The Ultramarines Omnibus

by Graham McNeill

  Seeing Stagler’s, and everyone else’s confusion, Kryptman said, ‘Thank you, Magos Locard, but perhaps I should explain and keep things at a level everyone here can understand.’

  Uriel bristled at such a casual insult to his intelligence, and could see others frowning too, but Inquisitor Kryptman’s notoriety preceded him and there were no objections as he continued: ‘The tyranids are a monstrous nomadic race of predators from beyond our galaxy who ply the depths of space in vast hive fleets. Like locusts, they consume everything in their path, and as each foe is defeated it is assimilated, each future generation of tyranids becoming better adapted to hunt their prey. When they attack, they attack in their millions, swarming across a world like a plague and just as destructively. Everything, every blade of grass, every indigenous creature is engulfed by the teeming hordes. Millions of years of evolution is destroyed and uncounted millennia of hard-won development and growth are annihilated by the tyranids’ insatiable hunger. The world’s oceans are drunk dry, its skies boiled away and digested until nothing remains, save a barren rock, stripped bare of every living thing.’

  ‘But can they be defeated?’ asked Stagier simply.

  Kryptman laughed humourlessly. ‘Oh yes, Colonel Stagier, they can be defeated, but only at terrible cost.’

  ‘The cost is irrelevant,’ said Stagier brusquely. ‘All that matters is that we can defeat them, yes?’

  Inquisitor Kryptman arched an eyebrow before inclining his head towards Uriel saying, ‘Colonel Stagier has a point. Perhaps Captain Ventris would favour us by recounting the tale of Hive Fleet Behemoth and the Battle of Macragge?’

  ‘It would be my pleasure, lord inquisitor,’ said Uriel proudly, standing and clasping his hands behind his back.

  ‘Hive fleet Behemoth came from beyond the halo stars of the eastern fringe, its numbers too vast to count. Their alien ships descended upon Macragge, but the noble Lord Calgar, forewarned by Lord Kryptman here, had assembled a powerful fleet to defend the holy soil of our homeworld. Fearsome battle raged in space until Lord Calgar pulled back, drawing

  the hive fleet onto the guns of Macragge. Whilst the aliens were spread out and vulnerable, he turned and struck, his vessels crippling one of their accursed hive ships and fatally disrupting their fleet.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Captain Ventris,’ said Colonel Rabelaq. ‘How could the loss of one ship cause so much damage to their fleet?’

  ‘I will answer that,’ put in Magos Locard. ‘To understand the motivational imperatives of the tyranids, one must first understand the nature of their consciousness. A hive fleet is made up of billions upon billions of living organisms produced in the hive’s reproductive chambers by the Norn Queen. Essentially, each ship is a living creature, every organism that makes up that ship existing only to serve the ship, and each ship functioning only as part of the fleet. A gestalt consciousness links every creature in the fleet, from the mightiest warrior beast to the tiniest, microscopic bacteria of the digestion pools, creating a vast psychic consciousness we call the overmind, that is capable of exerting a monstrous will and alien intelligence. Of course these creatures have no individuality of their own and exist simply to serve the hive mind. If one can disrupt the psychic link between them, the lower organisms become confused, often reverting to their basic, animalistic natures. It is the key to defeating them.’

  ‘Yes,’ continued Uriel, ‘when Lord Calgar’s fleet destroyed the largest hive ship, they were able to reap a great tally in bio-ships as the aliens’ attacks became increasingly uncoordinated and random. Their fleet was driven from Macragge, and though thousands of spores, each bearing a tyranid organism, had been released above the polar defence fortresses, Lord Calgar gave chase to the fleeing enemy.’

  ‘He left his world undefended?’ asked Stagier, disapprovingly.

  ‘No, colonel, far from it,’ said Uriel. ‘The polar defence fortresses were held by Terminators of the First company as well as brave warriors from the defence auxilia and Titans of the Legio Praetor. Lord Calgar was confident they could hold, and pursued the tyranid fleet to the ringed planet of Circe. Together with recently arrived ships from Battlefleet Tempestus, he destroyed the tyranid fleet in a great battle. We had defeated the tyranids, but at a grievous cost. Hundreds of

  thousands died, the flagship of the Tempestus fleet, the Dominus Astra, was lost and our entire First company was killed, including my own ancestor, Lucian Ventris. Only now does it regain its full strength.’

  Uriel sat back on the bench as Kryptman picked up the tale.

  ‘Hive fleet Behemoth was no more, but the tyranids had learned from their defeat and when they returned at the head of a new hive fleet – which we named Kraken – less than a decade ago, it was on a much greater scale. Entire sectors in the eastern fringes have been swallowed by the psychic interference of the tyranid warp shadow, and yet there is worse to come. I have detected a pattern amongst a seemingly random series of attacks across Segmentum Tempestus, Ultima Segmentum and even Segmentum Solar that leads me to believe yet another hive fleet is attacking, this time from below the galactic plane. I have named it Leviathan and it appears that a splinter fleet from Leviathan threatens this world. We must stop the tyranids, gentlemen. Here and now. For if the Shadow in the Warp is allowed to smother the divine light of the Astronomican, then Humanity will surely perish. Ships will be unable to navigate the warp, communication across the galaxy will cease and the Imperium will collapse. Make no mistake, we are fighting for the future of our very race and I am willing to make any sacrifice to ensure its survival.’

  The assembled commanders were silent as they took in the scale of the coming conflict, the stakes and their part to play in it. Even Montante now seemed to appreciate the seriousness of the situation and nervously chewed his bottom lip.

  ‘What measures have been taken to prepare this system for the tyranids’ attack?’ asked Astador.

  ‘Lord Admiral Tiberius is working with Admiral de Corte to devise a strategy to delay the tyranid fleet before it reaches this world,’ answered Uriel, ‘but, it is apparent that the defences of this city have fallen into disrepair in many places, and we will need time to ready them for the coming assault.’

  ‘Captain Ventris is correct,’ nodded Kryptman. ‘I have requested the deployment of warriors from the Deathwatch, the Chamber Militant of my ordo, and we will be able to count them amongst our forces before long. However, we must delay the tyranid advance, but we cannot deploy the fleet until we know exactly where the attack will come.

  ‘Astropaths are reporting ripples and eddies in the warp, consistent with those that presage the arrival of a fleet, but the distortions caused by the Shadow in the Warp are making it impossible to pinpoint. We would end up chasing ghosts.’

  ‘The Krieg regiment will have its men and armoured units on the ground within the next three days,’ said Stagier. ‘We will begin augmenting the city’s defences and I have devised a training regime that will ensure our readiness for when these aliens arrive. These aliens will not soon forget the Death Korp.’

  Uriel said, ‘I shall assign Sergeant Learchus and a squad of Ultramarines to you to aid your training program. He is the finest instructor sergeant Agiselus has ever produced and I am sure will be of great help to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain Ventris,’ acknowledged Stagier. ‘I welcome your aid.’

  Rabelaq spoke next. ‘My soldiers will be deployed by the end of the day. We have far less armour to land than Colonel Stagler’s regiment and by morning I will have units moving throughout the continent to escort people back to the safety of the city. As the soldiers of the Logres regiment are raised from an ice world, this climate will present no difficulties for them, and we may also be able to teach you all a thing or two about cold weather injuries as well. To be honest, our main duties to this point have been protecting krill farmers from raiding Tarellian dog soldiers. It will do them good to have a taste of proper soldiering.’

  Fabricator M
ontante said, ‘My PDF regiments have been drilling ever since we received warning of the tyranids. As head of the PDF, I’ve ordered increased training over the last two months and called up all the citizen militia units to participate too. The vast majority of them have been on training exercises recently and are looking top notch, if I do say so myself. We’ve also begun stockpiling medical supplies, ammunition, fuel and food and drink in the caverns below the city.’

  Kryptman looked surprised at this new side of the Fabricator Marshal and nodded.

  ‘Excellent. That was to be my next point of concern.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that, Inquisitor Kryptman. If there’s one thing I know, its organisational logistics. I may not be a

  soldier, but I can organise your supplies better than anyone and make sure that every soldier has a full pack of ammunition and three hot meals a day.’

  Kryptman chuckled. ‘And therein lies half the battle.’

  ‘Indeed,’ beamed Montante, pleased to have something he could contribute.

  The next two hours were spent in meticulous planning of the coming campaign. Everything from fleet operations to the precise deployment of men and machines throughout the city was discussed, debated and eventually decided upon. The situation was grim, but as the council of war drew to a close, there was a feeling of cautious optimism.

  The lord inquisitor summed up that optimism, saying, ‘Tyranids are creatures from our darkest nightmares. But remember this: they can bleed and they can die…’

  Uriel poured himself a goblet of wine as the door at the far end of the chamber opened and a PDF vox-officer entered. He hurriedly made his way towards Montante, handing the Fabricator Marshal a data-slate before withdrawing.

  Montante scanned its contents swiftly, his smile growing the more of the message he read. He handed the slate to Kryptman and said, ‘I do believe we have them.’

  Kryptman read the slate as Montante continued. ‘Surveyors on listening station Trajen at the system’s edge picked up an unknown contact in the Barbarus Cluster and directed fighter squadrons from the Kharloss Vincennes to intercept it. It seems they engaged and destroyed a tyranid scout vessel. Their astropath also reports an approaching disturbance in the immaterium. Gentlemen, I believe we now know where the enemy is coming from.’

  TYREN MALLICK PUSHED forward the safety catch of his autogun and opened the breech. He lifted a clip of bullets from the pocket of his flak jacket, ensuring that the rounds were clean, and placed them in the weapon’s charger guide. He pushed down on the clip until the top round was under the magazine lip then closed the breech and snapped off the safety. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder and sighted along the barrel at the three rocks he’d set up across the slope of the mountain. He breathed deeply, letting it out slowly and squeezed the trigger, expertly blasting one of the rocks from its perch.

  He lowered the rifle and watched as his son, Kyle, copied his movements exactly. The crack of his shot echoed from the dark mountains, and another rock toppled from its perch. He could see several people in the township below jump at the noise before returning to erecting barricades at the town’s entrance.

  ‘Alright, son, nice work,’ he said. ‘Now do it again. You got to be able to do it real quick when these alien bastards come. When you can load that rifle with your eyes shut, we’ll go in for supper.’

  Kyle beamed at his father’s praise, unloaded the rifle and began again. Tyren watched his son as he swiftly reloaded the rifle and repeated the actions they had been practising for the last two days. Though only eleven, Kyle was a natural and had the weapon loaded and ready to fire in less than six seconds. The final rock vanished in a puff of smoke as Kyle shot it dead centre.

  Father and son spent another half hour practising with the rifle before a hard rain began falling and they quickly made their way down the waterlogged path that led to the small mining community of Hadley’s Hope. They climbed over the slippery ore barrels erected before the town’s main road and made their way towards their home, taking shelter from the rain under the wide eaves of the buildings lining the road.

  Tyren could see that the far end of the road was barricaded as well, timber sawhorses looped with razorwire stacked alongside ore barrels filled with rocks and sand. It wasn’t much, but it was the best they could do.

  Sitting alongside the town’s schoolhouse, the largest building in the settlement, Tyren Mallick’s home was a sturdily constructed adobe structure, built by his own hands. He’d had twenty-five good years in this house, raised three children and worked hard in the mines that made Barbarus Prime worth inhabiting. He had been as faithful an Imperial servant as he could be, attending Preacher Cascu’s sermons every week down in Pelotas Ridge and also spending a month of every year helping those less fortunate than himself.

  Twenty-five good years, and he was damned if some faceless adept on Tarsis Ultra was going to tell him to leave his home because there were some alien raiders approaching. Well, the people of Hadley’s Hope had come together in times of crisis

  before now and this would be no different. Already the entrance to their mine had been sealed, the town was barricaded, and its populace ready to defend their hearth and homes.

  Heavy grey clouds gathered overhead and further down the road that led to. the valley below, Tyren saw the powerful tower-lights of several other communities flicker on as night drew in. Even from here he could see that the other towns had made defensive preparations similar to those of Hadley’s Hope. The shared sense of solidarity in the face of adversity was humbling, and Tyren once again gave thanks to the Emperor that he had been blessed with such fine friends and neighbours.

  He and Kyle reached the heavy timber door to the house and removed their mud-caked boots before entering. Merria kept a clean house and both knew better than to dirty the place up before supper.

  Warmth and the aroma of a home cooked meal enveloped him as he led Kyle inside. His wife and two daughters busied themselves with steaming plates and dishes, setting the table for supper as he hung the rifles beside the door, checking that both were properly unloaded first.

  ‘You boys have fun up there?’ asked Merria without turning from the hot stove.

  ‘We sure did,’ said Tyren, tousling his son’s hair. ‘Kyle here’s a natural. Never missed once, did you, son?’

  ‘Nope, not once, dad,’ confirmed Kyle.

  His mother tutted as she turned and saw the bedraggled state of her son and husband. She cleaned her hands on her apron and shooed them towards the bedrooms.

  ‘Both of you get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death. I’ll not have you dripping all over my floor. Go on now, hurry up. Supper’ll be on the table in five minutes.’

  Both father and son knew it was pointless to argue and put aside their hunger while they dried off and changed into fresh clothing. They returned to the table as Merria began dishing supper, Tyren taking his customary place at the head of the table.

  When everybody’s plate was full, Tyren clasped his hands on the table, closed his eyes and bowed his head as he recited the Emperor’s grace.

  ‘Holy Father who watches over us all, we give thanks for this meal before us. Grant us the wisdom of your servants and the strength to prevail against the evil of sinners and aliens. This we ask in your name.’

  His family echoed his amen and began tucking into their food. Hissing gas lamps hung from the roof beams provided a warm light as the family ate, the harsh glare from the arc lights outside blocked by the sheet metal Tyren had bolted over the windows.

  He smiled at his wife and took a bite of his dinner.

  Let these damned raiders come, whoever they were.

  They would find Tyren Mallick and the people of Hadley’s Hope ready for them.

  SWEAT GATHERED ON Third Technician Osric Neru’s brow and he wished the astropath would just shut up and give them all some peace. Her moans had been unnerving at first, but now they were just annoying, filling listening post Trajen’s c
ramped control room with her never-ending drone. Osric’s fingers beat a nervous tattoo on the console before him, as he stared in frustration at its display. The readings couldn’t be right, they just couldn’t. He rubbed a hand across his unshaven jaw and, even though he knew it was pointless, checked the figures once again.

  The numbers scrolled across the slate once more, defiantly remaining the same as before.

  He wiped the sweat from his tonsured skull and updated the parchment list beside him as his superiors on Tarsis Ultra had instructed him. Osric felt very alone and very frightened, dearly wishing he was back on Chordelis, serving in one of that world’s many forge temples. If these numbers were correct, men there was an enemy fleet of unheard of magnitude approaching this system.

  Vessels of the Imperial Navy were en route from Tarsis Ultra, but Osric knew they would not reach Trajen before this new fleet on his console did, and the thought terrified him. He caught the eye of the adept at the next console and tried to smile reassuringly, but failed to convince him.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the senior magos and, despite his master’s many augmentations, Osric could tell he was also extremely worried by what was drawing near.

  Repeated requests to Admiral de Corte for permission to abandon the listening post had been denied and they could only wait and hope that the approaching fleet would pass them by.

  The astropath sat in a reclined couch seat next to the magos, her teeth clenched, her skin drawn and pale. She twitched and muttered, her face alive with tics and nervous flutters. Her groans filled the control room, unnerving the six man staff of the listening post further still.

  Suddenly she sat bolt upright, screaming at the top of her lungs.

  Everyone jumped as the girl lurched from her chair, pulling at her green robes and tearing at her face with her fingernails. She fell to her knees, shrieking piteously, digging and clawing at her skin. Blood streamed down her face as she ripped open the stitching sealing her ravaged eye sockets and plunged her fingers inside, as though trying to pluck the brain from her skull.