Fetzen
Somewhere in cis-lunar space
Captain Volkov stormed onto the bridge, sleep still clinging to the corners of his eye, his fury at being awoken so early in his rest cycle directed at the Officer of the Deck.
“Why have I been awoken, Baran? The ship is not at combat alert, so why have I been summoned?”
Baran, ever the professional, handed his captain a dataslate without so much as a flinch at the anger directed his way.
“Sensorium report Captain, there has been an explosion of massive yield at world engine site #12. Yield estimated at or about 150 megatons, sir.”
Volkov skimmed the report, gave the pict recording of the explosion a watch, and handed the dataslate back to Baran. “A failure then? The world engines are wondrous machines, but they are not perfect Baran. Or is there more?”
Baran nodded and led his Captain to the sensorium officer’s station, “Here, Junior Grade Andreeva tracked a single craft leaving the world engine minutes before the explosion at high speed. We suspect sabotage, an outside attack.”
There was silence for a moment, Volkov raising a hand to his temple as he felt a headache coming on before he spoke again, “The direction of travel, that leads to the new Imperial borders, no? Do you think that this was their doing?”
Baran nodded solemnly, “Deep Winter reports suspected sabotage by unknown aggressors, other than the craft leaving the world engine, Deep Winter and our own sensorium and augers detected no incoming missiles or other craft. It could only be them.”
“Damn them, why now?” Volkov left Baran where he stood and moved to his command throne, “I have the bridge.”
“Captain has the bridge,” Baran echoed.
“Loading Bay, is the retrieval of cargo complete?” Volkov asked through the command thrones internal vox. He felt the headache worsen as he waited for the answer from the loading bays.
The radio crackled to life as a tinny voice answered through the distortion, “Complete Shipmaster, the last Selenar shuttle left not minutes ago, and the equipment and gene stocks are secure in the vaults.”
“Excellent,” Volkov said as he cut the connection, “Helmsman, make course for Sanctii at best speed.”
“Setting course for Sanctii at best speed, aye sir.” the helmsman echoed as the crew about the bridge began to move to their stations and set about the many tasks that came with moving a near-kilometer-long voidship.
Far away, ensconced within an arcane apparatus almost as old as he was, Malcador extended his consciousness across the void. He was a headache at first, a throbbing pain at the back of Volkov’s skull, as he extended his control over the man’s mind. “What have you received from the gene-cults?” the Sigilite whispered, exerting his will over the captain, peeling back memories with a gentle touch.
Volkov strained momentarily in his throne, his head pulsing in pain as he pulled up the cargo manifests without thinking. He read over the details, stopping on each item long enough to absorb the contents before swiping to the next item on the list.
He scoffed at the names of archeotech contraptions. Machines of which he knew disturbingly little about that had been hastily loaded into his ship's berths.
“Genetor Banks… Genetor Materiel… Vitae Wombs…” his head felt worse as he read, skimming over sections about temperature-controlled vials of genetic material and cryo-sleep equipment.
Somewhere in the Himalazians
The bulk of the Sigilite’s attention receded from Volkov with that act complete, the psyker remaining only as a dull pain behind the eyes. “They say imitation is the surest form of flattery,” Malcador muttered to himself as he brought forth the deployment lists of the Emperor’s vast armies, searching for a weapon that was both ready and as yet uncommitted. He did not have to search for long.
A single command ushered forth from his fastness deep beneath the Himalayzans, the Legion Master of the Second commanded to present herself before the right-hand of the Master of Mankind. It was time for the Astartes to go to war.
When Seren Crown received the summons, she thought it was fake. Her dataslate was passed around the camp, for everyone to see and snicker about behind her back.
“Are you going to go?” Her second-in-command asked her.
“I don’t exactly have a choice,” Seren grunted.
Seren’s first reaction to seeing the vault was to marvel at its size. Her second was to think about the possible ways one could break into it. There was only one entrance, and being underground would require drilling through a mountain to reach it. Her thoughts were interrupted by a set of double doors opening to reveal Malcador, the Emperor’s right hand. She gave him a lazy salute. “Malcador.” She cleared her throat and straightened her salute, “Sir. You asked to see me?”
The entrance to Malcador’s fastness was a pair of wrought adamantium doors over ten meters tall, and broad enough to comfortably fit five power armored warriors abreast. It dwarfed Seren, and made the wizened form of the Sigilite almost vanish within its immensity. He arched a brow at her as clutched upon his staff, right hand shackled to it by a length of manacle.
“Brash,” he muttered with a soft snort, turning on his heel as he began to hobble within the cyclopean vault built into the very bones of the ancient mountains. Here were stored some of the most deadly weapons ever crafted by human hands, and the most treasured artifacts of its illustrious past. Malcador cared nothing for them, locked away as they were, hinted at only by the doors locking them away from reckless use and vain ambition. “Such is well,” he added in the same, quiet, voice, simply presuming Seren would follow him.
“I have need of you, and your warriors. Is the Second prepared to take the field?”
For the last two weeks, the Second had been engaged in an intense tournament of Liar’s Dice. The finals were scheduled to be held tomorrow evening, and they were very much not ready to take the field, “Of course. Where do you need us?”
The millennia-old man froze for a moment, looking back at the Astartes with a crooked smile. “That is… a more complicated question than you might. I am afraid that your first engagement will have you roll the dice. Come.”
Malcador advanced further into the subterranean vault, until arriving at a hololith displaying representations of Terra and her moon. A red rune glowed at a point in space halfway in between the two celestial bodies. “There is a voidship I need boarded.”
Seren squinted at the shapes, the bright lights of the display making it difficult for her to see. “Something tells me that we’re not going to be allowed to take another ship out to meet it.” There was a glint of excitement in her eyes. She had not expected their first engagement to be in space. “Did you already have an idea in mind?”
“There is precious little time, and this vessel outguns all craft that the Emperor has at hand,” Malcador confirmed. “The only alternative is a teleporter deep strike, but at such a range it will be extremely perilous. I will do what I can to prepare and guide you to your destination, but I will not lie to you. This is a desperate gamble, not a cunning plan.”
As the Sigillite spoke, a smile grew on Seren’s face. When he finished, she laughed, “Malcador, you’ve come to the right person. There isn’t a legion in the army that likes to gamble more than the Second. When do we leave?”
“As soon as you are prepared,” Malcador said gravely as he stared at the glaring red rune of Sanctii’s voidship. “But first, heed my words. Your mission is twofold. While the threat of this vessel to the siege warrants it be disabled, be aware that its cargo is of great interest to myself and your lord. Take command of this vessel, with whatever it carries still intact, and the Second will have accrued great glory in their first foray. Now go, prepare your warriors and bring them hence.”
The teleportarium chamber was built atop a high peak of the proud Himalayza mountain range, the ancient stone still standing tall despite millennia of mankind throwing their most destructive weapons at each other. The snows buried vast craters caused by nuclear, and worse, explosions, steep valleys forever entombing the armies who have attempted to cross or conquer them. Here, gazing out from the roof of the world, Malcador awaited the warriors of the Second.
It was a vast chamber of bronze and glass, the entire dome that made its roof transparent so that one might see the stars whirling overhead. Those with a keen eye could see, even now, one moving with the too-fast-yet-too-slow gait of a voidship plying its way through the far orbits of the wounded Earth. Within a vast circular room the Sigilite stood, staring at that staid transit, surrounded by robed and chained psykers of his order, and as they chanted a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature outside filled the air.
“Remain calm as you prepare the way,” Malcador said softly, his staff clinking against the intricately wrought metal of the floor. Almost as much a piece of art as of technology, the entire edifice was filled with esoteric instruments and arcane displays that only the most learned of these fallen days could understand - and even then, only just. It was this nigh forgotten wonder that he would entrust the hopes of the Astartes upon, temperamental and rarely used as it was.
The Second entered the chamber in one amorphous, chaotic mass as too many people tried to walk through a too-small door at the same time. Seren was at the head, walking backward watching the amoeba that was the Second doing its best to form straight orderly lines, “Barkley, you’re supposed to be in Spade’s squad on the left! Your other left! Nope never mind you were right the first time. Gwen wake up, I can see you back there! Are you going to make Jara carry you through the teleporter?” She was nursing a terrible hangover from the previous night’s activities, as was most of the rest of the legion. Despite their looming assignment, they had pushed ahead with their gambling finale and it had been glorious. Though she had not participated in the actual tournament, Seren had still been able to take home a sizable egg nest for correctly betting on the winner.
“Crown. Coffee for you.”
She took the offered thermos from her second-in-command gratefully, “Thanks Spade. Don’t know what I’d do without you.” She took a sip and leaned in close. “What time is it?” she hissed.
“We’re only five minutes late. All things considered, I’d say we’re doing great.”
“Beautiful.” Seren turned around to faceforward, only to find herself face to face with the Sigillite himself. She stopped, made a messy salute, and shot a glare back at Spade who had obviously seen him approaching and stayed quiet, “Sir. The Second Legion is here, reporting for duty. We’re ready to enter the teleportarium chamber.”
Behind her, the Legion shifted, yawned, and whispered amongst themselves. None of them appeared to be particularly worried about being sent on a possible suicide mission. In fact, just after waking up this morning, the Legion had already started taking bets on who would and wouldn’t make it after the jump. Even now, money discreetly changed hands and numbers were being written down.
Malcador stood silently for a moment, his face inscrutable and blank, hand tightening for a moment on his staff. And then… the Sigilite laughed, a thready noise, like wind through the desert. “I can think of none better for this,” he said to Seren, before his voice grew in volume until it enveloped the whole of the chamber. “Strength of arms shall not make the difference here, for my lord has already made you mightier than the curs you shall face. Valor and bravery you have in abundance, neither will it determine who lives and who dies upon this day. You entrust yourselves, Astartes, to the cruelest test of all.”
A hum that thrummed inside of the very bones of those present began as the teleportarium began to charge, an unseen vortex pulling the air into the epicenter of the chamber where the circled psykers chanted with increased fervor. Bolts of energy arced from ancient and corroded diodes, filling the air with the stench of ozone as the work of elder days was pressed once more into service for he who would name himself the Master of Mankind.
“Are you feeling lucky, young warriors of the Emperor?”
(Thanks to @itarichan and @FrostedCaramel)
