As much as Constance wanted to let the men enjoy their victory and celebrate the triumph of good over evil, in her heart, she knew the battle was likely only just being joined and was far from over. She unlocked her visor and swung it upward, bearing her face, much to the shock and awe of the deck hands around her who now were getting out handkerchiefs, rags or anything else they could cover their mouths and noses against the putrid stink of burning Ork. “Fiona, give me a head count,” she commanded, then turned to the men and raised her voice to shout. “Deck Cheif?!”

A stout looking rating, likely a career navy man detached himself from a group and ambled over with a salute as he did so. “Master Chief Farns, your ladyship. At your service.” Constance smiled at him and gave a gesture over her shoulder at the burning mass of Xenos invaders.

“Master Chief, have some of your pit crews double up with some of my sisters for protection. Make sure that filth are all dead and let's get this wreckage clear so we can get this flight deck up and running again.”

“Aye, aye, ma'am.”

“Watch out for boobytraps!” she called after him, then turned to greet Fiona who had one upped her by removing and carrying her helmet and was leading a Sister Superior by her armor. “Legatine?”

“Short one sister, Palatine,” Fiona informed her crisply. “Mary Cotton was at the Ship's Armory getting her Melta gun serviced when the alarm came down.”

“I ordered her to stay there and defend it, Palatine,” Wendy Mark's voice declared from under the helmet. Constance nodded absently.

“Good thinking, Marks. I want you to send three of your squad, take one of these pallet jacks. Have them collect up Cotton, then get a resupply and back here on the double. Make sure everyone is fresh up. This fight isn't over yet.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Wendy replied at once, then spun and strode off, calling for members of her squad to report.

“Wycroff!” De La Concordia called as her other Sister Superior was within shouting distance. The young woman turned and the Palatine pointed to a small alley-cove near the main hatch. “Have Campanelli set up a triage station there. Have her deal with the bumps and bruises here so the ship's sick bay isn't overwhelmed.”

“Yes ma'am!”

Vander chuckled and leaned into discretely observe to Constance, “Well, this is an interesting morning, isn't it?”

De La Concordia led the way over to a ship's inter-phone, but gave her mentor a wry smile as she did so. “Oh, I'm on pins and needles to find out what we're doing after lunch!” She keyed it on and punched in her codes to identify herself. “Bridge, Palatine De La Concordia. Starboard flight deck is secure and repairs are underway.”

With a burst of static, the bust of a portly rating appeared who nodded gravely at the Sister of Battle. “Palatine, that's good news. What's your status?”

“I have four Sisters out getting us reloads and I've set up a triage station for walking wounded with my medic here on the flight deck. Boarders have been repelled and we're in the process of clearing out their wrecks and bodies.” The hologram nodded again.

The man snapped his fingers and made a gesture at someone outside the range of the camera's view. “I'll have someone from ship's stores get you some medical supplies. We've got a report of a boarding tube strike not far from you. Probably a near miss from the lot aiming at the Starboard Flight Deck. Do you have people you can send?”

“Any idea of numbers?”

The Chief of the Boat looked away at a read out the holographic camera couldn't pick up. “No, just multiple calls for help. Deck thirty one, frame sixteen. Can you assist?”

“I'll send who I can spare,” Constance replied. The hologram clicked off as Constance and Fiona shared a grim look. “Wycroff?” she called, bringing the squad leader trotting up. “I want your squad to share ammo with Whitworth, Winter, and Harris. Get them topped up. We have a call for help from Deck thirty one, frame sixteen. We'll resupply the rest of the girls from the ammo I have coming. Get them on that call.”

“Yes, ma'am!” Gretchen saluted and trotted back to where she'd been organizing her squad, her hands silently calling them to gather. She let her own bolter hang as her free hand began pulling a spare magazine from a belt pouch. “First squad, listen up! Whitworth, the Palatine wants you, Winter and Harris to answer a distress call, Deck Thirty One, frame sixteen. Girls, every body swap magazines with them, so they're at a combat load.” She pointedly handed her Eloheim the mag she'd taken from her pouch and took the empty Ruth handed her.

“Any idea of how many we're up against, Gretch?”

The Sister Superior shook her head. “The Emperor Protects, Ruth.”

Ruth drew her lips into a thin line and shook her head. “Copy that, Sup. Let's go, ladies, the Emperor is calling.” She pointed at Gretchen. “See you at the Throne, Sup!” then she pulled her face plate down and three departed at a trot.

Gretchen sighed as she watched them leave. “See you at the Throne, Ruth,” she whispered.

Mary Cotton flexed her hand around the pistol grip of her Melta gun, and for once, deeply regretted being designated a heavy weapons specialist. On the face of things, having the Melta was a good thing, it was powerful, technically an anti-vehicular weapon, though she had dialed the capacitor down to it's lowest setting, she still had to be extremely careful about what target she picked. While even a grazing shot would be lethal, she wasn't entirely sure how much armor was between her and the ship's outer hull. A misplaced shot could open up a hole through the ship, right out into space. And, of course, she'd left without her helmet.

Which meant she might have to drop her primary weapon and go hand to hand with Orks.

It was an outcome that was absolutely unappealing. She knelt before the two ship marines, making sure they had unobstructed lines of fire with their LASGUNs and licked her lips as she waited for the last battle of her life to start. Every now and then a crewman would run past the opening, which made her very conscious of her trigger discipline and made sure her finger stayed off that trigger while she waited.

“I don't want to die.”

The whisper was almost lost to the klaxons and the dull roar of men defending their ship, but Mary's hearing was excellent. She smiled as she kept her sights just below her vision. “The Emperor has plans for you, sailor,” she declared with the characteristic faith of her order. “Whatever it is, stand tall! You are human and we are in the Emperor's hands. There's nowhere I'd rather be, boys, than right here with you two.”

“Do you want to die, sister?” he demanded, his voice hoarse and trembling.

Mary gave an exaggerated shrug that would carry through the armor. “I didn't wake up this morning thinking how amazing today would be if it was my last,” she told him and the Petty Officer shared her humor and let a chuckle escape his stoic wait for the war to start. “But you know what, sailor? We are going to die. Sometime. Today, next year, next century, we all have a date at the Throne. Me? If we are going to die, I want to die for something. I want my first words to him to be, 'Master, I died defending your people!'”

“Damned right,” the Petty Officer declared. “Preach, sister.”

“Those green bastards aren't getting by us,” Mary declared. “If they come around that corner, we're going to stack their bodies up until we close off the corridor. The Emperor Protects!” Out of the corner of her eye, Mary saw the sailor stand up a little straighter and pulled the LASGUN tighter into his shoulder.

“The Emperor Protects!” he declared to himself and Mary allowed herself a little smile.

“Yes, yes he does.”

Captain Newberry strolled across his bridge, conscious of his poise, keeping his spine straight and his step measured. His crew was good, well disciplined, but it could all fall apart if they got the idea that he was at all worried. He had to project confidence now, that the Orks were already dead, they just didn't know it yet, and his own certainty that he was going to be the agent of that death. He arrived at the damage control station, a little workspace of three sailors and the Chief of the Watch coordinating the defense of the interior of his ship. “Chief, how are we doing?”

“Palatine De La Concordia reports she's repelled the boarders on the starboard flight deck, skipper,” the Chief told him, his heavy set and ruddy face worried, but his emotions were under control. “They've begun damage control and clearing off the boarding tubes to get the flight deck up and running again. She's set up an aid station and I have some medical supplies headed there now.”

“Outstanding, Chief,” Newberry complimented his old friend. “By the throne I wish I had four sets of those sisters. What other damage?”

“We've lost four point defense weapons out of action and there's a fire on the gun deck at battery twenty, but it's contained. The only other bit is an odd strike at Frame Sixteen, probably a near miss from the docking bay action. The Palatine is sending sisters to intercept.”

“Get that fire out and keep me informed.”

“Aye, aye, skipper.”

The Captain strode back to his Situation Table, calling out orders as he did. “Helm! Rudders amidships. Maintain this course so we can recover and relaunch the CAP. Tommy what's the status on our reloads?”

“Gun captains reloading now, sir!” his weapons officer assured him. “Same target package?”

Newberry's eyes swept the holographic display of the battle quickly, trying to take everything in. “No,” he snapped, coming quickly to a decision. “Give me a concentrated broad side at this clump that's threatening the Saint Arabella. Once those are in the air we'll start worrying about our own defense.” He reached overhead and pulled the inter-phone from its cradle and keyed it on. “CIC, Actual what's the status of the Dahlonega?”

“Con, CIC, Dahlonega is on full burn, from the night side of Thuria. Estimated firing arc in eight minutes.” Ronnie's voice sounded distracted, doubtlessly the boy was all but overwhelmed with the amount of data pouring directly into his mind from the Vigilant's myriad sensors and antenna.

Newberry's eyes stared hard at the board and the mass of ships that floated above it. His fighters were still far enough from the Ork warships he was fighting that his guns would only have clear coverage for two salvos at most. And that did nothing to soften the invasion that was already starting to lauch ordinance at Io. He made a decision and clicked the line to a new channel. “Tower, Actual.”

“Actual, VACBOSS, go with comm.”

“George, I want you to vector the attack fighters away from the group coming at us. Have them soften up the invasion force.”

There was a long pause only broken by the sound of the Commanders teeth chewing on the tobacco of his cigar. “Aye, aye, Skipper.”

Newberry hung up the phone and turned deeper into his bridge. “Tommy, bring the port batteries on line as well. After this broad side, they'll be coming to bear. Helm, stand by for one hundred and eighty degree roll.”

“Port batteries online, aye!”

“Sir, helm answers ready for maneuver.”

Captain Newberry looked out the window of his bridge and clasped his hands behind his back. “Tommy, these bastards have intruded into human space. Explain the error of their ways to them.”

“Yes, sir!”

Rachael trotted after Ruth, in the middle of the three Sisters the Palatine had sent this way to answer the cry for help. Her heart was beating in time to the distant thunder of weapons that were echoing through the ship's corridors. For most of the trip, her mind was spinning with fear that this was how Constance De La Concordia planned to be rid of the Inquisitor in the body of Rachael Winter. But, some sense she had no name for told her these were the fighters the Palatine could spare. The Flight Deck had to be held, and she needed seasoned fighters to be able to do that.

The cold fact was that Rachael Winter was expendable, when balanced against an entire solar system.

A staccato burst of thunder sounded from just up ahead, much closer than the others and under it, the high pitched squeal of human beings being murdered. Ruth raised a fist and sank to one knee, which Rachael awkwardly imitated. Then Ruth's voice whispered in the private channel the three were sharing. “Melody, do you have a camera disk?”

“Yes, Eloheim.”

“Throw it,” Ruth ordered, making a blade of her fist and using it to point at the wall at the T junction where it could look around the corner. Harris laid her heavy bolter on the ground to free both hands to dig into a pouch and removed a disk about ten centimeters across and sharply threw it at the wall.

“On the way,” she grunted as the disk hurled through the air, but instead of bouncing off the wall when it struck, it stuck fast. A small picture super imposed itself in the corner of Rachael's vision showing a corridor of horror. Now they had horrific sights to add to the horrific sounds. Ten meters down the hall was a little cluster of sailors who had LASGUNs and were desperately firing down another hall. The space between the sisters and the sailors was a diorama that explained their desperation. The lights were flickering on and off as several had been damaged by weapons fire. The hallway was spattered in blood and viscera while severed limbs and corpses were littered like a ghastly abattoir.

Rachael's stomach heaved in protest and it was only with great force of will that she didn't throw up into the helmet. “Let's go!” Ruth shouted, then stood and came around the corner, yelling, “Friendlies! Friendlies!” Winter was only just able to stagger to her feet and ran after the Eloheim, picking her way through the carnage; amazed that she didn't loose her footing on the blood soaked deck plates.

Ruth's gestures told Rachael to go past the clutch of defenders, then she began to fumble at a grenade on her belt. Rachael threw herself across the opening, over the heads of the squatting sailors who's faces were awestruck at the three sisters that had come running into their midst. Down the hall, in the strobing lights, she got an impression of the edge of something that had forced its way through the ship's hull. The seal foam in the walls had instantly sealed around this new protrusion into the ship, keeping the atmosphere inside. Around the opening was an ugly, swirling mass of green horrors and the flashes of weapons fire at her. She felt a pair of impacts, then the deck was under her shoulder and she was rolling to be sure none of her was sticking out to be shot at.

The display in the helmet assured her she was fine and the armor had saved her life. Ruth's grenade bounced off the walls down towards the Orks eliciting a brief squeal of surprise that was suddenly cut off. A tremendous explosion trembled in the deck under her feet, drawing her eyes down. There, next to her foot, was Holly, the hair dresser, or, what was left of her. Her torso stopped just below her rib cage and her left arm and lower body was missing. Through the blood spatter on her face was a look of profound confusion, as if she was trying to understand how and why she was dead.

A wave of grief and deep, endless rage washed over Rachael. Consumed by emotion, she screamed in incoherent anger, then snapped the safety off the Bolter and whirled around the corner, heedless of danger. There, laid out like a tableau before her, the grotesque, hyper masculine and misshapen forms of the Orks were just pulling themselves up from the grenade and turning to see the Sister of Battle before them. Winter pulled the bolter up against her gorget to brace it then held the trigger down.

The bolter roared and bucked in her hands, but the armored gorget and the bolter had actually been designed to fire this way which made the weapon surprisingly easy to control. She raked the stream of death at the invaders, watching their bodies explode and fly to pieces flinging blood and viscera everywhere. Then the bolter locked open on its empty magazine.

Then, to her horror, the Orks, the ones still alive anyway, turned to her and started to chant and cheer as if they were excited to see her. “Dakka! Dakka! Dakka!” they chanted, then their own weapons started to come up. “Dakka! Dakka! Dakka!” Winters frantically thumbed the magazine release and fumbled for a fresh magazine from her pouch. “Dakka! Dakka! Dakka!”

There was a flash and something hit her hard in the torso, picking her up off her feet and flinging her backwards into the wall. She bounced off it and fell hard on the pile of bodies, behind the sailors, next to Holly's corpse where she'd started. “Winter! Stay down!” Ruth's voice shouted in her ears over the Vox. “Harris! Do it!”

With the high pitched whine of its barrels spinning up, Melody came around the corner, pointing the spinning death machine at the foes of men and held down the trigger. The screams of the sailors holding their ears was drowned out by the roar of the heavy bolter as they flattened themselves away from the sound.

Down range, the carnage that Rachael had caused was outshone by an order of magnitude as in three seconds, five or six times the number of rounds Rachael had fired cut down the Orks. Melody came off the trigger and ducked back into cover, letting the barrels spin down. The quiet that settled was strangely loud, but was quickly filled by the moans of the wounded and the dying.

Rachael's eyes filled with tears as she once again took in Holly's confused face. They were squeezed out by her eyelids closing off the red tinted sight through the display and rolled down her cheeks as she stood. Promptly, her sinuses closed from her tears as she picked up her bolter and finally got a fresh magazine loaded, but her eyes were so full of tears she could barely see, so she unlocked the helmet and swung it up so she could dry her eyes. When she could see again, she found Ruth's face before her, her own helmet up and, beyond her, were the amazed sailors, sitting stark and unbelieving that they had lived. The Eloheim Advance followed her gaze to the corpse, then back and in a tone that was almost humane, Ruth asked, “Did you know her?”

“She's...she's everyone,” Rachael replied, as she took a final look on the girl who had set her free and whispered a prayer for her soul to find its way quickly to the Golden Throne. “Everyone,” she repeated softly.

“I know,” Ruth told her. Her dark face was lightened by her bright, white smile and a squeeze of Rachael's shoulder in encouragement, the she turned to the sailors and became steady and professional. “Who's in charge here?”

“You are!” one of the sailors declared, but another sailor stood, not much older than a boy, but between the blood on his face and the years his eyes had aged in minutes, he was heart breaking to look at.

“Midshipman Peter Tanner, at your service, mum,” he declared in a sweet, clear voice that should have had him singing in a choir, not fighting for his life on a warship. “I took command after the death of Lieutenant Masters.”

“Mister Tanner, are their other hostiles to your knowledge?”

The boy looked down the corridor at the mangled corpses of the invaders, then back at the Sister of Battle. “I...I can't be sure, mum. Lieutenant Masters organized a resistance to this boarding and we fought them back here to the tube, but I can't be sure of their numbers.”

Ruth smiled at the lad and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You've done admirably, Mister Tanner. Winter? Escort Mr Tanner and his men down there and make sure that tube is empty and the invaders are all dead.” The boy sighed and kept his composure with admirable courage.

“Do you want prisoners to interrogate?”

Whitworth chuckled and shook her head. “There's no interrogating Orks. Mind your steps and be sure they're dead.”

“Yes ma'am.”

Ruth pulled her helmet visor down and keyed on it's Vox Thrower. “Palatine, this is One Alpha.”

“Go with comm, Alpha,” the Palatine's voice replied through the static.

“Palatine, we've neutralized an enemy boarding party at Frame Sixteen, but there are numerous ship casualties. Requesting reinforcement and medical assistance, over.”

“Alpha, what is that status of your task force?”

“All sisters in the fight, ma'am.”

“Are you still taking fire?”

“Negative. All visible enemies down, ma'am, but I'll need reinforcement to sweep for stragglers and saboteurs. Ships counter boarding party commander unsure of the numbers he faced.”

“Understand your situation, Alpha. Consolidate your position and stand by for further orders.”

One Alpha, standing by.”