The Sentinels

[Agares Tretiak]

So. I was bored one day and wondering how to explain to people how Praetorians think (or supposed to think at least?). Doing that, I reasoned, might help people understand the purpose and more importantly, the -role- of the Praetorian. And it's a role A part to play, in a sense, in the machinery of the Ordo. Yes. Much of it is embellished for the sake of the story and literature in general, but at least consider the underlying ideas.

I might write more to the story, if people like it.

- I -

The rooms of the monastic barracks were barren, desolate even. It didn't matter to him. He preferred things that way. He had grown accustomed to spartan quarters over the last 15 years of service. For him, it allowed his mind to focus. He never got too comfortable to become lazy, of course. The sharp, basically uncomfortable nature of his cell made him tune his mind into the great wealth of knowledge he had acquired over his life. It allowed him to really think. His lack of material possessions allowed him to focus on the more immaterial aspects of his duties. Ah, but what duties would those be? He had, of course, reflected on this as well. He was first and foremost, a Praetorian Guardsman. Hand picked from the masses upon masses of the the Ordo Imperialis' military might, the mailed fist of the Holy Imperator, he was chosen to be one of the elite of the elite, personal adjutant and bodyguard of the Imperator's person. Like all of his brethren, he was chosen for his martial prowess, his veteran status, his sharp intellect, and his fanatical devotion to the Ordo Imperialis and its glorious leader.

The Ordo Imperialis, a vast military that netted together the nameless Empire of the Imperator, Aryte Vesperia. It spanned much of the known Galaxy, linking distant worlds together in a web of garrisons, colonies, and established settled worlds that contributed all their resources to the vast entity of the Ordo Imperialis. Though it could be argued that the militaristic nature of the Ordo restricted certain individual freedoms, it was unquestionable that the might of the Imperator's leadership had created a stable administrative structure that addressed the various needs of the citizens and people of the Imperium. And it was needed.

Prior to the Imperator's ascension to the office he held, the ancient Republican ideals that once governed it had collapsed into corruption, misapplication of resources, and a lack of security for the citizenry. The Senate was incapable then, to address a horde of previously unknown enemies both within and outside of the territory under the Republic. Carthagians, Laconians, and Iberians, once trading nations,with the Republic, became hostile states sensing the weakness of the internal organization of their former ally. Furthermore, a vast new and unknown force that could easily be described as 'demonic', assailed and absorbed outposts in the Gothic Sector, the largest frontier of the Galaxy. The Imperator was the savior of not just his people, but all who would swear allegiance to the Imperium. Magnanimous and Just though he was to those who sought amnesty, he was ruthless in the pursuit of any foe that would threaten the Imperium.

The Praetorian Guard where his personal legion, and the point of the spear that constituted the Ordo Imperialis' might.

Such recollections often led him down a familiar montage of memories; The first day of training, his impressions of the monastic barracks, when he was first given his tabard and cowl. Everything he was, prior to his induction in to the Praetorian Guard, was inconsequential in relation to what he had become. In the words of the Master of Initiates, he had been told a Praetorian must become War itself, to execute his holy duties. And this man above men, unparalleled soldier and holy man of the Ordo Imperialis, had done exactly that. War... the word echoed in his mind like the first shot of battle, like a sword ringing off of armor, like the screams of so many of the damned and insane he had condemned to swift justice with his blade. He knew War. War was everything. War had so many faces, and his was one of them. He remembered the maxim he heard in his Strategic Theory Courses The External War is only won when the Internal War is quelled. Even today, the truisms of his training gave him insight. He knew peace through War.

The sound of thick voices, hoarse with age, fine with youth, a choir of acolytes chanting the hour drew him out of his reminisce. He rose from his chair, knelt on the smooth stone floor of his cell, and began the devotional prayer hymns he had memorized. As the somber, grim tones of the prayer dimmed away, he was once more left with his mind as company. His mind...

"The most powerful weapon you will ever bear into battle is your mind, initiate!"

More words from the past. And thus, his mind turned to his past. A past of combat. He found joy in combat. And sorrow. He could never forget the sorrow. War could not be Just without recognizing the cost of War. He had seen armies of men die. Every death was one he felt. That sadness fueled his righteous fury in battle. He viewed his objective as a Praetorian in combat, to protect even the lowliest of Milites to the highest Legates. Though an unrealistic thought, he knew that if he possessed the the power to do so, he would prevent the death of every single loyal Imperial soldier. However, his compassion for his allies was matched only by his absolute hatred of his foes. He saw nothing more than heretics, liars, traitors, and rebels amongst the ranks of his foes.

It was so simple. So clear. The Ordo Imperialis was the savior of all. The bright light in a sea of darkness and chaos. The one Truth amongst the Lies of the universe. Yet they could not see the light, despite the efforts of the Heralds, the Diplomats, the Missionaries. Some of course, did. But many would rather live and die in heresy, than convert to dogmatic purity. So be it, he told himself. They made their choice. Death is the natural consequence of Apostasy. Better to cleanse them in fire, than let them draw one more breath as a blind and lost soul, adrift in the chaos of a faithless existence. He brought this death to them without compromise. Ruthless. Efficient. A horror upon his foes. Every Praetorian was expected to sow the seeds of terror, fear, and awe in his enemies, so that as they got the majestic, fleeting glimpse of their executioner, they may finally find salvation as they passed from this mortal coil.

Praetorians were not the senseless butchers so many enemies claimed they were. They were compassionate holy men, saving souls through extreme means. They were the final priests, the last missionaries an enemy would face. It was not uncommon to find a Praetorian, after battle, to be standing over a field of the fallen, giving a final benediction and prayer for the souls of the lost and heretical. All souls were saved in death. The Praetorian Guard made sure of that. He knew the effect his presence had. In battle. Along the front lines. Praetorians made for a powerful symbol, and that reality was not lost on him. He lived up to the perceptions, of efficiency, of distance, of professionalism, of piety unquestionable. Praetorians would rally even the most broken of squads, lead what seemed to be suicidal charges, only to remarkably prevent casualties of his comrades, and devastate his foes.

There were always rumors. That the Praetorians were actually divine beings sent to guide the Ordo. That the Praetorians were not even like your normal soldier, at all. That they were something else. Less human (if you will), more terrifying. He knew there were those who envied, even hated the Praetorians -within- the Ordo Imperialis. Such things where never said within earshot of a Praetorian, of course. It would be death to do so. None of these were really quite the truth, however. Though the Praetorians would denounce the concept of their divinity, they would not completely discourage others from thinking they were divine. And why not? It gave them strength and hope, powerful tools in battle. They were the sentinels of both body and soul, against the mindless, cruel terrors the Universe could spawn.

No, the reality of a Praetorian was both more mundane and more terrifying. First was the mental conditioning. A Praetorian must first think like a Praetorian. Then came the physical training. Grueling days, even weeks of extreme physical testing and exercise. Sharpening the veteran warrior's body into a masterful weapon was key. Then came the ever so slight genetic modification. Dangerous, with fully formed adults, but the results were undeniable. Even increasing the strength or speed of a Praetorian by a little made a large difference on the battlefield. Each Praetorian took to the modifications to a varying degree. Some even went a step further, and altered, sometimes radically, their physical shape in order to better fill the role of a Praetorian.

The Praetorian was a weapon. A finely honed tool of terror, death, and destruction in the capable hands of the Imperator. He knew this. He was aware, exactly, of what he was. Where as some may find the role difficult to understand, to him it was an almost instinctual thing to understand the capacities in which he served. He was a prophet. A healer. A teacher. A warrior. A diplomat. A strategist. He fulfilled the role of a spy and the spy-hunter. He was an executioner, but also an advocate for justice and peace. Praetorians were the sword of the law, but also the shield. They filled those spaces that others could not, did what others would not, and became what others were not.

All of this circled in his mind, in a sort of half-trance. His own discipline shook him out the trance as a low rumble began in the distance. He knew the sound. The groan of the earth as great engines of war began their catastrophic barrages of shells, fire, and death. War was with him once more. In a reflexive set of motions, he rose from his bed, and began to put on his hallowed armor, the badge of his office and position. His bare fingers lifted the carefully crafted chest piece, feeling the small indentations where hundreds of devotional prayers had been etched over the course of untold numbers of battles. His hands snapped into place the other parts of his armor, the shoulder plates, the gauntlets, the thigh plates, before slipping on his tabard surcoat and setting it into place. With careful ease, he chose his favored power spear, checked his ammo pouches, and slung his custom rifle over his shoulder.

He proceeded out of his cell, and moved towards the monastic barrack's tactica center.

Scarcely did he even have to think about it, before he was ready for War again.

[Dascede]

Excellent read.

[ribena Homewood]

A brilliant read, Agares.

Excellent job, and I demand more! :O

Saved into a notecard. I love it that much! :OO

[Kytec Switchblade]

So true, so true.

[Crimson Nexys]

Very nice. Epic tale of a Praetorian. Encore

[Kytec Switchblade]

Since im at work i may as well write one of my own :D

The distant thunderous clap of heavy artillery and bolter spray clashing with a tinny thud against armor clad bodies, the occasional stray bullet puck against the walls of his barracks, the echo of orders barked to the frontlines all prolonging his awakened slumber as if soothing familiar sounds of his childhood were caressing his eardrums. He knew the will of the Imperator was being brought down upon the masses. The symphony of purity cleansing heresy in wave after wave of blood. His time would soon come.

It started with silence. Deafening silence. He knew this would be his time. As the hair on the back of his neck stood on end he couldn't help but smile. As a deep heavy repetitive thud grew near, the sound of a mechanical beast became evident. Comrades call to withdraw to the turrets and defend home base over the intercoms followed by the call to ready the praetorian guard. This would be a fine day indeed.

5 men gather, broad smiles and perfect posture, the excitement more than obvious. As civilians escorted by enlisted take cover in bunkers and hangars at either side of their outpost the 5 guardsmen stand boldly at the entrance to the camp. The enemy's intrusion a direct blight against the Imperator himself. As the massive mechanized unit finally realized that these weren't ordinary soldiers. These were the ghosts of grim fairy tales told since childhood. These are the demons that had slain countless of their heretic comrades. These were the Praetorian guard. These 5 men of flesh and blood merely standing, smiling, were enough to caused the intrusion to halt, but it had been too late. Those opposing the Imperator were dead the moment they were born, or as it were in the minds of the Praetorians facing them. It was now their time to put them in their place, as nature had intended since that moment.

Like a mirage on the horizon, as fast as they'd appeared the Praetorians standing guard had vanished. Silence. The deafening quiet that had marked the begin of what seemed the turn of the battle against the Imperator's armies now brought back to them, but these, the heretical forces of evil would not have such luck as to posses the strength, piety, expertise as the men of nightmares and legends alike. Just as the heavy machinery began to advance once more one of the tremendous titans groans fourth, as wind whistles thru metal conduits the iron beast falls to the ground with an earth shattering crush that made the ground quake for miles. All that could be seen was a single man pulling a crimson laden blade from the tiny cockpit so high from the ground, jumping away and disappearing into the billowing dust emanating from the scene. As the others realize what had befallen their comrade they spray heavy rounds over the entire scene, attempting in vain to hit a target roughly half the size of one of their poorly made bullets. Little did they realize each of the 5 were mockingly sitting atop their heads, disappointed at the lack of a challenge. Their hopes to impress the Imperator this day may have been premature, after all, how could a race devoid of his divine judgment accomplish a feat worthy of a challenge. With a bolter in hand he taps on the tempered glass infront of the enemy. He could see it in his eyes, the man knew his life was at an end. A short burst of bolter fire shattered the glass with ease, turning the terrifying machine into an intricate coffin.

One by one the enemy machines fall, the battlefield riddles with bodies and scrap metal, another day's work done as the members of the guard return to their chambers to pray that the cleansed souls find their way.

[Aryte]

Very cool, Agares. Enjoyable read!

[Maza Rau]

Oh man, totally jack'n my defunct combat group name.

[Agares Tretiak]

...A Sentinel is:

1. a person or thing that watches or stands as if watching.

2. a soldier stationed as a guard to challenge all comers and prevent a surprise attack: to stand sentinel.

I do not see "Maza Rau's defunct combat group" listed anywhere in there.

[Cygna]

I think Maza was kidding ;P

[Agares Tretiak]

I'm notoriously humorless.

[Agares Tretiak]

I'm nearly done with a second portion. The style changes from an introspective examination, to an outwards, dialogue bound observation. And HUMOR (yes humor) may find its way into the story. Oh my.

[Agares Tretiak]

- II -

Several hours into the battle, and the enemy invaders were already being pushed back, however they'd run into what seemed to be a fallback line and there was much stiffer resistance now, than was expected. The Praetorian was attached to a small squad that was part of an effort to scout out enemy positions before the next offensive. Orbital surveillance was limited thanks to a vast, portentous storm system that had settled over the once thriving capital city of Thracia, in the Dacian system.

As prepared for warfare that the Praetorian was, his current situation posed a dilemma that defied his years of training.

His current situation was 5'8" and had black hair.

She was young, though he was no expert at venturing a guess, easily between 20 and 25 years old.

She was understandably not happy.

She'd just been accosted by a horde of small goblin-like creatures that were labeled as "Exonari" by the Agentes in Rebus, the intelligence service of the Ordo Imperialis. They were diminutive, a mottled gray and blue, and though not a match for a normal soldier one on one, they came in hordes. They preferred crude guns with makeshift bayonets affixed to them. They were considered minor "demonic" entities, though they were really just extremely unpleasant aliens with an unusual penchant for mindless violence. Usually, they were used as skirmishers and raiders, before a large force of stronger xenological entities.

Having dispatched them with the squad he was attached to, he tended to the girl, who had suffered some minor cuts. She had been climbing a bent lamp pole, and had thrown her shoes, and apparently the volatile chemical bulb that was at the top of the pole at them before his team had rescued her.

This wasn't what had caught him off guard. It was the questions that left him groping for responses he felt strangely compelled to provide. He was not used to dealing directly with civilians. Dignitaries, soldiers, and heretical aliens where is usual set of interactions. He was accustomed to a position of respect, awe, and generally, some level of servile submission from civilians. She demonstrated none of these aspects.

"Wow! You're a Praetorian, right?"

"Yes."

"I've never met one before..."

"Few do, ma'am. Could you stop moving for a moment?"

"...I thought you'd be taller. I mean, I've seen holo-vids and pictures of Praetorians before, and they all look huge. I mean. BIG. Like 8 or 9 feet tall!"

"Err..."

The Praetorian sighed inwardly. It was true, much of the propaganda showed the Praetorian Guard as giants, massive, godlike entities striding through fields of dead enemies, carrying the sacred banners of the Imperator, while chanting hymns of war. There were, even, some Praetorian Guardsmen who looked exactly like this. His immediate commander, Praetor Evocati Azuval, fit this image perfectly. But the Guard took all kinds.

"Are you -sure- you're a Praetorian? You are pretty short for one!"

"Impersonating a Praetorian carries a a sentence of a summary confessional with the Ecclesiarchy and Curia, followed by a public execution. The ancient laws indicate having your entrails being removed by a team of no less than four oxen is the proper response, though they say Curia judicarii can be creative if oxen are not present. Furthermore, do you honestly believe these honorable and loyal servants of the Imperator would serve alongside an imposter?"

"...so you ARE a Praetorian?"

"Yes. I am a servant of the Lord Imperator and a Praetorian assigned to your defense, citizen."

The girl gave him what he assumed she believed was a piercing, measuring stare. To him, it looked like a young woman squinting very hard with a confused frown. He leaned heavily on his knee, still holding a bandage.

"Will you let me finish dressing that wound, before you ask another question?"

The girl continued to squint at him before nodding, looking at him suspiciously. The Praetorian continued to dress her wound, expertly tying off the bandage, and began to put away the medical kit he always carried with him.

"So, do you have a name, Mr. Praetorian?"

"My name isn't important. Can you walk?"

"I don't walk with men who have no name!"

The Praetorian stared up into the overcast sky, hoping some divine ray would smite him with the patience he was going to need right now. He then glanced at the men around him. Most were trying very, very hard to look like they were looking out for possible hostiles, rather than looking like they were eavesdropping. He clicked his tongue quietly and said, "Gravis Bellator." in a dead even tone.

One of the men standing nearby suddenly developed a severe coughing attack, which ended abruptly when Praetor Bellator glanced over his shoulder at him with a quiet stare.

The girl looked at him blankly for a moment, before erupting into a fit of lilting giggles. The corner of the Praetorian's eye twitched slightly, but he said nothing except, "We need to move. Now." He packed away his med-kit.

The girl opened her mouth as if to say something, when a large explosion bloomed across the sky, filling the area with brilliant green-blue light that left after images in their eyes. The Praetorian didn't even hesitate when he moved forward, lifting the girl over his shoulder and breaking into a steady jogging run.

"Sergeant! We need cover, NOW. That was a plasma shell from something big."

The sergeant nodded and the squad fell in behind the Praetorian, matching his pace with a single file line making a line for an ancient looking administration structure. More explosions with the same eerie light began to erupt around them, this time striking structures and disintegrating or melting portions of them with a sick, crackling noise. Plasma weapons were usually not used by Imperial Ordo forces because of their volatile nature and their tendency to vaporize gun crews if the containment fields failed. This had to be the main force of the invaders.

The went through a ruined doorway, as a shell landed close by and showered the street with half molten masonry and debris, causing a small avalanche of detritus from one of the upper flowers of the structure, blocking their exists. Luckily for them, it sounded as though the plasma bombardment had moved away from thier immediate position. The men all caught their breath, and one began to curse heavily in a regional dialect. Thier long range comm unit was damaged badly.

One of the soldiers coughed softly, and spoke up when the Sergeant and the Praetorian looked over at him.

"These old official structures all have deep tunnels that lead to one another, in case of emergencies. It's like a maze down here, but they were in good repair, last I heard."

"You're a local, Numerii?"

"Yes sir."

Praetor Bellator nodded slowly, rubbing his chin. Many Terra regiments drafted from the local populace, as well as off world. The mixed nature of the regiments helped prevent regional rivalries in the ground forces and promoted a more homogenous brand of the Imperial culture. The girl so far, had remained quiet, apparently somewhat stunned by escaping death a second time today. She began to wiggle on his shoulder and giving a slight wince, the Praetorian set her down. He immediately put his finger to his lips and make a soft "shh" sound, beckoning the rest of the squad around him. The woman wandered around the cavernous, but ruined hallway, choked with chunks of stone, broken furniture, and half burned paperwork.

"The Numerii has an excellent point, however I must point out that if he knows about these tunnels, the enemy almost certainly does as well, by now. If we move, we need to be quick, quiet and take out any hostile forces we may encounter. Sergeant, do you have any thoughts?"

The Sergeant, an older man with a stubbly beard and a short cropped military cut nodded grimly, saying, "We don't want to move out in the open, for sure. Those plasma rounds are liable to level half the city before our Artillery batteries can get a fix on them and begin counter battery operations. Our forces, on last report were located in the north eastern portion of the city, but I don't know these tunnels, being from offworld myself."

"I can help!"

As one, the soldiers turned to look at the girl who had taken a seat on an ancient looking wooden table that was barricading a door to some anteroom.

The Praetorian raised and eyebrow.

The woman mirrored the move.

He sighed and said in a weary tone, "You said you could help, ma'am?"

"First off, I have a name, "Gravis", and second of all, I CAN help. I was an administrative clerk, until those nasty little creatures chased me up the lamp pole. We were all taught how to find our way through the tunnels, and there's even some food, water, and medical supplies in a few storerooms that were set up down there."

Praetor Bellator was slightly impressed and asked, "Weapons and ammunition? Communications?"

"We-eeeell... they didn't tell us anything about those, but I know there's special rooms marked as 'Security Personnel' with thick metal doors."

"With any luck, those may have some weapons, but we can't count on it." interjected the Sergeant looking at his men. "We need to take a quick inventory of our available ammo and weapons.

"Agreed." The Praetorian glanced back at the woman and nodded slightly. She gave him another squinting stare before smiling broadly at him. "Fighting in enclosed spaces is dirty work. And very loud. Do we have any ear protection? We could go deaf in a tunnel, if a firefight breaks out."

"Standard issue helmets offer protection and enclosed communications."

"Right, I know some squads ditch those to save weight."

"Not this one, we do things right and proper here, my lord."

"Excellent." The Praetorian turned towards their guest and beckoned her to come with him. She cocked an eyebrow, almost perfectly imitating his own expression from earlier, but hopped off the edge of the table and limp-walked over to him. He took out a set of what looked like headphones that had a stubby antenna and a short mouthpeice.

"This is somethng I will need back. They should let you communicate with us in our helmets and protect your hearing. If you press this sensor here, it will activate the mic. Generally, we want the comm channel clear so don't use it unless you have to."

"Kinda heavy...and it will make me look stupid."

"Not as much as dying or going deaf will."

"Well, that's not very nice!"

"War isn't nice, ma'am."

"My name. Use it."

"You haven't informed me of what it is, ma'am."

He added a bit of a sharp edge to the "ma'am". He was more than a bit annoyed with her. He really wasn't here to babysit a civilian who had a million questions and didn't listen carefully to him. He needed to regroup with the main defense force, so he could-

The girl stared at him, as if expecting something. It made him slightly uneasy and was very distracting.

She had ice-blue eyes, the sharp type that almost glowed in the right light.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I am pretty sure I said my name is Junia."

"Ah. Thank you ma'am."

She glowered and settled into a sulking silence, as he directed his attention to the preparations. He had barely used any of his ammo and his weapons were all still basically clean. He topped off his partially spent magazine from a spare weapon the squad had with them. It seemed the men were all still well provisioned, so with any luck, they'd not have to forage for additional weapons and ammunition. His weapon of choice was a custom carbine he had made to his specifications, set up in a bull-pup configuration. It was centered around the same weapon many trainees used, but with specific alterations that made it a superior tool in his skilled hands. He was wearing his master crafted battle armor, along with his tabard. He'd replaced his hood with a skull-like helmet that Praetorian Guardsmen would opt out for sometimes, when they wanted the same sort of protection and the features of the standard issue infantry helmet (and then some). He was also carrying a power spear. This was a specialized weapon he preferred for various reasons, one of which was it's versatility. It was made from an uncommon alloy. It would collapse to a foot long rod, excluding the additional foot that consisted of the spearhead. Fully extended, it was about 5 feet long, total. The blade was made from an even more exotic alloy, and carefully engraved. The 'power' designation came from an energy cell and field emitter matrix that allowed the blade to be imbued with an energy field that allowed it to do considerably more damage than any non-power weapon. It could easily slice apart most armor, and an unarmored opponent was no barrier to it's cutting power. He carried a pouch with high explosive grenades, great for clearing a room of enemies, or at least chasing them from cover, a handful of flash-bangs to aid with clearing rooms and stunning opponents, and a few different colored signal smokes, for marking artillery/airstrike targets, or their positions. He also carried a belt pack that carried a med-kit, survival kit, emergency transponder, spare parts for a few of his weapons, a backup side arm, and a large combat knife.

The equipment the rest of the squad was a variety of standard issue, as per Ordo deployment doctrine. They had a designated marksman, who was also the Sergeant, or "Principales", equipped with a scoped battle-rifle He'd already proven a good shot, naturally. had standard issue battle-rifles, which all used the same ammunition as Praetor Bellator's weapon and the Sergeant's. They were solid, reliable weapons, the same sort all Terra personnel fought with across the Ordo's Empire. They had one man with a CQB load out, consisting of a few flash-bangs, and an auto-shotgun for tactical breaching and building clearing. He also wore slightly heavier armor and had a power-axe on a fast access sling on his right side.

The Praetorian glanced around, taking a note of possible passageways to take in their search for the tunnel entrance.

“Sergeant, I'm going to have a look around briefly. Make sure your men are all set to go when I return and keep our guest out of trouble, if possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

Junia gave Praetor Bellator a dark stare, but remained silent. He put on his helmet before he grinned.

TO BE CONTINUED...

YES THERE ARE ERRORS.

[Cygna]

I do like where this story is going, Agares.

[Ron Bleac]

You really should continue, Agares. It was just about to get interesting.

[Agares Tretiak]

Well, I've been working on a third installment. I'm just not sure I like it quite yet. I need to rewrite portions and fix a few things.

[Agares Tretiak]

This is rapidly becoming a novel.

In high orbit, Task Force Gamma's fleet drifted serenely over the “North” polar zone of Dacian Prime, a quiet chatter of communications drifting between the myriad vessels of the task force fleet. Task Force Gamma was actually a splinter fleet, that had arrived in response to a distress call made when the initial enemy invasion had began. Though it arrived quickly, the primary area the invasion force was attacking, Thracia, was swathed in unseasonal cloud cover, and made landing ground troops or providing accurate support impossible. There were other concerns that also hampered the Task Force, all extremely troubling for the Admiral. A figure paced in slow, heavy steps as it read from a data-pad, on the command podium of the massive, 50 meter long bridge-hall of the largest ship in the fleet. Captain Orgel Pellintar, master of the Capital Flagship of the 1st Rate, Sovereign of Winter, and veteran of various conflicts, was worried. He sighed softly, settling into his command seat, a huge, vaguely Gothic chair that was the captain's traditional position on the bridge of any capital warship of the Ordo Imperialis' fleet. He slid the data pad into a plug like device, and holographic displays fizzled and shivered into life, encircling the command podium with a halo of light.

He leaned forward and selected a short history of the planet, first.

Dacian Prime was a primarily temperate planet, known for large expanses of fertile plains, that were often surrounded by heavily forested, difficult to traverse mountains. The mineral wealth of the mountains and the agricultural potential of the planes were tempting for early settlers, and allowed the planet to be a choice colony, letting it grow rapidly in it's early days with off-world transplants. IT was discovered quickly, that the mountains had high concentrations of minerals that could muddle and even cripple powerful, long range scans, making quick and easy surveying of the exact location and types of minerals nearly impossible, and required far more labor intensive methods of surveying. Lower powered scans could assist, but only if atmospheric conditions were pristine, so Dacian Prime actually developed it's own scholam of specialists as a result, the Thracian Imperial Institute of Geological Sciences. The Institute has since earned it's reputation in producing some of the most skilled surveyors and planetary geologists in the Sector, widely sought by various mining consortiums and the Ordo Imperialis' Navis Division of Planetary Exploration.

What troubled the Captain so was that with the storm and the location of Thracia being built very close to a large lode of these minerals, there was no way to ascertain accurate information regarding where the enemy was coming from or who the enemy was, exactly. The storm itself was odd, being extremely unseasonal, though not unheard of. To make matter's worse, odd energy emanations from somewhere inside the Dacian system had quickly shut down everything but short range communications after the fleet had arrived. A patrol had been sent out to investigate a few possible sources, but it would take hours for the ships to reach those destinations and begin to report back. Half of Dacian Prime's communications satellite array was destroyed, incidentally including all of Thracia's designated satellites. The Skyhook that was once anchored over Thracia had been 'cut loose' and was drifting towards the second natural moon, Grotus.

Everything indicated that this attack was a very well planned, well executed effort, and not just some border raid by renegades or pirates, and the situation seemed grim. There was no sign of the defensive fleet, which was extremely odd. Not even debris, indicating a battle had taken place. The Dacian Defense Force maintained a well equipped, but fairly small force in orbit, relying more on the strength of it's considerable planetary defense force to handle any would be attacks. Thracia itself had approximately a quarter of a billion inhabitants in it's arcologies, making it by far the largest city on the planet and in the system, and qualified as a hive city.

The Captain shifted to a report on Ordo forces on Dacian Prime. He was not familiar with this particular sector or system, and had barely any time to brief himself on much of the vital information he was going to need, for his report and recommendations.

The fact that a Praetorian Guard Castrum was located in Thracia was a particular point of pride for the locals. The Praetorians had the entire 4th Century of the 9th Legion, the Vindicators the file indicated, stationed at that particular garrison, and were doubtless helping coordinate efforts with the other Imperial forces in the city, as well as the PDF. Though the captain questioned if only a hundred Praetorians could stop an entire invasion single handed, it was a good sign. The Captain had mixed feelings of the Guard, despite having interacted with various Evocati and Guardsman. He realized they were both military and political tools, and he could appreciate the fact that they were also the most skilled soldiers in the Ordo Imperialis. However, like many of his peers,he feared them. They represented both the absolute military authority of the Lord Imperator, and the infamous 1st Writ of Powers granted to the Guard, the ability to execute and replace any officer they deemed in gross negligence of their duties. In fact, on this mission, the first three Centuries of the legendary 1st Legion of the Guard were present on his ship, headed by the Procuratore Augusti, Praetor Tretiak. They were tasked primarily with accompanying the Lord Imperator's retinue on the vessel, but the captain was also well aware that they were serving other duties on the ship. He'd seen several of them striding around the corridors of the vessel already, arranged in three man clusters. All were very impressive figures, all wore the heavy, ornate armor and black tabards of their station. He felt his body give a tremor though, at the thought that the Imperator was on the ship. He recalled that his presence was 'requested' on the observation deck in a few hours time, for some sort of official proceeding. It would be the first time in his career he'd actually meet the Imperator in person.

Captain Pellintar shook the thoughts from his mind, knowing he was a devout officer, and a damned competent one at that. He had nothing to worry about, from the Guard. He only had lingering doubts over what he would do, in the august presence of the commander and leader of the entire Imperium. He continued to read over the screens, resting his chin on his hand, drumming his fingers rhythmically on the seat's arm rest.

Ordo Terra had a considerable garrison, consisting 908th Mountain Artillery Company (Crimen Leo), 5412th , 4567th, and 603rd Infantry Battalions and the 302nd Heavy Armored Support Regiment (Aquila Argente). This comprised the bulk of The Ordo Imperialis' military might on Dacian Prime, and was organized as the Dacian 1st Army, and was not a force to be discounted, comprising of mostly veteran front line units that had been rotated out to Dacian Prime after a primary deployment cycle. This meant that most of the officers and NCO's had considerable combat experience, and the local sector conflicts were mostly defensive actions. Locals had been conscripted over from the PDF, to replenish the ranks that may have been lost and all records indicated that most of the infantry companies had already finished training and indoctrination several months prior. If this was the case, Ordo forces in Thracia were just around a million souls.

Dacian Prime PDF who were stationed in Thracia consisted of approximately 500,000 volunteers, and depending on how much time there was to prepare before they were attacked, have an additional 250,000 or so in reserves, mostly emergency militia that were conscripted from the various militarized law enforcement divisions of the Thracia hive city. They could be well trained in a variety of respects... but they were not career soldiers. In the captain's experience, PDF could represent the best and the worst of a given world, and varied wildly in quality, training, and equipment. He knew that Terra officers would complain frequently (if quietly) about the problems they'd had with them in the past. They also occasionally had some praise for them. There was little data to indicate the general quality of the PDF volunteers, but information indicated the law enforcement militias where well versed in urban combat and clearing arcologies of dissidents. Generally, however, these actions were executed when there was any civil unrest, and there hadn't been any major incidents for the past hundred years or so.

What bothered him so much, was that there was virtually no mention of any Astra stationed in Thracia. Without air support, he wondered how the ground forces would be able to have any sort of cover from enemy aerial attacks. He was frustrated with the various gaps in data provided by the tacticians and researchers he had at his disposal. He keyed up his head tactical officer, Lieutenant Marius. The Captain was a man with a fastidious, neat mind, and preferred to have as much information as possible before giving a recommendation.

A screen flickered in front of the Captain, showing a short stream of code as he paged the Lieutenant. Marius's face appeared, framed by the screen. He looked worn and not the least bit surprised by the Captain's page. He stood at attention and saluted smoothly, holding the position until the Captain waved off the salute, somewhat annoyed.

“Mr. Marius, this report seems a bit light on details regarding our forces on Dacian Prime, is there any information regarding Astra on Dacian Prime?”

Marius chewed on the inside of his cheek, seeming to try to recall something and said, “One moment, sir. I did recover something earlier, I think. We were just about to contact you, actually.”

The Captain sat up a little. “Recover, Mr. Marius? Why would you need to recover any of this information?”

The Lieutenant didn't look up to answer his eyes scanning a data-pad, but said, “Yes sir. We had the databases looked over by a senior technician. There's indications that they had been tampered with. From the outside. We didn't even have time to report it, and...” The man paused, and looked up. “Agentus in Rebus.”

Pellintar went rigid for a moment, staring hard at that projected image of his tactician. “What?”

“A handful of interrogators appeared just as we were going to report it sir, and then proceeded to question us. Another man was present, and I'm guessing he was their leader. His face... danced.” The Lieutenant's face creased with doubt as he said that last part. He went quiet, refocusing on the task at hand. “Ah, here we go, sir. The technician has helped us recover a backup series of files for Dacian Prime, but they're possibly out of date.”

“That's fine, Mr. Marius, we need at least some idea of what we're going to be working with.”

“Aye aye, Sir. Sending them up.”

A new screen flickered to life in front of the Captain.

“Mr. Marius, when I'm done up here, I'll be paying you gentlemen a visit. No one informed me of Agentus on my vessel. The idea is unsettling.”

“Yes sir. This isn't just an invasion, is it?”

“No, I don't think it is, Mr. Marius. As you were, then.”

Marius saluted again, and the screen flickered off.

Captain Pellintar leaned back his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Agentus in Rebus. He now had every cause to be very, very worried about this invasion.

[Tiridates Mikadze]

Did my face do a tango, or a flamenco, do you think?

[Agares Tretiak]

Hush you, you're not until the fourth chapter. Where several well known individuals will also make an appearance on the page.

[Trinity Heckroth]

Foxtrot. Your face did a foxtrot. It has a habit of that, when you get interested in things.

[Dark Svenska]

You forgot the part where Im a Praetorian according to Dagger.

[Agares Tretiak]

I think you must have hit your head. Dagger Exonar wouldn't know what makes a good Praetorian, if it executed him for his various heresies. Obviously, he also can't tell if he thinks you, the self-styled leader of Chaos, is a Praetorian. I mean. Really. Kinda opposite ends of the spectrum.

[Tiridates Mikadze]

I think you must have hit your head. Dagger Exonar wouldn't know what makes a good Praetorian, if it executed him for his various heresies. Obviously, he also can't tell if he thinks you, the self-styled leader of Chaos, is a Praetorian. I mean. Really. Kinda opposite ends of the spectrum.

I can see it now, a sitcom with Agares and Dark.

Like Married with Children, or the Odd Couple, only every episode, instead of Agares sitting on the couch and scratching his balls, or putting his hands on hips and shaking his head every time Dark says or does something heretical, he just impales him on the end of his Halberd and then tears him into pieces before incinerating him in a blast of righteous fury.

I might come strolling in to crowd applause, and with my catchphrase "YOU'RE A FILTHY HERETICAL WRETCH" pull out an Inferno pistol and do the same, without any obvious provocation.

I think we've got a winner.

[ribena Homewood]

You forgot the part where Im a Praetorian according to Dagger.

I'm pretty sure that EVEN Dagger isn't that stupid.

I love you, Dark.

[Vegna Fouroux]

Praetorians have come a long way, they used to guard my tent