The Scourge hull shudders almost as if in ecstasy as a fresh salvo of Ritual missiles arcs high into the darkened skies, the jets of their boosters turning them into so many twinkling stars against the gloom. Their manoeuvring thrusters adjust their course as they reach the apex of their flight, and they hang in the air for a moment, only to come crashing down upon the final Black Water-corrupted gate. Guidance Acolyte Barzai’s pale lips curl almost imperceptibly upward as the structure crumbles into the sea. The collapsing gate sends up jets of dark water shot through with the last violet surges of strange energy emitted from the dying towers.
“The outer defenses are neutralized, Executor,” she reports with a hint of smug superiority. Unbecoming, thinks Executor Hazred, but not undeserved. With her steady hands and sharp eyes, his command had torn through the colony’s defenses, exposing its vulnerable underbelly. His left eye - long ago replaced with a bionic prosthetic - seems to glow brighter as he leans forward in his command chair. This beast was wounded, but not dead. Their objective lay ahead as they cruise through the wreckage of the gate, protected by the colony’s inner defenses. An enemy ship, nearly unrecognizable beneath the grotesque tumours growing over its entire hull, turns on an intercept course.
“Bring us about to a heading of 187,” Hazred commands, his deep voice filling the bridge. “Do not allow that abomination to profane my ship.”
“Heading 187, as you command,” responds the spindly Navigator Keziah, his dark eyes unfocused as he interprets an interface only he can see. A navigation array is plugged into the port on his right temple, feeding him data readouts and warnings. The bridge tilts in response as the Hierophant changes course, and the sky is once more filled with man-made stars as Barzai guides more missiles into their pursuer. Already sagging severely under the added weight of its unnatural growths, the enemy ship splits in half as the Hierophant’s missiles tear huge rents into its hull.
Hazred doesn’t give the destroyed ship a second glance as his eyes fix on the large, central structure that dominates the inner cauldron of the colony. That’s what they are here for. The ship lurches once more as the tower vomits corrupted mortars, spewing the strange contaminant wherever they land.
“Taking evasive action,” Keziah reports, almost absently.
“Focus fire on that tower. Bring it down. The Elders will it!” Hazred’s left eye glows brighter than ever as his fervour awakens.
“The Elders will it” The bridge crew echoes.
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“Casualty numbers are…acceptable, Executor,” Mourne reports, kneeling before Hazred in the aftermath of the battle. His armour rattles as he stands to his full, impressive height. The grizzled warrior smooths his grey beard with a gauntleted hand. “Damage to several of the upper decks, and the hull will need to be cleansed thoroughly to prevent any…infection from the corruption.”
“Keziah reported that the response time from the starboard engine was slow,” Hazred growls reproachfully. “I will brook neither idleness nor laxity on the Elder’s avatar. Find the cause. Make examples of those responsible.”
“As you command, Executor,” Mourne acknowledges, bowing low. He turns smartly on his heel, gathering his Templars with a flick of his wrist. They come to attention stiffly and follow Mourne as he stalks off the bridge.
Hazred turns to face Barzai as she approaches. Her eyeless mask reveals nothing, so he awaits her report.
“Executor,” she begins, holding out a tablet. “I think the team we sent out has found something interesting.”
Hazred accepts the tablet and says nothing for a long moment. Then, returning it, he flicks a switch on his command chair.
“All hands, make ready to get underway.” He flicks the switch again, and locks eyes with Keziah. “Set a course.”
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Executor Hazred falls to his knees, his arms outstretched and head bowed in a gesture of supplication as the slow, heavy footfalls approach him. The raspy sound of laboured breath fills the chamber.
“Rise,” the grave, raspy voice commands. Hazred and his command crew obeys. Grand Primul Isurus, towering over even Mourne standing at Hazred’s right hand, sweeps his eyes over them. Hazred’s eyes flick to the side, where a silent figure stands motionless but observant in the corner. An apparatus obscures his eyes, but Hazred can feel them on him.
“I will not keep you long, Executor. You and your crew have work to do yet. Tell me what you have brought me.”
Isurus leads Hazred deeper into the installation, the silent figure following behind them. The arched walls of the corridors make it appear as though they walk through the belly of some giant sea serpent.
“At this “Colony” site,” begins Hazred, “we recovered a potent sample of the Blackwater corruption, within the ruins of the tallest tower. We took all precautions to contain it, but it is…wily. It has a mind of its own.”
“Our people know how to handle hazardous materials,” Isurus states.
“Of course, Grand Primul…” Hazred replies, but Isurus marks a note of skepticism in the Executor's voice. He stops and faces Hazred, forcing the other to come up short.
“You have doubts, Executor?” Isurus’ tone treads the line between question and statement, as his pitiless eyes bore into Hazred’s. The Hierophant’s commanding officer meets the Grand Primul’s gaze - the fearlessness of a zealot, thinks Isurus.
“Not about containment. We are trafficking with dangerous and unholy things, trying to control this corruption. I wonder if this course is truly the will of the Elders…or of a man.”
Isurus’ habitual scowl deepens. “Guard your tongue, Hazred. I know the Elders’ will better than you think. Go now. We will need more samples.”
“At your command, Grand Primul,” Hazred bows, but he holds Isurus’ gaze defiantly. Isurus silently weighs the Executor’s usefulness.
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Days pass, and more samples trickle in as Hazred’s crew continues their search. Isurus returns frequently to check on the progress of his project, always with the silent figure watching vigilantly. Most assume the figure is Isurus’ enforcer, but Isurus knows better.
A researcher, clad in a slick silver-white hazmat suit, approaches and bows deeply.
“Report,” growls Isurus, clearly growing impatient for results. His eyes remain fixed on the laboratory on the other side of the reinforced glass before him.
"What you have asked…should be possible,” the man states hesitantly.
“I have waited this long for ‘should be’?” Isurus turned his baleful gaze on the researcher, who quails in fear.
“It’s a very unstable substance, Grand Primul!” he stammers nervously. “We’ve nearly lost containment three times already.”
“I am not interested in excuses, Doctor. If you cannot control it, I will find someone who can.” Isurus looms over the researcher, who performs another obsequious bow and seems about to continue his groveling when an alarm klaxon suddenly sounds. Emergency lighting and amber strobes come alight throughout the chamber.
“Grand Primul!” a voice crackles through Isurus’ comm unit, “the station is under attack! It looks like Vassago’s forces!”
“Ready my ship,” Isurus responds, wasting no time as he turns back to the researcher. “Bring me the samples!” He waits as the researcher and his workers hurriedly seal the samples into reinforced vials, then pack the vials into a cylindrical device, each one separated in its own chamber to prevent cross-contamination. Distant explosions, growing closer, serve to speed their work along. Finally, two men emerge from the clean room with the case burdened between them. Isurus takes the large handle in one hand and turns to make his way towards the airlock to his vessel. The silent figure follows after him, loading his rifle. Isurus turns his head, watching him out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t truly believe that Solon would take the chaos of the attack as an opportunity to remove him, but he also didn’t believe in taking such things for granted. His other hand settles on the grip of the shotgun holstered at his hip like a sidearm.
At that moment, they pass into a transparent walkway leading to the docking arm and Isurus’ waiting ship. Isurus looks up to see a swarm of UAVs, buzzing like a hive of gigantic bees as they descend upon the research facility. The walkway’s roof shatters as they open fire, the staccato rhythm of their guns buffeting Isurus. He pulls his shotgun clear and holds his arm up to shield his head from razor-sharp shards of falling glass. Without cover, he begins to sprint towards the end of the walkway, dodging gunfire as the UAVs fly in close.
Solon’s rifle barks, and one drops, crashing into the side of the walkway and dropping into the ocean below in flames. Another appears in front of Isurus, dropping entirely into the shattered frame of the canopy and blocking his path. Its gunfire rakes the floor towards Isurus as it levels out, but Isurus is faster - with a mighty leap, he lands on the UAV’s hull and fires several acid-pellet shotgun shells into its robotic body. With its control matrix melted, its rotors falter and it crashes with a whine, throwing Isurus to the floor with its last wild burst of thrust. The sample case flies from his grip and rolls.
Drawing up to his knees, Isurus’ eyes meet the barrel of Solon’s rifle, pointed right at him. So, you make your move after all, he thinks, knowing he won’t be able to raise his shotgun in time to prevent his fate. Solon’s finger pulls the trigger, and to his surprise, Isurus’ world does not go black. An explosion behind him tells Isurus that another UAV felt the bullet he thought was meant for him. By the time he is back on his feet, Solon approaches with the sample case, holding it out to Isurus, who snatches it back with a glower. This changes nothing, he thinks, and stalks to the airlock. Solon follows, silent and expressionless as ever. Isurus steps into the airlock, not noticing the empty vial slot in the sample case as the doors close behind them.