His own flight were following the missiles in, leapfrogging Lieutenant Harlen’s and leaving his flight to cover them. Any element of surprise had been lost the instant they had fired, but it had been maintained long enough.
‘Impact in two seconds,’ said his gunnery officer.
Morten focused his eyes beyond the canopy and saw a blossom of white fire in the distance.
‘Missiles have impacted. I say again, missiles have impacted,’ called Martoq over the vox-net. ‘We got him!’
‘Good shooting, Angel nine-zero-two!’ said Morten, even though he knew that Martoq’s assessment of the target’s destruction was premature. They couldn’t know that for certain yet.
‘Did they get it, Kiell?’ asked Morten.
‘Looks like it, sir. I’m not getting any bio-readings any more. I think we got it.’
‘You bet we got it! We blew it back to the warp!’ cawed Harlen.
‘Alright, we’re going in for a closer look. Cut speed and we’ll go in and see what we can see. Harlen, you’re covering.’
‘No problem, captain,’ acknowledged Harlen. ‘Lascannons are armed and ready. Anything that so much as twitches is going to be sucking vacuum.’
‘Okay, let’s take this nice and easy,’ cautioned Morten. ‘Kiell, keep your eyes and ears open. If we need to get out of here in a hurry I want to know about it right away.’
‘Affirmative,’ replied Pelaur, concentrating on the threat boards.
Morten pushed the control stick over and headed straight for the location of the explosion he had seen through the canopy. As his craft drew nearer, he saw a large, tubular object spinning in space, huge craters blasted in its side. He pulled the speed way back and moved in for a closer look. Perhaps forty or fifty metres long, the object’s surface was a mottled green and pierced with undulating sphincter orifices. A tattered, fleshy frill ran the length of the creature and long, cable-like tentacles drifted behind it. Its front resembled a giant, serrated beak and ichor foamed in an expanding purple cloud from the wounds in its side, spilling into space like blood. If this thing had once been alive, it now looked very dead.
‘Are you getting any bio readings?’ he asked.
‘No, sir. All surveyors say it’s dead.’
‘Good,’ said Morten. ‘Well, log it in the cont—’
‘Look out!’ screamed Lieutenant Harlen suddenly. ‘Three o’ clock high!’
Morten instinctively slammed the control column right and pushed out the throttles to full power. He caught a glimpse of a fleshy, toothed torpedo-like object that had spurted from the side of the supposedly lifeless organism through one of the rippling orifices.
He rolled hard left, slamming them around the cockpit as it flashed over their heads.
As though in slow motion he saw the organism sail past his cockpit.
He continued his roll left, levelling off and easing up only when he had done a full circle. By the Emperor that had been close! They had almost—
‘It’s still on you, captain!’ shouted Harlen, ‘It’s right on your tail!’
‘Emperor’s blood, this thing is persistent!’
He rolled right and dived, twisting his Fury in a looping spiral.
‘Range, one hundred and fifty metres!’ yelled Pelaur, ‘Too close! Get us out of here!’
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ snapped Morten, climbing hard and pushing the throttle all the way out. If the damned thing was still with him now then it was only a matter of time before it caught them.
‘Range, one hundred metres and closing!’
It was too close for any of his wingmen to shoot at and Morten could only hope that the thing, whatever it was, had to impact to detonate, or whatever it did.
‘Captain!’ shouted Harlen, ‘Break right, Mark nine-three. Now!’
Without question Morten obeyed, hauling right and diving at full speed. He was just quick enough to see the shape of Harlen’s Fury flash past his canopy, lasfire blasting from its underside.
Though he couldn’t hear it, he felt the enormous pressure wave of the tyranid weapon’s explosive death throes as the flurry of lasfire blew it away.
But it had been too close for them to avoid its vengeance completely. The rear quarter of the Fury lurched drunkenly sideways as hundreds of chitinous fragments scythed into the fighter’s body.
Morten fought for control of the shuddering craft as it spun crazily. His helmet smashed into the side of the cockpit and his vision swam as warning lights winked into life all over the control panels. His suit expanded and despite the pressure helmet he could feel himself on the verge of blacking out. If that happened it was all over. The centrifugal forces would tear his ship apart, leaving their bodies to freeze in space.
Sparks and smoke obscured his vision and he could only just make out the shape of the throttle. Morten strained to reach it over the rising forces in the cockpit.
He could hear the squeal of tearing metal and knew that his Fury was beginning to disintegrate.
With one last effort he lunged forwards and hauled the throttle back to idle.
Almost immediately, the violent shuddering of his wounded craft ceased, to be replaced by the soft creak of twisted metal, Pelaur’s rapid breathing and the protesting whine of the engines as they powered down.
The Fury drifted and spun sideways for a while, before Morten repressurised the cockpit, cleared it of fumes and gently restored power to the engines.
‘You okay in the back?’ he asked, craning to see how his gunnery officer was doing.
‘I’ve been better, captain. But I’m still here. Nice work,’ gasped Pelaur, obviously shaken by their close call.
‘Yes, real nice work. I should have known there could be active bio-weapons.’
‘We’re still alive,’ pointed out Pelaur.
‘Yes, I suppose we should be thankful,’ said Morten, making the sign of the aquila and pressing his glove to the small shrine beside him. He could see Harlen’s squadron paralleling his course. From the lumps of flesh drifting past his canopy, he could see that as well as shooting down the bio-weapon, Harlen’s squadron had also vaporised the original target.
He thumbed the vox and said, ‘Nine-zero-two, we’re allright here. A little shaken up, but other than that we’re fine. By the way, thanks. That was nice shooting.’
‘Don’t mention it, sir’ said Harlen lightly. ‘Hold still now. I’m going to give you a once over, see how bad you’re hurt.’
‘Right. Holding steady,’ replied Morten, which was easier said than done as the Fury fought his every attempt to hold her in a straight line.
Harlen’s craft slid below and round the stricken fighter and came to rest off Morten’s port wing.
‘How bad is it?’ he asked, almost afraid of the answer.
‘It’s not good, that’s for sure. You’ve taken a lot of hits on the engine vectors so she’s going to be hell to steer. And it looks like you’re losing fuel. Not much, but we better get you home to the Vincennes before you run dry.’
Morten suddenly realised how close they had come to dying. If even one piece of the bio-weapon’s chitin shrapnel
had hit the centreline fuel tank, they’d have been incinerated in a raging fireball.
‘Thanks. Get your squadron home to the Vincennes and we’ll be back as soon as we can. If we need help we’ll let you know,’ said Morten. ‘And let the tactical officers know about these things. I have the feeling we’ll be seeing more of them.’
‘Yes, sir. You sure you’ll be allright?’
‘We’ll be late, but we’ll get there. Now get out of here before I have to order you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ acknowledged Harlen as his three Furies accelerated to combat speed and were soon lost in the darkness.
‘You ready to go home, Kiell?’ asked Captain Morten.
‘More than ever.’
Captain Owen Morten gingerly rolled the limping Fury towards home and slowly fed power to the engines, grimacing as the vi
brations on the twisted airframe increased.
It was going to be a long ride home.
FOUR
THE UNKNOWN ARTIST had used the entire chamber as his canvas. A mosaic of enormous proportions covered the walls, the ceiling and even the floor. The workmanship was exquisite: none of the shards of coloured glass that made up the mosaic bigger than a thumbnail. Larger than the Chapel of Heroes on Macragge, the scale of such a work was breathtaking: the chamber stretched over two hundred metres long and its barrel-vaulted ceiling rose thirty metres or more above them.
Uriel and the Ultramarines walked in rapture around the perimeter of the long room, speechless in wonder at the magnificent sight, any faded expectations of Tarsis Ultra swept aside by the spectacular mosaic. Pastoral images of a rugged land of primal beauty stretched before them, the colours wondrously bright and vivid, the skill of the artist perfectly capturing the wild majesty of his subject. Glass mountains soared above glass seas of glittering azure, vibrant emerald fields teemed with proud animals.
Uriel reached out and touched the wall, half expecting to reach within the mosaic and feel the sea. Breeze scudding
across the foaming waves that broke on cliffs of dazzling white. Atop the mountains, he recognised a majestic marble fortress with columns and golden domes that made his heart ache with longing. The Fortress of Hera, rendered in such loving detail that he could almost taste the salt of Macragge’s seas and smell the sweet sap of its highland firs in his memory.
He could see the mosaic was having the same effect on Pasanius and Learchus, their faces alight with joy. Uriel craned his neck upwards, seeing a host of glass warriors at the hunt, mounted on horseback and wearing blue chitons, the loose, knee-length woollen tunics worn by men and women of Macragge in ancient times.
Leading the hunt was a giant of a man with golden curls and alabaster skin, his face alive with love and strength, carrying a long spear and oval shield. Uriel froze before this image, overcome by emotion, as he recognised Roboute Guilliman. Many times had he gazed upon the pallid, dead face of his primarch in the Temple of Correction on Macragge, where his lifeless body was held immobile in a sepulchral stasis tomb, but seeing him portrayed like this, with so much life and animation, filled Uriel with a terrible ache of sorrow for his passing. Until this moment, Uriel had never given any credence to the tales that the primarch’s wounds were slowly healing, and that he would one day arise from his deathly slumber, but seeing this sight, he could now understand why people needed to believe that such a mighty warrior could return from the void.
Further along were scenes of battle, images of war from a bygone age when heroes stood as tall as mountains and could topple the earth with their strength. Here, magnificent and noble, Roboute Guilliman fought the armies of evil. Behind him, slinking from the shadows, an unseen champion of evil poised to deliver a treacherous deathblow. As Uriel’s eye travelled further along the fresco he saw a warrior save Guilliman’s life, masterfully rendered in chips of sapphire and glass as he thrust his bayoneted rifle deep into the enemy’s belly. Sprays of rubies and garnet glittered from the wound.
Another portion of this section of the ceiling showed Roboute Guilliman on bended knee, swearing his bond of brotherhood with the warrior people of Tarsis Ultra. To see such a display of humility from one so mighty as their primarch was a sharp reminder to Uriel of everything the Ultramarines fought to protect.
Everywhere around the chamber there were new wonders and fresh visions of incredible beauty, but Uriel forced himself to tear his gaze away from the fantastical mosaic. Pasanius and Learchus stood by his side, similarly overwhelmed by this work of genius.
‘It’s…’ began Learchus, searching for words to do this masterpiece justice.
Uriel nodded. ‘I know. I have read of the Tarsis fresco, but had never believed it could be as magnificent as this.’
Footsteps echoed through the chamber and the spell was broken. The mosaic was just a wall and the images upon it nothing more than glass shards. Uriel turned as Fabricator Montante, changed into more practical plain grey robes, led the council of war into the room. The senior officers of the regiments, each with an entourage of scribes, flunkies and adjutants trailing a respectful distance behind them, followed Montante towards the centre of the chamber.
This portion of the room was sunken into the floor, where a number of marble benches and a long, low table were set, bearing clay jugs of mulled wine and wooden bowls of fresh fruit. Uriel stepped down into this sunken area and took a seat, examining his fellow commanders as they arrived.
Montante was thin and seemed pathetically eager to please. His features were delicate and ascetic, though intense. He did not look like a warrior and Uriel wondered how he had achieved his position of authority here. Was the rule of Tarsis Ultra hereditary, democratic or did it still follow the primarch’s meritocratic ideals? Was Montante capable of leading his people in time of war or would he need to be replaced? Was that decision even his to make? Montante busied himself pouring wine for everyone and Uriel politely shook his head when offered a goblet.
Stagier had the look of a warrior. Uriel had heard tales of the Krieg Death Korp and how their colonels requested the most dangerous warzones for their regiments to fight in, the most lethal enemies to face. If Stagier conformed to type, then he had chosen a prime assignment for his soldiers. He sat ramrod straight and appeared deeply irritated with Montante, also declining the wine.
Rabelaq had the look of a man to whom soldiering was a way of life, though his ample gut told Uriel that the rigours of the battlefield were but a distant memory to the colonel of the Logres regiment. He enthusiastically accepted a goblet of sweet wine and sipped appreciatively.
Chaplain Astador accepted some wine and raised it in a toast.
‘May this brotherhood be united in its cause,’ he said.
‘Hear, hear,’ agreed Rabelaq draining his goblet and pouring himself another, but Astador was not finished with his salutation. ‘And should any of you fall, I shall ensure that your skulls are granted a place of honour in our Gallery of Bone.’
An awkward silence fell, until Montante said, ‘Thank you, Chaplain Astador. That is most gratifying to know.’
Uriel shared a glance with his sergeants as the last members of their group entered the chamber. Lord Inquisitor Kryptman limped towards their gathering, followed by a white robed acolyte wearing a cog-toothed medallion of bronze around his neck. Unusually for a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, his hairless features were largely organic, save for the bionic attachment that covered his right eye. A number of hinged lenses of varying size protruded from the side of his skull, each capable of sliding forward to drop before his glowing red bionic eye.
Kryptman stepped down to the benches with some difficulty and as his Adeptus Mechanicus companion joined him, Uriel was shocked to see that he moved on metallic caliper-like legs that protruded from the bottom of his robes. As the acolyte descended the steps to take his place behind Kryptman, his robe parted and instead of legs and torso, Uriel caught a glimpse of a thick, flexing brass tube connecting his chest to his artificial legs.
The lord inquisitor eased himself down onto a bench, irritably shaking his head as Montante offered him some wine. He cast his gimlet gaze around the assembled company and grunted to himself, though Uriel could not tell whether it was in satisfaction or resignation.
‘This is a grand adventure,’ said Montante, finally sitting down. ‘Most of my time involves accounts, ledgers and all manner of boring logistical work for the factories. I don’t think I’ve ever entertained such an esteemed group in the palace.’
Kryptman gave Montante a withering stare. ‘Fabricator Marshal, this is no adventure we are upon. It is a matter of the gravest urgency and most fearful nature. A tendril of hive fleet Leviathan approaches your world and you think it will be an adventure?’
‘Well, no, not an adventure in the traditional sense, you understand,’ said Montante hurriedly, ‘but it’s cer
tainly exciting, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not every day we get to fight a war, and I for one am looking forward immensely to giving these beasts a bloody nose.’
‘Then you are a fool, sir, and would do well to leave the defence of your world to those who understand the grave danger of a tyranid hive fleet.’
‘I object to your tone of voice, sir,’ protested Montante. ‘I am the planetary governor, after all.’
‘For the time being,’ threatened Kryptman. ‘Now, if we may continue? Let us be clear on one thing: I have seen, first hand, what it means to fight these aliens and it will not be an adventure, there will be no glory and little honour in their destruction. ‘
‘I declared their species Xenos Horrificus two hundred and fifty years ago and since that day I have studied, hunted and killed them, yet still know but the tiniest fraction of their xenology.’
The inquisitor indicated the Mechanicus adept behind him.
‘To fight the tyranid you must first know it,’ he said. ‘This is Genetor Vianco Locard of the Magos Biologis, and he knows more about these xeno abominations than any man alive. He will be of great help to us. Magos, if you please?’
Locard moved to stand before them and a brass rimmed monocle whirred into place over his red eye. As he laced his hands before him, in the manner of an academic, Uriel saw they were a smooth black metal.
Without preamble, he launched into his discourse. ‘The tyranids are a bio-eugenic race of xenomorphs from beyond the Emperor’s light, first discovered in the 745th year of this current millennium by Magos Varnak of the Adeptus Mechanicus outpost of Tyran Primus in Ultima Segmentum, some 60,000 light years from holy Mars.’
‘Bio-eugenic? What does that mean?’ interrupted Colonel Stagier.
‘It means that the tyranids are able to assimilate entire worlds and races, break them down into their constituent genetic building blocks and incorporate said constituents into their own physiology,’ explained Locard.
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