The space battle in the Dolian system had cost us dearly. Many ships now drifted as blackened husks, while those that survived—with rare exceptions—required extensive repairs and reinforcements.
But it wasn't for nothing. Nearly all the valuable Dark Age vessels had been captured. No matter how deadly their weapons or strong their shields, their crews were mere mortals—no match for full-scale Astartes boarding actions.
Seizing these ships also granted us greater operational freedom in the Dolian system's planetary assaults. Where fortifications proved too formidable, we hammered them from orbit before deploying Astartes and auxilia. This pattern held—until only the capital world remained. Then, we were forced to fight the old way, without widespread aerial support.
All because of the Mechanicus.
Those fanatics in red robes refused to risk losing precious knowledge and technology. Instead of swift, overwhelming strikes, we now had to conduct surgical operations—securing scattered laboratories and factorums across the planet. To minimize collateral damage, we were restricted to light and heavy infantry weapons—no tanks, no artillery. Compensating meant committing more Astartes, trading firepower for numbers.
It wasn't smooth. The Dolians quickly realized their industrial and scientific hubs, not their capital, were our true targets. They began evacuating them, turning empty sectors into deathtraps. Casualties mounted daily. Their initial shock faded, replaced by ferocious resistance. Some even wielded Dark Age weapons—rare, lethal, and reserved for elite units. Our losses grew heavier.
This divided command, this scattering of forces, infuriated me. And today, during another meeting with the Mechanicus, the idiots in red pushed too far.
"No." My voice was glacial. "The Astartes will not assist in clearing subterranean tunnels in some backwater settlement. Our priority is the capital—decapitating their command structure." I fixed Magos 05-Xharka, the Mechanicus leader, with a stare sharper than a power blade.
"Your insubordination is unacceptable. You are obligated—" Even his synthetic voice, usually devoid of emotion, couldn't mask his fury.
But I wasn't bending.
"I. Owe. You. Nothing." Each word struck like a hammer.
"You have orders!" Xharka retorted, and—as if to emphasize his point—activated some hidden mechanism. His frame expanded, the servo-struts in his robes hissing as he loomed over me.
A petty intimidation tactic.
I straightened to my full height, my bulk eclipsing his augmented stature. "The orders mention supporting the Mechanicus. Support. Not servitude. Do not mistake us for your toy soldiers, Xharka. The Legiones Astartes answer to no forge-world!" I stepped closer, my shadow swallowing him. "I indulged your initial plan as a courtesy. But now? You treat us as subordinates while your delays cost lives. Effective immediately, my forces will prosecute this war as we see fit. You have seventy-two Terran standard hours to replace my Astartes with your own troops on all fronts. The countdown starts now. Get out of my command center."
Xharka's grip tightened on his staff. He spat something in Techna-Lingua, then—foolishly—moved to jab the weapon into my chest.
I snatched it mid-motion, wrenching it from his grasp. My backhand sent him sprawling, his facial augmetics sparking. His retinue reacted, weapon systems whirring to life—but my warriors already had bolters trained on them. A silent promise: Move, and die.
"Seventy-two hours, Xharka." I planted my boot on his chest, the servos in his robes groaning under the pressure. "Interfere again, and my forces will adopt… aggressive compliance protocols."
For the first time in decades, the magos felt fear. Logic shattered like glass. His augmetic limbs twitched, primal instincts warring with machine discipline. Finally, his systems rebooted, his voice flat:
"Acknowledged. Seventy-two hours."
I let him rise. His retinue retreated, the last—a tech-priest with the bearing of a warrior—lingering. I tossed Xharka's staff to him. "Take it. My quarrel isn't with the Omnissiah."
He caught it, nodded, and left.
"You think you overstepped?" Rork asked once we were alone.
"No." I activated a hololith, the capital's defenses flickering into view. "This tension's festered since we arrived. They see us as tools, not allies. How many hours have we wasted for their greed?" I'd already filed reports to Terra. The High Lords wouldn't tolerate Martian overreach—especially not with Dark Age spoils at stake. "Recall our scattered units. We consolidate. The capital falls within seventy-two hours."
Rork exhaled. He recognized the test—a chance to prove himself as my successor. "And if the Mechanicus objects?"
"Let them."
But fate had other plans. On the eve of the assault, an unknown enemy struck.
In a single night, thousands of skitarii were butchered. Tens of thousands of non-combatants vanished.
The Dolian capital's fate would wait.
Something far darker had joined the war.