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, is 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 is 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 burns 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 living, thriving, surviving.
Time passes. Artine is no longer exploited. The forsaken call themselves The Artinite.
The Rogue Trader no longer cares for this world or its inhabitants. But from time to time, Artine's sky sees a dropship—a repurposed Tau transport ship, an Orca. Its acquisition is unknown, but some speculate it is one of the spoils of his lordship's favorite activity: Xenos hunting.
The shade of the ship is 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 has nearly all original Xeno armament removed.
When the ship makes landfall during nighttime, all that can be seen is 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 fills the darkened sand, another shadow emerges—sometimes a man, sometimes a woman. These are the new Artinites, abandoned by his lordship for various reasons: sedition, negligence of duty, or simply pure bad luck.
With each newcomer brings 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 varies and is inconsistent, it is enough to pinpoint the root of all misfortune: the current Rogue Trader of House █████, their liege lord.
Months passed. The population is now 3,621. The Artinites are united, with many professionals in different fields. They are 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 to his lordship. He is 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 is a scholar, though he prefers communal work. With enough intel from past arrivals, the information is enough to understand their situation.
His lordship plans to destroy Artine along with its forsaken souls. Two dates are mentioned: one just a few months away, the other ten years from now.
Ulysses assembles representatives from various professions—agriculture, logistics, communication, security, and the Ministorum—making them the pillars of Artine.
First is the master of agriculture, Cilicia, daughter of an ex-mineral prospector from before the eruption. Though a desert world is hardly abundant with food, the eruption decades ago coalesced sand, creating glassy caverns. Turning them into underground greenhouses. With some modifications, airflow can be trapped within, and damp, dark caves ideal for pulling water from mist form. This legacy lives on 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 cares deeply for every Artinite.
Second is 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 he serves as Artine's sole engineer, vox-master, and logistician. He keeps to himself and reserves his thoughts for the Omnissiah. This Tech-Priest's perfection keeps the colony from falling apart. Even with three extra servo-arms, his workload never lessens. Many guess his refusal of extra help is either compassion or arrogance.
Third is the head of security, a former commissar of the planetary defense force: Renoir Fitz. His family has served His lordship for centuries, managing many PDFs and carrying out "hostile negotiations" against allies and foes alike. This long-haired blonde young man hates His lordship more than anything, for he is the cause of House Fitz's doom. Renoir hates selfish rulers but loves his fellow Artinites equally. He manages 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 man 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 is often at odds with the Enginseer due to religious differences, though mostly one-sided. Maybe he just needs someone to listen to him. 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 begins the meeting's main topic: His lordship's plans for Artine.
"So destruction is upon us, master seneschal?" Grigori asks, looking across the round table.
"It is so, as you guessed, head priest. Though alarming as it is, we cannot let panic spread."
Silence fills the room as everyone hesitates to respond.
"Sigh... Well, it's a fairly common fate for the unwanted," Renoir breaks 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 answers.
Renoir laughs. "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 answers sarcastically.
"I shall consult the machine spirits," Philos says, about to stand.
Ulysses interrupts, gesturing for Philos to sit back down. "The Commissar is merely joking, Enginseer. Please be seated and continue the meeting."
The Enginseer stands 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 gets up and tries to restrain the Enginseer. "You can try. Your modifications are Ork-level at best, you dysfunctional lamp po—"
Before Renoir can finish, a bonk sound is heard. Cilicia bonks 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 touches his temple, then stands and apologizes to everyone.
"I shall compromise. Let us continue," Philos answers, 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 says. "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 turns to his aide—a white-haired woman clad 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 offers his gratitude.
"We have ten years to accept our prearranged fate. Let's not waste a second. There must be a way out," Ulysses says hopefully.
"If ten years from now is our doom, then what is coming in two months' time?" Cilicia asks curiously.
With no answer, the meeting ends, and the Artinites enter a month of crisis from public panic. But thanks to everyone's efforts, the populace realizes they are all in the same boat. Unity is restored.
Time passes, and the mysterious day grows closer. Anxiety fills the colony once more. Is it doom—or another disposal? Nobody knows. But everyone prepares for the worst.
Five hours before the arrival of █████
Inside the cargo hold of an unknown transport carrier, two figures converse.
"Are you sure this is His lordship's order, Sinerius?" a smaller figure questions.
"We are doing as we're told. His lordship's word is final," the larger figure answers.
"I mean, don't you feel this is morally wrong?" the smaller replies.
"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 answers.
"There's no saving us from this, then. Emperor, please forgive our damned souls," Rowan says.
Four servitors carefully hold a small circular pod.
Rowan touches the surface of the pod, whispering, "May the Emperor change your fate."
One hour before the arrival of █████
Nighttime. People surround the soon-to-be drop site of an unknown object.
The front line is formed by Ogryns carrying heavy shields and clubs, ready to defend the citizens. Behind them stands a mixture of guardsmen and a few Sisters of Battle, ready to aid those in need.
Commissar Renoir and Sister Thessia stand atop a rock among the troops. Renoir, with monocular in hand, looks to the sky.
"I can see the Orca," he says after some observation.
"What is it doing?" Ulysses asks from a makeshift medical support tent, where Cilicia and Philos are also present.
"It's... just circling," Renoir answers worriedly.
"Hovering, chances are ,waiting to drop the cargo,"
Philos speculates.
Cilicia wanders off to check for herself.
"The ramp is down," Renoir announces. Anxiety fills the obscured night.
"Everybody be prepared!" Sister Thessia shouts to the troops.
Five minutes before the arrival of █████
Inside the Orca drop ship:
"Lower the damn ramp, useless servitors!" a static-filled voice orders.
"The ramp is lowering," a servitor answers.
Sinerius stands on one side of the ramp, Rowan on the other. The servo-skull next to Rowan seems to relay orders.
"Once it's fully down, kick it off my ship, Rowan." the servo-skull replies and departs.
"Yes, Lord Captain,"
Sigh "I hope people down there can be good to you," Rowan says before kicking the pod off the ship.
On the sands of Artine, Cilicia, recognizing the shape of the pod, rushes toward the drop site,
shouting, "Don't shoot it!" as she weaves through the crowd. Ulysses sees this and runs after her.
Confusion reigns—some aim at the pod, some hesitate. Nobody knows what to do.
The pod falls faster than most can see.
It could be a bomb or a bioweapon.
Sister Thessia, thinking rationally, takes aim with her las rifle.
The pod is about to hit the ground. She pulls the trigger.
But before she realizes it, Cilicia is exactly where her crosshair was, holding the tiny pod.
Thessia collapses upon seeing the wounded Cilicia clutching the pod.
Then she asks, "Why?"
"Because we found our way out," Cilicia says, trying to stand while bleeding from her shoulder. Ulysses helps her up. She holds the pod high for everyone to see.
Philos and Grigori join the murmuring crowd.
They all say the same word upon seeing the pod...
"A child?"