Upon receiving his orders, Lord Admiral Adam wasted no time; the moment the command was confirmed, he began orchestrating a reconnaissance campaign across the surrounding systems. He reviewed the data personally, standing motionless at the command hololith, its pale-blue light flickering across his stern features as he traced movement lines with gloved fingers, eyes locked on the starmap.
The currently unnamed subsector around Talon consisted of nineteen known star systems, charted and partially stabilized through Talon's expanding influence, several of which had been designated as strategic nodes.
These "strategic nodes" were systems equipped with sufficient voidfleet assets to maintain frequent communication with the Talon System. Their status could be updated in near-real time, making them secure operational outposts in the region.
These fortified systems served as keystones for a new, highly-coordinated tactical doctrine centered around the use of Dimensional Engines. The doctrine dictated that fleet elements avoid engaging hostiles independently. Instead, they would jump to a strategic point, regroup with a battleship, and translate back en masse to overwhelm the enemy.
Battleships did not operate alongside smaller vessels due to their longer Dimensional Engine charge times, which would otherwise hinder fleet maneuverability. Each capital vessel was effectively a mobile fortress, too slow to hunt but unstoppable once committed.
"There are three important strategic points across the subsectors. Assign one battleship to each," Adam ordered.
"The rest of the fleet will divide into five recon strike forces, each with a cruiser-class vessel, and begin rapid reconnaissance of each star system per our pre-established protocols. If you encounter enemy vessels, initiate an emergency jump to the nearest strategic point. From there, regroup with the battleship stationed there and strike the target via coordinated re-entry."
Adam broadcasted the operational briefing across the fleet's vox-net, his words echoing through hundreds of decks, punctuated by the low hum of reactors and the distant clank of boots on metal grating.
The maximum jump range of the Dimensional Engine was approximately 500 light-years. While longer jumps were technically possible, they carried severe risks of spatial instability. As such, the Talon voidfleet preferred short-range, system-to-system translations, a practice colloquially referred to as "hopping" among the fleet's crews.
Hopping minimized risk, and more importantly, kept formations tight. Within the flickering blue corridors of transit space, even a kilometer's drift could mean annihilation, so precision mattered. The doctrine left little room for improvisation, but improvisation was not Adam's style."Begin operation." At Adam's command, the fleet lurched into motion.
The three Battleships translated to the designated strategic points, while the remaining forces split into five patrol fleets, each comprised of cruisers and escorts, spreading across the subsector to begin reconnaissance.
Each patrol fleet operated independently, establishing forward operating positions in high orbit. These staging areas served not just as fallback points, but also as observation platforms, orbital sanitizers, and, when needed, planetary siege hubs. The fleet's rhythm was disciplined, constant vox chatter, data uploads, and medical reports flowed between ships like lifeblood.
System #2, the closest to Talon, held twelve planets, only one of which was habitable. The scan was completed quickly.
The habitable planet, Caelum-Primaris, was a mist-veiled world with shallow oceans and sprawling archipelagos. Its isolated island cities relied on aerial supply lines, and its atmosphere was thick with salt and humidity, conditions hostile to most airborne pathogens. Its cleanliness was a fortunate rarity.
Though no infection was detected, the mobilization edict was still transmitted to the planetary governor via long-range vox. Given System #2's heavy dependence on trade with Talon, the governor complied without hesitation.
Next were Systems #3 and #4. Both showed minor signs of infection. Ten Legion regiments and a single Thunderbornwere deployed to the surface to root out underground plague nodes, while orbiting warships deployed antiviral payloads.
System #3's primary world, Desmira, was a hive-planet scarred by mining, with vertical cities climbing out of industrial chasms. The virus had crept into its lower levels, slums forgotten by planetary administrators. Here, strike teams moved level by level, sweeping the endless megastructures while cruisers maintained overwatch.
In contrast, System #4's outermost habitable moon, Luralis, was covered in dense fungal forests, illuminated by bioluminescent flora. The infection had taken root among the native plant life, requiring precise, low-yield atmospheric treatments to avoid burning the entire moon to ash.
Most systems followed a similar pattern, either suffering from minor outbreaks or too technologically regressed to support wide plague propagation. Feral worlds barely out of the stone age were spared by their own isolation, though some showed signs of dark rituals in the ashes of ruined villages.
The antiviral payloads weren't simply sprayed from orbit like water. Instead, the antiviral compound was crystallized and packed with a catalytic agent inside artillery shells. Upon impact in the upper atmosphere, these shells detonated, igniting clouds of searing chemical mist that condensed into rain laced with viral annihilators, effectively purging the surface of corrupted pathogens and plague Poxwalkers alike.
The most heavily afflicted were Systems #12 and #15. Probes confirmed widespread infection. Standard antiviral bombardment was followed by ground force deployment to eliminate the undead swarms in subterranean complexes.
On one of the worlds in System #12, most of the population lived underground, much like Talon-III prior to its Nexus Firmament terraformation. The surface population was negligible.
On such worlds, antiviral rain was largely ineffective. Sending in troops was costly and dangerous. The most efficient solution was to flatten the surface with orbital bombardment, using seismic disruption to collapse underground structures. But that strategy came with civilian casualties.
The Lamenters Chapter of Adeptus Astartes, arriving aboard a transport ship, opposed this plan.
Chapter Master Phoros contacted the commanding officer of the orbiting cruiser via vox.
"Teleport us down. Continue your mission. Once we've cleared the civilians, return and take us off-world. Then proceed with orbital bombardment."
....
"For those we cherish… we die in glory!"
In the damp, claustrophobic corridors of the underground city, Phoros led a squad of ten Astartes, battling through hordes of Poxwalkersas they advanced, bellowing their Chapter's sacred warcry.
All Astartes capable of operating Terminator Armor had deployed in their suits. The rest wielded Heavy Bolters or purge-grade Flamers, purpose-built for dealing with infected monstrosities.
The architecture of the underhive was not built for beauty or comfort, but for endless function. Narrow corridors twisted like arteries between rooms the size of coffins. The ceilings pressed low, with exposed piping that dripped condensation like a dying heartbeat.
Bulkheads jutted from the walls at odd angles, creating blind corners and choke points. Vent shafts howled with foul wind, and stairwells vanished into darkness beneath industrial catwalks wrapped in rusted grating.
Combat here was brutal and unrelenting. There was no room for sweeping tactics or elegant formations, only split-second decisions and point-blank execution.
The Astartes fought in two-man teams, shoulder-to-shoulder, moving in staggered bursts. A flamer would clear a ten-meter stretch, then a Bolter team would hold it while others advanced. Each inch was earned in blood and fire.
Though the zombie swarm seemed endless, the Space Marines held the line.
Behind Phoros, a crowd of terrified civilians cowered behind the towering Angels of Death. Some peeked out, gauging the situation, uncertain how much longer they had to live.
Children whimpered into the folds of ragged coats. One man retched silently, bile mixing with blood in a corner. An old woman clutched a broken icon of the Emperor, her eyes wide and unblinking.
There was no comfort here. Only survival.
More Poxwalkers poured from side corridors, but a Thunderborn stood at the rear flank, the golden armor gleaming dimly through smoke and dust, holding the center of the corridor with shoulder-mounted weaponry and scatterbeam lasfire, mowing down every last one.
The Poxwalkers came in waves, bodies bloated with rot, eyes burning with unnatural light, their flesh split by bone and pus-veined muscle. Some dragged themselves forward on shattered limbs, others moved with a lurching speed that defied their decay. They shrieked with mouths split too wide, leaking bile, their cries a grotesque parody of life.
Though finite in number, these abominations were too many for just eleven Astartes and a lone Thunderborn. Forced to push forward, the squad fought desperately, repelling attacks from both the front and the rear.
The terrain itself was an enemy. Every hallway was a bottleneck. Every hatch might jam. The Astartes had to rotate constantly, leapfrogging through reinforced archways and piping-clogged trenches that barely fit their armored bulk. Their armor screeched against the walls. Each step echoed with the groan of metal under pressure.
As they reached a cluster of chambers, civilians armed with scavenged weapons entered to search for other survivors, pulling them out and continuing forward in a slow, bitter crawl of rescue and bloodshed.
One young man found his sister or what remained of her. She had no face, just a writhing mass of fungal growth. He didn't scream. He just sat there, staring, while others pulled him away.
They had covered roughly two kilometers, slaying and saving along the way, when Phoros spotted a strange metallic box embedded in the corridor wall.
Drawing on combat experience, he rushed to it, ripped open the panel, and slammed the activation switch inside.
Red lights flashed down the corridor. Seconds later, reinforced blast doors slammed shut at both ends, sealing off the undead behind them.
"Haaaah…"
"We're saved…"
"The Emperor protects…"
The civilians slumped against the walls, finally able to breathe. While they had aided in room searches, they hadn't fought. The Poxwalkers, drawn by noise, had already been cleared. The true exhaustion came not from distance but from unceasing, suffocating fear.
Phoros approached the Thunderborn and bowed slightly.
"Thank you… for choosing to come with us."
Phoros hadn't expected a Thunderborn to risk his life aiding civilians. But the golden warrior had come without hesitation.
"We Thunderborns are not cold machines," the warrior replied, removing his helmet and placing a cigar in his mouth.
"There's plague here, brother," Phoros warned.
"Doesn't matter. My lungs are more than a fusion core, as mortal ones," the Thunderborn replied. He tapped his chest with a soft thud. "The cigar… just an old habit from before my ascension."
Phoros gave a soft chuckle, then turned to survey the crowd.
The Astartes were conducting quick medical checks on each civilian, ensuring they could continue the journey.
Despite their exhaustion, the civilians' morale was surprisingly high. Relief had settled into their bones.
After all, the sight of the Emperor's Angels brings hope even to the darkest hells.
Phoros noticed a trembling girl in a corner, clutching her younger sister tightly, her face pale with fear.
He knelt beside her, drew a dagger from his belt, and offered it to her.
"You need a weapon. Use it to protect your family."
"Th-thank you, m'lord…" the girl whispered, accepting the dagger. Though she knew she couldn't possibly wield such a weapon, its weight alone nearly defeated her, but the act of holding a blade gave her strength.
.....
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