At all times you must resist the advances of the xenos, the heretic, and the witch. To resist against all odds when defeat is certain is your most holy duty. It is in these moments when miracles occur.
The captain of Martyrs' Blood fought desperately to bring order to the disorganized fleet. It wasn't fear he contended with—it was panic. Normally, void combat began with days of positioning and skirmishes before capital ships ever entered weapons range. The xenos had somehow learned how to "jump" directly into engagement distance and strike with the advantage of surprise.
It would still take hours of fighting to clear space for the transports, but on the scale of naval warfare, hours might as well have been minutes. The air screamed with the warning of klaxons, vox chatter overlapping, mixing with the taste of recycled air and sweat.
These escort-class vessels were used to dealing with smugglers and pirates. An invasion fleet was something they daydreamed about fighting, never truly believing they would face. And in the face of panic, at least their training and instincts told them to turn and fight rather than flee.
The Tau, however, were born marksmen—even the most zealous inquisitor couldn't deny them that. Several ships were disabled before their shields even came up. Even now that shields were rising, those escorts still wouldn't stand a chance. A few hits would overload the void screens, collapse them—and the next shot would gut the hull.
But there was nowhere to run and regroup. There was no Astartes strike force in the next system over, no Navis Imperialis patrol within distress-signal range, and no crusade fleet a courier could sprint to—no one to warn that xenos threatened to snuff out the Emperor's light.
No.
They would all die here—on this world, or in orbit above it.
The invading fleet looked small to Chaplain Dracos. The Tau had likely done their reconnaissance: a feudal world, limited void assets, no need for a full planetary assault force. A spark of hope flared in his hearts. Maybe his small contingent of Space Marines, combined with the Knight Houses of this world, could make the invasion too costly. Bleed the xenos hard enough that the war became unprofitable—here, and in the future.
Then he could go before the Imperium's senators and rally the hearts of the people. Raise a counter-invasion. Snuff these upstart xenos out forever.
But that was the future. Vengeance would have to wait for victory. He dragged his mind back to the present and turned to Veteran Sergeant Daminan Tamor.
"Well, Brother Sergeant," Dracos said, "it seems fate has decided we are not done with action yet."
"Only in death does duty end, Brother Chaplain," Tamor replied. "And it is by the Angel's will that we are here to defend this world."
"Do you have thoughts on stratagem?"
"My hearts tell me to board their vessels and rip them apart from within. But logic tells me we will not bring down a single ship before the invasion begins. So my mind tells me to board the picket ships—spread ourselves wide, defend as much as possible." He paused, lips curling. "But that leaves us too vulnerable. The Tau can disable and ignore those ships—or destroy us without the honor of boarding actions."
Tamor turned his helm slightly toward the towering figure standing next to the hololith.
"Brother Librarian—can you peer into the veil and glean any insight from the xenos mind?"
Librarian Dumico, clad in Terminator plate that made him a monument of height and mass among them, closed his eyes and drew a slow breath. When he spoke, his words seemed to come not only from his throat, but inside their minds as well.
It had been unsettling at first.
But if one relaxed, allowed the words to dance, one could almost imagine their holy father: tranquil, shrouded in distant glory.
"This race barely registers in the warp," the Librarian said. "Often their souls are outshone by the light of others. If I searched only for them, I would tell you they are not even here."
A couple of the battle-brothers chuckled.
"However," he continued, "I can advise you on strategy without the warp."
He opened his eyes and turned to the hololithic display. The machine spirit was unfocused and restless—the image blurring, flickering. A crewman knelt beside the projector, praying in a low rush, trying to soothe the spirit into clarity.
"The Tau will need these facilities if they intend to land heavy equipment en masse, rather than spend weeks ferrying cargo down in shuttles." His gauntlet rose, pointing. "As such, they will take the elevator." He indicated the largest orbital structure. "They will strike the surrounding platforms as well—not to destroy them, but to reduce defenses with minimal damage. Yet if they cannot accomplish that, they will not hesitate to annihilate those defenses outright."
"Then we concentrate on the station," Brother Leon Danro said. Everyone knew he wanted the station—where a Vanguard Veteran such as himself could use a jump pack to best effect.
It was Brother Lucean who answered, and disappointed him.
"I share your desire to return to the skies, Brother. But I fear that is not our best course. Placing ourselves on the station defends their objective—but gives us no options if the tactical situation shifts."
Leon's jaw tightened. Then he nodded—acceptance, if not satisfaction.
Chaplain Dracos took the silence and seized it.
"Then our path is clear. We will use the Martyrs' Blood to interpose ourselves between the station and their fleet. They will attempt to go around us—fine. We will make ourselves impossible to ignore. When they board, we break apart and fight corridor by corridor, reinforcing the crew until the ship is lost." He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into iron. "At that point, the captain will enact the rites of destruction—and take whatever is within reach with us."
Eyes shifted from the hololith to him. Even Leon pushed aside his disappointment to take on the regal stillness of his brothers. Dracos drew upon centuries of war and the spirit of the Angel to rouse them—words to brace the soul before the bloodletting.
"If the Angel wills it, we die here." His voice rose. "But we will not go quietly. We will return to the Emperor's Throne with our armor freshly painted in blood—screaming—clutching these xenos by the throat."
Heat crawled up his spine as he spoke. He looked each of them in the eye as he drove the words home.
"And if that is not His will, then we meet these invaders again on the planet below—and introduce them to the Angel's wrath. They will not know peace. They will not know sanctuary. And they will not know victory until they have slain the last of us."
His brothers stirred. Snarls curled behind clenched discipline. Fangs bared. Faces flushed; veins rose.
"Before us is a race so young that they were not even a sentient species in the time of our father. These upstarts—these usurpers—dare steal humanity from the light? And with such a pitiful force?" His lip curled. "I must apologize, brothers. I have faced these xenos before, and it appears they have forgotten the lesson we taught them. I trust you will help me correct this mistake."
Now they were truly roused—taste of phantom blood on the tongue, the beast stirring behind the eyes.
"Make what preparations you must. They will not grant us long before we face them. From blood we came."
"And from blood we shall return!" the ten brothers answered.
As was their way, they did not erupt into a primal cheer. Instead, they turned to one another—brothers before all else—clasped wrists, pulled into brief embraces. Then, as if on a silent command, each seized the beast inside and locked it down behind a noble bearing.
Chaplain Dracos and Astoraen Ishtar embraced as well. When the others departed to make preparations, the two remained on the bridge. They watched the captain execute orders given indirectly—through the Chaplain's speech rather than explicit command.
The captain had served decades in the Chapter's fleet. He showed no fear. He had always known death aboard a ship was more likely than not. Now, faced with that fate, he held himself with honor.
His crew held steady too—perhaps harboring the secret hope that if they fought hard enough, held long enough, a miracle would come. They each murmured prayers into charms they clutched in their fingers as they diligently worked their stations.
Astoraen turned toward the Chaplain.
"You look old, brother."
It was blunt, but honest. Dracos was old—three hundred and seventy-two years in the service of the Chapter. Few battle-brothers outside a Dreadnought lived to see his age. His skin was creased with lines and blemishes. White streaked his hair. He felt old as well: muscles stiff, joints popping, everything diminished by time.
"When you have seen as many campaigns as I have," Dracos said dryly, "you will wish to look so good."
Astoraen laughed, but his eyes held concern.
"When was the last time you partook of the blood?"
Dracos' smile remained. His eyes did not.
"I am a Chaplain. We take the blood only when required. We are to be exemplars of our gene-father's restraint. So it has been some time since I tasted even our reserves of Kharash. Why do you ask, brother?"
"Because you look old," Astoraen said again, softer. "And we go to a fight where we will not hold the upper hand. If you look this old, I can only imagine how tired you feel."
"I feel fine." It wasn't true. He felt old. Throne, how he hated that the word had begun to dominate his thoughts. Everything Astoraen said was true. He thirsted for blood—real blood. To bury his fangs in flesh and feel warm life spill down his chin.
He crushed the thought.
"I promise you, brother. If a need dire enough arises, I will take the blood and regain my youth." He pulled his helm back over his head, sealing it with a hiss.
"Is this not dire enough?" Astoraen pressed. "We are backed to the wall. If not now—when?"
"No." Dracos turned, voice low. "We shall not die here. This is a rearguard action. As the Tau overwhelm this ship, we evacuate to the planet's surface—and leave them to conquer a vessel already in the throes of the rites of destruction."
Astoraen's expression shifted from confusion to understanding.
This was not a last stand.
It was a trap.
"This old war dog has a few tricks left," Dracos said.
"And your charges?" Astoraen asked. "What of the lost?"
Dracos' face went nearly as grim as the skull on his helm. The deck thrummed beneath them—distant impacts, or the ship's own strain.
"I will lead them into their final action," Dracos said. "Either here, or on the surface. Leave their care to me."
Astoraen could tell he had touched something sore. He let it go.
"Thank you for this conversation, Brother Chaplain. If we are to evacuate, I will prepare provisions."
Dracos returned his augmented gaze to the stars. Alien ships moved like predators through the void. Specks of light peeled away from them—small craft, leaving their mother hulls and arrowing toward Martyrs' Blood.
He turned from the view and made his way down to the chapel—to pray, and to offer guidance to any soul that came to him before the fighting began.
The Battle for Samora III had begun.