Old Earth

by Nick Kyme

  A swarm of smaller signifiers appeared on the hololith, rushing on an intercept course with the torpedoes.

  ‘Retaliate in kind,’ said Meduson, and Mechosa signalled down to the fighter bays.

  A second swarm in opposition to the first flashed up on the battlesphere.

  Three of the enemy vessels turned to engage the vanguard, moving with glacial slowness. It would take several minutes for the payloads from the Iron Hands ships to reach their targets and the Sons of Horus pushed their engines hard to avoid the torpedoes, not trusting entirely to their inceptors to neutralise them.

  The other two, an escort and a destroyer, never deviated course, but drove harder for the retreating Saurod.

  The Stormcrow had already reached engagement range and an exchange of lance fire had begun.

  At the coreward-facing head of the flotilla, the other Sons of Horus ships started to adopt defensive postures. At such distance, however, it would take time before they could reach even maximum weapons range.

  Meduson knew he needed to exploit that.

  ‘Increase power to engines,’ he said calmly. ‘Prime main weapon batteries and intensify forward void shield strength. We shall hit these bastards like a damn hammer.’

  Orders were heard and obeyed.

  Forward laser batteries and lances quickly charged to optimum across the vanguard.

  All that they had suffered, the death and the dishonour of scurry­ing around like whipped dogs, was done.

  No more, Meduson vowed. The Iron Tenth would be reborn.

  He raised his head, vindicated, vengeful.

  ‘Open fire.’

  Flames gutted the Cthonic Blood, rendering its engines inoperable, its main weapons useless and filling the ship with caustic smoke.

  Nuros hurried down a narrow corridor, belaboured by the body of a wounded Salamander slung over his back. Blood painted Nuros’ armour, dark and shiny in the cruiser’s emergency lumens. Some of it belonged to him. Most had come from the legionary he carried.

  The Sons of Horus had proven hard to kill, despite the Drakes’ numerical advantage. Nuros had expected that. He had not expected such a toll on his own men. Twelve lay dead, left behind in the engina­rium. Most of the rest carried injuries, some serious. But the Cthonic Blood lay inert in the void thanks to them, and that was not nothing.

  Though the ship was crippled, its defenders were not. Vox-horns blared out at every junction, summoning reinforcements. Another stretch of corridor and the boarders would gain the accessway. From there, the gunships and a grateful egress.

  Sweat, blood, noise, all coalesced into a confused cacophony of sensory attack and urgent motion for Nuros. The warriors ahead, calling back, unleashing covering fire down every half-dark junction. The ones behind, forming the rearguard or slowing dangerously off the pace. Those by his side, huddled in close formation, low on ammunition, gripping blades slick with transhuman blood. Armour chipped, chainblades missing teeth, retinal lenses cracked like broken windowpanes, the grim realisation of a gorget breach…

  Their flight felt like a hurried rout through enemy territory.

  Drake…

  A voice intruded on Nuros’ thoughts, warring for supremacy with the sawing heaves of his breath.

  ‘Drake…’ he heard again, still largely oblivious but questioning now whether the voice was his own or if it belonged to someone outside of his head.

  ‘Nuros!’

  A hand on his shoulder confirmed the latter, as did the bloody black figure of Kaylar Norn now standing in his path.

  Everything looked red.

  Nuros blinked, first to get the blood out of his eyes and again to shut down his armour’s screaming bio-damage alerts.

  He felt mildly punch drunk.

  ‘Apothecary?’

  Norn came in close, a sane man trying to convince a mad one of his insanity.

  ‘He’s dead. Let him go, Nuros.’

  They had reached a bulkhead, and had several metres of reinforced adamantium between them and their chasing enemies.

  On Nuros’ retinal display, hazed with spasms of static, another icon had turned red. Releasing a laboured breath through his respirator grille, he shrugged the dead Salamander off his back and onto the deck. Blood quickly pooled, not all of it the deceased’s.

  Norn knelt by the body as soon as it hit the ground. The chainblade mounted on his wrist began to growl. He punched with his gauntlet, once into the dead warrior’s chest, then into the throat. The reductor did the rest, salvaging the legionary’s progenoids in the hope that one day they would be implanted anew. If any of them lived to see such times again.

  ‘He that may fight no more, give him peace,’ Norn whispered.

  ‘Is that it, Raven?’ asked Nuros, impatient to be moving again.

  Norn nodded, bitter. ‘I shan’t need the carnifex for this one.’

  Then he rose, as cold as death, and on they went.

  A blistering hail of lance fire and concussive laser blasts spat out, shots arrowing like comets into the void. Light blazed angry and bright, almost overwhelming the occular sensors of the enemy thousands of kilometres away.

  ‘Again, another volley,’ said Lumak, his voice a deep basso ­rumbling inside his war-helm. He seldom removed it any more, the helm as much a part of him as his flesh and his blood and his grief.

  It struck him as odd to think of such things, to have such concerns. He was an Iron Hand, of the Clan Avernii, one of the miserable few who remained. Often though, in spite of logic and the coldness of the machines wrought into his body, he believed all he had left to him was grief. And shame. And hate.

  It was why he cleaved so to Meduson, a Terran of all things, and a true Gorgon’s son in spite of his provenance.

  Ferrus Manus had died. Nothing Lumak could do now would alter that fate. He wished he had died too, but he had lived. That continued existence came with a heavy burden – his profound dishonour.

  No, he could not change his primarch’s death, but he could mete out vengeance against those responsible. No deed, however grand – even the execution of Horus himself by Lumak’s own iron hand – could erase his shame, but it would at least be something. A small measure.

  ‘My lord?’ enquired the shipmaster of the Gorgon’s Will.

  Lumak had not realised he had said those last words aloud.

  ‘A small measure of what, sire?’

  ‘Peace?’ Lumak replied. ‘Atonement? I’m not sure it really matters anymore.’

  The shipmaster looked about to answer, but appeared to find he did not have the appropriate response.

  ‘Again,’ said Lumak.

  The barrage continued.

  As the vessels on both sides closed, the exchange of fire between them intensified. So ferocious was the response from the Iron Hands ships that the two enemy vessels chasing down the Saurod turned to engage the larger and undamaged cruisers. How long the Iron Heart and her fellow ships in the vanguard would remain that way was unknown. An almost constant flare of void shield distortion obscured the oculus now as the Sons of Horus matched their aggressors volley for volley.

  Meduson marvelled at their fire discipline and sheer tenacity. Even outgunned, the renegades showed their worth and the reason they were the Warmaster’s Legion. Meduson hated them passionately for that most of all.

  You should have been the best of us…

  His eyes narrowed as he followed the delicate balance of the engagement and saw, at last, a weakness.

  ‘Shields at severely reduced efficacy, my lord,’ reported the shipmaster, his brow furrowed as he stooped over the helm. ‘We can sustain one, maybe two further volleys before they collapse and we are forced to reinstate.’

  ‘And how long will that take?’

  Meduson had fought in several void battles, and though he had developed a keen under
standing of its principles, he neither liked it nor grasped all of its subtle nuances.

  ‘Several minutes, sire.’

  A smaller but no less vital conflict played out in the closing gulf between the two groups of ships, the entirely more balletic duel between fighter craft. Again, the Iron Hands ships had the larger squadrons but the XVI Legion’s pilots proved both wily and tenacious. As a result, torpedoes were proving of little use. At least for the moment.

  Meduson grinned ferally, and marked one of the enemy ships.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘The energy signature is lower.’

  The shipmaster hurriedly looked to his console, as if only just noticing what the Warleader had identified.

  The mortal officer returned Meduson’s grin with one of his own.

  ‘Shield collapse imminent.’

  ‘Signal the rest of the vanguard,’ the Warleader said to Mechosa, who had already opened channels and was about to issue the order when the ship’s vox crackled.

  Aug paused, staring blindly for a few seconds.

  ‘A signal,’ he said, frowning.

  ‘From where does it originate?’ Meduson asked, and felt the Iron Father tense.

  ‘Not one of ours.’ Aug turned and faced the Warleader, as if needing to in order to convey the truth of his next words. ‘A request for cessation and parlay.’

  Meduson scowled. He watched the oculus.

  ‘Shipmaster?’

  The mortal officer had been wiping his still furrowed brow. In fact, his frown had deepened.

  ‘Enemy vessels are holding position. Weapons are silent.’

  ‘Cease fire, all stop, but keep the engines warm. Any word from the other Fraters or Mor?’

  Aug shook his head. Static still laced the vox between the disparate Iron Hands war parties, blamed on distance and interference from the void.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ asked Mechosa.

  ‘Is this wise, Warleader?’ said Aug. ‘Their vessels will be able to regroup.’

  ‘Probably not, but I will not attack an enemy during a ceasefire and they aren’t moving yet,’ he said, and raised his voice to address the shipmaster.

  ‘Those void shields, shipmaster…’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘They are still depleted according to our instruments?’

  ‘They are, my lord.’

  ‘Should that change, unleash everything we’ve got at that ship.’

  The shipmaster gave a fierce salute. He cut a ragged but proud figure in his shabby uniform.

  ‘It will be a genuine pleasure, sire.’

  An eerie calm fell upon the bridge, still darkly lit according to battle stations.

  All ears awaited the vox.

  Aug was first to break the tense silence, exhaling deeply, ruefully.

  ‘What is it, Frater?’ asked Meduson, correctly interpreting Aug’s mood.

  ‘I have identified the specific bearer of the signal,’ he said, and then revealed who it was.

  Whatever invective had been about to pass Meduson’s lips was stalled as the rough voice of Tybalt Marr issued over the vox.

  ‘Meduson… This is a message for the beggar-lord known as Shadrak Meduson.’

  ‘How did he know we would be here?’ hissed Mechosa, agitated.

  Aug motioned for his silence. The answer to that would have to come later.

  Meduson said nothing, watching the hololith but finding no sign of the Lupercal Pursuivant. He listened, teeth gritted.

  ‘Days have passed. Years will not. So know this, ragged iron son. I have weathered your storm, and I have found you, and I shall have your head just as I promised. This I swear by the Warmaster, and the true Lord of Mankind.’

  The message ended.

  ‘Enemy ships are entering the void, my lord!’ the shipmaster cried out.

  Three additional cruisers intruded at the edge of the oculus, low on the battlesphere, their presence hitherto baffled from the Iron Hand’s augur sweeps. The rest had begun to re-engage weapons and engines, swinging the pendulum back in the renegades’ favour.

  ‘Is the Lupercal Pursuivant amongst them?’

  ‘No, my lord. Should we retaliate?’

  The message restarted, grating from the vox.

  Meduson seethed, recognising his mistake, so angry he did not answer immediately. Aug was about to intercede on his behalf when finally he spoke.

  ‘Kill them. Kill that damn ship.’

  The barrage recommenced and the gulf was filled again with light and fury. One of the Sons of Horus frigates exploded, scattering debris across the void, the ruptures of its death short-lived but explosive. The fire of its destruction died quickly, starved of sustenance, but it ravaged the ship’s innards before it expired. Chunks of the disintegrating vessel collided against the shields of larger cruisers, and were annihilated on impact.

  As the return barrages began to hit the Iron Heart’s shields, Meduson recognised it for what it was, a petty victory.

  Three more Sons of Horus ships had joined the fray, large and imposing, unharmed and with weapons ablaze. The entire phalanx had begun to turn, slowly angling its more numerous and destructive broadsides to bear. The Saurod and Stormcrow had been forgotten. One could do little but shrink away from the fight, bruised and bleeding beyond its capacity to easily shrug off; the other had disengaged, recognising the futility of an attack against a reinforced and re-prepared enemy.

  And to the coreward side, burning hard from a starboard aspect, high on the battlesphere, the rest of the flotilla was coming.

  ‘Second signal,’ ordered Meduson. With the Fraters’ ships they could still wring out a costly victory.

  Mechosa tried, then shook his head.

  ‘Still nothing?’ said Meduson.

  ‘No response. The enemy could be impeding vox.’

  ‘Shields are at less than ten per cent, my lord,’ announced the shipmaster.

  Alert sirens sounded, droning and insistent.

  On the oculus, the Unyielding Glory suffered a sudden shield failure and took a fearsome hit. Arkul Theld’s voice came across the vox, strained, smothered by screaming klaxons.

  ‘We are hit, we are hit,’ he said. ‘Shields are do–’

  Static took the rest of his words.

  ‘Have we lost the Unyielding Glory?’ Meduson demanded, frustrated at the sudden turn from supremacy to confusion.

  ‘It flies still,’ said Aug. He had closed his eyes and spoke as if he stood upon the ship himself. ‘The bridge is badly damaged. Theld… I don’t know. Emergency stations are in effect. They are withdrawing to defensive postures.’

  He blinked, and returned to the Iron Heart.

  ‘Forward shields almost depleted, my lord,’ cried the shipmaster, fighting against the alert sirens.

  ‘Slow engines, turn hard to port,’ ordered Meduson. ‘We’ll show them our flank and roll out the broadsides.’ He turned to the Sorr­gol captain by his side. ‘And Mechosa, get those damn Fraters to engage or we’ll be debris by the time they deign to act.’

  Hidden by floating debris and lost in the deadly fire exchange, a small ship emerged into the void, a minnow amongst leviathans. It literally appeared as if from the ether, yet emerged not from the warp – for no ship that size could survive such a place without a Geller field – but rather from somewhere else entirely.

  Eleven

  The Unbound Flame, rekindled

  Nuros pressed a hand to his side. Something dark and thick leaked through his armoured fingers, his efforts at staunching the flow of blood ineffective. He didn’t remember taking the hit, but then the skirmish in the Cthonic Blood’s enginarium defied cogency in its freneticism. It had cut him deeply, he knew that much. His body would compensate, his blood would clot and his wounds seal, but none of that would matter if they
were blasted out of the void.

  The three gunships, fire-blackened, engines roaring, catapulted out of the tear in the Cthonic Blood’s flank and ran almost immediately into a debris field.

  Still groggy from his wounds, vaguely aware of his hand being taken from his side and Kaylar Norn stepping in, Nuros barely felt the sudden lurch as the ship dived sharply. He scarcely appreciated the rapid bank to port or the abrupt jerk to starboard, a zagging trajectory intended to stave off an ignominious void death for every­one aboard.

  ‘Pilot…’ said Nuros, breathy, nodding to his Apothecary as the pain began to ease. ‘The other ships?’

  A pause as the gunship lurched again, the shriek of its engines like white noise inside the hold, then the pilot replied.

  ‘We are still three, captain… No, wait… Four!’

  Even Norn paused in his silent ministrations to lift his head.

  ‘Enemy?’ asked Nuros, his voice a half-growl. Subconsciously, he tightened the grip on his sword.

  Another pause, preceding another deft manoeuvre. They yawed hard to port. Norn cursed. Las-beams stitched across the viewslits.

  ‘I think Brother Otath seeks to test you, Raven,’ said Nuros, glancing at the Apothecary, his humour returning with his health. ‘The ship?’ he pressed, asking the pilot again.

  ‘Is friendly…’ came the reply at last. ‘Salamanders, captain. It is Eighteenth Legion, Salamanders. The Vulcanis.’

  ‘Where did it come from?’

  ‘Apparently from nowhere, captain. I had nothing on sensors and then it was there.’

  Nuros said to Norn. ‘The warp?’

  The Apothecary considered it but shook his head. ‘Not possible.’

  ‘Then from where?’

  ‘Captain,’ the voice of the pilot intruded.

  ‘Speak, Otath.’

  ‘Incoming vox from the gunship.’

  ‘Put it through.’

  Otath jacked up the return, so those in the hold could hear it over the clamour.

  ‘This is Igen Gargo, pilot of the Thunderhawk Vulcanis. We need aid, brothers. Our vessel is damaged. We have the Unbound Flame. I say again, we have the Unbound Flame.’