Sarah's genetic library now contained a fragmentary sequence for the Narwhal Beetle—a specialized Tyranid bio-vessel capable of faster-than-light travel. These creatures could manipulate gravity fields and compress space into corridors for planetary leaps. However, Sarah's data was incomplete; she lacked the biomass and complexity to grow a true living ship.
The only alternative was a desperate compromise: biomodify the Purple Crystal using "low-end" versions of the Narwhal's primary organs.
After consuming a massive amount of reserve biomass, Sarah birthed three "castrated" bio-organs to be grafted onto the merchant ship.
The first was the [Monoflagellate Tuft], installed at the bow. When active, it extended a mass of slender, black tentacles into the void, twitching as they sensed the subtle gravitational pull of distant star systems.
The second was the [Gravity Heart], embedded deep within the engine room. It was a massive, wet ball of pulsating muscle and nerves. It functioned as a gravitational amplifier, capable of punching a hole into the warp-adjacent layers of space to create a compression corridor.
The third was the [Sphincter of Spacetime], fixed to the stern. This muscular, ring-shaped organ acted as a stabilizer, guiding the ship's exit and ensuring the compressed tunnel didn't collapse prematurely.
Raynor looked at these three "budget" organs—visceral, wet, and smelling of ozone—and felt his eye twitch. Even without being an expert on xenos biology, he could tell these were one-time-use items. This wasn't a sustainable upgrade; it was a desperate fuse designed to burn out the moment they reached safety.
"It will hold for one leap. I am certain," Sarah's consciousness whispered into his mind.
Raynor looked at her serious compound eyes and let out a long, weary sigh. "All right. I'll trust you. After all, trusting my waifu is the only luck I have left."
Next was the destination. Necromunda was a death trap. The Tyros system, home to the Sons of Medusa, was too close. Those Space Marines would never stop hunting the heretic who had stolen their gene-seeds.
His gaze eventually settled on the far Western Fringe of the Pacificus Segmentum—a forgotten corner of the galaxy, far from the Great Rift. It was a region of feudal worlds and primitive outposts where the light of the Astronomican was dim and the Imperium's grip was weakest. It was the perfect place to disappear.
Seven days before the Hive Fleet's predicted arrival, the Purple Crystal slipped out of Necromunda's spaceport. The crew consisted almost entirely of Genestealer-infected sailors—loyal, efficient, and incapable of betrayal. The Butcher remained Raynor's second-in-command, maintaining a brutal order among the passengers.
Raynor had kept his promise. He had instructed the Anvil Society to evacuate the families of the martyrs who had fallen at the Astartes stronghold. Two thousand people—widows, orphans, and the elderly—now huddled in the cargo holds. As they boarded, they looked at Raynor with a mix of terror and profound gratitude.
In this cannibalistic universe, mercy was a luxury Raynor rarely afforded, but he was willing to offer this small alms. It was his final anchor to his own humanity.
The Purple Crystal roared into deep space. Once clear of the planet's gravity well, the Gravity Heart began to beat with a thunderous, wet rhythm.
"Activate compression," Raynor commanded.
Sarah's mind merged with the bio-ship. Psychic energy surged into the fleshy heart, and the starlight outside the viewports began to stretch into nauseating streaks of color. The Spacetime Sphincter contracted, and a dark corridor into the void opened before them. The Purple Crystal plunged into the unknown.
Three days later, a muffled thud shook the entire vessel. The Spacetime Sphincter gave out, its muscles tearing under the strain. Real space rushed back with violent force, throwing the ship out of the corridor.
Raynor's worst fears were realized. The low-spec organs hadn't just failed; they had drifted. They were in an unfamiliar galaxy, a region with no markings on his black-market star maps. To make matters worse, the sector was shrouded in a localized subspace storm—a "cage" that blocked all long-range vox-transmissions.
"Damn it!" Raynor slammed his fist against the console.
Sarah crawled to his side, nuzzling his arm with her head in a silent apology. Seeing the flicker of guilt in her eyes, Raynor's anger evaporated. He sighed, stroking her cold, armored brow. "It's alright. We escaped. That's what matters."
Days turned into a week. Fuel was low, and the two thousand refugees were growing restless, staring out at the uncaring stars with eyes full of confusion. Raynor spent every waking hour at the scanners, searching for a miracle.
On the seventh day, a red dot flared on the screen.
"Anomalous gravitational fluctuations detected!" a sensor-serf called out.
Raynor jumped up. "Sarah, find out what that is!"
Sarah closed her eyes, her psychic field expanding. Her report was immediate: [Massive life-signals detected. Human. Xenos. Chaotic psionic echoes. A high-density population center.]
Raynor's heart hammered against his ribs. It sounded like a Hive World—or at least a planet with enough infrastructure to survive on.
"Set the route," Raynor ordered, a hint of joy returning to his voice. "Target that world. Let's see what this new cage has in store for us."