Chapter 103: Extraction

POV: Iron Dragon, Venerable Bray'arth Ashmantle of the Salamanders

Bray’arth felt serene as his personal Drop Pod rocketed through the atmosphere, cutting through the thunderstorm that loomed over his drop site. The pod rocked as it knifed through a patch of turbulence.

He briefly considered slowing down his pod to let the others catch up, but his new shock-absorbing systems and inertial dampeners needed a good workout. Through his connection to the Machine Spirit of the Drop Pod, he felt a pulse of eager approval as he disabled the air brakes.

“Venerable Bray’arth, this is Wyvern One; you are on a direct collision course with the enemy Forge facility,” one of his Brothers Voxed from their Thunderhawk.

“Indeed, I am,” he replied, amused.

The line went silent for several seconds. “Acknowledged. We are diverting to disable hostile AA. Good hunting.”

Bray’arth closed his eyes and braced; thirty seconds later, his Drop Pod impacted the roof, and in the brief battle for supremacy, his Drop Pod emerged victorious over the armoured rooftop, the subsequent top floor, and the floor below that before finally coming to a stop on level 6-1-7-1

The Drop Pod detected enemies outside. The moment the Drop Pod settled, anchors deployed, biting deep into the ferrocrete of the floor. Seals hissed as pressure equalized and explosive bolts detonated.

The massive restraints holding Bray’arth retracted; his drop pod had some unique modifications, after all, there was only one proper way to herald his arrival. The Storm Bolter typical of most Drop Pods had been replaced with a custom Heavy Flamer.

The Heavy Flamer emerged from the top portion of the Drop Pod and opened fire, rotating 360 degrees to spread its lethal liquid payload far and wide as the ramps lowered around him.

The ramps locked open with a final heavy clang, and he stepped forth, the pilot lights on his own dual Dreadfire Heavy Flamers ignited as he strode fearlessly through the curtain of flames.

“I. Am. Here!” He declared with a rumbling laugh.

He swept his Auspex across the corridor: Genestealers aplenty, mostly Hybrids. Without hesitation, he doused the nearest groupings in liquid death and set about one of his favorite tasks, purging the Xenos in cleansing fire!

Curiously, he noted some of the largest foes, the Abominants, appeared to have all had their feet removed by something. No matter, he raised a leg and stomped down, pulping the nearest Abominant’s skull.

Despite the hole his Drop Pod had punched through the Fortress, the jamming and whatever signal blockers the enemy had set up had cut his connections to the fleet and the Thunderhawks. Given the direction the Xenos were headed, he deduced the littlest one must be somewhere down from his current floor.

Bray’arth was about to move on when he spotted a particular foe and froze for a brief second. “You…” Bray’arth growled as he turned towards a Genestealer.“I. Know. You… Ymgarl!” He screamed, his voice full of ancient fury as he reduced the foul creature skulking up the wall to ash.

Old wounds that had only just recently soothed started to ache again at the sight of the monster. His path was clear; nothing would leave this floor alive. “In the name of Lord Vulkan, and the fires of Nocturne, you will all BURN!”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

POV: Nicole

I frown and glance up in confusion.

“Princeps?” Vicky inquires. “What is it?”

“AME’s long-range sensors just registered a massive temperature spike several floors above us,” I explain as my Ballistic Mechadendrite fires down the hallway, putting a hole through the head of a cultist.

“Bray’arth,” Baldos rumbles in between pulping Genestealers with his combat claw.

I blink and nod slowly before recalling something. “Oh no. Baldos… Bray’arth was interred on the moon of Ymgarl!” I hiss out.

The Voc crackles, and we catch two briefly screamed words: “Ymgarl!” and moments later, “Burn!”

“Oh…” Baldos mutters, realizing that might be an issue, “His Brothers cannot be far behind him. We should endeavor to inform the Salamanders of this… development… as soon as we regain contact with them.”

Right on cue, the Fortress is rocked with over a dozen more impacts from various Drop Pods landing on and around the facility.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------

POV: Leviathan Siege Dreadnought, Ancient Claviger Khalon, of the Deathwatch

Khalon grunted as his Drop Pod abruptly came to a halt with an immense impact; unlike a few of the more… ambitious… Dreadnoughts, he had not directly penetrated the facility. Instead, he had landed on the main landing pad.

The ramps lowered, and his Atomantic Reactor thrummed as he lumbered forward. After the restorations, he could definitively state that he had never felt so at ease in his chassis. His left arm sported a Leviathan Siege Drill with a built-in Meltagun, and his right… was an old friend, a Cyclonic Melta Lance he hadn’t fielded in decades. No worn emitters, no cracked lenses; everything felt as if it were fresh from the Forges.

His Drop Pod was not alone on the massive empty landing pad. Several Drop Pods full of Astartes began landing moments after he emerged. He ignored them and walked straight for his target, the massive armoured doors.

“Ancient, estimated time to breach?” One of the officers, a Salamander, asked, holding up a hefty melta charge.

“Save your bombs, Lieutenant. Give me thirty seconds.” He spun up his Siege Drill and primed his Melta Lance and glanced at their outputs. “Correction… twenty seconds.”

He purred as the grinding teeth of his drill bit into the aged adamantine like a voracious beast chewing up and spitting out great chunks in a matter of seconds. The old fortress doors weren’t solid adamantine, merely alloyed and plated with it. His Melta Lance turned what once was solid metal into a puddle of slag that pooled beneath his feet.

Twenty seconds later, a hole big enough for him had been chewed through the door, and he stepped through. A deluge of autoguns, lasguns, and even a few autocannons opened up on him. His Atomantic Shielding flared with a sizzling crackle.

Years of training kicked in instantly. Target prioritization: heavy weapon emplacements and one Jackal Alphus-class enemy that was leveling a monstrous-looking long rifle his way. No purestrains present at this time. Though there were hundreds, if not thousands, of Genestealer Hybrids from various generations arrayed in front of him, and that was just what he could sense through the intense multiband jamming.

He maneuvered and fired, obliterating two heavy weapons teams while clearing the way for the Astartes that poured in behind him. The Salamanders heavy weapons squads quickly set up a firing line; the Brazen Claws Assault squad readied their lightning claws, activated their jetpacks, and dove right in.

He growled and had to step forward to block a shot from the Jackal; it pinged off his armour, ricocheting off into the darkness, but the round left a notable dent in his outer plating. The Jackal began yelling and pointing towards them.

Moments later, a massive horde of horrific Genestealer Battle Servitors came sprinting down the various side hallways. “Someone kill that damned Jackal! I’ll handle these abominations.” His two torso-mounted Heavy Flamers opened up, and he could hear the laughter behind him as the Salamanders added their own to his, taking care to avoid the pack of Brazen Claws cutting their way deeper into the horde.

“Allow me, Brother!” exclaimed a voice from behind him.

Condilus, of the Brazen Claws, stepped forth and mag-locked his feet. The Deredeo Dreadnought locked onto the target with his Twin-linked Anvilus Autocannon Batteries and his Aiolos Missile Launcher.

Even from this distance, through the weapons fire and flames, Khalon managed to capture the look of absolute panic flashing across the Jackal's face as he dove for cover behind some of the larger servitors. That same instant, Condilus filled the corridor with Autocannon fire and Frag Missiles. “Die, Xenos!”

Condilus laughed heartily over the Vox as he kept firing; hundreds died in seconds, and the Deredeo didn’t stop until his missile rack was empty. The entire atrium filled with explosive fire, shrapnel, and death.

Khalon frowned. “Venerable Condilus, was it wise to use so much of your ammunition?”

“Didn’t you get the message from Baldos, Brother? I bought extra. I shall return in five,” Condilus replied as he unlocked his feet and turned back to his Drop Pod for a full reload.

Khalon frowned and stomped forward to where the Jackal had been before. He found the creature bleeding out, missing an arm and a leg, and absolutely perforated with shrapnel but still trying to slink off towards one of its dark corners.

The Jackal opened its mouth, in a clear attempt to beg for its life. Khalon simply spun up his Siege Drill and reduced the creature to a smear on the floor before it could take another foul breath.

—---------------------------------------------------------------

POV: Lord Arken Drakios

Arken had initially planned to spend the day touring his fleet's new acquisitions; a vague and concerning message from Captain Bolaar had canceled those plans.

Now he sat on the command throne of the Argent Drake, fingers steepled as his MIU connection fed him live updates.

“Astartes have breached the Ferrus-9 primary facility; the on-the-ground jamming remains extensive; connection is inconsistent at best. We’ve had no less than two dozen incursion attempts across the docks in the last half hour. All repelled, My Lord,” Major Milo reported from his right.

“No one steps on one of our ships without a scan,” Arken growled, “Ari?”

“Onboard and secure, my Lord. Shall we prepare for deployment to rescue Lady Cavalerio?” Milo inquired politely.

“Ha! Do you think that?” He gestured to the tactical plot. “Requires our aid, Major?”

Milo inclined his head. “No, my Lord, sixty Dreadnoughts and a hundred and fifty Astartes should be more than sufficient to extract Lady Cavalerio and Lady Zyne. However, the number of attacks across the planet and in orbit continues to rise.”

“Keep the men on standby if the orbital ring requires our aid in putting these bastards down; we can give it. Ferrus-9 is ultimately a Mechanicus problem, and I expect they will wish to… make an example.” Arken glanced up as, off in the distance, a smaller intrasystem fuel transport near the fortress detonated.

“The Mechanicus is mobilizing, but it appears the members of the High Council are all under siege within their Forges to some degree. The Fabricator General himself has been observed on the streets of the capital.” Major Milo hesitated before he cleared his throat. “There is some interesting footage from ten minutes ago.”

Arken raised one of his immaculately groomed, aged, speckled grey eyebrows; if Milo was saying it was interesting, it had to be something worth watching. “Put it on the main monitor.” Arken gestured.

The feed flickered to life; it was an overhead shot from a monitoring platform, but the quality was serviceable. On screen, the massive form of the Spider walked down the central highway seemingly without care as enemies on bikes and vehicles attacked him from all sides.

Arken watched as a grey vehicle, a Goliath Rockgrinder he vaguely recalled, came barreling down towards the Fabricator General. Purple-armed Genestealer hybrids fired the pintle mount at him as they attempted to ram into the Archmagos. The leg closest to the vehicle flickered blue for just a millisecond, and it flicked outwards. The truck met the leg, and the vehicle parted like wet tissue as it was perfectly bisected vertically by the power field.

Arken squinted; he spotted a man with a massive backpack vox unit. “That’s a spotter team,” he said, and a few seconds later, a massive piece of ordnance landed on the highway. All the vehicles present were obliterated or blown off the elevated roadway, windows nearby exploded inward from the blast pressure, and a massive cloud of dust kicked up, obscuring the feed for a few seconds.

Within the dust, as it cleared, was a dark bubble. The Spider stepped forward, untouched, and Arken realized what the bubble represented: “That… is a personal Void Shield.”

“Yes, Lord Drakios,” Milo confirmed.

“I think the Fabricator General is going to be fine; he’s making good time,” Arken said as his bridge crew watched the footage while the Spider simply kept walking with his honor guard. “Which is good, since he likes us,” Arken said wryly.

“Sir! Priority message from the Fortress… void traffic is hereby restricted. All docked ships are to remain in their berths,” his comms officer called out.

Arken simply nodded; he had expected that. “We will continue to monitor the situation and provide aid as needed. As soon as we have contact with Lady Cavalerio, I want an update.”

“Yes, Sir!” his crew chorused.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

POV: Princeps candidate Nyanko Felixis

Nyanko was having tea with her fellow cadets, all of whom were looking increasingly nervous as an alarm went off.

“Should we be doing something?” Nyanko asked nervously; there was a prickle on the back of her neck that she didn’t like.

“Our job is to sit here,” Genta said softly as she sipped her tea. “And enjoy the view.”

“View?” Robin asked. They were walled in on most sides, and while there was a bit of greenery, it was comfortable but not exactly fun to look at. Just some stone tiles and drainage grates.

“She’s right, though.” Sandra Dune said, sipping her own tea. “What kind of idiots attack a hardened fortress full of Titans?”

“That’s not the alarm for a frontal attack. It’s the one for infiltrators or assassins,” Z0-0M muttered as he checked it with his dataslate.

Nyanko squinted at Genta; it was barely noticeable, but Genta’s eyes were tracking something. When Nyanko looked over her shoulder, all she saw was the stone wall. One of her ears flicked as she heard a faint scraping sound – the sound of claws on stone and metal – and it was coming from behind her.

The lights flickered and went out, plunging them into darkness for a moment before the emergency lights kicked on.

“They cut the power?” William muttered with a frown.

Robin looked around. “Maybe we should go back to our rooms?”

“Just the main feed from the Forge; the local secondary will kick on shortly,” Sandra said confidently. “That it hasn’t already is curious.”

Nyanko heard the drainage grate slide open; none of the others noticed the noise. “Guys!” She hissed, “Something is moving behind me.”

She turned around slowly, eyes wide as the intruder emerged in the strobing yellow flashing of the emergency lighting.

What climbed out of the sewer tunnel was a four-armed monster, its hands ending in hooked claws and a nest of writhing tentacles covering its face. Then the monster ceased to be; its head exploded in a flash of light and gore, only for another to surge up from below and take its place.

Nyanko wasn’t sure who screamed first - her or Robin. Someone was screaming, and she suspected it might have been both of them. The creature moved with terrifying, unnatural agility, crossing half the distance between them in an instant. Then its head and upper torso vanished in a blinding flash from a high-powered energy weapon. Another monster came scrambling through the grate, then another and another.

Only then did Nyanko notice the figures perched along the upper walls.

Secutarii guards she had never seen before. They were almost impossible to spot, their Cameleoline Cloaks blending them into the walls until they moved. Each carried a massive rifle, far larger than anything Nyanko had expected a human-sized soldier to wield.

One of them fired, and the nearest monster disappeared in another burst of searing energy as Nyanko stared. There had been an entire squad of them up there, and she hadn't noticed a single one. Only the flashes from their rifles gave them away.

“Why aren’t we running?!” Nyanko screamed at the table, half of which was frozen.

Genta tilted her head. “But we make such excellent bait?”

Nyanko looked at the girl like she was insane. “Bait?!”

A nearly invisible monster with giant scythes for arms nearly reached the table. Genta gestured towards it, and it exploded viscerally; the anti-material round that obliterated it doused their entire table with its foul green blood. That got everyone else screaming. Poor Yip let out a high-pitched yelp as he got Lictor blood splashed across his face.

Genta, meanwhile, looked down at her tea and wrinkled her nose as she saw a piece of chitin floating in it, and poured it out. “Genestealers again… though that sneaky one was new,” she said in clear annoyance.

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Another Xenos exploded, and its head rolled over and bumped into Nyanko’s foot; some kind of foul alien tongue smeared slime across her favorite pair of boots. That was the last straw. “I am leaving!” She shrieked.

Most of the other Cadets practically sprinted to leave. Even Sandra looked a little shaken up. One of the cloaked figures moved to follow the fleeing cadets.

Nyanko looked back as Genta calmly poured herself a fresh cup of tea into one of the few untainted cups, totally unbothered by the horrors trying to kill her. Genta caught her looking and smiled, “I’ll see you later.” She told Nyanko before raising the cup towards her lips and muttering to herself, “At least it’s not daemons this time.”

Nyanko felt her eye twitch; her instincts screamed at her that there were predators nearby, and she needed to get the hell out of there, but an old memory surfaced from when she did basic training back on the Argent Drake; the voice of her uncle echoed in her mind.

“Death is not failure. For even death can bring glory. Fear is not failure, for fear can be conquered. The only known failure is to ignore orders, for even a slight hesitation in following them brings an ignoble end."

“What’s that from Uncle?” She had asked.

“The Liber Progenium, you’ll figure out what it means one day, kitten,” he’d said while rubbing between her ears.

Nyanko sat back down, and her trembling fingers reached for one of the other untouched cups. She flinched as one of the rifles barked, and another assassin died.

Genta watched her closely, her smile progressively widening as she poured Nyanko tea. “Why did you stay?” She asked softly.

“W-we… haven’t been permitted to leave. Our orders stand.” Nyanko whispered hoarsely, taking a long draught of the warm liquid.

In the intermittent flashes of the emergency lights, Genta’s unique eyes glowed ominously in the dark, but there was approval in that gaze for Nyanko. “Very good, cadet Nyanko. Very. Good.”

The lights finally kicked back on and Nyanko flinched. Less than a minute later, the rest of their group was led back in under Secutarii guard, looking slightly chastened. “Remain in place until the situation has been resolved,” ordered the lead unit.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------

POV: Shadow-13, ‘Lord Shadow Entreri’

Shadow-13 had gone out for a walk.

His cane tapped softly against the steel floor panels as he meandered through the orbital ring, his feet carrying him wherever they pleased. Eventually, almost by accident, he found himself near the outskirts of the Inquisitorial Palace.

Young Victoria's reports on the curious child had continued with admirable regularity, though it was becoming increasingly obvious that Victoria was growing rather fond of her charge. There was certainly plenty to be curious about, but nothing particularly alarming.

A high-ranking member of the Mechanicus possessing a vault full of rare Xenos technology? Why, it must be Tuesday! Shadow-13 rolled his eyes. If he killed everyone with a closet full of dubious materials, the Imperium would run out of rulers and officials.

The fact that the girl had been polite enough to ask the Ordo Xenos for permission to retain the collection – with only a little coercion – was proof enough to him that there was nothing particularly untoward occurring.

The girl had made waves, certainly, but they were small ones in the grand scheme of things. More importantly, everything she had done thus far had either benefited, or would eventually benefit, the Mechanicus and the Imperium.

The Genestealers, on the other hand, were becoming bolder and considerably more bothersome.

His agents had been working overtime to thwart the various assassination attempts being made across the system. Shadow-13 had long since stopped counting how many had been directed at him personally.

He paused as a group of workers approached an Inquisitorial checkpoint, several heavy crates being pushed along behind them. “Delivery for the Ordo Xenos. Samples and specimens.” The lead worker held out a dataslate.

The guard grunted and took it. It should have been nothing unusual. Except the workers felt off; to his old instincts, they felt like sheathed blades suppressing their killing intent. It was faint, barely perceptible beneath the mundane movements and disguises.

But Shadow-13 had spent far too many years surrounded by killers to mistake it for anything else.

His steps continued, his cane tapping steadily against the floor. Tap. Step. Tap. Step. Tap. He meandered closer.

“This appears to be in order,” the guard said. “Give me a moment.” He turned toward his Vox to call in the delivery.

Shadow-13 continued past the workers, head bowed, shoulders slightly hunched, his gait that of a tired old man who had long since grown accustomed to pain.

One of the workers shifted, and their killing intent focused on him. Shadow-13's response was almost entirely habitual.

A faint click.

That was the only sound that heralded the sword as it cleared its sheath.

The worker's head slid from his shoulders and struck the floor with a wet, meaty thud.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved. The remaining 'workers' froze and the Inquisitorial guards stiffened.

Shadow-13 stood among them, his sword cane held loosely in one hand, the cane sheath clasped in the other.

The blade was an old thing. A worn but meticulously maintained implement of death. Its construction was simple yet refined, forged from a single piece of silvery metal and inlaid with hundreds of tiny warding runes. Both edges had been sharpened to a monomolecular edge.

The blade had tasted the blood of countless beings.

The runes had been added later. They had become necessary after repeated attempts by Khornate daemons to claim his oldest tool as their vessel.

Shadow-13's killing intent descended upon the infiltrators and for an instant, it felt as though the spectre of death itself was looming over them.

He sighed and then shook his head in disappointment. “What pitiful reaction times.” His eyes moved across them. “But it is far too late for that now.” He took a single step and seemed to flicker.

A wet sound sounded as a second head struck the floor. “You should have killed me when you had the chance.”

The remaining assassins' reactions finally kicked in as they reached for their hidden weapons. It was far too late; Shadow-13 was already among them.

His blade flashed, his wrist turned, and another head fell. He shifted his torso, pivoted, and drove the point cleanly through an eye. He pulled the blade back and reversed his grip; a wide crescent swipe opened two throats in a single smooth motion. He dropped into a crouch, adjusted his grip again as he rose. The blade punched upward beneath the chin and disappeared into the brain.

The entire exchange lasted only seconds. Shadow-13 withdrew his sword and allowed the final corpse to slide off the blade.

Then he turned toward the crates; his gaze settled on the largest one, and he thrust.

The sword punched through the metal container and into the Genestealer hiding within. A wet, frantic inhuman shriek emerged from inside.

Shadow-13 slowly rotated the blade once and then again in the opposite direction. He slowly widened the wound deliberately.

He waited for a reaction, but there was nothing; the creature was dead. Shadow-13 felt a slight pang of disappointment; that one at least had known how to hide its presence. “Better.” He withdrew the blade.

The Tempestus Scions guarding the checkpoint stood ready, rifles at the ready. Wisely, none of them were stupid enough to aim their rifles at him.

Shadow-13 flicked the sword clean of the lingering blood before sliding it back into the cane. “You have a rat problem.” His voice was curt and sharp.

The man holding the dataslate swallowed stiffly. “Yes, Lord Shadow.” He immediately raised his Vox and began informing his commander that their approval codes had been compromised.

Shadow-13 turned away. “Venta,” he spoke to seemingly the empty air. “Ensure there are no Genestealer psykers aboard this station.”

For several seconds, there was only silence.

“Yesss, Shadow.” The air beside him hissed and shimmered. The form of the Culexus Assassin briefly took shape within the distortion before it vanished once more.

Shadow-13 nodded once and turned back toward the guards.

“Now.” He tapped his cane once sharply against the floor. “Someone go fetch me an Inquisitor.”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

POV: Inquisitor Van Vuygens of the Ordo Xenos

Inquisitor Van Vuygens was having a bad day; said day was not over yet, and with every passing minute, it was actively getting worse.

The latest report flashed across the hololithic display before him, joining the dozens already crowding the tactical overlay inside his personal shuttle.

GENESTEALER CULT ACTIVITY CONFIRMED.

MULTIPLE ACTIVE HOTSPOTS.

CIVILIAN UPRISING SPREADING.

CRITICAL INFRASTRUCTURE COMPROMISED.

IMPERIAL MILITARY ASSETS COMPROMISED.

MECHANICUS MILITARY ASSETS COMPROMISED.

Van Vuygens pinched the bridge of his nose. “Next.” A new set of reports replaced the rest.

The manufactoria and all facilities in the southern quarter of the capital had gone dark, and it was not from power failure. Someone had deliberately severed the primary distribution trunks feeding three major industrial districts. The resulting blackout had been followed by coordinated attacks on local security stations, ammunition depots, and several Adeptus Mechanicus facilities; infiltrators had attempted to breach Titanicus facilities, but those attempts had failed, which was a spot of good news.

“Next.” He grunted and sighed as the next slew of reports appeared. Two senior Administratum officials were dead from assassinations; a dozen other attempts had been logged and thwarted, some deliberately, others by sheer luck and happenstance. At least one senior Magos had disappeared. Three PDF regiments had lost contact with their command structures after their officers were found dead in their quarters.

“Next.” He hissed as he looked at yet another cluster of reports. A voidport had been attacked, because of course it had. A planetary defense battery had been sabotaged. A communications relay had begun transmitting corrupted or contradictory orders.

Van Vuygens glared at the hololith. The red markers representing confirmed or suspected cult activity were multiplying. They not only had to deal with the standard Genestealer bioforms but individuals with extensive Mechanicus implants and Biological enhancements.

Things were evolving far too rapidly; the only saving grace was that the Mechanicus, for the most part, was responding quickly and in force.

“Emperor preserve us…” His words were barely audible. Cypra Mundi was not supposed to be vulnerable; it was the unassailable bastion of Obscurus.

The world was a fortress, a forge, a seat of immense Imperial authority, and a lynchpin of the surrounding region. It had layers upon layers of defenses, armies, Skitarii, Knights, Titans, orbital assets, naval fleets, Inquisitorial personnel, and enough weaponry to reduce cities to slag.

The Genestealer Cult had not attacked any of those things head-on. Well, they were attempting it, poorly, with the Fabricator General.

Despite all the chaos, something felt off. The cult was not operating like records indicated they should. This was havoc for the sake of havoc. They were causing immense damage and casualties but also suffering the same; they didn't have the power to take the planet. Normally they would only dare rise like this if they had a chance of succeeding, but the Patriarch was tossing its forces into various meat grinders, chasing after lofty and risky targets with seemingly little concern.

Normally, the cult would tug at the strings that made up the planet's support structure and work to undermine them one after another. A missing shipment here, a falsified order there. Subtle things that could go unnoticed, small, slowly cascading failures. Had the scanners forced the issue? It was certainly possible but still seemed odd, especially with the other planets hosting uprisings first and the extensive attempts to give them the runaround. They had bought time, but time for what?

Van Vuygens had spent enough time hunting Xenos infestations to recognize what all this meant. The uprising had entered its final stage; the cult was no longer hiding itself; it was moving to seize power. They believed they had a chance, but... the why and how eluded him.

For a few seconds, the interior shuttle was quiet as he pondered the issue, then another alarm sounded from the cogitator; Van Vuygens closed his eyes. “What now?”

“Reports of fighting have escalated around the southern continental Forge cities, Sir.” Interrogator Salin answered.

He pulled up the report and blinked at it. “How bad is it?”

“Unknown, Sir,” his other aide replied.

“Why?” He asked, slightly annoyed.

“The local vox network is experiencing interference," Salin explained.

“Of course it is.” He looked again at the hololith.

"Sir, despite being a major enemy hotspot, Astartes have deployed in force to recover the asset known as ‘Nicole Cavalerio,’" Salin clarified.

The southern continent was already a mess of conflicting reports. "Oh," he said, seeing the markers.

He would need to speak to planetary defense command once a secure hardline could be established; he didn't trust the Vox at the moment.

He had watched the situation deteriorate from isolated incidents into a planetary emergency in the span of hours, and every instinct honed over decades of hunting the Xenos told him that they still did not understand the full scope of the infestation.

That worried him more than the uprising itself. The cult had prepared this; they had likely spent decades, if not more, preparing for this day, yet it still felt rushed and disorganized.

They had the scanners, but now that this had started, every official, every officer, every administrator, every soldier, every tech-priest, and every civilian could potentially be compromised and would need to be tested eventually, obviously they would need to prioritize the upper ranks and work downwards, but that would take time, as production of the scanner devices had barely begun.

He looked at the tactical display again. Millions of Imperial personnel were now being mobilized. Billions of civilians and Mechanicus personnel were caught in the middle. And out there somewhere hiding like a rat beneath all of it, the Patriarch was waiting and scheming.

Van Vuygens exhaled slowly. “All right,” he muttered as he straightened his coat. “Let's get organized and get ready to go hunting.”

Another alarm signaling a priority message immediately began blaring from his console. "Sir, Lord Shadow is at the Inquisitorial palace; he is asking for you," his aide informed him.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, “I really should have stayed in bed... Inform Lord Shadow that I will be there within the hour.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------

POV: Kelermorph Bishop

Bishop stood on level 6-1-6-7. The first waves of the cult loyalists had been obliterated; the targets had holed themselves up within and fortified in a chamber with only a single entryway. He had held the most recent waves back to amass their forces while he used his deep connection to the Broodmind to go over what had been gleaned from the earlier charges. There was not a lot of information to be gleaned; the girl had some kind of strange staff, and weapons had a hard time targeting her. The Astartes were dangerous, the Skitarii were dangerous, the Saint and her Sororitas were dangerous, the Automata relentless and untiring. The only silver lining was that they were all running low on ammunition.

The Dreadnought was a major problem; he had requested heavier reinforcements but only received a few Abominants, a squad of Aberrants, and a squad of Purestrain Genestealers. They and a few hundred armed Hybrid cultists would have to suffice. He had each of the Abominants carry a ‘liberated’ security door as a makeshift shield.

Normally he would have been content to wait and wear down the targets, but his time was limited; reinforcements had breached the facility and were en route.

He checked his weapons one last time. Four pistols: two Liberator Autostubs outfitted with special ammunition – gifts from the cult – a Valhallan Mk 45 Bolt pistol, another wondrous gift, and finally was a gun that had been with him for as long as he could remember. The single-action revolver was an ancient, crude piece of metal; it was a simple tube that fired a bullet when you squeezed the trigger, and it had saved his life back when he was a sewer rat more times than he could count. All were loaded and ready as he grasped one in each of his four hands. He had never trusted fancier energy-based weapons, and had turned them down every time he had been offered one; he needed a projectile he could see and feel.

“Go!” He commanded his army. The Abominants charged, shields raised, and even with the thick doors, the front two were down within seconds. Despite that, the rest charged on, providing cover for the Aberrants behind them. As the enemy fire focused on the charging brutes, the Purestrains sprinted along the ceiling.

Bishop moved into the center of the hallway, taking in the defenders as the Hybrids screamed and ran past him on either side.

Another Abominant had gone down, but he had done so with the door in front, and his corpse kept it propped up, providing a piece of cover that aided their forces immensely in taking ground.

Bishop saw the primary target step forward and toss a grenade of some kind at the makeshift barricade, her Ballistic Mechadendrite hitting headshot after headshot amongst the Purestrains with mechanical inhuman precision. He lifted all four pistols and took aim; he squeezed four triggers when the throng parted for a single moment, giving him an uninterrupted line to the target. The Mk 45 and both Liberators refused to fire, but his old reliable revolver spat a round down the hallway.

The round impacted a forcefield around the girl, perfectly in line with her head just as her Krak grenade went off and removed their impromptu barrier. There was a brief flicker of surprise on her face and on everyone around her.

He felt the revolver cycle, and he fired again, shifting the aim of the other three pistols to fire at various targets; all four went off this time. His bolt round blew the arm off an overextended Skitarii, and the two other shots left small pockmarks in the helmets of two Astartes. The round once again deflected off the forcefield, and before he could fire another shot, she leveled that strange staff in his direction.

It was only his inhuman reflexes and keen danger sense that kept him alive as he dove out of the way as a black beam of death seared a perfectly straight line down the hallway, obliterating anything it touched.

He flipped backwards and retreated swiftly, dodging a second follow-up beam, one that clipped his arm holding the Mk 45 and, horrified, he watched the strange blackness crawl up his hand, devouring it and his pistol as it went. He ripped the arm off at the shoulder and discarded it before the strange energy could spread, before he made it back around the corner. A series of explosions went off within the tunnel just behind him as a dozen grenades went off.

His assault force had been gutted, and he was down an arm. His decision was made for him when two additional Dreadnoughts appeared and began charging down from the far end of the level. His instincts were going haywire.

“Retreat!” He snarled out to his remaining forces, but before he could move, he felt a brief searing pain in his chest and looked down to see a black hole had burned through it and through the several layers of thick walls between him and the girl. His body slumped forward, his trusted pistols tumbling from his hands as the darkness spread and Bishop vanished into atomic dust before his corpse could hit the ground.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

POV: Nicole

Reinforcements have finally arrived.

Just in time, too; that last push with the Kelermorph had eaten up the last of our grenades and the majority of our remaining ammunition.

I let out a small sigh of relief. I can sense my Wraith has returned and is loitering within the floor beneath me. I call it up and quickly slip off my cloak and store it, my staff, and the Wraith back within my Tesseract and retrieve my Omnissian Axe.

I make my way down the corridor, having to choose my steps carefully as the path is absolutely littered with bodies, blood, and viscera. I pick my way to where the Kelermorph died; nothing of his corpse remains, but three of his pistols remain. I grab all three; I am extremely interested in the old revolver that was able to fire at me repeatedly. It’s fully mechanical, with no Machine Spirit, which is quite rare.

Baldos and the rest of my retinue move back into the main central corridor.

I stash the pistols away just as Anatolus lumbers over to us. “Venerable Baldos, Magos Cavalerio, we have brought ammunition as requested.” He greets us while dragging a pallet of ammo behind him, which he then detaches as he reaches us.

Delta-A3 Raptor and the Skitarii begin organizing it immediately.

I grab a flask of plasma when it’s offered to me and use it to refill my Plasma Pistol.

The Skitarii swarm the pallet and quickly assist in reloading Baldos’s flamer tanks and distributing the various ammunition types. Brother Silverwalker and the Sisters work to reload their Heavy Bolter backpacks.

The entire pallet of ammunition vanishes among my retinue within just a few minutes.

I get my hands on some melta ammunition for my Inferno Pistol and a few spare reloads of it.

“Much appreciated, Anatolus. The timing of your arrival is most fortunate.” I glance off into the distance where it looks like Alrik of the Space Wolves is gleefully stomping on a few corpses. “How goes the purge?”

With their arrival and each Dreadnought acting as a node, our Vox network finally has enough strength to push through most of the interference.

“Well enough, I am surprised we reached you first. Bray'arth had quite the head start,” he rumbles.

“Ah, yes, he is a few levels above us. We did catch a transmission from him not long ago. If you are in contact with any Salamanders, they need to see to Bray'arth immediately, preferably before he melts through the floor.” I tell him, glancing upwards as AME checks the temperature of the levels above us, which continue to rise. “The enemy is not just Genestealers; they have Tyranid bioforms, specifically Ymgarl strain bioforms, and Bray'arth Ashmantle has an unfortunate history with that strain,” I say as politely as I can.

“I will inform them immediately,” Anatolus grunts as he stands guard as everyone rearms themselves.

“Everyone good?” Hearing no calls to the contrary, I nod. “Then let's follow our lovely escorts,” I say with a smile, gesturing to the two Dreadnoughts.

“This way. We’ll get you to the eastern landing pad.” Alrik calls out with a jovial laugh as his power claw stabs into a vent and rips out a Purestrain Genestealer hiding within.

Our walk to the landing pad is remarkably uneventful; we pass signs of battle and thousands of Genestealer corpses spread among the various levels we have to traverse to reach our designated exit.

It’s still raining as we exit the fortress. My Noosphere connection, much like the Vox connection, remains spotty, but it improves with each jammer the Astartes locate and destroy. “Looks like orbital traffic is on hold for now. So we will make our way back to the Orbitalis stronghold if no one has any objections.”

“None from me, My Lady,” Lael says as she glances off the edge of the platform. “Though it would appear our ride here has been disabled.”

The flaming wreck of what had once been a transport lies far below. “Yeah, I think we should ask Bolaar to borrow the Stormbird.”

“It’s fine; let’s just take it,” Baldos says, already moving towards the vehicle. “Brothers, I require transportation!”

I sigh and turn back to our escort and politely bow. “Thank you for coming to our aid. If you wish to return to the purge, you are both welcome to do so.”

“I believe I shall. The Emperor protects, Magos Cavalerio,” Anatolus replies as he turns back towards the Fortress.