I agreed with Zha’s assessment of the likely locations of the remaining puppet-Astartes production facilities in Abseradon. However, knowing what I did—that the Heretek had suggested using the puppet-Astartes as guards—I was hesitant to order an attack on any of them, especially on the off-chance that Zha may have gotten one of them wrong. An assault, waged too early, could be dearly costly and reveal our hand to Espirov and Vostroya all too soon, especially if we were wrong. So I did not immediately hand the information over the Merek and the PDF—both of whom were, for the time being, still complying with me. The victory in Abseradon and the killing of two of the Four proved heavily motivating for the battered Governor.
That, and the warship still parked over his head probably helped keep him in line too. Lord Captain Batos did not seem to mind leaving it there, particularly as he no longer needed to justify its presence to Merek, who in turn justified its presence to the rest of the city in the form of a continual martial law over Abseradon. We were squeezing the heretics slowly, choking them logistically. I was content with that for a time, at least for as long as was required, on our part, to let some heat of our prior battle simmer down. Now that I had shown my hand in revealing the Bird’s power to the heretics, I was less inclined to use it again—they would be more prepared for it a second time, so if and when I did use it, I had to be sure the aerial odds were in my favor.
Two weeks passed from our assault on Abseradon. Only then, finally, did I feel confident enough to send Okustin off-world, as was my original plan. He and I knew his journey would take some time. The travel time alone, between Hestia Majoris and Quintus, would take five more weeks for him to get there and back. And while at the Quintus Conclave itself, I assumed he would need one-to-three weeks to convince any Inquisitors to assist my operation on Hestia Majoris, even with the promise of sharing the laurels for the overall scenario, which should have been an enticing offer to any Inquisitor.
To be clear, I did not like the idea of providing the heretics more time to make more puppet-Astartes. But I made the judgment call that the patient option was safest, especially given the aforementioned logistical squeeze Merek, the PDF, and the Navy were enforcing. Yes, the heretics would without question make more puppets in that time. But I was confident that I would see aid from Quintus long before they possessed enough to take Abseradon by force, given the tone of the conversation I overheard between Espirov and the Phaenonites.
So, at the end of that second week, I had Mirena bring Okustin to the Lord Captain to requisition the services of a vessel to take him to Quintus. Mirena set out and returned without issue, and I was put in contact with Lord Captain Batos and Okustin through the Bird’s vox to confirm my Agent’s agreed-upon departure—he would be on a Falchion-class Escort vessel, accompanied by six others of the sort. The Falchion was not a particularly powerful combat vessel, but it was fast, and the journey should have been relatively safe—as safe as Warp travel can be, anyways—so I was not particularly worried.
Okustin’s plotted route to Quintus was as follows:
Hestia Majoris à Oveaux à Batgantis à Galadon à La Caeonin à Quintus
At each system of the route, the squadron would contact the local navy detachment, that we in Hestia Majoris could be appraised of their successful progress. I was satisfied with the route, and gave the go ahead, wishing Okustin good luck in his travels, assuring him that the Throne was watching his efforts. And that was that.
In the days and weeks that followed, I spent a great deal of time working with Mirena and Silas to devise various hypothetical battle plans. I had Zha compile sketches and acquire blueprints of the theorized production facilities. We began drilling for their assaults, were it to come to it. I also requisitioned ammunition and medical resupplies from Abseradon through Merek, who—again—remained cooperative. I would not say he was within my good graces, but I was tolerating his continued existence, which was all he could ask for.
And in both the mornings and the evenings that followed, I dueled with Penitent. I remained squarely her inferior, and frankly do not believe I was showing signs of nearing her capabilities. She was encouraging of otherwise, though.
Eventually, 812.M41 became 813.M41. Abseradon, even under martial law, did manage to produce some semblance of a parade for the end of the year. We did not attend, but did celebrate on our own. I made sure to toast Okustin, for being absent, and Scayn. Penitent toasted Malkyle, Scayn’s fallen protégé. I appreciated that greatly, having once served the role myself.
Last we had heard, the fleet was departing from Batgantis toward Galadon.
***
Some weeks later, I found the time to take a short stroll from the temple we were still residing in. Penitent asked to join me, and though at first my inclination had been to walk alone, I felt the psychic nudging compulsion to accept her company. We made it some distance from the temple in relative, contemplative silence, exploring the vast, moss-green fields beyond Abseradon’s walls. I was growing to wonder whether Hestia Majoris could have made for a paradise world, rather than a hive. Perhaps were our Imperium not so filled with heretics as to be demanding of the world’s resources, there was such a hypothetical possibility.
It was at that thought that a garbled transmission came in through my coat’s vox. It did not seem to contain any spoken words, and was instead just a twitchy broadcast. Still, it was concerning that our vox had picked up on it; it should have been more secure. Penitent and I agreed it was notable enough to discuss with Silas and Mirena, who may perhaps have been testing some communication equipment. It was then, as we began to head back for the temple, that the vox picked up on something else. “Sigma-Six, come in, Command,” Okustin said over the vox. His voice was also garbled and somewhat electronic, though in that moment, I attributed it to a degree of distance, as he could not have been too close.
I was also, in the moment, awestruck. While theoretically possible, Okustin had made great time. His persuasive skills would take him far as an Inquisitor later in life, I thought to myself. “Command receiving, welcome home, Interrogator. How was your flight?”
There was a pause, then. And the pause in and of itself made my heart sink, as I knew then that something was wrong. But what followed made my stomach itself flip upside down. “For what it’s worth, it took a while to get that out of him,” Vostroya chuckled over the vox. “Knock knock, Pyrras.”
+GO!+ I mentally ordered of Penitent, pointing for the temple, knowing she was faster than me. She sprinted off at once without a moment’s hesitation. “Is he alive?” I growled into the vox, fire on my lips, as my clenched fists drew blood from my palms and whitened my knuckles.
“Depends on your definition. You may wish to look up,” he told me. I did so, and before I could register anything being above me, a mortar shell exploded a few meters to my left, not far from where Penitent had been. Had I not told her to race for the temple, it was likely she would have been annihilated by it. As for me, I was launched aside, careening head over heel, before crash-landing against the ground. Soft as the mossy terrain was, I fell unconscious from the blast, but not before hearing the terrain behind me—toward the temple—be peppered by further shells.
When I awoke, I did so to a collection of sounds I had never personally heard before, but had read about. A low droning hummed across the landscape, accompanied by the stomping of something large, as well as the lighter marching of multiple smaller somethings. And joining them all was the familiar, if amplified, voice of Espirov. “Find the Inquisitor!” Espirov shouted, voice augmented and made more robotic, as well as echoing, likely emerging from any and every vox-speaker on his troops. “His flesh is no longer his to sully! If he yet lives, the great work demands his immediate end!”
I was, until then, laying with my face in the dirt—or moss, as it was. I did then lift myself ever so slightly off the ground and turn my head forward, hoping to get some inkling as to what I was up against, and found that my odds on my own were not that great. In addition to approximately fifteen of the familiar mercenaries that Vostroya had been employing, and in addition to roughly ten heretek Skitarii in silver-and-grey robes like those of Espirov, two Mechanicum vehicles had been fielded. One Onager Dunecrawler, equipped with weaponry that appeared to be anti-air capable as well as anti-armor capable, as well as a Skorpius Disintegrator, missiles, energy cannon, and all. I did not doubt that this was the whole of Espirov’s own forces, deployed at once, alongside Vostroya’s mercenaries. Without my weapons, with just my mind, I could kill some of the infantry and maybe bring the Onager down, but I did not believe I could outright incapacitate the armor, nor did I believe I could survive at outright attack on my own.
I estimated I had roughly twenty seconds before the infantry spotted me if I remained as I was. I could not know the sighting capabilities of the armor. I glanced around me for a moment, and spied a newly-made crater simmering a short distance to my right. I could make the sprint into the crater in a second, maybe two. Would the former Commissar of the 8th die with his back to the enemy? Even if not, then what? Be a sitting duck for the Skorpius? Its weapons would at least take a few moments more to align. I counted down the seconds, breathing deeply and slowly. Every breath was going to matter.
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I ran.
“Blackgar!” Espirov roared, electronic voice screeching over the warzone as blue arc energy and red lasfire blazed around me. I dove into the crater, relatively unscathed, save for my pride. I reached out with my mind, and found a stabbing force. The heretek Skitarii were no doubt employing anti-psyker tech. I did not care, and ate the pain, forcing myself into what few feeble minds I could. And I broke them. I think I killed three or four from the crater, but that was far too few, and the process had woefully exhausted me in itself.
And then the heavens thundered while the ground broke. I had been laying with my back against the edge of the crater that was nearest to my attackers, but in a millisecond was thrown to the opposite edge, face again burying into the ground as a colossal shockwave rocked the world I knew. Pain exploded in my face, and I believe my nose may have broken. But that was of little concern, and I instead turned to look upon the state of my foes. I was still alive, after all, so it had not been the Skorpius’s main energy weapon that had fired.
Red fire rose out of the Skorpius, jolts of arc lightning occasionally frying out from it, as the Bird screamed overhead. The Onager at once began to strafe after it, main weapons firing a hellstorm upon my crew. I believe Mirena had used the Thunderhawk Cannon, as nothing else would have created such monumentally-massive concussive force, nor would have been capable of blowing the Skorpius to bits in a single blow. One problem down, and another distracted as the Onager skirted away.
“His crew is here! Rogue, hit them again!” Espirov roared over the scene.
Though the following callout was shouted, it appeared to me somewhat quiet based on the distance and the cacophony of warfare. “Everyone brace!” Silas ordered. He sounded perhaps a thousand feet from my position. I thought to reach out to him with my mind, but did not want to distract him, especially as another bombardment was looming.
Roughly ten seconds later, it arrived, and the world was pounded and shattered with shell after shell once more. Ten. Twenty. Fifty. More. Vostroya slammed enough artillery into the ground to level a (non-hive) city, and the sheer overwhelming aggressiveness of it all hit me: they were fighting against the clock to kill me. They knew such an overt display of their arsenal would reveal themselves to the PDF, and if we got support from them, it was over for the heretics’ assault. But a desperate heretic was a much, much more dangerous one.
When the shelling ended, there was a pause of a few seconds, and then the shooting resumed. Silas and his fireteam were still alive—I could feel their minds advancing toward me. That none of them had been lost from the utter annihilation of our surroundings was miraculous.
The Emperor protects.
Unfortunately, I also knew that the entirety of Espirov’s remaining forces had survived. The bombardment had been generously-spaced enough so as to not risk killing Espirov’s assault squad. +Crater, near their lines!+ I messaged Silas, and implanted his mind with the image of my location. I stayed in his mind for his response: Hold position, Command. Fireteam forward. Sister on your left. Will send location to Bird. +Copy.+ In the meantime, I took the opportunity to survey the scene as he saw it. Vostroya had obliterated the fields I had just walked through. Now all that remained was grey stone, patches of flame, and large, jagged rocks blasted around to, conveniently, provide cover for my advancing allies.
While I laid in the crater, gathering my breath, I decided to see if my vox had survived the two bombardments it had endured. “All units, vox channel compromised! Keep to minimum!” I shouted into it, possibly to no one. “Count twenty infantry and one mobile armor, acknowledge?”
“Acknowledge, Command,” Mirena replied. “Your vox is damaged, but we can make you out well enough.”
“As can we,” Vostroya replied. “Such fun hearing your formalities. Very militaristic. Brings me back to the glory days. Pyrras, shall I put some music on?”
“Frig you, Vostroya,” I seethed.
“I think that’s a yes,” Vostroya teased. He did not fill our vox with music, but he did send recorded, tortured screams through it. Okustin’s. Anything to rile me and my retinue, get us to do something idiotic in a warzone. We were too disciplined for that, but Throne, I have never wanted so greatly to see a heretic burn as I did in that moment.
The screaming coming from my vox served two other purposes beyond angering us—it also flooded our vox with unusable noise, stifling our potential communication. Furthermore, it gave away our positions, though the encroaching army had already spotted me dive into my current cratered residence. On that note, when one of Vostroya’s mercenaries rounded the crest of my crater, I used what little mental strength I had remaining to pull him toward me, blunting the aim of his lasrifle. A shot went wide as he fell, and incinerated a patch of stone next to me, but I fell atop the mercenary when he landed and began to beat him with the one advantage I had: my augmetic arm. Eventually I felt his skull break under my metal fist, at which point I barely had the time to scoop up his lasrifle and frantically fire upon a Skitarii at the crater’s ridge. I drove them away with my fire, but did not kill them, and then collapsed off the mercenary’s body, out of breath.
I trusted Silas and his fireteam. I trusted Penitent. I did not believe there was any non-Astartes skirmish force in the galaxy that could halt them. But I did not know if I could survive long enough, so close to the enemy, for my allies to arrive. The Skitarii’s psychic dampeners had stifled my mind’s strength, and the process of being tossed around by two explosions and then beating a man to death took much of my body’s stamina, too. But the horrors of this warzone must have been nothing relative to what Okustin had endured, as his screams were without relent. I could not allow myself a moment’s rest while he yet lived.
I scanned the mercenary’s body for anything that might help me last a little longer, or otherwise cause some damage, and plucked two krak grenades on his waist. They were for armor, not personnel, but I had little else to work with, and primed and tossed both, one after the other, in the general direction of my assailants. The ground thumped twice with each explosion, but if I killed anything, it was not the Skitarii that had neared me earlier and then approached for a second stab at me. With the final vestiges of mental fortitude I had left, I managed to force the heretek into a stumble, but not more than that. Having previously handled the grenades, I was without my borrowed lasgun at the ready. So as the heretek aimed their arc rifle at me, I felt only anger and regret that I would not survive to rescue Okustin.
And then the heretek’s head was mashed into their torso under the colossal weight of an Eviscerator, before the rest of their body was split in two afterward. Penitent tossed me my body armor, my Bolt Pistol, and my own Eviscerator while standing over me defensively, shielding me behind her towering form. The crimson death that was my savior did not even say a word to me, clearly as angry as I was with the situation at hand. I donned my armor as fast as I could, and sheathed my pistol on my waist while leveraging my Eviscerator to help me to my feet. “Thank you, Penitent,” I wheezed, still largely out of breath.
“Thank me when the day is done,” she replied, not turning to face me. Our conversation, brief though it was, was barely audible above the ever-present screaming and gunfire. Speaking of which, the Onager came into view again, though it was backpedaling, still focused on our Bird, which subsequently strafed by the scene, Heavy Bolters shredding the terrain ahead of us. I suspect Mirena had gone for the infantry, prioritizing taking them out—for my safety—while weaving between the fire of the Onager’s anti-air cannons.
Supporting that theory, the lasrifle, plasmarifle, and autogun fire at my back then turned to focus on the Onager, slowly depleting the walking hulk’s shields. Eventually, just as the Onager began to turn upon Silas’s fireteam, I heard Silas shout, “Gradshi!” Lightning then struck across the scene, and raced through the Onager, making the great machine stumble and fall to its knees.
“I think that’s your cue,” I told Penitent then, who deftly left me to ascend out of my crater and bring her Eviscerator to bear upon the fallen Onager. I rose up as well, covering her from the straggling infantry survivors with my Bolt Pistol, still balancing myself—and partially shielding myself—on my own Eviscerator. My armaments received aid in this regard by Silas, who at last reached me in a hurry before kneeling before my Eviscerator, better shielding me, while he gunned down the remaining infantry better than I was managing with my pistol. Penitent, meanwhile, carved straight through the Onager, killing both its crew members the instant she breached its hull.
“Command secure!” Silas roared into his vox, trying to out-shout Okustin’s screaming. “Need exfil, now!” He then turned to me, the red eyes of his skull-painted helmet beaming at me, and before so much as saying hello he jabbed me in the neck with a combat stim. “We’ll get you out of here, sir,” he assured me as Czevia and Xavier raced ahead of Silas, holding our ground. Luther was hovering overhead. “You appear to have two head wounds and significant blood loss,” he told me. I only felt the likely-broken nose, and did not much know what the other wound could have been, but took his word for it. “May I offer you any physical support?”
“You just want an excuse to embrace me, don’t you, Silas?” I suggested, still wincing from the stim. “I’m fine. Thank you for the save.”
Despite having turned down the offer for support, Silas threw himself under one of my arms to help me stand. “In a heartbeat, sir. Please tell me there’s a plan to gut these bastards and save Okustin.”
“Working on it,” I growled, then turned to my vox. “Vostroya, I assume you want to bait us out somewhere. Name the place. Bring Okustin, alive, and I’ll give you what slim mercy I still possess,” I told him, certain he could hear me over my vox better than anyone on the receiving end of the screaming could.
At that, the screaming finally stopped, though only because Vostroya cut the recording. “Why, dear Pyrras, you’re already there. The lot of you are remarkably hard to kill, but I think you know that we have just the thing that can do you all in,” he replied as the Bird landed a short distance behind us.
“What does he mean, sir?” Silas asked me.
“Brace yourselves,” I warned our vox, and just in time, as a faint whistling that had been largely obscured by the landing sound of our Bird intensified before resulting in the screaming arrival of a drop pod perhaps fifty meters ahead of us. +DOWN,+ I roared into everyone’s heads as the pod opened its arrival weaponry, spraying the surrounding area with Bolter munitions. The side of the Bird was peppered and dented by the onslaught, while Penitent, Luther, and Xavier hid behind the Onager’s corpse for protection. Silas, Czevia, and I dove to the ground, narrowly avoiding being sliced in half. The hellstorm of Bolter fire lasted ten straight seconds, and when it finally ended, the drop pod at last opened up, revealing its contents to us. Espirov, the chief Heretek himself, in a full assortment of weaponry and armor befitting of his position, flanking behind a puppet-Astartes.
Rather, Espirov was behind the heavily deranged and scarified body of Hans Okustin.