Solomon Tetrarchus stared at the holographic display showing the war happening aboard his ship. His face was set in a grim line, and he waved a hand to make the 3D floating replica of the labyrinthine interior of his ship zoom in on the section around the final boarding pod. 

Just minutes ago, the call came in alerting them that the Watch-Captain, the Emperor’s foremost Angel of Death in the entire Fleet, was fucking dead. Worse, the damned abomination in the shape of an Ork that did him in just got back up and laughed. 

How did they know that? Well, the accursed greenskin strutted up to one of the dead Imperial Guard trooper corpses and grabbed a communicator to announce it to everyone who would listen. It even sent pict-records. Pictures. 

Only a quick infusion of light emotional dampeners directly into his bloodstream managed to keep Solomon from popping a blood vessel in his rage. In his fury, he’d almost ordered other ships to fire a pinpoint barrage onto his ship to blow the cancer that was this oversized Ork and its boarding pod. A boarding pod, which had a portal inside of it … a portal of all things. How? 

Were portals not the epitome of archaotech? Only the Necron Dolmen Gates could replicate the feat these green mongrels managed, and those were the size of buildings for the Emperor's sake! It didn’t make any blasted sense at all. 

Ever so helpfully, the Machine Spirit provided a real-time image of the hangar bay that the fight took place in, and Solomon had to focus with his entire being on not blowing his fuse as he saw the overgrown Ork sitting

on the piled up corpses of the Deathwatch Kill Team sent after it like it was a fucking throne. The image zoomed in, showing the Ork laughing as it juggled three Astartes helmets. 

Solomon squinted, then his face twitched as he saw that the heads were still inside the helmets. 

He took a deep breath, held it in, let his emotional regulator implant work its wonders, then let it out in a huff. That implant was dangerous and could cause permanent emotional degradation and even psychopathy if overused — which was more of a feature than a bug since the Officio Assassinorum primarily used it — but he couldn’t allow his emotions to rule him now. Furthermore, the future wouldn’t matter if he died here. 

Then there was the matter of the gigantic Void Serpent — as the officers took to referring to it — which damn near gobbled up one of his largest ships. It got blasted to hell for it by the rest of the fleet, but the damage was done. The first lost ship was on the side of the Imperium. Bad luck, and worse for morale. 

At least destroying the abomination somewhat salvaged the latter, though whatever little it helped the advancing horde of Greenskins in the lower decks of the ships crippled it soon after. 

This couldn’t go on like this. He had been hoping that the Astartes would pull through and save the day like they always did … but it seemed like he would be forced to make some choices. There would be no such thing as a ‘pyrrhic’ victory, not today, just victory. 

“Seal off the lower decks,” Solomon ordered, his voice steely and face set in a grim line. “Any opening to the decks below the minus fifth, I want sealed air-tight, and send orders to the troopers in the engineering sections around the generators to do the same. They are to hold out for as long as they can.”

“Understood, my Lord/Sir,” echoed in a dozen different voices as the men and women under his direct command got to work. Then, one after the other, the officers commanding the disparate groups of Navy personnel and Imperial Guard troopers came in affirmative.

“They have twenty minutes,” Solomon said, scowling as he stared at the holographic display of his ship. “Twenty minutes to get up here or to head for one of the generators. While they are at it, send orders for the engineers to prepare our viral payloads, we will unleash hell on our Greenskin infestation. Circulate that order for the rest of the fleet, they are to replicate it on their own ships when the Captain thinks the Orks are about to cripple their ship’s ability to fight efficiently. The Machine Spirits and the targeting algorithms can handle operating the weapons, even if at a reduced efficiency.”

“But sir … if we do that, thousands of our support personnel on the lower decks will die,” one of the officers spoke up hesitantly, gulping as Solomon’s uncompromising stare bore into his face. “And our stores of provisions would also be destroyed. We-”

“Wouldn’t be able to make it back to Imperial space before we all starved to death?” Solomon finished for him with a raised eyebrow and a disdainful scowl. “In case any of you dimwits missed it, all of our Navigators are dead. Our best case scenario is decimating the enemy fleet, and finding a planet in the System that can sustain us until someone sends a survey ship after us to see where an entire Fleet disappeared to. Alas, that’s but a dream, and we are all very likely to be meeting the Emperor today in person. I don’t care about provisions and support personnel; all we need is to keep the ships in a fighting state, nothing more, nothing less. Only decimating our enemies matters so that we can stand before the Emperor for judgment with our heads held high. Send the order.”

“Understood, sir!” the officer replied, sitting up straighter in his seat with a look of determination etched onto his pale features. Good man, that one. “Done. All ships acknowledged the order, nine confirmed intentions to put it in motion as we speak, twelve more are considering it, but the rest report only minor disturbances to their operations from the Orks.”

“Good,” Solomon said, leaning back in his chair as he sent the holo-display of his ship away with a gesture and brought up the display showing the status of the two battling fleets. In short, aside from that gigantic serpent, it was a slugfest. Both sides were throwing an astronomical amount of firepower at the other, but by the looks of it, there was no visible sign of any substantial damage on any of the fighting ships. The Void-Shields ate up the incoming bio-plasma and organic projectiles, while the bio-ship’s hard carapace, energy-field and anti-missile beams took care of whatever the Imperial Fleet threw at them. “Prepare the fighters and get us within close quarters. We must take out the Kraken first, but afterwards we must get in between those ships and disrupt their firing arrays. The Fighters will provide us the distraction we need by occupying those beam-weapons while we hopefully sneak in a few missiles that actually reach our targets. Prepare the torpedoes, I want virus-, vortex- and melta torpedoes ready to be fired at those things. We’ll have to see what sticks … and also make sure that Psyk-out torpedo is also ready to be launched at a moment’s notice, we might need it.”

*****

Watch-Sergeant Varran gritted his teeth as he moved between the crowd of enemies, his body moving with precision and finesse few even in his own original Chapter could have replicated. His body was a weapon, and the implements of death he used were merely extensions of it. The Lightning-Claw raked through his enemies with ease, reaping a bounty of roaring green heads and raised limbs wherever he went. 

He was like a ghost, a deadly wraith dancing between his enemies. They fell by the dozens, a life extinguished every other second and yet it wasn’t enough, there were just too many of them, it was never enough, he alone would never be enough. Ork after Ork after Ork fell to his claws, unable to so much as sense his presence, so adept was he in the art of Wraith-slipping, but each death only earned him a few metres at best, and a temporary respite for his men.

The remainder of them, at least. 

The reckless Merek had been the first to fall, vastly overextending his guard in his zealous rage. That boy never learned, not even when that very same mistake ended up causing his banishment from the Black Templars. Usually, the others would have saved him, but they had all been fighting their own uphill battles. 

Drakk lost an arm plugging the hole Merek’s death opened up in their defences — which wasn’t that much of a loss, since the Iron Hand had another three still perfectly functional arms — and Tarn got his helmet blown off his head. Though Varran suspected the latter was just an excuse for the bloodthirsty Wolf to get rid of ‘that stuffy helmet’. The idiot probably didn’t even engage the magnetic locking mechanism.

Speaking of which, Varren’s own helmet buzzed as his comm-link alerted him of an incoming audio message, one that has apparently been circulated through the Deathwatch network and came from the Imperial Guard’s high command. “To all remaining honourable Astartes onboard, this is Navy Command speaking, the Orks are close to overwhelming our defences and as such, the Lord Militant ordered all decks below the minus fifth sealed and flooded with an airborne viral agent, hopefully ridding us of this infection. We recommend taking refuge on the topmost five decks, near one of the engines, or at the very least making sure your Power Armour is sealed if you wish to continue fighting the greenskin menace. You have twenty standard minutes until we begin circulating the viral agent through the ventilation system. May the Emperor guide your paths, Command, out!”

Varran suppressed the urge to curse, first at the Lord Militant’s ‘decisive’ action and then at the now-dead Watch-Captain’s secretive nature. If the Imperial Guard command knew of the relics and their importance, this wouldn’t have happened, and the entire fleet would rightly centre their entire strategy around those relics to finish their combined mission. Alas, it was not so, and the Imperial forces in the System were now unknowingly sabotaging each other. 

Perhaps if they told the man now … but no. Protocol dictated that no non-Astartes could be trusted to remain loyal and uncompromised when facing down against a Psyker of such power. The relics would lose the majority of their effectiveness if they didn’t also have the element of surprise on their side when it came time to strike at the heart of their enemy. 

“I have it,” Brother Corian’s low, whispering voice sounded in his ear, accompanied by the buzz of his comm-bead. 

“Extract!” Varran ordered, not missing a beat as he moved to make sure the Apothecary made it out safely. His muscles ached from the strain, but he pushed his body to the limit as he slaughtered the oncoming Orks with renewed vigour. “Protect Corian and pull back!”

“What abo-” Keir’s voice rumbled in his ear, disapproval and regret echoing in each word loud and clear.

“Leave it!” Varran bit back irately. “If the idiot wanted his gene-seed to make it back to his chapter he shouldn’t have rushed alone into a damned Ork horde. We are leaving now

and at speed. Focus on the mission, Keir.”

We won’t make it out of this System alive anyway. No use hauling around a gene-seed when we’d just be delivering it into the hands of our greatest enemy, only to be twisted into something unholy. No. It’s better if it’s destroyed by the viral agent here and now before it’s defiled. 

Ten minutes of no-stop slaughter later, what remained of Kill-Team Varran managed to retreat down an elevator shaft and throw off their tails long enough to take a moment to rest. 

“Shit,” Tarn said intelligently once Cassius summarised Imperial Command’s message. “I guess I should look for a new helmet then. How long do I have until I get to see my flesh melting off my bones?”

“Nine minutes and thirty-four seconds approximately,” Drakk answered matter-of-factly. “Perhaps if you survive this, you’ll finally understand the weakness of the flesh.”

“Doubt it,” Tarn grumbled, a deep frown etched onto his rugged face. “Well, if I can’t find a helmet, I’m gonna go back out there. I’d rather die on my feet murdering Orks than choking on my own blood.”

“There is no need for that,” Drakk said, then reached up and unclasped his own helmet. “I have made doubly sure that I am able to withstand the effects of even a virus bomb. The helmet is merely a second layer of defence. Take it.”

 The face underneath was more metal than man, and that was putting it lightly, as the only pieces of skin Varran could see on the Techmarine were some small patches on his cheeks and forehead, obviously just patched on top of cybernetics. The eyes were taken over by a pair of glaring crimson visors; the nose had a pair of thick metal pipes curving into them, and the mouth had been long replaced by a vox-unit. 

If Varran had to hazard a guess, he’d say the only piece of the original Drakk left in that metallic shell was maybe some parts of the brain housed in that metallic skull of his. 

Tarn stared into those crimson visors searchingly, then glanced down at the helmet held out to him. He frowned, clearly discontent, but took the offered armour with a grunt and stuck it on his head, hiding any further expressions he may have had.

“Send the message,” Varran ordered after a moment, drawing in a deep breath as he banished the exhaustion that started to seep into his bones. “And find out whether the other relic has been recovered yet.”

Saying so, he carefully picked up the intricately engraved metal box from the floor and stared at it. This was the key to their success, and an ancient relic scavenged from a decimated Eldar Craftworld. The others didn’t know it, but the box contained a set of six arcane amulets which would link their wearers’ souls into one intricate tapestry, and then allow them to do some … interesting things.

Like latching onto any type of teleportation nearby and following it to the destination, with ‘nearby’ being a rather loose term meaning roughly within an AU. 

The set of six would not be enough with the six remaining squad members, since one of the amulets would have to go to the Null Drakk carried around on his back in a metal coffin if they wanted to maximise their effectiveness. They would have to leave someone behind ... or send another squad, though Varran didn't know if any of the other elite veteran Kill Teams still lived aside from his own. Aside from the now-dead Merek, who had been a newcomer, the rest of Kill Team Varran had been through a lot of missions together over the centuries. With the help of a Pariah to negate the powers of a Psyker, he doubted any Psyker in the galaxy would feel confident going up against his squad.

Even without the other relic, just this might be enough. Few Psykers could so much as think straight with a Null nearby, and these amulets would make it so every wearer’s soul shared the others’ traits. Including the Pariah gene. 

In theory, it would teleport the six of them around their target, spread out like the tips of a six-pointed star to enhance the Null-field’s effects even further. Hexagrammatic symbology tended to be most effective against Psykers, after all.

The downside was that, of course, once worn, it cannot be taken off, and the amulets had been made with Eldar souls in mind. Human souls couldn’t handle its effects for long, and were said to start fraying and dissolving like sugar in water within hours.

Meaning, whoever put on one of those cursed amulets could forget about ever meeting the Emperor after death. Not that Varran himself was a believer, but for some Chapters that would make the relic and abomination … which it truthfully kind of was. However, it was an extremely useful abomination.

“Sir, Watch-Sergeant Remiel has the other one,” Drakk reported. “But he says his Kill Team is gone, and he himself might not last long enough to deliver it. All nearby Kill Teams are converging on him and on us to ensure the relics remain safe. It should only be a matter of time.”

“Good,” Varran said, rising to his feet. “Well then, let’s not make their task any harder than it needs to be. Let’s get going.”