Igrak's massive body crashed to the ground with thousands of bullet holes; it was riddled like a sieve. I walked up to it and shot it in the head one more time, turning it into a green splatter. I had to make sure the spawn of Nurgle was definitely dead.
"Clear the ship; keep Trek informed if needed," I said, sheathing my saber and walking up to Trek. "That's why you need the operation. Once you've gone through it, things like this won't be a challenge for you," I added, seeing his dissatisfaction with the result.
"Understood," he replied curtly. He then walked over to Tosh, who had by now regrown one of his legs.
"Good fight," Tosh growled as two pirates helped him out of his armor.
"You took a bad hit. Report to the infirmary for examination later."
"You know I'll be fine."
"I'm not talking about the physical problem," I ordered. I knew he was physically unharmed. But psychologically, he had just lost his legs; something like that leaves trauma. Even if one had already regenerated. "They are to examine you. After that, you are to report to me with the results."
This was an established routine after every battle, an unquestionable procedure on the Arcadia. If a pirate experienced death or sustained severe injuries, they had to go through the infirmary. There, in sterile conditions, a detailed psychological report was created concerning their mental state after resurrection or severe injury.
Later, with this report, they would go to Trek. Based on the document, he would decide whether the pirate could return to service or not. If the result was positive, the pirate returned to his squad. However, if the report was negative, the pirate was temporarily suspended from duty and sent for rehabilitation, both physical and psychological, until he regained full fitness.
After heavy battles, he always had his hands full; he had to read dozens, and in extreme circumstances hundreds, of such reports detailing how a given pirate died or was injured, and then make a decision. Tosh and Babi always helped him. However, officers too could suffer trauma.
Clearing the wreck took the pirates another dozen or so hours; it was not a quick operation. Every corridor, every cabin had to be searched. The Zombies (or rather, the mechanically enhanced skeletons) constituted the overwhelming majority of the enemies. They moved slowly, but their numbers and firepower were significant.
During the search, the pirates encountered several other, lesser abominations. In one of the officer cabins, they found spilled puddles of decaying, pulsating matter, from which single, blind eyes and tentacles emerged—likely some form of primitive life born of the plague. These abominations, though slower, were capable of enveloping and drowning victims in acid slime. In another section, designated for the crew, dried cocoons were discovered, from which swarms of small, fist-sized, flying insects hatched, with sharp stings and membranous wings. Their buzzing was irritating, and every sting caused an immediate, feverish rash and nausea, weakening the pirates. They were not a mortal threat but were bothersome and exhausting.
However, the real surprises were the discoveries. In the ruined medical laboratory, where the air was thick with the smell of formalin and decay, Babi managed to find a dried, leather-bound book, whose pages were made of human skin and the text written in blood. It was a treatise on diseases and mutations dedicated to Nurgle, containing drawings and descriptions of rituals for summoning lesser demons and instructions for creating tainted weapons. Even Babi, who had seen many abominations, felt a shiver when he picked it up. He did not dare to open it; its aura was too foul. He carefully placed it in a special container for contaminated materials.
It was unlikely that such a container would work against the powers of Chaos, but one never knew. They had to try and test it. That was the first stage.
"Do you think a wooden box with an iron handle will stop the powers of Chaos?" Babi asked Trek, walking beside him and dragging the box.
"I have no idea, but I know the Black Matter definitely stops it," he replied, watching the black energy leach out of both of them.
"I won't get used to this, even after so many months. What about Tosh?"
"We'll see when we get back to the ship."
I returned to the ship, a strange incident, this entire wreck. We lost half a day—that blue brat must have figured something out. He couldn't let me fly freely and cause problems. I sat on the throne on the bridge and thought. My appearance had already distorted the course of fate. Lion was supposed to arrive at Macragge first, not Sanguinius. The Pharos Lighthouse we must get there and protect it.
"Course set for Sotha, as soon as they finish their work on the wreck."
"Captain, are you thinking about those rumors circulating about Sotha? From what I've gathered, no one has confirmed these rumors," August said, approaching Harlock.
"Then where did these rumors come from?" I asked, looking at him. "Every rumor has a source. And if a potential artificial Astronomican might be at the very start of this rumor, it's better to leave now."
"I will set the course."
"Captain, Trek is asking what he should do with those Chaos artifacts?" Cernelius asked.
"Have them brought to my cabin; I'll deal with them. Tell Trek to hurry up; they have two hours at most before we depart."
"Understood."
The pirates quickly finished their work, and the Arcadia set off on another journey through the void. Their course was already set, although none of the rank-and-file pirates knew its true destination yet. Sotha. On this forgotten, yet strategically crucial planet, rested something much older and more powerful: Pharos, an ancient Necron machine. It was no ordinary device; it was an ancient network that allowed for near-instant communication across galactic distances and, most importantly, for precise use of FTL drives even through the treacherous Immaterium. It was a lighthouse in the cosmic darkness.
In that battle, on the cold and devastated plains of Sotha, a light was destined to die. The greatest hero the Astartes had in that sector of the galaxy was fated to die: Barabas Dantioch, the last loyal legionary of the Iron Warriors the one who, despite the betrayal of his Primarch, Perturabo, remained loyal to the Emperor. He was the last faithful son of his Legion.
I sat and contemplated Dantioch's fate. A Warpsmith, his father was the nemesis of Rogal. Barabas was and is loyal to the Imperium and the Emperor. So, I doubt I could convince him to join my crew.
"Harlock. What are you thinking about?" Nibe asked, examining the chests in the cabin.
"Sotha, a hero and the last loyal son of the IV Legion will die there."
"IV? Perturabo, I'm not mistaken, am I?"
"You are not mistaken," I replied, walking up behind her. "You don't need to worry; I intend to destroy everything."
"Hmm," she sighed." The Black Matter engine working as a garbage incinerator. You have no respect for other people's work," she complained, sitting back down on the sofa.
"Forgive me, your species created engines, and I respect that. However, Chaos artifacts must be destroyed, and the flames of the Black Matter will be perfectly suited for that."
"Have it your way. And now, bring me that wine from the second shelf."
"Coming right up," I replied, smiling gently.
The journey to Sotha took just under two weeks, which was incredibly fast compared to the Imperium, which would have taken months to fly. During this time, the "Mist" operation was successfully carried out: Trek was transformed into the first pirate Space Marine of the Arcadia.
Additional organs, cultivated from Harlock's DNA, were finally created. After many complicated processes and countless attempts, Nibe achieved her goal. What she managed to create was a stark proof that the Imperium's technology, in some areas, was archaically foolish and inefficient compared to standard technology.
Despite the procedure, Trek was bleeding profusely. Blood pulsed from the wounds opening up on the operating tables. Despite multiple resuscitations, his heart stopped again and again, only to beat anew immediately after. Trek's body twitched spasmodically from the pain. He managed to endure as Nibe sliced his body from his neck to his toes. He successfully survived the "Mist" operation. It was a long and complicated procedure. Organs such as the third lung, gently vibrating, and the second, pulsating heart were successfully implanted into the appropriate places in his anatomy. Now, only observation was necessary. Every breath, every heartbeat of Trek was monitored.
Harlock sat in the shadow of the operating room. He was static, his silhouette merging with the darkness of the room. He watched as Trek's vital signs changed constantly; the fluctuations on the monitors reflected the intensity of the ongoing operation. Nibe was just finishing stitching him up; the sound of the mechanical stapler was the only sound besides the life-support machines. Her entire surgical gown was covered in blood; fresh and dried liquid stained the material from her shoulders to her thighs. She looked at him—he had watched her and Trek throughout the procedure, his gaze inscrutable. She growled softly from behind her mask, remembering how Harlock hadn't helped even when Trek wrenched himself free of the brutal restraints on the operating table.
I walked up to him, seeing his eyes were slightly open, aware of what was happening around him. "Welcome. You are the first of many. You are a Pirate Space Marine."