《Into the Hulk》 Chapter 0: Character Select Elena MacWater leaned back from the fiberboard desk in her cramped temporary quarters. The Inquisitor had delegated the task of selecting a team to explore the Space Hulk Capitalis Congestus. The Inquisitor already had an Agent aboard the hulk, but it would take one man (or woman) several lifetimes over to map the entirety of the four-hundred and fifty-two cubic kilometer spheroid of wrecked ships, asteroids, and Emperor knew what else. Elena knew she didn''t have the full intelligence brief when it came to the Capitalis Congestus. She didn''t know who the Inquisitor''s Agent was, nor when the survey work had begun, or even how far it had progressed. She didn''t even know what system it and she were in. All she had to give to her team was an incomplete map and a prayer. She did have a rather generous operating budget, including the semi-clandestine use of a small set of void-hab modules tethered near the toehold the Inquisitor''s Agent had declared "relatively secure". It wasn''t enough to hire, house, and feed a particularly large team, so Elena had made her initial selections with care. Even now, other Agents were working to extract them from what lives they had and to smuggle them here. Wherever here was. All Elena had left to do was select the leader of the team. Elena scooped up the quartet of data-slates in front of her. Each contained the bio of one of her underlings-to-be, and she quickly parsed through the summary sections again to refresh her memory. First in the stack was Trooper Atellus Havelock, formerly of the Adeptus Arbites, Oasis precinct. The Adeptus Arbites are the Imperium''s lawkeepers, and Atellus was in good standing with his superiors despite some borderline insane crap he had pulled while breaking up a few back-alley brawls. The Dossier did note that he possessed above average strength and perception, but was not possessed of a particularly strong force of will. Atellus was known to live alone at the age of twenty-one, his parents having all but disowned him when he joined the Arbites instead of the Planetary Defense Force. The second dataslate almost made Elena''s hair stand up when she considered the person whose biography was contained within: Sanctioned Imperial Psyker Cian Mac Vir Dannan, fresh off of one of the Black Ships from Holy Terra at the age of forty-two, though he had been born on Dagda. Cian had passed and survived the sanctioning process more intact than most, according to the notes Elena had before her, though his skin and hair were noted to be permanently dyed in distinctive colors. Elena shrugged this off, considering some dye, however discolored, to be preferable to the physical damage and deformities she had seen on other psykers. Cian was known to have the phenomenal strength and toughness of his deathworld homeworld, matched with the mental strength of a stable sanctioned psyker, at the cost of below-average fellowship and poor close-combat skills. What life and connections Cian had possessed on Dagda had been shorn away when he was selected by the Black Ships, leaving him adrift and alone.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The third dataslate contained the remarkably plain biography of Novice Cleric Kathrine ¡®Cat¡¯ Megeria. A former housewife from Oasis who had taken holy orders with the Ecclesiarchy after her husband and son had died in the crossfire of a gang fight. They had been innocent bystanders, but incoming fire is indiscriminate in its targeting, and their deaths had left Cat without a home to live in or an income to support herself at the start of her third decade. She had just finished her basic instruction and taken her vows at the age of thirty-one, and her biography contained no notation as to particular skills or deficiencies. It did contain a note that Cat was capable of incredible rage and fury if suitably provoked, though it was also noted that the amount of provocation required was well above and beyond what the average Imperial Citizen would ever see. The last dataslate contained the life summary of Technographer Zarkov Terezna Olegovich of the Adeptus Mechanicus. It, for gender was rather irreverent once a certain degree of cybernetic augmentation had occurred, was due for a rotation off of its home of the Gibil 2 shipyard in the HJG-1034 system. Born and raised in a space station, Terezna Olegovice would be at home in the low- nor null-gravity environments that could be expected in some areas aboard the Capitalis Congestus, though the low strength and fellowship (notably worse when dealing with non-voidborns) it possessed would offset that to some degree. Raised from an early age in the presence, and eventually as a member of, the Adeptus Mechanicus, the twenty-five year old Terezna Olegovich was perhaps the only recruit who could be considered technically proficient above and beyond simple things like manipulating dataslates and flipping light switches. Elena leaned back and pressed her palms to her eyes. None of the four was marked or stood out as a natural leader, which meant that she would have to make a decision with what she knew of them from the slates, without having met any of the people or seen them interact with each other. Chapter 1: Selection You are Technographer Zarkov Terezna Olegovich, commonly called Tereza Olegovich You stare at the display terminal in your quarters. It is a transfer command, notifying you of your imminent rotation to a new location of work. You suppose that it was about time for such a command to come down, but it still puzzles you. The standard form of said command would include destination, travel routing, generic work instructions, and the designation of the Adept or Magos to whom you would be beholden. This command has almost none of that, only including which shuttle you are to board for departure, when it will be departing, and a reminder that only essential personal effects may be brought with you. The ''personal effects only'' instruction bothers you not at all. You have seen it before, and have almost nothing worth keeping anyway, given that sentimentality is one of those biological logical fallacies that you are trying to set aside. Quickly, you perform a self-assessment to determine what you have and what you need to bring with yourself. You turn to the polished metal wall of your quarters, using the surface as an improvised mirror. Your gaunt, pallid grey-skinned form stares back at you with green eyes. Your ginger hair falls lankly out of your red vestments. You are perhaps slightly above average height at 1.800 meters, though your body weighs only 60.000 kilograms (augmetics included) due to your youth in a low-gravity environment. You tilt your head to the side, considering the most obvious of those augmentations: a brass-skinned seamless mask covering your throat and the lower half of your face below the eyes. The small grille of a voxcater pierces your throat, enabling you to speak in a monotone dirge, and a biological nutrient port sits just below that, letting you continue to feed your weak biological flesh. The electrically conductive inlays on your hands and forearms, called ''electoos'' by uninitiated biologicals, let you interface freely with most data-points without the need to physically jack in. You can feel the slight tug of the scars left from the implantation of your Cyber Mantle down your spine and about your pelvis, to match the small web of scar tissue on your lower abdomen where you had your useless biological reproductive organs replaced with your Potentia Coil.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Personal assessment complete, you rapidly inventory your personal effects. You discard most automatically as non-essential, keeping only what you can carry. You don your flack vest, reasoning that it will be easier to carry that way, and fill its pouches with a small glow-lamp, a multi-purpose dataslate,a vial of sacred machine oil, and a double-handful of odds-and-ends spare parts: a small powercell, a few short wires, a few gears. You empty your weapons locker; holstering your knife and laspistol at your belt, slinging your lascarbine across your back on its carrying strap, and taking up your 1421 wrought-aluminum staff. You stuff a powercell for each of your lasweapons into pockets where you can easily get at them, not in the weapons themselves as per safety regulations. Lastly, you attach your coin-pouch with its 157.000 credits securely to your belt. You have eleven hours left aboard Gibil 2 before your report to the nameless shuttle for your departure. You wonder if there are any other preparations that you would like to make before leaving. Chapter 2: Item Acquisition You decide that expending some of your 157.000 credits to acquire new, helpful items for your journey would not be a poor idea. So you head down to the procurement module and begin to browse. The idea of buying a combi-tool springs to mind, but one glance at the cost (200 credits) dissuades you of that notion. A hand-held auspex scanner is likewise considered and ignored for the same reason. but two useful items do catch your eye and open your money-pouch: a micro-bead personal vox unit and a portable lascutter. The microbead is essential for communicating with work-mates over the noise of machines or across a workshop floor. The lascutter can both cut and weld metal, both options useful in many tasks and situations. The microbead slips into your ear easily enough, but the lascutter is too large and awkward to easily stow about your person. You don''t need to ponder a solution for long before deciding to invest in a backpack. You opt for a rugged model capable of carrying more weight then you can at the moment, figuring to keep the same one (or at least the same model) as your augmentations eventually increase your strength. It is the work of a few moments to transfer your various items from your pockets to your new pack. The lack of a job description on your transfer command makes you wonder if your new, unknown assignment will be dangerous. You decide to presume that it will be and take some precautions. You know little of combat or fighting, only what you inloaded from the training archives, so you decide that a helmet would not go amiss: cranial damage tends to be fatal to organics and you still qualify as one, much to your ongoing disquiet. The armory yields a flack helmet for the proper sum, but a monomolecular edging upgrade for your knife, being both a useful tool and a combat implement, proves slightly too expensive for your (now diminished) supply of credits. Instead you opt for a back-up power pack for both your laspistol and lascarbine. A random thought occurs to you: acquire a pet. Not an unexpected event, given the organic state of your cortex, but surprising nonetheless. You decide to at least investigate where this curious thought leads. Many of the menial workers have pets, or at least semi-domesticated vermin animals given that importing organics for non-work purposes is banned: Gibil 2 must import all of its foodstuffs, so anything deemed superfluous to requirements is forbidden. Accordingly, you presume that any organic companion would also be forbidden at your destination. Disheartened at the thought, you ponder acquiring a non-organic companion of some sort. You are far to low of a rank, and too poor, to acquire a servitor of any description, and the miniaturized anti-grav unit of a servo-skull would be far beyond your ability to maintain, but the idea of getting a humbler companion machine sticks in your cortex and refuses to leave. You look for the pricing on a Cyber-Altered Task Unit, little more then a minimally autonomous floor sweeper or mobile scanner, and wince at the two hundred credit cost of a basic unit. The vendor does comment that many Technographers, and indeed many techpriests in general, prefer to build their own units as a meditative exercise. Buying only the parts you would need and doing the work yourself would reduce the cost to a mere one hundred and fifty credits. It is still far beyond what you can currently afford, but you decide to keep the thought in mind for later.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. You arrive at the shuttle bay indicated on your transfer order and are surprised yet again. Instead of the usual personnel / cargo shuttle, you are greeted by the sight of a battered guncutter with no particular livery and clearly in need of a paint job. Its engines have the reassuring thrum of finely-tuned works of mechanical art, and the weapon-mounts are all clean and cleared for action. The last is something of a safety hazard, but you have no intention of arguing safety regulations with a ship armed with two long-barreled lascannons and a quartet of heavy bolters. The logical end result would be you missing your flight (at best) or being reduced to a messy stain on the deck (at worst). Instead you simply follow the instructions of the Flight Master and board when told. The ride out to whichever ship you are to be transported on is relatively quick at only ten hours, given that the guncutter must navigate the Gibil 1 debris field to get back to its mothership. You disembark and follow a guide-servitor down a passageway to a suite of rooms. At first you are taken aback at the lavishness of your quarters, but a brief inspection proves that your conveyance is as credit-pinching as any of the chartist cargo captains you have heard stories about. Of the four rooms around the central common room, two prove to be filled to the deckheads with cargo crates, the third is a washroom, and the fourth is subdivided into two spartan berths. One of the berths proves to be occupied by a middle-aged man with white hair and tattered robes, whose onyx skin seems wrapped taught around a slender frame filled out with corded muscles. He seems withdrawn, content to be left alone. You permit yourself to feel curious. This will be the first time you have traveled aboard a proper starship (shuttles and the like not being warp-capable) and you have an itch between your shoulders prodding you to find out new things. Chapter 3: The Other Side If the onyx-skinned man is content to be left alone, then you are satisfied with leaving him alone. You stow your backpack and weapons under the available bunk before pondering where you would like to explore aboard the ship. You decide that knowing where you can go and how to get there would be a good idea, so you search your quarters for a datapoint. Unsurprisingly, you find one under a hatch sealed with the cogwheel symbol of your order. You wince when you glance down the dates of last performed maintenance (almost a century ago, far too long per regulations) but the datapoint grants you limited access when you activate your Elecro Graft. The command prompt is surprisingly limited, refusing or rejecting the vast majority of the commands you attempt to input. Frustrated, you try the brute force method of simply calling for a list of all available files in your current directory. The list is brutally short, including only two files: one is a list of acceptable places for you to wander (your quarters, an observation dome, and the Ecleciarcy shrine to the God-Emperor halfway between the two) and a deck guide showing only the most direct route to and from each. The other file is a curt warning that deviating from the indicated route is strongly discouraged due to safety concerns. You consider the lack of maintenance on the datapoint you are using and decide that following the warning is a very good idea. Accordingly, you inload the deck guide to your dataslate, power down the datapoint, and set off for the observation dome.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. You pause in the doorway of your quarters and go back for the ammunition you left in your backpack. You don''t think that you will need it, but it does you no good sitting in your quarters if it turns out that you do need it. That task completed, you consult the deck guide and head for the observation dome. The observation dome proves to be on the bottom of the ship, giving you a clear view in almost every direction. The back of the ship is lit by the glowing plasma ejected from the main drive. By that illumination you study the gothic flying buttresses reinforcing the superstructure of the ship. Glancing past the glow, you can barely make out a smudge against the stars that you guess to be Gibil and Gibil 2. You turn to look towards the front of the ship and stare at the stars as they take on a blue tinge. You are puzzled, because stellar phenomena shouldn''t change colors. The voxhorn on the wall sputters, crackles, and then goes silent in a shower of sparks. You frown, unsettled by the continuing examples of poor maintenance aboard this ship. The armored shutters begin to grind shut, cutting off your view of the universe. You surmise that the message that the voxhorn failed to play was a warning of some sort. You start to leave the observation dome when you notice one of the shutters has jammed. Chapter 4: Percussive Maintenance 101 - Apply Fist to Object
Perception check: look for things that could help. Failed: needed <31, got 64.
Tech Use check: fix the shutter by percussive maintenance. Success: needed <38, got 28.
You frantically look about for a reference manual, a spanner left behind, a datapoint that might contain a helpful user guide. You find nothing of the sort, and must force yourself to drag your eyes away from the view through the open shutter at least twice. You suck air through your intake valve (the closest you can come to sucking air through your teeth) and start in on the Rite of Percussive Maintenance (abbreviated). On the requisite second repetition (the first being a warning to the machine spirit in question), you strike the stuck shutter squarely with your fist. Nothing happens for a brief moment. Your organic heart races as catecholamines race through your blood. You curse it''s frailty and your own fear as you ready your fist for another strike. You lower your fist, relieved that the shutter appears to be functional again.
Fear Test: brief Warp exposure. Willpower test at -30%. Failed: needed <6, got 66. +1 Insanity.
Shock table: rolled at +60, got result 81-100: Run Away!
But without something to focus on, your fear gets the better of you. You turn and sprint through the doorway, slamming it shut behind you. You don''t have to ponder what you just did for long. You just glanced, ever so briefly and unintentionally, into the Warp. You thank the Omnissiah that you did not linger, for doing so leads to madness and mutation: the corruption of organic flesh and the ruination of mechanical perfection. You flee headlong down the hallway, heedless of your path. You don''t know or care where you are going, just that it is away from the observation dome. Your flight is brought to an abrupt conclusion as you round a corner and slam headfirst into something tall and solid. You pass out.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Failed a Level 4 Fear test involving the warp: +4 Corruption.
Passing exposure to the Warp: +10 Corruption
>10 Corruption: Malignancy test (Willpower). Failed: needed <36, got 40.
Malignancy Table: rolled at +0, got result 64-70: Poor Health. Lost -10% toughness.
You wake up in the bunk in your quarters with a fellow techpriest leaning over you. You recognize the rank-insignia of a Mech-Wright about his neck. Before you can speak, the Mech-Wright nods. "You saved me a bit of work, so I guess some thanks are in order. Take this, it might be helpful next time." The Mech-Wright drops a combi-tool on your chest, then turns and clomps out of your berth. You lean back into the bunk and let the air wheeze out of your lungs. You feel weak, helpless. You doubt you could even carry your backpack and weapons in your current condition. You resolve to spend some time at exercise during the remaining portion of the trip. The Onyx-skinned man appears in the doorway, "a runner dropped off a dataslate for you while you were out. Paperwork, unless I miss my guess. You should have plenty of time to fill it out, given that we''re in the warp now and confined to quarters for the duration. Orders from the arms-master, in case you were wondering. Standard procedure for passengers during warp-transits." You nod and settle back. You have some time to expend, you presume, and resolve to use it to better yourself. Chapter 5: Introductions
New Talent learned: Binary Chatter. +10% to command, program, question, etc. Servitors
New Skill learned (by DM fiat): Demolitions. May craft, place, arm, defuse, etc. EXPLOSIVES!
You take a nap before doing anything else, seeing as you have plenty of time to get your paperwork done. You wake and collect the dataslate alone with a nutrient tube. You crack open the tube and begin to insert the contents into your sustenance intake port while the dataslate boots up. Once it signals the completion of the ritual of activation with the usual chime, you pull up the file list to begin your paperwork. You notice a few garbage files left over from an improper data cleanse, but you ignore them for the moment. The paperwork proves to be the aptitude tests for your promotion to Mech-Wright. You are slightly startled as you are only just past your first quarter-century of life if you count from the date of your flesh-birth. You had expected to see this paperwork after your completed your current work-rotation, which would mark a quarter-century since the implantation of your Cyber Mantle and the beginning of your service to the Omnissiah. You decide not to question your good fortune (or more likely, the adept that mis-entered your birth information into the great Database) and begin filling out the forms. There is no particular time-limit to the aptitude test, so you send some extra time brushing up on servitor commands before filling out that section. You score higher than your previous Binary Competence test, which is quite satisfying, and mark the paperwork as completed. But the other partial files grab your attention. You remove all of the ones that are corrupted or otherwise fail to open, but that still leaves a small handful behind. Intrigued, you open up one marked QuickRef.txt and start reading. It is a manual on the art of Demolitions. You are enthralled and enlightened by all of the references in the document, and frustrated by all of the references to the docs you just deleted. You don''t have all of the information you need to master the subject, not even close. But you do have enough now committed to memory (and inloaded to your personal dataslate) to make a decent attempt. You spent the rest of the voyage, a period of about three weeks, trying to learn more. Your search proves futile however, as all of the references you do find are to external datapoints or hard-copy documents sitting in a vault on a Forgeworld somewhere. The Onyx-skinned man spent his time in prayer or meditation as far as you can tell, but you left him be given how engrossed you were in your studies. Eventually there comes a shudder, a twisting sensation, and a the voxhorn mounted to the bulkhead bleats something about passengers and disembarking. You ignore it and keep meditating over the proper ritual methodology of applying det tape to bundled blocks of explosive compounds. A few moments later the Onyx-skinned man pokes his head into your bunk for only the second time since your journey began. "It''s time for us to go." You shrug and pack away the few things you have out, then follow the Onyx-skinned man and a guide servitor back to the shuttle bay and the same guncutter that delivered you to this nameless ship. You get on it and it takes off without any ceremony. You glance out one of the few windows and notice with utter astonishment that you are approaching the largest ball of wrecked ships that you have ever seen. You have no idea how such an assemblage of craft could have come to be, but you do know with absolute certainty (Gibil 2 being a shipyard after all) that most of the ships you can see are of Imperial construction, and that none of them were intentionally built into this... thing. You exit the guncutter and stand in the small one-craft docking bay of the void habitation module attached to the monstrosity. The Onyx-skinned man is clearly discomforted by the 0.950 % gravity and the apparent thinness of the exterior plating. You know this kind of module however, having grown up in one. The gravity is within acceptable variances, particularly for a void-gaped hab module, and the exterior plating is habitually built out of escort armor-quality plating. It won''t stand up to macrocannon fire, but micrometeorites and stray debris will bounce right off. You lead the way out of the docking bay, but pause when you see the woman with the black hair and two bolt pistols waiting. The docking bay gives out the distinctive rumble of venting atmosphere, the slight tremor of a departing craft (the guncutter), the muted bounce of another craft landing, and at last the atmos pumps whir into life to re-pressurize the bay so that the passengers can leave their shuttle and board the station. You are shortly joined by a fit-looking woman in the robes of a low-ranking member of the Ecclesiarchy, the church (some would say cult) of the God-Emperor of Man, and a slender man with the square chin and sharp uniform of the Adeptus Arbites.Stolen novel; please report. The black haired woman with the bolt pistols has clearly been waiting for the four of you to arrive before speaking, "Now that we are all here, let''s take this to the common room so I can make introductions." You and the others follow her into a sparsely furnished room. There is a rectangular table, five chairs, a window with a good view of the stars (though which you can pick out two engine flares departing the system), and four doors leading into similarly furnished quarters. The Black haired woman drags a chair around to the head of the table, drops heavily into it, and gestures for the rest of you to take seats. You take one of the remaining four at random and the others follow suite. The priestess and the arbite sit next to each other, while the Onyx-skinned man picks a spot a little away from everyone else. The black haired woman casually sets one of her bolt pistols in her lap, "I guess I''ll start with the big one. Welcome to the service of the Imperial Inquisition." The Arbite''s eyes glaze, the priestess looks faint, the Onyx-shinned man only nods, and you frantically search your inloaded data reserve for any scrap of knowledge, coming up empty. The black haired woman smirks, "three of you didn''t see that one coming, but I see Cian isn''t surprised. Nor am I, given the trip he has made to Terra. I''ll let him explain that if he wants to. Let''s get down to introductions. I am Interrogator Elena MacWater. In short, I''m your boss and handler for this operation. My boss, Inquisitor Ironsides of the Ordo Xenos, has tasked me to begin the investigation of the space hulk Capitalis Congestus. He has at least one other team already aboard to break trail for us, but you four are it for the moment. I get the feeling that this is being kept hush-hush, more so than usual, probably because of all of the capital-class ships interred in its bulk. "I can see you have questions, so I''ll hit the obvious ones before making minimal introductions. Why you four? The exact reasons differ, but you all bring something special to the team and were easy to extract unnoticed. Enforcer Atellus Havelock of the Adeptus Arbites is experienced in close-quarters and city fighting, a skill set that is known to transfer well to shipboard operations. Neonate Cain Mac Vir Dannan is a Sanctioned Psyker, and will be of great usefulness detecting and dealing with moral threats. Initiate Kathrine ¡®Cat¡¯ Megeria of the Ecclesiarchy fills the obvious roll of a spiritual center, as well as being a cook of some renown. And Mech-Wright Zarkov Terezna Olegovich brings the technical knowledge needed to interface with the ships of the hulk, a great boon to any mission. "I''ll let you all make further introductions at your leisure instead of laying secrets bare in front of us all. Instead, I''m going to be tossing the four of you into the metaphorical frying pan, not the fire, to get you working together as a team. Unconventional, I know, but it will confirm at least two things for me. One: you all have the skills needed to make it in the service of the Inquisition. ''Many are called, few are found worthy.'' Old and trite, but true. Two: you four can function as a team at least well enough to complete your missions. If any of you don''t or can''t, that will also be good to know now instead of at some crucial juncture in the future. "To that end, and bearing in mind that most of your missions will involve supporting or escorting Mech-Wright Terezna anyway, I''ve decided to go ahead and mark the Tech-Priest down as the team leader. I''ll adjust that if it proves necessary or natural. As to the exact mission itself... well, the Ordo Xenos is in no rush on this matter. The Capitalis Congestus won''t be able to re-enter the warp until it passes back beyond the halo, which will take another three or four centuries. Accordingly, I''ve two missions available at this time: "One: Reconnaissance. The other team can only cover so much ground, meaning that covering more ground and learning more about that ground is going to be an eternally needed task. Go in, wander about, come home to report it, preferably alive and intact. "Two: Recovery. The other team has turned up and marked a roving servitor. The servitor itself is no threat, and probably of no value itself, but its data-logs could prove useful in mapping out the hulk, given that it''s wandered the passageways of this place for Emperor knows how long. "Team Lead, what''s your decision?" Chapter 6: Unknown Unknowns You tap your respirator implant for a moment in thought, "Servitor Recovery sounds like the most valuable. Query: what section of the hulk is the servitor in? Additional: what dangers are in that section of hulk?" Interrogator MacWater nods, "the Visitor: a Vagabond-class merchant. Atmosphere and gravity are nominal, auspex isn''t picking up any life signs, but..." You bow your head, "Auspex returns likely confused or obstructed by intervening bulk of Hulk. Practical: hostile life forms may be present. Query: expected moral threats?" Interrogator MacWater shrugs and nods at Cian. He closes his eyes and murmurs something for a few moments, then open his eyes , "I can''t sense anything definite, but The Capitalis Congestus has been in and out of the warp for an unknown number of millennia with minimal or non-existent gellar field protection..." You nod again, "practical: moral threat likely non-imminent, but likely at some point. Please advise should this change." Cian nods, "you''ll be the second to know." You tap one finger on the map, "in summary: Our objective is located in a relatively safe portion of the Capitalis Congestus. Precise location: unknown. Expected opposition: unknown. Moral threats: unknown but unlikely. Reminds me of survey work on the Gibil debris field. Proposed plan of operation: insert as close as possible to last known location of servitor, track it down, recover data and / or servitor if possible, withdraw to insertion point, extract. Questions?"Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Enforcer Havelock stuck his hand up, "rules of engagement?" "If it''s trying to kill you, kill it. Next?" There were no more questions. Everyone on your team gathered what belongings they thought they would need, stored the remainder, and made peace with the Emperor. You calmly drew your ammunition from you pack and loaded each of your weapons, reciting the litany of accuracy as you did so. Satisfied, you inloaded the map, such as it was, and the servitor''s last known location to your dataslate. Insertion proved to be the simple affair of ''swimming'' down a zero-g umbilical to the hulk. You glided down the umbilical effortlessly, while your companions picked their way slowly, in the bumbling half-crawl half-tumble of ground-borns unused to null-grav environs. You take the time to warily study your surroundings while they fumble their way to the hulk. The small annex you find yourself in has a high ceiling and opens into a broad corridor. Said corridor dead-ends abruptly in a collapsed pile of pipes and what looks to be half of an emergency escape hatch. You sigh and consult your dataslate. The map leads you directly through the tangle of wreckage by the most direct route, and suggests an alternate through one of the side doors. That path looks partially obstructed, but not impassible. Chapter 7: Chemical Spill You ponder the debris pile while the rest of your team forms up around you. You are pleased to notice Enforcer Havelock watching the rear without instruction. Neonate Cian looks at the debris pile and sighs. "let me guess: the mapslate wants us to go right through that." Initiate Cat glances at the side door wistfully, "we could try going around..." You nod at the side door, "take a careful look if you want to. That door is supposed to lead into a maintenance area. The emergency hatch was to either evacuate or seal that area off if a process got out of hand. Given that it''s in the middle of this hallway, I''d say that that area is at least as badly damaged. We''d also need to clear this lot out of the way to lead a servitor back through here anyway, given that their pathfinding algorithms tends to be... sub-optimal at best under these conditions. We''ll take turns watching our rear, moving this mess into the side room, and resting. No reason to push ourselves too hard at this juncture. Atellus has first watch. Kathrine, if you would help me make a place to put this debris...? Thank you. Cian, stand by, you''ve got first haul." You prop open the side door with a handy piece of plating, satisfied to see your prediction pan out. The other doorway out of the room is half caved in with a sparking electrical conduit rammed right through it. The room itself will serve as a dumping place.
Cian strength test: failed by >20. Now need 7 successes to pass the obstacle.
Cian hauls on the emergency hatch, intending to use it as a sled to haul more of the debris into the room. He only succeeds in pulling a muscle in his back and shifting some of the debris onto the floor. Mildly annoyed with himself, he settles for moving what loose objects he can grab out of the way.
Kathrine strength test: failed by >10. Now need 8 successes to pass the obstacle.
Kathrine spends as much time grousing at overly muscled men trying too hard and hurting themselves as she does actually moving debris. She does manage to move some of the pile, but a large section of iron pipe falls down against the hatch, adding almost as much to the pile as she removed.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
Strength test: move debris. Success: needed <14, got 4. Now need 6 successes to pass the obstacle.
You take a look at the pipe and the hatch, and decide to use your staff to lever something free. The hatch looks nearly as large as you are, and probably weighs two or three times as much before other things got piled on top, so you decide to lever at the pipe. You are careful not to bend your staff, which is only made of aluminium, not blessed adamantium, but the pipe slides free easily enough, along with a nice stack of other bits which you quickly drag to the dumping pile.
Atellus strength test: failed by >20. Now need 8 successes to pass the obstacle.
Atellus just starts hauling on objects, and moves quite a few of them to the duping pile, but for every one he moves, another one seems to take its place. by the end of his rotation, the pile is no less diminished, and a fair bit more disorganised, then before.
??? hours pass in patient work: 7 automatic successes granted. Now only need 1 success to clear the obstacle.
Cian strength test: Succeeded by >20. Obstacle cleared.
After what seems like half a day, but was probably much less, Cian finally hauls the last of the debris out of the way. He spikes the emergency hatch into the top of the dumping pile with a huge grin on his face. "well, that''s done. where to next?" You consult the map slate, "about a half kilometer of corridors, given that we still have to detour around a chymistical facility that is marked as ''battle-damaged: leaking tanks.'' I''m surprised that it didn''t detonate, given how volatile those facilities tend to be. Is everyone hydrated? Fed? Last chance to grab something from our habs or to use the facilities there for a while.¡± Nobody needs anything, so you lead the way deeper into the hulk. A kilometer of corridors later, the map not being completely up to date, you come across your next minor obstacle: the liquid leaking from the chymistical laboratory is in fact high corrosive, and has eaten through the wall into the corridor you had intended to use to bypass the lab. Fortunately, there is a broom closet nearby with a few mops left in it. It may be enough to clear a path, or it may not. You could also try skirting around the mess, but it would involve a bit of semi-fancy footwork. Chapter 8: Gas! You exhale in disgust at the puddle of chemicals blocking your way forward. You wish you could simply detour into a side corridor, but this is the detour, so that isn''t much of an option. You quickly explain to the party that no, it''s probably not water, and no, you shouldn''t just tromp on through it. You have no idea what the actual chemical is, just that it is generally corrosive.
Perception test at +20%: locate something that could help clean up the spill. Success: needed <51, got 13.
You quickly glance around, looking for something besides the mops you noticed earlier. Your search yields a non-standard fire-fighting locker: instead of the usual Cee Ohh Two anti-fire canisters, you find several canisters marked with ''Class D - NaX''. Attached is a note scrawled on a scrap of plaspaper: "canisters are for cogboys only. Just use the sand buckets instead frakwits!" You ponder this for a moment, searching your memory archives. You recall seeing NaX canisters around the metallurgy shrines on Gibil 2, so they probably have something to do with putting out metal fires. The sand buckets on the other hand may just help sop up the chemical spill.
Toughness test at +10%: clean the spill. Success: needed <44, got 24. Now need 1 Success to pass the obstacleEnsure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
You haul one of the sand buckets over to the spill and upend its contents on the liquid. The party looks on in confusion as the spill temporarily spreads as the sand splashes some of the liquid about, but it slowly clumps up into wet sand. You still don''t want to touch it, even with gloved hands, because you have no idea what the liquid is. On the other hand, this should be easier to push about with a mop or broom. You fetch one of the mops and consider where to push the mess.
Toughness test at +10%: clean the spill. Success: needed <44, got 25. Spill cleaned with prejudice.
You decide to shove the bulk of the sand towards where the liquid apparently seeped into the corridor from. Satisfied with the pathway, you stack the half-empty sand bucket and mop next to the pile of contaminated sand as a marker. With a final warning to not step in the mess, you lead the party onwards. You progress is impeded shortly thereafter by an airlock. The near side obediently opens with the familiar sussshing sound, but the panel to open the other side has a blinking red-text message on the display: Warning: Atmospheric controls partially disabled. Repairs required. Warning: Atmosphere not breathable for sustained periods of time. Clearly you need to repair this issue to progress, and just as clearly this is something that will be dangerous. You consider what rite of repair to use as the party shifts uncomfortably behind you. You ponder sending one of them, but your respirator implant will probably let you survive the longest in the atmosphere on the other side of the airlock. Chapter 9: Contact You let air wheeze out of your respirator, "I think I can fix this, but I''d better try to do so alone. No point in anyone without a respirator or atmospherically-sealed void suit attempting to help, the atmosphere would probably just kill you." Enforcer Atellus frowns, "so what''s with the air in there? does it just smell bad or did someone set off a choke grenade?" You nod, "similar effect to a choke grenade in a confined space, I think. Prolonged exposure would prevent you from breathing, leading to suffocation and eventual death. We are lucky that the contaminate concentration is low enough to attempt repairs." You hand Atellus your dataslate, "this has the map on it. In case I don''t make it back, don''t come in after me. No point in any more dying then need to." Having said everything you need to, you close the airlock on the rest of the party and prepare your plan of action. You will need to open the airlock, move to the atmospheric controls, and utilize your omni-tool to attempt to effect repairs to said controls. If everything goes void-shaped, you will need to fall back to the airlock, cycle back out of the compartment, and find a different path. You deliberately hyper-ventilate, drawing in extra clean atmosphere before opening the airlock. It will buy you an extra few seconds, no more, but that could make all the difference. mentally and physically prepared, you enter the command to open the airlock, and then re-enter it to confirm your instructions when the airlock chimes its warning again. The airlock cycles open, and you move quickly to the console. It looks to be mostly intact, but unattended to. The maintenance and purity seals have either fallen off or rotted away. You quickly place a hand on the datapoint for the console, interfacing with it to glean the errorlogs.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Tech Use test at +20% (+0% base, +10% from omni-tool, +10% from electoo graft interface): repair the atmospheric control console. Success: needed <58, got 5. Console repaired.
Toughness test at +30% (+10% base, +20% from respirator implant): slightly toxic atmosphere. Failure: needed <59, got 61. Result: 1d5+0 damage: took 5 damage. 7 Health remaining.
The error logs are clear, and your solution is simple: all you need to do is reset / recalibrate the Ohh Two sensor. The secondary problem is that your lungs are starting to burn with the effort of holding your breath, and reciting the necessary incantations aloud will require you to breathe. You grip your omni-tool tight and begin your work. Within seconds of drawing a fresh breath, you can feel your lungs itching. The sensor resets easily, and begins self-calibrating without you needing to do much of anything. Your chest aches with how short of breath you are. You stagger back to the airlock and fumble the activation cycle. The door grinds short behind you, and the air pumps whoosh to life. Frantic, you chest heaves with the effort of breathing. Eventually the pain eases, but doesn''t go away completely. You suppose that it never will, so long as your lungs are weak flesh and blood. The airlock cycles open and you stagger out to rejoin your team. They crowd around concerned for your health. Enforcer Atellus hand you back your dataslate. You crack a weak joke about more than one choke grenade in a confined space. You see five haggard figures coming down the hall in the direction you came. They appear to be clothed in the ragged remains of some ship uniform. Four of them clutch pipes, while the fifth holds a naval pistol. You croak out a warning to your team as the figures break into a charge. Chapter 10: First Blood Cian reacts first, reaching out a curled hand and muttering a line of unwords, "Tainted! Damned by the Warp!" He fumbles at his waist, reaching for a weapon. You decide not to question Cian''s assertion and unsling your lascarbine. Kathrine pulls an autopistol from the side of her backpack, racking the slide with a practiced motion. The gun-wielding man-thing dashed forward a few steps and brings its pistol to bear. A single shot rings out, slamming off the floor near your feet. Havelock has his shotgun out and ready in the time it takes for you to blink. A heartbeat later and it booms, one of the pipe-armed man-things reeling and bleeding from the impact. The pipe-armed man-things sprint forwards, closing the range in an attempt to get to grips with your party before your superior firepower can cut them down. Cian finally pulls a compact laspistol from his belt.
Semi-Auto burst from lascarbine: +10% to hit. Magazine is now at 28/30 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit. Target is obstructed: foe in the way: -10% to hit.
Fire at pistoleer: Success! needed <42, got 05.
Damage inflicted: 2d10+4 Energy. Result: 13.
You pull the trigger twice, aiming center-mass on the pistoleer. Both of your shots strike home, the bolts cratering its torso. It collapses to the deck, the naval pistol skittering against the wall. Kathrine fires a chattering automatic salvo at one of the charging man-things. All six rounds strike home in a grouping no larger than your fist in its forehead. Its head promptly disintegrates into a spray of blood, brains, and bone. It collapses to the deck like a string-cut puppet. Some of the salvo continues on to shred the right arm of of a second man-thing, which slumps against the wall and quickly bleeds out. Havelock pulls the trigger of his shotgun again. The shot connects, but is wasted on the falling corpse of the headless man-thing. The two surviving man-things close all the way into melee range with Kathrine, but are unable to bring their pipes to bear. Cian drops his compact laspistol, a rune-marked blade appearing in his hand. He makes an awkward-looking swing with it, but his blow connects with one of the man-things, ripping a painful gouge out of its right leg. Your lascarbine is no good in a melee fight, so you sling it and take up your staff. Kathrine drops her autopistol and pulls a duralloy maul from the other side of her backpack. Havelock curses at the tight confines of the fight and starts loading fresh shells into his shotgun.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Both of the surviving man-things swing their pipes, avoiding Kathrine''s frantic attempts to block with contemptuous ease. The first man-thing hits her in the leg, causing her to grunt in discomfort. The second pipe smacks her squarely in the stomach, causing her to hunch forward in discomfort. Cian takes another wild swing with his knife but only succeeds in cutting the air.
Melee attack with staff: +0% to hit.
Melee attack man-thing: failure. Needed <30, got 69
You take a swing with your staff, but your target ignores the strike as it swishes past his left foot. Kathrine caves in the chest of one of her attackers, the duralloy maul crushing the man-thing''s ribs with audible cracking sounds. Havelock snaps his shotgun closed, ready to fire again. The last surviving man-thing take a wild swing at Kathrine''s head, but hits nothing. Cian takes half a heartbeat to ready his strike, then puts his knife into the head of the last man-thing. You can see the point emerge from the other side before the body slumps to the floor. Everyone pauses to catch their breath, the air now foetid with the stench of spilled blood and the voiding bowels of the dead man-things. Kathrine snatches up her autopistol, wincing at her injuries. Cian picks his compact laspistol from the floor, along with the naval pistol. After a moment, he hands the naval pistol to Kathrine. "It isn''t tainted, despite the damned nature of its wielder. You can bless it if you like. Probably should, now that I think on it." Kathrine takes the pistol and studies it, impressed by the large caliber of the bullets. "I think I will, should we survive this little expedition. I''ve only suffered bruises and contusions as far as I can tell but we have no doctor with us to ease the healing." You cough, your lungs still aching from the time you spent in the contaminated atmosphere. "Thankfully, the servitor should be just past this airlock. Havelock, take point please, weapons ready. We have confirmed that we are not alone on the Capitalis Congestus." The servitor itself is something of a disappointment, you muse as you stand over its crumpled form. Clearly a cleaner-servitor of some sort, but its flesh is the ashen-grey of death, its motive unit fouled and shredded by the damaged floor. its sensors are miscalibrated, its optics dim and dull. About the only intact and (apparently) functional part is the memory coil.
Tech Use Test at +30% (+10% base, +10% from omni-tool, +10% from Binary Chatter): extract data from servitor memory coil. Success (and then some): needed <68, got 08. Data recovered: gain knowledge of one random gridpoint, plus two additional random gridpoints.
With a gentle prod from your omni-tool and a few blurts of binary the memory coil slides free of the servitor''s cranium. You will need to use one of the data-terminals back at the base of operations to decode the data it contains, but you have a good feeling about your efforts. You eye the remains of the servitor. It is clearly beyond repair, but perhaps some of its parts could be put to good use.
Tech Use Test at +10% (-10% base, +10% from Omni-tool, +10% from Binary Chatter): Recover parts to begin Project Stabby. Success: needed <48, got 43.
Status Update: Project Stabby: 2% complete. Purchase cost of remaining parts now 147 credits.
A few moments work frees up some useful components, though you have now reduced the servitor to so much scrap metal and rotting meat. You leave its remains behind for whatever scavengers may lurk in the shadows and lead your team back to base. You manage to return to base without further incident and turn in the servitor''s memory coil. Interrogator MacWater sets about updating the map while you and your team begin tending to your wounds, recharging powercells, and deciding if filling out requisition paperwork is worth the time. Chapter 11: Care Package You need some time to recover from your wounds, as does Initiate Kathrine. Interrogator MacWater is helpful in tending to you, as much as she is able to anyway. It is enough to keep you on the mend while you fill out paperwork and await the next resupply ship. You curse your fleshy lungs for failing your needs and wish you could put in for a set of good-quality augmetic lungs to replace them but you cannot afford such an extravagance at this time. To fill your time you put in for the parts needed to complete Project Stabby and delve deep into the manuals for your implants and equipment. You find yourself growing slightly wiser as your studies progress, and in doing so you discover several useful things. One is the names and maintenance directives for your ranged weapons (your staff and knife being simple enough to care for). The second is the way in which your Electoo Inductors and Potential Coil can be used to charge other things! Simple batteries and glow-lamps prove not too much of a challenge, but you are careful not to over-stress your systems. You suppose you could re-charge one of your charge packs for you lasweapons if you had to, but it would be a non-trivial endeavor requiring at least a full minute of undisturbed work. Initiate Kathrine soon takes over your medical treatment. She does well enough, for a meatbag with no technical training or understanding of how any of your implant systems function. It doesn''t prevent your lungs from aching, nor does it prevent your occasional coughing fits. But you don''t feel tired all the time, nor are you chronically short of breath. Enforcer Havelock spends the period of enforced respite at drill. You notice that his shotgun-handling skills have improved a fair bit, but he does lament the lack of a proper firing range, and the spare ammunition for life-fire drills. The latter is at last solved when Interrogator MacWater drops a stack of requisition forms on his bunk and loudly informs him that he can go ahead and fill them out instead of moping about it. This does seem to get the message through to him, and you can almost see the glowbulb light up in his head at how the procurement system works. Neonate Cain stays apart from the rest of the group, at least as much as your cramped quarters will let him. He seems preoccupied by a pair of slim tomes which never leave his presence. He seems to find their contents disturbing on some level, but he keeps reading them anyway. When asked, he only mutters something about needing to know the foe before changing the subject. Two weeks pass before Initiate Kathrine and Interrogator MacWater certify everyone fit to work again. That same day, the resupply ship arrives and Interrogator MacWater meets the shuttle. She returns with several small bundles. "Care Packages! A bit of something for everyone! Gather round!"Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. You wander over, eager to open the anti-static wrapped package marked for you. Inside are the parts you need to complete Project Stabby, as you have taken to calling your meditative aid / pet Cyber-Altered Task Unit (CAT for short). You eagerly break out your omni-tool and set to work assembling the parts, only paying some attention to the dialogue and happy sounds of your team. The cleaning unit and charging port got together swiftly enough, but the tracks are proving fiddly. "..nsating for something with that cannon Cain?" Kathrine, in a joking tone. "Yeah, Manzer needs to make up for Meretrix''s lack of..." Cian, deadpan. You figure the tracks out eventually. It turns out that you have to link all the tread-bits together, then roll them onto the motive units. You move onto installing the mainboard you salvaged from the servitor, but you need to modify the housing brackets a bit. "... is bigger?" Havelock, amused. "I think Cat had the length, but Cain has the thickness..." MacWater, with snark. The mainboard drops into place, and you set about plugging in the needed connections and otherwise doing the needful within Stabby''s housing. You are a bit dubious at your reprogramming efforts, but the lack of any command inputs should help that a bit. All Stabby has to do is go forward until it bumps into something, turn left a bit, and repeat. It also needs to return to charge periodically, and to make sure to clean all of floor in your quarters, but that''s a problem for the next iteration of StabbyOS. "...Don''t get me wrong, having a long one is nice, but having two is handy sometimes." MacWater, with extra snark. "If you can use both hands..." Cian, mostly deadpan. "Wait... GAAAAAH! YOU GUYS!" Kathrine, in disgust. "Took you long..." Cian, amused. You close up Stabby''s housing and find one more item in the box: a rubber knife. Confused, you check for a place to mount such an item to Stabby. You don''t recall ordering it, but it did come with the rest of the parts, so it must go somewhere. Finally you locate a mounting bracket on the top of Stabby''s housing, left of the optical sensor and above the lidar rangefinder. The ''knife'' snaps into place and your CAT is complete and operational! With a squeal of glee, you carry Stabby and its charging port into your quarters for a test run. "Cogboys..." Cian, deadpan. "Agreed." Multiple voices. The charging port attaches to a standard power outlet, though to do remind yourself not to plug anything else into the same outlet, just in case. Stabby drops into his ''home'' easily enough, powers on, and begins determinedly rolling forward to vanquish the dust bunnies in the name of the Omnissiah! You feel a surge of parental pride at your achievement, before quickly quashing such a fleshy emotion as unnecessary. You do allow the satisfaction to stay, alloyed by a bit of amusement as Stabby repeatedly bumps into a corner attempting to turn around. You will need to tweak that later. For now, something like a proper planning session as going to begin, so you need to pay attention to that. You leave Stabby bumping into the walls of your quarters and return to the table. Chapter 12: Back into the Breach Mission planning is still rather perfunctory. The objective is one again information gathering, though you do have a destination this time: The section of wreck at Bravo-4. You are able to map out a path through ''known'' territory: traverse ''north'' through the Visitor to the Loki-class Q-Ship Arno Dorian at Alpha-5, then ''north-east'' to the Sword-class destroyer Mhongu Khagahn at Bravo-4. Almost instantly, the group begins referring to the Mhongu Khagahn as the MK, over your grumbling that the abbreviation is already taken; Mk. being common shorthand for ''mark'' among the Adeptus Mechanicus and Imperial Guard, among others. But in the tradition of unwanted nicknames everywhere, MK stuck. Your objective is rather simple: get to the MK, poke around, and get back alive. Simple in concept, potentially difficult in execution. Out past the Visitor, environmental conditions can be expected to worsen. Breathable atmosphere, gravity, even light and power are expected to become less and less reliable. Interrogator MacWater is looking into procuring proper environmental hardsuits for your team, but for now you will have to make do with what you have. You pat Stabby goodbye and descend through the umbilical to the Visitor. Again, you have to wait for your team to traverse the umbilical at their usual slow rate. You suppose you can''t exactly blame them, given that they grew up groundbound aboard planets. They will adapt and learn, given time. Cian is the last through the umbilical, but you notice something different about his movement. It seems unnaturally easy. The inexplicable chill breeze that spirals the dust into little whirlwinds hints that Cian is using some measure of his psychic abilities to aid his progress. The fact that the whirlwinds and breeze vanish as soon as Cian''s feet touch the floor give it away for certain. It only takes a glance to convey your displeasure, to which Cian simply inclines his head. Nothing more is said of the matter, and you lead the way through the high hallways of the Visitor.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Some time later, and wishing that you had a chrono or some other timepiece, you encounter the hull change from the Visitor to the Arno Dorian. The high ceilings and broad hallways are coated with extra cables and conduits that feed the redundant life sustainers and extra weapons crammed aboard the Q-Ship. You party drops into single file and continues onwards, but soon you are confronted with an ominous sound. You pause, your head cocked and your hand raised, "does anyone else hear that hiss?" The others glance around and shrug but Enforcer Havelock licks a finger and puts it into the air, "Can''t hear much amiss, but there is a bit of a wind in here. Should there be?" You would waste time cursing, but it is time you don''t have, "Atmosphere leak. The life sustainer in this section must be failing, unable to keep up with the cracks in the hull. We need to move fast." You lead the way and pick up your pace. The exertion isn''t exactly advisable, as it burns up more of the precious air that you will soon have not nearly enough of, but it is needed. Your fears are found wanting as you round the corner and find the source of your oncoming doom: a malfunctioning life sustainer and its attached secondary genatorium. The genatorium isn''t feeding power to the life sustainer, and its capacitors are critically overcharged as a result. A few missteps and they could rupture or detonate, which would be very bad. Resolving the issue would restore atmosphere to this section of the Arno Dorian, easing your future progress. The problem is too big for you to fix on your own in the time you have left, you will need all of the other members of your party to lend you their eyes and perhaps hands to resolve the issue. On the other hand, the emergency airlock to the next section of the Arno Dorian is right there. You could simply run on by and deal with complications as they arrive. Chapter 13: Modules You skid to a halt in front of the genatorium, looking over its link to the life sustainer. You can fix this, but you are going to need some extra hands. You draw what breath you can in the thinning air and try to calm yourself. "Team, on me. We can fix this power linkage, get the life sustainer back online." Your team gathers around, but you can see the looks of confusion on their faces. "Right, sorry, I forgot. The generator is making power, the life sustainer needs it to make the air we breathe, but the cable to move power from one to the other is broken." You see the dawning comprehension on their faces. Reminding yourself to stick to artisan terminology, you continue on, knowing you don''t have too much time. "I have the knowledge to fix what is broken, but I don''t have all of the hands or eyes that I need. So I need your help." Initiate Kathrine sticks her hand up, "do we have time for all of the rituals needed? And will the work of un-sanctified hands cause more problems?" You shake your head, "yes and no. In cases of emergency, the popper procedure is to repair the damage, then perform the needed blessings. As to the question of un-sanctified hands, It doesn''t matter so long as the needed Rites are invoked properly afterwards." Katherine nods, reassured by your words, "so it''s kinda like the Emperor''s Prayer: everyone can do it, but priests do it better because they are less likely to forget the words." You take a moment to think on it. Kathrine isn''t far of the mark, for a meat-being, "Leaving out the technothoelogic details, yes. Any other questions?" There are none. You can tell that they have their misgivings by the hesitation in their nods, but they can all feel that air running short. "Alright then. Havelock, You have the best eyesight here. There are five important modules: three on the genatorium and two on the life sustainer." You point out the empty casing of a backup module. "They should be sitting in a housing, a box, that looks like this one. Instead of a blank sheet of metal, they will have wires, buttons, and / or blinking lights, with an extra ''indicator'' light in the top-right corner. Think you can find them for me?" Havelock nods, reassured by your simple description. A few moments later he points at a lump on the side of the genatorium, "is that one?" You carefully brush some dust away from the box, "yes, it is. Four more to find Havelock. Cian, can you assist him? Kathrine, I''m going to need you to work my dataslate to check my work. Simple rituals of data-retrieval, just like you''ve used before." Kathrine take it gingerly, "I''m more used to paper records, but I think I can figure it out." You pat her shoulder reassuringly, "I''ll be here to walk you through it, but I need my hands free to fix the module." You pull out your omni-tool and your small bag of extra components, and take a moment to examine the module.
Fellowship test at +10% (+0% base, +10% for simple module): give Kathrine the information she needs.
Success! Needed <31, got 10. +10% to next Tech-use test.
"Alright, here we go. Kathrine, please look up ''Module space Wiring space comma space Simple.'' That should find a chart divided first by the number of wires from three to six, with four cases of what to do below each. I need the information from the section for three wires." Kathrine taps at keys on your dataslate, hunting and pecking for the correct letter. Mentally, you wince at the inefficient, slow typing methodology, but it is better than rushing through and making a mistake that leads to a search finding nothing. A few moments later her face lights up with a smile. "Got it! For three wires: if there are no red sockets, connect the second set of sockets. Else If the last pair of sockets are white, connect them. Else if there is more than one pair of blue sockets, connect the last pair of blue sockets. Else connect the last pair of sockets."
Tech Use Test at +25% (+0% base, +10% from Omni-tool, +10% from able assistant, +5% spare components (7 remaining)): Fix the module.
Success: Needed <68, got 55. Succeeded by >10: +1 success.
Three more successes needed. Five more turns of air remain.
You carefully examine the sockets, twirling a spare piece of wire in your hand. There is one red socket in the last pairing, and the top pair of sockets are blue. There is more than one red socket, so the first IF check is false. The last pair of sockets are not both white, so the second IF statement is also false. There is only one pair of blue sockets, so the third and final IF statement is also false. That leaves the fall-through case as the only solution. Accordingly you take the scrap of wire you have been fiddling with, strip the excess insulation away, and make the needed connection between the last pair of sockets. The indicator light in the top right corner glows a comforting green. "Module one is complete. Thank you Katherine. Havelock, Cian, have you found any more modules?" Cian points to one on the life sustainer, "I found one, but the little indicator light is green. What''s that mean?" "It means that module is in working order and we don''t need to fix it! There should be one more on the Life sustainer, keep looking for it please Cian. Havelock, any others on the genatorium?" Havelock pokes his head around the corner of the genatorium, "Found another one. Six sets of wire clips, a socket, some sort of port, a row of lights, a number, and some paper tags."Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. "That''s the next one then. Keep looking please." You gather up your equipment and beckon Kathrine to follow.
Fellowship test at +0%: give Kathrine the information she needs.
Failure! Needed <21, got 74. -5 on next Tech Use Test.
"Kathrine, please look up ''Module space Wiring space comma space Complex.'' You should get a document with four discreet flowcharts, one each for a red pair of sockets, a blue pair of sockets, a red and blue pair of sockets, and a white pair of sockets." "I have one, but there a note on it that reads ''for defusing ONLY.'' what does that mean?" "It means it is close enough to what we needed here that it will work. Just follow the chart, I''ll worry about the extra step."
Tech Use Test at +15% (+0% base, +10% from Omni-tool, -5% from bad assistance, +10% spare components (5 remaining)): Fix the module.
Success: Needed <58, got 53.
Two more successes needed. Four turns of air remain.
You take breath, snap a battery into the socket, and gather the wires you may need. "The first pair of sockets are blue." Kathrine taps the flowchart with a finger, "Does the pair have a light? Or a paper tag?" "It has both." "Does the module have a ''DB-25 port'', whatever that is?" You examine the port closely, counting the little pinholes. You get a total of 25 in two rows, confirming that it is indeed ad DB-25 port, "yes." "The chart says ''cut''." You mentally flip from the ''defuse'' chart to the ''module maintenance'' chart, converting ''cut'' to ''do not connect''. "No connection needed. The second pair of sockets is the same as the first, so it also requires no connection. The third pair of sockets is red, and has a light but no tag." "Does the module have two or more batteries?" The module has only the one battery you added so... "No it does not." "The chart says ''do not cut''." "That means I need to connect the two sockets..." you quickly make the needed connection "...and done. The next socket pair is red and blue. It has a tag, but no light." Kathrine drags her finger through the flowcharts, "is the last digit of the ''serial number'' even or odd?" You scrape a finger across the engraved serial number, scraping away the grime and dust. "The last digit is a nine, which is an odd number." " ''Do not cut'' " "Making the connection. Fifth pair of clips is white with a tag." " ''Cut'' " "No connection required. Sixth and final pair of clips is white with a light." " ''Do not cut'' " "Connection made, indicator light is green. Module complete. Havelock, any luck?" "No luck." "Cian, same question." "Got one here. Keypad, four buttons." "On it. Help Havelock find the last module." You and Kathrine move to the next to last module. You leave your spare parts packed away, you won''t need them for this one.
Fellowship test at +10% (+0% base, +10% for simple module): give Kathrine the information she needs.
Success! Needed <31, got 9. +10% to next Tech-use test.
"Kathrine, please look up ''On space The space Subject space Of space Keypads space Maintenance.'' You should find a six-by-six chart full of symbols. The four on they keypad should only exists in one of the columns, and need to be entered in order from the top of the column to the bottom of the column, skipping over the two that are not on the keypad." Kathrine scrunches up her face, "I found the chart, but I don''t recognize any of the symbols." "Not a problem, I''ll describe how they look as best I can."
Tech Use Test at +10% (+0% base, +10% from able assistant): Fix the module.
Success: Needed <53, got 47.
One more success needed. Three turns of air remain.
"Here we go. Symbol one: a backwards capital letter c with a dot in the middle. Symbol two: a lightning bolt. Symbol three: a capital letter A with an extra leg. Symbol four: a fancy capital letter H. "I think I have this. In order: the capital A, the lightning bolt, the fancy H, the backwards c." You press the four buttons in the proper sequence at get a little green light for your trouble. "Module complete, only one more to go. We just might do this!" Kathrine looks up sharply, "you mean we could sill die horribly?"
Fellowship test at +0%: inspire Kathrine. Failure: needed <21, got 76
You shrug, "we have a non-zero chance of failure, but our chance of success is rising slowly." Cian call out for your attention, "Found it! Big red Button with ''Hold'' written on it!"
Tech Use test at +0%: Push the button?
Success: needed <43, got 08.
Life sustainer online, genatorium capacitors discharging safely.
You hurry over and examine the button. Large, red, under a safety shield which you promptly flip open. No markings, other then ''Hold'', no indicators for what it does. It is on the genatorium, so you suppose it could be a start or connect switch. You give it an experimental push, promptly releasing it just in case. Everything goes till for a long moment, then the Life sustainer engages with a loud CLANG and the deck shudders under your feet as liquid rushes through a pipe beneath the floor. You sit down on your ass and choke down a lungful of air. It isn''t fresh, but it is redolent of the particular bitter metallic aftertaste of a life sustainer. "We did it folks. Take five minutes to rest while I perform the Right of Reactivation." Seven minutes later and you are leading your team through the airlock and on into the Arno Dorian. Some time later (without a timekeeping device you aren''t sure how long) You encounter a section of impassible wreckage. You backtrack and find a maintenance shaft leading down to a lower deck, but the ladders look a bit slick, like they were recently covered in a liquid of some sort. The air is once again thick with the bitter aftertaste of a life sustainer, and you have to wonder if this was the source of the liquid that drained away under your feet. You do need to go down the ladder, as it is the only way forward that you can find, but there is always the question of how fast you need to go. Chapter 14: Maintenance Shaft Descent You carefully lean out over the vertical shaft. ¡°The deck we need is three ladders down from here at the bottom of the shaft, but I don¡¯t like the look of that second landing. I can¡¯t be sure from here, but several of the supports appear rusted and / or corroded. Combine that with this slime and I think we should take this slowly and carefully. Single file, and maintain overwatch against ambush. Neonate Cian, you may use your powers if they will make the decent easier, but you¡¯re going first if you do.¡± Cain nods and steps away from the party before beginning a soft chant. He eases himself over the edge of the mainince shaft, well away from any ladder, and then stands upright, walking down the wall of the shaft alongside the ladder. About a third of the way down the shaft his chant falters, and a soft whispering laugh briefly fills the air. Half a heartbeat later and Cian is thrown head first into the far wall of the shaft, some six meters away. He impacts with the unnerving CRUNCH of bone and metal colliding before sliding to the base of the shaft two decks below. Amazingly he shakes his head and stands up, apparently unfazed by the impact and the fall, and draws his SPP-5h Hand Cannon to cover the hatch at the bottom of the shaft. Atellus curses, ¡°MEDIC! WITH ME!¡±, then throws himself onto the ladders. Almost immediately, his reckless haste and the slime conspire to make him lose his grip, but he manages to grab hold of the ladder again and descends the last few meters much more sedately. Kathrine descends the ladder much more smoothly, nearly slipping and catching herself twice. She promptly dicards here filth-covered gloves and pulls a medical kit out of her backpack, fussing over Cian and the blood leaking from his nose and weeping from the back of his head. You shake your head and examine the ladder. It is still slick with waste fluids, but a cautious approach should serve you well.
Strength test at +10% (+0% base, +10% from cautious approach): Descend the Ladder. Success: needed <34, got 7. Succeeded by >20: +2 successes.
Need 2 more successes.
The first few meters go smoothly enough, but you still find yourself cursing both mentally and subvocally at the weakness of your fleshy arms. You also consider speeding up your descent. Had you taken a fast approach, you would be 66.667% of the way to the bottom of the shaft instead of only 60.000% of the way down.
Strength test at +10% (+0% base, +10% from cautious approach): Descend the Ladder. Failure: needed <34, got 52. Failed by >10: Extra 1d10 damage if Peril not avoided.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
Peril: make Agility test at +10% or fall to the bottom of the shaft! Success: needed <44, got 27. Peril avoided. Succeeded by >10: Slid down the ladder for a while: +1 Success.
Still need 1 more success.
The next section of ladder proves slicker than the rest and your organic feet slip out from under you. You kick and flail wildly, but manage to catch yourself before you fall of the ladder completely. You give your arms and hands a begrudging apology, as they kept their grip and helped you convert your fall into a sliding decent. You are now 80.000% of the way down the ladder. You¡¯d be at the bottom if you had used a fast approach, but it¡¯s too late to change your mind now.
Strength test at +10% (+0% base, +10% from cautious approach): Descend the Ladder. Failure: needed <34, got 77. Failed by >40: extra 4d10 damage if Peril not avoided.
Peril: make Agility test at +10% or fall to the bottom of the shaft! Failure: needed <44, got 84.
Take fall damage: 5d10 Impact damage.
The very next rung gives way as you put your weight on it and you begin to fall helplessly. Your backpack is torn from your back by a stray spur of metal. You start to twist in the air, but the floor is both too close and too far. You land heavily on your back, stunned briefly. Your eyes come back into focus just in time to see your pack, the butt of your LR-20c Blinkenlight lascarbine leading the way, falling towards you. Everything goes void-black.
Suffered 27 damage to the head.
Health at 0 / 13 - taking critical damage!
Critical damage (head) -4 / 10: Character death imminent: burning Fate to avoid character death: 1 Fate remains.
Fate burnt: set health to 0 / 13. Set critical damage (head) to 3 / 10. Any further damage to the head will probably be lethal! Stunned (helpless) for the next 8 rounds (40 seconds). Movement speed halved for the next 9 hours.
You come too laid out on the floor of the maintenance shaft with Initiate Kathrine leaning over you. Everything feels slow and syrupy. Before you can blurt out any questions, she puts a hand over your voxcaster and raises a finger to her lips, indicating silence. You slowly creep a hand up to point at your head. She starts whispering in response to your question. ¡°Concussion, probably. If you didn¡¯t have so much metal in there, you pack would have splattered your skull all over the floor. We¡¯ve got a bigger problem though. Five floating things just moved past us further up the hallway. I¡¯d call them servoskulls, but they didn¡¯t have any skull, just a smooth metal dome the size of a dinner platter. They appear to be searching the next room we need to pass through, a Munitions Vault by the sign on the doorway. We have a chance to ambush them, or try to sneak past, but only if we keep quiet.¡± Chapter 15: Drone Ambush You wait all of 40.906 seconds until your mental processes complete their recalibrations. Your organic legs still feel like half-cured adhesive, but you force yourself to stand and call the party close for a whispered conversation. ¡°We¡¯re in no shape for a stand-up fight, and trying to sneak by would likely just get us ambushed if those things have any sort of techno-sorcerous auspex scanners. I say we just ambush them, blow them away, and move on with caution. Questions?¡± Atellus grins, ¡°With respect, I¡¯d say that fall knocked some sense into you.¡± You¡¯d grin back if you still had a mouth, ¡°I¡¯ll take that as a compliment on the durability of my reinforced cranium. A word of warning: this Munitions Vault almost certainly feeds to a set of macrocannons. Nothing we carry is likely to detonate any of the ammunition, but if things do start exploding, just run like the Warp itself was chasing you. It¡¯ll be your only chance to live.¡± This sobers everyone up somewhat, tempering their bloodlust. You nod then lead the way towards the doorway into the munitions vault. The doorway is half-shut, and you will have a split second to act before the floating things can respond. You take a small chance, and waive Atellus and Cian to the far side of the door so that all of you can enter in short order. Atellus leads the way into the Munitions Vault. A booted foot forces the door to slide back into its frame with a squeal of protest, and he dashes into the vault, sliding behind a projectile thrice the height of a man, and easily thick enough to hide a man laying on his back with his arms outstretched. The floating platter things begin to turn about, searching for the source of the noise, but Atellus¡¯ shotgun booms before they can move far. The shot connects with one of the floating things: most of the lead pellets smear across the surface of the dome, but smoke begins to leak from beneath the plating, indicating that at least some of them struck something important. Four of the floating things, including the smoking one swerve into whatever cover they can find: projectiles, catwalks, hanging chains. You note that all four of them appear to be fitted with both a weapon and an auspex scanner. They hold their fire, apparently trying to conceal themselves, but the smoke reveals at least one of their positions Cian leans around the doorway and steadies his aim on the one floating thing that didn¡¯t run for cover. The heavy SPP-5h Hand Cannon round connects, spinning his target in a full circle, smoke and sparks sputtering fitfully from the gouge in its domed surface. It stays in the air however, and rotates to face the doorway. Kathrine, seeing where the thing¡¯s two guns are pointing, dashes to join Atellus behind the solid cover of the projectile. Her Naval Pistol barks three times in her hands. Flechettes whine everywhere except for the surface of her intended target. You hear her curse along with the accompanying click of a spent shell failing to eject as her weapon jams. The two-gun wielding drone finally maneuvers, zipping upwards to hide beneath a catwalk. Moments later a torrent of blue plasma bursts rail down from its position, slamming into things all about Cian¡¯s position in the doorway. Clearly the thing has marked Cian as the most dangerous threat, given that it was his shot that had marked it so. The first shot eats right through the wall in a spray of vaporizing metal. Cian flinches and tries to duck back into cover, but two more rounds tear right through his quilted vest, into his torso, and out the far side. His corpse hits the deck, his clothes buring fitfully.
Semi-Auto burst from lascarbine: +10% to hit. Magazine is now at 28/30 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit.
Fire at Tau Gun Drone: Success! needed <52, got 09.
Damage inflicted: 2d10+4 Energy. Result: 17.
Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 1d10+2 damage. Result: 27 total damage done to target.
You respond by leaning out of cover and bringing your Blinkenlight Lascarbine to bear on the source of the plasma fire. You take a half-moment to be sure of your aim, then squeeze off two rounds. The Omnissiah must be guiding your aim, because both rounds strike true. You strike something important, because the stream of plasma fire cuts off instantly. A short second later the floating thing crashes to the deck, smoke leaking from every crack and joint in its construction, its lift unit, weapons, and guiding intelligence utterly destroyed. Atellus leans out of cover, yelping when he comes face-to-scanner with one of the floating things. His shotgun booms in instant response and a second wreck joins the first on the floor, flung into the open by the muzzle blast. The three remaining things clearly decide that hiding is of little use, and open fire. The first sprays a suppressive burst in Atellus¡¯ direction, but he gets back into cover without taking any hits. The second lays down fire on the other side of the projectile, looking to either trap Atellus or pick off Kathrine. It gets lucky, or Kathrine gets unlucky: Three rounds crash into Katrines chest. The thickness of the edge of the projectile and the thickness of her Flack Vest keep her alive, but only just. You can detect the stench of charred meat as she is flung bodily back behind the projectile, stunned by the impacts. Fortunately she is in cover, and has allies to cover her while she recovers her wits. The third thing tries to pick off Atellus, should he be foolish enough to poke his head out of cover, but you hear the Pshhhh of emergency plasma vents activating as its weapon malfunctions. Kathrine moans, and tries fitfully to do something, but she only succeeds in flopping about on the floor. Fortunately the plasma hit she took has cauterised the wound it made, so she isn¡¯t bleeding out.
Semi-Auto burst from lascarbine: +10% to hit. Magazine is now at 26/30 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit.
Fire at Tau Explorator Drone: Success! needed <52, got 51.
Damage inflicted: 1d10+2 Energy. Result: 12.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 1d10+2 damage. Result: 17 total damage done to target.
You take another moment to adjust your aim, searching for the source of the suppressive fire pinning Atellus in place. You know Atellus needs to reload anyway, but it¡¯s a trivial task to backtrack the stream of plasma bolts to their source. You squeeze off two more shots, but only one of them strikes the mark. Once again your shot hits something telling, because the plasma bolts cut off abruptly. Nothing crashes to the deck, so you presume the drone is still active despite the damage. Atellus keeps his head down and breaks open his weapon, sending the spent shells arcing into the air. One of the remaining things puts an aimed burst into the floor a few centimeters for Kathrine¡¯s feet. The second one tries to put a burst through your head, but misses by a comfortable margin as you press your body to the floor. You can pick out the thrumm of a plasma weapon coming back into battery, and know that the third one has managed to clear whatever malfunction it had suffered. Katrine shakes her head, paws at her chest, and winces when her hand comes into contact with flash-burnt skin instead of cloth. The feeling clears her head of its stupor, if nothing else.
Semi-Auto burst from lascarbine: +10% to hit. Magazine is now at 24/30 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit.
Fire at Tau Explorator Drone: Success! needed <52, got 43.
Damage inflicted: 1d10+2 Energy. Result: 10.
You roll back to a kneeling stance and try for the same thing that you hit before. One of your two shots goes wide of the mark, but the second strikes home. You surmise that you took out the thing¡¯s lift unit when it tumbles from the air in a wild descent that terminates in a thunderous crash on the floor. Atellus finishes loading shells into his shotgun and snaps it shut. The two remaining things clearly decide that you are now the biggest threat in the fight. The first one misses you by a comfortable margin, but the second one doesn¡¯t. Two of its three-bolt burst make a hole in the wall next to your torso. The third round hits something on the far side of the wall and stops short. You feel hot metal flick into your robes and lodge in your Flak Vest. You thank the Omnissiah for the protection that cover offers for keeping you alive. Kathrine pulls herself to a kneeling position hard against the side of the projectile and frantically starts clearing the jam form her Naval Pistol.
Semi-Auto burst from lascarbine: +10% to hit. Magazine is now at 22/30 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit.
Fire at Tau Explorator Drone: Success! needed <52, got 20.
Damage inflicted: 2d10+4 Energy. Result: 9.
You let out a wheezing breath and steady your aim. Both of your shots connect with another of the flying things, but it manages to angle its domes top surface to splash the incoming fire across its armor. It staggers from the double strike, but keeps floating. Atellus leans out from cover and pups a wild shot in the general direction of your target. You hear only the clatter of lead on steel and surmise that he has missed. One again both of the floating things focus their fire on you. Once again one of them manages to miss, and the second one finds the mark. One of the bolts makes it through the weakening cover and flash-burns a strip of fallible flesh on your left arm. It begins to tingle and goes numb as your body struggles to process the unexpected sensory input.
Suffered 1 point of critical damage to your left arm: tests involving it will be at -30% for your next turn.
Kathrine leans carefully out from cover and lets off a three-round burst from her freshly reloaded Naval Pistol. This time she doesn¡¯t miss, and you hear the whine of steel on ceramite as the flechettes strike her target. The floating thing comes apart under the barrage in a rain of ceramic shards and metallic fragments. Fortunately nothing detonates, presumably because the damage simply tore the target apart. You curse your weak, fleshy arm for going numb and your biological legs for feeling like wet nutrient paste as you dash to the cover of the far side of the door. You rub feeling back into your arm, careful not to aggravate the flash-burned section. Atellus works his way around the edge of the projectile, searching for the last floating thing. He sights it and fires his shotgun. The lead pellets splatter harmlessly against the ceiling, and Atellus ducks back into cover to reload again. The last floating thing has had enough. It turns in place, blasts a hole in the grating of a vent cover, and side slips inside, vanishing further into the wreck of the Mhongu Khagahn. You stand up out of cover, and start to gather what is left of your team, assessing the casualties. Cian Mac Vir Dannan is dead, 71.365% of his torso vaporized by the plasma strike. Kathrine is busy wrapping bandages over her burnt chest, wincing as the chilled counterspetic gell works its way into her flesh. She will live, but can¡¯t take much more damage. You are in a similar state. Your head is leaking blood, your left arm has a flash-burn, and any further damage would almost certainly put you on death¡¯s door. Atellus is unharmed, somehow, and staring worriedly at the far side of the Projectile he had been hiding behind. ¡°Umm, Mech-Wright Terezna Olegovich, is that supposed to be glowing?¡± You glance over at the projectile, noting the blue glow of the exposed internal components and the half-melted radiological hazard warning symbols stenciled onto the casing. ¡°Probably not. We shouldn¡¯t tarry here any longer than we have to. Kathrine, can you move?¡± She winces, but nods, ¡°Yes, yes I can. Are we just going to leave Cian behind?¡± ¡°We can¡¯t bring him with us, he¡¯ll fall into two pieces if we try to pick him up. And we can¡¯t linger to fashion some sort of body-bag either. Atellus, how¡¯s your aim? Do you think you could hit a laspistol powerpack form the far side of the room?¡± He shrugs, ¡°Probably, why?¡± ¡°I¡¯m going to set Cian''s laspistol to overload, and then you¡¯re going to set it off by shooting it with my Lascarbine. The resulting fire will cremate the remains. Kathrine, can you administer the Last Rights while I work?¡± Your remaining party members nod solemnly. It¡¯s the best you can do under these trying circumstances. It takes a good half-hour or so (you¡¯d know exactly if you had a chrono) for the last rights to be administered and for you to rig Cian¡¯s pistol and backup charge pack. Atellus takes very careful aim and puts the lasbolt exactly where it is needed. Cian¡¯s body is quickly coated in burning flames from the ruptured powerpack. In a macabre twist of fate, the next large room that you need to traverse is a Chapel to the God-Emperor of Mankind. You note that it has been befouled by neglect, and the altar is stained with some sort of red-brown substance, probably a dried liquid. Your party could use a rest, a chance to stop and bandage your wounds tighter, but you have an itch between your shoulder blades about this place. You don¡¯t trust instinct as much as you do logic, but it would be a good idea for Kathrine to at least re-consecrate the altar as best she can if you do decide to stop here. Otherwise you can just press on and hope for the best. Chapter 16: Laughter in the Dark You slump against one of the pews, ¡°Kathrine, how are you holding up?¡± Kathrine tugs what is left of her robes back over her chest, ¡°better for a break, but..¡± Atellus is scanning the area, ¡°Its quiet.¡± You pause and listen as best you are able. No machinery noises, no moving air, no scuttling rodents. Even your footsteps are eerily muted. ¡°Very quiet. I may be a disciple of the Omnissiah, and thus less than fully familiar with the workings of the Ecclesiarchy, but that altar looks¡­ not correct. We need to rest, and this place seems safe enough, but¡­¡± Kathrine nods, ¡°it would be safer were it consecrated. We don¡¯t have time for the months of sermons it would usually take, but I think I can do something.¡± You push yourself back to your feet, and hobble towards the altar, ¡°an examination first shouldn¡¯t hurt, just to be sure. We won¡¯t survive another attack. Atellus, overwatch please.¡± Kathrine follows you towards the altar. She stops when she gets a decent look at its surface, ¡°God-Emperor¡¯s oath! Is that blood?¡± You hunch over for a closer look, ¡°well, it¡¯s either that or spilled haemolubricant. Someone died here. Violently. This altar is in most desperate need of re-consecration. Kathrine, if you could see to that please? I¡¯m going to examine the map, see if I can spot another way back that doesn¡¯t involve a deathtrap of a ladder.¡± Atellus takes up position in the central aisle, looking back down the rows of pews. He thumbs the but of his shotgun nervously. You take a seat in the first row of pews and pull your dataslate out to pour over its contents. Something will come to you, but it will take time to examine your map. Kathrine gently tugs a prayer book from her pack and reverently flips through the pages, looking for the proper incantation. She finds it with little trouble, runs a finger down the page, and begins to intone a chant in High Gothic. As she begins to speak, you notice that the air trembles slightly, as if there was a slight breeze, but no sensation of moving air crosses your skin.
Willpower test: Resist an unknown Influence. Failure: needed <46, got 76.
Suffered 5 points of Insanity damage.
You try to focus your attention back to your dataslate and ignore the sensation, but it just won¡¯t go away. In the corner of your eye you see the shadows of the same flickering colors you saw in the observation port, before you fixed the shutter. A soft laugh echoes strangely in the depths of your mind. Kathrine¡¯s chant continues, sweeping higher, pushing back against the odd sensation in the air. It comes to its natural conclusion, and you feel the tension in the air vanish. Almost instantly your ears are assaulted by the sounds that you were missing before. You close your senses to them and focus back onto your dataslate. Whatever malign influence was here, it is no more. You glance back down at the slate and note a nearby room that might help: a Cogitator Bank. Atellus gently taps your shoulder, ¡°That stain on the altair vanished without a trace. We should move on.¡±Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. You stand, reinvigorated, if unhealed, from your brief rest. ¡°And I may have a place for us to go. A Cogitator Bank. With any luck, we can pull a deck-map of the Mhongu Khagahn from it¡¯s hallowed memory-banks. With that, we should have an easier time getting back to the void-hab. Atellus¡¯ eyes cross, ¡°say that again? In Low Gothic this time?¡± You blink, slowly. ¡°My map doesn¡¯t show another way back, but it does show the way to a better map.¡± ¡°Oh. Well, why didn¡¯t you say that in the first place?¡± You fight down the urge to bash Atellus¡¯ skull in and lead the way out of the Chapel. A short while later you are standing before the Cogitator Bank. You had hoped that it would still be mostly functional, but you are surprised to see that this was also the dedicated ¡®black box¡¯ emergency Cogitator Bank as well, the place where the ship¡¯s log would be backed up to in case of emergency. The gravity is low, probably because the cogitators are feeding on the extra power. It doesn¡¯t bother you in the slightest, but your remaining party members are slow and awkward in their movements. You take the time to interface your Electro Grafts with the cogitator bank, drawing knowledge and a slight current of power from the cogitators, and begin performing the Rite of Delicate Data Retreval to extract the Mhongu Khagahn¡¯s log.
Tech Use test at +10% (-10% base, +10% for Electro Graft Interface, +10% for Combi-tool): Extract the Ship Log.
Success! Needed <53, got 34. Ship¡¯s Log Recovered, Ship Map (This Ship) retrieved.
With a minimum of effort, you enact the rite on the first try, and the heavy memory-casket slides free of the Cogitator Bank. You take a moment to acquire a deck map, and then disengage from the interface. You examine the memory-casket. It is perhaps 20 kilograms in weight, the size of a large backpack, and has convenient grab-handles protruding from all sides. Some of that mass is clearly a magnetic clasp system, intended to lock the casket to a ferrous stretcher (which you can¡¯t find) or to the backplate of a powered environmental suit (which you aren¡¯t wearing). You sigh and have Kathrine take one set of handles. Between the two of you, you can easily carry the thing, and Atellus, now in possession of a (reasonably) accurate map, can lead the way back to the Visitor and the void-hab attacked to it. Interrogator MacWater sucks air through her teeth as she examines the battered state of you and your diminished party. ¡°Shit. I knew these missions were going to be dangerous, but that was only a minima-threat mission, and a short one at that. One KIA, two critical casualties, and all we get out of it is one Ship¡¯s Archives?¡± You give her a dead-eyed look, too tired to make any further comments. ¡°Well, I do have some good news to offset your disappointment. This should at least make the point to Inquisitor Ironsides that mundane humans are not match for this endeavor. Rest and heal for now, I¡¯ll see about getting you transferred to another area within his remit. With any luck, you won¡¯t be seeing this place again once you leave.¡±
Inquisitor Ironsides looks at the report in his hands and sighed. He could not disagree with his Interrogator¡¯s conclusions, nor could he spare the proper forces to complete the task. He could dispatch only one additional Deathwatch Space Marine to the Capitalis Congestus, and he would have to choose from among the individuals both available to him and not currently assigned to other tasks. That left only two marines at his disposal. The first was Forian, an Assault Marine on secondment from the Blood Angels Chapter. Sanguine in most things, his tendency to solo action placed him outside of most kill-teams. Savage as a close-combatant, but young (for a Space Marine) and over-eager. The second was Marcellus, a Tactical Marine on secondment from the Ultramarines. Notably lacking in the arrogant streak common to many of the Ultramarine special operators, having in its place a quiet, almost silent demeanor and skill as a designated marksman. Used to operating in proximal support of a kill-team instead of as an integral member, it would not be hard to put Marcellus into a solo role. Chapter 17: A new Arrival You are Battle-Brother Marcellus of the Ultramarines, on secondment to the Deathwatch. Squad Designation: Alpha. Callsigns: Alpha 1, Hunter. The thunderhawk flight to the temporary void-hab is smooth, though you can¡¯t help but stare out the armored viewport at the looming bulk of the space hulk Capitalis Congestus. It won¡¯t be the first time that you have been deployed in advance of a squad, but this will be your first time deploying so far in advance that the rest of the squad hasn¡¯t even been assembled yet. You give a mental shrug at this. With the scraps of information you have received about the fighting around the Cadian gate and the subsectors between there and Terra, you aren¡¯t surprised that fireteams are being dispatched in such an ad-hoc fashion. You muse over your three centuries of service as a Scout Sergeant, after the first Tyrannic War but before your secondment to the Deathwatch. The lessons you taught, and relearned anew as you passed them onto the scouts under your tutelage, should serve you well here. Operating so far from reinforcement or extraction, you will need to expend your resources with care. Mapping the terrain, the doctrines of ambush strikes, and the Astartes tradition of the precision lightning strike on a critical objective will all be valuable tools in your repertoire. But thinking back to that time inevitably dredges up memories of darker days: your first century of service, before your promotion to Sergeant in the wake of the reorganization after Hive Fleet Behemoth was broken at such terrible cost. A battle-brother of the line, wielding bolter and combat knife against near-endless swarms of chitinous foes. You leaned anew the danger of the Xenos, and learned to hate the Tyranids above (almost) all other enemies of the Imperium of Man. Now in the beginning of your fifth century of service, that hatred still burns strong in your chest. The memory of a bolter clicking on an empty chamber draws your attention to the small pile of supplies that were sent with you, in addition to your standard loadout of wargear. Specialist rounds for special targets, Hellfire Ammunition bypasses all natural or organic armor, and liquefies them from the inside out. You could wish for more supplies, like an armorium servitor to help maintain your power armor, or extra combat knives in the event you break the one at your waist. But food and ammunition were the highest priorities, and the remainder can be requisitioned later, or sent along with future battle-brothers. The thunderhawk hits the deckplate with the smooth crunch of a non-combat landing, and you rise to disembark. Automatically, you sweep through a wargear check. Your Mk.4 ¡°Maximus¡± power armor, lovingly rebuilt and strengthened by Fennias Maxim himself, its plates still bear the scars of battles whence its wearer was the only survivor and the blood-soaked etchwork naming the worlds of the realm of Ultramar that the Tyranids befouled. Your combat knife and bolt pistol (loaded, naturally) ride your right hip. The grenade dispenser at your left holds three frag AP grenades and three krak AT grandes. Your Godwyn-pattern boltgun rides at the small of your back, its fire selector already loaded with two magazines of standard bolt ammunition and one magazine of Hellfire rounds, along with the attachment points for your climbing harness. You webbing pouches contain a unit of repair cement as well as three extra magazines of standard bolt ammunition each for your bolt pistol and bolter. It is a fearsome array of firepower, but you are well aware at just how fast you can expend it in combat.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. As the ramp hits the deck you pick up one of the ammunition crates and begin to unload, heedless of the vacuum inside your sealed warplate. In minutes you have your supplies stacked on the deck just outside the danger zone of the thruster wash, and the servitor lifts the thunderhawk off again. As you watch it head back out into the void, closing on the Aegis, you find yourself wondering just how much that particular clan of Rogue Traders knows of the Inquisition¡¯s activities. The thought passes as the hangar bay doors slide shut, blocking your view. Whatever they know, it isn¡¯t your problem to deal with. The hangar bay pressurizes and you turn to face the Interrogator who will be your local contact. You are momentarily taken aback by the quartet of individuals in the common space of the void-hab, but easily deduce what they are from their disposition. The Techpriest and Ecclesiarch both wear relatively low ranking regalia, and are heavily injured. The Arbite is uninjured, but differential to the Gunslinger with the bolt pistols, so she must be Interrogator MacWater. The other three are the remnants of her team, and they very recently took a beating poking around in the Capitalis Congestus. The Interrogator gives a start and reaches for her bolt pistols when she sees your Mk. 4 Power Armor in the doorway, then relaxes as she catches sight of the Aquila emblazoned on your breastplate. ¡°Hunter. I didn¡¯t expect you quite so soon.¡± ¡°My apologies Interrogator, and my condolences to your team. I¡¯ve a stack of crates in the hangar, munitions and ration bars, and need a place to store them.¡± ¡°Second door on the left. Pardon the locker at the foot of the bed, Cian¡¯s personal effects will be shipped out on the next shuttle.¡± ¡°Not a problem Interrogator.¡± You move your supplies into your room, and take stock of the furniture. Human standard construction, but over-engineered to take the weight and bulk of an un-armored astartes or heavily augmented human. You stack your crates neatly in the corner, arranging several of the rations box tops to serve as an improvised armor stand and weapons bench. Re-entering the common room, you notice a look of consternation on the faces of several of the humans as they stare at the active holographic display. You take a moment to study it yourself, disengaging your helmet and attaching it to your Cingulum belt. A standard Deathwatch beacon / retrieval marker, but in an as-yet unexplored section of the hulk marked ¡®G2 - Tisiphone?¡¯. You cock your head at the Interrogator, inviting comment, but she just shakes her head. ¡°You are seeing what I¡¯m seeing Hunter. Inquisitor Ironside did indicate that he had one other asset on the Capitalis Congestus, but I¡¯ve had no contact with it until now. If that¡¯s another Astartes¡­¡± You nod your head, ¡°it is, or at least something with access to Deathwatch equipment. Mission objective: rescue / retrieval. Known opposition?¡± The Interrogator tosses a hand skywards, ¡°known contact with some Lost Souls and ¡°flying, platter like things¡± armed with plasma weaponry.¡± ¡°Tau Gun or Explorator Drones. Not a problem. Moral threats?¡± ¡°None confirmed at this time.¡± ¡°Understood. Try not to blow up the void-hab while I¡¯m gone.¡± ¡°May the God-Emperor go with you Hunter.¡± You reseal your helmet and ease into the transit tube. It is narrow enough for only one astartes to pass at a time, but this is a reasonable security measure by your estimation. You hit the deck in the wreckage of the Visitor and ponder your first move. There is a path mapped out to the ¡®north¡¯, up to the Mhongu Khagahn and then ¡®east¡¯ down its length. Alternatively, you could strike out ¡®east¡¯, passing through the Mecca, and then ¡®north-east¡¯ directly to your objective. Chapter 18: Into the Unknown It takes you six hours to traverse the length of the Visitor and the Mecca. Their wide, merchant-design corridors transporting you as easily as they would any other piece of large cargo. You are slowed mostly by the wreckage littering the halls, forcing you to clamber over and climb around various heaps of metallic scraps. Atmosphere and gravity are relatively stable, for which you thank the Emperor and the Primarch. But when you reach Gridpoint C6, you encounter a rude, but not unexpected, problem: an Ork ship. Your way is blocked by a think nest of random cables, held together with scraps of rope and twine. You shrug, the servos of your armor whining as they attempt to duplicate your movement, and draw your combat blade. You begin the process of cutting through the mess, but the first few strikes reveal a potentially lethal surprise: a cracked pipe venting some sort of gas. Your autosenses can¡¯t identify exactly what it is, but they are flashing the toxicity alert with unusual stridency. Taking off your helmet, you decide, would be a rather poor choice.
Strength test at +20% (-10% base, +20% for Power Armor, Strength Bonus +10%): Cut through the Cables.
Success! Needed <63, got 31. ? of cables cut away.
Extremely Toxic Atmosphere: no test required: in an atmospherically sealed suit.
The first third of cables gives way with ease, and your suit is easily able to handle the atmosphere of the Ork ship. Beyond the cables, you get your first glimpse of the compartment ahead. You aren¡¯t sure yet, but large brass obelisks topped with tin spheres seem to ring the space.
Strength test at +20% (-10% base, +20% for Power Armor, Strength Bonus +10%): Cut through the Cables.
Success! Needed <63, got 41. ? of cables cut away.
Extremely Toxic Atmosphere: no test required: in an atmospherically sealed suit.
Another third of the cables fall to your combat knife, and you get a better view of the compartment beyond. It¡¯s definitely some sort of Orc teleporatium, which would make this ship a cruiser at least in Imperial service. Given the Orc¡¯s utter disregard of anything even remotely resembling standardized construction, that means less than nothing for the class of this ship.The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Strength test at +20% (-10% base, +20% for Power Armor, Strength Bonus +10%): Cut through the Cables.
Success! Needed <63, got 56. All of the cables are cut away.
Extremely Toxic Atmosphere: no test required: in an atmospherically sealed suit.
The last cable falls beneath your knife and you enter the Orc teleportarium. It is as crude, and therefore unreliable, as you would expect for an Orc design, but that doesn¡¯t mean that it won¡¯t work in an emergency. If you could somehow get it power, and figure out how to set the destination coordinates. Even then, you figure it has about a ten percent chance of dumping you inside a bulkhead or deckplate and just killing you outright. Unperturbed you press onwards, heading ¡®north-east¡¯ and ¡®east¡¯ towards the Tisiphone. You recognise the next wrecked ship you encounter, at least from the historical records you have studied. It is the Unflagging Resolve, a Dauntless class light cruiser last seen in Imperial service in 146 M41, when she was sucked into the warp and presumed lost during combat as part of the Gothic War. This impression is confirmed when you come across the dust-bedecked warplate of a dead Battle-Brother still dressed in the yellow warplate of an Imperial Fist. You know not his name, or rank, or even what killed him. But you do know he died fighting, given the number of spent bolt casings that litter the deck. You kneel, unsure of yourself in the moment. On one hand, you could dearly use his remaining ammunition. On the other, you are unsure of the rites of the Imperial Fists. Would taking this fallen warrior¡¯s belongings be considered sacrilege? In the end, you decide that the necessity of your mission trumps uncertainty. You claim one magazine of standard bolt ammunition for your bolter, one frag AP grenade and one krak AT grenade. You arrange the Battle-Brother in a funeral pose on the deckplate, his dead hands clasping his bolter across his chest. You leave a spent magazine loaded in the bolter, with an auto-beacon hidden inside it, so that the body can be recovered later for return to the Imperial Fists. You press on, heading ¡®north¡¯ towards your objective. Two hours later you are abruptly stopped when you encounter a void-lock leading to the next ship in your path. Foul runes coat the visible surfaces, inked and etched into the metal. You cannot read them, but you don¡¯t need to read them to recognise the markings of Chaos. You could press on through the ship. It would save you time, but would be very risky to do so alone. You could also work your way ¡®west¡¯ to the Mhongu Khagahn and avoid the Chaos ship altogether. It would cost you time, but would certainly be safer. Chapter 19: Progress You hawk a gob of acidic spit onto the voidlock, letting the acid eat into the metal. Walking alone into a chaos ship is foolish enough. Doing so aboard a space hulk seems twice-foolish and a swift route to an ignominious end. You will return later, but for now you have a mission to complete elsewhere. It takes you four hours to hook around to the Mhongu Khagahn, but you encounter no threats or particular dangers. You do have to slog through a refuse sump, but it hardly slows you down. Sections of ship with faltering gravity generators leave you floating for half a step before you activate the magboot function of your armor and clamp yourself to the ferrous deckplates. Turning ¡®north-east¡¯ on your mental map you plow back into the unmapped sections of the Capitalis Congestus. Almost at once you are gliding along the weathered-bone deckplates of an eldar ship. The curving corridors and winking stones set into the walls try to set you on edge but you push on. You are but passing through and the ghosts in this place will not slow you down. You press ¡®east¡¯ and clear the curving bone confines of the Eldar craft to encounter more rough-and-ready ork construction. You slow, cautious for traps or ambushes, and stretch your armor-enhanced senses forward.
Look for traps / ambushes / surprises. Perception test: +0%
Success: needed <63, got 27. Danger spotted.
Your autosesenses pick the two figures out of the gloom with ease. A pair of orks, either out on what passes for a patrol among their brutish kind or scavenging for resources. Both in all likelihood. It doesn¡¯t matter to you. They are between you and your objective, you have a perfect ambush position, and your targets are unlikely to be missed by their fellows until long after you are gone. You flip a mental coin and target the Ork on the left.
Single shot from Bolter (magazine #1 - standard ammunition): +0% to hit. Magazine is now at 27/28 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
Fire at Ork sentry: Success! needed <63, got 52.
Damage inflicted: 2d10+5 explosive. Result: 23.
The ork drops like a string-cut puppet, its torso blown out across the walls by your shot. Its luckless companion gives a start, grabbing its shoota and searching frantically up the passageway. It utterly fails to spot your black-painted armor in the gloom, while your Power Armor¡¯s autosenses pick it out clearly for you.
Single shot from Bolter (magazine #1 - standard ammunition): +0% to hit. Magazine is now at 26/28 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit.
Fire at ork sentry: Success! needed <63, got 06.
Damage inflicted: 2d10+5 explosive. Result: 23.
Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 44 total damage done to target. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 67 total damage done to target. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 89 total damage done to target.
The round takes the ork just beneath its beady left eye and it detonates in the middle of its head. The flat bang of the explosion is punctuated by a bit of bone rattling off your sabaton clad foot. You wait a few heartbeats, listening for the clamor of other orks responding to the violence, but nothing comes. You step over the cooling corpses and press on ¡®north-east¡¯ towards the Tisiphone. It takes you but an hour to traverse the hull of some luckless merchant, the Deathwatch-coded beacon pulling you forward. You press on into the hull of a converted merchant raider, one of numerous Lokis in the service of the Emperor. You consult the copy of the map you have stored in your memory, overlying your current position. You have entered the wreck of the Tisiphone. The sound of a chainsword carving through flesh caries clearly in the still air, the screams of battle indicating the the beacon-carrier is still active and engaged in a close-quarters fight. A Space Marine in the black-painted Power Armor of the Deathwatch is driven back around a corner into your line of sight. He throws the body of a Chaos reaver renegade from his chainsword, then hugs the corner as a long ripping burst of bolter fire blasts chunks of bulkhead into the air. He charges back around the corner into the fray, and the sounds of a chainsword cleaving flesh fill the air once more. Chapter 20: Heavy Metal Contact You bite back an urge to shout out a contact report and dash forward to the corner, bolter at the ready. You round it, already dropping into heavy contact mode. You take a fraction of a second to take in your opposition. The chansword-wielding Marine is tearing into a mob of Chaos Reaver Cultists, perhaps thirty of them. Individually they aren¡¯t much of a threat but in these sorts of numbers, operating as a blood-soaked tide, they can prove dangerous. The source of the spray of bolt rounds looms behind them; a Chaos Marine in full Terminator Warplate, combi-bolter held in one fist like a child¡¯s toy, a power axe casually dragging along the ground. You thumb the fire-selector lever from single shot to full automatic. Your left hand pulls a fragmentation AP grenade from your belt. ¡°FRAG OUT!¡±
Throwing frag AP grenade: +0% to hit. 3 grenades remaining. Range is short: +10% to hit. Horde is at least magnitude 30: +30% to hit.
Throw grenade at Chaos Reaver Cultist Mob: Direct Hit! needed <93, got 91.
Damaging a Horde: weapon damage is 2d10, weapon has Blast 5 characteristic: +5 additional automatic hits (+10d10 damage): rolled 59 damage. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 2d10 damage. Result: 63 total damage = 6 magnitudes of damage to the horde. Damage type is explosive: +1 magnitude of damage.
Total damage to horde: 7 magnitudes.
Your grenade lands neatly in the middle of the mob of cultists. Seven of them are torn to shreds by the blast, but the remaining twenty-three keep coming, utterly heedless of their losses. The unknown Deathwatch Marine effortlessly reduces their number to nineteen, cleaving four heads from four sets of shoulders in a spray of blood, and still the horde keeps coming. They lash out at the unknown Deathwatch Marine, but their monomolecular edged axes find no purchase in his armor. The terminator raises his combi-bolter, essentially two bolters lashed together and slaved to a single trigger, and unleashes a hail of fire in your direction.
Dodge incoming fire: +0%. Failed: needed <44, got 68.
19 points of incoming damage. -4 for head armor, -10 for toughness bonus.
Suffered 5 damage to the head. Armor breached! It is no longer atmospherically sealed.
You try to roll out of the way, but the range is too short and the incoming fire too accurate. You feel at least two misses scream past you at uncomfortably close ranges, but one of the incoming bolts connects with your faceplate. You come to your feet and blink away the blood that leaked from your temple before your Larraman¡¯s Cells scar the wound over. The horde will have to wait, you decide, the Chaos Terminator is simply too big of a threat to ignore. Your little finger hits the magazine selector and you swap to your limited supply of Hellfire bolts.
Full auto burst from Bolter (magazine #3 - Hellfire Bolts): +30% to hit. Magazine is now at 24/28 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit. Damage inflicted: 8d10+20 explosive. Result: 75.
Fire at Chaos Terminator: Success! needed <93, got 48.
Spoiler: Critical Hit Chain Critical Hits! A damage die from three different shots rolled a 9 or 10 (Hellfire Bolts): inflict a further 6d10+15 damage. Result: 140 total damage done to target. Critical Hits! A damage die from three different shots rolled a 9 or 10 (Hellfire Bolts): inflict a further 6d10+15 damage. Result: 200 total damage done to target. Critical Hits! A damage die from two different shots rolled a 9 or 10 (Hellfire Bolts): inflict a further 4d10+10 damage. Result: 244 total damage done to target. Critical Hit! A damage die rolled a 9 or 10 (Hellfire Bolts): inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 265 total damage done to target.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
Critical Hit! A damage die rolled a 9 or 10 (Hellfire Bolts): inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 283 total damage done to target.
Your burst strikes true into the Chaos Terminator¡¯s breastplate. For one horrifying moment it resists your shots, and your mind flashes back to watching Ultramarines First Company Terminators shrugging off the impact of armor piercing tank shells, but it gives way a moment later. The Chaos Terminator staggers back a step, then its knees buckle as much at the armor will allow. At last it crashes to the deck face first, shaking some debris free form the ceiling to bounce ineffectually off its backplate. The unknown Deathwatch Marine hews into the horde with wild abandon. If it wasn¡¯t for the Deathwatch Iconography on his warplate, you would think him a mindless berzerker. Eight more of the Chaos Reaver horde falls to his chainsword, leaving only eleven in the fight. They don¡¯t give up, and at this point you suspect that they won¡¯t give up until they are all dead. They lash out with their axes again, but all they hit is air and deckplate. You switch back to the standard bolts in your first magazine, and take a few seconds to aim. It wouldn¡¯t do to hit your battle-brother now that this fight is all but won.
Full auto burst from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +30% to hit. Magazine is now at 22/28 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit. Took a half-turn to aim: +10%. Firing into close combat: -20% Fire at Chaos Reaver Horde: Success! needed <83, got 37. Damaging a Horde: weapon damage is 8d10+20: rolled 74 damage. Spoiler: Critical Hit Chain Critical Hit! One damage die in two different shots rolled a 10: inflict a further 4d10+10 damage. Result: 74 total damage. Critical Hit! One damage die in two different shots rolled a 10: inflict a further 4d10+10 damage. Result: 104 total damage Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 124 total damage
Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 146 total damage = 14 magnitudes of damage to the horde. Damage type is explosive: +1 magnitude of damage.
Total damage to horde: 15 magnitudes.
Your four-shot burst tears into the massed ranks of the Reaver Cultists. Bolts punch through one cutist to detonate inside a second or third Emperor-forsaken victim. In a thundering heartbeat, the only beings left standing in the blood-drenched corridor are you and the Unknown Deathwatch Marine. He staggers to the side, helmet sweeping the hall in front of him, searching for something to kill. Finding nothing, his chainsword drops from nerveless fingers, and he punches the bulkhead hard enough to leave a dent in what you assume is raw frustration. You take a momet and apply your repair cement to your helmet, sealing the hole and making your Power Armor atmospherically tight again. He shudders and shakes for a long moment, blood dripping from his pauldrons and chestplate, before he punches the bulkhead again and stoops to collect his chainsword. As he turns to face you, you catch sight of the chapter icon on his shoulder plate; a white sawblade surrounding a blood drop on a field of black. With that piece of information, much is made clear to you. ¡°Ultramarine,¡± he growls, ¡°what brings you to the depths of this miserable pile of wreckage?¡± ¡°Recovering you Flesh Tearer. Your armor¡¯s beacon went active, and was detected.¡± ¡°Hrngh. Thanks for the assistance then. I was wondering how I¡¯d kill the big one without any charge left in my chainsword or bolts for my pistol.¡± You nod at his Mark eight ¡®errant¡¯ plate with its high gorget. Such warplate is usually only given to promising field officers, that the added protection might offset the chance of being singled out and picked off. ¡°You looked like you could take it out, I thought I¡¯d speed things along. Marcellus, by the way.¡± ¡°Grrngh. Gorlin. I hope you have a base of operations, and some means of contacting the Inquisition. Ironside is going to want a report, much as I dislike writing them.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s get going then, we have a ways to go.¡± ¡°Rrrgh. Lead on, just don¡¯t get between me and the fighting.¡±
Mission 0: Asset Retrieval Complete
Stockpile Update: Specialist rounds for special targets, Hellfire Ammunition bypasses all natural or organic armor, and liquefies the target from the inside out. Rewards: The Marks of Duty +500 XP +1 Renown: Completed all primary objectives Current Level: 1 (out of 8) Current Renown rank: 1 (out of 100) - Deathwatch Initiate Chapter 21: No Battle-Brother Left Behind You have to share temporary quarters with Gorlin for the moment, which bothers you both some and not at all. You are always wary at his ticks and grunts, the way he always seems on the edge of exploding into a murderous frenzy, but he is surprisingly sanguine about his condition, even going so far as to crack weak jokes about it. It bothers you not at all that Gorlin is such a vicious Marine, in the way the Flesh Tearers always seem to be from the tiny handful you have met in passing, because he knows exactly who and what deserves his wrath. You are stumped for a while as to what to do. Your instructions to survey the Capitalis Congestus are quite open-ended, and you presumed that more squad-mates would be forthcoming, or at least more detailed instructions. Such presumptions have turned out to be in error, so as you go over what information you do have you keep an eye out for missions of opportunity. Gorlin seems to be working with you for the moment, and you agree on the callsigns of Alpha 2 and Ravager for his interactions with Interrogator MacWater and her team. Surprisingly Gorlin seems at ease with you leading the ad-hoc kill-team. The Codex indicates that in an ad-hoc unit, the highest-ranking officer has command, and of two officers of equal rank, the officer with the longer length and distinction of service has precedence. You and Gorlin are both sargents, and you have the longer service record, but you expects at least some resistance from a Marine from a Chapter that does not follow the Codex as closely as the Ultramarines do. In one of your planning sessions, you finally decide to just ask Gorlin about the matter. ¡°Rrngh. A commander needs to be able to think clearly in battle. I may do that better than my fellow Flesh-Tearers, but I know my limitations. You¡¯ll keep your head when I get lost in the melee, which means we¡¯ll both live to keep killing in the Emperor¡¯s name.¡± ¡°Up for a bit more of that then?¡± ¡°Hrgh. Do you even need to ask?¡± ¡°True. On my way to find your beacon, I came across a dead Imperial Fist. I don¡¯t like leaving a Battle-Brother behind, but I had to. So I¡¯m thinking we go and bring him back.¡± ¡°Grrgh. And kill everything not-human between here and there.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a given on a Hulk.¡± ¡°Greh-heh-heh. Been meaning to ask, what''s with the fake knife strapped to the CAT?¡± ¡°No Idea. Mech-Wright?¡± The Mech-wright shuffles over. You can tell that it is still suffering from the damage it had suffered prior to your arrival. You wonder if it will ever fully heal, or if it will simply replace the damaged flesh with cybernetics and augmetics like so many of its kind do, slowly slicing away their humanity in search of perfection. The Mech-Wright leans heavily against the table, ¡°yes Lords?¡± ¡°What¡¯s with the knife on the CAT?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve no Idea my Lords. It came with the rest of the parts for Stabby, and the housing included a bracket to mount it, so it must have been an intended component. I can remove it, if it offends¡­¡± ¡°Hrngh. Stabby huh? Leave it, I think I like it.¡±Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. ¡°If you say so Lord.¡± ¡°The other question I had was whether or not you had any experience maintaining Power Armor?¡± ¡°Nothing of Astartes-grade manufacture, my Lords, though I had studied and have been blessed to work upon lesser suits of powered armor and Heavy Environmental Suits. Why? Does one of your suits require repair or maintenance?¡± ¡°Not yet, but it is a likelihood in the near future, given the nature of our mission here.¡± ¡°Rrrgh. Thinking ahead Hunter?¡± ¡°Correct, Ravager.¡± ¡°Grrgh. Wouldn¡¯t be a bad Idea, but the Techmaries would scream bloody murder if they knew.¡± ¡°So? The good Mech-Wright here already works for the Ordo Xenos, and for Inquisitor Ironside as well.¡± ¡°Hrngh. True.¡± ¡°My Lords?¡± ¡°At ease Mech-Wright, I¡¯m not asking you to venture back into the Capitalis Congestus. I¡¯m thinking about asking the good Inquisitor if we might retain your services, instead of shipping in even more people.¡± ¡°If you say so Lords. I would need at least some training time, and probably the assistance of an armorium servitor to assist me.¡± ¡°Hmm, I think we could manage that, If we can convince Inquisitor Ironside. Surely it would be easier then to send a Techmarine all the way out here to support just two Battle-Brothers. Thank you Mech-Wright, you may return to your tasks.¡± ¡°As your Lordships please.¡± ¡°Rrrngh. To the mission then?¡± ¡°Agreed. Lets see here¡­¡±
Mission 1: Enduring Night Type: Retrieval and Reconnaissance Primary Objective : Recover the Body of the unknown Imperial Fist Secondary Objective: Determine the extent of the wreck of the Unflagging Resolve. Tertiary Objective: Eliminate any targets of opportunity encountered. Personal (Bonus) Objective: Adamant - Pass all Willpower tests.
Available Requisition: 80 for the entire Squad. Expenditures: 55 : Promote Mech-Wright ZTO to a Support Role & train & equip accordingly. (Includes cybernetics and one Armorium servitor) 25 : 28 rounds of 0.75 caliber Hellfire Bolt ammunition Estimated time until delivery: 2 weeks.* *ZTO¡¯s training and return to the void-hab will take an additional 4 weeks
Your entry into the Capitalis Congestus by way of the Visitor goes smoothly, and you easily traverse the wreck, heading ¡®north-east.¡¯ Three hours later you enter another Vagabond-class merchant ship, the Lonely Drifter. Gravity is normal, with the usual slight fluctuations inherent aboard ill-maintained (or wrecked) ships. The Life Sustainers are clearly offline however, as your Power Armor is reporting a contaminated atmosphere (contaminant unknown). You confirm this with Gorlin, who simply shrugs. Or at least the servors of his Power Armor move his pauldrons around a bit in an imitation of a shrug. Five hours after entering the Lonely Drifter, you are ready to depart her for the prow of the Unflagging Resolve. But there is a bit of a problem. Your path crosses a shuttle launch bay: an open cavern in the wreckage of the ship that once opened to the hard vacuum of space. It is closed in now, hemmed about by other wrecks large and larger, but the shuttle launch catapults haven¡¯t seemed to notice. Indeed, they are still firing at irregular intervals. Pistons heave, cables whip and snap, and refueling servitors trundle about aimlessly. Crossing this area is a Minor Hazard, and you pause to consider how you want to progress forward. You could simply attempt to evade as much of the moving equipment as you could and sprint through to the far side. Alternatively, you could try to find and manipulate the docking controls to shut down the launch catapults. Or you could do something else... Chapter 22: Terminal Shutdown You look about for the docking control console, eventually spotting it behind a blast screen. Well, what¡¯s left of a blast screen. A snapped cable has flayed most of the protective cover away, leaving the console dangerously exposed. There is nothing you can do about that though, except to stay low and hope for the best. You motion Gorlin to stay put, not wanting another Battle-Brother to follow you into the maelstrom of moving machinery. He gives a strangled grunt over the vox and nods as much as the high gorget of his armor allows.
Dash to the docking control console: -10% Agility test.
Success: needed <34, got 27. Hazard Damage mitigated.
You dive in behind the console as another broken cable cuts the air above your head with a hellish scream. Given the amount of damage scattered about the various mechanical mechanisms you have to wonder if the console will even work or if a shutdown procedure will simply cause more things to go wrong. You roll to a knee, hunching as low as you can behind the console, and peer at the status runes dancing across its surface. You can¡¯t make out the meanings behind all of them, not being a member of the mechanicus, but you do have enough knowledge to perform most routine tasks. You grimace as you notice every single rune but one is glowing the sullen red of a danger / hazard status. The one exception, gowing in green, is the fuel servitor supply indicator. ¡°Gorlin, you¡¯d best get to cover. Everything in this mess is busted or about to be and all of the refueling servitors have full tanks of aviation-grade promethium fuel.¡± ¡°Hrngh. Meaning what?¡± ¡°Meaning that they are walking bombs roaming about in a minefield.¡± ¡°Rrngh. Understood.¡± You duck as that same damned cable keens back over the console again. Whatever you plan to do, you need to work quickly.
Shut down the launch catapults: -10% Tech Use test.
Failure! Needed <34, got 91.
7 points of incoming damage from the hazard. -5 for torso armor, -10 for toughness.
Suffered 0 Damage. Armor Breached! It is no longer atmospherically sealed.
You try to activate some of the docking bay controls, but you are disturbed in your task as the damned cable whips across your torso armor. Its lashing tip scores a crease in your breastplate, and you feel the hiss of air escaping from the confines of your Mk. 4 Power Armor. You drop back down behind the console and curse into the vox as you apply your armor repair cement and reseal your Power Armor. The unbreathable atmosphere wouldn¡¯t kill you for several minutes yet, but there is no reason to take chances. You take the six seconds in which you are applying the armor cement to consider your course of action. Standing back up into the cable isn¡¯t going to get you very far, you would just get whipped again. And with no more armor repair cement to hand, another armor breach could be problematic outside of a breathable atmosphere. You decide to see of severing the crontroll runs inside the console has any effect. Cutting the head off works against organics, why shouldn¡¯t it work on electronics?
Demolish the docking control console: -10% Strength test.
Success: needed <53, got 06. Hazard Damage mitigated.
You kick a maintenance cover aside, ignoring the wax seals you break in the process. Reaching inside, you grab hold of a likely batch of cables and pull. A rat nest of wires and conduits comes free in your hands, and you toss it aside after the maintenance cover. Several of the catapults shudder and grind to a halt. You reach in again and heave another mess of bare copper free. The remaining launch catapults come to a crashing stop. The refueling servitors either freeze or begin wandering in circles as their internal commands fail to deal with their new circumstances. ¡°All clear Gorlin, let¡¯s get moving.¡± ¡°Rrrgh. I¡¯m picking something up on the far side of this place. Not sure what, might just be autosensor interference.¡± ¡°Regroup with me and we¡¯ll check it out. No reason to leave a possible foe at our backs.¡± Gorlin moves cautiously into loose formation, and you begin to pick your way across the docking bay. Nothing leaps out of the shadows to attack you, but you do notice that your autosenses wash with a slight bit of interference every few seconds. It eventually fades out as you push into the prow section of the Unflagging Resolve, but you keep your bolter ready. Gorlin has his bolt pistol and chainsword in hand, the later emanating the wet purr of an idling engine. You work your way upwards, heading for the long spinal corridors of the Unflagging Resolve. More than once you catch sight of an unusual shape or bit of movement at the edges of your vision. As you cycle into a section of relatively un-cluttered corridors, your autosenses are hit with a brief wash of vicious interference. It fades as suddenly as it arrives, but it puts you on edge.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. ¡°We¡¯re being stalked.¡± ¡°Hreh-heh-heh. Foolish to stalk us.¡± You let Gorlin¡¯s flash of arrogance pass and concentrate on your surroundings. You lead the way into another shuttle bay, this one only large enough for a pair of shuttles, probably for important officers. Immediately, you sidestep into the shadows and cut the lights. Your helmet drops into darkvision mode, peeling back the shadows. Two figures are backlit, prone in the edges of a doorway on the far side of the hangar. Gorlin thumbs his chainsword to full throttle and runs towards the figures. He slams into the wall next to the doorway at full speed, clear of the figures probable line of fire. A sun-bright stream of blue-white plasma fire rakes the deckplates in his wake. You instantly recognise it as a Tau burst cannon, a rotary plasma gun, and are thankful that it missed Gorlin as he sprinted. A direct hit from that weapon can tear a Space Marine in half. Combined with the evidence of autosensor disruption you experienced earlier, you know a tau Stealth Suit is responsible for those shots, and you make finding and killing it your highest priority. One of the figures in the doorway comes to a knee and lobs a flat disk into the hangar. You know it to be a genade of some sort, and laugh when it detonates in a bright flare of light and sound that your helmet promptly filters away. The foolish tau would have been better suited to throw a flare then a flashbang.
Spot the tau Stealth Suit: -10% Perception test. Keen Senses and Autosenses: +20%
Success: needed <53, got 12.
You push the gain and edge definition on your autosenses, seeking to pick the tau Stealth Suit out of the gloom. You spot it hunching into cover behind a crate, already having displaced from where it had fired its first shot.
Single shot from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +0% to hit. Magazine is now at 27/28 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit. Target is employing a stealth field (passive mode): -10% to hit. Target is of Hulking size: +10% to hit.
Fire at tau Stealth Suit: Success! needed <63, got 24.
Damage inflicted: 2d10+5 explosive. Result: 14.
Your shot connects, striking the Stealth Suit in the torso to little visible effect. The second figure in the doorway blindly fires into the room. The shots come nowhere near to connecting with either you or Gorlin, the result of the figure firing blindly into the dark. Gorlin rounds the corner, charging into the midst of the figures. You hear the wet sound of his chainsword rending flesh and count the figures as doomed in the face of Gorlin¡¯s attack. The Stealth Suit swings its burst cannon around to point in your direction and lets loose with a second salvo. It misses you, but not by nearly as much as you would like. The shots slag the wall next to your head, the metal burning and running under the impact of the plasma bolts. One of the figures in melee with Gorlin takes a wild swing with its boxy rifle, but Gorlin evades it effortlessly.
Single shot from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +0% to hit. Magazine is now at 26/28 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit. Target is employing a stealth field (passive mode): -10% to hit.Target is of Hulking size: +10% to hit.
Fire at tau Stealth Suit: Success! needed <63, got 19.
Damage inflicted: 2d10+5 explosive. Result: 18.
Your second shot hits the Stealth Suit in the head, but again it shrugs off the impact. You debate increasing your rate of fire as you move into what cover you can find behind a buttress supporting the high vaulting roof. Gorlin neatly avoids the clumsy punch of the other figure in the doorway before casually cleaving it into two pieces. The Stealth Suit stands its ground and lets out a long burst of burst cannon fire. You watch most of the shots splatter harmlessly where you stood a few seconds ago, but one bolt heats the plasteel next to your head.
Two-round burst from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +10% to hit. Magazine is now at 24/28 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit. Target is employing a stealth field (passive mode): -10% to hit. Target is of Hulking size: +10% to hit.
Fire at tau Stealth Suit: Success! needed <73, got 58.
Damage inflicted: 4d10+10 explosive. Result: 31.
You fire two shots, striking the Stealth suit in the torso again. This time it staggers and you can clearly see purple-blue blood leaking from the holes in its armor. Gorlin evades the futile attacks of the last figure in the doorway and decapitates it in return. The Stealth Suit makes some adjustment to its stealth field, and your autosenses are washed with the heavy static of active jamming. You hear the flare of a jump pack igniting as it attempts to flee.
Spot the tau Stealth Suit: -30% Perception test. Keen Senses and Autosenses: +20%
Failure: needed <33, got 79.
You move to block the doorway, unable to see the Stealth Suit through the jamming. Something slams into a crate in the hangar, and you know it has to be the Stealth Suit, but you just can¡¯t see it through the jamming. Gorlin stumbles as something brushes past him and takes a wild swing with his chainsword. It bits into something, and the jamming vanishes from your autosenses. The tau Stealth Suit is lying on the deckplate in a slowly spreading pool of purple-blue blood with its throat cleaved open. ¡°Grrgh. Three unsatisfying kills. These bluebloods can¡¯t fight worth a damn.¡± ¡°I¡¯m more concerned with how they got aboard the Capitalis Congestus. They shouldn¡¯t be here at all.¡± ¡°Warp¡¯s a fickle thing Marcellus. Let¡¯s keep moving.¡± ¡°Two pathfinders, going by their pulse carbines, and a Stealth Suit? That feels like a reconnaissance force.¡± ¡°Just means more things for us to kill.¡± The next obstruction on your map is a maintenance accessway, parallelling a collapsed section of the spinal corridors. It is partially flooded with water, but your magboots make walking against the current a trivial affair. The Issue is that it is only wide enough for one Battle-Brother, and the one behind will be unable to shoot or squeeze past his fellow. Do you take point, or do you send Gorlin out in front? Chapter 23: Enduring Night ¡°Gorlin, you have point. No sense in me getting between you and a fight.¡± ¡°Grrgh. Damn strait Marcellus. Thanks.¡± ¡°Our exit will be on the left, a hatch into a teleportarium, if the map is correct.¡± ¡°Hreh-heh-heh. Want to bet on that?¡± ¡°On a Hulk? Nope.¡± Gorlin drops into the maintenance tunnel with a splash and the reverberating rumble of his quarter-ton bulk shaking the metal pipes. You wince as he sloshes off, bootsteps echoing loudly in the silence, and mentally give up on stealth for the next little while. Two hours of squashing and splashing later Gorlin pauses midstep. He slowly lowers his left foot back into the water, endeavoring to not make a splash, ¡°hrngh. Hatch, left side of pipe, lots of wardings and conduits near it.¡± ¡°That¡¯s our exit then.¡± ¡°Grngh. Possible movement, definite minor sensor interference. Stealth Suit in the area.¡± ¡°Proceed with caution.¡± Gorlin doesn¡¯t bother to reply, he just splashes to the edge of the hatch and glances around the corner. ¡°Crrgh. Contacts. Three tau Pathfinders and a Scout Drone. Stealth Suit not visible, but sensor interference is increasing slightly.¡± ¡°They¡¯re in our way. Pick your targets and take them out.¡± ¡°Rrgh. Thought you¡¯d never ask.¡± Before Gorlin can charge into the room, the Scout Drone whirls in place, its sensor cluster sweeping across the doorway. It emits an audible Bleep! of alarm and dives behind a nearby lectern. You move up to the hatch, stacking up on Gorlin and ready yourself to enter the teleporatium in support of his attack. Gorlin gives a bone-shaking roar and charges into the midst of the pathfinders. He swings his chansword in a brutal decapitating arc, but his chosen target sways out of the way of the strike. The tau Pathfinders disengage from Gorlin, throwing themselves back out of the reach of his chainsword. Their actions preclude them from opening fire on the Space Marine in their midst, but they scatter into what scant cover they can find. No matter which one Gorlin charges after, he will have to give a flanking shot to one pathfinder and show his back to a second one. The Scout Drone springs back into life, edging first its sensor cluster and then its pulse carbine around the edges of the lectern. It unleashes a punishing burst of plasma fire into the side of Gorlin¡¯s helmet. It is all but atomised by the plasma strike, and you can hear his cry of agony as flesh is seared from bone. That he stays on his feet and in the fight is testament only to his will to live and the pain-suppressants his power armor must certainly be flooding his system with. You need to level the odds, and you need to do so now. Gorlin can¡¯t take another hit, and you certainly can¡¯t charge into the middle of a killing field to recover him without sharing the same fate. And without a helmet to protect Gorlin¡¯s head, grenades are not an option. You take a moment to aim and fire a two-round burst at the Scout Drone.
Two-round burst from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +10% to hit. Magazine is now at 22/28 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit.
Fire at tau Scout Drone: Success! needed <63, got 44.
Damage inflicted: 4d10+10 explosive. Result: 38.
Your first round tears the lectern to pieces, and the second bolt detonates in the center of the Scout Drone¡¯s chassis, shredding it. It is a small measure of vengeance, but it will have to do for now. The slight hazing of your autosenses hails the arrival of the tau Stealth Suit. You glance at a hatch that snaps open with nothing visible on the far side. An arcing, antic blast of energy ravages the deckplate near Gorlin, but fortunately misses him. From the effects on the deckplate you guess it is a tau fusion cutter, their equivalent of the Imperial anti-tank meltagun. Gorlin¡¯s smoking head snaps around at the sound of the weapon discharge, and he hurls himself towards its source. You guess that he must be blind from the half-melted condition of his face and the wild swings of his chainsword. He doesn¡¯t seem to be making contact with the tau Stealth Suit, but from the frantic blurring of the air in that area it must be busy avoiding his attacks. Deprived of a clean shot at Gorlin, or perhaps afraid of striking their stealth-suited ally, The pathfinders turn their attentions towards your position. The flat disc of a flashbang grenade arcs through the hatch and into the maintenance pipe at your feet, but your helmet nullifies the effects of its detonation.
37 points of incoming damage (tau pulse carbine). -35 for cover (plasteel bulkhead), -4 for armor, -10 for toughness.
Suffered 0 Damage.
One burst pounds through the plasteel of the bulkhead to scar your left greave, but your Power Armor shrugs off the depleted shot. A second bust is wasted in suppressing the hatch that you are hiding behind to no effect. You recall that it took four shots and four hits to put down the previous tau Stealth Suit that you had encountered, so you decide that it would be best to destroy this one as quickly as possible. Firing on full automatic into melee is a risky proposition, but you are confident in your abilities.
Full auto burst from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +30% to hit. Magazine is now at 18/28 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit. Target is employing a stealth field (passive mode): -10% to hit. Target is of Hulking size: +10% to hit. Target is in melee: -20% to hit.
Fire at tau Stealth Suit: Success! Needed <73, got 09.
Damage inflicted: 8d10+20 explosive. Result: 72.
By skill or by the Emperor¡¯s blessing all four of your rounds strike true on the shrouded alien. Its torso comes apart in a welter of cobalt gibs and black armor plating, what¡¯s left of its legs falling to the deck. Gorlin jerks as he hears the detonation of bolt shells close to hand, and twitches as blood splatters the steaming burns on his face. Deprived of his melee opponent he cocks his head and homes in on one of the pathfinders. He charges through the intervening lecterns without falling over and tackles his target to the deck. The pinned pathfinder struggles to get free, but fails to do so in the face of Gorlin¡¯s strength.The other two keep up their fire on your location, but the plasteel wall mitigates all of the incoming fire.
Cover Degraded! It now only provides 25 points of damage reduction!
You can feel it heating up, and will need to move before it is shot through and through however. An androgynous figure appears in the hatch from where the tau Stealth Suit had come. You can tell at a glance that it stands nearly as tall as you, but its frame is much slimmer, more effeminate. Its lavender skin is covered only in a pink silk loincloth and a purple leather corset. Lilac dreadlocks adorn its scalp, its taloned feet seem to dance on the deck, and its clawed hands clack open and shut menacingly. ¡°DAEMONETTE!¡± ¡°Fufufu, silly Space Marines! Come, be my playthings!¡± It blink-dashes forward, Its claws snapping down towards Gorlin¡¯s back. Amazingly he manages to twist out of the path of the blow, but you know Gorlin is doomed unless you can do something. The two follow up strikes merely caresses the back of Gorlin¡¯s head and you get the impression that the Daemonette is toying with its prey. Heedless of the risk of the tau Pathfinders blowing your cover away, you hold your position and cut loose at the daemon. If you don¡¯t kill it now, you seriously doubt Gorlin will survive.
Full auto burst from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +30% to hit. Magazine is now at 14/28 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit. Target is in melee: -20% to hit.
Fire at Daemonette: Failure! Needed <73, got 92.
Your shots go wide of the mark, the daemonette hissing a dark laugh at your ineptitude and misfortune. Gorlin dumps the tau Pathfinder on the deck and lashes out at the Daemonette with his chainsword. Amazingly it connects with the Daemonette¡¯s torso, but the Daemonette twists around the blade, parts of its corset evaporating into mist but otherwise unharmed. The pathfinder on the deck recovers its pulse carbine and rolls into the scant cover of a raised electrical conduit. Its two companions keep suppressing your position.
42 points of incoming damage (tau pulse carbine). -25 for cover (damaged plasteel bulkhead), -8 for armor, -10 for toughness.
Suffered 3 Damage. Armor Breached! It is no longer atmospherically sealed.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
You can feel a plasma bolt burn through the bulkhead and score a deep gash into your right thigh. Your armor is breached, and you have a new flash-burn scar to show for it, but you are still in fighting form. The Daemonette seems to tire of its game with Gorlin and unleashes a flurry of blows upon his body. Gorlin manages to avoid the first, the second scores his chestplate and draws blood, the third tears a long gash in his left arm, the fourth opens another gash on Gorlin¡¯s abdomen, the fifth carves a bloody trough in his left shin, and the sixth cuts the same leg off at the knee. With Gorlin dumped unceremoniously on the deck by his missing leg, you have a clear shot at the Daemonette, and you intend to take as much advantage of it as you can.
Full auto burst from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +30% to hit. Magazine is now at 10/28 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit.
Fire at Daemonette: Success! Needed <93, got 82.
Damage inflicted: 4d10+10 explosive. Result: 40.
Critical Hit! A damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 59 total damage done to target.
Critical Hit! A damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 72 total damage done to target.
Your burst is on target, and would have torn any material being into bloody shreds, but the Daemonette dances around the incoming bolts with supernatural ease. It even makes a motion like it is blowing you a kiss as it does so, taunting you with your utter failure to hurt it. From his knee, Gorlin makes another cut with his chainsword, but the Daemonette neatly hops over the strike.
42 points of incoming damage (tau pulse carbine). -25 for cover (damaged plasteel bulkhead), -8 for armor, -10 for toughness.
Suffered 3 Damage. Armor Breached! It is no longer atmospherically sealed.
29 points of incoming damage (tau pulse carbine). -25 for cover (damaged plasteel bulkhead), -8 for armor, -10 for toughness.
Suffered 0 Damage. Armor Breached! It is no longer atmospherically sealed.
Cover Degraded! It now only provides 15 points of cover!
13 points of incoming damage (tau pulse carbine). -15 for cover (heavily damaged plasteel bulkhead), -8 for armor, -10 for toughness.
Suffered 0 Damage.
All three pathfinders pour accurate fire into your position, and the shots are reliably punching through the bulkhead and into your back and legs. You haven''t suffered any serious damage yet, but it is slowly mounting up. You need to change cover and eliminate some of the sources of the incoming fire, but if you do then the Daemonette will have a free run at Gorlin and will tear him apart. You witness the foul creature unleash another flurry of blows. The first finds only air, the second slices a bleeding cut into Gorlin¡¯s right leg, the third is a clean miss as he rolls on the ground, the fourth finds Gorlin¡¯s chest and sheds more blood, the fifth follows suit and sheds more blood, and the sixth chases the last two in and spills even more blood. You need to move positions, but Gorlin can¡¯t take another series of blows like that! Only the increased armor plating of his Mk. 8 Power Armor is preventing him from taking catastrophic damage, but it can¡¯t hold out forever. You unload at the Daemonette again, fully aware of the blinking ammunition counter on your retinal display.
Full auto burst from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +30% to hit. Magazine is now at 6/28 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit.
Fire at Daemonette: Success! Needed <93, got 28.
Damage inflicted: 8d10+20 explosive. Result: 90.
Critical Hits! A damage die from three different shots rolled a 10: inflict a further 6d10+15 damage. Result: 145 total damage done to target. Critical Hit! A damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 166 total damage done to target.
The Daemonette attempts to dance out of the way of your fire again, but the tip of its claw snags in Gorlin¡¯s chest for just a fraction of a moment. It is enough to make all the difference. You bolts strike the foul abomination in the torso, and its material form is rent asunder in a flash of mauve and fuschia smoke. When it clears no trace of the Daemonette remains. Gorlin uses his arms and one working leg to lurch into the tau Pathfinder behind the raised electrical conduit. It isn¡¯t much of a charge, but it is enough to cross the few meters of distance he needs. His blind strike doesn¡¯t come close to hitting the Pathfinder, but it does make it duck out of the way. All three of the tau Pathfinders stagger about as if drunk. Or as if an overriding compulsion was suddenly removed. You use the break in the incoming fire to shift to the other side of the hatch and to get behind a fresh plasteel bulkhead. You take a moment to glance at where you had previously taken cover and you note that the bulkhead is glowing, sagging, and holed though like bad cheese. You take the opportunity granted by the tau Pathfinders¡¯ irrational actions and fire off a short burst at one of them.
Two-round burst from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +10% to hit. Magazine is now at 4/28 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit. Target is stunned: +20% to hit.
Fire at tau Pathfinder: Success! needed <73, got 11.
Damage inflicted: 4d10+10 explosive. Result: 36.
Critical Hit! A damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 55 total damage done to target.
The luckless pathfinder comes apart in a rain of blue-blooded gibs as your rounds strike home. Gorlin gets his hands on the tau Pathfinder that he had knocked prone and hacks brutally into its helpless body. It comes apart at the seams before his chainsword, a cobalt-tinted ruin on the deck. The single remaining tau Pathfinder shakes his head, coming out of its dazed state. It takes one look around and heads for the exit. You let it run in favor of moving to help Gorlin. Now that the fight has ended the battle-fatigue from his injuries has caught up with him and left Gorlin sprawled unconscious on top of his last victim¡¯s bloody remains. Gorlin¡¯s Larraman Cells have already stopped the bleeding, but he is still missing his left leg, and you can see now that the plasma strike to his head has boiled his eyeballs out of his sockets. You cautiously reach past Gorlin¡¯s gorget to check his pulse, which is strong and steady. His right hand snaps up instinctively to grab yours. ¡°Easy Gorlin. You took a heck of a hit.¡± ¡°Rrrgh. How do I look?¡± ¡°Be glad you can¡¯t see it.¡± ¡°Hreh. That bad huh?¡± ¡°Worse.¡± ¡°Gra. Let¡¯s get on with this mission then.¡± ¡°Grab my shoulder then. You¡¯ll have to lean on me to walk without eyes.¡± You help Gorlin to his feet and head for the hatch towards your objective. Ninety-seven minutes later you reach the dead Imperial Fist Space Marine. You lean Gorlin up against one of the bulkheads to keep an ear out while you kneel down to recover your beacon. That done, you ponder the situation you find yourself in. Were Golin sighted, you could hand him a crutch and you bolter so he could maintain overwatch while you carried the Imperial Fist. But Gorlin is eyeless, blinded, so that plan will not work. You will need to keep at least one hand free. You pull rope from your climbing harness, along with several carabiners, and tie the Imperial Fist to your back. It isn¡¯t a dignified position, but it will work and keep your hands free. You collect Gorlin from the bulkhead and start stumbling down the passageway. Eighteen hours later, and having re-traversed the length of the Unflagging Resolve, you are nearly back to the Visitor and your void-hab base of operations when you are alerted by the guttural grunting and squealing from the passageway ahead of you. ¡°Orks.¡± ¡°Gruh.¡± You draw your bolter left-handed, and aim it down the passageway. Four grots, stunted and cowardly, boil around the corner carrying scraps of rusted, bettered metal. They squeal in alarm when they see you and turn to flee, but are stopped by the booted foot of an ork Loota. The Loota bellows at you and rumbles into a charge in your direction, the grots following at its heels.
Single shot from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +0% to hit. Magazine is now at 1/28 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit.
Fire at ork Loota: Success! needed <63, got 44.
Damage inflicted: 2d10+5 explosive. Result: 17.
Critical Hit! A damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 34 total damage done to target.
The Loota collapses with a cavernous crater in its chest. The grots promptly turn tail and flee without their larger brother to keep them in line and their morale high. You calmly take aim and pump the last bolt in your #1 magazine into the dead Loota¡¯s head, making absolutely sure of its fate. It¡¯s overkill, and some part of you knows it, but you are in no mood to take any chances. ¡°That was an ork.¡± Gorlin doesn¡¯t respond. His wounds have left him too tired for banter. You press on. Four hours after the encounter with the Loota, you and Gorlin make it back to the Visitor and your base of operations. Swimming the tube back to the base takes time, but you are gratified to see Interrogator Macwater and the Mech-Wright are still aboard. It means that the Deathwatch transport hasn¡¯t arrived yet, which means Gorlin can be loaded aboard it when it does arrive for medical evacuation. You will have some time, perhaps two weeks or more, before you finish healing and Gorlin is returned to you. Heading back into the Capitalis Congestus alone and wounded seems like a foolhardy idea, so you will wait before pushing deeper into the hulk. In the meantime, you will study and train.
Mission 1: Enduring Night completed
Stockpile Update: Specialist rounds for special targets; Hellfire Ammunition bypasses all natural or organic armor, and liquefies the target from the inside out.
Rewards: The Marks of Duty Current Level: 1 (out of 8) Current Renown: 5 (out of 100) - Deathwatch Initiate Chapter 24: Alpha Three With two weeks of downtime to spend, you immerse yourself in honing your skills. You spend hours wandering the decks of the Visitor, never straying too far from base, honing your perceptive skills in picking details out of the gloom on the fly. You spend more hours immersed in your copy of the Codex Astartes, studying its treatises, strengthening the fortress of your mind against future onslaughts. You have already slain one daemon, and surely more will follow in time. You spend the most time working with Interrogator MacWater. She has served Inquisitor Ironside for some time, and in that time has served in boarding and salvage operations almost exclusively. This is her first ¡®solo¡¯ operation, and it has escalated beyond anything she expected when she was dispatched. What was supposed to be a quiet, if dangerous, survey has turned into a Deathwatch operation. But her Inquisitor hasn¡¯t pulled her from the field, and she still has theatre command, even if she does listen closely and consider thoroughly the words of her adviser: you. Young for such a position, and ignorant of much of what the Deathwatch is and does. Though you both serve the Ordo Xenos of the Inquisition, you are normally in separate departments. You can¡¯t give away any Deathwatch secrets any more than she can give away Inquisitorial ones, but the banter between the two of you gains at least a shade of friendship. Eventually a covert supply ship passes through the system, and the gun-cutter drops off a restored Gorlin and, surprisingly enough, a new member of your squad. The tabard at his waist bears the caduceus mark of an Apothecary, and the white cross on his left pauldron and upright bearing mark him as a Black Templar. The presence of a reductor for extracting geen-seed and a narcartheium for administering medications confirm his specialization as an Apothecary, while the bolter, bolt pistol, and combat knife at his side reminds one and all that a Space Marine Apothecary is still a very capable combatant. The lack of scars and service studs on his face tell you that he is newly inducted into the ranks of the Space Marines. ¡°Alpha three reporting for duty sir!¡± ¡°At ease Apothecary.¡± Formal, eager, and the hungry glory-hound edge to his voice that you heard in all to many new scouts. You¡¯ll need to temper that, but you expect that the Capitalis Congestus will help you do that. Perhaps that is why the Watch-Commander assigned him to your squad? You could certainly use an Apothecary, and your long service as a scout-sargent is known to the Deathwatch. You puth these musings aside for the moment and look over Gorlin. He has a helmet on, so you can¡¯t see the extent of the scarring, but they must have replaced both his eyes and leg in addition to repairing his Power Armor. ¡°Ravager, how¡¯s the leg? And the eyes?¡± ¡°Greh. Serviceable enough Hunter. The scars still itch though.¡± You take note at how Alpha Three twitches slightly when Gorlin speaks. It¡¯s a small thing, but telling of a first time deployment alongside the aggressive Flesh Tearers. ¡°Come into my office, such as it is. We can get introductions done in private and begin planning our next mission.¡±
Stockpile Update: Specialist rounds for special targets; Hellfire Ammunition bypasses all natural or organic armor, and liquefies the target from the inside out.
Alpha Three¡¯s name turns out to be Hagrdict, and he is just as shiny-new as you guessed in the hangar. As with all Black Templars, he does have a zealous streak to him, alloyed with more than a hint of the glory-hound. Hagredict was seconded to the Deathwatch as part of a ¡®show the flag¡¯ operation: even if the Black Templars themselves are crusading elsewhere, they will keep a presence in as many corners of the Imperium as they can. Hargedict himself requested / volunteered for this mission when Gorlin and the dead, nameless Imperial Fist arrived at the Watch Fortress. An Apothecary was due to be dispatched anyway, and Hagredict was eager to recover more relics of the Imperial Fists, the Chapter that founded the Black Templars some eleven millenia ago.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. It is Gorlin who comes up with Hagredict¡¯s callsign of Preacher, much to Hagrdict¡¯s protests. ¡°Why not stick with Alpha Three?¡± ¡°Greh. Cumbersome over the vox. Annoyingly inhuman to use in person.¡± You grin, ¡°better to accept it now Preacher. The more you fight it, the more Ravager is going to use it just to annoy you.¡± ¡°As you say sir.¡± ¡°Just call me Hunter, or Marcellus.¡± ¡°As you say Hunter.¡± You rap your knuckles on the top of the rations crate you are using as an improvised table, the one in the common room of the Void Hab being both too small and too flimsy for your use. ¡°Let¡¯s settle down and get to planning then. Our overall objective is to recon the Capitalis Congestus with an eye to later operations, and eventually a full scale Purge. Standing secondary objective is to smite anything that gets in our way.¡± Both Ravager and Preacher nod at this. You give a lopsided grin. ¡°Simple enough, but as we all know the simple objectives are the difficult ones.To that end I purpose we learn more about the ships that make up the Capitalis Congestus. We have the Roll of Honor for the Bladewind Squadron, composed of four Sword class Destroyers lead by an Ambition class Cruiser. That list includes the Unflagging Resolve, the Mhongu Khagahn, and The Macedonian, all lost and presumed destroyed during the Gothic War. Lost with them were their squadron mate Vladimir Von Carstein and the squadron flagship the Gilded Collar. ¡°The Unflagging Resolve and the Mhongu Khagahn have been mapped, though not fully explored. The location of the Vladimir Von Carstein is unknown, though she is presumed to be somewhere in the bulk of the Hulk. However we do have the location of both The Macedonian and the Gilded Collar. Neither wreck has been fully explored. ¡°Thus to our next operation. While the Gilded Collar is the closer of the two, and is the squadron flagship, the Roll of Honor indicates that both Unflagging Resolve and The Macedonian had Imperial Fist Tactical Squads aboard. We have already recovered one Imperial Fist from the Unflagging Resolve, and we will recover any more that may still be aboard The Macedonian. Our objective is to search The Macedonian, recover any Imperial Fists we find, and return them to their chapter. We don¡¯t leave our dead behind. ¡°Questions?¡± Ravager twitched his pauldrons in an imitation of a shrug, ¡°expected opposition?¡± Your grin becomes broad, ¡°The usual; Xenos, Chaos, Moral, and Environmental. Orks and Tau known to be present, and at least one Eldar ship has been encountered so they can¡¯t be ruled out. The presence of Cultists, the Lost and the Damned, and Heretic Space Marines has been confirmed. One Daemonette was encountered and destroyed, so the presence of more Moral Threats is possible. And of course the Capitallis Congestus itself is going to do its damnedest to kill us too.¡± Preacher¡¯s grin matches yours, ¡°a true Test then. Let us make our Oath of Moment and begin.¡± Chapter 25: Black Vanguard You nod somberly, ¡°The Oath of the Astartes then. We come from three chapters to find and recover members of a fourth¡­¡± You each make your oath, witnessed by the other two members of the squad. With it comes a certain bond of fellowship, irrespective of chapter affiliation. A shared sense of purpose, of unity.
Mission Cohesion: 9 (5 from fellowship, 1 from ranks in the Command skill, 2 from Oath of the Astartes, 1 from Favored Son skill)
Mission Type: Recon (Search and Secure).
Your objective is one of Reconnaissance and Recovery: Find the extent of The Macedonian, recover any Space Marines you find aboard her (living or dead), and return to the Void Hab. You will be operating in part in unknown, unmapped sections of the Capitalis Congestus. Places where your three hundred years of experience and service as a Scout-Sargent will come in handy, even if you don''t know the exact terrain or opposition. Such is often the lot of the Scout: to go and find the conditions on the ground and the nature of the foe.
Tactics roll: Recon and Stealth.Success! Needed <44, got 25. Calamity and Foe Type rolls reduced by 20% for the duration of the mission.
Mission 2: Black Vanguard Type: Reconnaissance and Recovery Primary objective: scout the wreck of The Macedonian Primary objective: Recover any and all Space Marine relics and / or remains found. Tertiary Objective: Eliminate any targets of opportunity encountered. Personal (Bonus) Objective: Trial - Survive the mission without burning a fate point.
You lead the kill-team out of the Void-Hab and through the Lonely Drifter to the bow of the Unflagging Resolve. It is an easy path, one you have walked before. Gorlin knows it too, and has no trouble keeping up. Hagrdict takes his cue from you and Gorlin, treating the area as mostly, but not completely, clear. A glory-hound, you decide, but not one so foolish as to refuse the lessons of others. When you reach to prop of the Unflagging Resolve, you find that you have a bit of an issue. You are back at the same hangar bay that you crossed previously, and it¡¯s still having problems. The launch catapults are still ¡®shut down¡¯, and the refueling servitors are still wandering aimlessly. The acrid reek of unburnt promethium fills the air, and you know you need to step cautiously. Promethium is used as fuel for every Imperial vehicle you know of, and is commonly gelled to be used as flamer ammunition. Here it has leaked from the tanks of the refueling servitors to hand thick in the air, potentially turning the entire hangar bay into a giant fuel-air explosive. And if it does detonate, it will take the entire prow of the Unflagging Resolve with it. ¡°Lingering here is not an option, nor is creating any sort of spark. Gorlin, you remember the exit?¡± ¡°Hreh. Wonder if the bodies are still there?¡± ¡°Given the scavengers in this place, probably not. Go quickly, but watch your footing.¡± Gorlin ¡®shrugs¡¯ his pauldrons and takes a moment to eye the path through the wandering servitors. Satisfied, he takes off in a quick-footed jog. It nearly ends in disaster when he is halfway across the hangar bay: a refueling servitor stumbles over something and tumbles into his path. Gorlin vaults the ungainly pile of rotting flesh and metal with ease and joogs to the exit. ¡°Rrrgh. Made it, exit secure for now. And you were right Marcellus. Bloodstains, but no bodies.¡± ¡°Affirmative Gorlin. Hagredict, your turn. Same exit, pathing at your discretion.¡± ¡°Confirmed Marcellus. Sigismund, guide my steps¡­¡± Hagrdict takes a moment longer to study the paths of the wandering servitors. Eventually, he spots a gap in their pathing. Nimbly he clambers up on top of a large pipe and teeter-totters along its length. He would be horribly exposed were there any foes around, but a single shot would blow the whole bay up and kill you all anyway, so it doesn''t really matter. He makes it to the exit and joins Golrin. ¡°On station Marcellus.¡± ¡°Confirmed Hagrdict. On my way.¡±
Walk/Jog through the hangar bay without causing sparks: -10% Agility test.
Failure! Needed <34, got 50.
You start out weaving between servitors, but something catches your trailing foot. You spin around to keep your footing and see a refueling servitor heading for a ragged gap in the deck. Knowing that the fall of the servitor is inevitably going to cause some sparks, you can only run and hope as the inevitable unfolds behind you.
Run out of the hangar bay before it explodes!: +0% Agility test.
Success! Needed <44, got 19.
¡°Gorlin! Hagrdict! Move!¡± You dive through the exit hatch, slam your hand onto the emergency seal button, breaking it in the process, and keep running. Moments later you can hear the rumbling Thoom of an explosion, followed by more Booming sounds as secondary and collateral detonations engulf the entirety of the hangar bay. A shockwave tosses you head over ceramite-plated tea kettle through a bulkhead and into something that is a mixture of armor-hard plates and squishy flesh. Your boot impacts something the gives out a Squelch and something else gives out a terrified squeal. You shake your head, orient yourself, and assess your situation. ¡°Gorlin, I found the bodies.¡± ¡°Hreh? How?¡± ¡°Let us say that I¡¯m going to need to rinse off next chance I get.¡± ¡°Freh! Foot-first, huh?¡± ¡°Ass-first. My foot found the scavengers. Grots from the stain on the bottom.¡± You can hear Gorlin start to laugh before he cuts the vox-link. ¡°Leave the line open and we¡¯ll come to you Marcellus.¡± You can tell that Hagrdict wants to laugh, but is stifling it with a fair degree of success. ¡°Affirmative Hagrdict.¡± They find you in short order, still picking grot teeth out of your boot. Having regrouped, you lead the way deeper into the Capitals Congestus. Two and a half hours later at the stern of the Unflagging Resolve you come across a set of stubborn auto-bulkheads. The first of three is stuck with only a sliver of space open. Peering through the gap, you can see a second one behind it. It looks to be some sort of airlock setup, probably for damage control purposes. Unfortunately it stands in your way, and you don¡¯t think you can get it powered up and working again. You take a moment to consult with your team. ¡°We have two doors that I can see in our way. We have enough of a gap to try and force the door open with brute strength, or we could blast it down with krak grenades. If we do that, it will take two or three grenades per door to make a breach. Opinions?¡± Gorlin¡¯s pauldrons whined. ¡°Grr. I¡¯d say breach and have done with, but we¡¯ve only nine Krak grenades with us. Three per door would leave us short should we need them.¡± Hagrdict nods, ¡°trying our strength first costs us nothing, so why not try?¡± You nod, ¡°I¡¯ll go low, Hagredict goes high. Gorlin, overwatch please.¡± They nod and you set top the task. The gap is just wide enough to fit your gauntleted fingers through. You flex them and get a good grip on the auto-bulkhead. ¡°Ready?¡± ¡°Ready.¡± ¡°On three. One, two, three!¡±
Force open the Auto-Bulkhead: -10% Strength test.
Success! Needed <63, got 06.
You and Hagrdict haul and the auto-bulkhead gives way with the terrible screech of tearing metal. It slammed back into the frame and stays there, the servos that drove it utterly destroyed by the abuse you put them through. The next door is jammed in a slightly more open position. You and Hagrdict set up to try again.
Force open the Auto-Bulkhead: -10% Strength test.
Success! Needed <63, got 09.
The second auto-bulkhead crumples like a used ration wrapper under your and Hagrdict¡¯s combined efforts. Gorlin strides through it and breaks into a charge before you can pick yourself from the deck. As you roll to your feet, you see the severed head of a mutated once-man, a lost soul of a man: perhaps once a crewman of one of the ships now a part of the hulk, bounce past you. Another lost soul tries to run past you, but Hagrdict grabs its head in one fist and smashes it to paste against the deck. You come to your feet, bolter drawn and ready, in time to see two more lost souls dive into a vent and flee the fight. By the time you enter the small maintenance area (and duck under a hanging light fixture) the fight, such as it was, is already over. Hagrdict looks set to climb into the vent after the fleeing lost souls, with Gorlin holding him back. ¡°Dammit Flesh Tearer! Let me after them! Suffer not the Mutant to live!¡± ¡°Grrh! Not letting you get killed for nothing!¡± ¡°Dammit Hagrdict! The fight is over, the ghilliam are dead, and we have a mission to complete! Besides, I do not think that you would fit into the vents in your Power Armor.¡± ¡°Damn you...¡±
Cohesion Challenge: Squad infighting!
Success! needed <=8 on 1d10, got 3.
You cut of Hagrdict¡¯s tirade before it can start. ¡°Are you going to Hold your Oath and stay on mission? Or are you going to go Renegade on a personal Crusade?¡± ¡°Rrrr¡­¡± ¡°Gorlin, let him go. Hagrdict, rein it in for now. This is a Recon mission, not a Cleanse operation. That will come in time, but we have neither the firepower nor the information we need to mount it now.¡± ¡°Affirmative, Alpha-One.¡± ¡°Good. Keep it tight and watch the corners, we are headed ¡®north-east¡¯ from the Unflagging Resolve, which may put us into a Chaos ship. If it does, we punch through to the ¡®north¡¯, do not stop moving. Gorlin, on point. Hagrdict, in the middle, I will take the rear.¡± Sure enough you come to the unholy rune encrusted hull of the chaos ship. As you step gingerly through a great rent in its armored hide, you can¡¯t help but note how thin its armor is. An Imperial warship of three kilometers or more in length would be a cruiser at least, and carry between fifteen and twenty meters of adamantium-class armor plating, with at least as much common battlesteel for backing. This chaos ship only carries ten meters of armor plating and another fifteen of backing. Which would make it one of the very old grand cruisers, ships at least fifteen millenia old before the vagaries of warp travel are accounted for. Ships built to be flagships for fast-moving Predation Fleets, swift hunters of foes.
Squad Mode Activated: Tactical Spacing Engaged. 8 Cohesion remains.
You shake off your musings. ¡°Arlight squad. We¡¯re moving ¡®north¡¯ through this wretched mess. Watch your spacing and keep the pace up.¡±This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. ¡°Alpha-three confirms.¡± ¡°One Speed Preacher.¡± Gorlin leads off, setting a pace that would be punishing for any un-modified human. Hagrdict easily keeps pace and you hustle to catch up. The three of you are making a fair bit of noise now, but you are happy to trade stealth for speed if it means avoiding any more daemons. You can hear the scuttle of small vermin and fearful mutants as they flee your footsteps. Hagrdict looks ready to smash the first thing that crosses his path, but Gorlin is in the lead and would take first contact. None comes, even as you spend two hours traversing the width of the Chaos ship and a further eight navigating the tangled labyrinth of wreckage of an ork ship at F3. That peace is broken as you navigate ¡®north-east¡¯ through the Tisiphone. You are in a machine shop of some sort, the floor scattered with the remains of broken equipment and shards of bone. Your foes spring from their hiding-places, their strikes fast enough to befuddle and disembowel a human. They aren¡¯t nearly fast enough to surprise a Space Marine.
Identify Foes: +20% Perception test. +20% for Autosenses.
Success! Needed <88, got 49.
You act first, spotting three ghilliam and a hullghast as they emerge from cover. Your bolter is already in your hands and firing. The hullghast is the most dangerous of the targets before you with its combination of toxic claws and bite, both of which are more than capable of marking even Power Armor, and its brutal berserker charge.
Single shot from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +0% to hit. Magazine is now at 27/28 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit. Target is obstructed (friendlies in the way): -10% to hit.
Fire at hullghast: Success! needed <53, got 51.
Damage inflicted: 2d10+5 explosive. Result: 25.
Critical Hit! A damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 43 total damage done to target.
Your bolt obliterates the hullghast¡¯s torso, leaving only a pile of bloody gibs on the deck. Hagrdict is almost as quick on the trigger, cratering the chest of one of the ghilliam before it can touch him. Another Ghilliam gets to Gorlin, but he laughs as he easily parries its clumsy strike and takes its right arm off in return. It dies on the floor, clutching the stump where its shoulder used to be. Gorlin wheels around to meet the charge of the last ghillian and parries its attack with ease. This is only possible because you and Hagrdict have spaced yourselves properly, giving Gorlin all the room he needs to brawl without restraint.
Single shot from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +0% to hit. Magazine is now at 26/28 rounds. Range is short: +10% to hit. Target is obstructed (friendlies in the way): -10% to hit. Target is in melle: -20% to hit.
Fire at ghilliam: Success! needed <33, got 32.
Damage inflicted: 2d10+5 explosive. Result: 16.
Your shot connects with the last ghilliam in the room, amputating its right leg at the knee. It collapses to the deck in a mewling, miserable wreck and bleeds out in the few moments it takes for the spent shell to stop rattling around in the corner of the room. Hagrdict glances at the bodies, nods in your direction, and holsters his bolter. He doesn¡¯t say anything, but you can tell that he no longer has any concerns with your willingness to fight the foes of mankind. You nod for Gorlin to lead the way again, and your team is moving before the bodies even have a chance to cool. Within twenty minutes you are ducking beneath the twin two-hundred meter engine exhausts of The Macedonian and walking deep into her lower decks. These are the cramped and crowded places where officers never tread and honest crew fear to go. A place where bilge-rats rule and mech-wright lead maintenance crews go armed. These ill-used spaces oft became the shipboard refuge of the outcast, the stowaway, and the unclean; a veritable catacomb-undercity in space. So it is an incredible surprise when you find a black-marked door some six hours later. The remains of a trio of servitor-manned defensive turrets guard the approach, and the cogwheel icon of the Adeptus Mechanicus stands next to the Helm-wheel of the Imperial Navy and the ship¡¯s crest of The Macedonian. You pause, your brow furrowing, and call out to your team, ¡°I think we just found the Ship¡¯s Archive.¡± ¡°What? Say again Hunter¡± ¡°Greh?¡± ¡°No Idea what it is doing down here, but I can¡¯t think of any other reason for a servitor-turret guarded door and the combination of ship¡¯s crest, Adeptus Mechanicus, and Imperial Navy iconography.¡± ¡°Sounds propper, I¡¯m just astonished that it is down here in the catacombs instead of on the bridge or down by the main plasma drive.¡± ¡°Hreh. probably because if either of those are destroyed, it would destroy the archive too. ¡° ¡°That seems to be the logic at work here, though I would have expected a mid-deck location, not a low deck one. Do either of you have at least a passing familiarity with the Rites of Data Retrieval?¡± ¡°Negative Hunter, only the basics of data-slate operation and the like.¡± ¡°Hrgh. Same.¡± ¡°Alright, cover me while I work then.¡± You kneel down to reach the lock on the door. It would be perhaps chest-high for a human, but that means that it is waist high for you. It is a complex padlock and thirteen-digit combination lock mechanism which you have no hope of picking or guessing the code to. You trace the hasp of the lock and find that it loops through a set of catch-points on both sides of the hatch. A difficult setup to bypass, but one that will only deter the most trivial of forced entries. Presumably what the servitor-guns were meant to prevent. You snap the lock off the door with barely a grunt of effort, and pick the hasp from the catch-points. You push the door open and step inside to find a single cogitator terminal atop a bare steel table and a heavily reinforced data-vault. A black cursor binks in the sea-green display of the terminal, waiting for something to be typed into the keyboard. The human-sized keyboard. You gingerly hold a finger over one of the keys and study it. Your finger is nearly twice the width of one of the keys, so you will be forced to poke directly downward at the keys with a single finger fully extended, hitting one key at at time.
Unseal the data-vault: -10% Tech-use test.
Success! Needed <34, got 21.
You hunt-and-peck at the keyboard, thanking the Emperor that the backspace key is easy enough to hit as you have to delete several errant keystrokes. Sone eight and a half minutes later you have entered the command >Unseal ship_archive. You hit the XQT key to activate the command and hope. The data-vault responds with the quiet shusssssh of equalizing atmosphere and vents wisps of chilled nitrogen gas into the room. You lift the cover and lift the infocasket from the data-vault by the singular handle on its top surface. A rectangular box, as wide as your outstretched fingers, as long and tall as your forearm, and some twenty-five kilograms in weight. You heft it easily in one hand, you bolter in the other. ¡°Task complete. Move onwards my brothers.¡± ¡°Hrgh. Took you long enough.¡± ¡°It takes as long as it takes Ravager. Better to be slow and sure then fast and wrong.¡± ¡°Greh. If you say so.¡± ¡°Hagrdict, Take point for the next section, Gorlin to cover the rear.¡± ¡°Trrgh. That will put you between me and the fight.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll worry about that Gorlin, just make sure nothing attacks us from behind.¡± ¡°Feh.¡± ¡°Hagrdict, lead on.¡± Nine hours later and Hagrdict leads the party clear of the labyrinthine catacombs and into the mid-decks of The Macedonian. You estimate your position as somewhere near the middle of the ship, probably near the root of the spire holding the bridge and the officer¡¯s quarters on the upper decks. This impression is reinforced as Hagrdict continues to lead you upwards, climbing into that spire. Three hours of searching later brings you to a set of quarters near to the armory and a storage room that has been converted into a training area. Hagrict pauses and considers the training room for a moment, before clicking open the vox, ¡°We may have found something.¡± ¡°Rrgh. ¡®May Have¡¯?¡± ¡°The training room seems improvised, all of the equipment enlarged and reinforced. And there is a large cleared area in the middle of the room. Much the same as it would be in a sparring ring. Sized for Space Marines.¡± ¡°Hrgh?¡± ¡°Hagrdict is right, this is where the Imperial Fist squad would have trained and rested. Twelve hatches between here and the armory: enough rooms for a full squad with two to spare. Take four rooms each to search, and keep aware in case of ambush.¡± ¡°Confirmed Hunter. Ravager, do you want near end, middle, or far end?¡± ¡°Ergh. Near end. Hunter?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll take the middle four.¡±
Search the Rooms: +20% Perception test. +20% for Autopsenses.
Success! Needed <88, got 57.
You find nothing of value because there is little of interest to be found. Small stacks of memento mori, vials of lapping and polishing solutions, a few tins of yellow paint for Power Armor. ¡°Hunter to team, I have a whole lot of nothing here. What fortune?¡± ¡°Hrgh. Preacher, you got anything? If not, join me in the room to the left of the Armory.¡± ¡°On my way Ravager.¡± You hurry out of the room to join Gorlin and Hagrdict in the indicated room. Right away you can tell that this room is different. A small altar has been set up at one end, a ring in the dust marking where the icon is missing. An empty bracket for a squad banner is set into the back wall. But most importantly, a stack of dusty tomes sits in front of the altar; bound in blackened leather, embossed with the yellow-gold fist icon of the Imperial Fists. ¡°Codices?¡± You tap the small crystal datacrypt where it hangs from your cingulum at you waist. ¡°Copies of the Codex Astartes?¡± ¡°A Chaplain¡¯s copy, plus his recorded musings upon them, made available for the squad to read during prayer or meditation. They would not have been left behind lightly.¡± ¡°Hrgh. Thought so. We¡¯re bringing these home then. Preacher, you should be the one to handle these, I¡¯ll see if there¡¯s anything in the armory we can use as a suitable container.¡± Gorlin returns a short while later, bearing a selection of empty box magazines. Each is big enough to hold a single tome, perhaps two if they are squeezed in tightly. Hagrdict lays them out and reverently loads each into its own improvised container. That done, he mag-locks them to his back, before kneeling before the altar for a moment of prayer. You look at Gorlin, and he holds his tongue as Hagrdict murmurs a prayer for the departed Imperial Fists, asking their forgiveness for disturbing the altar. You are not one for religion, having seen where blind zealotry can lead all to often when putting down rebellious and outright heretical worlds, but each man in your squad, you included has their own brand of faith. Gorlin knows the heated fury of close-quarters-combat, of blood and blade and death, and has little patience for simple words. Deeds are the most important thing to him, brotherhoods forged in the fires of combat. You know the Codex Astartes as the guiding wisdom of Primarch Guilliman, passed down for millenia. Its is not a holy book, nor are the guiding wisdoms within it absolute, but they form the entire backbone for your life: from your selection as a youth on Ardium, to the lessons taught you as an aspirant, the trials as you became a scout, the manner in which you fought and adapted as a battle-brother of the line, and the lessons you have passed on as a scout-sergeant for the past three hundred years the Codex had been a constant guide and companion. You have learned to see beyond its tenants, to know when to bend them or even break them outright as the situation demands, reality never conforms to the lessons of the classroom after all, but they serve as an excellent guide and offer a broad selection of solutions to most of the problems you have faced. Hagrdict follows the Codex Astartes, as interpreted by Sigismund, on a more fervent level. It is not quite religion, but the Codex plays a much more active role in his life then they do in yours. Reinforced with the knightly traditions of the Black Templars, Hagrdict¡¯s actions may appear to be mildly religious in nature, but you know a little more. Honor plays a large part in the life of a Black Templar, and it is no small slight to disrupt the works of a fellow warrior, particularly the works of a fellow battle-brother, and especially the works of a Chaplain or senior officer. Hagrdict¡¯s prayer is made to ask their forgiveness and to apologise for the slight, to explain the need which brings him to do it. It is a vocalization of the rationalization in his mind, but it is important to him. When Hagrdict is done, you let Gorlin take the lead again, searching the bow of The Macedonian. You sense the impatience in his stride, the eagerness to be done with this mission after nearly forty hours. You know that picking a new path back through the Capitalis Congestus will likely take another twenty hours, perhaps more, even if you don¡¯t stop to investigate anything or encounter any serious obstructions. An hour later and your team is passing a medical triage post. Bones are heaped in the corners where the dead were unceremoniously dumped to make room for those who might live. Leaned in one corner is a dead Imperial Fist; his helmet is missing and you can see a pair of service studs embedded next to the gaping hole in his skull. His weapons are gone, taken by his battle-brothers to continue the fight in which he died. ¡°Objective located. Gorlin; overwatch. Hagrdict; help me find something to carry our dead battle-brother¡± It turns out you have nothing better to hand then your climbing harness once again, so the unknown battle brother ends up strapped to your back. You secure his skull with a rope going into the wound that killed him and out through the foramen magnum, the opening for the spinal column. With that grim task completed, you direct Gorlin to lead off ¡®west¡¯ and ¡®south-west¡¯ back to the Visitor. All three of you are on the ragged edge of almost-fatigue after so long in the field, and so pay only the most basic attention to your surroundings: you are looking for threats, not more things to investigate. You make note of the ship of unknown providence in D1, and the Nova-class Adeptus Astartes Frigate at C2, but have neither the energy nor the carrying capacity to investigate them properly. You finally return to your void-hab base some forty-seven hours after you left it. You have a bit of down time before your next mission. Time enough to rest up, polish out the scratches in your wargear, and perhaps improve yourself.
Mission 2: Black Vanguard completed
Stockpile Update: Specialist rounds for special targets; Hellfire Ammunition bypasses all natural or organic armor, and liquefies the target from the inside out.
Rewards: The Marks of Duty Current Level: 1 (out of 8) Current Renown: 17 (out of 100) - Deathwatch Initiate Chapter 26: New Orders You gather your fireteam, and Interrogator MacWater, to greet the incoming thunderhawk dropship with both relief and trepidation. Enough time has passed that the Mech-Wright should be returning, but nothing short of the arrival of a fellow space marine would justify a thunderhawk dropship. Your uncertainty is put at ease when the Mech-Wright leads the way off of the Thunderhawk, mono-tasked servitor in tow with several armorium crates loaded across is hunched back. Replacement ceramite panels, adamantium bolts and rivets, and the assorted complex small components that go into maintaining armor-servos and the like. Perhaps your chestplate can finally have the gouges repaired, instead of trusting to the armor cements field repairs. ¡°ZTO Two-Delta-Three reporting for duty.¡± ¡°Welcome back Mech-Wright. You know the place as well as I do, so go ahead and get set up and settled in.¡± ¡°Affirmative Alpha-One.¡± More concerning is the appearance of the devastator space marine who follows ZTO off of the Thunderhawk. The presence of his heavy bolter in your fireteam¡¯s arsenal is more than welcome: the incoming doctrinal divisions are not. The left pauldron of his mk7 ¡°aquila¡± power armor is the mottled dull green of the Raptors chapter. Known for their pragmatism and their derision for displays of martial glory or zeal, you can already tell that Hagrdict is tensing up for the inevitable contest of wills between the two of them. Your concern doubles when the devastator walks down the ramp with the unmistakable arrogant swagger of the newly-initiated. Freshly raised to the ranks of the space marines, they have fare too much belief in their own immortality for their own good. Gorlin twitches then whispers, ¡°Breh. Bloodydamn Fung.¡± Hagrdict twitches an eyebrow at Gorlin, ¡°come again?¡± ¡°Freh. FNG. Fraggin¡¯ New Guy.¡± You nod your head, ¡°Think of the newest of neophytes that you have gifted the black carapace to, and their matching arrogance at being awarded a set of power armor.¡± Hagrdict winces, ¡°the ones whose geneseed I have to recover after their first fight.¡± Gorlin nods in agreement. The devastator stops his advance the codex-specified distance and salutes, ¡°Alpha Four reporting for duty Sir.¡± ¡°Welcome to the squad battle-brother¡­?¡± ¡°Losis, Sir. I also have a message cylinder for you Sir. New orders from the Watch Commander.¡± ¡°Very well Losis, let¡¯s have it.¡± He hands it over, and you place your thumb at the bio-reader on the cylinder''s end. It swiftly links into your power armor¡¯s diagnostics, confirms your identity, and pops open. Your eyes dart down the stilted form, jumping over the rote formatting to the parts that actually matter.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. ¡°From Watch Command to Fire-Team Alpha, new orders as follows: Expedite exploration of the space hulk known as the Capitalis Congestus. A Special Demolitions Unit, Destroyer Six, is en route to your position to demolish the hulk, and will require a route to the blighted heart of his target.¡± Hagrdict frowns, ¡°what sort of name is ¡°Destroyer Six?¡± Losis flips one hand palm uppermost, ¡°more importantly, what in the Emperor¡¯s name is a ¡®Special Demolitions Unit?¡¯¡± Gorlin twitches, ¡°Rrgh, what sort of device could demolish an entire space hulk in a single strike?¡± You tap the sheet of parchment containing your orders, ¡°these don¡¯t say, but it would have to be something on the upper end of the exterminatus-class of weapons. A planet-breaker in its own right, so it¡¯s more powerful than a cyclonic torpedo warhead.¡± Losis tips his helmet to the side, ¡°And portable by a single unit of infantry too. Vortex grenade you think, Sir?¡± You shake your head, ¡°best not to dwell on it. Our orders and our Primary objective is to find the ¡®blighted heart¡¯ of the Capitalis Congesus.¡± You can all be feel Losis¡¯ frown as he speaks, ¡°would that not be the center of the hulk?¡± You nod, ¡°perhaps, but there is at least one Chaos-tainted Grand Cruiser in this hulk, so it may be aboard that. Or it could be somewhere in the seventy three percent of the Capitalis Congestus that is as-yet unmapped. Think it over while we get Losis unloaded so this Thunderhawk can get on its way.
Stockpile Update: Specialist rounds for special targets; Hellfire Ammunition bypasses all natural or organic armor, and liquefies the target from the inside out.
With Losis¡¯ equipment and his supplies unloaded, you regather you kill-team, Interrogator MacWater, and Mech-Wright ZTO around the central table in the common area of the voidhab. You tap your knucks on the table, rapping them like a gavel, to bring the meeting to order. ¡°Interrogator MacWater, you know our updated orders. Is there any other information that you can share with us to further them?¡± Interrogator MacWater chews her lower lip as she thinks it over, ¡°nothing concrete Hunter. Only the persistent rumor that Destroyer Six, who or whatever it is, is only ever unleashed when the Ordo Xenos wants to ensure no survivors, witnesses, or evidence is left behind.¡± You nod in acceptance, ¡°see if you can gather any more information Interrogator. We are going to need an exit strategy, probably in a hurry, and preferably one we can use under fire. ZTO, status on armor repairs?¡± ZTO consults one of his dataslates, ¡°no more than seven point two four six hours, assuming I can work uninterrupted and no major faults are found, from the conclusion of this meeting.¡± ¡°Thank you. Meeting is dismissed at this time, Kill-team to reconvene in nine hours for mission planning.¡± Chapter 27: To the Middle You reconvene you battle-brothers in the common room. Losis is already armored, armed, and ready; over-eager to get into a fight. Gorlin is calmly fitting new teeth onto his chainsword, meticulously saving the old, broken ones for reasons you can¡¯t fathom. Hagrdict is murmuring an almost-inaudible prayer against the warp, bolstering his resolve for the coming mission. You connect a dataslate to the table and activate the projectors. ¡°Here is where we stand. As you can see, the majority of the Capitalis Congestus is as-yet unknown. Twenty-seven percent of its volume has been mapped, and approximately one percent of that same volume has been destroyed. Almost all of the exploration work so far has been in the ¡®north¡¯ and ¡®east¡¯ of the hulk, and has revealed nothing that might be a ¡®Blighted Heart.¡¯ ¡°Our plan of action is thus: we will move to the center of the hulk,¡± you ¡®tap¡¯ your finger on the relevant section of the projection, ¡°and then work our way to the ¡®north-east¡¯ corner of the Capitalis Congestus, mapping as we go. Should we not find our objective, we will asses our supplies and situation; and press onwards if we have the resources to do so. Questions?¡± Gorlin shakes his head in the negative. Hagrdict locks his helm into place, ready to move. Losis racks the slide on his heavy bolter, the 1.57 caliber shell chunking into place. You nod, not expecting anything else. ¡°Brothers, we face unknown foes on uncertain grounds. We walk into the dark places, that others need not follow. We bring death onto the damned, fire onto the unclean. We stand as one, we stare into the abyss, and we dare it to stare back.¡±
Oath of Moment: The Oath of Loyalty +1 on Cohesion Challenge rolls, +10% to resist Cohesion damageIf you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Squad Mode Abilities: Tactical Spacing, Regroup, Soak Fire. Cohesion: 7 / 7 (5 from fellowship, 1 from command skill, 1 from Favored Son skill)
Mission 3: Frozen Night Type: Reconnaissance Primary Objective: scout gridpoints F5 to G6 Secondary Objective: Survive! Tertiary Objective: Eliminate any targets of opportunity encountered. Personal (Bonus) Objective: Unity - Do not allow Squad Cohesion to reach 0.
You lead your kill-team through the ruins of the Arno Dorian and the Lonely Drifter. Already you can feel Gorlin and Hagrdict pulling ahead and straining at the leash, eager to take the fight to the foe. Losis, for all his arrogance and previous eagerness, is hanging back and letting the spacing in your team stretch out. Each is moving to put himself in the best position to use his own talents without thinking of the rest of the team. This will not do.
Tactical Spacing activated: Squad operating in Squad Mode, reactions are now pooled.
5 Cohesion remains.
¡°Kill-team, close it up. Maintain Tactical Spacing. Gorlin, take point until the wreck of the Unflagging Resolve.¡± ¡°Rrgh. Confirmed.¡± ¡°By your command Alpha-one.¡± ¡°Affirmative Hunter.¡± As you continue to move through the semi-familiar decks you ponder the map in the back of your head. You will need to go ¡®north¡¯ or ¡®south¡¯ of it to press forwards, and each path has its own benefits and costs. Chapter 28: Green Goop ¡°Gorlin, divert ¡®south-east¡¯ into the ork ship. We¡¯ll push through that to our objective.¡± ¡°Rrgh. Affirmative.¡± ¡°Kind of wish I¡¯d had brought a flamer, ¡° Hagrdict grunts, ¡°to cleanse the ork taint as we go." ¡°Waste of ammo. Let Destroyer Six purge them along with the rest of the Hulk. That being said, I¡¯ll settle for claiming the Warboss¡¯ head as a ¡®target of opportunity¡¯¡± You can hear the extra quotes in Losis¡¯ tone, even over the inter-suit vox. ¡°No need for a wild grox chase. If we get into a fight, every ork left on this wreck well be gunning for our heads, Warboss included.¡± ¡°Reh-heh-heh. Bring ¡®em on Hunter.¡± Gorlin leads the way into the ork teleportarium. New, oil-drenched cables spew forth from most of the equipment. Occasional sparks of lurid green energy spit from copper orbs and tin rings. Suddenly the sparks turn into jagged looping arcs of power. You feel your stomach rebel as the power builds and the gravity in the chamber goes mad. One of the walls is ripped away, shattering into grains of sand. You and your team are thrown through the opening as the teleportarium begins to overload. You hit a wall, roll to the ground, and are buffeted by an almighty explosion. You feel the very ground you are laying on undulate with the force of the blast, tossing you about like a ragdoll. When the shalking finally stops, you carefully gather your wits and climb to your feet. The floor is still swaying erratically, and you quickly spot the reason why. You and the rest of your squad is on a narrow platform, a rickety bridge of sorts, above a festering pool full of some sort of bubbling goop. You don¡¯t know what the goop is, but you do know that ending up in it is probably not good for your health. ¡°Hunter to Squad. Status Check.¡± ¡°Crrgh. Combat ready.¡± ¡°Uninjured.¡± ¡°Hanging off the edge and in need of a hand.¡± You turn around to find Losis is in exactly the position he reported. You step gingerly, not wanting to put a foot through the bridge, and grab his forearm. ¡°Let¡¯s get you back up here.¡±You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Pull Losis back up onto the rickety bridge: -20% Strength test.
Success! Needed <53, got 08.
You give a heave and Losis flops back onto the bridge. It sways like a drunken guardsmen under the impact, but it doesn''t collapse. ¡°nice catch.¡± ¡°Nice pull. Bad spot to stand though.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t say. Gorlin?¡± ¡°Grh?¡± ¡°Lead on.¡± Gorlin picks his way carefully across the bridge. It squeals in protest at some of his steps, and rocks alarmingly at others, but it never gives out. Hagridict follows him, but an incautious step results in an alarming creak, crack, and stumble. He falls backward with his arms windmilling, and you have the barest fractions of a second to register disaster before he slams on his back and the whole bridge gives way.
Peril Damage: Fell into the toxic goop! 3d10+5 Energy (acid) Damage.
Randomised hit location: head. Incoming damage: 26.
Damage reduction from armor: (8 armor - 7 penetration) = 1. Damage reduction from toughness: 10.
Total damage taken: 15. Armor Breached! It is no longer atmospherically sealed!
5 Health remaining.
You haul yourself onto the edge of the goo pool. You tip your head forward, letting the slime drip out of the gaps in your helmet. Your everything hurts a bit, but you can keep going for now. Hagrdict hauls himself clear, shaking his right arm in disgust, ¡°Some sort of bio-acid. Call out if you start to melt or anything.¡± Losis follows, bio-acid goop pouring out from behind his backpack, ¡°Will do Apothecary.¡± Gorlin is the last out of the goop, ¡°Freh. Feel like I got kicked by a carnifex.¡± You take a moment to assess your squad. Everyone¡¯s health indicator on your hud is glowing the sullen orange of moderate combat damage. It¡¯s not critical, not yet, but further fighting could put you into serious trouble. On the other hand, nothing is ever gained by sitting in base doing nothing... Chapter 29: Mob Handed ¡°Hold for a moment Gorlin. Hagrdict, let¡¯s get everyone patched up. Losis, overwatch if you would.¡± A chorus of affirmatives comes back, and your squad moves smoothly into a mass casualty drill. Hagrdict moves from man to man, administering first aid while everyone else rotates through overwatch and applying armor cement to re-seal their power armor.
First aid applied: +6 health.
Armor cement applied: Power armor is now atmospherically sealed.
11 Health remaining.
Sixty seconds later and your squad is good to go. Everyone''s health indicator is now the yellow of minor injuries, all breaches in power armor are sealed up tight, and you have a way forward. Gorlin leads the way deeper into the ork ship. Four hours later and you find yourself in a large hold filled with sparking lumps of metal. Some of them have glowing patches, others have forests of protruding levers or scabs of buttons. After a few minutes of investigation, you figure out that this must be some sort of orkish cogitator bank. You have absolutely no idea what any of the ¡®cogitators¡¯ around you do, except perhaps something to do with the ork teleportarium that exploded around you. You glance around the hold, estimating it to be perhaps a hundred meters wide and three hundred meters long. None of the cogitators survived the destruction of the ork teleportarium, if they were ever functional in the first place, and most are no more than waist-high lumps of scrap metal now. ¡°GIVE IT SUM DAKKA BOYS!¡± Hagrdict staggers as a bullet thumps into his chest. The rest of the poorly-aimed salvo spalls and splatters harmlessly of the deck and cogitator banks near him. Another long burst comes out of the hold, aimed in Gorlin''s general direction, but hitting nothing. An ork comes out from behind a lump of metal ninety meters away with a burna clutched in its grubby fingers, moving quickly in your direction. Hagrdict takes a few more hits in the right arm. You can hear his grunt of discomfort over the inter-suit vox, and his status light flickers to orange. Gorlin takes a trio of hits in his cybernetic right leg, but shrugs them off. A monstrous salvo of heavy bullets rip into Losis, most of them striking about his head and shoulders. He is thrown violently to the deck, his helmet in splintered tatters, blood pouring from its interior. Amazingly, Losis¡¯ status light is blinking the crimson of heavy critical damage instead of the flat black of death. A few more lighter bullets splatter near him, some spalling off his left arm, but his status light keeps blinking. Another burna wielding ork vaults a pile of scrap. Hagrdict goes down hard as a long stream of bullets amputates his left leg almost at the hip, his status light blinking crimson. Four more burna-welding orks emerge from behind various bits of cover, headed your way. Gorlin slides down next to Losis and takes up his heavy bolter, ¡°srgh. Sorry kid, gonna need this for a bit.¡± He drags both into what cover he can find and sets up to return fire. In doing so he draws the attention of some of the orks, and their fire. Three streams of bullets kick up chips of metal and rust all around him, some of them even hitting him, but he shrugs them off like they were nothing. The nearest burna-wielding ork closes to seventy-two meters under their ¡®covering fire¡¯. You grab Hagrdict and pull him behind another lump of slag. You have to leave his severed leg behind, but it won¡¯t do him any good in this fight anyway. You snap off a shot with your bolter, aiming for the source of the heavier bullets, probably an ork Loota with a deffgun.
Single shot from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +0% to hit. Magazine is now at 27/28 rounds.
Fire at ork Loota: Success! needed <58, got 48.
Damage inflicted: 2d10+5 explosive. Result: 16.
You have the satisfaction of hearing the Loota howl in agony as your shot connects, but it is still alive. ¡°OI! MY HAT! NOW YA GONE AN¡¯ DONE IT YA STUPID HUMIE!¡± You definitely pissed it off. Your pile of slag, the surrounding deck plates, and ceiling are peppered with dozens of bullets large and small. Nothing actually manages to hit you or Hagrdict, which is no small relief. The second burna ork creeps forward to join the first seventy-two meters away. Hagrdict and Losis both stir, clearly coming back to consciousness and dealing with the resulting agony. They will be out of the fight for another few precious seconds. An ork pops out of cover and fires a wild, inaccurate burst in Gorlin¡¯s general direction. The last four burnas dash forward to join their brethren. They are all bunched up together, if you could just get a grenade in their midst¡­ Gorlin unleashes a long, suppressive burst form Losis¡¯ heavy bolter, looking to pin down the Loota and his two cronies. Both the Loota and one of its fellow orks make the mistake of not ducking: they come apart in sprays of green slime. Gorlin¡¯s attack is answered with wild sprays of bullets from other orks. Most of them miss Gorlin, but not the imobile Losis. He wheezes in pain as two or three bullets find weaknesses in his breastplate. His health indicator on your HUD flickers black for a moment, but doesn¡¯t go out completely. You eye the burna welding orks; seventy-two meters away, they aren¡¯t yet a threat. The orks with the damned shootas, on the other hand, are slowly picking your squad apart. Not too much you can do about that except shoot back. You spot one of the bastards prancing around out of cover and decide to teach him the error of his ways.
Full auto burst from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +30% to hit. Magazine is now at 23/28 rounds.
Fire at ork Loota: Success! needed <88, got 09.
Damage inflicted: 8d10+20 explosive. Result: 59.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 80 total damage.
The ork in question is torn into gratifyingly small chunks by the explosions of your bolts. A spray of return fire comes your way, but none of the bullets come within six meters of your actual position. Another burst actually manages to hit Gorlin¡¯s cover, but leaves the man himself unscathed. The burna orks have clumped up, and rush forward another eighteen meters. You eye the distance and estimate they will be in firing range in another twelve seconds. Gorlin switches targets and splatters another ork across the deckplate. He takes a hail of shoota bullets for his efforts; his breastplate buckles under the barrage and his right arm flops to the deck, severed at the elbow. His status light goes from yellow to blinking crimson. You are now the only effective combatant left standing from your squad. You¡¯ve seen worse odds and all three of your battle brothers will live if you can eliminate the orks closing in to finish you off. The clock is ticking down as the Burna orks rush in, but you have a few seconds left to act. You pull one of your frags from your belt and heave it at the clump of burna orks. Clustered so close together, it should hit at least some of them.
Throwing frag AP grenade: +0% to hit. 2 grenades remaining. Range is long: -10% to hit.
Throw grenade at Burna orks: Direct Hit! needed <58, got 08.
Orks attempt to dodge out of the blast radius: none make it.
Grenade detonates, dealing 2d10 explosive damage. Result: 13.
Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 2d10 damage. Result: 27 total damage.
The orks are blown from their feet, tossed to the deck in graceless arks. Far more satisfying is the gouts of flame from ruptured burna fuel tanks. Seconds later one of the tanks cooks off, engulfing all six ork corpses in fire. It is now a one against three fight. Hagrdict moans and twitches next to you, coming awake and sorting out what is going on. ¡°What in Sigismund''s name¡­?¡± ¡°Ork ambush. Mass casualty scenario, and you¡¯re short a leg.¡± ¡°Shit.¡± ¡°We are in it, what about it?¡± A spray of shoota bullets whips past you. ¡°Little busy at the moment, sorry.¡± Gorlin twitches, but is a long way from getting back in the fight.
Dodge incoming fire: +0%. Success: needed <44, got 04.
You twist out of the way of another cone of shoota slugs: most of them would have missed you, but a trio in the salvo would have plowed into your chest with potentially lethal force.
Full auto burst from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +30% to hit. Magazine is now at 19/28 rounds.
Fire at ork with shoota: Success! needed <88, got 56.
Damage inflicted: 8d10+20 explosive. Result: 67.
Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 74 total damage.
You return the ork¡¯s fire and you don¡¯t miss. The ork attempts to duck back down behind its pile of scrap, but all that does is make your rounds decapitate it with a satisfyingly gory spray of ichor. Hagrdict shakes his head, grabs his bolter, and pulls himself up onto the pile of scrap next to you. ¡°Leave some for me Hunter!¡± ¡°Stop laying on your ass and start shooting then!¡± Losis and Gorlin both groan, but neither gets back up. The two remaining orks empty their shootas at you, but only one round spalls Inefectually off of your breastplate. ¡°Left one is mine.¡± You pump an automatic spray of bolts at the ¡®claimed¡¯ ork.
Full auto burst from Bolter (magazine #1 - Standard Bolts): +30% to hit. Magazine is now at 15/28 rounds.
Fire at ork with shoota: Failure! needed <88, got 94.
Spent Fate to re-roll to hit dice. Success! Needed <88, got 51.
Damage inflicted: 8d10+20 explosive. Result: 67.
You jerk your shot, the bots going wide left, but the ork happens to dive that way in an attempt to evade your fire. The end result is that he ¡®caught¡¯ your bolts, with the predictable fatal effect. Hagrdict blows the last ork away in a spray of bolts, then slumps to the scrap pile in exhaustion. ¡°Thank Sigismund, Dorn, and the God-Emperor for our victory this day.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not over yet. Get Gorlin and Losis back on their feet, we need to get out of here before more orks come to investigate.¡± ¡°Lend me a hand over to them then.¡±
Mission 3: Frozen Night failed!
Stockpile Update: Specialist rounds for special targets; Hellfire Ammunition bypasses all natural or organic armor, and liquefies the target from the inside out.
Rewards: The Marks of Duty Current Level: 1 (out of 8) Current Renown: 19 (out of 100) - Deathwatch Initiate
As you watch the Thunderhawk depart from one of the portholes, carrying Hagrdict and Gorlin off to get cybernetics and augmetics fitted, Losis leans next to you. His head is still bandaged where Hagrdict set Losis¡¯ fractured skull back into place, and his youthful face is now scarred from helmet-shrapnel. ¡°We¡¯re going back after those orks, right Hunter?¡± Chapter 30: Second Attempt ¡°We rest and heal for now. But when that is done¡­ we suffer not the xenos to live.¡± Losis nods, ¡°I could use the rest. Rib plate is still fusing back together and patching the holes after the damn shootas split it.¡± ¡°That, and you need a new helmet. I am surprised you still have a head.¡± ¡°The plate in my skull will remind me to duck next time.¡± ¡°You had better!¡±
Stockpile Update: Specialist rounds for special targets; Hellfire Ammunition bypasses all natural or organic armor, and liquefies the target from the inside out.
You watch the thunderhawk land. Gorlin and Hagrdict disembark, looking slightly battered. You can¡¯t pin down exactly why for a moment, but then your eyes pick out the details of a rushed repair job on their armor. You frown. Deathwatch Command must be under heavier strain then you thought if its armories and Techmarines don¡¯t have the time or the spares to properly repair combat damage!This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. You greet your returning squadmates with firm handshakes, forearm-to-forearm in the tradition of warriors. ¡°What word?¡± Hagrdict shrugs, ¡°nothing coherent. Warp storms seem to have cut off half the Imperium, and another Black Crusade is tearing its way out form the Oculus Terribilis. Rumor is that the planet of Cadia, the fortress-world gatekeeping that sub-sector of space, shattered under orbital bombardment and fighting still rages on its surface.¡± Gorlin flexes his cybernetic right arm, still getting used to its weight and motion, ¡°nnrgh. No word on Destroyer Six. Command had no record of such a unit, at least as far as my security clearance would let me see. I am beginning to think its an Inquisition unit, not a Deathwatch one.¡± Losis frowns, examining his replacement helmet, ¡°the orders came through Deathwatch communications links, not Inquisition ones. A kill-marine you think?¡± You shrug, ¡°or an Inquisition unit dedicated to serving with the Deathwatch. We will know when it arrives. For now, we have some retribution to plan. Our objective: Cleanse that Ork ¡®ship¡¯ from bow to stern.¡± The growl of agreement from your team shakes the deck beneath your boots. Chapter 31: Contact ¡°Gorlin, Hagrdict, did Watch Command have any more insight from the data we sent them?¡± Gorlin¡¯s pauldrons whined as they attempted to imitate a shrug, ¡°nnrgh. Not much of value, but I did not know where to go looking for answers. Preacher on the other hand¡­¡± Hagrdict nods, ¡°Ship names and classes, mostly. Of little importance to our current objective, but useful nonetheless. I will add them to the map while we plan.¡± You examine the new data-codes as they appear on the map. ¡°The Rok Breka? Typical orkish name. A Terror-class ¡®cruiser¡¯ normally carries anything up to half a million orks, but such a force would have overrun the Capitalis Congestus within days, weeks at most. Given the paucity of orks we have seen, I would estimate that there are no more than five thousand surviving orks.¡± Losis frowns, ¡°We do not have enough bolts to kill that many orks.¡± Gorlin grins, displaying several iron teeth, ¡°That is what swords and knives are for.¡± You make a throwing away motion with one hand, ¡°five thousand is probably high as it does not take into account attrition form living on a space hulk for almost a millennium. Nor ork ¡®reproduction¡¯ from infesting an area for the same length of time. I believe we will encounter more grots than orks, but that any orks we do encounter will be well-adapted to living on the Capitalis Congestus.¡± Hagrdict grins, a feral predator¡¯s eager smile, ¡°just more foes to crush beneath our boots.¡± Losis taps the plate in his head, and flicks a finger at Hagrdict¡¯s cybernetic leg and Gorlin¡¯s augmetic arm. ¡°Foes that can hit back.¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. You nod, ¡°we move as one, weapons up and ready. We are Space Marines, we feel no fear, but that does not mean we act as fools. Ready up, we have a ship to cleanse with bolt and blade.¡±
Mission 4: Twisted Moon Type: Cleanse Primary Objective: Kill every foe aboard the Rok Breka. Secondary Objective: Survive! Tertiary Objective: Eliminate all targets of opportunity encountered. Personal (Bonus) Objective: Trial - Survive the mission without burning a fate point.
Mission Cohesion: 9 (5 from fellowship, 1 from ranks in the Command skill, 2 from Oath of the Astartes, 1 from Favored Son skill) Squad Mode Activated: Tactical Spacing Engaged. 8 Cohesion remains.
Gorlin leads the way into the prow of the Rok Breka, skirting cautiously around the hole in the deck and the festering pool of liquid below. Hagrdict pauses long enough to look down at it and frowns. ¡°Looks more like a tyranid spawning pool then anything orkoid.¡± You instantly call a halt and take a look at the pool for yourself, ¡°You are right Hagrdict, it does. This complicates things.¡± ¡°Hrnh? How so Hunter?¡± ¡°More than one race of foe, more than one prefered method of attack. Be wary of ambushes from places too small to fit an ork.¡± Losis checks the action on his heavy bolter, ¡°It may also explain where all the orks are: In the bellies of the tyranids.¡± You click an affirmation across the vox. ¡°Gorlin, lead on.¡± Gorlin gingerly steps around the last of the hole in the deck and sets his shoulders into the hatch to the next compartment. He heaves it open with a screeching squeal, leaving it dangling off of one twisted hinge. ¡°Heh-heh-heh. Feels a bit like home.¡± Your kill-team files through the hatch into a long feasting hall. Ramshackle metal tables and benches are scattered and tossed across the floor. Crude pits hold charred scraps of flammable solids. Your gaze wanders over the area, drifting to the edges of the shadows cast by the sputtering illuminators. One flickers out for good, and you see dozens of pairs of beady red eyes staring back at you from the darkness. ¡°CONTACT!¡± Chapter 32: Anklebiters You quickly attempt to count the pairs of eyes, then give up when your count clears sixty with no sign of stopping and the sound of fleshy feet slapping on bare metal begins to echo from the far reaches of the feat hall. ¡°Back to the hatch, we hold there!¡± Gorlin reactis first, slamming his back to the bulkhead to the left of the hatch, ¡°Wrrgh. What are these foes?¡± He fires his pistol wildly into the dark, blazing away as fast as he can pull the trigger. Against any other foe, it would be a waste of ammunition. Against the carpet of fang-mouthed things swarming towards your kill-team, he can¡¯t miss. The bolts detonate a mere twelve meters from his weapon, and the corpses are instantly trampled under as their still-living brethren advance. Hagrdict slides into a crouch on Gorlin¡¯s right, immediately next to the hatch, ¡°Preysense vision shows grots, but there is something wrong about them. They do not shout, nor are there any mature orks among their numbers.¡± He lets off a burst from his bolter, pushing the swarm back, punishing it for coming so close. They don¡¯t make a sound as they die, their numbers uncaring. You back up to the bulkhead to the right of the hatch, already reaching for a frag AP grenade. ¡°They act like tyranid rippers! Could they be infested?¡± You toss the frag over the heads of the first few raks with causal ease. You don¡¯t even need to aim, and it detonates with a spray of shrapnel and gore.
Throwing frag AP grenade: +0% to hit. 2 grenades remaining. Range is short: +10% to hit. Horde is at least magnitude 60: +40% to hit.
Can¡¯t miss: Need <108 on 1d100. Got 0.
Damaging a Horde: weapon damage is 2d10, weapon has Blast 5 characteristic: +5 additional automatic hits (+10d10 damage), weapon damage type is explosive: +1 additional automatic hit. Total damage dice: 14d10. Damage rolled: 69 = 6 potential magnitudes of damage.
Horde possesses the Relentless Trait: all ranged damage is limited to 1 magnitude of damage per attack.
Total damage to Horde: 1 Magnitude.
The grot-things just flow like a wave back into the hole you blasted in their ranks. Inside of moments, you can¡¯t even tell where your frag landed. Losis stops in the hatchway itself and pulls the trigger on his heavy bolter. The sound of its 1.57 caliber projectiles firing and detonating is the same sound. The swarm is monetarily driven back¡­ but only to flank around his cone of fire. They close the distance implacably, heedless of the bodies that they are trampling. Your throat tightens in concern as you notice more ripper-grots flowing in from cracked vents and shattered pipes. Far more than your fire has hewn from the ranks of the swarm. ¡°Frrgh. Frak this grox shit. Grots or rippers, we need to kill them faster.¡± He lets out a rumbling roar and wades into the swarm, laying about with his chainsword. The swarm is so thick about his ankles that he literally can not miss, no matter where he swings. Corpses and bits of corpses fly away from him like spray from an immobile stone. ¡°Right behind you battle-brother!¡± Hagrdict slings his bolter and draws his combat-knife. In the hands of a un-enhanced human, it would be a hand-and-a-half longsword, but to Hagrdict it¡¯s just a long dagger. With it, his sabaton-clad boots, and a clenched, gauntleted fist, he makes nearly as much of a dent in the ranks of the ripper-grots as Gorlin. A corpse lands at your feet, and you get your first good look at the things you are fighting. It ostensibly looks like a grot, but your eyes and autosenses easily pick out the extra ridges on the things head, the excess of sharp teeth in its too-wide mouth. The signs of tyranid infestation and hybridization are unmistakable, and you feel the hatred welling up inside of you. Your bolter snaps to its maglocks at the small of your back and your combat knife is in your hand without a conscious thought. You take two long strides forward and lash out with an armored boot at the nearest ripper-grot,intent on splattering the abominable thing across the deck.
Melee attacking the ripper-grots with a combat knife: +0% to hit. Hatred (Tyranids): +10% to hit. Horde Magnitude is at least 90: +50% to hit.
Can¡¯t miss: Need <104 on 1d100. Got 74.
Damaging a Horde in melee: weapon damage is 1d10+2+Strength Bonus (10). +1 hit for every 20 the target score is beaten by. Result: +1 hits (+1d10+12 damage). Total damage dice: 2d10+24. Damage rolled: 30 = 3 magnitudes of damage.
Total damage to Horde: 3 magnitudes.
You swiftly lose count of the ripper-grots that you crush in your hand, splatter with your boots, or cave into very small pieces with your combat knife. You aren¡¯t making nearly as large of a dent in the swarm as Hagrdict or Gorlin, but you efforts are far more effective than your earlier frag grenade. From the corner of your eye you see Losis starts to draw his combat knife, then stop and whirl around, facing back through the hatch from whence you came. His heavy bolter comes up, tracking a target you can¡¯t see. ¡°Lictor! Closing Fast!¡± He doesn¡¯t wait for orders; he just opens up. The stattaco thunder of the heavy bolter is deafening for a moment, but your autosenses pick out the screeching cry of pain/distress of the Lictor. There is an almighty crash from the other side of the hatch and the screech of tearing metal, but Losis come back on the vox a moment later. ¡°Lictor down. Hatch blocked.¡± You swat several ripper-grots from your armor, but you know they¡¯re trying for the joints at the aknes and behind your knees. You hear Hagrdict grunt in discomfort over the vox, but he doesn¡¯t stop fighting, and his status light remains green. More ripper-grots pour out of the shadows and corners, almost as fast as you can kill them. You wonder for a moment how many there could possibly be¡­ and how many have already been fed to the digestion pool, their bellies full of orkflesh, to be made into larger, more dangerous tyranid bioforms. But as fast as the ripper-grots pour into the feast hall, Golin seems to be killing them faster. His black armor is stained a fluorescent, bioluminescent red-orange from grot-ripper ichor, and corpses seem to fly away from his strikes as if thrown by grenade detonations. In the time it takes you to blink thrice, a full third of the swarm in the hall has perished at his hands. Hagrdict struggles mightily to keep up with Gorlin¡¯s killing pace, but his combat blade just can¡¯t cleave as many ripper-grots apart in a single swing. He still manages to send dozens of bodies flying, leaving arc of ripper-grot ichor splattered over everything and everyone in the general vicinity.
Melee attacking the ripper-grots with a combat knife: +0% to hit. Hatred (Tyranids): +10% to hit. Horde Magnitude is at least 60: +40% to hit.
Failure: Needed <94, got 96.
You pay for your few seconds of inattention by being forces to swat away a ripper-grot that had crawled up your leg to your chest and was attempting to bite your face off. You grab another one for off of your shoulder and slam it to the ground, making a splatter-splash in the steadily deepening puddle of ichor at your feet. Losis sets his heavy bolter on the ground and detaches its bulky backpack ammo supply. That done, he draws his combat knife and wades into the fray. He does decently, in the few flashes you can see, especially for a young space marine specializing in heavy weapons.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. The ripper-grots surge forward, and you are preoccupied with swatting several leaping foes form the air. Nothing touches you, but all of the other kill-team members grunt in discomfort as they take armor-breaching hits. None of their status light change, but Losis¡¯ does flicker yellow for the briefest instant before turning green again. A few dozen more ripper-grots flow into the halls, but you can sense that they are beginning to trickle off compared to the endless flood of them a few moments ago. The deck shakes to a large detonation somewhere beyond the far end of the feast hall. Clearly, there is more than just yourself and the tyranids in the fight. Probably the orks, you guess, putting up a last stand. You idly wonder if they will decide to detonate the Rok Breka in one last act of spite, the way an Imperial crew might. The thinning of the swarm serves to slow the rate at which Gorlin can slay them, but all that means is that it will take him slightly longer to kill his foe. His sword sends one ripper-grot flying past you in two pieces. ¡°Hrgh! Hra! Think you can hurt me? I am the one who kills!¡± ¡°Count the bodies later,¡± Hagrdict grunts, nearly keeping up with Gorlin¡¯s furious killing pace, ¡°for now just kill them!¡± ¡°No need to tell me Hagrdict! Suffer not the tyranid to live!¡± Your vocalised agreement is probably unneeded, but it does serve to focus your team on the task at hand: killing these ripper-grot abominations.
Melee attacking the ripper-grots with a combat knife: +0% to hit. Hatred (Tyranids): +10% to hit. Horde Magnitude is at least 60: +40% to hit.
Success: needed <94, got 26.
Damaging a Horde in melee: weapon damage is 1d10+2+Strength Bonus (10). +1 hit for every 20 the target score is beaten by. Result: +3 hits (+3d10+36 damage). Total damage dice: 4d10+48. Damage rolled: 64. Critical hit! One of your damage dice rolled a 10, add a further 1d10+12 damage: new total 86. Critical hit! One of your damage dice rolled a 10, add a further 1d10+12 damage: New total 100 = 10 magnitudes of damage.
Total damage to Horde: 10 magnitudes.
A wave of ripper-grots surges in your direction, and you rush to meet it. Ichor and blood flies as you rend and punch your way through the swarm. The wave of ripper-grots recedes, devastated by your efforts. Losis, form the few glimpses you get of him, is fighting with heavy blows, driven by the great strength in his arms. Every stomp he makes not only crushes one ripper-grot, but the shockwave of bones and teeth tends to injure or kill several others. Every corpse he flings aside crushes another ripper-grot with its impact. Hagrdict and Losis grunt as the latest surge of ripper-grots slams into unyielding ceramite and waiting blades. Another few handfuls of ripper-grots trickle into the feast hall, but then they pause, as if listening to a distant voice, and flow towards the source of the explosion. Clearly the intelligence controlling them as found a greater threat¡­ or a more plentiful source of food. ¡°Hra! They flee before our wrath!¡± Gorlin punches the air in fury and exaltation as the ripper-grots briefly draw back out of his reach. ¡°These midless things? I think not.¡± Hagrdict take a moment to shake his combat blade clean in a lull in the fighting. ¡°Rippers don¡¯t think for themselves. If this swarm is no longer being reinforced, then the hive-mind has found a better target for their efforts¡±
Melee attacking the ripper-grots with a combat knife: +0% to hit. Hatred (Tyranids): +10% to hit. Horde Magnitude is at least 30: +30% to hit.
Success: needed <84, got 79.
Damaging a Horde in melee: weapon damage is 1d10+2+Strength Bonus (10). Damage rolled: 15 = 1 magnitude of damage.
Total damage to Horde: 1 magnitude.
The ripper-grots mostly draw back out of your reach, but you splatter a few stragglers with minimal effort. ¡°Like a pocket of orks?¡± Losis asks as he barrels forward into the withdrawing foe. Ripper-grot ichor erupts before his crushing sabatons and several more find themselves skewered in mid-air as they try to leap or lunge aside. Even Gorlin grunts in approval as Losis gets properly stuck in at last. Gorlin grunts as a jumping ripper-grot sneaks past his guard, but he swipes is aside with a casual backhand after it bounced of his breastplate. Hagrdict grabs another short of his belly, crushing it like a ichor-filled nutrisoy can. You absentmindedly evade a wild lunge, thinking hard. Losis swats aside another foe, pressing his attack. ¡°Greh! Good! More foes to kill!¡± Gorlin surges forward into the ripper-grots. As impressive as Losis¡¯ evors were, Gorlin creates a momentary bow-wave of icor and body parts as he slams into the foe. ¡°Can¡¯t argue with that, but clearly the hive-mind thinks that it has a more dangerous foe to face than the four of us. Hagrdict follows Gorlin into the middle of the swarm, but Gorlin simply hasn¡¯t left anything alive for Hagrdict to kill at the moment. ¡°Warboss probably, with nobs.¡± You follow Hagrdict forward, picking off the ripper-grots trying to circle around behind him.
Melee attacking the ripper-grots with a combat knife: +0% to hit. Hatred (Tyranids): +10% to hit.
Success: needed <54, got 37.
Damaging a Horde in melee: weapon damage is 1d10+2+Strength Bonus (10). Damage rolled: 13 = 1 magnitude of damage.
Total damage to Horde: 1 magnitude.
Losis crushes through more ripper-grots, closing up into formation on the three of you. ¡°And where the hive-mind has command, there is a synapse beast.¡± Gorlin grunts as a ripper-grot headbuts his leftknee with no effect. Hagrdict staggers as three ripper-grots managae to leap off of an overturned table onto his head and chest. He makes short work of them, even as he skids in the glowing ichor on the ground. Losis shakes a particularly tenacious ripper-grot from his left arm before using it to crush the life from another as it charges him. The ripper-grots are in full flight before Gorlin, none dairing to come within the reach of his wildly-hewing chainsword. Hagrdict picks up the pace and slashes into the ripper-grots¡¯ collectively exposed backs.
Melee attacking the ripper-grots with a combat knife: +0% to hit. Hatred (Tyranids): +10% to hit.
Success: needed <54, got 30.
Damaging a Horde in melee: weapon damage is 1d10+2+Strength Bonus (10). +1 hit for every 20 the target score is beaten by. Result: +1 hits (+1d10+12 damage). Total damage dice: 2d10+24. Damage rolled: 36 = 3 magnitudes of damage.
Total damage to Horde: 3 magnitudes.
You fall in on Hagrdit¡¯s flank, your hatred burning bright as you slash and crush your way through the rapidly shrinking ranks of the foes in front of you. Losis keeps pace with you, both in positioning and in foes slain. The sixty-something remaining ripper-grots gather themselves and make one last desperate attempt to inflict at least some damage upon your kill team before they die. Gorlin and Hagrdict easily hold their own, annihilating every ripper-grot that comes into their reach. You and Losis struggle only slightly with the forty-some foes that try their fortune against your blades, but despite a few blows slipping past your guard none of them even breach your armor. Losis headbuts at least one ripper grot out of pure spite, and then the feast hall falls silent. No more ripper-grots live to attack you. The entire chamber is faintly lit by the bioluminescent ichor that coats the deckplate and is splattered across the first few meters of the walls. It would take a forensic team to peace together exactly how many foes died here, but one is still easily identifiable: the lictor blocking the hatch from whence you came. You take the chance to examine it, letting your hatred cool to smouldering embers as Losis takes up his heavy bolter, Gorlin shudders and shakes as the rush of combat leaves him, and Hagrdict cleans his blade on whatever scraps of ichor-free cloth he can find. Losis clearly caught the lichtor as it emerged from stealth and charged, hemmed in by the bulkhead on one side and the hole in the floor on the other. His barrage tore its torso to bloody shreds, but his last shots must have been with the muzzle literally pressed into the things torso. You can see the residue of the heavy bolter¡¯s muzzle blast on the front of the things torso. The screech of metal you heard before Losis confirmed his kill was the scything talons and rending claws of the lictor slamming into the hatchframe. Losis must have been nose-to-maw with the thing when it died. You regroup your killteam, still cautious about more ambushes, and start to push forward towards the far end of the feast hall. Weather its tyranids or ork you find on the other side of the hatch, you will be ready for them. Chapter 33: Hammer and Anvil Your kill-team looks like a set of self-illuminating statues with the bioluminescent ichor splattered all over your armor (and coating Gorlin from helmet crest to boot-sole), so hiding in the shadows isn¡¯t really an option anymore. You decide against blindly rushing ahead as you assemble your kill team by the hatch leading out the far side of the feast hall. Lictors may tend to operate alone, but that doesn¡¯t mean that other tyranids aren¡¯t waiting to ambush you. Losis make a snark-laiden remark about a dancer at an underhive rave, but before Hagrdict can ask for clarification, another rumbling explosion shakes the deck. You are puzzled for a moment, but then your autosenses pic a distant keening sound out of the hash of static. You can¡¯t place it at once, until it peaks slightly louder and a third explosion rocks the deck beneath your feet. ¡°Screamer-Killer. We need to move carefully and be ready.¡± Losis cocks his head as much as his helmet and breastplate will allow, ¡°how dangerous is a ¡®Screamer-Killer?¡¯ ¡° You crack the hatch and motion Gorlin through it, talking as you advance, ¡°Genus Tyranicus, species Carnifex Primus, colloquial names include Screamer-Killer from the noise it makes. Multi-ton bio-engineered living battering rams / close-assault beasts about the size of a Rhino APC or Predator tank.¡± Hagrdict sounds worried, ¡°Sounds like a handful to deal with, given our limited resources.¡± ¡°Mreh. Just a bigger target.¡± Gorlin could clearly care less, still riding high on the adrenaline rush from the earlier fight. Losis¡¯s over-eager grin is clearly audible in his voice, ¡°Whatever the orks have left, it has driven the local hive-mind to expend a great deal of its limited resources to breed a siege-beast. And we get to kill it, the synapse-beast commanding it, and the orks. Excellent!¡±Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. ¡°Remember the Codex¡¯s instructions on fighting multiple opponents at once with an inferior force. It is better to strike suddenly where they are weakest then fight them all at once. And it is better still if we can get them to weaken each other first before we strike.¡± Hagrdict¡¯s confusion is audible, ¡°So we let the tyranids consume to orks and grow stronger before attacking?¡± Losis surprises you by jumping in, ¡°No, we let the orks and tyranids tear each other up some, them pick off the leaders and major threats before mopping up the leftovers.¡± ¡°Ah! Strike while both foes are weak.¡± ¡°If there are any orks still alive when we get there.¡± Gorlin leads off and your kill-team moves out, quick and quiet, as inconspicuous as four bioluminous metal statues can be. Eighty-Two Minutes Later¡­ You crouch across the hall from Gorlin, covering the corner with your bolter. The hallway is rather wide, probably the end of the Axial One cargo corridor that ran through the spine of whatever Imperial Navy cruiser was luckless enough to be captured by the orks and turned into the Rok Breka. Which would mean that the officer¡¯s quarters and the bridge are around this exact corner. There would be no other access points on an Imperial ship, a deliberate security measure to make storming the bridge as difficult as possible. Given that you and your team have seen no deliberate alterations the the deckplan, you are reasonably sure that the main tyranid force and the last of the ork holdouts are all just around the bend. The Carnifex¡¯s screech is unbearably loud, intermixed with the scrape of claws and talons on metal. You hear the slam of chitin on metal as it crashes into the bulkhead leading to the bridge. This time, unlike the last few, the screech of tearing plasteel is deafening as the Carnifex shatters the bulkhead. The rush of chitin on metal of the charging tyranids is met by the thunder of gunfire and a raucous WAAAARGH! from the orks. You give the fight a few moments to get started, waiting just long enough for the tyranids (including the carnifex) to become fully committed to storming the bridge. Over the crash and roar of combat, you can clearly hear a shouted orkish command. A questioning response, and then the command is loudly repeated, before the speaker is cut off with the sudden abruptness of instant death. Moments later, a voice comes over the intraship voxcasters. It is the stilted, emotionless, artificial tones of an imperial servitor, still in service despite its abuse at the hands of the orks. ¡°Attention all hands. Ship self-immolation sequence activated. Magazine, Plasma-, and Warp- core detonation will occur in ten minutes. All hands are to pray to the God-Emperor for forgiveness of your sins.¡± Chapter 34: Cool Space Marines Dont Look at Explosions Your start grabbing Krak AT grenades from your webbing. ¡°Get the kraks out, we are collapsing the ceiling to trap the swarm on the bridge.¡± Losis kneels down, still covering the corner, and starts setting his Krak grenades on the ground. ¡°Makes sense to me. No reason to risk injury when we know the synapse beasts controlling the swarm can be trapped and left to die.¡± Goirlin snarls over the vox, ¡°rrgh. We do not know that all of the synapse beasts will be trapped and killed. Moreover we can not confirm the kills without ever seeing them in the first place!¡± Hagrdict already has his grenades unslung and slides them across to land at your feet. ¡°We have at most nine and a half minutes to set these and get at least two kilometers from this ship. As much as I would prefer to meet the foe blade-to-claw, all of our geneseed, the essence of what we are and that which ensure the future of our Chapters, would be destroyed at best or tainted at worst if we stayed. We Black Templars are a fleet-based chapter, so I know of what I speak when I say that there will be next to nothing left of this ship and all still aboard her when the self-immolation protocol activates.¡± You pick a likely looking support strut and activate the magnetic clamps on your first Krak grenade. ¡°We don¡¯t have time to kill a carnifex, whatever synapse beast is leading the swarm, its dozens of minions, the orks, and get away. We would have to stay on the bridge and hope that we could disarm the self-immolation protocol in time. And even if we did disarm it, I can think of no better way to demolish this entire ship, and the tyranid digestion pool, then reactivating and triggering it ourselves. So if it is active now, I see no reason to risk disarming it.¡± Gorlin grunts and shudders, fighting the desire to launch himself around the corner and take the fight to the foe. After nearly fifteen seconds he slams a gauntleted fist into the wall hard enough to dent it, ¡°rheh-heh-heh. Knew there was a reason Watch Command tapped you to lead this kill team. Which way we running to clear the blast?¡± ¡° ¡®North¡¯ to the Repugnant, then ¡®west¡¯ to the Kahsmin. I for one would like to cleanse the ichor and tracking-peremones from my armor before heading back to the void-hab. Wrecked or not, there should be some sort of facilities aboard a nova-class frigate that should suit our needs and scale.¡± Hagrdict cocks his head, still keeping his bolter trained on the corner, ¡°nine minutes on the clock. You said the Khamsin?¡±Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. ¡°Yes, why?¡± You finish setting your three krak grenades and scoop up Hagrdict¡¯s, working as you talk. ¡°A fragment of lore I came across that may be the same ship. Do you know which chapter she came from?¡± ¡°Not a clue. What does it matter?¡± You double back to scoop up Losis¡¯ and Gorlin¡¯s grenades. ¡°A passing thought, no more. The nova-class of ships is not old enough to match the scrap of lore that I came across.¡± You set the last of the grenades and start its timer ¡°Ten seconds until these blow. Time to be somewhere else!¡± The Krak AT grenades detonate, bringing the passageway down in the thunder of imploding charges and exploding conduits. Your team is long gone, hauling ass as fast at the passageways will take you. The shipwreck to the immediate north of the Rok Breka¡¯s forward section proves to be some sort of imperial cargo hauler or transport, which is fortunate indeed for it means that you make excelet time traversing it. You manage to stay on the same cargo deck, running as fast as you can across the empty hold, counting down the time to the beat of your pounding feet. Not twenty seconds after you enter the wreck of the Repugnant you feel a pulse of heat and the rattle of metal on metal. Moments later there is an unholy keening as warp energies rend and tear at reality. When the deck stops shaking and your ears stop ringing, you look back from whence you came and find yourself looking into a great gaping chasm. Craning your neck and pushing your autosenses to the limits, you estimate that the detonation of the Rok Breaka¡¯s Warp Core consigned the ship and everything inside a kilometer of it to oblivion: there is just a gaping hole where the shipwreck used to be. Secondary detonations from the surrounding ships have both ripped the void larger and sent hazardous debris and shrapnel floating into that space, making it suicidally dangerous to traverse. You slap your hand against the bulkhead, and then have Gorlin lead off ¡®north-west¡¯ to the Khamsin and a well deserved shower.
The Capitalis Congestus is now 19% destroyed.
An hour later in the communal showers aboard the Khamsin, you are slightly surprised when Hagrdict sticks his head into your shower stall. ¡°Marcellus, the Khamsin did not start out as a nova-class frigate. She¡¯s been rebuilt at least once, from what I can tell.¡± Chapter 35: Ventus Calidus You ponder Hagrdict¡¯s discovery as you put your power armor back on. Nova-class frigates are used exclusively by the Space Marines, while the Imperial Navy uses the Firestorm-class frigate. Both the nova and firestorm classes are design evolutions from existing classes of frigate: the Nova from the Gladius and the Firestorm from the Sword. Gladius- and Sword-class ships have been in service since the dawn of the Imperium of Man, and perhaps a bit before that. So you are not quite sure about poking about on the Khamsin. On one hand it is worth more than a gold mine to a scholar like Hagrdict, and the possibility of recovering a Standard Template Construct (STC) would vault you into the ranks of vaunted heroes. The combat knives that rest on Losis¡¯, Gorlin¡¯s, and your belt are of a STC design for a fractal-edged weapon, far superior to previous patterns. Persistent rumor has it that the two guardsmen who recovered the design were each granted ownership of a pleasure-moon for their efforts. On the other hand, the Khamsin has been drifting in the warp for at least a thousand years, most if not all of that time exposed to the raw corrupting effects of the warp. The Emperor alone knows what could come of that, and if he does know, he hasn¡¯t shared that knowledge with you. You shake your head, clearing it of your worries. Your experience as a scout-sergeant already tells you what you need to do in this situation anyway: the most trusted source of reconnaissance information for a Space Marine is another Space Marine. As a scout-sergeant, it was your job to get that information. Your task here is no different: the Khamsin contains an unknown number of unknown factors, and your kill-team is in position to search for them. Hagrdict eagerly leads the way, his familiarity with Imperial ship designs combining with his scholar¡¯s drive for knowledge to pull him to the fore. Gorlin isn¡¯t exactly happy with not being on point, but he puts up with it for the moment. You direct Hagrdict to lead the way to the barracks compartments, where the single resident squad of space marines would have lived while aboard the Khamsin. The Khamsin wasn¡¯t refit to anything resembling the typical nova-class. Nor does her deck plan match up with that of a gladius-class from which she may have been converted. Gorlin takes point once more as Hagrdict searches his memory for any other Imperial frigate¡¯s deck plan that remotely matches that of the Khamsin. While he does so, you point Gorlin towards where the officer¡¯s quarters should be. It takes nearly an hour longer to get there then it would aboard any other Gladius- or Nova-class you have been on before, and Hagrdict is grumbling the entire way about severely non-standard deck arrangements, and the utter absence of anything remotely resembling the facilities needed to maintain a squad of space marines. You find yourself in agreement with him, more than a little wary at the total absence of sparring halls, shrines, armory, refectory, gymnasiums, or anything else you associate with the long-term presence of space marines.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. As your kill-team draws closer to the bridge, you begin to notice more and more unusual iconography. Trios of triangles, arrayed in horizontal lines. Sunbursts, with four flames protruding in the cardinal directions. Swords, straight for perhaps a third of their length before curving into an imitation of an ax¡¯s smile. The bridge itself proves to be ordinary enough in form and function. What is extraordinary is the craftsmanship lavished upon the dust-shrouded workstations. Brass and electrum outline screens, limestone sculptures sit in small embrasures, ivory inlays grace controll lecterns. Hagrdict stands next to the commander¡¯s throne, his helmeted head turning to take in each detail in turn, ¡°truly this is a bridge of antiquity, from which men have commanded since the God-Emperor first set foot on Terra.¡± Losis is still warily watching the entrance to the bridge, ¡°if this is a Space Marine ship, then where are the Space Marines? And what chapter uses this sort of iconography?¡± You look about, searching for answers to questions you don¡¯t understand. ¡°I do not recognise any of it¡­¡± Gorlin is staring at the armored hatch to the navigator¡¯s vestibule, ¡°Frgh. Flaming bird symbol here. Anyone recognise what navigator house that belongs to?¡± He steps closer to swipe the dust away and get a clearer look. When he does so the hatch slides soundlessly open, revealing the navigator¡¯s vestibule. Gorlin already has his bolt pistol in hand and tracking across the room. No threat oozes out of the shadows to present itself, and the lights sputter top life as he steps forward into the vestibule. ¡°Frgh. Found the Space Marine quarters.¡± Hagrdict shakes his head in denial, ¡°That is the Navigator¡¯s vestibule. Where else would such a sanctioned abomination guide the Khamsin from?¡± ¡°Lrgh. Looking at a full set of maximus-pattern power armor here, power sword, bolt pistol, bed. Two more hatches, standing open. One looks like it leads to a small gymnasium, the other to a sparring circle, complete with servitor-run sparring apparatus. Everything a Space Marine would need.¡± Losis flexes one pauldron in a half-shrug, ¡°perhaps only a single Space Marine was stationed aboard, instead of a squad? What colors is the armor painted in?¡± ¡°Rrgh. Dusty sort of red. Brassy helmet, white trim. Flaming bird and four-pointed sunburst on the shoulders. Blue trim on the left pauldron.¡± ¡°Librarian then. Would explain the location of the quarters at least.¡± Hagrdict¡¯s hands are clenching and unclenching rhythmically on the stock of his bolter, ¡°we should leave it here. The relics are obviously tainted by the Warp, and no good can ever come of taking them with us.¡± Losis shakes his head, and you get the impression that he would spit on the deck if he wasn¡¯t wearing a helmet. ¡°We can not afford not recovering the relics. ZTO may be able to field-repair our armor, but Marcellus¡¯ warplate is mark four, not mark six, seven, or eight. The parts for his power armor just aren¡¯t interchangeable with the ones for ours, and ZTO does not have any more spares. Which means that any hit could leave Marcellus out of the fight for weeks.¡± ¡°Rrgh. You both have sharp points. The Warp is nothing to rut about with, but we could definitely make use of any spare parts or relics we find. What is you decision Hunter?¡± Chapter 36: Reliquia, Cavas You crouch down to stare into the empty eye-lenses of the helmet. It gazes blankly at you, reflecting only the flat light of the overhead luminators. You suck in a deep breath through your nose and let it slowly hiss out between your teeth. ¡°We take the relics.¡± Hagrdict starts to bark out a protest, but you already have a hand up to call for silence. ¡°We can not afford to leave them behind, nor can we afford to blindly use them. We take them back and call it in. Watch Command will have instructions for us, or at least tell us to send them in for proper inspection. Gorlin, see if you can find something to wrap these in. Hagrdict, try to pull what information you can from the bridge databanks. A ship map would be nice, but I will take what you can get. Losis keep an eye out just in case.¡± Hagrdict¡¯s search proves as fruitless as you expected, but it was more to distract him than anything else. Gorlin come up with some towels from the gymnasium to wrap the parts of the power armor in, as well as scabbards for the power sword and bolt pistol. You share the load out among yourself, Gorlin, and Losis. You don¡¯t ask Hagrdict to carry anything, as this means that he doesn''t have to refuse to carry anything. Both the asking and the refusal would probably be grave insults in and of themselves, so you sidestep the issue.
Mission 4: Twisted Moon Completed!
Stockpile Update: Specialist rounds for special targets; Hellfire Ammunition bypasses all natural or organic armor, and liquefies the target from the inside out. Rewards: The Marks of Duty The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Current Level: 1 (out of 8) Current Renown: 33 (out of 100) - Respected Deathwatch Member
ZTO is absolutely fascinated by the relics that you have brought back to the Void Hab. It literally squeals with delight when you instruct it to take the armor and bolt pistol apart, cleanse and consecrate everything, and then reassemble the relics for transport back to Watch Command. Interrogator MacWater looks on with bemused tolerance as ZTO promptly commandeers the main table in the common space and begins carefully disassembling a gauntlet. ¡°I¡¯ll keep a watch on this one. Probably have to remind it to eat and rest every so often.¡± Hagrdict frowns, turning his helmet over and over in his hands, ¡°does ZTO have to work in the common area?¡± ZTO splutters, aparently amused at the Hagrdict¡¯s question. ¡°Do you know of any other space in which I can find an elevated horizontal surface with one point three four seven square meters of available space? I didn¡¯t think so. Stack the remaining parts here in the corner, I¡¯ll have them sorted and stowed away in a moment. The armorium servitor is a fine work assistant, but it¡¯s as literal- and simple-minded as any of its fellows the Imperium over. I¡¯d trust it with delicate work like this about as far as I could throw an Emperor-class Battleship in a fifteen point zero two four gravity field¡­¡± ZTO rattles on, and Hagrdict puts his helmet back on to hide a blush of embarrassment. You grin to yourself, and start shucking your gauntlets in preparation for writing up your report on your latest incursion into the Captialis Congestus. Of particular import will be how you mention the Relics to Watch Command. You have no intention of lying, but you could use them while waiting for instructions, or simply send them off... Chapter 37: Uncertainty You wrap up your report on operation Twisted Moon with a request for instructions as to the disposition of the relics that you have recovered to date. That done, you stretch and take a short turn about the void-hab to keep your legs limber. The next supply ship isn¡¯t due for another few days, and a response from Watch Command wouldn''t be forthcoming until the one after that, so somewhere between two and three weeks from now. Plenty of time for ZTO to complete its primary examination. Plenty of time for you to settle your kill-team back down and plan your next operation. You gather the map up of the common room table before ZTO manages to spill lubricant or something over it, and open it up over your knee. Penciling in a rough estimation of the destroyed areas, you consider the unexplored sections of the map. Much of the ¡®north-west¡¯ section of the Capitalis Congestus has been explored, and the rough center of the hulk was torn to pieces with the Rok Breka. That leaves the ¡®north-east¡¯, ¡®south-west¡¯ and ¡®south-east¡¯ quadrants of the Capitalis Congestus to be investigated. You shrug and fold the map up. You and your kill-team will use the next few days to recover before your serious planning begins, which means you have that same timeframe to decide on your objective. Three days later¡­ Interrogator MacWater interrupts your work on offloading supplies from the guncutter with a gesture and a worried look. You motion for the rest of your team to continue while you step into her quarters for a semi-private word. ¡°It¡¯s not good Hunter.¡± ¡°What is not good?¡± ¡°Sorry. Word from my Inquisitor. Or rather, his second-in-command.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± ¡°Inquisitor Ironside is dead, killed in action against forces unknown. From the message, several other Inquisitors are either continuing Inquisitor Ironside¡¯s works¡­ or tearing them apart.¡± ¡°And you, and by extension ZTO and my kill-team, are going to be caught in the middle.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± You you suck in a deep breath through your nose and let it hiss out slow from between your teeth. Interrogator MacWater flinches, then hurries on, ¡°well, not your kill-team, as you are part of the Deathwatch and not the Ordo Xenos itself, and ZTO is in something of an awkward spot because¡­¡±If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. You stop her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. ¡°We can handle ourselves if it comes to that. I¡¯m more worried about you.¡± ¡°Me? Why? Some other senior Inquisitor will take me into his or her service, or foist me off onto a newly-promoted Inquisitor of their own sponsorship¡­¡± Her voice falters as she catches a glimpse of the hard light in your eyes. ¡°Oh. You mean that someone might issue a ¡®no witnesses¡¯ order.¡± You nod, ¡°exactly.¡± She shrugs with remarkable equanimity, ¡°at least you would make it quick if you had to carry out such an order.¡± ¡°So what¡¯s the rest of the message? What parties are coming our way?¡± Interrogator MacWater lets out a deep breath of her own. ¡°Thumbnail-briefing version? Probably the Von Sebastions on one hand, and some unknown radical Ordo Malleus Inquisitor on the other. The Von Sebastions are a Rogue Trader house in good standing with the Ordo Xenos and the Deathwatch, from what I have heard, and worked frequently with Inquisitor Ironside.¡± You nod your head slowly, ¡°The Von Sebastions owned and operated the ship which brought me here; the Ignis. What is this about a radical Inquisitor though?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know her name, if it even is a she. The rumors had her chasing after Inquisitor Ironside for toleration of Xenos and/or some past slight. If she shows up first¡­¡± You squeeze Interrogator MacWater¡¯s shoulder very gently, knowing full well you could crush it if you used even a fraction fo your full strength. ¡°We will fight that battle only if we need to. If nothing else, we can go to ground aboard the Capitalis Congestus and wait for the Von Sebastions to arrive.¡± Interrogator MacWater shakes her head. ¡°Something aboard the hulk is the target or the prize of this operation. My instructions were to assemble teams of scouts, map the hulk, and wait for future orders. Now there is significant confusion in the chain of command, Deathwatch Watch Command has dispatched this ¡®Destroyer Six¡¯ at someone¡¯s request. I don¡¯t know if it was Inquisitor Ironside or the unknown Malleus Inquisitor, and thus I don¡¯t know if I should help you to recover whatever the objective is before Destroyer Six get here or to help you help Destroyer Six destroy the Capitalis Congestus.¡± You squat down on you heels, bringing yourself down to eye level with Interrogator MacWater. ¡°Watch Command was specific in my instructions to assist Destroyer Six, but they did not say anything about a recovery mission.¡± She nods, ¡°and that is what has me concerned that there may be a third cook stirring the pot. I don¡¯t know which way to turn, who to trust anymore. Besides you and your team.¡± You raise an eyebrow, ¡°What about sending a message to the Von Sebastions? It is one of their ships that made the latest delivery, so you know that a message entrusted to the shipmaster would get to them.¡± Interrogator MacWater barks a brief laugh, ¡°given the murky depths in which the Ordos operate? Nothing is that simple. It¡¯s worth a try though.¡± You leave her to compose a message and return to help your kill-team finish the unloading process. Irrespective of future battles that may or may not happen, you have a mission to plan and accomplish. Chapter 38: BDA Planning The objective of your next mission, perhaps your next several missions, is Battle Damage Assessment. BDA missions involve examining a battlefield to determine the effect and extent of the damage caused by a bombardment or airstrike. You have a rough area sketched in red on the map, derived from rough range estimates taken by your autosenses when you looked out across the damaged area. But there is simply no suitable substitute for an examination on foot and by eye (and autosenses) conducted by a Space Marine, so a BDA mission it is. You know from painful personal experience how resilient a Tyranid infestation can be, having snapped your power sword in half, and lost two of the scouts in your squad, clearing a nest of genestealers in a sector that the local Planetary Defense Forces had declared ¡®clear.¡¯ You had not the time to replace that blade before reporting to the Deathwatch. The relic power sword seems to taunt you from its place next to the other relics awaiting transport to Watch Command. You won¡¯t receive any orders concerning its disposition for some weeks yet. You pick the blade up and examine it. It is a hand-and-half sword for a Space Marine, anyone else would call it a longsword, perhaps even a small greatsword. The pommel is a simple sphere of brass. The handle is wrapped in worn leather and silver wire. The guard is fine steel shaped as a pair of spread eagle¡¯s wings flaring out from a jawless skull: the insignia of the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines. The forehead of the skull in inscribed with the same firebird insignia that decorates the pauldron of the Power Armor that it was found with. The blade itself looks to be a monomolecular edged alloy, possibly adamantium. You aren¡¯t sure about that however,as there are distinct wavy bands of a lighter alloy all along the blade. There is no apparent control toggle nor space for the disruption field emitter common to all of the power swords that you are familiar with.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Yet when you run your gauntleted thumb along the blade to test its sharpness, it carves away a sliver of your gauntlet. You stare at the gounge for a long moment, then examine the edge of the blade: it is undamaged and presumably undulled. You combat knife, made of monomolecular edged steel, cold duplicate the damage to your gauntlet, but you would have dulled its blade in the doing. You sling the scabbard at you hip, opposite your bolt pistol, and sheathe the blade. You shake your head to clear away your musings. You have a DBA mission to plan out, and the ¡®south-west¡¯ sector is as good as any to start in. You trace your finger along the map, planning out your path. ¡®South¡¯ to the Visitor, then ¡®south-east¡¯ into the unknown ships at B7, C8, and D9, and finally ¡®east¡¯ to E9. You tap the E9 grid reference and ponder. You could double back, sweeping through E10, D10, C9, and B8 on your way back to the void-hab. Or you could complete the circuit around the damaged section, clearing F8, G7, H6, and G5. Either path covers the same amount of unknown ground, but you have this strange itch between your shoulder blades that whatever the ¡®blighted heart¡¯ of the Capitalis Congestus is, it lurks in the ¡®south-east¡¯ section of the Hulk. Chapter 39: Writing on the Walls You decide to make a single BDA sweep and loop around the destroyed area instead of coming back for a second pass. Less chance of something you missed the first time setting up an ambush that way.
Tactics roll: Recon and Stealth. Success! Needed <44, got 15. Mission Complication is revealed: Unexpected Foe(s)
You have a sneaking suspicion that anything you left alive behind you on previous missions might be putting in an appearance at some point. You aren¡¯t too concerned, given that you haven¡¯t left much alive in the wake of previous missions. Still, you have this uncomfortable itch between your shoulder blades that you missed something, and it might try to bite you in the ass. If that something is a tyranid bioform, the ass-biting may indeed be quite literal.
Mission 5: Glass Line Type: Recon Primary Objective: Circumnavigate the destroyed section of the Hulk Secondary Objective: Survive! Tertiary Objective: Eliminate all targets of opportunity encountered. Personal (Bonus) Objective: Hunter - Eliminate all foes of Elite or Master rank.
Mission Cohesion: 9 (5 from fellowship, 1 from ranks in the Command skill, 2 from Oath of the Astartes, 1 from Favored Son skill) Squad Mode Activated: Tactical Spacing Engaged. 8 Cohesion remains.
You gather your kill-team and explain the mission parameters to them. Sweep around the destroyed sections of the Capitalis Congestus, asses the effect that the self-immolation protocol of the Rok Breka had on the surrounding sections of the hulk. Kill anything that gets in your way, make it back to base alive. Losis and Hagrdict grasp the point of your mission at once but Gorlin scratches at the scars on his face in confusion. ¡°Reh. What¡¯s the point. Nothing survived that blast. Emperor, we barely survived that blast.¡± Losis shakes his head slowly, ¡°if we had time to run from near the center of the blast zone to outside its edge, then a lesser xenos could easily have skittered out of the way, particularly if it was already near to the escape hatch.¡± Hagrdict nods, ¡°better that we be thorough than to assume we were the only survivors and be shot in the back.¡± Gorlin shakes his head in disbelief, ¡°mreh. The orks were caught on the bridge or eaten by the tyranids, and I do not thing those bugs have the brains to flee in terror they way they should at our approach.¡± You give Gorlin a look that, could he see your face, would translate as ¡®how are you that foolish?¡¯ ¡°The combat forms, absent any overriding commands from a synapse beast, would have reverted to instinctive behaviors. They may have be caught in the blast and eliminated. The Sinapse beasts themselves would have the thought-processes to recognise a threat that they could not overwhelm and look to survive. The genestealers, being infiltration/infestation bioforms, would certainly have understood the announcement, and their collective mind would have sent any of their numbers not already trapped running for the exits. Emperor knows the Ultramarines get enough training hunting down leftover organisms to know how resilient they are as a race.¡±This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. Gorlin cocks his head, considering your words. ¡°RrRgh. So some of them may have made it out is what you are saying.¡± ¡°Or have been close enough to the edge of the blast to survive it anyway.¡± ¡°Heh. Heh-heh. Heh-heh-heh. Good. I have been looking to test my blade against something big for a while now.¡± Your finger caress the hilt of the power sword at your side, ¡°If we are unlucky enough, you just might get your wish.¡± Hagrdict may not be entirely happy with you carrying that particular blade, but he hasn¡¯t voiced any complaints about it yet. Nine Hours Later¡­ Your kill team clears the airless wreck of an unknown Imperial merchant ship, a member of the ubiquitous and utterly mundane Vagabond-class, and encounter the curving, bone-like structures of an eldar ship. You motion Gorlin to proceed with caution. Nineteen Minutes Later¡­ You are growing restless at the ominous silence of the Eldar ship. You can¡¯t tell if the gently curving corridors that you walk were part of the prow or stern, and you get the feeling that you have been walking in circles, going nowhere since you boarded the ship. Impulsively, you signal Gorlin to break out of the search pattern and just make a set of random turns. He complies, and you find yourself standing in a circular, domed chamber some thirty meters across and fifteen meters high in the center, ringed with exits in every direction. Footsteps echo form two of the hallways, though your autosenses are too confused by the echoes to track vectors. One pair of feet sounds like armored boots running fast, headed away. Another pair of armored boots is approaching with a steady measured tread. It is followed by another four pairs of armored feet, much larger and heavier. As the fleeing footsteps fade, the other pairs of footsteps approach more closely. You instinctively glance about: there isn¡¯t a single scrap of cover in the entire room, aside from the dubious protection of the arches around the doors leading into the chamber itself. You spread your team out into the different doorways, still trying to make sense of the echoes in the chamber. The footsteps echo for a bit longer, then shapes emerge from one of the hallways opposite you and your team. The larger, heavy footsteps belong to a quartet of statuesque constructs. Each stands nearly three meters tall, crafted from a black-painted version of the bone-like material that the ship is made from. They have the same two legs and two arms configuration as a human, but their limbs are much too thin to be of anything but eldar construction. Their heads are a smooth pitcher shape, absent of any sensory apparatus that you can see. Gems stud the crest of their heads and the flanged protrusions from their backs. Each carries a large cannon easily in their hands. The last set of footsteps belongs to a slight black-robed and -helmed figure striding easily in the center of the statue¡¯s protective square. It is clearly an eldar, judging by the ease of its movements, the thinness of its frame, and the glowing, rune-, and gem-encrusted sword in its hands. The formation of statues and eldar pauses when the eldar catches sight of you in one of the doorways. They make no move to attack but the statues do shift uneasily like bodyguards unhappy that their charge is standing in an open street with the threat of a sniper nearby. The eldar turns its hooded head to stare directly at you. Its voice is flat, artificial, as if speaking through a mechanical translator. ¡°We hunt a servant of She Who Thirsts. Stand aside or be Unmade.¡± Chapter 40: Dance With the Dead No concealment, less cover, and a ¡®foe¡¯ that wants you to get out of the way so that it can go after something else that is certainly a threat to you and your kill-team? Standing aside costs you nothing but a bruise on your pride, and¡­ Something grabs your attention, and your head snaps around to look at Hagrdict. Everything slows for a fraction of a heartbeat. You can see Hagrdict¡¯s bolter, already in his hands, coming up into a firing position. You can feel Gorlin tensing for the charge. You can smell the eldar Psyker¡¯s sudden burst of fear as its perfectly orchestrated confrontation comes apart at the seams because of a simple oversight: mistaking the leader for the squad. You run through the calculations again, plugging in new variables. Gorlin is itching for a fight. The eldar Psyker has ¡®stumbled¡¯ and is vulnerable. Hagrdict is going to shoot reguardless of what you order. You recall a line from the Codex Astartes: ¡®Giving an order that you know will not be obeyed is the surest way to destroy your own command.¡¯ You are almost certain the Primarch Guilliman was quoting an older work, perhaps multiple older works, but it makes the line no less valid. ¡°Open Fire.¡± Before the words have fully left you mouth, the eldar had begun to act. Its left hand comes up, fingers splayed and spitting lightning made of unlight. A sound that is not a sound shakes the chamber and Gorlin howls in agony. His health indicator blinks the strident orange of heavy damage. Hagrdict¡¯s boter finishes coming up, spitting fire and explosive death. His shots seems to hit everywhere but the eldar and the wraithguard. The ¡®statues¡¯ level their cannons, antic unlight glowing in the muzzles, and unleash insanity. Losis¡¯ indicator goes yellow and you hear the thunderclap discharge of a teleporter activation. Losis appears on the far side of the chamber, bounces off the wall, then gets to his feet, shaking his head.
Dodge incoming fire: +0%. Failed: needed <44, got 60.
Combat Damage: Shot by Wraithguard Wraithcannon! 2d10 Damage (Special).
Randomised hit location: Right Arm. Incoming damage: 11.
Wraithcannon: bypass all damage reduction for Armor and Toughness.
Total damage taken: 11. Armor Breached! It is no longer atmospherically sealed!
11 Health remaining.
Willpower test (indirect contact with the warp): +0%. Failed: needed <44, got 71.
Taking 1d5 Corruption damage. Failed by >20: take and additonal 2d5 corruption.
+4 Corruption. Total Corruption: 4
Agony grips your right arm and shakes you like a hound with a raw steak. You grit your teeth and fight to bring your bolter into line to take a shot. Losis levels his heavy bolter and cuts loose. It¡¯s a risky shot, you judge, as nearly a third of the rounds Losis fires miss the ¡®statues¡¯ and slam into the floor and wall near your position. But the results of the salvo justify the risk as one of the ¡®statues¡¯ crumbles to gravel under the force of the detonating bolter shells. Gorlin¡¯s agonised howl turns into a roaring battle cry as he charges the eldar. He takes a ferocious hack with his chainsword and misses the eldar. You want to curse at Gorlin for rushing into melee with your chosen target, but you cut yourself off. There wasn¡¯t any time to coordinate your team¡¯s attacks, and it would be perfectly natural for Gorlin to charge the foe who had wounded him. Equally true, you need this fight to be over fast. You aren¡¯t quite sure, but you think you hear the clatter of hooves coming back. You pick the leftmost ¡®statue¡¯, flick the fire selector switch to your third magazine, and open up.
Full auto burst from Bolter (magazine #3 - Hellfire Bolts): +30% to hit. Range is short: +10 to hit. Target is Size: Hulking: +10% to hit. Magazine is now at 24/28 rounds.
Fire at ¡®statue¡¯: Success! needed <108, got 23.
Damage inflicted: 8d10+20 explosive. Result: 52.
Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 74 total damage. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 81 total damage.
The ¡®statue¡¯ shudders and shakes, the hellfire acid sizzling on its torso and dripping from the impact craters. It tries to bring its cannon to bear on you, but its legs go out from under it and it crashes crestfirst to the floor. The Eldar¡¯s sword seems to dance as it lashes out at Gorlin. One telling blow gets through, slicing Gorlin¡¯s left arm away just below the pauldron. His status light glows a sullen crimson and the stench of blood fills the air. Hagrdict slaps the side of his head, as if he was trying to unmuddle his senses. He slings his bolter, draws his combat knife and bolt pistol, and charges in to help Gorlin. He makes a cut with his combat blade, but the eldar bows aside, licking out with its sword and leaving a deep slash just above Hagrdict¡¯s eyes. The two remaining ¡®statues¡¯ ready their cannons and open fire again. Ice flickers like fire around the muzzles. Losis tries to twist out of the way, but takes a glancing hit on the hip. Again there is the thunderclap of displaced air and Losis is suddenly standing right next you you, heavy bolter at the ready, staring at the wall of the hallway behind you. His statues light is still yellow, so he is probably ok.
Dodge incoming fire: +0%. Failed: needed <44, got 86.
Combat Damage: Shot by Wraithguard Wraithcannon! 2d10 Damage (Special).
Randomised hit location: Head. Incoming damage: 15.
Wraithcannon: bypass all damage reduction for Armor and Toughness.
Total damage taken: 15. Armor Breached! It is no longer atmospherically sealed!
0 Health remaining. Helmet Destroyed. Critical Damage: Head 4.
Willpower test (indirect contact with the warp): +0%. Failed: needed <44, got 84.
Taking 1d5 Corruption damage. Failed by >=40: taking an additional 4d5 corruption.
+14 Corruption. Total Corruption: 18.
You turn your head to face the ¡®statues¡¯ again and find yourself staring at a light that is cave darkness, hearing a sound that is silence, tasting the smell of sweet wine, and smelling the taste of iron-rich blood. The hair on your head vanishes into wisps of smoke and your eyes refuse to see. Losis¡¯ heavy bolter thunders in your ear. You still can¡¯t see, but the stattaco rumble of shell detonations is accompanied by the snap of breaking bone and clatter of falling stone.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Gorlin¡¯s chainsword whines as it hisses through empty air. Your eyes are beginning to clear, but you dare not risk a shot into melee until you can actually see again. Fortunately, the looming shadow of the last ¡®living statue¡¯ is easy enough to make out, so you point your bolter in its general direction and pull the trigger.
Full auto burst from Bolter (magazine #3 - Hellfire Bolts): +30% to hit. Range is short: +10 to hit. Target is Size: Hulking: +10% to hit. Marcellus is blinded: -30% to hit. Magazine is now at 20/28 rounds.
Fire at ¡®statue¡¯: Success! needed <78, got 03.
Damage inflicted: 8d10+20 explosive. Result: 62.
Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 78 total damage.
You shake your head and lift your finger from the trigger. By the time the dancing dust clears from your vision, you spot the wreckage of the last ¡®statue¡¯ slowly dissolving form the inside out in a pile on the deck. The clatter of hooves grows loud in the corridor at your back. The Eldar¡¯s sword sweeps out and takes Gorlin¡¯s right leg away at the hip. A follow-up swing sends Hagrdict¡¯s helm to the deck in a shower of blood and ceramite chips. Both Gorlin and Hagrdict slump to the deck. Their status lights are red, and Gorlin is still leaking blood at an alarming rate. Losis levels his heavy bolter, finally having a clear shot at the eldar. He pulls the trigger and and accomplishes nothing besides destroying Gorlin¡¯s severed leg. The screech of hooves sliding to a stop on bone sounds from behind you. You turn to face the incoming threat in time to see the blue-white flash of tau plasmafire ripping down the corridor towards you.
Dodge incoming fire: +0%. Failed: needed <44, got 65.
Combat Damage: Shot by tau Pathfinder Pulse Carbine! 6d10+6 (energy) Damage.
Randomised hit location: Left Arm. Incoming damage: 47.
Damage reduction for Armor (8 armor - 4 penetration): 4. Damage reduction for Toughness: 10.
Total damage taken: 33. Armor Breached! It is no longer atmospherically sealed!
0 Health remaining. Left Arm Armor Destroyed.
Critical Damage would result in Death - 1 Fate Point burned to avoid death. 2 Fate Points remaining.
Critical Damage: Left Arm 9.
You fall against the wall, holding the blackened stump of your humerus bone. The rest of your left arm is so much smoke in the air, utterly vaporised by the impact. You feel your eyes glazing in shock, your blood trembling as your armor floods your body you with pain suppressants. The Eldar farseer flicks blood from its blade. You can feel the air shift as it draws warp-power to itself. It snapts its gauntleted fingers, and Losis goes unnaturally still. The tau Pathfinder stalks down the corridor, stopping two meters from where you and Losis are trapped. You recognise it, the one that fled from you and Gorlin those long weeks ago in the ork teleportarium. The one that had been under the influence of a daemonette. The tau Pathfinder levels its pulse carbine at the eldar, unleashes a stream of blue-white plasma, and fails to connect with anything. Your bolter is still clenched in your right hand, so you raise it point-blank into the tau¡¯s chest and pull the trigger.
Full auto burst from Bolter (magazine #3 - Hellfire Bolts): +30% to hit. Range is point-blank: +30% to hit. Magazine is now at 16/28 rounds.
Fire at tau pathfinder: Success! needed <118, got 95.
Damage inflicted: 6d10+15 explosive. Result: 51.
Critical Hits! One damage die for two separate shots rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 4d10+10 damage. Result: 88 total damage. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 2d10+5 damage. Result: 104 total damage.
Your aim is still disrupted by the slightly unfamiliar sensation of firing one-handed, and you actually manage to miss with your last bolt as the recoil carries your aim past the tau¡¯s head and up into the ceiling. It hardly matters when the tau¡¯s torso and head are little more than cobalt-weeping stretches of torn and melting flesh. But the tau Pathfinder doesn¡¯t fall over and die. You didn¡¯t think the ruins of its throat and lungs could produce any sound, but it emits a sound somewhere between a keening wail of agony and a sulty moan of pleasure. Its armor falls away, clattering on the deck. Its hooves split into clawed feet. Its flesh slurps, warps, and shifts until a daemonette stands on the deck with a hungry gleam in its eyes. The Eldar gathers more power to itself, the still air in the chamber spiraling into a whirlwind visible by the sprays of spilt blood it pulls through the air. The eldar points it hand and sword at the daemonette and unleashes more unlight-lightning.
Combat Damage: Eldritch Storm ! 3d10+8 (energy) Damage.
Randomised hit location: Right Arm. Incoming damage: 25.
Damage reduction for Armor (8 armor - 0 penetration): 8 Damage reduction for Toughness: 10
Total damage taken: 7. Armor Breached! It is no longer atmospherically sealed!
0 Health remaining. Right Arm Armor Destroyed. Critical Damage: Right Arm 7. Stunned for 1 round.
The force of the storm may be centered on the daemonette, but you are caught in the storm¡¯s wake. You feel the bones in your right arm splinter into several smaller pieces and your involuntarily drop your bolter as your hand ceases to function. The Daemonette staggers, but doesn¡¯t go down. The Eldar gathers itself, crystal shards falling from its fingers and dripping from its blade, and unleashes a second blast of storm and fury.
Combat Damage: Eldritch Storm ! 3d10+8 (energy) Damage.
Randomised hit location: Torso. Incoming damage: 26.
Damage reduction for Armor (10 armor - 0 penetration): 10 . Damage reduction for Toughness: 10.
Total damage taken: 6. Armor Breached! It is no longer atmospherically sealed!
0 Health remaining. Torso Armor Destroyed. Critical Damage: Torso 6.
Torso Critical damage - Stunned for 1d10 rounds: 2 rounds.
Agility test or catch fire: Failure: needed <44, got 82. Torso is now on fire!
You scream as your torso armor explodes outwards under the caress of an unlight-strike, the skin of your chest crisping and burning. The Daemonette gives out a moue of annoyance as it is torn apart and banished in a cloud of pale blue smoke. Losis crashes to the deck, freed from whatever psyker magic was holding him immobile, unhurt by the fury of the storm.
ON FIRE! Stunned! Cannot attempt to put the fire out.
Suffer 1d10 fire damage. Torso is on fire: damage allocated to the torso. Incoming damage: 4.
Damage reduction for Toughness: 10
Total damage taken 0.
You swat ineffectually at the flames, doing nothing to put out the fire. The eldar waits a beat, hand and blade still outstretched, waiting to see what Losis will do. The blood-drenched winds swirl about its feet. ¡°You know that you can not win. Tend to your squad. ¡± Losis Levels his heavy bolter, ¡°I can not allow you to win.¡± ¡°I have already slain my prey. I have already won this skirmish. Stand down.¡± Losis starts to pull the trigger. The blood-wind lashes out, following the pointing fingers of the eldar. Losis freezes in place again. Blood-frost falls from his form and the fire in your chest sputters out in the unnatural chill. You glance at the status icons on your display. Gorlin¡¯s is blinking red-black. Hagrdict is a steady red. Losis is blinking yellow-black. And your own is a pulsing red. The eldar looks at you, then shakes its head. The blood-wind vanishes and the blood splatters on the floor. The eldar snaps its fingers, and the gemstones detach from the remains of the ¡®statues¡¯ and hover at the eldar¡¯s back. It turns and vanishes down one of the other hallways, the gems still floating in its wake. You come to your senses as Losis slams to the deck again, shaking his head. ¡°Emperor-damned time-stopping witchcraft! I am going to murder that¡­¡± Yout cut him off, ¡°Not the time Losis. Check on Hagrdict. Every one of us needs an apothecary. And then we have to get back to the void-hab.¡± Losis slams his fist into the wall hard enough to send bone splinters flying. ¡°Losis¡­¡± He heads over to Hagrdict. You let your head rest on the deck and allow the blackness to overtake you. Chapter 41: One Stands Alone You sit down at the desk aboard Watch Outpost Iter Emensus and carefully flex the fingers of your left arm. You are still getting used to the feeling of the metal digits, as well as the extra strength and dexterity its exceptional craftsmanship provides. You stare at the paperwork on the desk. The bland phrases of efficiency reports stare back at you from the scrolls. It concerns Hagrdict and his conduct under your command while deployed to the Capitalist Congestus. On one hand, his performance as an apothecary was as exemplary as any apothecary seconded to the Deathwatch. He was responsible for bringing Gorlin back alive after that run-in with the eldar and the wraithguards. On the other hand Hagrdict was responsible for bringing on that fight, and only your order to ¡®open fire¡¯ just before Hagrdict actually shot stands between Hagrdict and a dismissal from the Deathwatch for Conduct Unbecoming. You haven¡¯t pulled any punches in the Efficiency Report so far, and you decide against even attempting to. Hagrdict will no longer serve in your squad, and you do not want him under your command ever again. It will mean the severe curtailment of Hagrdict¡¯s time with the Deathwatch, and this report will follow him back to the Black Templars. You imagine that he will be doing Penance for his transgressions for many years to come. Satisfied, you put your signature to the report-scroll and set it aside to be picked up by a servo skull. Next on your list of paperwork to complete is Losis¡¯ Efficiency Report. His is more straightforward: exemplary performance, a good blend of initiative and attention to orders, proper conduct in the face of the enemy. It will stand Losis in good stead while the Chaplains and Librarians are conducting their investigation. Losis himself is in quarantine, awaiting clearance to return to normal duties. Having been twice teleported by hostile forces, and also survived two temporal flux events as the result of hostile psychic attacks, you can find no fault with the decision to quarantine Losis until the investigation is completed. The potential danger of a Space Marine ¡®snapping¡¯ and turning renegade (or worse) mid-mission is nothing to be considered lightly. You expect Losis will come through with flying colors in a few months, but for now he is out of the fight. Gorlin¡¯s scrollwork is next, and like Losis you have no problems with him or his performance. Indeed, you applaud him for not being overly aggressive. You had expected to have to hold him back a time or two, but that never happened. Given his wounds and extensive augmetic repairs, you suspect that he will be rotated back to the Flesh Tearers instead of continuing to serve with the Deathwatch. While still fit to fight by the standards of any normal Chapter, he no longer has that extra little unquantifiable edge needed for service in the Deathwatch. You sigh as you realise that Your kill-team is now a squad of one: just you. You are interrupted by the sound of a body being slammed into a wall. Opening the compartment door to see what is going on, you are interrupted by Gorlin ramming you in the chest with an arm on his way past. ¡°Srrgh. Stay back Hunter.¡± You follow Gorlin into the hall, running towards the noise. ¡°What in the name of the Primarchs is going on?¡± ¡°Nnrgh. No time. Take the next left, find Chaplain Michaelis, and tell him¡­¡± A Chaplain appears around a corner running towards you. ¡°Hrgh, never mind, just stay clear.¡± You slow down, then catch sight of the winged bloodrop iconography of the Blood Angels on the Chaplain¡¯s Pauldron. You cock your head, asking a silent question. The Chaplain shakes his head in answer, then follows Gorlin around a turn in the corridor. You slow to a walk and turn back to your borrowed office. Whatever the issue is, it¡¯s a ¡®family¡¯ affair best left to the Blood Angels and their successor Chapters. You sit back down in your office and do your best to ignore the sounds of hand-to-hand combat coming from just down the corridor. You are still awaiting word on the repairs to your power armor, though given that it has been two weeks you are half-expecting a summons to the armory to select an entirely new suit.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. The sounds of combat dies down, so you head over to see if Gorlin or Chaplain Michaelis need a hand. Gorlin meets you halfway down the corridor, shaking his head and cradling one of his augmetic arms. ¡°What happened?¡± ¡°Brgh. Battle-frenzy happened. Remember how it took me a moment to settle back down when we first met? Battle-brother Irum, Angels Sanguine, got pushed to that point by a pair of incompetent menials. Something about ¡®not being smart enough to open an airlock the right way.¡¯ Chaplain has Irum sorted out, but the menials are so much paste an the decks.¡± ¡°Blood Angel and Successor Chapter affair?¡± ¡°Yrgh. Yes.¡± ¡°I will ask no more then. Come, I will take you to the armorium to get that arm looked at.¡± ¡°Rrgh. Appreciate it.¡± A few minutes later¡­ You are met at the gates of the armorium by a Techmarine and a pair of master-artisans. Gorlin follows the artisans to a table, where they open up their toolkits, strap his arm down, and get to work. The techmarine motions for you to follow him deeper into the armorium with the servo-arm on his back. ¡°Scout-Sergeant Marcellus, my apologies for not contacting you sooner. The damage to your power armor was most severe. Were it a suit of mark 7 manufacture the repairs would have been routine, though extensive. Unfortunately I lack the means to effectively rebuild a suit of mark 4 Power Armor, which leaves us both in an uncomfortable position.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°The armorium of a Watchpost is not that of a Watch Fortress. There is only one other suit of functional mark 4 armor available, should you desire to keep wearing warplate befit your station and renown as a Scout-Sergeant of four centuries.¡± ¡°The suit recovered aboard the Capitalis Congestus.¡± ¡°Precisely. Alternatively, I do have a suit of the new mark 9 Power Armor available and unassigned.¡± ¡°Mark 9? I have not heard of any new marks of armor.¡± ¡°Mark 9 is something of an administrative designation, similar to mark 5. Both are field-improved variants of their preceding marks, 8 and 4 respectively.¡± ¡°And you would like me to choose between these two suits?¡± ¡°Momentarily. First I am to present you with a signature piece of wargear. I understand that your power sword was destroyed shortly before your secondment to the Deathwatch, and that you surrendered the force sword that you recovered and were using in its place. Watch Command authorized me to grant you this, as a permanent addition to your wargear, in its place.¡± The Techmarine gestures to a long box made of nalwood, its pale grain grown darker with age and wax. You reverently open the lid to find a blade inside. A blade is something of an understatement to the glory of the weapon in the case. You run your flesh-and-blood fingers over the omega icon of the Ultramarines worked into the ork-hide leather of the scabbard. The gilded guard is simple horizontal bar. There is no crossguard, the blade being straight with a twin-taper and the familiar plunging point of a gladius-pattern blade. The hilt is made of tyranid warrior wing-membrane wrapped with silver wire around a nalwood core. The pommel is a skull surrounded by another omega. You lift the blade from the box and pull it from the scabbard. The blade its triple-fullered, and sports the identifying spinal ridge of a powerfield generator. ¡°This is¡­¡± ¡°The blade is known as Betrayer¡¯s Bane. It was last wielded by Battle-brother Calanus of the Ultramarines. It has remained in the armorium of this Watchpost, in the care of the Deathwatch, until a suitable Ultramarine could be found to wield it and eventually bring it home to the Ultramarines once more.¡± ¡°Thank you.¡± ¡°Do not thank me for giving onto you your just rewards. Wield them with honor, Scout-Sergeant Marcellus.¡± You sheathe Betrayer¡¯s Bane and hang it from your cingulus. It feels¡­ right at your hip As if you were meant to carry it. ¡°I will.¡± ¡°I do not doubt you. Come, your Power Armor awaits.¡± Two suits of Power Armor stand ready for inspection. On your left is the suit of mark 4 plate that you recovered from the Khamsin. It has been stripped back to bare ceramite and metal and painted anew in the uncompromising black of the Deathwatch. You get the feeling that there is a wealth of history and quirks within its freshly-painted plates, things that may work to your advantage¡­ or detriment. On your right is the suit of ¡®mark 9¡¯ plate. You recognise many elements from the mark 8 plate that you are familiar with: The thick chestplate and high gorget to protect the throat in particular. The arms and legs look thicker as well, boasting reinforced ceramite plating. The paint is fresh and shiny, and you can almost hear the joints squeak as they wear in from the factory fit. Chapter 42: Soul of Vengeance The Mark 9 suit pulls for your attention, eager to begin forging its legacy, but you are unsure about it. It is a new, untested (as far as you know) mark of Power Armor. It has no history, no soul. Some part of you wants to take a hand in creating that history, but your unease is enough to make you reconsider. A Space Marine and his Power Armor must be as one on the field of battle; any unsurety in the Space Marine¡¯s mind will become fatal hesitations in his actions. You look over the Mark 4 suit again, searching for the little details instead of the broad strokes. The tell-tale indicators of battles past that shed soft light on the machine-spirits within the plate. The first thing that catches your eye is the oath-seals carved deep into the ceramite of the pauldrons. Normally made of wax and used to affix a scrap of parchment holding an oath of moment or purity seal, these are instead made a part of the suit itself; legacies of old oaths not forgotten.
Armor History: Spirit of a Hero? - unknown.
The left shin and sabaton have elegant slivers of shrapnel forged into the ceramite. You crouch down to take a closer look and spot the distinct patterns endemic to slamming your booted foot through the skull of an enemy. Why these particular pieces of shrapnel were forged into the sabaton and greave instead of being pulled out is beyond you, but their presence tells of a significant battle won in ages past.
Armor History: Trophies of Battle (Chaos Space Marines) - +5% to Ballistics Skill test vs CSMs.
Standing upright, you examine the gauntlets, noting the boosted actuators and reinforced servo-muscles common to close-quarter fighters. You didn¡¯t have this common modification performed on your previous suit because it interferes somewhat with precision shooting. It is not a problem, just something that you will need to become accustomed to along with the armor itself.
Armor History: Thine arm be the Scourge of the Impure - +5% Weapon Skill, -5% Ballistics Skill.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Taking a step back, you look over the mark 4 suit from head to toe, drinking in its fresh paint and elegant lines. At first glance some of the paint gleams as though wet. You frown in thought, noting the seemingly random dispersions of the ¡®wet¡¯ patches. Then you notice the high-velocity splatters and runs. The ¡®wet¡¯ sections are simply not the flat Deathwatch black, but rather a psychosomatic reflection of events past. The ¡®wet¡¯ sections are where the suit was so drenched in the blood of the foe that it has stained the creamite to the point where it will show through any paint.
Armor History: Blood of the Foe - Gain the Fear 1 Trait.
¡°The mark 4 suit. Does it bear a Name?¡± ¡°None that we have been able to recover Scout-Sergeant Marcellus.¡± ¡°Then It will be up to me to name it.¡± ¡°Indeed. Come, I will armor you once again.¡± The full armoring process, will all of its ceremony, takes nearly half an hour. As your new helmet settles over your head and tactical icons blink to life you let out a breath you didn¡¯t know you were holding. It feels good to be armored again, whole again. You have fought in everything from your bare skin to simple carapace armor, but you never feel complete without a suit of Power Armor. You buckle Betrayer¡¯s Bane to your waist and take up your bolter. You feel¡­ complete. This is what you are, a Space Marine, the Emperor¡¯s Bulwark against Terror, an Angel of Death. As you make your way back to your quarters you encounter a slight difficulty. You spot a Space Marine turing to enter a training chamber. You see only the olivewood color of his skin and the studded pauldrons of his Mk5 ¡®Heresy¡¯ Power Armor. Instead of the Chapter iconography, it is completely black, bordered by the blue of a Librarian and a oath-paper bearing the sunburst-halo¡¯d skull of an Epistolary. At the same time you overhear two men arguing from the opposite direction. Among the raised clamor of voices, you catch the words ¡®Capitalis Congestus, ¡®Destroyer Six¡¯, and ¡®Two-Stage Cyclonic.¡¯ Both the black-pauldron Space Marine and the arguing men seem important, but you only have time to investigate one of them. Chapter 43: Ghost of the Past You decide that the arguing men can wait. Destroyer Six will make an appearance at some point, and you can figure out what it is armed with and how it plans to use it when it does appear. The Epistolary on the other hand¡­ perhaps he could give you some glimpse into the past of your new Power Armor. You follow the Epistolary into the training chamber. He nods you a greeting and moves to one set of sparring-servitors. Each is two meters tall and equipped with six multi-jointed arms tipped in a variety of scything claws, crushing flails, and swords of all descriptions. You return the nod and activate one sparring servitor, restricting it to a single sparring circle, and setting it to a relatively low-tempo half-hour ¡®workout¡¯ regime. The blades are still sharp, the servitor is still out to kill, but it is restricted to low-speed strikes (blade speed of no more than twelve meters per second) and will automatically power-down when the regime ends. The Epistolary activates three servitors, locks them in a separate sparring circle, and removes all other restriction on their actions. Even as you dance with your servitor-partner, you note that the three fighting the Epistolary all have the blinking light of a networked pack-link and are coordinating their attacks with brutal efficiency. You have worked up a light sweat by the time your servitor opponent winds down. You step from your sparring circle to the control lectern and send it back to the charging-rack. You look over at the Epistolary¡¯s control lectern and are utterly shocked by the setting you see on it. You had noted the pack-link, but hadn¡¯t contemplated that a single space marine, even an Epistolary, could stand against three sparring-servitors imitating Tyranid Warrior-Primes in a free-flow tac-link with absolutely no inhibitors on their actions. And the Epistolary looks bored somehow, and if he isn¡¯t even giving his full attention to the fight. Seeing you standing slack-jawed, he breaks contact with the servitors, castually shearing four scything blades in half as he does so, and steps out of his sparring circle. ¡°Epistolary, that was impressive. Three Warrior-primes?¡± ¡°Poor imitations of the real thing, Scout-Sergeant Marcellus, but still a challenging workout. I can see that you have questions, so I will do the best I can to answer them.¡±The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°Have you come across any references to a ship called the Khamsin in your work? On my last deployment my kill-team recovered Space Marine relics from a ship pearing that name, a nova-class frigate, but none of us could recognize the chapter insignia present.¡± ¡°The Khamsin? Phoenix and Sunburst icons?¡± ¡°The same.¡± ¡°Where?¡± ¡°Fused into the outer layers of the Space Hulk Capitalis Congestus. My kill-team had been forced back from a tyranid ambush and were still coated in Lictor tracker-spores and Grot-Ripper ichor. We had noted the presence of a space marine frigate earlier, but had not boarded it before. We did so at that time, seeking to use the refractory facilities to purge ourselves and our gear before returning to our base of operations.¡± ¡°And you found these relics on or near the bridge?¡± ¡°In what looked to be a repurposed Navigator¡¯s sanctum yes.¡± ¡°Then what I know I can not share with you. Not by choice, understand, but because it comes from the depths of the Restricted Data-Crypts.¡± ¡°What can you reveal Epistolary?¡± ¡°First I must ask: what colors were the quarters painted?¡± ¡°The sanctum? No particular color. The relics themselves echoed the Chapter Iconography of brass on red.¡± ¡°Then I can say only that those were not Chapter markings, but Legion markings¡­ now abandoned by the worthless alkhawna who use the same name.¡± ¡°That puts me ill at ease.¡± ¡°There is nothing more that it is within my power to tell you. But you will have the chance to learn more. Our shuttle departs for the Capitalis Congestus in an hour.¡± ¡°In that case, welcome to Alpha Squad Epistolary¡­?¡± ¡°Tayib.¡± You shake his hand, forearm to forearm in the tradition of the Space Marines, and head for the hatch. ¡°Scout-Sergeant?¡± You pause in the doorway, ¡°yes Epistolary Tayib?¡± ¡°You wear that armor well. May it serve you better than it did me.¡± The hatch closes behind you. You have an hour in which to gather you things and make any requisition you deem necessary for your return to the Capitalis Congestus. Chapter 44: Ticking Clock Stockpile Update: Specialist rounds for special targets; Hellfire Ammunition bypasses all natural or organic armor, and liquefies the target from the inside out.
You put away your weapon cleaning kit as the Thunderhawk sweeps in to land at the void-hab. Though you will be leaving your Godwyn-pattern boltgun and Mk3 bolt pistol behind on for your next excursion, you feel comforted by the ritual act of cleaning your weapons. Satisfied with their care, you stow them away and perform a final check of your newly-requisitioned wargear. The Ragefire plasma pistol sits easily at your hip, alongside the three small plasma flasks to reload it. You pat its handgrip, satisfied that it¡¯s machine-spirit will behave so long as you do not overstress it. You know that you can overcharge the weapon to produce a truly ferocious shot, turning a fist-sized projectile into a seething skull-sized ball that explodes into a two-meter diameter sphere on impact. Doing so is not without cost or risk, as the so-called maximal setting consumes plasma ammunition at a voracious rate, and the irate machine-spirit of the pistol is wont to overheat and vent plasma uncontrollably and with little warning when abused. The Stalker-pattern bolter, with its sleek silencer and integrated red-dot sight, is a semi-familiar weight at your back. You carried one on numerous occasions during your three centuries as a scout-sergeant won missions where stealth and precision were prized above weight of fire. This one hails from the Deathwatch armory of watchpost Iter Emensus and features a fire-selector allowing you to carry three magazines instead of the usual one. The first loaded magazine is charged with standard bolt shells, the second with the specialized stalker bolt shells that are totally silent, and the third is filled with the Hellfire shells you habitually carry. Four more magazines charged with standard bolt shells ride your combat harness, ready to hand. The stalker-pattern magazines carry only twenty-four shells to the Godwyn¡¯s twenty-eight, but you have placed the extra bolts back into storage for later usage. Lastly, you finger the ¡®egg-carton¡¯ of six spherical granads at your hip. You had requested a melta bomb, in case of an obstacle (or another monsterous Tyranid bioform) too tough for krak anti-tank grenades to handle. Your request was denied however, in light of the lack of demolitions experience present in your squad. In its place, you were given the ¡®egg-carton¡¯ of plasma grenades, along with a reminder that their blasts tend to linger on for a few seconds (anywhere between six and thirty) before dissipating. You are unsure how the unfamiliar weapons will perform, but they do displace the trio of frag anti-personnel grenades as well as the kraks on your belt.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. Epistolary Tayib has his head bowed in meditation, and you take the moment to look him over more closely. His mark 5 ¡®Heresy¡¯ Power armor is battered and scarred, a mixture of carefully-preserved battle damage (the legacy of notable victories) and the crude-looking field repairs of long campaigns. A force-staff lays across his lap, its ram-skulled headcap resting on an empty seat. The master-crafted bolt pistol you recovered from the Khamsin rests on his hip, and the phoenix-emblazoned master-crafted force sword you found with it (that you had thought was a simple power sword) rests on the other. Tayib has requisitioned no other equipment that you can see, asinde form a small void-loxed stasis case at the small of his back. You aren¡¯t sure what resides within it, only that it has been entrusted to Tayib to use as he deems fit. The thunderhawk thumps down in the small shuttle bay of the void-hab, and an eerie silence greets you. Not the hiss of atmospheric life-sustainers re-pressurising the shuttle bay, not the mutter of a voice from the other side of the wall. You ready your weapons, not sure what to expect. Tayib falls in at your back, preparing for the unexpected. ¡°Expecting company?¡± ¡°An Interrogator and a Mechwright. Support staff left behind to tend the void-hab until our return.¡± ¡°No one is here.¡± ¡°That is the problem.¡± ¡°Could something have killed them?¡± ¡°If something did, it would have left traces.¡± ¡°Lead the search Hunter.¡± You lead Tayib into the common room. The briefing table is overturned in the corner. The chairs are stacked against the wall. The hatchways to the sleeping and storage rooms stand open, the contents a mixture of randomly strewn about and methodically re-sorted. Stabby sits idle in the corner, starved for power with is base-hub blocked by a fallen blanket. You pull the blanket aside and let the little CAT start charging again. ¡°Searched, but not fought in. The CAT was left behind, so the Mechwright left in a hurry at least.¡± ¡°No bullet holes, no spilled blood. They left here voluntarily and under their own power. Why leave the relative safety of this place? And to where?¡± ¡°Deeper into the Capitalis Congestus, most likely. If they had boarded a shuttle, they would have had more time to pack.¡± ¡°But why?¡± ¡°Inquisition infighting at a guess. The Interrogator mentioned that she had received a coded message indicating that the ordo Xenos Inquisitor she served was dead, and that another Inquisitor would be coming to take over the project of mapping the space hulk. The same message also included a warning that the person who had killed her Inquisitor was an Ordo Malleus Inquisitor out for vengeance.¡± ¡°Deserved?¡± ¡°Unknown.¡± ¡°What are your orders Hunter?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t like the thought of leaving gear cached here, but I don¡¯t see any other choice. Pick a spot and start stacking while I load the heavy bolter ammunition back on the Thunderhawk. No point in keeping it when we can¡¯t use it. Once that is done we can head into the Capitalis Congestus itself.¡± ¡°Affirmative.¡± Chapter 45: Sounds in the Silence Creating the supply cache in one of the abandoned rooms of the void hab takes little time, but it does give you a few moments to think for yourself. The dust covering everything indicates that Interrogator MacWater and Mechwright ZTO left the void hab some time ago. They could still be alive, down in the Capitalis Congestus. It is a dangerous place, but it takes a dangerous person to rise to the rank of Interrogator, given that it is one step from becoming an actual Inquisitor. And ZTO had survived one incursion into the Capitalis Congestus herself, an impressive feat for a non-astartes human. There was a decent chance, perhaps one in four or five, that at least one of them was still alive inside the hulk these weeks later. Your work complete, you gather with Epistolary Tayib next to the hatch leading from the void hab to the hulk. ¡°Alright. I do not have any new orders with regards to this hulk, so I must assume that my mission remains unchanged. That mission is to find the ¡®blighted heart¡¯ of the Capitalis Congestus. I had no instructions passt that, but all of the indicators that I had was that I was to scout the way for a follow up attack.¡± ¡°Correct. I was to lead a follow-up attack on the Capitalis Congestus, but Watch Command has other plans in motion responding to large-scale events across the entire Imperium of man. The kill team that I was to be apart of was dispersed before it was ever assembled, and I was to be attached directly to your team instead. Then your team comes back early, and injured, leaving just the two of us to prosecute the mission.¡±Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. ¡°Understood. My mission is to get you to the ¡®blighted heart¡¯ and then assist in your attack.¡± ¡°Correct. That will consist of covering me while I plant the special weapons charge, if all goes well.¡± ¡°First we need to find the ¡®blighted heart¡¯.¡± You pull out a printed copy of your map of the Capitalis Congestus. ¡°Approximately forty two percent of this hulk is either mapped or known to be destroyed. The Khamsin is here, at grid reference bravo two and charlie two. The largest unknown area, and thus the likely location of the ¡®blighted heart¡¯ is down here, between foxtrot seven and juliet one zero. I purpose we hook above the destroyed sections, through ¡®known¡¯ territory and then ¡®south¡¯ towards the unknown sections. With any luck, we may be able to find the Interrogator or the Mechwright who could assist us in our mission.¡± ¡°You do realise that they are almost certainly dead.¡± ¡°Of course. I put their odds at surviving at no better than twenty five percent. Less than that of being combat capable.¡° ¡°Less than that. There is a moral threat lurking in the depths of this hulk. I hear sounds in the silence at the edge of what is real, and they will only grow louder as we approach the Heart.¡± ¡°Can you get a bearing off of them? Something to give us a direction in which to search?¡± Tayib bows his head and drums his gauntleted fingers on his vembrances in an irregular pattern. At length he shakes his head, ¡°nothing definite. Pink motes about a green haze. ¡®South¡¯ and ¡®east¡¯, but nothing definite enough to narrow it to a single grid reference.¡± ¡°Good enough to begin with. Let¡¯s go.¡± Chapter 46: Fiends Stepping with caution, you breach into the aft of the Gilded Collar, an Ambition class cruiser that once belonged to an Imperial Rogue Trader of some renown. His name is now dust in the wind, and his prized ship now forms part of the Outer layer of the Capitalis Congestus, one of many capital ships to make up is massive bulk. The barrel of your Stalker-pattern bolter tracks from shadow to shadow, looking for foes yet to make an appearance in the two hours since you left the void hab. You pause as your hearing picks up the tick of a hoof on metal. Tayib trails behind you, force sword and bolt pistol at the ready. He has not said a word since leaving the void hab, but the vox comes alive now. ¡°Warp predators. Two, closing fast. One ahead, one behind.¡± You barely have time to begin searching for a target as the clatter of hoofbeats breaks the quiet. ¡°DAEMONETTES!¡± The first daemonette is upon you before you can even fire a shot, is crab claw and taloned hand slashing in blurring strikes. Somehow its two strikes both miss by the thinnest of margins, giving you time to take a single breath. You hear Tayib¡¯s force sword clash with unnatural flesh and chitin as he parries desperately at your back. There is the swish of blade in air, then the crunch of blade into flesh and bone. There is a mewl of displeasure, a feminine moan of passion, and purple smoke drifts past the edges of your view. Your stalker pattern bolter is little good as a budgeoning instrument, so you grab out Betrayer¡¯s Bane in your left hand and make a textbook lunge forwards, intending to bury it in the chest of the daemonette in front of you.
Melee attacking the daemonette with Betrayer''s bane: +0% to hit. Weapon is Master crafted: +10% to hit.
Failure: Needed <59, got 80.
Betrayer¡¯s Bane stabs through empty air as the daemonette laughs. You ignore its commentary on your ¡®artless from¡¯, putting the sound of its voice from your thoughts and so ignoring the blandishments of chaos.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Perhaps sensing that you are ignoring it, the daemonette seeks to display is ¡®art¡¯ in another form. Its strikes redoubble in intensity and speed, reaching heights that a space marine would be hard pressed to match.
Two incoming melee hits. Parry attempt at +0%. Weapon is Master crafted: +10%. Weapon has the Balanced special rule: +10%.
Success: needed <69, got 13. 1 Attack blocked. Succeeded by more than 40: two additional attacks blocked.
3 > 2, All incoming melee hits are parried.
Hard pressed to match is not the same as unmatchable however, and Betrayer¡¯s Bane flashes in tight arcs. Of the four strikes that the daemonette launches, two miss you cleanly and the other two skip harmlessly off Betrayer¡¯s Bane. You can hear Tayib spin about on the deck plates, and you feel the force of his blows as the force sword flickers out above and about your form. If anything, the speed of his speed strikes matches that of the daemonette, while his skill exceeds its. The fact that you are in the way limits Tayib¡¯s angles of attack, but not by enough that he misses the mark. Two feints force the daemonette to hop awkwardly over a low stab, which quickly turns into a rising slice that effortlessly cleaves the daemonette in two from groin to crown. It doesn¡¯t even get a chance to make a noise before exploding into purple mist. You sheath Betrayer¡¯s Bane and ready your stalker pattern bolter. ¡°Time to press on.¡± ¡°Agreed. That will probably not be the last we see of warp predators on this mission.¡±
Ascending through the spine of the Gilded Collar, you come across a section of compartments that were clearly used to house objects of some worth, notably weapons. Much of it is worn and torn. Silver inlays are tarnished, wooden handles have cracked and split. Steel barrels have rusted, and glass display cases have cracked. But amongst the debris is one intact pedestal. The switches set into the side are fore a stasis field that has long since run dry of power, but the item resting on the stand is relatively untouched by the ravages of time. The item on the stand looks at first glance to be the armored gauntlet of a suit of space marine terminator armor, complete with the in-built disruption field generators of a power fist, but the protruding blade guard and gleaming adamantine toothed blade mark it out as a chainfist. The bare ceramite is completely smooth, devoid of any chapter markings or colors. It is far to large, heavy, and unwieldy to use in your standard power armor, and would just be a burden to carry for the rest of the mission. But to leave this relic behind feels wrong somehow. Chapter 47: Friends You reverently lift the chainfist from the stand, nicking your gauntlets on the inhumanly sharp edges of the teeth of the blade. With no other place to put it, you mag-lock it to the bottom of your power armor¡¯s backpack power plant, in the place where you would otherwise store your stalker-pattern bolter. WIth the relic in tow and Epistolary Tayib still indicating that your destination is ¡®east¡¯ of your current position, you move out. Less than an hour later, you find yourself back in the round chamber where your last expedition into the Capitalis Congestus came to such a disastrous end. The rubble of the dead wraithguards is still there, as are the deep-etched bloodstains from spilled acidic Space Marine blood. New to the place is the fine layer of dust across the floor and creeping up the walls and the faint, half-swept tracks crossing and recrossing the chamber. You kneel in the dust and try to make sense of who and what has been through this area.
Tracking (Int) skill check: Failed. Needed <44, got 53.
The tracks are old and faded, and are half swept away by a robe that at least one of the individuals was wearing. ¡°There are multiple sets of tracks here, but I can¡¯t tell if they were all the same group, or if it was many different groups. The robe-wearer has done a decent job of obscuring traces, even if it was not an intentional act.¡± ¡°Indeed. A fresh set of eyes?¡± ¡°Go for it Epistolary, and lend your other senses to the task if you need to. We are walking towards something fel, and I would know what we are likely to find up ahead.¡± Epistolary Tayib kneels in the dust as you rise to stand watch. The last time you were in this chamber resonates in your memory, and you strain your ears and autosenses, listening for the click of hoof on bone or the softer sussh of a booted foot in the dust.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°Two groups. The first group of two individuals only crossed this chamber once, moving quickly. One pair of booted feet, human female combatant. Walking up on the balls of her feet, head on a swivel from the angles of the prints. One set of iron-studded shoes, mechanicus initiate by the worn cog-marks on the ends of the studs.¡± ¡°Interrogator MacWater and ZTO.¡± ¡°Possibly. Second group made multiple crossings. The robe-wearer was the last in the file each time, so I can¡¯t make a good estimate of their numbers. At least four, no more than twelve. Two sets of heavier prints, astartes combat boots belonging to either scout-auxilla or Space Marines without power armor. They are not present in every crossing, nor does the group size remain consistent. Possible combat losses, or they split up to cover more ground.¡± ¡°The other Inquisitor you think?¡± ¡°Probably, but we have no way of verifying that.¡± ¡°We move ¡®east¡¯ then, towards our objective.¡± ¡°Also the direction of the Interrogator and Mechwright.¡± ¡°The let us hope for their sakes that they are still pure of warp-taint.
Two hours later you pass beyond the eldar ship into the half-crushed depths of an Imperial warship. The corridors are roomy by human standards at just over two meters in height and nearly the same in width, but you find yourself stooping under hatchways and scraping paint from the walls with your pauldrons. There are faint signs of recent scavenging like severed conduit boxes, missing wires, and neatly cut away sections of metal. Abruptly there is a small commotion ahead of you - the wailing chirp of a proximity alarm. The stataco barking of a pair of bolt pistols. A hashed blut of incomprehensible techna lingua. Booted feet pounding on deckplates. You bring your stalker pattern bolter to bear, but just as quickly remove your finger from the trigger. ¡°Interrogator MacWater, status report!¡± ¡°Big ugly beastie in the main shell feed! Thing¡¯s the size of a tank, and stinks worse than a drunk ganger on a six-week bender. Sword-claws taller than you, maw big enough to swallow me whole, and psychic hoarfrost on the walls!¡± The description makes your blood run cold and your secondary heart kick into a high-speed beat. ¡°Hive Tyrant!¡± Chapter 48: Foe ¡°Interrogator, Mech-Wright; find some cover and open fire. Epistolary, with me. We¡¯re killing this thing.¡± The Boom Boom of a combat shotgun double-tapping a target echoes down the hallway. You know from the painful experience of watching scouts under your command die that even Astartes combat shotguns will do little or nothing against the thick, chitin-crusted hide of a Hive Tyrant. ¡°Scout N¡¯vier to all Astartes on this net. Ammunition black, requesting support.¡± ¡°Hunter to N¡¯vier, fall back on my signal if you can.¡± ¡°Hunter, N¡¯vier, unable to comply. Obstructed by the foe.¡± ¡°Understood N¡¯vier. We¡¯ll come to you.¡± You race down the corridor, Tayib close at your heels. A buzzing steam of living ammunition screams past you. A female scream rings in your ears, but you don¡¯t have time to process it now. You round the jagged corner where a tear in the passageway leads into the shell feed. Intended to supply munitions to the ships macro cannons, the floor is covered in rails and the high vaulted ceiling is draped in chains. The massive Hive Tyrant dominates the space, hunched forwards to duck under the chains with boneswords spread wide for balance and two freshly-fired devourers drip slime. You could swear the thing is smirking at you, but the chitin and fangs of its jaw make that impossible. You bring up your Stalker Bolter, flick the pinky switch to select your limited supply of hellfire bolts, take a second to aim, and pull the trigger.
Single aimed shot from Stalker Bolter (magazine #3 - Hellfire Bolts): +0% to hit. Range is short: +10 to hit. Target is Size: Massive: +30% to hit. Accurate weapon: +10% to hit. Red dot sight, firing only one shot: +10% to hit. Magazine is now at 23/24 rounds.
Fire at Hive Tyrant: Success! needed <113, got 80.
Accurate basic weapon firing a single shot succeeded by >20%: +1d10 damage delt.
Damage inflicted: 3d10+5 explosive. Result: 30. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 3d10+5 damage. Result: 54 total damage. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 3d10+5 damage. Result: 73 total damage.
The bolt strikes the Hive Tyrant on the hard ridge of chitin just above its eyes. With a normal bolt it would have detonated to minimal effect. With the mutagenic acid core of a Hellfire bolt the impact is significantly more effective. The Hive trant jerks it head, spraying the walls with a bubbleling mess of melted chitin. Its beady eyes lock onto you as the single most deadly threat it now faces. ¡°That¡¯s right you abomination, I am your DOOM!¡± Tayb grunts in exertion over the vox, ¡°N¡¯vier, Seeker. Catch!¡± Interrogator MacWater¡¯s bolt pistols tumble past you and slide behind a pile of fallen chains. His own bolt pistol cracks on rapid fire, targeting the same wound you already inflicted. The Hive tyrant flinches, but doesn¡¯t go down. You expect some sort of supporting fire, but all you can hear from ZTO are whimpered blurts of binaric cant. Some sort of prayer you guess, as you have no real idea what it is actually saying, having no understanding of that language yourself. Scout N¡¯vier scrabmbles out from behind the pile of chains, grabs up to bolt pistols, and dives back into cover. ¡°Seeker, N¡¯vier. My thanks.¡± The hive Tyrant opens its jaws and you can feel unnatural energies begin to pull and spiral in the air about you. Tayib Raises his empty hand and grasps at something insubstantial. ¡°I Deny your Power, Abomination!¡± Despite his bold words, whatever warp energy he is attempting to chanel recoils against him. His head is wreathed in sparks and he shakes for a moment. The Hive Tyrant¡¯s jaws glow with a bile-green light, but whatever psychic power it is attempting to manifest goes awry. The bile-light flickers out, and a fell wind sweeps over you. The image of a lance of that light bisecting your dying body flickers through your mind for a brief moment, but it passes as the breeze fades. The Hive Tyrant snaps its jaws shut and shakes it head, then levels its Devourers at you and pulls their bioelectric triggers.
Dodge incoming fire: +0%. Success! Needed <44, got 17. Avoided three incoming projectiles.
Combat Damage: multiple hits by Tyranid Devourers firing Brain-Leech Slugs! 10d10+30 (rending) Damage.
Randomised hit location: Right Leg. Incoming damage: 99.
Damage reduction for Armor (7 armor - 0 penetration): 7. Damage reduction for Toughness: 10.
Total damage taken: 82. Armor Breached! It is no longer atmospherically sealed!
0 Health remaining. Right Leg Armor Destroyed.
Critical Damage would result in Death - 1 Fate Point burned to avoid death. 1 Fate Point remaining.
Critical Damage: Right Leg 8.
You throw yourself to the left in an attempt to avoid the worst of the incoming storm of buzzing organic ammunition. Your efforts are partially successful, taking your torso and head out of the line of fire. Your right leg lags behind you, hovering in the air for a brief moment. That moment is all it takes for dozens of slugs to splatter across your armor, and for five to tear right through the gaps at your knee. Your lower right leg comes off in a bloody chunk, promptly chewed beyond recognition by the dying Devourer ammunition.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. Gritting your teeth at the pain shock you force yourself to one knee. Balancing on the stump of your right leg you bring your Stalker pattern bolter to bear on the Hive Tyrant. Taking a moment to aim, you pull the trigger.
Single aimed shot from Stalker Bolter (magazine #3 - Hellfire Bolts): +0% to hit. Range is short: +10 to hit. Target is Size: Massive: +30% to hit. Accurate weapon: +10% to hit. Red dot sight, firing only one shot: +10% to hit. Magazine is now at 22/24 rounds.
Fire at Hive Tyrant: Success! needed <113, got 03.
Accurate basic weapon firing a single shot succeeded by >40%: +2d10 damage dealt.
Damage inflicted: 4d10+5 explosive. Result: 30. Spoiler: Holy Crits Hunter! Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 4d10+5 damage. Result: 64 total damage. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 4d10+5 damage. Result: 104 total damage. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 4d10+5 damage. Result: 138 total damage. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 4d10+5 damage. Result: 178 total damage. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 4d10+5 damage. Result: 214 total damage. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 4d10+5 damage. Result: 243 total damage. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 4d10+5 damage. Result: 278 total damage. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 4d10+5 damage. Result: 308 total damage. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 4d10+5 damage. Result: 340 total damage. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 4d10+5 damage. Result: 380 total damage. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 4d10+5 damage. Result: 416 total damage. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 4d10+5 damage. Result: 454 total damage. Critical Hit! One damage die rolled a 9 or 10: inflict a further 4d10+5 damage. Result: 486 total damage.
Your shot impacts on the fleshy barrel of the Hive Tyrant¡¯s right-hand devourer and detonates inside the weapon. The mutagenic acid stars melting and necrotising the weapon itself, the Brain Slugs go berserk looking for a new home as their old one dies around them. Some chose to leap to the thorax of the Hive Tyrant, carrying mutagenic acid when them. As they burrow between plates of chitin, they carry that same acid deep into the internal organs of the beast. The Hive Tyrant goes into spasms. Wracked by pain both from the Brain Slugs eating any tissue that they can find and the mutagenic acid melting internal organs with wild abandon, it collapses to the deck of the shell feed in an ungainly heap. ¡°Hunter, N¡¯vier. It¡¯s dead then?¡± ¡°N¡¯vier, Hunter. It is for now.¡± ¡°Hunter, N¡¯Vier. Do they not stay dead?¡± You pull the plasma grenades from your belt and eye the corpse. ¡°N¡¯vier, Hunter. The only other Hive Tyrant encountered on this hulk was caught in the blast of a self-destructing cruiser and likely heavily injured. If this is the same organism, and it seems that it is, then it has impressive powers of regeneration to come back from such damage.¡± ¡°Hunter, Seeker. Or it was brought back. This thing stinks of the Fly Lord.¡± ¡°Sekker, Hunter. Would plasma work, or should we call upon your powers?¡± ¡°Seeker, Hunter. Plasma would be best. I did not fare as well as I would have liked in a psychic duel with the thing while it was alive.¡± ¡°N¡¯Vier, Hunter. Check on the Mech-Wright please. Seeker, plasma charges are with me. Lingering burn, so try to avoid dropping the corpse through the deck. I need to find a crutch.¡± You get your first good look at the scout as he walks past you. The form fitting carapace armor over a black undersuit is familiar from your long service as a scout sergeant, as is the magazine fed semi-automatic combat shotgun slung over the scout¡¯s shoulder. The green-splashed camouflage and the gold accents are unfamiliar to your eyes, more used to the blue of Ultramarines and the mottled camo-nets used by scouts. The cave-black skin and red eyes on N¡¯vier¡¯s unhelmeted head are unmistakable markers of the Salamanders Space Marine Chapter. You pull yourself to your foot against the twisted rubble where you entered the shell feed, and cast about for a likely piece of pipe or girder to use as a crutch. Eventually you settle on a split-ended piece of pipe, into which you wedge a section of girder to form a shoulder support. You tie and wrap the shoulder rest with scraps of cable, trusting in the sturdiness of your Power Armor to deal with any scratches or rough edges. The Fwoomp of the first plasma grenade prompts you to turn around and hobble back to look at the corpse. The glowing orbs of plasma flicker and flash, atomising the Hive Tyrant corpse in neat one meter radius spheres. The body is too large to be completely atomized, particularly as Tayib is taking care not to touch it wherever possible, forgoing stacking up severed pieces for destruction. After the sixth plasma grenade detonation finally fades, you become aware of N¡¯vier and ZTO standing next to you. ¡°The Interrogator?¡± ¡°Beyond any aid sir. Torso torn in half, major organs destroyed. I recovered what ammunition she had, along with her holsters.¡± ¡°Good work scout. We¡¯ll make those bolts count.¡± ¡°We¡¯re pressing on with your mission sir?¡± ¡°Seeker?¡± ¡°Hive Tyrant confirmed as tainted by the Warp. Unusual for Tyranids, but not unheard of in the archives. If the Blighted Heart has managed to ensare such a beast, then it must be destroyed before it can escape the Capitalis Congestus.¡± ¡°You speak of the Heart as if it were a thing.¡± ¡°With the nearly non-existent information available to me, it may well be a thing, a place, or even a being. Its existence is no longer in doubt however.¡± You open your mouth to respond, but stop as the hulk shudders violently. The shaking goes on for several minutes, and you pick out several after-shocks making their way through the deckplates. Several ships either just exploded or were wrenched from the hulk in rapid succession. Tayib clutched his brow, shaking his head.¡± ¡°Seeker, report.¡± ¡°Psychic aftershocks accompanying the physical ones. Eldar in origin. Ships wrenched from claws of iron, shattered sails on solar winds.¡± ¡°Meaning?¡± ¡°If I had to guess Hunter, I would say that almost every eldar ship in the Capitalis Congestus was either torn from the hulk, detonated, or mangled beyond all salvaging.¡± You look at N¡¯vier, ¡°which means our extraction route was just severed. We press on with the mission.¡± N¡¯vier looks up at you, the top of his head coming to your chin thanks to your Power Armor. ¡°Objective?¡± ¡°Get Seeker and his payload to the Blighted Heart, whatever it is, and destroy it.¡±
Mission 5 Actual: Glass Line Shattered Chalice Type: Recon Search and Destroy Primary Objective: Circumnavigate the destroyed section of the Hulk Primary Objective: Escort Epistolary Tayib to the Blighted Heart Primary Objective: Destroy the Blighted Heart by any means at your disposal. Secondary Objective: Survive! Tertiary Objective: Eliminate all targets of opportunity encountered. Personal (Bonus) Objective: Hunter - Eliminate all foes of Elite or Master rank. Chapter 49: Count the Seven You nod at ZTO, ¡°How¡¯s it doing?¡± N¡¯vier shrugs one shoulder, ¡°better than most humans, worse then some. Once the shock wears off ZTO should be fine.¡± ¡°And you N¡¯vier?¡± ¡°Permission to speak freely sir?¡± ¡°Always.¡± ¡°A month ago, real space-time, my squad was all but wiped out along with the rest of the detachment we were supporting. Cut off from both support and command, I was made part of Inquisitor Karth¡¯s retinue along with another Astartes scout from a chapter I didn¡¯t recognise. I learned his name was Virgil of the Blood Ravens. A week ago we boarded this hulk. In hindsight, Inquisitor Karth was utterly unprepared for this environment. Six days ago, the retinue was split up by a Genestealer ambush. Inquisitor Kath and his henchmen went one way, Virgil another, and I was tossed through a weak wall by a grenade detonation and fell far enough to be knocked out. Since then, and since meeting up with Interrogator MacWater and ZTO, it has been a running battle of attrition; on rest, resources, and endurance alike.¡± ¡°In short, a week in the cauldron of battle.¡± ¡°Yes sir, a week on the Anvil. And you know what sir? I¡¯m ready for more.¡± Under the safety of your helmet, you cannot help but grin at the scout. ¡°I don¡¯t know about the traditions of the Salamanders, but were you an Ultramarine scout in my squad, I¡¯d put you up for promotion to the devastators after this mission. As it stands, we have a mission to complete first.¡± ¡°Yes sir.¡± ¡°Seeker, can you refine the direction of the Blighted heart? Do we still need to head ¡®south east¡¯?¡± ¡°Affirmative Hunter. We are close to the Blighted Heart. ¡®North east¡¯ from here, though more east then north.¡± ¡°¡®North east¡¯ it is.¡±
Two hour later you sit atop the workbench as ZTO works at a crude prosthetic peg leg. The plan is to tack-weld it to the shredded remains of your power armor¡¯s right leg, freeing up you hand to hold something besides a crutch. It won¡¯t improve your speed any, given the crude nature of the peg leg, but it is only a temporary attachment. When ZTO is done with the tack welds, it takes your armor cements and pastes over the stump of your leg, making your armor atmosphere-tight again. N¡¯vier is working some sort of miniaturised mechanised hammer, beating out some minute parts. Interrogator MacWater¡¯s bolt pistols lie partially disassembled on a table next to him, the grips and trigger guards placed aside. You have only the slimist of ideas as to what he is actually doing, given your very limited knowledge of the Mysteries of the Adeptus Mechanicus, but if you had to guess N¡¯vier is changing the trigger guards and grips to something that will fit into his hands. Tayib has security, watching the only functioning hatch to the workshop. Occasionally he twitches, tracking something that you cannot perceive, but no threats emerge to challenge your squad. At one point his eyes lock onto an innocuous piece of bulkhead, as if he was staring right through it. Your vox-link clicks open on a Deathwatch-only chanel. ¡°Green fungus-flesh in purple leather clad. Single of mind, in bone-cast shadows lurking.¡± ¡°Ork Kommandos. We¡¯ll keep watch.¡± ¡°Their minds are not their own, thralls of something larger. Twice-born in corrupted flesh, twice-mutated apart form humanity, abomination against reality.¡± ¡°A Daemon?¡± ¡°A once-mortal. Marked, but not Ascended. Entombed in the Fly Lord¡¯s putrid grasp.¡± ¡°Make sense! I do not see that things that you can see.¡± ¡°Be glad of that. Do you know why I left my Primarch behind? I do. There are things that cannot be written down. There are paths outside the materium and Immaterium alike. You would do well to remember that.¡± ¡°What in the Emperor¡¯s Name Epistolary?¡± ¡°Did I say something?¡± ¡°We just had a whole conversation over this link, and you recall none of it?¡± ¡°I must have drifted whilst in a vision again. My apologies Scout-Sergeant.¡±
Willpower test to resist Corruption & Insanity: Failed! Needed <44, got 99. +7 Insanity, +6 corruption.
You go utterly still inside your armor. You feel no fear, but your twin hearts are thumping in an accelerated rhythm. Your muscles alternate between coiling tight for action and slumping to boless relaxation. ¡°Scout-Sergeant?¡± Your vertebrae pop and crack one by one as you sit marginally more upright. Your augmetic left arm twitches spastically, unable to process the competing fight and flight impulses. ¡°Hunter?!¡± ¡°I¡¯m¡­ I¡¯m alright Epistolary.¡± ¡°As you say Hunter. We are ready to proceed when you are.¡± You close the vox chanel and unseal your helmet. ¡°Alright squad, gather around.¡± Scout N¡¯vier racks the slides of his bolt pistols one by one, checking their function and finding them satisfactory. Your eyes pick out the names Interrogator¡¯s Faith and Elena¡¯s Fury on the barrel shrouds and the name MacWater at the top of each grip: a testament to the warrior who wielded them. Epistolary Tayib unseals his helmet, revealing his face to N¡¯vier and ZTO for the first time. Mech-Wright ZTO¡¯s hands methodically check its lascarbine over and over.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. ¡°Thanks to Epistolary Tayib, we have a few shreds of information on the upcoming challenges. The next ship ¡°east¡± of us is almost certainly an eldar ship of some sort, damaged beyond recovery. Expect bad lighting, low gravity, and thin to null atmosphere. N¡¯vier, ZTO, I know you lack void-capable breathing apparatus, so we¡¯ll keep an eye out for some as we progress. Failing finding any, we will attempt to detour around atmosphere less sections. Expected opposition is not eldar, as they pulled out with their ships. Instead, we can expect Ork Kommandos and probably the minions of the Archenemy of Mankind. We are also getting closer to the Blighted Heart, so expect Chaos taint to begin to manifest. We¡¯ve already encountered some in the mutations of the tyranid Hive Tyrant, but expect more of the same or similar nature: unnatural rot, decay, and disease.¡± A chorus of affirmatives answers you, so you seal your helmet and organize the advance.
The eldar ship that lies in you path is nothing like you expected. You expected wraithbone, to be sure, and the low gravity and poor lighting. What you didn¡¯t expect was the empty gem settings everywhere in the ship. They stare at you, like thousands of empty eye sockets, from every bulkhead and deckhead, from every fixture and decoration. As you delve deeper into the ship, you become more and more certain that the empty sockets are staring at you, like the ship itself isn¡¯t quite dead. Sound echoes in impossible ways. You first notice it over the vox-links, and dismiss it as some sort of interference. But the echoes are never consistent. Sometimes words will echo only very slightly, as if backed by a slightly off-key chorus of voices. Other times, they will reverberate as if you stand alone at the center of a great chamber, or at the mouth of a vast canyon. But it is ZTO¡¯s clipped status reports that make you realize that it is not simple vox signal distortion. Walking single-file down a tight passageway, ZTO¡¯s clipped mechanical monotone takes on the timber and resonance of a bass opera singer at a live performance. Five hours after you left the workshop, your party approaches the far edge of the eldar ship. The eye sockets grow fewer and fewer, with cracked gems left behind staring sightlessly down at your progress. A few, here and there, seem to weep puss or bile when viewed at the edges of your vision. Looking directly at these gems shows no flowing fluids, but dark stains drip below the eyes, trails of vile tears eating into the bone of the ship itself. You are in a wide corridor with a high ceiling, reminiscent of a wide tunnel under a mountain. Your vox unit blinks with an unknown signal from somewhere ahead of you. Curious, you click it open and listen. ¡°Count the Seven¡­ Count the Seven¡­ Count the Seven¡­¡± The voice is hoarse and strained, an orator strained beyond his endurance. But a dark gurgling laugh fills the silence between the words, making the hairs on your arms and across the back of your neck rise. You close the unknown vox chanel and turn to ask Tayib if he hears it too, but ZTO interrupts you. ¡°Lords, do you hear the chant in the distance?¡± Any response is cut short by the brutal cough-bang of detonating ork shells peppering the deck and bulkheads. The chuff of a grenade launcher heralds a rotting head splattering off of Tayib¡¯s power armor. ¡°Blight grenades!¡± ZTO drops to the deck like a string-cut puppet and rolls to the base of the bulkhead. There isn¡¯t much cover but it does at least manage to make itself a smaller target. More ork shells splatter all over the place, but none of them find purchase in flesh. N¡¯vier drops prone on the deck, but shows no sign of injury. You finally begin to react, bringing your stalker pattern bolter up to bear, but can¡¯t find a target in the gloom. Cursing, you flip you helmet¡¯s visor to infrared, revealing the cool blurs of orkish bodies, and the hotter signature of something much larger behind them. A trio of ork shells crater the deck around N¡¯vier, but none of them come closer than half a meter from his body. Tayib drops to one knee, bringing his bolter to bear and searching for a target. More ork shells splatter the deck and bulkheads, missing everyone. ¡°Count the Seven¡­ Count the Seven¡­¡± The chant is louder now, audible even without opening the unknown vox chanel. Boots pound the deck to the tempo if the chant, advancing slowly and steadily down the passageway towards you. Something heavier follows in their wake, its tread shaking the bulkheads. Another blight grenade splatters harmlessly a few centimeters from your foot. ZTO¡¯s lascarbine comes up and spits red death down the passageway. The bolts don¡¯t hit anything, but they do illuminate the scene for a flashing moment, letting you get a hard count of your foes: seven Kommandos, and one Archenemy dreadnought. The Kommandos march forward steadily, chanting, instead of the typical reckless ork charge. The dreadnought looms in their wake, its two arms ending in mighty drilling claws, the smoke launcher atop its head clearly refitted to launch something besides simple smoke grenades. N¡¯vier fires one of his bolt pistols, but he misses his target in the gloom. The Kommandos are somewhat of a threat with their numbers, but you decide that the Archenemy Dreadnought has to die before it can bring its drilling claws to bear. You take aim at one of the fleshy parts of its corrupted body, hoping that such an area might be less well armored. Your shot strikes home with a small spurt of an unknown bodily fluid and does precisely nothing to the dreadnought, it¡¯s armored hide impervious to your fire. Tayib lowers his bolter, snatches his force staff from his back and points its skull-tipped head at the oncoming Kommandos. ¡°Retun onto Ash!¡± A massive gout of blue-white flame erupts from the eyes of the skull and fills the passageway. The Kommandos don¡¯t even attempt to dodge and ignite like so many devotional candles. In mere heartbeats they are reduced to dust on the fitful breeze of the dead ship.The echoes of Tayib¡¯s proclamation reverberate in utterly unnatural ways, ricocheting off of your skull and causing blood to weep from your eyes.
Willpoweer test to avoid corruption at -30%. Failed: needed <14, got 97. +10 Corruption.
The chaos dreadnought lumbers forwards, its drills grinding to fitfull life. The grenade launcher on its head chuffs out one last rotting skull, which splatters across ZTO. ZTO winces under the impact, then howls in agony as rotting fluids eat into its chest. In moments, it is heaving up bloody chunks of rotting organs. You recognise chunks of lungs, stomach, and heart before the Mechwright crumples to the ground and begins to dissolve into a pool of rotted flesh and putrid bile. N¡¯Vier steadies his aim and fires one of his bolt pistols. The three round burst sparks off of armor and putrid flesh, causing some minor bleeding. The Dreadnought doesn¡¯t even stop its chant. Seeing as how bolt rounds have proved ineffective, you sling your stalker bolter and draw both Betrayer¡¯s Bane and your plasma pistol. Without hesitation you thumb the fire selector switch to maxmal overcharge mode. If there is any foe worth the risk of overheating your weapon and possibly injuring yourself, this is it. You pull the trigger twice, heedless of the blistering heat radiating from the barrel and the ferocious drain on you limited supply of ammunition. The first shot kneecaps the dreadnought¡¯s right leg. The super-charged plasma bolt detonating in a two-meter sphere of annihilation, leaving the leg severed at mid thigh. The dreadnought promptly collapses on it faceplate with an almighty crash, its chant broken along with its external speakers. Your second bolt hits the crown of the thing''s skull and penetrates deep into the casket holding the putrefied remains of the chaos marine pilot before detonating. The entire dreadnought slumps in the middle, its ¡®chest¡¯ bored out into a ragged hole unable to support the weight of its armor and power plant. The crash of battle takes long moments to fade in the echoing silence. The barrel of your plasma pistol glows a dull orange from the heat of your shots, steam from vaporized liquids wafting from the barrel and the emergency vents. Tayib gets slowly to his feat, his hands shaking slightly at the effort that he put into wielding his powers. Scout N¡¯vier calmly reloads his bolt pistol, but you can see the repressed strain on his face, the pain of losing another squadmate in a horrific manner. You can only press on with the mission, but this moment calls out for something to be said. Chapter 50: Edge of the Scythe You drag in a long breath through your nose. It stinks of old sweat and ash. You hold it in your lungs for a long moment, then let it hiss out between your teeth. ¡°We will remember ZTO as it was, not how it is. A loyal servant of the Emperor, the Deathwatch, and the Adeptus Mechanicus. But our mission is not yet complete, so me must push onwards. ¡°We are few, our foes many. We may die here, unknown and unremembered, but we will not fail. No objective is beyond our grasp. No foe is beyond our wrath.¡±
Two hours later, your claim is put to the test. As you progress through a chaos heavy cruiser, you and your squad are beset by a massive mob of chaos cultists. Unlike the blood-frenzied madmen you fought aboard the Macedonian when you met Gorlin, this cult is both much larger in number, better organised and better lead. Their chants and footsteps echoing from beyond sight down the corridors and around corners. Reaver Champions dot the ranks exhorting sections of the mob forward and keeping the bodies moving. And it is quickly clear to you that the narrowness of the corridor, which only permits two space marines to stand abreast, means that it is the volume of bodies that presents the real threat to you. Bolters and bolt pistols bark in stattaco bellows, hewing bodies like bloody grain before the scythe. The scattered return fire from shotguns and slugthrowers skips harmlessly off of your armor. The few luckless reavers and champions that make it into melee with either you or Tayib are dispatched ruthlessly in short order. Skulls are crushed in fists, torsos are cleaved in two by swords, and blood slicks the deck beneath your boot. Tayib grunts from time to time, the psychic hood about his head flickering and flashing with activity as he negates or dispells psychic attacks by unseen foes. You leave empty magazines on the deck where they fall, counting the shots as they ring out. Tayib runs out of magazines for his bolter first, slinging it and drawing his bolt pistol. N¡¯ver, firing past your shoulder when he can, swaps from Interrogator¡¯s Faith to Elena¡¯s Fury. You nearly run out of Hellfire shells picking off Reaver Champions, and your standard bolts are not that far behind. Tayib holsters his bolt pistol and takes up his force sword in a two-handed grasp, ¡°Last mag depleted.¡±This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°Acknowledged. Ten percent ammunition here too. Melee it is. N¡¯vier, stay behind us and stay alive.¡± ¡°By your order Hunter.¡± From then on, the fight is exclusively close and bloody. Betrayer¡¯s Bane claims more damned souls then you care to count in the moment. Tayib claims nearly four kills for each of your own, and the two of you force your way down the corridor. Eventually the horde thins, the last stragglers stumbling forwards to die on your blades. Taking a moment to catch your breath, you take stock of your situation. Despite the hundreds of meters of corridor backed with blood, bodies, and giblets, no one in your party is hurt. ¡°Ammo count.¡± ¡°Scryer, ammunition black.¡± ¡°N¡¯vier, ammunition black.¡± ¡°Alright, we pause here for a moment and re-pack magazines. I¡¯ve enough for each of you to have two pistol mags, and one normal mag for myself. I¡¯m out of stalker silenced bolts, and have only two hellfire bolts left. Plasma pistol is down to half a flask¡± Tayib grunts and begins thumbing bolts into pistol magazines. ¡°We¡¯re running out of time.¡± ¡°How so?¡± ¡°The Blighted Heart has begun to beat. Psychic energy is gathering, spiraling down into a ritual of unclean origins. We have five hours at most to complete our primary objective.¡± ¡°That isn¡¯t too bad, we have to be close.¡± ¡°We are also at the decision point. From here, I can almost certainly complete my mission alone, and the Khamsin can blast its way free of the Capitalis Congestus if the two of you leave now to reach her.¡± ¡°But only almost certainly.¡± ¡°This is true. However, if only one of you two makes for the Khamsin, then they will have a slim chance of activating the ship and escaping in time.¡± ¡°And if we all stay together?¡± ¡°Then our victory is all but certain, as is our deaths and the destruction of our geenseed and souls.¡± Chapter 51: Poppies ¡°I can no more abandon my duty then sacrifice my men without gain,¡± You unbuckle your cingulum of leadership, and with it Betrayer¡¯s Bane and its scabbard. ¡°N¡¯vier; Your objective is survival. Take this, wield it well while you carry it, and bring it home. Get to the Khamsin and continue the fight. The Imperium will have need of your services in the years to come.¡± N¡¯vier¡¯s hands go about the cingulum and scabbard, but he doesn¡¯t take it, ¡°and you sir?¡± ¡°I can not abandon my mission, but it is not yours. Nor can I run on one leg. You can. Go. ¡®To you from falling hands I throw the torch; be yours to hold it high.¡¯¡± N¡¯vier takes Betrayer¡¯s Bane, ¡°Courage and Honor, Hunter.¡± ¡°Into the Fire, N¡¯vier.¡± He turns and strides away, spine straight, head held high. You reflect that he would, no will, make a fine Astartes one day. You turn to face Tayib, ¡°lead the way Epistolary.¡±
Traversing the rest of the chaos heavy cruiser is uneventful, though you feel unseen eyes tracing your every step. The horde that your squad methodically slaughtered earlier must have been the entirety of the available surviving crew. This assumption is quickly proven when the only threats that emerge to attack you are a scattered handful of murder-servitors, each easily dispatched by Tayib¡¯s force sword without inflicting any damage. More than once, you are distracted by flickers of flame at the edges of your perception, but when you turn to look at them, they are gone.
What awaits you beyond the corroded adamantium skin of the chaos heavy cruiser is a sight from the plague-pits and poison gardens of the warp itself. Slop and grime pool on the decks, bubbling with toxic microbial life. Pipes are metallic entrails, pulsing with moving fluids. Flies drone in the corners and dart in and out of vents that look more like the gills of an aquatic animal. Underneath the filth and corruption, you can barely recognize what must have been an imperial cargo ship of some sort, long lost to the warp and now constructed of as much warp-stuff as metal. Of the long-damned ship itself there is no trace of its original shape or structure. Instead it feels as if you are walking through a blighted artery. This feeling is reinforced as you begin to hear the distant thump-thump¡­ thump-thump¡­ of a beating heart. ¡°Could this entire shipwreck be the Blighted Heart?¡± ¡°No, only warp-spawned artifice from its influence.¡± ¡°Then the heart itself is?¡± ¡°Likely a being or component capable of generating such artifice. A psyker or some befouled machine.¡± ¡°And you hear the heartbeat too?¡± ¡°Indeed. Whatever ritual or activation sequence needed for the heart to come fully to life must be progressing.¡± A figure steps into the corridor some fifty meters away. It is a bloated and diseased parody of an Astartes, rife with corruption and heedless of it hundreds of weeping cysts and lesions. It begins to lumber forwards towards you. Your first bolt tears off most of its helmet and a good portion of its skull, but the plague marine just keeps shambling onwards. Your second bolt removes it head entirely, leaving only a ragged stump of a neck oozing bile and blood. ¡°That was one. There will be more.¡± ¡°All at once or one at a time, makes no difference to me.¡± More plague marines round corners and emerge from hatchways in your path.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°You had to tempt fate in this place, didn¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Better head-on now then ambushed later.¡± ¡°True¡­¡±
By the time the seventh, and last, plague marine lies lifeless on the deck, you are down to just the two hellfire bolts for your stalker, the half-charged flask for your plasma pistol, and your knife. Tayib is down to just his force sword and staff, plus the void-locked stais casket on his back. Before you lies a large chamber, its walls and ceiling coated with the squiming entrail-pipes and dripping with vile liquids. In the center of the chamber sits a great spire of machinery, forty-nine meters tall and seven meters across at the base according to your autosenses. What was once adamantium and rad-ward is now cancerous skin and drooling maws. A matching spire plunges down from the roof of the chamber, the spiked tips of the spires a scant seven meters apart. A thin plague green lightning bolt stretches in the air, trapped between the spires. As the heartbeat thump-thumps¡­ in the silence, the plague greed flashes in time. ¡°This, then, is the Blighted Heart.¡± ¡°Without doubt. Deploying the Destroyer Six device.¡± ¡°What is it?¡± ¡°I cannot say.¡± +Foes approach. Exalted champions of the Fly Lord. I need three minutes uninterrupted.+ One hundred and eighty seconds doesn¡¯t sound that long, but in the middle of a firefight it is a small eternity. You start a countdown timer on your helmet display, counting down. ¡°But we can. Three-stage Exterminatus Immolatus design, combining EMP to slay machine-spirits, consecrated phosphex to burn even warp-blessed flesh, and psyker-death fuel¡¯d soulfire to burn away blessed souls. Did your masters even tell you what it will cost you Alruwh Altayiba?¡± Your stalker pattern bolter snaps to your shoulder, drawn to the rasping voice of dead Astartes walking; three corrupted figures standing in the shadow of the plague-lightning. ¡°Who in the name of the Primarchs are you?¡± ¡°Our mortal names matter not, for we three are but fuel for the heart as it begins to beat. Ascended, our Grandfather will grant us a new name, that we might spread his blessings amongst the body of the Imperium of the corpse-throne.¡± One hundred and sixty second remain. Your rage boils just below the surface, your finger tight about the trigger of your stalker pattern bolter. Only the fact that talking is using more time than fighting ever could stays your wrath. ¡°And why should I not strike you down where you stand traitors?¡± ¡°Because you are buying time. Time we will not give you.¡± The champions draw plasma pistols and advance down the side of the spire, armored boots splashing in pools of bile and excitement. You don¡¯t wait for them to pull their triggers; you pull yours first. One of your two precious hellfire bolts whips up the side of the spire, and shatters harmlessly against a perverted version of an Iron Halo set about the throats of the Champions. Three plasma bolts whip back down the spire at you. Two gouge harmless holes into the flesh of the deck, and you roll sideways out of the path of the last bolt. You pull the trigger again, firing your last hellfire bolt, and once again it sparks off of a forcefield. Three more plasma bolts whip down-spire at you, but none of them land near you. One hundred and forty-two seconds remain. You swap from your stalker pattern bolter to your plasma pistol and knife. The Champions are getting close now, fourteen meters away, and you have no mercy in your hearts. Still set on maximal mode, you plasma pistol lives up to the nickname of its pattern of construction: ragefire. The first bolt hits the rightmost champion in the torso. It bypases its forcefield, burnis through its armor, and into its chest.Your second, and last, shot hits the same champion in the left leg and vaporizes flesh and armor alike down to the bones. The Champion¡¯s stride doesn¡¯t slow, so accustomed to pain that it doesn¡¯t even acknowledge the fresh injuries. The champions holster their plasma pistols and draw huge, two handed powerswords. The blades are rusted with hilts of tarnished copper, their edges notched and jagged. Malevolence drips from their edges, raw hatred and pestilence given physical form as corrosive bile. ¡°Time to die, dog. Your flesh will rot, your mind will burn, and the Grandfather will consume your soul to feed his creations.¡± ¡°Come and try.¡± They charge you, blades working in tandem. You deflect the only two strikes that could threaten you, letting the third swing harmlessly past. You lash out at the injured Champion and rip a chunk of flesh from its torso. Two more swings screech harmlessly past you, and you knock a thrust aside. You retaliate, stabbing for the injured Champion, but your knife skips harmlessly off the protective force field. All three blades come for you. Your knife parries the first one successfully, but shatters in the doing, torn to pieces by the daemon bound into the blade, leaving you defenseless as the other two blades strike home. Your left leg is cut to the bone thrice over, blood spilling freely into the putrid air, plagues that even your enhanced metabolism cannot fight unaided eating into your flesh. A blow crashes into your head, tearing most of your helmet and your left ear away. You crumple to the deck, the fragment of your hud still displaying the countdown timer. One hundred and thirty seconds remain. Chapter 52: Avenging Son One hundred and thirty seconds remain. Your health status light is black and cold. You can feel the blood draining from your wounds and the living plagues eating into your leg. You don¡¯t care. You are not yet done. The Exalted Champions have made a fatal mistake. They left you alive. The Exalted Champions stalk past you, closing on Tayib. You push yourself to your knees in a pool of your own blood. Fire creeps onto the edges of your vision. You reach deep inside yourself, drawing up the least ebbs of your strength, and something more. You know of the machine-spirits that inhabit your weapons. You have felt the ghosts of those who have worn your power armor before you standing at your shoulder in the past. Now they add their strength, their wrath, and their righteous fury to yours. ¡°You forgot the first rule of fighting Ultramarines: make sure that your target is actually dead.¡± Your plasma pistol is in your right hand. You know its ammunition flask is empty. You don¡¯t care, it¡¯s machine spirit doesn¡¯t care, and in this place where reality has begun to break down, it doesn¡¯t matter. Your will flows into the weapon, feeding its hungry machine spirit and stoking it¡¯s fury. It bucks in your hand, two overcharged shots leaping from the barrel at the wounded Champion. It¡¯s unholy force field pops like a rotten berry, the power pack on the back of its power armor blows apart, and the armored plates beneath shatters. Its necrotic flesh boils of its bones, which burn to black ashes before the empty suit of power armor crashes to the ground with the clatter of rusted metal.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. The two surviving Champions howl in agony as they turn to face you. ¡°You DARE?¡± ¡°Courage. And. Honor.¡± The Champions turn to attack you and recoil, shocked by either your appearance or by something behind you. You don¡¯t bother looking, instead re-aiming and firing again. The second Champion¡¯s head evaporates into dust on the wind, leaving his body to collapse and impale itself on his own sword. The last Champion rams his sword through your breastplate out out your back. You can feel it split both of your hearts in half, collapse two of your three lungs, shatter your rib cage, and sever your spine. Your armor¡¯s built-in drug dispensers flood your system with pain suppressants, but you know it isn¡¯t enough to keep you alive for more than a few seconds. As your armor loses power and begins to shut down around your body, you pull the trigger on you plasma pistol two last times. The last Champion falls dead on top of you, his legs shot away at the hip, flames eating him from the inside out. One hundred and six seconds remain on your timer as it fades from view for the last time. ¡°Unleash hell Tayib.¡± Your eyes close for the last time, your foes slain, your mission complete. One hundred and six seconds later, you body is obliterated along with The Blighted Heart and the Captialis Congestus. Epilogue N¡¯vier dropped into the command throne on the Khamsin and gazed out across the bridge. The unfamiliar colors and iconography all about him unnerved him, but he choked back his disquiet. The servitor-manned consoles were coming to life, displaying information that he barely understood. The engine status light was green, the void- and gellar- shield generators were inoperable, the dorsal turrets showed some sort of damage or error, and the better part of an Imperial merchant ship blocked his path forwards. But the Khamsin¡¯s armor was thick, her engines were hot, and her prow lance had one shot in her capacitors. N¡¯vier pushed the firing stud on the command console, and prayed to Vulcan and the Emperor that it would be enough. It was, only just, enough. The merchant ship¡¯s cargo holds blew apart, breaking the ships back. N¡¯vier pushed the throttle telegraph lever from ¡®all stop¡¯ to ¡®ahead flank¡¯ and the engines roared in response, shoving the Khamsin froward through the wreckage. He was thrown from the command throne when the ship came to an unexpected halt half a kilometer furter on, the flared stabilizers on the engine cowling catching on more wreckage. N¡¯vier got back on the command throne and pulled the throttle back to ¡®astern slow¡¯ and left it there for a few moments, feeling the Khamsin ease back off of the wreckage.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. With a further prayer to the Emperor, and begging forgiveness of the ship¡¯s machine spirits, her rammed the lever back to ¡®ahead flank.¡¯ one of the stabilizers tore off, and the second was mangled beyond usefulness, but the Khamsin spun free of the Capitalis Congestus. N¡¯vier closed his eyes and offered up a prayer of thanks. A bright light lit the backs of his eyelids, nearly blinding him with its intensity. When it faded and N¡¯vier was able to open his eyes, nothing of the Capitalis Congestus remained. A glance down at the command console¡¯s ship status display revealed that aft two-thirds of the Khamsin was the red of critical damage. N¡¯vier had no doubt that those sections of the ship were in fact destroyed. With no propulsion, minimal power generation, negligible life support, and with the Khamsin drifting out of control, all N¡¯vier could activate the scout-issue teleport homing beacon on his belt and hope another Imperial ship would be close enough to detect it. The purple-black flare of a warp-transit lit up the display ports. When they cleared again, three ships hung motionless in the void. Two were small escorts, but the third was a massive skull-prowed ship bearing the Cogwheel of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the three-barred I of the Imperial Inquisition, and the sigil of some Imperial Noble clan.