by Guy Haley
Militor’s storm bolter jammed, and the genestealers gained metres of ground before he had it cleared and opened fire again. Several more died before they were within striking distance, and Brother Militor was forced to stand back to allow Azmael and Alanius to fight effectively. They sang songs that sounded barbaric to the Novamarines, songs of blood and songs of death welcomed. But all of them recognised the sentiment of service that threaded the hymnal through and through. Deadly claws flashing with powerful energies, the Blood Drinkers methodically killed every genestealer that came within reach.
At the other side of the intersection, Astomar sent a burst of promethium down one corridor, and then the other. The maximum range of his heavy flamer was about thirty metres, but he waited until the genestealers were within twenty metres as ordered, engulfing as many of the xenos as possible. The promethium burned so hot it made the metal glow red and set everything else ablaze. Paint peeled and burned, plastics dripped from seals and fittings, droplets igniting as they fell. The temperature rose markedly. The genestealers screamed, a terrible, polyphonic reedy sound with enough of a human voice to it to raise the hair on the adept’s spines. It was the kind of scream that appealed directly to the baser levels of consciousness, those so deep that could not be altered by the training and mental conditioning the Space Marines underwent, only contained. The flames died back. Genestealers braved the corridors again, but in fewer numbers. Astomar stepped back, allowing Tarael to take his place. His brothers fired and fired. Genestealers fell. None came close enough for Tarael to engage.
The number of movement blips in the auspex dwindled until the arms of the ‘Y’ were nearly clear.
On the other side, where Alanius and Azmael fought, it was another matter. The corridor was a red block of movement on the motion scanner, jammed with genestealers. The sheer weight of their numbers were pushing Alanius and Azmael back.
‘Brother Voldo, go! Go now!’
‘You cannot hold them!’ said Voldo. ‘You will die. Step back and let Brother Astomar through.’
Astomar readied his flamer.
Alanius panted as he eviscerated another genestealer. ‘The blowback will hit us, stay your hand Cousin Astomar.’
‘We can take our chances, our armour is strong,’ replied Astomar, levelling his weapon down the corridor.
‘It is too much of a risk! Go now, while your way is clear, you can achieve more if you attack the xenos ambushers from the rear while they attack our brothers. Here, we will do nothing.’
‘Except survive,’ said Voldo. But he recognised the wisdom of what Alanius said.
‘Or die, and I will do so willingly only if it serves some purpose in the service of the Imperium! Go now!’
Voldo ran the auspex map around. They were not far from the cavern where the combined forces of the Blood Drinkers and Novamarines of Battleforce Anvil fought. The genestealers they had been pursuing would be already there. Between his squad and the rear of the genestealers outflanking group was minimal resistance. ‘You speak truth, Brother Alanius, but we can aid you in other ways.’
Alanius and Azmael were forced back further. The genestealers pushed at them. Voldo had his men fire past the Blood Drinkers where they could, or pick those genestealers off who tried to come in along the ceiling. Alien flesh rained on the Terminators. Alanius and Azmael moved back a little, and more bolts found their targets. The pressure ceased as the genestealers backed away, jaws snapping. They withdrew to the far end of the corridor. Alanius turned to face Voldo.
‘They will come again. There are dozens of them. They pause to mass once more.’ The Blood Drinker was breathing heavily.
‘We go. We will send aid for you as soon as we may.’
Alanius shook his head and laughed. ‘Whoever comes will find we have gone to the Emperor. I will convey your good wishes to him!’
Genestealer shrieks echoed up the corridor.
‘Brother Astomar, lend our cousins of our meagre purse of time.’
‘Affirmative, brother-sergeant.’ Astomar pushed Alanius aside before he could voice an objection. The noise of the approaching aliens was drowned out by the roar of promethium igniting. A trio of genestealers at the far end were caught in the billow of fire. They fell to the floor writhing. Astomar stepped back, leaving the corridor aflame.
‘You have a few more seconds, at least,’ said Voldo.
‘The Emperor watch over you,’ said Militor.
‘Sanguinius’s wings shield you, brothers,’ said Tarael. ‘May the blood sing your demise in bright song. I will carve a eulogy into alien flesh for your sacrifice.’
‘It has been an honour to fight by your side, brother, cousins,’ said Alanius, dipping his helmet at each in turn.
Voldo did not answer immediately, weighing his words before he spoke. ‘And by yours,’ he said. ‘Come! Brother Militor, to the front. Brother Tarael, behind him. ‘We have little time if we wish to be of use to our brethren.’
The Novamarines positioned themselves in Voldo’s order, and clumped off down the left-hand branch of the ‘Y’, backs swaying as they went.
Alanius turned back to face the burning corridor, Azmael at his side. Alanius’s armour was reporting multiple minor breaches all across his suit, with drops in power to various subsystems. Azmael’s armour fed its own data to Alanius’s sensorium. It was in similar shape.
‘Here is where it ends brother, the long song of our lives,’ said Azmael.
‘We have served gladly, and I for one would do so again,’ said Alanius. ‘Let us face the Emperor together and beg his judgement of our worth.’
Alanius began to recite the Sanguis Moritura, the death song of the Blood Drinkers. His voice was a low growl at first, rising to a loud song as he continued.
‘The blood of life flows quickly!’ Alanius said. Azmael joined him, repeating the lines Alanius sang before he had finished them, creating a harmony in two rounds. Together they sang, their voices were harsh with the battle-joy, and yet there was a beauty to their music. Like everything about the Blood Drinkers, it was a beauty marred by monstrous violence, nonetheless a beauty that could not be hidden.
Down the corridor, alien eyes glittered in multitude, flames dancing in them as the fire in the corridors died back. Claws flexed as they waited out the heat.
‘Only in death can it be stilled!’ They sang. ‘Let not ours be stilled easily, let it flow on and outward – let it flow from us as we slay those who free it!’
‘Blood is strength, in death it quickens!’
They sang an eerie, wordless tune, their voices low and sorrowful. Within it were expressed all they were and all they had been. They were notes full of the certainty of song’s ending.
The last flames guttered out. The genestealers advanced.
‘Blood is life. Life is duty,’ said Alanius.
‘To deny the blood is to deny life,’ said Azmael.
‘To deny life is to deny duty,’ said Alanius.
The first genestealer bounded along the corridor, using all six limbs to propel itself. Alanius braced for the impact of it, turning away its claws with his own. He skewered it through the chest, but the impact of it sent him back a step. Others were coming.
‘To deny duty is to betray the Emperor. Betrayal is worse than damnation.’
‘Service has its price, and we willingly pay it.’
‘We choose duty, we choose life,’ they said together.
‘We choose the blood.’
Then the genestealers rushed forward, a wall of black teeth and razor talons The Blood Drinkers fought hard, and many were the foes they slew before they found the judgement they sought at the feet of the Lord of Mankind.
Captain Sorael struggled to hear Captain Mastrik. Reception was bad and the entire cavern was a maelstrom of battle that deafened him even through his helmet.
‘There is no sign of the pursuit groups,’ Mastrik said, his voice indistinct. ‘We are mired in close combat. The genestealers continue to outflank us.
Hold the west of the cave, hold the–’
Mastrik was interrupted. He shouted something Sorael did not hear, there was the sound of boltgun fire, and the screech of dying xenos, then the feed cut out altogether.
The situation worsened.
Genestealers had emerged in small groups from crevices all over the wall. Contact with the surface had been lost. There had been reports of genestealers daring the vacuum to attack the Adeptus Mechanicus and their machines before the network had been brought down.
The Novamarines, for all their experience of fighting genestealers aboard space hulks, had underestimated this foe. What should have been a ranged extermination of the aliens had turned into a desperate close-quarters battle, and it was a battle the genestealers were better equipped to win.
Sorael’s helmet display was crowded with tac-data, information fed from his squad sergeants all over the
cul-de-sac. Through the overlays on his visor, he could see the genestealers running and leaping through the cavern, unhindered by the low gravity. Their four arms helped greatly, pulling them along walls and ceilings as easily as the floor. Sorael had to exert all his will to keep his mind in the tactical situation, and not throw himself into personal combat with the genestealers. He was a great warrior, and he would claim many heads; but if he were to abdicate his tactical responsibilities his part of the task force would be left without guidance. He ground his teeth in frustration, such was the price duty demanded of him.
Terminator squads fought hand-to-hand battles, aiming to keep the less heavily armoured brothers of the tactical and Devastator squads safe. Sorael himself was stationed with these lighter-armoured brothers upon a low rise in the cavern floor, close to the overhang of the asteroid. His tactical squads were spread in an arc, his four Devastator squads behind them. A few of the power armoured brothers had succumbed to the urgings of the Thirst, throwing themselves into combat, but many of his men held their ground and laid complex patterns of fire that took a heavy toll on the genestealers. There were few Chapters among the sons of Sanguinius who could claim such restraint.
‘All praise Brother Holos,’ said Sorael to himself.
Two of his three assault squads roared through the thinning air on jump packs, better able to counter threats in the three-dimensional battle space than the others. Sanguinary Master Teale led one of these airborne squads, his laughter and exhortations to slaughter commanding in the multiple audio threads clamouring for Sorael’s attention. The third assault squad was embroiled in a vicious melee near a gap in the wall. They had acquitted themselves well, but the fight had devolved into one of attrition, with fresh genestealers feeding into the fight, and only four of the red warriors remained.
Sorael shouted orders into his vox, sending a mauled tactical squad back behind the line of Terminators. The rearmost portion of his position, where the Devastators were dug in, covered them as they fell back. Genestealers were consumed in balls of fire as missiles slammed home, their severed limbs flying outwards.
The line of red was holding. Casualties were light. There could not be an infinite number of the xenos. Surely their numbers would dwindle eventually…
A shout, then another. The fire from the Devastators’ heavy weapons tailed off, and the sounds of combat and quickly voiced orders replaced their reports in Sorael’s helmet. He turned around to see genestealers emerging from a fold in the metal. A tunnel they had not found, despite their vigilance. Several xenos had slipped through undetected and attacked the heavy weapons’ position. More came through, then more again. Some of the Devastator brothers turned their weapons upon them, but they were so fast that only a few shots got through before the gene-stealers were among all four squads, and combat raged. The Tactical Marines in front of them could not fire through their comrades. More warnings were shouted, a second group of genestealers were rushing headfirst down the side of the asteroid. Sorael urged his tactical squads to hold their ground and deal with this other threat with righteous bolt and steady aim.
Inside his helmet, Sorael smiled a humourless smile. It looked like he would get to vent his battle-fury after all. Raising his storm bolter, he strode forward.
Mastrik gunned down another genestealer. The rest were dealt with by his bodyguard. Ranial drove his force staff through the head of an alien he had pinned to the floor under his boot.
‘That was too close, brother,’ said Mastrik. His usual humour had gone.
‘The third attack on our position. Intentionally so. They are guided, brother-captain. There is strategy behind this assault. They target us.’ Ranial pointed his staff at a group of genestealers. They ran then changed direction, all of them switching at once. ‘See how they move?’ said Ranial. ‘Their psyches are linked to one another, and to something more besides. The mind that guides them is like none I have encountered so far. Vast, alien, powerful.’
‘This is the largest group of genestealers we have faced for many years. But surely there is mention of similar leadership in the Librarium?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Ranial. ‘If so, it is old wisdom and forgotten.’
‘I cannot re-establish contact with Sorael. Things are turning against us. How close are Lord Caedis and his men to the source of the psychic emanation? The death of the xenos’s master will see us to victory.’
‘Closer, brother-captain, but not yet unto it.’
All around the cavern, brothers fought. Those in power armour fared badly against the genestealers. The casualty counter in Mastrik’s sensorium ticked upwards.
‘They must hurry,’ he said.
Kalael was dead, gone to the Emperor. Mazrael said quick prayers over his body before they moved on. Quintus too had been left behind. He had tried to take Kalael’s helmet so that he might continue, but the seal at the neck of Quintus’s armour was broken. His multi-lung struggled with the toxic alien atmosphere of the alien ship, and the Space Marine was soon unconscious. His hibernator put him into a deep sleep where the oxygen in his blood could be made to last for many days. If they were successful, they could recover him along with his armour, as well as the armour and gene-seed of Brother Kalael.
Six of them went on: Brother Erdagon, Sergeant Sandamael, Ancient Metrion – as always never far from Lord Caedis, Reclusiarch Mazrael and Epistolary Guinian. Guinian pushed forward gingerly with his mind, wary now of the powerful nature of the xenos they sought. His last encounter with a genestealer psyker had been with the false Saint Hestia on Katria. A fourth-generation hybrid almost human in appearance, but alien in mind, and utterly slaved to the monsters she had given birth to. Her power had been raw but devastating, this was something different. The xenos mind was a black wall, a featureless boulder of solidified might hanging in the empyrean. No emotion, no desire; only infinite patience and hatred.
Guinian pulled back his mind. They were close. Gelid malice chilled the space between the walls.
They were deep into the alien ship, and the corridors had become progressively wider and taller. Thick vaulting like the ribs of a great animal braced the vessel’s inner hull. Ramps led down to the curving floor every one hundred metres, the tops of them reaching out to galleries held out on thin struts. Seven holes opened up off each of these galleries, leading off into a warren of increasingly narrow tunnels. All this Guinian saw through his sensorium; the echo locator of his suit matching details with the Imagifer Maximus’s map and filling his visor with a false image.
The walls of the corridors they traversed were not visible to the eye. Fog filled the place. The members of Squad Hesperian had told of the mists that filled large part of the hulk, but this was thicker than the material Guinian had seen recorded by their suits. A nauseating mustard-green, it was impossible to see through and extremely radioactive. If Guinian deactivated his suit sonar he would be blind. From afar, he felt the glancing touch of Ranial, the Novamarines Epistolary. Strange, thought Guinian, to feel such relief in the contact of someone who was not a brother. There was no message to it, not that Guinian co
uld read; he was not skilled in the thought transmission and reception such as the astropaths used, but he felt a powerful sense of urgency.
The rad-counter in his helmet was a rattling annoyance. His brothers were distant in the fog. He felt alone, stalked through the fog by an invisible, powerful enemy.
A burst of gunfire shocked Guinian out of his reverie.
‘Movement! Movement in the fog!’ Brother Ancient Metrion, the Chapter standard bearer and Caedis’s sworn bodyguard. More gunfire. A scream of pain. Blood splashed across his visor. In the mist, he saw movement, something large and powerful caused it to swirl. His suit sonar sketched a huge shape, but it was quickly gone.
‘Halt!’ shouted Guinian. He raised his gun and fired into the mist. The explosions of the bolts were muffled.
‘Report!’ said Sandamael, the squad sergeant. Their communications were fuzzed and grating, pulled at by the radiation in the fog.
‘Metrion.’
‘Epistolary Guinian,’ shouted the psyker.
‘I, Mazrael, live, as does our lord. Brother Erdagon?’
‘He is dead.’
Tension settled on the small group.
‘I can’t see a thing in this! Why aren’t our sonar pulses showing us the enemy?’ said Sandamael.
Guinian replied. ‘It is fast, and it does not wish to be seen.’
‘We must go on, we have to go on,’ said Mazrael. ‘The Emperor has guided us here, and our lord has one last service to perform.’
‘We cannot fight what we cannot see!’ said Sandamael.
‘It is not for us to battle this evil, but for our lord and our lord alone,’ said Mazrael.
Sandamael swore.
‘Fall in more tightly. That way we will not be caught unawares,’ ordered Guinian.
The remaining two members of Squad Blood’s Fury drew in closer to the three officers. No one spoke. Eyes were firmly fixed on the false image.