Capítulo 95: Chapter Twenty-Eight: Death in Calixis (Part VI)
Location: The Dyatlov-Rho System
Date: 893.M30
The Stellar Glory fell into Hell. Its crew damned, and its metal body destined to haunt the galaxy as part of a space hulk. Nobody except a few attentive scanner-techs noticed the tragedy. For another horror had joined the nightmare brewing across Dyatlov-Rho. The destruction wreaked on the Expedition Fleet even proved secondary as the Worm shifted. Its foul head, covered in unblinking eyes and plastic-organic stitching bulged grotesquely. Preparing to split open again, to let something new arrive. The bleeding wound in space/time it stuck through ripped open even further. As some horrible shape pushed itself along the Worm and prepared to enter the system.
Splitting open, and unfurling fleshy apertures, the Worm-Ship prepared to disgorge its newest cargo. Cargo that answered a question posed by Chapter Master Fenj. The Night Lord commander had wondered why the War-Barques differed little in tonnage. The lack of difference was for the same reason Imperial escorts and strike craft vary little in size. These War-Barques were not War-Ships as the Imperium assumed. They were little symbiotes that flitted around a leviathan, protecting and serving it. A leviathan now revealed to humanity. Expedition Fleet 89 faced a Rangda War-Moon.
The swollen gullet of the Worm-Ship finished discharging the Moon, vomiting up the planetoid like a piece of rancid meat. Megastructures were not uncommon sights in the Galaxy, no matter what race created them. Millions of years of intelligent life attempting to surpass nature resulted in wonders and horrors on a planetary scale. Humanity itself was no stranger to their creation, having created moon-sized ships in its past. The Phalanx of the VII Legion was a surviving example of such a behemoth. Beautiful and terrible, the Phalanx and other human Megastructures inspire awe. They were physical manifestations of humanity's power and purpose. It makes sense that Xenos creations on that scale would similarly reflect their mind and culture.
That wretched alien intelligence must exist to design, let alone create the War-Moon, and its creation hinted at many terrible things about the Rangda. The descriptors picked by the Imperium to describe the Rangda mobile battle station are accurate yet deliberately vague. Yes a War-Moon reaches a size comparable to many moons and planetoids. Roughly a thousand kilometers in radius and spherical, it possessed a myriad of weapon systems, some reaching the size of a small hive-spire along with literally millions of Rangda crew and docking points for hundreds of War-barques show what it was designed for, war.
The descriptor of War-Moon did not convey the sheer alien wrongness of the battle station. They are not a hollowed out and repurposed planetoid like the Orkish ships, but a wholly artificial creation of Xenos make. A biomechanical chimera of flesh, plastic, metal and other more profane components. The War-Moon's surface was a labyrinthian mass of grotesque figures and shapes. Like the vivisected innards of some primordial god-thing cast in plastic-flesh, and smeared across a world. It defied both symmetry and true randomness. Patterns of tumorous growths and metallic shapes covered it. Never quite consistent enough to make a semblance of sense, but still showing the signs of some unknown intent and purpose.
For a few brief moments the War-Moon hung in the void, floating away from the Worm-Ship, its albino surface silent and unmoving. The Moon seemed to lack any method of propulsion, its surface absent the craterous engine pits required to move something of its size. Even if it used the strange radiation propulsion of the Rangda, an alien parody of the Ion Engines favored in smaller craft. The War-Moon should show signs of those machines. Yet as if the idea of including anything remotely familiar in the War-Moon's construction was intolerable. It moved by writhing across the Void like some gelatinous fish of Old Earth. Continent sized pieces of plastic-flesh swelled and twitched, dragging the War-Moon forwards through some alien mechanism. It wriggeled through space, pulling itself across hard-vacuum like an amoeba in fluid.
Swarms of war-barques, some detaching from the War-Moon, others leaving the ongoing battle flitted around it. Screening the leviathan from any enemy foolish enough to get close. Something the Night Lords could not even think to do, let alone attempt. There was chaos across Dyatlov-Rho. In a few moments the tide of the battle turned completely. Explosions wracked the Resupply Fleet, throwing its desperate exodus into question. Imperial ships opened fire on eachother out of sheer startled horror. Many of the now undeniably suspicious Refugee ships broadcasted desperate hails and vox-codes. Only a small number of those who made it to the jump point revealed themselves as parasite ships. The majority claimed innocence and humanity. Claims that fell upon deaf ears.
Guns opened up across the Resupply Fleet. No more chances were given. If a ship was remotely suspected of harboring Xenos parasites it would die. Under the bombardment more parasite ships were exposed. Their stolen skin ripped from them, and their bulbous fleshy forms blasted to milky ash. Other ships pleaded innocence and mercy as they were torn asunder. Auger readings showed no abnormalities in the majority of executed ships. They spilled their guts into the Void, revealing themselves as humans in death. An ugly truth that would be hidden from many. To die in service to mankind is one thing. To be cut down by your own people in paranoid wrath is another.
Wounded and shocked, the Resupply Fleet resumed its escape attempt. Elements of the fleet had already jumped, many to their deaths. Still some might be lucky to arrive intact. The evacuation would continue, but gone was the opportunity for any semblance of an orderly retreat. This would be a rout, clumsy and ill planned. One that must still be defended at all costs. Normally it would fall to the Night Lords to torment and kill fleeing foes, not protect them. This was not the type of warfare Konrad Curze's sons preferred. But to think they are helpless outside their element of terror and pain would be a gross miscalculation. They are the Emperor's Space Marines, and war, no matter the type, was the reason for their existence.
The VIII Legion forces recovered quickly from the shocking arrival of the War-Moon and trap sprung at the Mandeville point. Night Lord ships pulling away from whatever skirmish they found themselves in and regrouping. It became clear to Chapter Master Fenj and his fellow officers that the Legion's favored methods of engagement were impractical. The Night Lords would need to adapt quickly if anything would be salvaged from the battle. Soon messages in VIII Legion Battle Cant jumped between ships. The eclectic mix of Terran underhive slang, shared references and foul humor was virtually indecipherable to any native gothic speaker. No more chances would be taken.
Orders came in Battle Cant. Roughly half of the Night Lords fleet, the more experienced ships present, received commands from Master Fenj. "Show the Sump-Humper your bellies. Give the starch-eaters a skirt flash and make them squeal", while the other half received orders to "mind the Midden and bite leather. Hold till Magie and then earn your cuts.
The first group would dive head first into the Rangda fleet and present an easy target. All while keeping something special in store. The second group would escort the evacuating ships and skirmish with any Rangda that got close. Then join the first group when the Resupply Fleet had successfully escaped. The Vindication and its escorts would lead the first group. Pushing forward with a gamble from a madman's mind.
Location: The Vindication, Night Lord Strike Cruiser at head of VIII Battlegroup
Date: 893.M30
Master Tiberiu Fenj watched through the Vindication's view ports as the War-Moon gathered its fleets to it. He saw the War-barques swirl around the biomechanical tumor of a planetoid, moving like swarming insects, with patterns that drew the eye and turned the stomach. Smaller craft joined the Barques, squat things similar to a parasite ships true form except more compact. Like they had not stretched themselves out to fill up a ships husk. Soon a shifting cloud of xenos ships filled the Void around the War-Moon. At least four hundred ships, not even counting the War-Moon and whatever secrets it held. Watching the strange dance the Rangda ships performed, a flash of insight struck Fenj. Experience, mixed with his Legion's gift, told him what he was watching. This was an intimidation display. The Rangda were using the time required for the War-Moon to awake and move into position to play mind games.
This was comforting, it was inefficient and alien, but hinted at something Fenj could use. They were attempting to scare the Expedition Fleet. These Xenos knew what fear was and attempted to use it. This was good. The psychological impact of the War-Moon could not be understated. Superweapons are often more valuable for the shock and terror they introduce than the actual combat value. Yet the Xenos sought to increase the tension instead of pressing the advantage presented by the Parasite Ships attack. The Night Lords intervention in rescuing the refugee fleet was unexpected and shocking. The Rangda had probably intended to use the infiltrated fleet to get deeper into Imperial territory or another strategic goal. Fenj and his brothers had forced them to waste that advantage. Wrecking merry hell on the Xeno Fleet after coming out of nowhere. The Rangda did not know if the Imperials had another play to make, they had brought the War-Moon as insurance and now prepared for his move.
The Rangda were afraid, or at least nervous, expecting the Imperials to have another dagger waiting. These Xenos, these Cerebvoric horrors had spent years already fighting the Imperium of Mankind. Years fighting Primarchs, two demigods gifted with precognitive abilities and a skill at shock warfare. Twisting his mouth in something approaching a smile Fenj whispered to himself. "Thank you my Lord Father, and Lord Uncle. Now it is time to cast the bones and make them bleed."
Fenj turned his attention to the prone form of Nosteroi. The Chapter Master had cast the Solomonari down violently, nearly hard enough to injure even an Astartes bones. Not letting his iron-hard gaze waver he addressed the Librarian. "Is this why you misled me old friend? I cannot forgive you but I can start to understand. What web have you and your ilk woven?"
The Solomonari started to pull himself up and reached out with his mind. With an effort of will, Fenj batted away the telepathic request and growled "No, no more games. Speak truth with your tongue, as men are meant to."
Nosteroi spared a questioning glance at the bridge crew. He felt uncomfortable sharing the truth. Too bad, thought Fenj. He had his chance to be honorable with this, Now the truth would come out, pulled free if need be.
Speaking in his grating rasp Nosteroi spilled his secrets "We saw the path ahead of us. My colleagues and I, and we made a choice. Our struggles and death here in this system could have been avoided, but in doing so we would damn many others in our place. The carnage those Parasite ships might have inflicted in Imperial space is just the tip of the proverbial sword. A blade we might impale ourselves upon to save others. Is that not why we exist and the Imperium's armies exist? To die in place of others. We sacrifice ourselves upon the altar of war to save those we protect. I'm sorry Tiberiu but the pawn cannot know it is a pawn. I could not ask you to willingly lead your subordinates into the jaws of death."
A quick boot to the gut knocked Nosteroi down again. Now Fenj stood over him, ceramite scraping against ceramite. The cold blood-fury of the Night Lords filled the Chapter Masters eyes. Like a carcharodon of Old Earth's darkest seas entering a frenzy. "You dare Nosteroi? You dare to assume cowardice or incompetence from me? I expected more from you! Denying me the knowledge to make the choice. By the Emperor, you denied me the knowledge OF a choice. This is the mistake of your kind. Knowing the future makes you forget the present."
A swift and brutal kick knocked Nosteroi over, the Librarian unresponsive to the abuse. Firm hands grabbed the shamed and castigated Nosterori and lifted him up. Face to face with Fenj. Nosterori resisted the urge to turn away. Fury, hurt, and a deep seated malice boiled below his commanding officer's face. With a final growl Fenj spoke quietly. "No more lies brother, do not disappoint or mislead me again. We will face death with honor and hate, join me in facing our end with drawn blades."
Nosterori nodded and felt himself smile. Not the saddened grimace of a martyr, the likes of which decorated his face for months. Instead, the wild-eyed malice of a Night Lord's grin. Pragmatism and predatory cruelty define the VIII Legion. A brotherhood of darkness designed to strike at the enemies weakness and inflict terror. For warriors such as them a suicidal battle did not mark some glorious last stand or valiant bravery. It meant failure, foolishness and ignoble defeat. Any good predator does not let itself be driven into a corner. Yet when driven into a hopeless situation, subtlety and pragmatism can be cast into the void. The Rangda had the Night Lords cornered, outnumbered and outgunned. But the Xenos did not know that, a doubt Fenj would take full advantage of.
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