Old Favors

"In a system dominated by checks and balances, the SNC has none. Given free reign, it is an organization that could decapitate the entirety of the Imperium in a fortnight. No revolutionary, no military coup, no religious fanatic has the capability to unhinge this entire state with such ease. It cannot be tolerated, the SNC must be brought to heel."
Simon Wo, Head of Imperial Parliament, in an address regarding the Volis Massacre.

The IVS Moriarty was the first and last of its line, a one off prototype from the shipyards of Bryga, a marvel of modern engineering. The firepower of a battle-cruiser and mobility of a destroyer, with the sensor readout of a small fighter. Optical camouflage flickered like a mosaic, shielding the massive vessel from prying eyes.
It was a predator, a hunter, stalking the void with slow, measured movements. The soft white glow of its engines dissipated almost immediately, giving the impression of a lifeless mass, floating inexorably onward. Dozens of ships had fallen before its guns and missiles, annihilated before they had gotten a chance to identify their attacker, final distress signals drowned out in a scream of electronic countermeasures. None of the other commerce raiders could match it, even those made in its image. They fought in wolfpacks, but were merely pale shadows compared to their forebear. The technology contained within was too expensive for mass production, too slow, too inefficient for a war of attrition. And so the Moriarty plied on, wreaking havoc wherever it went, alone.

Twenty years of service in the Confederate Navy, another seven a smuggler and a further seven in Imperial service. Millions of tons of shipping destroyed. Case Blue, Nephilim, Archon, Strangler. All but a fraction of the operations in which Captain Porter had been involved before taking command of the Moriarty. Audacity and cold-blooded fearlessness had seen her rise within the ranks of the Imperiums merchant raiding captains. Even Issa's refueling stations had burned. None in the Navy had thought it possible, and by all rights it should not have been. It had been a terrifying ordeal. Slow, cautious movement, infiltrating through thousands of kilometers of stone and rubble rings to get in range of the massive platforms and their defenses. A harrowing run to evade the shviri patrol ships and monitors. Running combat and  But they had succeeded.
And yet, it was never enough. Every strike launched only led to another. Fuel reserves at less than a quarter, missile storage almost expended, ammunition magazines nearly dry. Even food stuffs were all but gone. The Moriarty was running on fumes. They had been ordered to return to port, to refuel and rearm, but that was before Albrecht had made contact. He had requested a diversion, one which would open a gap in the cordon around Fyra, another impossible job. Suicidal and hopeless. At least, that was what any other Navy captain would have told the irascible commandant. But debts had to be paid.
Albrecht had ended her criminal career, all those years ago, and had it been any other Imperial officer, it may have been a messy end for smuggler Felicia Porter. But the commando had shown leniency, perhaps on account of her former Confederate service, perhaps because the Imperium lacked enough officers or whatever other reason had struck the commandant at the time. Nonetheless, instead of facing a firing squad, she had found herself a captain in the Imperial Navy, a fully commissioned officer, back at the helm of a warship again. He had said there was redemption in duty, in service and deed. It had seemed like naive claptrap at the time, but she had long since learned that for the old commando, such ideals were his lifeblood. The man viewed the galaxy through his own lens, and was willing to lash out and criticize any who in his view, had failed in their duty. She had even witnessed him shout down the High Chancellor once, an act that no other high ranking Imperial leader or politician would dare to contemplate, let alone commit.
His rabid devotion to service was not endearing, but it had won Porters respect. Thus, when he had made the call, the thought of turning his request down had been unthinkable. Loyalty is bound in blood. It was a phrase he was fond of using, reminding those around him that solid actions spoke far louder than promises or posturing. It was a phrase he had told her on that first day, immediately after her capture. Now, the Moriarty merely waited for its captains orders, hovering on the outskirts of the shviri sensors arrays, anticipating its moment to strike.
Felicia could almost feel the ship quivering with excitement. Everything was in low power as the Moriarty plunged onward like a dagger aimed directly at the shviri perimeter defenses. Two destroyers and a frigate, a mere trifle for the ships rail guns. A single warning light flared briefly. They had passed the first line of detection, none of the alien ships moved, unworried by the "debris" approaching them. They couldn't see the raider, and its sensor readout was too small to be worrisome.
The plan had been well prepared and was simple to the extreme. Overwhelm the perimeter defenses and force the ships closest to the planet to reinforce them, opening a path for the Straggen.
"Turret's tracking, engaging Balar class destroyer on your mark captain."
"Torps armed and ready. Target locks ready to go."
"Jamming systems offline."
"Engines at seventeen percent output."
"Shields down and on standby."
Everything had been prepared to the tiniest of details. The opening pass was the most critical. They approached from below the shviri vessels, where the return fire would be the weakest, at least for the first precious minutes of the engagements. If everything went according to plan, the ship would slip away with ease. The shviri vessels still lay outside visual range, mere blips on the sensor array. The rail-guns and missiles, or torpedoes as some called them, were well within range, yet still they closed, wishing to ensure the greatest gain from their assault. Thousands of kilometers ticked off with agonizing slowness, and the minutes melded into one another. Less than thirty-thousand kilometers. The ambush was perfect.
"All guns stand by to fire," she said slowly, drawing her words out, not taking her eyes off the sensor displays. Now, now was the time to strike.
"Fire."
It was a simple, calm command, answered almost instantly by a sudden shudder that raced through the ships length as the forward turrets, all four of them, opened fire as one. Eight rail-guns, each firing a five and a half ton "dart" at tens of thousands of meters a second. Shortly thereafter, the "torpedoes" left their launchers, four hundred ton projectiles hurtling through the void to reach their targets. Surprise was their's.
"Shields up! Engines full ahead!" She snarled forcefully, even as the targeted shviri destroyer began to tear itself apart with explosions. Faster than their mortal users, the automated point defense systems sprung to life, turrets focusing down the incoming volley of four torpedoes. It was all for nought. Split seconds after being engaged, the entire shviri vessel broke in two as one of the missiles struck it amidships. Autoloading systems whined in their turrets as fresh projectiles were forced into the breach, sending a second volley racing towards the frigate, a Lor class. The shviri ships turned to engage them slowly, their elegant forms moving with an artists grace. It mattered not. The second volley struck home nine seconds after the first. Inadvertently, in their struggle to face their attacker head on, the aliens had committed a grave error. The weakly armored ships were not built to resist, much less with-stand the firepower arrayed against them, and their positioning simply made the incoming volley all the more devastating. Shielding systems overloaded, decks were torn apart and fuel tanks ruptured in a fiery flash as six of the eight projectiles struck home, tearing through the frigate from fore to rear. Over the communications intercept, Porter could hear the shviri speaking in their guttural tongue, no doubt calling in reinforcements. A second volley silenced the frigate for good, leaving its sputtering wreck to pass within less than a thousand kilometers of the Moriarty. There had been no spectacular explosion, no rending flash or sudden disintegration, but the ship was effectively dead, a helpless husk. Only one more destroyer remained.
Whether by luck or by skill, the shviri captain on the final vessel had positioned more carefully, aiming to stay out of the deadly arc of the human cruisers full firepower, exposing itself only to four of the main guns. The alien craft never stood a chance, no matter its position, but it maneuvered to engage nonetheless, seeking to engage in a gun battle rather than ramming as was common amongst shviri captains of outgunned vessels, or fleeing. Shielding flickered as the cruiser was hit repeatedly by the incoming barrage from the shviri laser cannons. The Moriarty was poorly protected for a ship of its size, a concession made to ensure the ships firepower and agility within such a compact frame, but against a lone destroyer, even that minimal shielding was adequate. Felicia smiled mirthlessly as she ordered the Moriarty change its bearing. The ships lower guns fired, four projectiles, three hits. The destroyer continued onward, seemingly unaffected. With its broadside exposed, there was less inside the destroyer to hit, and the shells passed through with ease, causing less internal damage than they could have had it attacked them head on. The only victory lay in the overloading of the destroyers shields, the alien craft was fast running out of options, all that remained was to land a death knell.
"Y and Z have reacquired their targets!" One of the gunnery control officers shouted over the internal comms.
"Pulverize them. Fire at will."
The shvir must have expected the human vessel to respond more slowly, for the destroyer tried to turn with the Moriarty, becoming trapped once more in its frontal cone of fire. Eight guns fired in a staccato as they were brought to bear, their projectiles tearing great chunks out of the small alien vessel. Sensors read fuel bleed, and small flares erupted where oxygen and flammable chemicals escaped into space and exploded. The return fire had greatly diminished. Only a handful of scattered hits registered on the cruisers outer hull. They hardly put a dent in the flicker-fields power reserves.
"Engine signals noted, two shviri cruisers incoming! A destroyer just registered at maximum range! They're closing on us now. Orders captain?" one of the sensor controllers cut into the torrent of orders Felicia was issuing to her crew.
"They responded faster than anticipated. Good. Get ready to engage, we're making half a pass, engage at max range. Get the jamming equipment ready. Do not slip inside fifty thousand kilos, we'll be risking too much. Send a coded signal to the Straggen, he has his gap."

Albrecht Skor smiled to himself as he slowly stepped into the exo-skeleton behind him. It was a steel cage. Once going in, there was no leaving it. Bundles of wires, cables and synthetic musculature wrapped around his black bodysuit, enclosing him in their cold embrace. He could feel the front of the skeletal construct lock over his chest. The prison was sealed, the machines would do the rest. There was no weight, the whole contraption could support itself in a standing position without an operator. Sensing the commando inside, the suit began to activate. The reactor kicked in, thrumming softly as machinery whirred and clattered around him. The smell of oil and burning plastic permeated the air. Even now, after years of service, Albrecht found his nose curling up in displeasure at the stench. The breastplate came down first, slamming down over the metal skeleton that enclosed him. Composite slabs were bolted into place, screws tightened and wires secured. Power coursed through the armor plates, as the small shield generator burst into life. He deactivated it with a swift motion, there was no need, yet. Within minutes, the protective shell was complete. Skor stretched his fingers within their armored gauntlets. The thin synthetic musculature within whined its resistance as it bent and adjusted. In theory, the suit could even be donned in the field, but Albrecht knew there would be no such time once the Straggen reached Fyra.

"Suit sealed. Locks, disengaged," the tinny, nondescript voice of the machine AI equipping him stated the obvious.

The Armageddon suits startup protocols slowly began to activate, one by one, and Albrecht drew himself to full height, the rear of the exo disengaging from the locks that suspended it on the wall. The suits micro-motors sputtering slightly as it moved forward by the will of its user. With casual ease he reached forward, lifting his bulky helmet from where it lay. The lifeless eyepieces gazed back at him, as they always did. Gingerly, he set the helmet over his head, listening and waiting as it locked into place over the augmentic musculature around his neck, sealing him away from all outside contaminants. Without the suit, the helmets weight would have been too great for Albrecht to bear. The stench of oils was replaced with the chemical tang of filtered air as he took a deep breath. Flashes of blue scrolled in front of his eyes as the HUD sprung to life, updating him on the suits readiness. Only the finishing touches remained. Albrechts armored fist reached out, grasping the pommel of Godsbane. The ceremonial sword glittered in the light, revealing the carefully wrought lettering along its blade. He sheathed it with caution, the servo motors at his joints humming softly as the weapon came to a rest along his hip, resting opposite the stock-less Akarn he wielded in place of a pistol. He wore no officers stripes, no denotation of his rank. He needed no indicator of his rank, Godsbane was indicator enough.  His camouflage cloak, enlarged to cover the suits entire frame, slid over his armor pauldrons easily. Only here was there any sign of adornment, the clasp at his throat replaced with an Imperial Cross. It was an old icon, one that predated its namesake, but it had become a symbol of the fledgling Imperium nonetheless, and its highest award for valor. Albrecht had received his nearly a decade ago.
"Blink drives cutting in ten minutes," the Straggen's intercoms called out as he stepped into the adjacent chamber.
This was it, the final charge. He strode into the hangar to board his Drakken, the Sword of Damocles. Nine men stood inside, the survivors of the earlier raid. All that remained of his section. Each wore an Armageddon suit, and all but one carried the same standard weapon loadout. The only exception was Moss, in place of the underarm machine-gun, he bore a recoil-less rifle. It was an improvised affair, purely intended for destroying enemy armored vehicles, and an acknowledgement that Albrecht and his commando were headed for a war-zone that did not suit their training. They did not salute as he approached, although they straightened up slightly and made room for him to board the gunship first. He had never demanded such show of loyalty from his followers, from his commandos. The only loyalty is bound in blood. Albrecht thought to himself. It was the words he lived by.
"Moriarty is signalling the all clear, we're starting our run," the intercom sounded off again. Separated from the bridge, Albrecht had no other way of knowing what the ships current position was. Even the cutting of the blink drives had gone unnoticed. None of his men showed any signs of unease, they were too experienced. Each had gone to hell and back in their service, the nightmare that awaited them on Fyra was but a rehash of a hundred prior campaigns. Some replaced their helmets. Others, like Sylas, Albrecht's combat second in command, kept their helmets off, waiting until the last minute to seal themselves away. Albrecht didn't care, he kept his helmet on, hiding his thoughts and emotions even from those closest to him. None spoke, there was nothing to be said. The Sword was as silent as the grave. The transports loading door sealed shut with a clang, leaving the cramped space lit only by emergency lights. The minutes passed by slowly in the darkness.
"We're taking fire, there's a cruiser to our port. Be ready to disengage on my mark, get that fucking hangar door open!" There was an element of haste in the voice of the man on the comms now. Albrecht could feel the gunships deck shudder below his feet. The Straggen was taking fire.
"Doors open, Sword, you are clear for takeoff- Albrecht, send those bastards to hell!"
Albrecht smiled despite himself as he recognized the voice of the Straggen's captain, Bell, override that off the comm operator.
Then, they were off. The Drakken tore itself from the hangar bay, and through the single rear view-port, Albrecht could see the SNC destroyer taking fire, shields flickering as it tore away from Fyra's gravitational pull, seeking to escape. The SNC commandant muttered a silent thanks for Porter's cooperation. Without the former smuggler, he could never quite think of her as anything else, his attempt to reach the planet would have been suicidal. Now, all that remained was to make his landing worthwhile.