by Andy Hoare
‘Sarik!’ Lucian shouted, praying that his voice was being transmitted at full signal strength on all available frequencies. ‘Sarik, power up your main drives right now!’
An instant later Lucian saw that his transmission had got through. The Nomad’s drives flared into life, crimson fire belching from them. The swarm of tau decoys was almost upon the Nomad when her drives spat into life, and they were incinerated in an instant, seared to ash and scattered into the void in a matter of seconds.
There, where the decoys had been clustered most densely, Lucian saw what he had guessed would be revealed: more of the tau armoured suits. Each was equipped with fusion weapons capable of ripping a crippled vessel to glowing pieces, and they had sought to approach the wounded frigate under the cover of the decoys. Now, the suits battled against the steadily increasing wash of the Nomad’s drives. Armoured plating, the likes of which Lucian had rarely seen, kept them going, even though the unprotected decoys had lasted mere seconds. The fire of the frigate’s drives was so bright that Lucian was barely able to see. Nevertheless he watched the bulking forms as they blackened, their metal skins melting and running off in great billowing streams of vaporised armour. He watched as each suit took on the aspect of a comet rapidly shedding its mass.
At last, the armoured suits were blasted to their constituent atoms as the Nomad’s drives reached full output, the Space Marine frigate powering inexorably towards the space station, its ultimate target.
Lucian crossed his arms at the viewing port. ‘Shields up, forward weapons target enemy ship’s bridge. Fire!’
The scene that greeted Lucian as he stepped out of the airlock onto the tau orbital was one of unrestrained slaughter. He saw that the station had been, before the coming of the Space Marines, a well-ordered place, well lit and spacious. Now, it was a bloody mess, the formerly white, gracefully curved bulkheads bloody and scorched.
Having made their boarding action, Sarik’s Space Marines had rampaged through the hasty and ultimately fruitless resistance mounted against them. The tau had put up a fight, retreating in the face of the Space Marines’ righteous fury, falling back down the corridors of their station, firing their alien weapons from concealed ambush points for as long as they were able.
Lucian was shocked, not by the savagery of the fighting, but by the fact that the tau defenders had continued to fight in the face of such impossible odds. He was shocked that they had not surrendered, or attempted to flee in the lifeboats that the station must surely have been equipped with. The tau cruiser had surrendered once beaten, why hadn’t they?
The corridor into which Lucian stepped bore grisly witness to the brief fight. Huge, smoking chunks were blown from the off-white walls of the curved companionway, and tau bodies were strewn across the deck. He stepped over the body of a tau warrior, sprawled face down before him, and then stopped to look upon the body of another. The second was propped against the corridor’s wall, and though clearly dead, had not died instantly from its wounds. The loops of its guts had spilled over its legs, falling over the cradling arms that had attempted in vain to hold them in. A bolter shell fired at close range will have that effect, Lucian mused grimly, knowing full well that the explosive bolts fired by the Space Marines’ weapons were lethal to any target of flesh and bone.
Lucian went down on one knee to look upon the dead warrior’s face. The thought struck him that in his brief, ship-to-ship encounters with this new, previously unheard of race, he must have killed several thousand of their number, but until now he had not looked one in the eye. He had not known just who, or what he was dealing with. Now he looked upon the face of his foe, bloodied and broken as it was.
The face was narrow and noseless, with a small, lipless mouth, and was dominated by large, black, almond-shaped eyes. The skin was a blue-grey, and there was a slit in the centre of the forehead, an organ for which Lucian could see no obvious function. The alien was not tall, its stocky body certainly no taller than that of a man of average height. Its body was arranged in the same manner as a man’s though, apart from its feet, which appeared cloven, though his son Korvane, who had met the aliens in the living flesh, had informed him they were not hooves, but more like wide-splayed toes.
Looking around him at the other bodies, Lucian marvelled that the aliens could have even thought to fight against the superhuman Space Marines of Sarik’s small force. Blood was spattered across every surface, severed limbs scattered all around. The remains of a tau that had been cut in two by a single upward stroke of a chainsword lay nearby, split from groin to crown, the two halves of the body lying several metres apart. Lucian had never failed to be impressed by the Space Marines’ skills, and was always reminded how fortunate he was that they were on the same side as him.
Lucian looked up from the bloody ruin as he heard footsteps approaching along the corridor. It was his son, Korvane, stepping gingerly across the headless corpse of a tau warrior. Lucian stood, a wide grin on his face, the scenes of death around him forgotten.
‘Father,’ Korvane said formally. Lucian noted that he appeared cold and aloof, but put it down to a reaction to the unpleasant surroundings.
‘Korvane, what news?’
‘The council, father. Gurney has called a session, right here, on the station, immediately.’
‘Has he indeed?’ replied Lucian, knowing that this news could only bode ill for him and his kin. ‘He’s riled that we got here ahead of him I’ll wager. Ha! This should be fun. Come on, we can’t keep the good Cardinal waiting now can we, son.’
Chapter Two
Sarik gritted his teeth as the drop-pod disengaged from its cradle, his gene enhanced physiology coping with the punishing forces set into motion as the world of Sy’l’Kell leapt violently upwards to meet him. Course correcting retro jets fired seconds later, slamming the Space Marine’s armoured shoulder into the padded, upright acceleration/deceleration couch into which he was strapped. The tiny vessel, with its cargo of ten of humanity’s finest warriors was underway.
Sarik knew that the drop would be over as soon as it began. He had completed thirty-eight full combat drops before attaining the rank of Brethren, and he had completed, and commanded, many times more since. The pod shook violently, and a mechanical chime sounded in Sarik’s ear. He glanced across at the tactical data-slate. The drop-pod was entering the upper atmosphere, its armour absorbing unimaginable energies as it began the main portion of its descent.
‘Phase beta. The Khan and His Father protect us.’ Sarik spoke the words of the Rite of Planetfall by rote, the other nine Space Marines echoing his words over the comm-net.
The White Scars were coming to Sy’l’Kell to bring death to the foes of the Emperor, and no alien that Sarik had ever fought could hope to stand against them.
‘Your name, sir?’ A very junior naval sub-officer demanded of Lucian, in the manner of a man revelling in unfamiliar authority. The officer stood at the end of the typically stark, white corridor, blocking a large round doorway stencilled with a square icon, the meaning of which was totally lost to Lucian.
Lucian halted as he approached, the officer barring his passage through the circular portal. ‘What?’
‘Your name, sir,’ the officer faltered.
Lucian was in no mood to be challenged by officious flunkies. He drew himself up to his full height, savouring the opportunity to vent some spleen, when he was interrupted.
‘This,’ he heard Korvane snap from over his shoulder, ‘is the Lord Arcadius Lucian Gerrit, Heritor of the Clan Arcadius, as well you know.’
The officer stammered, his mouth opening and closing in a manner quite unbefitting his rank. Would he really be so stupid as to bar the rogue trader’s passage? Lucian prepared to unleash a tirade of invective, but saw that it would not be necessary. The man stood aside, evidently cowed by Lucian’s stern manner, or by Korvane’s recitation of his credentials.
Lucian grun
ted and put the fool out of his mind. He resumed his passage down the curved, stark white corridor of the tau orbital station, the armoured door rolling into the wall in near silence as he approached it.
Beyond the round portal, Lucian could make out the huge hall that the crusade council had commandeered for its latest session. The circular chamber, its ceiling entirely illuminated and glowing white, was home to a round conference table capable of seating two dozen and more delegates in the high-backed, shell-like seats mounted around it. The far wall was one sweeping window, affording an impressive view of the purple landmasses and turquoise seas of the world around which the station orbited.
As curious and attentive as Lucian was to such matters, however, the primary focus of his attention were the figures filing in to the chamber from a dozen other portals. The crusade council was made up of some of the most influential men on the Eastern Rim, each attended by a flock of scribes, servants and functionaries of indeterminate purpose.
Lucian stepped through the portal, unaccustomed to the stark white light illuminating the scene. The chamber, he was informed, had been the meeting place of the high council of the tau rulers of this place until mere hours before. A wide bloodstain smeared across the centre of the table attested to the fact that the station’s previous owners had not relinquished it willingly. Lucian appreciated the theatrical conceit inherent in holding the council in such a place. He strongly suspected, in fact that whoever had decided upon doing so had ordered that the bloodstain remain in place, only to be washed away once its message had been well and truly imparted.
The drop-pod’s assault ramps burst open on explosive bolts the instant the vessel struck the ground, its ten passengers disembarking with a clatter of armoured soles before its drives had even shut off. Sarik looked around, comparing the scene that greeted him with the tactical display overlaid on his vision by his helmet’s systems.
‘Squad!’ he bellowed over the scream of more incoming drop pods. ‘To me!’
Sarik scanned the landing zone as his cohorts took up position around him. Each Space Marine was a giant, his enhanced physique far taller and broader than any normal man. Each wore a suit of all-enclosing armour, capable of withstanding the harshest of environments and of protecting him from the fiercest of enemy fire. That armour was painted the white with red trim of the White Scars Chapter of Space Marines, the wild, proud sons of Jaghatai Khan, children of the feral nomads of Chogoris, and one of the most celebrated and feared chapters in the Imperium.
The scene before Sarik and his squad was one he had witnessed many times before. He gave silent thanks to the war spirit of the drop-pod for delivering them safely through the world’s atmosphere, to this place in which he would serve the Emperor, and if called upon to do so, die in his service.
The landing zone was atop a high plateau, a flat expanse between two spurs of the world’s largest mountain range. The air was cold and clean, and low clouds scudded across the contrail streaked sky. The ground underfoot was rough and uneven, strewn with loose boulders, but of no hindrance to a Space Marine. It had been selected for one reason and one reason only: it was the site of the world’s alien government, the single organ that, if excised, would spell the immediate death of the entire body. The Space Marines were the Imperium’s terror troops. Their mission was to strike at the very heart of the Imperium’s enemies, to rip that still-beating heart out, without mercy or delay, and in so doing to slay the enemy utterly, that none might rise in his place ever again.
‘Objective Primus, five hundred, fifteen east, moonrise. On me!’ Sarik used the battle-cant of his chapter, a series of clipped commands that his men understood without hesitation, but which any enemy able to intercept them would find entirely unintelligible. Sarik advanced, his men formed behind according to his orders. All eyes were fixed on their objective, a fortified building at the very edge of the plateau, melded into the nearest of the mountain peaks. Surface-to-orbit missiles streaked upwards from automated turrets atop the fort, while bright tracers spat incandescent death across the plateau. Sarik heard the ultra-high velocity rounds sing as they split the air nearby. He looked into the skies, to see more drop-pods descending upon columns of fire, retro thrusters screaming. Soon the squads of the Iron Hands and the other chapters would join his own, but for now, he thought with a feral grin, the White Scars were at the very spear tip of the assault on Sy’l’Kell.
‘Sons of Khan!’ he bellowed, unashamed of the joy and pride audible in his voice. ‘Let us show our brothers how the White Scars fight!’
‘I declare!’ Lucian winced as the Cardinal’s booming voice filled the chamber, ‘Our mission here anointed by the Most Holy God Emperor of Mankind! The Damocles Gulf shall be crossed, the darkness pierced! So it has been decreed, and so it falls to us to enact!’
The Cardinal of Brimlock, Esau Gurney, had risen from his seat to pronounce the council in session. Lucian knew that he would proceed in such a manner for long minutes, declaring the benefaction of the Emperor upon the crusade’s undertaking. He would make it abundantly clear, much to Lucian’s chagrin, that it was through the cardinal’s own authority that such benefactions were granted.
Lucian sighed inwardly and glanced around the table, the cardinal’s words receding into the distance. He had heard the exact same speech on at least a dozen occasions now, Gurney’s ranting tone growing more and more strident each time the council had sat.
The cardinal was placed directly across the huge, round table from Lucian, a flock of scribes and minor Ecclesiarchy officials clustered behind him. Those that were not engaged in recording their master’s every word in spidery script across flowing parchment seemed intent upon producing a bank of cloying holy incense from wildly swinging burners. Such displays were not in Lucian’s nature; he had been reared an Emperor fearing man, but placed little value in such ceremony. The Emperor, Lucian believed, helped those who helped themselves, ignoring those undeserving of his attentions.
To the cardinal’s left sat a man for whom Lucian had far more respect. The hooded figure appeared capable of finding a shadowy space even below the direct lighting cast by the brightly illuminated ceiling above. This was Inquisitor Grand, an agent of the Ordo Xenos and no doubt the single most dangerous man in the entire crusade fleet. The inquisitor, for reasons Lucian had not yet determined, had chosen to ally himself with the cardinal. He preferred, it seemed to Lucian, to remain, literally, in the shadows. The man sat at council, casting his vote with the rest of the cardinal’s faction, but rarely made any overt show of power. Such a man was to be watched closely, Lucian had determined, and watch him he most certainly would.
Looking to the inquisitor’s left, Lucian exchanged a glance with General Wendall Gauge. A hard, battle-worn man from the death world of Catachan, Gauge had been appointed the commander-in-chief of the Imperial Guard regiments assigned to the crusade. Lucian considered him a sound choice, and had liked the taciturn old veteran the instant they had met, mere weeks after the pronouncement of the crusade. The General had until recently been serving as adjutant to the noted Lord Marshall Holt in his prosecution of the Wendigo Gulf rebellion, but had, he told Lucian, grown tired of the so-called “great man’s” shadow. He had not expounded further, but upon hearing of the founding of the crusade, had exerted considerable influence to gain his rank. Lucian saw in Gauge a potential ally on the council, through whom he might gain power over the cardinal and his faction, though he knew he had a long way to go before he could bring such power to bear.
His mind brought back to the cardinal, Lucian focused once more on the stream of oratory that Gurney was spewing across the table.
‘To us falls the most holy task of eradicating these foul xenos beasts, of putting down the heresy of their existence. We who pledge allegiance…’ The rant went on, Lucian deciding it was safe to ignore the man once more. He regarded the figure next to the general.
Admiral Jellaqua appeared to b
e in his early fifties, but must have been far older given his rank as commander of the Imperial Navy vessels assigned to the Damocles Gulf crusade. He was stout with a broad chest; a goatee beard and sly eyes his most striking features. Like the general, Lucian saw the admiral as a potential ally, one he would have to work hard to court, but a man whose aid would no doubt prove invaluable in the conflict to come, against the tau and the cardinal both. Jellaqua was a man who brooked no nonsense or affectation from any around him, whether subordinate or peer.
As the cardinal’s address droned on, Lucian’s glance passed to the empty seat to the admiral’s left and his own right. It was the position in which Captain Rumann of the Iron Hands Space Marines would ordinarily have sat. Lucian had never before encountered the brethren of that chapter, though he knew them to be cold and methodical in their approach to war, and to bear an unusual amount of cybernetic enhancement. Rumann was absent, leading the Space Marine forces as they assaulted the tau centres of power on the world below, fighting and no doubt shedding their blood even as the council sat and the cardinal ranted. The crusade force was fortunate to be attended by detachments from a number of Space Marine chapters, and the captain of the Iron Hands had been elected by his peers to represent their interests on the crusade council, and was as such the most senior ranked Space Marine in the fleet. Rumann was a man the like of whom Lucian had seldom met. He was as aloof as any other Space Marine, but far colder and more distant than any Lucian had encountered. He really could not tell whether Rumann might prove a sturdy ally or a terrible enemy, or even whether the Space Marine had any awareness or concern of such matters. Lucian determined to pursue the matter further at the first opportunity.
To Lucian’s left was an empty seat that belonged to the second Space Marine on the council, also absent, leading his forces in battle on the world below. Veteran Sergeant Sarik of the White Scars Chapter had been elected Rumann’s second, and in Lucian’s opinion provided the perfect counterpoint to the taciturn captain. In common with his kin, Sarik was hot-blooded and wild, yet surly and stubborn in the pursuit of victory. The White Scars hailed from the windswept steppes of the feral world of Chogoris. He preferred not to dwell on the savage beauty of that world, for it was the place that had given birth to his first wife, and the world upon which Brielle had been raised amongst the ruling classes of that race of noble savages. He cast the memory aside as quickly as it came to him, glancing instead to the next seat along.