Gunfire erupted throughout the narrow passage. Auxiliary Army soldiers in flak armour, clutching laser guns, ran for their lives. He didn't even dare look back, only thrusting his laser gun behind him and firing blindly.
He should have been holding the crossroads in the previous passage, but when a silver-gray wall began moving slowly and inexorably toward their defenses, fear overwhelmed him.
He swore their squad had tried everything. Laser guns and shotguns were useless against that Wall of Steel, while even armor-piercing grenades had only made it hesitate for half a step. The brass had even issued them flamethrowers. Damn those flamethrowers! Using one in a narrow passage like this would roast them alive in the heat of the burning promethium, whether or not the enemy could withstand it. They might even suffocate first. Damn it! The brass hadn't given them any of the heavy weapons they needed.
As their squad poured everything they had into the Wall of Steel, it kept coming. It seemed to have reached some particular distance when, in an instant, a few booming shots from a Bolter Gun turned everyone else—including the squad leader—into chunks of meat splattered across the wall.
The Auxiliary Army soldier could only run blindly. Perhaps he was too panicked to watch his step, because a corpse on the ground tripped him. He crashed face-first onto the floor, and the laser gun slipped from his hands. As he stared at it lying in front of him, he remembered what the instructor had said.
"Strap on your gun, or I'll shove that laser gun up your ass."
It was too late. The soldier heard heavy footsteps behind him. The "iron wall" had reached his back. Despairing, he turned around just as a massive boot came down toward him.
"Emperor, save me!"
Peter Karashis brought his Iron Boot down hard on the soldier's chest, crushing the fallen Mortal Auxiliary's ribs and flak armour into pulp. The young soldier didn't seem to have realized what had happened. His mouth remained open as he desperately tried to breathe, futilely forcing air into his crushed lungs.
Ignoring the poor wretch, Peter continued down the passage with his Boarding Shield raised. His battle-brother followed at his side. Who was on the left again? Peter couldn't quite remember. Oh, right. Andrew was on his left, an arrogant young man who'd been assigned to Peter's Tactical Squad as a pre-battle replacement. This was his first real combat. Too bad he'd be dead in ten seconds.
...Seven, eight, nine, ten. The squad reached the corner, and a heavy bolter rattled from beyond it. Andrew was a step too slow rounding the corner, exposing a narrow strip of his side to the Heavy Bolter at the opposite passageway. With a bang, the first shot shattered the hand holding his shield, followed by shots into his helmet and chest armour.
Peter remembered telling him countless times to stay close to the squad and adjust his shield. Don't leave gaps in the Shield Wall. But Andrew had been convinced he knew what he was doing.
Rapid Deployment Army recruits like Andrew often had one flaw or another. They thought they were experienced and knew everything. But knowledge implanted through hypno-indoctrination only taught you what to do. There was a vast gulf between knowing and doing. Peter smiled to himself. As if he wasn't Rapid Deployment Army himself. His first real combat had been on a world called Taran. He'd just been luckier, learning the real skills before he lost his life.
As Andrew's body fell, Peter squeezed the trigger. His Bolter Gun spat fire, laying down suppressive fire against the enemy in yellow armour.
The battle-brother behind him immediately filled the gap. Anthony was on his left now, which put Peter more at ease. Anthony had climbed out of the blood-soaked trenches with him during the Siege of Terra, and they would make it through this campaign, too.
Guided by muscle memory, they advanced with shields raised, ignoring the dull thuds of Heavy Bolter rounds striking their shields. Once they were within tactical range, they pulled out armor-piercing grenades and threw them over the shields. The explosion splattered the mortals behind the defenses across the wall. The squad pressed on, suppressing the enemy with emotionless bursts of fire.
The fight ended quickly. The enemy left behind a corpse in yellow armour and retreated. They had retaken the passage, for now. Peter drew deep breaths of the air filtered through his helmet and ordered the squad to reinforce their defenses.
He knew it was all pointless. The Imperial Fists would retake this place in thirty-six minutes. Half an hour later, Peter would take it back again. This would happen over and over in these passages for the next week. By the end, they would have to use corpses for cover and strip armour from the dead to replace their own.
Back then, Peter had stared at the Imperial Fists soldier lying on the ground, wondering if he'd soon die the same way. He knew that fearing death wasn't a good quality in an Astartes, but that was only true if one died with honor and dignity.
Even then, he'd known this was a meaningless meat grinder. This world held no strategic position or valuable resources. Everything was happening because two Primarchs had stubbornly insisted on it.
And Peter knew he was dreaming now. He just hadn't expected to return to this place in his dream—to the Iron Cage. But he had a meeting to attend soon, so he steeled himself and told himself to wake up.
On the upper deck of the Blackrock, in the Astartes quarters, a naked giant rose from an iron bed and shook off his drowsiness.
The giant stood in the cramped quarters, nearly touching the ceiling. He stood 2.3 meters tall, his genetically enhanced body among the largest even of his kind. His knotted muscles resembled those of an extinct creature from Old Terra called the "Belgian Blue." His towering frame was like a wall, though the exposed neural interfaces and countless scars across his skin marred its beauty.
His genetically engineered features were stern, with a high nose bridge. Two thick eyebrows lay above his eyes like black caterpillars. His short hair was black, streaked with a few strands of silver, and combed back into a neat style. Combined with his granite-hard expression, it made him look like a solemn statue.
Peter walked straight to the data screen and tapped it to connect the call.
"Anthony, tell all the brothers to meet in the bridge conference room in thirty minutes. We've reached our destination."
"Yes, Captain."
Peter didn't correct Anthony's form of address. He ended the call and walked straight to the side door. As it opened, the automatic wall lights brought the room into view, and two hunched creatures in the corner began to stir.
The two creatures stood up. Their silhouettes looked human, but their skin was pallid and bloodless. Both arms had been severed at the shoulders and replaced with screw guns and power claws. Several cables pierced their abdomens and chests, supplying power to the machines where their hands should have been. An opaque tube had been shoved down each one's throat and into its stomach to feed it. They were Servitors, half-human, half-machine tools created by the Adeptus Mechanicus. Their prefrontal lobes had been removed while they were still alive. Now they knew neither joy nor sorrow, only how to perform mechanical tasks.
In the small private armory, a Bolter Gun, a Combat Knife, and a dented Boarding Shield hung on the wall. Seven or eight magazines loaded with bolts and several grenades were neatly arranged on the table. An iron box beside them held unopened bolts. And there was a skull—a yellowed skull placed incongruously in the armory. Its unusual size seemed to reveal the identity of its owner.
But the most striking thing in the room was the Power Armour on the central stand: an MK3 Iron Pattern Power Armour. This suit, riddled with bullet marks and dents, had carried Peter through the Taran Campaign, the Siege of Terra, the Iron Cage Campaign, and countless other battles. More than a third of its components had been replaced.
The Iron-pattern Power Armour's thicker frontal plating had saved Peter more than once. His armour had been shot through from the front several times, even injuring his body. If he hadn't been wearing Iron-pattern Power Armour, he would have suffered far worse than mere wounds. Peter had considered repairing the armour and shield, but with supplies scarce, he'd decided to leave them as they were, so long as their strength wasn't compromised.
He raised his hands as the Servitors silently lifted the pieces of Power Armour and began fitting them onto him. As they installed the left pauldron, Peter saw the Eight-Pointed Star and iron mask emblazoned on it, still gleaming. But now it only disgusted him. Once the meeting was over, he would grind off the symbol of the Fourth Legion.
Peter donned his helmet and left behind the man he'd been in the Legion. They were no longer Rapid Deployment Army, no longer expendable, no longer Iron Warriors, no longer Perturabo's slaves. Now they were the Forged Steel Brethren.
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