Command Deck of the Unyielding Resolve
The void outside the viewscreens boiled with static-laced stormlight — echoes of the warp storm that had delayed them. The battle barge Unyielding Resolve hung above the stricken world like a judgment waiting to be passed.
Librarian Alexander stood tall within the Strategium, armored in sapphire-trimmed Terminator plate, the psychic halo around his head glowing dimly as he sifted through noosphere data. His mind brushed the flickering vox-chatter, filtering for truth amid madness.
Before him knelt Chaplain Durandal, his crozius clutched tightly to his chest.
> "Speak clearly, Brother," Alexander said, voice like thunder muffled by stone. "Do not waste words."
Durandal raised his head, skull helm catching the dim light.
> "My lord… the situation on the surface is critical. Our brothers are failing to push back the heretic tide in all five hive cities. We… arrived too late. The warp storm displaced our arrival by fourteen Terran days."
Alexander said nothing. His eyes remained on the display — five hive spires marked in red, each flickering with warning runes. Only Hive Ishvan Secundus — Catalin's position — remained dimly amber.
Durandal continued.
> "The Astra Militarum regiments deployed here are either annihilated or have turned. Local PDF joined the cults. The **noble houses that summoned us… were traitors. They ambushed our landing squads. Of the fifty Astartes deployed, four are confirmed dead. Ten do not respond to vox. Captain Catalin is now alone in Ishvan II."
> "And the rest?" Alexander asked. His tone was sharp — almost dangerous.
> "Scattered. Anti-air batteries disabled or redirected their drop trajectories. Enemy cultists have overrun the outer zones. Some of our brothers are fighting behind enemy lines, others have simply gone silent."
There was a heavy pause.
Then Durandal said quietly:
> "The enemy has… a traitor Chaplain. Someone who wears the armor of the Adeptus Astartes. He preaches the gospel of damnation, rallying the heretics like a prophet. His voice is broadcast from the hives themselves. His name is unknown — his heraldry has been defaced, but… his words are corrupted echoes of the Creed."
Alexander's brow furrowed. "Then they were ready for us. This was not chaos by chance. It was orchestrated."
> "Yes, my lord."
A new voice crackled over the command vox — cold and mechanized.
> "Incoming encrypted priority transmission. Source: Ordo Malleus. Designation: Inquisitor Drogo."
Alexander stepped forward. The vox-caster hissed and resolved into a cold, authoritative voice.
> "This is Inquisitor Drogo, Ordo Malleus, from Forge World Graia. Ishvan II is compromised. Exterminatus is under consideration. Redirect all loyal forces to Graia. An Ork WAAAGH is descending upon the forge. All available chapters are to be reassigned. This order carries Segmentum-level clearance. Confirm receipt."
The message ended. Silence followed.
Alexander's fists clenched.
Durandal, still kneeling, whispered:
> "Are we to abandon them, my lord?
No Brother Forgotten – The Command Decision
The command deck of the Unyielding Resolve was silent but for the low hum of engines and the quiet tap of servo-mechanical data scribes. Vox-channels screamed with broken reports from the surface, the cries of dying men, the static-punctuated fury of scattered Astartes.
Librarian Alexander stood motionless, eyes locked on the central hololith where the five hive cities flickered like dying stars. Hive Ishvan Secundus burned amber — Catalin's last-known signal. The others pulsed red, full of noise, interference, and death.
Chaplain Durandal awaited his lord's judgment.
The Inquisitor's message still hung in the air:
> "Redirect all loyal forces to Graia. Ishvan II is lost. Exterminatus is under consideration."
But Alexander's voice came down like stone dropped from orbit.
> "No. We will not abandon our own."
Durandal gave a firm nod. "Then we extract them. All of them."
Alexander turned to the deck crew, his tone a cold command:
> "Initiate full battlefield sweep. Prioritize vox-ghosts of our missing brothers. Begin triangulation of Catalin's beacon and any auxiliary signals from Hive Primaris, Tertius, and Quinto."
> "Launch recon-servitors. Patch into abandoned Guard cogitators. Use the heretics' own broadcasts if necessary — some of our brothers may be in their kill-zones. I want every signal, every flicker of power armor, found."
The tech-priests on the deck bowed and began their rites, screens lighting up with dozens of warp-scarred data feeds.
Alexander stepped closer to the hololith and added:
> "This is not a rescue. This is a counter-strike. Our brothers did not fall to treachery and fire only to be erased by bureaucracy."
He turned to Durandal.
> "You will lead Strike Force Cerberus. Take Thunderhawks, Stormtalons, and two squads of Terminators. Extract any brother still drawing breath."
Durandal, his skull-helm glinting, slammed his crozius against his chestplate in salute.
> "By Dorn's will, I shall. No brother forgotten."
Alexander spoke low now, only for Durandal.