CHAPTER 20-25

Chapter 20: I Have a Dream

The battle ignited into a white-hot frenzy from the very first second. Persistent, guttural Orkish roars whipped every greenskin into a combat trance as they tore into the foe with choppas, fists, palms, and bared teeth.

The Genestealers soon found themselves buckling under the pressure. Desperate to buy more time, reinforcements flooded onto the bridge through hidden access shafts, plunging headlong into the fray.

The Orks did not emerge unscathed. Even a massive Ork Meganob has his limits. The Tyranid swarm was a masterpiece of lethal efficiency and surgical precision; once trapped in a prolonged encirclement, even these walking tanks of green muscle and iron could be rent into scrap.

Yet the Ork Boyz were legion. Whenever a Nob fell, fresh Boyz surged forward to plug the gap, lost in the swirling melee with the xenos.

This bloody war of attrition, a literal "filling the gaps with meat," lasted for an eternity. In the Warp, time is a fractured concept; no one knew how many hours or days had bled away. They only knew the final tally: the Tyranids were exterminated to the last organism, and the bridge was carpeted in a thick layer of Orkish dead.

As the battle-lust receded, Darrius felt as though lead had been poured into his veins. He was immobilized by a profound, soul-deep exhaustion.

He slid down a bulkhead and sat on the deck, gasping for air. At that moment, Smarty, who had vanished during the height of the slaughter, scurried back into view.

"Boss Sneaky iz da best! Boss Sneaky is da biggest, da strongest, da waaagh-iest!" the treacherous runt chirped, falling back into his habit of shameless sycophancy.

A massive boot abruptly sent Smarty flying, cut short his flattery mid-sentence. It was Smartnog, his entire frame drenched in a thick coating of xenos ichor and Ork blood.

After punting the grot, the Ork slumped down next to Darrius. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder like brothers-in-arms who had survived a lifetime of war together.

Darrius was perplexed. Why wasn't Smartnog busy "looting" and refitting the ship? Hadn't he spent his whole life dreaming of a vessel like this?

The atmosphere felt... strange. Darrius shifted his weight uncomfortably.

"Sneaky... you'z a gud Ork." A rare, melancholic shadow crossed Smartnog’s brutal features. "I really loike you, lad."

Darrius’s eyes widened in sheer shock, his pupils vibrating. What in the name of the Warp is this? We’re greenskins! We don't have genders! We’re fungal spore-creatures! We’re mushroom men!

"Ya know?" Smartnog continued, ignoring Darrius’s internal crisis. "Wen I wuz a yoof, I wuz weak. Real weak. Even da snivellin' grots used ta gang up an’ pick on me."

"I wuzn't like da ovva Boyz. I didn't care much for da choppin' an’ da shootin'. I loiked sounds... no, I loiked moozik! I wuz a Rok Boy. But 'coz me moozik wuzn't 'armonious, da grots called me a Noise Boy."

At the memory, Smartnog’s temper flared. He reached out and crushed a passing grot who was trying to scavenge some scrap.

"Leyta on, I krumped 'em all. Dere wuz dis wun Grot Boss who dunt like dat da 'ol punchin' bag wuz fightin' back. 'E brought a mob of grots wiv sticks an’ shivs to corner me."

"I wuz angry, see? I just loiked fings different dan dem, an’ dey wudn't leave me be. So I got me a big choppa... it wuz a real beauty, dat wun."

Smartnog fell silent for a moment, lost in the red mists of memory.

"We hacked at each ovva. It hurt wen dey cut me, an’ it hurt 'em wen I cut back. I dunt remember 'ow long I spent choppin', only dat me blade ended up in da Grot Boss's mouf. 'Is eyeballs popped right out, dey wuz dis big."

Smartnog gestured with his hands; by his account, they were massive.

"Afta dat, no grot dared call me a Noise Boy. But I dunt wanna play wiv grots. I went lookin' for da Boyz. I fought dere wud be Boyz loike me, wunz who cud 'preciate me moozik an’ da songs I sang."

"But dem Boyz wuz thick. All dey cared about wuz eatin' an’ scrappin'. Dey dunt get me moozik. Dey wuz just loike da grots, luffin at me, shovin' me around."

"I cudn’t take it no more, so I fought 'em!" Smartnog slammed a fist into the deck, then slowly uncurled his fingers. "I lost. Dey pinned me down an’ gave me a proppa hidin'."

"But I wudn't give in! I 'ad a fire in me gut! As soon as me wounds 'ealed, I went back for more. Fightin', fightin', always fightin'. Evenchwaly, none of da Boyz in dat sector cud beat me. I krumped 'em into submission an’ became dere Boss."

Becoming a Warboss is the pinnacle of Orkish ambition, but Smartnog’s tone held no triumph.

"I made da Boyz sit down an’ listen to me moozik. To me singin'. It made 'em miserable. Dey only stayed 'cause dey wuz scared of me fist. Seein' dere sad faces made me feel miserable too. I started finkin'... maybe I really dunt 'ave da talent?"

"Just as I wuz doubtin' meself, a lad gave me a tip." A spark of light returned to Smartnog’s eyes. "I needed better kit! I needed rok guitars, drum kits, an’ 'uge speakers!"

"So, I started livin' in da junkyards an’ da scrap-heaps. I bodged togeda all sorts of fings, dead-killy shootas, waaagh-y bombs, but I cudn't evva make a gud instrument. I... I wuz gutted." Smartnog slumped like a wilted plant.

"Dunno 'ow long passed, but I bodged a Gorkanaut for a fella covered in stikkbombs. Dat weird git wuz real 'appy wiv it. 'E told me me 'art wuzn't 'artistic' enuff yet. Said I needed to find me own path. Like 'im, 'e believed dat Art wuz an explosion. A big, zoggin' explosion."

"Dat's when I understood. I sold me scrap-heap, became a Mek, an’ joined a Freeboota fleet. I 'ad a goal: I'z become a Great Big Mek, get me own Great Big Ship, an’ fill da bridge wiv instruments an’ da hull wiv speakers."

Smartnog turned to Darrius, his eyes shining with a fanatical brilliance. "I wuz gonna sing an’ play while me music inspired da Boyz to fight 'arder, stronger, an’ more Waaagh!"

Darrius was stunned. He never imagined an Ork’s emotional life could be so nuanced, so... aspirational. Though, the story sounded suspiciously like a certain failed art student who took a much darker path after being rejected from the academy.

"Ya got yer ship now," Darrius said softly. "Why ain’t ya fixin’ it up? If ya scared o’ da bugs, I’ll grab da Boyz an’ sweep every deck till dis cruiser’s spick‑n‑span."

"...Maybe I'll pass," Smartnog said, his voice dropping. "I fink I really dunt 'ave da talent. I can bodge a shoota, an engine, or a power-klaw betta dan anywun. But I can't evva get da instruments roight. Da bass, da guitars... dey always sound rong. Always out of chun."

Smartnog looked down at his scarred green hands. "Maybe me endin' is just nevva findin' me Art."

"After ol... I'm dyin'."

Chapter 21: High-Octane Rock

Dying? How? It was impossible. During the boarding action against the humans, Smartnog had been practically disemboweled and kept on fighting. How could a few nips from some bugs lay him low now?

Darrius couldn't wrap his head around it. He assumed there was some internal hemorrhaging he couldn't see. He scrambled to his feet, bellowing for a Painboy to get over here and patch the Mek up.

"Stop yer kit-bashin', it’s no use," Smartnog said, waving a hand with surprising stoicism. "It’s da bug-venom. Wen dey bite ya, dere’s a chance dey take over yer noggin. Usually, an Ork of my size wudn't care... Guess me luck ran out. Or maybe dat humie's blade weakened me enough for da rot to take hold."

The Tyranid genetic virus, the Genestealer’s Kiss, was potent enough to subvert even the resilient physiology of an Ork. However, because Orks reproduce via fungal spores, the infection usually died with the host, preventing the cult from spreading through the greenskin hierarchy.

"Dunt give up... maybe da Dok has a bodge for dis," Darrius urged.

"Nah, I can feel me own meat. I can 'ear da bugs in me head now. Roight now, dat voice is tellin' me to chop ya into bitz."

Darrius felt his knees go momentarily weak. That voice... Could it be the Hive Mind? The gestalt consciousness of an entire intergalactic predator? Was that a psychic weight any mortal lifeform could hope to resist?

"I told dat voice ta sod off," Smartnog said dismissively. "If I cud see it or touch it, I’z give it a taste of me klaw."

"I ain't scared of dyin'. I just 'ate da idea of a bug pullin' me strings. But... I got regrets. Not about da ship. Just... dat I never 'ad a proper song to call me own. Is it 'cause I'm a greenskin dat I can't do Art?" Smartnog raised his massive power-claw and rested it against his own throat. His tone wasn't one of fear, but of a profound, lingering sorrow.

A large hand gripped the metal of the power-claw. It was Darrius. "Wait. Maybe I got a tune I can play for ya."

Smartnog’s story struck a chord deep within Darrius. In his eyes, this hulking green monstrosity was no longer a terror of the stars, but something relatable, something real.

He saw a boy bullied at school for his hobbies, a boy who refused to abandon what he loved and instead fought back against every voice that sought to diminish him. Through that struggle, he grew stronger and reached for greatness, yet kept that spark of a dream alive in his heart. To Smartnog, that dream was more precious than life itself.

Knowledge and inspiration began to surge through Darrius’s mind, pulling memories from the deepest reaches of his former life. Perhaps the Ork physiology truly did enhance cognitive retrieval; even the grayest memories were being dusted off, shining with new clarity.

He remembered a game from his youth: Warcraft III: The Frozen Throne. At the end of the campaign, there was an electrifying track: "Power of the Horde."

His mental processors whirring at maximum capacity, Darrius scooped up the trembling Smarty and began barking orders. He personally set to work, scavenging parts to bodge the necessary instruments.

"But Boss Sneaky, dis ain't da time for playin'! Da Meks say da ship’s navigations are locked tight. Dey can’t fix it..." Smarty stammered.

"Tell 'em to bodge it or find a way! Do wat I said first! If dis ain't perfect, I’ll feed ya to a squig meself!" Darrius roared.

Driven by the threat of immediate violence, the grots and Boyz worked with terrifying efficiency. Within fifteen minutes, a makeshift stage of speakers and erratic wiring was ready. To solve the problem of the other Orks' lack of musical training, Darrius bypassed them entirely, coding a simple sub-routine into the machinery so the instruments would play the melody themselves.

Darrius placed his hands on the "kustom" electric guitar. He had never touched one in his life, yet in this moment, the instrument felt like a natural extension of his Astartes-tier reflexes. He struck the first chord.

"Storm, Earth, and Fire, hear my call!" The manic music erupted.

Translated into the guttural tongue of the Orks, the lyrics became something more, something primal, raw, and overflowing with power.

The blood-pumping rock music thundered through every corner of the bridge. The Boyz looting scrap, the Meks trying to bypass the cogitators, and the grots collecting teeth from the floor, all of them stopped. A wave of manic excitement washed over them. Some began to howl the lyrics alongside Darrius; others stomped their boots in a rhythmic war-dance, their work suddenly infused with a new, frantic energy.

But none were as moved as Smartnog. His face shifted from shock to a wide, toothy grin. He began to sing along, his voice growing louder, more vibrant, more WAAAGH! with every verse. Had he been human, he might have wept.

On the bridge’s viewscreen, the kaleidoscopic, shifting madness of the Warp provided the perfect, psychedelic backdrop for the performance.

Hosting a rock concert for the Boyz in the middle of the Empyrean. Check.

Perhaps because emotions are amplified within the Warp, one rendition wasn't enough. As Darrius finished the first set, the mob of cheering Orks demanded an encore, and they wanted it louder, faster, more chaotic.

Swept up in their fervor, Darrius struck a final, screeching high note and looked over at Smartnog to see if the Ork was satisfied.

Smartnog’s maw was split in a massive, happy grin as he locked eyes with Darrius from across the bridge.

"Sneaky... you'z a gud wun. I really loike you, lad." The din of the crowd was too loud for Darrius to hear the words clearly.

In his vision, Smartnog gave a slow, appreciative nod. Then, with a sudden, decisive motion, he snapped the power-claw shut around his own throat.

Darrius didn't know how to feel. He was an Ork now; he wasn't supposed to be sentimental. Yet, there was a tightness in his chest that wouldn't go away.

Whether as a Great Mek or a Rok Boy, Smartnog was gone. In the universe of Warhammer 40,000, millions die every day, be they Orks, humans, even the arrogant Aeldari. When would his turn come?

Zog it! He pushed the thought away. Be a carefree Ork. Be happy. Just keep WAAAGH-ing.

Darrius slammed a final, soaring power chord on the guitar, reigniting the crowd’s passion as he launched into a new verse.

A crew of jubilant greenskins, piloting a stolen Imperial cruiser, sailed aimlessly through the Warp, singing at the top of their lungs.

Suddenly, a rift tore open in the Warp ahead of them, a yawning maw of real-space that swallowed the battered Glorious Knight whole.

The harsh, natural light of a star washed over the hull. A pale yellow sun, a few orbiting spheres made up a mundane, quiet star system.

Chapter 22: The Oronia System

The Oronia System was a place of utter mediocrity.

The third planet of the system was a blue, habitable world, though its development was sparse. It possessed no sprawling Hive Cities, no advanced manufactorums, and its agricultural output was modest at best. In the grand ledger of the Imperium, it was a negligible entry.

Having been colonized for only a few centuries, it remained a frontier world, yet because its natural resources were relatively abundant, the humans born here lived lives of comparative tranquility.

That peace was shattered by a warship limping out of the Immaterium. The reports streaming in from the orbital stations left Planetary Governor Cornwatt with a brow furrowed in anxiety.

In the 41st Millennium, the plight of the Imperium of Man had become an inescapable shadow.

Abaddon, the Despoiler, the Arch-enemy of Mankind, had sacrificed a Blackstone Fortress to break Cadia, the fortress world that had held the Eye of Terror at bay. Now, the Great Rift, the Cicatrix Maledictum, tore across the galaxy, severing East from West.

Oronia was unfortunate enough to be situated in the Imperium Nihilus, the Dark Imperium to the galactic east. Though isolated from the Emperor’s Light, it sat far from the primary warp-conduits.

Cornwatt had initially believed himself fortunate. Oronia was young, its trajectory was upward, and its remote location kept it clear of the galaxy's most predatory horrors. He thought that if he simply fulfilled his duties and avoided excessive decadence, the colony would stabilize, and he could secure a few centuries of luxury through juvenat treatments.

The Imperium was vast, spanning the entire galaxy. Even with enemies everywhere and the rot of collapse set in, he reasoned it would take ages for the wheels of ruin to grind his world under. Perhaps by then, he would be long dead, leaving the "wisdom of posterity" to solve whatever crises remained.

However, destiny is a fickle mistress. Recently, warp storms had grown frequent, and stray vessels had begun drifting into Oronia with alarming regularity. Most were Imperial warships or merchantmen, and the news brought by the void-farers was consistently grim. The front lines of conflict were blurring; war could now erupt in any corner of the galaxy.

"Is there still no response from that Lunar-class cruiser?" Cornwatt demanded via the comm-bead on his desk. At the orbital station, a radar technician was sweating profusely as he hailed the Glorious Knight.

Naturally, they received no reply. Darrius and his Boyz were still submerged in the manic euphoria of their rock concert.

Finally, persistence bore fruit as several life pods entered the station's sensor range.

"Mayday, Mayday! This is the crew of the Imperial Navy vessel Glorious Knight. We were tasked with surveillance of the Ork sectors. We were ambushed by greenskin pirates. The Glorious Knight has been boarded and seized by the savages. We are the only survivors."

The distress signal arrived alongside the pods.

"Demand a visual feed," Cornwatt ordered, narrowing his eyes.

The link was established, revealing a group of humans, mostly wounded Astra Militarum soldiers. An officer stepped forward, his uniform caked in dried gore, looking as though he had crawled out of a meat grinder.

"I am Pex, of House Lanpaster. Captain of the Lunar-class cruiser Glorious Knight."

"I appeal to the Governor of this world, by my honor as an officer and the name of my House, for sanctuary. Rest assured, we carry only soldiers of the Imperium and non-combatants. We pose no threat."

The name Lanpaster carried weight. They were an ancient noble lineage that had produced Planetary Governors, Colonels, and Admirals. It was whispered they even held a modicum of influence on Holy Terra itself.

Governor Cornwatt’s own lineage was insignificant by comparison. To refuse Pex was unthinkable; to simultaneously offend a powerful Great House, the Imperial Navy, and the Departmento Munitorum was a death sentence.

"Of course, esteemed Captain Pex. To serve the Imperium’s defenders is a Governor’s highest calling," Cornwatt replied, his stern expression melting into a practiced social smile.

"You have my gratitude, Governor. Even the Emperor’s Angels would commend your mercy and loyalty," Pex flattered.

After instructing the station to receive the survivors, Cornwatt contacted his planetary defense fleet, ordering them to surround the captured Glorious Knight.

As he spoke with Pex, a seed of avarice began to sprout in Cornwatt’s mind. That was a Lunar-class cruiser. Even battered, its spine was intact. If the Orks on board were as weakened by the battle as Pex suggested, could his own forces not board and purge the xenos? He could claim a cruiser for his own.

The entirety of the Oronia system was defended by a meager force of one cruiser and three destroyers. Oronia lacked the industrial capacity to build starships; to expand the fleet, they had to purchase them at exorbitant costs. Even a common frigate would strain the treasury of a single-planet system.

Greed is a blinding mask. As the planetary defense fleet moved to boldly encircle the Glorious Knight, the tragedy began.

The rock music had effectively spiked the Orks' excitement to a fever pitch, drastically increasing their efficiency. While Darrius had been performing, the Meks had successfully seized total control of the ship’s cogitators.

"Orks is betta dan humies. One-on-one, no problem," Darrius muttered, his own head still buzzing from the music. He momentarily ignored the fact that three destroyers were closing in and the Glorious Knight was a floating ruin.

Seeing the two Imperial destroyers enter the kill-zone, Darrius barked: "Blast dose two tiny boats to scrap! Den pedal to da metal an’ ram da big wun! Snag it right in da middle!"

"...Boss..." a small, hesitant voice croaked at Darrius's feet. "We ain't took da gun-decks yet. No one’s dere to pull da triggers..."

"Er..." Darrius, the would-be warlord, stood in awkward silence. This was his blunder. He’d gotten so swept up in the song, and the Boyz with him, that he’d forgotten to actually man the battle stations.

"Since we haven’t taken 'em, wot da hell are ya still stand'n ‘round ‘ere for?! Get ‘da ladz movin’, now!" Darrius delivered a sharp kick to the messenger, sending him tumbling. A Warboss never admits a mistake.

With Smartnog dead, Darrius was the strongest, tallest, and biggest Ork on the bridge. No one dared cross the new Boss. The crew scrambled into action, prepping the cruiser for the coming slaughter.

Darrius hoped the humans would delay their attack, granting him the precious minutes he needed to ready the macro-cannons.

By a stroke of ironic fate, the Imperial ships held their fire even as they entered range. Having reached a sufficient distance, they launched swarms of small boarding craft. They would very quickly learn to regret their arrogance.

Chapter 23: A Perilous Boarding

Cornwatt was exultant. What he had initially perceived as a looming crisis had transformed into a windfall from the heavens. Sorrow vanishes as fortune dawns, though, in the grim darkness of the 41st Millennium, such ancient adages had long been forgotten.

"Boarding craft have successfully docked. Zero resistance encountered. The path is clear."

The intelligence from the front lines fueled Cornwatt's joy. Since a Lunar-class cruiser was now effectively his prize, he had to consider its former master. He turned his attention away from the tactical displays and commanded his servants to prepare his personal shuttle. He intended to greet Captain Pex at the orbital station in person. If necessary, a discreet transfer of wealth would suffice... as long as Pex looked the other way, the Imperial Navy could simply strike the Glorious Knight from the registers as a total combat loss.

"Have the seneschal prepare a substantial sum of Throne Gelt, and ensure it is not our local scrip, but Imperial currency. Bring jewels as well. I am to meet an esteemed guest," Cornwatt directed his attendants before departing.

…

The PDF soldiers disembarking from the boarding craft were reasonably well-trained. They advanced in a leapfrog formation, covering one another, yet the oppressive silence of the warship’s lightless corridors weighed heavily on their souls. It felt as though the darkness itself held a thousand unseen maws.

"A fully crewed Lunar-class carries tens of thousands of souls. They’ve got elite Astra Militarum attachments, heavy ordnance… hell, they're supposed to have Leman Russ battle tanks. How does a single band of boarding greenskins take down a beast like this?"

Perhaps the rhythmic thump-thump of combat boots on the cold deck plating was too unsettling, as one guardsman sought to break the tension with nervous chatter.

"Exactly," another replied. "Even ten thousand greenskins couldn't slaughter that many men in three days. Maybe the Guard on this ship were just soft, not like us planetary elites."

"Eyes front! Maintain vox-silence!" the squad Sergeant barked.

The Sergeant’s unease, however, was deepening. The environmental damage spoke of a cataclysmic struggle with walls painted in arterial spray, bulkheads twisted by high-yield explosives. Yet... where were the bodies? Whether greenskin or human, one would expect to find at least the scorched remains of the fallen.

The squad pressed on. As they rounded a corner, the beams of multiple specialized lumens cut through the gloom at the end of the hall. A hunched monstrosity, deep in the throes of a grisly feast, was startled by the light. It snapped its head toward the squad, let out a piercing shriek, and vanished into the overhead shadows.

The soldiers didn't even have time to squeeze their triggers. They watched, paralyzed, as the creature evaporated into the dark. These planetary defense forces might have been well-equipped, but they lacked the harrowing experience of fighting the true enemies of Mankind, the terrifying Xenos.

The Sergeant led his men to the site of the creature's meal. It was a slaughterhouse. From the mangled gore and shredded flak armor, it appeared a fleeing squad of Astra Militarum had been cornered here.

"Sir... what was that? I've never seen anything like it..." a fresh-faced recruit asked, his voice trembling.

The Sergeant, kneeling to inspect the remains, remained silent for a long moment. He transmitted the data from his pict-recorder to command. Finally, his voice came through the vox, hollow and grim: "The intel was flawed. It's not just greenskins. There are Tyranids here. They’ve been butchering everyone together."

In the public vox-channel, the sounds of distant gunfire, muffled explosions, and the wet tear of rending flesh began to rise. Terror rippled through the squad like a contagion.

"Lock it down! Prepare for contact!" the Sergeant roared, thumbing his lasgun to semi-auto. "For the Emperor!"

…

On the bridge, Darrius was unleashing a torrent of abuse at his subordinates. "Who told ya ta start krumpin'?! I said wait! Wait until more uv da humiez are on board before we spring da trap!"

"Boss Sneaky... it ain't us!" A Nob, only two heads shorter than Darrius, replied with a look of wounded pride. "Our lads are hidin' proppa. It’z dem bugs. Dey started bitin' da humiez furst. S'pose dey got 'ungry."

"Fine! I knew I cudn't count on ya ta be kunnin'. Man da batteries! Open fire on da humie small-ships, den full throttle! We'z rammin' da big wun!" With the element of surprise compromised, Darrius pivoted to raw aggression.

The massive, Ork-manned macro-cannons let out a world-shaking roar. Though only a few batteries remained functional after the previous battles, at this point-blank range against the unsuspecting Imperial destroyers, they were more than sufficient.

Combined with the suddenness of the strike and the "extra bit of boom" the Meks had stuffed into the shells, two of the destroyers were instantly cored, blossoming into silent fireballs in the void.

The Glorious Knight’s remaining engines erupted in long plumes of promethium fire. Pushing the output to the redline, the ship surged forward with a speed that nearly matched its undamaged prime.

The sudden turn of events caught the Oronia PDF completely off guard. The system's lone remaining cruiser began a desperate turn, but thanks to the orbital mechanics that kept them at a safe distance from one another’s gravity wells, they weren't immediately pulverized.

Even so, the charging Glorious Knight used its prow ram to shear away two of the Imperial cruiser’s engine clusters as they bypassed one another.

Darrius judged that his current firepower wasn't enough to sink a fresh Imperial cruiser in a prolonged duel. If he stayed to fight, he would lose.

"Keep da juice flowin' to da engines!" he bellowed. "Head for dat desert rock, Oronia IV! Push it!"

He would have preferred Oronia III, the lush, inhabited world perfect for Ork propagation, but the Glorious Knight was in no condition for a long-distance chase. If he tried for the inhabited world, the Imperial cruiser would catch them from behind and send them to the scrapheap.

…

Before the cosmic upheaval in the void reached the surface, Governor Cornwatt waited patiently in the orbital station's reception hall for Captain Pex.

By tradition and protocol, all rescued personnel had to undergo a thorough bio-scan. The galaxy was rife with xenos capable of infiltrating the Imperium; security had to be absolute.

"How dare you treat a high-born noble and a senior officer of the Imperial Navy in such a manner!" Pex roared, his voice echoing through the station. His two bodyguards stood behind him, faces etched with indignation.

"To be stripped and prodded like common dregs in public is an insult! I will not endure it!"

The technicians were at a loss. The protocols were mandatory, yet they dared not offend a man of such station.

"Provide our guest with a private screening room and a specialized retinue," Cornwatt’s voice came through the vox-caster. "Oronia may be a provincial backwater, but I am a noble as well. We know our etiquettes. We shall not offend the honored House of Lanpaster."

This was Cornwatt's gambit: a display of rigid authority followed by a graceful concession, perfectly softening his target for the negotiations to follow.

Chapter 24: Yes, Sir!

During the private screening arranged specifically for Pex, the Captain became markedly more cooperative. He offered no violent resistance, though when it came time for blood draws and tissue sampling, he remained haughtily insistent that no commoner possessed the right to touch his person. He performed the extractions himself, handing over the vials with cold disdain.

The results returned clean. The bio-scans confirmed that Pex was an intact human specimen, untainted by xenos corruption and carrying no lethal pathogens.

In the station’s opulent reception hall, Cornwatt received Pex with practiced warmth.

"These are local specialties of the Oronia System," Cornwatt said, gesturing to a velvet-lined case. "Do not let their modest appearance fool you; the mining process is perilous, and they are exceedingly rare. Throughout the neighboring sub-sectors, these gems are considered the pinnacle of luxury."

Cornwatt spoke with fluid eloquence, carefully laying the groundwork for the bribery and political alignment he sought.

"Governor!" Pex barked, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Lock down this station immediately! Genestealers have infiltrated the facility!"

"!" Cornwatt stared in disbelief. Simultaneously, his private encrypted vox-channel chimed with a frantic urgency.

The reports were catastrophic. Of the eight boarding parties sent to the Glorious Knight, six had been ambushed by swarms of Genestealers; the other two had blundered into an Ork counter-attack.

Worse, the station’s secondary screening center had just flagged the "survivors" from the life pods. Tyranid genetic markers had been detected in several individuals who were now actively butchering the medical staff.

"This... this... how can this be?" Cornwatt stammered, his composure shattering. He was a young Governor, and he had never faced an existential threat of this magnitude.

Then came the final blow. The Glorious Knight, which had appeared dead in the water moments ago, was now under power. It had already liquidated two of his destroyers and rammed his most precious asset, the cruiser Guardian!

"The Orks are piloting the Glorious Knight toward Oronia III! Governor, what are our orders?" a frantic voice cried over the vox.

"I... I..."

"There are two billion Imperial souls on that world!" Pex roared, leaning over the comm-lectern. "Ignore the damage to your cruiser and the boarding teams! This is total war! You cannot allow the greenskins and the swarm to make planetfall! Pursue them! Destroy them now!"

"...Governor?" The officer on the other end hesitated, confused by the unfamiliar voice but terrified by its authority.

"Do as Captain Pex says! Immediately!" Cornwatt shouted, regaining a sliver of focus. In that instant, Cornwatt realized his own inadequacy; he knew nothing of void warfare, but Pex was a veteran of the Imperial Navy.

Finding a pillar to lean on, the Governor’s panic began to subside.

"Oronia is facing a cataclysm, Captain Pex. You have the experience we lack. Will you help us cleanse this system of the xenos?"

"It is my duty," Pex said with a humble incline of his head. "These horrors followed my vessel here. It is my responsibility to see them extinguished."

…

Darrius watched the tactical display as the human cruiser accelerated in pursuit, its blue lance beams lashing out at the Glorious Knight’s void shields.

If this continued, his shields would overload long before they reached Oronia IV, which was still a full day’s burn away. To survive, he couldn't just run, he had to think, he had to fink.

By the grace of Gork (or perhaps Mork), a plan began to form after only ten minutes of studying the star charts. The void was not truly empty; nebulae, asteroid belts, and planetary moons were all strategic assets waiting to be exploited.

The Glorious Knight began a banking turn. To the humans, it looked like a desperate attempt to evade lance fire; in reality, Darrius was positioning the ship for a counter-stroke.

"Ironklaw, are da decks clear uv runts yet?" Darrius voxed. The bugs and the humans remaining inside the ship were wild cards he couldn't afford. Through the Weirdboyz, he maintained a tenuous psychic link with his sub-commanders.

"...Almost, Boss... almost," Ironklaw’s voice was suspiciously shaky.

"Almost? Why ain't dey dead yet? Ya lot 'avin' a squig-roast down dere?"

"Da humies are mostly krumped. We hit 'em from da back an’ nicked dere boats, an’ dey broke pretty quick. But da bugs... deyre tricky. Kunnin'. Dey wunt fight us proppa, just keep crawlin' into da narrow pipes..." Ironklaw’s explanation trailed off into a mumble.

"I dunt wunt excuses! Get da Burna Boyz down dere an’ flush 'em out. If I see one bug on my bridge, I’m gunna knock yer teef out so hard dey wun't evva grow back!"

After threatening Ironklaw, Darrius contacted every Mekboy he could find.

"I wunt bombs. Big wuns. Wuns dat float in da void, got magnets, an’ stick to humie ships. Make 'em killy, an’ make 'em lots." To ensure the Meks understood, Darrius scrawled a crude schematic on a nearby data-slate.

The Orkish genetic aptitude for technology was staggering. The Meks not only grasped the concept of void-mines instantly but immediately began "improving" them. Some added larger explosive payloads; others increased the sensor range or magnetic propulsion. One particularly inspired Mek created "chain-mines" designed to trigger an entire field once a single contact was made.

Darrius rubbed his bald green head. He wondered how the War in Heaven had ever been lost if even these "devolved" Orks were this inventive.

Leaving the command to the Meks for a moment, Darrius personally led a team of three Meks and a swarm of grots to the damaged macro-cannon decks to oversee emergency repairs.

As for the bridge... Darrius looked down. Smarty was clinging to his massive leg.

Was the grot getting bigger? Darrius was now five meters tall, yet Smarty didn't look nearly as small as a grot should.

Ork Boyz were prone to rushing headlong into a scrap. Grots, however, were cowardly, and that cowardice made them cruel and cunning.

"I'm gunna move da ship in a zig-zag, da 'S-turn.' It'll give da side guns a clear shot at da humies behind us to slow 'em down."

"But I gotta go fix da big guns. Can you make sure da lads keep da ship on course?" Darrius asked the grot.

Smarty hopped off Darrius’s leg, snapped his heels together into a perfect military posture, and offered a crisp salute.

"Yes, Sir! Smarty garanteez da jobz a guddun!"

To prove his authority, Smarty turned to the surrounding Orks and bellowed: "Boss Sneaky gave an orda! Dunt ya lot ‘ear? Stand straight loike Blood Axe Boyz! Salute!"

The other Orks looked baffled, but under the intimidating gaze of their new Warboss, they mimicked the grot, standing stiffly and saluting Darrius. "We garantee da jobz a guddun, Sir!"

Satisfied, Darrius turned to leave. He didn't doubt their natural talent for war.

"You'z doin' it wrong, ya squig-brain! Use yer roight hand!" a nearby Ork yelled, booting a comrade who had saluted with his left.

Well, Darrius thought, I just hope they don't blow us up before the humies do...

Chapter 25: Exterminatus

"Keep dis course goin’. Da moment we pass troo dem two nebulae, tell me immediately." Darrius looked toward the side, addressing Kukka. "Kukka, you’z da link between me an’ Smarty. Watch im’ close. If ‘e messes up, ya got me permission to turn ‘im into a squig‑hop."

Having delivered his orders, Darrius shook his head at the sight of the row of stiffly saluting Boyz and strode off the bridge.

…

"The orbital station is under full lockdown. The survivors from the life pods are being processed in batches for more rigorous screening. I’ve deployed a full company of soldiers to every checkpoint. Most of the xenos have been detected and suppressed."

"I cannot thank you enough, Captain Pex. Your counsel saved this entire station." Cornwatt was brimming with gratitude; he knew that had it been left to him, the situation would never have been stabilized so swiftly.

"Do not lower your guard, Governor. The greenskin and the Tyranid are the most persistent blights in the galaxy. We cannot allow a single Genestealer, nor a single Ork, to make planetfall on the beauty of Oronia III. That would be a catastrophe for the entire world."

Pex showed no sign of arrogance despite his success. Instead, he became even more solemn as he educated Cornwatt on the xenos threat. "Once they begin to spread like a plague, nothing can stop them, save for an Inquisitorial decree of Exterminatus."

"Exterminatus..." At the mention of the word, Cornwatt began to tremble involuntarily.

He could see it, his beautiful home world, cast in the shadow of a gargantuan Imperial fleet. A cold, merciless Cyclonic Torpedo drops from a launch tube, piercing the atmosphere and slamming through the planetary crust to detonate in the core.

Massive mushroom clouds of death would erupt across the surface, followed by a firestorm that would sweep across mountains, plains, and oceans like a physical shockwave until the entire world was consumed by flame. Everything would be reduced to ash. No life would remain.

This was the Imperium's final mercy, the thunderous strike used to excise a festering wound by cutting away the healthy flesh along with the rot.

"No... that is unacceptable..." Fear gnawed at Cornwatt. He could not stomach the thought of his world facing such a horizon. The loss of wealth was secondary; he feared being hauled before a military tribunal for dereliction of duty.

"Indeed, it is unacceptable. Therefore, we must halt the xenos spread here. The station is a secondary concern; as long as we control the flow of traffic, the danger is contained."

"The key is the Glorious Knight. If the xenos aboard land on Oronia III... this is no time for hesitation. Even though she is my ship, I advise her immediate and total destruction." Pex spoke with the cold, iron logic of a loyal Imperial officer.

The logic was simple, but the execution was not. The Ork-controlled Glorious Knight was moving in a jagged S-pattern, not only evading several lance strikes but constantly bringing its broadside macro-cannons to bear.

By some dark miracle, the Orkish gunnery was unnervingly precise. Whether through sheer luck or some inexplicable warp-taint, the shells, crudely painted blue, repeatedly slammed into the Imperial cruiser at extreme ranges, battering the void shields like a titan’s hammer.

The Captain of the PDF cruiser Guardian was clearly out of his depth. The violent shuddering of the ship terrified him. Claiming engine damage, he refused to commit to a full-throttle pursuit.

"The Guardian’s engines are compromised. We may not catch the Glorious Knight..." Cornwatt said bitterly to Pex.

Pex lowered his head in thought for a moment before looking up. "Governor, would you permit me to remotely direct your cruiser? Though her specifications differ from standardized Imperial Navy patterns, I believe my experience can bridge the gap."

"One more thing, as a precaution, you must return to Oronia III, Governor. You need to calm the populace, muster the PDF, and prepare for the worst-case scenario."

Pex’s words were perfectly reasoned. However, Cornwatt lacked the tactical acumen to know how to deploy for such a disaster. He would need to consult data-slates just to understand the basic traits of Orks and Genestealers.

"Captain Pex—no, General Pex. In my capacity as Governor of Oronia III, I hereby commission you as General of the Planetary Defense Forces. You have full authority to command the military and repel the xenos invasion."

"I beg you to return to Oronia III with me. We must formulate a defense plan together." Cornwatt clung to Pex like a drowning man to a life raft.

"I... I am not sure that is appropriate. I should remain on the station for further testing," Pex demurred.

"Nonsense! It was your insight that contained the Tyranid infiltration, and your tests were clear. A man of your caliber is wasted here while two billion souls on the surface await our protection."

Cornwatt was desperate. First, Pex was a rare talent. Second, if Pex directed the defense and things went south, the Imperial tithe-collectors and Inquisitors would have a perfect scapegoat. Pex brought the xenos; Pex failed to stop them. Cornwatt, the noble, could potentially flee with his assets while the "General" stayed to go down with the ship.

"And the Guardian?"

"I will give the Captain a direct mandate to destroy the Glorious Knight at any cost."

"Then one final question, Governor. How is the state of your military? Your equipment, your officer corps... specifically, how large is your Commissariat?"

"Fear not, General Pex. In Oronia, the PDF is well-equipped and numerous. Our only weakness is the officer corps. As you know, these are dark times for the Imperium; soldiers are easy to levy, but officers take years to train. The Departmento Munitorum has diverted our sanctioned Commissars to more active war zones."

"Ah." Cornwatt looked melancholic. Every ruler wants reliable subordinates. "Oronia has seen no war in centuries, so our officer quotas were deprioritized. I shall personally petition the Munitorum for an emergency draft of leadership."

"I see... I see. That is quite alright. The Munitorum is indeed busy. I have extensive experience in officer training; that burden can be placed on my shoulders." A flicker of satisfaction flashed in Pex’s eyes, though it was expertly masked.

"Excellent, General Pex. Let us depart. There is much work to be done on the surface." Cornwatt was pleased; he had found his fall guy.

As for the two billion lives on Oronia III? Neither man truly cared. In the 41st Millennium, who counts the lives of the small?