The Iron Priests, their discussion cut short, turned their gaze toward the Iron Man standing beside them. They exchanged wary glances with one another, a sentiment clearly readable even through the impassive faces of their helmets. They possessed a natural curiosity regarding the "Old Days," but cold logic dictated that delving into such secrets would yield them no benefit.
The automaton paid them no mind, weaving through the group and finding the Great Wolf upon the artificial continent, which was rapidly being reduced to a wasteland by their testing.
"Testing is concluded. Every weapon on the list has been fabricated multiple times. Based on observations of weapon handling and characteristics, the optimal data set has been finalized. Weapon loadout configurations and equipment manufacturing have officially commenced."
Logan froze, then asked in disbelief, "Can we not choose our own armaments? There are several I have grown quite fond of."
The automaton tilted its metallic head, the focus of its electronic eyes zooming in and out as if it could pierce Logan's helmet to study his expression. It then gestured toward the Space Wolves, who were still howling with manic delight as they continued to swing their weapons across the field.
"Data has been harvested. Weapon loadouts will be determined based on each individual's aptitude and performance. Iron Men calculations never err."
Logan said nothing more. He could not deny that he had felt an exhilarating rush during those tests. In the depths of his heart, he found himself praying for an influx of mindless Chaos heretics or xenos to provide him with a proper hunt.
But that was a fantasy. In the reality of their universe, every ship of the line was a fortress of absolute firepower; any foolhardy enemy would be crushed into dust. Except, perhaps, for the Necrons.
The automaton did not wish to dwell further on gear selection. "New power armour settings and fine-tuning may be performed after one Standard Terran Hour. You may now follow this unit off the testing grounds. Please muster all personnel from your ships to depart; the Central Control Intelligence has prepared a brief rest period for you. Your vessels require adaptive refitting to better facilitate combat within the Warp."
Logan's brow furrowed. As the Great Wolf of the Space Wolves, it had been a long time since he had received such an imperious command, one that offered no room for dissent. Still, he kept his peace. A brief rest was, perhaps, welcome. Among these two thousand Wolves, some had been recalled from ongoing campaigns across various clans. Considering the battles that likely awaited them, this might well be their last respite.
With that thought, Logan threw his head back and let out a long, resonant howl. The other warriors turned toward him.
"Assemble!"
At Logan's command, the Wolves set aside their weapons, their reluctance palpable, and formed up into disciplined ranks. The lead automaton did not speak; it simply turned and led the way back to the starport.
Upon their return, several massive Iron Men transport vessels were already docked. The lead automaton turned to Logan and signaled the ramp to the lead ship.
"Please muster all personnel from your ships, including mortals and slaves. Board the transports and vacate your vessels temporarily."
"Vacate? Mortals and slaves? Logan, what is happening?"
A Rune Priest stepped forward, sensing the strangeness of the situation. Logan said nothing, but engaged the comms-array.
"This is Great Wolf Logan Grimnar. By my command, all ship-masters are to assemble every soul aboard. Every breathing thing is to disembark immediately."
Soon, the captains of the six ships appeared at the docking gates with their honor guards. Following their audience with Logan, they began the arduous process of clearing the ships, notifying every deck from the bilges to the command bridges. Though there were only two thousand Astartes, nearly three hundred thousand mortal crew members served aboard the fleet. The Wrath of Fenris alone carried a hundred thousand, including nearly twenty thousand serfs.
As the guards emerged, the Tech-Priests were the first to appear. On any Imperial vessel, these were the most vital "mortals" besides the captain. Whether Enginseers or cog-boys, their presence was essential to the operation of the ships. When the priests stepped onto the starport of the Heart of the Forge and saw the colossal facility through the viewports, they fell to their knees in a frenzy of zeal, chanting praises to the Omnissiah. Yet, they restrained themselves, obediently following the Wolves toward the transport ships.
The personnel who followed, however, brought chaos. While the Navy and Guard remained disciplined, whispering to one another about the wonders they were seeing, the lower-deck crew and slaves were paralyzed with terror. Many had lived their entire lives aboard ship, never once setting foot on a planet or station. They were frightened, having no inkling of what awaited them.
The automaton, however, quickly detected something amiss.
"Form two lines. Stand still. Any unnecessary movement may result in danger. Do not attempt any actions that may provoke a defensive response."
The cold, synthetic voice echoed through the starport. Thousands of Sentry-Troopers swarmed into the terminal at uncanny, unsynchronized speeds, closing in on the crowd. As the humans trembled before the looming machines, the automatons moved with terrifying swiftness.
CRACK!
Death descended with synchronized precision. The Sentry-Troopers swept their mechanical arms, instantly tearing the heads from thousands of bodies.
Logan roared, his hand flying to his bolt pistol. "What do you think you are doing?!"
Blood instantly stained the starport corridors red. The sheer carnage and sudden, visceral slaughter left the mortal crew and slaves speechless with terror. Those who attempted to flee were effortlessly shoved back into line by iron hands.
"Remain in formation. Maintain composure."
Faced with the threat of those cold, steel limbs, and the memory of the decapitations still fresh in their minds, none dared to move. The Wolves drew their weapons, bolt pistols, power swords, and chain-axes, tensed for battle. They knew their chances against these metal monstrosities were slim, but they could not stand idly by as these machines butchered Imperial citizens.
Yet, because it had happened so suddenly, the Wolves exercised a flicker of caution. If the Iron Men truly meant to slaughter them, they could have done so long ago.
In the suffocating, steel-edged tension, the automatons raised the severed heads. They stripped away the victims' disguises; hoods, worker helmets, and ornamental patches. Without exception, the skin on their exposed foreheads bore faint, disturbing marks: some had strange, purple, third-eye-like patterns; others had small, bruise-like, light-purple stains. The fallen bodies were turned over as well; some possessed three or even four arms, and others exhibited varying degrees of grotesque mutation.
Though the Imperium was often tolerant of abhumans, the Iron Men's real-time biological data scanners clearly indicated that these entities were distinct from humanity, their very cranial structures were fundamentally alien.
The Wolves realized the truth.
"Infected mutants?! Damnable xenos-cultists!"
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