Chapter 54: Time to Bail

Chapter 54: Time to Bail

The moment Petros returned to the command bridge of his new flagship, The Judgment's Edge, he was given even more explosive news.

Two Chaos warbands were now in an open ship-to-ship duel... over a prize. Just as he had predicted, one warband had seized an Imperial cruiser, only for another, stronger warband to covet it and attack them.

The infighting was spreading. Other ships, either paranoid or opportunistic, were beginning to fire on their "allies." The fragile trust of the Chaos fleet had shattered. Some ships were already drifting toward the edge of the engagement zone, clearly intending to slip away.

"Where is Fleet-Master Valkar?" Petros demanded. "Why isn't he restoring order?"

Ship-Master Barnabas, now commanding The Ironclad, gave the grim report. "He's gone, my Lord. He left with the Vengeful Spirit."

Petros understood. The Warmaster and his Fleet-Master were both gone. The fleet's collapse was now inevitable.

"Barnabas," Petros ordered, "get the flotilla clear. We're a small force with a freshly-stolen cruiser. We're a prime target. The Warmaster deserts his own crusade, the fleet is in anarchy... these Chaos-worshippers are all brain-damaged. It's time to bail. Let's go."

It was ironic, given that he himself had been one of the first to ignore Valkar's orders, but that was irrelevant. Without the iron fist of a unified Legion or a Primarch, this entire crusade had been a fool's errand from the start.

As his small flotilla—The Judgment's Edge, The Ironclad, and the two Tarasque-class merchantmen—began to pull away, they were intercepted.

A Castrator-class Cruiser, its hull a sleek, garish, and bio-luminescent swirl of purple and pink, moved to block their path. The ship's skin seemed to shift and writhe, its surface covered in flesh-like textures and writhing, meaty tentacles. On its prow was the sigil of Slaanesh, rendered in a heart-shape of twisted, ecstatic faces.

The comms-officer on the bridge reported, his voice tight. "My Lord, it's the flagship of 'The Sensual Feast' warband... The Ethereal Tentacle. They are requesting a holo-picket."

Petros, knowing he was caught, kept his ships moving, but he would play along. Phelon and Antonius stood at his side.

"On screen."

The holo-picket flickered to life, revealing three Astartes. On the left, a Noise Marine, his helmet's vox-grille modified into a screaming sonic-emitter. On the right, a champion in ornate, gold-and-purple Mark IV armor.

And in the center, their un-helmeted leader. His skin was a perfect, corpse-white. His teeth had been filed into shark-like points. A Slaaneshi sigil was carved deep into his skull, the pink, raw muscle exposed. He flicked a long, thin tongue over his teeth and hissed.

"Petros! Six hundred years since Terra, and I haven't seen you in two hundred! Did you... miss me?"

Petros's face was a mask of stone. "Ferdinand Varrus. You look worse than you did at the Siege. At least you looked human then. State your business."

Ferdinand, the Lord of the Sensual Feast, didn't seem to take offense. A small, delicate tentacle rose from his command throne, offering him a lit, scented lho-stick. He took an impossibly long, slow drag, his eyes rolling back in his head. It was clearly not just tobacco.

"You saved my life back in the Sol System, Petros," he exhaled, the smoke never leaving his lungs. "I remember my debts. Join me. Bring your ships, your men... we will explore such... pleasures... together. Isn't that a beautiful thought?"

Petros, stalling for time, scoffed. "You're joking. Who in their right mind would join a pack of strung-out, decadent junkies?"

They both knew the parley was a sham. Ferdinand wanted to absorb his warband and his new ship. Ferdinand knew he would refuse.

Ferdinand Varrus sighed, flicking the lho-stick to the deck. "No deal, then. A pity." He pointed a slender, gauntleted finger at the holo-picket. "Petros, you iron-bound, joyless Grox-testicle! Ronan, my champion. Show this... relic... what true perfection looks like."

The champion on the right, Ronan, stepped forward. "Petros! Are your two little lapdogs with you? We will offer them a true welcome."

"Yes, yes!" Ferdinand cackled. "Show him the Palatine Stance! Show him the art he has forgotten!"

The champion, Ronan, drew his Palatine Blade and began a series of impossibly fast, complex, and utterly pointless dueling-flourishes. The holo-picket, being a grainy, low-quality military feed, just showed a blurry purple figure waving his arms.

"Come over here, Petros," Ferdinand sneered. "We'll show you a proper fight."

"And look at your companions," he cackled, pointing at Petros's brothers. "A soot-faced ghost and a short, ugly stump! What a pair of fools! You are the lowest of the low!"

Antonius's hand gripped his chainaxe. "Captain," he growled, "give the order. We will board that ship and take their decadent heads."

Petros held up a hand, his face still deadpan. "No. We're not dignifying that. Helmsman, what is the status of the Warp drive?"

The mortal officer at the console replied, "Charged and ready, my Lord."

"Engage."

In a flash of displaced reality, the Forged Steel flotilla vanished.

On the bridge of The Ethereal Tentacle, the three Slaaneshi marines stood in stunned silence. The holo-picket fizzled out.

"Did we..." Ferdinand Varrus said, his voice a confused whisper, "...did we just issue a formal challenge of honor?"

The swordsman, Ronan, sheathed his blade. "Yes, my Lord."

"And... did that Iron Warrior just... run away?"

"It appears so, my Lord."

Ferdinand's pale face contorted in sudden, furious rage. "That IVth Legion COWARD! He didn't even have the courage to face us in a proper duel! He has no style!"

"Do not be angered, my Lord," Ronan said, attempting to soothe him. "He was clearly not worthy of your attention."

Suddenly, Ferdinand's knees buckled. He collapsed to the deck.

"My Lord!" Ronan panicked. "A psychic attack?"

Ferdinand, on his hands and knees, crawled over and picked up the still-smoldering lho-stick from the deck. "No, no..." he hissed, taking another deep drag. "Just... admiring the carpet. This is premium-grade narcotic from the Ghoul Stars. A terrible waste..."

He took a final, massive pull, sucking the lho-stick down to the very filter. Then, he popped the filter into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

"Petros..." he whispered to the empty void. "I'll remember this."