Bertran used to pilot cargo Lighters, transporting whatever it was the foremen had set up on his docket for the day as he made trips across planet to orbit to the ground and everything in-between. He was good too, ever seen someone fly a Lighter up to orbit after it's sensors got fried with an engine operating at thirty nine point eight percent from flying through a lightning storm? Neither did Calavar until someone decided that the freight Bertran needed to move was deemed critical to the Crusade, the man taking off in the midst of a storm no other civilian pilot was willing to risk the moment he got the call.
People asked him afterwards how he did it, did his skills carry him through? Did the Emperor's light appear to guide him through it all? Did the machine spirit of his Lighter bless him with the grace of the Omnissiah? No, none of that. He had simply flew that same flight route so many times that he could remember the process, every minuscule fraction of it, with barely even a conscious thought.
He even dreamed about flying it some nights, not because it was a process he enjoyed just simply due to it being that frequent. If someone had told him that what he was taking up were last minute replacements for the Wages of Scorn, that he would prove crucial in ensuring that that monster would fire, and if they had told him he'd witness after accepting the recruitment notice?
He would have refused.
Yet, no one can know what the future holds and yet here Bertran is, the void of space that should be broken only by the dim flicker of stars awash in the ceaseless fire of Human and Ork warships alike. It was madness the likes of which he had never seen, but before his emotions could get the better of him the whirring of the auto-injectors embedded into his neck broke the quiet of the cockpit. A drug enforced calm seeping it's way into his mind as he tore the Combat Lighter to the side, hand clamping down on the firing mechanisms as the forward mounted lascannons tore into the side of an Ork fighter craft.
It hurt to see something that ungainly flying about the void of space and so with mechanical precision Bertran proceeded to tear the craft apart, it's engines destroyed from the first salvo. It took moments to ensure it was dead, the seasoned cargo pilot turned void fighter pilot turning his craft towards an oncoming cluster of Ork boarding craft intent on slamming into the front of the Wages of Sin.
"Squadron Gamma, this is Gamma-One. Ten count boarding craft fast approaching Wages of Sin's prow."
A wave of acknowledgement came in response.
"Gamma-Three confirm."
"Gamma-Four confirm."
"Gamma-Six confirm."
"Gamma-Nine confirm.... Down to five in the wing, Gamma-One."
Bertran frowned for a moment, the auto injectors kicking to life again to suppress the rising wave of anger,
"Understood. Three and Four, take targets Green-376 through Green-379. Six and Nine, take Targets Green-380 through Green 382. One will handle the rest."
A cybernetic arm moved to the side of Bertran's neck, a robotic finger pressing in on a small protruding plate that sent a rush of stimulants pouring into his system followed rapidly by a bland mechanical voice.
"Gamma-One, vitals peaking. Biological damage sustained, disable injectors and hold further us-"
It falls silent with a few flicks of the switch, Bertran's hands dancing across the control panels to adjust the Combat Lighter to it's limits as the familiar ding of the lascannons successful charge rings in the cockpit. Accelerating towards the selected boarding craft, Bertran's radars displayed the other craft in Gamma Wing following close behind. Their positions were workable, they could manage if he could take out two of the craft in the first four seconds of the engagement and so the autocannon was flipped to ready status.
It took moments for the two formations to close, the Ork gunners opening fire far before entering effective range while Gamma Wing kept their weapons ready.
Six seconds to range.
Five seconds to range.
Four seconds to range.
Three seconds to range. Gamma-Nine's identifier goes out, a flash of light from the side signalling lucky shots from Ork gunners downing another of Bertran's squadron.
Two seconds to range. Bertran flicks the plastic cover from the autocannon fire mechanism, the cockpit thrums, and Bertran's helmet seals itself automatically with a whoosh of internal oxygen kicking in.
One second to range. Bertran changes trajectory abruptly, the Combat Lighter adjusting its prow perpendicular to the rapidly nearing Ork craft, Ork guns take out Engine One, but the craft keeps going. His first target passes in front of him as the lascannons fire, searing beams of pure energy lancing their way through the craft and setting fire to poorly stored munitions that are rapidly sucked into space.
His second and third target arrive just as swiftly, a finger depressing the autocannon trigger as the prow of the Lighter begins to spit out a rain of shells that could punch through lighter tanks let alone shoddily crafted Ork vessels. A line of high speed shells tear the side of a boarding craft open sending it's occupants into the void followed swiftly by a controlled burst that turns the cockpit of the third craft into a beehive.
Maneuverability thrusters kick to life as a Bertran enables a series of pre-configured adjustment routines carried over from when the Combat Lighter was a cargo vessel. It aligns just in time for the heavily stimulant fueled, single-minded focus of the former cargo pilot to unload a dozen rounds into the main thrusters of a craft that should have been Gamma-Nines.
Lights flicker in the cockpit as Bertran hurries to the task of initiating manual countermeasures for the damaged Engine-One, console lights dimming as the lighter enters low power mode to cope with the reduced power generation. Turning his eyes to the visual display he looks up just in time to witness the first firing of the Wages of Sin's supposed Fusion Breaker cannon, and even through the rush of stimulants trying to keep him focused he finds himself unable to look away.
It fires once, it's target the asteroid turned monitor and Ork space station. He doesn't catch the shell moving through space, but he sees the result as a hole large enough to fly a full Wing through just appears.
Shattered rock, shredded metal, molten versions of both, and the asteroid's former inhabitants are cast violently out of the horrific wound inflicted upon the all caught in a heaving mass of fire and colors. Staring at the destruction a part of Bertran realized a rather unavoidable truth.
He had helped put together a weapon that wasn't made to defend. Watching the aftermath wash over the Fort for a brief moment before the optical sensors flared out of life for a scant few moments, Bertran looked at the now dark screens in horror.
"We've made something to remove continents from existence.... I.... What did I-"
Static blared into Bertran's ears for a few seconds before a voice finally played through.
"Gamma-One, this is Gamma-Six. We... We're all that's left of the Wing, sir."
Bertran sat in silence for a few moments before replying,
"Copy that. Gamma Wing return for resupply and repair."
Saying that he cut off communications with his fellow surviving squadron mate.
"Should have stuck to freight. Emperor have mercy."