Chapter 58: Storming the Starport

Chapter 58: Storming the Starport

Earlier, in the starport's main transit corridor, three neophyte Astartes moved with purpose. Alexios led, bolter in hand, his gaze cold and hard. Gorgias followed, his hand on the hilt of his chainsword, eyes scanning the flanks. Lykurgos, his combat shield locked to his arm, covered the rear, a walking fortress.

A mortal guide was scurrying ahead of them, his voice echoing in the metal passageway. "The main Control Center is just ahead, my Lords. It is managed by the Tech-Priests and their adepts. It governs all primary station functions, including..."

His words were cut short. The single, sharp command—"Execute"—blared in the neophytes' helms.

The three Astartes broke into a thundering charge. Alexios didn't even slow down; he ran through the mortal guide. The man was hit like he'd been struck by a full-speed cargo hauler, his spine snapping as he was thrown against the bulkhead, dead before he hit the deck.

The port armsmen in the corridor, some patrolling, some slacking off, looked up in confusion as the three giants charged. "Halt! What's happening—"

Alexios opened fire. The bolter's roar was deafening in the enclosed space. The first shell struck an armsman in the chest, and he simply evaporated.

Gorgias was right behind him. His chainsword screamed to life as he cut down an armsman stumbling out of an ablutions-closet, the man's belt still unbuckled. The shriek of the chain-teeth and the thump of the bolter became a symphony of death. Lykurgos used his shield as a battering ram, smashing a guard's head into a pulp, then fired his bolter one-handed, obliterating another.

They reached the Control Center's blast door. It was sealed.

Alexios hammered on the door with his gauntlet. "Open this door, in the Emperor's name! The Imperial Fists are taking command!"

For ten seconds, there was only silence. Then, a mechanical, High Gothic voice buzzed from an external speaker: [Station is in lockdown. By protocol, this door will not open for any save the Port-Master... or the Omnissiah Himself.]

There was no time to negotiate. The three neophytes placed a shaped melta-charge against the seam. The resulting WHUMP of the explosion blew the door clean off its hinges.

Inside, the mortals were either cowering on the floor or making a futile last stand with laspistols and stub-revolvers. In their midst stood a red-robed Tech-Priest, leveling a massive, ornate Archeotech pistol. This was the only weapon in the room that posed a true threat.

The mortals fired blindly into the smoke and shrapnel. The Tech-Priest, however, was still, his enhanced optics cutting through the haze. As the mortals were cut down by the neophytes' return fire, the Priest waited.

He saw Alexios's silhouette and fired.

Alexios, his Astartes reflexes screaming, twisted. The high-caliber adamantium-core round, which would have pierced his chest, instead screeched off his sloped pauldron.

The Priest fired again, his aim true. The second shot slammed into Alexios's chest, punching clean through the ceramite plate.

The Tech-Priest's internal logic-looms calculated the result: [Target's secondary lung pierced. Target survival probability: 100%. Operator survival probability: 0%. Error. Should have initiated station self-destruct protocol.]

He never got the chance to fire a third time. A blur of motion came from the smoke. Gorgias, his chainsword roaring, was upon him, cleaving him in two.

"Brother!" Lykurgos yelled, as the last of the mortals were cut down. "Your armor is breached! How bad is it?"

Alexios grunted, the pain a white-hot spike in his chest. "Ribs and second lung are pierced," he rasped, forcing himself to his feet. "It's a minor problem."

He stalked to the main console and slammed a data-wafer—given to him by Phelon—into the interface port. A stream of malicious scrap-code flooded the station's network, bypassing the firewalls and shunting control to the Warband's own cogitators. Gorgias and Lykurgos took up guard at the door.

Alexios keyed his vox, his voice strained. "Report. Alexios-team has secured the Control Center."

Back in the Port-Master's office, Petros calmly observed the station's data-feeds. The hive world was ancient, pre-dating the Emperor's unification of Terra.

Antonius stood, unmoving, guarding the door.

Phelon, meanwhile, had found the late Port-Master's pot of expensive recaff. He took a long drink, then grimaced.

"Ugh, why does this taste like shit?" he said, looking at the beans. "I knew it. The Port-Master was a secret Nurgle-worshipper."

Petros ignored him, his attention on the incoming vox-reports.

"Report. Alexios-team has the Control Center."

"Report. Valentino's team has secured Docking Bay 2."

"Report. Vornab's team has the Armory."

"Report. Thor's team has seized the Sky-Hook terminus."

One team, however, was silent.

"Randolph," Petros voxed, his voice hardening. "Report. Do you require support?"

A burst of bolter-fire crackled over the link, followed by the brute's voice. "We're... busy... Sergeant! Still trying to breach the Astropathic Chamber! Armsmen are dug in, and the Throne-damned psykers are fighting back!"

Psychic resistance. This was no longer a simple assault. This required a definitive solution.

Petros toggled the command-rune for the starport's life-support. "Vent the atmosphere," he ordered. "Vent that entire sector. Now."