The journey to the Sol system went much smoother than the departure from it. No storms or warp turbulence to hinder the flight—just the now-familiar pressure of the Warp and the discomfort of entering and exiting it.
Upon arrival, I didn't sit idle. After instructing Rork to intensify training and analyze our recent engagement with the Orks, I took on duties typically handled by quartermasters. Yes, I am an Astartes and shouldn't dirty my hands with such trivialities, but my past-life experience taught me that bureaucracy and the cunning of logistics officers are eternal. So, I took matters into my own hands.
In addition to securing resources beyond our quota and expedited maintenance for equipment, I saw to it that the bodies—or what remained of them—of my fallen warriors were sent home to Terra. Coffins, draped in the banners of the Fifth Legion, were transferred to an intra-system ship, along with all necessary credentials for the captain.
Having fulfilled my final duty to the fallen, I resumed my relentless pursuit of additional supplies. My unorthodox behavior for an Astartes, coupled with sheer audacity, earned us some rather remarkable assets.
The first was a set of Whirlwinds, modified Rhinos turned into self-propelled artillery—or more accurately, rocket artillery. These weren't the haphazard constructions some churn out with pipes and gas cylinders, but genuine war machines from Mars' forges. Along with standard fragmentation missiles, we also received Castellan-class incendiary warheads.
Next, I acquired a batch of defective metal meant for Titan armor. Unsuitable for Titans, but perfect for reinforcing Astartes armor. With the help of local Mechanicus, I repurposed these materials into additional armor plates. The chest piece now bore a solid slab of metal, crudely fastened with pins. Another addition was a reinforced collar to protect against ricocheted shots—a lesson learned from past battles.
Lastly, I pried a large shipment of volkite weaponry from the hands of increasingly exasperated quartermasters: chargers and culverins. Initially, I was thrilled to arm my company with such advanced weapons in significant quantities. However, their drawbacks soon became apparent. While powerful and boasting decent range, these weapons were temperamental and difficult to maintain. I reserved them for skilled marksmen in tactical and devastator squads, but even then, I had to seek the aid of local Mechanicus, as we still lacked a dedicated techmarine.
Once the plundering of stockpiles was complete, intense training began. The new equipment and armor modifications required adaptation. The downtime was also used to cross-train in critical skills, as casualties are inevitable. While damaged equipment can be quickly repaired, fallen Astartes are not so easily replaced.
However, soon I wouldn't need to worry about numbers. New orders arrived, bringing reinforcements—a massive influx. Apparently, my actions in the campaign against the Orks alongside the Eighth Legion hadn't gone unnoticed. Instead of a simple promotion to captain, I was elevated directly to Grand Captain, placed in command of a grand battalion.
At first, I was shocked, then surprised, and finally irritated. While I initially welcomed the prospect of leading nearly a thousand warriors with all the necessary support and equipment, my excitement faded as I realized the challenges ahead. I knew little about the new recruits beyond the official document stating they were deemed worthy after standard training. Worse, I had few candidates among my own for leadership positions, and existing captains and sergeants were unlikely to yield easily. I braced myself for the inevitable struggles, recalling how I once had to prove my worth through sheer force.
"Rork, I've got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?" I summoned my second-in-command.
"Let's start with the bad," Rork sighed, taking a seat across from me.
"We're getting reinforcements soon. Likely ambitious and hungry for glory."
"Great. Internal power struggles, attempts to establish dominance... just when we'd stabilized the company." He cursed and slammed the table.
"Exactly. Prepare for plenty of duels and sparring matches. We'll need to participate ourselves to knock some sense into their leaders. Adjust your schedule and focus on personal training. Also, test your aides' competence."
"And the good news?"
"You're officially a captain now. Plus, the reinforcements include a full complement of apothecaries and techmarines."
"Finally! We've been patching ourselves up with help from the Eighth's apothecaries, and our gear was maintained by random tech-priests."
"There's another piece of news, though I'm unsure if it's good or bad."
"Out with it, Buri. After hearing about those reinforcements, I doubt anything could worsen my mood."
"Psykers. We're getting three psyker Astartes as part of the reinforcements." My expression turned serious, and Rork's darkened.
Our company hails from Ursh, where psykers are viewed with suspicion, thanks to figures like Kalagan. Their power is both a boon and a deadly risk. Killing a capable psyker isn't easy, and when you add Astartes physiology, the danger multiplies. Even though they've been trained and sanctioned by Terra, we can't ignore the potential threat.
"We'll need contingency plans for control and neutralization in case of Warp-induced madness. Assign two observers to each psyker—one close by and one at a distance with a sniper rifle or other long-range weapon. Better to lose a psyker than half the company to Warp corruption. The Ork Weirdboy we faced showed how devastating psyker abilities can be." I emphasized every word to convey the gravity of the situation.
Rork nodded, fully agreeing.
Some might call us paranoid, but a glance beyond the Gellar Fields during a Warp journey proves our caution is warranted. As our navigator warns, the Warp isn't just dangerous—it hides entities waiting for a chance to breach reality and unleash death and destruction.
After discussing the reinforcements, we returned to our tasks. Though psykers posed a unique challenge, there were other pressing matters, like reorganizing the battalion and raiding stockpiles—this time on a much larger scale.
Months Later
The new recruits were troublesome, as expected. They had their own leaders and opinions, leading to conflicts with my veterans. The situation grew tense until I remembered an old tech-barbarian solution: duels. Crude but effective, this approach suited our warrior culture. Many accepted the idea.
The recruits fancied themselves strong, but reality was harsh. My veterans, with their superior experience and training, emerged victorious in most duels. We saved the strongest dissenters for last. Earlier today, Rork defeated his opponent, leaving him bloodied and broken. Now, it was my turn to end this conflict decisively.
"You'll fall!" roared Tumur, the captain of the assault company among the reinforcements. Clad in only shorts, he charged at me, unleashing a flurry of blows.
But I was stronger and more experienced. I disrupted his rhythm, parrying rather than blocking his initial strike. A brief hesitation was all I needed to counterattack and dictate the pace.
Tumur struggled to keep up, making minor errors that accumulated. When the opportunity arose, I struck decisively, breaking his defense and landing a crushing blow. He tried to retreat, but I pinned him down, forcing him into submission.
"Enough!" I declared. "Tumur, you've wasted enough of my time. You challenged my authority, but look where you are—bleeding and broken on the arena floor." I raised my bloodied blade. "Let this be a lesson to all who would question my command."
The crowd was silent, then erupted into cheers. My authority was no longer in doubt. At last, I could focus on preparing the battalion for our next mission in the Segmentum Ultima.
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