Quivaria - Compliance

	Knight-Lord Valerian Arxus stood upon the elevated watchpoint of the imperial forwards operating base, located planetside just outside the bounds of one of the world’s massive cities.  Behind him stood ‘Arina’, the capital of the nation of the same name on the Quivarian homeworld.  The Legion had arrived not three hours prior, exiting the jump from Odyn to the world tentatively called ‘Quivaria’ within sight of the planet’s strongest satellites and terrestrial telescopes.  Dozens of vessels had lit the primitive world’s skies, the fusion-burst of impulse thrusters glittering - so he assumed - like so many new stars in the planet’s night cycle.
	Their arrival had offered the Quivarians a stellar culture shock that was not uncommon in primitive races, and some of the more aware members of the warring power blocs had sought to try some futile resistance against the flotilla: Firing ballistic cruise missiles and other high-yield ordnance at the descending transports breaking through the planet’s atmosphere.  Thanks both to the durasteel hulls and considerable shielding of the Navy’s vessels, the attacks had been little more than idle irritants: Incapable of threatening the countless Imperial Knights and Cult of Code War Machines within the transports.
	First contact had gone precisely as planned, with strategic assaults on the Arinan government and military headquarters eliminating any organised resistance to the compliance action before it could begin on the continent.  For hours following first contact the fleet had been deploying, with thousands of Legion Aeternus Knights and Cult of Code Code-Priests and War Machines - as well as their Droid Armies - deploying to the planet in force.  What little isolated resistance had formed was quickly dealt with, and once the sheer impossibility of what they faced had struck them, most Quivarian soldiers had surrendered without incident.
	So it was that Valerian stood with his plumed helmet under his right arm, his bone-grey and black warplate regrettably pristine under the blazing lights of a bustling FOB outside Arina.  To his left stood Warsmith Chelsak, the Gogan modified in such a manner as Valerian had never expected to see from one of such a spiritual race.  Despite his origins, the towering cyborg appeared quite comfortable in his role prosecuting a war on behalf of the Cult, perhaps drawing on the ingrained traditions and knowledge of his nation in orchestrating his forces.  Massive fifteen metre Warhounds thudded past towards the not-so-distant sounds of pitched battle; one of the primary sites of warfare on the planet. They were guarded by Knights of the Tenth Legion Aeternus, War Droids of the Cult, and Code-Priests adorned in robes, armour, and Cult symbolism from head to head - servo arms and spine-mounted weapons whirring and buzzing in anticipation of combat.
	While most residential and isolated military districts had surrendered, the intercontinental war had not truly abated, and even then the power blocs waged their bloody conflict - heedless of the imperial war machine bearing down upon them.  “What do you think?”  Valerian said to the Warsmith finally, turning from his impressed observation of the Cult’s ordered mobilisation to look to the cyborg.  “Can you force a capitulation before dawn?”
	Chelsak looked back at him with the kind of odd, childish glee he’d quickly come to understand was the norm for the Cult; a result of their temporary lobotomy at the hands of whatever nefarious entity had enslaved them prior to their restoration of independence.  “Before Dawn, Knight-Lord?  Ha!  Our Warhounds will have them begging for mercy before the sun dares to show its face!”
	Valerian raised an eyebrow, but didn’t express any doubt; he couldn’t help but believe in the Warsmith’s endearing level of self-confidence.  “Your Warhounds won’t leave a charnel house, I hope?  We intend these people to join the Cult.  Their soldiers will be valuable.”
	“No need to worry,” Chelsak responded jovially, “they will first learn fear, and then they will learn respect.  Once both are accomplished, they will surrender.  We will lose perhaps thirty percent; an acceptable reduction in assets.”
	The Knight-Lord was momentarily surprised by the detached manner in which the Warsmith spoke of slaughtering several hundred thousand soldiers, but then he considered the environment and the background of the Cult.  It would make sense that their childish joy extended to a carefree perspective on death.  “Your people do revel in creating war machines, from what I understand.  My brothers in the Legion are the same.  We take great pride in our mechanised war capability.”
	“Yes, so we have heard.”  Chelsak said with an enthusiastic nod.  “Is that not why the Emperor sent you here with us, Knight-Lord?  Because we share a love for the sacred arts of invoking the holy machine spirits?”
	“Ah.  Yes, I suppose that’s a fairly evident deduction.”  He paused.  “Machine Spirits.  Yes, I’ve heard this term spoken before, relating to your Cult’s beliefs.  A curious notion, that our Einherjar are holy spirits.  I don’t know if I fully believe it, but I can’t say it doesn’t hold some kind of odd sense in its dictation.  Coding very well could just be how we summon Intelligences to inhabit our drives.”
	“Precisely,” Chelsak said with a fervent nod.  “You should feel honoured and blessed, Knight-Lord, that your people are so beloved by the Machine Spirits.  Your Angelic Intelligences pervade your entire society and culture; it is a marvelous, wonderous thing.  If Odyn itself were not proof of your species’ divine favour, that surely is.”
	Valerian took a moment to process that, turning instead to where a real-time display of the near-but-distant battlefield was being broadcast across a patch of intentionally cleared earth.  The projection rendered everything in perfect detail, from the features of the hundreds of thousands of Quivarians fighting in their trenches; to the inexorable march of the Warhounds closing in on the unsuspecting primitives, alongside their Cult of Code and Legion escorts.
	“Our forces are closing in, Warsmith.”
	“Yes.  Good.”  The Warsmith turned, looking to where the Cult was as if he could see them perfectly, speaking across some unseen channel - via implant, perhaps? - to an unknown recipient.  The advancing forces acted independently now; the organics halting, while the Warhounds continued, only to pause further ahead.  “The escort forces will stay back near the treeline while the Warhounds advance.  No need for them to waste their ammunition, eh?  Besides, this is a demonstration!”
	Valerian turned to the Warsmith in amusement as the Gogan cyborg let loose another jovial laugh, looking immensely pleased, in emulation of a child given an endless supply of amusement with which to occupy themselves.  “I look forwards to seeing their effectiveness in combat, Warsmith, and relaying it to the Legion Master.”
	“Then behold--”  Chelsak said, throwing wide his arms as the Warhounds abruptly advanced in a single line, breaking the tree cover “--the might of the Cult of Code!”
	The Warhounds released a noise like an old fashioned tug boat, blaring what was unmistakably war horns like some sort of grand challenge, the sound of it rolling back in a wave towards the camp that was both discernible and extremely exacting.  On the real-time projection the massive warmachine strode forth, their weaponised arms moving with motive force as autocannons and high-yield gamma lasers were spooled up and fired: Colossal bursts of white-blue plasma searing out from others as they scythed down the Quivarians on both sides of the conflict.
	The wave of rolling death and amalgamated annihilation was a gospel revelation, something out of old Quivarian myths about the end of days from before their scientific enlightenment.  Entire companies broke rank and fled, joining the panicked forces of their enemies as they fought each other and the terrain itself, desperate to escape.  Valerian watched all this with calm, detached analysis; observing as the Warhounds released volley after volley, turning the trenches and war-scarred landscape into a burning mark of enforced obedience.
	Quivarians were obliterated by the dozens, torn to pieces by merciless autocannon slugs, vaporised by gamma lasers, or incinerated in the blazing bursts of plasma-based fire.  It was not merely a battle, but a statement to the entire primitive world of the capability of those who had come from beyond.  It was a mark that would be ingrained upon their collective racial memory; a harsh and visceral enlightenment of what true science, true engineering, looked like.
	Chelsak stood with eager and giddy excitement as the Warhounds continued to blare their horns in an almost merry way, causing incredulity in Valerian.  The sheer ridiculousness of colossal war machines trumpeting their joy at being in battle nearly made him laugh out loud, the urge suppressed only by decades of discipline.  The machines were magnificent, warforms worthy of the Emperor and more than that, worthy of Nova Terran respect and adoption.  He could already see the possibilities stretching out before him: The worlds they could conquer, the resistance they could quell.  With the Cult of Code, the Empire had done more than expand their dominion to encompass xenos.
	They had changed the very face of warfare, and the Galaxy had no idea.
	Valerian moved over to Chelsak and extended a massive, armoured hand to the Gogan - smiling from ear to ear despite himself as the Warsmith took it.  “You were right, Warsmith.  They are extraordinary.”
	“I take it that means you’ll give a good telling to your Legion Master, and he to our Emperor?”
	“Warsmith,” Valerian said very seriously, highlighted by the background projections of hundreds of thousands of primitives coming face to face with the cold, metallic spectres of the Machine Cult’s walking reapers.  “I’ll sing your praises from here to the throne of Nova Terra itself.”  The Knight-Lord nodded, thumping the cyborg on the shoulder.  “Welcome to the Empire, brother.”
	“I am honoured,” Chelsak replied, voice accompanied by the trilling horns of slaughtering warmachines.  “A home is all we have ever desired.  We are grateful.”  The slaughter continued unabated; there, and across Quivaria.
	The Warhounds were deployed at precisely 0100 Quivarian time.
	Compliance was achieved by 0400 the same morning.