The Oronia System was a place of utter mediocrity.
The third planet of the system was a blue, habitable world, though its development was sparse.
It possessed no sprawling Hive Cities, no advanced manufactorums, and its agricultural output was modest at best.
In the grand ledger of the Imperium, it was a negligible entry.
Having been colonized for only a few centuries, it remained a frontier world, yet because its natural resources were relatively abundant, the humans born here lived lives of comparative tranquility.
That peace was shattered by a warship limping out of the Immaterium.
The reports streaming in from the orbital stations left Planetary Governor Cornwatt with a brow furrowed in anxiety.
In the 41st Millennium, the plight of the Imperium of Man had become an inescapable shadow.
Abaddon, the Despoiler, the Arch-enemy of Mankind, had sacrificed a Blackstone Fortress to break Cadia, the fortress world that had held the Eye of Terror at bay.
Now, the Great Rift, the Cicatrix Maledictum, tore across the galaxy, severing East from West.
Oronia was unfortunate enough to be situated in the Imperium Nihilus, the Dark Imperium to the galactic east.
Though isolated from the Emperor’s Light, it sat far from the primary warp-conduits.
Cornwatt had initially believed himself fortunate.
Oronia was young, its trajectory was upward, and its remote location kept it clear of the galaxy’s most predatory horrors.
He thought that if he simply fulfilled his duties and avoided excessive decadence, the colony would stabilize, and he could secure a few centuries of luxury through juvenat treatments.
The Imperium was vast, spanning the entire galaxy.
Even with enemies everywhere and the rot of collapse set in, he reasoned it would take ages for the wheels of ruin to grind his world under.
Perhaps by then, he would be long dead, leaving the “wisdom of posterity” to solve whatever crises remained.
However, destiny is a fickle mistress.
Recently, warp storms had grown frequent, and stray vessels had begun drifting into Oronia with alarming regularity.
Most were Imperial warships or merchantmen, and the news brought by the void-farers was consistently grim.
The front lines of conflict were blurring; war could now erupt in any corner of the galaxy.
“Is there still no response from that Lunar-class cruiser?” Cornwatt demanded via the comm-bead on his desk.
At the orbital station, a radar technician was sweating profusely as he hailed the Glorious Knight.
Naturally, they received no reply.
Darrius and his Boyz were still submerged in the manic euphoria of their rock concert.
Finally, persistence bore fruit as several life pods entered the station’s sensor range.
“Mayday, Mayday!
This is the crew of the Imperial Navy vessel Glorious Knight.
We were tasked with surveillance of the Ork sectors.
We were ambushed by greenskin pirates.
The Glorious Knight has been boarded and seized by the savages.
We are the only survivors.” The distress signal arrived alongside the pods.
“Demand a visual feed,” Cornwatt ordered, narrowing his eyes.
The link was established, revealing a group of humans, mostly wounded Astra Militarum soldiers.
An officer stepped forward, his uniform caked in dried gore, looking as though he had crawled out of a meat grinder.
“I am Pex, of House Lanpaster.
Captain of the Lunar-class cruiser Glorious Knight.” “I appeal to the Governor of this world, by my honor as an officer and the name of my House, for sanctuary.
Rest assured, we carry only soldiers of the Imperium and non-combatants.
We pose no threat.” The name Lanpaster carried weight.
They were an ancient noble lineage that had produced Planetary Governors, Colonels, and Admirals.
It was whispered they even held a modicum of influence on Holy Terra itself.
Governor Cornwatt’s own lineage was insignificant by comparison.
To refuse Pex was unthinkable; to simultaneously offend a powerful Great House, the Imperial Navy, and the Departmento Munitorum was a death sentence.
“Of course, esteemed Captain Pex.
To serve the Imperium’s defenders is a Governor’s highest calling,” Cornwatt replied, his stern expression melting into a practiced social smile.
“You have my gratitude, Governor.
Even the Emperor’s Angels would commend your mercy and loyalty,” Pex flattered.
After instructing the station to receive the survivors, Cornwatt contacted his planetary defense fleet, ordering them to surround the captured Glorious Knight.
As he spoke with Pex, a seed of avarice began to sprout in Cornwatt’s mind.
That was a Lunar-class cruiser.
Even battered, its spine was intact.
If the Orks on board were as weakened by the battle as Pex suggested, could his own forces not board and purge the xenos?
He could claim a cruiser for his own.
The entirety of the Oronia system was defended by a meager force of one cruiser and three destroyers.
Oronia lacked the industrial capacity to build starships; to expand the fleet, they had to purchase them at exorbitant costs.
Even a common frigate would strain the treasury of a single-planet system.
Greed is a blinding mask.
As the planetary defense fleet moved to boldly encircle the Glorious Knight, the tragedy began.
The rock music had effectively spiked the Orks’ excitement to a fever pitch, drastically increasing their efficiency.
While Darrius had been performing, the Meks had successfully seized total control of the ship’s cogitators.
“Orks is betta dan humies.
One-on-one, no problem,” Darrius muttered, his own head still buzzing from the music.
He momentarily ignored the fact that three destroyers were closing in and the Glorious Knight was a floating ruin.
Seeing the two Imperial destroyers enter the kill-zone, Darrius barked: “Blast dose two tiny boats to scrap!
Den pedal to da metal an’ ram da big wun!
Snag it right in da middle!” “…Boss…” a small, hesitant voice croaked at Darrius’s feet.
“We ain’t took da gun-decks yet.
No one’s dere to pull da triggers…” “Er…” Darrius, the would-be warlord, stood in awkward silence.
This was his blunder.
He’d gotten so swept up in the song, and the Boyz with him, that he’d forgotten to actually man the battle stations.
“Since we haven’t taken ’em, wot da hell are ya still stand’n ’round ‘ere for?!
Get ‘da ladz movin’, now!” Darrius delivered a sharp kick to the messenger, sending him tumbling.
A Warboss never admits a mistake.
With Smartnog dead, Darrius was the strongest, tallest, and biggest Ork on the bridge.
No one dared cross the new Boss.
The crew scrambled into action, prepping the cruiser for the coming slaughter.
Darrius hoped the humans would delay their attack, granting him the precious minutes he needed to ready the macro-cannons.
By a stroke of ironic fate, the Imperial ships held their fire even as they entered range.
Having reached a sufficient distance, they launched swarms of small boarding craft.
They would very quickly learn to regret their arrogance.