Chapter 57: Trust Shattered

Chapter 57: Trust Shattered

Petros forcibly ignored the misplaced, bootlicking compliment. "We are on a priority military operation," he continued, his voice cold. "I need to requisition your system's defense fleet. What are your naval assets?"

Port-Master Edmon's face fell. "My Lord, we have none. The entire Calth-Loth battlefleet was redeployed to the Cadian Gate. All we have in-dock are a few system freighters undergoing resupply."

"A pity," Petros sighed, his voice dripping with false disappointment. Inwardly, he was thrilled. No system fleet, and a dock full of prizes.

He adopted the cold, imperious arrogance that mortals expected of an Astartes. "A Chaos fleet is inbound. They are hunting us. As the ranking Imperial Astartes, I am assuming command of this station and all planetary defense assets."

Edmon's blood ran cold. "Chaos! Here? My Lord, by protocol, I must inform the Planetary Governor!"

"There is no time," Petros snapped. "Give me access to your defense grid and all planetary network data. I am preparing a counter-assault."

Edmon, scrambling, grabbed a data-slate from his adept, bypassed the security lock-runes, and handed it over. "It's all here, my Lord. The station's batteries and the Planetary Defense Force are at your command."

Petros took the slate—the data-key to the entire hive world—and passed it to Phelon. The Warpsmith immediately began to slice into the network, shunting the data to the squad's own cogitator-arrays.

With their objectives now clear, the other Astartes in the bay broke off, striding purposefully toward their targets—the shield-generators, the command-cogitators, and the main vox-array. Edmon, still believing he was helping, even broadcast a station-wide order for all personnel to cooperate with the "honored Imperial Fists."

"My Lord," Edmon asked, wringing his hands, "the enemy fleet... how strong are they? How long do we have?"

Petros, sensing his brothers were already in position, finally relaxed. He stalled for time, looking up at the massive, transparent dome of the starport. It was an ancient, pre-Imperial design, built for aesthetics.

"This dome is transparent," Petros mused. "You're not worried about an attack?"

Edmon puffed his chest with pride. "It is protected by the station's primary void shield, my Lord."

"But not internally?" Petros said, as if to himself. "A vulnerability."

Edmon's confidence in the Astartes swelled. As expected of the Imperial Fists! he thought. The high-guard of the Imperium! He has been here less than ten minutes and is already analyzing our defensive weaknesses!

At that exact moment, the servo-skull at Edmon's shoulder floated forward, its vox-grille crackling. It was the Astropath.

"MASTER! DO NOT LET THEM DOCK! WE JUST RECEIVED A FLASH-PRIORITY ASTROPATHIC MESSAGE FROM ADMIRAL VALDOR! THE JUDGMENT'S EDGE... IT WAS CAPTURED BY HERETICS! THEY ARE—"

The message was on the open-vox.

The air in the bay froze. The servo-skull, unaware, continued its panicked squawking: "Master... Master, did the station defenses stop them? Are you there?"

Petros's face turned to thunder. He cursed. Of all the times for the Imperium's ponderous bureaucracy to be efficient. He knew his plan to take the station by subtlety had just failed.

"All units," Petros voxed, his voice a low, lethal growl. "Targets are live. Execute, now!"

Port-Master Edmon's face went white with the blood-draining terror of realization. "No..." he stammered, turning to the servo-skull. "Activate the 'Sunder-Bridge' protocol! Notify the Governor—"

Petros's gauntlet shot out and seized the Port-Master's head. With a single, contemptuous squeeze, the man's skull imploded. A spray of red, black, and grey matter splashed across his young adept's horrified face.

"AAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEE!" she screamed.

Petros ignored her. He, Antonius, and Phelon stood alone in a massive bay now filled with over a thousand mortals—panicked officials, singers, workers, and station-guards who were just now realizing what was happening. He didn't have enough bolts to kill them all.

He raised his plasma pistol. Not at the crowd.

At the ceiling.

FZZZ-CRACK!

A deafening crack echoed as the plasma bolt struck the armorglass dome. The superheated blast, combined with the pressure differential, shattered it.

Instantly, a catastrophic explosive decompression. The air shrieked, venting into the void, becoming a hurricane that snatched every unsecured object—and person—in the massive bay. They were hurled into the black, their screams stolen by the vacuum.

Station-wide alarms blared as emergency blast-doors slammed shut, sealing the bay, dooming everyone still inside.

Phelon, his mag-boots locked to the deck, watched the bodies cartwheeling into space. "Station's a bit light-headed," he voxed. "Didn't think we'd see people flying here."

Petros hadn't had time to seal his helmet. He held his breath, forcing his third lung into action as the last of the air was torn from the room. His skin instantly secreted a waxy, protective film, the Mucranoid's gift, shielding him from the hard vacuum. He knew he couldn't last long.

Calmly, he holstered his plasma pistol, grabbed his helmet from his belt, and sealed it. The hiss of re-pressurization was a welcome sound. He looked at the few mortals still clinging desperately to the sealed blast doors, their bodies already frozen and rimed with ice.

"Trust," he muttered, his voice a synthesized rasp, "is well and truly dead."