Grey Knights (Warhammer 40000)

by Ben Counter

'Canoness?'

  'The Traitor Legions fell because the Enemy exploited their sins of pride and arrogance. Those are sins we will not commit. Do not let the Enemy break your spirit before the battle has even begun.'

  Lachryma saluted and left the bunker to join her Battle-Sisters. Ludmilla watched her go - Lachryma was a tall woman, given greater bulk by her power armour and the flaring jump pack mounted on her back. The black sleeves covering her glossy blood-red armour bore the bleeding rose symbol of the Order. In the days before the Horus Heresy, Space Marines had painted kill marks on their armour to proclaim their battle-prowess - the Sisters of Battle did nothing so vulgar.

  One of Ludmilla's command staff, a Sister Dialogous manning the Sisters' communications, appeared from the lower level of the bunker. 'Canoness, Cardinal Recoba's staff have contacted us. Inquisitor Valinov wishes to review our defences in person.'

  'Tell him we are honoured.' said Ludmilla, 'and that I trust our preparations will match his standards.'

  The Sister hurried back down to relay the message.

  Valinov is a born leader, thought Ludmilla. He had taken to commanding the defences without seeming to even try. The Guardsmen hung on his every word ever since he had told them the Traitor Legions were real, and Ludmilla imagined that some of her Sisters felt the same. Ludmilla was a fighter, not a politician, but even she had to admire the way Valinov could take such complete control so quickly, when the stakes were so high.

  And the presence of Valinov meant more than just decent leadership. The Sisters often worked with the Ordo Hereticus rather than the Ordo Malleus, but Lud­milla knew Valinov was probably a member of the Malleus - for him to be involved, it meant that the threat to Volcanis Ultor was daemonic in nature.

  Traitor Marines and daemons. There were few more potent forces in the Enemy's arsenal. She understood why Valinov wanted to inspect the Sisters' preparations - it was not just political showmanship, but a genuine concern. The daemons would strike here, on the very edge of the line in the hope of gaining a foothold and then rolling up the defences before turning in towards the hive. The Sisters had to hold.

  And hold they would.

  THE RUBICON HAD left the Hall of Remembrance to burn. The ferals would tunnel into the lower vaults soon and when they did, the defenders would die alongside their books. Serevic would probably be one of the last, cowering amongst his burning tomes. Alaric knew all this and left anyway - he could spare no Grey Knights to help the defenders fight a hopeless battle. He was a leader, and leaders could not waste the lives of their men on lost causes.

  The bridge of the Rubicon was silent save for the dis­tant thrumming of the engines and the clicking of the bridge cogitators. The coordinates had been plotted and in a few moments the short warp jump would begin. It would take only a few more hours to make the jump to the Volcanis system, and the Malleus Nav­igator was good enough to put the Rubicon well within system space.

  Alaric watched the quiet preparations for the jump from his command pulpit. The bridge doors hissed open and Justicar Santoro walked in.

  'Brother-Captain? I had the crew bring up all the information they had on Volcanis Ultor.'

  'And?'

  'Nothing much we didn't know already. A hive world, controlled by the Ecclesiarchy with a nominal gover­norship. We looked up the location Serevic gave us - Lake Rapax is just outside the capital hive. It doesn't look like there's much there.'

  'But we know different. Have they given us landing coordinates?'

  'That's the problem. The astropaths say there is no one receiving messages.'

  'Quarantine?'

  'Possibly. Volcanis Ultor had some of the worst of the cult activity, a psychic quarantine would be a logi­cal step.'

  'Not very convenient for us, though. We'll just have to arrive unannounced. I want us on a battle footing just in case - if Volcanis Ultor has gone the way of Farfallen we might not have a friendly recep­tion.'

  'Understood. I'll brief my men.'

  Alaric stepped down from the pulpit so he was on the same level as Santoro. The justicar's face, as always, betrayed little. 'Justicar, I know you are frustrated at not being able to fight. Ghargatuloth wants to use that as a weapon.'

  'The Enemy will find no weapon in me, brother-captain.'

  'I know, but he will try to find one. This fight will not be on our terms.'

  'They never are. Not for Mandulis, not for us.'

  'Make sure your men understand.'

  Santoro saluted and walked out. Alaric knew the jus­ticar didn't trust him completely as a leader yet - Alaric himself knew that the grand masters wouldn't have chosen him as brother-captain on his own merits, and it had taken the madness of Ligeia to put him in com­mand. Ghargatuloth would be the sternest test of leadership possible, and no matter what else hap­pened Alaric would find out if his core of faith would ever have been strong enough.

  But of course, this battle was not about him. It was about billions of Imperial servants who would die, or worse, if the dark star of Ghargatuloth rose again.

  'Navigation is go for warp jump.' said one of the crewmen at the nav helm.

  'Engineering go.' was the vox from deep in the Rubi­con's stern.

  The ship's commands counted off. The ship was ready.

  'Take us in.' ordered Alaric, and the Rubicon dived headlong into the warp.

  THE NAVAL DEFENCES around Volcanis Ultor were the strongest the system - the whole Trail - had seen in centuries. The Unmerciful was an old ship but a proven one, its multiple fighter decks crammed with Starhawk bombers and Avenger torpedo craft flown by battle-hardened pilots who had been expecting their next action to be around the Eye of Terror. The Holy Flame was newer and tougher, with a proud crew whose rapid gunnery could throw out broadsides massive enough to turn huge swathes of space into a shrapnel-filled killing zone. Absolution Squadron, comprising three Sword-class escort craft, was almost brand new, paintwork gleaming as bright as the day they had first been launched from the dockyards of Hydraphur.

  Drawn around Volcanis Ultor, the two warships and three escorts could cover the whole of the planet with ease, sensor fields overlapping over population centres, information from out-system monitoring stations flowing in constantly. All commercial shipping in the Volcanis system had been halted, and anything that moved was to be considered a threat.

  Inquisitor Valinov's orders had been very clear. The enemy were coming. Everything else was secondary. They would try to make landfall, and the best way of destroying them was to engage their ships in high orbit where they would be vulnerable as they delivered their payloads.

  Captain Grakinko of the Unmerciful liked the odds. Of the oldest Lastratan stock, Grakinko had seen dozens of engagements through a born officer's ana­lytical eyes. The new-fangled tacticians said battleship broadsides were the ultimate weapon but Grakinko knew better - wave upon wave of fighters and bombers could achieve what no one battleship could, and in the close quarters of this coming engagement they would be as deadly and swift as a swarm of spitewings.

  Grakinko waited in his gilded captain's throne, the bridge of his old proud ship so richly decorated and furnished it was more like the ballroom of a palace spire on his home hive than the functional heart of a warship. He waited in the satisfying knowledge that Volcanis Ultor was now the safest place on the Trail.

  The Holy Flame, in contrast, was crewed by a well-drilled core of officers almost all of whom were graduates from the Imperial Navy Academy on Hydra­phur, and were near-fanatical adherents to the belief that superior gunnery and discipline could overcome any enemy Pryncos Gurveylan, ninth-year valedicto­rian and highest-scoring graduate for a decade, was the captain, but the whole officer corps on the Holy Flame functioned as one decision-making machine trained to analyze every situation and apply strict Naval doctrine. The fighter swarms of the Unmerciful would doubtless serve as a useful distraction but it was the guns of the Holy Flame that would win the day.

  The captain of the Holy Flame sh
ared a second cousin with the vice admiral who had commissioned the building of Absolution Squadron and so a quick pri­vate communication with the squadron's captains had ensured that they and the Holy Flame would fight as one. With the guns of the Flame firing at full rate and the escorts of Absolution Squadron to herd the enemy into range, nothing could approach Volcanis Ultor without being forced through a withering curtain of disciplined fire.

  Pryncos Gurveylan was confident, as a captain must be, that every eventuality had been covered. The bridge of the Holy Flame was all wood panelling and uphol­stery, mirroring the old halls and lecture theatres of the Academy - the ship itself was an extension of the Acad­emy, a repository for the best received wisdom the Navy had to offer. Gurveylan's fellow officers bustled efficiently, poring over large parchment system maps with compasses and rulers, relaying orders to engi­neering and ordnance, manning the constantly chattering communications helms.

  It was just then that an urgent communication arrived from the outer system monitoring stations. A ship had just entered the Volcanis system unan­nounced, apparently at full battle-readiness. To all intents and purposes it was a Space Marine strike cruiser but its speed and ornate design were of unknown origin.

  Both the Unmerciful and the Holy Flame received the message at the same time, and both knew there was only one explanation. Just as Valinov had said, the Traitor Legions had arrived.

  Chapter Sixteen

  HOLY FLAME

  'INCOMING!' YELLED SOMEONE from the nav helm as scores of angry red hostile blips appeared on the bridge viewscreen.

  'What have you got, comms?' ordered Alaric.

  The crewman on the comms helm looked up. 'We sent an acknowledgement message to Volcanis Ultor but there was no reply'

  Alaric gripped the sides of the pulpit. It didn't make sense. They had been in the Volcanis system less than an hour and suddenly, without even chal­lenging the Rubicon over the comms, a carrier warship was steaming towards them and sending out waves of fighter-bombers, armed up and aggres­sive.

  'Archivum, I want the class and designation of that ship. Any others in-system. Someone told them we were coming and they said we weren't friendly'

  The other justicars were listening in to the situation over the vox. 'Has the system fleet been compromised?' voxed Justicar Tancred.

  'I don't know.' replied Alaric. It was a possibility. If Ghargatuloth had corrupted the crews of the warships in the Volcanis system, it would explain their aggres­sion. But at the last count Volcanis Ultor was standing relatively firm, its defenders rallying around Cardinal Recoba - if the whole system had been corrupted then it had happened with impossible speed. 'More likely misinformation. If they think Ghargatuloth sent us then they'd attack on sight. Nothing we said would make a difference.'

  How many Imperial citizens had heard of the Grey Knights? Very few. Even if the command crews on the warships could see the design and livery of the Rubicon, would they be able to recognise it?

  Alaric felt that Ghargatuloth would like nothing bet­ter than for the Inquisition's own secrecy to be used against it. Whether the ships heading to engage the Rubicon were controlled by Chaos or not, the Grey Knights would have to fight this one through.

  'How long do we have?' asked Alaric. Gradually the noise and bustle on the bridge was increasing as warn­ing alarms sounded and the various command helms sent messengers to other parts of the ship.

  'Less than twenty minutes.' came the reply from the navigation helm. 'Then the first wave will hit.'

  'I want every defence we have in space. Chaff, ord­nance, everything. Then we punch through them into upper atmosphere. We're not here to engage them, we're here to get a force onto Volcanis Ultor.'

  Ordnance helm started barking orders and several Malleus crewmen and women began running as messengers off the bridge, heading down to the gun­nery decks where torpedoes and anti-ordnance charges would be loaded and ready to fire. Short-fused torpedoes would fill space with enough debris to throw off the first fighter waves, but the Rubicon would be short of armaments if it had to tangle with another warship.

  'All justicars, get to the launch bays now. I'll take the Thunderhawk. Tancred, you'll be with me. Genhain and Santoro, you'll have to go in by drop-pod. I want you loaded up before the fighters reach us.'

  The justicars sounded off. They were already armoured up - the Grey Knights would take just min­utes to reach the launch deck. Alaric would need to be with them soon.

  Alaric spoke through the bridge vox-caster so the whole crew could hear him. 'Crew of the Rubicon, your objectives are clear. Your goal is to reach the upper atmosphere of Volcanis Ultor and allow for deploy­ment. All other concerns are secondary. This includes the survival of this ship and yourselves. Sacrifice the Rubicon if you have to. You may also have to sacrifice yourselves. I know the Ordo Malleus has prepared you for this but you cannot know if you are truly prepared for death until you face it. The Emperor trusts that you will do your duty in this. I trust you, too. Helm com­mands, you have the bridge - use whatever means you deem fit but get us close to that planet. You do not need to know what is at stake. It is enough that I must ask you to do this. Go with the Emperor, as He goes with you.'

  There was a brief moment of silence, a reaction of considerable emotion considering the mind-scrubbed and psycho-doctrinated nature of the crew. Then the bridge bustle kicked in again as the blips on the viewscreen display crept closer to the position of the Rubicon.

  Alaric stepped down off the command pulpit. An officer from the navigation helm gave Alaric a quick salute as he took over the pulpit controls. Alaric watched as a messenger was sent to engineering to make sure the engines were primed ready for evasive action. The ordnance helm began counting off all the various stores of ammunition that would be expended when the first wave was upon them. Officers at naviga­tion were plotting the positions of the other ships in-system - three escorts and a cruiser, lying in wait around Volcanis Ultor, ready to pounce on whatever the carrier left for them.

  The archive helm, with a small crew of scholars sur­rounded by mem-banks, had identified the closest ship as the Unmerciful, a veteran of Port Maw in the Gothic War. That was good. It meant the ship was old, and old ships were usually slow. The Rubicon could skirt around her and her fighter swarms. Then the real battle would begin, where the air of Volcanis Ultor met the void.

  Alaric had rarely even noticed the crew of the Rubi­con, composed as they were of efficient but almost invisible men and women. Some had been literally bred for anonymity, the product of breeding programs that produced easily-doctrinated individuals. But Alaric was glad of them now. They were efficient and unshakeable. They could never have the leadership to take a ship through war on their own but now they didn't need it - they just had to do things by the num­bers, keep the Rubicon going long enough for the Grey Knights to get onto the planet.

  They didn't need Alaric now. He hurried off through the bridge doors to join his battle-brothers, and left the crew of the Rubicon to their work.

  CAPTAIN GRAKINKO ON the bridge of the Unmerciful watched the huge holographic tactical display where the fighter blips swarmed towards the Chaos ship. To think, the enemy had even tried to claim they were Imperials, and asked to be allowed to land at Volcanis Ultor! Inquisitor Valinov had predicted their every move. If they thought an old ship like the Unmerciful was easy pickings, then they were woefully wrong.

  'Fighter command! I want the torpedo ships to the front. Pull the Starhawks and the assault boats back, we'll soften them up first!'

  'Aye, captain!' came the enthusiastic reply from the fighter command helm, manned by several dozen petty officers most of whom had been born on the ship during its long service history. The pitch of activ­ity on the bridge was rising as the Unmerciful worked itself up to full battle-readiness. The medicae crew were manning triage stations near the engines and fighter decks where casualties were always highest, and the chapel staff were scattered throughout the ship leading prayers. Refu
elling crews waited nervously on the decks, ready to re-fit and bomb up the first wave of fighters and bombers when they returned.

  'It's beautiful, isn't it?' said Grakinko, beaming proudly. 'Damned beautiful.' He turned his consider­able bulk in his seat and opened up a panel in the arm of his throne, pulling out a bottle of finest sparkling Chirosian wine. With a fleshy thumb he popped the cork out and held up the bottle in salute. 'To war!' he bellowed.

  Several of the bridge crew returned the toast enthu­siastically. A chatter rose from the fighter command crew as they gave final approach orders to the attack craft.

  As the first orders to open fire were given, Captain Grakinko took a good swig to mark the beginning of the battle.

  Good wine, he thought.

  THE FIRST WAVE of torpedoes was met by a return salvo from the Rubicon. Short-fused ordnance from the Space Marine cruiser burst in a shower of debris, bright blossoms of flame imploding in the vacuum leaving storms of silver metal shards like a glittering curtain.

  The first wave of attack craft, maybe thirty craft strong, launched their own torpedoes and banked sharply to avoid deterrent fire spattering from the Rubi­con's turrets. Most of the torpedoes were detonated by the wall of debris and massive pulses of exploding munitions ripped silently through space, sending rip­ples through the debris like stones thrown into water. Some torpedoes, inevitably, made it through, and great black flashes played over the hull of the strike cruiser as the ship's shielding absorbed the blasts.

  The real damage was done. As the damage crews on the Rubicon fought to restore the shields to full strength the next waves approached, Starhawk fighter-bombers this time, sweeping in through the debris field. Many were lost as their engines were clogged by debris but most of them made it through, for the fighter pilots of the Unmerciful were veterans who had mostly done this many times before. Instead, the debris shielded them from the Rubicon's turret fire and they emerged in formation, close enough to make their attack runs.