Written by Simon Tonkin
"Do not seek the easy fight, seek the crucible. Legends are forged in the fire and that is what we seek to become. When the weak perish the strong inherit."
Attributed to Fleet Admiral Kivas Phon at the Commencement address for graduating class Sigma 115 of the Calixus Navis Imperialis.
Circa M.41.
Five ships drifted in the void of space like a fan of blades, their idle hulls shimmering brilliantly in the radiance of a nearby star.
Aside from the faint signature of their life support systems they were practically invisible. To the casual observer they were nothing more than shards of lifeless space debris, drifting serenely in the way interstellar objects often do.
For the Guardsmen on board those ships it was a different story.
For Sable Company it had been a blur of racing thoughts and adrenaline fueled anxiety. Claxons had risen them from their births and before they could think they were adorning combat fatigues and battle armor in a semiconscious drill performed a thousand times. Within two minutes they had retrieved their weapons and were running down corridors and gangways to muster in their assault bays.
Five platoons occupied five assault boats; fifty men to a platoon, fifty men to a boat. By themselves they were relatively harmless, however when deployed together they formed a cunning force capable of overcoming an enemy of vastly superior firepower.
As the last of the squads assembled they were hit with a gust of icy wind from their craft's air ducts. It stopped once the cabins reached optimum pressure required for boarding actions, leaving the men inside with an all-too familiar chill.
Men of war stood shoulder to shoulder in the belly of Imperial assault crafts waiting for the signal to go. Steel Lasguns and polished navy blue flack armor gleamed in the dim red lights of their interior. The air in each ship was the same; heavy with with the tang of gun oil, nervous sweat, and a tension so thick it was suffocating.
Each man steeled himself for the coming battle; some quietly reciting prayers while others shifted anxiously, replaying the attack stratagems over and over in their minds.
Above the murmurs of the religious were the hums of electronics and the gentle clattering of boots and armor. Each platoon struggled to suppress the emotions that preceded action, though some were more successful than others. Although specialized in boarding actions, and having been trained extensively for this very occasion, the fear was palpable.
Each man knew his job and was confident in his ability to carry it out - yet none of them had ever faced a combat deployment. For these proud few it would be their first taste of war.
The men of the 23rd RRF stood in ranks of ten five rows deep. Nylon rope hung from the ceilings so they could steady themselves against the power of the currently dormant plasma engines. For the moment they were like predators laying in wait for the opportune moment to strike.
For that's what the Shark assault boat was; a predator.
It was a small vessel, long and thin with a snub-nose prow. If not for the oversized engines at its aft and the sensor arrays jutting from its command deck, it would be easy to mistake it for an oversized missile. Arguably, this craft was far more dangerous than any warhead. Void shields would not stop the shark from getting its prey, and it would take a lucky gunner to score a hit against a pack of such agile attackers.
The Shark was tasked with closing on enemy starships with one goal in mind - to attach to its hull. Once clamped down, a line of melta charges would detonate and breach inwards in a shower of molten metal and cataclysmic hellfire. After the wave of incendiary burned out the 23rd would begin their assault.
A burst of static emitted from each boat's Vox-Com as a communication channel was established among them. A moment later, Company Commander Haskell's voice filtered into the assault bays, his tone modulating harshly due to some minor interference.
"Platoon commanders, sound off!"
His voice reverberated in the hollow metal chambers.
One by one the lieutenants of all five platoons acknowledged their readiness.
"Very good. Remember! It's a five Shark feeding frenzy so watch your sectors! We will encounter our own men! Squads disembark with heavy weapons forward, two squads first, then another every twenty seconds!"
There was a brief pause before he continued.
"Sable Company; warriors of the 23rd RRF, fate has chosen you for this moment. Today you earn your place in the Library Sanctus and the honored histories of our regiment. His Grace is watching us, may we not disappoint him."
With that the Vox channel closed.
A look of acknowledgment reflected on the faces of all five lieutenants as they took the measure of their men one final time. After a moment they cleared their throats and began the signature company battle-chant.
"Sable Company, Who protects!"
"The Emperor protects!" Two hundred and fifty men shouted in unison.
"Who prevails!"
"The company prevails!"
The lieutenants shouted it five more times, their voices more ferocious with every repetition. The battle chant of Sable Company boomed through the attack boats in a terrifying and deafening call-and-receive.
Without hesitation each lieutenant turned toward the rows of assault hatches and slid on their flack helms. They wrapped nylon ropes around their free hands and braced. Each platoon copied the motion, their fears burned away and their minds focused by the power of the battle-chant.
Fifty men and only one thought - war.
An automated voice began counting down from thirty.
At fifteen the plasma engines began their power-up sequence. At zero, the Sharks exploded forwards in a crescendo of force that left bright blue contrails behind them. Like pack animals they zeroed in on their prey.