Chapter 17: Shadows Over Grix Hive
On the bridge of the Macragge's Wrath, torrents of data surged across cogitator banks. Servitors worked tirelessly, neural links buzzing as warships shared tactical feeds with blinding speed. Streams of combat telemetry and astropathic pulses screamed through the fleet's vox systems like a choir of desperate ghosts.
Suddenly, the sound of the Auspicia instrument pierced the atmosphere—a shrill, mechanical shriek echoing through the command deck. Nearby, the Thinker's cogitator began to click with rapid, almost frantic rhythm.
"ALERT. Chaos vessels detected."
"ALERT. Chaos vessels detected."
The mechanical voice of the announcer, wired directly into the ship's systems via a bundle of nerve cables, convulsed slightly. His voice, distorted through the brass vox-grille embedded in his throat, spat out coordinates, ship types, and estimated threat ratings in rapid succession.
The captain, a grizzled veteran clad in an armored naval coat, clenched the brass railing before him. His voice thundered above the din of alarms and machine-song.
"Divert Geller fields—convert all available to void shielding! Ready all guns. Alert the fleet. Fire at will! Burn these heretic bastards from the stars. Let them remember the fury of the Imperium!"
Crew members saluted and ran to their stations, the ship shaking slightly as it adjusted position for a better firing arc. Across the fleet, plasma reactors hummed to life, macro batteries aligned with precision, and torpedoes were loaded into their tubes. The void battle had begun.
Far below, on the plague-scarred world of Sara, one of its primary hive cities—Grix Hive—teetered on the brink of annihilation.
The once-thriving mega-structure, a towering monolith of ancient architecture and decaying infrastructure, was collapsing under the relentless assault of Nurgle's Plague Warriors. Bile-spewing Astartes in bloated, corroded armor lumbered through the streets, turning every corridor into a disease-ridden nightmare.
Surviving civilians—those not yet infected or mutilated beyond saving—had retreated into the ancient Star Tongue Fortress, an Imperial bastion at the hive's heart. The fortress's void shields still held, for now, offering a flicker of protection against the hell outside. Within, frightened masses clustered like rats in a sinking vessel.
Above them, artillery roared without pause. Planetary defense cannons and autocannons thundered as the last defenders of the PDF and local militias fought tooth and nail, barricading corridors and firing from crumbling hab-blocks.
But hope was dying.
The plague was relentless. It didn't just kill—it resurrected. Every fallen soldier was another corpse for Nurgle's garden. Within minutes, those slain rose again as shambling horrors—walking infections wrapped in broken armor and tattered cloth.
Death marched slowly but surely into every corridor, every shelter. And the defenders, their faith strained to the breaking point, could do little more than delay the inevitable.
Inside the Star Tongue Fortress, civilians huddled in fear. The sick and wounded moaned. The air stank of sweat, ozone, and despair.
Families clung together. Whispered prayers to the Emperor echoed in corners where robed Ministorum clerics knelt, eyes closed, lips trembling with devotion or fear—or both. No one knew whether He heard them anymore.
In one shadowed corner of the fortress, an old woman sat on the cold metal floor. Her frame was gaunt, her robes threadbare, her face lined by decades of sorrow and survival. She held two small children tightly in her skeletal arms, shielding them from the cold and the dread creeping under the door.
The children did not cry—they were too tired. The little girl, no more than seven, looked up at her grandmother with wide, haunted eyes. She had seen too much for her years.
"Grandma," she whispered, her voice trembling, "you always said the Emperor would protect us... why hasn't He sent His angels to save us?"
The girl turned her head toward the distance, where a group of desperate refugees knelt in prayer around a flickering aquila-shaped lumen. They were sobbing quietly, hands outstretched to a deity they couldn't see.
The child turned back.
"He didn't save Daddy. Or Mommy. You said He would."
The old woman looked down, tears pooling in her ancient eyes. She pulled the girl and the boy tighter against her chest, her voice shaking with equal parts fear and resolve.
"I… I don't know, my little one. Maybe... maybe His angels are too busy."
The children didn't respond. They simply leaned into her more, as if trying to draw warmth and hope from skin stretched thin over bones.
On the front lines of the hive, chaos reigned.
Plague Marines stomped forward, their bolters firing shells that exploded with rotten ichor and acidic bile. Where their shots landed, defenders screamed—skin sloughing from bone, lungs dissolving, eyes boiling in their sockets.
The defenders fought valiantly. Autoguns rattled. Flamers hissed. Lasbeams lit the plague-darkened corridors. But they were only human—and Chaos was eternal.
Every fallen defender became a new soldier for Nurgle. Some rose moments after death, groaning in unnatural tones, dragging half-destroyed limbs as they pursued former comrades.
The vox network crackled with desperation.
"Sector seven lost. Repeat, sector seven is overrun—plague walkers inside the hab-complex!"
"Requesting reinforcement—Emperor preserve us, they're inside the walls!"
From orbit, Guilliman watched through a magnified holo-feed as Sara's surface burned. Cities crumbled. Plague ships descended like flies upon a carcass. His eyes narrowed.
He stood at the edge of the Macragge's Glory's strategium platform, armored hands clenched behind his back. His voice was a cold wind in the room.
"Time is our enemy here. Every second we delay, more are lost. We strike now."
Beside him, Sicarius saluted crisply. "The strike force is assembled. Boarding crafts and drop pods are ready. We await your command."
Guilliman nodded. "The Word of the Emperor will be spoken through fire. Nurgle thinks this world his garden? We will salt the soil with his blood."
He turned to the assembled officers.
"Let this be a message. Let the people of the Imperium see that their enemies bleed. Let them see that Chaos is not unassailable. Let them know that I—Roboute Guilliman—am here, and I will not let them fall."
Back in the fortress, the little girl stirred again.
A deep, distant thunder vibrated through the floor—one not of artillery, but of re-entry pods, dropping from orbit like flaming meteors.
The girl looked up.
"Grandma… what was that?"
The old woman listened. The distant moans of the plague walkers suddenly gave way to a new sound: the roaring engines of Thunderhawks. The scream of Stormtalon gunships. And then, the unmistakable crack of bolt rifles—clean, surgical, and loud.
She smiled.
"Maybe... maybe the Emperor's angels weren't too busy after all."
Outside, blue-armored giants had landed.
The Ultramarines had arrived.
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