The battle for the bridge was done. There were no more traitors in their sector. No bolter fire or screamed invocations to dark gods. No more warped and deranged cultist pouring from the bulkheads.
For now, at least.
The battalion could finally release a sigh of relief, though none did so openly.
The air hung heavy with the stench of scorched flesh, promethium, and ionized blood. Ruptured conduits wept coolant down the walls in steady, hollow drips. Smoke clung to the ceiling like a low-hanging mist.
The dead littered the floor, exile and traitor alike. Protocol dictated the enemy dead were unceremoniously tossed aside, while fallen comrades were laid out in rows with as much respect as the circumstances allowed.
The combat engineers and tech-savvy troopers set to work on the bridge's consoles and data relays. Whatever cogitators still functioned were commandeered.
Hololithic projectors were jury-rigged with spare cables and cracked vox-panels. The dull, rhythmic thrum of the Blackstone Fortress's ancient reactors pulsed like a heartbeat through the metal bones of the chamber.
Branek sat with his back against a half-melted console, helmet off, his face streaked with soot and old blood. His lasgun lay across his lap, its power cell still warm. Around him, the remnants of his platoon gathered. No one spoke. Words felt out of place here. From thirty men, barely half remained.
The platoon vox crackled. Branek's HUD flickered as a fleet-wide transmission cut in.
[Blackstone Fortress shield integrity at 9.7%. Fleet bombardment operations concluded. Warp phenomena imminent. All units, hold position.]
A grim reminder that the worst was still ahead.
Across the chamber, Khor crouched, scraping dried blood from his combat blade with a scrap of plasteel. His expression was vacant, pale eyes glassy. Nearby, Narek knelt beside his missile launcher, calibrating the scope with trained movement.
Some troopers choose to hold on to routine, to ease their mind from whatever horror will come next.
Further out, soldiers worked in weary silence. A combat engineer fashioned a barricade from stripped deck plates and smashed vox-consoles.
A medic knelt beside a wounded trooper, one hand tightening a tourniquet, the other jabbing a stim-injector into his neck. The trooper's gasp was sharp, then slowed.
The hiss of pressure seals announced Major Halvra's arrival. Her void-black armor was scorched, one side cracked.
An aide trailed behind her, burdened with a hololithic slate and spare power packs. She moved down the makeshift firing lines, inspecting heavy weapon mounts and briefly laying a gloved hand on a trooper's shoulder in quiet approval.
"Lieutenant," she said as she reached Branek.
He forced himself upright, half-saluting. "Sir."
Halvra's gaze lingered on the towering blast doors beyond the bridge, the corridor leading deeper into their blackstone command bridge.
"You and your men fought well. I'll see you're commended for this, Branek."
"Just doing our duty, sir," Branek answered quietly.
She nodded once and moved on.
Vox-chatter flickered to life again, ragged, weary voices from other battalions reporting in. The lines were patchy, static-laced.
[This is Captain Jarn of Battalion Two…] crackling vox [… lost contact with Delta Company… breach at generator corridor… heavy resistance… holding perimeter at Node Sigma-9… request medevac priority for wounded.]
[Battalion Three reporting 67% combat effectiveness… enemy armor assets neutralized… Vox-outposts Alpha and Gamma secured.]
"Damn," muttered Khor, shaking his head as the reports came through. "Not much left of them either."
"Could be worse," Narek said dryly. "At least we're not down by the generator. Poor bastards."
From across the room, a sergeant called out to Branek. "Lieutenant! We've got four functional lascannon emplacements, two heavy bolters on our sector. Setting fallback lines along the blast doors. You want input on fire sectors?"
Branek pushed himself up, slinging his lasgun. "Yeah. I'll take a look."
He limped over, surveying the improvised defenses. Sandbags fashioned from flak-cloth, lascannon tripods braced against jury-rigged barricades. Ammo crates stacked waist-high, vox-cables strung along the floor. Men half-collapsed against the walls, others tending wounds, some whispering quietly, others staring at nothing.
One trooper, known for his gallows humor, began humming a slow, off-key tune. A cadet hymn from their academy days, badly remembered.
No one stopped him. A few boot heels even tapped in time with the somber, frayed melody.
Branek found himself murmuring the words, a habit from half-forgotten drills:
"When darkness falls and fire calls, we hold the line, we heed the call…"
The men closest to him exchanged grim, faint smiles.
A combat engineer working a scorched cogitator nearby gave a sudden grunt of satisfaction. "Sir! Partial environmental systems restored. Lighting stabilizing."
The flickering lumen strips overhead brightened marginally. It was a meager improvement, but any hint of normalcy felt like a blessing.
Another vox burst came through.
[Dagger's Oath to all battalions. This is Admiral Voorn. Expect hostile warp manifestations. Prepare for possible hull breaches. No withdrawal authorized. Hold fast]
The channel cut with a burst of static.
Branek took a long breath, tasting recycled air thick with ozone and blood. He felt his heartbeat slow for the first time in hours.
"you heard the order," he called, voice rough but steady. "Check your weapons. Rest if you can. Watch your fire sectors. The bastards are coming."
Khor snapped a mock salute. "We're ready for them, sir."
"Always are." Narek added.
Around them, the makeshift fortress settled into uneasy quiet. The dull thrum of the ancient engines, the hiss of coolant, the occasional burst of static on the vox — these were the only sounds now.