From time to time as fate demands that the great tree of the Imperium is watered with the Blood of Martyrs and Xenos.
Arakiel Dracos, Honored Chaplain of the 2nd Company of the Angels Vigilant—a warrior of three centuries and innumerable battles—was bored.
He sat upon the command throne of the ship Martyrs' Blood, his skull-faced helmet resting beside him, one massive fist pressed into his cheek as his head leaned against it. The bridge crew stood at their stations in silence, the stillness broken only by brief bursts of vox traffic: a ship reporting arrival or departure, a course correction here, a maneuver there. They were already docked. There was nothing to call out, nothing urgent to communicate. Their task was simply to remain at their posts and ensure every reading remained nominal.
The ship's captain stood with his back to the hulking Space Marine, desperately pretending not to feel the Chaplain's presence pressing down on the bridge like a physical weight.
Dracos was not here for personal glory, nor even honor beyond that of his Chapter. He was here to collect candidates—aspirants for Astartes ascension, and serfs to serve aboard the Chapter's fleet. The Angels Vigilant had only recently come off crusade and were in desperate need of replacements.
Too few of them were left. Enough Veterans had survived—or were being reforged within the Deathwatch—that the 1st Company had suffered the least. The battle companies still stood, barely, most of their squads reduced by half. But the reserve companies were almost completely depleted, drained of warriors by the crusade's grind and the endless demands of the line companies for replacements. Many squads now consisted only of Sergeants, and that would have to be enough to train a new generation.
The bloodline of the Angels Vigilant stood in peril.
And so, the Chapter dispatched its emissaries: squads formed from its most imposing warriors, sent to worlds whose tithes to the wider Imperium had gone unpaid—or long neglected. They would take willing volunteers: those fit to be tested as aspirants, and others suitable for lifelong service as Chapter serfs.
Normally, such tithes were drawn from worlds the Chapter had saved through battle. A simple exchange: blood for blood. Survivors would be demanded to replace those who had died defending them—a small price to pay for salvation. But too many of the worlds they had fought upon had no survivors at all. Others were so sparsely populated that to take any would be to doom the world even as it was saved.
Thus, necessitating their expeditions.
They had already visited several worlds, the berthings now filled with boys. Soon those souls would be transported to the fleet, where trials would begin and futures would be decided. Forging the Chapter's future was an honor—but it was a dull one. There were no battles here. No glory. No enemies to break.
Well. Not nothing.
Dracos was still a Chaplain, and his duty to minister to those under his care remained. His brothers valued his words. The aspirants burned with zeal after his sermons. In that, at least, he found purpose. The rest of the retinue simply stood as living icons—Angels of Death made manifest—to inspire obedience and awe.
Chaplain Dracos's expedition was formidable: a Veteran Sergeant, two additional Space Marines, a Sanguinary Priest, a Terminator Librarian with two attendants, a Sternguard Veteran, and a Sanguinary Guard. A display of martial perfection, meant to impress upon Imperial worlds the honor—and inevitability—of service.
On each planet they visited, the pattern repeated. They would arrive at a village or settlement, slay some monster or suppress some threat, then spend weeks assisting the locals—rebuilding homes, reinforcing walls, repairing infrastructure.
Trivial labor. Unworthy of their talents.
Sergeant Daminan Tamor, the expedition's true leader, seemed to find fulfillment in the work. Dracos did not begrudge him that. The Chaplain himself had joined this expedition for another purpose entirely—one his duties demanded.
A sound he did not immediately register pulled him from his thoughts. A voice. One of the bridge crew.
"Captain, we are detecting a subspace disruption at the edge of sensitorium range. Too large to be a single vessel."
"Master of Vox," the captain ordered, "confirm with the station whether a warp convoy is scheduled to arrive."
"Forgive me, Captain," came the reply, uncertainty creeping in, "but I do not believe this is warp translation. There is no portal forming. Space is… bulging."
Dracos straightened in his throne.
"Master of Auspex," the captain snapped, irritation sharp in his tone, "speak plainly. What is happening?"
"I… do not know, Captain. It is as though something lies beneath the galactic plane. Like a cat hiding under a rug."
"We will know soon enough," Dracos rumbled.
The sound of his voice tightened spines across the bridge.
"My lord," the captain asked, forcing the words past transhuman dread, "have you seen this before?"
"I believe I have," Dracos replied calmly. "Exercise patience. Whatever approaches will reveal itself—and then the course of action will be clear."
Minutes dragged by. Eyes flicked between the auspex distortion and the void beyond the viewing ports. Many on the bridge found themselves wishing for something—anything—to happen, just to end the waiting.
Dracos keyed his vox.
"Brothers. Stand ready. We may soon have work."
Acknowledgements returned.
The waiting ended.
There was no flash. No thunderous arrival. No warning at all.
Only a stretched smear of color that suddenly resolved into the unmistakable shape of a starship—its hull curved and predatory, reminiscent of a shark or some other abyssal beast.
Dracos smiled.
"Run out the guns," the captain barked. "Raise void shields. Master of Vox, alert all orbital defenses and ships: enemy contact confirmed. All hands, man your battle stations. Beat to quarters."
Alarms wailed across the bridge and throughout the ship as the ritual chant followed:
"General Quarters. General Quarters.
All hands to action stations.
Let fury be our voice.
Set Condition Zulu throughout the ship.
Seal all hatches and scuttles.
Spirits of this machine, heed our words and fight with us, not against us.
Aft and down port side. Fore and up starboard side.
The Emperor Protects."
The captain turned to the Chaplain, made the sign of the aquila, and bowed.
"It seems we have our answer, my lord."
Dracos's smile vanished. He lifted his skull-faced helm and sealed it into place.
One word echoed through the bridge.
"Tau."