Chapter 43: Expedition Preparations
News of the coming expedition spread quickly through the ranks. Petros immediately convened a Warband Council.
In the Great Assembly Hall of the Fortress-Monastery, all 21 full Battle-Brothers gathered. The hall was a vast, cavernous space of black and grey iron, broken only by a few massive, cream-colored marble columns. The neophytes were not permitted to attend, which made the chamber feel even more empty.
Petros sat at the head of the table.
"You've all heard the astropathic dispatch," he began. "Abaddon is launching his Black Crusade. We are going to join him. He is offering wargear for our allegiance, and his crusade will provide us with the perfect cover to acquire the personnel and materiel this Warband needs."
He turned to his Apothecary. "Brother Dioscorides. Report on the neophytes and gene-seed."
Dioscorides nodded. "My Lord, the aspirants are responding well. The majority have accepted the Black Carapace, and the remaining few will be fully implanted within the week. I have also identified a promising aspirant to apprentice as my acolyte. He can already perform basic gene-seed extraction and wound-tending."
"As for the seed-stock... we have harvested the Progenoids from all new neophytes. Including the recovery of Brother Kolin's, we have 35 viable glands. Unfortunately, Brother Fledri's were destroyed by the daemonic fire."
Petros nodded, the loss of Fledri still a cold weight in his chest. "Good. Including the neophytes, we now number 55 Astartes. Half a company. Set Kolin's seed aside, in the reliquary. Use the other 34. Begin a second round of reaping immediately. I want this Warband brought to full company strength. Our goal... is a full Grand-Battalion. One thousand brothers."
He looked at his Apothecary. "Dioscorides, you will remain here and guard the homeworld. Your task is vital."
"Yes, Lord of the Forged."
Petros then turned to the Warpsmith. "Phelon, Master of the Forge. Wargear status."
Phelon, for once, was all business. "Vehicle pool is unchanged. However, I have... acquired... a new shipment of bolters, heavy weapons, and a few jump packs from Daedalos. The neophytes can all be issued a bolter."
"Thanks to the raw materials from that 'lost' freighter, I've also established a bolt-round production line on The Ironclad. It's barely adequate, but it's ours. I've also begun hand-forging a batch of Mark VI 'Corvus' pattern plate—it's less resource-intensive. But it's slow, boss. Won't have a full set for twenty or thirty years. My two apprentices are... morons. They can swing a hammer, but they won't be true Techmarines for decades."
Petros nodded, then looked to his Ship-Master.
Barnabas reported, "My Lord, we have been in orbit for years. Our fleet remains... three ships. The Ironclad frigate, the armed freighter, and the Vagabond-class hauler, which is, frankly, a flying target."
"We take them all," Petros ordered. "The Dark Mechanicum can handle planetary defense. Our 'fleet' is useless here anyway. And... charter several more transports from Daedalos. Use our mineral rights as collateral. We are going on this expedition to take. We will leave empty and return full."
He locked eyes with his Ship-Master. "In the void, we do not seek engagement. We hang back, we fire our lances, we repel boarders. We only commit to a boarding action if we find a helpless, high-value target. Our own preservation is the priority."
"Understood, my Lord."
Finally, Petros turned to the only mortal in the room: Sachs, the nominal commander of the "Spear of Hector."
Twenty-one pairs of superhuman eyes bored into the man. Sachs swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet hall.
"My... my Lord," he began, "per your orders, we have purged the substandard troopers. After the last campaign, the Auxilia stands at 54,000 effectives, armed with lasguns and autoguns. We have no artillery, no tanks, no APCs... just the transport haulers."
"The main problem, my Lord, is... transport. We only have one Aquila, two Arvus lighters, and the Valkyries. We cannot move 54,000 men to a planet's surface in any reasonable timeframe. Let alone their heavy trucks."
Petros nodded. "Leave the trucks. I am not expecting you to win glorious victories. Your task will be to garrison and pacify the worlds we break. Go to the manufactorum. Order more shackles. Order more cages. Your training will now focus on capture and prisoner-processing."
"Yes, my Lord," Sachs replied, his eyes fixed on the floor.
"Finally," Petros said, "promotions and squad assignments."
This was a formality. Unlike the chaotic, back-stabbing rabble of most warbands, where the strongest brute ruled until a stronger one killed him, the Forged Steel still operated on the principles of the Legion. There was a clear chain of command.
"Brother Thor, you are promoted to Sergeant, First Tactical Squad. You will be reinforced with 11 neophytes.
"Brother Vornab, you will retain command of Second Tactical Squad, reinforced with 9 neophytes.
"Brother Benjamin, of Second Squad, you are promoted to Sergeant, Third Tactical Squad. You will take the remaining 14 neophytes.
"The three Flagship-Sentinels will remain as our reserve."
The appointments were made, just as everyone had expected.
"We have two months to prepare," Petros concluded. "At the end of that time, we depart."
He stood. "One last thing. Give the neophytes shore-leave. Let them go home and see their families."
The council was over. The Astartes rose as one, slamming their gauntlets to their breastplates in the Warband's salute.
"To the Forge!"
"And We are Forged to Steel!"