[hr][h2] XVIII Legion - The Black Manticores 2nd Battle Company M31.000 Bridge of the [i]Dark Promise[/i] Ullanor Quintus Ullanor Sector[/h2][hr] Leonarys had witnessed the vast expanse of the void a thousand times, and he would witness it a thousand more. It mattered not how many times the Praetor travelled through the swirling ocean of stars. True comprehension of it would always elude him. Gazing out from the bridge of the Grand Cruiser [i]Dark Promise[/i], Leonarys pondered upon how many billions were going about their daily lives, blissfully unaware of the blood being shed for their benefit on this Crusade. The true scale of the Imperium, of the all the lives it had touched, was truly unfathomable. Leonarys pushed the thoughts from his head. Wonderings fit for a scholar, perhaps. But now was the not the time for ponderance or sentiment. All around, consoles and panels were ablaze with electric glow, the bright blue light waging war against the shadows of the otherwise poorly lit bridge. Hundreds of loyal servitors, more a part of the ship than they were their own person, spanned the decks below the raised walkway where Leonarys and other assorted command personnel stood. Their movements were relentless, keying commands and processing data. Bundles of thick electrical cables protruded from their flesh, connecting them to the ship like individual nerves of a single mechanical brain, controlling the ship in harmony as easily as Leonarys might move an arm. The hum of the raw electrical energy powering the surrounding machinery and circuitry was dull and incessant, secondary in volume only to the jumbled chatter of the hundreds present on the ship’s bridge. The [i]Dark Promise[/i] stood at the head of a few dozen warships tasked with bringing the righteous wrath of the Emperor to the Ork-infested world of Ullanor V. While a large contingent of the XVIII legion’s forces remained at Ullanor Prime in preparation for a strike at the core of this so-called empire, Leonarys had been hand chosen by his gene-father to lead a secondary group in the cleansing of the system’s other worlds. With Ullanor V the designated target, Leonarys had been only too honoured to accept the command, venturing out immediately with some ten thousand of his legionary brothers. He had not been counting the days since his fleet group had left that of the Primarch’s, but he was sure several had passed. For those days he had seen nothing but stars, a surreal stillness that often preluded the glory and bloodshed of battle. That prelude had reached its conclusion now, it seemed, for the view from the bridge now had the world of Ullanor V at its center. “It is upon us.” The voice from Leonarys’ right was that of Ophiel Mectus, the Chief Lorekeeper of the Black Manticores. He was a curious man, wizened and weathered despite not being vastly older than most of the other Astartes. Leonarys had always assumed his elderly appearance to be a side effect of the psychic ‘gifts’ that men like Ophiel possessed, but whether there was any truth to that notion, Leonarys did not know. Nor did he know why now, of all times, Ophiel had decided to venture beyond the safety of the Legion’s sanctum on Ictar. The Chief Lorekeeper was hardly a reputed warrior, preferring usually to do battle with the dust-covered repositories of the Librarium than the foes of the Imperium of Man. Yet here he stood, at Leonarys’ side. “It is upon us,” Leonarys echoed, before turning away from his position and towards a large circular holo-table at the centre of the strategium, where Astartes and Imperial Naval personnel alike stood gathered and waiting. The Praetor bellowed into his vox, “Give me scans of the defences.” With a flicker, ranged scans presented a high-resolution holographic image of the planet, a zoomed in picture of what Leonarys had been observing moments before. The light bathed the room, tinting his pale skin an ethereal blue. Quickly into view came the battlefleet, the [i]Dark Promise[/i], Ullanor V. And the Orks. Leonarys grimaced as he took in the details of what lay before him. Despite the fact that the considerable bulk of the Ork forces had converged on Ullanor Prime to defend their core world, it was obvious that they had not left the other planets of the system undefended. Crude Ork warships, hulking behemoths of repurposed scrap metal, floated in orbit with a grace entirely unbefitting of their cack-handed construction. Their numbers were less than, but not too dissimilar from, the Black Manticores battlefleet that Leonarys commanded; a handful of larger ships, none obviously marked as any kind of capital ship, and a smattering of smaller vessels. Unlike the Imperial force, there was no uniformity of design, and Leonarys would not have been surprised if a number of the ships before them had been hastily assembled to bolster the Greenskin forces since the Astartes had reached the Ullanor system. It seemed that was not the only thing they had been building, much to the dismay of Leonarys and the assembled officers. On either side of the formation of Ork ships, two space stations stood sentinel. Leonarys commanded for them to become the focus of the display, staring intently at the constructs. His eyes went around the faces of those at the table, their expressions a mixture of confusion and concern. The constructs were indeed perplexing. Apparently formed from a hollowed rock, the Orks had improvised a space station by crudely splicing scrap metal with asteroids. The platforms were heavily armed, sporting more weapons than anyone could reasonably have use of. Leonarys spied Ophiel across the table to his left, grinning at the improvised stations with genuine childlike delight. “Fascinating,” the Chief Lorekeeper said under his breath. “I had read about such things in the repositories, but to see it with my own eyes.” He gave pause. “The Orks may be crude and feral, but their ingenuity is astonishing.” “They are a threat to the Imperium,” Captain Izral countered Ophiel, “and they will be purged.” Leonarys raised a hand to hush them both. “Captain Addis.” The Praetor’s voice was gruff and commanding, cutting through the background noise and commanding all present to listen. The Imperial Naval officer directly opposite from the Praetor stood bolt upright, abandoning whatever thoughts had been troubling him to focus on the conversation at hand. He was relatively young for a captain if the ones Leonarys had met before were anything to go by. His uniform was clustered with multicoloured medals, however, and Leonarys had little option but to trust in this man’s abilities. “Have you completed full scans of orbit?” “Yes, Sir.” The response was curt, but polite. “And this is all there is? I do not wish to commit to battle only to be blindsided.” “This is everything, sir. The Orks have mustered all available naval forces into orbit to oppose us.” “Good. I assume, as we have not yet been fired upon, that for the time being we are out of range of those weapon platforms. The Greenskins are hardly notorious for their restraint.” Leonarys took pause to return the readout to a full view of the planet, the Orks, and all the space between them and his own fleet. Leonarys was a battlefield commander, not a naval tactician, but in the absence of one more qualified the burden of command had come to rest squarely on his hulking shoulders. “It is evident that if we charge headlong into this engagement, the combined fire of their fleet and stations would cripple us to the point of rendering a successful ground campaign near impossible. Our goal is to secure Ullanor V for the Imperium, and dominance in orbit is the crucial first stage of that endeavour.” “We could call for aid.” “We could, Izral, but every moment that we languish in inaction we risk a reinforcing Ork fleet arriving.” Leonarys stared hard at the readout, shaking his head at the situation that faced him. The fleet had no choice but to face the enemy head on, that much was clear to Leonarys. While some of the Imperial forces had been dispatched in large numbers to tackle Ullanor’s scattered planets. Leonarys and his fleet were comparatively few in number. Had they found the world better defended, it was likely they would have had to abandon their pursuits. Similarly, had they been more numerous then everything would have been more straightforward. Leonarys counted himself fortunate to not be staring down a hundred or more Ork ships right now, given their tendency for forming hordes. However, in their current situation, Leonarys simply could not afford heavy casualties before even reaching the surface. “We should seek to divide their forces,” Ophiel broke the silence. The entire table turned to face the Lorekeeper. “We can make short work of the fleet and the stations, as long as we face each as a single opponent. The Orks are headstrong and reckless, prone to impulse. If we can draw their fleet out and away from the support of those stations, we can make quick work of them with our lances. After that, the matter of dispatching the stations with transports and assault teams should be a trivial one.” Leonarys scratched at his bare chin and ran an armoured hand along his buzzcut hair. His dull red eyes counted that the Ork ships numbered in the high twenties, while their own fleet was closer to forty. It was true that against the fleet alone, victory was assured, but a sustained engagement with the Ork fleet whilst under heavy weapons fire from the platform was simply not an option. The grim reality of the situation dawned on him. Losses were unavoidable, but the sacrifice of a few may pave the path for the survival of the many. Leonarys’ gene-father had taught them that no sacrifice was too great to ensure victory, and with that in mind, the way forward was clear. “We would need to send ships forward to draw out the Orks. We need them where we can bombard them with lance fire from our cruisers whilst maintaining a safe range from their stations.” “That would be a suicide mission, sir,” Addis chimed in, clearly unhappy that the Astartes were planning to sacrifice his vessels and his men. “Indeed, Captain. A glorious sacrifice in the name of the Emperor. There is none more noble.” It was obvious from the scowl on the captain’s face that Leonarys’ rousing words had done little to sway him. Yet, Leonarys was undeterred, necessity dictating his every thought. Men would die, and they would die proudly. “Captain. Send word to the fleet. All combat personnel, Astartes and otherwise, are to withdraw to the cruisers. Ask for volunteers, we will need a handful of ships to make the feint convincing. Save every possible tank, shell and bullet we can.” The Captain walked back towards the main decks, crowded with servitors and serfs, and began barking orders. Leonarys placed both hands flat on the table, leaning in close to the holographic projection of his fleet. For a while, no one spoke while thoughts ricocheted around in the Praetor’s skull. Various serfs came and went and vox chatter echoed throughout the bridge, statistical reports of successful munitions transfers and messages from one department to another. All the while, Leonarys’ gaze was fixed on the hologram before him. He rotated it, he zoomed in and out, he highlighted targets and formulated a tactical solution to their problem in his head. And the entire time, his eyes kept finding themselves on the very edge of the readout, waiting for the inevitable ping that more Ork vessels had entered the space above Ullanor V. Thankfully, the outskirts of the readout had remained blank by the time Addis returned to the table. “We have four volunteer vessels, Sir. Two destroyers two escorts.” Leonarys gave a grim nod. “Reassure them that the Imperium thanks them, Captain. Their loyalty is admirable, and they have proven their character. Their sacrifices will not be in vain, and they will not be forgotten.” The Praetor’s mind wandered back to his earlier musings about the billions of lives under the rule of the Imperium. Billions of lives that would never know the names of these men, who were surely to die so that they may know safety and peace. The necessities of war were not always pleasant, but Leonarys did not balk at the thought. Whatever needed to be done, however grim, it would be so. That was what it meant to be a brother of the Black Manticores. “Our approach will be simple, brothers.” The officers assembled around the glowing holo-projection once more. “The Orks are erratic. When they see the audacity of Imperium ships approaching, they will hurtle forth with their full might no doubt. Our noble volunteers will lead the charge, spreading out to try and engage as much of the Ork fleet upon contact as possible. We will leave them with enough munitions to fight. The idea is to engage them around this space,” Leonarys pointed a large armour-clad finger at the readout, “where we estimate they will be at the edge of the platform range.” “Vessels with short ranged weapons will follow behind at a distance, remaining out of range of the platforms and providing close support to our volunteers with macrocannons. They will not engage the Orks until the fleet has been drawn out to meet us and they have engaged the volunteers. Once the battle begins, our cruisers will turn broadside at the rear of the formation and unleash the fury of our lances upon them. The crude hulls of these scrap vessels will be no match for concentrated energy beams. We will eviscerate the xenos in a hail of righteous fury.” The resolve had returned to the faces of the officers at the table, now assured that Leonarys had a sound tactical plan. All except for Addis, who had turned so pale that he almost matched the ghostly visages of the towering Astartes around him. Ophiel studied the battle plans, his expression indecipherable. Making a fist, Leonarys slammed his gauntleted right hand into the chest plate of his armour in salute, sending a thunderous noise throughout the bridge. He bellowed, “For the Emperor.” His men responded in kind with a clangour of salutes. “For the Emperor.”