An Unexpected Encounter

The Pathfinder moved slowly through a steel jungle of ancient warship wrecks.

Every second stretched like a century. On the Bridge, only the steady ticking of Sensors and the crew's stifled breathing broke the silence.

Beyond the windows, dead ships hung frozen in an eternal moment, suspended at impossible angles. Their empty portholes watched the uninvited intruder like the eye sockets of skulls.

Charles Fettman stood before the Observation Window, his brow furrowed. They had reached the coordinates on the star chart provided by the Primarch. Ahead, the immense shadow marked "ancient ruins" filled the view, its sheer scale defying physics and chilling the soul.

It was the Blackstone Fortress—though Fettman did not yet know its name.

As the warship crept toward the impossible structure, Charles spotted something out of place nearby.

It was no ancient wreck from the graveyard, but a ship bearing the markings of the Imperium.

It lay motionless beneath the skeletal shadow of a massive Xenos vessel.

"Three o'clock off starboard, fifty thousand kilometers," the Sensors operator reported, tension in his voice. "Residual energy... Very faint, but identifiable. It's... an armed merchant ship."

Charles's heart sank. He needed no detailed Sensors analysis. He knew that silhouette and paint scheme all too well.

The golden bird emblem on its prow, wings spread for flight, caught the Pathfinder's Searchlight and gave off a dull gleam.

"House Canary..." Charles murmured, his voice carrying surprise, caution, and a trace of irritation.

Rivalries between Rogue Traders ran like hidden currents through the void: powerful and deadly.

House Canary was known for its cunning and, at times, its ruthlessness. Its presence meant the Primarch had given the "pathfinding" mission to others as well. It also meant a fierce clash of interests might lie ahead.

"Looks like we weren't the first to arrive." Charles's voice hardened. The threat before him had swept away his awe at the ancient wonder.

He spun around, looking over the faces of his senior crew on the Bridge.

"All hands, level-one battle stations! Keep your eyes sharp, lads!"

His order shot through the ship like an electric current.

The shriek of battle alarms shattered the silence.

Heavy isolation bulkheads slammed shut with a hydraulic roar, dividing the ship into separate defensive sections.

Belowdecks came the quick, disciplined footsteps of Mercenaries and House troops.

Within three minutes, more than a hundred fully armed fighters had taken positions at key chokepoints and firing stations.

The sharp clicks of Boltgun Gun being loaded and the low hum of charging energy weapons filled the steel giant with the grim tension of impending battle.

Fettman drew a deep breath as the rules Rogue Traders lived by raced through his mind.

Out in this remote, unknown region, Imperial law carried far less weight.

The Imperium's watchdogs could not see this far, and the broad powers granted by a Rogue Trader's warrant grew dangerously hazy here.

Clashes between Houses were usually settled under a kind of tacit understanding. So long as no one went too far or left behind damning evidence, there was room to negotiate afterward.

But with a discovery that might determine his House's fate at stake, he had no confidence that fragile understanding would hold.

If House Canary had already found something, or if they meant to claim this place for themselves...

Then a brutal boarding action would be almost inevitable.

"Open the Communications Channel. Try the general distress frequency and the encrypted Rogue Trader channel," Fettman ordered. It was the proper procedure, and his first chance to learn what state the other ship was in.

"House Canary vessel, this is the Pathfinder of House Charles. We've detected your signal. Identify yourselves and report your status. Repeat, identify yourselves and report your status." The Communications Officer's voice echoed across the empty channel.

No answer came.

Only the ghostly hiss of electromagnetic interference filled the cabin.

Minutes passed. The Communications Officer tried every way he could to hail them, but the other ship remained utterly silent.

It sat there like an enormous abandoned metal coffin, blending into the ancient wrecks around it and radiating an ominous air.

Charles frowned more deeply. This was not normal. Even a hostile House would usually issue a warning at this range, not ignore them completely.

Was their communications system damaged? Was it a trap? Or had something else happened?

"What do we do, Captain?" the first officer asked quietly, his hand already resting on the Bolt Gun Pistol at his waist.

Fettman stared at the lifeless ship on the screen. Resolve flashed in his eyes.

"We can't wait any longer. Old John!" He turned to his head of security, steady as bedrock.

"Captain." Old John stepped forward.

He was a grizzled veteran with gray hair and a scarred face. Thick muscle strained beneath his heavy silver Carapace Armour.

The large pump-action shotgun he called his "knocker" was already hungry for action.

"Take your men and put together an elite assault team. Go see what's happening," Fettman ordered.

"Stay on high alert. If you're threatened, you have permission to fire first. Your main objective is to find out what happened aboard that ship, and... whether its crew still poses a threat."

"Understood," Old John replied, his gaze sharp as a hawk's.

He turned and picked a dozen or so of the veterans he trusted most.

"Assault Team One, with me! Check your gear. Prepare to board!"

The Pathfinder adjusted its attitude and approached the House Canary merchant ship like a cautious hunter.

Docking went so smoothly it was unsettling.

With a dull scrape of metal and the heavy clunk of locking clamps, the two ships' emergency docking ports connected.

A red light came on beside the pressure door, showing that pressure was equalizing.

Old John stood at the head of the team. He took a deep breath of recycled shipboard air and braced his shotgun against his shoulder.

"Stay close, lads. Keep your eyes open and your fingers near the trigger guards. Let's go."

The heavy pressure door hissed open, revealing the long, narrow, cold passage between the ships.

The lights inside were dim and flickered unsteadily.

The assault team advanced in formation, their careful footsteps ringing through the metal passage.

They crossed it quickly and reached the other ship's pressure door.

Disturbingly, it was already unlocked.

Old John gave it a light push with his gun barrel, and it slid open as though it had been waiting for them.

The moment it opened, a foul gust surged out of the ship. Thick with the smell of rust and a sickly sweetness of decay, it struck every member of the team in the face like a physical blow.

"Urgh...!"

"Damn it! What's that smell?!"

Even these veterans, who had seen mountains of corpses, felt their stomachs turn. They grimaced and instinctively covered their noses and mouths.

They knew the smell of large amounts of blood left to clot and rot. But something else was mixed in—something stranger and less natural, like organs torn apart and left to decay in searing heat.

Old John's heart sank.

He raised a fist, signaling the team to stop. Their flashlight beams swept through the doorway.

The corridor's metal walls were covered in splattered, sticky stains that had darkened to brown.

There were dried marks on the floor, too, as though something had been dragged across it.

Charles Fettman's anxious voice came over the comms. "Old John, report! What's it like in there?"

Old John wiped a gloved hand across his face, trying to shake off the sickening smell. His voice came through his mask, graver than Charles had ever heard it.

"Captain... something's wrong. The people of House Canary... I don't think they need us to 'negotiate' anymore."

The air in the passage felt heavy. Old John gave a tactical signal, and the team split into two groups, advancing under alternating cover.

Their boots struck the metal floor with hollow echoes, painfully loud in the dead silence.

"Flare," Old John said quietly.

One of the team raised a launcher. A flare streaked through the darkness and burst at the far end of the passage.

Harsh white light drove back the shadows and revealed a scene from hell.

Dark brown splatters covered the walls. Some reached several meters high, as though something had been pulverized while moving at tremendous speed.

More disturbing still, strange patterns ran through the stains, resembling unknown runes.

"Emperor above..." a young trooper breathed, his finger tight on the trigger of his Lasgun.

Old John crouched and rubbed at the floor with his glove.

The sticky, dark red substance had partly congealed. Stranger still, it contained glittering metal fragments and something that looked like ceramic.

They pushed on and soon reached the Bridge entrance.

The pressure door, several meters thick, had been torn open from the outside by some tremendous force. Its metal edges were curled outward like a ripped-open can.

A faint mechanical hum came from within. The Bridge consoles were clearly still running.

"Team A, hold the entrance. Team B, with me." Old John took a deep breath and stepped through the twisted doorframe.

The sight inside the Bridge made even these battle-hardened veterans draw a sharp breath.

Three bodies sat before the consoles—or what had once been bodies.

Their uniforms were mostly intact, but the heads behind their Helmet visors had melted.

They were warped like candles left in the heat, their features blurred together.

"What happened here...?"

Old John leaned closer, studying one crew member's wounds.

"Examining the dead won't do us any good. We'll get our answers once we go farther in," his deputy Clawven grumbled.