Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell

by Warhammer 40K

  Naryn finished giving instructions to his assistants and, picking up the data-slate from the bench, fell into step with the captain. He glanced up at the last sentence, easily understanding the message implicit in the instruction. He was quite correct, of course. The Dread Argent and the Resurgent Project were far too valuable to ever fall into the hands of the enemy. Every last warrior of the Silver Skulls Chapter would agree. The sacrifice would be immense, but essential.

  Naryn vowed softly to himself that if he had any input into the matter, it would not come down to such a choice.

  Arrun ran a hand across his jaw. Sinopa had not yet responded to his last statement. He knew precisely why it was. Undoubtedly, his battle-brother was consulting with his own Prognosticator. Finally, after several moments, the crackle of the vox brought his reply and a confirmation of his suspicions.

  ‘I understand, brother-captain. And though it both aggrieves me and goes against my better judgement, I will not hesitate to comply should there be no other alternative. But then, and only then. Brother Ikek agrees that it must be so.’

  ‘Excellent, Sinopa. Yanus has temporary command of my bridge – give your orders to him directly. But as your commanding officer in this matter, as Master of the Fleet, I have just one order at this time.’ Arrun lifted his head and Naryn saw the glint in the captain’s eyes. The Apothecary felt a familiar pre-battle thrill of anticipation run through him and he whispered a soft litany to himself. Arrun’s eyes met his and there was something hungry, almost predatory in them.

  ‘Annihilate them.’

  The battle began slowly, almost painfully so. Every single one of the ships engaged in this combat were leviathans, built for long-distance travel or for delivering punishing retribution to transgressors on planets far below. All but three of the vessels were sluggish to respond.

  The three Executor-class vessels that had come into the system like dogs at the heels of their master peeled away from the Spectre of Ruin’s larger shadow. They performed turns that were tight and graceful and now faced the Dread Argent. Their very presence was menacing and as they powered up their thrusters, their initial movement was slow and jerky, necessitating sharp movements to avoid the debris. The field of junk had been freshly stirred up in the wake of the sudden rapid thrusts of two enormous warships. Despite their early glacial pace, they swiftly gained speed and were soon accelerating with all haste towards the battle-barge.

  Simultaneously, the Spectre of Ruin opened fire with her dorsal guns. The Red Corsairs ship was nowhere near at full turn. Consequently, the assault became more of a warning shot across their bows than anything else. The missiles ripped through the spatial void and clipped the Dread Argent on the aft side. The huge ship shuddered and groaned under the impact, but the shields held.

  ‘She’s aiming to cripple us,’ came the astute observation from one of the crew and Yanus grimaced his acknowledgement. Huron Blackheart had made very clear his intentions not to destroy the strike cruiser, but that strategy would likely only be the truth until the whim of a moment changed his mind. At any time, the leader of the Red Corsairs might grow bored or indifferent to the situation. They could never hope to fully plan a counter-strategy. Military research and history had taught every naval officer in the Imperium that Huron Blackheart’s methods were erratic and unpredictable.

  ‘Minimal damage. Shields holding.’

  The Executors tore past the fore viewscreen of the Dread Argent. They moved with a grace that belied their age and design. Vessels of ancient lore, all of the Executors had been missing, presumed lost, for centuries bar one or two never-confirmed sightings. Now, here they were in all their mythological glory. Three of them. They may have been grand cruisers in their own right, but the lance boats moved with far more speed and with relatively tighter control than their sluggish, bigger counterparts.

  One of them on its own presented a considerable threat; their flanks bristled with banks of energy lances and huge calibre plasma cannons designed specifically to shatter shields and pierce hulls. Such a phenomenal amount of weaponry could deliver a punishing amount of damage to any unfortunate vessel that strayed into its path.

  Three of them working together was a nightmare made flesh and was, in many ways, more of an immediate threat than the sheer explosive power of the Spectre of Ruin itself.

  Despite their very visible threat and menace, they were beautiful to watch. At such a time, aesthetic wasn’t something that seemed even remotely appropriate and yet even Yanus had a certain professional interest in the Executors. Any identifiable designations had long since been defiled and as the ships passed heart-stoppingly close, Yanus could make out nearly every individual battle burn and metal scar that they carried. They were brutal things. Brutal and efficient.

  They were extraordinary.

  Yanus forced himself to pull his thoughts away from admiration and to concentrate on the matter.

  ‘Open fire on the Executors.’ Sinopa’s voice came across the vox. Yanus nodded absently, then realised that Sinopa wasn’t on the bridge with him. He cursed himself softly for the moment of distraction.

  ‘Yes, lord.’ He relayed the message to the gunnery crews standing by far down in the gun decks and the Dread Argent spat shells of loathing from her fore bombardment cannon towards the middle Executor.

  ‘Reload.’

  The orders were relayed through the ship to the better part of a full kilometre away. Deep within the armoured and stifling confines of the magazine, an army of servitors and Chapter serfs sparked into immediate, obedient action. Colossal racks located beneath a shielded canopy lowered pressure-heated shells onto the mass of conveyors that lined the interior of the ship. These shells were hauled into the cavernous breaches by a combination of archaic technology and serfs. The noise was deafening: the shouts of the humans, the stuttered input of the servitors and the hiss from the missiles all competing and vying with one another in an effort to be the loudest.

  Once the projectiles were secured into position, the rising whine of a hundred banks of generators added to the noise, filling the air until it rose to a pitch that could no longer be heard by anyone other than the aurally augmented. When the missile was fired, the forces created by the generators propelled the massive shell towards its target.

  Had there been any sort of atmosphere to carry it, the sonic shock created would have undoubtedly pulverised flesh and shattered stone. But in the silence of space, the launch was marked only by an explosive halo of vapour which ringed the cannon muzzle as the Emperor’s wrath left the Dread Argent seeking its target.

  From initial order to execution, the process took a little under a minute. In a pitched battle, even this was too long. Once the ship was engaged in earnest, the crews would have to show a marked improvement and well they knew it. Their lives – and the lives of all on board – depended on it.

  Their job was simply to load. Other things, such as aiming and engaging the circuits that propelled the missiles happened far away, on the bridge. The Executor had already been designated ‘Target Beta’ in response to the rapid, quick-fire exchanges taking place between the two Silver Skulls vessels. Referring to it as ‘the middle ship’ was somewhat superfluous in the situation and in the three dimensional vastness of space.

  In a rare moment of poetry, something quite contradictory to his current nature, Huron Blackheart had renamed the trio of devastating ships something far more extravagant and ostentatious. Hope’s Sunset, Midnight Solitude and Nightmare’s Dawn were the monikers he had almost lovingly bestowed upon them. He would have poured scorn on such an unimaginative naming convention.

  Each one of the Executors was indistinguishable from the other to the untrained eye, yet each one had a very specific role to play. He had employed them in a number of campaigns and they had always triumphed.

  The Dread Argent’s payload burned through the blackness of space, a glowing trail of fire in it
s wake. But ship-to-ship warfare under duress, and when coupled with an area as densely packed with obstacles as the Gildar Rift, would never be an exact science. As such, the shot did not detonate on its target, instead glancing with no visible effect that burst against the Executor’s shields. As the smoke cleared, it was obvious that it was not only the Dread Argent’s shields that were holding steady.

  ‘Reload,’ ordered Yanus.

  The three Executors veered sharply as they bore down on the Manifest Destiny, one continuing on its direct assault run and the other two breaking away in seemingly impossible synchronicity, each heading to either side of the battle-barge. They were planning to bombard the Silver Skulls flagship from three sides.

  Yanus silently cursed the necessary delay of reloading and felt impotent and helpless as he stood watching the three Executors open their attack on the battle-barge.

  The officer, a failed aspirant of many years past, had dedicated his life to gladly serving alongside the Silver Skulls in whatever capacity he could manage. He was every bit as fierce and loyal as one of the chosen. This had not gone unnoticed as was evidenced by the fact he now stood in command of an entire Adeptus Astartes strike cruiser. Yes, Yanus may have failed but through years of hard work and dedication, he had received his due reward. Now he felt the pressure of command weigh him down.

  ‘Keep concentrating your weapons on Target Beta.’ Sinopa’s voice across the vox was dark and rich, calm and measured. ‘The Manifest Destiny will deal with the other two. Fire at will. Prepare to withstand a fierce barrage from their guns. I do not doubt for one minute that they will turn on you in an instant. The augur arrays are picking up the imminent arrival of a number of our own escort vessels. They will help distract the enemy.’

  ‘At your command, my lord.’ Yanus turned to face the bridge officers and relayed the other’s orders. Sweat was prickling his brow and running down his sun-darkened face in a glistening line. He reached up and wiped it away. Allowing such weakness to be shown before the others would not do and Yanus was a proud man.

  ‘There is another attack incoming from the Spectre of Ruin.’ Yanus swallowed and nodded. He allowed himself the briefest moment of doubt, wishing that Arrun was here and that this heavy responsibility was back on his lord’s more-than-ample shoulders. Then he straightened his back and held his head up high.

  ‘Maintain power to the shield generators. As soon as the strike dissipates, track and fire on Target Beta again.’

  There was a faraway, dissonant rumble as the second missile detonated far to the rear of the Dread Argent. At this great distance from the physical location of the strike point, it was felt as barely more than a slight shaking. But this in itself was enough to indicate what had happened. Several red lights began to flash with some urgency on the consoles and Yanus eyed them with the sort of expression he normally reserved for upstart young crewmen. The announcement when it came held no surprise.

  ‘Shield bank alpha failing. Generators down to seventy-five per cent. Compensating.’

  Yanus nodded. Another two or three partial hits would disable the shields completely. A direct hit after that would destroy them. They could only reroute power to the shields for so long before they burned out the systems completely. The Tyrant was trying to force them into complete surrender.

  The bridge officer knew full well that would never happen. Not whilst Daerys Arrun still drew breath.

  Porteus had been right. The descent from the mountains had been gruelling and perilous. Prior to their deployment, Simeon had cast the auguries and they had been excellent, according to him. Yet here they were; their Prognosticator dead, their route lethal and right now, at the end of this most perfidious journey, they faced the seemingly impossible.

  Further minor injuries, little more than cuts and bruises, had been sustained during their climb down the mountains, but fortune had favoured them. There had been a number of sheer drops where they had not had any choice but to let themselves fall. Despite these inconveniences and a series of broken or dislocated bones that began to heal during the journey, they had descended without too much difficulty.

  It had been good in a way; the firm belief that this mission was meant to succeed had been restored in the squad and they moved with renewed purpose and determination towards the target. They would honour Simeon’s divination. They would trust to his judgement and to his confidence, even though he was not here to reiterate it.

  The communications tower was hardly worthy of the name. A basic, two-storey structure, it was heavily shielded, with defences that were designed to hold out against an orbital attack. The topography and shielded location of the Primus-Phi refinery meant that its builders and defence planners had arrogantly held no suspicion that it might be vulnerable to any sort of ground assault. Such a blind oversight had been the core factor in ensuring that the building had fallen quickly from the hands of the Imperium into the Red Corsairs’ ownership.

  Huron Blackheart’s plan had been simple in theory, but in its execution had proved extraordinarily brilliant. With the Wolf of Fenris in orbit acting as a strategic relay, Gildar Secundus had become the key communications lynchpin for the ground actions of the Red Corsairs. With the aid of the strike cruiser’s greatly enhanced long-range vox, all of the Tyrant’s instructions could be relayed from here.

  Bereft of information, Porteus knew none of this. All he knew for certain, as he surveyed the communications tower from his vantage point between a natural cleft in the mountains, was that there were Imperial traitors wearing defiled armour coming and going. There were many of them within the compound – far too many for him and his squad to take on with any hope of victory. But the communications array itself seemed to be manned by the Red Corsairs’ slaves. They would be far easier to deal with.

  That was the first obvious advantage in the situation, but certainly wasn’t the greatest. The communications tower was built some distance from the rest of the refinery. The massive facility was still within sight, but its distance from the tower was a clear bonus. A small militia garrison was situated at its base, with only a single clear entrance. From the burn scars, broken masonry and corpses littering the ground, it was evident that the guard had made a determined stand in their attempts to hold the tower.

  It didn’t take a huge leap of logic for Porteus and his squad to deduce what had happened, at least here at the Primus-Phi refinery. They remained oblivious to the torrid battle raging out far above them, focused as they were on dealing with their own situation.

  The sergeant’s mind was working swiftly as he studied the scene before him. He was certainly practical enough to realise that there was no possible way they could hope to retake the facility. He cast a brief eye over at it. It was a huge sprawl of industrialisation, spread across the natural valley in virtually every direction but that which led into the mountains. The crawling tangle of pipelines, stacks and ferrocrete buildings were all a uniform slate grey, dull and eminently practical. Steam and smoke billowed out from the stacks in equal quantity, carrying forth their unique brand of snow-reddening pollution into the atmosphere. Everywhere there were puddles of stagnant, stinking water.

  Screams came from somewhere over to the right of the compound – agonised, terrible screams that were torn from a throat not designed to express such anguish. They didn’t end abruptly, merely grew weaker before ceasing altogether.

  Movement caught the sergeant’s eye and he blink-clicked his visual display to zoom mode. Targeting reticules immediately came into being and he gazed past them at one of the Red Corsairs, he could make out. He was talking to a refinery worker. Closer examination reviewed that ‘talking’ wasn’t quite the word. The raider was threatening the man who was obviously and very gamely attempting to resist. Porteus felt no sympathy, but a moment’s pity for the man as the renegade Space Marine delivered a backhand that would no doubt have killed him in an instant. Although the deduction was nothin
g new, it was evident that this section of the facility was in enemy hands. From what Porteus knew, which was not very much, this was a small-sized operation in terms of staffing; remote and largely independent. A strike force of Adeptus Astartes would have taken it easily.

  He registered a moment’s curiosity that they had not simply slaughtered all the workers. It broached the question: why?

  Interesting.

  ‘Brother-sergeant, what are your orders?’

  Porteus turned away from the refinery and back to his squad. ‘We cannot hope to take the refinery,’ he said, stating aloud what they all knew. ‘We do, however, need to get a message to the Dread Argent. I presume our efforts to do that are continuing to fail?’

  Keyle shook his head. ‘There’s a signal jam. I would guess that it is actually being emitted from that tower though,’ he added. ‘The interference is particularly strong here.’

  ‘From that tower. Is that so?’ Porteus smiled grimly beneath his helmet. No, there was no chance they could hope to take back the refinery. Not without a huge influx of additional infantry. All attempts to contact the Dread Argent were proving futile. Had Simeon lived, he may have been able to connect with the astropaths on board, but they were denied that opportunity in the wake of the Prognosticator’s death. For now, they needed to focus on one step at a time.

  That first step was going to be to wrest back control of the communications tower. Once that happened, they would have to move as swiftly as they could to get the message back to their company that they were in need of support.

  It was all they had to do. It was a big, seemingly impossible ‘all’, but they were Adeptus Astartes. The impossible was what they excelled at.

  At this level, the snow had become driving rain that drummed off the armour of the Silver Skulls, forming dirty, polluted puddles at their feet. Through the precipitation, the lights of the refinery were blurred and wavering, almost unreal. They could hear the low exchange of voices, but even with their enhanced hearing, improved still further by their helmets, they could not make out specifics.