When Axion emerged from the wreckage, he carried a supply crate with a partially melted exterior. With a sharp tug, he pried the lid open, spilling the contents onto the dirt.
Axion scanned the medical supplies. Lacking the linguistic data to decipher the chemical shorthand on the labels, he simply gathered them back into the crate and carried them toward the survivors huddled behind their scrap-metal barricade.
The Apothecary took the medical supplies with a look of bewildered surprise, then glanced at Calanthus.
"Sir, these mortals are critically wounded. We do not have the luxury of time to stabilize and escort them. They will compromise the mission parameters."
Calanthus looked at the unconscious soldiers, then at Axion. "What utility do these mortals provide to the mission?"
"I require intelligence to fill my data gaps," Axion replied. "The craft's log-recorder was incinerated. There is no digital recovery possible. These units can describe the nature of the engagement."
Calanthus looked at the dying men with the cold detachment of a transhuman warrior. He nodded to the Apothecary.
"Wake them. Once the intelligence is extracted, leave the remaining medical supplies. We have objectives to meet. If we succeed and extraction is viable, we will signal the fleet to recover any survivors on our return vector."
Axion observed the Ultramarines with a strange, analytical curiosity. Even the generals of the ancient Federation did not discard their subordinates so readily. These bio-augmented warriors viewed their wounded comrades as mere "encumbrances," despite not being low-intelligence combat automata.
Axion did not seek to understand their philosophy. He only sought the data.
The Apothecary selected several combat stimms and slammed them into the chests of the fallen soldiers. The mortals gasped, their eyes snapping open as their nervous systems were flooded with chemical fire.
"Soldiers. Answer the queries of this ancient construct," Calanthus commanded, his voice a low, vox-filtered rumble.
Disoriented but recognizing the iconic blue plate of the Adeptus Astartes, the soldiers struggled to salute. The stimms were potent, artificially masking their agony and overclocking their failing organs. They knelt, heads bowed.
"Yes, my Lord."
Axion's bio-scanners showed a grim reality. The drugs were burning through their remaining life force to grant them this brief window of lucidity. Once the effect faded, they would succumb to their injuries almost instantly.
"What did you encounter during your descent?" Axion asked, his voice a flat, synthesized drone.
The soldiers glanced at each other, trembling. "My Lord... it was Ork 'Dakkajets.' We hit a localized distortion field, a screen of some kind, and lost all vox contact. Once we pierced the veil, the topography didn't match the orbital scans at all. We tried to make for the coordinates, but the greenskins were on us in seconds."
"One Dakkajet raked us with fire before slamming its engine into our tail. We lost all control. Most of the team died on impact; we were thrown into a mire just before the craft settled. The hull was fused shut, so we scavenged what we could to build this nest and salvaged the automated stub-cannon from the exterior."
Axion processed this. "Ork aircraft? They appeared the moment you bypassed the visual camouflage?"
"Yes, my Lord," they confirmed.
Axion had no specific records of Ork aviation in his local database. While the Federation had encountered these "Greenskins" in the deep past, they were categorized primarily as a biological anomaly. Their technology was notoriously erratic, varying wildly based on their environment.
However, the timing was too precise.
"The Orks have secured a massive holographic projection array? And they are operating it? They have even expanded its effective radius?"
According to Axion's internal logic, such a device should have tagged any unauthorized transit and alerted a security detail. If the Orks were the ones responding, the only logical conclusion was that they had subverted the ancient technology to their own ends.
For Calanthus, this was dire news. Ork aircraft meant an Ork workshop. And a workshop meant a burgeoning WAAAGH! nearby.
"Calanthus, do you possess technical data on these 'Dakkajets'?" Axion asked, seeking to refine his threat assessment.
"Yes. They are crude, erratic flying engines of destruction," Calanthus replied. "Covered in as many guns as the fuselage can hold, piloted by greenskins who crave nothing but speed and noise. They are as fast as Imperial fighters, sometimes faster. No two are identical, just heaps of flying scrap metal welded together with—"
Axion's arm snapped up. He fired a neutron beam at a ridgeline in the distance before the Ultramarines could even register a threat.
PIU! CLANG!
A high-caliber round shrieked through the air, striking Axion's metallic cranium. The bullet shattered, sending jagged fragments whistling into the kneeling mortal soldiers, opening fresh wounds in their flesh.
"Ambush!"
Zoomed-in tactical overlays were instantly shared across the squad's HUDs. Several lean, hunched silhouettes were visible, moving with predatory grace.
"Kommando Boyz!" Calanthus identified them instantly. "Spread out! Eliminate them now, or we'll have the whole damn horde on our heads!"
The Primaris Marines lunged forward, charging up the slope. Their bolt rifles barked in rhythmic succession, guided by auto-senses.
THRAK! THRAK! THRAK!
Bolts detonated against the fleeing Orks, erupting in blossoms of dark blood. Yet the Kommandos were cunning; they moved with a zig-zagging, erratic gait that turned lethal hits into glancing blows.
Kommandos were the elite of the Ork species, permitted to carry specialized wargear. At close range, they favored "Snazzgunz" or triple-barreled "Kustom Shootas" capable of devastating rates of fire. For long-range assassination, they utilized massive, scoped "Big Shootas" or "Tankbusta" rifles.
Their rugged physiology allowed them to carry a small armory on their backs. Unlike their rowdy kin, these Orks did not roar "WAAAGH!" as they fought. They were the rare, terrifying breed of greenskin that used its head before its choppa.
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