Within an hour, eighty percent of the Mid-hive's lights flickered out.
Countless hybrid-infected lurking in power hubs, substations, and distribution centers had struck simultaneously. They demolished consoles with explosives, jammed turbines with their bodies, or simply severed high-voltage lines with razor-sharp claws.
Darkness descended with terrifying speed.
Many were still asleep when life-support systems failed and oxygen circulation pumps ground to a halt. Immediately following the silence, the sounds of blades cutting into flesh and bone-chilling hisses echoed through the dark.
The administrative system was paralyzed in the first wave of backstabbings. Superiors attempting to issue lockdown orders found their signalmen's heads already twisted off; sheriffs trying to mobilize riot squads found the squads training their weapons on civilians.
The entire Mid-hive had devolved into utter chaos.
In this sea of turmoil and shadow, only Sector 10—the "Heart of Gears" industrial park—remained brilliantly lit. It possessed an independent super-generator array, a self-contained security defense system, and one incredibly shrewd Priest named Sol.
Sol sat upon his life-support throne, watching the holographic map as sector after sector rapidly turned red, then black.
"Beyond saving."
Sol made his judgment. The Department of Administration was gone, the Defense Force was finished, and even the usually arrogant Helios Group had collapsed. The Genestealer infiltration was too deep; the very foundations of this planet were rotten to the core. To talk of resistance or counter-offensives now was a pure waste of processing power.
Sol ignored his colleagues wailing for help on the comms channels and disregarded the assistance requests sent by the Helios Group. He turned his gaze upward, toward a set of coordinates at the edge of the atmosphere.
The orbital shipyard.
The place where Sisyphron had asked him to help manufacture anti-gravity arrays and vacuum shields. Sol was a clever man; as the ultimate fence-sitter of the Mid-hive, he knew Sisyphron was there, and he knew something big was happening. Though he didn't know exactly what Sisyphron's people were planning, in a time when the world was crawling with monsters, running to the sky was better than waiting for death on the ground.
"Initiate Level One Transfer Protocol," Sol's voice echoed through the industrial park via the data link. "Abandon all low-value assets. Abandon all unfinished orders. All super-heavy industrial shuttles, preheat immediately."
The industrial park's dome slid open. Over a dozen massive heavy-transport shuttles revealed their forms. These behemoths were usually used to transport giant structural components and possessed immense load-bearing capacities.
Below, the warehouse doors swung wide. Five hundred high-grade modified engineering servitors and two hundred combat servitors equipped with heavy weaponry marched into the cargo bays in neat, heavy-footed files.
Next, mechanical arms began hoisting cargo. Not grain, nor gold, but massive, tightly sealed shockproof crates. Inside were the industrial treasures Sol had accumulated over a lifetime. To a Tech-Priest, human life was a renewable consumable—it could be turned into a servitor or even food—but these industrial mother-machines, rare raw materials, and top-secret data were irreplaceable holy relics.
As long as he had these, even if he fled to the edge of the universe, Sol could still rise again.
Whir—Click.
The mechanical tentacles behind Sol flailed, pulling every data cable connected to his spine and the back of his head. The life-support throne went offline with a decompressing sigh. Sol stood up; without the support of the life-support lines, his semi-mechanical body appeared somewhat hunched.
He took one last look at the industrial park he had managed for decades. Though his heart bled, it wasn't enough to cloud his clarity.
"—Dammit."
Sol boarded the lead command shuttle.
Engines roared, and air currents surged. The massive shuttle formation, laden with the last industrial essence of the Mid-hive, rose into the air, punching through the clouds thick with smoke and the scent of blood, flying toward the orbital shipyard in the heavens.
The wisdom of a fence-sitter lay in never taking a side and never fighting to the death, always leaving oneself a back door. When the building collapses, they run faster than anyone and take more with them than anyone else.
Upper Hive, Administrative Spire.
The situation was grim; the area had turned into a slaughterhouse. Nobles who usually looked down on everyone were now being hunted like sheep to the slaughter.
The Genestealers who had infiltrated the ranks of guards and servants tore off their disguises, turning the extravagant gala into a buffet.
Inquisitor Orion was covered in blood, the barrel of his bolt pistol glowing red. He kicked open a carved door and roared at those behind him, "In! Everyone inside! Barricade the door!"
Dozens of disheveled, wailing nobles stumbled into the emergency shelter at the top of the spire. Jessia was among them. She gripped a compact plasma pistol tightly; her long golden hair was a mess, and two startling bloody gashes marked her face.
Just moments ago, she had personally blown off Administrator Peren's head. The fat fool had tried to strangle her with a third hand the instant he mutated.
"Heretics—all of them are heretics—"
Orion leaned against the door, gasping for air, his eyes filled with confusion and rage. He had come to this planet to investigate technical heresy. As he investigated, he realized the place was practically an exhibition of heresy.
Tech-Priests running illegal mass production, biochemical doctors worshipping Nurgle, an absurdly mysterious faction... and now, a world full of Tyranids. What was wrong with this planet? Was it cursed?
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Heavy impacts struck the door, accompanied by the excited screeches of the monsters outside.
"Dammit, this door won't hold long!"
The shelter was filled with desperate wailing. Jessia slid down against a corner of the wall, looking at the gun in her hand. It had one last energy cell left—reserved for herself. She didn't want it to end like this. She didn't want to be eaten.
Just as everyone prepared to face death...
Hum—!!!
A strange ripple, capable of penetrating the material plane, suddenly swept across Forge-7. It was the space-time ripple generated by high-power void shield warping. Immediately, the communication terminal in the shelter lit up, automatically playing a full-spectrum broadcast.
"This is the 47th Adeptus Mechanicus Expeditionary Fleet, flagship 'King of Explorers'."
"I am Belisarius Cawl."
Orion snapped his head up, the despair in his eyes instantly turning to ecstasy.
"Cawl! It's Archmagos Cawl!"
"The Ark Mechanicus is here! The fleet is here! We're saved!"
The crowd in the shelter erupted. Like drowning men grasping at straws, they lunged toward the windows, staring at the sky. Though separated by a thick atmosphere, they could still feel a massive presence descending upon the high orbit.
Jessia stood up as well, her gun clattering to the floor. She had won the bet! Her message had gotten out! Cawl had actually come! An Ark Mechanicus possessed devastating firepower and countless Skitarii. If they landed—even if they only sent down a single company—they could wipe these damn bugs clean!
However.
This second of ecstasy was destined to be the prelude to the next second's despair.
In Orbit.
The King of Explorers had just jumped out of the Warp. Cawl's primary consciousness immediately took over the sensor arrays, performing a deep scan of the planet.
The results caused his logic core to make an instantaneous judgment. Red warning boxes flashed frantically across Cawl's vision.
[Detected high concentration of Tyranid biomass signatures.]
[Detected stellar-scale Shadow in the Warp coverage.]
[Planetary surface fall rate: 78%.]
[Orbital defense system: Offline.]
[Primary industrial zones: Destroyed.]
What on earth is this?
This wasn't a valuable target. It was clearly a buffet plate already reserved by the Tyranids and about to be picked clean! Furthermore, Cawl's sensors captured the churning darkness at the edge of the system. The main force of the Hive Fleet was already entering the theater.
If they forced a landing now to rescue people or recover materials, the Ark Mechanicus would be dragged into a quagmire. Shield energy was low, ammunition was insufficient, and the hull was severely damaged. To risk this vessel of tinder for a crowd of doomed mortals and a defunct second-rate industrial world?
Not worth it!
He had only swung by to take a look anyway. Bad luck! (Reference the Obscurus Sector map: Cawl's fleet is moving west to east toward Cadia, passing right through the sector where Forge-7 is located, which is why they arrived so quickly.)
"Target confirmed: No recovery value."
"Shadow in the Warp is intensifying. If we do not leave immediately, we will be unable to jump."
"Turn the helm," Cawl commanded. "Leave this place. Resume course for Cadia."
The next second.
The massive warship that had just appeared in orbit saw its engine nozzles erupt with blinding blue light. Space began to warp, and the veil of reality was torn open.
Hum—
The Ark Mechanicus vanished. It hadn't even stayed for a full minute. It was as if it had never been there at all.
Upper Hive, Shelter.
Dead silence.
Everyone stared blankly at the sky. The surge of ecstasy from moments ago was doused by a bucket of liquid nitrogen.
Gone? They just left? Without firing a single shell, without saying a single word?!
Cawl came, Cawl looked, Cawl thought the place was trash, and Cawl left?!!
"No—No!!!"
A noble let out a heart-wrenching scream, kneeling on the ground and banging his head frantically. "Come back! Please come back! I have money! I have so much money!"
Jessia leaned against the wall, her body slowly sliding down. She felt as if her soul had been hollowed out. She had sold out everything, gambled everything, and this was the result.
Abandoned. Completely abandoned. In this grand cosmic narrative, lives like theirs weren't even worthy of a footnote.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
The pounding outside grew louder. The alloy door panels were cracking, and several purple claws poked through the gaps, tearing frantically.
Inquisitor Orion was the first to snap back to reality. He was an Inquisitor, after all; even if his faith had collapsed, his survival instinct remained.
"Stop wailing!"
Orion raised his gun and fired a shot into the ceiling. The thunderous blast stunned everyone into silence.
"Cawl is gone, but we aren't dead yet!"
Orion pointed out the window to the massive landing pad. Resting there was a bloated, mottled, old-fashioned ship: the Grey Hope. It was a vessel the Helios Group originally used for intra-system mineral transport—the very "iron coffin" Jessia had looked down upon most. It had no Warp drive, couldn't leave the system, and moved as slow as a tortoise.
But in this moment, it was the only straw left.
"Get on the ship!" Orion roared. "Drifting in space for a hundred years is better than being eaten by bugs here!"
The crowd surged toward the ship like madmen. Jessia remained slumped on the floor, motionless. She didn't want to move anymore. She was tired. Let it all burn.
Orion walked over, grabbed her by the hair, and hauled her off the ground.
"Let go of me... let me die..."
"Let me die! LET ME DIE!!!" Jessia struggled.
"You want to die? It won't be that easy." Orion's face was twisted as he dragged her toward the exit. "You're a high-ranking executive of Helios. You know this planet's secrets, and you know the background of those heretics."
"Until the Inquisition has squeezed every bit of value out of you, you don't have the right to die!"
Like dragging a dead dog, Orion hauled Jessia through the corpse-strewn corridors and stuffed her into the airlock of the Grey Hope.
Boom—
The hatch sealed. Engines ignited.
The ship, laden with despair and madness, wobbled into the air, fleeing the planet that was about to become hell. Their future was uncertain; they might starve in space, be intercepted by pirates, or become a ship full of mummies decades later. But at least they survived today.
Outer Space, Orbital Shipyard.
The massive airtight doors slowly opened.
Priest Sol's shuttle formation, like a swarm of bees returning to a hive, glided into the shipyard one by one. Andy stood on the docking platform, watching the crates of high-quality goods being unloaded and the neatly arrayed combat servitors.
Sol stepped off the command shuttle. Though his steps were a bit shaky without the support of his life-support lines, his electronic eyes remained sharp as ever.
He saw Andy.
This was his first time meeting the legendary boss behind the scenes. Clad in bright yellow robes without any unnecessary ornamentation, the man exuded a pure, oppressive metallic texture.
Sol froze for a moment, then his face broke into his trademark smile.
"A pleasure to meet you... Excellency."
Sol bowed slightly, performing a standard Adeptus Mechanicus salutation. "I do not yet know your name."
"Andy," Andy said, looking at him. "Welcome aboard, Priest Sol."
"Since you're here, don't just stand around. Go check the reactor bay; we're missing a Chief Engineer."
"Our starship is undergoing final preparations. Time—well, it's time!"