First Contact with the Angels
Be warned: The beginning of this chapter essentially serves as an exposition dump of all the ships currently present in Sanguinius's expedition and all the legion elements he took with him. Other vessels and groups will likely show up, but that will be later, or non-combat dedicated ships that could be on standby in either the warp or webway. As well an additional warning/preface since I kinda confused one of my Readers with it some parts of this will bounce around a little with time and take place before another part or simultaneously.
Also, I'm kind of conflicted. I had meant to set the stage a bit better for something that happens in this chapter. I'll talk a little about it after the chapter if you'd like my thoughts, but until then, hopefully, this will serve for the time being, and I wish I had set it up better.
Part Two of The Massacre of Logasiri
Chapter Eight
Batarian & Elcor System Designation: Batalla
Segmentum: Andro
Star System Classification: Magenta - Cleared for Beta Grade Personnel
Region Newly Discovered by Elements of the 2nd Expeditionary Fleet
Bridge of the Red Tear - Near Logasiri Moon Sakhalis
Sanguinius stood at the heart of the Red Tear's bridge, framed by the vast void beyond the viewport. Within that void, he saw the skirmish unfold. The flickering void shields of his fleet's warships bled light into the black while brief explosions of alien hulls broke apart under the relentless Imperial advance. Below, the world of Logasiri seemed oblivious as its weakened skies burned with smoke and fire and ignored the turmoil above it.
The Imperium had come in force. The Blood Angels spearheaded the fleet, their crimson vessels like splashes of blood upon the blackness of the void. The Chalice, a Dominus-class Grand Cruiser, loomed at the forefront, its great hangar bays disgorging wave after wave of Xiphon Interceptors and Castellan Bombers, many the size of enemy frigates, racing to assail the foolish aliens. Guarding the Chalice, the twin titans of war, the Helios and Herma, Indrajit-class Heavy Cruisers built for close-quarters devastation, carved a path through the remnants of the enemy fleet's core.
Among them, their escorts formed a web of silent death. When paired together with the agile Excelsior and Gladius-Class, vessels that Sanguinuis witnessed darting between the larger ships, picking apart those their masters ignored. But it was not just the Ninth Legion that had come. Strike Forces lent to him by his brothers fought alongside them. A colorful menagerie of vessels rarely seen battling alongside one another.
The Dark Angels prowled the void in cold silence, their lead vessel the Promethean Cruiser, Wrath's Descent, a dark spear of judgment under the command of Marduk Sedras, and its escort of Tiamat-Class Destroyers spreading ruin in their wake. Nearby, the White Scars danced through the battlefield, assailing a fleeing squadron of Batarian Corvettes. They slaughtered the alien craft without hesitation. The Lance of Heaven and its Hunter-Class Assault Escorts struck where the enemy was weakest, annihilating anything they set their keen eyes upon.
On the other end of the void battle, the Ultramarines had brought a surely daunting sight for their enemies, the Ceres, a Bulk Cruiser commanded by Chief Librarian Ptolemy and escorted by Celox-class corvettes. Their formations were the perfect standard of martial discipline, with not a single ship moving without cover or purpose.
Fighting with the Ultramarines and nearly barreling into them came the Space Wolves volunteers. They had sent the Strike Cruiser Spear of Fenris and a pack of Blackpelt Class Frigates who howled challenges over all frequencies as they waded into the fray. Moving to guard them both from any possible counterattack, as unlikely as that might have been in such a battle, the Salamanders Strike Cruiser, Khalkeus, led by the Consul-Praevian Iaraden and accompanied by a squadron of Felldrake Class Corvettes, moved with stolid grace.
Even the more recent arrivals to his impromptu fleet had thrown their weight into the fray. Captain Fafnir Rann's Persephone, a Hoplon Class Heavy Assault Cruiser*, fought alongside the Phoenician, the first of the Phoenix-Class Battle Barges, Saul Tarvitz commanding the resplendent vessel. Alongside them were two flights of Kopis-Class & Firestorm-Class Escorts wading into the fray with the greater vessels. Their combined prow Lances burning Citadel race tonnage frigates to subatomic particles.
The Thousand Sons had also joined the battlegroup. The Waning Moon, an elegantly bejeweled Strike Cruiser, drifted through the carnage, its Geometric-Class Destroyers firing with unerring precision. At its heart, Sanguinius detected the prominent psyche of Hathor Maat, Magister Templi, and his Pavoni psykers, who were ready to unleash destruction or administer aid to the hostages.
Covering the rear of the battleline battling just ahead of Sanguinius's flagship as though loyal guard canids roamed Tarik Torgaddon and Garviel Loken. Their twin Grand Cruisers, the Fourfold Wolf and Daughter of the Underworld, moved like hunting beasts, tearing apart enemies that approached even the slightest bit nearer to the Red Tear than they permitted.
The Fane of Shadows rested at the rear of the Astartes formation just behind Sanguinius' Flagship. With the scout cruiser darted a trio of Ship-Tenders orchestrating repairs on its damaged plasma engine. Far away, Sanguinius saw that its accompanying Phantom-Class Assault Raiders wove through the chaos, picking off vessels of opportunity with the White Scars.
Beyond the Astartes, the ships of the Imperial Armada loomed. Silent sentinels, their ten capital ships, and escort squadrons moved into a blockading formation intended to ensure that the Elcor planet—one Prota had warned Sanguinius about—would have no chance to aid the Hegemony. Though Prota insisted they would not intervene, the Lord of Angels refused to take such risks.
Sanguinius saw the form of an enigmatic Ark Mechanicus moving through the void. The Red Ark and its cadre of attendant vessels moved with the Imperial Armada, intended as much for exploration as for assistance in the alien's capitulation.
The Batarian First Capital Fleet, what paltry dregs were about to remain of it, fought in small clusters of barely organized resistance against the inevitable. Something that The Grey Idenna, their flagship, seemed reluctant to join, as the Tears augurs still showed that it clung to Qniva's docking spires. Its escorts foolishly stood beside it offering no aid to their comrades as they were slain en masse under the relentless Imperial onslaught only a few hundred thousand miles away.
"You see it, don't you?" The voice came from his right, crisp and unwavering. Tribune Andolena of the Legio Custodes stood at his side, her golden war-plate gleaming beneath the tactical lighting of the bridge. She was the Emperor's word in Sanguinius' absence.
Sanguinius did not look at her as he responded, but his voice carried his displeasure. "The futility."
The bridge of the Red Tear was alive with activity. All around him, officers labored at their stations, directing the movements of the battle. A ripple of light flickered across the void—another Batarian cruiser, broken and burning. He did not flinch. He had sensed its impending death.
But still, there was no triumph in his expression.
His radiant eyes swept across the carnage beyond the glass, and he exhaled slowly. Even through the vast divide of space, he could feel the suffering below—Thousands of lives caught in the fire of retribution. This war had been forced upon them, and he knew it was necessary and inevitable. And yet, the weight of it sat upon his shoulders like lead despite the inhuman nature of their opponents.
"Your orders, my lord?" Asked Andolena.
Sanguinius did not answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the Batarian flagship, fury simmering in his second heart to match the pity in the primary one.
"They fight to the last," observed Lady Grand Admiral Athene Du Cade, her voice a hollow whisper carried through the vox of the command cradle. The ancient shipmistress was suspended in milky amniotic fluid, her withered form linked to the Red Tear.
"Their discipline is commendable… but ultimately meaningless." Replied Raldoron.
"They have no choice," murmured Batarian Admiral Prota Car'dabor from the command dais, wringing his hands in an expression of heightened anxiety and grief. "Surrender is not permitted in our doctrine. The Hegemony does not allow those who yield to live. They would sooner die."
"They are dying," Andolena stated flatly.
Another ripple of explosions bloomed in the void as the lead Batarian dreadnought was torn apart by ships of the Sons of Horus. Nearby, Sanguinius saw the teleportation flare coming from the Chalice and directed at the other Dreadnought. Its main cannon roared one final time toward the Tear, the projectile partially detonating on impact with the shields. Fragments scattered, some ricocheting harmlessly off the ship's aegis, while the remnants of the shell, reduced to little more than shrapnel, tumbled into the void, vanishing into the depths of space. He sensed the crew's lives ending quickly after that.
"Their deaths serve no cause but their rulers' pride." He said, finally turning from the viewport, his voice quiet but resolute. "And yet, they are still deaths."
He crossed the upper bridge quickly, his armored boots silent against the polished, adamantine deck inlaid with copper and bronze filigree, followed by his guards and companions. The officers parted for them instinctively, giving him room as he approached the central strategium where the hololithic projection of the battlefield shimmered in cold blue light. Countless markers denoted the Imperial forces pressing the attack, the Batarian fleet dwindling with each passing moment.
"We cannot spare them their fate," said Herald Azkellion, his golden Sanguinary Guard plate a stark contrast to the blue tactical displays. "They made their choice."
"Did they?" Sanguinius asked, voice laced with something perilously close to sorrow. "Or was it made for them?"
A silence settled over the bridge. Even the ever-practical Raldoron did not answer immediately, and Andolena kept a well-meant silence to allow the Lord of Angels his space to think. Meanwhile, the Batarian officer appeared to shrink inwards, if that were possible.
Sanguinius let his apprehension slip away from him and turned to Friedisch Qvo, the Master of the Red Tear's augur arrays. The hooded Tech-Priest's still mostly organic limbs twitched eagerly, awaiting instruction.
"Status of the planetary defenses? And Orbital Station?"
As Qvo gave his assessment, Sanguinius saw another smear of light as his sons departed the Batarian dreadnought. A few seconds later, the scuttling charges they had left ignited, and the ship burst in a shower of debris that pelted its escorts 'kinetic barriers' with thousands of ceramic flechettes.
Its destruction was the final nail in the alien fleet's morale. Seemingly abandoned by the High Admiral, they finally broke. The remaining defenders scattered, leaving only Qniva and the last ships clinging around it for protection. The void skirmish was almost over. The war, however, was still only beginning. Even with these deaths, the sins of the Hegemony would not be forgiven so easily. The Batarians would have to be judged, and their fate would be decided once the Hegemony was utterly destroyed.
Could they be saved? Or were they too steeped in their transgressions? What of these other Aliens? Could they be brought into the Emperor's light? The Lord Commander did not yet know. But before this war was over, he would have his answer.
…
- Qniva Slave Station -
The station trembled.
It was distant, a subtle thing—just the faintest vibration in the floor beneath High Admiral Dray Prob'gogoh's feet. He did not need the frantic comm chatter, the rising shrieks of officers and commanders on the command network, to tell him what had happened. He already knew.
The fools outside had lost.
He exhaled slowly through his six flared nostrils. His four eyes narrowed as the voices over the comms grew more frantic. Officers barked contradictory orders, begging for reinforcements and screaming as their fleet was broken apart.
A sudden burst over the command comms network preceded another agonized scream this time from the Captain of the Dreadnought, The Kurzen's Benevolence.
"Kinetic Barriers have collapsed! The ship is breaking apart!"
His fleet, the First Hegemony Capital Armada, was being annihilated. Alongside the foolish dregs of that wretch Admiral Prota in the 47th Expeditionary Fleet. Dray huffed again and adjusted the cuff of his uniform, brushing an imagined speck of dust from the gilded hardsuit. He did not speak. He let them panic. He let them squirm. He had no interest in listening to the mewling excuses of failures.
Failures were beneath him.
But his eyes remained fixed on the holographic space map projected by his servant's, he'd forgotten her name, omnitool. The glowing projections of his fleet, were faltering the formation dissolving, icons winking out one by one as their transponders deactivated and the ships died.
One after another.
He should have been furious. He should have bellowed at his officers, demanded answers, and demanded results. But he didn't. He already accepted it. Something else was calling to him now.
His fingers brushed against the brooch pinned beneath his collar. It had been a mere trinket he found among the Mankind ships pilfered goods. The ship had been laden with fresh stock for the Hegemony, brimming with obscure alien artifacts, delicate works of craftsmanship from the lesser species that did not deserve to keep them. Among them, this brooch—ornate, twisting, shifting in the light as though it did not wish to be fully seen.
He had taken it for his mistress and planned to present it upon his return, something for her to amuse herself with.
But ever since the attack on his station had begun, he suddenly felt something—a pull at the edges of his thoughts. And now, as his fleets burned and his station trembled, something told him where to go and who to see.
The elevator was deathly silent as his Krudanz guards and naval officers, haggard and pale, dared not to meet his gaze. As was befitting of their lower station in the pecking order of the Hegemony.
"Secure the way to the intake foundry," he said, voice unusually resonant. Commanding with an ethereal quality to his voice made what he said undeniable. "And silence the comms."
They scrambled to obey summoning overlays and command functions on their Omnitools, rerouting the cabin along alternative routes through the station's network of hoistways that latticed across Qniva. While normally, he would have ensured they followed his orders. Instead, he felt a tether to where he needed to be.
Soon after, the elevator reached the desired level of the station—the detention intake level was cramped, filthy, and utterly beneath him. Dray wrinkled his pug nose at the stench of unwashed flesh, the damp, recycled air heavy with oil and lesser races suffering. This was the heart of Hegemony power—slaves, thousands of them, packed into pens like cattle, waiting to be sold or worked to death. Typically, their presence was beneath his notice.
One among them—one insignificant speck in this wretched mass—was different. The thought came unbidden, curling through his mind like smoke, weightless, yet inevitable. He should have questioned it. But he did not.
The secondary intake yard was crowded with a fresh shipment of Turians, their ranks tense, awaiting the brutal efficiency of Hegemony processing. But the usual order was fractured—instead of swift organization, they stood at bayonet point, held in place by what little remained of the guards.
A skeleton crew, in truth. The rest had already been scattered, desperately repositioned throughout the station to counter the monsters that had forced their way aboard, striking at the station's central network—a world away from here.
The Krudanz stood at the forefront as a Mar'dura officer led Dray deeper to the slave he had demanded to see. However, he could not fully remember what he had said to the civil caste cretin. They rushed through security checkpoints, past the fearful overseers who hurriedly stood at attention, their faces tight with confusion and fear. None dared to ask why the High Admiral had come here personally.
Eventually, they stopped at a single cell. The Mar'dura activated the doors release command.
The door hissed open. Dray stepped inside, and there was the slave he had been searching for.
Dray frowned, suddenly unsure why he was looking for this miserable creature.
He was tall, yet far too lean, like a Salarian, almost beyond emaciated in his proportions. His face was narrow, like a pyjak in its angled proportions, and his sunken eyes seemed to gleam brightly in the dim light. A crude bandage covered the right side of his head where the translator chip had been implanted. Dried blood seeped from under it. His clothes were rags, no different from the thousands of others held in Qniva's Compliance Districts.
And yet, he stood with an ease that was wrong. That startled Dray, shaking him temporarily out of the torporous state he had been in, for however long it had been. The sight made Dray's upper lip curl and his gut lurch.
"You know why I'm here?" Dray asked cautiously.
The slave tilted his head slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching irregularly.
"I do," he replied, his voice grating and nasally yet smooth, layered with something that was not natural. Dray's translator chip ensured he understood the Mankind, yet something in the alien's tone warped and twisted, as if the words were not entirely his own.
Dray stepped forward. The Krudanz at his sides tensed, shifting uneasily, sensing something was off they remained where they stood. They gripped their Terminator Assault Rifles, and one, a particularly large corporal, even totted around a M-100 Grenade Launcher.
Dray ignored them.
"You have something for me."
It was not a question. Why was it not a question? The slave's thin lips curled into something not quite a smile but far more malicious.
"I do."
Dray waited, but his skin suddenly felt icy. Something pulsed beneath his skin, pressing against his eyes. The whispering in his head grew, and his fingers twitched abnormally.
"Then give it to me."
The slave blinked. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, "First, I will need my people to come with me."
Dray frowned, his mind growing more fuzzy. The slave seemed about to say something more, but then the alarms blared with renewed urgency and the air shook and the deck heaved. It was violent, and terrible. Even the Mankind seems shaken as his body went rigid and on the part of his forehead not bandaged began to sweat.
Dray stumbled, his guards shifting in alarm. The comms flared to life against the block he'd placed on it, a cacophony of screaming, panic, and death from the Mar'dura Guards came through.
"They're in the intake yard!"
Then, thunderous roars that were so loud he heard their booming retorts all the way down on the detention level.
"What are they?!"
More screams cut inner short came through. And then, a new voice caught from nearby an open comms unit. It was a deep, resonant voice layered with something unnatural, unrelenting, and unmerciful—a voice that did not speak in warning but in a final judgment of the wicked.
"Ave Imperator*!"
…
- Primary Biodome -
Bel Sepatus, Exemplar of the Crimson Paladins and Master of the Knights of Baal Order, strode purposefully through the humid marshes of artificial gloom. He caught himself listening to the rustle of his gilded pteruges made as they clattered against his armor while he strode along the path. Accompanied by the growling purr of his armor's fiber bundles it made a gentle reminder of the power at his disposal.
Bel strode into the primary square with his command squad and the bulk of the task force on their level of the station. Half a dozen Xenos heavy weapons squads, hastily setting up their tripods, were arrayed throughout. Meanwhile, other guards Bel took to be their normal combatants attempted to take cover or fire at the Blood Angels bearing down on them.
Other automated turrets projected out of hidden alcoves amongst the shrubbery. The first of these that cycled up on Bel was a manned turret twenty paces to his left, set up in front of a gallery building at the center of the open chamber. Gracefully, he lifted his Coriolis Pattern Power Shield, its cerulean energy barrier absorbing a rain of mass-accelerated microfilament. He closed the gap in only a few strides, thrusting out with the shield and caving in the frontal plate of the turret.
The weapon's crewer ran in an attempt to evade the paladin. The Xeno only made it a few feet before Bel's spear swung out and severed his legs at the knee - crimson blood jetting from the wounds. Before it could even hit the ground, with the returning stroke, Bel stabbed an ornamental spike at the end of the spear into the alien's torso, slamming it into the floor, killing it on impact. His Cataphractii Terminator Armor's energy shield absorbed another series of shots on his right.
He turned and faced his new opponent. The automated turret obliged by continuing to fire filament at him even after he brought his shield to block the shots. He steadily progressed towards the gallery. As he did so, he brought his plasma caster to bear, lining the overlay in his helm to the target, all in the span of a twin heartbeat. Neurally, he commanded the weapon to fire. A ruby beam of plasma flew towards the turret, sundering its shields* and instantly melting the weapon into boiling metal.
Closeby, Bel saw a more dangerous adversary take to the battlefield. Something his armor's cogitator pinged as a non-piloted walker. It stood slightly taller than he and was similarly broad. White armored and bulky in shape, what stood as its head was a glowing blue lens protruding from its neck like a man's head would.
It strode into the square flanked by a swarm of lesser automata more similar to a mortal in their proportions. The walker was equipped with a new weapon he had not seen before. But the purpose was apparent: missiles. A reinforced rocket pod was attached to the main body via a hydraulic swivel mounted on the automata's left shoulder. Said device leveled itself towards another Astartes over 70 feet to Bel's right side. Bel identified the target as Sergeant Gallimantus of the 5th company.
Bel attempted to rush to guard his brother, but the first projectile flew from the weapon before he could close the distance or warn him. The missile struck the sergeant's refractor field in a dangerous cloud of fire and ash. Sepatus knew the impact had overloaded the shield from the warning chime blaring in his helmet.
A second round of rocket fire impacted swiftly after the first, accompanied by hail from the swarm of lesser silica and hegemony fighters. All coordinating directly on Gallimantus. The missile had shattered his left pauldron but failed to pierce the armor underneath. It had thrown him off a few paces, where he collided with the side of a massive tree-like organism. The force of his impact splintered the wood, and whole plant sections clattered to the ground.
That was when the enemy attempted to finish the sergeant. Their fire redoubled as they realized these terrifying giants were not invulnerable. The broken boughs disintegrated as shots from the accelerators rained down on him. For an instant, Bel dreaded that he might be too late, and his cumbersome strides would possibly stop him from saving Gallimantus. This dread lent him an incredible bout of speed, his stride lengthening as he barrelled through a few fleeing batarian guards.
A third Rocket began to shriek as its propellent was ignited. But then, Bel reached his brother alongside another of the Keruvim. They raised their shields as one and barred the enemy their chance to slay their brother. The missile hit their shield's combined energy field and detonated harmlessly against it.
In their fervor to try and kill Gallimantus, the enemy, except for the automated turrets, had ignored the rest of the Crimson Paladins, and the howling madmen of Amit's company closed on the bulk of the aliens. Bel ordered the other paladin to watch over Gallimantus until the fight was won and charged to join in the throng of battle.
As he moved forward, Sepatus saw Amit as the Flesh Tearer, closed with a combat team of Xenos. Their weapons fire, pinging off his armor and chipping the dented but functional plates. Once he had, Chainaxe and Powersword tore them apart in the span of a breath, rendering their remains as little more than bloody smears on the murky tiles. Bel noticed then that the coppery scent of their blood was eerily familiar to humans. Amit next set his sights on the machine, which Sepatus had also chosen as his quarry.
While many others of the Legiones Astartes would have taken this as an unspoken challenge to see who could kill the automata first, the Crimson Paladins had foresworn personal acclaim. To join the Keruvim, one would forsake their name, and all notions of glory. They were the Storm Wind, the Guardians of The Ninth Legion, and Protectors of the Innocent. There was more than enough honor in such a calling.
Thus, while Sepatus did not change his target, he did change his approach. Slowing his pace sufficiently to ensure Amit could close the gap first. Something the Fifth Dominion did quickly enough. His crimson form cleared the distance in a few long bounding strides and came in close to the automaton. Ducking beneath a cumbersome strike from its right appendage.
After he was clear of the first strike, Amit swung his Powersword. He cut a glowing furrow in the creature's right leg, severing cables and lubricant pipes. The oily contents of the latter sprayed into Amit's helm lenses, rendering them near useless. Bel saw that the walker's superstructure was damaged from the strike but remained upright despite its weakened footing. Attempting a second swing of its left arm, Amit could rely on his autosenses to dodge the strike.
But he could not properly gauge the machine's follow-up, and his obscured vision prevented him from guarding against it. The blow landed with a resounding clang of abused steel, and Nassir was sent sprawling a few meters back, his weapons thrown from his grasp. Crushing one of the lesser automata in the process. The lighter mass accelerator on the right limb was rendered useless after it struck him. Its barrel was now bent at an almost right angle from the force of the blow.
The automata, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the damage, attempted to bring its left arm's heavy cannon up. Along with the missile pod, which had been firing seemingly imprecise shots that failed to hit anything it fired at since Gallimantus. Before the cannon could fire, a ruby beam flew from Bel's right wrist as he charged at the machine's left flank. The beam of superheated gas, dense as it was, seemed to be dulled if only partially by the kinetic shield projected around the automaton. It appeared similar to the one that saved Gallimantus' life.
But as soon as Bel noticed the resistance, it failed, and the machine's left arm at the shoulder was struck and instantly began melting into slag that pooled on the floor in rivulets of boiling alien metal. But the Automaton had no respite. With the force of a mag-train, the Crimson Paladin slammed into the automaton. His shield extended as if it were a battering ram. He barreled it over, and before it could process his wrath, he buried his spear in its central compartment. The glow in the machine's lenses vanished, its reactor failed, and its body fell, as limp as a corpse.
The remaining humanoid drones reprioritized Bel as he tore his spear from the wreckage. Their pitiful wrath impacted against his energy field and armor with little more than dull scratches in the paint. As he began to chase the first of the machines, he heard from his left as Amit leaped to his feet and charged the nearest of the lesser silicas. He tore it apart using only his bare gauntlets, beating the second automaton to scrap with the first's limbs before careening into the rest.
This did make Bel feel something. Subtly, he smirked behind his helm and continued hunting his own target. Zephon's voice came over the vox as Sepatus dispatched the final drone with an expertly deflected shot using his storm shield*. "Brother Paladin Sepatus, do you copy?" Zephon's voice, even through the static of the vox, was musical.
"Exarch." Was Bel's even-toned reply. As he waited for the Strike Commander's response, his plasma caster spat out a trio of shots at fleeing soldiers. His targets were rendered into searing afterimages once the beams hit.
"Paladin Sepatus, the biodome is nearly ours—leave a squad to finish the sweep and redeploy with the rest. You will teleport to Homer Aleph-13 alongside your Medicae Primus and his team. Secure the Secondary Intake Yard. Cleanse the Alien Belligerents and ensure the Holding area is under control. If the slaves swarm, we risk collateral damage." Zephon's tone, despite the urgency, remained steady and assured. There was no room for error, only action.
"As ordered, Brother Exarch." Answered Sepatus.
Mentally, he brought up the optic feeds of his honor guard and Apothecary Majoris Caecus's division onto his helm's overlay. He thought-pulsed the order to prepare for immediate teleportation redeployment.
As one, the blinking acknowledgment runes activated on Bel's display. He then witnessed, with graceful synchrony, how his selected brothers broke ranks and met him at the center of the square. Once standing in a circle together, Bel withdrew a small cylindrical object from a storage container on his right hip. It was a Wayfinder, chased in gold and silver, wrought into beautiful images of oceanic waters. The activation rune was nestled in the middle of the device amidst the art, which Bel found and depressed with practiced ease.
Upon activation, the Wayfinder pulsed once—a brief but potent ripple of energy emanating from its core—before the world around Bel and his warriors dissolved in a haze of flickering static and searing white light. For the briefest moment, the transition wrenched at his senses, the moment of immaterial dislocation dragging at his soul like an unseen anchor. It was an instant of displacement, of standing on the precipice of non-existence, before the universe reasserted itself with a violent snap.
As they returned to the Materium, the air was suddenly thick with the acrid scent of burnt ozone and the violent displacement of air. The intake yard was a simple square over a hundred paces in diameter with far-up gantries and three tiers to its layout. All of which was bathed in the dim red glow of emergency lumens. Klaxons blared, their mournful wail accompanied by the panicked shouts of Xenos Guards and the dull clatter of weapons hurriedly brought to bear.
Bel Sepatus did not hesitate. He was already moving, his Coriolis-pattern shield snapping as his plasma caster barked. A lance of superheated energy roared into the nearest Xenos. The alien was dead before it could even scream; its torso vaporized in an instant. Around Bel, the brothers in his honor guard erupted into motion with the same honed efficiency. They spread out, taking disciplined and preternaturally accurate shots at groups of aliens who attempted to fight back. The Warrior's Virtues would be unleashed upon the enemy, and now these slavers would know the price of their folly.
Apothecary Majoris Caecus, his gleaming alabaster white armor, and his Bastion Squad advanced to Bel's left, marching steadily assessing the battlefield, assisting in the battle where they saw openings while preparing to administer their medical aid where it might be needed. Ahead Batarian Xenos scrambled, their cohesion shattered by the sudden appearance of the Knights of Baal. A few attempted to rally together and prepare to fight, raising their crude accelerators in futile defiance. The opening salvo broke on the Paladins' shields and energy barriers. The other guards turned to flee, abandoning their posts and the new slaves alike.
"Mark the holding pens!" Sepatus voxed as he surged forward, his power spear carving a glowing arc bisecting a fleeing batarian. "If the captives move, do not fire unless provoked. Cut down the slavers. Purge their filth."
A chorus of acknowledgments came through the vox as his warriors executed his will. The yard descended into chaos, and the slavers' ramshackle forces unraveled as the Crimson Paladins drove into them like an unrelenting storm. Bel drove towards the nearest corridor that led into the holding pens beyond the courtyard.
There, he saw a cluster of xenos soldiers appear, more ornately armored then the guards he'd seen thus far. Their elaborate and more bulky crimson suits almost a crude parody of the Paladins own wargear. These seeming elites fought with heavier weapons and were now attempting to make a stand at the mouth of the hallway. Their weapons spitting in rapid fire at the advancing Astartes.
The first volley was absorbed against Sepatus' shield, the pellets dispersing harmlessly across its shimmering field. He answered in kind, raising his plasma caster, its leonid mouth barrel roaring and reducing one of them to ash. The aliens seemed horrified by the weapons potency and tried to redouble their attacks against him, but it was too late.
Then Sepatus was among them, his spear lancing forward with wrathful precision. He impaled one Xeno through the throat, decapitating the alien in a shower of red ichor. Next, He slammed his shield into another, rendering it into a bloody mist smeared on the bulkhead behind it. Two other aliens fell to him before they could react. The crimson fighters held their composure well enough and responded tactically, falling back.
As they withdrew, the final dregs in the corridor attempted to bring their weapons to bear on him. But a barrage of Bolter shells rained in from Brother Menthir's wrist-mounted Angelus Combi-Boltgun*, killing all but one. That last xenos lost it's courage and turned to flee. But the creature was intercepted by another of Sepatus' warriors—Brother Incareal's titanic great-blade carved it apart before it could make it a few feet, its death mercifully swift.
Bel approved his brothers to carry on and turned back, marching into the courtyard. He looked to face the captives, his stance unyielding, his presence towering over them like a demigod of ancient myth.
A hush fell over the yard, save for the groans of the dying and the distant echoes of gunfire as the squads drove the last of the Batarians off. The slaves, all aliens and still trembling, stared in shock at the crimson-clad warriors before them.
Bel's voice, amplified through his helm's vox-grille, rang out, filling the chamber with a thunderous declaration.
"Ave Imperator!"
...
- Near Slavers Alley -
Red emergency lights continued to pulse overhead, casting the corridors in a rhythmic, blood-hued glow before returning to normal. The humid air was thick with the acrid stench of scorched metal and something more sinister—burned flesh. Nihilus took up the rear, his gaze sweeping the shadows and corridors they passed as the group pressed for the cargo bay the Tysius 449 was still anchored at.
Garrus led the group, his rifle at the ready, with Wrex close behind shotgun covering wherever Garrus wasn't looking. Behind them Macrinus supported his wounded wife, moving carefully alongside Liara who would offer aid when she saw an opportunity but otherwise, she gave the Mankind's ample space.
The group advanced with caution, navigating the winding maintenance and supply passages that would lead them toward the docks. Their every step echoed through the small corridors for the better part of half an hour. Eventually, Nihilus soon heard the tell-tale sounds of a battle raging somewhere up ahead. The station's internal comm channels had gone silent a while ago, and even his privately calibrated channel intended to hail the Silver Phantom wasn't working.
The last reports from the Batarian comm network had sounded disastrous. A space battle had apparently begun just before the lines went down, and the station was now seemingly suffused with dangers he did not know about. Based on the bodies they'd found stacked in broken heaps after leaving the Slave Pens.
But one thing he did know was this: they needed to leave, now.
Garrus turned the corner ahead and immediately threw up his fist, signaling a halt. The hall immediately opened into the large tiered chamber that the Away Team had initially walked through on their way in. But Nihilus barely recognized it. The emergency lights flickered against the metal-paneled walls, casting dark, unusually thick shadows that were almost impossible to look through, as though a writhing mass of shadow simply absorbed the light caught within.
Where the light was able to penetrate, he saw a mess of broken booths and stalls that crowded the first two tiers like broken bodies. Thankfully, he saw only a few scattered corpses, all Batarians, from the looks of it.
Then, at the far end of the third tier, Nihilus saw a group of figures huddled together. Some of these were Batarians. A few were mercenaries of various species, mostly Krogan and Vorcha. A few were even slaves apparently granted permission to wield weapons. The group was over thirty strong, armed with whatever weapons they could have scrounged.
But Nihilus saw that they weren't the immediate reason for Garrus's call to stop. Something else was moving through the cavernous hall. In the darkness beyond the scattered gunmen he witnessed something move in the coalescing shadows. A shape detached itself from the darkness—a figure he could barely make out the details of, its movements fluid yet utterly silent like oil shuffling over water. It glided forward and Nihilus stiffened, that was not normal.
A whisper cut through the gloom. "Steady." Said Garrus. His rifle was already up.
Nihilus tilted his head slightly toward Macrinus. His expression was unreadable at first, but then Macrinus' face paled as he caught sight of the moving shadow, eyes widening with something beyond panic. Amosha clung to a guard rail just behind him, attempting to catch her bearings. Macrinus's hands clenched, and his breathing quickened. His eyes were locked on the figure moving toward the Mar'dura Guards—or rather, the silhouette of the figure they saw in the moving shadows.
For a moment, Nihilus thought he was about to bolt. Then Amosha grabbed his wrist, grounding him. Macrinus barely reacted. He was transfixed, his entire body coiling with tension, barely kept from exploding into action. Amosha muttered something under her breath that Nihilus didn't catch.
Then, more figures shifted in the gloom. Two, then three, four, then a fifth. The Mar'dura Guards and others seemed to have noticed them, and they began firing at them wildly. The shots mostly missed their marks, as the shadows banked and weaved around in unearthly swift movements. The ones that did hit seemed to vanish as though the darkness absorbed them. Then, the Shadows charged at their attackers, which was when the group bolted.
Nihilus heard as the guards began dying behind them, but he dared not look back. He had to fight against the animalistic instincts suddenly surging through him compelling him to run ahead of the group. Doing so successfully, Nihilus ensured he stayed at the rear of the group as they ran toward the front end of the room. The plaza was connected to the hangar bay via an access corridor.
They cleared the distance quickly but as they reached the hall Nihilus felt something. A prickling sensation at the base of his skull, a crawling unease that coiled down his spine like cold tendrils of smoke. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to keep moving, but the feeling didn't fade. If anything, it intensified with every step through the dim corridor.
The passage was narrow, a stark contrast to the tiered chamber they had just fled. Its walls were a patchwork of exposed piping, rusted grates, and flickering conduits that pulsed erratically as if the station itself were struggling to remain functional. The emergency lumens overhead stuttered and buzzed, their crimson glow casting jagged shadows that seemed to slither and shift in the periphery of Nihilus's vision. He knew better than to look back—every instinct told him not to—but he couldn't shake the sensation that something was watching.
It wasn't the usual paranoia of being pursued. It was more profound, more primal. Like a whisper in the marrow of his bones, something unseen pressing just beyond the edge of perception. He could hear the sharp breaths of his companions, the hurried footfalls pounding against the deck plates, but behind all of that, there was…nothing. A void.
The silence behind them was unnatural. The slaughter they had left behind should have been a cacophony of screams, gunfire, and death. Instead, the sounds had vanished—not faded, not diminished, but simply ceased to exist as they had entered the corridor.
Then, just as they neared the end of the corridor, something shifted.
A woosh of air that wasn't theirs. A whisper of movement in the darkness.
Nihilus' hands flexed around the grip of his heavy pistol, his legs tensing as they burst from the passage into the open expanse of the Hangar Bay Plaza.
The space beyond was nearly the same as it had been last time. It was now empty of any living occupants besides the Spectre and his companions. The ceiling arched high above them, reinforced with heavier armor plating, with gantries crisscrossing like the rivers that flowed in abundance on Khar'Shan. The floor stretched wide, a scuffed and worn mixture of durasteel plating and cargo tarmac marked with faded landing codes. Floodlights, half-functional and swaying slightly from unseen tremors, cast stark pools of artificial white across the deck, illuminating the docked vessels in uneven contrast.
A cluster of security kiosks sat abandoned near the bay's edge, their lights still blinking, the crews nowhere to be seen. Beyond them, several shuttles were moored to the station's docking clamps, their hulls scuffed and marred from years of poor maintenance. Most bore the markings of slaver vessels, ugly, utilitarian things built for function over form.
But one ship stood out. It was wrong. The ship was wedged between a rust-streaked cargo hauler and a grounded private skiff, Nihilus' gaze settled on a Hegemony Freighter—one that had no reason to be here. Its hull was a sickly yellow-gray, pitted from old damage and haphazard repairs. The cargo doors were sealed, but the docking restraints were extended as if it had been in the process of loading or unloading before everything had happened.
Then he saw the identifier tag near the vessel's rear, the paint still fresh despite the grime that coated the rest of its frame, marked 'Obligation of Lessers'. Something about that name made his stomach turn at the Batarian's malice, but it also seemed out of place amidst the Commercial Hangar. Why was it not with in the Military Hangar? And still, he felt it. That weight. That sensation. Like unseen eyes pressing against the back of his neck. Watching. Waiting.
…
- Alley Hangar -
Nykona ghosted silently like a wraith through a corridor close to where they had initially ingressed onto the station. His armor's adaptive systems, the Kiavahran mirror-steel of his cloak, and the shadows he manipulated blended effortlessly into the background of the dim, flickering light. The crisp scent of teleportation ozone as it wafted through the station and the noxious aroma of alien flesh lingered thick in the air as he tracked his quarry—the mismatched crew of aliens fleeing toward the hangar bay.
His helmet's optics picked them out clearly: Two Turians, one in blue armor moving with discipline, the second in black and helmed marched with a killers efficiency, a Krogan trudging forward with hearty strides, a lithe blue-skinned Asari keeping pace, and then the sight that had compelled his sense of duty to follow this group. Two human normals—one injured, the other guarding her with fierce protectiveness laced with evident dread.
When Nykona had first observed the humans in their company, he'd nearly attacked the aliens for kidnapping them. But then he'd seen the Asari help the human woman when she stumbled and almost fell from the other's arm. Instead, he'd decided to tail them, Tharos falling in behind him as he did so, silently understanding his officer's intentions to observe them before he interacted with the unusual aliens.
While they did this, Nykona saw through a sub-section of his helm display the visual feeds of Neralis, Rykel, and Kaelus as they mopped up the Xenos in the adjoining plaza.
Nykona lingered in the threshold of concealment, observing as the alien band moved closer to a battered shuttle docked at the edge of the hangar bay. It was a civilian vessel, clearly modified—covered in odd sensor arrays and a slightly extended main chasis. He watched as the Krogan, breathing heavily but alert, glanced back occasionally to ensure their tail was clear. The blue-armored Turian covered their flank with practiced discipline, his rifle raised. The black-armored one—tall, silent, deliberate—moved at the center, his eyes always scanning, always calculating.
These were no pirates. Mercenaries, perhaps. Or something more unsual.
"Nykona," came Sergeant Kaelus's voice over the vox, clipped and calm. "Plaza is secure. Your Orders?"
"Rendezvous on my position. Tharos and I have made contact. Keep your weapons stowed unless fired upon. I will engage." Was Nykona's swift response across the link.
There was no hesitation in Kaelus's reply. "Acknowledged."
After a few more moments, as the others drew close, Nykona saw Tharos shift beside on the other side of the alien group, silent as a shadow, and Nykona gave a neural command over their squadnet. It was time.
He stepped forward into the light.
The effect was immediate. One moment, there was only air and gloom—and then, from the folds of shadow, his shape emerged. His cloak peeled back, mirror-steel refracting the hangar's strobbing lights into fractal echoes as he stepped into full view. His helm's twin crimson eye lenses glimmered with pale light, and the patterning of his armor—matte black with the faint silver sigils of his legion and rank—seemed to absorb the atmosphere's haze rather than reflect it.
"Halt." The single word cracked like a commandment, calm and lethal across the deck.
The aliens and even the humans with them froze.
The Krogan was the first to move after Nykona's appearance. He let out a deep-chested grunt and raised his shotgun with a snarl. "You don't look like any of theirs. Try anything, and I'll pulp what's under that mask, Shadow-Man."
Nykona's helm displayed his armor's translation while he tested his own understanding of the alien languages he'd studied from the Sanctioned's codex's during his preparations for this operation.
The blue-armored Turian's rifle snapped up in tandem. "Identify yourself," the Turian's flanging voice steady but clearly unsettlted by Nykona's manner of appearance.
The Asari's expression twitched—caught between alarm and what Nykona read as academic fascination. Her violet eyes* scanned him rapidly: the structure of his armor, the angular symmetries of his limbs, the movement in his shoulders. A flicker of awe crossed her features, quickly buried under cautious professionalism as she subtly shifted to the side, ready to move or shield someone if needed.
The black-armored Turian moved his way to the front and held up a hand, a silent gesture that stopped both the Krogan and the younger Turian from firing.
"We don't want trouble," he said, voice firm but calm. He reached up to his helm, and it retracted with a hiss, revealing the sharp, bony carapace plates that up his face while two black eyes, the pupils white orbs locked onto Nykona. "I am Spectre Nihilus Kryik. These are my companions." He gestured to them before continuing. "Garrus Vakarian, Liara T'Soni, the Krogan is a Mercenary named Urdnot Wrex, and the two 'Mankinds' with us are under our protection."
Nykona's head tilted just slightly at the name the alien used for humans, but he could not correctly translate it as anything but Mankind. Nor did his armor translate it to the word human, but Nykona took it as a possible translation error or possibly the Turian had misspoke.
Nihilus continued, carefully watching Nykona's posture. "We're not with the Batarians, I take it neither are you. But you don't look like a merc either. Are you a… 'Mankind' as well?"
The second occurrence of the word caught Nykona and he quickly made several deductions before responding.
"…Mankind?" he echoed, his voice filtered, translated, and unrecognizable through his helmet's voxgrille. There was a subtle pause before he answered again, slower this time. "You mean human?"
Nihilus blinked. "That's what you call yourselves? 'Human'? Not Mankind?" He seemed a little embarrassed but it was hard for Nykona to tell with such alien features. But the Turian recovered his composure before Sharrowkyn spoke again.
"Yes," Nykona said. "Unusual you would learn such a word and take it to be our name."
Nihilus gave a small, tight expression that might be his species' equivalent of a smile, but Nykona was uncertain about it. "We could say the same about your entrance."
The two stared at one another for a breath longer, tension thickening in the air—but Nykona still did not reach for his weapon. He trusted his reflexes were superior to all aliens present based on his understanding of their physiology.
Nihilus inclined his head slightly—not submission, not even deference. A gesture of mutual recognition? "You're not here to stop us," he said slowly, as if testing the shape of the words. "And you didn't strike when you had every advantage. So that, to me, would imply that you aren't here to kill needlessly."
"I strike when it matters," Nykona replied, his voice filtered through vox distortion and machine-speech algorithms, still carrying an edge like a honed mono-molecular blade. "You're not my quarry."
Nihilus's mandibles twitched once. "Then why follow us? Was it because of them?" he said, gesturing back to the humans who were still reeling from his appearance.
"Yes," Nykona said plainly, "I wished to stop you before you reached your ship."
Something flickered in the older Turian's eyes, but he didn't challenge Nykona as he'd expected. "They're safe with us. That should matter."
"It does," Nykona said. "That's why you're alive."
Behind Nihilus, the younger Turian—Garrus, Nykona recalled from the introduction—shifted. His grip on his rifle slackened but didn't lower. "Could've led with that, maybe," he muttered, voice tight with what was likely nerves. "My trigger finger was real close to letting loose, you know."
Nykona ignored the alien's threat as blithely as he would ignore any threat made from a being who certainly did not possess the ability to slay him. After a breath, Nykona said, airing his unasked question for these aliens: "Why are you attempting to help some of these humans?"
"Because they needed it. And we don't stand by while people are taken." The older Turian was studying Nykona's armored form before him. "We may not know what's happening out here, but slavery's still wrong where we come from."
"What kind of question is that?" Garrus scoffed faintly, shaking his head in what Nykona read as ire. "They're people. Doesn't matter if they're Human," He said, emphasizing the new word, "Or Asari or Turians—if someone's got a boot on their neck, and you can stop it, you stop it." He paused for a beat, and then he added with a quieter edge, "Or you're just part of the problem."
There was no trace of deception in the young Turian's voice. No performance. Just conviction—raw and worn like the blade often drawn. The words echoed, sharper than the alien likely intended in Nykona's head. Something in him, not his body but his soul, was pulled to the fore.
A kaleidoscope long-forgotten memories that were only retained in pieces. The biting cold of Lycaeus' mines, the sickly light from the overseers' glowrods, the cries of the broken and the fury of the oppressed. Then, a flash to when Corax had spoken over the laudhailer network to preach about their liberation at the war's end. And now here was an alien, a xenos, speaking the same truth Nykona had believed was only truly offered by the Master of Mankind and his sons.
But something in this Garrus's tone struck true. It wasn't rhetoric to it, like those who claimed to care for the downtrodden while profiting from their suffering. This was the quiet but held close truth of one who had seen suffering and chosen to oppose it, even if it cost him. After only a few milliseconds, something knocked Nykona from his internal deliberations. A set of eyes which he only now saw were super-fixed on him.
The Asari—Liara T'Soni—hadn't moved since his appearance, but he noted through his squad's visual feeds how her eyes had never left him. The depth of her gaze felt different from the others, not hostile and, now that he had spoken to them, not even wary. Analytical. Hungry, perhaps. Not with aggression, but intellectual appetite. Her voice, when she finally said, was almost reverent.
"You're Species is called Human," she said softly. "What is your species like?"
Nykona turned his helm toward her fully. "We will not be what you expect."
The Asari seemed to absorb the words and fell silent, visibly filing them away like a dutious archivist and returning to her previous state of passive observation.
Nihilus took a breath, before saying, "We're not your enemy, here. And I am sorry this is your species' first introduction to the wider galactic community."
Nykona titled his head by a hair, intrigued by the Turian's ignorance.
The thin line of silence fell over the aliens again. With a partial understanding, if such was the correct word for it, beginning, Nykona felt no harm in letting the silence continue a breath longer. It allowed him to assess the state of the humans behind them. His helmet's optics subtly refocused, isolating the pair at the rear of the group.
The man, slightly larger than an average mortal but still barely at Nykona's chest, was visibly injured. Despite the wound, he'd placed himself between the woman and Nykonas towering form. The Shadow-Captain could tell he held something in his right hand that he was attempting to hide behind his back, definitely a weapon. Most likely a knife, Nykona guessed from the mortal's posture.
The man's face was framed by a beard and scraggly hair both of which were caked in sweat and grime. The man's eyes were bleary and anxiety-stricken. Not totally the wide-eyed panic of a civilian to one of the Emperor's Finest. It was something else, something more profound than that. He had clearly seen Astartes before, but from his expression, Nykona guessed it was anything but a fond experience.
From what Nykona could see of her, the woman was shorter and of a more athletic build. Her attention was split between fighting her own fatigue and keeping a wary eye on Nykona. As she focused on him, particularly his pauldron, her expression suddenly changed from tense dread to widened understanding eyes as recognition struck her, a realization the man seemed to lack.
As he observed and memorized their features, a ping from his helmet's cogitator drew his attention.
IDENTITY MATCH: 96.4% CHANCE
NAME: MACRINUS, JULIAN. RANK: CIVILIAN CAPTAIN. VESSEL: PRIVATE CHARTER, THE MELROSE. STATUS: MISSING—RECOVERY PRIORITY: ALPHA.
ADDITIONAL IDENTITY MATCH: 92.9% CHANCE
NAME: AMOSHA, MACRINUS. RANK: MILITARY CLEARED LIEUTENANT. VESSEL: PRIVATE CHARTER, THE MELROSE. STATUS: MISSING—RECOVERY PRIORITY: ALPHA*
The ghostly flicker of the Melrose's personnel registry blinked across his vision. His fingers twitched slightly at his side. Then he activated a short-burst transmission that he had mentally compiled and sent to Tharos for dissemination to the fleet, flagging it as a priority. "Personnel Recovery Update. Confirmed visual of Imperial personnel: Captain Julian Macrinus and Lieutenant Amosha Macrinus. Both alive. Exterior civilian shuttle bay."
As the transmission pulsed outward from the encrypted Nuncio-Vox on Tharos's back, Nykona took a single step closer. His helm tilted down slightly as he studied the two humans—Imperial citizens, survivors of the Melrose. Macrinus' grip seemed to tighten from the sudden tension in his arm, but his posture had shifted subtly.
They had heard everything so far—his filtered words, the aliens' responses—but their reaction had been muted, as if only partly heard or understood. This was likely due in part to the trauma from the past week, the weight of their capture, the fear of Xenos, and the strain of survival.
Nykona spoke again—this time in High Gothic. "Captain. Lieutenant. You are safe now. The Raven Guard are here to rescue you."
The reaction was immediate. Captain Macrinus flinched as if the words had struck him, his eyes suddenly clearing. "R-Raven Guard…?" His voice rasped with disbelief, but his body straightened with recognition and the flickering embers of discipline.
Amosha stirred weakly beside him. Her eyes, red-rimmed, flicked toward Nykona's face, or rather his helmet. She leaned slightly into her husband's side. Nykona gave them a single, subdued nod. There would be time for a more tender reception soon.
Then his vox crackled to life.
"Nykona," Amit's voice, gravelly and labored with heavy, fury-laden breaths, came through. "The High Admiral has been found. A cohort of humans accompanies him alongside his guardians. My forces are already committed, and as much as I hate to ask it, I'd hate it more if that sump-swilling wretch escaped with any of our people with him. I need you to help ensure he cannot take ship."
Nykona inhaled slowly. The faintest sigh. His eyes flicked back to Nihilus and his crew—then to the wounded human and the man shielding her.
"I do not think you are my enemy," he said softly, his voice suddenly… less cold. "Not today."
And with that, he stepped backward—cloak drawing around him like a living thing—as if the air swallowed him whole. In one blink, he was gone. Only the echo of his footsteps remained for a moment longer.
Behind his back, Nykona flicked a small, circular device from a pouch at his hip. It was flat, the size of a coin, and coated with a dispersal shroud. With a practiced flick of his armored fingers, it arced little more than a glancing light in the gloom, striking the freighter's undercarriage and magnetically adhering near the landing gear.
And with that and a mental command to the Batarian Lacopril and the crew with her to get Macrinus and Amosha aboard the Obligation, Nykona, and his squad tore through the station at full speed. Headed towards the helmet-projected trail that would lead them to where Amit had placed his waypoint.
Alrighty so that's chapter 8! I hope you enjoyed it! Please review and let me know what you think, as well as any glaring points I might have missed.
Okay so for what I foreshadowed about my displeasure in the first Author's Note for this chapter and to be blunt. It was the chaos reveal, for the Planetary Governor. I wanted it to be more obvious/foreshadowed but I feel like I should have been more obvious and had more of it in the intervening chapters. But I couldn't think of any ways to do it without being to obvious and detailing the plot completely to show it until now but hey at least the plots finally starting to move a bit more past gaining awareness of one another. I also had wanted to finish the Logasiri bit this chapter but that was just becoming untenable and would have taken a lot longer and I know this has already been a pretty delayed chapter so we'll have to try and wrap up things on Qniva next time.
*Changed the Persephone and the Three Sisters to be Cruisers rather than Heavy Frigates as I think that works more in this timeline as there would be more ease to create three unique Cruisers for Dorn's boys.
*I know the chips would likely translate it as I've shown them but I thought it would still be interesting to have the old fashion declaration.
*I'm not totally sure if Plasma would pierce kinetic barriers like a laser would, but it seems the Geth Plasma gun doesn't, so I'm assuming no, it wouldn't.
*The Coriolis Power shield had the ability to deflect and reflect attacks so I thought I'd establish that here.
*Just the Angelus with two wrist-mounted bolt guns like a grey knight storm bolter.
*At least that's what color I'd call her eyes.
*I'm not sure that sounds like Imperial technobabble enough, but it's the best I could come up with.
