The Musing of R. L. Frymire

THE THUNDERHAWK RESTED within a gouged ravine of dirt, created by its underbelly upon an obviously rough landing. A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth as Sergeant Raestra Vaehnor of First Squad surveyed the damages to the missing vanguard’s ship. Having been dispatched by Captain Daincaz Kesaeal when the vanguard’s distress beacon had been triggered, he saw that the gunship was scorched in numerous places, while the grass was burned in both large and small patches, with several trees pockmarked by some sort of heat blast.

Stepping across the charred ground, he came upon the first body and grimaced.

At first, Vaehnor’s eyes merely perceived a mangled blob of flesh before, slowly, details began to stitch themselves together. Lips parting, an unknown sensation of horror spread through his chest. He blinked once, twice, and still he could not believe what his senses were telling him. At least, until his eyes rested on the golden battleline icon painted over a purple knee plate, or what he assumed had once been the Vanguard Infiltrator’s leg. Adamantium and plasteel plates melded with organic flesh, not as though the metal had been branded into the Intercessor’s body from intense heat, but as if the two had always been one. Where metal began, flesh ended seamlessly.

Worse. Somehow, the Intercessor’s skeletal structure appeared to have been removed, leaving a blob of organ stuffed flesh, and where arms and legs should have been, tentacles sprouted. Along the tips he saw individual digits. Fingers. And they twitched.

He lunged back with a startled shout, instinctively raising his heavy bolt pistol at the disfigured creature. His duel hearts pounding, blood roaring deafeningly in his ears, he somehow located the eyes. They stared back at him with far too much awareness. A gaping maw opened half a foot from the bloodshot eyes. The rubbery form shuddered, wheezing as it labored to breathe. It was then Vaehnor realized its face was on its stomach. The mound rippled, the tentacles coming to life, squirming along the ground. It—he—struggling to draw nearer Sergeant Raestra, but the weight of its body was too great, and it collapsed with a whoosh of exertion. 

Vaehnor thought he’d seen the worst the galaxy had to offer in his long years of endless war and strife. He’d believed he was long passed the ability to be surprised. He’d been wrong.

“Sergeant!”

One of his warriors rushed forward, bolt rifle raised, when he, too, saw what had become of a once proud Astartes.

“Emperor preserve me!” Aimoz Lazito’s normally jovial voice wheezed out of him as he stared down at the trembling mass at their feet.

The thing made a gurgling mewl. It sounded sumptuously like please. It repeated the distorted noise.

Understanding dawned.

Quickly, Sergeant Vaehnor lifted his heavy bolt pistol, having unknowingly lowered the weapon. He stared into its eyes, hesitating. The center mass rippled. Nodding approval? The bark of ammunition fire rang through the clearing, and Vaehnor turned away with a disgusted sound in the back of his throat.

No Astartes should ever have to suffer the indignity of begging to be put out of his misery. Least of all, being mutated into…whatever the hell that thing was. Whatever, or whomever, had defiled the Emperor’s chosen would bear the full weight of his wrath, Vaehnor vowed grimly.  

“Holy, mother of Terra! Wh-what is that?!”

Though he blessedly possessed no psyker ability, premonition carried him across the burnt grass. There, another Eliminator lie unmoving upon the ground. This one’s mutation came in the form of a half-bird, half-squid abomination. It didn’t appear to be alive, but to be sure, Vaehnor lifted his pistol and shot the beast after locating its cranium. He released a second shot when he saw it had a second head.

“Search the perimeter, put down any…thing you come across. Shoot it even if it appears to be dead.” Just in case, went unuttered, but his men understood, for all gathered would have wished the Emperor’s mercy be granted unto them had they fallen to a similar fate.

There were three more corpses, which made up the entire Vanguard Infiltrator Squad. Now dead. Not one had escaped corruption. For the first time, he noticed bolter wounds marking the corpses. Someone—part of the missing vanguard?—had been there first. Once the loathsome task was completed, he and Aimoz climbed the forward ramp to delve deep into the vanguard’s thunderhawk, only to learn the gunship had become the crewmen’s tomb, their dead bodies left to decay. There was no sign of the rest of the vanguard. When they exited, he motioned for his Assault Intercessors Squad to assemble.

“There is nothing for us here,” he began grimly. “Let us turn our eyes ahead and rejoin our brothers in second squad. Perhaps they have found the vanguard.”

“Sergeant,” one of his men spoke. “We should honour our brothers here and burn their corpses so that their bodies will not be desecrated further.”

“What else can happen to them that has not already been done, Pavhal?” he replied angrily. He shook his head and spoke more calmly. “Time is against us, brothers. Already, communication between us and second squad is down. Focus on the living. They may yet require our aid.”

His men nodded. Without a word, they marched swiftly across the clearing, entering the gloomy forest. He saw obvious signs of a trail, perhaps from the vanguard who’d come before them. He refused to consider their fate. He would see for himself rather than torture himself with gruesome possibilities.

Suddenly, the shadows emerged from the trees, impeding their way. Vaehnor raised his pistol, his fired round striking harmlessly against an energy shield. Before they could engage in battle, the tall, elegant figure blocking their path raised his hand, calling out, “We are not your enemies.”

“Oh, really?” Sarcasm dripped from Vaehnor’s tongue as he kept his weapon aimed on the three, ethereal figures. “What are xenos filth like you doing here? Are you the cause of that…mutation?” He gestured over his shoulder back at the ruins of the thunderhawk without moving his sight from his targets

“Their unfortunate fate was not by our hand.” While the leader spoke, age old eyes stared unflinchingly at Vaehnor’s face, as though the xenos could see passed his helm and into the sergeant’s very gaze. Impossible. “You know the true cause,” the xenos continued softly. “I can see the knowledge branded in your thoughts, Iron Warrior.”

“Get out of my head!” he spat, “And speak your peace. Quickly.” His arm shifted perceptively, aiming for an eerily bright blue eye. Or die was the threat.