The Ultramarines Omnibus

by Graham McNeill

  Simon van Gelder.

  The man Learchus had prevented from leaving the city carried the weight of his humiliation around his neck and was determined to return the favour.

  ‘We simply cannot allow Sergeant Learchus to demolish the buildings between the walls,’ said van Gelder, sipping his wine. ‘Why, when the aliens are driven off, we will be penniless paupers, lords over a rained city with nothing but its wreckage to call our own.’

  ‘If you do not destroy them, you will have no city at all,’ explained Learchus.

  ‘The many years of peace we have enjoyed have made us complacent,’ put in Montante, gesturing at the walls around them. ‘Look at the mosaic here. It is clear from this that we should not have been so reckless in our building programs. The original city plans, designed by Roboute Guilliman himself, show us that there should be no structures in these areas.’

  ‘Pah,’ snapped van Gelder, with a wave of his hand. ‘A faded mosaic, thousands of years old, is no basis for forcing us into economic rain, Sebastien. What will we do when our brave defenders defeat the tyranids? How can we produce goods with no manufactories?’

  ‘Simon, we can rebuild,’ said Montante. ‘But we must be alive to do so. Please listen to Sergeant Learchus.’

  ‘Many of the buildings you own have been constructed too close to the walls, Mr van Gelder. If we are forced to pull back from a wall or the tyranids capture one, then we will be providing them with valuable cover under which to approach.’

  ‘You speak of the regions around District Quintus? These regions are over thirty kilometres from the valley mouth. Do you mean to tell me that you expect these damnable aliens to breach our fair city that far? That you don’t have the ability to stop them before that? Forgive me, but I had thought the Ultramarines to be warriors of great strength and courage. It would seem I was misinformed.’

  Learchus surged to his feet and grabbed van Gelder by the front of his robes, hauling him across the table and snarling in his face. Wine spilled over the table and a goblet shattered on the stone floor.

  ‘You dare insult our honour?’ spat Learchus. ‘You would do well to consider your next words, van Gelder, for if you utter such an insult again, I will kill you.’

  The council sat stunned as Learchus fought to control his rage, unwilling to intervene on their fellow council member’s behalf for fear that the Space Marine’s anger would be turned on them. The only sounds were van Gelder’s panicked breath and the drip of wine to the floor. Sebastien Montante rose slowly from the bench and put a hand on Learchus’s forearm.

  ‘Sergeant Learchus,’ he said softly. ‘I am sure that Mr van Gelder meant no offence, did you Simon?’

  Van Gelder hurriedly shook his head.

  ‘There, you see?’ continued Montante. ‘They were words spoken in haste, in the heat of the moment. Please, Learchus, if you would be so kind, would you return Mr van Gelder to his seat?’

  Learchus let out a hissing breath and released his grip on van Gelder, who collapsed back onto the bench opposite with a plaintive moan. His face was ashen, though it took only seconds for his anger to return to the surface. Montante saw it coming and headed him off.

  ‘Simon, before you say anything, I believe we have come as far as we can today and should adjourn until tomorrow morning. Agreed?’

  A hurried nod of heads signalled the council’s assent and after a tense pause, van Gelder had also nodded, making his way from the chamber of the mosaic without another word.

  At the following day’s meeting, van Gelder had been conspicuous by his absence and a missive sent to his home in the high valley inviting him to the meeting was returned unopened. A vote was taken in the matter of the demolition of his properties, the council unanimously supporting Learchus’s plan.

  The memory of his loss of temper shamed Learchus and he had spent every night since that moment in penitent prayer.

  ‘How goes the work in the lower valley?’ asked Learchus as Satria gratefully took a mug of water from a robed orderly, gulping it down like sweet wine.

  ‘We’ve almost finished preparing the ground between the first two walls, but it’s slow going. The ground’s frozen solid and takes an age to break apart, even with earth moving machines.’

  ‘We need to have the trenches completed within the next two weeks. The tyranids will be upon us by then.’

  ‘They will be, don’t worry. The men are working as hard as they can, I assure you.’

  ‘Good. They are a credit to you, Major Satria.’

  ‘Thank you, though you may want to tell them that.’

  ‘I intend to. When they hate me more than their worst nightmare.’

  ‘Believe me, I think they hate you more than that already,’ said Satria. ‘The fact that you so easily outperform them in training infuriates them. I think they feel you are showing off.’

  ‘They are correct: I am showing off by training with them,’ said Learchus. ‘I want them to know that I am superior to them, for when it comes time for me to build them up, they must feel that my praise truly means something. I will make them feel like they are heroes, I will make them believe they are the greatest warriors in the galaxy.’

  ‘You’re a sneaky one, aren’t you?’ said Satria eventually.

  ‘I have my moments,’ smiled Learchus.

  THE SMALL FLOTILLA of Imperial ships made best speed towards Chordelis, the rapid strike cruisers of Arx Praetora leading the way with the Vae Victus, Yermetov and Luxor following closely behind. The mood aboard the ships was cautiously optimistic. If another hive ship could be destroyed in a similar manner, might not the orbital defences combined with the fleet and system defence ships hold the tyranid fleet at bay, perhaps even prevent the aliens from putting a single clawed foot upon the soil of Tarsis Ultra?

  On the bridge of the Vae Victus, Admiral Tiberius sipped from a goblet of water, discussing the tactical possibilities that lay before them with Uriel.

  ‘We might yet make these damned aliens regret they came this way, Uriel,’ he said.

  ‘I think we might,’ agreed the captain of the Fourth company. ‘The defences around Tarsis Ultra are strong, and the last refinery should even now be rigged with lethal explosives.’

  ‘If we can destroy another hive ship, then the overmind might decide to avoid Chordelis.’

  ‘And that will be a victory in more ways than one,’ said Uriel darkly.

  ‘Be careful, Uriel,’ warned Tiberius. ‘Kryptman is not a man to cross, the power of the Inquisition is his to command. Were it not for him, Macragge might well have fallen to hive fleet Behemoth.’

  ‘Did you ever meet him during the war?’

  ‘Aye,’ nodded Tiberius. ‘He was young back then, full of the fires of an inquisitor who had found his true vocation.’

  ‘Did he ever advocate the destruction of Macragge?’

  Tiberius laughed. ‘No, Uriel, he did not. I do not think that even Inquisitor Kryptman, as he was back then, would have dared voice such a thought. Lord Calgar would never have allowed it.’

  ‘Do you think Lord Calgar would have allowed Chordelis to be destroyed?’

  Tiberius rubbed a hand across his skull, considering the question before replying.

  ‘I do not know, Uriel. Our Chapter Master is a man of great wisdom and compassion, but he is also a strategist of sound logic and I think that perhaps you and I are too fond of the idea of saving everyone we can. Lord Inquisitor Kryptman was correct when he said that sometimes you need to lose the occasional battle to win the war.’

  ‘I cannot accept that,’ said Uriel. ‘The destruction of the Emperor’s loyal subjects cannot be right.’

  ‘We cannot always do what is right, Uriel. There is often a great gulf in the difference between the way things are and the way we believe they should be. Sometimes we must learn to accept the things we cannot change.’

  ‘No, lord admiral, I believe we must endeavour to change the things we cannot accept. It is by striving against that which
is perceived as wrong that makes a great warrior. The primarch himself said that when a warrior makes peace with his fear and stands against it, he becomes a true hero. For if you do not fear a thing, where is the courage in standing against it?’

  ‘You are an idealist, Uriel, and the galaxy can be a cruel place for people like you,’ said Tiberius. ‘But still I wish there were more who thought as you do. You are a great warrior, able to bring swift death to your enemies, but you have never lost sight of why you fight: the survival of the human race.’

  Uriel bowed his head to the venerable admiral, pleased to have been complimented. He gripped the hilt of his sword as Philotas approached bearing a data-slate, his angular features sombre.

  Tiberius took the slate and quickly scanned its contents, his mouth dropping open in horror and disbelief.

  ‘Open the viewing bay, now!’ he barked. ‘Maximum magnification.’

  The brass shutters concertinaed back smoothly from the bay at the front of the bridge as Tiberius descended to the table, calling up the tactical plots of the surrounding area. He muttered to himself and Uriel could see from the pulsing vein in the admiral’s temple that his fury had built to an incandescent level. He had never seen Tiberius so angry before.

  ‘Admiral, what is it?’ he asked:

  Tiberius handed Uriel the data-slate as the shutters of the viewing bay finally folded back. He read the words at the same time as what they said was displayed on the viewing bay.

  Even at maximum magnification, the planet before them barely filled the viewing bay, reflected light from the distant sun rippling across its heaving, fiery surface. Firestorms were raging across the dead planet as flammable gasses released from oceans of decaying organic matter enveloped it, scouring the surface to bare, lifeless rock.

  The tyranids themselves could do no more thorough a job.

  ‘Sweet heavens, no…’ breathed Uriel, the data-slate dropping from his fingers. ‘How?’

  ‘The Mortifactors,’ said Tiberius sadly. ‘Kryptman lied to us. He had no intention of making a stand here.’

  Uriel said nothing as the world of Chordelis burned.

  PHASE III – ATTACK

  EIGHT

  THE QUARTERS OF Captain Uriel Ventris were spartan and dean, as befitted the leader of the Fourth company of the Ultramarines. A simple cot bed with a single linen sheet sat in one corner of the cell below the Ventris family shield. Next to the bed stood a thin-legged table upon which sat a clay jug filled with wine and a pair of silver goblets. Various recording crystals sat in neat piles next to the jug and at the foot of the bed lay an open, gunmetal grey footlocker containing simple blue robes and exercise garments.

  Uriel poured himself a generous measure of wine from the jug and sat on the edge of his bed, swirling the crimson liquid around the goblet. He tipped his head back and drained the glass in one long swallow. The strong flavour made him grimace as the sight of the burning world in the viewing bay returned to him. He wondered how many people had been on Chordelis when the virus bombs hit. How many hundreds of thousands had Kryptman sacrificed in the name of the larger war?

  The thought saddened him and he poured another glass, raising it in a toast to the dead of Chordelis. He downed the

  drink and poured yet another, suddenly desiring the oblivion that only alcohol could provide.

  He had been able to stop Inquisitor Barzano from destroying Pavonis, but he had not saved Chordelis and the weight of that failure was now a dark stain upon his soul. Had the people even known what was happening when the first bombs had exploded in the atmosphere?

  The life-eater virus was quick to act and utterly lethal in its effects. Perhaps some had an inkling of what was being done to their world, but most would probably have succumbed without realising the magnitude of the betrayal visited upon them. The atmosphere would be saturated with mutagenic toxins that attacked the biological glue that held organic matter together, breaking it down with horrifying rapidity. Within hours there would be nothing left alive and the virus would be forced to turn on itself in an unthinking act of viral self-cannibalism. The planet’s surface would be covered by a thick layer of decayed sludge, wreathed in vast clouds of toxic waste matter. All it would take was a single shot from orbit to ignite the fumes and firestorms of apocalyptic magnitude would sweep the entire surface of the planet bare.

  Uriel had seen the horror of Exterminatus and had even been part of an expedition to administer the ultimate sanction once before, on a Chaos tainted planet whose population had become base savages practising human sacrifice to their dark gods. Under certain circumstances, such destruction was appropriate, even necessary, but this act of murder sat badly with Uriel and he could not find it in himself to forgive what Kryptman and the Mortifactors had done.

  His mind was filled with contradictions and doubt as he pondered the ramifications of what had happened at Chordelis. In following the plan of Admiral Tiberius, they had exercised initiative and reacted to the developing situation with an original idea. They had not referred to the Codex Astartes and, much as he hated to admit it, the Mortifactors were closer to the correct procedure as laid down in that holy tome. What then did that tell him?

  A knock came at his door and Uriel said, ‘Enter.’

  The door slid open and Pasanius stood in the doorway, his bulk filling the frame. He wore his devotional robes: his armour – like Uriel’s – being repaired in the company forge three decks below. The silver of his bionic arm reflected the flickering candlelight from the passageway outside.

  ‘I have a problem, captain,’ began Pasanius, ‘I’ve got a jug of wine and if there’s one thing I know, it’s that it’s not good to drink on your own. Care to help me finish it?’

  Uriel managed a wan smile and waved Pasanius inside. There was nowhere to sit, so Pasanius sat on the floor, resting his back against the wall. Uriel handed him two goblets, and he filled them with wine. Pasanius handed one back to Uriel and raised the other to his nose. He closed his eyes and smelled the heady aroma of wild berries and blackcurrants laced with a subtle hint of aged oak.

  ‘This is the good stuff,’ said Pasanius. ‘Bottled on Tarentus in the year seven hundred and eighty-three, which, I’m reliably informed, was a good year for the vineyards on the southern slopes of the Hill of the Red Blossoms.’

  Uriel sipped the wine, nodding appreciatively and the pair lapsed into a companionable silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

  Eventually, Pasanius said, ‘So do you want to tell me what’s bothering you, or do I need to wait until you’re drunk?’

  ‘I have not been drunk since Agiselus, you remember?’ said Uriel.

  Pasanius laughed. ‘Aye, Chaplain Clausel shut us out on the mountains and left us there for three days.’

  ‘Emperor save me, but he was a hard bastard back then.’

  ‘He still is, it’s just he’s on our side now.’

  ‘Clausel would assign you a month of fasting if he heard you say that.’

  ‘Maybe, but I know you won’t tell him.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Uriel, taking another drink. The wine would not get either of them remotely drunk thanks to the preomnor, an implanted pre-digestive stomach that analysed and neutralised virtually any toxins, including alcohol. Nevertheless the two friends still enjoyed the taste of a fine wine.

  ‘I have been having doubts, Pasanius,’ said Uriel finally.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘A lot of things,’ said Uriel. ‘I was thinking about Captain Idaeus and everything he taught me about thinking beyond the scope of the codex. At the time I could not make the leap of initiative to believe what he said, but the more we fought together, the more I could see what he said put into practice.’

  ‘Aye, he was a wild one, was Idaeus,’ agreed Pasanius. ‘But clever too. He knew when to bend the rules and when not to.’

  ‘That’s the problem, Pasanius. I don’t know if I can do what he did… if I can understand when to follow the codex and when to t
hink laterally.’

  ‘You’re doing fine, captain. The men of the company trust you and would follow you into the very fires of hell. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘No, Pasanius, not by a long way. I thought Captain Idaeus was right, but now I see the Mortifactors and I wonder where his line of thinking will lead. If we follow his beliefs to their logical conclusion, will we end up like them?’

  ‘No, of course not. Chaplain Astador said it himself: he and his Chapter are a product of their homeworld. He told me all about Posul and, if you ask me, it sounds like a vision of hell. Permanently shrouded in darkness, with each tribe fighting to kill one another so they can prove that they’re the most brutal and be chosen to become Space Marines of the Mortifactors. A culture like that breeds a contempt for life and we should have seen it the moment they sided with Kryptman.’

  ‘But we didn’t.’

  ‘No,’ shrugged Pasanius. ‘Hindsight is a wonderful thing.’

  ‘I know, but look at what happened to Chordelis. We broke with the Codex Astartes to send that refinery into the swarm, the Mortifactors followed an inquisitor’s direction and an Imperial world died. But I know we did the right thing, morally, in trying to save Chordelis, despite the logic of Kryptman’s argument.’

  Uriel slammed his goblet down on the table, spilling wine across his data crystals and bedsheet. ‘I feel like a blind man who cannot feel the path before him.’

  ‘Well, nobody ever said that the Emperor’s service was supposed to be easy,’ said Pasanius, pouring another two goblets of wine.

  LORD INQUISITOR KRYPTMAN watched the Vae Victus dock with the northern pier of the star fort through its central basilica’s main viewing bay, feeling a surge of unfamiliar excitement pound through his veins. He stood with his hands laced behind his back, wearing the formal robes of an inquisitor of the Ordo Xenos. Captain Ventris would know by now that he had lied to him about giving Chordelis a chance to live, but there was no use now in pointless recriminations. The tyranids had to be defeated by any means necessary.