Following the Automata are eighteen power armoured Heralds with a wide mix of weaponry. They all have hellfire pistols on their shoulders, or held by mechadendrites, that intercept most of the shots fired towards them by enemy Termagants: fleshborers and spike rifles.

  My perception is fast enough that I can see the disgusting toothy worms flying through the air and scrabbling against the hardened scales of plasteel and ceramite every time they hit a Herald. Most fail to get anywhere before the short lived organisms expire, usually splattering against the tough plates, but enough shots hit seals and joints to make me wince.

  One Herald is unlucky enough to get a spike stuck deep into a neck joint, immobilising their head. A mechadendrite slips over their shoulder, cutting the obstruction free and patches their armour.

  Over the next forty minutes, the Stellar Corps clears the room. Once the bulk of the killing is done, I clear away the gunk covering the cogitators to see what I can get working without connecting to the noosphere.

  After some searching, I find an emergency control panel beneath a massive armoured sphere. The panel looks like an altar in a gothic side chapel. Wax, soot, and the dog ends of burnt manuals and records are scattered all over the surrounding floor.

  Fortunately there is no shortage of gunked up keyboards to run commands with and after some careful cleaning with a mechadendrite, I am able to override the shutdown on the Environmental Sustainer and clear out the toxic air.

  The Machine-Spirits are most wrath with me as the Environmental Sustainer is in poor condition and not rated to handle Tyranid spores and toxins. Overriding them is going to spread that mess all over the ship and possibly destroy many of the mechanisms.

  I need that caustic air gone from the genetorium more than I need a working life support system though. I don’t want any more of that crap getting sucked into the cooling or control mechanisms of the fusion generator. Sure, they’re supposed to be isolated and sealed systems, but I have no idea if that is actually true and do not have time to find out. The emergency control panel I am working from certainly wasn’t a good example of well maintained hardware.

  Bedwyr Keane joins me as the fans start to turn. He knows me well and does not bother with apologies for failing to protect me after I happily strolled to the leading edge of the assault. I expect Lieutenant Aife might get in a spot of trouble though.

  “Magos, your kids are safe and back on the shuttle. Your bodyguard company has sustained moderate casualties, as have our accompanying Heralds. All forces, ours and allied, are transmitting as functional. What do the Machine-Spirits tell you?”

  “Thank you for the update, Bedwyr. This communication lockdown is most irritating.” I turn and face him, leaving my mechadendrites to tap out commands on the keyboards around me. “The genetorium appears clear of demonic influence. It cut itself off from the central cogitator when the primary Machine-Spirit reported that it was under attack.

  “As for power, some physical inspections will be required. I am not expecting a long delay as the Machine-Spirits are positive.” I point to a screen on the control panel, full of green text. “We need to get at least two of the four atomic power plants online before we can trigger the fusion generators. The plasma generators are reporting as empty. Apparently they were vented after an emergency shut down, so we can’t use them immediately. The local records do not say why.”

  Bedwyr folds his arm and taps his finger against his biceps, “If the plasma generators are empty and the thrusters are offline, where is all the waste heat for Dying Light being stored and vented?”

  “There’s some radiators built into the hull but most of it is being pumped into the keel manoeuvring thrusters and dumped with the reaction mass. At least, that’s what they were planning when the Dying Light was shut down. There is a discussion here about how hard they’d have to crash the ship to anchor it and not slowly drift away. This vessel does not have a proper manufactorum and could not construct large enough anchors, so they had to get creative. There is a note from an apprentice that neither the Captain nor the Enginseer Prime survived the disagreement, but the crash was successful in ensuring most of the heat emitted by Dying Light is hidden by the asteroid.”

  I sense some incredulity and amusement from Bedwyr.

  Bedwyr says, “I’ll assign two companies to escort our War Smiths to the atomic reactors and plasma generators.”

  “Excellent. I’ll wait for the air to clear. Meanwhile I need you to have a messenger bring me Brian and his posse of servo-skulls. Once I can open the service hatch without contaminating everything, I will have them scan the interior of this sphere. Send a gundog to me every thirty minutes and we can keep each other updated. I expect we will be waiting on main power for a day or two. That should give us better control of what the cultists can and cannot do.”

  “Agreed. I’ll continue to fortify and work with Domhnall. New guards will be assigned to you.”

  “That’s fine. Please send Dominita my way so that I can thank her.”

  “Dominita is dead.”

  “Damn those worthless parasites! How did she die?”

  “She was torn apart by a Trygon Prime during the Tyranid burrowing attack while holding our rear almost entirely by herself. The Trygon managed to dig through her reinforced hull, then the bioelectric field on its claws fried her bio-pod through the bio-pod’s connections to her praetorian body. Luan stabbed the Trygon with the psyker knockout syringe immediately afterwards, which sent it spasming to the floor, then all four of your kids hosed it down with enough lasfire to make the Trygon Prime’s carapace glow.”

  “Good for them. We will have to examine that body to see why that syringe was so effective. I’m surprised it had any effect at all. Is there more to her final moments?”

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  “Yes. The War Smith who checked her over has no idea how its attack bypassed her surge protector. Warp influence is suspected, but no Trygon strain has ever been reported to have such fine control over its bioelectric field. The Tyranids really had it out for her. I suspect they were testing her as our praetorian frame is unique and she survived the Warp Lance.”

  I frown, “No matter how many times I remind myself that Tyranids are innovative and intelligent, their actions always manage to take me by surprise. There’s something about seeing a large, mad beast that makes it hard to see it as a world ending threat, and not an overgrown pest.”

  “I agree, Magos. Your previous accounts of the Tyranids just don’t express how unsettling they are in person.”

  “Then let us be about our tasks with the fervour of the cold and vengeful.”

  “Magos.” Bedwyr makes the sign of the cog, bows slightly, and departs.

  I refocus my attention on the genetorium’s records and data feeds, trying not to think about how close I came to losing all my children and the woman who died protecting them.

  This year’s Festival of the Victorious Dead will be heavy.

  Seventeen hours later I get another surprise when a gun dog and a squad of Tempestus Scions deliver a Hull Ghast corpse to me. Instead of a grey, half starved humanoid body with elongated limbs, sharp claws, and a strong jaw I am given a well muscled body covered in thick bone plates, varying between one point eight and four point two centimetres thick. The bone plating is fused with the flesh and looks like it might have grown from it.

  The Ghast’s skin is coarse and tough like pig hide, and completely hairless. The symbols are unpleasant to inspect as they constantly twist and change. Gathering my will, I cast Pass Unscathed, keeping the corruption at bay. I thank the Scions and bless each of them, then order them to spend two hours praying at one of the genetorium’s recently reconsecrated altars before returning to the Inquisitor.

  They show no signs of corruption and I say as much to them and compliment their Tempestor Prime for his squads’ superb discipline and will. Neither he nor his troops even twitch but I detect both their relief and pride at my words.

  The Tempestor Prime hands over a letter from Raphael, salutes, and departs.

  I read Raphael’s letter. It’s not his handwriting, and contains a more detailed record of his encounters and the different tactics he has tried against the modified Ghasts. It is useful, but doesn’t really tell me much more than he already said over vox. He does state that they have reached the primary bridge but are unable to breach its protections. His Tech-Priests predict it will take them many days, perhaps even a week to breach or hack the bulkhead. Raphael requests a specialist to be sent from the Stellar Fleet to speed up the process, or for me to join him as soon as I am able.

  I prepare a return letter to the next cyber mastiff to visit me and authorise the transfer. I could do it, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to run over to the Inquisitor. It isn’t ‘beneath me’, exactly, but we aren’t in a rush and I have a whole department of specialists whose job it is to do these things for me. They could do with some experience outside of academia and wargames.

  Turning back to the mind bending symbols, I inspect the ever changing letters with my third eye. They appear to distort probability, rather than redirect, alter, or banish energy like more traditional shields. It’s an incredibly complex bit of magic, one that draws increasingly large amounts of Warp energy the more it has to distort space and time in quick succession. The magic is linked to a source near the centre of Dying Light.

  It’s not efficient, but it does bypass the nullification abilities of specialist ammunition as a witch bolt and other similar projectiles can’t nullify what they do not touch. It’s as ingenious as it is corrupting, as each time the spell is triggered it appears to permanently split the mind of the person it is protecting, eroding their sense of self until they’re nothing more than a ball of rage and instincts.

  I carefully dissect the body and grimace at the reports of my Machine-Spirits. The cultists are combining Tyranids and Ghasts. I think they are using the hardwired instincts of Tyranid biology to bypass the mind splitting drawback of the sorcery, but I will need to see a live one and look into its mind to confirm my speculation. As for why they’re using Hull Ghasts, an almost mindless abhuman species of radiation and toxin resistant cannibals, I have no idea.

  They probably have a target or objective they hope to achieve by unleashing their creations, and they are likely close, or even finished with their research as these bioweapons look complete. One can never be entirely sure though. The cultists might just be experimenting as a form of worship, or because someone much wiser than them told them they weren’t allowed to do what they’re attempting, so they defected. Whatever they’re attempting, and their reasons, matter little to me. The result will be the same.

  Chaos.

  No surprises there.

  It takes thirty-seven hours to confirm everything is properly connected and that there is no catastrophic damage to any of the power systems. From the control panel I engage the first atomic reactor. It runs through its checks, cycling the working fluid for ten minutes, which in turn, gradually increases the power of the reactor.

  One by one, I turn each of the reactors on, using their power to run test cycles of all the systems I have access to. Excess power is channelled into capacitors and batteries, building up enough reserves to start up the fusion power plant above my head.

  As heat builds up in the reactivated systems, it is channelled into the genetorium’s plasma reactors. There are more plasma generators spread throughout the ship, but we only have access to four at the moment. Rather than being used to generate more power, the stored plasma is injected into the fusion reactor, reducing the amount of time and energy required to ignite it. The sphere above me hums as its powerful magnets contain and circulate the injected plasma, generating a small amount of power, though far from a net positive. It is enough to let me know all the parts of the fusion reactor are functional though.

  Finally, after forty hours of slaving over this dratted machine, I hit the metaphorical red button. Vast amounts of power are discharged, fuel pellets are vapourised with powerful lasers, and their rapidly expanding gases are pumped into the reactor. I monitor the myriad sensors and pict-feeds as the interior of the reactor grows ever brighter. There is a short flash and a quiet whine as right above my head, a star is born.

  Dying Light slowly comes to life. The emergency lighting is replaced by searing spotlights that chase away the shadows. Servitors shake off the oil and grime and step out of their sarcophagi, all around the ship, shuffling and staggering to complete tasks that might no longer exist. Most are quickly set upon by Tyranids, Gaunts, and Cultists.

  A slight breeze flows throughout the vessel, spreading rot, spores, and rust. Gravity is restored and everyone starts to move about faster, no longer restrained by their magboots, their legs blurring slightly as the grav plates distort the space above them.

  Then, through my third eye, I see reality ripple. The atmosphere turns heavy and foreboding, sending a tingle of dread down my artificial spine.

  Buried into the power network, eighty one runes light up around the vessel and trigger a ritual. Everything takes on a blue and purple tinge, and simultaneously looks slightly out of focus yet sharply defined.

  One moment there is nothing and the next, the whole ship is filled with demons.

  Curse the Mon Calamari and their memes.

  It’s a trap!

  Warhammer 40k Lexicanum, , and . I've also enjoyed opinion pieces such as: , The via Gamespot, and . While not strictly 40k, they are good for inspiration and IRL explanations.