Chapter 36: No Survivors

The marines continued to glide through the void for another half hour before boarding the *New Phalos*.

General Sora delivered the grim news: according to Captain Koperos, there was a malfunction in the flight deck's power systems, rendering the landing guidance systems inoperable. This meant the marines' small landing craft would have to manually adjust their angle to enter the flight deck.

It was a technical feat; one slight error and they would slam into the transport's hull, becoming nothing more than a scattering of debris in the void.

"Expect some turbulence," the young officer said over the comms, shifting his shoulder plates into a more comfortable position while cursing the sweat trickling behind his goggles.

The other marines crowded around him, four in the lead and the rest following. They wore protective carapaces produced by local manufactorums, which were by no means inferior to those of the Imperial Guard.

Two lead sergeants had already raised their heavy ceramite shields. Given that the rioters possessed nothing more than a few live-ammo weapons, such protection was more than sufficient—it was overkill.

The interior of the landing craft was bathed in an ugly red glow, with two hundred fully armed marines ready to deploy at a moment's notice.

Soon, a piercing alarm rang out.

"Brace!" the young officer commanded. As a sudden jolt slammed his back against the armor of the soldier behind him, he could only grab onto the handrails running along the ceiling of the compartment.

For a fleeting second, he thought they had successfully breached the outer hull of the *New Phalos*, only to realize the backward thrust was the landing craft's shock absorbers engaging.

The actual breach occurred a moment later.

The inertia of the lander allowed him to steady himself as he leaned forward; as the craft punched into the side of the *New Phalos*'s bridge mast, the surrounding metal shuddered and groaned.

When the alarm ceased, the only sound the young officer could hear was his own ragged breathing.

"Thirty seconds!" the pilot's voice crackled through the cabin. The officer watched as the plastisteel and ceramite protective layers of the stabilizers advanced with the automatic hinge locks. He heard the heavy thud of compression and felt the vibration of the deck grinding against the bottom of the landing craft.

He suddenly gripped his shotgun, which felt unbearably heavy in his hands.

"Ten seconds!!" the pilot continued to roar.

"Get ready, soldiers."

The sound of weapons being chambered in the enclosed, sweltering space was deafening. The officer released the handrail above his head and leveled his sliding shotgun, his body surging with a sensation like a fresh injection of adrenaline.

The alarm rang once more. Just once.

The red light washed over the amber glow of the landing platform, followed by green.

The hatch slammed shut with a heavy *clank*, followed by the hiss of escaping steam as the cabin began to depressurize.

"Move! Move!" the marines shouted. They surged forward, the young officer caught in the middle—half pushing ahead, half being swept along by the momentum of the men.

But their battle cries fell only upon empty corridors.

The officer tried to assess the situation, only to find himself squeezed within the mass of soldiers, the front rank holding their shields aloft while the rear rank leveled their shotguns.

According to the previous briefing, they were to enter the bridge through one of the many service corridors surrounding the aft bridge mast.

As components of the transport's outer hull, these narrow passages served as a network for crew repairs and servitor maintenance to reach critical areas quickly.

They were narrow, damp, and desolate places—the external veins of most starships, largely ignored, providing nothing but dim lighting, heat, and maintenance access.

Now, the marines found themselves in a dark, enclosed world composed of nothing but rusted pipes and gridded decks clogged with fungi.

More importantly, there were no signs of life.

"Quiet," the young officer finally squeezed his way out of the crowd; he was the highest-ranking commander here. "Regroup."

According to the schematics he had received, there should be a gravity lift fifty meters ahead.

"Advance with caution."

Soon, the marines formed a tight line, weapons at the ready.

Following the curved arc of the bridge mast, the corridor continued to turn left, the rhythmic clatter of steel-studded boots and the clanking, screeching friction of their carapaces echoing through the space.

The young officer tried to focus, scanning the conduit walls as they passed, probing the shadows between the flickering light globes with his shotgun.

Before departure, General Sora had warned them not to linger in the outer hull. According to the captain, a small number of escaped slaves might still be scattered throughout most areas, especially the outer shell.

The young officer didn't consider those wretches a threat. Once the transport reached orbit, they would have plenty of time to drag those creatures from their corners and send them to the surface to be processed into servitors.

It would be easier than hunting small game on his family estate. He often used slaves as hunting targets, driving them into dark canyons to watch them wail in agony within traps; it was a profound pleasure.

At the thought, his mood improved significantly.

"Gravity lift secured."

A voice crackled over the comms from the vanguard; they had reached the objective.

It was a large maintenance ramp, wide enough to transport replacement circulation pipes or adamantium plating for the outer hull. As the marines entered, the officer pulled the final switch.

With a shudder and a whirring friction, the platform began to rise.

As the lift ascended toward the central mast of the tower, the officer realized they had encountered no resistance thus far.

In fact, there were no signs of life at all.

The auspex readings were erratic and full of strange feedback, and the tactical displays ahead remained black. Even the messages they did receive were short and jumpy, sliced into fragments by static interference.

"Something is jamming our systems," a sergeant said over the short-range comms. "Our link to orbit is down, too."

Suddenly, the gravity lift shuddered to a halt. The soldiers crowded toward the doors, locking their shields together to form an unbreakable ceramite barrier.

A bead of sweat rolled down the young officer's forehead. He remembered clearly setting it to ascend to the highest point; why had the lift stopped mid-way?

Unless... something was preparing to enter the lift from the outside.

Then, the gravity lift doors swung open violently...

There was nothing.

An empty corridor stretched out before them. The only noise was the distant, rhythmic throb of the ion drives still operating.

"How—"

The young officer pressed the switch repeatedly, but the lift refused to function. Left with no choice, he led the squad out of the lift and into the unknown territory.

This area was far less dilapidated than the outer hull, but the light globes seemed to be on the verge of collapse. It felt as though they had infiltrated a ghost ship, abandoned centuries ago and drifting eternally through the void.

Yet, the truth was that it had only left port a week ago.

Suddenly, the light globes died completely. The darkness seemed to resist them, as heavy and opaque as their shields.

"Bayonets! Lights on!" the officer commanded frantically. Light flashed on, illuminating corroded metal stairs and mottled, steam-stained rust.

"Move! Get out of here!"

The marines began to climb, the sound of boots striking plastisteel echoing up the stairwell.

For the first time since boarding this ship, the young officer felt something beyond adrenaline and combat tension—a sense of a dark, creeping dread.

Something was wrong.

The feeling intensified when he realized something was missing. While the narrow space was still ringing with the sound of boots, he noticed the noise from behind had ceased.

A cold shiver raced up his spine.

The young officer began to run, raising his shotgun and turning to shine his bayonet light into the pitch-black interior of the gravity lift they had just left.

A thick stench of blood billowed out from within. The young officer's eyes widened; he wanted to scream.

But it was too late.

(End of Chapter)