Herald of the Stars: Chapter Three Hundred and Twenty-Six

Debonairbeef, Senna, BananaInMyPants, and Seth Richolson. Thank you so much for supporting Herald of the Stars. I do hope you enjoyed catching up to the latest chapters!

---------------

The response by the Chaos Armada is rather disproportionate as they send three fleets after us and two more towards Lycocidae. The rest salvage what they can from the Excipio Stations and muster around Cella.

15 days after our attack, the second and third fleet arrives at Lycodidae. They have a brief scuffle with the fleet that is already there before fully assaulting the Fortress Moon.

The assault begins with crashing 36, presumably empty transports, into the moon. From Abbisine’s data I estimate that the kinetic strike took out at least a third of the moon’s PDF lasers and other orbital gun batteries. 

From the horrendous amount of fire power that tries to stop the falling vessels, some of which succeeds, I can tell that the Great Enemy used transports instead of chunks of Lycocidae’s ruined planet because big hunks of rock would have been blown apart and scattered. Kilometres of plasteel and adamantium are much harder to stop. In theory, the core of the planet could have been pushed towards the moon after much labour and construction, but that would have destroyed everything and left nothing to loot.

The kinetic strike is followed with a full bombardment from three fleets and a full ground invasion. Lycocidae hangs on and we detect the light from multiple Titan weapons and the remaining PDF lasers. Legio Venator and its supporting forces wreck 29 transports and fourteen warships, and damage 89 transports and 42 warships, before their guns fall silent.

The previous stalemate now makes a lot more sense. The Enemy weren’t trying to invade Lycocidae to grab its ancient weapons, at least not seriously, they just wanted to keep them from helping the Lathes. 

The Chaos Armada has a lot of spare vessels, but this new invasion is a significant investment, one that they won’t get back unless they can seize a moon’s worth of military supplies, and its production capacity, before they’re all burnt out by the fighting. Pushing too hard might just tempt Lycocidae’s commander to use those ancient weapons too and who knows what the Tech-Priests have squirrelled away just for an occasion like this?

The Stellar Fleet’s actions have forced the Daemon Prince to gamble. However, the Enemy still isn’t committing to assaulting the Het, Hesh, and Hadd. Whatever they think they can achieve with Cella and messing with that piece of jump gate must be enough to bypass, ignore, or crush the defences around the Lathes.

The three fleets looking for us are at least 90 days away from us, assuming that they keep their current speed. They appear to have some idea where we are as they are fanning out and gunning for the Oort Cloud towards our approximate location, but space is big and we’re constructing a decoy station for them to find.

It’s filled with tampered supplies and just enough Battle Automata to sell the deception. We’ll be launching our next supply run for the Lathes from its vicinity and set up a couple of self-propelled tanks to fail and lead back to the station. The station was pre-fabricated during our journey and artificially aged. We have fake logs going back centuries. We also filled the place with a tale of an unauthorised strike after a small coup, and all sorts of convincing rubbish. 

It’s intended to look like a rogue band of Tech-Priests are trying to save the Lathes at the risk of exposing their secret stealth tech project that they’ve been working on for seven hundred years. There’s totally not a fleet out here! 

Several Ruby Owls will watch the action and report back to see if the Chaos Fleets take the bait. I’m hoping the enemy fleets will break up and spread out, looking for all the different bases that are hinted at but don’t actually exist.

Meanwhile, I authorise our next strike, sending 58 Class Three D-POTs and 260 Class Two D-POTs towards Lycocidae. All the shuttles are automated as they don’t have to do anything complicated and I am expecting significant losses.

60 squadrons of strike craft escort the shuttles. These have real crews and the mission is important enough that Igraine has borrowed my personal shuttle for command and control. She is even heading the mission herself. It’s a commitment of 1,189 Void Craft. 

There’s far too many Void Craft to avoid notice on their final approach. So long as they’re not spotted too soon though, it won’t matter.

No Vitrum Class torpedo bombers have been used as I want to keep them as a surprise for as long as possible. This is supposed to look like a desperate strike from the imaginary group of stealth technology researchers, which is why I am using mines launched out of shuttles and not proper bombers.

The war continues and 52 days after our strike on the Excipio Stations and Chaos battleships, we get our first flight of returnees. I spend the next 28 days inspecting Heralds, Penal Light Infantry, Barghests, and rescued prisoners for traces of Chaos.

Be they steel or flesh, when they arrive, all returnees gather upon the decks of our vast hangars. 

I examine the first batch.

My people stand in precise rows. Many squads have gaps in their ranks. Other than that, there is little sign of their fighting, the long journey having been more than sufficient to return their equipment and bodies to full function.

The rescued prisoners appear fairly healthy, though all are missing at least one appendage, multiple digits on their remaining limbs, and most of their teeth. Many have unpowered limb replacements to help their injured bodies move unaided, fancy peg legs made from plasteel sheets and forged springs. Their skin hangs loose upon their large frames and a third of them are missing at least one eye. 

Each prisoner is between two and half and three metres tall. They make most of the Barghests and my Heralds look small. There are 238 of these sickly brutes. They don’t have the pronounced brow, big belly, hunched back, and dumb looking face that most Ogryn suffer from. If anything, they look like upsized Kin with shoulders broad enough to impress and Ork.

Seven prisoners are Lathe Masters. One prisoner is a Tech-Priest. He’s a total mess as all of his implants have been pulled off him with little care. He was either dangerous or annoying enough that my people haven’t helped him either.

The Void Craft are in poorer condition. Many have neat patches on their ruby red hulls. Some have missing weapons. Their interiors are much better. Damaged components have been repaired and wrecked compartments have been returned to order by the constant work of Void Craft crews, idle Heralds, and compact workshops. 

At their backs and out of sight, I strike without warning, bathing Void Craft and personnel in the purifying flames of my third eye. Most remain untouched, their wills strong and untainted. 

Four Heralds cry out where their wards have failed and corruption is burned from their bodies. One dies, his warding electoos flashing a malevolent purple across his face before melting into his burning flesh. He moans in pleasure as he perishes.

A single Barghest turns red eyed, his armour splitting as it fuses with his flesh and his body cracks and grows, becoming a Wolfen, only for his fur to catch alight and his brothers to strike him down with thunderous bolter fire; his body collapses in ash and molten plasteel.

The Stellar Corps and Barghests are knowledgeable enough to catch on to what is going on. None look happy about it, but given the sudden violence and transformations, they do not panic and maintain their positions.

The prisoners shriek and tremble. Most fall to their knees and pray. 28 succumb to my flames, so much of their flesh burning away that they are dead before anyone can intervene. Rainbow smoke rises from their bodies as I consume the Daemons possessing them. 72 survive their burning and they are dragged off by the waiting medicae.

I’m rather surprised that 28 Daemons managed to not reveal themselves during a 52 day journey. They must truly fear their leader to fight against their own nature for so long. I even purge a handful of Daemons from the mechanisms of the Void Craft. I am not pleased that they managed to evade the prayers and wards of my expensive machines. They will all have to be pulled apart, examined, and rebuilt.

Alpia would be ideal for this, but she’s busy helping me with the Warp Tap. Instead, I assign Artisan Laisren Toolin, requisition two Psy-Errants to assist him, and put in a request for the Barghest’s Librarians to join the investigation. My wards have suffered a minor breach and I want to know why.

Killovie and the support personnel she inherited from Raphael are assigned to interview absolutely everyone who returned from the expedition. After this purification debacle, I activate a contingency. Every returnee will be escorted under guard to quarantine, then assigned to prayer and meditation while under observation, just in case. They will remain there until Killovie clears them, even the Barghests.

Odhran can raise a fuss if he likes, but I don’t think he will after seeing footage of one of his own people wolfing out. If anything, he’ll be putting his half-legion through purification rituals for weeks after such an embarrassment. It’s not even supposed to happen to them, only those they bite.

I can hardly send all these people off to the clink without a thank you though, can I?

I signal Alpia to enter the hangar. Ever ready to show off, Alpia drops her illusion and appears in the middle of the runway. Her steady pace echoes through the hangar as she walks towards the returnees. Her twelve metre wide white and silver wings brush against the deck with a soft swish. Lose, martial robes embroidered with Imperial iconography cover her huge frame. 

A gentle golden glow gradually fills the hangar, as if every surface is illuminated from within. The shadows hiding stacks of Void Craft either side of the runway are banished and an Imperial hymn plays in the background.

Alpia’s aura gently unfolds, not the domineering pressure that forces all to worship her and despair, but an aura of comfort, courage, and unshakable faith. She’s come a long way from when she was canonized.

The Heralds and Barghests do not kneel. They know better. Instead, they make the Sign of the Cog across their chests, bow 15 degrees, and no more. Afterwards they return to standing at ease. The tension leaves their body and the anger clouding their faces washes away.

Many of the rescued prisoners stare, unable to move from shock. Others burst into tears, fall to their knees, or both. The Kin shuffle from foot to foot, barely able to feel Alpia’s aura. They look more confused than awed. The Tech-Priest attempts to crawl towards Alpia while chanting prayers to the Omnissiah and clutching a snapped, unlit stick of incense. Likely his last one that he’s hung onto for years under forced labour for the Ruinous Powers.

Three Barghests point their bolters at the Tech-Priest. Lost in religious frenzy he does not notice. A ceramite clad boot cracks across his forehead, knocking him out cold. The Barghest who kicked the Tech-Priest grabs him by the ankle and drags him to the side, where the medicae are gathered watching Alpia approach, then returns to his post.

Alpia halts twelve metres before the many rows of soldiers and prisoners, then flares her wings. She draws upon the Warp and spreads her power over every person and machine in the hangar. Golden wisps and a cloud of silver lightning brushes against every surface. I feel my body fill with a pleasant warmth and a wave of satisfaction passes through my parched soul.

“May the Omnissiah and Machine-God bless you,” says Alpia in Lingua Technis and Low Gothic simultaneously, the beeps and static of the Mechanicus’ language haunting her more base words with an eerie echo. “You have endured much at the hands of Chaos. We thank you for your stalwart service and unshakable faith in the Imperium’s Gods. Your labours will be rewarded, as is the right of all Humans in the Stellar Fleet. 

“To our guests, you shall be given a new home and all the care required to return you to productive citizens. Soon you will once again take comfort in the peaceful labours of the Omnissiah. Your withered frames will be restored, your limbs rebuilt with the miracle of True Flesh, and your minds bolstered with the silver grace of the Machine-God. 

“For your courage and perseverance you will be granted access to the higher mysteries of the Mechanicus and the chance to become something more than the labourers you were born as. Do not squander this gift.

“To our returning heroes of the Stellar Corps and my brother Barghests. You have honoured the Stellar Fleet and your Chapter, performing the most daring and destructive feat I have ever witnessed. To you, I offer exotic drinks and foods crafted by my own hand.” A hint of levity enters Alpia’s voice, “That means that once all of your fellow adventures have returned, I’ll be hosting a small celebration for you all.”

The Stellar Corps and Barghests are too disciplined to cheer but there are plenty of smiles, and a few whispers among the Penal Light Infantry. Many of the surviving convicts have completed their sentences and are free once more. I doubt they expected to be honoured as well.

Alpia continues, “In addition, I have crafted a purity seal for each of you. May you treasure your hearts as much as I treasure yours.

“Remain where you are and follow the guards when your name is called.

“I thank you all for listening to my words.”

The Penal Light Infantry break out in applause and the rest of the Stellar Corps and Barghests are quick to follow. The rescued prisoners flinch at the sudden noise, many curling in on themselves or pressing their foreheads to the cold deck.

Alpia walks towards me, sweeping through the lines of people. They part for her. Those who are too lost in their veneration and terror are floated over with a steady, graceful hop as Alpia alters the settings of the grav plating beneath her feet. 

The serious look on Alpia’s face lasts just long enough for everyone to lose sight of her face, then turns into a big grin.

“So, how did I do, Dad. My speeches are totally as good as yours, right?”

“You did well, Sweat Pea. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks Dad!”

“Just remember to introduce yourself next time. A lot of those people had no idea who you were and looked rather confused. They could tell you were special, but for all they know you're a fancy Sororitas.”

Alpia blushes and hides her face behind a wing, forcing me to leap out of the way.

“Drat!”