In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war.
A frontier planet within the Halo Stars—untouched by the Emperor's Great Crusade many millennia ago—now called Artine, was being defied and exploited by those claiming to work in His name: The Rogue Traders.
A desert world barely suitable for mankind, but rich in resources. Natural petroleum and coal are the planet's main exports. For more than half a century, this world has filled tens of thousands of freighters with precious cargo, yet it could never sate the ever-hungry belly of the Rogue Trader of House █████.
Half a century may be long for the exploiters, but for Artine, it was but a fraction of an undisturbed slumber. And the planet, like any living organism, fights back against the forces invading it.
The 41st Millennium marked the Wrath of Artine. Volcanoes erupted, turning the planet from Wraithbone white to a mixture of Baal Red and Magmadroth flame.
It was a victory for Artine, but nearly seven million lives were lost. Yet this number was nothing to the invaders, for this exhausted planet still had its use: A disposer.
A decade later, the former sand star, now charred, still burned hot—but no longer deadly if one is careful. Some thousand souls still live in the remnants of the industrial outpost.
Abandoned, they have lost all hope of relocation or relief from their pragmatist ruler. But their faith in the Emperor never falters; it is what keeps them living, thriving, surviving.
Time passes. Artine no longer exploited. The forsaken called themselves The Artinites.
The Rogue Trader no longer cared for this world or its inhabitants. But from time to time,
Artine's sky saw a dropship—a repurposed Tau transport ship, an Orca. Its acquisition was unknown, but some speculate it was one of the spoils of his lordship's favorite activity: Xenos hunting.
The shade of the ship was as dark as Abaddon Black, adorned with Retribution Armor Aquila. Armed with eight jetrams-mounted lascannons on each side, pop-down twin burst turrets on the bottom, and four Hellfury missile pods on top, it had nearly all original Xeno armament removed.
When the ship makes landfall during nighttime, all that can be seen is a bright square light
from the rear ramp and silhouettes of the rumored retinues of his lordship.
Two Imperials of unknown origin appear: one, a tall man wearing black flak armor and a prefectus cap, holstered bolt pistol, and chainsword at his belt; the other, a regular man in carapace armor, with a vox-caster earpiece, accompanied by a golden servo-skull and servitors.
When the ramp's light fills the darkened sand, another shadow emerges—sometimes a man, sometimes a woman. These are the new Artinites, abandoned by his lordship for various reasons: sedition, negligence of duty, or simply pure bad luck.
With each newcomer brings news of the outside world.
"His lordship is getting rid of everyone opposed to his ideas," said one man.
"A succession war is coming," another spoke up. "A dispute with another house."
"I just said I don't like the corpse-sta––"
Though their knowledge varied and was inconsistent, it was enough to pinpoint the root of all misfortune: the current Rogue Trader of House █████, their liege lord.
Months passed. The population was 3,621. The Artinites ever united, with many professionals in different fields. They were more organized than ever.
They elected a leader—Ulysses.
Though not one of the survivors of the Wrath, this middle-aged man was once a seneschal of his lordship. He is kindhearted, of noble birth, understanding, and a capable leader. Green eyes, short brown hair with a little graying at the temples. At first glance, one might think he was a scholar, though he preferred communal work. With enough intel from past arrivals, the information was enough to understand their situation.
His lordship planned to destroy Artine along with its forsaken souls. Two dates are mentioned: one just a few months away, the other ten years from now.
Ulysses assembled representatives from various professions—agriculture, logistics, communication, security, and the Ministorum—making them the pillars of Artine.
First was the master of agriculture: Cilicia, a daughter of an ex-mineral prospector from before the eruption. Though a desert world is hardly abundant with food, the eruption decades ago coalesced sand, creating glassy caverns. Turning them into underground greenhouses. With some modifications, airflow could be trapped within, and damp, dark caves ideal for pulling water from mist form. Their legacy lived in the form of a young woman with brown eyes and curly red hair. Shy yet dedicated, mostly covered in dust, grime, and paperwork, this petite woman cared deeply for every Artinites.
Second was the master of logistics and communication: Philos Maritine, an Enginseer who once served Magos Errant Nicolie Klause. They searched for local metals suitable for making alloyed substitutes for His lordship's new armaments. When the world-shattering event occurred, Philos was overseeing malfunctioning servitors and maintaining machinery inside the industrial cargo hold, unable to join the evacuation. Now served as Artine's sole engineer, vox-master, and logistician. He kept to himself and reserved his thoughts for the Omnissiah. This Tech-Priest's perfection kept the colony from falling apart. Even with three extra servo-arms, his workload never lessens. Many guess his refusal of extra help waseither compassion or arrogance.
Third was the head of security, a former Commissar of the planetary defense force: Renoir Fitz. His family had served His lordship for centuries, managing many PDFs and carrying out "hostile negotiations" against allies and foes alike. This long-haired blonde young man hated His lordship more than anything, for he was the cause of House Fitz's doom. Renoir hated selfish rulers but loved his fellow Artinites equally. He managed the colony's security with around 200 guardsmen and 40 faithful Ogryns, maintaining defense against local predators and upholding peace.
Lastly, a former Imperial priest of the Adeptus Ministorum, a zealous man who clashed often with His lordship—: Grigori Dimitius. One could say His lordship decided he might as well argue with the Artinites instead. This seemingly frail old man was often at odds with the Enginseer due to religious differences, though mostly one-sided. Maybe he just needed someone to listen to him. The Church has commissioned him to carry out sermons to lost souls, curing doubts and fostering unity, with the bonus of venting his frustrations.
With everyone present, Ulysses began the meeting's main topic: His lordship's plans for Artine.
"So destruction is upon us, master seneschal?" Grigori asked, looking across the round table.
"It is so, as you guessed, head priest. Though alarming as it is, we cannot let panic spread."
Silence filled the room as everyone hesitated to respond.
"Sigh... Well, it's a fairly common fate for the unwanted," Renoir broke the silence, shrugging. "I accepted my fate since my family worked for the fool. So what are you all going to do?"
"The logical solutions would be to ask the machine spirits aboard the ships and fly off Artine, or negotiate with the Rogue Trader." Philos answered.
Renoir laughed. "The first ship we sent up got destroyed almost immediately. All vox-channels are cut off, and the last person who talked to those bastards from the Orca got shot in the guts. Have you been paying attention, Enginseer?"
The Enginseer replies, "I observed and analyzed. The chances are approximately 0.5235687%, given the nature of the Rogue Trader. Not zero, thus the solutions given."
"Great, so we have a chance. Let's fucking go then," Renoir answeredsarcastically.
"I shall consult the machine spirits," said Philos, about to stand.
Ulysses interrupted, gesturing for Philos to sit back down. "The Commissar is merely joking, Enginseer. Please be seated and continue the meeting."
The Enginseer stood in a fit of rage, arming all his servo-hands with various weapons.
"The Machine-God demands your blood. I shall make you into a servitor, so you might find solace in the service of the Omnissiah."
Ulysses quickly got up and triied to restrain the Enginseer.
"You can try. Your modifications are Ork-level at best, you dysfunctional lamp po—"
Before Renoir could finish, a bonk was heard.
Cilicia bonked Renoir on the head with her fist.
"Enough provocation, Commissar. Or do I need to hit you some more?" Cilicia says seriously.
"One is enough, Cilicia. I'm sorry for my childish displays and apologize for my rudeness, master Enginseer."
Renoir touchd his temple, then stood and apologized to everyone.
"I shall compromise. Let us continue," Philos answered, clearing his vocalizer and sitting silently—maybe out of fear of a certain female colleague.
"Then let us finally get to the points of this meeting," Ulysses said. "Father Grigori, can you muster forces to calm the population? Be it communion or daily news. Do you think it would be enough to get everyone on the same track? We need people to accept and find solutions together."
"I can try to sway them during communion, though it will take time for them to accept their future without precaution. Would you handle the outcry for me, Sister Thessia? I fear my frail body can no longer withstand the sadness and confusion within the crowd."
The head priest turned to his aide— a white-haired woman clad in Sororitas power armor, a Sister of Battle.
"Yes, Father. My sisters and I shall bask in the crowd's anger while you offer them the Emperor's guidance."
"Thank you, Sister." Ulysses offered his gratitude.
"We have ten years to accept our prearranged fate. Let's not waste a second. There must be a way out," Ulysses said with hope.
"If ten years from now is our doom, then what is coming in two months' time?" Cilicia asked curiously.
With no answer, the meeting ended, and the Artinites entered a month of crisis from public panic. But thanks to everyone's efforts, the populace realized they were all in the same boat. Unity is restored.
Time passed, and the mysterious day grew closer. Anxiety filled the colony once more. Is it doom—or another disposal? Nobody knew. But everyone prepared for the worst.
Five hours before the arrival of █████
Inside the cargo hold of an unknown transport carrier, two figures conversed.
"Are you sure this is His lordship's order, Sinerius?" a smaller figure questiond.
"We are doing as we're told. His lordship's word is final," the larger figure answered.
"I mean, don't you feel this is morally wrong?" the smaller one replied.
"We do our duties—no matter what. Rowan, we are far from doing what is right the moment we put men and women inside this hold and left them on Artine," Sinerius answered.
"There's no saving us from this, then. Emperor, please forgive our damned souls," Rowan said.
Four servitors carefully held a small circular pod.
Rowan touched the surface of the pod, whispering, "May the Emperor change your fate."
One hour before the arrival of █████
Nighttime. People surrounded the soon-to-be drop site of an unknown object.
The front line was formed by Ogryns carrying heavy shields and clubs, ready to defend the citizens. Behind them stood a mixture of guardsmen and a few Sisters of Battle, ready to aid those in need.
Commissar Renoir and Sister Thessia stood atop a rock among the troops. Renoir, with monocular in hand, looked to the sky.
"I can see the Orca," he said after some observation.
"What is it doing?" Ulysses asked from a makeshift medical support tent, where Cilicia and Philos were also present.
"It's... just circling," Renoir answered worriedly.
"Hovering?, it is waiting to drop a cargo."
Philos speculated.
Cilicia wandered off to check for herself.
"The ramp is down," Renoir announced. Anxiety filled the obscured night.
"Everybody be prepared!" Sister Thessia shouted to the troops.
Five minutes before the arrival of █████
Inside the Orca drop ship:
"Lower the damn ramp, useless servitors!" a static-filled voice ordered.
"The ramp is lowering," a servitor answered.
Sinerius stood on one side of the ramp, Rowan on the other. The servo-skull next to Rowan seemed to relay orders
"Once it's fully down, kick it off my ship, Rowan." the servo-skull replied and departed.
"Yes, Lord Captain,"
Sigh "I hope people down there can be good to you," Rowan said before kicking the pod off the ship.
On the sands of Artine, Cilicia, recognizing the shape of the pod, rushed toward the drop site,
shouting, "Don't shoot it!" as she weaved through the crowd. Ulysses saw this and ran after her.
Confusion reigned—some aimed at the pod, some hesitated. Nobody knew what to do.
The pod fell faster than most can see.
It could be a bomb or a bioweapon.
Sister Thessia, thinking rationally, took aim with her las rifle.
The pod was about to hit the ground. She pull the trigger.
But before she realizez it, Cilicia was exactly where her crosshair was, holding the tiny pod.
Thessia collapsed upon seeing the wounded Cilicia clutching the pod.
Then she asked, "Why?"
"Because we found our way out," Cilicia said, trying to stand while bleeding from her shoulder.
Ulysses helped her up. She held the pod high for everyone to see.
Philos and Grigori joined the murmuring crowd.
They all said the same word upon seeing the pod...
"A child?"