Operation Sea Hawk [closed, FT]

[Battlegroup Anna]

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.

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

---

Oh, how the cultists ran and routed! Or fought on with vain, useless courage for their long-dead cult-master. Like a pack of wild dogs the marines pursued, harrying the Imperials relentlessly as far as they dared as they dove deeper and deeper into the port. Here and there a few jerked back as a scattered shotgun pellet or two winded them, or a bolt-round passed clean through their armor and sent them to the next world, but by and large the Battlegroup's marines and infantry took few casulties as they sent their opponents in disorganized flight. Each bolt-round and pellet hurled at down was met with a clean burst of coil-rifle fire, with the Arbites in particular being singled out for engagement.

As around him his men cut the Imperials down, Spiegel paused. A rapid-fire radio conversation followed, and soon a small element of men was detached from Stephan's unit, to recover the dead and wounded and take prisoners. Once that was done they would offload them onto a transport for evacuation, and then rejoin their brethren.

[Allanea]

As he saw the Arbites line fail and break, Boyle Dethlent understood something the same thing that the Arbites commander had understood – but he understood it differently.

The attackers were human.

Therefore: they were not xenos.

Therefore: they were not going to eat Boyle Dethlent, nor torment him in their ghastly ships – or at least there was a chance that they would not.

Boyle was not a Guardsman of the Astra Militarum.

He was not an Arbites trooper.

He was not an armsman.

He was a deck hand at the station. He had come up here years ago from the mines. He handled bags of cargo, and loads of ore, and swept the decks, and for all this it was a better life than the mines.

Guardsmen were loyal to their flag, and their uniforms, and the God-Emperor and all that – but what did the station have to do with any of these things? Sure, the pirates would make him their slave, not a crewmember – he knew how the world worked, yes.

But in these seconds Boyle understood very clearly that he had no armor, no shotgun, no lasrifle. If the Arbites Troopers had crumpled, what chance did he have?

He took it.

His boarding gaffe clattered to the deck, and Boyle raised his hands.

[Battlegroup Anna]

Port of Sepheris Secundus / CBGS Scathach de Mag Mell II
3041st Cycle

---

As the fighting died down and moved into the corridors beyond, a follow-on unit found Boyle, still there, with his hands raised. A rifleman cocked his head as he lowered his rifle, then smiled -- not a kind one, but not a terribly cruel one either.

As his compatriots covered Boyle, he moved to search him for any hidden weapons or articles of importance. Finding none, he firmly, but not roughly, grasped onto Boyle's arms and pulled them behind his back, before securing them with a zip-tie. In the background, the 'pirates' tended to their wounded and recovered their dead, or took other prisoners. Then they marched onwards, through the port's winding corridors, and then back, where they would be offloaded under guard onto a waiting shuttle.

The shuttle ride was quiet, but uneventful. Their guards watched them like hawks, bayonet-affixed coil-carbines ready to gut the prisoners like fish if they made a wrong move, but no beatings were given out, and after a short while, one leaned over and offered Boyle a cigarette.
"Smoke?" he asked, giving a nervous smile.

--

Irregardless of his answer, he would soon find himself, alongside his fellow prisoners, offloaded into a large hangar -- well, large by Battlegroup Anna standards. At this point his marine guards turned them over to a small force of security troops, who swiftly lead them to a mostly-empty cargo-hold, without any real interruption besides a few clean-faced sailors and marines rushing past them on some errand or another, paying them no heed.

Once in the cargo hold, they joined a larger line of prisoners, at the end of which was an officer taking down their names and issuing them jumpsuits. Then they were seperated into groups and sent to cells, leaving them to contemplate their fate.

[Allanea]

Boyle raised his bound hands to his face as he took a puff on the lho-stick. And discovered it was not, at all, a lho-stick. The effect was milder than that of lho, but not unpleasant. The smell, too, was unusual, and, to be honest, much superior to that of the cheap lho-sticks that Boyle and others alongside him were familiar with.

* * *

Reactor room

Oseg Grawl prepared himself for the worst. The head enginseer raised his plasma pistol in one hand, the tattered red sleeve falling back to reveal metallic fingers and a polished steel wrist. Around him, a handful of junior magic gathered, armed with lesser weapons. They were not as pathetically under-armed as the sailors outside, but there were few of them left.

"We must not allow the xenos to desecrate this sacred machine." – his voice grated, as if broadcast by a remote vox connection, "We must be prepared to blow the reactor at any time lest the machine fall into their putrid hands. Better it return to the Motive Force than be captured."

"Praise be the Motive Force."

[Battlegroup Anna]

Port of Sepheris Secundus
3041st Cycle

---

Three of the squads of Spiegel's platoon stacked up against various entryways to the reactor room, while the other squad held the antechamber against any last-minute Imperial arrivals. A quick radio-conversation established communications with a different platoon setting up on the other side of the reactor room, and a basic plan was agreed upon.

A few beats passed, the doors opened with a hiss, and then a few clinks as several small, spherical objects bounced into the reactor room. Then a series of explosions, thumps, and shrapnel flung left and right, followed by shouting and shooting as the Battlegroup's Marines poured into the room.

[Imperial Calixis]

2 seconds prior
Enginseer Zarv Mitrinio saw the grenades come in. He did not know precisely which types there were, and there was no time to guess. They clattered across the floor – in his augmented vision, he could see them like an insect does, their movement separated into several stages. Some were bounding closer to the sacred control dais.

They could damage the machine.

They could cause a cascading failure.

Enginseer Zarv Mitrinio was entrusted with the custodianship of the machine.

It was the holy duty which he had been brought up to do.

He could not fail in this duty.

The course of action that flowed from this course of thought was, to the engineer, purely logical.

If the holy machine is in danger, Zarv Mitrinio must protect it.

He leaped forward. Mechadendrites lashed out from his back, grabbing two of the metal, cylindrical objects – the two placed most dangerously - pulling them to where a third already lay.

He covered the objects with his body.

There was a thump, and Zarv Mitrinio's soul returned to be one with the Motive Force.

The commandos burst into the reactor room. They saw that some of the grenades found their mark, marking the walls with shrapnel and the defenders' vitae. And there was also Zarv Mitrinio, laying near the control dais face down, and it was not clear where his red robes ended and the pool of blood began.

[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.

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.

The crew of the Trespasser did not celebrate or skip a beat when their first target was utterly annihilated. They had switched targets and prepared their next strike with utmost haste, continuing their advance towards the enemy in the process. More likely than not, they had time for another strike before they entered the range of the Orkish fleet. Its other weaponry opened fire, not on the fleet, but on the Orkish fighters, streams of pulse lasers fired without hesitation.

Kongo and Japhia's aggression came in the form of hundreds upon hundreds of missiles, each warhead designed to put a significant amount of pressure on shielding, and tear right through any armor underneath once that shielding was gone. Whatever fighters it sent alongside the much larger vessel moved ‘forward’, spreading out as they prepared for battle. All of the pirate ships charged forward, meeting aggression with aggression.

***

Shawks were, at least back in their own galaxy, crude fighter-bombers, built to fill almost any gap needed in aerospace combat while being cost efficient to boot. Unexceptional in any manner beyond their cheap price and upgrade potential, they were the ideal platform for a pirate crew to turn into series of crewed command and drone fighter platforms.

As they approached, many were looking for targets, linking their data to that of their warships, trying to extend their scanning range to find targets of importance.

Katha’s own plane was outfitted with a typical spread of ‘long range’ Ship-Killers, a simple enough set of torpedoes, and a few short-range Akats, more of a way to force a fighter to evade at close range than anything. Long range for a cheap fighter, of course, still meant being far too close for enemy fighters, so him and any others outfitted like him were largely reliant on those better equipped for the task.

And of course, he was also ordering around at least five drones outfitted roughly the same as him.

“Alright, alright. This is Bast, I’m taking on this one.” He heard over the comms, his HUD already showing one unit of fighters mark their targets, taking the optimal path to avoid enemy attacks as they began their run on one of the enemy ‘Kroozers’, apparently the official name used by their enemy.

Those tasked with killing fighters took the first shot, firing their own warheads from kilometers away at fighters that were mere specks of dust at this distance. Dozens upon dozens, likely not enough to kill all of them at least, but definitely not insignificant either.

“Got dibs on the red Kroozer, god, who names these fucking things?”

“Whatever, we’ll come in for a killing blow if you don’t get her, .”

Katha had to choose soon, the list of targets thinning.

“Katha targeting enemy… Battlekroozer? Yeah, that one.”

He picked his target, the largest ship of them. He was unlikely to kill it alone, to say the least.

“We’re joining you Katha, providing additional firepower.”

“Ditto.”

“Ditto.”

“We’ll provide air cover for your approach, just let us rack up the kills while you focus on your prize.”

“Ditto.”

And thus the Pirate’s fighter fleet worked, haphazardly and perhaps poorly thought out.

***

“What the hell does that mean?”

Svald spoke to Naran, a genuine confusion as he listened to the foe over Vox.

It was akin to listening to inane madness, endless screaming roars mixed in with something only vaguely resembling a language. Even a gifted De’Jaim like herself could only stare at it with puzzlement.

“I… have no idea.”

“You can decipher an entire language in a few minutes but you can’t do this?”

“... No.”

Svald almost regretted his words, watching Naran’s confidence shatter like glass.

“Well. In that case it’s probably not worth listening to.”

“Captain?”

His crew reminded him of his situation, the Robber Orphan already charging towards the Orkish lines alongside its peers.

“Yeah yeah, open fire with whatever’s on this thing when we’re in range. Let’s see what we’ve even got on here.”

And indeed, once each weapon was in range, they would each be tested with some curiosity by the Dysisans, only having tested macro batteries and bombardment cannons in simulations and against a single asteroid prior to this.

[Imperial Calixis]

For human beings, to talk about 'living for something' meant a choice, a conscious or semi-conscious one, a purpose selected by a person for their life, or a purpose that is an expression of a person's upbringing – for Orks, to say that they lived for combat was a much deeper drive, one that was hardwired into their every being, into their every organ, ever cell, organoid. Where the Enslavers lived to subjugate others, the Drukharii had a drive to torment, the Orks lived to fight. Fighting was their mechanism of reproduction, spreading their fungal spores through the atmospheres of countless worlds. It was their mechanism of evolution, as they grew in size and power every time they vanquished an enemy. As such, they lusted – not simply for killing, but for violence, for combat. It was not enough to kill. The Orks wanted to fight.

And even now, the Orks laughed, jeered, hooted as their craft carried them closer, closer to the combat that they so desired. The blood in their veins pumped faster with the anticipation. They bellowed in rage and bloodlust as the missiles streaked towards them, but even as they watched the weapons fire come in, they roared in delight – they did not think, not yet, that they were weaker than the foe, they saw this merely as a sign that this would be a good fight, the only fight worth having.

The hail of missiles sped fast past the cloud of fighters. The Gork's Hamma fought back, automatic cannon and lascannon turrets spinning and locking, firing and spinning to lock again, but no gunners' skill, no augmented mind, no system could track this many incoming missiles all at once. Void shields flickered under dozens of impacts and failed, and dozens more missiles came in, smashing into the hull, spraying evaporated plasteel into the interior of the ship, Orks screaming as they perished, and at last the ship went dead – still speeding forward, carried forward by its inertia, but its power systems dead, smoke, fire, and vented air streaking from dozens of injuries, secondary and tertiary explosions rising from the hull. Its auspexes no longer scanned for targets, its bridge was caved in, its mighty drives shut down, the ship-corpse sped forward.

Three of the kroozers also fell under the hail of enemy projectiles. The red one, that the fighters targeted, fell first, breaking in half amidships in an onslaught of secondary detonations. Two more became wrecks, burning in space as Orks scrambled to savior pods or prepared to repel a boarding – in their world, boarding was the next logical step.

The Ork fighters, meanwhile, were not deterred by the slaughter of their kind. They turned to the enemy fighters and accelerated at full burn, leaving the smoke and wreckage of comrades behind them. They prepared for the only fight they knew – a dogfight, ferocious and swift, at gun range. Even as dozens and dozens of their own were being shot out of the void with missile fire, they only pushed the throttles.

Behind them, the surviving Ork kroozers turned, their crews hooting in anticipation as they sped towards the Robber Orphan, firing torpedoes as they charged.

Waagh!

[Battlegroup Anna]

2 seconds prior
Enginseer Zarv Mitrinio saw the grenades come in. He did not know precisely which types there were, and there was no time to guess. They clattered across the floor – in his augmented vision, he could see them like an insect does, their movement separated into several stages. Some were bounding closer to the sacred control dais.

They could damage the machine.

They could cause a cascading failure.

Enginseer Zarv Mitrinio was entrusted with the custodianship of the machine.

It was the holy duty which he had been brought up to do.

He could not fail in this duty.

The course of action that flowed from this course of thought was, to the engineer, purely logical.

If the holy machine is in danger, Zarv Mitrinio must protect it.

He leaped forward. Mechadendrites lashed out from his back, grabbing two of the metal, cylindrical objects – the two placed most dangerously - pulling them to where a third already lay.

He covered the objects with his body.

There was a thump, and Zarv Mitrinio's soul returned to be one with the Motive Force.

The commandos burst into the reactor room. They saw that some of the grenades found their mark, marking the walls with shrapnel and the defenders' vitae. And there was also Zarv Mitrinio, laying near the control dais face down, and it was not clear where his red robes ended and the pool of blood began.

The sole remaining techpriest got off a few shots before a dozen coil-rifle shots nailed him to a bulkhead.

Two platoons of troops flooded in -- even without the grenades, they would have drowned the techpriests by sheer weight of fire.

None wasted time as they finally arrived at their objective -- here and there, a squad split off to fortify the entrance or search the surrounding corridors for any hiding imperials. A medic flitted about, treating the few wounded that had resulted from the breach. A sapper detachment, following on the heels of the breach, now got to work, shutting down the reactor and preparing to eject it via the control panel.

Aside from these, however, a few had the unenviable task of recovering the bodies of the techpriests.

Zarv Mitrinio was the last to have his body recovered -- what was left of it, at least. The rifleman dragging him away made the mistake of flipping him over, and almost immediately staggered back at the sight of his torn and shrapnel-ridden torso.

Then his shock faded. He called a passing comrade for help, then, with him, stuffed the brave techpriest's corpse into a body-bag, before tossing him like a sack of potatoes onto a wheeled pallet, where the remains of his comrades also remained, awaiting for some detachment or another to return with it to the shuttles.

Thus ended the tale of Enginseer Zarv Mitrinio, savior of the Port of Sepheris Secundus, and, though he did not know it, the lives of hundreds of Battlegroup Anna's subcontractor-Marines.

[Imperial Calixis]

T Sepheris Secundus, Icenholm, Throne Room of Queen Lachryma III

"Your Majesty. The xenos have boarded the orbital facility. The reactor had been ejected and crashed into the atmosphere. It was intercepted… destroyed by our valiant defense gunners before it could hit anything of value, Your Majesty. " – Mard von Spike's voice shook only slightly as he spoke these words. The Queen's gaze was cold, like an ice spear.

"Save the encouraging speeches for the troops, Mard. Lying to me is not going to work, and if it worked, it would be treason. Now. Explain to me. What does the destruction of this reactor mean? The port cannot function without its power, correct?"

"That is true, Your Majesty."

"We must act on the assumption that the port is lost to us. We must descend to the command bunker. The food caves. Have they been secured?"

"Men have unsealed food caves alpha through delta. Food cave zeta was found to be compromised, but-"

"Compromised how?"

"A large proportion of the food was missing and-"

"Missing. Thousands of tons of food."

"We believe serfs have been pilfer-"

"Do not attempt to lie to me in this hour, Mard! We both know what happened. Get the Arbites to investigate. It is a crime within the Munitorum. Mine serfs did not pilfer away thousands of tons of food in their pockets. This did not happen. Someone arranged a theft of the food, and now people will die. You will get the Arbites involved, you will ensure that this is investigated, and you must ask the Arbites that when the culprit is punished, he must be punished publicly. Let them know that there is at least some justice."

"But Your Majesty-"

"You have heard me. Get as many men to work as you can to protect the food caves and disperse the food so it does not all get set alight when the xenos begin to attack here. Are your men fortifying the city as they are meant to be?"

"Yes, Your Majesty, we are working from the Defense Libram."

"This is as it should be. It is written by smarter people than you, Mard. The evacuation?"

"Proceeding as planned. There were disruptions, but they are already suppressed."

"Very good. There must be order. Now… let us proceed to the command bunker."

[Battlegroup Anna]

Orbit of Sepheris Secundus

As port was cleared and secured, the Flying Column turned it's attention to the planet itself. Not the evacuation columns, but the columns of troops -- and furthermore, the many, many noble mansions, refineries, and other prominent buildings. Each one of these had their location marked and organized into one of many fire missions. A base for the Royal Scourges here would be marked for railgun bombardment, while an Arbites station or a barracks for some band of baronial troops might simply get a gun-run from an assault shuttle or a single missile through the roof. Special attention would be given towards the air and any remaining orbital defenses, and the palaces of the nobility - in particular, those of Fathomsound Mine.

Within an hour or two the planning was done, and orders were sent. Railguns and VLS-cells spoke, a few shuttles dove in to fling off a missile or two, and the ship's electronic warfare and jamming equipment was focused on disrupting the planet's communications.

---

CBGS Scathach de Mag Mell II

Scathach frowned at the planet beneath. In the background, an officer droned endlessly into the PA; "Fire mission on Grid Coordinates C43-A through B44-N, I repeat, fire mission on Grid Coordinates C43-A through B44-N..." he half-muttered, the speakers carrying his words loud -- though not quite clear -- through the ship.

He was bored. Her crew was bored. She was bored. "Can someone get us some visuals on what the hell's happening on the ground?" she called out, already knowing the answer.

"No dice, ma'am." a bridge officer replied. Just as she had expected. "We're not entirely sure if they have some sort of hidden AA emplacements of some sort, and we're bombing the ones we know are there first. You'll get your picture in a bit."
Scathach shrugged and gave a muttered 'Of course' in reply, and continued to stare at her viewscreen.

---

Fathomsound Mine

Fathomsound Mine was not unique in that it had been bombarded -- everywhere on Sepheris Secundus was facing overwhelming, carefully orchestrated barrages of railgun and missile fire, from PDF installations to every AA emplacement that could be found. But no other place faced a barrage that targeted the nobility and it's status symbols so specifically.

A faint roar could be heard as a missile sped down from the heavens, glowing like a comet. Then with an almighty crash it slammed into a suspended palace and detonated. Then whistles -- more objects, just as bright. Those were railgun shells, smashing into the anchoring-points for the support chains, causing them to snap and bringing whatever they were attached to plummetting down, down, down -- into the cold water of the Mine.

[Imperial Calixis]

Perspective: Baroness Haphaya van Der Svor
Paintings of the old battles will portray them as enormous displays of fire and smoke, blood and steel, battle-banners flying in the wind, the heroes of the Astra Militarum and the ceramite-clad Emperor’s angels leading His victorious armies. This was how it was in the big painting in the van der Svor mansion where Haphaya had played as a child.

What they had never painted was the noise and the confusion. She did not remember how she was thrown from her vehicle – only a sudden roar, and suddenly snow engulfing her body. She struggled to get up, the snow painfully cold under her collar. Something sticky, disgusting, was flowing from her right ear – blood, she realzed – and the world seemed to be somewhat off-kilter, the sounds dulled.

The Salamander she had just been riding in was burning. One of the tanks in the column was burning, a pillar of fire rising from the turret ring. Colonel Gravlus was – no time.

“Get clear from the tank! Get clear!” – she roared, unsheathing her laspistol.

“Honored Lieutenant, people are still in – “ - a soldier shouted. His voice was blurred, as if she was listening to him from the bottom of a pool.

“Idiot!” – she roared – “They are-“

Crackling sounds came from the burning vehicle. Haphaya van Der Svor threw herself at the enlisted man – Throne, does he ever shower? – the sheer impact of the noblewoman’s body taking him off his feet.

Behind them, a terrifying explosion, and then a second, and a third.

She rolled away from the enlisted man.

The tank was no longer a tank shape. The turret was missing, and the side sponsoons had been missing as well – how is that even possible?

“You-“ – the enlisted man struggled in the snow, trying to come to terms with what the noblewoman had just done. “What –“

“No time! Disperse the infantry! Someone, find Colonel Gravlus – if he’s dead, I’m in command!” – the noblewoman shouted so loud the cold air hurt her throat, so loud she could finally hear herself clearly – “Disperse the infantry! Bolter gunners, eyes to the sky! If one of those xeno ships turns up again, shoot at it with what you have! Spread the infantry and the Russes in the woods! Go, go, go, why are you standing here! Vox operator, on me!”

Perspective: Queen Lachryma III

“Your Majesty, I regret to inform you that Baron and Baroness van Der Svor are probably dead. Their mansion had been destroyed.”

“What about their heir?”

“It is likely the entire family is now dead. The two male heirs were in the mansion when it was shot down.”

“What do you mean shot down?”

“The xenos have severed the chains for several of the noble mansions over Fathomsound Mine. Now, if I may, it is likely that the entire van Der Svor household is extinct. We should consider their holdings and – “

“Imbecile!” – the Queen’s voice was like a steel trap snapping closed. “In this hour you are angling for a piece of a dead man’s lands, before the guns that have killed him are even silent?”

“Your Majesty, surely if the Der Svor’s-“

“Listen to me very carefully, Boudewijn. You will either return to your report on the state of the planet, or I will have Mard’s men remove you from my presence.”

“Your Majesty, I – “

“Return to your damage reports, Boudewijn.”

“Your Majesty, the promethium refinery is gone. “

“I can see how you thought the issue of the unattended demesnes to be more important than this minor matter.”

The nobleman bowed down. He was not sure if it was the frosty air in the throne room, or the tone in the Queen’s voice that had made him feel so weak, suddenly. “Your Imperial Majesty, I beg your forgiveness…”

“It is not granted, Boudewijn. Get out of this room.”

[New Dornalia]

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."

Perry smiled, unfazed by the man's cautionary yet solicitous words.

"Well, given how I've been carrying on and on, I suspect your man's been interested in whatever I have. Or potentially have."

Perry then followed up with a simple, "I think it'd be a good idea for you to take me to this man you know." Looking around, he then added, "After all, it'd get me to keep my voice down at least, and it'd make your boss happy to see what I've got."

------------

Zweihans World

As Perry made his way in, on another world, another move would be made by the Dornalians.

This one came in the form of a poor beggar woman, walking with a flask in her pocket and a few trinkets in a hobo sack in the other. Of course, the woman wasn't really a poor beggar, and the trinkets weren't so much trinkets as more copies of technologies normally guarded by the Mechanicus. The woman kept her head on a swivel--no telling whether local authorities or some other force would be willing to kill her or rob her or whatnot. The area was sketchy as hell; then again, one had to venture into this sort of area to find her target--a faction known as the Levelists.

The mission was simple. Liaise with the Levellists, find out whether they were a viable disruptive force, and then use them as catspaws to begin causing havoc through carefully planned and executed heists on Mechanicus assets to capture technology and spread it among the masses. It all seemed so obvious--but in a place like the Calixis Sector, the woman knew that there was always the risk of blowback, especially given the risk of Chaos worshippers piggybacking off of the fruits of any such heist to advance their own malevolent agendas. Still, any attempt to push for freedom was dangerous--this much was known.

And so, Inspector Joanna Liebaum, Colonial Republican Postal Inspection Service Cybersecurity Division, was now "Lobelia Charles", a broke, downtrodden young victim of the Imperial system turned street hustler of fine technotrinkets "for discerning buyers" seeking out the Levellists here. And although she didn't advertise that openly, she did keep an eye out for the telltale signs of the group. Hopefully, one of them would get curious as to why she was here....

[Imperial Calixis]

Vaxanhive, Rampaging Grox Club

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

The Rampaging Grox was very much like many a night club across the galaxy, from Terra to the outer rim, from forgotten worlds above the Galactic Plane to the deep reaches of Necromunda’s hives. Pounding music, flashing lights in the darkness, men and women in colorful clothes screaming, jumping, drinking. An ogryn and a man in a steel mask guarding the door.

The man in the steel mask started saying something rude about Abed’s outfit, but Abed raised a small object in his palm, and the bouncer fell silent, merely nodding silently. In they went, past the mesh window that said – LEAVE WEAPONS HERE (Abed paid it no heed), and through the club. A waitress – dressed like every waitress in this kind of club, from here to Terra – approached them, and Abed merely smiled.

“Take us to the Void Whale's suite!” – he shouted over the music – “And give us a drink each!”

The ‘suite’ was in fact a private room, lit in cherry-red. Through a pane glass wall, they could see lights flashing in the main club, but the glass itself was one-way, and the pounding music was a mere shadow of the roar in the main room.

It turned out that Void Whale’s nickname was not just a reference to his power, or his wealth.

The man was enormous. He was a mass of fat an muscle, taking up most of the couch he was seated on. Though he wore robes that clothed most of his pachydermous bulk, where skin was visible it glistened, as if oiled. Two of the waitresses took up the rest – one on each side of the boss. The exact purpose the Whale had so many pretty girls around him at all times Abed, and he preferred not to imagine the details.

“Is this the offworlder?” – asked the Whale.

“Yes, this is –“

“Thank you, Abed. Have fun in the club. Girls – you too. Leave me with the offworlder.”

“But-“ – Abed began.

“There is no need to worry, Abed. I will remember what you did for me – I will tell Zaman to give you your money, as I promised. Now please go. We need to create the proper atmosphere for our offworlder friend.”

And then they were alone.

“Nice to meet you.” – said the Void Whale. “So, I understand you are looking for a business opportunity.”

* * *

”You!” – a hand grasped her wrist.

He was with the Mechanicus, yes. The red robes concealed his flesh – all flesh is frail, and therefore needs to be concealed. “You are the one who has parts, yes?” – his voice was younbg, desperate. “I need parts. I need…” – his voice shook, he had not been improved yet, and his voice had yet that weakness of biology in it. “What I need is a portable cogitator and a portable mass-spectrum augur. I will pay. “Can you get those things?”

[Battlegroup Anna]

Gorgonid Mine / The Commons

The screech of rockets could be heard over Sepheris Secundus' greatest slum-city as a dozen AV-22N 'Seminole' assault shuttles swooped at low-level, weaving through baronial towers and staying just above the roofs. Three more circled high overhead, keeping a watchful eye out for any hostile concentrations or requests for reinforcement.

Each AV-22N 'Seminole' carried a complement of 20-odd troops, totaling a full battalion of light air-assault infantry -- three line companies, a weapons company, and a headquarters element. By and large they went without masks on -- Sepheris Secundus had breathable air, and they would have ample warning of any usage of chemical weapons. Attached was a small element totaling 12 men from Special Task Group 'Rook' -- and unlike the light infantry, they would not be returning to the shuttles.

The aim of this raid was simple -- further terrorize the planet's nobility and weaken their authority, destroy mining infrastructure and equipment not already blasted from orbit, and to cause enough of a disruption that a shuttle with 12 men could travel deep into the surface-wastelands without issue -- where space was wide, criminals and outlaws aplenty, and where, in theory, no baronial troops would ever look, especially with the crux of the effort seemingly being directed at the Gorgonid and the Commons.

With ruthless speed and efficiency, the Seminoles blanketed their chosen landing spot -- a large public square -- with rocket and coil-autocannon fire. They went down in pairs, with each shuttle disgorging a platoon-sized element of forty at once, before rising again and taking watch. Forty quickly became eighty, eighty a hundred-twenty, so on until about two-hundred-sixty men were in the very heart of Sepheris Secundus. The weapons platoon split among the three companies -- one set about fortifying the area, while the other two split once more into reinforced platoons -- four total, with the aim of running amok and causing as much damage as possible before withdrawing.

For one of those six, two buildings were first on their list -- a cathedral and a station for baronial troops, both on their way to a depot for mining equipment.

[Imperial Calixis]

“You!” – Captain Marrus Callark roared at one of his men – “Get Baron Emerheim to safety!”

To get Baron Kryptmir van Emerheim to safety was no minor task. His enormous body tasked even the gravthrone that held it – kind of – aloft above the snows, the machine’s engine whining softly as it was coaxed into action. The man must have weight as much as four or five of his own troopers in full armor. Concealed in silks and furs, it was not clear where the Baron himself ended and the chair began.

It was said the efforts of several serfs were required to bathe the Baron every morning and evening, a task that Captain Callark preferred not to ponder in any practical terms. He already turned his back on the bulbous man, who was already shrieking insults at the troops that were trying to steer his gravthrone towards the doors of the Emerheim Cathedral.

It was best, Callark thought, not to think of the Baron as a person. It was best to think of him as an objective to be defended.

The Baronial troops – one had to hand it to van Emerheim – were dressed in excellent fur-lined winter overcoats, in a light shade of bluish-grey that served as a sort of camouflage against the snows of Sepheris Secundus. Under the overcoats – flak vests, gear belts, grenades. They had no Chimeras – but this was a doctrinal preference, instead of them they had Goliath trucks fitted with heavy bolters.

The firefight started suddenly, without warning. One of the men fell back, his blood turning to steam in mid-air where he’d been hit with some monstrous alien weapon. Overhead, one of the pintle-mount heavy bolters started firing, enormous mass-reactive rounds speeding towards the attackers.

They match our numbers, -thought Callark in sudden terror – This isn’t a firefight, this is smegging combat is what it is.

He fired his laspistol at the advancing enemies, the lasbolt deflecting from the xeno’s shoulder armor.

Next to him, a young vox operator fell on his back back with a frightened scream. He struggled to get up, but his vox pack was still strapped to his back, and he merely flailed helplessly, like a testudinian turned on its back, blood spraying from a fresh wound.

By the time Captain Callark got to him, the young man was no longer moving. His eyes were open wide, bluish-grey like the skies of their homeworld, and the snowflakes were already beginning to settle of them.
[i]It’s combat – and we are losing.

[/align]

[Battlegroup Anna]

A heavy burst of bolter-fire saw Lieutenant Patri Rutledge hitting the ground behind a wall giving herself a knock and what would eventually be a bruise, but nothing worse. A few others caught shrapnel and hollered in pain, and one poor lad found a bolter round smashing clean through his plate carrier and exiting the other side.

No time to mourn. They had objectives to take on their way to the mines, and this...convoy(?) was in the way.

Patri reviewed the plan in her mind -- or, at least, how she knew her men would understand her orders.


It would be fairly simple, without any real tricks. Light AT weapons and anti-tank guided missiles to take out the trucks, then they would leapfrog towards the cathedral and then storm it.

A simple plan -- all that was required was to execute it.

She glanced over, across the alleyway -- a small squad, lead by her platoon sergeant. She locked eyes with him, and then thumbed her helmet's integrated radio.

"Over the top in 30 seconds." she said. "We're taking that fucking church."

"Copied."

30, 29, 28...

A few soft rustles could be heard as the platoon prepared to go on the move again. Here and there, to her relief, she could see a man heft an anti-tank weapon.

15, 14, 13...

Time slowed as a few men with anti-tank weapons began to crawl out, and surely by now designated marksmen were zeroing in on their targets. It was a testament to them that they knew what to do, without being told.

4, 3, 2, 1.

Several tongues of flame lashed out, resuming a fire-fight that for a moment had stalled. Several rockets raced out -- some aiming directly for the vehicles, others flying upwards before smashing down from the top -- but either way, the trucks were surely doomed.

At the same time, the sound of gunshots rang once again -- for a moment just the sharp reports of DMRs, but then the staccato cracks of general-purpose and light machine guns joined in the fray, then the lighter pops of assault coil-rifles, mixing with muffled, racing steps as her unit surged forward -- and she joined them.

[Imperial Calixis]

On Sepheris Secundus, red is the color of royalty. Even the Redemptionists, fierce though their faith be, must conceal the bright-red of their cult under their outer clothing. And yet Captain Callark’s overcoat was stained bright-red now, bright-red as Queen Lachryma’s royal banner. He stood, wondering momentarily why he was suddenly feeling so weak. At last, he reached for the point on his neck where the bright-red arterial blood fountained from a fresh wound, but even had he grasped that instantaneously he could not stop the inevitable. His knees gave, and then he fell, crumpled in the snow like a child’s doll, as if he was one of the toy soldiers that Baron Emerheim used to play with, so many years ago.

There was a whistling sound, and then loud thump. One of the trucks burned. The swee, chemical smell of burning promethium filled the air as the bolter gunner began to struggle with the hatch – and then the heavy bolter rounds began to go off in front of him, dozens of them crackling at once. In this his God-Emperor had granted him a final mercy. Another figure, enveloped in flames, threw itself from another wreck, and rolled in the snow. It screamed, shrieked, then it inhaled burning promethium, and the shrieks became an awful gurgling sound, and then silence.

A grenadier fell to his knees, as if praying, and stayed that way, his body slumped unnaturally. Another one popped off several grenades at the attacking men.

As the enemy closed, Private Hallanor Orsult was among the first to notice the key detail. Years ago, before the rust lung took him, his father had been a bookkeeper. He had an eye for detail, and he spotted what was important before his comrades did.

The attackers were human.

Not mutants.

Not aliens.

Human beings, like him.

Pirates.

They could be dealt with. They could be spoken to.

He let go of his lasgun, let it hang in front of him on its sling, raised his hands in the air, clear of the weapon. He dropped to his knees, as if in prayer.

“Don’t shoot!” – he shouted – “Mercy, in the name of the Throne!”

Next to him, some of his comrades were still shooting, firing off weapons. He saw a lasbolt strike against an attacker’s chest armor, with no effect except a scorched spot. He shouted louder, with the baronial guard voice he had learned so well – ‘PLEASE DON’T SHOOT ME!’

* * *

Inside the church, they had moved the benches from the pews, pushed them against the gate. Frateris militiamen and a handful of baronial guard had made a barricade, and were kneeling now, at prayer, their weapons aimed at the entrance.

Some of the stained glass windows that the Baron’s father had put in had broken over the years, and some had been broken now, in the firefight. Wind, snow, and the racked of a small battle came in. Yet some remained intact – Saint Sanguinius, his face filled with mourning, and Saint Angevin, and some more.

Before the central emblem of the cathedral, they knelt – the priests, and the choir. The Baron’s grav-throne rested fully on the floor, and his hands, enormous, elephantine, were folded in prayer. He feared to leave his throne to kneel, for he knew that he could not ever return to it in time if the doors were breached. He was ill, could they not see that? In this hour, fear had pierced his body even to his soul, and as he looked up, the tears of faith and contrition rolled down his glistening cheeks.

He gazed up on the sculpture he had ordered installed here, the Emperor Enthroned – a portrayal of a man withered in suffering, his face dried and contorted in anguish. He pondered the words of fealty and service with which its founding and decorated, but the prayer he could think was the old one he remembered from childhood.

Mighty Terribilitas, aid me in my plight!

He whispered those words, again and again, sweat rolling down his brow as he prayed.

[Battlegroup Anna]

Casualties mounted...somewhat. One dead from a grenade-blast, another's face cooked by an unlucky las-bolt, a few others who found their arms or legs cooked or blasted clean off as plasma, las-, and heavy-bolter fire spoke. But as they advanced, the fire died down -- AT-rockets and ATGMs hit home, while surviving officers were especially hunted by the designated marksmen and the handful of machine-gunners providing overwatch for the assault. The distance between the assaulting forces and the Imperial defenders went from two-hundred meters, to one-hundred-fifty; then a hundred, fifty, and zero.

Hallanor Orsult was bypassed at first. Several fireteams bounded past, bayonets affixed, as they leapt into the fray. A few loud shots, a few screams cut short, and his braver colleagues met their end.

An unsettling silence came over the now-silent square then, as the assault halted at the cathedral doors and consolidated. In the distance he saw an NCO jerk his thumb in his direction, and a fireteam, bayonets still gleaming with blood, escorted two other baronial guards, hands over their heads, towards him.

As a detachment from the original company arrived, the wounded were evacuated and the Battlegroup recovered its dead -- and their equipment -- fairly quickly. A tight cordon was set around the church, a few designated marksmen, anti-tank specialists, and machine-gunners repositioned, and phase two of the assault began.

Two squads stacked up near the edge of the door and gave signal. Four rockets slammed into the front door and barricade in quick succession, while another two went through the windows from the left and right, for a total of eight dual-purpose rockets fired into the church. Those members of the guard and militia who had their guns trained on the now-blasted front-door would see the brief flash of two hands, then two flash-bangs came a-rolling, detonated -- and then two squads, coil-rifles cracking as they stormed the breach. Shots rang out from outside as well, with bullets smashing through the few remaining stained glass windows as designated marksmen took potshots through the window.

[Imperial Calixis]

Hallanor Orsult

Hallanor understood, in a simple way, what was happening. He remained, knees in the snow, hands over the back of his head – a simple posture, from which it was impossible for him to launch his body into an attack. He understood what the strangers – strangers he understood now to be some manner of pirates – were doing, and this all made reasonable sense in his mind. It seemed that they did not want him or the others dead – obviously, he was still alive, and therefore…

Baron Emerheim

The stained glass image of Saint Sanguinius shattered, glass raining inwards like bloody tears. Then there was thunder and light, as if the emblem of the Emperor’s own wrath – but directed not at the foul aliens who were now storming this hallowed ground, but at His very own faithful. Emerheim had not ever been in battle, his knowledge of weapons did not extend beyond firing a laspistol and a digital weapon – he practiced with others, decades ago, before his body became the flesh-prison it was today. He had no understanding of what was happening, except that it was loud, and frightening.

The barricade collapsed inwards. A Frateris militiaman fired a long burst from an autorifle and fell dead. Some of the others panicked, stumbling over the pews, trying to run back into the depth of the cathedral.

Emerheim’s gravthrone rose slowly into the air and turned – slowly, far too slowly.

He could not run, of course – not out of any bravery, the gravthrone just had no speed to it at all. The thought, however, of merely letting the xeno invaders kill him was worse than the mere fear of death. It arose some greater fear, deep inside his enormous body, that he did not even understand, much less verbalize.

He raised his hand. His signet ring was not just a ring.

It flashed red, unleashing a single lasbolt at the humanlike figures at the gate. There was no recoil, of course – only a slight push against his hand. Only after firing did he realize that the attackers were human.

[New Dornalia]

Vaxanhive, Rampaging Grox Club

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

The Rampaging Grox was very much like many a night club across the galaxy, from Terra to the outer rim, from forgotten worlds above the Galactic Plane to the deep reaches of Necromunda’s hives. Pounding music, flashing lights in the darkness, men and women in colorful clothes screaming, jumping, drinking. An ogryn and a man in a steel mask guarding the door.

The man in the steel mask started saying something rude about Abed’s outfit, but Abed raised a small object in his palm, and the bouncer fell silent, merely nodding silently. In they went, past the mesh window that said – LEAVE WEAPONS HERE (Abed paid it no heed), and through the club. A waitress – dressed like every waitress in this kind of club, from here to Terra – approached them, and Abed merely smiled.

“Take us to the Void Whale's suite!” – he shouted over the music – “And give us a drink each!”

The ‘suite’ was in fact a private room, lit in cherry-red. Through a pane glass wall, they could see lights flashing in the main club, but the glass itself was one-way, and the pounding music was a mere shadow of the roar in the main room.

It turned out that Void Whale’s nickname was not just a reference to his power, or his wealth.

The man was enormous. He was a mass of fat an muscle, taking up most of the couch he was seated on. Though he wore robes that clothed most of his pachydermous bulk, where skin was visible it glistened, as if oiled. Two of the waitresses took up the rest – one on each side of the boss. The exact purpose the Whale had so many pretty girls around him at all times Abed, and he preferred not to imagine the details.

“Is this the offworlder?” – asked the Whale.

“Yes, this is –“

“Thank you, Abed. Have fun in the club. Girls – you too. Leave me with the offworlder.”

“But-“ – Abed began.

“There is no need to worry, Abed. I will remember what you did for me – I will tell Zaman to give you your money, as I promised. Now please go. We need to create the proper atmosphere for our offworlder friend.”

And then they were alone.

“Nice to meet you.” – said the Void Whale. “So, I understand you are looking for a business opportunity.”

Perry was all smiles and politeness, as he said, "That I am." Perry summoned up his cover story, and with ease, he began to speak.

"Sir, my name is Perry Andronicus. I'm but a humble procurer of curios, relics, and other interesting goods. I even collect some for myself, though not when I'm on a job. Now, right now, I happen to be an associate with a party that wishes to go by the name of Mr. Big. Now, the name is unusual, and it is clearly a pseudonym, but well...given the inherent hazards of the interests and the business Mr. Big and I share--dealing and collecting the strange and unusual--discretion is key."

To emphasize Perry meant business, Perry pulled out two of the items he had, a Complete Works of Shakespeare and a bunch of bananas, and put them down in front of the Void Whale. Perry then added, "This is but a sample of what my associate collects--and what one would call a down payment. See, Mr. Big is willing to provide you and your associates with other items such as curios, relics, technologies, et cetera. He is a dealer and collector of the strange after all. In exchange...Mr. Big would like to make use of certain services you and your associates can offer, particularly in regards to the movement of persons and goods discreetly, securely, and without fail to anywhere they must go. It would be a most helpful asset to our work--as would any relevant information, even gossip, about factors which may impact our business."

-----------

”You!” – a hand grasped her wrist.

He was with the Mechanicus, yes. The red robes concealed his flesh – all flesh is frail, and therefore needs to be concealed. “You are the one who has parts, yes?” – his voice was younbg, desperate. “I need parts. I need…” – his voice shook, he had not been improved yet, and his voice had yet that weakness of biology in it. “What I need is a portable cogitator and a portable mass-spectrum augur. I will pay. “Can you get those things?”

Joanna gasped. Glaring, she looked around, left and right, her head darting quickly. Was this a sting? Was this legit? Why was a Mechanicus guy demanding all sorts of technological gubbins from her and now? So many questions--but Joanna would keep her cool. Even if her erstwhile customer did not. Gesturing with her head to a more discreet location, Joanna said, somewhat curtly, "Not out in the open."

Leading the man-machine to a more discreet zone, and keeping her head on a swivel, Joanna then said, "Thanks for understanding--I prefer to do my business with some air of discretion. Can't let the powers that be see what we're doing. Anyway, yeah. Portable cogitator, portable mass-spectrum augur. I think I know where I can get some. Though you will have to pay for it." Pausing, Joanna asked, as she sized up the Mechanicus man in front of her, "How quickly do you need these parts?"

[Imperial Calixis]

Void Whale
For several long seconds, the Void Whale looked at the book, then the fruit. “Ah, the Complete Shakspere – do you know how many fakes like this I have seen? But it is a convincing fake, I will tell you this…” – he raised the bananas in one hand, smelled them. “This, however. This looks interesting. It does not look I could just eat them with my mouth, like this. Show me how to open this fruit, Mr. Andronicus. In fact, show me how you eat this fruit.”

The Void Whale’s eyes gleamed with sudden malice. “Do not worry about eating some of the ‘downpayment’. I am a charitable man.”

Omnex Griv

“This is urgent, very urgent.” – said the tech-priest – “My master, he- there are urgent testing rituals which he must complete, yes. It is necessary for us to have these items. You must understand.” – he reached out, feverishly, into his robes, and pulled out several Throne notes. – “I will pay, yes. My master will pay. It is our duty to the Omnissiah to ensure the experiments proceed as needed.”

[Battlegroup Anna]

Hallanor Orsult

Hallanor understood, in a simple way, what was happening. He remained, knees in the snow, hands over the back of his head – a simple posture, from which it was impossible for him to launch his body into an attack. He understood what the strangers – strangers he understood now to be some manner of pirates – were doing, and this all made reasonable sense in his mind. It seemed that they did not want him or the others dead – obviously, he was still alive, and therefore…

Baron Emerheim

The stained glass image of Saint Sanguinius shattered, glass raining inwards like bloody tears. Then there was thunder and light, as if the emblem of the Emperor’s own wrath – but directed not at the foul aliens who were now storming this hallowed ground, but at His very own faithful. Emerheim had not ever been in battle, his knowledge of weapons did not extend beyond firing a laspistol and a digital weapon – he practiced with others, decades ago, before his body became the flesh-prison it was today. He had no understanding of what was happening, except that it was loud, and frightening.

The barricade collapsed inwards. A Frateris militiaman fired a long burst from an autorifle and fell dead. Some of the others panicked, stumbling over the pews, trying to run back into the depth of the cathedral.

Emerheim’s gravthrone rose slowly into the air and turned – slowly, far too slowly.

He could not run, of course – not out of any bravery, the gravthrone just had no speed to it at all. The thought, however, of merely letting the xeno invaders kill him was worse than the mere fear of death. It arose some greater fear, deep inside his enormous body, that he did not even understand, much less verbalize.

He raised his hand. His signet ring was not just a ring.

It flashed red, unleashing a single lasbolt at the humanlike figures at the gate. There was no recoil, of course – only a slight push against his hand. Only after firing did he realize that the attackers were human.

Faint thumps and flashes, shouting, rifle-fire -- Lieutenant Patri Rutledge had seen and heard it all before. Her heart leapt as she leapt into the fray with her men -- this was no real fire-fight with danger at hand, but it was close enough. Bullets flew and hit home, shredding through what little armor the defenders had and cutting down the retreating militiamen as they ran.

A red bolt streaked past, impacting on the plate carrier of one of her troops. The rifleman swore as he stumbled a little, then raised his rifle again, and fell back in step with his fellows. She glanced back, retracing the bolt in her mind to it's source...

A finely-dressed, thoroughly rotund...entity, his hand still extended. She raised her rifle, ready to shoot him, but then, amid the gunfire, another one of her soldiers leapt forward, tackled the nobleman, and after a brief scuffle, stood, his pistol pressed to the Baron's head.

"BY THE THREE SAINTS, CEASE FIRE!" he roared. "HANDS UP AND CEASE FIRE OR WE STUFF THIS PIG FULL OF LEAD!"

A brief, shocked pause. Then Patri pointed her rifle straight at the remaining militiamen and guards, while her men either followed her example or pointed their guns straight at the baron's face.

[Imperial Calixis]

There was silence as the Frateris militiamen and surviving baronial troops understood the odds. If they shot and missed – they would kill the baron. Not only did they have no desire to do so, but they knew well that if they killed Emerheim – even if by accident, even when attempting to rescue him – then mere death would be a sweet release compared to the penalties under the planet’s laws.

Only one man dared to raise his hands to defend the Baron, and his hands held no gun.

Perhaps, in the elderly priest’s mind, his was a weapon beyond gun or sword, for it was a gilded silver aquila, its eyes inlaid with gems.

“Hear me, hear me! I see that you are pirates and outlaws, but you are men and women still, and you too walk in the Emperor’s light! Surely there is enough respect left in you, enough decency, that you will not kidnap an anointed servant of Him on Terra from His very temple? Surely you will not rob these hallowed halls? And if you must have a man, have me instead!”

[Battlegroup Anna]

An utter silence rang out among the troops as they tried to process the priest's words.

Patri Rutledge spoke first, her confusion giving way to disgust.

She spat on the ground, and took a few steps forward, her steel-toed boots ringing against the cathedral floor. Then she seized the priest by the throat, and leaned in, staring him in the eyes.

"By the three Saints, damn your Emperor." she growled. "We will take the man with us -- is he your Baron? -- and we will try him in a court of law as any slaveholding piece of shit deserves. We had no interest in you -- ever. But now that you've volunteered yourself as a witness for his trial..."

She released her grasp on his throat. As he presumably fell to the ground and gasped for air, two of her men came forward and hauled the priest out. In the meantime, the other troops advanced, and began to take the militiamen prisoner.

The scene repeated itself across the Commons. The columns rampaged across the town, torching noble residences and tearing through what resistance they found as they advanced towards the depots of mining-equipment that Sepheris Secundus required. Captured militiamen were seized, sent back to the landing zone, and shuttled back to orbit with the wounded, the few dead -- and a not insignificant number of civilians, who, after chancing upon the Battlegroup's troops, were directed towards the landing zone with promises of a better life if they took their chance now.