"Ugh… ngh…"
The sound barely escaped Lord Castellan Marius's ruined throat. Wet, broken, and impossibly small, it belonged to a dying man rather than the commander who moments earlier had stood with Cadia's armies beneath his gaze.
His lifeblood came in thick arterial bursts, splashing across the adamantium-plated railing of the Leviathan Command Carrier's observation deck. Red struck polished command brass, sacred Cadian heraldry, and the boots of officers who had faced artillery, xenos, and the Eye itself without flinching.
For one frozen second, every eye on the command deck turned toward him.
No one shouted or moved.
Ursarkar E. Creed reacted before thought could catch up with instinct.
His bolt pistols were in his hands in the same heartbeat Marius hit the deck. His fingers tightened, and the Volscani company commander's skull vanished in a burst of bone, blood, and detonating mass-reactive rounds.
The retaliation was clean. Instant. Merciless.
And still too late. The Lord Castellan of Cadia was dead.
The Volscani commander's corpse toppled backward, but his soldiers moved as if his death had been the signal they had been waiting for. A thousand weapons rose with unnatural precision. Lasguns, hellguns, grenade launchers, and compact support weapons swung away from the parade field and toward the Cadian officers, honor guards, and staff gathered atop the command carrier.
Then they opened fire.
The sacred command deck of Cadia's Leviathan became a killing ground.
Las-bolts ripped across the viewing platform. Officers died before they understood where the attack had come from. Vox-servitors sparked and collapsed. Servo-skulls spun wildly through the air, fragments of parchment and burning purity seals trailing from their casings. Below, the brass horns and drums of the parade were swallowed by screams, bolt detonations, and the hard crack of disciplined volley fire.
Marius's honor guard recovered first. They had been chosen to protect the Castellans, not to stand stunned before treachery. Shields came up. Carapace armor took glancing shots. Hellguns snapped back in controlled bursts. Men dragged the Lord Castellan's body behind the nearest armored console even though every man present knew there was nothing left to save.
"Protect Vice Castellan Karwyn!" someone roared.
Karwyn was still alive. That single fact became the center of the battlefield.
The surviving honor guard formed a moving wall around him, firing as they withdrew toward the reinforced interior corridors of the Leviathan. Karwyn's face was pale but composed, one hand pressed to his vox-bead as he tried to force orders through a command net drowning in alarm tones and dying voices. Blood streaked one side of his armor, not his own, and his eyes kept flicking toward Marius's body with the stunned disbelief of a man watching the chain of command collapse into butchered meat.
"Inside!" an honor guard sergeant shouted. "Get him inside!"
They almost made it. The Volscani had planned for that too.
A dozen soldiers broke from the main firing line and charged through the smoke. Demolition harnesses bulged beneath their greatcoats, each chest rig packed with melta-bombs, shaped charges, and crude martyr triggers. Their faces were blank. Not fanatical or enraged. Blank, as though some essential human hesitation had been cut out of them.
The honor guard saw them too late.
"Bombers!"
Karwyn turned. Creed saw his mouth open, perhaps to give an order, perhaps to curse, perhaps to pray.
There was no time for any of it.
The suicide troops struck the retreating formation at the corridor mouth. Sun-white heat filled the passage. Metal shrieked. The blast hurled men into walls, tore armored doors from their rails, and poured molten fragments across the deck in a roaring wave.
When the glare faded, the corridor entrance had become a jagged ruin of blackened plating, burning bodies, and fused armor.
Vice Castellan Karwyn was gone. Two Castellans had died within minutes. Cadia's command structure had been decapitated in full view of its armies.
And the Volscani were still firing.
Klein's merchant guard answered with Talon discipline. They were fewer than a hundred, but every one of them wore compact powered armor built for void boarding actions, urban security, and the kind of sudden violence that killed ordinary escorts before they finished raising their weapons.
They formed around Klein without needing shouted orders. Shoulder shields locked forward. Integrated auspex lenses swept through the smoke. Return fire lanced into the Volscani line with precise, punishing bursts.
Five Ogryns in oversized powered armor stood among them like armored watchtowers given fists. One of them, a slab of muscle and ceramite whose full name Klein had shortened to Brakk because saying the rest under fire was an act of self-harm, planted himself between Klein and the traitors with a roar that shook the deck plating.
"Boss stays behind Brakk!" the Ogryn bellowed.
His heavy weapon spat fire. Volscani soldiers disappeared under the barrage, but more stepped over the bodies without hesitation.
Brakk backed toward Creed's position, using his massive frame as living cover while Klein ducked behind a shattered command console. Creed was already there, bolt pistol firing in sharp, measured bursts. Each shot found a target. Each kill bought less than a second.
"Don't let your men die for nothing!" Creed barked over the gunfire.
He risked one glance upward. Through the smoke and muzzle flashes, he saw Valkyrie-class transports cutting through Cadia's harsh sky. Their dark hulls bore Volscani markings. Some had loyalist heraldry hastily scorched away. Others carried traitor sigils burned into the armor as if the rebellion had been prepared long before the first shot.
Two dozen were closing in. More might already be below the cloud line.
Creed pointed toward the inner access corridor. "We're close to the interior. Break through, regroup, and get off this exposed deck. Move now!"
Klein did not waste breath questioning him. He snatched up his vox-unit and snapped orders to his escort.
"All guards, collapse on my position! Ogryns forward! Rifle teams, suppress left flank! Do not let them isolate the Cadians!"
The Merchant Guard fell back in good order, firing as they moved. The remnants of Marius's honor guard joined them without ceremony. In another hour, under another sky, some officer might have objected to taking orders beside a rogue trader's private troops.
On that deck, survival outranked etiquette.
Klein drew his laspistol and fired over the edge of cover. His shots were fast rather than elegant. One struck a Volscani in the throat. Another splashed harmlessly against a breastplate. Klein swore, adjusted, and kept firing.
"On Creed!" he shouted. "Push!"
The five armored Ogryns led the charge.
They hit the Volscani blocking the passage like a breaching engine. Powered fists crushed ribcages through flak armor. One traitor was lifted bodily and hurled into three others hard enough to break all four men against a bulkhead. Another disappeared beneath an Ogryn's boot with a wet crunch.
The Volscani did not panic.
They fell back by squad, firing into gaps, trying to draw the Ogryns into overlapping kill lanes. Klein's riflemen closed behind the big abhumans, and the Cadian honor guard fired through the lanes created by the advance. Las-bursts cut down traitors trying to plant charges along the doorframe. A Cadian sergeant slammed a bayonet into one Volscani's visor and wrenched the weapon free only after the man stopped moving.
Within moments, the combined force broke through.
Creed was the last through the corridor mouth. He turned, fired his pistol until the magazines ran dry, then slapped the blast-door control with the heel of his hand. The reinforced door slammed shut behind them.
A second later, Volscani fire hammered against the other side. The metal rang like a struck cathedral bell.
No one relaxed. The interior of the Leviathan was not safe.
It was worse in some ways. Outside, the enemy could be seen. Inside, the command carrier's vast armored body had become a maze of smoke, alarms, flickering lumen-strips, sealed compartments, panicked crew, and traitors already moving through vital arteries.
The first wave of Valkyries had dropped troops directly onto the Leviathan's upper platforms. At least twenty transports had already unloaded, and more were circling for approach. Volscani squads were spreading through the superstructure, cutting vox-lines, killing command staff, sabotaging turret controls, and seizing choke points before the loyal crew could organize.
Gunfire echoed through the corridors. Somewhere below, a crew compartment burned. Somewhere ahead, men screamed in Cadian accents as another section was overrun.
"Throne's mercy," one honor guard whispered. "What is happening?"
"The Volscani turned traitor," another said, voice hollow. "How? How is that possible?"
"They were honored allies," a third muttered. "They fought beside us. They were cleared by command. Their commander spoke with the Castellan himself... what is this madness?!"
"And then he cut his throat," Klein said grimly.
No one rebuked him.
The surviving Cadian guards looked as if the floor had been pulled from beneath their understanding of the galaxy. They could comprehend death. They could comprehend enemy action. Cadia had taught every child those lessons early. But this was different. A trusted regiment had murdered the highest commanders of the fortress world during a parade meant to display unity before war.
The Volscani Cataphracts were not rabble. They were not penal troops or half-starved militia. Across Segmentum Obscurus, they had been praised as disciplined, resilient, and unbreakable. Their name had carried weight in every strategy chamber concerned with the Cadian Gate.
And now that name meant treason.
Creed's expression was darker than the corridor around him.
He had known. Not in detail. But he had known of the possibility that Volscani betrayal would erupt at the Tyrok Fields. He had made preparations. He had moved the 8th away from the ceremonial formation. He had tried to keep Marius and Karwyn away from the killing ground, only to watch command protocol, pride, and the need for visible unity drag them back into danger.
Even prepared, the truth was still bitter. Knowing the knife existed did not make the wound painless.
And now the Volscani had the Leviathan.
The command carrier was more than a tank. It was a rolling fortress-city of adamantium, macro-cannons, void shield layers, strategic cogitators, and enough communications capacity to coordinate entire planetary-scale operations. From its heart, Cadia's senior command could direct regiments, orbital assets, artillery networks, air wings, and reserve deployments across the Tyrok Fields.
If the traitors held it, they would not merely possess a weapon. They would possess Cadia's nerve center.
"We need to fall back," Creed said grimly.
One of the honor guard snapped toward him, rage overcoming shock. "Fall back? This is the command Leviathan!" He stabbed a finger toward the deck. "You want to just hand it over to the traitors?!"
Creed rounded on him. "You think I want to?"
The guard fell silent, but Creed did not soften.
"The upper deck is compromised. The interior is compromised. The crew is scattered. Half the men aboard don't know who is loyal, who is dead, or where the chain of command even begins now. Some compartments are still operating as if this is a drill. Others are being butchered."
He pointed deeper into the corridor.
"We do not have the numbers to retake this carrier from inside while an entire Volscani regiment reinforces it from above. We regroup. We rally loyal forces. Then we come back with enough strength to do the job properly."
The honor guard's jaw worked, but he had no answer.
Creed started moving. The others followed because every second they remained still made death more likely.
They passed a narrow viewing port cracked by the earlier blast. Through it, Creed saw the Valkyries that had already dropped their troops banking away, but more were already on the way.
More enemies. More death.
A younger honor guard caught up beside him, breathing hard. "Lord General, don't you have a vox-unit? We could fortify a section, contact your 8th, and launch a counterattack from here."
"Do you honestly think this attack is isolated to the command carrier?" Creed asked.
As if the battlefield itself had been waiting for the question, distant artillery thunder rolled through the Leviathan's hull. The deck trembled. Dust shook loose from overhead cabling. More impacts followed in staggered rhythm. Not ceremonial guns or distant training fire. Live bombardment.
The chill that passed through the group needed no explanation. The Volscani had gone fully rogue. Their forces were attacking loyal Imperial formations across the parade grounds.
"The 8th's priority is not to fight its way into this metal coffin," Creed said. "Their priority is to engage the traitors outside, rally scattered loyalists, and prevent the entire field from becoming a rout."
No one argued after that.
Creed activated his vox while walking, his voice cutting through static, overlapping distress calls, and panicked command fragments with the same harsh control he used on a firing line.
"Eighth Cadian, this is Creed. Confirm defensive line establishment."
A burst of static answered, then Kell's rough voice came through. "Line forming. Contact with Volscani elements. Parade units are scattered. Some don't know who's shooting at them."
"Then tell them," Creed snapped. "Any loyal unit retreating from the parade grounds is to be shielded and folded into provisional companies. I don't care what regiment they belong to. If they can hold a lasgun, they go where you need them."
"Understood."
Creed switched channels. "Forward batteries, prioritize Volscani armor and landing zones. Do not fire on formations unless hostile action is confirmed. We cannot afford friendly slaughter."
Another officer answered, voice strained. "The 14th is refusing outside command authority. Their general is missing."
"Then find their commissar."
"Commissar Aldred is alive, sir."
"Tell Aldred I authorize summary execution of any officer or trooper from the 14th who refuses to form up under emergency command. I will answer for it."
There was a pause.
"Yes, Lord General."
Creed lowered the vox for half a second and looked ahead. The corridor lights flickered red. Emergency shutters were closing in some sections, sealing off routes. Smoke drifted from a stairwell where someone had detonated a charge below.
He adjusted course without hesitation.
Klein watched him work. The rogue trader had seen competent commanders before. Talon had its own hard men, and Qin Mo's officers were not chosen for softness. But Creed's mind moved through catastrophe the way a veteran moved through familiar terrain. Every order assumed incomplete information. Every decision accepted that some men would die and demanded that their deaths buy something useful.
It was not inspirational. It was terrifyingly practical.
After several minutes of hard movement through service corridors, Klein drew closer. "Where exactly are we going?"
Creed shot him a look that would have wilted a junior officer. "Away from the Leviathan. Like I said."
"I understood the strategic direction," Klein replied, ducking as sparks showered from a damaged junction overhead. "I'm asking about the method. What is our exit strategy?"
"Landing pad," Creed said. "We hijack a Valkyrie, shoot anyone in the way, and link up with the 8th."
"That's your plan?"
"It was becoming a plan."
"I thought we were maneuvering toward some hidden command bunker or auxiliary escape route." Klein glanced back at the honor guard, then at his own armored escorts. "If all we need is extraction, why are we running through a traitor-infested super-heavy command carrier?"
Creed stopped slowly.
"Explain."
Klein reached beneath his coat and pulled out a compact teleport beacon no larger than a pistol magazine. Its casing was stamped with Talon trade glyphs.
"My ship can perform short-range teleport extraction if we deploy shielding rigs first. Not everyone here has personal teleport beacons, and the field is messy around this much armor, void shielding, and active auspex interference, but we can compensate."
Creed stared at him. For one full second, the war around them seemed to recede beneath the force of his disbelief.
"Your merchant ship has teleportation technology?"
"Technically, yes."
"Technically?"
"It is not as precise as a proper Talon military platform," Klein said. "And before you ask, no, I cannot teleport the entire Leviathan into orbit, nor can I drop the Volscani directly into a sun. I have asked similar questions. The engineers were rude."
Creed's eyes narrowed. "Why didn't you mention this earlier?"
Klein spread one hand. "You never asked."
The nearest honor guard looked as though he wanted to shoot someone and had not yet decided who deserved it most.
Creed inhaled once through his nose. "Beacon. Now."
Klein placed the device on the deck and keyed his vox. "Merchant vessel, this is Klein. Emergency extraction. Deploy teleport shielding rigs to my beacon. Prepare group transfer to the coordinates I am transmitting. Destination: Lord General Creed's 8th Regiment."
A burst of confirmation crackled through the unit. Klein passed Creed the coordinate input. Creed gave him the 8th's current fallback position without hesitation.
"Shield rigs inbound," Klein said.
The air snapped. Several compact machines appeared around them in pulses of hard blue light, each one landing with a heavy magnetic clank. Stabilizer legs unfolded, bit into the deck, and began projecting a layered field around the group. Blue-white lines crawled across the floor, forming a temporary grid that hummed with contained force.
"Everyone inside the field," Klein ordered. "Do not stand too close to anyone wearing powered armor. Do not touch the rigs. Do not ask whether it hurts. It probably will not."
"Probably?" one Cadian asked.
"Almost certainly."
"That is not better."
Creed ignored the exchange. His attention had returned to the vox.
"Kell, prepare to receive teleport extraction. Friendly signatures incoming. Do not shoot the merchant."
Kell's voice came back immediately. "No promises if he appears inside my command post."
"He won't." Creed looked at Klein. "He won't, correct?"
Klein hesitated for the smallest possible moment. Creed's expression went flat.
"He won't," Klein said firmly. "Probably."
The shielding rigs rose to full power.
As the honor guard and merchant troops clipped auxiliary stabilizers to their armor, Klein issued one more order through his vox. His earlier humor faded, leaving the voice of a man who had survived long enough in Talon's service to know when jokes became wasteful.
"Keep the dimensional engine at ready status. The moment enemy fleet signatures are detected, jump immediately. Do not wait for my command if communications are lost. Preserve the ship."
Creed overheard and stepped closer.
"You don't have to stay, Klein." Creed's voice was rough, but not unkind. "You are not a Cadian. Your duty is to your ship and your crew. Whatever happens on this field, no one can call you coward for leaving."
Klein's crooked smile returned, but it was quieter now. Less performance. More decision.
"I am here as Talon's liaison," he said. "And I am here as your friend, whether that is inconvenient for your command reports or not."
Outside the shield field, gunfire hammered closer through the corridors. The Volscani were pushing deeper. Somewhere behind them, a sealed door buckled under explosives.
Klein checked the beacon one last time, then looked Creed in the eye.
"I stand with Cadia."
Creed studied him for a heartbeat. Then he nodded once.
"Cadia stands."
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