"You're a born commander."
Creed glanced up from the battlefield. The half-smoked lho-stick clenched between his teeth released a thin ribbon of smoke into Cadia's dust-heavy wind.
"You're not the first to say that."
Klein studied him for another moment, uncertain whether the reply was dry humor, simple fact, or a warning against further praise. With Creed, it was often all three.
Neither man had time to dwell on it.
The Tyrok Fields were still burning.
Columns of black smoke rolled across the plain, alternately revealing and concealing shattered armor, cratered parade grounds, and the broken remnants of loyalist regiments. Artillery continued to thunder in the distance. Lasfire flashed through the haze in disciplined volleys, answered by the deeper hammering of heavy weapons and the sharp detonations of tank shells.
Yet beneath Creed's direction, the chaos was beginning to acquire structure.
The defensive line surrounding the Cadian 8th remained improvised, overstretched, and under constant pressure, but it was no longer merely a gathering of survivors. Ammunition was being redistributed according to need. Wounded units were consolidated. Officers from shattered formations had been assigned new sectors before they could begin arguing over seniority. Runners and Valkyries carried orders toward isolated loyalist positions, while surviving vox-crews worked to stitch fragments of the command network back together.
At the same time, the strike force assigned to retake the Leviathan command carrier was assembling behind the line.
When Creed had relayed the order through Kell, he had not provided detailed instructions for selecting the troops. He had not needed to.
The Cadian 8th possessed a long-standing tradition of forming composite assault units whenever a mission demanded speed, flexibility, and a willingness to accept severe casualties. Such formations were known within the regiment as Strike Squads, regardless of their actual size. Some numbered only a few dozen veterans. Others, like the force now gathering beneath the smoke, were closer to temporary battlegroups.
More often than not, Creed didn't need to micromanage, his soldiers knew what to do.
Within less than an hour, two thousand soldiers had been assembled.
They came from across the 8th and from the remnants of other loyalist formations that had rallied to Creed's line. Their uniforms did not match. Some wore Cadian-pattern flak armor, others scorched carapace plates or the stained greatcoats of artillery regiments whose guns had already been destroyed. Several squads still carried the insignia of units that no longer existed.
What they shared was experience.
These were not fresh recruits selected because a roster declared them expendable. They were hardened soldiers who had survived the opening betrayal, reorganized under fire, and volunteered to enter a command carrier already crawling with traitors.
The formation was ugly, improvised, and dangerous.
Creed considered it sufficient.
Once the Strike Squad was ready for deployment, he finally withdrew from the forward parapet. Klein had been urging him to move for the better part of an hour, particularly after Volscani artillery began correcting its fire toward the torn standard of the 8th. Creed ignored the advice until the defense had stabilized enough to function without his physical presence at every threatened sector.
Only then did he climb down from the firing line and enter a Chimera command transport with Kell and Klein.
The interior smelled of hot circuitry, old sweat, lho smoke, and engine oil. One wall had been dented inward by a glancing autocannon strike. A pair of lumen-strips flickered overhead whenever the vehicle's generator struggled beneath the load of its vox equipment. The command table had been damaged during the first hours of the battle, leaving its hololithic projector capable of producing little more than distorted static and fragments of outdated tactical runes.
Kell already knew what Creed would ask for.
Before the Lord General had fully settled onto the narrow bench, Kell pulled a folded stack of field paper from a waterproof map case and handed him a stylus.
Creed accepted both without comment. With the lho-stick still clenched between his teeth, he spread the paper across his knee and began drawing.
Then he looked at Klein.
"Can I borrow the teleportation array aboard your merchant vessel?"
Klein leaned against the opposite bulkhead, steadying himself as another distant shell impact shook dust from the Chimera's ceiling.
"You intend to lead the Strike Squad personally and retake the Leviathan."
It was not truly a question. Creed's posture, the hand-drawn map, and the speed with which the assault force had been assembled made the answer obvious.
Creed gave a single nod.
Klein's expression tightened. Admiration remained there, but concern had overtaken it.
"You can use the array. The problem is protection. My ship carries only two hundred portable teleportation shield units. Without them, I can't guarantee that soldiers transmitted into the Leviathan will arrive alive."
Creed did not hesitate.
"Two hundred is enough. Send them down." He turned toward Kell. "Issue the shields to the Talons. The rest of the Strike Squad boards every operational Valkyrie we can spare. The Talons will secure internal junctions and open routes for the conventional assault teams."
Kell's eyes flicked across the developing map. He understood the concept immediately.
The teleport-equipped troops would not attempt to seize the entire Leviathan by themselves. Two hundred men, no matter how experienced, could not clear a mobile fortress containing thousands of traitors. Instead, they would appear at decisive points throughout the carrier, then disrupt the defenders long enough for the main force to land and expand the breach.
"Yes, sir."
Kell seized the nearest vox-handset and opened the command channel.
"All Talons personnel report to the transport coordinates immediately! Two hundred teleportation harnesses inbound. Valkyrie crews begin final checks. Assault officers assemble by deck assignment. Anyone without sealed armor draws respirators and emergency lamps before boarding."
His voice filled the Chimera and spilled through the open hatch into the trenches outside.
Klein transmitted a short encrypted order to his vessel. High above Cadia, the merchant ship's teleportation array locked onto the beacon carried by his escort.
Less than a minute later, pale light flashed behind the Cadian lines.
Two hundred compact shield harnesses materialized inside a marked receiving zone, arranged in neat rows upon transport pallets.
The "Talons" were not named after a noble ancestor, a celebrated battle, or some ancient Cadian beast of legend.
Creed had named them after his favorite grox from his family's ranch.
The animal had possessed a foul temper, an unreasonable hatred of fences, and a habit of charging anything that entered its field. Creed had considered the name appropriate for an assault unit.
Few members of the Talons knew the origin. Those who did had wisely never laughed in front of him.
The unit consisted of exactly 200 soldiers, maintained at that strength whenever casualties and replacements allowed. They were not the regiment's ceremonial elite. They were veterans selected for aggression, initiative, and the ability to continue functioning when cut off from conventional support. Every member had experience in confined assaults, urban fighting, or breaching fortified positions.
They donned the teleportation harnesses without ceremony.
Beyond the receiving zone, Valkyrie engines howled to life.
The remaining 1800 soldiers packed into every available transport. Some aircraft carried far more troops than regulations permitted. Men sat shoulder to shoulder beneath weapon racks or stood clipped into restraint lines along the cargo compartments. Ammunition crates were strapped beneath benches. Breaching equipment occupied every space not required for a living body.
The transports lifted in staggered waves, flying low through the smoke to reduce their exposure to Volscani anti-aircraft fire.
Creed did not board them.
The temptation to accompany the first assault wave was obvious, but unnecessary. His value lay in directing the entire operation, not firing a bolt pistol inside one corridor while the wider battlefield collapsed around him. He remained inside the Chimera, where he could communicate with the Talons, the Valkyrie assault groups, the loyalist survivors still fighting aboard the Leviathan, and the defensive line surrounding the 8th.
It was a distinction many officers failed to understand.
Leading from the front did not mean personally swinging a sword at every enemy. It meant standing where one's presence produced the greatest effect.
As the Valkyries approached the Leviathan, Creed established direct vox-links with the officers commanding each assault element. He assigned every group a specific entry point and objective.
One battalion would land on the upper flight decks and seize the anti-aircraft controls. Another would breach through maintenance hatches along the western superstructure. Engineers would enter through a damaged ammunition elevator identified by surviving crewmen. A reserve company would remain aboard circling Valkyries until Creed knew which assault had encountered the greatest resistance.
The Talons received more precise orders.
Their first teams would teleport into the internal vox-routing chambers and disable the traitors' ability to coordinate. Others would seize door controls, emergency transit lifts, and secondary command relays. Several squads were assigned to hunt Volscani officers rather than hold ground.
The first teleportation cycle began.
Inside the Chimera, the vox filled with bursts of static, clipped confirmations, and sudden gunfire.
"Talon One materialized. Junction secure."
"Talon Three encountered resistance. Seven hostiles down. Two wounded."
"Bulkhead controls captured. Opening passage for Assault Group Kappa."
"Enemy demolitions team moving toward the eastern generator deck."
Creed listened while drawing.
Every report added another corridor, lift shaft, defensive position, or enemy route to the map spreading across his knee. The damaged hololithic table could not provide him with a reliable image, so he built one himself in ink.
Lines marked the Leviathan's principal decks. Crosses represented confirmed fighting. Circles marked loyalist strongpoints. Arrows showed the likely direction of Volscani movement. Creed wrote unit designations in cramped block script, then crossed them out and replaced them as the situation changed.
Klein watched in silence.
At first, he assumed Creed was simply recording the reports. Then he noticed that the Lord General was drawing corridors and access routes before the assault officers described them.
Creed would mark an intersection, issue an order, and moments later receive confirmation that the passage existed exactly where he had placed it.
The Leviathan was not built according to a universal pattern. Command carriers of its class were rare, ancient, and heavily modified over centuries of service. No two possessed identical internal layouts. This particular vehicle had served two former Lord Castellans, each of whom had altered its command decks, armor, communications systems, and defensive compartments according to personal preference.
Creed's knowledge could not have come from standard training manuals.
"There are still more than five thousand loyal troops aboard," Creed said around the lho-stick. "Most have consolidated around the void-shield generators and primary command nexus."
He marked both locations on the paper.
"Smart. The Volscani need the carrier intact. If they destroy either section carelessly, they risk losing the systems they came to seize."
Klein leaned closer.
"You knew the loyalists would withdraw there."
"I knew those were the strongest compartments with independent power, internal stores, and defensible access corridors."
"That isn't what I meant."
Creed's stylus paused.
Klein pointed toward the map.
"You know where the traitors are moving before your officers report them. You know which lifts connect to which decks. You even know the maintenance passages."
Creed resumed drawing.
"I have been preparing for this possibility for a long time."
A transmission burst over the vox before Klein could respond.
"Assault Group Delta to command. Heavy resistance on the fourth command deck. Enemy has established overlapping hellgun positions along the main corridor."
Creed glanced at his map.
"Do not advance through the main corridor. Breach the compartment wall thirty meters north of your position. There is a staff archive on the other side. Talon Nine will meet you there and strike the defenders from behind."
"Understood."
The channel closed.
"I've been preparing for this for a long time," Creed placed another mark on the paper.
Klein frowned.
"You believed this could happen, yet you never warned the Lord Castellans?"
He did not know about the warning Qin Mo had passed down. To Klein, Creed's suspicions appeared to have been built entirely from observation and experience.
Creed did not look up.
"What would you tell the Lord of Talon if one of his most honored regiments might someday betray him?"
Klein's expression became guarded. Creed continued before he could answer.
"You would need proof. Not a list of soldiers. Proof." He shifted the lho-stick to the other side of his mouth. "Without it, the lord of Talon would investigate every officer connected to the regiment, half his command staff would begin accusing the other half, and the suspected traitors would learn they were being watched. Cadia would have done the same, only with more executions and worse paperwork."
Klein grimaced despite himself.
"That is probably accurate."
"I had suspicion, not a real proof. Reporting it would have produced panic, political infighting, and possibly a purge of loyal officers. So I prepared for the outcome instead."
Klein fell silent.
In hindsight, Creed's choice had been brutally rational. An accusation without evidence might have destroyed careers, fractured the Cadian command structure, or warned the Volscani to change their plan. Quiet preparation had preserved the only advantage Creed possessed: when the betrayal finally came, he was not surprised.
Creed continued directing the assault. The operation unfolded across dozens of simultaneous engagements.
Talon Four materialized inside a secondary hangar control room, killed the Volscani officers coordinating incoming transports, and vented the flight deck before enemy reinforcements could land. Talon Seven appeared behind an enemy demolition team preparing to destroy the eastern power conduits. Talon Eleven seized an internal transit lift, held it for four minutes against repeated counterattacks, and delivered two hundred conventional assault troops directly into the center of the carrier.
Every teleportation jump had to be chosen carefully.
The merchant vessel's array could reposition the Talons repeatedly, but targeting inside the Leviathan became more difficult as the traitors damaged internal sensors and activated jamming equipment. The portable shields prevented soldiers from being torn apart during transmission, yet they could not guarantee an empty arrival point without reliable coordinates.
Creed compensated through timing and information.
He moved the Talons only into compartments confirmed by loyalist survivors, captured surveillance systems, or the reports of other assault groups. When uncertainty remained, he sent pairs of reconnaissance beacons through first. Several were destroyed immediately. Their brief signals still revealed enough for Creed to redirect the attack.
Kell remained beside the vox station, relaying orders both to the Leviathan assault and to the defenses outside.
"Western line reports three enemy carriers advancing behind smoke."
Creed did not lift his eyes from the map.
"Move the remaining missile teams to Sector Twelve. Hold fire until the carriers pass the wrecked Baneblade, then strike the lead and rear vehicles. Trap the others between them."
Kell transmitted the order. A moment later, another voice cut through the channel.
"General Varro has reached the line with remnants of the 22nd and requests command authority over the northern sectors."
"Give him Sectors Nine through Fourteen. Tell him ammunition is limited and the artillery observers answer directly to me."
"The 61st's commander objects. He claims seniority."
"Tell him he may file the objection after Cadia survives."
Kell's mouth twitched.
"Yes, sir."
Two other regimental generals arrived at the Chimera in person while the fighting continued. One had lost his command vehicle and most of his staff. The other still wore a bloodstained medicae bandage around his head and insisted the wound was superficial despite being unable to hear from one ear.
Creed greeted both without ceremony.
He assigned them sectors, asked three questions about their effective strength, and returned to the Leviathan operation before either man could offer a formal report. They left with clear orders and the uncomfortable realization that Creed had understood the condition of their regiments more quickly than they had explained it.
Klein watched the exchange with growing disbelief.
Creed was simultaneously directing an assault inside the Leviathan, stabilizing the 8th's defensive perimeter, integrating the remnants of other regiments, and rebuilding a command network across the Tyrok Fields. He did not appear hurried. He simply discarded every detail that did not affect the next decision.
There was no wasted motion. No dramatic speech. No attempt to prove his authority.
Orders went out. Reports returned. The battle changed shape.
The Talons continued making repeated jumps through the Leviathan's interior. Their objectives shifted as Creed's map became more complete.
One squad assassinated the Volscani major coordinating resistance on the lower command decks. Another destroyed three Valkyries after enemy pilots attempted to launch them from an internal hangar. Two Talon teams appeared on opposite sides of an entrenched traitor company at the same moment, forcing the Volscani to divide their fire just as loyalist survivors attacked from the front.
Progress was measured not merely in captured compartments, but in restored systems.
The loyalists regained control of the western internal vox network. Emergency lighting returned on three decks. Damage-control crews sealed ruptured fuel lines before fire could reach an ammunition magazine. A surviving staff officer recovered partial command codes from a dead Volscani colonel and used them to lock several blast doors behind retreating traitors.
The assault was no longer a collection of isolated boarding actions. It had become a coordinated reclamation of the carrier, compartment by compartment.
After issuing the final teleportation order, Creed studied the map for several seconds.
The Talons were being sent into the aft command relay, the last position from which the Volscani could coordinate an organized defense. Conventional assault teams were already closing from two directions. Loyalist survivors held the third approach.
There was nowhere left for the traitors to withdraw.
Creed drove the stylus through the center of the paper, pinning it to the wooden board beneath.
"That is enough."
He leaned back for the first time since entering the Chimera and removed the lho-stick from his mouth. Only a narrow, smoldering remnant remained.
"Kell, return to the line. General Varro will need help reorganizing the northern reserve. Tell the engineers to prepare landing space for wounded evacuated from the Leviathan."
Kell rose immediately.
"Yes, sir."
He opened the rear hatch and stepped down into the smoke, already issuing new orders through his vox-bead before his boots reached the ground.
The fighting aboard the Leviathan continued, but the outcome was no longer in serious doubt. Volscani units had been cut into isolated pockets. Their officers were dead or separated from their troops. Loyalist forces controlled the void-shield generators, the primary command nexus, most internal lifts, and every functioning hangar.
Creed no longer needed to dictate each movement. His subordinates understood the plan, possessed local superiority, and knew which objectives mattered. Further interference would only slow them.
Now he had to wait.
For Creed, waiting was often the most unpleasant part of command.
Outside the Chimera, artillery continued to fall. The armored hull trembled beneath distant impacts. Wounded soldiers passed through the trenches toward improvised aid stations, while fresh units moved in the opposite direction carrying ammunition and replacement weapons.
Klein remained seated across from him, staring at the hand-drawn map. The paper had become a dense web of lines, symbols, corrections, names, and arrows. To anyone else it might have looked like an untidy collection of field notes. To Creed it represented thousands of soldiers fighting through a machine the size of a fortress.
At last, Creed released a long breath.
"By the Golden Throne." A rare smile tugged at the edge of his otherwise impassive expression. "You Talon officers must have it easy."
Creed gestured toward the map.
"An assault unit that can appear behind any defensive position, kill the officers, open the doors, and vanish before the enemy reorganizes? I would kill for a force like that."
Klein leaned back against the Chimera's bulkhead.
"You could join the First Legion."
Creed raised an eyebrow.
Klein continued with a faint grin.
"The lord of Talon would make you a Lord Marshal before the ink dried on the appointment. You could have teleportation arrays, gravitic shielding, obedient drones, and enough targeting data to know what the enemy had for breakfast."
It was clearly a joke. Creed answered with complete seriousness.
"Every Cadian is born with a sacred duty granted by the Emperor Himself: to defend the Cadian Gate until our dying breath."
The smile disappeared from his face, replaced by the unyielding conviction Klein had seen on the firing line.
"I cannot abandon that duty."
Klein stared at him for a moment, then sighed.
"Do you have to be serious all the time?" He rubbed a hand across his face. "I was trying to lighten the mood, not begin a theological discussion about oaths, destiny, and the spiritual significance of dying within artillery range of the Eye of Terror."
Creed considered the complaint.
"You chose the wrong Cadian."
Before Klein could decide whether that had been another joke, the Chimera's rear hatch slammed open.
Kell climbed inside, breathing hard from the run. Dust coated his greatcoat, and a fresh streak of blood marked one sleeve, though his expression was triumphant.
"The Leviathan has been secured!"
Creed did not appear surprised. He retrieved another lho-stick from a battered case, lit it, and nodded once.
"Casualties?"
"Still being counted. Heavy among the first conventional assault groups. The Talons lost twenty-three dead and thirty-one wounded. Loyalist survivors are clearing the remaining compartments."
Creed absorbed the numbers without visible reaction. Victory did not make the dead less dead. Their names would be recorded, their equipment recovered, and their places filled if replacements existed. Grief could come later, when there were fewer decisions capable of killing the living.
"Begin transferring the wounded aboard," he said. "Use the carrier's medicae decks once the engineers confirm they are secure. Restore internal life support and communications before anything else."
Kell waited. Creed looked up.
"Something else?"
"You're not boarding the Leviathan?"
The question carried more surprise than insubordination. Everyone had assumed Creed would immediately reclaim the command nexus and take personal control of the vehicle that had once served Cadia's highest officers.
Creed shook his head.
"Not yet."
He tapped ash from his lho-stick into an empty ration tin.
"One command carrier does not give us an army. I will board when at least a dozen other generals are prepared to join me for a strategic conference. Until then, the Leviathan is a fortified hospital, communications hub, and rally point. Get the wounded inside first."
Kell opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Creed had no interest in occupying the command throne merely for the appearance of authority. The carrier mattered because of what it could do, not because standing inside it would make him look like Cadia's new ruler. Until the surviving generals accepted a common strategy, seizing the command nexus personally would risk turning emergency coordination into a political declaration.
"Understood," Kell said. Then he remembered the other reason he had returned. "General Thane is inbound aboard a transport. Twenty other generals are with him."
Creed's eyes narrowed slightly.
Twenty-one generals.
That was more than enough for the conference he had requested. More importantly, it meant the 8th had established contact with at least twenty-one surviving regimental command structures. Each general represented troops, armor, artillery, fuel, transport, or fragments of information from another portion of the Tyrok Fields.
The loyalists were still divided, but no longer blind.
Coordination on that scale would be essential. The Volscani remained numerous, disciplined, and heavily equipped. Retaking the Leviathan had restored a command platform, but the battle itself was far from won.
Creed rose and pulled on his gloves.
"Thane…" His brow furrowed. This was not the first time General Thane had irritated him.
The commander of the 97th Cadian Shock Troopers was an experienced officer, politically connected and fiercely protective of his authority. He was also widely rumored to lead an informal group of senior commanders known among junior staff as the "Anti-Creed Alliance."
The name was melodramatic. The resentment behind it was real.
Creed's rise through the ranks had been too rapid for many established officers to accept. He had earned promotions through battlefield success rather than family influence, patronage, or decades spent navigating Cadia's command bureaucracy. Every victory drew greater attention. Every successful plan made an older commander wonder why Creed had seen the answer first.
Thane and several others had opposed his appointments, obstructed his recommendations, questioned his requisition requests, and ensured that every minor failure connected to the 8th received more scrutiny than it deserved.
Creed had never treated the rumors as seriously as Kell did. Officers could dislike one another and remain useful. Personal resentment became a military concern only when it interfered with the war.
Kell, however, had no patience for it. His fist tightened around the vox-handset.
"Want me to tell Thane to piss off?"
Klein glanced between them, clearly interested in the answer.
Creed stepped down from the Chimera. Cadia's ash-laden wind caught his greatcoat at once, whipping it around his legs as another artillery barrage rolled across the distant fields. Beyond the trenches, the reclaimed Leviathan towered through the smoke, its weapons turning slowly back toward the Volscani lines.
"This is war," Creed said. "As long as Thane hates the Volscani as much as he hates me, he can stay."
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