest that such a position cannot be taken by infantry alone. That it would require air support or heavy vehicles.
Those people are not Necrons.
The warrior sees it all. He sees it but does not comprehend it on a conscious level. He is not made for command and as such understanding of the greater battlefield was not required when his neural network was burned into the techno-arcane computer that is housed inside of his skull. Nonetheless there is something about him which cannot be fully suppressed. Call it instinct perhaps. The burned in lessons of a hundred battles which refuse to be silenced even now. He is a soldier to the core and though he no longer is fully aware of what that means some part of him has not forgotten.
The enemy has dug in well and deeply. They have trenches, heavy weapon support, cover and artillery. Though the Necron Warriors on their own could win the battle it would be a drawn out and bloody process.
The Cryptek agrees. He sees the battlefield through the eyes of every warrior, effortlessly juggling the sheer amount of data that feeds back to him like a great flood. Enough information to burn out a mind and he handles it casually, as though it is nothing. He links to the Tomb World's central computer, contacting the semi-intelligent AI that dwells there. The two compare notes, sensor logs are opened and examined.
He does not have time. The enemy is going to run away if they are not brought to heel soon. A full assault with the warriors will not be fast enough on its own.
The repository must be recovered. The Cryptek cannot wake his Lords, those who entrusted him to watch over their eternal sleep if such a valuable relic is removed from his possession. It would be the ultimate shame. More importantly, it would lead to his own permanent death. An end the Cryptek wishes to avoid. So the relic must be recovered. But it cannot be done with the forces that he has now. There is no time. Therefore he makes a decision. He does what the warrior cannot and applies a level of creativity and interpretation to his orders.
He is not supposed to have the authority to do what he does next. That level of power is meant to be limited only to the nobles, to the lords and overlords of the Dynasty. But the Cryptek reasons that they would order this themselves if only they could. He is being loyal, indeed, he is merely anticipating the commands that they would give him were they in a position to do so. Of course, technically he has no means to do it on his own. It is supposed to require the authority of the nobles.
But when has that ever stopped a Cryptek? They were the ones who built the computers and the systems that the Lords use so easily. Dynastic commands were erected by the Crypteks, blockers and rank-signifiers designed by them. They would be foolish indeed if they had not left certain precautions in the event of just such a thing as this.
He begins to calculate.
And orders the warriors forward.
The guns of the enemy open up. The ground shakes, lasers fill the air with blazing light and incredible heat. Explosive shells rain down among them. This time they start to die. To actually die, the sheer amount of firepower thrown at them damages many beyond repair. They falter and fall. They're blown apart, melted, torn limb from limb. If they were flesh and blood it would be like a scene out of some grizzly horror. But they are not flesh and blood, and they cannot scream as they are mowed down. They do not feel pain as they die, nor do they feel fear or uncertainty. They have their orders, the Cryptek's command swims through their mind. Obedience is everything. Not a single one of them is even capable of doubting.
None that is but he. The warrior advances with his fellows, his weapon is firing as he goes. Blasts of vivid emerald light reflect in his metal finish. Enemy return fire is constant and quite deadly at this range.
It chews through them. It punches them off their feet. Necron bodies are sent tumbling, sprawling, lying on the ground in pieces. Mortars explode amongst them. Immortals die. Soldiers of the great war are scythed down. Beings who fought gods at the dawn of time finally meet their end.
It doesn't matter. The enemy will never know and the nobles will never bring themselves to care.
The front rank fire again. Gauss energy answers the furious fire of the enemy. Some of their soldiers are punched from their feet, their bodies being unmade layer by layer. The heavy weapons in the bunkers and emplacements open up adding their throaty roar to the storm of battle.
The warrior stumbles. Half of his chest has been ripped away. One the large striding vehicles fires a beam of light and heat. His leg is suddenly gone. He falls. Many fall beside him. The entire first rank begins to bog down. They advance doggidly, but the firepower is too much, their self-repair systems are being overwhelmed. One by one sheer weight of fire is dragging them down.
The warrior lies still against the hardened earth. Muddy hues stick to his chassis. If he could feel pain he would be in a great deal of it now. He cannot, so that does not matter but he can remember what it used to feel like. The memory rises in him now. He felt pain before. So many times. When he was training to be a soldier, just a low born child with no other choice. It was serve or starve. Training was brutal. Many died. They all knew pain in those days. Then later, as a soldier. He had a talent for it. He was good at what he did. He had a good eye, a good aim. And he was handsome.
He is not handsome now.
But even a good soldier can take wounds, and he was wounded again and again. He remembers shedding his blood on dozens of worlds. He took wounds that were both light and severe, fighting for nobles who never even knew his name. To whom he was nothing. Because he was supposed to. Because loyalty is everything. Because it is what it means to be a Necrontyr. Unbending. Unwavering. Duty to the end. Beyond the end.
For his service, he was promised one thing. He was promised peace, enough money to live with. A few years to enjoy himself before succumbing to his inevitable demise. It wasn't much. Not really, not compared to the nobles, to the lords and the Phaerons. But soldiers cling to such promises when they have nothing else, and in the darkest hours of the most bloody battles, he dragged himself through mud and horror alike and held on to that promise as a shield. For that thing alone he rose from the ashes and from despair, fighting and killing even when he had no strength left.
Peace. Money. Not much but enough. Maybe a family, children of his own. Those were things he held dear to his heart when things were at their worst.
For a moment - for a single brief instant - he wants to scream but he cannot. His body seals him in. His metal form is a prison. Complex layers of systems and programs buried in his neural network detect his anguish and blockers are deployed. A moment later, memory spins away. Lucidity escapes his desperate grasp. The past fades.
He is a warrior. He is a soldier.
He is nothing else. He was never anything else.
Around him other soldiers are dying. They fall in droves. Some of them are still extracted. Others are able to effect self-repair and rise again. But many are not. Many are blasted apart, destroyed utterly. The enemy knows to train firepower on them even when they seem dead. They hit them again and again, breaking them into pieces and then breaking the pieces in turn.
The Cryptek watches it all. He doesn't care. He doesn't expect them to break through. They're a probe, a test. He has more warriors. He always will have more warriors.
The Cryptek's calculations are finally completed. In the core of the tomb, the guardian mind - an ancient and limited artificial intelligence - corresponds with that of the Cryptek. Numbers are traded, agreement is reached. Ancient generators kick to life, batteries thrum with blazing emerald brilliance.
And then with a flash of light, they are among the enemy. There are three of them. Only three. One near the mortar teams, one near the bunkers and one near the trench. The warrior recognises them, for they are as he is and yet better than him in every way that matters. They are tall where he is stooped, their movements are fluid and smooth where he is sluggish and slow. Their minds are sharp like blades of war, and they plunge into the enemy like arrows. Like lances to the heart. Before the foe even knows what has happened, the killing has started.
Lychguard.
The Cryptek has been able to use his authority to rouse three of them. Only three. If he were a noble, there could be dozens, but he has been granted only three.
Three however is more than enough.
Havis screamed. He was not the only one to do so. Before they even had a chance to register the Xenos in the trench with them, it had moved. Its body glittered with silver and gold, its eyes blazed green. It wielded a great scythe with a humming powerfield that carved through flesh and metal alike. Guardsmen fell in their dozens. The scythe reaped a harvest of blood, sweeping from side to side. Body parts rained down around him, blood soaked him like rain. It was so fast, Emperor, it was so fast!
He pulled his las-rifle, taking aim and bellowing as he did.
"Shoot it!" He screamed, "Shoot it!"
The men around him opened up, las-bolts flashed towards their target but the xenos creature seemed to step between them. Its body moved with a speed and a fluidity he had never seen these creatures possess. It mocked their attempts to hit it and returned them with strikes of its own. These ones didn't miss. More guardsmen fell. One man screamed as his arm spun away. Another had his face ripped off, but his suffering was swift because the creature then drove the scythe through his chest with a reverse swipe.
Havis threw his las rifle down. It was too bulky, and the creature was too close now. He used his pistol instead. Snapping off shot after shot at it. Most of them went wide, but a few hit its metal body. Not that they did much good.
Someone ran at the thing with a chainsword, but the ancient warrior cut through it with a contemptuous slice, burying the blade of its weapon into the man who tried to use it. He fell and the slaughter continued. Havis wanted to run. More than anything else he wanted to run away. But he knew that he couldn't. He knew that there was nowhere to run to. It was the last line of defence, there was nowhere else.
He channeled his terror into action instead, firing again and again at the creature. His shots landed one after the other, striking it in the chest and shoulders. After a moment it seemed that he had earned its ire. The blade flicked out, such a casual movement. It took him a moment to realise that his hand had now been removed from his arm. He gasped and then the pain hit him, blood spurted from the stump.
The last of the men around him died or fled. His lifeblood pooled on the ground at his feet. The metal creature stood over him, its shadow cast him into darkness.
Havis looked up into the grim face of death.
Suddenly the creature twisted away as a thrumming power sword sliced through the air where it had been. It stepped to the left, Havis was forgotten. Discarded in an instant as no longer important. He would die on his own anyway.
A new foe was rising to challenge it. Havis didn't know if it was the terror or the blood loss which made him feel woozy and light headed, but the thought of imminent bleed out was more than enough to force him to his feet. He stumbled down the trench, looking for a medic to help him before the last of his strength gave out.
The Necron Lychguard watched him go, but then turned its attention back to the one who had attacked it. The Tech-Priest Belus stood there, his robes were crimson red. He had a power sword in his hand, its hilt was shaped to look like the wheel of a cog. It blazed with light as he took it in a two handed grip. Mechadendrites spread out around him like living things. He said nothing. There was nothing to say. There was a single moment understood by both, a challenge and an answer and then they both sprang to life.
The Warscythe cut for Belus' throat but the Tech-Priest was faster than any mortal man and swayed away from it. His blade curved upwards for the Lychguard's chest, but the immortal blocked it with the blade of its scythe. There was a moment of hissing rage as the two weapons locked, the power field of the sword raged against the alien energy of the scythe.
Then they were trading blows, faster and faster. Metal against the alloy of metal and flesh. Pure machine against human plus. Belus spun and moved, darting forwards to attack and then withdrawing in the face of the enemy's blade. The Warscythe cut out for him again and again, coming within inches of his body many times But he was fast enough to avoid that final blow.
Belus was from a world of knights. Not only in the sense of the holy machines, but knights in the human sense as well. Where he came from, martial skills were considered to be the very pinnacle of aspiration. As a young man, he'd stirven to prove himself worthy to join the ranks of those who spent their whole lives dedicated to the craft. He'd found a greater purpose instead, but his early life had never left him. Many Tech-Priests had a distaste for direct combat, citing that while it was often necessary, it was also the job of Skirtarii or for Magos Dominus. Belus had never quite managed to evolve that opinion for himself. Combat to him was one of the surrest expressions of the Omishiah's will. It was about preparation, cold calculation, the right angles for attack, speed and power. It all came down to numbers. To the logic of attack and defence, advance and retreat.
He'd refined it into an art and he employed that art now. Chemical buffers were released into his bloodstream, biomechanical muscles flexed with more power and speed than pure humanity had ever been capable of. Pain blockers slammed into effect, adrenal enhancers came online. He devoted processing time to anticipation of the enemy's moveset, learning more and more with each strike and counter strike.
The Lychguard came at him hard, striking with a series of lightning fast cuts and slices. The warscythe hammered into the power sword again and again, but the sword held fast. Belus had forged it himself upon his ascent to full tech-priest status. It was the best weapon that he could possibly have made with the resources allotted to him. Insomuch as he allowed himself to feel proud of anything, he was proud of that sword.
The two circled, clashing again and again. Now the Lycgguard was more cautious. Now it registered him as something approaching a peer. It was still stronger and faster than he was, but the edge was not so great and he kept his moves efficient. Everything was considered, evaluated and then put into practice. A cold and clinical way of waging war of which the Mechanicus had approved.
The lychguard surged forwards. The scythe flicked out, the power sword intercepted. The weapons locked for a moment and the Luchguard threw its entire weight against it. Belus felt himself slammed into the wall of the trench, the force enough to jar his bones. With nowhere to go, he was forced to once more block the descending blade of the scythe. The sheer brutal strength of the Necron Lychguard hammered into him, bineric warnings screamed through his mind as his mechanical joints were stressed almost to the point of failure. For a single instant the two struggled.
Then Belus saw his chance. With all of the strength he left in him he forced the Lychguard's blade upwards, his mechadendrites dropped to his belt, coming free with a plasma pistol that he discharged at point blank range right against the Necron's chest.
The plasma rippled as it struck the Necron. Necrodermis burned, searing away at the sheer heat. The bolt tore a hole through its chest, but Belus was well used to the amazing endurance of Necrons and continued to fire bolts into its body until the pistol needed to cool down.
Belus rose. His internal clock told him it had been only a handful of moments between engaging the Necron and its termination, but it always felt like an eternity to him. A thought silenced the warnings that were still sounding inside of his skull. Internal damage was a small price to pay for such a victory. He had had to overclock himself just to keep up, and even then he'd still been slower!
At this point Belus realised that the mortar teams had stopped firing, and the sound of the heavy weapons had been drastically reduced. He had dealt with one lychguard but two more remained. A quick calculation assured him that he would not be able to defeat them in the same way. Even assuming that neither of them were able to hit or damage him in any way - which was a big assumption - his internals wouldn't be able to take the overclocking required to win such a battle two more times.
In any case, he realised it probably didn't matter too much now.
The Necron Warriors had advanced during the confusion.
They were spilling into the trench.
The enemy's defence has crumbled. The Lychguard have done their job. They were distractions, nothing more. Whether they actually succeeded at their given goal was not important to the Cryptek. They were simply meant to disrupt the enemy, to draw fire and to sow chaos. The warrior matches with his fellows. They are now inside of the trench. Humans run to bring their weapons to bear, opening up on them but they are too close to really hold back. As he marches, he sees the remains of a Luchguaerd phase away to be repaired. The damage looks severe. A red-robed human brandishes a sword in front of them. Metal tendrils extend from their back, one of them is wielding a pistol of some sort.
The pistol barks, a warrior crumples. It fires again and brings low a second. He fires. The Gauss Flayer hits empty space as the human ducks and moves. He is fast. Faster than the warrior. Faster even than he used to be.
The red-robed human springs forward. He is among them in an instant, his sword swipes out and cleaves a Necron's head from their shoulders. A warrior tries to club him with their rifle, but the human simply seems to flow around it. His metal fist crunches into a Necron's chin and as the Necron stumbles backwards, his sword stabs them through the chest. Another falls, and then another. There are too many of them though, and they are going to drag him down. Sheer weight of numbers will tell in the end.
Suddenly, the Cryptek is among them. He is not content to wait for them to drag down the human. He wants to do it himself. It is personal.
The warrior has no ''personal''. The concept does not apply to him. But some part of him remembers what it is like.
''Personal'' is when something is done to you. Something that causes pain, humiliation or suffering. Something that you must repay.
''Personal'' is fighting a war for a noble who doesn't even know your name.
''Personal'' is being marched into a vast furnace. Feeling the heat of it scorch the meat from your bones, claws of fire rending your mind and soul.
''Personal'' is being made into something else. Having all that you were taken away.
''Personal'' is when a promise is betrayed. When your world is taken from you and you are changed forever by it.
The Cryptek and the human are battling now, circling. The Cryptek has a phase-blade, the human a powered sword. They clash again and again. As they fight, they are speaking. Talking. The Warrior cannot understand their words. Understanding of language was also deemed unnecessary for his role. When he is given orders they are fed to him directly through the neural link.
They duel, moving faster and faster. Blades flash and hiss as energy fields interlock. The Cryptek was confident, sure of his victory but now he is not. He is wary, moving more cautiously. The human is also cautious. They are testing each other, probing. The Cryptek speaks again, the human replies.
The warrior cannot understand any of it, but he can read the flow of the battle. It is an old instinct, long buried from his time as a mortal. He remembers not how he first attained it nor the fights and battles that led to it, but it is part of him. So much a part of him that even biotransference couldn't rip it away fully. The Cryptek is not happy, he is worried. He fights quickly, using the raw speed and power of his form to bulldoze through the enemy's guard. But he miscalculated, the Cryptek thought that a mere human would not be a challenge. He thought to avenge himself personally for that which was stolen.
But the human is not merely a human. He is augmented, his body covered with metal plates. Servos incorporated into his arms and legs add strength, biosynthetic muscles operate at a speed which easily surpasses that of a normal human. The Cryptek thought that he would be able to win on raw strength and speed but they are more equal than he calculated.
The phase blade scars a long wound into the human's side, but the human's power sword slices through one of the Cryptek's ribs. The Cryptek reels back and the human goes on the offensive. He knows that the necrodermis which houses the Cryptek will heal rapidly, so he targets something that will not be so easily fixed. The glowing eye in the centre of the Cryptek's face.
The Cruptek gives a shriek of outrage as the human comes within inches of his face. The phase blade intercepts and again the two swords clash and lock. For an instant the two are close, blade to blade and face to face. It is hard to see who is machine and who is man. Then the human rams a fist into the Cryptek's metal gut. There is a sound of servos and the Cryptek staggers under the impact. Skillfully, the human's blade sweeps upwards again and this time it slices into the Cryptek's face. It peels back layers of armour, biting through Necrodermis to sever circuits and connections within. Vibrant green energy flares as though it were blood and the Cryptek howls in fury and rage.
The two break apart. The Cryptek's face slowly begins to piece itself together but the damage is too deep for a full repair. The surface will knit, but the internal systems, sensors and perception enhancing augurs will all need to be replaced in the tomb when this is over.
The Cryptek darts forwards. His blade lashes out. Its tip plunges for the human's gut, but the human turns it aside. The Cryptek had calculated that move and counters with a diagonal slash that manages to catch him in the shoulder. Now the human staggers, electricity spits from his sundered armour. The Cryptek plunges forwards and the blade scream as they clash. The Cryptek is no longer playing. He is no longer amused. He is no longer fighting merely to avenge himself.
The battles moves to a higher level, moves and counter moves flash past in the blink of an eye. Literally too fast for an organic mind to comprehend. It isn't just a battle of movements but of calculation too. Both Cryptek and the augmented human are analysing one another's moves, adapting their tactics and strategies mid-fight.
It is probably the closest that the Cryptek has come to facing one of his own in a very long time.
When it does end, it ends brutally. The Cryptek's snake tail whips out, curling around the human's leg and yanking him downwards. He compensates almost instantly.
Almost.
During that brief period, that less-than-a-second, the Cryptek lunges. The phase blade buries itself to the hilt in the man's chest. It drives him backwards and sticks him to the trench wall. Blood and a thick oil substance start to well around the blade, but the Cryptek rips it free, nearly bisecting the man in two as he does. The man gives no sign of pain and uses the last of his strength to stab his power sword into the Cryptek's body. It spits and hisses as it cleaves through his shoulder. The plasma pistol that the man's metal tendrils are holding tries to bark but the Cryptek's blade severs the limb and his follow-up opens the man's throat.
The human slumps and fights no more.
The Cryptek laughs, and the warrior realises that he has heard laughs like that many times before. The Crypteks were the ones who manned the bio-furnaces, they used their art and power to reshape the common Necrontyr. He remembers the searing pain, an agony beyond agony which still echoes in his essence today. He remembers being stripped layer by layer of everything that made him him. And he remembers the Crypteks who did it all.
Hate. Pulsing, brilliant, bright. Only for a moment does it extend through his being. Only for an instant before it is smothered, ground to nothing. Reduced to a ghost of a feeling. But in that instant he feels more alive than he has in thousands of years.
The Cryptek stands up, as if to brush himself off. He takes hold of the power sword which is still trapped inside of his body and drags it out. Sparks hiss and green light issues forth from the wound. The damage is severe and the warrior knows that the Cryptek will need to be properly repaired back at the tomb before he is once more fully functional. This is beyond his self-repair capacity.
As if to drive in the point,. The energy shield that protected the Cryptek before flares, spits and then fades as its generators burn out. The Cryptek is severely annoyed. What little remains of the warrior's mind thinks that he will probably not try to personally deal with anyone else. He has learned a lesson.
By now the enemy is in disorey. The other two Lychguard have done their job. The mortar teams are silent, the heavy weapons are much less. The warriors begin to advance again.
The last of the defences were spitting defiance. Guardsmen hurried past to set up barricades of flimsy wooden constructs, sand bags were being pulled into position. Someone was muttering muffled curses as they set up a heavy stubber before the command bunker. Raks of Guardsmen took cover wherever they could find it. A few surviving sentinels began to fire off their weapons as the enemy crossed the trenches.
Volus stood in the centre of it all. People were shouting, officers bellowing for their squads to get into position. Emplaced weapons opened up with a scream, but the sheer concentration of fire which had caused the Necrons to stumble before was gone now. They were coming on like a tide, and the last defence would last for minutes at best. Bunkers to his left and right opened up, spitting fire at the enemy. Guardsmen hefted rocket launchers and added to the weight of the barrage. Las-rifles spat death at the enemy's the Emperor, officers fired off bolt pistols if they had them.
Volus had left the command bunker. He couldn't afford to be trapped inside of it if his evacuation ship did arrive on time. It would be the height of bitter irony if he survived long enough to reach safety but had no way to actually get to the ship. He surveyed the defiant survivors, hoping that he would see the mark of a crimson robe. Alas, Belus was not among them. Dead then, or close enough to it. He was no longer a factor.
Volus felt regret. Belus and he had worked together for many years now. In fact, Belus had worked under his old master too, back when Volus himself was a mere interrogator. The two of them had not been friends - friendship was a thing an Inquisitor could not afford, and a Tech-Priest typically could not extend. But they had been comrades and had stood side by side for a long time. His loss hurt.
As the enemy came on, Volus raised his weapon and added his own fire to the barrage. Some Inquisitors used exotic gear and weapons. Things both rare and powerful, some relics of an earlier time that could not be repaired or replaced. Volus had never much seen the point in that - he wanted something that was sturdy, tough, and could be repaired or replaced if it came to harm. That was why his weapon of choice was a hotshot lasrifle. Not mechanically much different from that wielded by the guardsmen around him though of substantially higher quality and stopping power. Its stock was made of antique wood and golden edging traced its hilt, trigger and body. It had been a present from his master on the eve of his ascension and now he intended to put it to good use.
He started firing, each shot was deliberate and carefully aimed. The hotshot gun was much more powerful but drained its batteries much more quickly too. If he set it on rapid fire, it would last but a few moments. He made the most of it, blasting Necrons with singular powerful shots. Head or legs, that was the key. If it was the head, they'd go down and he could finish them off with another shot or two. For legs, it would make them stumble, slow their advance and give him time to place another shot. Even as the enemy came at him, his blood ran like ice. He forced himself to remain calm, expanding willpower to still the frantic beating of his heart.
Volus shut down everything else. The danger, the importance of his mission, even the desire for his own survival. Nothing mattered except what he was doing in that moment. Picking his targets, bringing them low. Again and again, as many times as he could before they came for him.
People screamed. He could smell blood in the air. Gauss Flayers did their horrible work and Guardsmen fell back. The lucky ones were dead already. The bunkers and the sentinels wove an interlocking field of fire. Many of the Necrons went down with gaping holes in their bodies. Guardsmen - now well aware of their tendency to get back up again - targeted the ones who fell, leaving heavier weapons to blunt the oncoming flood. It was an orderly stand, but still a last one. The Necrons were coming and there were too many of them. Volus could see the great tide, the great river stretching all the way back to where they were teleporting in. More and more squads were being awoken each moment. There was no question of victory here, merely escape. Merely survival.
Between shots, Volus wondered if he had doomed this world. He hadn't meant to, but going in he knew he would invoke a reaction. He had thought it would be minor, but it was not. Clearly, the item was far more valuable than he had thought. If they got it back would the Necrons go back to sleep? He doubted it.
Volus was the first to admit that he was not a not a good man. He was an Inquisitor and he stood between humanity and the darkness. You could not do that and be a good person. You would be dragged down slowly by all that you were forced to do. Good men broke in the Inquisition. The best you could hope for in the end was that the deeds you had done would outweigh the evil you had caused. That you had saved more than you condemned, that your actions had echoed beyond the hurt you had caused.
Volus was very sure that his would not. He was a young Inquisitor yet, and he had not met with major success. Though not a failure by any means, nor had he enjoyed a career of blazing glory and triumph. His master had thought that he had the spark of something greater but in the end he had realised that he did not. Now, his actions had likely doomed a world. The Necrons wouldn't stop. They were waking, they were coming to life. Even if they got back the item they wouldn't just return to their slumber.
In his final moments, Volus was starting to realise that it was his fault that all of this had happened. There was no time for self hatred, he crushed it under an iron will, but the realisation, the knowledge remained. In his arrogance, in his thirst to prove himself, to prove that he was the man his teacher and mentor had wanted him to be, he'd gone and done the worst thing an Inquisitor possibly could.
He fired and fired and fired again. Depressing the trigger, locking onto his target. If looks could kill, he would have swept the plains clean. Guilt and recrimination boiled in the back of his mind. The deaths of all of these people as well as all the deaths to come afterwards could be laid at his feet. He wondered what he would say to the Emperor when his soul stood before the Golden Throne. How could he claim to have helped mankind? How could he argue that he had been a good citizen, done his duty?
The most wretched thing in all the Imperium was an Inquisitor who had failed. Who had stained their hands with blood and had nothing to show for it. Volus looked back at his life reflected in the grim-faced army which now marched on his position and he found it lacking.
A bunker to his right exploded. The shockwave tore through the air and hurled him from his feet. Men and women around him scattered. The heavy stubber kicked and roared and then was silenced as an emerald blast enveloped it. The man who had been firing it fell back trailing smoke. He didn't get up again. Volus pushed himself to his feet, time seemed to slow for him. He watched a sentinel detonate in a rippling cloud of flame and metal. Around him men and women sold their lives for the Emperor.
A Gauss Flayer took him in the gut, but his conversion field triggered. Transmuted the hit to light and heat. He lived. He raised his rifle and spat defiance, but the warriors were close now. The final heavy weapons were being silenced one by one, picked off. There was nowhere to retreat to, nowhere to run. Guardsmen around him started to fall in earnest. Their armour was no use now.
In that moment as he faced his end, Volus felt everything that he was unraveling. His arrogance, his haughtiness. His sense of superiority over those who toiled under him. All of it melted away in the light and heat that were his final moments. He was once more just a man. Not an invincible Inquisitor, a shadow of the God-Emperor. He was not some absolute agent of justice, or a bloody-handed guardian of the state.
Just a man. Just a man as he had ever been.
The warriors stopped. Their weapons were primed, there were less than a dozen guardsmen left alive now. Nearly all of them wounded. Those who could still were returning fire but the crack of las guns was soletery and faint compared to the roar that had been the enemy's guns.
The warriors parted, and what he judged to be the leader strode forth. This Necron was visibly different, taller than the warriors and with a long, coiling tail instead of legs. It moved sinuously, with a strange and eerie grace. It had one large eye of a deep green hue. Volus felt it settle on him. It examined him like a Magos Biologis might examine an interesting sample of Xenos life. There was no warmth there, not even hatred or anger. It pinned him with a cold arrogance that made his blood boil.
The Necron tossed something to the ground at Volus's feet. He glanced down. It was a familiar power sword.
"So you got him then."
"He was a thief and a lesser being." Spoke the Necron. Its voice was high and cold, imperious and cruel. It spoke of Belus as one might speak of a pest or rodent that had been crushed under foot. "He paid for his actions with his life, as have all of the men and women you thought to shield yourself with. More will die too, their blood on your hands."
Volus composed himself. He could feel his beating heart race, but forced it to slow with an effort of will. He had to keep his limbs loose, ready for action. His mind was his best weapon now - his only weapon now. He hoped desperately to bait the Necron into talking for as long as he could. . He was chaining distractions, grasping at seconds. Anything that might put back the inevitable even for a fraction of a moment.
"Blood is ever on the hands of the Inquisition." He said. "It is as much our role as purging creatures like you."
"You brag of killing your own?" The Xenos tilted its head almost mockingly.
"We do what must be done."
"I wonder if you do."
"You have no understanding of the role we play, monster."
"I think my understanding is better than yours, little creature. You who have existed for such a brief time. The span of your species like the blinking of an eye. The sum total of your knowledge would not be fit to fill even a single data bank of my Dynasty. Yet you stand there, with your hands dripping in the blood of your own kind, and lecture me as to what I would not understand?"
The creature shook its head slowly.
"You have no idea of the wonders and the terrors that I have seen. I tower above your greatest champions yet am not even considered remarkable to my own kind. I have seen things that you could never understand, and done things that would make your simple mind boil. You grapple with problems that we solved eons ago. Yet you stand in the ruins of our empire like children playing with toys you cannot comprehend. You have stolen something from us, and we will have it back."
"Then take it." Volus snarled. "You must know it's near it. Is it that you cannot find it or that you just wanted a chance to shower us with your arrogance before we die?"
The Necron shifted its head. It was impossible to read its metal face but Volus had the impression that this was exactly what it had come to do. He idly considered taking a shot at it, but doubted it would be worth the effort. It wouldn't come forward unless it was sure that he couldn't harm it, and it would slaughter him and the rest of the guardsmen as soon as he took the chance. He could buy more time with words.
"I have come to offer you mercy." Said the Necron. "My wise and benevolent Phaeron set the code so long ago that your disgusting race had not even crawled from the mud of its birth. Yet mercy must apply to greater and lesser things equally, or it is not mercy at all so I will offer you what I would offer a true Necrontyr in your position. You will never know the honour I give you by doing so."
"Far be it from me to stand in the way of tradition," Volus said. "What sort of terms do you offer?"
He was buying time. Everyone knew he was buying time. Himself, the guardsmen and even the Necrons. Every moment the ship came closer and closer. If only he could keep them talking, just for a little bit longer!
"The right to a merciful death, of course. For your crime there can be no other punishment. To steal a repository of the ancient days, it is a great crime. You know not what your grubby, clasping hands have chanced upon. That sphere contains more knowledge than had been accumulated in your entire civilzation's history. It belongs to the Dynasty that it chronicles. It speaks of wonders and terrors that you will never know, when we strode the stars as gods, and cast down greater gods still! You will return it and I will grant you a swift and painless demise."
"And if I do not?"
It leaned forwards, its body language almost gleeful.
"Do not think I don't know what you are planning. You think to yourself to make a final stand, some stupid gesture. You think that you will die anyway, so why would such a bargain be in your favour? Well, think on this. If you do not return it, you will not die. But your companions will die, and I will drag you from this place and take you deep beneath the earth. There, I will slice the skin from your flesh, and throw it to the cursed ones. I will pin you to a slab of stone, unmake you by inches. You are a lesser being in all regards, and I will show you how inferior you are in blood and in bone! I will peel you back as you scream and beg, but you will still not die. Inch by inch and layer by layer. Your dignity, your pride, your sanity, I will take them all. You will be left as but a mewling puppet of meat, a skinless lump that wishes for an end that cannot come.
"I will keep you alive for as long as I can. It cannot be forever, of course. But I think I can do it for a hundred years at least. In that time, I will push the limits of your endurance, you will feel pain and agony that you never thought possible. You will forget that you ever were a man, and become that which I make it. A disgrace, a failure, and a living, tortured agony.
"So make your choice. Death or life."
Volus felt his fear and panic begin to bloom. It tried to overcome his mind, to freeze his ability to think. He didn't let it. He fought it, forced it back into a corner of his mind just like he had been taught. He clung to what he was. An Inquisitor of the Imperium, he drew strength from that. Conviction. Even if he wasn't a good one, even if he felt right now like anyone else would have been better in the role, he held it fast to his heart, using it like a shield against the alien creature's overwhelming presence.
"You sound like one of the dark kin of the Eldar." He said. "Threats like that are common from them."
"The Dark Eldar…" The Necron made a strange sound. He realised it was laughter. "I should thank you for that, mortal. I have not felt actual amusement in such a long time. The centuries upon centuries dull the emotions. That was the first time in a long while that I have felt quite so amused."
"I don't suppose you'll actually tell me what you found so funny about the comparison?" Volus growled. "It was meant more as an insult than a joke."
"You really have no idea of which you speak." The Necron said. "Every word you utter only drives that fact in further. Your ignorance is almost endearing. You stumble like a blind man in a galaxy of thorns and claws. You claim mastery and yet do not recognise it in others. You steal that which you have no claim to, and press your right in the face of the greatest species ever to bestride the galaxy."
"Your words are even more like those of the Aeldari." Volus said. "A flawless imitation, beyond compare. As someone who has endured their speeches on the superiority of their own race above that of mankind, I must applaud you. You've managed to capture them perfectly."
"I am glad you seem to think so." Said the Necron. "It has been a long time since I last met the Aeldari, but they are far superior to your pathetic species. Of all the horrors and all the species we once fought, I am glad that they yet remain in this world. It will make things so much more satisfying later. But that is a day you will not see. Make your choice, life or death."
"My choice?" Volus said. The world around him seemed to slow down as his system kicked into high gear. He wasn't augmented by technology as some Inquisitors were, he didn't have access to psychic gifts, nor did he have the pull within the Inquisition itself to count particularly impressive or exotic gear as his own. All he had was what he carried with him. His armoured coat, his conversion field, his las-rifle and his backup weapon, a heavy pistol that fired solid, powerful shots. As things went, that meant he was more heavily armed than nearly all of the guard survivors, and yet he felt almost naked now. None of those things would matter worth a damn.
His hand extended towards the pocket of his coat. He felt the alien orb. Its metal was warm to the touch. The skin of his fingers tingled where they made contact with it. For a moment he wondered what it was. That was something that they had never been able to figure out. One of the reasons they wanted an intact one was to answer that very question, in fact. All they knew for sure was that not every Tomb World possessed one, but those that did would fight to the death and even destroy it themselves before letting it fall into the Imperium's hands.
"The planet?" He asked.
"What of it?"
"What will happen to the planet if I give you what you want?"
"You already know that." The Necron said. "Our eternal sleep is ended. This world and those around it were once ours, and they will be so again. It is our right and our destiny to rule them as we did in the ancient past. Our Dynasty shall pour forth and reclaim what was ours. We will drive you out. This is our place, these worlds are Necrontyr worlds."
"I see…" Volus said. "So my actions have doomed this world."
"That is the consequence when the lesser meddle in the affairs of the greater."
"In that case…" Everything seemed to narrow to this one moment for the Inquisitor. His past and future fell away, and all that mattered was now. "In that case then there is only one answer I can give."
His hand closed around the sphere and he ripped it from his coat. The las rifle fell from his hand at the same time, his fingers closing around the pistol on his hip. He drew it in a single smooth movement, feeling strangely proud of the fact that he didn't hesitate even once. The pistol came up, mouth pointed towards the metal sphere. It was still in his hand but he didn't care at that point.
Then he felt a blast of pain as something solid caught him in the shoulder. Volus cried out, and his arms went limp. The pistol spun from his grip, the orb tumbled away. His body hit the ground hard and a moment later, he felt the pain wash over him. A pistol of some kind was in the Necron's hand. He hadn't even seen the creature draw it. It had punched right through his shoulder, burning through the meat and bone alike. It hadn't even triggered his conversion field. He gasped as the pain hit him.
"Ignorance." The Necron said. "You were already informed that I knew what you were thinking. Did you believe you fooled me for even a moment? You thought to deny me my prize in a final act of defiance, but the gesture was pointless. Like everything else you have done this day."
Waves of pain radiated from his shoulder. Volus' nerves seared with head and fire. He groaned. His left hand was totally limp now. His right one was still responding as the shock wore off. The orb had tumbled away, but his fingers closed around the hilt of the pistol. He gripped it, and turned it on the Necron, launching shot after shot of solid munitions right into the creature.
The pistol barked. The Necron's body shimmered, liquid metal flowed over the wounds as the slugs made them. It wasn't even slightly hurt.
"Pathetic." The Necron said. "To think a creature like you, a species like you, would ever come to exist where we once dwelt. Your very existence is a mockery of all we were."
He gestured with one hand and the warriors started to move again. Skeletal monsters brought ancient weapons to bear. Guardsmen started to shout, las rifles cracked. For Volus, nothing mattered. The pistol shook in his hand and all he felt was an absolute and crushing sense of failure and guilt.
"Kill them all." The Necron said.
"Kill them all." The Cryptek speaks. This time, the warrior understands for his words are combined with a Dynastic imperative. The Warrior understands that he does not need to speak at all - the command could be transmitted through the neural net linking the warriors to their commander. But he wants the human to hear his ending coming, he wants to cause pain.
The human is still lying where he fell. A small pool of blood is gathering under him but not much. Most of the bleeding was contained by the heat. His face is ashen and grey, defeat haunts his eyes. He has nothing left.
In another time, in another place, the warrior might feel something for a foe who has been so totally defeated. But that was long ago, and now he has nothing left of that empathy. It was wrung out of him like water from a sponge. At the hands of gods who were not gods, it was stolen away never to be returned.
He raises his Gauss Flayer. Others do the same. Primitive but deadly algorithms in the back of his mind are already calculating the angles, prioritising targets. He will fire at the downed human leader. The man is not able to dodge or get up, so he will be an easy kill. After this, he will switch to the soldiers around him, and continue firing until all of them are dead. There is no emotion in this decision, it is simply cold logic combined with an ancient soldier's instinct.
His metal finger begins to depress the trigger of his Flayer. He draws a bead on the human. He feels nothing as he gazes into the eyes of the man he is about to kill.
But he never gets the chance to fire. Before he can, a shockwave whips through the small battlefield. It is a potent wave of force, of compressed energy. Humans are thrown from their feet and warriors stumble backwards. The Cryptek whips around, realising his mistake only too late.
"The Repository!" He cries.
He can do nothing now. The sphere rolled away from the human leader when he gunned him down, but was picked up by another while the Cryptek gloated and mocked the one who had failed. The man who picked it up is a soldier, one of his arms ends in a stump which has been crudely bandaged. Blood is still slowly seeping through and his face is pale and sunken.
The man has just shot the Repository with a las pistol. The ancient sphere trembles. Dispersion shields struggle to contain the heat and force of the shots. For being such a small item the Repository is incredibly complex. Created by ancient Crypteks before the fall of the Necrontyr Empire. It is a relic of the height and power that the Necrontyr once enjoyed.
It is also exactly what its name would suggest. A storage medium.
The Cryptek throws himself towards the human, he pushes his metal body to the very limit crossing intervening space in a matter of seconds. But seconds is too long and the soldier fires again.
This time the shields falter and fail. The metal surface of the Repository begins to crack. Green light flashes and grows more vivid and more intense. There is a second shock wave, stronger now. The warrior feels himself dragged from his feet and battered against the ground. The Repository makes a sound which is very much like metal under massive pressure. An impossible amount of energy begins to churn within it. It sounds like it is screaming.
Layer by layer, it starts to come undone. The Necrontyr who made it were careful with their act of creation. Each one is different, a work of art. Each one dedicated to the Dynasty which commissioned it. Each Repository is an expression of its Dynasty's history and culture. Plugged into the central systems of the Crownworld for which it was made, it rides the feeds of data. Semi-self aware, it learns and records. Battles and victories, defeats and routs. It is a library stretching back to the foundation of the Dynasty itself. There is no knowledge the Dynasty possess which is not part of the Repository. It is encoded on a quantum level, more information than could be stored on a whole world recorded on a sphere the size of one's palm.
When it dies, it dies like a star. It flares. Brilliant green energy rising in a plume that can be seen for miles. Air is forced away by the sheer pressure of the detonation but there is no sound just yet. The ground begins to come undone, layers of dirt and stone are torn away. Bunkers and barricades alike become little more than swirling debris.
After the light - which is blinding and intense - there comes heat. Hot enough to obliterate flesh, hot enough to sear it from the bone. The Guardsmen die. They have no choice. Exposed to the fury of the Repository's final moments they are overcome. Each life vanishes in a fraction of a second. The Cryptek, who is still diving forwards, is bathed in the light as well. His body runs and starts to melt. He cries out, though it is not in pain.
It is in shock.
The warriors are not spared either. Light and heat envelops them. So intense is it that their eyes burn out. Shockwaves rip into them, tearing them limb from limb. Their bodies grow molten and start to melt, and then the sound comes at last. It is the sound of the death of a world. A brutal roaring so loud that it fills the bones and fractures the earth. The warrior feels circuits burn out. His neural-cognitive systems begin to fracture and die. His arms are ripped away, and he is cast into the sea of light and heat and sound.
However, all of this. All of what has happened so far- the light, the heat, the sound - all of it is merely a prelude to what is about to hit them. It is knowledge. It is history. The entire contents of the Repository released at once, ripping into them with a savage tide of information, experiences, stories and facts. A repository does not hold technical schematics. It does not store information like how to build a weapon, or how to perform a task. It is meant for a higher purpose. Those things are what a Dynasty does, but a Repository shows you what a Dynasty is.
The Cryptek screams. His mind is being battered, fighting for survival. The sheer amount of information trying to cram itself into his brain is causing overloads, he tries to dam it out, but that is like holding back an ocean with a wall of sand. Still, he is a Cryptek. He is good at improvisation and especially when his existence is on the line. He begins to rework his neutral architecture in a way that no other class of Necron could. He builds a dam of cold logic and information-buffers.
It is torn in two, but he builds another. It dies as well, but the flood of information then finds a third, a fourth, a fifth. He sacrifices pieces of his own mind, giving them up to be burned away in order to buy time to save the rest. He erects walls around his core functions, personality, memory, purpose, and holds them fast. He builds a fortress against the tide.
But the warriors have no such skill. Their minds are primitive, fractured, broken.
Exposed.
The warrior screams. For the first time in millions of years, he manages to scream. He does not know what he is feeling but he thinks it might be pain. Information sleets through him. Cognitive breakers trigger and are overwhelmed, the architecture of his mind is burning. Chains of information, direction and loyalty begin to shatter and crack. He sees everything. He sees the Dynasty as it once was, when it was flesh and blood. Thousands upon thousands of years pour into his head. Programmed limits that were never meant to handle anything remotely like this begin to destabilise.
Everything the Necrontyr ever were subsumes him. He is drowning in it, pulled under by the sheer weight of who and what he is. . The Homeworld, the war against the Old Ones. The victories and the defeats. He remembers glories and sorrows. He remembers what it was to be clad in flesh.
The gift of a dying star. The boon of the past to the present.
Context. History to something that has no past of its own.
The light fades. The sound dies. The heat becomes less. He realises that somehow he has survived. He is lying on the ground. All around him, Necrons are melted and broken. Many are healing now, but some are not. The Cryptek is shuddering. He rises slowly. His single eye is haunted, but his body is repairing itself. Necrodermis is tough, and it was designed to endure forces like this. Even so, it pushed him to the edge. It pushed them all to the edge.
By some miracle, there is another survivor as well. The human leader possessed a shield of some sort which triggered during the detonation. It survived almost through the whole thing.
Almost.
He is badly burned. Mutilated in ways that he will never recover from. He is gasping in pain, his wounds are weeping. His skin is charred and blackened. He can no longer move under his own power.
The Cryptel bears himself up. His arrogance of before is gone. He did not see everything the warriors saw, but he saw enough of it. A dagger in the heart, a blade to the soul. A past which torments you for having lived through it. He is still shuddering, caught in the sharp embrace of what once was.
The Cryptek doesn't say anything. He doesn't have in him to mock or belittle now. He simply gestures towards the human and sends a single non-verbal command to every warrior in range.
''Kill''.
The warrior has suffered serious internal damage, but he is now able to move and fight again. His weapon is scourged by heat and force, but it still works. Gauss Flayers are durable. The command hits him like a fist, and he picks his target. His fingers close around the trigger of the weapon as he draws his sight.
He may not be handsome anymore, but he still has a good aim.
The Cryptek has an expression of stupified horror on his face as the Gauss Flayer hits him. Such a thing should not be possible and he cannot comprehend it. Green energy boils and flows around him. It is not a quick death. His body is strong but the Warrior continues to depress the trigger, hitting him again and again and again.
He fires for a present that never should have been. For promises that didn't come to be. The laughter of the nobles haunts his mind, the weight of betrayal moves his hand. The Repository has given the gift of freedom for only a fraction of a moment. It has burned through layer upon layer of commands, of emotive blockers, of chains and crippling mental walls. He is free now. Freer than he has been in millions of years.
None of the other warriors seem to have this gift. It has fallen only to him. Perhaps because he was always flawed in some way. Perhaps his mind was never as dull as theirs. A tiny little ember of who he was always remained and now has whipped back into a fire.
Just for a moment.
Just for long enough.
He holds his finger on the trigger until long after the Cryptek has stopped moving. He is beyond salvage. He has tasted the true death.
Then the warrior is still. All around him, the rest of the Necrons stand like statues. They did not receive the Cryptek's final orders. They were burned out like he was. But only he had the independence to act on his own, one more time.
He can already feel it starting to fade. Self-repair routines are restoring mental damage as well as physical damage. He is draining moment by moment and soon will be no more.
He looks down at the human, cripled but alive. Does he know what sort of miracle he has seen today? By the look of what remains of his face, perhaps he does. The Necron Warriors says nothing. There is nothing to say. Nothing that could be said in the time he has left that the human would understand. He could kill him, but just for once he wishes to make his own choice.
Deliberately, slowly, he lowers his weapon.
Then his time passes and he is gone.
In the distance, the Tomb World's semi-chained Artificial Intelligence noted that connection with the Command node represented by Cryptek Zhargash had been severed. Technically, it was an AI but the Necrons who had made it long ago knew well the dangers of god-like creatures. It was limited only able to take certain actions. Bound to specific calculations and outcomes so that it did not grow too big to be contained in the eons that they slept. No one wished to wake up to a Tomb World which now had ideas of its own.
The Tomb World considered. The Command Node had been lost, and the target was destroyed. The release of energy matched that of a Repository's destruction. Additionally, it was detecting no human survivors. With the Cryptek's death, there was no one for it to confer with for the best action to take. It could wake another Cryptek, but that would take some time. At least ten minutes for a proper revival.
If another Cryptek had been present, they might have factored in the incoming ship that Volus had so desperately bought time for. They might have been sure to search for human lifeforms that were, while not totally healthy, at least not quite dead yet.
The Tomb World did neither of those things. The objective was no longer within reach, and the command structure had been severed. According to its own chains and limitations, there was only one proper action to take.
It sent the recall command, and returned the warriors who could still be salvaged.
After this, it began the revival of the next highest ranked Cryptek. They would in turn begin the revival of the rest of the Tomb World. Ancient protocol set in stone before the dawn of the age of man commanded it to be such, and such it would be. There was no other option for the limited AI of the Tomb World.
Several minutes after this, the projected gunship finally arrived only to find the scene was now one of desolation and destruction. The command post was utterly destroyed, what remained of the bunkers and heavy weapons burning. By now there was no sign of the Necrons who had done all of this, but they did manage to recover some scattered survivors. Chiefly those who were too badly wounded to have been present for the final stand, and who had been left in the trenches or on the approach. However numbered amongst those was also Inquisitor Volus. Burned and scarred but still somehow fighting for his life. He along with the others was taken from that place and began the road to recovery. The power of an Inquisitor - even a lesser one - was considerable, and so he was afforded the very best care.
Even so, he would never fully recover from what happened to him that day. Neither in body nor in mind. His failures and the weight of his actions would continue to dog him for the rest of his career, and were even arguably instrumental in the way it eventually ended.
As for the planet itself, the Cryptek's words turned out to be true. Once stirred into action, a Necron Tomb World does not easily sleep again and it wasn't long before the gleaming metal symbols of the ancient Dynasty were seen under the light of the system's sun for the first time in millions of years. Armies marched forth to reclaim what was rightfully theirs, headed by Lords and even Overlords. In this they were contested by the Astra Militarum, as well as the Adeptus Astartes, the Lost Warriors chapter who had powerful ties to that planet and system.
However, those bloody wars and the actions which came from them - the good and the bad alike - are not part of our tale today. This was the tale of a lone spark, an ember of someone who lived once long ago and who was given the chance - just for an instant - to shine again.
