Ultramarines

by Graham McNeill

  ‘Blessed is the fist that strikes down the foes of mankind,’ said Cassius. ‘You will earn the gratitude of the Ultramarines for your actions.’

  ‘Blessed indeed is the artifice of the Machine-God, that a humble man might lay low so many foes in the name of the Omnissiah,’ came Perthion’s reply.

  Cassius watched as the Warlords split, swinging away to their appointed stations. He had no doubt that the open highway and fields would be a killing ground for the war machines. There was no intelligence to suggest that the tyranids had managed to land their largest constructs, bio-titans that would be the match of the Adeptus Mechanicus machines, and the Chaplain was confident the men of Legio Fortitudis would destroy many hundreds, if not thousands, of the enemy as they approached Cordus Via.

  The streets of the main settlement were a different matter entirely, too tight for the Titans to operate. Despite horrendous casualties, the tyranids would come on and on, driven against their foes by their instinct to devour. No approach was one hundred per cent secure, and the Chaplain knew that despite his immense allies, it was likely the tyranids would eventually reach the buildings and the fighting would become close and deadly.

  That would be when his Ultramarines would prove their worth.

  ‘Sensor sweep detects multiple biological signals, four kilometres distant.’ Princeps Perthion’s warning was devoid of urgency, delivered in the same relaxed tone as his previously negative reports. ‘Estimate two to three hundred life forms.’

  Dawn was still three hours away, the darkness broken only by a faint glimmer of stars through the cloudy haze and the beams of the Titans’ searchlights. The Ultramarines moved quickly into position, their autosenses allowing them to navigate the dark streets and alleys without hesitation. The thrum of powered armour, clump of boots, whine of power cells charging and click of magazines being checked sounded loud in the still night, echoing from empty buildings.

  ‘Moving to engage,’ announced Princeps Jasyn. Victorix shuddered into life, its weapons drawing up to the firing position. The ground trembled as the Warlord took two strides up the highway access ramp, the dazzling glare of the Titan’s lamps lighting up the ferrocrete surface.

  Cassius had been in the makeshift shrine room when he had heard the news. Walking swiftly – the distance to the enemy and the intervention of Victorix made it unnecessary to run – the Chaplain crossed the street to the main worker tenement and ascended the narrow stairwells, monitoring the reports of his warriors over the comm. The devastator squads had been in position since their arrival, while the tactical squads fell back to the settlement from their patrol routes, taking up guard stations in the outlying buildings to the west and north.

  Cassius emerged onto the flat roof of the dormitory block as Sergeant Capilla and his devastators set themselves along the raised parapet at the roof’s edge, overlooking the highway where it crossed the river confluence. Beyond them, Victorix was already several hundred metres along the carriageway, advancing at full speed.

  ‘First enemy wave, three and a half kilometres,’ reported the Titan’s princeps. ‘Enemy is dispersed along the highway and beneath, approaching at speed.’

  To the south, on Cassius’s left, the low roof of a storehouse lit up with the blue fire of plasma as a Thunderhawk gunship lifted from its makeshift landing site. It soared several hundred metres into the sky before turning west, accelerating towards the incoming tyranids. As the blue flares of its engines grew smaller in the gloom, another light broke the sky: a plume of fire from the carapace of Victorix.

  Three blossoms of red surged from one of the Titan’s missile launchers, streaking ahead of the Thunderhawk in a parabolic arc. Cassius almost lost their trail in the clouds, but picked them up again as the missiles descended. Each split into a fountain of white flashes as the warheads separated. A few seconds later, explosions erupted across a spread of ground around three kilometres away, creating a column of fire that blazed fiercely for several seconds, blotting out the Thunderhawk lights and Titan searchlamps. The crack of dozens of detonations rolled across Cordus Via a couple of seconds later.

  ‘Good hit,’ reported Sergeant Acheon from aboard the Thunderhawk. ‘Enemy hit with all ordnance. Heavy casualties inflicted, formation disrupted. They are not stopping. Advancing at speed. Commencing attack run, do not fire.’

  ‘Confirmed,’ replied Princeps Jasyn. ‘Weapons on hold.’

  The blue sparks that highlighted the gunship’s position rose briefly and then dived steeply. The cannon atop the Thunderhawk’s dorsal mount blazed into life while wing tip heavy bolters blazed tracer rounds through the inky night and the lascannon in the craft’s nose spat beams of white destruction. Cassius’s autosenses dampened the flares of light, briefly turning the sky to a deep red, the weapons fire seen as pale yellow stars. Of the tyranids, nothing could be seen, though the commentary from Sergeant Acheon announced several dozen slain as the Thunderhawk swept over the enemy and then lifted away, plasma jets burning fiercely.

  ‘Establish command feed, full aerial sweep,’ Cassius ordered Acheon, and received the acknowledgement a few seconds later.

  The Chaplain’s helm display flickered with static for a moment as the link to the Thunderhawk’s weapons surveyors established itself. When the image resolved, an inset in front of his right eye showed a grainy view from the circling gunship.

  By the light of several pools of flickering plasma fire, obscured in places by patches of ashen cloud made of the bodies of the creatures that had been incinerated by the blasts, Cassius could see the tyranid foe. A sea of termagants was reforming, moving steadily towards the settlement. Each creature was smaller than a man, six-limbed and bent over. They scuttled forwards on their lower four limbs, their upper arms holding rifle-like organic weapons. Chitinous plates covered their backs and heads, long tails whipped back and forth as they ran.

  Amongst the termagants were other creatures, with forelimbs composed of serrated blades, like smaller versions of the lictor’s claw-scythes. The hormagaunts sprang and bounded quickly between the flames, crossing the scorched ground in long leaps, swiftly moving ahead of the termagant broods.

  As the Thunderhawk continued its slow turn, it brought into view larger creatures: tyranid warriors. These stood taller even than a Space Marine, six-limbed like all tyranid creatures but walking on two legs. Twin upper arms merged into pairs of wicked-looking boneswords and grotesque guns with maws that dripped venomous ichor. Cassius knew from hard experience that while the warriors lived, projecting their psychic might onto the lesser creatures, the termagants and hormagaunts would fight to the death, driven on by the gestalt power of the tyranid hive mind.

  The leading broods had reached the highway and were pouring onto the cracked ferrocrete by the score. Some split off from the main force, several dozen termagants and a brood of five warriors, heading beneath the causeway as it rose up from the plains, directly towards the river.

  ‘Princeps Jasyn, another bombardment is required, four hundred metres short of last impact,’ Cassius spoke calmly, assessing the situation as it was revealed by the Thunderhawk’s artificial eyes.

  ‘Sergeant Acheon, another attack run. Target tyranid warrior broods in the rear and eliminate. Squad Heletis, move to the dock area beneath the highway. Be prepared with flamer and bolters to counter any enemy emerging from the riverside. Squad Xathian, take up a supporting position to the north of Heletis.’

  Satisfied with the orders he had given, Cassius cut the command link as the Thunderhawk dived groundwards for another attack run. Once more the night sky was torn apart by the barrage of its weapons. When the gunship had completed its pass, Dominatus Rex launched another barrage of missiles, bathing the highway and its surrounds with a welter of plasma detonations.

  Cassius signalled to Sergeant Capilla, who broke away from his devastator squad to attend the Chaplain. His helm was hung on his belt, revealing a wid
e-cheeked face criss-crossed with scars.

  ‘You have orders, Brother-Chaplain?’ the sergeant asked, nodding his head as a sign of respect.

  ‘It is imperative that the tyranids do not encroach upon Cordus Via, brother-sergeant. We cannot afford to fight a running battle through narrow streets and alleyways. Have your squad reposition to cover the quayside and be ready to open fire if Heletis and Xathian are forced to fall back.’

  ‘We would be firing close to our brothers,’ said the sergeant. ‘Is that advisable?’

  ‘Frag missiles and bolters pose little threat to our brethren but will reap a heavy toll of the enemy, sergeant. You have your orders.’

  ‘Aye, Brother-Chaplain,’ Capilla said, raising a fist in acknowledgement. ‘We will cover the withdrawal of Heletis and Xathian.’

  Cassius kept his gaze on Capilla as the sergeant returned to his squad. Like Dacia, he was a veteran of many decades’ experience, and it was unlike Capilla to show hesitation when receiving a command. Cassius could not avoid the conclusion that Dacia and Capilla, and perhaps some of his other sergeants, were not wholly committed to the effort on Styxia. Perhaps Ixion or one of the other captains had issued instruction to the sergeants before they departed, regarding Master Calgar’s edict not to sacrifice the force. If they showed similar reluctance in the heat of battle it could cost even more lives, and ultimately victory.

  Feeling vexed by the situation, the Chaplain resolved to speak with his senior warriors when the threat of the initial tyranid wave had been dealt with. He could not afford for there to be any doubt in the minds of his brother Space Marines. They would defeat the tyranids on Styxia, and though Chapter Master Calgar had ordered that losses be minimised, Cassius would not sacrifice a world for the sake of a few lives. It was the fate of every Space Marine to die in battle; Cassius had long ago accepted such truth. If the battle for Styxia could be won, he would win it, even if he had to give his own life.

  Dismissing such disturbed thoughts, Cassius returned to his shrine chamber to contemplate the fighting ahead. He reverently touched each of the relics upon the altar table, whispering a benediction to those who would give their lives in the coming battles. He lowered himself to his knees, head bowed in meditation, listening to the reports from his warriors over the comm.

  Cassius was not wholly trusting of the Titans and their princeps. They were powerful war machines, without equal on the ground, but their loyalties were to the Cult Mechanicus not the Ultramarines, and thus their agenda might change at a whim. If Arka or some other individual deemed them to be more useful elsewhere, Cassius would lose their support. It was best to plan for that eventuality; the Ultramarines were used to fighting on their own.

  Such thoughts were interrupted by a communication over the command channel that had been assigned by Colonel Taulin. The Imperial Guard officer’s voice was quiet, broken by the static of distance.

  ‘Styxia command, seeking contact with Chaplain Cassius. Are you receiving our signal?’

  ‘Signal received,’ responded Cassius. He opened a panel in the sleeve of his armour and locked the command frequency. The back-and-forth messages from the Titans, Thunderhawk and patrolling squads reduced to a background whisper. ‘Transmit.’

  ‘Ah, good. General Arka has asked me to provide you with an update on the wider situation,’ said the colonel.

  ‘My strike cruiser has been monitoring all frequencies as well as ground movements,’ replied Cassius. ‘They will report if there is any matter that requires my attention.’

  ‘I’m sure they will,’ said Taulin. He coughed. ‘That said, General Arka wants me to tell you that considerable tyranid attacks are falling upon outlying positions to the north and south of Cordus Via. They are being held back for the moment. He requests that your cruiser receives coordinates for orbital strikes, should our forces be required to withdraw. They are just out of range of our guns at Plains Fall, you see. It would be a boon if we could count on your support when we have to draw our men back to the next line.’

  ‘“When” you have to, colonel? Do you not mean “if” you have to?’ said Cassius. In the quiet before Taulin’s reply, the Chaplain heard a report from Squad Heletis: tyranids sighted coming down the river bank.

  ‘General Arka has created a collapsing perimeter, Chaplain. I thought he had explained that. We cannot hope to hold the furthest positions indefinitely. An orderly withdrawal is far more preferable to a rout in the face of attack, surely?’ Taulin sucked in a breath, trying to hide his annoyance. ‘Can General Arka send coordinates to your strike cruiser, Chaplain?’

  ‘Yes, he can,’ said Cassius, only half-listening to Taulin as more information about the attack along the river was transmitted amongst the Ultramarines. ‘Liaise with Techmarine Pavorian aboard Fidelis. Tell him that command authorisation still resides with me.’

  ‘Thank you, Chaplain. With your cooperation, I am certain we can defeat this threat.’

  ‘Yes, we can and we will, colonel. Unless you have anything else you wish to discuss, I must attend to matters closer at hand.’

  There was no immediate reply from Taulin, so Cassius cut the vox link. He stared at the relics on display for some time, ordering his thoughts. He was used to dealing with doubt, in others though never himself, and his current assignment on Styxia would prove no different. Those in command of the defenders would learn not to doubt the valour and determination of the Ultramarines, and those under his command would learn not to doubt the wisdom and fortitude of Chaplain Cassius.

  Chapter V

  A little before dawn, Cassius received a communication from the Fidelis, warning of a new sensor reading encroaching from the west. Passing on this news to the princeps of the Titans, the Chaplain started on a tour of Cordus Via, to check the position of his troops and see that all was in preparedness for any attack.

  The latter hours of the night had passed without significant incident. The first wave of tyranids had been held back by the combined power of the Dominatus Rex and successive air patrols from the two Thunderhawks supporting Cassius’s force. A few small broods of termagants and hormagaunts had made it as far as the stretches of river above the cataract, where they had been met by a counterattack of tactical and assault squads led by Sergeant Dacia and his First Company veterans. The Ultramarines had suffered no casualties, driving the smaller tyranid constructs into the swift-moving waters where they were easy targets for boltguns and missile launchers, or else were swept over the ninety metre drop of the cataract.

  Cassius met with two combat squad patrols on their way back to the garrison in the main dorm block at the bottom of the Minoran Gradient access ramp. They had been north to check for tyranid forces that might have crossed the rivers farther west, but had seen nothing out of the ordinary. The Chaplain was about to wave the Space Marines on their way when his vox crackled into life, an ident-cipher in his helm display notifying him that Princeps Jasyn was hailing. Cassius activated the vox and motioned for the Space Marines to remain where they were.

  ‘Revered Chaplain, I can confirm the sensor readings from your strike cruiser,’ said Jasyn. ‘We have aerial forces heading our way. Atmospheric distortion is increasing, but I would say four or five large creatures are en route to our position. We are also detecting a surge in land-based signals.’

  ‘A second ground wave, supported by harridans and gargoyles,’ replied Cassius.

  ‘Harridans, Chaplain?’ said Jasyn. ‘I have heard of the gargoyles, winged versions of the creatures we have just been slaughtering. What are these harridans? What threat do they present?’

  ‘Large constructs, princeps, thirty to fifty metres in length,’ said Cassius. ‘They act as long-range transportation for the gargoyle swarms, and are dangerous in the extreme.’

  ‘Let us hope that they are heading for Plains Fall,’ said the princeps. ‘General Arka’s anti-air batteries can take care of the problem.�
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  ‘A valid point, princeps. However, we must be prepared for an assault here.’

  ‘We have some point-defence turrets in case the gargoyles try to swarm us, but other than that, neither Victorix nor Dominatus Rex are suitable for air defence. If the enemy land amongst you, our weapons will be useless.’

  ‘I understand that, princeps. We will deal with the harridans and gargoyles as necessary. See to it that the second attack wave of ground forces does not intrude upon the proceedings.’

  Jasyn signalled an acknowledgement. As Cassius made his way back to the main dormitory block to command the coming engagement, he felt the ground shuddering as the two Warlord Titans moved into position to forestall the coming ground attack. The Chaplain had reached the main thoroughfare when he received a signal from Sergeant Capilla.

  ‘Airborne enemy sighted, Brother-Chaplain,’ said the sergeant. ‘Due west, three kilometres. Three harridans closing on our position.’

  Cassius turned and looked into the cloudy skies to the west, magnifying his autosenses to full. He scanned the cloud layer and saw three dark spots approaching quickly, moving against the prevailing wind. The long-range visual equipment of the devastators was more accurate than the simple autosenses of the Chaplain’s armour and Cassius had no doubt that the report was accurate. He signalled Sergeant Menaton, whose squad was aboard the Thunderhawk currently running air cover for the force.

  ‘Sergeant Menaton, engage incoming targets at range. Keep distance to five hundred metres or more.’

  ‘Understood, Brother-Chaplain,’ Menaton replied. ‘We will keep our distance. Lascannons and battle-cannon primed for attack.’

  The Thunderhawk was currently on the northern leg of its perimeter sweep. It banked left and roared over the highway, arrowing directly towards the approaching tyranid flyers, gaining altitude as it did so. Menaton was experienced enough to know that the harridans were weakest from above, and would have to descend several thousand metres before they could release the flocks of gargoyles clinging to their undersides like horrific infants suckling at the breasts of their monstrous mother.