by Gav Thorpe
For that matter, it had taken some effort to persuade Noriz to allow his vessel to be used as bait. The Imperial Fists captain was risking a lot, that much was true. If the reflex-shielded ships were detected too early then the whole plan would fail and the Imperial Fists would face the worst of the backlash.
All seemed to be going well, though. Aloni monitored the Steadfast’s progress, making minute adjustments with single attitude thrusters, nudging the starship onto a better heading as a machinist might trim away nanometres of a complex component on a las-lathe. As long as the traitors made no major course corrections the cruiser would intersect perfectly with the gaggle of lightly armed and poorly armoured freight-carriers.
The transports had mustered from the traitor-dominated forge world at Antasic IX and the manufactory of Kapel-5642A, en route to take their payloads of weapons to Carandiru. The Sons of Horus had been stretched thin over a dozen sectors by Raven Guard raids, as well as the massed assault of the Therion Cohort and their Titan Legion allies through the Euesa region, forcing the convoys to rendezvous in wilderness space like the Cretherach Reach. The beacon at Cretherach was the perfect point to bring together so many ships, and that was why the Steadfast and the other two ships had been lying in wait for nearly forty days.
As ship after ship had arrived, Aloni and the others had watched with growing amazement. They had hoped for a few vessels but the merchant fleet that had gathered suggested a sizeable reinforcement of Carandiru was being planned. It was a happy coincidence for the loyalists, and though the enemy were too numerous for a head-on assault it was a situation that could not be ignored.
Aloni frowned. The traitor light cruiser commander was being very bold, heading straight for the Wrathful Vanguard at full speed. Evidently the enemy captain was determined to spring the trap as quickly as possible, or perhaps believed he could defeat the strike cruiser without the aid of the other escorts. Noriz had to hold his nerve and get the frigates and destroyers as far away from the main convoy as possible; the grand cruiser would be too laborious to counter the Raven Guard attack and the remaining light cruiser was out of position performing scanner sweeps of the stellar debris fields.
Noriz also had to hold tight on another matter. A single communication, even a narrow-beam transmission, could give away the presence of the other two ships. Had the decoy ship been a Raven Guard vessel Aloni would not be stalking the displays so assiduously, but the Imperial Fists were an unknown quantity in these circumstances. Fine fighters, Aloni knew first-hand, but not as subtle as a warrior created under the Axioms of Corax.
Gaze fixed on the scanner returns, Aloni watched the Wrathful Vanguard closely, seeking some sign of what Noriz might do. It looked as though the Imperial Fists commander was going to meet the incoming light cruiser head-on, perhaps trying to force the traitor officers to commit to an attack without assistance.
It was a foolhardy move by both the Imperial Fists and the Sons of Horus; a mutual match of daring and show of ferocity to scare off the other, like two hounds baring their fangs at one another.
Aloni sighed. Years of war between the Legiones Astartes and there were still those who had learned nothing. For many foes of the Emperor the display of strength would have been enough, but this was legionaries fighting legionaries. Neither side would back down. Both ships’ captains were incapable of fear and would see their threats through to actual battle.
He considered whether he was being inconsiderate of Noriz’s expertise, and underestimating the poise of the Sons of Horus commander. Both having embarked upon a course of direct confrontation it was necessary to see through their actions to their consequence, knowing that to blink, to show a moment of weakness could spell disaster. They were locked on a collision course, maybe literally.
The commander of the Falcons, the corps comprised of the Raven Guard’s remaining assault companies, thought of a third option as he watched the two opposing vessels powering towards each other, determined to end each other in a short-ranged conflagration. The Imperial Fists had been known to engage heavily in honour-duelling, and the Sons of Horus were equally famed for their skill and dedication to single combat. It was entirely possible that the two commanders had, by virtue of common custom, a tacitly issued and accepted challenge between them. They would duel with starships and to the victor would go the spoils.
A flare of energy on the scanner indicated a sudden burst of thruster power. It came from the Wrathful Vanguard. Noriz’s ship burned its retros hard, swinging away from the light cruiser and flanking escorts. At first it looked as though the Imperial Fists commander had baulked at the attack, but Aloni knew better.
‘Praise to you, captain,’ whispered Aloni as he watched the Imperial Fists turn and draw the smaller enemy ships further from the convoy.
Long-range lance fire scattered returns across the display as the Sons of Horus moved into the pursuit, the spray of particles from activated void shields demonstrating that the officers of the Wrathful Vanguard had left it to the last moment before countering, ensuring the enemy would be committed.
Checking the Steadfast’s location, Aloni confirmed that his ship was almost in position. The next few minutes passed slowly as he watched his Imperial Fists allies dragging the enemy ships out of the battle sphere. Noriz could have easily ordered the reactors to overpower and burned away at full speed but instead he was staying just outside optimal range of the pursuing cruiser, trusting to the void shields to withstand the sporadic laser fire directed at them. It was canny fighting by both commanders. The Sons of Horus could not accelerate past battle speed without risking the Wrathful Vanguard turning and giving them a full broadside whilst they were vulnerable, but on the other hand Noriz was making sure he kept the enemy hopeful.
Moving to the engineering console, Aloni activated the internal communications.
‘Power up, full battle readiness.’
There was no need for spoken confirmation. Almost immediately the lights flickered to full power and displays and indicators blazed into life all across the strategium. The spread of multi-coloured glows reminded Aloni of the Deliverance Day celebrations across Kiavahr, when the tech-priests allowed the people of the forge world to commemorate those that had fallen to rescue the world from the tech-guilds. ‘Allowed’ was perhaps not the right term; the day of memory was enshrined in law by edict of Lord Corax as part of the agreement that had seen the Mechanicum take control of the planet.
Horus’s rebellion had ended that. No more Deliverance Day parades. No more celebrations of the ending of Old Night. Darkness had been brought back to the galaxy.
A single whoop of a siren signalled the move to attack stance. As well as this audio warning, a recovery rune flashed across the comms of every legionary aboard. Like statues coming to life, the bridge officers waiting dormant around the edges of the strategium powered up their suits. Eyes of yellow and red blazed into life as their auto-senses activated. Black-armoured giants stepped out of the diminishing gloom.
Aloni rattled off a string of commands as his lieutenants strode to their stations and servitors burbled into consciousness. His next act was to send a communication to Captain Noriz.
‘Gratitude, captain. I did not know the Imperial Fists were so adept at playing the part of bait.’ It took a few moments for the reply to crackle back.
‘We are the Sons of Dorn, the wall-brothers,’ Noriz replied. ‘We are used to letting the foe throw themselves at us. It is nice to actually withdraw once we have their attention.’
‘I suggest you do that, captain. I will see you when we rendezvous with the fleet.’
‘Good hunting, Commander Aloni.’
While the Wrathful Vanguard moved up to full power, opening the distance from the pursuing Sons of Horus as the Imperial Fists raced to get enough separation for a warp translation, the Steadfast arrowed into the heart of the enemy convoy. The power from the reflex shields diverte
d back into the void shield generators as the cruiser slid into range. Even now, fully revealed, it took a couple of minutes for the enemy sensors to detect the approaching ship.
As the Steadfast dived down into the midst of the convoy the Shadowstrike dropped its reflex shields and appeared about thirty thousand kilometres to port, on a crossing course.
‘All batteries, open fire!’ snapped Aloni as the main guns came into range. ‘Targets free!’
The Sons of Horus grand cruiser was turning ponderously towards the suddenly revealed Raven Guard ships, too far away to prevent the pair of void-predators slicing into the transports. Missiles, plasma and shells ripped into the virtually unprotected freighters while sporadic, ineffectual fire from enemy defence turrets splashed harmlessly against the warships’ fully active shields.
Blossom after blossom of exploding gas and plasma charted the course of the two hunters, one cutting down through the mass of cargo-haulers, the other moving along the length of the convoy. The enemy light cruiser turned sharply about but, with the other escorts so out of position, its commander was reluctant to face a pair of enemy vessels single-handed. The Sons of Horus could do nothing as the Raven Guard turned together, broadsides and dorsal weapons still blazing, and blasted a path back out of the fleet.
For some it might have been difficult to withdraw from the battle without once laying a shot upon the warships of the traitor Legion, but Aloni was well-versed in the Axioms of his primarch. There was nothing to be gained and everything to be risked by direct confrontation. The greater prize had been seized.
Twelve freighters destroyed, and another seven crippled, in a single attack run.
‘Losses not easily replaced,’ said Lieutenant Shaak, standing by the sensor array, sensing Aloni’s mood. ‘Legionaries without ammunition cannot storm Terra.’
‘True,’ said Aloni. He stared at the dispersing clouds that were all that remained of the obliterated transports. ‘Nor can they supply Carandiru. It would have been good to capture one or two, though. We’re not without our own supply issues, but that will have to wait for another day.’
‘Just as well we’re used to fighting with fists and sticks, eh?’ said Shaak. His tone turned grim. ‘Give me a company of real warriors over the gang-brats of Cthonia. Thought they could take us out and flit off to Terra in glory, did they? We’ll make these bastards regret not finishing the job on Isstvan.’
‘We certainly will, lieutenant. We certainly will.’
IX
Carandiru
[DV -30 minutes, adjusted Terran standard]
The golden flash of the Stormbird a few kilometres to the west drew Sergeant Chamell’s eye for a moment. It did the same for the crews manning the anti-air turrets around the target zone, drawing their attention away from the lone Whispercutter gliding silently towards the power station concealed by the moonless night. Flak erupted across the clouds into which the drop-ship had disappeared, followed by traces of las-fire seeking the Stormbird in the gloom.
Clinging to the side of the anti-grav drop-craft, loosed twenty minutes earlier by the same Stormbird, Chamell looked down at the energy plant. Searchlights played across the night clouds, seeking signs of the gunship, never once moving towards the east where the Mor Deythan were approaching. Men lined the outer walls and filled the guard towers; defences erected to guard against an uprising by the planet’s prisoner population that would, in a few minutes, be proved totally worthless.
It amused Chamell to think that ‘heightened security’ often had the opposite consequence. The Raven Guard attack had brought guards spilling out of their barracks, heading to their embedded guns and defence positions, staring out at the burgeoning night full of fear and trepidation. Cannon turrets and energy fences had sprung into life, ready to ward away an offensive on the ground.
Patrols were doing their rounds along some of the alleys and streets between distribution hubs and barracks, turbine halls and wind farms. The complex was easily seven or eight square kilometres in size and the men guarding it woefully few for such a task. As more soldiers in red-and-black fatigues spilled up from an underground bunker towards the wall, Chamell smiled.
So busy, yet so ineffective.
It was good for the Mor Deythan. The more the enemy looked outwards and hurried about, the more they emptied the heart of their defence. Already overstretched – who would waste resources on guards for a power station that was all but impregnable to the locals? – the garrison made up in haste and bluster what they lacked in diligence and discipline.
They had small reason to be fearful of airborne attack. The outlying defence cannons certainly put up an impressive amount of firepower, enough to dissuade anything but an orbital approach. And that would prove troublesome thanks to the ring of defences arranged around the central complexes of the prison itself a few kilometres away; guns and missiles capable of firing into orbit, powered by the stations the Mor Deythan were looking to eliminate. Huge turbine stacks and overhead cables sloping up to towering pylons that led out into the wilderness made landing difficult.
Difficult but not impossible.
Senderwat was one of the best pilots in the Shadowmasters and he guided the long, slender form of the Whispercutter along the line of pylons and cable, never more than a few metres above one hundred thousand volts of electricity. The electromagnetic output of the energy network provided further insurance against the tracking devices of the power plant’s scanners. It was the Raven Guard way of war, to turn a hostile environment and the enemy’s own defences into an advantage.
‘Hot zone in thirty seconds,’ Senderwat warned. He spoke through his armour’s external vocalisers, avoiding any vox-signal that might be detected.
Banking to the right, the Whispercutter moved out from the covering aura of the power lines, circling towards one of the central control buildings, away from the generators and curtain wall.
It would have been a relatively simple task to annihilate the station with an orbital blast, even with the defence lasers close by – reflex shields were better than void shields in such a situation – but there were several power plants supplying the main guard complexes and each would have to be taken out in turn. Instead, a well-planned legionary strike against one station would provide the means to overcome the whole prison’s power structure.
The Whispercutter levelled, just a few hundred metres from its destination. Immense cooling towers surrounded the five-storey central control building, itself a target no more than a dozen metres square. Narrow walkways and roads sprawled beneath the descending Raven Guard, far too small for the craft – or a confident jump pack landing. Jump packs would also restrict them once they were inside the station control tower.
Senderwat guided the silent craft unerringly between the rising edifices around them, broad wingtips skimming centimetres away from disaster. Not once did Chamell entertain the thought that they might crash. Senderwat pulled the Whispercutter to a sharp stop above the control terminus. The gleam from windows splashed across bare ferrocrete and metal just a few metres below them. Chamell could see patches of shadow as people moved around inside.
‘Power up,’ he ordered. His display sprang into life as the other legionaries allowed power to flood through their battleplate. ‘Drop!’
The five Mor Deythan – Chamell, Fasur, Senderwat, Korin and Strang – let go of the Whispercutter and fell to the roof, landings cushioned by their specially augmented armour; as well as the normal fibre bundles inside the suits, additional calliper bracings and microservos boosted the joints, allowing for smoother, quieter movement.
Above them the Whispercutter’s auto-guidance systems lifted it away, heading after the departing Stormbird.
Chamell motioned towards an access door off to the left in the corner of the building. Fasur led the way across the flat roof, pistol loaded with silent gas-powered bolts in one hand, combat knife in the other. For
this mission the Shadowmasters had left behind their heavier weapons to maximise stealth and speed. The mission would be decided at close quarters.
Fasur stopped beside a numeral keypad on a pedestal a short distance from the door. He looked back at Chamell, who shook his head and made a cutting motion across his throat. Fasur nodded and waved Strang to the door.
Strang’s slender power fist shone only a little more than the lenses of his helm as he found the plated hinges of the door and pushed, separating each quietly from the frame. He lifted the door away carefully, and placed it against the wall.
Stairs led down into the control complex.
Chamell took the lead, descending to a hallway at the bottom of the steps. There was no glass panel in the door, so he checked the auspex display on his wrist. No life signs within five metres on this level.
He eased open the door onto a landing with more steps and an elevator, as well as a passageway leading onto the rest of the floor. Energy signals indicated a swathe of network and power lines – unoccupied maintenance and database chambers. The sergeant signalled for the others to follow and headed down the stairs again, moving slowly and quietly.
Detailing Senderwat, Strang and Korin to secure the lower levels and the ground floor entrance, Chamell moved out into the corridor on the fourth floor with Fasur at his side. Bare windowless wall stretched along the right; two sealed doors, a branching passage and an open door to the left. The corridor continued for the length of the building, turning left at the far end.
Pistol ready, Chamell advanced to the first door. Fasur continued past to the next, and stopped.
The tiniest of vibrations from the wrist-mounted monitor alerted Chamell to an approaching signal. He glanced down to see two returns on the display, about to turn into the corridor at the far end.