Chapter Text
The Death of Falsehood reentered real-space confused and alone. They had a horrible warp-jump, with the light of the astromican blinded moments after the entry by a warp storm. Some of the crew members blamed the Sons of Antaeus aboard, and their consoles gained a new coat of red paint. Rouge trader Gallius Lugenhelm would brook no bias because of their origin in the 21st founding aboard his vessel. They were loyal, and they deserved respect for that. For some reason, deep-augurs were not functioning. Only close-range scans were, and the Mandeville point was clouded with ice dust, as if unused. As they closed the gap the citradix maledictum dimmed before disappearing entirely, replaced by a second rift the color of a fading lumen, its blue light inspiring curiosity not madness. Once the first scans returned, their confusion only mounted, the system being a spitting image of ancient sol. The equivalent of Holy terra was a shining jewel, its oceans still blue with an unpolluted shine that could never be mistaken for the toxic skies that terra now had. Venus was still a corrosive hell scape, with a patch that defied the hellstorm around it with biting cold winds, as if in protest against the atmosphere itself. Uranus and Pluto's orbits were unmarred by the wounds in reality the warp gates were, with simple rails of light and elegance linking every major body. Titanic vessels, more like a ribcage than a ship, floated dead around the planets and pulsing with inhuman heartbeats deep in the void. Deimos and Titan's orbits were untouched, although deimos writhed as if infected with a maddening plague that tormented its body. That twilight blue rift was a ship bigger than the largest battleship from the dark age of technology stuck in a scar that defied even the most deranged of normal physics.
The first contact occurred deep in the inter-planetary void with alien forms. They were a weird inbetween of life and machine, their pulsing signals quieting machine spirits and pulling synapses in soldiers brains as they cut through them without mercy. They left as abruptly as they came, as if they found nothing to gain from the battleship. As they approached Sedna crude signals in vulgar tongues demanded an audience. When their bulky and spherical ships landed for an audience their troops came out clad head to toe, in bulky utilitarian armor vaguely reminiscent of the armor the Astartes wore, until the commander stepped down. They were scarred and rotted, barely recognizable as human. They demanded subservience and tribute, despite the towering Sons of Antaeus staring at them. When the space marines refused, the troops opened fire with cheap rounds that barely scratched the space marines armor, with only the leaders red-orange miniature cannon doing more than flaking the paint. They quickly retreated, and their transports harassed the retribution class battleship until a macro-cannon annihilated one of them. They peeled back, screaming obscenities and hollow threats of violence back over comms as they went.
The next contact was far less barbaric, with slim minimalistic ships requesting trading deals. They landed and it was calm until they brought a slim bipedal walker with no arms and a gun for a head out. The words “AI model” had barely left their mouths before the tech-priests moved to kill. Some were annihilated by plasma welders and arc cutters meant for repairing hulls, others shredded or ruined beyond function by a barrage of auto-rounds or high intensity gamma radiation. They did not scream obscenities, but simply cut contact. For horrors awaited, resplendent in the laws of spore and claw…