The Arcadia slipped between stars, her mist trailing in the void like a wound that would not heal.
Rumors had spread too far, too fast. The Imperium's machine of fear and faith stirred. It was no longer patrol frigates that shadowed her wake, nor traders whispering in fear. The whispers had reached the ears of those whose duty was not to govern or trade, but to judge.
The Inquisition had taken notice.
The trap was sprung in the Melchior Belt, a broken ring of rock and abandoned outposts orbiting a dying star. The Arcadia came seeking raiders — her scanners had traced their plundered holds. Instead, the shadows birthed a new threat.
An Imperial cruiser emerged from the void, its hull painted black as night, its banners marked with the sigil of the Inquisition: a crimson "I" wreathed in barbed wings.
The vox blared, its voice iron and absolute:
"Unidentified vessel bearing skull-prow, you are in violation of Imperial edict. Power down your drives and submit to boarding. By the authority of the Inquisition, refusal is heresy punishable by annihilation."
On the bridge of the Arcadia, silence fell. The crew stared at Harlock, waiting. Some paled, others clenched fists in grim resolve.
Francis Harlock stood at the wheel, his cloak heavy on his shoulders. His face was carved from stone.
"The Inquisition," he said softly. "So soon."
The enemy cruiser launched its fighters — swarms of Interceptors cutting across the void like knives. Behind them, torpedo tubes opened, the glimmer of warheads within.
The first officer's voice trembled. "Captain… they won't parley. To them, we are already condemned."
Harlock's grip tightened on the wheel. His voice was calm, steady, the voice of a man already past fear.
"Then let them witness why we are feared."
"Broadside."
The Arcadia's guns roared. Macro-shells streaked into the fighter squadrons, detonating in blossoms of black fire. Dozens of interceptors were shredded, their wrecks scattering like ash.
"Cover us."
The Black Dark Matter Mist bled from the ship's flanks, swallowing her whole. Torpedoes vanished into its depths, their detonations muted, drunk by the darkness. The cruiser's lances fired — beams of holy light — but they unraveled into sparks, lost in the void.
"Strike."
The Arcadia burst from the mist, prow cannons blazing. A salvo ripped into the cruiser's flank, tearing through void shields, chewing into armor. Fires bloomed across its decks. Vox-channels filled with screams of confusion — the auspex blinded, the enemy gunners lost in shadows.
But the Inquisition did not retreat.
From the cruiser's ventral bay came something larger: a gun-cutter, its hull marked with purity seals, its prow etched with words of judgment. Within it came the Inquisitor — faceless, nameless, but terrible in authority.
The vox cut through the din of battle, a voice like a hammer.
"Francis Harlock. You stand accused of heresy, piracy, and abomination. Your ship is a blasphemy against the Emperor. You will not escape."
On the bridge, the crew stiffened. Some turned pale at hearing their captain's name spoken by the Inquisition's tongue.
Harlock's expression did not change. He turned the wheel, the Arcadia pivoting like a beast in blood.
"Then let them try," he said.
The skull prow grinned in the dark, and the Arcadia surged once more into war.