socalfunplaces Chapter 85 Istvan III
Chapter 85 Istvan III
Chapter 85 Istvan III (1)
More than a month has passed.
The Black Pearl's warp engines began to slow down one day in the seventh month. Sera's voice came from the navigation console, steady as if reading a supply list: "Approaching warp jump. All personnel in position."
The armored hatches on the bridge remained closed. Marcus stood in the tactical officer's position, hands behind his back. First Officer Edric was checking the attitude thruster data, while Gunner Vladimir stood by in the weapons control compartment. Cohen sat in the commander's seat, his right hand resting on the armrest.
The ship shuddered. The purple chaos was torn apart, and an unfamiliar starry sky appeared on the sensors—not to the naked eye, as the armor panels had not yet been opened. But the sensor data had already flooded into the holographic projection platform.
"Escape successful," Sera said. "Current location: edge of the Istvan system. Star spectral type: K-type orange dwarf. Planetary orbit—confirmed. Target planet, the Istvan, is seven million kilometers away and is approaching."
Cohen stood up and walked to the holographic platform. The outline of the planet slowly emerged in the projection—a gray-black sphere covered with churning, toxic clouds. Occasionally, dark red light would peek through the gaps in the clouds; these were flashes of volcanic activity or radiation, not signs of human habitation.
"Slow down and cruise," Cohen said. "Keep your distance. Don't enter high orbit."
Marcus glanced at him but said nothing. The others on the bridge remained silent. The name Istvan—on the Imperial star map—had only one label: "Extremely Dangerous, Avoidance Recommended." No one asked why they were there.
Cohen turned to Marcus. "Come to the back of the bridge, I have something to tell you."
In the reception room, the incense burner in the Imperial Shrine had gone out. The smoke had dissipated, leaving only cold ashes. Cohen stood before the shrine, his back to the door. Marcus entered and closed the door.
"Sit down," Cohen said.
Marcus pulled out a chair and sat down, the lens on his left eye slightly contracting. He didn't ask "what's wrong," he just waited.
Cohen turned to face Marcus. He remained silent for a few seconds.
"Do you know why the Black Pearl's subspace travel was smoother than others?"
Marcus neither nodded nor shook his head. His expression remained unchanged, but he tapped his fingers lightly on his knee.
“I guessed,” Marcus said, “but I didn’t ask.”
"Now I have something to tell you," Cohen said. "This is something that only you and I know right now."
Marcus's finger stopped. He looked at Cohen, adjusting the focus of the optical lens to its furthest point, as if trying to see something clearly.
"The Black Pearl was equipped with an ancient technological system," Cohen said. "Its function was to make the ship disappear from the enemy's sensors. Not a void shield, not armor, but stealth—thermal signals, electromagnetic radiation, radar cross-section—all were reduced to zero. Like the Dark Eldar's shadow field. Once activated, the Black Pearl did not exist on the enemy's sensors."
Marcus's lips twitched, not in a smile, but in a complex expression, as if he wanted to say something but swallowed it back.
He was silent for a long time.
"From the moment you went from Lucis to Dulob Sand's subspace, I felt you were up to something," Marcus said. "Were you already preparing then?"
“Yes,” Cohen said. “Those two coordinates were just a rehearsal for the technology recovery.”
Marcus nodded. He didn't press for the source of the technology, nor did he ask why Cohen was able to do it. He simply leaned back in his chair, placing his hands crossed on his knees.
"What do you need me to do?"
Cohen sat down across the long table and pushed the data panel over.
"I'm going down. I'll go alone. The Thunderhawk transport will take twenty Casterland mechs. You wait for me on orbit. Protect the Black Pearl."
Cohen paused here. The image of that over four-meter-tall steel shell flashed through his mind—it was too conspicuous. He had already regretted creating the Starfortress mechs in the wrecked ship and bringing them back to the Black Pearl. The Starfortress's imposing, jarring outline and its ancient paint scheme from the Great Crusade era were instantly recognizable to any Mechanicus priest who had seen artifacts from the Mind Control Legion. In a direct confrontation, Castellan was indeed no match for the Starfortress, but its less conspicuous nature made things easier, wasn't it?
"how long?"
"Three to six months. Maybe longer."
Marcus picked up the data panel and looked at the text on it. It was a brief list of instructions: Once the Black Pearl enters low Earth orbit, activate the stealth field and remain silent. Any approaching foreign ships—Imperial, Alien, Pirate—do not make contact, do not respond, and immediately withdraw to a safe distance. The stealth field must be maintained continuously. The safety of the Black Pearl is entirely his responsibility.
Marcus put down the data panel. "Three to six months. You know what that means. The crew will react."
"So only you know about the Shadow's position," Cohen said. "To the crew, the Black Pearl is just conducting long-term orbital observations. Supplies are sufficient. I've already had Maggie confirm the supply list."
Marcus looked into Cohen's eyes. The old naval lieutenant commander's face showed no fear, no hesitation, only a calm composure.
A tranquility polished by the passage of time.
"You're going down alone," Marcus said. "What's on that planet?"
"I don't know. But I know it's dangerous there. So I went alone."
Are you confident you can come back?
Cohen did not answer directly. He stood up, walked to the shrine, placed a new incense burner on the altar, and lit frankincense. Smoke rose again, swirling around the adamantine imperial statue.
"Of course," he said.
Marcus stood up.
"I understand," he said. It wasn't a word of comfort, nor a prayer, but a statement.
Cohen turned to look at Marcus. "The Thunderhawk transport is ready. Keep an eye on the bridge for me."
Marcus nodded.
Cohen stood alone before the shrine, looking into the Emperor's eyes. The statue of the Emperor, cast in adamantite, never blinked, nor answered any question. He stood there for a moment, then turned and left.
Cohen didn't go to the hangar immediately. He pressed the communication button and asked Kara to come over.
When Kara pushed open the door, she was already dressed in her power armor, her helmet tucked under her arm. Her face was expressionless, but there was an indescribable somberness in her eyes.
"Captain." She stopped.
Cohen did not sit down or exchange pleasantries.
"I'm going down. Alone."
Kara's brow furrowed. "Alone? Captain, the garrison?"
"There's chaotic power down there," Cohen interrupted her, his tone not harsh, but every word clear. "It's not something you can handle right now. That thing doesn't recognize explosives, power armor, or tactical coordination. If you go down there, you'll just become numbers on my list."
Kara fell silent. She had served in the Guardians of the Church for many years and had witnessed the traces of chaos. She knew Cohen was not exaggerating.
"Then what am I supposed to do up there?" she asked.
"Wait," Cohen said. "In the meantime, select the best elites from the Black Pearl. 1,200 men. Not just filler; they must be capable of standing firm when facing Chaos in the future. The garrison has tens of thousands of men; you will personally select them. Who has the strongest mentality, who doesn't shake when facing Xenomorphs inside a wrecked ship, and who doesn't need medical intervention during warp travel. These people will be of great use in the future."
Kara tapped her fingers on her helmet, a habitual gesture she made when she was thinking.
"Twelve hundred people," she repeated. "When do you need them?"
"When I get back," Cohen said. "Maybe sooner."
Kara nodded without asking any further questions. She turned and walked to the door, then paused.
"Captain, may the Emperor protect you."
"May the Emperor protect you."
She went out. The door closed.
The Thunderhawk transport aircraft had been waiting in the hangar for three hours. This transport, personally built by Cohen in Garros, had an expanded and reinforced cargo hold large enough to accommodate twenty Casterland mechs. Unlike the standard Thunderhawk gunship, its weaponry was significantly simplified, retaining only four twin-barreled heavy bolters for self-defense; the engines were upgraded to four to handle the increased load. It also carried a miniature shadow field array, which, once activated, allowed it to become invisible to sensors.
At this moment, twenty Casterland mechs were neatly arranged in the cargo hold. At the seams of their armor, the almost invisible electrostatic patterns in standby mode occasionally flickered – these were the self-check pulses of the energy channels of the atomic deflection shields in low-power mode. Each mech carried a field shield extracted from Starfortress technology, and a vibrant, intimately connected mech soul.
Cohen, clad in power armor, stood beside the gangway of the Thunderhawk transport. His helmet was fastened, and the HUD on his visor displayed environmental data and communication status. Marcus walked in from the hangar entrance. His pace was slower than usual, not hesitant, but a deliberate, unhurried composure.
"I've already arranged things on the bridge," Marcus said. "Edric will be monitoring the course data. I told him the Black Pearl will be conducting long-term orbital observations and won't need to disembark."
Cohen nodded.
"The Thunderhawk transport plane's communication channels remain silent," Marcus said. "I send a signal once a day at a fixed time. You don't need to reply. As long as the signal is still being sent, you know we're still waiting for you."
Cohen looked at Marcus. The old naval lieutenant commander's left eye lens gleamed slightly in the cold white light of the hangar.
"Thank you," Cohen said.
Marcus did not answer. He took a step back, placed his right fist against his chest, and performed a standard Aquila salute. The movement was slow and solemn, like swearing an oath before a holy icon. The optical lens of his left eye shimmered slightly in the hangar lights, and there was no superfluous emotion in the creature's eyes, only a heavy calm that came from having given something away.
Cohen nodded slightly, without returning the gesture, but the magnitude of that nod and the length of that pause carried more weight than any words.
Marcus turned and walked away. His footsteps faded into the distance in the metal corridor, eventually drowned out by the hum of the hangar's air conditioning system.
Cohen boarded the Thunderhawk transport plane and closed the cabin door.
As the transport plane slid out of the hangar, the armored panels of the Black Pearl were still closed. Cohen sat in the cockpit, watching through the porthole as the Black Pearl's gray hull slowly shrank under the starlight. He pressed the communication button and said, "Black Pearl, transport plane has disembarked."
Marcus's voice came through the communicator, brief and steady: "Received."
Communications were cut off. Cohen switched the channel to silent mode. Four vector thrust engines emitted faint streams of ion as the Thunderhawk transport aircraft turned toward the Istvan I1I.
The gray-black planet grew larger and larger in the field of vision. Clouds churned, and the toxic gases shone with an unhealthy yellowish-green hue under the starlight. Occasionally, dark red lights pierced through the depths of the clouds, as if something was slowly burning inside the planet. There were no oceans, no greenery, no signs of life. Only rocks, poisonous gases, radiation, and the scars left by the massacre ten thousand years ago.
The transport plane passed through the outer atmosphere. The hull began to vibrate, not with the chaotic tremors of subspace, but with the physical vibrations caused by friction with the atmosphere. Cohen reduced the speed to a minimum, allowing the transport plane to glide slowly and quietly into the dense, toxic air.
The HUD inside the mask displays the following data: External temperature: 400 degrees Celsius. Atmospheric composition: 73% carbon dioxide, 12% sulfur dioxide, 0.3% oxygen, the remainder being toxic compounds. Radiation reading: dozens of times higher than the standard safety value.
Then he felt it.
It wasn't data from sensors, but a sense of oppression that surged from the depths of my consciousness, a feeling that couldn't be described in words.
It was as if something permeated the air—not a smell, not a sound, but something more primal, acting directly on nerve endings. The Life Eater virus had turned billions into organic sludge, global firestorms had scorched entire planets into wastelands, and the final despair and rage of the dead, mixed with warp energy, seeped into every inch of soil, every rock. It wasn't living chaos—that kind of thing attacks, corrodes, and tries to transform those who approach it. The smell here was more like dead chaos, or at least chaos that had slumbered for millennia. It wouldn't pounce on you, but would slowly, imperceptibly, seep into your protective suit, your power armor, your skin, your bone marrow.
Cohen didn't linger on the sensations. He immediately lowered the Thunderhawk transport plane's altitude. Every second spent in the air increased the danger. It wasn't the anti-aircraft fire—no one in the world cared about that death—but rather the unseen...
The psychic burn marks that permeated the air.
He chose a relatively flat valley on the ground. The gray-black rock surface was covered with a thin layer of volcanic ash; there was no wind, no sound, only eternal silence. The landing gear of the Thunderhawk transport plane crushed the brittle rock surface, raising a cloud of fine gray dust. The dust did not fall back to the ground but floated slowly under low gravity.
Cohen didn't immediately exit the capsule. He scanned the surrounding ten-kilometer terrain using the transport aircraft's external sensors. It was all gray-black volcanic rock, devoid of vegetation, water, and any man-made structures. But in his extended consciousness, he could sense that the underground cavities weren't naturally formed, but rather regular, interconnected passageways.
He stood up from the pilot's seat and walked to the cargo hold. Twenty Casterland mechs were already waiting in the cargo hold, their mounts fixed and their optical lenses flashing. Cohen opened the tail hatch, and a cloud of dark, toxic air rushed in. The mechs emerged one by one, forming a defensive formation on the wasteland. Cohen was the last to step out of the hatch, standing in the middle of the mechs, his consciousness stretching into the distance.
Cohen stood on the wasteland, the HUD inside his mask displaying external environmental data and the communication status of the mechs. He pulled up a pre-prepared topographic map on the data panel—one that the Black Pearl had mapped in the shortest possible time.
The map is marked with coordinates. Those coordinates correspond to an unusual underground structure—an irregular, dense...
It resembles the traces of some kind of large facility or armory.
Cohen entered the coordinates into the data panel and began to move. Twenty Casterland mechs silently followed behind him, slowly moving across the gray-black wasteland. There were no engine sounds, no muffled thuds of tracks, only the soft scraping of power armor boots crushing volcanic rock, absorbed by the toxic atmosphere and carried for only a short distance. The mechs' optical lenses flickered with a dark red light in the dim light.
The Istavan I was tidally locked to its star; the pale yellow star hung perpetually low in the sky, at the same altitude, as if nailed there. There was no sunrise, no sunset, only eternal, dim starlight. Its rotation period was equal to its orbital period, nearly twice as long as the Imperial standard day.