The Subsector Project

Caomer Subsector – Ederon – 736.M41

  Traitors, oathbreakers, angels of death. Citadel-master Abdos wasn’t sure which thought troubled him more as he watched the lethal blade of glass detach itself from the background of the cosmos, and float towards Ederon high anchor. Even with the reassurances of Admiral Pyetrov and a communique from the High Lords themselves, he still found the merest consideration of allowing their approach to be a flagrant mistake.

A space marine strike cruiser is an impossibly-destructive tool, capable of wreaking untold ruin upon all but the most well established fortifications. Despite his own multitude of heavy defense batteries tracking the ship as it made its final approach, and the half-dozen system defense gunboats ready to spring from the shadows of the citadel’s armored hull, he still felt his breath catch as massive mooring clamps extended to touch the scarred and pitted flanks of the war vessel.

It was not a transport, nor one of the heavily-augmented merchantmen which so often claimed to be warriors, it was a true warship, built and bred for the cause. Occasionally, ever more rarely, capital ships visited Ederon from Battlefleet Gothic or Tamahl, seeking to quench their thirst for shells and batteries, missiles, vortex bombs, and other such esoteric devices of destruction. Even these paled in comparison to the strike cruiser, their roles and considerations myriad compared to its singular goal.

Kill. Kill. Kill.

“Citadel-master, their shields are down, we are prepared-ed to dock at your word.” His adjutant’s voice was surprisingly soft and feminine, despite its occasional errors, and the fact it was emanating from a vox box welded into the metal replacing the techpriestess’s now-defunct throat. Even having eschewed most of her fleshy bits in favor of augmetic replacements, he sometimes thought her more empathic than many of his other subordinates, able to sense his discomfort.

“Is this right, Obelmedha?” He asked the red-robed figure without turning his head, keeping his eyes fixed upon the viewport, and the revenant without. Despite his integration with the station’s eyes feeding directly into his brain stem, he still found his own eyes his preferred method of interface. At least they could never be jammed, or blinded by the reflected light of the sun.

Even to his unaided eyes the ship seemed to scream its name at him, daubed repeatedly over every inch of the hull, a warning he would be damned to ignore. Dictorius Benedictum in high gothic; Speaker of His Word, in the common tongue. A name which would have inspired confidence on another occasion now seemed a base mockery scrawled on the surface of every tower and bulkhead.

“The High Lords speak-eak with the Omnissiah’s voice.” The techpriestess was tall and brittle, her metallic skull-like face hidden beneath a hood of deep red, framed by flashing mechadendrites consulting hardwire ports around her station. She was his closest servant, physically adjacent as well as a constant advisor. “The penitents are vulnerable to our weaponry, and I am detecting-ing vast swathes of their craft exposed to the void.” Her mechadendrites waved in a formation he suspected indicated consternation. “There should be no question of their loyalty, nor our ability to obliterate them.”

“But is it right?” Abdos pursed his lips, scratching the input ports connecting his balding pate to the station’s insides. “Because it feels wrong. Wrong for heretics to return to the fold, wrong for them to place themselves at our mercy, wrong for the High Lords to send them here of all places.”

“You would destroy-oy them, then?” Her tone was unchanged, but he could feel the accusation inherent in the words. “To do so would invite destruction of at least yourself, and potentially the whole citadel.” He cursed, palming a release rune, feeling flowing back into his extremities even as the perception of the station receded.

“I know that. Of course I know that.” He growled, feeling the interface spike withdraw itself from the port embedded within his flesh, freeing him more completely from the influence of the machine spirit. “Begin docking procedures.”

Slowly, the station’s tendrils enveloped the strike cruiser. It was able to simultaneously repair and refit a number of smaller vessels, but would struggle with the larger craft. He knew it would take time to allow the space marines to board, and he intended to be present when they did. Below, Ederon turned slowly, blissfully unaware of the threat currently docking with Citadel Nine-Hundred and Thirty Three.

He stood, legs shakily returning to functionality as he blinked tears from his eyes, dozens of lobotomized critical bridge servitors attending to their stations in stoic silence. The primary command hall was a strictly automated crew, but the secondary rings were managed by those with ears to hear their citadel-master’s hesitation.

Hesitation, of course, would not be appropriate. Abdos straightened his lapel as his techpriestess stood, seemingly unaffected by her bonding with the station.

“I serve at the discretion of the God-Emperor, and his loyal servants-” He paused for a moment, listening to the unbothered rhythm of his sanctum, almost imagining he had detected a burr in its simply flowing musicality, but none presented themselves upon closer examination.

“Which the-the penitents are.” The techpriestess prompted.

“Which the High Lords are.” Abdos snapped, glowering at her obstinance. “The heretics have yet to prove their obsequence.” He began to stalk towards the exit portal, his adjutant following smoothly behind him.

“A hundred-ed years of crusade against their own brothers, the loss of their fortress-monestary and battle-barge, and a complete moratorium-um on the creation of new gene-brothers.” The techpriestess’s voice was honeyed, far-cry from the normal shrieks and beeps of her martian compatriots. Her gait was similarly smooth, robes completely obscuring the tendrils of the mechadendrites which propelled her forward. It was ironic, he felt, that the most human of his compatriots was also the most divorced from her own flesh.

“They have yet to prove it to me, then.” Abdos paused, in the moment before the doors disgorged him to the escort waiting to bring him to greet the space marine envoy. “I ask you, Obelmedha, to stay here.” For an instant, he drew close to her, his hand finding the fabric above her shoulder in a rather uncharacteristic display of physical affection for his servant. “If these creatures prove craven, you must destroy the station, and their ship with it.” After a moment, he removed his hand, feeling slightly foolish for his display of camaraderie. “Will you do this for me- my friend?”

For an instant, the techpriestess hesitated, removed from her usual instantaneous rhythm of replies. Despite the servants of the machine-god’s normally icy demeanor, the citadel-master felt he could see real indecision in her bearing, despite the inhumanity of the form he’d brushed against only an instant before.

“If they truly remain in their debased-ed form, I shall do as you request.” Her robes swirled without a breeze, signaling her agitation despite her permanently-unbothered tone.

Abdos smiled softly, certain that her capabilities to do so were unmatched in the whole of the system.

“Thank you. Truly.” He smiled, his expression softening for a last moment before he turned on his heel, medals clacking on his dress whites.

The door slid open, allowing the citadel-master to join a veritable battalion of his citadel guards festooned with an array of arming shotguns and krak grenades. It certainly would not be enough to stop the foe they now faced, but it could perhaps provide Obelmedha the time she needed to execute his final command.

The door closed behind him, sealing his adjutant within.

Forward then, to whatever end.