Operation Sea Hawk [closed, FT]

[Imperial Calixis]

For the briefest of moments, Captain Francois D'Algou experienced the sweetness of victory as the Imperial plasma missiles found purchase on their target. Then, even as the Imperial bombers drew closer to the enemy, trying to fly as close as to be able to lob unguided bombs at the enemy craft with sheer inertia, a new wave of guided missiles impacted the 630th LRPG.

Captain D'Algou's cruiser was in the Patrol Group's lead. Therefore, he was among the first to die. An explosion tore out the armorglass in the ship's bridge, shrapnel and molten metal peppering everyone on board. Other explosions tore out the Avenger of Light's flank, gas and coolants spewing out of its side like blood from an injured voidwhale, speared it through its back. Fires erupted through several decks. Captain D'Algou was no longer alive to see the flames consuming weapons hangars and decks.
Worse awaited yet. The Void Spear's drives detonated violently, bathing the Saint Catherine and Avenger of Light in a torrent of bright-white plasma.

Saint Catherine shuddered as the waves of missiles impacted her, followed briefly later by the wave of plasma fire. Secondary fires erupted within her, ammunition stocks detonated. As its enemies watched, it ejected its damaged plasma drives, to avoid the same fate as the Void Spear. It could no longer communicate, could no longer send out a even mayday, much less fight. Its crew fought valiantly against the fire, but even had they won, the best they could hope for now is wait for rescue.

Aboard the Avenger of Light, the situation was even worse. Over half the crew had been wiped out by now. For those within who were still alive, a more terrible, more vicious battle remained.

For the menials aboard the ship no longer wished to obey. The Captain was dead. The First and Second mate were dead. Why would they serve now, men whose authority was unclear, who had flogged and tormented them for years, who had led them into the very maw of death itself? Others pointed out their duty was not to Captain D'Algou, it was to the God-Emperor himself, that to rise up was a crime not merely against the law, but against all that sustained mankind.

Thus, fear turned to panic, panic turned to mutiny, mutiny turned to slaughter. Whips and cutlasses, boarding shotguns and lasguns, hand-grenades and chains were wielded in the depths of the burning ship, sailor against sailor, and the blaring of alarm claxons became the backdrops to the sounds of battle.

[Polish Prussian Commonwealth]

Flying Column ‘Scáthach’, Sepheris Secundus, Golgenna Reach
3041st Cycle

---

The pounding in Jan's heart began to fade as the last Imperial ships died. He had lost an arsenal ship destroyed and two damaged to the point of requiring a refit for them, but arsenal ships were cheap in any case. Furthermore, it appeared as though two Imperial frigates were still intact, though adrift.

"Well." He finally said, during to Scáthach. "That could have gone worse."
"Could've gone better too." the light cruiser replied. "Three arsenal ships down isn't great."
"Better an arsenal ship than us."
"Aye, 'spose so."
---
With the destruction of the LRPG, Flying Column Scáthach spent two days reorganizing. A frigate lead out the four remaining arsenal ships and returned 40 hours later, with three arsenal ships; the remaining undamaged one, and two newly-arrived ones, all restocked and rearmed.
After re-linking with their arsenal ships, the Flying Column fired up it's engines once more, pushing deeper into the system. More patrols were still present, and Jan Zulinski intended to whittle them away, one by one, until Sepheris Secundus itself lay defenseless before his guns.

[Imperial Calixis]

Aboard the Avenger of Light, ferocious fighting continued. Those loyal to the Emperor of Mankind and his Navy fought those whose hearts and souls had given out, and both sides had fought the fire that threatened to consume the ship. Air and smoke burst from the hull as whole compartments were vented out, sending mutineers out into the void and choking out the flames. Slowly, gradually, loyal armsmen in armored void suits pushed back the disloyal menials, killing as they went. Those who surrendered were placed in irons, this was not the time nor the place for trials and mass-executions.

In the mean, the 513th and 610th Long-Range Patrol Groups were diverting to replace the fallen 670th. Within a few days they expected to be on-target.

They were about to be crudely disappointed in their expectations.

[Polish Prussian Commonwealth]

Aboard the Avenger of Light, ferocious fighting continued. Those loyal to the Emperor of Mankind and his Navy fought those whose hearts and souls had given out, and both sides had fought the fire that threatened to consume the ship. Air and smoke burst from the hull as whole compartments were vented out, sending mutineers out into the void and choking out the flames. Slowly, gradually, loyal armsmen in armored void suits pushed back the disloyal menials, killing as they went. Those who surrendered were placed in irons, this was not the time nor the place for trials and mass-executions.

In the mean, the 513th and 610th Long-Range Patrol Groups were diverting to replace the fallen 670th. Within a few days they expected to be on-target.

They were about to be crudely disappointed in their expectations.

"Hostile contacts detected." the radar-officer called out. "Another two patrol groups."
"Don't take any chances." Jan replied, without looking up from his novel. "Splash the fuckers. Fifty each."

A torrent of missiles streamed out of the arsenal ships, leaving bright streaks of flame that soon faded as they launched themselves at the two patrol-groups.
Flying Column Scáthach, evidently, had abandoned any pretense of preserving munitions, and at this rate simply wanted to swat the Imperials out of their way like flies.

[Allanea]

Sepheris Secundus system

Navy Servitor DX-55656-0 felt something resembling fear in the remains of its brain. It had long been shorn of the remnants of its personality, or rather, whatever remnants there were had been suppressed by many lines of combat subroutines and cogitator-controlled reactions. It no longer was able to consciously remember its life as human being with aspirations, desires, arms, legs. All reality was reduced to the weapons systems that were routed directly to the stumps of its limbs, to the cables running into its dessicated face –

Contacts inbound.
Contacts inbound.
Contacts inbound.

The ball turret housing Navy Servitor DX-55656-0 twisted with inhuman speed, its autocannons clattering. Something vaguely resembling anxiety formed in the creature's brain as it tried, and failed, to track the contacts – too fast, too many, approaching from an angle the ship was not well equipped to confront.

The cruiser shook with impacts. Molten metal and storms of shrapnel vented inwards.

Happily for Navy Servitor DX-55656-0, it was not well-equipped to comprehend what was taking place.

But then neither were the human crew.

In less than a minute the hull of the Knight of Calixis was pierced twenty-three times. The weapons crews perished first, and even as secondary explosions were still shaking the ship, its drives exploded, vaporizing the Knight instantly and basking the other ships of its formation in the brilliant, cleansing glow of a temporary star, their void shields blinking and giving out.

For those watching anxiously from the surface of Sepheris Secundus, the tale concluded rapidly – four more radiant flashes, as the frigates of the Long Range Patrol groups were torn apart.

Then, two more ship-death flashes, but this time not the pure, forgiving flashes of plasma drive explosions. Spectators in the orbital yards who knew what these new lights in the skies meant flinched and made the sign of the aquila on their chests. These were warp drive explosions, tearing up reality itself with horrifying, purplish colors that hurt the eye too look at. The two frigates not destroyed in the onslaught of gunfire vanished, still burning, in these warp rifts, and when the rifts were gone, so were they, the fate of their crew too terrible to contemplate.

Who, exactly, mashed the alarm buttons aboard the orbital yard remained open to discussion.

What was obvious now that Sepheris Secundus was no longer with a naval defense – system fleet ships remained, but these would take days to reroute from the system's outer reaches.

Orbital weapons platform were hastily cycled alive. Claxons rang in barracks on the surface. Tanks and APCs roared in their hangars, and armories were unlocked at frenetic speed.

A spiritu dominatus,
Domine, libra nos,
From the lighting and the tempest,
Our Emperor, deliver us.
From plague, temptation and war,
Our Emperor, deliver us.

[Polish Prussian Commonwealth]

Flying Column ‘Scáthach’, Sepheris Secundus, Golgenna Reach
3041st Cycle

---

As the servants of the God-Emperor recoiled in horror and in desperation scrambled a response, absoutely nothing broke out on the bridge of the Scáthach de Mag Mell II. A few sighs of relief, but otherwise everything was essentially business as usual. A smaller salvo of missiles, 40 total, ran out at a leisurely pace, homing on the bountiful emissions offered by the oribtal defenses. With them came a hail of tungsten rounds fired from the dual-purpose railguns, slewed by machine and guided in by a combination of ship's sensors and their own.

Such calm, however, was not replicated belowdecks. Marines raced about, forming sections, platoons, companies -- and at last, a full battalion. Exoskeletons were thrown on, followed by light uniforms, and then vests with ammunition-pouches, grenades, heavy armor plating. Coil-assisted battle-rifles were passed about, as were bayonets, machine-guns, and anti-tank weapons, while in hangars, transports were fuelled, armed, and prepped for launch. Amidst the orderly chaos, a few men, unnoticed, changed from grey and black fatigues into the tunics and cloaks favored by the local populace(with, of course, light ballistic protection beneath), before slipping carbines and pistols into rucksacks modified to defeat scanners.

While the Marines wreaked havoc and set Sepheris Secundus aflame, they would slip into the deepest corridors of the mines, to wait and watch, until a signal came.

[Allanea]

Sepheris Secundus, Icenholm, Throne Room of Queen Lachryma III

The throne room was freezing. This was not a metaphor – the walls were coated in ice, snow rustled under foot, and Queen Lachryma's own throne was carved out of a block of ice. Had the Queen not been dressed in an ornate, multi-layer assembly of furs and carapace armor, she would have doubtless been suffering awfully, but as it stood, she was able to converse with her subjects with but the merest of discomfort.

A pair of her Royal Scourges stood at her sides, presenting an unusual site. Though their caparace armor appeared ornate and impractical, its bright, gaudy colors seeming like the stuff of some traditional play or pict, they carried hot-shot lasguns, and at their belt hung hand-grenades and chain-blades suggesting they were more than ready for any engagement.

Before the throne stood the barons and aristocrats. Though they had all benefitted from juvenat treatments at some point or another, they were all old – some visibly, reduced by the centuries to walking ruins, others still appearing as if they were in their thirties or forties, but none of them truly young. Aside from her servants and bodyguards, Queen Lachryma had not spoken to a young man or woman in decades.

"You are an idiot." - she said to the man standing in front of her, the Commander of the Royal Scourges.

"Your Majesty, why do you abuse me so?" – he asked, his long white beard trailing past his chin, the eyes bearing the appearance of either genuine remorse or perhaps shock, she was not sure which, and she did not are.

"Because, van Spike you forget your duty. And in doing so, you are approaching dangerously closely to making me fair in my duty."

"I do not understand, Your Majesty. We are mobilizing the Royal Scourges as fast as we can. The Astra Militarum regiments are going to be out of their barracks in twelve hours. You will have full command authority, as per the Lex. The capital will be secure, I promise you."

"If you truly do not understand, then you are a worse idiot than I thought. Let me explain this in words you are perhaps capable of understanding: His Imperial Majesty, the God-Emperor of Mankind, entrusted this world to us, including all of its people, so that we would protect it. So that we would protect them. I understand that your pathetic mind is no longer capable of comprehending such ideas as caring for those under your trust, of course. So I am going to explain it in an even simpler way."

Marshal Baron Mard von Spike retreated a pace, as if the Queen's voice had struck him physically somehow. Somewhere in the depths of his soul something like guilt sparkled and fumed, like an amber in an extinguished fire.

"There are twelve billion people on this world, Mard. Most of these people are not barons, they are not even Baronial servants. If we lose the port – and we are going to lose the port, and we both know it – then we will not be able to deliver food properly. And, Mard, this planet does not grow food."

The Marshal's eyes widened.

"Now, I know you have all of the compassion that a guard canid does. That does not matter. If there is starvation – if there are food riots – if we cannot meet the Tithe – need I remind you who it will be that will pay the price, Mard von Spike?"

"No, that is not necessary, Your Majesty." – he knew by bitter experience that it would not be Queen Lachryma who would pay.

"Now. Listen to me. There is a chance yet for you to redeem yourself, to save those who can yet be saved. Deploy men to each of the Munitorum food caves – in Valkyries, in food haulers, I do not care. Open them. Start redeploying as much of the food as possible so that it does not get destroyed if the enemy goes for it. Start drawing distribution plans."

"But Your Majesty, the astropaths-"

"Will the astropathic alerts create a second port for you if we lose our port, Mard? The Navy will be here in three, four weeks, what will you do if there are food shortages next week? What will you do if the enemy lands tomorrow, Mard?"

"How can they land tomorrow, Your Majesty?"

"In the same way they have made it across the entire system in less than a day, you doddering old fool!" – the Queen's voice was like an avalanche. "These are xenos, Mard! The Navy has already been defeated. They've torn ten warships to scrap in less time than it takes me to talk to you! You need to assume the worst and act accordingly."

It was in that very moment that a runner had burst into the throne room. In a different time he would have been reprimanded, breaching protocol, tearing into the room at a run, gasping for breath as the cold air hurt his throat. It was not such a time.

"Speak." – said the Queen.

"Your Majesty. Honored Barons. Your Majesty. Honored Barons. " – said the runner, gasping.

"Yes?" – Lachryma III inclined her head.

"Your Majesty. Most of the orbital defense stations have been destroyed. Station Loyal Protector III has been deorbited into the ocean. Contact is lost with the torpedo satellites."

There was silence. Baron Marshal Mard von Spike stood in terror, his lips moving impotently, producing no sound, his mouth half open.

"Thank you, runner. Gentlemen, you all know your duties. May the Emperor protect us all."

[Nagintyar]

The annihilation of the cultists was of little consequence, in comparison to the gas storm raging. Under these conditions, docking with the Warchilde would be a difficult task even without a time limit, but that had not deterred Svald, not this late into his scheme.

“Calculating coordinates for next FTL jump, this is going to be rather dicey.” Svald’s tone betrayed the thin layer of sweat that soon coated him.

In truth, even as those calculations were made by SKELTER at a much faster, more accurate pace than his brain could ever hope to match, there was an incredibly high probability of risk to the ship at the pace he planned on.

“ Trespasser, how goes your haul?”

“Our ship is ready to leave this scraphole whenever you are, just tell us when.”

A dozen warnings flashed over Svald’s eyes, all overridden.

He had one chance to make this work, any slight deviation now and both ships would have torn each other to shreds even with the docking mechanisms in place.

The sudden bolt of both tractor beam technology and the docking clamps once again rocked the ship for a moment, the blocky vessel preparing for an escape.

There were now a thousand factors that could result in their imminent destruction, all that had to be carefully navigated in a few seconds by the captain now wired to and feeling every last action his ship could take.

“Right about…”

With a sudden and sharp burst of bright red light, both the Warchilde and the Kongou lit up like a star, before disappearing entirely into the void.

“... Now.”

"You were approximately 0.0342 seconds behinds your anticipated time, Captain Svald." SKELTER nonetheless informed him, his crew and himself coated in several paints of sweat from the sheer stress of the situation.

"Eh, it's better than what you could pull off anyways."

***

“Captain, the Kongou didn’t leave any message about evacuating? Should we hold our position?” The first mate’s question only made Skareen turn to her with a glare and a sigh.

“...No, let’s return to the Looking Glass, signal the Japhia to depart as well, we have our prizes.”

By sharp contrast to Kongou, Trespasser’s own acquisition was rather painless, easily accomplished via its more sophisticated docking technology. It was as simple as flying through the void to the well-regimented crew.

Moments later, both Japhia and Trespasser disappeared with their prize, abandoning the system as quickly as they had entered, as far as the locals were concerned.

"Our capture better be worth more than his..."

[Polish Prussian Commonwealth]

Flying Column ‘Scáthach’, Sepheris Secundus, Golgenna Reach
3041st Cycle

---

As the ships cleared out the last of the orbital defenses, the assault transports piled on their last few men. Their assault ramps shut, letting out a slight hiss as they sealed themselves off.

Then one, two, ten assault transports exited their hangars, and raced towards the port. As they neared the port, jamming pods and automated countermeasures dispensers came alive. Combined with already heavy jamming by the electronic warfare suites of the warships, the port's remaining CIWS systems would be hard-pressed to track and lock on to the incoming transports.

---

AV-22N-A 'Aztec' Assault Shuttle 'Feather 3' - Command Element and Platoon C, 1st Rifle Company, 19th Coalition Marine Battalion
Captain Dawn Stephens was no stranger to combat. Though not a proper citizen of the Battlegroup, the Free Republic of Aztlan had for years contracted the mercenary-nobles of Zócalo -- of which she was one -- to provide support in boarding and assault operations to the Free Republic's long-time ally. Over time she had developed a close rapport with her counterparts in the Battlegroup, as well as the other subcontractors she worked alongside.

She was especially familiar with 'Feather 3' and it's crew. Though originally the AV-22N-A was a downgraded license-produced model of the AV-22N 'Seminole' used by Battlegroup Anna, 'Feather' Flight's assault transports had been rebuilt, modified and refurbished by their crews, and they had carried her Company in and out of battle countless times. There were few others she trusted completely with her life -- not her employers in the Battlegroup, nor her colleagues from Zagreb or some further, stranger, far-flung star.

As a shrapnel pinged against the armor of the assault shuttle and it began to jink and weave to avoid incoming munitions, Stephens ran the plan through her mind once more.

Her company would be the security element, tasked with holding down a vital corridor and chokepoint close to the reactor rooms while the Battlegroup Anna company assaulted into those rooms and planted explosives. Once that was done they would exfiltrate. Secondary targets as they evacuated included any sort of heavy machinery, and if possible they were to detach the extremely large and juicy-looking freighter from the port so the Battlegroup could haul it home and clear it at their leisure. An additional two companies, one from the Battlegroup and the other from the Republic, would be held in reserve.

That was it. In, hold, out. Something they had rehearsed and executed a dozen times before under a dozen conditions and variations.

A crack of static on the assault shuttle's PA brought her out of her thoughts.

"Oi --" the pilot called. "We're three minutes out. Get ready. Cap'n, permission to play the tape? I've jacked into the target's PA system too, so you can call it psych warfare."
A chuckle rippled through the room, as the mercenaries donned their helmets, connected rebreather hoses to air tanks, and re-checked their firearms. The 'tape' was an old joke --a one minute and twenty-second clip from an ancient movie, always timed so that the end of the clip coincided with their breaching.

It never failed to still the nerves right before an assault, and both she and her men found it amusing, so as always, Dawn assented. "Play it!" she replied, smiling.

---

Port of Sepheris Secundus

As the port erupted into pandemonium, the instructions shouted over the public address system suddenly stopped, replaced by a new voice, speaking in butchered but mostly understandable Low Gothic.

"Who is it?" the voice intoned.
"It's me, Snakes." a different voice replied. "I've got the stuff."

---

As the exchange went on, the shuttles took the CIWS weaponry near their landing-zone offline with autocannons, as well as guided-rocket and missile fire, before they loitered in place, preparing to blast a hole in the side of the port through which to assault.
The last seconds ticked themselves down as the dialogue continued.

"I'm gonna give you to the count of 10, to get your ugly, yella, no-good keister off my property, before I pump your guts full of lead!"
"All right, Johnny, I'm sorry. I'm goin'!"
"1... 2... 10!"

A series of muted explosions and flashes could be heard, followed by a rush of air as some compartments decompressed. Then silence, or, among those compartments that still had pressure, a muffled metallic clang as the shuttles reversed and attached onto the impromptu entrances made by their armament.

"Keep the change, you filthy animal." Stephens muttered to herself, as she rushed off the shuttle. Around 400 Marines, give or take, were now in near the beating heart of the port.

[Imperial Calixis]

Port of Sepheris Secundus, Golgenna Reach

The results of the privateers' actions were exactly as they had expected, and more.

For it is the nature of war that it relies on knowledge. One needs to know where their enemy is, and where their forces are. A soldier needs to know their comrades are next to them, and to know what their orders are. In absence of knowledge, there is confusion, and, in extreme cases, panic and death.

This was the state of the port now. Harbormaster Hannis could not raise his armsmen. He could not make an announcement, could not explain to the station's crew and guests what was happening. The armsmen could not speak to each other, their vox-beads crackling ominously from time to time, but producing no sound of speech.

The voice that came through the station's voxcasters was frightening – its quality seemed almost inhuman to the Imperials, the strange accent, transformed by the elderly voxcasters, soundling as almost an alien voice. As the crew expected to be under xenos attack, this only confirmed what they already knew in their hearts – inhuman horrors were coming.

It was not possible, under these circumstances, for the Harbormaster to steer the armsmen to where they would do the most good. Some panicked, roving through the station with weapons in hand, others did their duty as best they could, hunkering down to defend key intersections, shield generators, or descending to the Enginarium.

Civilians at the station did as best they could. Some bared weapons, preparing to give battle if the alien adversaries invaded their chambers, others attempted to hide and pray for safety. There was little passenger transit off Secundus – most of the travelers were crews of various ships, and not strangers to void combat. Yet some passengers there were. These were even more fearful.

Thus, panic there was. Some ran towards the savior pods. Those who were not used to the station's background ran to and fro through the corridors, praying to salvation, cursing each other, sliding,and falling in the dark and getting up again.

Savior Pod X-90 departed with twenty men on board instead of its capacity of one hundred. Savior Pod X-111 departed overloaded. A gunfight broke out at the entry to Savior Pod X-33.

The station's structure was circular – docking bays and shield generators outside, generator in the central tower column, command bridge at its top. As such, the main mission team's route to the generatorium would lead them inwards, while those seeking to capture the Misericorde would be bound outwards, whjere the clumsy giant was docked at one of the docking arms.

It was an ugly ship, cobbled together out of what looked like the remains of a dozen different ships over the centuries. Its ugliness did not matter to it – its job was to continue on the same plodding, slow journeys between its three destinations. What mattered was that it was large – large enough for cargo, for ore, for passengers. It was never going to be anything else than what it was.

There, too, panic reigned. Passengers and crew were rushing aboard. The ship's armsmen fired their shotguns into the air to keep calm, and when that failed to deter the crowd of terrified men and women, a few loads of buckshot secured a semblance of quiet – except for the moans of the few that had been struck.

"We will depart in an orderly manner." – Midshipmen Umra Dan shouted, pumping the shotgun for emphasis. "We do not want to smash against a docking arm on our way out, so we will. Depart. In an orderly."

"You shut the feth up!" – a passenger shouted – "I have a wife and three children and-"

The shotgun roared.

"The widow and her children will board in an orderly manner." – the Midshipmen finished, cycling his shotgun again."

This time there were no more shouts.

[Allanea]

Aboard the captured cruiser, near Looking Glass Station, some time later

The Orc lady was tall. In ages past, she might have been a chieftain among her kind, fearsome and fierce, evil and cruel. Now, however, she was still fearsome and fierce - but evil she was not. Whether she was cruel was in the eye of the beholder. Some knew her as kind - wife and mother, friend and commander. Even among her enemies, few beheld her true fury.

Here, Colonel Yagda Gra-Gonhug would reveal no such thing. She walked down the broad shipboard hallway, her footsteps echoing from the dusty floor. In ages forgotten, when the first deck plans had been laid down, the central hallway was meant for troops and armsmen to parade through, in pride and glory. Later, by the time this particular ship was built - a redesign of a redesign of an adaptation - this was forgotten, and the vast halls of the ship were used merely for carrying munitions and for the shuffling of endless whip-driven menials, as enslaved to the will of their masters as Yagda’s ancestors had once been to the Dark Lord.

Yet she could not deny that those who had once held the ship were in their own way an advanced culture. Around them, the vestiges of their traditions were visible - the statues of saints and heroes in forgotten prayer niches. Unlike with the Warchilde, here the misbegotten cultists had never boarded the ship, and had not had the time to desecrate it. This, too, would work into the Colonel’s plans.

Behind her paced a group of aides - Magos Tarmacius, in his violet coat, his green eye-lenses glowing in the dark, and several other men and women - all dressed in naval work clothes or mossy-green uniforms of the Free Kingdom Army. As they went they photographed and scanned, observed and noted. They walked behind the Colonel and the Magos until they reached the bridge.

Here, it was most evident in what disrepair the ship was. The servitors that once aided the ship’s crew to control its systems had died decades ago - some in battle, others merely of starvation and exposure as their masters abandoned them, and by now their bodies had dessicated, turning them into horrific mummies. Dust had covered everything, and it was best to not think of its origin.

“If anything, the vessel is in very good condition, I must say.” - said Yagda as she entered the room. “Why, Tarmacius, everything is still Euclidean and there are no pus-monsters emerging from the walls!”

”This is highly gratifying, Colonel”, Tarmacius replied in his mechanical voice.

“It is a gross waste of resources in its current form, built to awe and intimidate first and foremost.”

Skareen was very blunt in the assessment of her war-prize, aiming not to insult, though unafraid to cause offense. Perhaps it had reminded her far too much of Svald for her liking, in its preference for extravagant beauty.

“When you control thousands of worlds I suspect you stop caring about cutting costs on even a cruiser. As for the uh, heretics, we’re working on clearing them out of the [iWarchilde[/i]. Haven’t boarded it yet but the initial neurotoxin concoction we’ve thrown in there should sort out most of them. We can club the rest to death afterwards.” Svald once again made his presence clear, slightly cleaned up now that he was back in friendly territory.

“Neurotoxin sounds like a good solution when nobody seems to be using full body gear for some reason.” - said Yagda approvingly.

”Correction: It is believed that the vessels presently used by the Imperium of Mankind are approximately of the same size as those used in the Golden Age of Technology,” - uttered Tarmacius in the same mechanical tone, it was as though the cyborg had little understanding of the tone of the conversation ”It is surmised this was partly to transport large pieces of equipment and large quantities of combat androids or passengers. I theorize that in the present day the capability is largely retained to transport large amounts of menials which are required for the technologies in current operation. There are doubtless secondary reasons.”

“So, while it is in disrepair, it is nonetheless in excellent condition for an abandoned hulk in space. Being an…” Svald closed his eyes for a second, to Skareen’s annoyance. No doubt he was briefly browsing what information they had on the Imperium through his implants. “Imperial Navy Cruiser, and thus a ship of the line loaded with all sorts of important historical and military records, I do think we are entitled to a reasonable payment in exchange for transfer of the vessel into your hands.”

Skareen remained silent as Svald began his spiel. He was the better salesman, after all.

“It would make for a very lovely war museum all on its own for your children’s children to marvel and gaze upon as well. Alien technology taken from a hellish malaise by a very brave crew in the early days of your liberation of this sector.”

“Oh we are definitely buying it,” - said Yagda - “It will in fact do much better than a museum - it will be used in active operations - although, as you’ve said, it will require some refits. Nevertheless, it is very valuable and you will receive the proper compensation. I would also like to negotiate for purchase for some parts of the Warchilde - the cogitator system, principally. We will of course fund its replacement with modern computers, and you will receive a copy of its database once we manage to get through whatever encryptions or security it has. Moreover, we will pay, let’s say, five million New Dornalian for the privilege. Further, we will put you in contact with an art merchant that you will be able to off-load any of the wasteful statuary and artwork you may find on board.”

”Moreover”, Magos Tarmacius added, ”if you do not object we would like to take a look at the Apothecarium. I have some theories about the genetic heritage of the Storm Wardens.”

“As you wish, you may explore it, provided it hasn’t been damaged irrepairably by time or the cultists within.” Svald finished, his tone gradually losing its salesman-esque glee.

“Are there any other matters you would like to discuss, Colonel?” Skareen began where Svald finished.

“There is one issue that causes my superiors a degree of discomfort, Skareen.” - the Orcess said. “Can you explain - and obviously you do not have to divulge any trade secrets - what your business plan is? That’s to say, what is your organization’s overall plan towards achieving a bottom-line profit?”

Skareen kept quiet for the moment. She knew that Svald’s schemes were far below his usual profit margins from the moment he captured and rebuilt the Japhia instead of letting her fade into the void.

Svald, for his part, grinned.

“Skareen and her crew tagged along for the pay, I have deeper intentions to carve my fortune out here. But first, I would like to ask you about how payment for the destruction or capture of Severan Dominate assets will be handled. I know they’re not quite the ideal target given your overall goals, but if rumors are true then it would perhaps be wise to not quite finish what your other privateers have started quite so soon yet.”

Gra-Gonhug sighed. “There are two different answers to this. On one hand my superiors don’t object to Dominate assets being blown up and to their lives generally being made nasty, brutish, and short - more nasty, brutish and short than it already is. On the other, we don’t want to pay you on a per-kill basis, at least not for Dominate or Imperial ships, largely for the reason that we don’t want to create incentive for people to just run around and snipe every slaver vessel they can detect. You can imagine how this could rapidly devolve the situation in unforeseeable ways.”

“Understandable. Perhaps I must explain my plan further then-” [interruption]

“Krorks and Chaosites are a different matter!” - said Yagda with a smile that revealed sharp, frightening teeth.

’Hypothesis: Colonel Gra-Gonhug dislikes Krorks due to the confusion between them and the Colonel’s own people. However, it is correct that the Free Kingdom can provide bounties for the destruction of their shipping.’ - the Defector Magos’ voice was as mechanical as always.

“Hrm, they do seem the common pest don’t they? Very well, my plan remains my own, for now we will focus our attention on the slaughter of Krorkish and Chaotian assets, provided payment justifies the expense of weaponry and crew.” Svald seemed mildly disappointed, and mildly relieved, that he wouldn’t have to speak further about his schemes for the time being, at least to Skareen’s eyes.

“Regarding the idea for establishing your own kingdom, this is of course a great idea for the later stage, the usual provisions of course applying,” - if Yagda noticed his discomfort she paid it no heed. “As for payment, it’ll be of course organized on a scale basis, the obvious logic of a payment by ship class probably will apply.”

Svald’s eyes could be seen briefly bulging at the very mention of a kingdom. His poker face returned without a second to spare, but he clearly didn’t appreciate being caught so openly with such little fanfare.

“Right, well, the ship is yours now, pending Skareen’s approval. I must tend to our new flagship, hire some crew to manage that behemoth, etcetera. Just for you, I shall bring back a thousand Krorkish heads upon our return to the Looking Glass after our next deployment, yes?”

“Speaking of crew for your ship,” - said Yagda, “I must remind you that the lleader of the local Krork Empire is called Grimtoof Git-Slaver. Need I elaborate on the implications of that title?”

“Hrm, interesting. I had hoped not to have to send anyone onboard one of those ramshackle piles of shit but I guess we should at least make the effort to extract any potential cre- victims of orcish warcrimes.”

“Typically a lot of these individuals will be on land. We’ll provide you with all the intelligence we have on Grimtoof’s mini-empire and you can will what you can do with that. Which I suspect is ‘a lot’.”

“They’ll be weeded out soon enough, Colonel.” Skareen finished, clearly wanting to finish their discussion sooner than later. “They’ll wage their next few wars with sticks and stones at least.”

“I will have the necessary information collated for you while your new ship is rebuilt. In the interim, enjoy the station’s hospitality.”

[Polish Prussian Commonwealth]

Port of Sepheris Secundus, Golgenna Reach

The results of the privateers' actions were exactly as they had expected, and more.

For it is the nature of war that it relies on knowledge. One needs to know where their enemy is, and where their forces are. A soldier needs to know their comrades are next to them, and to know what their orders are. In absence of knowledge, there is confusion, and, in extreme cases, panic and death.

This was the state of the port now. Harbormaster Hannis could not raise his armsmen. He could not make an announcement, could not explain to the station's crew and guests what was happening. The armsmen could not speak to each other, their vox-beads crackling ominously from time to time, but producing no sound of speech.

The voice that came through the station's voxcasters was frightening – its quality seemed almost inhuman to the Imperials, the strange accent, transformed by the elderly voxcasters, soundling as almost an alien voice. As the crew expected to be under xenos attack, this only confirmed what they already knew in their hearts – inhuman horrors were coming.

It was not possible, under these circumstances, for the Harbormaster to steer the armsmen to where they would do the most good. Some panicked, roving through the station with weapons in hand, others did their duty as best they could, hunkering down to defend key intersections, shield generators, or descending to the Enginarium.

Civilians at the station did as best they could. Some bared weapons, preparing to give battle if the alien adversaries invaded their chambers, others attempted to hide and pray for safety. There was little passenger transit off Secundus – most of the travelers were crews of various ships, and not strangers to void combat. Yet some passengers there were. These were even more fearful.

Thus, panic there was. Some ran towards the savior pods. Those who were not used to the station's background ran to and fro through the corridors, praying to salvation, cursing each other, sliding,and falling in the dark and getting up again.

Savior Pod X-90 departed with twenty men on board instead of its capacity of one hundred. Savior Pod X-111 departed overloaded. A gunfight broke out at the entry to Savior Pod X-33.

The station's structure was circular – docking bays and shield generators outside, generator in the central tower column, command bridge at its top. As such, the main mission team's route to the generatorium would lead them inwards, while those seeking to capture the Misericorde would be bound outwards, whjere the clumsy giant was docked at one of the docking arms.

It was an ugly ship, cobbled together out of what looked like the remains of a dozen different ships over the centuries. Its ugliness did not matter to it – its job was to continue on the same plodding, slow journeys between its three destinations. What mattered was that it was large – large enough for cargo, for ore, for passengers. It was never going to be anything else than what it was.

There, too, panic reigned. Passengers and crew were rushing aboard. The ship's armsmen fired their shotguns into the air to keep calm, and when that failed to deter the crowd of terrified men and women, a few loads of buckshot secured a semblance of quiet – except for the moans of the few that had been struck.

"We will depart in an orderly manner." – Midshipmen Umra Dan shouted, pumping the shotgun for emphasis. "We do not want to smash against a docking arm on our way out, so we will. Depart. In an orderly."

"You shut the feth up!" – a passenger shouted – "I have a wife and three children and-"

The shotgun roared.

"The widow and her children will board in an orderly manner." – the Midshipmen finished, cycling his shotgun again."

This time there were no more shouts.

Platoon C, 1st Rifle Company, 19th Coalition Marine Battalion
3041st Cycle

---

This was almost too easy for Dawn Stephens.

The port was in complete and utter panic, allowing for the mercenaries to storm through without trouble. Were this a true seizure of the port, Dawn would have had a field day, but alas, this was not. A few gunshots rang out, a few terrified civilians zip-tied and thrown aboard the assault transports, and the area was mostly clear and their job half-done.

It was a trival matter after that to establish defensive positions after that.

As the gunfire faded into the distance, the few greviously-wounded were tended to and evacuated, and as her company began to set up positions, Dawn doffed her helmet and pulled out a cigarette, before setting it alight. "Business as usual." she muttered, to noone in particular, before taking a pull.

Platoon A, 2nd Rifle Company, 19th Coalition Marine Battalion
3041st Cycle

---

While Dawn had a smoke break, Captain Edelbart Spiegel felt like he was going to scream. Not because of the mission -- no, everything was going to plan, and they were about to, supposedly, reach the reactor room, after which they would pile it high with plastic explosives, set a timer for an hour, and exfiltrate. What was not going well, however, was the sheer scale of the Imperial station. He had seen big stations before, but this one took the cake -- a constant marathon of twisting corridors plastered in a twelve-year-old's rendition of Gothic Revival and Baroque. His legs felt like they would give out any moment now, but still he pressed on.

There- a last set of doors. The squad with him stacked up at the corner and prepared to breach, while other squads took up overwatch positions. Nothing could go wrong now -- right?

[Imperial Calixis]

Fear was around them like a maelstrom, lashing at their souls as the blizzards of Sepheris Secundus lash at a man's body. They could smell it – the fear-sweat of frightened men and women, the stench of tears and urine. But they themselves were not affected by it, for as their bodies were armored in black plasteel, so were their souls armored in contempt and faith.

Arbitrator Garret Mesil jabbed a sailor with his shock maul, the poor wretch yelping and collapsing to the ground. Mesil did not even have time to feel pleasure at the creature's suffering. Behind him, his troopers formed ranks.

"Sailors! Armsmen! Gather! Guns at the door!" – he barked – "Will you let the station fall to these creatures? What! Is that why you have lived, so you could cower in your last moments like the last peasant scum? To me! Stand and fight!"

The door was blown open with a blast.

He did not need to give an order – several dozen shotguns barked at once, letting loose a storm of buckshot.

Garret Mesil felt no fear. He felt no anger – only a cold contempt to the men around him, who were betraying not him with their cowardice – but their own dignity as men and women. He felt contempt also for the alien creatures – for these, he was sure, could only be aliens – who had so invaded the domain he was entrusted with.

He felt no uncertainty about the fight that was about to commence. As his soul was clad in contempt, his body was clad in armor. As his mind was armed with the law, so was he armed with his shock maul.

He raised the power setting to the highest, most lethal, level. The shock maul hissed as he lifted it for the fight, raising his bolt pistol in his other hand. To his left, the troopers stood in two rows, shields together, guns aimed steadily into the smoke.

[Battlegroup Anna]

Fear was around them like a maelstrom, lashing at their souls as the blizzards of Sepheris Secundus lash at a man's body. They could smell it – the fear-sweat of frightened men and women, the stench of tears and urine. But they themselves were not affected by it, for as their bodies were armored in black plasteel, so were their souls armored in contempt and faith.

Arbitrator Garret Mesil jabbed a sailor with his shock maul, the poor wretch yelping and collapsing to the ground. Mesil did not even have time to feel pleasure at the creature's suffering. Behind him, his troopers formed ranks.

"Sailors! Armsmen! Gather! Guns at the door!" – he barked – "Will you let the station fall to these creatures? What! Is that why you have lived, so you could cower in your last moments like the last peasant scum? To me! Stand and fight!"

The door was blown open with a blast.

He did not need to give an order – several dozen shotguns barked at once, letting loose a storm of buckshot.

Garret Mesil felt no fear. He felt no anger – only a cold contempt to the men around him, who were betraying not him with their cowardice – but their own dignity as men and women. He felt contempt also for the alien creatures – for these, he was sure, could only be aliens – who had so invaded the domain he was entrusted with.

He felt no uncertainty about the fight that was about to commence. As his soul was clad in contempt, his body was clad in armor. As his mind was armed with the law, so was he armed with his shock maul.

He raised the power setting to the highest, most lethal, level. The shock maul hissed as he lifted it for the fight, raising his bolt pistol in his other hand. To his left, the troopers stood in two rows, shields together, guns aimed steadily into the smoke.

Platoon A, 2nd Rifle Company, 19th Coalition Marine Battalion
3041st Cycle

---

A hail of buckshot whizzed just past Captain Spiegel's head, missing him by a hair. One of the Marines at the corner was not so lucky -- the pellets slammed itself into his chest, bounced into chinks, and with a loud groan the man hit the ground with a thud.

He would live, but still -- they clearly would not be able to simply charge in. The wretched imperials would fill the corridors with small-arms fire and mop up the survivors.

Fortunately, the solution was simple and ancient.

A few quick hand-signals and gestures, and one marine in paticular came up. Beneath his coil-rifle lay a fat tube with a trigger -- an underbarrel grenade launcher.
Arbitrator Garret Mesil would see a rifle pointed at hiim down the hall, then a dull thump. Something dark moved through the air, too fast for him to properly see, and then a 40mm high-explosive-fragmentory grenade detonated amidst his rag-tag unit.

Without as so much a pause the gunfire started right after. Short, quick bursts of armor-piercing ammunition would rake the defenders as power-armored naval infantry breached the room.

[Imperial Calixis]

The world around Garret Mesil seemed to be a cacophony of sound, sound so loud it turned to pain. Blood, sticky and warm, flowed from under his helmet as the world around him swam into focus again. Several of the Arbites troopers lay dead, and among the unarmored, disoriented armsmen and crew the casualties were worse.

There was no time to count the dead, no time for to shake his head and recover. The xeno warriors were already pouring into the room, the helmets of their powered armor concealing what were doubtlessly horrific features.

He shouted, barely hearing his own words – am I deaf in one ear? – and charged towards the xenos –

But it was then that he saw the enemies closely. Some of them wore no helmets or rebreathers, having taken them off as they moved through the station's corridors. []i]They were human![/i]

Incomprehension, blank incomprehension flooded Mesil's mind. He heard tales of humans who had forsaken the Emperor's light and turned to serve the alien, but he had never imagined he would meet one. What promises, what rewards could entice a man for a betrayal so unnatural?

He would find out.

Traitor! – roared Mesil, launching himself forward – Surrender, in the name of the Lex!

[Nagintyar]

There was an acute sense of… personal irrelevance when gazing at the stars from the bridge of a Battle Barge. It seemed, to Svald at least, that every last inch of its design and aesthetic was designed to remind its Captain that they were but one tiny speck of dust surrounded by ancient titans and gazing upon a world much vaster than them.

Strange, considering the sheer scale of the warship he now commanded.

If the Japhia was overly large, the Warchilde was an utter behemoth in scale. Far too massive to practically put together by any lowly Pirate force, it would, perhaps, prove nightmarish to crew as well.

"Automation of much of the internal zones has been completed, the new Drive has been thankfully inserted in an otherwise unused space, and taking up a tenth of the space of the local drive, I may add. The destruction of any potential mental hazards and sanitation duties have been finalized by SKELTER's bots, and I've sent a recruitment call out for other pirates from your Splinter, as well as coordinated the necessary purchases to ensure we don't run out of supplies mid-raid. I'd say to wait until her upgrades are finalized, but-"

"We need money, well, I need money, I don't know about you, you seem awfully relaxed for a Pirate crew."

"I have my reasons."

"Of course, Skareen. I'll notify you when I'm preparing to leave for our next destination."

With that, Svald severed communications with the bridge of the Trespasser for now. His newest vessel, the Robber Orphan, was now his concern, perhaps not quite ready, but serviceable.

**

Skareen, finishing her discussion, moved away from Trespasser's bridge. Tight and constrained, relative to the Nagintyari's scale, the eight foot alien found solace in the straightforward design and corridors of these elderly warships, all built with a strict purpose and goal.

And yet, there was still one location within the ship few treaded in, a mixture of bad omens and inherent trust placed only upon very few crewmembers to enter, Skareen among them.

Even so, upon approaching its door, an unusually ornate, rectangular sliding piece, its two guards asked for her identification and proof of her very character, something Skareen had no need to do elsewhere.

Entering within the room, there were a few chambers, each arcane and flowing with elder magic not seen in many decades by the Nagintyari, who were prone to shun it as the domain of their oppressors. It was an utterly arcane chamber within an otherwise mechanical and cold vessel, almost as alien as the interior of the Imperial vessels they had captured.

This was the aesthetic of their Oppressor, cold and filled with cuneiform and scripture meant to ward or fulfill any number of goals. This was the style that Skareen was familiar with in the documentaries of the war against their slave masters.

And even so, she disrobed and stepped into one of the many open chambers, letting its pool of magic surround her.

It was almost like fresh water, tainted with a magenta, viscous feeling, soothing, relaxing, letting her mind drift and flow beyond her body. Had Svald's own magicians known about it, they would have perhaps salivated at the thought of such an advanced form of meditation and temporary transcendence from their mortal coils

As her mind traveled, it had to do so a vastly longer distance than Skareen was used to. Vast stretches of space traveled in the span of minutes, the very soul kept from burning itself out through the power of the chamber. Even so, she felt the stretch upon herself, traveling beyond her own galaxy, perhaps beyond her own universe, onto another.

Finally, she ended up where she wished to be. The one who had sent her on this assignment, the Nagintyari who she trusted above all else.

You arrive early…

I bring news.

Talking in this form is difficult, more akin to expressing oneself in a specific way. Every single thought, conscious or otherwise, is spilled into the wild by the untrained, the mind loosening all of its ideas. Only a strong will kept her every thought from escaping her essence. Her lips were her fortitude, shaping only what she wanted that soul she visited to hear from her.

Svalds plans escalate. He wishes to be a pirate lord.

Does he still wage war against this Imperium?

Yes, his current actions are against another empire. But he wishes to lord over Imperial subjects, I believe.

Does his cause seem just, to you?

Skareen remained silent for a second, thoughts clouded but concealed by her experience in this otherworldly veil.

I do not think he has the heart to commit true evil, but he is a pirate. His rise will be bloody.

Mmm. Continue trailing him, new resources will be made available to you. Funding, personnel, whatever you ask. He may turn towards the concept of a crown, but there may still lie justice in him, so long as he is pointed in the path of those who threaten the soul.

As you wish, thank you.

Be wary, we sense much illness from where you stand. Your new galaxy is poisoned, cancerous, torn apart by madness and despair. You must be stalwart, you must be worse than your foes in fire and fury, but never give yourself into bloodlust. You must be strong of will, strong of body, to resist the very horrors that await you. You will never succeed in your goal, but even the slightest burning of these horrors is a victory that safeguards many souls. Go forth, wage war, die well.

Without another word, the voice vanished, her very essence disappearing outright. It was time to leave this ancient coffin, Skareen’s eyes opening to displace her from her prior state, now merely lacking clothes and surrounded by that same magenta liquid she had entered before.

She made ready for war.

Augury would be their next target.

[Imperial Calixis]

Augury:

[align=justify]Augury was not, by most standards, very desirable. Its star was dim, and of the six worlds of the system only the innermost was inhabitable, forcing it to a short year, a light gravity, and a cold atmosphere. Perhaps it would be for this reason that it had changed hands so often in the war that had so long plagued the subsector.

Imperials, then Severan secessionists, then Orks, then Severans, then Orks again, and so forth. Right now, it was Orks that controlled the system and its planet. On the surface, their armies awaited in primitive war camps. Ammunition dumps, hangars, armories, and primitive open-cut mines pockmarked the planet's surface, worked by the Orks' slave-caste and by captives of several species – humans and others, driven forward by the whip and by the simple desire to live another day.

Some of the hapless slaves held some ambitions – to escape, perhaps, or to climb in the Orks' hierarchy, or to take revenge. Others no longer had ambitions, merely to survive for another day, to avoid being slaughtered out of hand by their beast-like masters, to avoid starving to death. In any event, they labored on.

In orbit, ork vox stations, beacons, transloading stations and weapons systems spun. Around the world, a fleet mustered.

The fleet was comprised, with a few exceptions, of Ork-built ships. Awful, crude renditions of what a vessel of war might look like, they nevertheless appeared intimidating enough, if not due to a finished and professional look, then due to their sheer size and the arrays of crude, powerful weapons. [/b]

OOC:

Ork fleet order of battle:
X1 heavy cruiser
X10 cruisers
X3 Enforcer Class System Control Cruisers, converted heavily
X20 light cruisers
X20 escorts + an additional 20 escorts currently on the ground[/align=justify]

[Nagintyar]

Skareen and Svald’s small flotilla arrived in-system, perhaps closer than it’d like to the planet it planned to assault.

At its center was a ship that vastly outsized the rest of the fleet to an almost comical extent. The Robber Orphan, rechristened and repainted in a dull grey. Trespasser was barely less than a kilometer, Kongou was but one and a half. And now Svald controlled a warship that easily reached eight, and perhaps with further tweaking, it could actually make the best use of such a gargantuan size.

Indeed, most of the former Battle Barge’s interior lay eerily empty, marched upon only by drones and the occasional crewmembers, oftentimes using some manner of small vehicle to hurry up the pace in such a monstrous vessel. Where once thousands of crew had to labor to man the guns, now only construction and loader drone-mechs patrolled, overseen by small cadres of engineers to make sure all ran as planned. Where thousands more were required to maintain the many ancient systems of a time long gone, now only a dozen kept up their work.

They were still a ways off from the planet, far enough to avoid any planetary defenses, at least any that would have been fielded by either Dysisan or Nagintyari defenders, but close enough to likely be spotted by any remotely competent defenders.

It was, of course, a fool’s errand to try and hide a warship the size of the Robber Orphan, at least in the grand scheme of things. As such, Svald reckoned, it would make more sense to try and actually get into an engagement as quickly as possible, but not one in which the enemy could bring all of its forces to bear so quickly.

To that end, they would have to not only strike, but kill quickly, something best suited to a rather risky maneuver, purposefully choosing their drop point to shorten the amount of time needed to engage planetary defenses while still being just out of reach of any major weapons platforms or planetary capital weaponry.

“Kind of, I don’t really have any targets on my system yet though… You, SKELTER?” Svald sounded sheepish, almost embarrassed.

“Negative, no targets on radar yet.” SKELTER, now promoted to temporary captain of the Kongou, spoke with her usual deadpan over the comms once more.

“I’ve only spent a few years telling you to upgrade your targeting suites but here we are once again Svald. We’ll get their attention, you can back us up with the only thing onboard your new and old rustbucket that can hit anything within the hour, out.” Skareen spoke, shutting her comms in the process for the moment.

Svald couldn’t see it, but the ship’s navigation suite showed Trespasser speeding up significantly, soon outpacing the rest of the flotilla as it aimed to get a better shot at whatever likely pinged its radar first. If the Robber Baron would get a chance to shine tonight, it would have to be before Skareen could kill everything of note first, gods willing.

[Imperial Calixis]

The creatures that controlled Augury were, in their own way, very advanced minds. Simplistic, in a way a cinderblock is simple, but also advanced, in the way a cinderblock is near-ideal for building a house. The creatures' minds had been forged, by their long-forgotten masters, to seek out violence and mayhem. Billions, trillions of them have lived and died in the long aeons, almost entirely incapable of perceiving another purpose to existence at all, other than to kill and be killed.

And so, to these creatures, the arrival of enemy ships so close to their staging grounds was a slight surprise, but nothing more than this. They felt no terror at what was obviously an attack. (The option that these strange ships could be anything other than an enemy was not even contemplated by the Orks).

No, their minds were filled with a mix of anger and delight – anger, that someone would intrude on their domain, delight, that they would get into a real fight, a fight they hoped to win, since it seemed – to them at least – that the enemy had come here with only two ships worthy of being called ships at all, and only one of those was a genuine threat.

Threats were bellowed over several vox frequencies.

The heavy cruiser Mork's Hamma, alongside with a dozen lesser warships, turned towards the new enemy, several Ork captains hailing the new enemy at once, ashouting out threats and challenges in their crude, guttural tongue and in mangled Low Gothic.

[Nagintyar]

When Trespasser got its first target in its sights, a faint, magenta glow could be seen from beneath the vessel. Its most dangerous weapon was aimed accordingly, Trespasser ‘lifting’ itself to better let the weapon prepare its first strike, accurately sighted and adjusted with an advanced gimbal mechanism.

Soon, a long, powerful streak of some manner of energy weaponry could be seen streaming forth, surprisingly rageful for such an elegant design. It had the power to slice through shielding and armor plating as if it were foil, and could reliably hit anything in its sights at the ranges fired at.

Trespasser was small compared to the local behemoths, but she certainly didn’t punch any less. And she wouldn’t delay either, preparing to strike again before its enemies could get into range.

***

Pilots were a dying concept in Dysisa. Drone fighters had so utterly eclipsed the capabilities of most pilots that it was becoming increasingly difficult to field them as anything more than glorified commanders for increasingly adept and unmatchable machines.

Even here, in a much more budget conscious fleet, Pilot Katha couldn't quite escape that reality, one of hundreds of pilots in a sea of at least triple the amount of drone fighters, all neatly accommodated within the almost comically massive hull of their new flagship.

It was rare that anyone would call a Shawk a small fighter-bomber, but inside thus behemoth? It made him feel tiny, knowing he was sharing a singular hangar, among many more within the ship, with thousands of others.

Nonetheless, the takeoff procedures were a simple enough task, everything was running nominally and the desired weapon loadout, aimed to give him both a decent kick against fighters and warships alike, was fitted, as he was a part of the generalist strike-fighter squadrons.

One by one, every manned vessel left the hangar, soon joined by many, many more drones. Simple and crude designs the *Ersatz* were nonetheless effective enough in their intended role, especially with SKELTER micromanaging their every move.

“Alright flypunks, you all have your targets, I don’t want to hear anything about kill-stealing or any other bullshit when you get back, I’m the one who makes tallies here, not you.”

AWACS Catherder could be heard over the comms, safe and sound within the Kongou, providing overwatch and a clearer view of the battle ahead of them.

[Battlegroup Anna]

Platoon A, 2nd Rifle Company, 19th Coalition Marine Battalion
3041st Cycle

---

Adrenaline raced through Spiegel's veins as his platoon breached the room. Several arbites and sailors died in the first rounds of the firefight, and one or two marines fell, bolt-rounds tearing chunks of their body armor away and rending the flesh beneath. Still, this was as good of a result as he could have hoped for, and he was about to halt and take stock of the situation properly, when a loud shout caught his attention.

"Traitor! Surrender, in the name of the Lex!"

Time slowed to a crawl for Spiegel. A shock-maul and bolt-pistol-wielding Arbitrator was barrelling down on him, and in response, he threw himself sideways. A thump, shake, and jolt could be felt through his armor as he hit the ground, but no matter, his training kicked in, and almost mechanically he trained his rifle upon the man.
One, two, three pulls of the trigger, and a trio of coilgun-assisted fletchette-rounds raced forward with Mesil's name written upon them.

[Imperial Calixis]

When Trespasser got its first target in its sights, a faint, magenta glow could be seen from beneath the vessel. Its most dangerous weapon was aimed accordingly, Trespasser ‘lifting’ itself to better let the weapon prepare its first strike, accurately sighted and adjusted with an advanced gimbal mechanism.

Soon, a long, powerful streak of some manner of energy weaponry could be seen streaming forth, surprisingly rageful for such an elegant design. It had the power to slice through shielding and armor plating as if it were foil, and could reliably hit anything in its sights at the ranges fired at.

Trespasser was small compared to the local behemoths, but she certainly didn’t punch any less. And she wouldn’t delay either, preparing to strike again before its enemies could get into range.

***

Pilots were a dying concept in Dysisa. Drone fighters had so utterly eclipsed the capabilities of most pilots that it was becoming increasingly difficult to field them as anything more than glorified commanders for increasingly adept and unmatchable machines.

Even here, in a much more budget conscious fleet, Pilot Katha couldn't quite escape that reality, one of hundreds of pilots in a sea of at least triple the amount of drone fighters, all neatly accommodated within the almost comically massive hull of their new flagship.

It was rare that anyone would call a Shawk a small fighter-bomber, but inside thus behemoth? It made him feel tiny, knowing he was sharing a singular hangar, among many more within the ship, with thousands of others.

Nonetheless, the takeoff procedures were a simple enough task, everything was running nominally and the desired weapon loadout, aimed to give him both a decent kick against fighters and warships alike, was fitted, as he was a part of the generalist strike-fighter squadrons.

One by one, every manned vessel left the hangar, soon joined by many, many more drones. Simple and crude designs the *Ersatz* were nonetheless effective enough in their intended role, especially with SKELTER micromanaging their every move.

“Alright flypunks, you all have your targets, I don’t want to hear anything about kill-stealing or any other bullshit when you get back, I’m the one who makes tallies here, not you.”

AWACS Catherder could be heard over the comms, safe and sound within the Kongou, providing overwatch and a clearer view of the battle ahead of them.

The blow from the Trespasser was like a sudden punch with a weighted glove to a prize-fighters chin. For one of the Ork 'kroozers, it was just as fight-ending. The beam struck void shields, and for less than the blink of an eye the shields flared, and then gave. Metal boiled and burned, and then something within the ship exploded like a short-lived star.

The vox filled with the roars of the Orks, some filled with rage, others hooting with joy, yet others in a strange mix of both emotions, and the Ork fighters began to come forth from their craft, like bees from a disturbed hive.

The lead craft were painted bright-red, perhaps denoting some warrior-elite of this species, and the lesser ones followed. Designs varied – some of these were fighter-craft, others strike craft, but the aesthetics were everywhere the same – all seemed as if they had come from a scrap yard, all ugly assemblies of straight lines and jagged angles.

The Orks did not bother with such niceties as drone spacecraft – indeed, to mount a drone would have denied them the one thing they lived for, the chance to lay into the enemy with gun and rocket.

Like a bloodied, serrated knife, the Ork fighter cloud swept forward.

[Imperial Calixis]

Platoon A, 2nd Rifle Company, 19th Coalition Marine Battalion
3041st Cycle

---

Adrenaline raced through Spiegel's veins as his platoon breached the room. Several arbites and sailors died in the first rounds of the firefight, and one or two marines fell, bolt-rounds tearing chunks of their body armor away and rending the flesh beneath. Still, this was as good of a result as he could have hoped for, and he was about to halt and take stock of the situation properly, when a loud shout caught his attention.

"Traitor! Surrender, in the name of the Lex!"

Time slowed to a crawl for Spiegel. A shock-maul and bolt-pistol-wielding Arbitrator was barrelling down on him, and in response, he threw himself sideways. A thump, shake, and jolt could be felt through his armor as he hit the ground, but no matter, his training kicked in, and almost mechanically he trained his rifle upon the man.
One, two, three pulls of the trigger, and a trio of coilgun-assisted fletchette-rounds raced forward with Mesil's name written upon them.

Mesil felt no pain – indeed, he felt only a slight push, and in the heat of the moment he thought the traitor's weapon had just failed to break through his armor. Many a scoundrel had fired a gun at him before – deserters and gangers with shotguns, mutants with improvised guns made from sewage pipes. It was unsurprising to him that this pirate's gun was also inferior, and he stepped forward to finish the traitor off –

But his legs held him no longer. Suddenly they felt soft, as if they were stacked pillows, and instead of stepping forward for a finishing blow, Garret Mesil fell onto the deck with a clatter, like a mannequin in an armorer's store pushed over by an unfortunate clerk.

His shock-mace hissed and sizzled as it bounced across the deck.

The station's defenders, disorganized now, some on the verge of panic, fought back, firing their weapons wildly as they attempted to retreat. Of the force of twenty Arbites that had formed the core of this defense, less than ten remained alive and uninjured. They pulled back, some carrying injured comrades, some firing their weapons, exhorting the rest of the Imperials to bravery, to retreat in order rather than run like cowards .

With every second it seemed that their words carried less and less through the stale, polluted air.

[New Dornalia]

Vaxanide

The man adjusted his hood, and his clothing before stepping out into the streets of the hive city. Imperial pattern clothing didn’t fit him too well, but given the figures around him, he had the feeling that the clothing didn’t really fit anyone in this Godforsaken place.

The city before him was the epitome of every dystopian nightmare about cities rolled into one space. A confined, claustrophobic space jam-packed with people, with flickering neon signs and ornate, pseudo-gothic architecture filling up the landscape, it reminded one perhaps of the old Pre-Apocalypse tales of the Kowloon Walled City or 1970’s Times Square--rough and tumble places where masses of humanity lived in squalor, engaged in activities of various degrees of legality.

Now, it must be said that our man was not a city dweller himself. He was a man from the high plains of Fort Casimir Pulaski, a “kosher cowboy” that preferred the great outdoors. So of course, the powers that be snapped him up and gave him a dangerous urban setting to handle with room for backstabbing, literal or otherwise. Then again, given that he had a reputation as a scrounger and someone who could wheel and deal, they weren’t too crazy to have picked this mission for him.

The job was simple. Find out the Cold Guild, and bargain, as others of his ilk were no doubt doing on behalf of the External Research and Intelligence Service and their comrades-in-arms. He would have items of interest to spare. An intact hardbound copy of the The Complete Shakespeare. Several bunches of bananas. And, some Allanean-produced copies of Eldar technology. Like most criminal organizations though, the Cold Guild was proving hard to find. No surprise--like most criminal factions, they had a lot to lose by operating openly, especially here. So, he had to work to find these contacts. Keeping his ear to the ground, looking for obvious signs, et cetera.

All the while, he kept up his cover story. As far as the Cold Guild would be concerned, he would be Mr. Perry Andronicus, a buyer and collector of “curios and relics” for a buyer with deep pockets he knew as “Mr. Big.” The trinkets Andronicus would have would be but a taste of what Big could provide….if they could provide Big with some information and other smuggling services. All of course, as a professional courtesy from one connoisseur of fine curios to another.

What would Perry find?

[Imperial Calixis]

Vaxanhive, Vaxanide

There were questions he never asked himself. Why was rainwater tinged with milky-grey, and not clear? That's how rainwater is. Why did his eyes hurt in the rain, and why did he have to wash his face under the tap to get the dull ache out of his eyelids? Rainwater was totally different than the stuff that came out of the shower, at least if your shower worked proper.

Abed 'Ears' Totmachias moved towards the off-planet stranger, moving his hood even lower over his face. He spoke carefully, weighing every word – he wanted the stranger to feel threatened, but not threatened enough that he would fight or run.

"You need to be careful, off-worlder. Going about like this, bragging about your boss – people might here. Not always the right people, no. Maybe they would tell the wrong people also. Or maybe they would try to kill the grox that lays the golden eggs, you catch my drift? On the other hand… me, I know someone who can probably help your Mister Big."

"He has been watching you. He is very interested. Beats me why."