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 alive,
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 speculated 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 made landfall during nighttime,
all that could be seen was 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
filled the darkened sand, another shadow emerges—sometimes a man,
sometimes a woman.
These were the new Artinites,
abandoned by his lordship for various reasons:
sedition, negligence of duty,
or simply pure bad luck.
With each newcomer brought
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 was 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 wee 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 was 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 guessed his refusal of extra help
was either 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 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.
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 answered sarcastically.
"I shall consult the machine spirits,"
said Philos, about to stand.
Ulysses interrupted,
gesturing for Philos to sit back down.
"The Commissar was 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 tried 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 cladded
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 will be 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 was restored.
Time passed, and the mysterious day
grew closer.
Anxiety filled the colony once more.
was 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 changes 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
will 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 realized 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?"