The Hulk that ripped its way out of the warp was immense. It was a virtual planetoid, the size of a small moon. With a hollowed out asteroid at its centre it was a nightmarish assembly of rock, ships and buildings. Ships of all sorts jutted out from its surface where they had been jury-rigged, their engines pushing the rock along. Eldar ships jutted out next to Imperial ships which in turn were attached to Traitor ships. An entire city crusted the surface, housing millions of Orks, with countless millions living in the centre of the Hulk.
Around the Hulk, over thirty Roks spun in a chaotic orbit, tractor beams ensuring that they didn’t drift. They too were covered in ruined ships and small cities.
As soon as the Hulk had arrived in normal space, vast doors opened across its surface and over a thousand ships spewed forth. Battleships, Kill Kroozers, Terror Ships, Onslaughts, Savage Gunships, Ravagers and Brute Ram ships shot towards the Elsimate system. As soon as they were free from the Hulk’s gravitational pull yet more ships spewed in turn from them.
Interceptas, Torpeedo Launchas, Minesweepas and a myriad of other warp-incapable ships set their engines to max and swept ahead of the fleet.
The power that these ships represented was clear, and their purpose even clearer. These ships were death-dealers, planet destroyers and those that crewed them were experts in their trade of choice. They were Orks, followers of the Arch-Killa of Dumnorii. And - unfortunately for the Elsimate system - they were in need of supplies, slaves and loot.
The hole that the fleet made when it exited the warp was huge. Telescopes in geostationary orbits picked up the flash from over three million miles away. The psychic bow wave that it pushed in front of it literally melted the brains of thousands of psykers. Their screams were only the opening verse of an Epic that would see millions of voices joining them.
Alarms throughout the system started blaring and panicked juniors grabbed for their communications gear, screaming garbled messages to their seniors. The panicked messages were passed on through rank after rank until they reached the Imperial Navy’s High Command in Elsimate. With six inhabited worlds and over thirty billion inhabitants, the system had over one thousand monitoring posts in orbit and on the ground. All of them poured their reports into one single space. Trillions of terabytes of information flooded into the system, cogitators literally bursting at the seams as they tried to parse the information. Identity, disposition, size, estimated time of arrival (ETA), it didn’t matter. What did matter was one single statement, ‘Ork fleet incoming’.
II
Lieutenant Eli Carston of the 1st Intelligence Section Command Centre stared with sick horror at the screens in front of him. His hands flew over the keyboard entering query after query.
‘No, no, no!’ The cogitator returned the same result no matter how many times he entered the query. Sweat pricked across his back making him shiver as the air conditioning wafted over him.
‘Run the figures again Lieutenant if you will.’ His commanding officer, Major Steele hovered behind him, betraying no sign of the turmoil that he was feeling. Hands behind his back, he spread his feet slightly assumed the ‘stand-easy’ pose.
‘Breathe easy Eli, the command is watching.’
Carston slowly breathed out and entered the query once more, carefully pressing each button to make sure he entered it correctly. He pressed the send button and the cogitator burbled to itself. Trying to get his emotions under control and emulating Major Steele’s calm, he leaned back in his chair and waited for the figures to come back.
Finally the figures came back and no amount of fervent prayer was going to change them.
‘Winchester sir, we have over one thousand enemy ships-of-the-line heading towards Winchester. Estimate at least one Hulk as well.’ There was the sound of retching as nerves got the better of a junior Signaller and Carston’s stomach churned in sympathy.
‘If anyone else wishes to give voice to their fears in that manner, I would appreciate it if they didn’t do it all over their cogitator.’ Major Steele’s voice was little more than a whisper but it carried across the now silent command centre. Slowly he walked through the rows of desks until he stood before the huge holographic display of the system.
Thoughts piled into his mind. This could just not be happening. Elsimate was in the back-end of nowhere in Imperium terms. It was civilised for Throne’s sake. Bar the odd secessionist ‘war’, the system had known peace for centuries. The Imperial Navy ships stationed there were hardly deemed to be front-line material. Nor could they be considered to be second-line, not even third-line. Most of the ships were nearing the end of their usefulness, and so were the crews. Granted they might have once been Warriors of the Imperium with a capital ‘W’, but now they were getting fat whilst serving out their time. Likewise the Imperial Guard garrisons and the Planetary Defence Force were more like heavily armed police than guardians of the Empire. He strolled back to his desk, the eyes of everyone in the centre on him.
‘Get me Naval and Guard Command Central please Lieutenant’.
That one call was going to be the most important call he would ever make. No matter how many other forms of corroborating information Command Central was receiving, until they received absolute confirmation from Major Steele’s section everything was considered to be hearsay.
‘Steele here General Grocock,’ force of habit made him come to attention, ‘Ork fleet confirmed. Yes sir, estimate fleet size of at least one thousand and one Hulk. Yes. Yes. Recon units attempting to close to gather … no sir. Destination is Winchester. Triple confirmed sir. Thank you sir. Good luck to you too sir.’
Gently sighing, he slowly placed the handset back into its cradle.
‘Signaller, please send the following. “1st Intelligence Section Command Centre to all active units. Ork fleet numbering a minimum of one thousand ships approaching Winchester. Estimate time of arrival three days. All units to stand-to on War footing level one. All leave cancelled. Message ends.”’
As the message rippled across the system, General Grocock raced down the corridors of Command Central and into the War room. The two most important military men in the system were already there, sipping from cups of kaf and awaiting confirmation. They leaned forward like canids straining against their leashes. Aides hovered in the background.
‘Grand Admiral, Lord General. We have confirmation. It’s Winchester.’
As Grand Admiral Rous Bevan and Lord General Uist Monarch gathered their staff together and started to work on their strategy they forgot one key thing. Many of the satellites that were beaming the news of the Ork fleet’s arrival weren’t just beaming them to the powers-that-be. They were also beaming them into the system-wide newsfeeds. Shutting them off now would stop further feeds, but the signals already heading towards the system couldn’t be stopped.
The panic seen in the various command rooms was mirrored system-wide. Like a tsunami it started off small and gradually grew in size and power until nothing could stand in its way. Initially Singeorge knew nothing about it. He was too busy trying to work out why Vir had signed off on a project that was in no way completed and why, as a result, he had ended up being picked to sort out the whole mess. Running from floor to floor, he desperately tried to get things back on track before it went any higher up the levels of management.
He got his first inkling that something was up when he started to see people crowding around the public information pict-screens. Some would stand and stare, their hands covering their mouths or running them nervously through their hair. Others would dash off, and others come wandering over before repeating the process. Singeorge was far too busy to join them and it wasn’t until he returned to his desk and found Vir blubbering that he realised something was up.
‘F... Finn’.
Singeorge stared aghast at the state his boss was in. His eyes were puffy and rimmed with red. Tears streaked down his cheeks and snot ran freely from his nose. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he constantly dry-washed his hands. Singeorge flinched back as Vir reached out a shaking hand towards him.
‘What are we doing to do? Where should we go? What do you think they’ll do?’
The rank sweat of fear made Singeorge’s nose flare and he could feel his heart rate rising in sympathy. Fear, baseless fear was starting to course through his veins and didn’t even know why.
As Vir continued to paw at him, running his tongue over his lips that fear quickly turned to anger.
‘Emperor’s Grace, Ignavus! Calm down, you’re scaring the shit out of everyone here!’
It was true, Vir was a Manager with a capital ‘M’. He was the ultimate law on this level with over one thousand employees working for him and right now he was tearing the very foundations of their work-lives apart. Granted they all knew him for the work-shy and useless arse he was, but they still looked to him as their leader. For once, the people in Vir’s section were actually looking to him to lead them. True to type Vir was incapable of rising to the challenge.
Singeorge lowered his voice to a whisper, ‘What on Terra has got you so upset Ignavus?’
Hand shaking, Vir pointed to the nearest pict-screen. On it, the famous newscaster Monty Hall was talking to the camera and below him a ticker tape was scrolling across the screen.
++ Breaking News: House Ashford satellite showing large Ork fleet inbound. ++
Singeorge’s mouth turned dry and his tongue turned to fur. Bile surged up into his throat and he was forced to swallow the bitter acid back down. Ork! One word, one single word that could literally stop hearts in the time it took a brain to process what it had heard. Orks were the stuff of nightmares. His mum had used the threat of the Ork in the wardrobe taking him away if he wasn’t a good boy and went to sleep when he was told. He’d used the same ploy with his daughters, and now they were saying Orks were here in the Elsimate system.
He realised that Vir was still clawing at his arm, begging him for answers he didn’t have and couldn’t give. With a snarl that held all of the anger and hatred he’d been bottling up for ten years, he shoved his boss with both arms. Wailing, Vir staggered back a few feet and slammed into a desk, sliding down to sit in a sobbing, hiccupping mess. Turning back to the pict-screen Singeorge desperately waited to see the most important update there was.
++ Winchester most likely target for enemy fl...........++
The relief that flooded through his veins turned his legs to jelly. Winchester was the outmost planet in the system. Fortunately the enemy fleet had arrived in such a way that Winchester’s orbit would practically carry it into the path of the fleet. It wouldn’t even have to manoeuvre that much in order to reach position. Suddenly all the pict-screens went blank. Then a picture of the Imperial Eagle appeared with the words ‘Please Stand by’.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Stand by? Not bloody likely! Singeorge turned and slowly walked to the lift. It was only half-way through the day but he felt an overwhelming urge to get home to his family, to kiss his wife and hug his children. Vir lay where he had fallen, sobbing and asking people what he should do. Eyes turned towards Singeorge as he hammered the lift button. More and more people wandered over to join him. By the time that the lift arrived, his entire section had joined him.
Standing in the lift, Singeorge realised that people were giving him more space than he was used to. The mood was subdued, although he could sense the panic simmering beneath the surface, both in him and in the people around him. Thoughts raced through his mind in no particular order. He’d actually pushed Ignavus, Ork ships were entering the system, he’d almost certainly lost his job, they were going to be wiped out by a green-skinned horde of baby-eating, brain dead xenos, SACKED, what the hell was Karenza going to say?
Kraiman pushed through from the back and leaned over his shoulder.
‘This does not look good my friend. Not good at all. Silex ran a quick query on a test system. He reckons that Winchester has three days to prepare. Three fugging days!’
Silex appeared at his other shoulder.
‘I can’t believe you pushed Ignavus man. Have you seen the way that people are looking at you? If we live through this, I think you should push for a promotion.” He barked out a laugh that died into a coughing fit as the people sharing the lift with him stared as if he was completely mad.
It was going to take Singeorge a lot longer to get home than normal. People had flooded the streets. Crowds were stood in front of the huge public address pict-screens staring at the large ‘Stand by’. Boulevard Priests stood in their pulpits. Some delivered fiery sermons urging those listening to take up arms and serve the Emperor, others counselled their listeners to trust in the Emperor and his omnipotent power.
Singeorge stepped back as a family surged past him with their worldly belongings heaped up on their backs. Considering they were in the largest city on Elsimate and more than three hour’s walk from the city’s boundaries, he couldn’t for the life of him work out where they thought they were going. Anyone leaving the city would be walking straight into the massive agri-farms that were the pride of Elsimate. There was nowhere to run to for another five hundred klicks, just field after field of vegetables, meat-beasts and hydroponics. No cover and literally no hills to run to since they had all been levelled.
Turning a corner he stopped in surprise. A group of citizens had smashed the windows of a food store and were busy looting.
What looked to be the leader paused and turned to look at Singeorge.
‘What you staring at?’
‘Nothing mate, nothing. Nothing to see.’ Singeorge started to back away slowly.
‘Damn right nothing to see. Fugging nothing to report either.’
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a long kitchen knife. Stalking towards Singeorge he started to crouch with the knife ready in a downward grip. This cannot be happening. Elsimate is a peaceful planet for fug’s sake! What the Throne are these people doing? How is this going to help anything? Emperor deliver me from this nutjob!
Flashing lights appeared at the end of the street and a loudspeaker barked. Singeorge could see an Enforcer’s Armoured Personnel Carrier. Pure black it looked like a giant felis and – completely unlike the normal street-cars that the Enforcers used – oozed pure menace. He’d seen them on the pict when there had been the odd riot, usually because of the results of a Gladiator or Chuckball Match. This was the first time that he’d seen any up close. And it was certainly the first time he’d seen one up close whilst a group of people were looting shops no more than a few metres away from him.
‘Halt! Under the Elsimate System Penal Code two four four five stroke twelve you are required to stand still! Lie down on the floor now!’
‘Fugging run, don’t let the karks get your food!’
The looters scattered in all directions. The loudspeaker cursed.
‘Hey! Hey! Stop!’ The voice actually seemed surprised that the looters were disobeying its commands. It seemed that the Enforcers were just as inexperienced as Singeorge when it came to civil unrest.
The looters continued to take no notice, running across the street to a small alleyway.
The local Enforcer personnel carriers were fitted with a range of non-lethal weapons. One such weapon was the fully automatic baton round launcher. With an audible whine from the hydraulics it slowly deployed from the bottom of the carrier.
‘Final warning citizens! Stand where you are now!’ One of the looters turned round and gave a palm thrust towards the vehicle. The runners were barely half way across when the firing started.
Legs turning to jelly, Singeorge dove for cover. His hands shook and he struggled to breathe as he practically hugged the pavement. Cover, get to fugging cover!
He turned his head to the left and saw a waste-bin. Waiting for a pause in the firing he tensed. As soon as there was a lull he came to all fours and threw himself behind the bin, getting so close to it he bruised his face.
The firing resumed and looters crashed to the floor, their feet knocked out from beneath them as the under-slung vehicle-mounted weapon fired rounds at thigh height. High pitched screams rang out as the more unfortunate were hit in the groin. Others were hit more than once, and Singeorge winced as he saw a looter take a round in the thigh and fall to his knees. The second round slammed into the man’s throat with a loud crack. Lifeless he fell forward onto his forehead, his body slumped on its knees.
Despite the hail of rounds it looked as though a group of six or so were going to, make it down the alley.
Another gun coughed three times and the last of the runners were hit by a cocktail of gas, stun and flash bang grenades. Their bodies fell to the floor. Yet more rounds were raked over their bodies until they stopped moving. Clearly inexperience had lead to fear and anger. There was one final burst as the gun tracked a final runner shattering his kneecap and breaking his ribs as he continued to try to get away. The last round slammed into the side of his head and his body spun over onto its back like a child’s raggedy-anna.
Silence. No, not silence. The guns had stopped firing and the absence of the noise was deafening. Low moans drifted through the air although none of the wounded dare move. Singeorge carefully raised his head. Slowly he crawled backwards until he was level with the corner, rolled once more and stood up with his back to the wall.
Looking around he could see more signs of the spreading panic-borne riots. His heart felt as though it would burst out of his chest. He had never, ever, seen anything like this before. Hot bile rose into his throat at the thought of the dead man and he swallowed it back down. He looked at his hands, turning them over as they shook. Every limb felt weak and he realised that his buttocks were shaking as well. He had never been so scared in his life.
'Finn, the fugging roads are blocked!'
He bit back a curse as Kraiman practically scared the life out of him.
'Throne! You arse, what did you do that for? I nearly fugging pissed myself you twat!’
It was true. His heart was hammering so hard it felt fit to burst.
The two of them flinched at the sound of more shots.
'We can't go that way either mate. The Enforcers just took out a gang of looters.' Kraiman jerked a thumb back the way he’d just come, ‘How about where you came from?’
‘Take a look for yourself you coddes-face.’
‘Throne mate! No need to be like that! Didn’t mean to scare the piss out of you!’ Kraiman poked his head round the corner, 'Not a chance. They're arresting everyone down there.'
'How about King Charles III way? Can’t hear anything from there?’
Quickly they made their way across the street. Where it had previously been filled with people it was now eerily empty.
'We've got get home quick or we'll be done for. They’re going to arrest everyone they find now thanks to the rioters!'
Kraiman led the way down another side street. Sprinting, they ran straight into the arms of an Enforcer patrol.
‘Well, well, well. What have we got here?’
They stared in open-mouthed fear at the Enforcers in front of them. Usually Enforcers were dressed in plain black uniforms, the sign of the Aquila in white on their left breast, and ‘Law’ in white writing on their right breast. On their heads they wore white berets with black Aquila badges. For defence, they usually carried nothing more than a stun-baton and stun-gun.
This was obviously not a normal time and now the black uniform was overlaid with white riot armour, the berets replaced with menacing full-face helmets. The stun-guns had gone as well and been replaced with Shotguns, Chatter Pistols and assault-rifles. All of them carried large ballistic shields, either on one arm or strapped to their back depending on the weapon they were toting.
‘ID cards. Now.’
A hand reached out and the fingers snapped.
They fumbled for their identity passes.
‘House Bastin. We work for House Bastin. We’re just trying to get to Regis Apartments.’
Kraiman’s voice faded away as the fingers clicked again. The fumbling started again.
Finally they found their passes and handed them over.
The Enforcer in charge slotted each identity card into a scanner. They held their breath, praying to the Emperor that the scanner would read them properly, that they hadn’t damaged the card in some way, and that each card would be given the all-clear colour of green.
‘All in order. You gents need to get off the streets now. I suggest that you head three blocks down and then cut across that way. Those streets are cleared. Take these.’ He handed them another card each.
‘Temporary passes, this city is under martial law. Don’t lose them, don’t let anyone else have them. Get found without them and the only place you’re going to is a cell.’ They garbled their thanks and hurried off.
An hour and three shots of distil later, he and Karenza were glued to the pict. After two hours of ‘Stand By’ the government had started to broadcast. Ecclesiarch programmes were followed by public announcements which in turn were followed by recruitment adverts for the various armed forces. Nothing of substance and nothing which told them what was going on.
Finally Lord-Governor Wagstaffe, ruler of the system came on-screen.
‘People of the Elsimate system, please allow me to take up some of your valuable time,’ he looked smart and composed, wearing the formal dress uniform of House Wagstaffe and leaning back in a comfortable-looking armchair, ‘as many of you are no doubt aware a number of ships have entered our system and are currently heading towards Winchester. There are many rumours as to the nature of these ships and, contrary to my advisor’s advice, I can confirm that they appear to be Ork in origin. Whether or not they are Orks, we are treating them as hostile. Our brave Navy and Guard units are currently mustering on all of our planets and together they will form the largest Armada this system has ever seen!’
‘As you may or may not know Orks are foes unworthy of our attention. They are nothing more than animals relying on technology stolen from our superior civilisation. Our brave Guardsmen will trample them into the ground.’
Leaning forward he took a sip of distil from a crystal glass.
‘But what can you, my brave, brave fellow citizens do? You can give us your prayers and dedication. You can continue to work as hard as possible. If you can work one shift, can you see yourself working two in a day? Are there those in your household that don’t work? If there are, I ask them to truly think about why they can’t work. No matter how physically or mentally capable they are I beseech them to join in the fight against these Xenos cowards.’
Standing he walked over to a lectern.
Bowing his head he bid they join him in the Profession of Faith.
Billions of people throughout the system repeated the words;
‘With all my strength,
With all my will,
With every fibre of my soul,
I pledge my soul and my Faith,
To the Immortal Emperor,
Shepherd of Humanity’
Singeorge and Karenza hung on every word as Wagstaffe extolled the virtues of the force, ensuring victory in the name of Emperor and everlasting glory. The forces already on Winchester were preparing their defensive positions; the brave citizens of Winchester were converting their manufactories to war-purposes and as he spoke ships were already on their way to engage the fleet. With the Emperor behind them victory was ensured.