‘They will be coming soon,’ he said.
‘How can you tell?’ asked Uriel.
‘See,’ said Tiberius, pointing to where a gigantic creature rose ponderously from the feeding below. ‘They are responding to our presence.’
Longer than the biggest battleship Uriel had ever seen, the monster’s hide was gnarled and ancient, pitted with asteroid impacts and hardened by millennia travelling through the void. Its underside rippled with waving, frond-like tentacles and great, sucking orifices in its surface drooled a thick, viscous fluid as it rose to meet them. At what Uriel supposed was its rear, long feeders ending in barbed claws trailed behind it, pulsating with a grotesque motion. Nothing so huge should be capable of animation, thought Uriel, or should be allowed to manifest such a horrid mockery of life.
A host of vanguard organisms drifted up before the monster: giant, manta-like creatures with vast, cavern mouths filled with teeth as large as a Thunderhawk and razor-edged wings: spinning creatures that defied any classification of form, all rippling armour plates, blades, talons and trailing tentacles. Dozens of these beasts swarmed around the larger ship, like loyal servants protecting a queen. As they rose towards the Imperial vessels Uriel was reminded of carrion beasts that hunted in packs, picking off the weakest members of a herd that, once brought down, would be guarded with tenacious ferocity while the pack leaders fed off the carcass.
‘What are their tactics? How will they attack?’
‘I do not know, Uriel. They will test us first, probe us for weakness and learn what they can before committing their main force. We are fortunate to have caught them feeding. We won’t have to face their full strength.’
Uriel watched the multitude of organisms advancing on the Vae Victus and gave thanks for that small mercy. For if this was but a fraction of the strength of the tyranids, then their full might was something to be truly dreaded.
LORD INQUISITOR KRYPTMAN watched the same scene from the bridge of the Argus, the flagship of Admiral Bregant de Corte and this battlefleet. He watched the enormous creature detach from feeding and rise to challenge them. He had fought the tyranids for almost the entire span of his life and he could remember no emotion save hatred towards them. As he watched the planet below die, he was gratified to note that his hatred burned no less strongly than before.
The approaching hive ship was not the biggest he had ever seen, that honour belonged to the beast at the head of the hive fleet that had engulfed the world of Graia, but it was still a giant, perhaps three kilometres in length.
‘Loathsome things,’ observed Admiral de Corte.
‘Aye,’ agreed Kryptman, ‘but lethal. They are armed with fearsome symbiote weaponry, sprays of acid, bio-plasma and hordes of warrior organisms that can be ejaculated from the orifices in its stony hide.’
‘Our weapons are blessed by the Emperor and we will prevail,’ de Corte assured him.
Kryptman nodded and pointed to the mist of spores surrounding the beast. ‘Look here, admiral. That veil of spores is so thick it will protect the creature from all but the most determined of attackers.’
‘Lord inquisitor,’ said Admiral de Corte, his voice betraying the tension the entire bridge crew were feeling. ‘I request your permission to commence the attack.’
‘Yes…’ nodded Kryptman, staring in macabre fascination at the wide tactics table depicting the converging fleets. ‘Commence the attack.’
Blank faced logisticians connected directly to the ship’s surveyor systems ringed the wide table – gridded with spatial coordinates – using long, flat-headed poles to move scale representations of the various ships of the fleet.
The Admiral nodded curtly and spun on his heel, marching towards his commander’s lectern. Bregant de Corte was a tall, wiry man, with gaunt, pinched features and a thin, pencil moustache. His admiral’s uniform hung from his emaciated frame and, upon meeting him for the first time, many found it hard to believe that this was the man who had destroyed the Ork raiders of Charadax, who had ended the piracy of Khaarx Bloodaxe and whose masterful strategy had halted the K’Nib from invading the Sulacus Rim.
He stood behind the lectern, pouring himself a glass of amasec from the crystal decanter that always sat there and taking a deep breath. He took a moment to look around his bridge, allowing seconds to pass before issuing his orders. It was important that he not appear intimidated by the alien fleet approaching and his calm demeanour would be a guide for the rest of his crew to follow.
He drained the glass of amasec and said, ‘My compliments to you all, and I wish you honour in this glorious battle.’
Jaemar, the ship’s commissar, nodded in approval at the admiral’s words.
A naval rating, traditionally the youngest man on the ship, approached the admiral. Sweat glistened on his brow as he asked, ‘Is the word given, admiral?’
Admiral de Corte replaced the glass on the lectern and said, ‘The word is given. Issue all ships with the order to attack. Gloriam Imperator! ‘
THE TWO FLEETS drew closer, though the ranges between them could still be measured in tens of thousands of kilometres. The ships of the Imperial fleet spread out as the attack order filtered through to the various captains and the admiral’s plan
began to unfold. There appeared to be no strategy evident in the tyranids’ approach, the bio-creatures rising to meet their enemy in a homogenous mass.
The Space Marine strike cruisers, together with the rapid strike cruisers of Arx Praetora squadron, advanced before the armoured behemoths of the battleship Argus and the Overlord battlecruiser, Sword of Retribution.
A trio of Sword frigates flew in a picket line before the fleet, supported by two Dauntless light cruisers, the Yermetov and the Luxor. Their fearsome lance arrays were sure to be decisive in the coming engagement and de Corte was taking no chances with their safety.
To either flank of the fleet, two squadrons of Cobra destroyers, Cypria and Hydra, surged ahead of the main fleet, their cavernous torpedo bays loaded with sanctified weapons and their pilots eager to unleash them upon the foe.
The massive hive ship at the centre of the tyranid swarm shuddered as though in the grips of a powerful seizure and expelled millions of spores, trailing glistening birth streamers as they sped away from its toughened hide.
The majestically swooping manta creatures moved as though swimming in a deep ocean, their wide, chitinous wings rippling with the motion of the solar wind. The bladed creatures that flocked around their birth queen swarmed forwards in a wave of seething claws, overcome with the instinctual urge to destroy those who threatened the hive.
The Battle of Barbarus had begun.
‘ORDER THE SWORD frigates to push forwards,’ said Admiral de Corte. ‘Those beasts at the head of the fleet are increasing speed. I don’t want them in my battle line.’
‘Aye, sir,’ replied Jex Viert, his senior flag lieutenant, conveying the order to the signals officer.
De Corte studied the observation bay, trying to guess how the tyranids would react to their movements. So far, he did not rate the tactical acumen of the enemy, if such a thing existed in the tyranid fleet, and he allowed himself a tight smile. He watched as the logisticians began moving the Sword frigates forward with their poles.
‘These ships that approach us, Lord Kryptman, what can you tell me about them?’
The inquisitor walked stiffly along the nave of the command bridge to stand before the apse of the observation bay. He leaned closer, as though studying the creatures more closely and shook his head slowly.
‘They are drone creatures, nothing more, though they are extremely resilient. I call them kraken and the will of the hive mind controls them. Do not allow them to close with you, they are filled with all manner of deadly warrior creatures.’
‘I understand. Mr Viert, issue orders that no captain is to allow any alien organisms to approach to within five thousand kilometres of his ship.’
‘Five thousand kilometres. Aye, sir.’
&
nbsp; Satisfied his order would be obeyed with alacrity, de Corte returned his gaze to the observation bay. One of the larger creatures was detaching itself from the main body of the tyranid fleet, using short flaps of its wide wings to power itself forwards in sporadic spurts of motion.
‘Hydra squadron to take up blocking position on the right flank. Order the Sword of Retribution to follow the frigates in. Yermetov and Luxor to escort her.’
‘Aye, sir,’ said Viert, punching in the admiral’s orders. ‘Might I also suggest that the strike cruisers of the Space Marines advance with the Cobras of Cypria squadron? If these alien vessels are indeed as resilient as Lord Kryptman suggests, then their heavy bombardment cannons will be of great use.’
‘Your suggestion has merit, Mr Viert. Make it so, and confirm readiness of lance decks and gun crews.’
The admiral watched the dance of ships on the plotting table, seeing the plan of the battle unfold as the captains of his fleet obeyed his orders.
‘All weapon decks report readiness, sir. Senior gunner Mabon reports he has a firing solution for the nova cannon.’
‘Understood, inform him that he may fire when ready,’ said de Corte.
He saw that the Cobras of Hydra squadron would soon be in a position to fire as well, and the Swords had rapidly closed on the first wave of the ships Kryptman called kraken.
The gap between the two fleets was closing fast and he knew it would not be long before aliens would be dying.
DEEP IN THE bowels of the Argus, the fifty-metre wide door of the nova cannon’s breech groaned shut as thousands of sweating naval ratings dragged the massive weapon’s recoil compensators into position. Hot steam and noise filled the long chamber, its cavernous structure fogged with the furnace heat of lifting mechanisms that hauled the enormous projectiles from the armoured magazines below.
The chamber ran almost the entire length of the ship and stank of grease, sweat and blood. A booming hymnal echoed from ancient brass speakers set into grilled alcoves in the wall accompanied by the droning chant of thousands of men.
Senior gunner Mabon watched from his gantry above the firing chamber as a series of bells chimed and a row of lights lit up along a battered iron panel before him. He couldn’t hear the bells, his long service as a gunner in the Imperial Navy having deafened him decades ago.
The shell was loaded and he muttered the gunner’s prayer to the warhead as he squinted through a bronze optical attachment that lifted on groaning hinges from the panel. He clamped his augmetic monocle to the optical, lining up the thin crosshairs on the red triangle that represented his target. The target was closing on them so he didn’t have to make any adjustments for crosswise motion. It was a simple shot, one he could have easily made, even in the earliest days following his press-ganging on Carpathia.
Satisfied that the shell would be on target, he lifted his head and ran his gaze across the chamber, checking that his gunnery crew gangs were clear of the greased rails that ran the length of the chamber and that each had their green flag raised to indicate that all the blast dampers had been closed. He reached up and took hold of the firing chain that hung above his station.
He grunted in satisfaction and pulled hard on the chain, shouting, ‘Spirits of war and fire, I invoke thee with the wrath of the Machine God. Go forth and purify!’
Steam hissed from juddering pipes and a high-pitched screech filled the weapon chamber as the gravometric impellers built up power in the breech.
Mabon rushed to the edge of the gantry and gripped the iron railings. Seeing a weapon of such power discharge was a
potent symbol of the might of the Imperial Navy and he never tired of the sight.
The screeching rose to an incredible volume, though Mabon was oblivious to it, until the nova cannon fired, and the enormous pressure wave slammed through the chamber. The weapon’s firing sent the three-hundred metre barrel hurtling back with the ferocious recoil. The air blazed with sparks and burning steam as the grease coating the rails vaporised in the heat of the recoil, the stench of scorched metal and propellant filling the chamber with choking fumes.
Mabon roared in triumph, gagging on the stinking clouds of gas that boiled around him.
Juddering vibrations attempted to topple him from the gantry, but he had long since grown used to them and easily kept his balance.
The smoke started to clear and his gunnery overseers began whipping their gangs into dragging the massive weapon back into its firing position once more. The armoured bays in the floor groaned open and the looped chains descended to be attached to a fresh shell.
Mabon had drilled his gunnery teams without mercy and he prided himself that he could have the nova cannon ready to fire again within thirty minutes. This time would be no different.
THE SHELL FROM the Argus streaked like a blur of light through space, exploding like a miniature sun in the heart of the tyranid ships. More potent than a dozen plasma bombs, the shell detonated only a few kilometres from one of the manta-like creatures, instantly incinerating it in a roiling cloud of fire, which also scattered a nearby flotilla of smaller creatures. One creature fell away from its pack, glutinous fluids leaking from its ruptured belly. It thrashed as it died, eventually becoming still as it haemorrhaged fatally.
The swarm scattered from the blast, though a host of small organisms, each no larger than a drop pod, converged on the shrinking cloud of organic debris, exploding with terrific violence as they neared the centre of the blast.
A group of creatures surged forward, as though galvanised into action by the blast, and closed on the approaching Sword frigates. Behind the frigates came Sword of Retribution, the Cobras of Cypria squadron and the strike cruisers of the Ultramarines and the Mortifactors.
First blood had gone to the Imperial fleet, but the battle had only just begun.
URIEL GRIPPED THE hilt of his power sword, listening to the sounds of the Vae Victus as her hull groaned and creaked as she manoeuvred in the battle line. The lights in the corridor were dimmed as he and his squad waited in one of the strike cruiser’s reaction points. When going into battle, the Space Marines aboard a ship of war were stationed throughout the corridors of the ship in places where enemy forces were likely to try and board.
His helmet’s vox-bead was tuned to the ship’s bridge and he could hear the excited chatter of the various captains travelling between their ships. He listened to the cheers as it became apparent that the fleet’s flagship had just scored a direct hit on an enemy vessel with her first shot. Such an auspicious beginning boded well for the coming engagement, though Uriel could not rid himself of feelings of apprehension.
He did not like the arbitrary nature of space combat, where a warrior’s fate was in the hands of others, no matter how skilful or competent they might be. Uriel knew he would rather face a thousand enemies on the field of battle than wait in the sweating darkness of a starship, not knowing whether death would reach out its long, grave-dirt encrusted fingers and sweep its terrible scythe around to claim his soul. He shuddered at the thought.
Pasanius saw him shiver and said, ‘Captain?’
Uriel shook his head. ‘It’s nothing, I just had a strange sensation of déjà vu.’
‘Are you getting another one of your “feelings”?’ asked Pasanius.
‘No, do not worry, old friend. I just do not like the idea of waiting here for a foe who may not come. Part of me wishes I had stayed with Learchus on Tarsis Ultra.’
‘Now I know you’re insane,’ joked Pasanius. Though the rivalry Uriel and Learchus had endured on Macragge during their training had long since been forgotten, they would never be true friends. Where Uriel had learned the virtue of personal initiative from his mentor, Captain Idaeus, Learchus seemed incapable of making that leap. He was an Ultramarine and that was to be expected, but Uriel knew that there were times when such rigid stricture was not always the answer.
Such thoughts disturbed Uriel. He knew it was but a short step from there to beginning down th
e path of the Mortifactors. Was that how their descent had started? Small breaches of the codex’s teachings that over the centuries became greater and greater until there was nothing left of the blessed primarch’s work? Astador had claimed that their Chapter venerated the primarch, but could you hold him highest above all else and yet not follow his words?
Had Idaeus been the first step towards the end of everything the Ultramarines held dear? Could he have been wrong in his teachings, and was Uriel on the path that lead to ultimate damnation? Already he had gone against the teachings laid down in the codex, most recently on Pavonis.
In the dim light of the Vae Victus, Uriel felt the stirrings of doubt for the first time in his life.
ABOARD THE BRIDGE of the Sword class frigate Mariatus, Captain Payne watched the tyranid bio-ships closing on his vessel with a mixture of anticipation and dread. It stunned him that creatures so huge could be alive, though he assumed that, in the way of the larger beasts on his homeworld, they would be as stupid as they were massive.
A clutch of drifting objects floated before the bladed ships, pulsing ahead of the alien vessel as it continued closing the distance between them.
The captain folded his arms and nodded to where his gunnery officer stood by the weapons station.
‘You have a firing solution?’ he asked.
‘Aye, sir, the lead enemy vessel will be in range in just under a minute.’
‘Very good. Order all ships to begin firing as soon as the enemy ships are in range.’
Payne marched back towards his command chair, perched atop a raised dais at the centre of the bridge. He followed the progress of the other ships in his squadron, Von Becken and Heroic Endeavour, on the pict-slate before him, satisfied that they were holding proper station – allowing their leader to take the first shot. A shiver of premonition went down his
spine as he watched the creatures before his ship turn ponderously to face him and he felt he could see their dead, expressionless eyes staring deep into his soul. Such a notion was plainly ridiculous: these beasts would have been blinded by spatial debris were they to rely on sight alone. But still the notion persisted and he bunched his fists to halt the sudden tremors that seized him.
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