I say, “Start walking kids, and get ready to take turns on the leading edge.”

“Yes, sir!” say the boys. I am so glad I can hide my laughter. It sounds so silly to have my children address me so.

Alpia holds her prayer beads in one hand and gives me a thumbs up with the other. She doesn’t waver in her chants and I feel a swell of pride at her stoic attitude.

A cyber mastiff runs back from the front line and queries me with a bark.

I point, “Go wait by that gap, Commander Keane will come out from there. If you can’t tell him your message within five minutes then come find me instead.” I point again, “I’ll be walking that way.”

I get another bark laced with machine code and the gundog runs to the service corridor exit, then sits next to it, its two mechadendrite tails wagging back and forth.

“I’m always amazed at how smart they are,” I say. “Normal dogs are rather idiotic.”

“I wouldn’t know, Magos,” says Dominita. “I’ve never seen a purely organic animal in my life.”

“You never went to pet the rabbits and other farm animals?”

“I’m vat born. Petting animals isn’t cool when you look sixteen and are raised in a big creche. No need to invite teasing. Now it just seems too much like playing with my food. Besides, those furry little buggers are absurdly dangerous with their metal claws and teeth. Poke them too much and they could take your hand off. Clipping their claws can only do so much to make them child friendly.”

“Ah, I do recall there being one or two incidents. Fial did keep a rabbit as a pet for a while but it kept gnawing through the bars and eating his datapad. After the second time I had to install a void shield on its habitat. That rabbit was as adorable as it was ridiculous. It never harmed him though, they even used to sleep together. He keeps the ashes on a shelf in his room in a little jar made of its bones that I forged for him. Do you have a mastiff or grapplehawk of your own?”

“No. I prefer to spend my spare time laughing at terrible action films. Still, this really isn’t the time, Magos. Inquisitor Horthstien has a query.”

“Put him through.”

Dominita places a mechadendrite on my shoulder and relays Raphael’s voice.

“Magos, I tried to send you some picts of the Ghasts we are facing as I want a second opinion, but the recorder malfunctioned. I have been told this is a safety feature. While I applaud your caution, I do need to know what these symbols might mean.”

I vox, “You won’t be able to record and send any hostile sorcery. That the pict recorder won’t record should tell you everything you need to know about how hazardous it is.”

“That’s what I feared. I do not have the lexicon to describe the symbols either and that would likely be just as dangerous.”

“Then tell me the distinguishing features of the Ghasts and how you are faring.”

“Poorly. The Ghasts have chitinous armour growing from them and are also moderately warded against weapons fire. Their sorcerous protections do no not function in melee range. We can still deal with them, but they are rather vicious up close and we are taking avoidable casualties. Can you get us some more flamers, or perhaps volkite incinerators?”

“They are resistant to even the hellfire guns of your Tempestus Scions and standard heavy bolter fire?”

“Yes. Explosives and fire, or getting close enough that their warding becomes ineffective are all that works. Even the witch bolts you gave us don’t punch through their protections.”

“Thank you for the warning. I will pass it along and ask Domhnall to send you some special weapons teams. Get a gundog to carry the most intact corpse you have. Once the Herald’s have cleared enough of the vessel, you can send it over and I will examine it for you.”

“You don’t want to courier it via a shuttle? That would be much faster.”

“Do you deem my analysis vital enough to risk the corruption of the shuttle all your casualties are being taken to and the path of your retreat?”

“Not yet.”

“May the Emperor be with you, Inquisitor.”

“And the Omnissiah with you, Magos.”

It takes us two hours to fight our way to the genatorium, with my kids rotating with the rest of the troops every thirty minutes. My kids are not in charge of anything, but they are gunning down the tyranids, a mix of Gaunts, Rippers, and Warriors.

We’ve had over three dozen casualties, most of which were due to poison, but between the Vitae Supplement in everyone’s armour keeping them alive long enough to reach Alpia or I, we haven’t had any deaths.

Domhnall has been much less fortunate, suffering over fifty ambushes throughout the ship and confirming the presence of a Lictor. Toxin samples and cadavers have been sent back to Red Knoll for analysis by the Bargehest’s apothecary and assistant Tech-Priests.

Proper antidotes are likely weeks away, but the crew of Red Knoll are confident they can at least find a way to resist the toxins within a day or two. While the necrotic wounds the poisons leave are an issue, it's the huge variety of brief paralysis and disorientation effects that the Tyranids are causing are more troublesome. A moment of dizziness is all it takes to get disembowelled.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

So far, casualties are at two percent with thirty percent of those being fatalities, most of whom are Tempestus Scions. Raphael lost ten percent of his company before Domhnall could reinforce him. Even the Space Marines have five casualties from a horde of Pink Horrors and a suicidal Chaos Cultist with a pair or rad grenades. It’s unknown if those Space Marines will survive their wounds.

Rad grenades are serious gear, so the cultists aboard Dying Light must have found a way to loot one or more armouries. No one is pleased by this revelation, no matter what archeotech wonders we might later pry from their twisted claws.

The same messenger gundog returns to me and requests my presence at the front line. I leave Dominita behind and sprint as fast as I safely can, the air becoming increasingly thick with spores and toxins as I advance.

I reach the opening to the genetorium. Tyranid bodies are piled high in a barricade as the Heralds fire continuously into the cavernous space. Alpia is kneeling and has a Psycho-Kinetic Shield in place, holding back dozens of fleshy tentacles that lash at her barrier with furious hunger. Hoarfrost has formed all around her, coating the walls and Heralds as Alpia holds the toxic air and tendrils at bay.

The spores beyond the barrier are so thick that every las-shot heats the air enough to cause a small explosion that is swiftly suppressed by an unidentified, hostile psyker.

I place my conversion field just behind Alpia’s Psycho-Kinetic Shield.

“Good job, Alpia. Take a breather. Luan, help Alpia withdraw to the shuttle. Lieutenant Aife Cattraeth, what’s holding us up?”

Alpia drops her Psycho-Kinetic Shield and continues muttering, holding her prayer beads close to her chest. Alpia staggers to her feet. Luan gives me a little wave then guides Alpia away.

I’m not surprised she is so exhausted as those tentacle strikes are quickly overwhelming my conversion shield. I cast Psycho-Kinetic Shield as well, just in case.

“No idea, Magos. Not sure if it’s the spores, the enemy psyker, or something else but our sensors can’t identify the enemy. We can see the outlines of heat signatures, but just can’t get a proper image of what we’re facing, just approximate mass and shape. I was hoping you have a solution before we send in the automata.”

“I’ll give them an overpowered ping. It might even cook a few.”

I approach the line of stacked corpses. Twenty-seven tentacles simultaneously strike my conversion shield, shattering it, all of them aiming for me. My Psycho-Kinetic Shield absorbs the follow up blows and holds, though I feel a slight twinge of pain.

Pressing my mechadendrite against the back of the Herald next to me, I vox, “Get some volkite incinerators up here. Don’t worry about any explosions. I will contain the blast.”

The Herald gives me a thumbs up and retreats. Another takes his place. I face the opening and turn my sensors on full blast, sweeping my head from side to side. There are some truly horrible screeches and multiple distinct pops.

I feel the gun dog nuzzle my hand and smile then use our connection to forward all the scan data to it. I detect two unusually large bioforms and multiple biostructures, though I still can’t identify them. The gun dog nips my hand lightly then runs back to Aife.

A massive energy signature builds up, I turn my vox caster as loud as it will go and yell, “Duck!”

A Warp Lance, a concentrated stream of purple energy honed to an impossibly fine point slams into my Psycho-Kinetic Shield. I manage to hold it for a fraction of a second before it punches right through, cracking my shield and hurtling down the corridor for over two hundred metres, vaporising everyone that’s in the path of the blast until it is halted by Dominita’s heavy frame, disabling her front section before the lance is finally expended.

Without my shield, the multiple tentacles swarm the gap, grabbing Heralds and myself, then yank us with such strength that our magboots fail, hauling us into the air, over the corpse wall, and into the genatorium. Even more tentacles pull the Marwolv Mark II lascarbines from the Heralds hands.

I slap away the tendrils that reach for my heavy arc rifle with a powerfield coated hand.

From what little I can see and scan, the genatorium is a seething mass of blue chitin and burgundy flesh, covering every surface from the vaulted ceiling to the grav plated floor. Four Venomthropes, floating prawn-like horrors with long tentacles, hover just out of the primary line of fire from the entrance, dragging my Heralds towards them, trying to suffocate them with corrosive toxins and choking spores.

The Heralds are quick to respond, cutting themselves free with their mechadendrites then slamming their arc mauls into the floating xenos.

Even as the Heralds bash the xenos to death, firing their bolt pistol at any Gaunt that dares rush up and strike at them, vile vapours pour from the chimney-like vents on the Venomthropes’ backs. The heavy toxins sink to the floor, coating the Heralds and dissolving the seals on their void suits, then penetrate the undersuits underneath, exposing their Voidskin to the deadly chemicals.

The Heralds scream and thrash for a moment, then fall, twitching.

As I am held aloft, I send a brief telepathic message to Aife, ordering him to send in the automata and telling him that only power armour, cyber mastiffs, and Warforged can withstand the toxic environment and that any other Heralds should fall back. I also warn him that even then, it might not be enough and we will need the emergency decontamination kits from the shuttle, a way to tap into Dying Light’s water supply, or whatever else he can think of.

The Heralds pull back.

The one good thing about the hostile environment is that it’s also affecting all the other tyranid strains, many of whom rush for the corridor only to perish from all the toxic gases that burst from the Venomthropes when they were slain.

My mechadendrites whir and slice, cutting me free. I draw lightly on the warp and float to the ground. As I fall, my upgraded servo-harness deploys its volkite incinerator and blasts the two Venomthropes overhead that pulled me into the air, high above the entrance. I trigger my recovered conversion field just in time as the lightning-like blast ignites the chemicals and spores in the air, hitting me with a wall of flame and force. My float spell is overwhelmed and I am slammed into the ground.

Hundreds of Tyranids fall from the ceiling and walls, raining down around me. I hop to my feet, trying to avoid their heavy bodies with moderate success. My servo-harness protects me, slicing and knocking any falling Tyranids that I can’t avoid. A good third of the gases have been cleared by the explosion, incinerating a good portion of the Tyranids and wounding many more.

Fire and force billows down the corridor, scattering the wall of bodies and throwing the closest Heralds to the deck. Their armour cracks and blisters in the heat and many are either knocked out or dead.

The swarm of Gaunts and Warriors surrounding me are whipped into a frenzy by a wave of psychic power that coats their bodies in purple mist, then pours into their damaged frames, sustaining and animating them when they should be dead.

A few Herald’s pick themselves off the floor. They immediately start firing at the swarming Tyranids while maintaining their withdrawal. The other Heralds spasm slightly as their armour attempts to revive them. A few more stagger to their feet and drag the unmoving Heralds away, though not all of them make it before they are torn apart by an overwhelming hoard of chitin and claws.