The Omnissiah gave a silent command.
Thousands of eyes lit up in the darkness of the Mechanicus ship.
Magos-Dominus Metritex-VI exited standby mode, feeling the streams of binary choirs in the noosphere running faster and faster.
The ark of the God-Machine’s servants was awakening.
The sacred, perfect mechanisms began preparations for the rituals of blessing and system checks.
Combat units and junior priest units were 100% active.
All units were in “ONLINE” status.
The ark Spiritum Cognitionis shuddered with its entire mighty body, as if stretching, when its systems reached maximum power, which had had to be reduced while waiting for data, hiding in a safe place.
The slaves, as was their duty, labored in the machine shops of the manufactories, working the optimal twenty hours.
Mortality was within the acceptable margin of calculation error.
Binary hymns sounded.
The smell of incense and noble machine oil spread through the compartments and machine shops.
Thousands of servitors, under the guidance of tech-priests, applied purity seals to the mechanisms, performed blessing rituals, preparing them for battle.
Thousands of workers loaded the guns, brought charges from the magazines, readied the torpedo tubes for firing.
They were born on this ark.
They would die here.
This was their privilege, their sacred duty in the service of the God-Machine.
They desired nothing else!
They were worthy of nothing else, limited by their organic nature, unblessed by the Omnissiah.
“Systems functional at 100%.
Gun readiness for combat — 100%.
Ammunition — 100%.
Ark ready for warp transit!
Service of glorification to the Omnissiah has begun in the main cathedral!” The magos received the report from the streams of blessed binary choirs.
The Machine Spirit of the ark blazed with power and anticipation, shedding the weight of centuries of existence.
The holy embodiment of the God-Machine prepared for battle with the heretics who imagined themselves worthy of touching the mysteries of the Omnissiah.
“Escort ship units.
Readiness — 100%.
Allied forces.
Readiness — 95%.
Allied unit repair completed at 97%.
Combat effectiveness: satisfactory.
Fleet ship synchronization: 80, 87, 93, 100%.
Warp jump in 10, 9, 8…
2, 1.” The generators began to sing.
The ark plunged into the Warp, to return to reality and purge the heretics, consigning them to fire, plasma, and the iron fist of the God-Machine’s servants.
* * * Admiral Davis Platt was bored on the bridge of a Venator-class Star Destroyer, which had been refitted as a fleet flagship back at Kuat.
His family had served the Republic and defended democracy since the Mandalorian Wars.
Yes, that was a wonderful time and an era full of glorious victories and fierce battles.
It was an era of heroes.
An era of achievements!
The Admiral had managed to participate in the Stark Hyperspace War and taste that conflict, but his time was passing.
The Miraluka was already too old, and so the honored warrior was sent to the prestigious post of commander-in-chief of the defense of the Rothana system.
Admiral Platt approached the appointment with all the diligence of a combat officer.
Driving the army units, Kuat’s corporate security detachments, and mercenaries like mangy banthas to complete exhaustion, he carefully molded them into a semblance of a true army and fleet.
And he could say without false modesty: he had succeeded.
The Admiral made this entire rabble operate effectively.
The clones were good, but they lacked experience; the security units only knew how to chase pirates and overwhelm with numbers and an abundance of weapons.
The mercenaries still gave Davis a headache, but what could you expect from former smugglers, pirates, and bounty hunters?
The exotic’s opinion of this rabble had been formed long ago.
They had no place on a ship’s bridge.
Their place was before the muzzles of a firing squad, but Kuat saved on everything except protecting corporate secrets.
The Admiral, willy-nilly, had to squeeze sweat and dirt out of his subordinates so that they would die with honor for the Republic and not disgrace the democracy in which the old officer firmly believed.
However, noticing shortcomings, it was worth noting.
Service in this stinking Hutt cesspool was measured and therefore boring.
The only consolation was news from his son, Roland, who was currently adding to the family’s glory on the battlefields.
Today, the Admiral had received another message.
His son was leading a convoy here, to Rothana, but instead of joy at the meeting, the old warrior felt anxiety.
Although what could happen here?
The system’s coordinates were unknown even to the convoy!
The CIS couldn’t find this system.
Could they?
The intuition inherent to all Miraluka, reinforced by a natural connection to the Force, was practically screaming of danger.
That was why the admiral had broken his habits and arrived on the bridge early in the morning, stopping by the observation viewport of the command center, staring into the blackness of space alongside the duty officer.
“Admiral!
Convoy QE-28 has entered the system at the designated coordinates.
They’ll clear the mine bank in half an hour.
Estimated time of arrival at the planet: two hours,” reported the clone operator of the surveillance systems.
“Everything’s right.
A direct flight would take only ten minutes at full speed, but the mines would have ended it much sooner.” “Excellent.
Keep me informed,” the admiral replied dryly, feeling his intuition literally shriek.
“Admiral!
Strange readings from the gravity radar sensors!
They maxed out for just a second.” “Fleet-wide order: yellow alert!
Execute order package ‘Aurek-Zeta-82.'” The communications system operator didn’t have time to relay the order to all ships of the squadron before battle alarm sirens blared across the entire fleet.
“Admiral!
An unknown fleet has entered the system!
Nineteen hulls!
The smallest of them exceeds four kilometers in size!
The largest — sixteen kilometers!
No IFF response received!” The old officer’s gaze locked onto the tactical table.
His mind analyzed, cutting away option after option, leaving only one, prescribed by battle plans.
His heart went cold, skipping a beat.
His face, with the bandage over his eyes, did not change by a single molecule, remaining a steel casting devoid of emotion, like a droid’s mask.
“Activate the mine banks!
Fleet-wide: code red!
Bring planetary defense systems to full readiness.
Garrison: take up firing positions.” “Admiral!
Our ships are in the minefield!
The convoy is still…” “Carry out the order.
I take full responsibility!” “Yes, sir!
Order to planetary headquarters — activate the mine banks!” A moment.
The automation sent the signal.
The mines awakened to fulfill the single task of their existence.
“My son is out there!” — The thought rustled through the admiral’s mind, but was quickly smothered by an iron will.
“He’s already dead.
Dead the moment the unknown ships entered the system.
My son would have done the same, but he wouldn’t have allowed Honor to be shamed.
Honor is heavier than mountains!” For an instant, a second star bloomed in the system.
The systems dimmed the viewport.
It seemed the entire galaxy gasped at the moment of the explosion.
The admiral, following an old tradition, saluted the fallen crews.
He would mourn his grief later, somewhere else; right now, the important thing was to keep the enemy from reaching the surface of the guarded world.
If anyone had survived…
“Monitoring systems: enemy status?!” “Sensors went into protective mode, sir!
They’ll reboot in ten seconds!
No visual contact with the enemy!” “Registering activity!
Targets not destroyed!
Repeat, targets not destroyed!” The officer’s heart skipped a beat.
“All for nothing…” “Fleet order: ships to the ‘green line.’ Light forces provide cover.
Launch starfighters upon reaching the line.” The voice of the overall defense commander rang with steel.
Spurred by the alarm, sailors and officers raced to their battle stations.
Deadly weapons trained on the enemy, locking onto their targets.
Fighter pilots climbed into cockpits and hastily checked the systems of their spacefaring steeds.
“Yes, Admiral!” “Signal sector army headquarters for reinforcements!” “Admiral!
Long-range communications are being jammed on all frequencies!
Some kind of new device,” reported the comms officer, from whose headset a chorus of voices could be heard through the static.
“The equipment is running analysis!” “Send a courier!
Execute!” “Yes, send a courier!” The fleet slowly moved into position, deploying in battle formation.
Swift corvettes and frigates flew ahead of their larger brothers to keep the enemy’s fighter wave from reaching them.
The slow Dreadnought-class cruisers spread out into formation, becoming an unbreakable wall, shielding the Venators and Acclamators with their own hulls.
Light cruisers of the Carrack, Arquitens, and Diamond classes covered the flanks, ready to descend upon the enemy like cavalry of old.
The Republic fleet would meet the enemy fully armed!