Thousands of miles above the planet's atmosphere, all was still. The stars shone softly, as they had done for centuries. New Geneva, just a sphere of glittering gold brindled with swirling Green, seemed so tranquil.
Suddenly, the universe above the planet ripped apart in a vibrant crackle of purple incandescent energy. There was a flash, then a pulsing flare. Ripping through this gaping rift ploughed the stiff prow of a Dictator Class Imperium Warship, the Pride of Terra. Its hull was battered and scored with deep, simmering burns. The ship was alight in several places.
It was not alone. Closely following it was a second, larger vessel; though not as sleek as the first craft, what it lacked in speed, it more than made up in sheer bulk. The heavily modified Hammer Class Battlekroozer, one of the rarest in existence due to it's size is highly uncommon, glided hungrily after the Terra, powering forward with murderous intent. Almost instantaneously its forward batteries began to open up, lancing out toward the rear of the Terra. The smaller Battleship's void shields flared, flickered, and then died altogether. There was a disquieting rumbling sound, and the Terra's weapon systems fell abruptly silent.
"Shields down!" announced one of the Servitors manning a side display, his grotesque disfigured fingers somehow dancing across the controls, "Weapon systems are offline, Lord Inquisitor!"
The situation was beyond grim. The lighting on the bridge pulsed erratically, and for a moment it looked as though the warship might lose power completely. Lord Inquisitor Weyland of the Ordo Hereticus had earned command of this vessel twelve long years ago, through assuming Command after the original Captain was killed in his service to the Emperor. It had been his greatest hour, to be remembered as a hero of the Imperium for generations to come. Another explosion rocked the bridge. Now that time was at an end.
Weylan dug his fingernails deep into the rests of his command throne in silent rage, but his voice remained steady, resolute. He had little choice. To show nothing less than total concentration, even in the face of this dire situation, would doom them all.
"Engine status?" he enquired smoothly.
"Holding, Lord Inquisitor. We have restored Void shields, by-" A warble of static flooded the Battle-Net for a moment, "-but for how long, I cannot estimate."
"And the Gellar Shields?" his voiced laced with worry, should they fail, they need not worry about the Orks anymore. "Holding as well, thank the Omnissiah."
Weyland cast an eye about the bridge. It was beginning to flood with smoke. Several of the Servitors and human crews manning their stations had already fallen prey to malfunctioning consoles as the ship's systems overloaded.
They had barely made it through the accursed Warp, such was the delicate matter of said Immaterium. Now, here in this unknown system, the Terra- the sum of his life's work weeding out heretics and vile Genestealer Cults across countless Systems - was finished. Here, they would be defeated, without incident, and without vengeance. Where his career had begun with glorious triumph, here, it would end with naught but a whimper, a tiny footnote in some inglorious history tome. Weyland's eyelids narrowed to slits.
Unless…
"Divert full power from our engines, and reroute everything to the rear Void shields on my mark!" barked the Lord Inquisitor, his zeal and the tactician in him beginning to shine, "By the Emperor Of Man, I will not see us run down without a fight!"
"But Lord Inquisitor...nearly all our weapon systems have failed: we barely survived the transition from the Warp!" protested the helmsman. "We have no other means with which to combat the enemy!"
"Silence!" Weyland bellowed, hammering his clenched fist against the seat rest, "We still have our honour and our own two hands! In the name of the Emperor, I shall visit pain upon those who would betray us, even if it requires me climbing aboard their vessel and un-seaming their entrails in person! Now do as I say, helmsman, and do not hesitate!"
There was a pause. Seldom did the Lord Inquisitor lose his temper. 300 years of service taught one alot about anger management. Calmer now, Weyland took this time to key the Vox net, issuing one final instruction. For the first time in many years, Lord Inquisitor Weyland of the Ordo Hereticus, smiled.
"All hands, brace for impact."