Several days had passed since the agreement with Roboute. The Arcadia patrolled the Ultramar system, targeting and eliminating traitor forces. We mostly encountered small, isolated fleets, like the one we had just destroyed. Made up of a few ships, they didn't have time to react before our laser cannons pierced their hulls.
The Ultramarines don't understand what's happening. They were supposed to be preparing for a great battle, but so far they've only found scattered remnants. Angron and Lorgar are probably already heading for Nuceria. Guilliman will likely find out soon and set off in pursuit. And he'll probably drag me into the fight as well. I don't like the idea of having to fight a demonic Primarch of Khorne, but what can you do.
"Captain, enemy ships have lost their combat capabilities," Grumpy reported.
"Any signs of life?" I asked from my seat, watching the helm turn on its own.
"None. All traces of the enemy have vanished from the system."
"In that case, let's return to Calth."
The crew was starting to work better together and had even become more tolerant of Nibe. My authority was high; my cold and quiet demeanor kept them on a tight leash. For now, they knew how much they could get away with in my presence. They knew my orders were absolute. My fight with Angron also contributed to this.
Maybe it's a matter of my nature... but when I think of the traitors who consciously allied themselves with Chaos, or rather, gave themselves to it completely, I feel only contempt. How can one voluntarily renounce freedom? How can you trade it for a promise of power, authority, or cursed knowledge!?
Freedom... That is the one thing for which I would give everything. And which I would not give up for anything. Neither for a throne nor for the secrets of the stars. Or maybe these aren't just my thoughts. Maybe it's the echo of the ship's will. The Arcadia despises chains.
"I will eradicate this plague," I said sharply under my breath. A few officers heard me, glancing at me out of the corner of their eyes. Slaves who had shackled themselves.
"Captain, connection from the Ultramarines!" Grumpy said more loudly.
"Connect... seeing your face, I know blood will soon be spilled," I said, looking at the Primarch.
"The traitors are heading for Nuceria, Angron's home planet. I'm gathering the remaining 41 ships and setting out. You join us as well," Roboute ordered.
"Nuceria? Far for you. A few days for me. A few months for you," I stated, feeling the Arcadia turn towards Nuceria.
"Go ahead. When we reach the system, you will support us. Until then, stay low."
"I don't promise," I replied, ending the Vox conversation. "You heard that, ladies and gentlemen. Nuceria."
The Nuceria system. The planet Nuceria is a dry, sandy orb where life was concentrated around hundreds of oases. They were the only source of food for the entire planet, allowing cultivation. Slaves toiled there by the thousands, day in and day out, under the supervision of armed guards. The capital was Desh, the center of power, where those who held the planet in their grasp resided. The slave masters. The main form of entertainment on Nuceria for both the common people and the elite was gladiator fights. There was no mercy or public acclaim here. Every duel ended in death. No exceptions. This was not an arena of glory. It was a slaughterhouse. A world created for Angron—brutal, ruthless, and degenerate.
We had been observing this planet for many cycles. We watched as the entire society was based on exploitation. Civilians were treated like objects—tools for work and entertainment. If a master took a liking to someone, that person immediately lost everything. There was no resistance. No one even tried to fight back. How many times had we seen a husband watch as his wife was raped? A father stand silently as his daughter was dragged towards shackles? It wasn't just fear. It was a lack of will.
"Captain, maybe we should do something," Augustus "Grumpy" suggested.
"These people are no different from animals bred for slaughter; there's no one to help," I retorted.
We've been here for too long, and we're doing nothing. Almost 50 days have passed since we reached our destination. And there are still no enemies or Smurfs. But that will change soon; the winds are carrying change.
I stared into the void, and there, the gates of the Immaterium opened. From them, two long traitor Abbys-class ships emerged first. The Primarchs' flagships. And behind them, a dozen escort ships. They charged forward, charging to the slaughter. Landing on the planet, Angron ordered the slaughter of the entire planet's population when he learned that his former master still ruled over the planet. Poetic. The old rebel returns to complete his revenge, killing everyone in his path.
"To battle stations, first degree of readiness, prepare bayonets," I ordered, holding the helm.
The alarms wailed unexpectedly, breaking the monotony of the past few days. For weeks, relative calm had reigned on the ship; the crew rested, played dice, drank, and made necessary repairs. But now everything came to life. People rushed to run, instinctively, without a command; everyone knew their place and route. The corridors of the Arcadia were like a second home; every turn, every fork was known by heart. Some, to speed things up, jumped from higher decks, leaped over barriers and railings, cutting through machines, warehouses, and service hatches.
The pirates donned their combat suits with a skill and haste that said one thing: they had done this before. With a roar, they sealed their armor, reaching for their energy axes. Each of them knew the weight of their weapon, the balance of the blade, and the pulse of energy beating from the core. They had trained for weeks on the Arcadia's decks, engaging in brutal fights in internal arenas, not for discipline but out of necessity and boredom. For some, this armor had become a second skin, something they put on as naturally as others put on gloves.
Technical teams checked the boarding hook launchers, ensuring every mechanism worked flawlessly. Veterans shook their heads, muttering under their breath, "It's gonna be tight," and "Those damned Word Bearers are up to something again."
"TREK! Just don't lead us into a trap again!" one of the pirates in a suit laughed.
"Instead of laughing, you'd better learn how to close your armor," Trek said, pointing to the unlatched locks on the armor.
Trek was the commander of the pirate boarding squads. Harlock had appointed him right after the battle for Armatura. Not because of outstanding skills or exceptional experience. Trek was neither the best swordsman nor the sharpest strategist. But in that chaos, with everything burning around them, he was the only one who hadn't panicked. He issued orders, kept the men together, and, most importantly, had at least a basic idea of what was happening.
This was enough for Harlock to consider him "material." Since then, Trek was responsible for boarding parties, planetary assaults, and internal defense. He wasn't charismatic, but the crew listened to him. Maybe it was because he was one of them. And most importantly, you could joke with him. This was Trek's most important quality.
Trek walked over to a railing that gave him a view of the deck below, where a massive crowd of several thousand pirates was putting on or had already put on their armor. He struck the floor with his axe a few times, drawing everyone's attention.
"GENTLEMEN! Don't die," he said seriously.
There was a moment of confusion; they stood and stared at him like he was an idiot before bursting into good-natured laughter. "I'll try!" "He's in a funny mood today!" "How much did you drink?" hundreds of comments erupted in the hangar. Trek himself smiled to himself.
"It's good you're in a good mood, because it's about to sour. Time to predicted contact is 4 hours, maybe less. The enemy has the advantage, in orbit and on the ground. You may not die as I'd like, but your gear is already breaking down. So, fight in groups of three."
"Look at this nice guy!" "I hope you die too!" "The power's already gone to his head!" Comment after comment appeared.
"We may have Ultramar's support, but our technicians keep nagging me about how hard it is to fix this armor. Remember, guys, our armor isn't as good as the Marines'. The technicians gave me a report showing that it's only thanks to our immortality that we can stand up to the Marines. So don't get cocky; don't let that immortality go to your head."
Murmurs of agreement arose below. Some found the armor useful, but most complained about how difficult it was to use. It was uncomfortable; to turn, you often had to take a step. The visors frequently fogged up. It had many flaws, and they were aware of them.
"GENTLEMEN, TO THE BAYONETS!"
"HOORAH!"