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Chapter 65: Destroying the Starport
🕑 Added 2025-11-15 13:04:24 +0000 UTCChapter 65: Destroying the Starport
The Forged Steel Brotherhood's harvest of Calth-Loth Prime was complete. Their ships were stuffed to the breaking point.
But the planet was a colossus. A single world with two hive cities and ten billion people. They hadn't even touched the second hive, which had remained silent and locked down, too terrified to send aid to Preston Hive.
They had captured people and plundered supplies, but what was two million souls against ten billion? What was a few factories' worth of materials against an entire industrial world?
The hive's industrial spine was still intact. As long as order was restored and the remaining workers were forced back to their assembly lines, production would resume.
In the hive below, countless citizens, hearing the silence, began to creep from their habs. When they saw the invaders were gone, a ragged, confused cheer went up. The war was over. They were safe.
High above them, The Judgment's Edge, The Ironclad, and their ten other captured and chartered vessels had pulled away from the starport, floating in the black.
On the command bridge of the Judgment's Edge, Ship-Master Barnabas turned to his lord. "Petros, all holds are full. The second hive remains dark. What are your orders?"
Petros stared at the brown, wounded planet, his mind cold and clear.
"This world is too close to the Imperial core," he said. "And too far from our own. Reinforcements will be here sooner or later. Leaving this station intact gains us nothing. Denying it to the enemy costs us nothing."
He pointed at the massive, captured orbital-plate. "Destroy it. Its internal pict-recorders have records of our armor, our tactics, and our faces. We will not leave such a vulnerability behind."
In the corner of the bridge, Phelon was fiddling with a strange device he had "liberated" from the Planetary Governor's spire—an Old Terran archival unit, supposedly holding ten million musical tracks.
Barnabas, acknowledging the order, gave his own. "All ships," his voice was flat, "target the starport. All batteries, fire at will."
The mortal crews, now sworn to their new masters, moved to their stations. This was just another order. They began loading the macro-cannons, aiming them at the now-defenseless station.
The Judgment's Edge and The Ironclad unleashed their lances and broadsides.
At that exact moment, Phelon's device sparked to life, and a jaunty, archaic, and bizarrely cheerful tune filled the bridge.
"Five little grox-rats selling their strange wares...
Five little grox-rats with no room for cares...
The psyker and the xeno tried to steal the shop...
But the fifth little grox-rat just sat and watched them pop!"
To this nonsensical, upbeat rhythm, the macro-shells struck the starport's docking arms. The hab-rings and storage bays, one after another, blossomed into silent, fiery explosions. The once-great engineering marvel, the symbol of the hive's power, was systematically, coldly, and cheerfully torn apart.
It became a new, massive ring of orbital debris, a dense, impassable field of scrap that would circle the planet for millennia. It was a gravitic snare, making it impossible for any new fleet to safely enter orbit.
Cleaning it would require a full Mechanicum salvage operation—a fleet of tugs or a void-furnace to melt down the scrap.
Petros watched it all with a cold, satisfied eye. He didn't need the starport. But he especially didn't need it being used by the Imperium to refuel the fleet that would inevitably come to hunt him.
Creating a problem for your enemy was, in itself, a victory.
The Warband's fleet, now numbering twelve ships (their original four, plus the eight merchantmen they'd "liberated" from the dock), turned and moved to a safe jump-point.
The raid was a resounding success. They had harvested over two million souls—engineers, adepts, pilots, and officers. The holds were packed with refined chemical-stock, precious metals, and even a few completed artillery pieces and armored vehicles.
As the fleet prepared to plunge back into the Immaterium, their Geller Fields flaring to life, Phelon ran up to Petros, his face split by a wide grin.
"Boss, boss, look at this!" he said, holding up a glass vial filled with a pulsing, fluorescent green liquid.
"I found this in one of the under-hive ganger-stashes," he said excitedly. "Try it!"
Petros, trusting his chaotic brother's instincts, took the vial and drank half of it. He swished it in his mouth. It was... sweet.
"I feel nothing," Petros said.
"Of course you don't!" Phelon laughed. "It's useless on Astartes physiology. But on mortals? Oh, it's beautiful. It enhances strength, radically increases aggression, and floods them with euphoric confidence."
Petros raised an eyebrow. "Side effects?"
Phelon waved a dismissive hand. "Almost none. Just... cuts their life expectancy in half, causes moderate-to-severe brain damage, liquefies the liver, dramatically increases the chance of sudden heart-failure, and, of course, causes total sterility."
He was practically vibrating with excitement. "They make it from nine different local reagents! Ghast-Weed, Ichor-Fungus, xeno-dreg... and they cut it with industrial sweetener, which is why it tastes so good. They drink it, they inject it... the gangers love it. We can mass-produce this, boss! Easily!"
Petros just stared at his Warpsmith.
"Half their life expectancy, Phelon?" he said, his voice weary. "And... aren't you a blacksmith? When, exactly, did you become a chem-dealer?"
