The air of the Gilded Tyrant's launch bays was thick with incense and machine-oil. Red-robed enginseers chanted binharic canticles as they anointed boarding torpedoes with sacred oils. Skitarii stood in silence, augmetic eyes glowing as they waited for the signal.
Lord-Captain Veynar stalked among them, his gilded armor gleaming in the torchlight.
"You have seen it," he said, voice booming over the clangor. "That ship moves where no ship can. Its drive is no plasma furnace of Mars. Its mist blinds your augurs and mocks your rites. Tell me, Magos—what would the Omnissiah call such a thing?"
The senior enginseer's vox-grille crackled. "Heresy. Abomination. A soulless machine-spirit birthed outside the Omnissiah's order."
Veynar smiled thinly. "Then it falls to you, priests of Mars, to scourge this blasphemy. Lead the way, burn it clean. Strike down its crew and silence its heretek spirit. I will ensure the records of this victory reach Terra itself, with your names writ in glory."
The enginseers' lenses flared. The promise of recognition—and the fear of unbound technology—lit a fire of zeal.
But Veynar turned as he left the bay, his smile curdling into a sneer.
"Bleed for me, rust-priests," he muttered under his breath. "Bleed, and leave me the prize."
Meanwhile, aboard the Arcadia, the mist thickened.
Harlock stood at the helm, crimson sight throbbing beneath his patch. He did not need to see the enemy launch bays; the Arcadia whispered to him in the rhythm of the void.
"They come," he said.
His crew stiffened. Boarding torpedoes would soon strike, and with them the hated touch of the Mechanicus.
For Arcadians, there was no greater violation. Their ships were kin, not machines. To let tech-priests step foot within their decks was to invite desecration.
And the Arcadia herself seemed to know it. The mist coiled tighter, hull lights flaring blood-red, deck plating vibrating as if the ship were growling.
The enemy was coming.
And the Arcadia was ready.