Cornwatt was exultant.
What he had initially perceived as a looming crisis had transformed into a windfall from the heavens.
Sorrow vanishes as fortune dawns, though, in the grim darkness of the 41st Millennium, such ancient adages had long been forgotten.
“Boarding craft have successfully docked.
Zero resistance encountered.
The path is clear.” The intelligence from the front lines fueled Cornwatt’s joy.
Since a Lunar-class cruiser was now effectively his prize, he had to consider its former master.
He turned his attention away from the tactical displays and commanded his servants to prepare his personal shuttle.
He intended to greet Captain Pex at the orbital station in person.
If necessary, a discreet transfer of wealth would suffice…
as long as Pex looked the other way, the Imperial Navy could simply strike the Glorious Knight from the registers as a total combat loss.
“Have the seneschal prepare a substantial sum of Throne Gelt, and ensure it is not our local scrip, but Imperial currency.
Bring jewels as well.
I am to meet an esteemed guest,” Cornwatt directed his attendants before departing.
… The PDF soldiers disembarking from the boarding craft were reasonably well-trained.
They advanced in a leapfrog formation, covering one another, yet the oppressive silence of the warship’s lightless corridors weighed heavily on their souls.
It felt as though the darkness itself held a thousand unseen maws.
“A fully crewed Lunar-class carries tens of thousands of souls.
They’ve got elite Astra Militarum attachments, heavy ordnance… hell, they’re supposed to have Leman Russ battle tanks.
How does a single band of boarding greenskins take down a beast like this?” Perhaps the rhythmic thump-thump of combat boots on the cold deck plating was too unsettling, as one guardsman sought to break the tension with nervous chatter.
“Exactly,” another replied.
“Even ten thousand greenskins couldn’t slaughter that many men in three days.
Maybe the Guard on this ship were just soft, not like us planetary elites.” “Eyes front!
Maintain vox-silence!” the squad Sergeant barked.
The Sergeant’s unease, however, was deepening.
The environmental damage spoke of a cataclysmic struggle with walls painted in arterial spray, bulkheads twisted by high-yield explosives.
Yet…
where were the bodies?
Whether greenskin or human, one would expect to find at least the scorched remains of the fallen.
The squad pressed on.
As they rounded a corner, the beams of multiple specialized lumens cut through the gloom at the end of the hall.
A hunched monstrosity, deep in the throes of a grisly feast, was startled by the light.
It snapped its head toward the squad, let out a piercing shriek, and vanished into the overhead shadows.
The soldiers didn’t even have time to squeeze their triggers.
They watched, paralyzed, as the creature evaporated into the dark.
These planetary defense forces might have been well-equipped, but they lacked the harrowing experience of fighting the true enemies of Mankind, the terrifying Xenos.
The Sergeant led his men to the site of the creature’s meal.
It was a slaughterhouse.
From the mangled gore and shredded flak armor, it appeared a fleeing squad of Astra Militarum had been cornered here.
“Sir…
what was that?
I’ve never seen anything like it…” a fresh-faced recruit asked, his voice trembling.
The Sergeant, kneeling to inspect the remains, remained silent for a long moment.
He transmitted the data from his pict-recorder to command.
Finally, his voice came through the vox, hollow and grim: “The intel was flawed.
It’s not just greenskins.
There are Tyranids here.
They’ve been butchering everyone together.” In the public vox-channel, the sounds of distant gunfire, muffled explosions, and the wet tear of rending flesh began to rise.
Terror rippled through the squad like a contagion.
“Lock it down!
Prepare for contact!” the Sergeant roared, thumbing his lasgun to semi-auto.
“For the Emperor!” … On the bridge, Darrius was unleashing a torrent of abuse at his subordinates.
“Who told ya ta start krumpin’?!
I said wait!
Wait until more uv da humiez are on board before we spring da trap!” “Boss Sneaky…
it ain’t us!” A Nob, only two heads shorter than Darrius, replied with a look of wounded pride.
“Our lads are hidin’ proppa.
It’z dem bugs.
Dey started bitin’ da humiez furst.
S’pose dey got ‘ungry.” “Fine!
I knew I cudn’t count on ya ta be kunnin’.
Man da batteries!
Open fire on da humie small-ships, den full throttle!
We’z rammin’ da big wun!” With the element of surprise compromised, Darrius pivoted to raw aggression.
The massive, Ork-manned macro-cannons let out a world-shaking roar.
Though only a few batteries remained functional after the previous battles, at this point-blank range against the unsuspecting Imperial destroyers, they were more than sufficient.
Combined with the suddenness of the strike and the “extra bit of boom” the Meks had stuffed into the shells, two of the destroyers were instantly cored, blossoming into silent fireballs in the void.
The Glorious Knight’s remaining engines erupted in long plumes of promethium fire.
Pushing the output to the redline, the ship surged forward with a speed that nearly matched its undamaged prime.
The sudden turn of events caught the Oronia PDF completely off guard.
The system’s lone remaining cruiser began a desperate turn, but thanks to the orbital mechanics that kept them at a safe distance from one another’s gravity wells, they weren’t immediately pulverized.
Even so, the charging Glorious Knight used its prow ram to shear away two of the Imperial cruiser’s engine clusters as they bypassed one another.
Darrius judged that his current firepower wasn’t enough to sink a fresh Imperial cruiser in a prolonged duel.
If he stayed to fight, he would lose.
“Keep da juice flowin’ to da engines!” he bellowed.
“Head for dat desert rock, Oronia IV!
Push it!” He would have preferred Oronia III, the lush, inhabited world perfect for Ork propagation, but the Glorious Knight was in no condition for a long-distance chase.
If he tried for the inhabited world, the Imperial cruiser would catch them from behind and send them to the scrapheap.
… Before the cosmic upheaval in the void reached the surface, Governor Cornwatt waited patiently in the orbital station’s reception hall for Captain Pex.
By tradition and protocol, all rescued personnel had to undergo a thorough bio-scan.
The galaxy was rife with xenos capable of infiltrating the Imperium; security had to be absolute.
“How dare you treat a high-born noble and a senior officer of the Imperial Navy in such a manner!” Pex roared, his voice echoing through the station.
His two bodyguards stood behind him, faces etched with indignation.
“To be stripped and prodded like common dregs in public is an insult!
I will not endure it!” The technicians were at a loss.
The protocols were mandatory, yet they dared not offend a man of such station.
“Provide our guest with a private screening room and a specialized retinue,” Cornwatt’s voice came through the vox-caster.
“Oronia may be a provincial backwater, but I am a noble as well.
We know our etiquettes.
We shall not offend the honored House of Lanpaster.” This was Cornwatt’s gambit: a display of rigid authority followed by a graceful concession, perfectly softening his target for the negotiations to follow.