In the void, all things are both ally and enemy at the same time. Reduced gravity will help you outmaneuver your foe—yet it will also put you out of position. Respect the void as you would your foe.
In normal spaceflight there wouldn't be turbulence—only the faint vibration of engines crossing the stars. But inside the Orca, screaming through the void in the middle of a battle that was heating the emptiness around them, the dropship was tossed and kicked worse than during atmospheric entry. Each warrior had donned his helmet as they boarded, and were secured to their seats. Mira pulled up his vitals on his HUD and focused on keeping himself calm. He breathed slowly and deeply, repeating calming phrases, reassuring himself.
"I am Shas. I will do my duty for the Greater Good. Should I die, it is for the Greater Good. Should I live, I will continue to serve the Greater Good."
The Orca was never built for comfort—it was built to carry as many warriors into position as possible. Both long walls were lined with jump seats just large enough to hold a warrior in full kit, and aisles between them only wide enough to accommodate an XV8 battlesuit. Above them, the cadre's drones were secured in racks, and the overhead wall mounts held extra equipment and supplies. A few skimmers hung above the battlesuits. The control pod had the most room, but not by much; the two pilots sat side by side with just enough space to work. A screen wrapped around the front of the pod, and just behind them sat the Ethereal, still flanked by her honor guard.
The guards had not taken seats—despite the violence, they were steady as stone. The Ethereal herself wore no helmet, keeping her serene face exposed for the cadre to witness. The pressure of her calmness, and her guard, steadied Mira.
Decs dragged by as the Orca dodged and weaved through the battlespace. From the control cocoon of the Commander's XV8, Longsun monitored the fighting at other objectives as the first cadres boarded their own targets. So far there were no further reports of Gue'ron'sha—good for the campaign, bad for the Fire Warriors accompanying him to their ship. But it was all for the Greater Good. In the larger picture they were insignificant—yet their actions were significant.
The Gue'ron'sha ship had broken from the dock and attempted to place itself in the path of the approaching Tau craft. Most Orcas simply gave the ship a wide berth; if it fired, they would have time to track and evade. The other patrol ships that had been in orbit when the Tau fleet surfaced from the ether were already disabled and damaged to the point they were no longer a threat. They still needed to be boarded and they weren't defanged yet, but that could be done at leisure—or simply erased by bombers running sorties between carriers and targets.
For the Orca pilots, though, things felt less optimistic. Constantly dodging orbital debris and random shots from not quite dead ships left them feeling the battle wasn't going smoothly. But this was what they were bred and trained for. This was what every pilot dreamed of in flight school.
The panic was there. It was real. And it only sharpened the experience.
In their imagined battles they never included the fear. Fear was what separated veterans from rookies: you could train a rookie for any scenario, but only a veteran had felt that consuming terror and carried on anyway. This crew would have an edge in any veteran's story—because everything they accomplished, everything done by this Orca and its cadre cargo, was done beneath the eyes of an Ethereal.
The pilot tracked what felt like hundreds of variables at once, but always kept one mindful eye on their target. The hangar on this class of ship sat in the bow—which placed the approach directly in line with the ship's turrets. A rapid-fire hailstorm of illuminated shells rose up as guns tracked and opened on the squadron of Orcas and fighters. All the crews had to do was close enough to slip beneath the guns' arc. It sounded simple in a war room; it required constant changes of speed, direction, and angle against a target that was also changing speed, direction, and angle. Still—it was relatively simple compared to other operations.
Relatively simple didn't matter when bad luck found you.
One of the bombers detonated after taking a string of fire from the warship. The shockwave slammed into the dropship and knocked it off-course. The pilot corrected fast, careful not to overcompensate, and the Orca slid back onto its line.
She sent a signal to the surviving fighters and bombers: on time, on track, on target. Gold signals lit up across the board.
Then, bracing herself for the most harrowing part of the run, she spoke over the dropship intercom:
"Thirty decs to target. Good hunting, cadre."
The escorting fighters had been fitted with breaching missiles. On approach, they acquired the hangar blast doors and released their weapons. The missiles streaked ahead; the fighters immediately broke off to engage other targets. One of the pilots twisted in her seat to look back at the target and the escort.
The three Orcas flew straight into the developing fireball.
As the last disappeared from sight, she snapped her head forward and silently thanked whatever cosmic coincidence had made her Air Caste. She would be the last person to lay eyes on those warriors. Their mission was suicidal—a sacrifice of the highest order to ensure the expedition's success. She whispered, softly, "Good hunting," to herself.
"Vor'la Seven Two, say again. I didn't catch your last transmission."
She hadn't realized her mic was open.
"N-nothing, Vor'la Seven One. I didn't say anything. I'll log the fault and have a technician look at it when we land."
A gold blip acknowledged.
She resumed her scan of the void and followed her wingmate to the next target.
The Orcas had timed the approach perfectly. The missiles struck just before the blast could catch them. The dropships powered through the explosion while their gunners laid down suppressive fire and the pilots wrestled the craft into landing position.
The hangar was full of Gue'la personnel fighting the effects of explosive decompression. Most wore void gear; a few struggled to breathe in the rapidly thinning atmosphere. Shuttles and equipment cluttered the bay—but there were no fighters and very little fixed weaponry. The dropships settled into the center of the hangar where shuttles would have queued for departure, their gunners spraying down disoriented crew the entire time.
When the ramps fell, the battlesuits disembarked first.
Six hulking machines strode into battle. Some held near the dropships, adding their weapons to the storm. Others triggered jump jets, clearing catwalks and erasing turret positions. Only security personnel offered organized resistance; the battlesuits prioritized them, silencing their weapons first.
Later, when Mira reviewed combat footage, what stood out most was the sound—or the absence of it. The fight began with a deafening roar as atmosphere tore itself from the hangar, then grew quieter and quieter as air thinned. The muffled cracks of weapons became utter silence.
The fight ended before the last Fire Warrior had left the Orcas. The crew lay dead. The bay was vented. A Pathfinder sprinted to the breach and set a small shield generator; when it activated, the hole sealed with a pale blue energy field. The Orcas began to refill the compartment with atmosphere.
More teams poured out as cadres established defensive lines in the aftermath. Pathfinders surged forward as pressure stabilized, crawling through vents and serviceways to scout traps and defenses. Kroot and Fire Warriors set fields of fire in case the Gue'la counterattacked.
None came.
No glorious charge. No screams in their sharp tongue. Nothing.
The Commander began issuing assignments. Mira took a moment to observe their surroundings while orders snapped across helmet comms. The hangar was about the size he expected—but what truly took him aback was the decoration.
Everything was sharp-angled and oversized. The ship felt ancient. He couldn't decide which thought was more ridiculous: that the Gue'la had kept it in service so long it became ancient, or that they had built it to feel that way from the beginning.
Statues filled every corner not occupied by equipment—or rather, equipment filled what space the statues left behind. Some were grotesque monsters. Others were life-sized humans. Two stood on either side of the central passageway: marble statues wearing robes that concealed armor, adorned with Gue'ron'sha helms. Each held a shield covering the lower body with a sword running down its center. Their arms crossed over their chests, thumbs interlocked, fingers posed like wings.
Shas'Ui Eldi's voice snapped him out of it. They were moving. Mira's la'rua was on point, assigned the center passageway.
They passed between the statues and stepped over bodies that had fallen during decompression and pulsefire. Most of the dead wore rags that might once have been uniforms. Occasionally they passed someone who looked like an officer—rank guessed less from insignia than from the cleanliness of the cloth. When they passed a ship's soldier, Mira guessed he was seeing the closest thing to a baseline uniform: a red tunic with what had once been gold trim, and trousers in gray, white, and blue.
Security forces wore their uniforms under void kit—vacuum collars, mag boots, and a breathing pack. Some wore helmets. In Gue'la fashion, the officers never did.
Mira knew the Gue'la did not follow a caste system. They relied on recruiting—or forcing—people into roles. He formed an image of one of these bodies arriving at the opposite of a Tau academy: some brutal learning pit, issued a first uniform. Over the years it would become tattered and worn, replaced only when it fell apart—or when the wearer rose high enough to require clean cloth.
The breachers flanked the first door and placed a charge on the hinges. They blew it open and rushed in with Black Sun filters engaged before the smoke could clear, using shock, flash, and debris to disorient any defenders.
Their blips reported back: nothing.
The corridor beyond was long and absurdly spacious. People had lived and worked here—but it looked like decades since anyone had cleaned it. Still no defenders.
A side door led into a compartment. The breachers stacked on it and checked handheld scanners. A life signature pinged into their helmets. Nirva nodded to Sholt.
Instead of setting a breaching charge, Sholt drew a small cutting torch and burned a line around the rim, slicing through the vacuum-lock seals. When the cut finished, Kriitan stepped up and fired his blaster into the door. It slammed inward. Nirva followed with a pulse grenade set to stun.
Light poured out of the room.
Nirva rushed in with Alvah and Korso close behind. Silence followed them.
Nirva's voice came over comms: "Shas'Ui. I think you need to see this."
Two breachers held the doorway. Bakah and Thunn stayed forward, weapons trained down the corridor.
Mira followed Eldi inside.
If it had been a Tau ship, he would have recognized the compartment as a machine room. Instead, it was an exhibit of Gue'la horror. The machines were archaic, but the true horror was what sat in them: humans fused into the mechanisms.
Some were skulls embedded in metal, mechanical eyes burning in the sockets. Others were flesh—cut off at the waist and grafted into the station, cables driven into the base of the skull and down the spine, feeding into sockets. Arms were severed and fused directly into control panels.
Candles filled the room. Wax dripped over everything. Mira's HUD scrolled olfactory readings. On instinct, he authorized a sample and the helmet fed the breakdown to him. He opened his mouth to taste the air.
Sweet. Smoky.
It wasn't just perfume. It was incense.
Strips of paper were plastered to the machines, pinned by red wax stamped with the same bird emblem that haunted their empire. His HUD translated one:
Spirit of this machine, calm thyself.
We give thee flesh, that ye may hold sentience,
and through sentience, hold knowledge.
Knowledge is a gift from the Machine God,
and any gift from the Machine God, once found, must be guarded,
lest it be lost to us once more.
He understood the words. He could not comprehend their meaning. And he doubted context would make this scene easier to bear.
One of the Gue'la fused into a station groaned—then louder—then became a howl. As the scream rose, the machine it was grafted into spooled up. The lights flickered.
The shriek turned their helmet speakers to static. Warriors flinched, hands to helmets in reflex, trying to block pain that came through bone conduction and speaker vibration alike. HUDs flickered. The room filled with arcing electricity.
Finally, Shas'Ui Eldi drew her pistol and shot the slave once through the head.
The howling stopped instantly. The machine wound down.
Nirva and Alvah drew pistols and shot the other two in the head. Their bodies slumped. Sparks snapped from the machinery.
Silence.
No one spoke as they filed out. Eldi tapped at the screen of her wrist-mounted controller. Others busied themselves with anything at all.
Mira could not move. All he could see, again and again, were the blank faces of those things—and the way every bit of the room looked normal in a Gue'la context.
Optional: If you want to twist the knife, add a single line here like: "And the ship kept humming, as if it approved."
Lost in thought, he didn't notice the team had stopped. He kept walking—until a hand seized his shoulder and yanked him back.
As he stumbled down, the corner erupted in brilliant light. Focused energy beams zipped past and splashed against the wall.
He looked up at his savior. Nirva's name glowed above the breacher helmet.
Mira nodded thanks. Nirva answered by pressing two fingers to his helmet—a grin in this context: no problem.
Now that they had taken contact, they limited verbal communication. Eldi needed quiet to monitor the cadre net and direct maneuver. She relied on command-suit symbology, hand signs, and short bursts of speech only when necessary.
Mira looked to Eldi for orders. Eldi pointed at him; a symbol appeared on his HUD: a pulse round with a tail bent at forty-five degrees, lines flaring from the ball, three marks beneath. Training turned it into meaning: pulse grenade, wall shot, single bounce, bright slow burn in visible spectrum, antigrav assist.
Mira keyed settings into the carbine's underbarrel launcher. He nodded and sent a gold acknowledgment.
In training, redundant communication had seemed ridiculous—until an old veteran told them about comms jammed, signals intercepted, even translated into prediction.
"We fell back on hand signs and runners," the veteran had said. "We became patient hunters. Slow communication set our pace—then we struck with sudden speed and violence."
"So why not learn hand signs and only use them when comms go down?" a cadet had asked.
The veteran had smiled.
"After you qualify with your rifle, how often do you go to the weapons dome?"
"Every day, teacher."
"And do you practice pistol work as well?"
"Of course."
"Why? You already know it. If your rifle fails, you should be able to switch to your pistol."
The recruit had smiled.
"I think I understand, teacher."
The practice made Fire Warriors unable to speak without moving their hands. The Earth Caste called it impatience. The Water Caste called it primitive. But the Fire Caste knew the truth: it was the habit on which the Empire rode into war.
Mira inhaled and forced himself back into the present.
Eldi held up three fingers.
Two.
One.
She closed her fist.
Mira brought his carbine up and fired the grenade into the wall. It bounced once, vanished around the corner, and detonated in a blinding flare.
He surged forward with the team.
Time crawled.
Nirva led the entry, rushing the opening. He rounded the corner and dropped to a knee; as Mira passed, Nirva fired his first shot.
Mira snapped his weapon up in time to see the round punch into a Gue'la soldier. The body flew backward as a gaping hole opened in the chest—torn by ionized metal slugs.
The enemy squad was blinded by the flash. Tau advanced through it—protected by Black Sun filters. Optical sensors compensated instantly, dimming the glare and shifting to infrared overlay. Heat signatures flared into clarity. Targets highlighted.
Mira swung to a new target.
No shields. Almost no armor—and what armor existed looked ceremonial.
He fired. A three-round burst tore through two bodies. The first soldier's head burst into gore. The second took one round in the abdomen and one in the chest. The pocket of resistance collapsed quickly, and survivors fell back deeper into the corridors.
No blood pooled beneath them. Superheated slugs cauterized as they tore. But the air filled with evaporated blood.
His HUD warned: if he removed his helmet, the air would taste of copper.
Eldi signed: continue the push.
They hit more barricades and ambush corners—ten to twenty soldiers at a time. Each time the Tau executed the same routine: flash, fire, pursue. They were never out of contact for long. Other teams reported similar ambushes throughout the ship.
Mira thought back to the briefing: a ship this size could carry up to twenty-five thousand personnel.
He also thought about the size of his cadre against those numbers, then his mind drifted to how thin the resistance had been up to this point.
Where were they keeping those twenty-five thousand souls?