Deathwatch. It was a blade aimed at the throat of the Beast.
The clouds parted. The attack moon appeared, as if in anger at the challenge. The roars grew louder yet.
Deathwatch.
Abathar shouted the name, and it was a mission. It was a calling. It was an identity. Sachael had been correct. Abathar was a Dark Angel. Nothing would change that. Nothing could. But he was also this new thing. As his armour bore the colours of two allegiances, so did his being. There was no contradiction. The Deathwatch was formed of disparate pieces, and it would depend on their separate identities to create its own.
What have we become? The full answer would come in time. But the name was here, defined by the crucible of sacrifice and vengeance. The one and the many had become synonymous.
Deathwatch.
The refrain was a thunder strong far beyond sound. It shook the Stilicho Tower. It cracked the air over the Imperial Palace. It rose to the sky. Towards the attack moon. It was an answer to the endless shout.
I AM SLAUGHTER, the Beast exulted.
And the warriors of many Chapters said, Fear us.
‘You want me to go back,’ Galatea Haas said.
‘Yes,’ Koorland said.
They were in the barracks of the Adeptus Arbites. Despite her rise in rank, Haas spent most of her time in this quadrant. Her authority now extended to most of the Arbitrators still in the continent-sized palace. She was Proctor of the Primus Imperialis Division, and she looked exhausted. The numbers of the Adeptus Arbites had been so badly cut by the Proletarian Crusade that their efficiency was a shadow of what it had been. Haas’ office reflected the constraints under which she laboured. It was bare except for a battered desk, a wooden chair, an equipment footlocker, and a massive vox-array.
Koorland found himself comparing the officer before him to the Grand Provost Marshal in the Great Chamber. He did not doubt Zeck’s skill. His ability to process vast amounts of data was more than impressive, and he had a keen strategic mind. It was the uses to which Zeck’s skill was put that inspired Koorland’s contempt. Had Zeck ever been something more than the political animal he was now? Koorland had his doubts. To become a High Lord, Zeck would have had to concentrate first and foremost on the goals of his ambition. His effectiveness as an administrator would have been a by-product of his personal desires. In Haas, Koorland saw a career take the form of a calling. He recognised her driven gaze. It was a product of duty and of loss.
She greeted the news that she was being asked to return to the attack moon with a grim, tight-lipped calm, as if she had been expecting this conversation. She did not ask if she had a choice. She said, ‘You’re going inside again.’
‘Yes, deeper. Small teams. This will be an infiltration.’
‘I see. What is my role?’
‘We will be looking for control centres and power sources. You are more familiar with the interior than anyone else still living.’
‘I understand.’ She tapped her shock maul where it hung from her belt. She took a breath. ‘I shall be ready to embark when you command.’
‘Thank you, proctor. It would have been understandable if you had been reluctant.’ Understandable, though reluctance would not have kept her on Terra. She was needed, and Koorland had been prepared to order her participation in the mission. Presenting her with a request first had been a courtesy, and a mark of his respect for what she had survived and what she had accomplished. He was pleased the request had been enough.
‘Reluctant?’ Haas said. ‘May I speak freely, Lord Commander?’
‘Please do.’
‘The prospect of returning there fills me with horror.’ She spoke calmly, her voice and her gaze steady. There was a faint twitch in her right eye. It was the only expression of what she was really feeling. ‘But I joined the Proletarian Crusade for a reason. I had a task, and that task is incomplete.’
‘Your commitment to duty is admirable.’
Her mouth twisted. ‘I’m not a saint,’ she said. ‘I lost my friends. I saw…’ She faltered. The twitch became more pronounced. ‘When the mountains moved…’ She looked past Koorland, at something colossal. He knew what she was remembering – billions of civilians and troops crushed, turned into a towering wave of blood. He knew what had happened on the surface of the moon. He had not witnessed it, though he had seen other horrors on Ardamantua. He could empathise without being able to experience the precise nightmare. They had each gathered their individual scars.
‘You want revenge,’ Koorland said.
Her gaze sharpened again. She gave him a curt nod. ‘I want to see the greenskins die in the same numbers. And I want to be responsible for that.’
‘You will be,’ Koorland promised.
The embarkation of the kill-teams took place in the Inner Palace’s pocket space port. There were three squads heading for the attack moon. Each was to board a Thunderhawk bound for the Dark Angels strike cruiser Herald of Night, which waited at low anchor to take them through the warzone. The ship was the fastest of the Adeptus Astartes vessels present over Terra.
Vangorich watched the departure from the far western edge of the landing pad. The hot wind from the first of the Thunderhawks’ turbofan engines blew his hair back. His eyes were painfully dry. Beside him, Wienand raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glare as a gunship turned on descent, its engines bright as suns in the pre-dawn gloom.
‘They’re all in black,’ Wienand said, looking at the thirteen Space Marines.
‘I’ve heard the change started with a few, and the others followed suit.’
‘You have thoughts?’
‘Koorland’s force already has a distinct identity. Before the first battle.’
‘A good sign, wouldn’t you say?’
‘For the task ahead, definitely.’
Wienand cocked her head. ‘Interesting hedge. Wasn’t this your idea in the first place?’
‘It was,’ he conceded.
The Thunderhawk’s embarkation ramp lowered. Koorland crossed the landing, coming from an eastern entrance to the space port. He stopped in front of the gunship and faced the kill-teams. Thane was with him. Their armour was not black.
‘Here’s a difference,’ Wienand said.
‘Understandable,’ said Vangorich. ‘The continued existence of the Imperial Fists hangs by a thread. I can’t imagine Koorland would do anything to downplay the memory of the Chapter.’ The Imperial Fists livery was already the colour of mourning, he thought.
‘Brothers,’ Koorland said, his voice amplified by vox-casters around the periphery of the landing pad, ‘you have earned my thanks many times over during the course of this war. You have fought, you have sacrificed, and you have followed me. What I see before me is something for which I cannot, in good conscience, express gratitude. To do so would be the height of arrogance. You have found the true meaning of our actions on this day. The Last Wall rose from ashes. So has the Deathwatch.’
‘It has a name,’ Vangorich said to Wienand. ‘I’ve heard it more than once now. I didn’t anticipate that when I spoke to Koorland. I didn’t expect the identity to form so quickly or so definitively.’
‘That’s a problem?’
‘The differences between a conception and its execution can be a source of unease.’
‘I can’t believe you’re backing down from your position in the Council. You fought hard for this operation.’
‘I know,’ said Vangorich. ‘And I still believe in it. This is our best hope now.’
‘I’m still hearing but in your voice.’
‘We are many, and we are one,’ Koorland was saying. ‘Today we will strike the greenskins in a manner they cannot anticipate, and in a manner that already surpasses anything I might have hoped for.’
The roar of the assembled Deathwatch forced Vangorich to wait before responding. When the noise subs
ided, Wienand spoke first. ‘Surpassing hope isn’t necessarily a good thing, is it?’ she said.
He managed a tight, grim smile. ‘Do you think it’s entirely healthy for you to know me that well?’
‘For you or for me?’
Either, he thought. He shrugged. ‘The name. The colours,’ he said. ‘The black. I wasn’t expecting any of that. So coherent an identity so soon…’
‘The other High Lords anticipated this. Or something very similar.’
‘True. That doesn’t mean they were right about this force’s long-term significance.’ He became aware that Wienand was looking at him sharply.
‘Altering livery isn’t something the Adeptus Astartes do lightly,’ she said.
‘No. It may be a necessary gesture for this attempt to succeed.’
Wienand snorted. ‘You don’t believe that’s all it is.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘We’re witnessing the start of something that is going to be with us for a long time,’ Wienand said. ‘That’s what is bothering you, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ said Vangorich.
‘You don’t really believe Koorland is planning a coup, though, do you?’
‘I don’t.’ Vangorich sighed. ‘It’s not what he intends that’s the problem. It’s the thing he has created. The more successful the Deathwatch is, the more difficult it will be to disband. And Throne, we need it to be successful. But afterwards, what then?’
‘You just implied you trusted Koorland.’
‘If he doesn’t survive,’ said Vangorich. ‘If his successor sees more potential for the Deathwatch than the immediate crisis…’
‘Pessimist,’ Wienand said.
‘Pessimism is my duty,’ said Vangorich. He looked at her. ‘You don’t seem worried.’
‘I think you’ve been in the presence of the High Lords for too long, Drakan. They’re a bad influence. Their thinking is constricting yours.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m more intrigued by the possibilities than the dangers.’
‘You think the Council’s anxieties are groundless?’
‘I didn’t say that. If we consider them in the right light, they may in fact be the key to the possibilities.’
‘Which are?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
Koorland had finished speaking and the first of the kill-teams had followed him into the Thunderhawk. It lifted off, and a second gunship descended to take on Thane and the next squad.
‘I think we need to see how this day plays out first,’ Wienand said. ‘Don’t you agree?’
‘I do,’ said Vangorich. She was right. And he did still believe in the effort under way. There were no other options left. Koorland had listened to his advice, and had adapted the philosophy of the Officio Assassinorum to the crisis, and to the Adeptus Astartes.
He had forged his blade.
‘We are directing the primary data-feeds to your vox-frequency,’ Adnachiel told Koorland.
‘I am receiving them. Thank you, Company Master. I wish I could be on the bridge with you.’
‘You are where you need to be,’ Adnachiel said. Inside a Thunderhawk, inside a landing bay, he thought. He respected Koorland. He accepted his authority as Lord Commander. For the combined efforts of the Chapters to maintain cohesion, centralised command was needed. Between the traditional calling of the Imperial Fists as the defenders of the Terran wall, and Koorland’s status as both a unifier of Successors and a warrior without a Chapter, he was the logical, least objectionable choice for that position.
Adnachiel also accepted the reasons for the Deathwatch. He supported the action. He expected the battle-brothers he had seconded to the kill-teams to commit fully to the effort, and to the cooperation with warriors from other Chapters, no matter what Chapters they might be.
He accepted all the necessities of the struggle against the Beast. Even so, he preferred Koorland to be in a position where Adnachiel had some control over the information he received. The Herald of Night was the necessary ship to make the run to the attack moon. It was not necessary that there be any presence on its bridge that was not a Dark Angel.
There were no visual feeds to the Thunderhawk, but Adnachiel ensured Koorland had a channel to the command vox and received a constant update of ship positions relative to the Herald. He would know the state of the battle. He would know when the moment came for the launches.
The strike cruiser cut through the void, closing in on the burning region of the attack moon.
‘The Imperial Navy still has the orks contained,’ Shipmaster Aelia said.
Adnachiel grunted. ‘They’re holding them only because this is the greatest concentration of ships to destroy,’ he said.
The tacticarium screens flickered as they adjusted to the constant changes. The positions of Navy vessels changed slowly compared to the darting swarm of ork ships. Their status changed far more quickly. Green icons flashed amber, then red, then vanished. The frigates and destroyers that made up the blockade fleet were far from being the largest at the Navy’s command, but each was still over a kilometre long, with crews numbering in the tens of thousands. The pace at which they were disappearing from the sight of the Herald’s auspex array was disturbing. The orks were feasting on the Terran fleet. There were fifteen destroyers, almost as many frigates, and scores of escorts still in the fighting. Nowhere near enough.
Adnachiel had to hope they would feast a little longer. He resented the necessity for that hope. His anger spurred his determination to see the moon destroyed.
He looked back and forth between the screen readouts and the cloud of battle visible in the oculus. A battle cluster was forming, growing tighter. The Imperial ships were converging as they sought to provide supporting fire for each other. The orks battened on the higher concentration of prey. The blockade still surrounded the moon, but as the Navy fell, gaps opened. The orks were not coming through them yet, but instead they appeared to be intent on the total annihilation of the blockade.
‘Commander, we have a possible course plotted,’ Aelia said.
‘Show me,’ Adnachiel said.
The mortal pressed a key on her command throne stationed just below Adnachiel’s pulpit. An arcing path appeared on the oculus, cutting through one of the gaps to bring the Herald of Night close to the surface of the ork base.
‘No,’ Adnachiel said. ‘The target is the interior.’ The nearest approach of Aelia’s route would force the kill-teams to breach a surface thick enough to be a planetary crust, or travel to the open maw. That would take too long, giving the orks too much time to detect and counter the attack. ‘The jaws are our goal.’
Ork interceptors still streamed from the vast launch bay. The grotesque mouth opened and closed in an imitation of speech. It was the Beast’s shout given visual form. It gaped wide, narrowed, then gaped again. It never shut completely.
‘Use the gap between the vessels,’ Adnachiel said. ‘Enter the battle by that path, then cut through to the maw. Maximum speed, continuous fire.’
‘So ordered,’ said Aelia.
The Herald of Night plunged towards the war. It was larger and more powerful than any ship still in the battle, and its approach altered the gravitational tides of conflict. Adnachiel tracked the readings and the oculus display. In his mind’s eye, he saw the full shape of the struggle. He saw the shifting currents, the networks of fire, the ripple effects of actions large and small. The cloud began to bulge towards the Herald. The movement was slow. The orks were becoming aware of what was closing in, but they were already engaged. The reinforcements coming from the moon turned in the direction of the strike cruiser. Some were destroyed by crossfire within moments of their emergence. Others became caught in the maelstrom of the war. Still others kept their heading.
‘The enemy has seen us,’ Aelia said.
&
nbsp; ‘And I see them,’ Adnachiel answered. ‘Maintain course. We will meet them and crush them.’
The strike cruiser entered the gap. To port and starboard, above and below the course of the ship, the void burned and screamed. The edges of the oculus flashed with lance and torpedo fire. Ignited plasma billowed towards the centre of Adnachiel’s vision. In the upper right of his view, a dozen ork interceptors dived towards the core of the destroyer Unstinting. Its void shields fell. Its hull, already compromised, erupted. A new star burst from the centre. Destroyer and interceptors vanished in its roiling embrace. Edging in from the left was an intersecting web of fire between two frigates as they struggled to cut down the horde of greenskin ships that circled them like feasting insects.
The gap between the battles had looked like empty void from a distance. Now it revealed itself to be a graveyard of broken hulks and dying gas flares. It was dense with ruin. The Herald of Night struck the corpses of ships with its prow. A huge tomb of ragged metal half a kilometre long tumbled end-over-end along the Herald’s length towards the superstructure. The void shields strained under the impacts, but held. Adnachiel saw the ruin fill the oculus, then vanish as the feed redirected to sensors on the other side of the obstacle.
The hulk slammed against the superstructure. The impact reverberated through the hull. Adnachiel felt it in the walls of the bridge and in the deck. The Herald of Night was moving fast, and the mass of the hulk was huge. The first red icons of damage reports appeared on the tacticarium screens.
‘Anomalous gravity readings,’ Aelia announced. At the same moment, strange waves swept through the ship and Adnachiel felt himself weighed down, then pulled upward as if he might fly to the dome of the bridge. Conflicting forces pressed against him. His Lyman’s ear resisted the disorientation, but still his sense of the vertical fragmented. It spun. He held steady. Below, officers and serfs lost their balance. Some fell from their seats. Servitors jerked upward and then down against banks of consoles. The hull groaned.
Adnachiel saw new meaning in the shape of the path. The orks’ gravity weapon had swept through these coordinates, a scythe for ships. The reports reaching Terra from the battle had indicated it was active, but in a limited fashion. Its area of effect was narrow. Its strikes were sporadic.
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