Fall of the Titans

Northern Fringe of Segmentum Ultima, Ketebrax System. Indra.

The cyclopean gates shuddered open, gouts of steam hissing from their seams as they sank into the walls' shadowed grooves. Beyond the maw of the airlock stood a sparse delegation—four warriors in stark black-and-white ceramite flanked a gaunt figure in a severe gray suit, his posture a silent proclamation of servitude. He uttered a florid, tangled phrase, its roots lost in a dialect I barely grasped, though echoes of Low Gothic and an ancient Terran tongue—Italian, perhaps—hinted at its lineage.

— We do not yet wield High Gothic. Could you favor us with Low?

— Certainly, forgive my lapse. I am Kelam, steward of the Aurora Ferrum. Please, follow me. The Lord-Captain awaits.

Two open carts trundled forth, drawn by servitors—shambling husks of flesh and steel, their eyes dull with mindless obedience. We boarded, and Kelam signaled departure.

The absurdity of traversing a voidship by such primitive means struck me like a lash, a bewildering clash of eras that left me reeling. As we rolled through the corridors, the Aurora's decay sprawled before us: rust wept from pitted bulkheads, filth clung to every surface, and a rancid stench clawed at the air.

Passages lay choked with debris, as if the crew had hacked a path through centuries of neglect, shoving the rest into shadowed corners. Briesann's face twisted in revulsion; I silenced her with a sharp glance.

She'd brazenly insisted on joining me, her logic dismantling my protests of danger—bolstered, no less, by Na'Tot's puppeted support. My own stratagem turned against me. Thus, our party formed: Delenn, Na'Tot, Briesann, and the ever-present Koshes.

Five minutes brought us to our destination. Kelam leapt out with practiced grace, offering a hand to aid our descent. A brief antechamber gave way to a grand hall, its decadence a grotesque parody of lost nobility—Dumas' courts reimagined in gothic ruin and steam-driven excess.

Lithe dancers writhed to the mournful strains of a clavichord, while clusters of courtiers drifted through the chamber, their laughter ringing hollow amid the feast. Madness or defiance? Their ship teetered on oblivion's edge, yet they reveled as if death were a distant jest.

Most bore the scars of the void—burns, crude augmetics, flesh marred by necessity's brutal hand. A jeweled maiden in a voluminous gown caught my eye, her elegance marred by a shaven scalp sprouting thick cables from her spine. A cult of deformity?

We were ushered to the hall's far end, where flickering consoles framed a trembling subsector hololith, and a throne loomed over all. The Lord-Captain's inner circle flanked the dais, a gallery of rogues and relics.

Norten Loravik Kapmun stood before his seat—a gray-eyed blond of middling stature, draped in a cream-silk coat. A golden ascot encircled his throat, a modest aquila gleamed on his chest, and heavy rings adorned his fingers. He leaned on a bone-carved cane—a blade within, no doubt—his refined air a testament to noble blood stretching back through millennia.

Norten descended from the dais, turning to face his retinue with a sidelong glance.

— Mmm! Greetings! What delight that you grace us with your presence! Is it not so, friends?

A ragged chorus of assent rose, tinged with varying shades of zeal. Something lurked beneath—a shadow I couldn't grasp.

— I am Norten Loravik Kapmun.

He offered a brief bow.

— May I have your names, ladies?

I replied, gesturing with measured grace:

— I am Delenn, envoy of the Indra. This is my apprentice, Briesann, and Na'Tot, first mate to our captain.

— Mmm, enchanted.

With a flick of his wrist, he beckoned us onward.

— Permit me to present my inner council.

He gestured to a stout, scarred man.

— Warren Fiers, first mate and truest friend.

Warren bowed, his torn eye socket a grim testament, his simple brown tunic and black trousers belying the heavy pistols at his hips and a bronze plate shielding his heart.

— Bianca Askara Biscenta, — Norten savored her name like a rare vintage, — my cherished confidante.

A young woman in an orange dress with white frills rose and curtsied.

— Lex Rainburn and his aide Solems, our eyes, ears, and guiding thread.

A sour elder in robes, his skull half-metal, stood beside a hooded woman radiating cold disdain.

— Jerava Konglo, my financier.

A squat, axe-hewn figure in a black uniform.

— Nikolia Tikson Kapmun, head of security.

A lithe woman with a leg exoskeleton mounting twin shotguns.

— And Brother Horn, whose prayers hold us together.

A crimson-robed mechanoid, its grotesque claw clutching a gear-crowned staff.

Chairs were brought at Norten's nod. He waited until we settled before reclining upon his throne—a polished figure of charm, his voice a velvet resonance, his beauty a blade softened by courtly grace.

— What brings you here in this, mmm, perilous hour—beyond claiming your due for our deliverance?

— You outpace our deeds. Your foe is merely delayed. Within hours, their systems will revive, and they'll descend anew. Our means to cripple the Terminus are spent. Thus, I offer refuge aboard our vessel for you and your crew.

— Horn, the ship's state? How soon can engines be restored?

— Months, Lord.

— A pity. Delenn, could you tow us?

— Alas, the Aurora's mass dwarfs ours by two orders.

— Mmm, most lamentable. Then I accept your sanctuary. We shan't impose, I trust?

— Fear not, Norten. The Indra will exceed your expectations.

He stepped to the hall's heart, clapping thrice with force.

— Comrades, friends, foes, and guests! Circumstance compels us to forsake the Aurora. Gather your possessions and hasten to the first landing bay. I expect you there in thirty minutes—move swiftly!

A cacophony erupted—nobles squawked protests, their voices a discordant tide. Heavens, what fools. They pressed Norten so fiercely that Nikolia and her guards, unbidden, drove them out with shoves and gun-barrels.

— Horn, order your adepts to evacuate. Power down systems and head to the tech-bays. Lex, the same—take the Pearl to the Indra. Andre, brief the crew.

He turned to me.

— Delenn, can your ship house a few thousand souls?

— Norten, you overlook most aboard. Our scans count over eighty thousand.

— Eighty thousand? Oh, the voidborn? — He shrugged dismissively. — They're not crew—more, mmm, chattel tied to the hull. Hardly precious. Spare them no thought.

— They're people! Doomed if abandoned!

My puppet's face twisted in disbelief.

— Mmm, if they concern you so, they're yours, — his tone was ice, devoid of care.

A chill gripped me, but time for debate was lost. Lives hung in the balance—I'd act.

— Then, Norten, announce their evacuation.

— As you wish, Delenn. Though many won't heed—mark my words.

— Why not?

I arched a brow.

— Mmm, they're born and die here, generation upon generation. Evacuation is beyond their grasp—madness incarnate. Allow me to issue the commands.

He conferred with his techs, and a klaxon screamed. A mechanical voice barked evacuation points. Then, a shift—Norten's gaze hardened.

— Delenn, a thought. The Terminus returns. Our reserve thrusters yet function—crude chemical beasts, but enough to ram their hull. A mutual pyre to buy your escape.

— You'd sacrifice your ship?

— A husk is no loss if it spares my kin. Horn can ignite the drives. The voidborn will fuel the blaze—they're too feral to save.

I hesitated, the weight of thousands pressing against my circuits. No time to falter.

— Do it. We'll hasten the exodus.

The hall erupted in chaos as Norten relayed orders. Horn lumbered to the consoles, his prayers a dirge as he primed the thrusters. I signaled my crew—every shuttle, every drone—to accelerate the rescue.

Nine thousand voidborn reached the bays—a ragged tide of clans, their flesh scarred by mutation and misery. Rat swarms gnawed at their heels, a plague amid the exodus. We forced order—twenty lines, stripped, cleansed, robed, confined.

Aristocrats whined aboard the Crowned Fledgling, a sleek enigma I'd dissect later; I unleashed the Shadows to silence their bleating. Techs and astropaths arrived via the Pearl, settled apart.

Rescue teams delved into the ship's rotting depths, their lumens cutting through the gloom to reveal scenes that curdled the blood. Morlock dens—degenerate mutants, their forms twisted by the void's cruel touch—nested in abandoned compartments. Their lairs were woven from wire and bone, walls clawed and bloodstained. Guttural snarls echoed from the shadows, and occasionally, one would lunge, only to be repelled by force fields.

Elsewhere, we stumbled upon bloodied altars—crude stone slabs encircled by charred remains. Voidborn cultists, driven mad by despair, carved blasphemous sigils into the walls, their prayers a babble of broken tongues. The air reeked of decay and cheap incense, and some still knelt, eyes vacant, as we urged them to flee.

Petty fiefdoms dotted the lower decks—scrap-metal thrones where lunatic tyrants held court, their ragged subjects pleading for salvation or brandishing makeshift weapons. Yet when the ship's systems began to fail—lights flickering to darkness, the hum of engines dying to an ominous silence—their bravado crumbled. Seven thousand more joined the exodus, dragging meager possessions.

I shouted for them to hurry, but with each step, my voice weakened. The voidborn's squalor—their gaunt faces, bodies ravaged by radiation, children whose bones snapped like twigs—smothered my resolve. I saw them clinging to life in this hell, and wondered: Are they worth saving? The ship was dying, time slipping away.

So I turned to sabotage. My drones mined the core, where the last flickers of power pulsed. This was not mere escape—it was erasure, my sentence upon this wretched hulk.

As Aurora Ferrum lurched toward its foe on dying engines, nineteen hours of chaos ended. The Indra, laden with souls and spoils, tore into the warp. Behind us, a colossus met its hunter in a cataclysmic embrace—two titans consumed in fire.