The Murderous Jest, Jeremiah Smile's personal vessel, burst out of reality at the edge of the Adumbria system.
Once, the ship had been a Lunar-class cruiser of the Imperial Navy, before Jeremiah had arranged for its ventilation system to be flooded with frenzon. By the time his boarding parties had landed, the entire ship had been nearly empty of life, as its crew had torn each other to pieces under the influence of the combat drug. The few holdouts where people had managed to put gas-masks on in time and survive the hordes of their frenzied comrades had provided sport for his people for weeks afterwards.
It was Jeremiah's prized possession. He had gone so far as to have its entire prow repainted to create the impression that the ship itself was grinning as it bore down upon its hapless victims. He was especially proud of the red stains on the smile, which had been created by turning the engines on while the slaves painting it were still outside.
Sitting on his command throne on the bridge, Big Joe standing silent and threatening at his side, the Laughing Fiend watched as the rest of his fleet emerged one by one, taking position alongside the Murderous Jest. It wasn't anything like a proper formation, but it looked intimidating, and the ships' captains had enough experience raiding together that they could still outmanoeuvre members of the Imperial Navy from time to time. Not that such would be needed today : they weren't expected any serious resistance from Adumbria.
Or at least, that had been the plan. Now that they were there, however, things seemed to be a little different from expected. The Worldwounder was there, standing at the head of a flotilla of converted transports and merchantmen, which fit with what the retreating hunters had told them. However …
"There are more ships than Jabbus told us there would be," the director of the Bloodied Crown noted out loud as the readings of the ship's augurs resolved themselves into a readable format, showing several unknown signatures between the cartel's fleet and their prize.
Had the Chairman lied to him ? No, that was unlikely. Jeremiah had checked the records from the hunting party himself, and while it wasn't impossible that Jabbus had falsified them, the Laughing Fiend couldn't think of any reason for the Chairman to do that. These ships must simply have been out of the system at the time, and had rushed back once they'd realized the danger their homeworld was in.
How brave. How noble. Jeremiah was going to enjoy crippling these ships, boarding them, and making their crew watch as he had his way with whoever was in charge.
It would be easy. After all, none of the ships opposing him were real warships. The augur scans made it clear that those were all merchantmen and troop transports (probably the ones which had brought the last Imperial reinforcements to Adumbria before the planet had been forsaken). They would be no match at all for Jeremiah's raiders. The only real danger was the Worldwounder, the ship of that bitch Areelu, but it was alone, and still bearing the scars of its last battle.
"Director," one of the bridge's crew called out, his voice not quite managing to hide the shiver of dread at speaking to him directly. "We are being hailed by one of the local ships."
"Oh ?" Jeremiah grinned, and the crew member's composure failed him completely. "How interesting. Put it on the main hololith, please. Let's hear them beg for their lives, hmm ?"
There was a round of nervous laughter around the bridge. Jeremiah's crew were hardened killers all, who enjoyed victimizing others as much as anyone else, but even they were afraid of their boss, as they damn well should be. The Laughing Fiend had gone through great pains (well, not him personally, others had gone through great pain at his hands) to make sure nobody in his warband would even consider turning against him : the very thought of it would bring images of the consequences of failure so terrible, they'd immediately turn away from that course of action.
The central hololith flickered a few times (despite being on the bridge, it was given lower priority when it came to maintenance compared to the far more important guns), then resolved itself into the image of a tall, steely-eyed and intimidating man wearing a very fetching uniform that was lacking any Imperial insignia, with a bolt pistol and chainsword hanging from his belt. This, everyone who looked at the projection immediately realized, was a man of power and will, a leader whose people would willingly jump into the fires of war for.
Jeremiah hated him on sight, and resolved to find something particularly painful and amusing to do to him before this was over.
"Members of the Bloodied Crown cartel," said the image in a calm, authoritative voice – the kind of voice used to being obeyed without question. "I am Ciaphas Cain, Warmaster of the Protectorate."
Ciaphas Cain … Jeremiah had heard that name before, he was sure of it. Oh ! Right. This was the rebel leader who had overthrown the Imperium on some vacation world, over twenty years back. That had been some time before his own ascension to the directorate, and he'd heard about it only because of the ensuing Inquisitorial response, which had not only failed disastrously, but had also disrupted Militarum operations through the entire Sector, giving the cartels of the Gap plenty of opportunity to expand even before the Navy battlegroup had been withdrawn from the Subsector.
Really, Jeremiah and the rest of the cartel owed the man a great deal. Unfortunately for Cain, the Laughing Fiend hated being indebted to anyone, and generally repaid debts with death. Especially debts owed to parvenus with delusions of grandeur, because seriously ? 'Warmaster' ? As if. That title might be enough to impress the plebs on the backwater world Cain had managed to take over, but Jeremiah was a man of the galaxy, and he knew about the real Warmaster.
"This system and all the people within it are under my protection," the projection continued. "If you depart, you shall be allowed to leave unmolested. If you surrender, you shall be treated humanely, and your safety, if not liberty, will be guaranteed. If you fight," the vox-corrupted voice hardened noticeably, "then you shall be broken."
The transmission ended. For a moment, silence hung over the bridge, before Jeremiah erupted into a mad, unsettling laugh that filled the space and drove the crew to cower at their stations. Automated routines installed into the throne by captured tech-priests triggered, broadcasting the terrible noise all throughout the ship.
And then, just as abruptly as he had started, Jeremiah Smile stopped laughing, as his mounting anger surpassed his hilarity.
"All hands, prepare for battle," he snarled. "Send the word to the rest of the fleet : one million credits to whoever brings me that smug bastard's head, ten if it's still attached to the rest of his body and in a state to scream !"
From the landing bay of the Fist of the Liberator emerged the flight of Cainwings to which Perseus Kilaiz, Slawkenberg born and raised, belonged. The twenty fighters flew out in perfect formation, their pilots having spent years training for this moment.
It was Perseus' first combat sortie : unlike the flight's leader, he hadn't been a pilot at the time of the Cleansing of Adumbria, when the Cainwings had first been used to provide support against the Infected. But while the Infected had barely possessed any anti-air capabilities to speak of, this was going to be the first engagement of the fighter corps of the USA against a real opponent.
Like all of his flight, Perseus' Cainwing was equipped with a set of las-lances and a handful of missiles. That particular loadout had been designed to take on other fighters after hundreds of runs through the borgs' simulations and training exercises, and assigned to Perseus' craft after the evaluations had determined it was the role he was most suited for.
The flight's mission was to escort the bombers who would do the real damage to the enemy ships, keeping the enemy off their back along the way. The pirates had fighters, just like the Rogue Trader's data had said : even now, Perseus could see them fly out of their ships to meet them. But they were using stolen Imperial Navy craft in various states of repair, and the pilots were nowhere near as disciplined as the USA's.
"All pilots, engage at will," came the voice of Perseus' flight lead. "For Slawkenberg ! For the Protectorate ! For the Warmaster !"
"For the Warmaster !" shouted Perseus, the title feeling strange in his mouth even as he spoke it.
Like everyone on Slawkenberg, Cain had been 'the Liberator' to him for so long it felt borderline blasphemous to call him anything else – but the hierarchy of battle had to be respected. Outside of battle, Cain was still the Liberator, but once the las-bolts started flying and the defenders of the Protectorate went to battle to protect all that they loved, he donned the mantle of Warmaster.
At least that was what Perseus' commander had told them after that big meeting planetside with the Vice-Queen and the Rogue Trader lady, and to be frank the pilot had been busy thinking about more important things since.
The Cainwings met the pirate fighters in the void between the fleets, thousands of kilometers away from either side. It had taken a long time for Perseus' mind to truly grasp the enormous distances that were involved in void fighting, to build the instincts required to handle three-dimensional engagements and to get a proper sense of what the Cainwing could do. Now, at last, all of his training would be put to the test in the only way that really mattered.
It was a slaughter. The Cainwings flew circles around the pirate crafts. Within the first ten minutes of the engagement, Perseus alone killed twelve enemy fighters. Then the enemy started to get clever, or perhaps they'd just culled the less competent.
It didn't make much of a difference, however : the better cartel pilots just lived long enough to realize how outmatched their crafts were and turn back, fleeing for their motherships. Perseus' flight gave chase, mercilessly taking out even more targets, until they reached the envelope of the pirate vessels' point-defences.
The next few minutes were a confused mess of evasive manoeuvres, engaging the remaining pirate fighters, and sending missiles back at the short-range weapons of the ships. For the first time since the start of the operation, the USA took losses, as Cainwings were overwhelmed by the sheer volume of enemy fire and sheer, blind chance.
But eventually, the void around the target was clear of anything that didn't serve the Liberation.
"Path to the target is clear," called out Perseus' flight lead. "Bomber flight Alpha, go ahead."
"Bomber flight Alpha, copy that," replied another voice. "Moving in now."
Another twenty Cainwings moved close to the enemy flagship, approaching through the opening in its point defenses the fighters had discovered. The additional weight of their payloads meant they were less manoeuvrable, but that didn't make their pilots any less skilled.
In a breathtaking feat of coordination, fifty-three bombs hit the shields and detonated within a couple seconds of each other. It was too much for the shield generators, and the energy barrier crackled and popped, leaving the ship exposed.
"Solid hit !" declared the bomber flight's leader on the open channel. "Flight Beta, now you !"
The next flight of bombers was already making its approach. This time, the bombs weren't timed to explode at the same time : they were spread across the ship's megastructure, targeting vital areas – the bridge, the blazing engines, the guns, the vox-towers.
And just like that, the enemy flagship, identified as the Murderous Jest, was reduced to nothing more than an inert mountain of metal floating in the void, still carried toward the Protectorate's fleet by its own momentum.
"Good job, everyone !" called out control, back aboard the Fist of the Liberator. "Sending new target now !"
Sat in his cockpit, moving at speed defying imagination as he battled the enemies of the Protectorate, Perseus couldn't help but smile. It was a good day to be a member of the USA, and a bad day to be pirate scum.
I couldn't believe it.
After I had spent the entire trip to Adumbria and then the days waiting for the pirates' arrival worrying about this battle, thinking that the Protectorate's fleet was going to get pounded to oblivion by the raiders, we had instead won a crushing victory within an hour of the battle's beginning. Our ships hadn't even needed to fire a shot : the Worldwounder had fired her lances precisely once, and that had been to take out a pirate ship trying to escape, long after their formation had completely collapsed and we'd finally gotten into range of our respective main weapons.
Of the fourteen pirate vessels, half had been reduced to flaming hulks, their inner atmosphere burning up as their engines underwent critical failures. Four others were floating in the void, powerless, their engines and weapons silenced by targeted bombardment by the Cainwing flights. According to the borgs' analysis of the pirates' comms, the enemy flagship was among them. As for the remaining three, they were running away, abandoning their comrades and leader without hesitation as they made for the Mandeville Point.
Meanwhile, we hadn't so much as taken a single shot past our shields. The fighters had taken losses to the pirates' point-defences, yet, but the ratio of damage we'd inflicted upon the enemy was downright absurd. Looking at the reports, it looked like we'd lost maybe fifty crafts, with several times more damaged and needing urgent repairs. Sure, I'd need to make sure the dead pilots were suitably honored to avoid resentment against me, since I'd been the one technically in charge of the whole thing, but I was fairly certain even the Imperial Navy would've been impressed.
I could only imagine this was due to the pirates' appalling lack of discipline and proper maintenance on their ships, and that our tactic of staying out of range of the enemy guns while the Cainwings did all the work wouldn't be so devastatingly effective against a proper naval force. Still, it was better than the alternative, which would have had us run away and abandon Adumbria to its fate.
I would have given the order to retreat the moment the battle had become hopeless, of course, but the hit to my fraudulent reputation would've been massive, to say nothing of the fact that the pirates would then have a base of operations right on Slawkenberg's metaphorical doorstep, and I could well imagine how tempting a prise the planet would've been.
I was beginning to relax when Mahlone, who was observing the battle from his own seat on the bridge, turned toward me and asked :
"Shall we finish them off with a shot of our main gun ?" suggested Mahlone. "Give the ones running away something to talk about !"
I stamped down on my first instinctual response, which was 'Frak no, you crazy bastard'. Despite all the years spent studying the Fist of the Liberator's superweapon, the borgs still only had theories as to how it worked – mostly because I had firmly rejected all requests to test fire it, on account of one hole in the fabric of space in the Slawkenberg system being one too many already. Yet everyone seemed very enthusiastic about using it, regardless of the fact that for all we knew, it would explode and kill us all the next time it was turned on.
I couldn't just say that, though : I needed a reason these maniacs would accept, and which wouldn't reveal how little I trusted the work of the borgs. Fortunately, inspiration struck me (although if I'd known what the long-term consequences would be, I'd have ordered the weapon to fire, and Horus take the rest).
"No, General. I have another idea." I pressed a button on my command throne, opening a vox-link to the one landing bay of the ship which hadn't disgorged a flight of fighters : "Hektor, this is Cain. Do you read me ?"
"Yes, Warmaster," came the reply, Hektor's voice still possessing that distinct transhuman timbre even over the vox.
Since the battle's beginning, Hektor had been waiting in one of the flight decks, along with several hundred USA troopers waiting aboard a bunch of troop transports, ready to be deployed to any of our ships that might get boarded by the pirates and needed help repelling them. That situation hadn't presented itself, and I'd a feeling not giving Hektor anything to do in the battle would be a bad idea.
Besides, I wanted to check whether he could be trusted to fight (a real fight, not the training exercises he'd taken part in back on Slawkenberg) without succumbing to his old habits, even with the Panacea injectors keeping his implants quiet. The fact that I had the perfect excuse to do so in a way that would ensure he was on another ship from me if he lost control was just killing two sump-rats with one sharpened femur, as we used to say in the underhive.
"The enemy flagship has been disabled," I told him. "Do you think you and the troopers could capture it for us ?"
"A bunch of pirates against our people ?" The World Eater laughed, a sound which made my hackles raise. "That won't be a problem, I assure you. The troopers could do it even without me."
"Good. Then get to it, if you please. Oh, and try to take the enemy leader alive if possible," I said as something else came to me. "We need to know all we can about the cartel which sent him."
"From what Lady Van Yastobaal told us about these pirates, it won't be easy to make him talk," remarked Hektor.
True enough, I thought. According to Areelu, anyone who rose to command of so large a squadron, even one as weak as this one had turned out to be, had to be a very special kind of ruthless to survive what passed for politics among the cartels. But I didn't care : what mattered was that I could see Mahlone listening on the conversation and nod in approval, all thoughts of using the unstable superweapon forgotten when presented with the opportunity for his maniacs to have some fun boarding a ship full of desperate pirates.
Frakking Khornates.
"I'm sure the magi can figure something out to make him talk," I told Hektor, before one final idea came to me, and I added : "And if they can't, I'll just give him to Malicia."
Admittedly, nobody really deserved to be handed over to the inexistent mercies of a Drukhari, but I figured the mere threat of doing so would be enough to crack anybody. According to the Adumbrian records, the Torredon Subsector had been the site of several Dark Eldar raids in the last century, so pirates probably had their own horror stories about the xenos torturers.
As Hektor confirmed reception of his orders and went to prepare, I swore I could hear my bloodward purr in anticipation from her place behind my throne.
Well, at least she was having fun.
As the gunship carrying Hektor and the ten other USA troopers packed into the cargo hold along with him, Hektor's blood was flooded with pre-battle adrenalin, while his mind considered every possible angle of attack for the battle to come. For so long, such things had been drowned in the agony of the Nails, made all the sharper by the promise of imminent relief. Now, at long last, he could enjoy the simple joy of anticipation once more.
In the end, even without the Nails, Hektor was still a warrior, his entire body remade for war. He hadn't lied to Suture back on Adumbria Prime : he truly hadn't killed anyone since the Cleansing – and whether the Infected qualified as people was debatable.
The craft shook all around them as its pilot took it to its absolute limits, but that was nothing compared to a boarding torpedo. Hektor had suggested those to the Liberator when they had designed the Protectorate's fleet, and Cain had looked at him like he was crazy before asking him to explain what he meant.
So, instead of being hurled in a straight line at the enemy ship, the boarding parties were being escorted through the void by a full flight of Cainwing fighters. Of course, by that point there were only a handful of enemy crafts still operating, the rest having either been killed or retreated to their landing bays once it had become clear they were massively outmatched, but the Liberator was nothing if not careful with the lives of his followers. Which, once again, was a nice change from literally every commander Hektor had ever had that he could remember.
They landed in one of the Murderous Jest's landing bays, which barely deserved the name compared to the Fist of the Liberator's own. It was open to the void, its atmosphere vented due to the damage the ship had taken, but that wasn't a problem for Hektor and the USA troopers, whose suits of armor were fit to operate inside a Space Hulk.
"Team B, secure the engines and make sure whoever is working there doesn't turn them back on while we're aboard," the World Eater ordered over the vox. "Team A, you are with me. We're going to the bridge."
The exits of the bay were sealed by thick blast doors, but one of the squad members had been trained by the borgs, and the machine-spirits of the ship were all too happy to let them through after a little coaxing. Then they were into the dark maze of corridors that stretched throughout the ship's decks, surrounded by signs of poor maintenance. Alarms were blaring from vox-speakers, along with the rantings of the ship's commander, threatening a variety of horrible if imaginative fates to his crew if the ship didn't start working again, as if his words could somehow alter the very reality of his situation.
Hektor led the way, trusting his instincts to guide them to the bridge. He might or might not have been aboard that particular class of ship before, but all Imperial vessels were built following certain patterns, and it was a poor Astartes who couldn't navigate them with his eyes closed. Behind him, a score of troopers followed, managing to keep up despite Hektor going nearly as fast as he was capable of.
Good. Their training was paying off. It was all very good to know how to shoot someone or stab them with a knife, but if you couldn't run a distance that would have an untrained human puke and then get into a fight and win, then you weren't a real soldier. Cain's training regimen had made sure all the troopers of the USA were real soldiers in Hektor's book.
After around twenty minutes of moving up the ship, they were finally challenged. So far, the crew they had encountered had turned and ran away from them, and Hektor had told the troopers to save their ammo. Besides, they might be slaves taken from raids and forced to work for the pirates rather than pirates themselves, and the Liberator wouldn't like it if they killed them.
The hundred or so armsmen waiting in ambush in the next chamber, however, were definitely pirates. Hektor heard them long before he saw them : they were whispering to each other, not even really bothering with stealth.
He triggered his great chainaxe, letting the deadly sound herald his approach, then confidently walked into the chamber, staring them down. At once, Hektor saw the recognition in their body language, as they instinctively recoiled from him. His borg-made armor might be of a different type than any other worn by his Astartes kind, but it was still impossible to mistake him for anything else.
"Space Marine," he heard someone whisper in terror, then the name was taken up by the rest in panicked screams : "Space Marine ! Space Marine ! SPACE MARINE !"
"That's right, you scum," The World Eater laughed. Then he paused, remembering something. "Now, before we start … anyone willing to surrender ?"
Instead of answering his generous offer, the pirates opened fire, pelting his armor with ineffective las-bolts and small-calibre gunfire.
He shrugged, barely feeling the impacts. Oh well, he had given them a chance. Best get to it, before one of the troopers behind him got hurt by a lucky shot – unlikely, given the quality of their own armor, but you never knew. Even Orks could get lucky, and the pirates were at least trying to aim.
He swung his chainaxe around, forming a whirlwind of death that ripped through the pirates like a plasma cutter through butter.
He didn't even draw the bolter the borgs had made him. Despite their best efforts and numerous attempts, the ranged weapon had never felt quite right in his hands, though he couldn't say whether it was because the borgs didn't have access to the schematics of Legion-issue weaponry, or because the centuries of seeking battle in melee to appease the Nails had permanently wired him to prefer close quarter combat.
It didn't really matter anyway, at least not in this battle. The confines of a spaceship were perfect for him, and he even had the troopers to cover him with their own las-weapons (not that they weren't also ready for melee if need be).
From there, the team's advance became a lot more contested, and the closer they got to the bridge, the more intense and desperate the resistance became. Hektor repeated his offer of surrender several times, but the pirates never took it – yet he could tell they were terrified of him : it was just that they were more terrified of their boss.
He couldn't help but be mildly impressed at that. Had one of Curze's progeny found his way to the Torredon Subsector ? This was the sort of motivation he'd expect from the unfortunate souls trapped on their ships.
A ship like the Murderous Jest could house tens of thousands, and it felt like he was cutting his way through every single one of them. So, when the tide of terrified mortals abruptly stopped, Hektor's first reaction was suspicion.
"Hold," he told the team. "I'm going ahead to scout. Wait for my signal."
They acknowledged his order and obeyed without questions – another sign of their training's quality, that they trusted the instincts of someone with far more experience than all of them put together. Slowly, cautiously, Hektor stalked through the dark corridors, until he arrived into a chamber hosting a large staircase leading several decks up.
Ten mortals stood at the base of the staircase, waiting for him – and completely unarmed. Despite the Panacea injectors in his arms, Hektor felt the Nails react; not to cause pain, but to send a cold shiver down his spine. Psykers. They were all psykers, and looking at their expressions, not the stable and trained kind like the Liberator's aide. Where in the War God's name had these pirates found so many ? Torredon had only just been abandoned by the Imperium, there hadn't been enough time for the Black Ships' harvests to stop and make any real impact.
No matter. It would just be one more question to ask the leader later. Right now, Hektor had to focus on getting through this latest obstacle.
"Once again," he growled, covered in the gore of those who had tried and failed to stop him, and to their credits they only flinched and did not turn and run. "Anybody interested in surrendering ?"
There was a brief pause, and he thought they might just take the chance – that the insanity that afflicted so many of the psychically gifted might be enough to override their fear of their master. Then one of the witches pointed a hand at Hektor, and a wave of agony washed over him. It was as if his skin had been bathed in acid and then set on fire, from the top of his scalp to the sole of his feet. It was pain enough to drive someone mad, to make them beg for death or run as far from the source of it as they could.
The World Eater laughed. Compared to the memory of the Nails, it was nothing.
"You call that pain ?" he bellowed. "I have had worse headaches !"
Then, before any of the others had time to react, he was among them, axe swinging. Psykers were dangerous, even to Astartes, especially wild ones like these. Imperial battle-psykers were, in his experience, shackled by their training and their bond to the False Emperor, taught to wield their powers in very specific ways. Wild ones, on the other hand, were capable of just about anything, though they only had one or two tricks each unless they were gifted with real power, like Cain's aide. And if it had been the case of these ones, they would have ruled the warband, not served in it.
The butchery was quick, precise, and merciless. Nothing at all like the wild frenzy the Nails would have driven him to. By the time the first head bumped against a wall and stopped moving, every single one of the psykers was dead.
After waiting a moment to make sure no daemon would rise from the corpses, Hektor signalled for the USA troopers to join him.
They climbed up the stairs, ready to face an ambush that never came. The rest of the way to the bridge was unhindered, until they came before the blast doors leading in. They were, of course, closed, but that wasn't what drew Hektor's attention first.
The entire space between them and the door was filled with dirty, starving mortals, unarmed and in rags that had once been civilian clothing. Dozens of them, men, women and children, each one wearing an injector collar around their scrawny necks.
As Hektor cautiously approached, he heard the sudden hiss of a hundred injectors activating at once. Then the mortals started screaming and convulsing, eyes bulging in their sockets, faces contorted in expressions of anguish that soon dissolved into mindless rage.
Drugs. The pirate lord had taken these people, doubtless captives from earlier raids, and pumped full of some kind of aggression-enhancing drug, just to throw them in the USA's path. Hektor heard the cries of disgust from the troopers over the vox as they realized the same thing he had.
The Nails were silent, yet Hektor still felt his rage mounting. He controlled it easily, of course : compared to the impulses of the Nails, all-natural fury was the easiest thing in the galaxy to suppress.
"These are yours to deal with," he commanded the squad behind him. "Use minimal force, try to keep them alive. I will deal with the animal responsible."
Much as it galled the World Eater to leave them behind, the simple truth was that Astartes had not been designed for taking down their enemies non-lethally, and the Liberator wouldn't want him to get (more) innocent blood on his hands. As the frenzied slaves charged the crimson intruders, heedless of the fact they could have killed them all in seconds had they opened fire, Hektor moved to the side of the chamber. With a mental command to his armor, he activated his boots' magnetic locks, and proceeded to run across the wall, up above the throng of mindless thralls, before landing behind the mass and in front of the doors to the bridge.
It was a trick he had figured out he could do a couple of years back during one of the training exercises, which relied on the fact his current suit of armor was a lot lighter than the patchwork ceramite one he'd worn for so many centuries. The armor was also theoretically slightly less resilient than a proper ceramite battle-plate, but given the state his equipment had been in even before the Infected had torn him open and left him for dead, it was still a definite upgrade.
The bridge doors were made to resist fire, the void, and breaching attempts by mutinous crew, but they were no match for a determined Astartes with a chainaxe. As the troopers engaged the thralls, their own armor completely proof against their bare fists (and, in some cases, teeth), Hektor carved his way through, ripping metal apart until he had made a hole large enough for him to pass through.
The moment he entered the bridge, Hektor was rammed by a hulking, screaming mortal, with enough strength to actually make him take a few steps back.
He could smell the chemicals running through the poor wretch's body, granting him unnatural strength at the cost of his mind. It was similar to the drugged slaves, but far more advanced, a cocktail designed to push the recipient far beyond the normal limits of the human body over the course of months, if not years of regular injections; he wasn't an Apothecary, but he could still tell this wasn't the result of just one injection.
Dropping his chainaxe, he wrestled with the brute for several seconds, before managing to lift him up in the air and bringing his back down onto his knees. The spinal column shattered with an audible snap, and he threw the drug-fuelled mortal behind him.
"Stay down," he growled, before telling the USA troopers : "Get some Panacea into that one when you are done with the rest."
With that taken care of, Hektor turned his attention to his target. There, sitting on the command throne, was a man dressed in flak armor painted a shade of purple that reminded Hektor from the Emperor's Children, back before their heraldry had become as degenerated as the warriors wearing it. He was staring at the Space Marine who had just disposed of his enforcer, eyes wide, his mouth open and moving, but no sound coming out.
Hektor could smell his fear, his sheer refusal to accept what was happening. Not a Night Lord, after all. Just a small and cruel man, raging at the galaxy and making people around him suffer as if it would make him matter, as if Mankind hadn't seen and forgotten countless others just like him before.
"I would say you are lucky the Warmaster wants you alive," he told the pirate lord, "but given what's in store for you, I would be lying."
Then, with all the care years of practice holding back his strength in a world built by and for unaugmented humans, he knocked the scum out. None of the bridge crew tried to stop him; in fact, Hektor was fairly sure he heard them breathe in relief.
"Warmaster Cain," he called out over the vox, his transmission relayed to the Fist of the Liberator by the ansible Team A's designated vox-man was carrying. "The bridge is secured, and I have the enemy leader in custody."
"Well done, Hektor," replied the Liberator. "Make sure the ship is secure, then bring him back, please. We're just about finished with the rest of the battle over here."
"As you command," said Hektor, before closing the link and looking down at the collapsed form of the pirate lord.
He wasn't going to enjoy carrying that wretch back to the flagship : it felt like merely holding him would dirty his armor somehow. But, duty was duty, and he had obeyed far worse orders in his time.
Once the post-battle clean-up was over (which, in this case, meant seizing the pirate hulls which hadn't fled or been destroyed, if only to ensure they wouldn't drift into something important like Adumbria Prime, as well as processing the thousands of captives from the pirate crew which had surrendered when the certainty of their defeat had become obvious even to them), Areelu received an invitation to join the rest of the Protectorate's leadership on the Fist of the Liberator.
According to Cain's message, the purpose of this meeting was to discuss the intelligence they had acquired and their next course of action to secure Adumbria from future incursions. She came aboard a gunship bearing the emblem of the Van Yastobaal House, with Suture and an honor guard of her household troops. Of course, the latter would have to stay outside the conference room, but she'd been assured Suture would be allowed in, whether because he might possess useful martial insight or because nobody had felt like saying no to him, Areelu honestly wasn't sure.
The battle had been unbelievingly one-sided. The flights of fighters unleashed by the Protectorate fleet had swarmed the pirate vessels long before they could get into range of their own weapons, and proceeded to utterly demolish them. Worldwounder had been in the vanguard of the defensive fleet, being the sole proper warship they had despite her wounds, but she hadn't needed to fire a single shot.
From what Areelu could tell, the pirate fleet had been designed to fight the Imperial Navy, which relied on the heavy firepower of its ships of the line to break the enemy. As such, the pirate vessels were quick, meant to use their speed to avoid enemy fire while using their own heavy guns to punch through shields and armor.
But the Cainwings were capable of operating far beyond the range of any conventional weaponry, meaning that they had engaged the pirate fleet while their carriers were still at a safe distance. At this point, it had been a fight between the Cainwings and the cartel fleet's own fighters and point defenses – a fight the Protectorate had won hand down.
Areelu's crew had been suitably awed by the spectacle. They were all seasoned professionals – Areelu only surrounded herself with the best people money could buy – who had participated in scores of void battles over their careers. In their time in Areelu's service alone, they had fought human renegades, Eldar reavers, Rak'gol and Demiurge privateers, and other, less common adversaries. But very rarely had the fight been so overwhelming, at least not when the other side was as powerful as the pirate fleet had been.
In Areelu's view, this promised great things for her alliance with the Protectorate, though these were all secondary to the opportunity to finally fulfill her promise that Cain had already dropped in her lap. The Liberator didn't even seem to have noticed what he had done, though given he'd seen through her guise as a loyal Imperial agent immediately, the Rogue Trader wouldn't bet on that façade of ignorance being true.
She and her escort walked from the bay where her transport had landed, which was a veritable hive of activity as the Protectorate's tech-priests fretted over damaged fighters and wounded pilots were extracted from their machines and damaged void-suits before being injected with Panacea and gently carried away to recover (or, in the case of those more badly hurt, to receive the care of the medicae in a more proper setting). Then, she and Suture were ushered into the conference room by the squad of armored USA troopers guarding the entrance.
A single round table filled most of the space of the room, with a smaller one against the wall with refreshments. Cain's aide directed her to a seat (all seats, including Cain's, were completely identical, she noted), while Suture would have to stand, as did Hektor, but then she had found out that Space Marines preferred to stand in such situations anyway.
Apart from the Liberator, his aide, his Drukhari bloodward (who looked like a feline who had just eaten a particularly tasty bird) and the World Eater, General Mahlone, Sir Harold, Lady Krystabel and Magos Tesilon-Kappa were all in attendance, while the Vice-Queen of Adumbria was attending the meeting by hololith. She made a good effort at concealing her relief at the pirate fleet's defeat, but Areelu could still see it in the subtle shifts of her posture and expression.
"Thank you all for being here," began Cain once they were all set and Jurgen had served recaf to everyone (which, Areelu had to admit, was of excellent quality). "First off, I want to congratulate our forces for this incredible victory. I don't think anyone here expected it to be quite as overwhelming as it turned out to be."
"The pirate scum stood no chance against the might of the Protectorate," boasted General Mahlone, amidst a general chorus of approval.
"Indeed they didn't," allowed Cain, "but that doesn't mean we should get complacent. Especially since the greater threat to the Protectorate is far from dealt with."
There were solemn nods from all present.
"What about the prisoners ?" asked Suture, surprising Areelu. "From what I saw, you captured thousands of them. What is to be their fate ?"
"Penal labor," declared Cain, before anyone else could speak. "The USA does not execute its captives, and Adumbria can use the manpower anyway. Isn't that right, Vice-Queen Kasteen ?"
Regina nodded, but there was clear reluctance in her voice as she replied : "We sure can, but I'm not sure about allowing these wretches on my world, Cain. Some of them might have been forced into piracy, either by circumstance or outright coercion, but they are still criminals. And, based on Lady Van Yastobaal's reaction to their leader's identity, I have a feeling they have participated in a number of atrocities over the years."
"Make it clear to them that this is their last chance," ordered the Warmaster. "If they cause problems, then their overseers will have full permission to execute them on the spot. Those who can be rehabilitated will be useful."
"Are you sure ?" asked Areelu, sceptical of the whole idea. "There are good reasons why the Imperium's punishment for piracy is death."
"I'm sure there are," he replied, though the brief flash of a smile he didn't quite manage to hide was all the Rogue Trader needed to know he was merely indulging her. "But we are not the Imperium, Lady Areelu. I would rather err on the side of being too merciful than the opposite."
Areelu inclined her head, understanding there was no point arguing further. Why the Schola Progenium had thought to make this man a Commissar, she would never understand. Yes, he had the strategic acumen such a duty required, but he very obviously lacked the cruelty and lack of empathy all members of the Commissariat whose paths she'd crossed had possessed.
"Speaking of prisoners, although we won't inflict this one on Adumbria, the pirate commander Hektor captured has started to talk," continued the Liberator. "His name is Jeremiah Smile, and he is one of the directors of the Bloodied Crown. Lady Areelu, I assume you recognize that name ?"
"I do indeed," the Rogue Trader grimaced in disgust. "He is one of the vilest pieces of scum I have ever had the displeasure of hearing of. His reputation spreads across the entire Torredon Subsector, and not in a good way. The list of atrocities he has committed is as long as it is repugnant."
It was the waste of it all that irritated Areelu the most, truth be told. The man was smart, ruthless and determined : he couldn't have become a director of one of the Torredon Subsector's most powerful cartels otherwise. And what had he done with it ? Indulged in petty and melodramatic evils, for no greater purpose than his own sick amusement. Pathetic.
Then the implication of what Cain had said hit her.
"Wait a moment," she asked. "You already made him crack ? It has barely been a few hours ! I would have expected someone like him to be very hard to make talk, or at least talk about anything useful."
"Oh, it wasn't that difficult," said Krystabel, preening. "With Lady Malicia's help, he caved in remarkably quickly; but then, I suppose you wouldn't have such unique assistance."
Was she trying to get under her skin ? She was ! How cute. Oh, Areelu had no doubt the girl was perfectly competent at the games of intrigue – she wouldn't have survived to see her homeworld breaking free from the Imperium otherwise. But Areelu had been playing these games since before Krystabel's mother had been born.
She merely smiled at the Slaaneshi cultist, whose own smile soured in response. Cain coughed, and everyone's attention immediately returned to him.
"In any case, as we suspected, he was sent here by the Chairman of the Bloodied Crown himself, after the hunters of the Worldwounder made it back to Torredon. His mission was to seize the orbital refitting facilities, so that the cartel could use them to take control of the ships in orbit and expand their activities in Torredon."
"Should we expect another fleet, then ?" Kasteen asked. "Since some of this one managed to escape, they will surely report back to their superiors."
Cain nodded. "It was my hope that a clear display of strength would be enough to put them off, but from Smile's attitude, it seems unlikely. Lady Areelu, what do you think the Bloodied Crown's reaction will be ?"
"Escalation," she replied without hesitation. "The leadership of the shadow cartels live and die by their reputation. It's one thing for them to retreat from the Imperial Navy, but the Protectorate isn't the Imperium, and we took out one of the Bloodied Crown's directors. If the others want to keep their seats safe from ambitious subordinates, they'll have no choice but to try again. It won't be soon, but it will happen, I guarantee it."
There was an exchange of glances between the assembled, but nobody contradicted her. Cain's gambit might have worked if the commander of the pirate fleet had been less highly ranked among the cartels, but the defeat of a director wasn't an insult that could go unpunished.
"What about the psykers ?" Hektor asked. "Did that wretch tell you where he found them ?"
"He did," replied Krystabel. "Someone named Jereb Auric has apparently been selling wyrds to the other members of the Bloodied Crown cartel, but Smile didn't know where he is getting them from –"
The Handmaiden stopped talking as the air suddenly became charged with threat. Everyone in the room felt it, and the lumens flickered, along with the Vice-Queen's hololith projection. Searching for the source of the disturbance, Areelu immediately realized it was coming for the Liberator's aide, whose usually composed expression had contorted into a furious grimace.
"Jurgen, enough," Cain ordered, voice firm and completely unperturbed by the angry psyker standing not two meters away from him. "I understand why you are angry, but keep yourself under control. You will have the opportunity to express your displeasure to those responsible in person, I promise you."
And just like that, the psychic pressure vanished. It spoke both of incredible control on Jurgen's part, and of how absolute Cain's authority over his aide was. Areelu could tell that the Liberator hadn't doubted his order would be obeyed for a moment. She made a note to look into Jurgen's reaction : while one didn't need to be an Inquisitor to guess why he'd reacted so poorly, it was always best to check one's gut feelings.
"Already, sons and daughters of Slawkenberg have given their lives in this war," the Liberator mused, a sorrowful expression on his face. "And yet I must ask that more do so before we return to our home."
Then the sorrow vanished, replaced by steely determination. This, she thought, this was why she'd ensured Cain took the title of Warmaster. He might not enjoy it, because he was no mindless Khornate pursuing war for its own sake, but nor did he shrink for it if it was required to accomplish his goals – instead, he made sure to stack the deck in his favor as much as possible.
After all, he'd given the order to board the Murderous Jest instead of blowing it apart once it had been rendered defenceless. Clearly, this had been done to seize more intelligence from the enemy, all in preparation of the very campaign he was now declaring in the Torredon Subsector.
"Very well then. If such is the price of our freedom and the safety of our people, then it is one we will pay. We will travel to the Torredon Gap, and bring Liberation to the beleaguered worlds of that Subsector." He raised his hand, forestalling the chorus of cheers that had begun to raise. "However, let it be clear that conquest is not our objective there. We will not compel the worlds of Torredon to join the Protectorate by force of arms. Our goal is to remove the threat to Adumbria by destroying the Bloodied Crown cartel, and all other shadow cartels if necessary, along with any other threat to our home we discover during our journey. I will not have the banner of Liberation turn into an excuse for conquest and oppression, for doing so would make us no different from the Imperium."
And he meant it too, Areelu was sure of it. And so was everyone else, who looked like they hadn't expected anything less from him.
"Lady Areelu," he turned toward her, and she sat just a little bit straighter under his attention. She had made sure that the robe she was wearing clung to her figure just so, and she saw Krystabel's frown deeper in the corner of her eyes – though if Cain noticed, he didn't show any sign of it. "You have my thanks for your assistance in defending Adumbria."
"You didn't exactly need it," she pointed out. No point in trying to pretend otherwise; sincerity would help her the most here.
"But we didn't know for certain we wouldn't," he replied, "and you were willing to stand with us as well as share what you know of the enemy. For that, I consider any debt owed for your rescue and the repairs of your ships to be cleared."
How generous. True, Worldwounder was far from being completely repaired, but the borgs had done impressive work in the time they had. In any Imperial port she could think of, that alone would have cost her a relative fortune, nevermind the fact she was responsible for the Bloodied Crown learning about Adumbria's survival and the Protectorate's existence, albeit indirectly.
"My dear Warmaster," she said, "I hope this isn't a prelude to ending our alliance ? If I remember things right, the ships of your fleet don't have Navigators. And while the magi in your employ are more than capable of leading you from Slawkenberg to Adumbria and back again, that route has been one of the most stable in the Gulf for centuries. I can tell you from experience that the Torredon Subsector is nowhere near as easy to traverse. However, my own Navigator is experienced enough to chart a path through the Warp storms with ease, and can lead the way for the rest of your fleet … if you would have me at your side, of course."
"And what do you stand to gain from this ?" asked General Mahlone, frowning suspiciously at her. Which, given Areelu was both a Rogue Trader and aligned with the God of Ambition, was reasonable enough.
"Well, to start with," Areelu replied, "killing pirates can be very lucrative if you do it right. And I do want to take revenge on the Bloodied Crown for forcing me to run from them, while I'm at it. But I would also like a copy of the Panacea STC for my own use in exchange for the services of my Dynasty."
"Done," replied Cain with a snap of his fingers and absolutely no hesitation. "Tesilon-Kappa, please make sure the Lady has a copy with her before she leaves the ship."
She … she hadn't thought it would be that easy, or that she would get the priceless technology before they had even left for the Gap. Some of her surprise must have shown on her face, because Cain chuckled :
"Come now, Lady Areelu. I told you we shared the secrets of the Panacea with the Imperium, didn't I ? As far as I am concerned, every additional source of Panacea in the galaxy is another blow to Nurgle's power. I would've given it to you even without you offering your continued assistance in our efforts, just to spite the Rotten Lord." He looked at the rest of the gathered worthies, then added : "But, to reassure my dear comrades of your continued dedication to the cause, I will add this incentive : once we return from Torredon, I will give you a copy of another STC template."
Oh, he was brilliant. Areelu really looked forward to getting to know more about the Liberator.
AN : Before anyone asks me where is Harley, there is a mind-healer on Slawkenberg (a new discipline that appeared after the Uprising, as a lot of people needed help to deal with the trauma of the Giorba's atrocities) who just got married to her long-term girlfriend, one of Orion Rieper's gardener colleagues. There, that's that taken care of.
Regarding the void battle : a lot of people spent a lot of time debating things on the SB thread. Frankly, you people put more thought into it than I did. I took inspiration from a variety of posts, and I hope that the end result was enjoyable and didn't break anyone's immersion in what is, remember, crack.
Perseus is another character recycled from Warband of the Forsaken Sons. In that fic, he ended up becoming a Helldrake, so things can only go better for him in this one.
Also, this story now has a TVTropes page ! Please check it out and add to it !
Next chapter : the journey to Torredon, a certain renegade Inquisitor's reaction to the news, and the reveal of the nature of Areelu's promise in this story. I was kind of surprised by how popular of a character she seems to be among my readers, but don't worry : I have plans for her beyond this arc. Wonderful, glorious, terrible plans, fit for someone like her.
As always, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and look forward to your thoughts, theories and suggestions.
Zahariel out.
