[X] "Navigation indicates that we are in Aeldari Space. I will discuss your situation with their nearest embassy and ensure handover to qualified individuals."
You have made a mistake.
The elder larva is in distress. You do not know why it is in distress. You have said nothing stressful or untoward, nor have you shown it inappropriate levels of violence. The Medchanoid you've possessed has no convenient answers, no secrets as to this mysterious species. You wonder if it is a delayed stress reaction, but its vocalizations indicate that your words are the cause, rather than its pursuit by elders. Perhaps its species is at war with the Aeldari?
It seems unlikely. Their technology is primitive and straightforward. You imagine that some gaggle of newcomer primitives would have already submitted to the might of a galactic power.
You vocalize the thought anyways, the words warping as you mangle them into the larva's language. This meets confusion instead, and eventually a hushed clarification. The larva does not believe that there is an Aeldari empire. The Aeldari she is aware of are mysterious sorcerors and sadistic raiders.
You suppose that her species may have angered some local pirate lord, and point out that Tarsus is nearby. Its terraformation was expected to finish nearly nine thousand years ago, and surely they would have an official embassy by now.
You are informed that Tarsus has been 'virus bombed', which you suspect is some sort of biome-kill weapon.
You suggest Idire.
It has also been 'virus bombed'.
You suggest Rita-in.
It has apparently been invaded, overrun by orks, invaded again, virus bombed, terraformed, resettled, and eaten by….you are unsure of the translation, but some sort of interstellar locust swarm.
You ask if she is aware of the Mother Worlds. After a degree of explanation, triangulation, and comparative astrography, you eventually suss out that they have been swallowed entirely by some sort of profound immaterial disturbance.
You suspect that it may be difficult to return your charges to an Aeldari embassy. You ask if she is aware of someone who would know more about the state of the galaxy and, perhaps, would be willing to answer questions.
For the first time since you met her, she seems eager to answer.
*
The alien vessel was tiny for its accidental import, short, spindly, and lightly armed, its corridors comparatively cramped and spartan compared to even the most meager of Imperial warships. Nowhere were the vast assembly bays, the fields capable of hosting armies on parade, the titanic mechanisms necessary for the hand-loading of modern armaments. Even where faithless scavengers hadn't begun their work, it was a pathetic thing, fragile to the untrained eye.
Balthiar was sure it was some sort of transport or pilgrimage ship for a primitive species. Perhaps an escort vessel for some long-dead alien navy. Nothing worthy of his time, or the lives being spent on it.
But it had killed Brenya, and Hesh, and twenty six Cadian guards. And it would take more before he was done. So now, he was handling this personally.
His acolytes had established a forward operating base on the top deck. Canvas and ceramite barricades stretched across corridors, while equipment was hauled into repurposed rooms and holes blasted into walls and floors to expand available areas, or bypass corridors sealed by whatever ancient battle had mauled the ship. Cadians waited at every entrance to the camp, at the boarding tubes that lead back to the
Mendicant Shrike, at the patchwork medical tent and the vox station and everywhere else the enemy might think to strike.
Balthiar himself was in a small room dominated by a non-functioning alien holotable. Around it sat his staff, or at least those who still lived:
First, next to him, Lieutenant Carrai, a dirty-blond woman who commanded the Cadian company Hesh had gotten him. Her trust was in Hesh, not Balthiar, and with casualties mounting and Hesh dead her distrust of him was increasingly obvious.
Opposite her was Legate Nyx, a pale detective from Necromunda, promoted for their analysis and trustworthiness rather than any particular skill at arms. Their talents would be put to use once Farah's cyber-brain was pulled from her skull, though increasingly Balthiar suspected that he may need them to decipher the nature of the ship's alien foe.
Leaning back in his own chair, staring at the empty spaces where Brenya and Hesh should be, was Interrogator Khan. He was a dark-skinned young man and Brenya's protege. Professional, skilled, and, with Brenya's death, filled with a hate Balthiar always thought he'd needed.
Lastly, at the opposite end of the table, was Magos Skryre. He was a black, heavily augmented techpriest and the only Techpriest Balthiar had ever really respected. He still didn't trust him, but Skryre didn't trust him either, and with the power both of them held this was for the best.
Skryre was assembling a miniature holo-projector. He recited prayers and hooked hoses into the fist-sized contraption, adjusted interminable dials that studded its surface, and, when he was done, he flicked a switch and the device stuttered to life. In the middle of the table, flickering a hazy blue, was the xenos ship. Explored sections outlined in green, sealed, damaged, and hostile ones in red, with crosshairs over the sites of skirmishes and an ancient sigil, waves coruscating away from a central node, representing vox-jamming.
"Thank you Magos," said Balthiar, "Carrai, report."
Carrai stood, the honor and discipline of the Cadian elite obvious in her posture. Her gaze. Her tone of voice. "Lord Inquisitor. Situation remains stable. Of our original forces, we have one ninety two combat-capable guards and a full squad of ten ogryns. Of our wounded, three are expected to recover," says Carrai, "Supplies remain stable and our base of operations secure. However, our forces are stretched thin attempting to cordon vox-neg zones, corral the smugglers, pursue your heretic,
and combat the xenos on this ship. As such, and with all due respect, I am requesting that we cease the search until this ship is secure."
"Your concern for those under your command is admirable, Lieutenant, but they serve a higher power," said Balthiar, "Locating Farah Massal is of the highest priority. If you feel that your troops are overstretched, you may draw them away from the other tasks as you see fit, or request reinforcements from Magos Skryre."
"Reinforcements are unavailable," noted Magos Skryre. Carrai gave Skryre a look that might slay lesser men, but remained silent.
"Legate, your report?" asked Balthiar.
"The Xenos the guards have been skirmishing with for the past half-hour are not the ones that killed Lady Brenya. They are long, worm-like xenos with many eyes and no arms. I had initially assumed that they were some lesser species but a preliminary dissection has indicated otherwise,," said Nyx, their voice a careful, quiet monotone that belied their appearance, "I have termed them Worm-Servitors, as I suspect that they are artificially grown servitors akin to our own, but created through heretical xenotech. Synthetic flesh grown around an artificial metal frame, and then clad in armor and preliminary equipment. Though armed and armored, they are not potent combatants. As such, I believe that either their creator species did not care overmuch about them, or that their technology is significantly more primitive than our own."
"Do you believe they are a significant threat to the operation?" asked Balthiar.
Nyx shrugged. "They're capable of repairing each other, even specimens we thought mortally wounded. They have a knowledge of the ship and how to use it to their advantage that we don't. But while their guns are strange, they are no more dangerous than our own, and they seem neither numerous, nor a match for a Cadian bayonet charge, " they said, one hand fiddling with their rosarius as they spoke, "It would not do to underestimate them, sire, but unless your mystery xenos reappears, or their creators deign to take the field, I do not imagine them a serious threat to our purpose. We've the Imperial Guard at our side and the Emperor at our back. They have a mystery foe with a flamethrower and a half-dead ship."
"Complacency is a slow and insidious killer, Legate," said Balthiar, "If the other xeno has not yet exposed itself, it is because it has a reason not to. Interrogator Khan, report. Are the smugglers apprehended?"
"We found them, but they refused to surrender. Hostilities were initiated and we opened fire, routing the traitors from their position. At least four of them are dead, their ship is secured, but their captain sealed a blast door before we could catch them," said Khan. His fingers drummed impatiently against the table, stopping only to point out the location of the smugglers, "It's a dead-end, near as we can tell. We were preparing to breach when you demanded the meeting, Lord Balthiar. Dead or alive, we'll have them within the hour."
*
Craftworld Ulthwe prepared for the apocalypse. Four years ago, a dire prophecy had beset its Farseers. The End Times were here. Death, for the Eldar. For the Imperium. For untold others. And precious few routes away from it.
Since, the world-ship has dedicated itself to survive the End. All of its agents, all of its fleets, all of its ancient warriors and potent sorceries turned towards this single purpose. Desperately hoping that they would find
anything that might help.
A webway portal in its gut opened. Within moments, it was surrounded by armed Eldar. Ulthwe's hosts were not expecting guests, and looked unkindly upon surprise. Avengers levelled their catapults, wraithguard assembled in their hosts, and warlocks called upon the warp as they prepared for battle.
A single Eldar stepped forth and the gate closed behind him. His hair was in tatters, his armor, streaked with the dirt and grime of a dozen worlds, his legs, barely able to carry his weight. Soul stones glowed bright across his belt, and the sigil of Craftworld Meros adorned his crimson breastplate, barely visible beneath the dirt. "Hold!" he called, "I bring a message. The Doom of Meros has come. I must speak with the Farseers of Ulthwe."
No glance is passed between the ever-disciplined Eldar, no mutter of confusion or horror, no offer to help or sign of disunity. The Eldar stare, hands on their weapons, and wait, for they are used to the trickery of their many enemies. But the unease is there. They know of Doomed Meros, and its ten millenia mission in the galactic north. They know that Meros would fail, one day, and that untold worlds would suffer the consequences. They know what this means, and that it could not be timed less fortunately.
Finally, Farseer Taldeer of Ulthwe stepped forwards. Her staff echoed as it clinked against wraithbone, her eyes arced in open curiosity. "Identify yourself and relay your message," she said, "But know that Ulthwe has no forces to spare for a doomed cause."
The Eldar dropped to one knee, ragged, dark hair pooling about his shoulders. "I am Idranvah, Aspect of the Crimson Hunter. Last pilot of Meros. I carry the soul-stones of two hundred dead," he said, "The barricade is breached. The Ur-Mind has entered the Ghoul Stars, and allied with the Cythorian Fiends. The Combined Army will make contact with the Imperium by the end of the decade."
"We Mourn the Dead," intoned Taldeer, "And each of your companions will have a place amongst our Infinity Circuit. But the End Times come. We will treat you, and heal you, but have no forces to spare. The Mon-Keigh shall weather this storm alone."
"I do not come for help, but to warn" said Idranvah, "Our seers have seen an Ur-ship. A lone vessel in the galactic east, writhing with the souls of the dead. They do not know its provenance, nor how it escaped our net, nor how long it has waited. But now they see it act, and fear what it portends."
There is a short pause as Taldeer considered the prophecy, what it might mean considering all that Ulthwe had learned in recent years. She flourished a hand, and spirit stones fell. The delicate ring of wraithbone falling against wraithbone filled the courtyard, every spirit stone in sight twinkling as fate twisted and surged.
Then Taldeer looked upon Idranvah, her face pale, and spoke. "Feed him, clothe him, armor him," she said, "I must speak to the Autarchs."
*
Captain Talam steels his soul and prepares to die. His crew, his
family, are in their positions across the alien reactor room, scavenged weapons pointed at the door. Listening to the dull boom of the Inquisitorial shock-ram, the muffled bellows of Cadian shock troops. Waiting to sell their lives as dearly as they can.
The reactor itself hummed behind them, casting the room in shadowy reds and filling it with the faint scent of ozone. Casting furrowed brows and suppressed terror in stark relief. Making it difficult to count the wounded and dead, to take a tally of who still lived save by voice.
Somewhere near the door, Ralah spat, her massive frame shifting in the dark. She'd been a competent head of security for years. She had an ork's view of combat and philosophy, which made her next words and the unsteady voice in which she said them, all the more discomfiting. "D'you think they take surrenders?" she asked.
"That ship has sailed, my friend," called Artom, their navigator, who had stood with them when his bloodline would have won him some small measure of mercy in surrender. A grim chuckle traversed the room, and as Talam joined in a spike of pain wracked his side. His vision blurred, one hand snapped around a railing and his legs gave way under him. He could smell ozone, barely discernible over the horrendous pain in his chest.
When he could see again, Nas was crouched over him. Kind eyes gleaming, lips quirked in concern, brown skin shadowed by the dim lights. "How bad is it" whispered Nas.
Talam opened his mouth to lie, but felt Nas opening his greatcoat. He knew what his husband would find, the charred flak, reduced to a burned, bubbling mess. The burns where it had fallen away from his flesh. "Plasma missed me by a foot," he said, "When they started shooting up top." He shrugged. "Convection's a fucker."
"You've been hiding this for an hour?" asked Nas. Talam could feel the outrage, the warm flush of shame at how he'd betrayed his husband's trust.
"I didn't want you to worry," he said, "I didn't want you to regret saving the girls-"
His confession was interrupted by a kiss on the lips. Swift and chaste, but blissful comfort nonetheless. "It was the right thing to do, Captain. I don't regret it for an instant," said Nas, his eyes glistening, "Not the pain, not the terror, not dying here. It was with you, Talam, so it was worth-"
There was an electric whine, the scream of some great motor. Then lasfire, and detonations, and screaming.
Then silence, and blood oozed under the door.
Every eye in the room turned upon the growing pool of gore. Talam pulled himself up, one hand on the railing, the other around Nas' shoulder. Nas tried to urge him to stay down, to not aggravate his wound. He refused.
If this was to be his end, he would face it as he should. Standing. Armed. And hand in hand with Nas. The throbbing pain in his side lessened and one hand slipped free of the railing, retrieving his laspistol from where it had fallen.
Something rapped at the door, the sound like a great gong. Once, then twice.
"You are being rescued," boomed a voice, loud and confident and distinctly artificial, "Do not. Resist."
The doors oscillated open. A torrent of gore and broken bodies slid into the room, the stench of fear and death flooding their nostrils. Someone gagged and some-
thing stepped through the door. A five meter tall xeno colossus, a beast of sharp angles and predatory instinct. Rectangular hooves crushed through broken bodies, its silhouette wavered and blurred, light itself blending around the monstrosity. A whiplike tail outlined in splattered blood, lashing through the air as if looking for its next victim. A titanic cannon rested in one arm, its scope and barrel shifting, hunting for new targets, smoke billowing as it walked. It was a monstrous fever dream, easy to dismiss as hallucination but for its eyes. Glowing red and predatory, tracking everything in the room, utterly confident that it could hunt them if it so decided.
Someone fired a pistol round. There was a slight noise and a spark where it bounced from the creature's armored hide.
"Do. Not. Resist," it repeated, "Further hostility. Will be taken as a declaration of intent."
Talam's finger inched towards the trigger. The thing was alien and dangerous, and who knew its intent once it had them? If he was to die, he might at least face the Emperor as a loyal servant, rather than killed like a traitor.
But he looked towards Artom, Ralah, the two dozen members of his crew, and Nas. He looked at their fear, stared into Nas' eyes, and he knew that he couldn't throw their lives away out of pride. Not when there was a chance.
He let the laspistol drop from his hands.
"We're complying," he said, his voice harsh, every word sending spasms of pain down his side, "We won't resist. What do you want, Xeno?"
The xeno's weapon lowered. It took another step into the room, blood dripping from its legs as it towered over Talam. "I have been informed that. Stellar Coordinates 843.229. 848.229. 843.220. 848.220. And all intervening territory. Have been swallowed by metaphysical stellar phenomena. I require information," said the thing, "Additionally, two larvae requested your rescue. In deference to them, this. Avatar-Class Aspect. Is ensuring your safety."
A moment of profound confusion passed. Then its chest folded outwards. The blurring ceasing for a moment as mechanisms and gears revealed themselves, revealing the red-and-black creature in its full, terrifying glory.
And out of its chest stepped Farah, Marya, and a smaller, clearly robotic xeno a full head shorter than Farah.
"Hi Captain," said Farah, "It's, uh, it's friendly. Just very scary."
"I am Nemesis," says Nemesis, "I have. Many. Questions."
All of your questions have terrible answers. Which do you hate most?.
[ ] This 'Imperium' has outlawed artificial intelligence and technological advancement. Coincidentally, the Hostiles are currently attempting to hunt you down and are going to do quite a lot of damage to irreplaceable technology if you let them try.
[ ] 'Imperial' FTL requires the use of psychic individuals, resulting in horrible oppression of the same, as well as psychic shielding. Coincidentally, the Hostiles are currently attempting to blow up your engines and you don't have psychic shielding.
[ ] The 'Inquisition' has an 'Ordo Xenos' dedicated to fighting aliens and implementing an Imperial policy of galactic Xenocide. Coincidentally, the Hostiles are currently headed towards your gene-creche and will likely wipe out the species within if given a chance.
[ ] The 'Imperium' builds on a truly ridiculous scale. Ships reaching ten plus kilometers in length are, evidently, normal. Combatting such monstrosities would be unpleasant with a fleet on hand. Unfortunately, you have half a ship and the Hostiles are attempting to blow up your remaining guns.
