Your kill-team looks like a set of self-illuminating statues with the bioluminescent ichor splattered all over your armor (and coating Gorlin from helmet crest to boot-sole), so hiding in the shadows isn’t really an option anymore. You decide against blindly rushing ahead as you assemble your kill team by the hatch leading out the far side of the feast hall. Lictors may tend to operate alone, but that doesn’t mean that other tyranids aren’t waiting to ambush you.

Losis make a snark-laiden remark about a dancer at an underhive rave, but before Hagrdict can ask for clarification, another rumbling explosion shakes the deck. You are puzzled for a moment, but then your autosenses pic a distant keening sound out of the hash of static. You can’t place it at once, until it peaks slightly louder and a third explosion rocks the deck beneath your feet.

“Screamer-Killer. We need to move carefully and be ready.”

Losis cocks his head as much as his helmet and breastplate will allow, “how dangerous is a ‘Screamer-Killer?’ “

You crack the hatch and motion Gorlin through it, talking as you advance, “Genus Tyranicus, species Carnifex Primus, colloquial names include Screamer-Killer from the noise it makes. Multi-ton bio-engineered living battering rams / close-assault beasts about the size of a Rhino APC or Predator tank.”

Hagrdict sounds worried, “Sounds like a handful to deal with, given our limited resources.”

“Mreh. Just a bigger target.” Gorlin could clearly care less, still riding high on the adrenaline rush from the earlier fight.

Losis’s over-eager grin is clearly audible in his voice, “Whatever the orks have left, it has driven the local hive-mind to expend a great deal of its limited resources to breed a siege-beast. And we get to kill it, the synapse-beast commanding it, and the orks. Excellent!”

“Remember the Codex’s instructions on fighting multiple opponents at once with an inferior force. It is better to strike suddenly where they are weakest then fight them all at once. And it is better still if we can get them to weaken each other first before we strike.”

Hagrdict’s confusion is audible, “So we let the tyranids consume to orks and grow stronger before attacking?”

Losis surprises you by jumping in, “No, we let the orks and tyranids tear each other up some, them pick off the leaders and major threats before mopping up the leftovers.”

“Ah! Strike while both foes are weak.”

“If there are any orks still alive when we get there.”

Gorlin leads off and your kill-team moves out, quick and quiet, as inconspicuous as four bioluminous metal statues can be.

Eighty-Two Minutes Later…

You crouch across the hall from Gorlin, covering the corner with your bolter. The hallway is rather wide, probably the end of the Axial One cargo corridor that ran through the spine of whatever Imperial Navy cruiser was luckless enough to be captured by the orks and turned into the Rok Breka. Which would mean that the officer’s quarters and the bridge are around this exact corner. There would be no other access points on an Imperial ship, a deliberate security measure to make storming the bridge as difficult as possible. Given that you and your team have seen no deliberate alterations the the deckplan, you are reasonably sure that the main tyranid force and the last of the ork holdouts are all just around the bend.

The Carnifex’s screech is unbearably loud, intermixed with the scrape of claws and talons on metal. You hear the slam of chitin on metal as it crashes into the bulkhead leading to the bridge. This time, unlike the last few, the screech of tearing plasteel is deafening as the Carnifex shatters the bulkhead. The rush of chitin on metal of the charging tyranids is met by the thunder of gunfire and a raucous WAAAARGH! from the orks. You give the fight a few moments to get started, waiting just long enough for the tyranids (including the carnifex) to become fully committed to storming the bridge.

Over the crash and roar of combat, you can clearly hear a shouted orkish command. A questioning response, and then the command is loudly repeated, before the speaker is cut off with the sudden abruptness of instant death.

Moments later, a voice comes over the intraship voxcasters. It is the stilted, emotionless, artificial tones of an imperial servitor, still in service despite its abuse at the hands of the orks.

“Attention all hands. Ship self-immolation sequence activated. Magazine, Plasma-, and Warp- core detonation will occur in ten minutes. All hands are to pray to the God-Emperor for forgiveness of your sins.”