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Chapter 56: The Angels' Arrival
🕑 Added 2025-11-11 12:14:34 +0000 UTCChapter 56: The Angels' Arrival
As the first rays of the star Calth-Loth pierced the transparent dome of the orbital port, Port-Master Edmon began his day.
He sat in his grox-hide command chair, his crisp uniform immaculate, the Imperial Aquila gleaming on his breast. It was the symbol of his authority. His female adept had already prepared a pot of fine recaff.
It was a rare blend, he'd been told, from a distant agri-world. The beans were supposedly... processed... by an exotic, native animal, giving them a unique flavor. He couldn't tell the difference from cheap gutter-brew, but the high-hive nobles paid a fortune for it, so it had to be good.
He took a sip and turned to the day's grim work. Pirate activity in the sector was at an all-time high. He'd heard something massive was happening near the Eye of Terror, and most of the Segmentum Navy had been pulled away to reinforce the Gate. It was a damnable time to be in charge.
Some thought his job was easy, but he had no time to correct them. Logistics, security, personnel, resource allocation—it all crossed his desk.
He checked his personal cogitator, the screen displaying the status of the repair docks and cargo bays. His gaze was sharp, missing no detail. He had to be in control.
Just as he finished his review and was about to stand for his morning inspection, the servo-skull floating by his desk chimed. A vox-link to the Astropathic choir.
"Port-Master," the reedy, mental voice echoed in his office. "We have an urgent, high-priority astrotelegraphic message. An Astartes fleet, Imperial Fists, 4th Company, will arrive in eight hours. They require immediate resupply and repair."
Edmon's blood ran cold. "Are we certain of their identity?"
"Scan-runes are confirmed, Port-Master," the astropath replied. "Their flagship is the Judgment's Edge."
Astartes. The most elite, and most terrifying, of the Emperor's servants. Their arrival meant a major military operation was underway.
Emperor preserve us, Edmon prayed. Don't let that war spill over to here.
He immediately gave his orders. "Alert all department heads. Emergency meeting in the main briefing room. We will receive the Imperial Fists with the highest honors."
These were the guardians of Terra itself. Even a minor displeasure from them could be reported to the High Lords. He couldn't afford to offend them, even if, in his experience, Astartes cared little for pomp and ceremony. It was his duty to provide it.
"And notify the Planetary Governor," he added as an afterthought.
The Governor, as always, would try to host a feast. The Astartes, as always, would refuse. The Governor had tried to woo them before and had been coldly rebuffed every time. Who has time to meet with a fat, over-stuffed Grox like you? Edmon thought, though he would never dare say it aloud.
He rushed to the briefing room, his portly frame radiating a nervous energy. "Listen to me!" he barked at his assembled subordinates. "Our only priority is to ensure the Astartes fleet is re-armed and refueled in the shortest possible time. All other traffic is secondary. This is a test of our loyalty!"
The station scrambled. Docks were cleared. Munitions were brought up from the deep-vaults. All tech-wrights, servitors, and priests were redirected to the designated repair bay.
Edmon personally inspected the reception area, ensuring the honor guard was polished, the music was appropriate, and the (untouched) refreshments were of the highest quality.
Hours later, four small dots in the void resolved into warships. Edmon and his staff stood at attention in the main receiving bay as the Astartes fleet, scarred and battered, eased into its moorings.
"Look," the port Quartermaster whispered to Edmon. "Why are there two merchantmen with them?"
"Probably escorting critical supplies," Edmon whispered back. "Look at the hull-scarring on the cruiser. They must have been hit by raiders."
The cruiser's ramp lowered. And the Imperial Fists disembarked, clad in their iconic, bright-yellow power armor, their bolters held at the low-ready.
As they marched, the starport's professional choir, dressed in their finest uniforms, began to sing the hymn of the Primarch Dorn, "The Indomitable Guardian."
"In the dark of the void, 'twixt the stars,
Rogal Dorn, your name thunders on the field.
A wall of iron, a shield of loyalty,
You are the Emperor's sword, the end of all Chaos!
Oh, Rogal Dorn, Lord of the Imperial Fists!
Your glory shines in the fire of war!
Oh, Rogal Dorn, the Unbroken Warrior!
Your spirit, we shall remember evermore!
Oh, Rogal Dorn, Guardian of Terra!
Your name, a symbol of our strength!
Oh, Rogal Dorn, the undying legend!
Your tale is sung in every warrior's heart!"
Edmon hurried forward, his face a mask of profound respect, bowing low. "Welcome to Calth-Loth Prime, my honored Lords. I am Port-Master Edmon."
He felt a spike of new fear. Usually, only a handful of Astartes would come ashore for a refit. He counted forty of them, nearly half a company, their heavy boots thudding on his deck.
The Astartes Sergeant at their head, a power axe and plasma pistol at his hip, unclipped his helmet. He had a severe, un-scarred face and cold, intelligent eyes.
"Port-Master," the Astartes said, his voice a low rumble. "I am Sergeant Petros, 4th Company. Our time is limited. We require immediate resupply and repair."
Edmon, eager to please, bowed again. "Of course, my Lord! My teams are already at work. We will be as swift as the Emperor's light. If I may be so bold, my Lord... you have the very look of your great Primarch, Rogal Dorn, about you. The same noble bearing!"
Petros said nothing.
