Dorn stood at the command dais, his eyes scanning the hololithic display that flickered with streams of data and tactical overlays. The battle unfolding before him was unlike any he had faced in his long years of service. The enemy fleet, smaller in size and numbers, moved with an eerie synchronicity that defied the traditional tactics of naval warfare. Each of their ships, sleek and sharp like the blades of some ancient duelist, cut through the void with a swiftness and fluidity that made the lumbering vessels of the Imperium look like relics of a bygone age.
The reports came in waves, a cacophony of vox transmissions, auspex readings, and damage assessments. Aboard the Eternal Crusader, the Capital Ship of the Imperial Fists, Dorn's officers struggled to make sense of the chaos. The captains of his fleet barked orders and adjusted firing solutions, but it was clear to Dorn that something was fundamentally wrong. His keen, tactical mind saw patterns where others saw only confusion. The enemy vessels, armed with strange hard-light weapons and enveloped in arcane kinetic shields that slowed incoming projectiles to a crawl, danced through the Imperium's barrages with contemptuous ease. Their small, agile forms weaved between volleys of plasma and laser fire, rendering the superior firepower of the Imperium's guns effectively useless.
It was becoming painfully obvious that the enemy's technological superiority extended far beyond their advanced weapons and near-impenetrable shields. The way they moved, the way they fought - it wasn't just the result of superior design but of something far more alien to the Imperium's sensibilities. Dorn observed how the enemy frigates and corvettes maneuvered with flawless precision, coordinating their attacks and evasions in perfect harmony, adjusting their formations in real-time to counter any shift in the battle.
At first glance, many of his subordinate captains had assumed they were facing a fleet of highly trained veterans, each pilot a master of their craft. But Dorn saw something else. There was no human touch behind the maneuvers, no signs of the calculated risk-taking or split-second improvisation that even the best fleet commanders displayed in the heat of battle. No, this was something mechanical, something synthetic.
Dorn's suspicions crystallized as he analyzed the data. These were not merely well-drilled crews; these ships were being piloted by some form of Virtual Intelligence, perhaps even an advanced machine-logic far beyond anything the Mechanicus would ever sanction. They were linked, their every move synchronized in a hive-mind-like network that allowed them to act with one purpose, one mind, faster than any human could hope to match. Each smaller vessel was a piece of a larger whole, coordinating flawlessly to execute complex maneuvers that would be impossible for human crews under the best of circumstances.
Yet among the swarming, coordinated attackers, one ship stood out - the largest in the enemy fleet, distinct in both size and behavior. It moved with purpose but not precision, with strategy but not the cold, unerring efficiency of the smaller vessels. It maneuvered like a predator directing its pack, issuing orders through invisible threads of command that linked it to the rest of the fleet. Dorn knew instantly that this ship, and whoever or whatever commanded it, was the key to the entire engagement.
"If I had to place my bets," Dorn murmured to himself, his voice barely a whisper amid the constant din of the command deck. He also hated the idea of gambling, but he knew and saw its necessity in war. "-that's where their commander is."
Unfortunately, its size didn't seem to slow it down in the slightest.
The strategic implications were immediate and alarming. This wasn't an enemy bound by the limitations of human crews or traditional naval doctrine. Dorn's fleet, powerful and resilient though it was, had been designed to face foes of flesh and blood, adversaries who thought and reacted like men. The Imperium's ships were massive, their weapons designed to obliterate fortresses and crush armadas in broadside duels. They were engines of war, built to withstand and deliver punishment. But in this battle, size and strength were no longer the deciding factors. Speed and precision reigned supreme.
Dorn's mind raced through tactical solutions, evaluating the strengths and weaknesses of his fleet against the unconventional foe. His vessels had the firepower to destroy the enemy, that much was certain. He had already seen their shells pierce the enemy's arcane kinetic-based shielding, and their lance strikes scorching and melting through the hulls of their opponents. But what did that matter when they could scarcely land a hit? His ships were too slow, their movements ponderous and predictable, their guns powerful but designed to target ships that moved like his own. Against an enemy that darted and danced as if the void were merely another battlefield, they were little more than static targets.
The battle reports confirmed Dorn's fears. The damage to the enemy was minimal, while his own ships suffered steadily from a relentless barrage of hard-light fire. No single strike had proved catastrophic, but the cumulative effect was beginning to tell. Shields were failing, hull breaches were multiplying, and morale among the more inexperienced captains was starting to waver. This wasn't a war of attrition they could win; it was a test of adaptability, and one they were failing, because the enemy was adapting faster than them.
Dorn's brow furrowed as he studied the tactical display, noting every minor movement, every exchange of fire. He had seen enough to understand the threat before him.
"This… is troubling," he said, his voice carrying a note of grim resolve, but also a faint amusement, one that none but his closest brothers and sons would've caught. "The other legions will find it difficult to adapt against such an enemy."
The truth was clear: the Imperium's forces were outmatched in every conceivable way. Their only advantage lay in sheer numbers and raw firepower, but even that would not be enough unless they adapted - and quickly. Dorn had faced impossible odds before, had turned back the tides of darkness with sheer will and strategic genius. But this was a new kind of war, one that would require new tactics, new thinking. The question now was whether he could find a way to outthink an enemy that, in many ways, didn't think at all.
And then, just as the enemy feigned a retreat and his mind finally found something of an idea as to how to best deal with them, two hundred more enemy vessels appeared just outside the system.
Dorn's eyes narrowed and a faint smile graced his lips.
This was exactly what he predicted would happen. Not in this manner, of course, as his and Sanguinius' fleet had taken on far more damage than he'd care to admit, but the course of the battle went generally as expected. He turned on the communicator and established a link with Rus's fleet. "It's time."
"My lord," One of his officers suddenly approached. "We've received a message of parlay from the enemy. Their leaders wish to talk."
This... was not a good idea.
This was, in fact, a bad idea.
But such things, Argall mused, were to be expected in democratic governments.
For some reason that neither he nor Jadan could quite fathom, a majority vote was decided by the Supreme Hyperborean Council to try and establish some kind of diplomatic channel with this Imperium of Mankind before fully committing to all-out war, which was exactly the sort of thing Argall was trying to avoid as doing so would divide the focus of his people. And, based on the evidence he'd, thus far, gathered, the Imperium did not at all seem like the sort of people to make concessions. Join willingly or be conquered. That was how they operated. The differing Primarchs might have their own unique methods of how they went about doing that, but it all ended the same way, each time.
That said, because Argall himself paved the way for the creation of a democratic government, denying them their authority just because he could would undermine the very fabric upon which his society was built upon. He gave them power to wield and exercise, because he did not want to be the one running things. He was their defender, their protector, their greatest sword and shield. But, that also meant that he had to let them make decisions of their own, even if said decisions were contrary to what he wanted or believed was right.
And, unless they royally screwed up, then Argall saw no reason to intervene. Initiating parlay with foreign human empires was not yet there, but it was close. And so Argall had no choice but to acquiesce.
He turned to Jadan and shrugged. "Hey, think of it this way: when it fails, we can always just jump out of the system and leave the Imperials there. It's not ideal, but it's an option."
"It's a terrible option," Jadan practically seethed, crossing her arms over her chest as they waited for the elevator to reach the council chambers. "We have them by the balls and they choose to be diplomatic now?"
Argall raised a brow, but otherwise kept his silence. He agreed, however, despite some trepidation as to just what exactly the Imperials were planning. He knew that they knew that it was a trap and they went in, regardless. And that meant there had to be a plan in motion, something he'd not caught or seen. The elevator doors opened, revealing the Chamber of the Supreme Council on the other side.
As Argall and Jadan stepped out of the elevator into the Chamber of the Supreme Council, the hum of tense conversation filled the air. The chamber itself was massive, its ceiling high and domed, with walls made of shimmering alloy that reflected the soft glow of data feeds and holographic projections. Seated around the council table were the leaders of the Hyperborean Collective, each representing their respective sectors and factions, but all eyes turned to Argall as he entered.
At the center of the room, a large hololithic display floated, depicting the surrounding star system and the delicate dance of fleets. Dozens of Hyperborean vessels, sleek and deadly, now encircled the Imperium's armada. The centerpiece of it all was The Fist of Thragg, the colossal dreadnought that dwarfed even the largest of the Imperial ships. Its hull gleamed with the concentrated steel unique to Hyperborean craft, and its weapon systems, powered by micro-fusion cells, pulsed with a barely restrained energy.
Argall couldn't help but let his gaze linger on The Fist. Named after his father, the most powerful weapon in the Hyperborean Collective's arsenal was now fully mobilized, a symbol of their might. Its mere presence was a declaration of strength. But Argall felt an odd sense of irony in this moment. A massive warship, built for destruction, had now been brought to the forefront of a diplomatic negotiation.
It was unfortunate that no one really knew the man behind the name. The few friends his father had made were all dead, taken by old age. And, even if they were alive, they wouldn't understand why Argall named it after his father to begin with. Syreen didn't care otherwise. His sister was actually in the ship, somewhere, upon her hover chair. Argall had granted her access to just about anywhere that she was physically capable of visiting. As far as he was aware, his sister spent quite a lot of her time in the armory, looking over the latest weapons and armors, a remnant behavior from when she was a Scrapper.
Scrappers... Argall had thought of, several times, bringing back that forgotten profession, an independent arm of the Hyperborean military, dedicated to exploring the vastness of the cosmos.
Jadan shot him a look, her expression still dark.
"This is madness, Argall," she said under her breath, her voice a low hiss. By Argall's count, this must've been the fifth time she brought up this specific subject in the last two hours. Though, he understood why. "We should be preparing for battle, not asking for parlay."
Argall sighed. "You know as well as I do that, unless in the most extreme of circumstances, I am not going to undermine the decisions of the Supreme Council."
"Doesn't mean we can't disapprove," Jadan muttered.
The head of the Council, a tall man with silver-streaked hair, cleared his throat and addressed the room. "We've surrounded the Imperium's fleet. They've yet to make any aggressive moves, though they've been warned. We've sent out the message requesting parlay. If they accept, we will hear them out before proceeding to any further action."
It was hard to discern which ship was the flagship as their vessels were all hideously gaudy and annoyingly large. So, the broadcast was sent to every single Imperial Vessel.
Then, the transmission came through. The room quieted as the voice of an Imperial officer crackled over the speakers. "The Imperium acknowledges your request for parlay. A representative has been chosen."
The words were formal, almost robotic, but they carried the weight of an empire. Argall watched as the hololithic display shifted, showing the distant bridge of the Imperial flagship. There, standing tall and resplendent in golden armor, was a figure Argall almost immediately recognized – somehow, even if he'd never seen said figure before. He'd certainly never met a winged human being. The physics of it boggled his mind for a moment, before his thoughts returned to what truly mattered.
Standing there was a Primarch, like himself, one of twenty.
Sanguinius' eyes widened and Argall knew that they both saw each other.
AN: Chapter 48 is out on (Pat)reon!