The Ultramarines Omnibus

by Graham McNeill

  In a blur of motion the lictor pounced, its severed upper claws smashing the servitor across the room. Its heavily augmented body cracked the glass, drawing cries of alarm from the observers.

  Uriel and Astador unholstered their bolt pistols and aimed them through the glass.

  ‘Wait!’ cried Kryptman.

  The lictor charged the servitor, its lower arms tearing into its grey flesh in a frenzy of violence. Blood sprayed the walls as the beast ripped its victim to shreds, tearing and gouging its body until mere was nothing even remotely humanoid remaining. The beast reared up and hammered against the glass. Fresh cracks spread wider, rapidly spiderwebbing across its surface.

  ‘Kill it! Kill it!’ shouted Colonel Stagier.

  Before Uriel and Astador could fire, the lictor doubled up, dropping to the floor of its cell. The beast let out a keening wail, its entire body convulsing as a frenzy of rippling motion undulated within its flesh.

  ‘Ah yes, now it begins,’ noted Locard. ‘Resilient, but I expected that, what with its genome being relatively fixed.’

  ‘What’s happening to it?’ said Uriel, staring in disgust at the convulsing monster.

  The lictor fell onto its back, wracked by massive spasms, its body heaving into a giant inverted ‘U’. Even through the glass, Uriel heard a loud crack as its spine snapped. The lictor’s flesh split and monstrous growths erupted from within, its flesh writhing in uncontrolled evolution. Semi-formed limbs writhed from its viscera and other unnameable organs swelled from its mutating body.

  The monster let out a final, tortured screech as an explosion of black blood vomited from its every orifice. Finally it was still.

  Uriel was repulsed beyond belief. The lictor was undoubtedly dead, but what had killed it? Simple poison? Sudden hope flared in him as he realised that they might have a weapon with which to defeat the entire tyranid race.

  ‘Excellent work, magos,’ said Kryptman as the servitor’s blood dripped from me cracked glass.

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  ‘What did you do to it?’ said Astador.

  Locard smiled. ‘Using the lictor’s genetic sequence, I was able to isolate the base strands of this splinter fleet’s original mutation. With that “key”, if you will, I was able generate a massive over-stimulation of its adaptive processes. In effect, I drove it into a frenzy of hyper-evolution that not even a tyranid’s body could stand. A lictor’s genetic structure is normally extremely stable, hence the infection took a little longer to take effect than I anticipated, but I think you’ll agree that the results speak for themselves.’

  ‘This is incredible,’ breathed Uriel.

  ‘Indeed it is, Captain Ventris,’ agreed Locard, with no hint of false modesty.

  ‘With this weapon we can finally defeat the entire tyranid race!’

  ‘Ah, regrettably, that is not the case,’ explained Locard. ‘Each hive fleet’s gene sequence is vastly different and it was only due to the capture of such an early generation of creature that we were able to isolate this hive fleet’s genetics at all.’

  ‘So we can only utilise this weapon on this fleet?’ said Stagier.

  ‘Regrettably so, and it may not prove effective against these aliens either. Many of the creatures on Tarsis Ultra have evolved to the sixth or seventh iteration and may have deviated too far from the base strand to be affected.’

  ‘So it may not work at all?’ asked Uriel.

  ‘I believe it will, though of course I cannot be certain,’ answered Locard.

  ‘We should distribute this ammunition as soon as possible,’ said Major Satria excitedly.

  Uriel saw a look pass between Kryptman and Locard and suddenly the purpose of the demonstration became clear.

  ‘It it not that simple, Major Satria,’ he said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, it is not. Is it, lord inquisitor?’

  Kryptman stared at Uriel for long seconds before nodding sombrely.

  ‘Captain Ventris is correct. It would be pointless to manufacture ammunition with this gene-poison at this stage in the battle. No, this must be taken to the heart of the enemy where it will do the most damage.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’ asked Satria.

  ‘It means,’ said Uriel, ‘that we are going to have to fight our way into the hive ship. It means we must infect the hive queen.’

  IN THINE EVERLASTING Glory had always been one of Sister Joaniel’s favourite prayers, speaking as it did of the joy and duty of service to the Emperor. She had dedicated her life to the preservation of life and the healing of those whose frail bodies and minds had come back broken from the horrors of war. On Remian she had lived when those in her care had died and she wept as she prayed, feeling the same guilt burn within her as she thought of the poor unfortunates who lay bleeding and dying throughout the medicae building.

  As she had known would happen, the flood of casualties had risen to a raging torrent, with hundreds of men being brought in every day. No matter how hard she scrubbed, she could not get the stench and taint of blood from her hands. No matter how many soldiers they mended, there were always more being brought in by the stretcher-bearers.

  And as the front line had drawn ever closer to District Quintus, she and her staff had worked under the noise of artillery and gunfire. The noise of war, screams, explosions and sobbing was always with her, and the sight of so many wounded men haunted her dreams.

  Their faces blurred together so that she could no longer tell who lived and who died. So many times she had thought of just giving up, driven to tears by the sheer impossibility of their task. But each time, she recited her favourite prayer and the doubts and guilt were pushed back for a time.

  She began the prayer for a fourth time and was midway through the second verse when she heard slamming doors and sounds of a commotion from the vestibule. Rising painfully to her feet, she limped from the chapel to see what all the fuss was about.

  Climbing the steps to the vestibule, Joaniel saw a throng of injured people gathered before the doors to the wards. Uniformed orderlies were barring their way, arguing with a youngish man with bleached hair who carried a silver-haired girl whose midriff was a bloody mess.

  ‘What in the name of all that’s holy is going on here?’ she said, her voice cutting through the babble of voices that filled the vestibule.

  The man with the girl in his arms turned and ran his gaze Up and down her. A woman with her flame-red hair shaved into stripes flanked him, her face lined with exhaustion.

  ‘I got injured here, figured you could take care of her,’ said the man.

  ‘And who are you?’ asked Joaniel.

  ‘Me? I’m Snowdog, but that don’t matter. I got saddled with bringing these people here and that’s what I did. This girl’s hurt bad, can you help her?’

  One of the orderlies pushed his way towards her through the crowded vestibule, his annoyance plain. He waved a hand at the crowd, more of whom were gathered outside the medicae building, and said, ‘They’re not military personnel. We can’t take them. We’re too crowded as it is.’

  ‘Hey man, you gotta help,’ said Snowdog. ‘Where the hell else am I gonna go?’

  ‘Not my problem,’ snapped the orderly.

  ‘I have heard of you,’ said Joaniel. ‘You are a killer and a dealer in guns and narcotics.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So why should I help you, when there are thousands of men risking their lives every day against the tyranids?’

  ‘Because that’s what you do. You help people,’ said Snowdog, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  Joaniel smiled at Snowdog’s simple sentiment, ready to rebuke him for such naivety, before it hit her that, yes, that was what she did. It was that simple and she suddenly realised that she could not turn these people away. To do so would betray everything her order stood for. And that she would not do.

  Joaniel nodded to Snowdog and pointed to a wide set of stairs that led to the upper levels of t
he medicae building.

  The top level is not as crowded as the others. I will send food and corpsmen to see to your wounded. We have few staff and even fewer resources thanks to our supplies being stolen, but I promise we will do what we can.’

  ‘But they’re not military personnel!’ protested the orderly.

  She turned to the orderly and snapped, ‘I don’t care. They will be given shelter and all the care we can spare. Is that understood?’

  The orderly nodded, taking the wounded woman from Snowdog’s arms and carrying her inside to the wards.

  ‘Thank you, sister,’ said Snowdog.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Joaniel. ‘I’m not doing this for you, it’s for them. Let me make myself quite clear. I despise you and all that you are, but as you say, there are wounded people here, so let’s get them in out of the cold.’

  GIGANTIC YELLOW BULLDOZERS finished clearing the worst of the rubble from the long boulevard that led to the front line, teams of pioneers of the Departmento Munitorum overseeing the final sweeps of the makeshift runways for debris. A stray rock or pothole could spell doom for any aircraft unlucky enough to hit it and this mission was too important for a single craft to be lost. Fuel trucks and missile gurneys crisscrossed the rockcrete apron, delivering final payloads to the multitude of aircraft whose engines filled the air with a threatening ramble. Everywhere there was a sense of urgency as pilots and ground crew prepared their airborne steeds for battle.

  Captain Owen Morten, commander of the Kharloss Vincennes’ Angel squadrons, made a final circuit of his Fury interceptor, checking the techs had removed the arming pins on his missiles and that the leading edges of his wings were free from ice. The greatest danger in flying in such cold conditions was not the additional weight of any ice, but the disruption of the airflow over the wing and subsequent reduction in lift. Satisfied that the aircraft was ready for launch, Morten zipped his flight suit up to his neck and patted the armoured fuselage of the Fury.

  ‘We’ll do this one for the Vincennes,’ he whispered to himself.

  ‘You say something?’ asked Kiell Pelaur from the cockpit where he was finishing his ministrations to the Fury’s attack logister.

  ‘No,’ said Morten, watching as the enginseers continued their inspection of the ice ramp that would hopefully allow them to take off without the length of runway they were used to. The plazas, squares and streets surrounding him were filled with a veritable armada of craft. Every cutter, skiff, fighter, bomber or recon craft that could be put in the air was right now being prepped for immediate launch.

  Owen knew that most of them would never return, sacrificed to ensure the Space Marines got through to their objective. The thought did not trouble him. He had long since resigned himself to the fact that this would be his final flight. The skies above him were where he was meant to be and where he had always known he would die.

  The thought that he would soon see all his dead shipmates was a great comfort to Owen Morten as he clambered up the crew ladder and vaulted into the cockpit.

  THE BLACK THUNDERHAWK was devoid of insignia or ornamentation. Or so it appeared until closer inspection. Every square centimetre of its hull was inscribed with filigreed scriptwork, carved by hand with painstaking care. Catechisms and prayers of hatred for the xeno decorated the aircraft’s body from prow to stern.

  Chanting tech-priests circled the aircraft and blessed armourers inscribed words of ire onto the seeker heads of the wing-mounted missiles. Each heavy calibre shell loaded into the ammo hoppers of the autocannons was dipped in sanctified water before being slotted home with chants that would ensure detonation.

  The five surviving members of the Deathwatch knelt in prayer before the gunship, entreating it to see them safely to their destination. Henghast led the prayers, his wounds still paining him, but recovered enough from his battle with the lictor to accompany his battle-brothers. Brother Elwaine of the Salamanders had also survived, and was even now undergoing augmetic surgery to replace his arms. Despite Elwaine’s protests, Henghast had not permitted him to join the mission.

  Five men against the might of a hive ship. It was of such things that the legends of the Deathwatch were made and thoughts of the battle to come filled Henghast’s Fenrisian soul with fire. Should they survive, it would make for a fine saga for the Rune Priests to tell around the feast tables of the Fang.

  Henghast clasped his hands to his chest and said, ‘We mourn the loss of Captain Bannon, and revere his memory. He was a fine leader of men and a worthy brother in arms. I dearly wish he could be here to lead us into battle once more, but wishes are for the saga poets and we will bring honour to him by fighting this battle in his name.’

  A long shadow fell over Henghast and his lip curled over his fangs as he smoothly rose to his feet, ready to rebuke whoever had interrupted his men’s devotions.

  But the words died in his throat as he saw the figure standing before him.

  A Space Marine, his armour painted midnight black, with a single bright blue shoulder.

  ‘Ready your warriors, Brother Henghast,’ said Captain Uriel Ventris of the Deathwatch, ‘we go into battle.’

  FIFTEEN

  URIEL FELT THE lurch of the Thunderhawk lifting off and rested his helmeted head against the rumbling side of the roaring aircraft. A soft blue light filled the crew compartment, and a beatific choir of angels drifted from humming recyc-units that circulated sacred incense inimical to the xeno. The Deathwatch sat along the opposite fuselage, their heads bowed as they readied themselves for the coming fight.

  Brother Henghast, the Space Wolf, led their prayers, and Uriel was not surprised to hear pious imprecations that were the mark of a warrior preparing himself for death in battle. He allowed his gaze to wander over the brothers he would be sharing his final battle with, knowing that their service in the Deathwatch already meant that they were amongst the best and bravest warriors their Chapter could boast.

  Brother Jagatun of the White Scars sat sharpening a long, curved tulwar, a horsehair totem dangling from its skulled pommel. Brother Damias, an Apothecary of the Raven Guard, taciturn and solitary, his power fist etched with bizarre scars that reminded Uriel of those inflicted by zealous priests who worked themselves into a self-mortifying frenzy of devotion. Beside him sat Brother Alvarax of the Howling Griffons and Brother Pelantar of the White Consuls. Both individually loaded the hellfire shells of their heavy bolters, the mutagenic acids contained in each silver-cased bolt deadly to xeno organisms.

  Seated beside Uriel was the final member to make up their number. He alone of this band of warriors retained his Chapter’s original colours and his presence was as much of as reassurance to Uriel as the Deathwatch itself.

  Veteran sergeant Pasanius gripped the barrel of his heavy flamer tightly in his silvered bionic hand, silently awaiting the coming battle.

  Uriel had tried to dissuade his oldest friend from coming, but Pasanius was having none of it, and since Brother Elwaine and his flamer were unable to fight, Henghast had been only too glad for Pasanius to accompany them. In the close confines of the tyranid hive ship, a flamer was sure to be a vital element of their attack.

  Seeing that Pasanius was absolutely entrenched in his position, Uriel knew he would need to have his sergeant dragged away to prevent him from coming and had reluctantly, but inwardly gratefully, allowed him to come. Astador and Learchus were more than capable of holding the defenders together and his presence would not affect the fate of Erebus one way or another.

  Astador had embraced him, promising his mortal remains a place of honour in the Gallery of Bone. Uriel had not liked the finality in the Chaplain’s voice as he intoned the Emperor’s blessing upon him.

  Learchus had offered no such blessings, his fury at what he saw as his captain’s desertion of his men incandescent. ‘Your place is with your men, not leading the Deathwatch!’ he had argued.

  ‘No, Learchus, my place is wherever I can do the most good,’ he had replied.

  ‘Sho
w me where it says that in the codex,’ snapped Learchus.

  ‘You know I cannot, sergeant. But this is just something I have to do.’

  ‘Lord Calgar shall hear of this.’

  ‘You must do what you feel is right, Learchus, as must I,’ said Uriel before leaving his furious sergeant to ready the Ultramarines for the last battle.

  Uriel was saddened by Learchus’s inability to see beyond the letter of the codex, feeling sure that Roboute Guilliman would have approved of his decision to lead the Deathwatch into battle. He knew that there was great wisdom in the pages of the Codex Astartes, but knew also that it was wisdom to learn from, that such dogmatic adherence to what its pages contained was, as Astador had said, not wisdom, but repetition.

  But there was a danger in this: that such thoughts would lead inevitably to the path the Mortifactors walked. Uriel had no wish to pursue that path, but knew now that there was a balance to be had in following the spirit of the codex, if not the letter. He smiled as he imagined the silent approval of Captain Idaeus and watched through the vision port as the view darkened from the violet sky of Tarsis Ultra to the blackness of space.

  He looked around the crew compartment once more at his comrades. Seven magnificent warriors going into battle.

  A battle that would decide the fate of a world.

  LEARCHUS WATCHED THE Thunderhawk blast into the upper atmosphere, surrounded by hundreds of escorting aircraft as bright spots of light against the darkness. Dawn was already lightening the horizon with a diffuse amber light and he could see the first stirrings beneath the snow as the tyranids emerged from the ground.

  The cracked remnants of the wall were sagging in many places, but there was little that could be done about it. Some work had been done to ready it for the coming assault, but the bulk of work undertaken throughout the night had been in preparing the runways for the aircraft to launch.

  He gripped the hilt of his chainsword tightly, his anger at Uriel and Pasanius still bright and hot despite their departure. He and the remaining eighty members of the Fourth company stood at parade rest behind the northern segment of the District Quintus wall, ready to receive the attack of the tyranids. Chaplain Astador and the sixty-three warriors of the Mortifactors held the southern portion of the wall, and Learchus made a mental note to keep an eye on these reckless descendants of his Chapter.