The group exchanged surprised looks.
They hadn't expected it to be that infamous "penniless" Chapter.
And weren't these guys supposed to be active outside Imperial space? How did they end up back in the Ultima Segmentum, and with such luck that they happened to run into them during resupply?
"This just got interesting."
Rameses let out a low chuckle.
He hadn't known in advance that the ones coming to rescue them were the Carcharodons Chapter. After all, astropathic messages only send over abstract images, more like a game of charades than a clear conversation—guessing the general meaning is already good fortune.
The Carcharodons' origins remain obscure, but anyone who knows the lore understands they most likely trace back to the Terran-born Raven Guard exiled by their Primarch Corax.
They first entered the Imperium's records around M32, and since then have kept a deliberately loose, half-detached relationship with Imperial authorities.
Call them poor? Hardly—these sharks still possess a stockpile of Great Crusade-era wargear. Just one company fields three Contemptor Dreadnoughts, they still operate ancient vessels like an Inferno-class cruiser, and even retain a Battle Barge handed down from those legendary days.
Call them rich? Absolutely not—after a war they'll strip even the enemy's ration packs. To conserve what little they have, the whole Chapter fights as close-combat berserkers, favoring Mk V Heresy-pattern armor that sacrifices performance for durability and compatibility, and wielding chain-axes like some savage warband of Chaos.
On top of that, they're a fleet-based Chapter, spending most of their existence adrift in the dark void beyond the Imperium. With no stable logistics, every time they return to Imperial territory it's like a starving gang of bandits storming a village—bleeding planets for tithe, and trading any STCs they've dredged up in the dark for Mechanicus weapons and munitions.
Once stocked, they vanish again, roaming for another century or two before returning.
They have no love for the modern Imperium, yet remain loyal. It's said they hold a sealed mandate signed by a Primarch himself, ordering them to fight xenos in the places where the Astronomican cannot reach, guarding the Imperium's farthest frontiers.
The High Lords, in turn, have little affection for this unruly Chapter. They tossed them a backwater world as a nominal home and essentially let them fend for themselves.
The Sharks, in typical fashion, stripped that planet of its entire population and resources and took them all aboard.
Because of their supply constraints and lack of stable recruitment, the Carcharodons have always had to be brutally "practical."
Given their long record of piratical behavior, this meeting promised to be… colorful.
"Patch them through."
Once Arabella and Colonel Kovek approached, Romulus gestured for the vox-officer to open the channel.
Half a month of time had already allowed both sides to adapt to each other's comms methods.
"Greetings. I am Romulus, Kill-Team Leader of the Deathwatch."
The reply came without pleasantries, straight to the point. In High Gothic—no longer the Imperium's mainstream tongue for millennia—came the words:
"By tradition, we will take fifty percent of your vessel's stores as payment for your rescue."
Old Terra custom: split half upon meeting.
The group exchanged subtle glances. Finally, they were witnessing firsthand the greed of these consummate reapers.
Then again, it was logical. Technically speaking, they were a ragtag fleet, and that fifty percent might barely cover the fuel to get them here.
"Whose tradition?"
Romulus asked with wry curiosity, replying in the same language.
Material goods mattered little to them—they could create such things at will. Besides, it wasn't wrong to spare some supplies for the Carcharodons. Unlike traitors, they were no scum.
Still, the tone was poor. Was this really how you spoke to your future benefactors?
The channel fell silent. Then came the sound of metal grinding underfoot, followed by a colder voice:
"Our tradition."
"Tyberos?" Romulus ventured.
"..."
Another stretch of silence.
Romulus' lips curled into a victorious smirk—he'd successfully unmasked them.
"If you want it, you'll have to come take it yourself."
That was his reply.
"You know the rules well enough already, Lord of Shadows."
With that, Romulus cut the channel and turned to Kovek.
"Colonel, open the hangar tractor beams. Put all spare vehicles out in plain sight. Clear a space large enough for two hundred men. Order the mess to prepare food—no need to ration stocks."
"My lord, for everyone?"
Kovek asked reflexively, before realizing the foolishness of the question.
"Of course for everyone."
Romulus sounded perfectly matter-of-fact.
If you're serving one dish, why not two? It's not as though food will run out.
"And one more thing—when the Carcharodons arrive, keep some distance. Let automated systems handle food supply. If interaction is necessary, do it under guard."
"If they ask about our identities or the details of your mission, tell them truthfully. It's hardly a secret..."
"Understood, my lord."
Kovek briskly left to make arrangements.
Dealing with Romulus was simple—he always spelled things out clearly, without mind games or obedience traps.
Then Romulus turned to Arthur, who had just closed the sacred tome.
"Arthur, deal with Rameses' clutter."
Why not assign Rameses himself? Because the man was too scatterbrained, forever chasing side-projects and forgetting half of them. Arthur, who always kept tabs on him, knew exactly what needed clearing.
"Understood."
Arthur nodded and strode toward the lift to the Navigator's Sanctum.
They never hid their actions. In fact, apart from Rameses and Arthur, their identities were not especially secret—exposure meant little.
No one these days would recognize Thousand Sons or Dark Angels livery from the Legion era. And what would people dig up by checking against Ultramarines or Blood Angels?
Every Chapter had its secrets; none sought to pry too deeply into another's.
As Romulus continued giving out precise orders, the lift entered a space divided starkly between light and shadow.
He unlocked the code only the four of them knew. A bone-deep chill swept in, making their very souls tremble.
A warp-tainted zone, born of ceaseless interactions between realspace and the Immaterium. Powers from the Empyrean naturally pooled here, like weights dragged into the depths.
Arthur took a few steps forward, reached out, and turned what looked like a valve.
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