"It's Rogal Dorn and Perturabo, my Lord." The captain bowed his head respectfully in response.
"The Orks have invaded their flagship, the Phalanx. Both Primarchs are leading the fight and cannot respond personally."
The Astartes's eyes flickered with a trace of disappointment, but he quickly straightened, issuing commands in a commanding voice. "In the name of Gren Vosotho, War-Born, change course immediately! Full speed to the Phalanx!"
Even if they weren't their Primarchs, they were still the Emperor's gene-sons. Moreover, the Mentor was there. If something happened to the Mentor, causing their own Primarch not to return, what then? Even if nothing happened to the Mentor, this was a perfect opportunity to prove themselves. Then the Mentor would remember the 13th Legion. Perhaps theirs would be the next to return!
They had only one chance to revive their Legion. Vosoto had to seize it.
...
"My Lord, a primary fleet has just translated into the system. They're heading towards us!"
Love's voice, trembling with excitement, came over the comm.
Caelan asked, "Which fleet?"
"The 12th Expeditionary Fleet, belonging to the War-Born."
Perturabo said, "We need to link up with them immediately. Order the fleet to adjust formation."
"Second Squadron will break the Ork blockade. Third Squadron covers the left flank, Fourth Squadron the right. First Squadron provides rear defense."
"All ships, maximum firepower! Clear a safe lane for the Phalanx!"
"As you command, my Lord!"
Love straightened, relaying the order to his aide. "Transmit the Primarch's orders to the entire fleet immediately."
Perturabo was the fleet's temporary commander, directing hundreds of Imperial and Inwitan ships. The four squadrons were led by two Imperial Lord Commanders and two experienced Inwitan captains. All were competent; though perhaps lacking in rapid reaction, they had no major flaws in commanding large fleet actions.
On the tactical hologram, blue icons representing Imperial ships quickly shifted formation, shielding the Phalanx as they drove like a drawn sword through the Ork blockade.
The Ork fleet might not grasp the Imperial fleet's intent, but they continued their relentless assault on the Phalanx. Hundreds of Ork transports attempted to board every hour. The Phalanx was so vast that, despite many failed boarding attempts, reports of Ork attacks came from all its defensive nodes. The cogitator estimated hundreds of thousands of Orks had already boarded.
Under Dorn's command, the mortal defenders' lines held against the green tide. But the respite was brief. Shortly after contacting the 12th Expeditionary Fleet, the Imperial fleet's deep-space augurs gave warning.
"My Lord, another Ork fleet has entered the system!"
Perturabo shot to his feet. The tactical star chart unfolded before him, a breathtaking sight. Two colossal Space Hulks, hundreds of kilometers wide, squeezed from the Warp breach like rotting tumors, surrounded by countless Ork hulks, at least three thousand!
The earlier Ork fleet alone might have been a pyrrhic victory for the Imperial fleet, given the Phalanx's firepower. But with this new arrival, even with the 12th Expeditionary Fleet's reinforcements, the Imperial fleet was still outmatched. Unless more reinforcements arrived.
Perturabo ordered, "Maintain course. Transmit the Ork fleet's coordinates to the 12th Expeditionary Fleet. Request a fast strike force to harass the Orks. We must not let these two green fleets link up!"
...
"Where are you?" Dorn muttered.
Under his direction, the Phalanx's defenders constantly shifted their lines, adjusting reserves, firepower, and deployments. On the holographic tactical sandtable, red icons representing the Ork advance spread through the Phalanx's corridors. The Ork assault seemed chaotic, but its timing was precise. Each heavy blow landed on the defenders' weakest points. This wasn't the work of an ordinary Nob. The Warboss was on board. But he wouldn't show himself until the defensive lines were breached.
Dorn ordered, "Display all lander impact data."
The holographic tactical sandtable shifted, showing the Phalanx's hull. Red dots, like festering wounds, showed where Ork landers had struck. Dorn magnified the northwest sector. There, the red dots were so dense they formed a solid mass, seemingly the main Ork thrust, the site of the fiercest fighting. But the adjacent third sector reported few attacks. The silence was unnerving.
Dorn was sure the Warboss was there. Not brainless, he was waiting for the defenders to tire before delivering a killing blow. Dorn saw his plan. He still had one legion in reserve. Deploying all of it to the third sector would hold the Orks indefinitely.
There was no soil or sunlight on the Phalanx. Even if Ork spores spread everywhere, they couldn't grow mushrooms on ceramite and adamantium. Ork casualties were mounting every hour.
But Dorn didn't want a war of attrition. Ork reinforcements were coming. Every minute lost tipped the scales. He had to end it quickly. The Ork assault was ferocious, but only because of the Warboss's leadership. Decapitate the Warboss, and the Orks would crumble.
Dorn's voice was as steady as his gaze. "Rahn, I have a dangerous mission for you."
Rahn knelt. "My Lord, command me. I would die for you!"
...
"Marius, you will lead the assault force to support the Primarchs. I will command the fleet to intercept the Ork reinforcements!"
Vosotho's deep voice held complex emotions. "The tragedy of the Osiris Rebellion must not be repeated. Other Legions can't always save us in time. We must bring our Primarch back!"
"I won't fail, my Lord!" Marius Gage struck his chest with his fist, his power armor clanging.
The War-Born knew the mission's importance. Even though these Primarchs weren't theirs, they would do their utmost to protect them. In the Imperium, everyone knew the Primarchs were brothers closer than blood.
Though born on different worlds, raised differently, they shared the same Mentor, who treated them as his own. They would sacrifice their lives for each other. As their sons, the Astartes should do the same.
Legions whose Primarchs had returned had all established unique Chapters, with members from various Legions. The 3rd and 9th Legions were practically inseparable. With their own Primarch not yet returned, the 13th Legion couldn't send battle-brothers to those Chapters. They could only observe and record the other Legions' ways. They had waited years for an opportunity, not to prove themselves superior, but to prove they would pay any price for their Primarch's return!
Now that chance was here. What were they waiting for?
Upon hearing the astropathic message of the Primarchs, the 12th Expeditionary Fleet had come in full force. Thirteen thousand battle-hardened Astartes stood ready, a third of the 13th Legion's entire strength. Even though they weren't rescuing their own Primarch, every warrior was prepared to die.
Vosotho's primary fleet had only two thousand Astartes. Marius's support fleet carried a staggering eleven thousand. Every deck was packed with Astartes ready to deploy.
"For the Primarch!" the warriors whispered.
They all understood that any sacrifice was worthwhile to rescue two Primarchs. The 3rd Legion's example was clear. Before its Primarch's return, the Emperor's Children had only two hundred warriors. A few years later, they were back to ten thousand; with the 9th Legion, they had at least sixty thousand. Even if the entire 12th Expeditionary Fleet was destroyed, if they helped bring back a Primarch, it would be the greatest victory!
The Mentor would remember their sacrifice. The Primarchs would remember them. Their sacrifice today paved the way for their own Primarch's return. And a Primarch's value far exceeded ten thousand Astartes. Sacrifice ten thousand today, and their own Primarch would bring a hundred thousand more. Under his command, the War-Born would achieve new glories!
The warriors made final checks on their bolters and chainswords. The countdown echoed through the decks.
2 hours.
1 hour.
5 minutes.
"For Humanity! For the Emperor! For the Primarch!"
"War-Born! Onward to Victory!"
"Countdown, 3, 2, 1. Launch!"
Thousands of Stormbirds, boarding torpedoes, and assault boats launched from the support fleet, their engine trails painting bright paths in the void. The support fleet quickly formed up, joining the Imperial fleet shielding the Phalanx. Macrocannons and lances, recalibrated for perfect coordination, poured a dense web of fire into the Ork fleet.
....
"Concentrate fire on the Ork right flank! Clear a safe lane for the boarding force!"
Perturabo issued orders calmly, coordinating the Imperial fleet's defense. Macrocannons and lances blazed. The dense fire, like a scythe, tore a huge gap in the Ork fleet's right flank. Explosions bloomed silently. Countless Ork hulks became space dust.
The 13th Legion's assault force, in a perfect wedge formation, punched through the Ork interceptors. The Phalanx's point-defense guns continued firing at Ork boarding craft, recognizing the 13th Legion's ships as friendly; once inside the Phalanx's void shields, they only needed to land.
Perturabo personally plotted the 13th Legion's course, guiding the Stormbirds to land on the Phalanx's decks. Boarding torpedoes and assault boats, like precise javelins, struck the breaches torn by Ork landers. Power-armored Astartes leaped from hatches, bolters roaring.
The 13th Legion's comm channels synchronized with the Phalanx's. The Primarch's steady voice filled the Astartes' helmets.
"Chapter Master Gage. This is Rogal Dorn."
"My Lord." Marius Gage's tone was serious, showing no disrespect. "The 13th Legion awaits your command."
"Proceed to the designated coordinates in the third sector. I've set a trap, but mortals can't hold the line for long. They expect the line to break within an hour. The main Ork force will then enter your sector."
"Your mission is to hold the line for at least twelve standard Terran hours. Buy time for reinforcements to encircle them."
Dorn's orders were clear. Data was transmitted to Gage's power armor. Gage immediately grasped the Primarch's intent. He struck his chest plate. "We won't fail, my Lord! The War-Born will hold the line with our lives!"
Dorn paused, then added warmly, "With sons as excellent as you, I'm sure my brother will be proud of you!"
This was an adrenaline shot to Gage's system. His blood boiled! The Primarch approved of them! Even though it wasn't their own gene-father, all Primarchs were brothers. Another's approval was the same as their own's!
Gage trembled with excitement. He could see the future, when their Primarch returned, he would learn from Dorn of his sons' heroic sacrifice. Their gene-father would be proud of the War-Born's loyalty and honor! Dying now would be worth it!
...
"Hold the line! For Inwit! For Dorn!"
Fafnir Rahn's voice echoed in the smoke-filled corridor. Lasguns and sentry guns wove a death-net before the line. Gunfire and Ork war cries mixed.
The fifty-thousand-strong Inwitan phalanx line was solid as rock, refusing to yield to the green tide. They held the entrance to the core sector, the last barrier between the Orks and the tactical center.
The Inwitans hadn't had time to explore the Phalanx's labyrinthine corridors, nor enough troops for an airtight defense. The fortress's interior was dizzyingly complex, a three-dimensional maze of adamantium and ceramite, its scale beyond mortal imagination.
Dispersing forces would have only worsened their fragile defense. So Dorn had made a hard choice, sacrifice the outer perimeter, concentrate forces on the core sector's strategic chokepoints. Every defensive position was precisely calculated for maximum efficiency with minimum troops.
Lasers and sentry guns continued to reap Ork lives. Armor units distributed at key nodes reinforced the line. But as the front line's breaches widened, weak points appeared.
"WAAAGH!"
A heavily armored Nob, with tank-like resilience, pushed forward through the scorching fire. He smashed through a shield wall, charging into the mortal line.
"Die, xenos!"
A mortal officer fired his pistol at the Nob's head. Las-bolts shattered its scrap armor but didn't kill it.
"Ummie ain't big enough! Me's da greenest Nob!" The Nob laughed, charging at Fafnir.
Just as it raised its choppa, about to slaughter the mortals...
BOOM!
A burst of bolts shot from the shadows, their white-hot shells exploding against the Nob's armor. Though they didn't kill it, the force staggered the greenskin. Before the officer could react, a chainsword roared, plunging into the Nob's chest.
Hot blood sprayed over ornate power armor. The chainsword's teeth spun, shredding its innards. The Nob roared in pain, spewing blood and viscera from its tusked maw. But its counter was cut short as the bloody chainsword swept upward, splitting its head and spine.
Astartes tactical squads plugged the gaps. Bolters out-roared the Orks. New to the fight, they cleared the sector with terrifying efficiency. Each bolt killed an Ork. Each fist crushed a skull. Chainswords easily cut greenskins in half.
The Inwitans erupted in cheers. The wavering line became impregnable. They followed the Astartes, their lasguns filling the gaps in the Astartes' fire.
Within minutes, with the Astartes' support, they had retaken the sector, pushing back to the second line. This scene repeated across the Phalanx.
The gap between mortals and Astartes is vast, in body and equipment. Ten thousand Astartes can be more effective than hundreds of millions of mortals. But without mortals, the Imperium couldn't hold its vast domain. They are not rivals, but comrades-in-arms with different duties.
...
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