The Ultramarines Omnibus

by Graham McNeill

  Admiral Tiberius would understand that, but Ventris was the protégé of Captain Idaeus, a captain he had seen on Macragge following the defeat of hive fleet Behemoth. He would need to be wary of Ventris’s puritanical anger.

  Fortunately, he had sufficient force to ensure that Ventris would be kept in line.

  The blue and white curve of Tarsis Ultra shone at the bottom of the viewing bay, dozens of system ships and defence monitors hanging in orbit around the planet. There was a formidable force arrayed here and the Ultramarines’ demonstration of how effective a weapon the refineries could be as floating bombs had not gone unnoticed. The last refinery hung in high orbit, a fleet of servitor-manned tugs ready to drag her into the heart of the tyranid fleet and unleash fiery destruction.

  The inquisitor limped to his desk and sat behind its sweeping nalwood expanse. It had been commissioned hundreds of years ago for his mentor from a world whose name he could not now remember, and was a work of impressive craftsmanship. It never failed to intimidate those who came before him – not that he expected a Space Marine to be intimidated by a mere desk – but it gave him a sense of place whenever he sat behind it.

  He knew that the Ultramarines would even now be on their way to his chambers.

  Kryptman touched the vox-bead at his collar and said, ‘Captain Bannon, could you and Chaplain Astador come in here.’

  URIEL MARCHED PAST frightened-looking naval ratings and techs as he, Tiberius and Pasanius made their way towards the basilica of the star fort. The orbital space station was a massive construction, impossibly ancient and, together with the others in the linked chain, powerful enough to defeat a battleship together with any attendant escorts, and even through his anger, Uriel could see that they would be potent weapons in the fight against the tyranids.

  As they had drawn closer to the star fort, he had seen the vast shape of the last refinery anchored thousands of kilometres away from the nearest vessel, remotely piloted ships packing its structure with even more explosives. Proof positive that Kryptman had never intended to save Chordelis.

  The trio passed through the northern quadrant of the star fort, entering the central basilica where Inquisitor Kryptman awaited. A black uniformed armsman directed them to the chambers the inquisitor had requisitioned and as they approached the door, Admiral Tiberius took hold of Uriel’s arm and said, ‘Remember, Uriel. Kryptman is not a man to cross, so be mindful of what you say’

  ‘I will,’ promised Uriel and rapped his gauntlet on the door, pushing inside without waiting for an answer. Tiberius nodded briskly to Pasanius, who swiftly followed his captain inside.

  Uriel pulled up short as he saw Kryptman seated behind an ugly desk of a dark wood, two Space Marines flanking him. He recognised Astador and took the other for one of the Mortifactors until he saw the silver inquisitorial symbol on his left shoulder guard. The yellow of the Imperial Fists Chapter on his other shoulder was a stark contrast to the midnight black of his armour, his skin deeply tanned and his hair a close-cropped blond.

  ‘Ah, Captain Ventris,’ said Kryptman. ‘Allow me to introduce Captain Bannon of the Deathwatch.’

  ‘Deathwatch…’ breathed Uriel. The Chamber Militant of the Ordo Xenos, the elite alien fighters in which he himself had once served for a decade. Kryptman had said that he had requested a Deathwatch kill team, but Uriel had not expected them to arrive in time for the coming conflict.

  Formidable killers of xeno creatures, each member of the Deathwatch was chosen from the finest warriors of his Chapter to serve for a time with the Ordo Xenos to combat the Mistreat of aliens throughout the galaxy. There were none better qualified to join this fight than the Deathwatch, and seeing the stylised skull symbol on Bannon’s shoulder guard immediately filled Uriel with fresh hope.

  He marched towards the gaudy desk and leaned forwards, resting his fists on its surface. He locked eyes with the inquisitor and said, ‘You lied to us.’

  ‘You allowed yourself be lied to, Uriel,’ said Kryptman. ‘Did you really think I was a man who changes his mind on a whim?’

  ‘No, but I thought you were a man of your word. Everything I have learned of you has led me to believe that you were a man of honour.’

  ‘Then you are naive indeed,’ said Kryptman. ‘I am a man who gets the job done.’

  ‘Even if that means murdering innocent people?’

  ‘If it proves necessary, then yes.’

  ‘I do not know who I hate more just now. You do not see the tyranids killing one another to achieve victory.’

  ‘Not yet,’ answered Kryptman with a sly smile.

  ‘You would do well to watch your tone, Captain Ventris,’ said Astador, circling the desk to stand face to face with Uriel. ‘Your Chapter owes this man its very existence.’

  ‘Get away from me, Astador,’ warned Uriel.

  ‘You will mind your place, Captain Ventris,’ said Astador. ‘We all have a part to play in this war. You must accept yours as I accept mine.’

  Uriel felt his anger towards Astador flare and before he knew what he was doing, he hammered a thunderous right cross against the Chaplain’s jaw. Astador spun backwards, crashing into the wall, but before Uriel could capitalise on the surprise of his attack, he felt a powerful grip encircle his neck and a burning heat prickle the skin beneath his jawline.

  ‘If you so much as move, I will plunge this power knife up through your soft palate and into your brain,’ said Captain Bannon. Astador surged to his feet, a killing light in his eyes, and in them, Uriel could see the feral tribal warrior he had been on Posul.

  But before he could move, Pasanius was there, his massive hand wrapped around the Mortifactor’s neck. He held the struggling Chaplain in a grip of steel.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said.

  ‘All of you, stop this madness now!’ bellowed Tiberius, stepping into the centre of the room. He stared at Bannon and said, ‘Take that knife away from my captain’s throat,’ before turning to Pasanius.

  ‘Sergeant, let go of Chaplain Astador and step away from him.’

  Pasanius looked round at Uriel, who nodded, the movement almost imperceptible due to the glowing amber blade at his neck, and released the Mortifactor. Astador’s eyes blazed fury, but he made no aggressive moves and Pasanius stepped back, radiating threat and the promise of fresh violence should the Chaplain attempt anything further.

  Bannon withdrew the knife from Uriel’s neck and said, ‘I know of you, Captain Ventris, and I have a great respect for what you have done in the past, but we must be united in this common cause. It ill becomes us to fight amongst ourselves when there is a terrible foe who seeks to destroy us all.’

  Uriel nodded and unconsciously rubbed his neck where the burning edge of Bannon’s power knife had singed his skin.

  ‘Captain Bannon speaks true,’ said Tiberius. ‘We are all servants of the divine God-Emperor and must comport ourselves accordingly. We are not animals or blasphemers who have cast off the codes of moral behaviour. There is to be no more violence between us.’

  The tension in the room slowly ebbed away and Bannon offered his hand to Uriel.

  Uriel took a deep, calming breath before taking Bannon’s hand, feeling the killing rage drain from his body, leaving him vulnerable and ashamed. Deep inside he felt the touch of an ancient being within him and heard its diabolical laughter echoing within his soul.

  ‘Come,’ said Kryptman, when he sensed his audience had calmed. ‘We have much to discuss. While we have been fighting the tyranid fleet, Magos Locard has been busy in the biologis research labs on Tarsis Ultra and his findings are most illuminating.

  BLINDING CLOUDS OF hot steam filled the train platform as another land train pulled into its designated berth and Pren Fallows, the platform overseer, cursed as his snow goggles fogged with condensation. He pulled off the goggles and wiped the inner face clear with the sleeve of his overalls. There was precious little snow here anyway, the heat generated by the land trains and the hundreds of milling people soon
turned the snow and ice to a shin deep mucky slush.

  Trains had been arriving daily for the past month, each laden with frightened farming communities from the outlying regions and, as the largest city on Tarsis Ultra, Erebus had been receiving the majority of these refugees. As if the city wasn’t crowded enough already. Pren shrugged, pushing his way through the crowds and making his way to the control booth that overlooked the platform.

  Seventeen train berths and fifty track lines radiated from the docking bays. He and his staff of seventy men had pulled double shifts for the last two months, ensuring that each train had deposited its human cargo and then departed on time to pick up yet more. It was thankless, dirty work and there was precious little reward to be had, but it was the life the Emperor had chosen for him and though he knew it would do no good to complain, Pren Fallows was not the kind of man to let that stop him.

  Powerful arc lights mounted on steel towers bathed the platforms in a ghostly white light, and despite the heat, his breath fogged before him. Yellow coated provosts from the city Commissariat directed people from the docking station, taking names on clipboards and directing them to the Ministorum camps further up the valley.

  It was a scene of organised chaos, but this train had been the last of the day and there were no more scheduled until noon the following day, which would allow Pren and his crew to enjoy a well-earned break.

  As the provosts escorted the last of the refugees from the station, a blessed calm descended. Pren stopped and smiled, enjoying the dead quiet of a winter’s night and an empty station.

  He climbed the rusted iron ladder to the control booth, stamping the slush from his boots before pushing open the door.

  ‘Close the damn door!’ shouted Halan Urquart, his deputy controller, who sat before a bank of controls, his feet up on the table, drinking a cup of hot caffeine. ‘You’re letting all the damn heat out.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder if you understand who’s in charge here, Halan,’ replied Pren, unfastening the wax-lubricated zipper on his winter coat and hanging it on a hook on the back of the door.

  ‘Yeah, I wonder that sometimes too.’

  ‘Anything to report?’ asked Pren, brushing the ice from his beard.

  ‘Nah, it’s been real quiet. The provosts seem to have finally got the hang of moving people out of here without bothering us.’

  ‘About bloody time,’ commented Pren, pouring himself a mug of caffeine. It was lukewarm, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He pulled up a seat next to the window, watching as another flurry of snow began to fall, coating the platforms in a fresh blanket of pristine white.

  Pren lifted the station logs from the basket tray beside Halan and began flicking through his deputy’s scrawled handwriting. He sipped his caffeine, noting that the turnaround times for the land trains was as quick as it had been even before the war. He’d need to remember and say a few encouraging words to his staff come the morning.

  He flipped over to another page, glancing up as a shiver passed down his spine. He put down his mug and stared out the misting window, squinting through the fogged glass at the twin pinpricks of light that were approaching the station.

  ‘What the hell…’ he muttered.

  ‘What’s up, chief?’ asked Halan.

  ‘Look,’ said Pren, pointing in the direction of the mysterious lights.

  ‘What the hell…’ said Halan.

  ‘I know,’ said Pren. ‘I thought we were all done for today.’

  ‘We are, I don’t know what that is.’

  The men watched as the two points of light drew closer through the night’s darkness, their sense of apprehension growing with their brightness. As the lights got closer, they came within the glow cast by the tower lights. Halan and Pren both breathed a sigh of relief as they saw the sleek shape of a land train glide smoothly into the station, its sides and roof coated in a thick layer of frost.

  The train slowed and came to a complete halt at the end of the furthest platform, its doors jerkily sliding open. Pren and Halan waited for the inevitable crowds to emerge, but nobody disembarked from the train. It simply sat, silent and unmoving on the far end of the platform, steam venting from the grilles around its engines and the track.

  Both men shared an uneasy glance.

  ‘I guess we should go down and have a look,’ suggested Pren.

  ‘I just knew you were going to say that,’ said Halan, pulling on his winter coat and gloves.

  Pren grabbed a portable illuminator and donned his winter gear, following his deputy outside into the biting cold. He clambered down the frosted ladder and trudged alongside Halan through the fresh snow towards the unmoving land train. As they drew nearer, they could see the windows of the train were dark and opaque with frost, even those of the driver’s cab, and their sense of unease grew stronger.

  The darkness and silence of the docking station, normally a relief after the hectic bustle of a day’s work now pressed in around them and Pren wished some of the provosts were still left in the station. At least they were armed.

  He gripped Halan’s arm and the man nearly jumped out of his skin.

  ‘Guilliman’s oath!’ swore Halan. ‘Don’t do that!’

  ‘Look, you can see the train’s number on the engine.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well we can tell which bloody train this is and why it’s here now, you idiot.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Halan, pulling out a data-slate from his coat and scrolling through a list of numbers, eventually stopping at the train’s designation.

  ‘Got it. This was due in last week.’

  ‘Last week? And no one noticed it was missing?’

  ‘I guess not, we’ve been pretty busy here you know.’

  ‘True,’ said Pren. ‘Well, where’s it come from?’

  ‘According to this, it was under the supervision of a Lieutenant Quinn from the Logres regiment. They were picking up refugees from across the north-eastern districts. Their last stop was at Prandium and they should have been here six days ago. I guess the train must’ve come in on auto.’

  Halan tucked away the slate and the pair gingerly continued towards the train, their steps cautious, hearts beating faster. The train’s doors stood open, but still no one got off. A light flickered inside, briefly illuminating the train’s interior and a tinkle of broken glass made both men jump.

  Steam gusted from the engine, melting the ice coating the train and cold water dripped from around the opened doors. Pren and Halan reached the doors and warily stepped into the darkness of the train.

  Pren flicked on the illuminator and swept the beam around the interior of the carriage.

  He heard Halan cry out in horror and fell to his knees as his mind attempted to cope with the butchery he saw all around him.

  Bodies. Hundreds of gutted, flensed, dismembered and partially devoured bodies filled the carriage, like hunks of meat in a coldroom. Strung from the walls on resinous streamers of glistening mucus, their dead flesh hard and unyielding, their frozen eyes staring down in mute accusation at the station operators.

  Stalactites of frozen blood reached down to the uneven floor and Pren felt a suffocating fear swell in his chest. He dropped the illuminator and it rolled down the carriage floor, casting lunatic shadows across the interior of the frozen charnel house, the spinning beam giving the rictus features of the corpses a hideous animation.

  ‘Sweet Emperor—’ wept Pren. ‘What happened here?’

  But the dead had no answers to give him, merely frozen eyes, emptied bellies, shorn limbs and gnawed flesh.

  And further back along the train, a creature that had first come to Tarsis Ultra many months ago ghosted from its lair and vanished into the warm labyrinth of Erebus city.

  THE COMBINED NAVAL might of the Imperial defenders of the Tarsis Ultra system hung in orbit around the world that gave it its name. A chain of linked space stations ringed the planet’s equatorial belt, towed into position to face the approaching tyranids by a host
of tugs and pilot boats. Dozens of defence monitors and system ships lumbered into their position in the battle line alongside Admiral de Corte’s flagship Argus, the battlecruiser Sword of Retribution, and the Dauntless cruisers Yermetov and Luxor.

  Gathered around the hulking form of the carrier Kharloss Vincennes were the Cobras of Cypria squadron, together with the one surviving vessel of Hydra squadron. The two strike cruisers of the Space Marines anchored in the shadow of the

  Argus. Lord Inquisitor Kryptman and the Space Marines had already deployed to the surface of Tarsis Ultra, their presence there deemed more vital than aboard their vessels. As a result, the Mortis Probati and the Vae Victus would stand off from the main engagement and utilise their fearsome bombardment cannons, rather than entering into the thick of the battle. With only a limited number of thralls and servitors to defend them, there would be no possibility of them repelling boarders and such ancient craft were too valuable to be lost in such a manner.

  The tyranid fleet first appeared as a sprinkling of light against the velvet backdrop of stars, its scale magnificent and terrible. Reflected starlight gleamed from city-sized chitinous armour plates and glittered on trailing tentacles that drooled thick, glutinous slime. Swarms of smaller creatures, their fronts crackling with twisting arcs of electrical discharge, surrounded the hive ships, surging ahead of the main fleet with a speed hitherto unseen among the organisms that made up the alien fleet.

  Under the power of dozens of straining servitor-crewed tugs, the hydrogen-plasma refinery drifted forward to meet the tyranids. Its hull was packed with yet more explosives and volatile plasma cells, and the magnitude of the resultant explosion was sure to dwarf the detonation of the previous refineries.

  ADMIRAL DE CORTE watched the tyranid creatures close on the refinery with a feral smile on his lips. Though tens of thousands of kilometres away, the refinery still dwarfed everything around it, and de Corte knew that the blast was certain to kill hundreds, if not thousands, of alien organisms. If they were lucky, perhaps another hive ship would be drawn to attack the refinery and yet another of the masters of this fleet could be destroyed.