After another day of drifting through the silent void, several new red blips flared on the Purple Crystal's scanner projection.
One was a massive, lumbering transport ship, its energy signatures flickering and weak. The others were razor-sharp, jagged silhouettes—vessels shaped like shards of obsidian, moving with a predatory grace that defied standard physics.
"That is..." The first mate, a shrewd man with a scarred face, stared at the display. His expression paled instantly. "Dark Eldar raiders!"
Raynor's mind immediately accessed the files he had studied. The Dark Eldar—the Drukhari—were a race of sadistic predators who fed on the agony of others to stave off the slow consumption of their souls by the god Slaanesh. They were faster than any Imperial ship, their weapons were designed to maim rather than kill, and they were the living nightmare of the galaxy.
On the screen, it was clear the transport ship was being methodically dismantled. Raynor recognized the hull profile: a Pilgrim-class vessel, the Song of Farewell. These ships were typically the gilded cages of the Imperial middle-class—merchants, minor nobles, and bureaucrats. They were usually packed with high-grade fuel, luxury supplies, and chests of Throne Coins.
Raynor thought of the two thousand hungry mouths on the Purple Crystal and his own ship's dwindling fuel cells. A cold, predatory smile crept onto his lips. He was not a savior, but in this universe, a predator's shadow could sometimes look like a helping hand.
"Butcher," Raynor said, his voice eerily calm. "Assemble the boarding parties. We're moving in."
The Butcher paused, a slow, sinister grin spreading across his face. "Understood, boss. We're going hunting."
Raynor watched the chase on the screen. "If it's easy money, why not take it?" he muttered to himself. He had long since abandoned the luxury of being a "nice guy."
Inside the gilded dining hall of the Song of Farewell, the atmosphere was thick with the aroma of roasted grox and expensive spices. Steaming soup simmered in silver tureens, reflecting the soft, warm light of the chandeliers.
Kelly von, dressed in a crisp Imperial officer's uniform adorned with bought-and-paid-for medals, gingerly cut into a golden-brown steak. He chewed slowly, a smug look of satisfaction on his face.
"In three days—no, two at most—we will reach Brevis," Kelly said, wiping his mouth with a silk napkin. "By then, I will be the Planetary Governor. The supreme ruler of a Hive World."
Isud Kola, his wife, sat opposite him. She wore a gown that cost more than a mid-hive hab-block, her golden hair styled into a complex, shimmering updo. She didn't touch her food. Her eyes, sharp and full of disdain, never left her husband's face.
"Don't be a fool, Kelly," she said, her voice like ice. "The warp storm hasn't broken, and the navigation logs are still a mess of errors. You said the same thing a week ago, and we're still lost in this void."
Kelly's smile faltered, replaced by a flash of resentment. He knew she despised him. He was the son of a fallen General, possessing nothing but a title and a handsome face. Without Isud's family connections in the Segmentum Pacificus, he would be a beggar.
"The systems are repaired," Kelly insisted, taking a sip of vintage red wine. "Otto says we've pinpointed the coordinates. Isn't that right, Otto?"
Otto, the adjutant—a rotund man with sweat-beaded brows and a blue naval uniform that was a size too small—nodded vigorously. "Absolutely, Madam. I personally oversaw the calibrations. The Hive City signals are faint, but they are there. We arrive tomorrow."
Isud didn't believe a word of it. The Song of Farewell carried her entire life's fortune: millions of Throne Coins, tons of grain, and a detachment of sixty Ogryn bodyguards. They were the foundation of her power in Brevis. Since they had been spat out of the warp into this "cage" of a sector, her anxiety had only grown.
"Are the Ogryns secure?" Isud asked, her tone sharp. "And the servants? I won't have the lower decks turning into a riot."
"Everything is locked down, Madam," Otto replied. "The Ogryns are in the lower holds under heavy guard. They are safe."
The argument between the couple continued, escalating from the logistics of the ship to the bitter roots of their marriage. The waiters stood like statues, heads bowed, terrified of catching Isud's wrath.
Suddenly, the Song of Farewell shuddered violently. The silver cutlery clattered against the fine china, and a bottle of wine tipped over, staining the white tablecloth like a fresh wound.
A piercing, rhythmic alarm wailed through the ship.
"Alert! Unidentified vessels closing! Port shields at thirty percent!"
The doors to the dining hall burst open, and a frantic officer stumbled in. "Sir! Madam! It's the Dark Eldar! They've pinned us!"
The wine glass slipped from Kelly's trembling hand, shattering on the marble floor. "The Dark Eldar?" his voice was a thin, pathetic squeak. "But we... we were almost there."
Outside, in the cold dark of space, the Purple Crystal was already altering its trajectory, its silent, bio-modified engines burning hot as it moved to intercept the feast.