+++++++++++++++++TRANSMITTED: Echoshroud
+++++++++++++++++RECEIVED: Coldbreed
+++++++++++++++++DATE: 3 101 892.M41
+++++++++++++++++REF: Command-1
+++++++++++++++++AUTHOR: Tactical-1
+++++++++++++++++SUBJECT: FW: Catastrophic Operations Failure, See Datastream
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Greetings, Command. I hope you are well.
Please see attached datastream, sent to me by Psyk-1.
I know not of what this is. Please advise.
May the Emperor protect you always.
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>>BEGIN CODED DATASTREAM RELAY<<
Date: 3 084 892.M41
Lone combat vessel, Ebon Shrike, (ES) rests over green-colored world. ([Annotation: World identified as Amnes Minoris; Developing World. Population: 1,303,449,872])
ES sits at rest for six (6) standard hours with no astropathic communication.
Warp field opens near ES. Lone combat vessel Lord Orthus (LO) emerges. Warp field closes. ES hails LO. Two-way communication is established. Communication lasts for 3.7 minutes before concluding. ([Annotation: communication log available for parsing in subfile alpha.])
A shuttle craft leaves LO for ES. Journey takes 8.1 minutes. Docking proceeds naturally. End satellite reference. Splice to next datastream. Begin recording EbonShrike.41.892.084.11. Pict stream and audio streaming available; commencing:
Seven operatives dismount from the shuttle craft, a great mechanical vessel hovering behind them. Servitors tend to the vessel at all times. It is a large, cylindrical vat implanted in a mobile hover platform. Three of the operatives are dressed in tight, refined Inquisitorial uniforms, each wielding a staff whose butt clanks against the metal floors of the hangar, and whose head is that of the Imperialis. The other four men are dressed more lightly and casually, though could pass for an Inquisitor’s retinue.
Welcoming these seven operatives are the commanding officers of ES, including [Strike-1]. [Strike-1] shakes [Psyk-1’s] hand. “It’s been a long time, my friend,” [Strike-1] says.
“Too long. Glad to see you’re still on your feet. Augmetic holding up well?” [Psyk-1] asks. The pair disembark from the hangar, their entourage following in pursuit. The LO and ES operatives mingle cohesively, all defending the large vessel that hovers behind their leaders.
“It is, yeah. As though [Med-1] would ever fail us,” [Strike-1] laughs. “Especially not when given the resources that our friend in Command has.”
“Glad to hear it. Have you seen them recently?”
“[Med-1] or Command?”
“Either, I suppose,” [Psyk-1] shrugs.
“Unfortunately not. Too long in the field,” [Strike-1] frowns.
“I can relate,” [Psyk-1] nods in acknowledgement.
“Yeah, well, that’s why we’re here today, eh?”
“Speaking of which, what’d you find?”
“Oh, we didn’t find it, we’re just responding to it. Intel found it. Rather, it found [Intel-3-2]. Whole squad of them got wiped out,” [Strike-1] frowned and sighed. “Just in here,” he added, and lead the group into a large, unlit room. When the vessel entered the room, servitors began hooking up some of the vessel’s piping to proper outlets along the walls, while in the meantime, dim blue lights revealed a great, empty landscape of further steel. The LO and ES operatives spread out along the back wall of the room, giving the vessel space while standing relatively defensively around it, ready to intervene if needed. The more casual-looking operatives of LO kept the most distance from the vessel.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
+Ahh, I can breathe again.+ Hummed a disembodied voice that emerged on visible ripples of condensed air pockets around the vessel.
“Sorry about that, but you know procedure, Cor,” [Psyk-1] apologized, gesturing to the more-casually-dressed operatives standing away from the vessel. As he spoke, great steel walls of the vessel’s cylinder receded, revealing a woman suspended in light blue fluid, bionics plugging her in to the vessel. Frost began to creep upon the walls of the vessel, and the room chilled considerably, the breaths of all personnel becoming visible.
+Yes, I understand, [Psyk-1]. The nulls serve the Great Throne as I do. How may I assist today?+ the woman asked.
“[Strike-1]?” [Psyk-1] asked, gesturing for [Strike-1] to step forth. He did so.
“Greetings, operative. An outpost belonging to Intel team Gammaforth has been destroyed down below, on Amnes Minoris. We would like you to produce a survey of the scene remotely,” [Strike-1] explained. “The coordinates are—”
+I see the coordinates in your head. And I see the scene on the world. Stand aside for visual projection.+ the woman replied. [Strike-1] got out of the way. A few moments later, a great many lights appeared out of the nothingness in the center of the room, shimmering and sparking, stretching out to gradually, shakily form the outpost that had once belonged to the Gammaforth team. It was enflamed.
“Is this live?” [Strike-1] asked. “It can’t be live. Known intel suggests the structure collapsed after burning for a few hours.”
+This is as I see it.+
“And you can see through time?” [Strike-1] asked, in overt disbelief.
+Not to my knowledge.+
“Well, you sure seem to—hey, who is that?”
+I see no one.+ As the woman replied, a man in copper-colored armor strolled out of the flames, a dual-Bolt weapon in one hand and a brass claw in another. The man’s face could not be seen, obscured behind a helmet of twinned horns, one of which was slightly chipped.
“Look away from him!” [Psyk-1] exclaimed, cowering at the sight of the man. The other operatives did the same, for even at a glance, they saw the unholy imagery carved into the man’s helmet. Sigils and signs of a world that did not bask in the Imperium’s light.
+There is no one there.+
“You can’t see him, Cor?” [Psyk-1] asked, stunned.
+There is no one there.+
The unknown figure strolled up about halfway between the psychic projection and the vessel creating it. It looked around the room in silence, its gaze pausing on both [Strike-1] and [Psyk-1] before settling on the vessel ahead.
“Terminate this projection at once!” [Psyk-1] demanded. Shortly thereafter, the structure, flames included, vanished.
The man did not.
“Strike-1 to bridge, all units on alert! Quarantine my position, anomalous Warp contact!” [Strike-1] shouted into his vox while raising his weapons to the man. Everyone else in the room did the same.
“Identify yourself!” [Psyk-1] roared, lightning sparking from his lips.
+There is no one there.+ the woman in the vessel assured them, while in the meantime, the man slowly raised the dual-Bolt-wielding arm toward the vessel.
“Cor, you’re not safe, raise your shields!” [Psyk-1] ordered.
“Frig this,” [Strike-1] hissed, and shot a trio of rounds toward the man. They phased through him completely, a beam of red lasfire sailing across the room and singing a faraway wall. At that point, the man’s arm had raised completely. Seeing where things were going, and knowing he was not a psyker and therefore was not equipped to defuse the situation, [Strike-1] threw himself between the man and the vessel.
+There is no on—+
The man fired. A Bolt passed harmlessly through [Strike-1]’s head, mental imagery unaffecting the Harakoni. It sailed clean through the hardened glass of the vessel’s tank, and slid into the woman’s torso with no entry wound. A great psychic THUMP burst out from the vessel, knocking many in the room to the ground, and blood smashed out of the woman’s eyes, ears, and nostrils.
“Coraline!” [Psyk-1] shouted, dismayed, and rocked the room with lightning sent for the man. It, too, phased through him. Even as Coraline, Beta-grade Psyker of the Psyk subgroup, died, the man remained, a permanent, immaterial fixture to the scene.
It turned and looked at [Psyk-1]. +Produce Callant Blackgar for deconstruction.+ Its voice pierced, like the ring of tinnitus. Then, at last, it faded away, blood continuing to pump out of Coraline’s body into her protective vessel, with the vessel itself remaining completely unharmed.
“We need [Tactical-1],” [Strike-1] panted, unaware of how to proceed.
“We need Command,” [Psyk-1] seethed in reply, lightning still dancing on his lips. “That’s twice now we’ve been bested and we don’t even know what we’re frigging up against!”
End of pict stream and audio stream.
End recording EbonShrike.41.892.084.11.
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+++++++++++++++++TRANSMITTED: Coldbreed
+++++++++++++++++RECEIVED: Echoshroud
+++++++++++++++++DATE: 3 103 892.M41
+++++++++++++++++REF: Tactical-1
+++++++++++++++++AUTHOR: Command-1
+++++++++++++++++SUBJECT: RE: FW: Catastrophic Operations Failure, See Datastream
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Greetings, Tactical-1. I am well, thank you. It is hard not to be with Command-2.
I have consulted Tech-1 on what you have shown me.
Recommend immediate suspension of all Tactical, Strike, and Psyk teams, and the recall of active units thereof. Duration: 90 Terran Days, or until otherwise noted by Command substructure.
Our divine shadow has been pierced by the vile glare of our foe. We are found.
War is soon. Logi-1 and Med-1 will spin your teams up to optimal readiness as required.
The Emperor protects.
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