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Chapter 51: The Battle of Cadia (Part 3)
🕑 Added 2025-11-08 11:26:53 +0000 UTCChapter 51: The Battle of Cadia (Part 3)
The presence of loyalist Astartes on this ship changed the entire tactical situation.
Petros's orders were immediate. "Thor," he voxed, "your objective is unchanged. Seize the Enginarium or destroy it. If you meet heavy resistance, call in Third Squad for reinforcement."
The objective remained the same. A ship's core is its bridge and its engine. But the plan, as always, was shattered on contact with the enemy. He could only hope Thor's squad had the strength to prevail.
His own objective, the bridge, was now infinitely more dangerous.
"Shield-wall, advance!"
Two other Astartes with shields moved up to lock with Petros. To his grim satisfaction, one of them was a neophyte carrying a smaller, arm-mounted Combat Shield, a bolter gripped in the same hand. A combat shield was a compromise, sacrificing the absolute protection of a boarding shield for the flexibility of an extra firearm.
Knowing there were other Astartes hunting them, Petros did something counter-intuitive: he slowed his squad down.
When facing only mortals, an Astartes squad could advance at a full, terrifying charge, their power armor shrugging off las-fire. They were fast enough to neutralize any heavy weapons before they could be brought to bear.
But against other Astartes, a full-speed charge down a main corridor was suicide. It was just a massive, screaming signal on the enemy's auspex. The slower, more deliberate advance of a shield-wall was, paradoxically, the faster path to victory. This was a lesson written in blood.
The wall of iron and ceramite moved forward. A sustained burst of las-fire erupted from a ceiling-mounted turret, hammering uselessly against Petros's shield. The team had drilled for this. A warrior in the center rank tossed a smoke grenade. The narrow corridor instantly filled with a thick, grey-black fog, shot through with sensor-baffling chaff. The turret's targeting-laser vanished.
"Vornab," Petros ordered.
From the safety of the wall, Sergeant Vornab leveled his plasma pistol. A single, bright-blue orb of energy flashed through the smoke and vaporized the turret.
The shield-wall advanced. Another group of mortals appeared at the end of the corridor. Petros noted their insignia: a black, closed fist on a white field. Imperial Fists auxilia. Their shotgun-blasts and las-fire sparked harmlessly. Petros unclipped a frag grenade, armed it, and rolled it down the deck. The explosion left nothing but body parts.
The squad was a machine. Rear-guard watching their back. Flankers clearing side-corridors. They moved with disciplined precision. They left no survivors. Any non-combatant would be cowering in their hab-unit. Anyone in the main artery to the bridge was an enemy.
They were getting close.
Suddenly, a blinding-white beam of melta-fire lanced from a dark, perpendicular corridor. It struck a neophyte in the squad's center, instantly vaporizing him at the waist. As his upper torso crashed to the deck, a roar echoed from the side-corridor.
"For the Emperor!"
Ten Imperial Fists, clad in yellow, charged from both sides of the main corridor, striking the center of Petros's formation—the neophytes. The weak point. It was a classic pincer assault. Four Fists laid down suppression fire while six more, chainswords roaring, crashed into the eight neophytes in a savage melee.
Petros, his front still under fire from mortals down the hall, knew he had to turn.
"Shields, close ranks!" he bellowed. He dropped his bolter—it clattered to the deck—and ripped Blood of Crassus from his hip, deliberately exposing the vulnerable back-plate of his armor for the split second it took to turn.
The two other shield-bearers instantly slammed their shields together, closing the gap in the wall.
Petros charged back into his own formation. The ambush had been brutally effective. Three neophytes were already down. But to his surprise, the aspirant Gorgias was not one of them. The skinny fisherman, his chainsword a blur, was holding his own against two of the Imperial Fists.
Petros's disruption field flared as he brought his power axe down, cleaving through a Fist's pauldron and deep into his torso.
At the rear of the column, Antonius charged the loyalist melta-gunner. He fired his bolt pistol, the shell shattering the Astartes's knee, then finished the stumbling loyalist with an upward thrust of his chainsword.
Petros, now fully in the fray, smashed another Fist against the bulkhead with his shield, then brought his axe down, splitting the loyalist's helmet in two.
It was over in seconds. But the cost was high. The Imperial Fists were dead, but they had taken five of Petros's squad with them. In less than twenty minutes, his assault force of seventeen was down to eleven.
He strode back to the front, retrieved his bolter, slammed in a fresh magazine, and gave his only order: "Advance."
They reached the bridge. The massive adamantium bulkhead was sealed.
"Vornab. Breach it."
The sergeant moved to the door and slapped a shaped melta-charge onto its center. He retreated to the corner and hit the detonator.
KA-WHOOM!
The explosion tore a ragged, molten hole in the door. Las-fire immediately lanced out from the darkness within. The mortals inside were making a final, futile stand.
Petros and Vornab locked eyes through their visors, a silent understanding passing between them. Some methods are old because they work.
They both reached for a frag grenade.
With the superhuman strength of Astartes, they threw them—not in an arc, but in a flat, high-speed trajectory. The grenades shot through the breach like mortar shells.
By the time the defenders on the bridge realized what was happening, it was too late.
BOOM!
BOOM!
