The Emperor's Purpose
The Emperor sought to unite mankind—a noble and lofty goal.
Yet not all saw it as such. Some, fearing new tyranny, refused to join the Imperium of Man. Others, driven by selfishness and unwilling to relinquish control over their planets or systems, answered with defiance and gunfire.
Such was the Dolian System, where local leaders murdered Imperial envoys and then—using nothing more than orbital patrol ships—destroyed the vessels that had brought them. That was their first and last mistake. The astropaths had just enough time to transmit their final message: coordinates and a record of the atrocity.
It did not take long for scout ships to appear in the Dolian System, like hunting hounds leading the way for Expeditionary Fleet 074. Their orders were clear: punish Dolian and bring it into Compliance.
The commanders of the 074th expected little resistance. Just another backwater system, swollen with pride—a matter resolved in months, hardly worth the attention of the Astartes. For this arrogance, they paid with their lives. Dolian was waiting. And what awaited them was no meager patrol fleet.
Their enemy was a small but lethal force—relics of the Dark Age of Technology and the Age of Strife. Few in number, yet each ship was a leviathan, armed to the teeth. The tragedy repeated itself, differing only in scale.
After two failed attempts and the grim realization of the enemy's strength, the Imperium responded in earnest. Heavy cruisers and battleships were mobilized. Then the Mechanicus intervened—not to destroy, but to capture. These ancient vessels were too precious, too full of forgotten knowledge. To ensure minimal damage, the Astartes were called.
And so, the unlucky task fell to my Grand Battalion.
Why unlucky? Because boarding actions in the void are no easier than urban warfare. Worse, my battalion had little experience in either. I could barely fathom how to seize a ship—secure the gun decks, engines, generator, and command center, then hold them. Frankly, I'd rather plant nuclear charges and leave.
"Enough whining, Buri. Wipe that sour look off your face." Rork clapped me on the pauldron.
"I know, Rork. But I trained our men for ground war, not void combat. Now they expect us to grab knives in our teeth and storm a ship." I sighed. "At least our Techmarines can fabricate enough boarding shields from 'salvaged' plating. Titan-grade, I hope?"
Rork smirked at my correction. "Aye, with spares. But why the red circle in the center? The modified armor's heavy enough." He gestured to a shield carried by servitors.
"Survival. Remember marksmanship training? 'Aim for the red circle.' Our enemies will do the same—instinct will drive their shots to the center, not our limbs or heads." I paused. "We should add strobe lights too. Time to 'delight' Bharvon again." I sent the request to the manufactorum aboard our temporary barge.
"Our Master of the Forge will curse for hours. You've already buried him in requests."
"Not my problem. He volunteered."
"You might be the only one who's pissed off not just regular Tech-Priests, but even the Techmarines." Rork's grin widened.
"Again—not my concern. I need results. They can curse in binary all they like; to me, it's just mechanical birdsong."
Our banter ended as the Navigator announced our imminent warp translation. The remaining hours were spent in frantic preparation—last-minute adjustments, double-checking gear, and prayers to the Omnissiah.
"Warp translation in 3… 2… 1. Mark."
The ship lurched. For a moment, sensory overload gripped me—a nails-on-slate screech echoing in my skull, teeth aching. Then, reality snapped back.
We had arrived.
But there was no respite. Beyond the warp lay the true trial: the enemy fleet, and the battle to bring Dolian to Compliance.
Imperial ships emerged into chaos. Auspexes screamed with contacts—too many. Panic flickered among the crew.
"Silence!" I roared. "These are decoys or small craft. Captain Kenis! Do your damn job, or I'll blast your rank off your corpse and replace you with an officer who has adamantium balls! Move!"
The bridge erupted into action. Across the fleet, some captains kept order with words. Others executed cowardly officers on the spot.
"Rork, start vetting our men for ship command. We'll need our own captains soon."
My suspicions proved right—most contacts were drones, small craft, or jury-rigged civilian hulls turned into makeshift gunships. A swarm of torpedoes followed, launched from extreme range.
Dolian's rulers had sought to bleed us before committing their true strength—the Dark Age relics. Our battleships withdrew to the third line, letting cruisers and escorts absorb the first blows. Macro-cannons thundered, ineffective against the swarm but deadly against the ancient warships. Fighters clashed in a storm of tracer fire and detonations. Suicide runs lit the void.
Torpedoes were intercepted, but the delay cost us. By the time we closed to effective range, our first line was shattered. The second, more mobile, fared better.
Numerical superiority remained ours. The order came: boarding action.
In the teleportarium, I checked my bolt pistol one last time. The moment the enemy's void shields flickered, light engulfed us.
Then—we were inside.
The corridor was wide, filled with stunned crew in simple jumpsuits.
"Fire!"
Bolters roared. Bodies ruptured like parchment. I drew my combat blade, cutting down those too close while shooting officers. Thirty seconds, and the hall was cleared.
"Bharvon! We're in. Scan the ship—locate the main generator."
"Confirmed. Sending coordinates."
We'd missed the mark by several decks. Shield-bearers advanced first, exploiting the crew's confusion. Resistance came near the generator—shipboard security in flak armor, supported by automated turrets.
One Marine fell, gravely wounded, before we breached melee. We used enemies as living shields, dismantling turrets, then butchered the rest. Only an officer's plasma pistol posed a threat, scorching a pauldron.
As charges breached the final door, the ship fought back—blast doors opened, gravity cut out. The captain hoped to vent us into space. But mag-locks held. We stormed forward.
No guns now—only blades and stun grenades. Helmets filtered the smoke and glare. A one-sided slaughter. Prisoners could wait; the generator was priority.
"Rork, Bharvon—generator secured. Teleport in tech teams in ten."
Light flared. Techmarines materialized, already working. Destroyers followed, securing the area.
Phase one complete. Now—the bridge and gun decks.