Chapter 14: A Rich Haul
Despite his severed arm, the captain refused to yield. Gritting his teeth against the agony, he lunged with his remaining hand for the laspistol on the deck.
"This is Imperial... sovereign... territory! You have no—"
Petros watched. The captain was bleeding out, yet still defiant. He couldn't just end this man's pain. He had to amplify it. These were senior void-farers, not savage tribals who would break at a simple execution. They needed a lesson.
Petros unsealed and removed his helmet. He tensed a muscle in his jaw, activating his Betcher's Gland. The implant flooded his mouth with acidic venom—a tool for survival, digestion, and interrogation.
The captain finally grasped his pistol, his arm shaking as he tried to raise it.
Petros spat.
The thick, corrosive fluid hit the captain square in the face.
The man, who had been silent when his arm was blown off, now shrieked—a high, inhuman sound of pure agony, as if he'd been dipped in acid. The shriek filled the bridge, a sound so terrible the bulkheads themselves seemed to vibrate with it. It was a raw, visceral message to every other mortal in the room, a promise of their fate if they resisted.
It lasted for two full minutes. They were all forced to listen as the venom dissolved flesh, then bone. The screaming only stopped when the acid ate through his skull and into his brain.
Petros looked at the melted ruin of the brave man and let out a single, soundless breath. He turned to the others.
"Does anyone else wish to refuse surrender? Step forward now."
He scanned their pale, terrified faces. There would be no more resistance.
Petros sealed his helmet and opened the internal vox. "Fledri. Report."
The reply was crisp. "Minor resistance. Enginarium is secure. No casualties."
"Good. Antonius, status on the hauler."
Antonius's voice crackled, distorted by the void-gap between the ships. "Ship is ours. No casualties."
A clean, simple operation. Petros felt a flicker of relief. He was a veteran of the Siege of Terra. He had seen what truly disciplined mortals could do—well-armed, fearless, and relentless. Countless brothers had died at the hands of mortals they'd despised.
Astartes were not invincible. They never had been. A well-trained, well-armed mortal with good tactics could kill one. Sometimes, it just took luck: a lucky Basilisk shell, a concealed melta-charge.
Thankfully, the crew of these two freighters had none of the above. This was an easy fight.
The aftermath was routine. Prize crews of armsmen from The Ironclad were transferred to secure the new vessels, and key crewmen were brought over to take command. With the ships secure, it was time to inspect the spoils.
Petros and his brothers entered the main cargo hold. As the auto-lumes flickered to life, they illuminated a treasure trove.
The massive hold was stacked high with raw materials: ingots of ceramite and plasteel, hundreds of drums of propellant and high-grade promethium, crates of armor-piercing rounds, and spools of monomolecular-edged wire.
Antonius ripped the lid off a locked strongbox. It was filled to the brim with small, perfectly cut red gems.
"High-purity rubies," he grunted, scooping up a handful. "Focusing crystals for lasguns. There must be two thousand in this case alone. Enough for two thousand rifles. Captain, we didn't just hit a freighter. This is a supply-ship, bound for a major forge."
Petros took the data-slate manifest from the trembling first mate. "It's more than that," Petros said, scanning the list. "Vast promethium reserves, complex cogitator wafers, refined adamantium ingots... These aren't just supplies. They're the raw materials for a full-scale armory. They were destined for... Ah."
Petros saw the recipient's name and almost laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "This entire shipment was bound for Lord-Captain Apathes Howard."
Antonius looked up from the gems. "Howard? Is he someone of note, Captain?"
"You could say that," Petros said, his voice dry. "He's the patriarch of the minor Rogue Trader dynasty we're en route to meet. He is the man we were going to buy the gene-seed from."
Antonius's helmet snapped around. "You're saying... we just hijacked our business partner?"
"We did," Petros confirmed. "But it is... irrelevant. No distress calls got out. Neither ship carries an Astropath. He can't know it was us."
"Besides," he continued, "we are renegades. We do not return what we have taken. We simply need to ensure he never learns it was us... Every year, thousands of ships are lost to the Warp. This is just two more."
Despite the... complication... Petros considered the operation a stunning success. No casualties among the brothers, and a haul of raw materials that would be invaluable. They could ship this back to Lemnos III and bootstrap their entire industrial revolution.
The three ships formed a small convoy. Barnabas voxed from The Ironclad, joking that if they kept this up, he'd be the "Master of the Trade Fleet" instead of the "Master of the Fleet."
But it was a good joke. The Warband was growing.
With The Ironclad at their head, the new flotilla tore open reality and plunged back into the Immaterium.
Their destination was unchanged: the flagship of Rogue Trader Apathes Howard.