…
Two months later.
In a distant star system still far from the fortress world of Cadia, the Zealous Advance, a transport cruiser carrying a full regiment of Cadian Shock Troopers, had docked at an orbital station above a hive world for resupply.
Onboard the cruiser, Ursarkar Creed leaned back in a creaking chair inside a dimly lit bar. The recycled air was thick with oil fumes, stale lho smoke, and the faint metallic tang of ozone from overworked lumen strips. Around him, officers passed the time in uneasy silence or forced conversation, their nerves dulled by the monotony of warp travel and sharpened again by the uncertainty of their recall orders.
Several tables away, a group of Cadian officers argued in low voices over chipped glasses of cheap amasec.
"It'll take us years to get back to the homeworld," one muttered. "This journey's going to be long."
"I can't believe we're finally heading back," another said. "I miss my parents."
"Heard the Talon Sector started paying its tithes again. If that keeps up, maybe we'll finally get access to one of those Dimensional Engines. Would make the return trip a lot faster."
"Don't start," a fourth officer snapped. "Don't even mention Dimensional Engines. We're not the only ones in this bar. Some of the Navy crew are here too."
At that, Creed turned his head.
In another corner, a group of Imperial Navy officers sat hunched over data-slates. Their uniforms were crisp, their postures disciplined, and their expressions sour enough to curdle amasec. The moment Dimensional Engines were mentioned, several of them frowned. One muttered something into his cup. Another exchanged a quiet, bitter remark with the officer beside him.
The Navy did not like those machines.
Creed could hardly blame them.
"They're not wrong," Creed murmured. He took another drink, then bit down on the lho-stick between his teeth. Smoke curled past his scarred cheek as he turned to the man seated beside him. "If the Zealous Advance had access to a Talon-pattern Dimensional Engine, we wouldn't be facing a multi-year crawl through the void to Cadia."
Creed's adjutant, Sergeant Kell, grunted.
Kell was a grizzled veteran of the 8th Cadian Regiment, older than Creed by at least a decade and twice as weathered as most men had any right to be. He had been fighting in trenches on far-flung battlefronts long before Creed first enlisted, back when Creed had still been a green recruit full of wild ambition and not enough scars.
Like every soldier in the 8th, Kell had eventually been won over by Creed's iron will and tactical brilliance. Won over enough, at least, to follow him into hell if the order came.
"Your time in the Talon Sector left a mark," Kell said. His voice was rough and gravelly, like a vox-unit with a damaged speaker, the result of multiple throat augmetics and too many battlefields. "I've heard what those Talonites do beneath their chapels. And I've heard whispers from the astropaths, too. Rumors that their Dimensional Engines run on sacrifices and dark rituals."
He glanced toward the Navy officers.
"If I were Navy, I'd rather die than let one of those damned things aboard my ship."
Creed frowned.
Memories of his time in the Talon Sector stirred beneath the smoke and alcohol. Some of the rumors Kell mentioned were not entirely untrue. Talonites did engage in… unorthodox practices beneath their chapels. Creed had seen enough Imperial worlds to know that the line between sanctioned ritual and heresy was often drawn by whoever survived long enough to write the report.
As for the Dimensional Engines…
He poured Kell another glass.
"Don't believe every half-truth you hear."
"Oh?" Kell raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"
"If those engines were truly scalable technology, there'd be no need for astropathic relay chains," Creed said. "You think the High Lords would keep funding the endless upkeep of choirs, relays, sanctums, and all the little horrors required to make long-range psychic communication work if stable faster-than-light courier systems already existed?"
Kell said nothing. Creed leaned back, smoke drifting from his lho-stick.
"Even if the engines couldn't carry vox traffic directly, courier ships fitted with them could outpace half the Imperium's communication delays. Orders, warnings, reports, everything that now has to pass through screaming psykers and warp-tainted uncertainty could move by ship instead."
He let that settle for a moment.
"Now, if you were an astropath…"
Creed did not finish the sentence. He did not need to.
Kell stared into his glass, thinking. If he were an astropath, or belonged to any institution whose influence depended on messages crossing the void through sanctioned psykers, he would do everything in his power to suppress the use of such engines.
But that did not settle the matter. Rumors sometimes survived because they were useful. Sometimes they survived because they were true.
But then again, what if the Dimensional Engines really were not safe? What if the whispers of sacrifice, ritual, and machines that should not function held a grain of truth?
Who would risk a fleet on that gamble?
"Commander."
A soldier approached their table and saluted. Creed looked up.
"There's someone outside who wishes to speak with you."
Creed followed the soldier's gaze toward the bar entrance.
Standing beyond it was Klein, a rogue trader from the Talon Sector, accompanied by a small entourage. Behind him, armed retainers were unloading bulky crates from grav-pallets. Inside those crates sat custom-fit power armor, each suit being handed off to officers who had placed orders during a previous meeting.
Creed watched the scene for a moment, then waved Klein in.
As the rogue trader entered, Creed leaned toward Kell and murmured, "Looks like those Dimensional Engines do work. How else does this man keep finding me every single time?"
Kell squinted at Klein. He remembered the earlier incident well enough. Back when the 8th had been redeployed to a new war zone aboard the Path of Faith, Klein had somehow tracked Creed down there too, as if the galaxy's distances were more of an inconvenience than an obstacle.
Klein strode into the bar with the relaxed confidence of a man who carried too many secrets and armed retainers to be easily intimidated. He seated himself beside Creed and Kell, exchanged the necessary pleasantries, and accepted the drink Creed pushed toward him.
Creed did not waste time.
"Does the Lord of Talon have another message for me?"
He knew Klein well enough by now. The man might technically be a rogue trader now, but he still moved in the shadow of Qin Mo, the enigmatic ruler of the Talon Sector.
Klein shook his head.
"Not this time. I'm here as a liaison. For the next few years, I'll be accompanying you."
Kell's expression soured at once.
"You're sticking with us? What are you, a rogue trader-slash-spy?"
Klein shot him a brief look, then decided the question did not deserve an answer. He turned back to Creed.
"The Lord of Talon has no authority over the Cadian Shock Troops," he said. "You do not have to keep me close if you do not wish to. If ordered away, I'll return to Talon and report as much."
"No," Creed said. He poured Klein a drink. "Stay, brother. Our ships may not travel the same path, but you can reach Cadia ahead of us and wait there."
His answer was firm. Inside, however, questions pressed against one another.
Why was Klein following him instead of contacting the Lord Castellan of Cadia directly? Why did Qin Mo place such importance on him, a general among many? Cadia had no shortage of officers, commanders, fortress-lords, and men whose names carried more weight than Creed's.
But Creed had a theory.
Qin Mo possessed foresight. Creed had seen enough, heard enough, and survived enough near the Talon Sector to believe that much. Perhaps in the years to come, he would play a pivotal role. Perhaps Qin Mo knew something he had not yet chosen to reveal.
But right now, his concern was Cadia.
Ever since the recall order reached the 8th Regiment, speculation had spread through the ranks like trench fever. Something was happening near the Cadian Gate. The plagues, raids, and disturbances on the edge of Imperial attention were no longer being dismissed as isolated incidents. The consensus among officers was grim: those events were merely the overture.
A greater war was coming.
Creed remembered the last message Klein had brought from Talon.
A warning.
The Volscani Cataphracts would rebel the moment their boots touched Cadia's soil.
"Before you left," Creed asked, "did you speak with the Lord of Talon? Did he give you any additional messages?"
"We spoke," Klein replied. "But there was nothing else to pass on. I received my orders while picking up goods on Agripinaa Forge World."
Creed hid his disappointment behind another pull from his glass.
What he needed most right now was information. Not rumors. Not omens. Information. The kind that could place regiments where they needed to be before men began dying by the thousand.
Klein lifted his glass.
"I know you made a pact with the Lord of Talon," he said. "All of Talon stands behind you. While you march back to Cadia, the Talon Sector is raising new armies. When you reach your journey's end, we'll have forces ready to support you."
Creed lifted his glass as well, but his expression remained doubtful.
"I'm just a general in the Cadian Shock Troops. That's all. There are many above me in rank. I have no authority to represent Cadia."
"True," Klein nodded in agreement.
There was no flattery in his voice. He seemed just as aware of the problem as Creed was. He, too, did not understand why he had been sent to Creed instead of reporting directly to the Lord Castellan, the High Fortress-Lord of Cadia.
Creed had achieved the rank of general within forty standard years, an impressive feat by any measure. In the rigid hierarchy of the Astra Militarum, however, rapid ascent earned as much resentment as respect. There were officers above him with older names, cleaner pedigrees, and more political allies.
Could he climb higher?
Could he one day become Lord Castellan of Cadia itself?
Klein studied him over the rim of his glass, then looked away before the silence became too obvious.
Kell broke it first. "How do you always find him?"
Klein glanced at him. "I'm a rogue trader. I have my ways."
"Let's hear them," Kell said, settling back. "We've got years to burn before we reach Cadia anyway."
Klein stared at him for a moment. Then, with the air of a man deciding whether honesty was less amusing than arrogance, he took a drink.
"Years, Sergeant, are exactly why men like me are useful."
Kell snorted. "That wasn't an answer."
"It was the beginning of one."
The two drifted into small talk after that, swapping half-truths, battlefield stories, and the kind of banter men used when neither side trusted the other enough for candor but both had enough respect to avoid insults becoming weapons.
Creed remained silent. He drank occasionally. Smoked occasionally. Listened always.
Watching Klein speak so easily, Creed found himself returning to the same thought again and again.
If I had my own ship, I'd install a Dimensional Engine without hesitation.
Anything would be better than spending years in the void just to return home.
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