by Ben Counter
Cestus reached the admiral. ‘This is the Word Bearers’ doing,’ he shouted against the din of warning sirens and frantic reports from the crew. Another wave slammed into the Wrathful. Bursting pipes vented vapour and gas. Crewmen were thrown off their feet. A viewscreen was sheared off its moorings and fell in a shower of sparks and shattered glass, landing in the middle of the bridge.
‘Orcadus, can we ride it out?’ asked Kaminska, her eyes on the Ultramarine.
‘I see no end to it, admiral.’
‘Captain Cestus?’ she asked of the Astartes.
‘If we drift here and ride it out, the Furious Abyss escapes,’ Cestus confirmed. ‘There is no choice left to us but to drive through it.’
Kaminska nodded grimly. If they failed it would mean the destruction of the ship and the deaths of over ten thousand crew. Her order would condemn them all to their fates.
‘Engage the engines to full power!’ she ordered. ‘Let’s break this storm’s back!’ she snarled with fire in her eyes. ‘We’ll teach the warp to fear us!’
FROM WITHIN THE confines of the isolation cell, Mhotep could hear the anarchy outside. He ignored it, poring over the reflective sheen of the polished gunmetal walls instead. A window of fate opened up to him as he channelled his powers. Panic reigned on the Wrathful. He saw fire, men and women burning, thousands sacrificed upon the altar of hopeful victory. They became ghosts in his mind’s eye, their penitent souls devoured hungrily by the warp and scattered into atoms until only residue remained.
Death awaited on this ship: his death. The certainty of that fact instilled calm in him rather than fear. His place amongst the myriad strands of fate was fixed.
The vista changed and Mhotep’s mind ranged beyond the Wrathful and into the churning abyss. The Furious Abyss loomed through the haze of resolution as a new scene presented itself. The vessel was immense, like a city laid on its side and falling towards the Wrathful. Thousands of gun ports opened up like mouths, the primed, glowing barrels of magna-lasers and cannon like tongues ready to roar. The Furious Abyss was utterly hideous, a monstrosity of dark crimson steel, and yet the beauty of its majesty overcame any aesthetic offence.
Mhotep drifted further across the gulf, through ersatz reality. As his mind expanded, he could taste the warp, the endless flavours, sounds and sensations of the abyss, calling to him. Probing tendrils pricked at his sanity and the Thousand Son attempted to disengage. He couldn’t, and panic rushed into him like a flood. Mhotep mastered it quickly, recognising at once that he was in peril. The warp had seen him and it sought to drive his mind asunder.
It showed him visions of destruction, the spires of Prospero aflame and his Legion cast into the warp. In another vista, he knelt before a throne of black iron in supplication before the icon of the Word Bearers. Screams filled his ears, together with the howling of wolves.
Mhotep clawed back some semblance of control. He fashioned the image of a cyclopean eye in his mind. It glowed with scarlet radiance, and, as if following a beacon to safe harbour, Mhotep used it to guide himself away from the clutches of the empyrean. He emerged at last, drained of all will, of all strength and collapsed to the floor of the cell. The metal was cool against his cheek. Though hard and unyielding, it was the most invigorating salve he had ever felt. He had resisted, though the lines of fate had been laid open to him. Mhotep knew, as he slipped into unconsciousness, what the visions had been about. It was not a lure into madness; it was something far more sinister and invasive. It was temptation.
‘THEY ARE LOST,’ said Zadkiel, smiling with malice. He looked up at the centre viewscreen, showing little emotion as alarming numbers scrolled past the symbol representing the Wrathful. He looked more thoughtful than triumphant. ‘Do we have any readings from their engines? Are they still void-worthy?’
‘No readings,’ Sarkorov replied. ‘The storm is too strong.’
‘I have seen enough,’ Zadkiel said, his response was curt. ‘Continue at all speed.’
‘You won’t wait until we are certain of the Wrathful’s destruction?’ counselled Ikthalon, a sliver of doubt evident in his voice at Zadkiel’s order.
‘No, I will not,’ answered the admiral. ‘Our mission is to reach Macragge in time for Kor Phaeron’s assault. I cannot tarry here in order to make certain of what is inevitable. We need to be out of this region and back on our way. Return to your chambers, chaplain. Have the supplicants watch for the Wrathful’s death throes. Even in a warp storm such as this, that many deaths should make some ripple.’
‘As you wish, my lord.’ Ikthalon bowed and left the bridge.
The Furious Abyss resumed its former heading in short order. Kor Phaeron’s plan had worked in so far as they were undamaged by the storm. Whether it had also put paid to the Wrathful did not concern the admiral.
A petty creature might have been angry at his lord’s meddling, but Zadkiel was sanguine. Let lesser minds worry on such things. The Word would play out as written. Nothing else mattered.
SEVENTEEN
Strategy
Out of the warp
Formaska in sight
CESTUS TURNED HIS head away as the warp glared against the Wrathful’s port side.
The force of it shone through the metal of the ship’s hull, as if the Wrathful was made of paper, transparent against the light of the abyss. Cestus heard screams and laughter as men’s minds were stripped away by it. He threw himself against the housing of a torpedo tube entrance, willing himself not to look. Saphrax and Brother Excelinor were beside him and they too averted their gaze.
Cestus had left the bridge almost as soon as he’d arrived. He’d gathered his fellow Ultramarines to patrol the corridors, knowing full well what awaited them and the crew of the Wrathful. Two teams of what was left of the honour guard and Brynngar’s wolves moved through the decks and corridors in an effort to steel resolve, and snuff out manifesting psychosis wherever they found it.
Cestus hoped the presence of the Astartes would be enough. The need for them to be the Angels of the Emperor was greater than any other.
‘It is as if the warp is at their very beck and call,’ bellowed Excelinor, his voice tinny through his Corvus-pattern nose cone.
Cestus did not reply, for he knew of the terrible truth of his battle-brother’s words. Moving defiantly down the corridor, the infernal light of the empyrean was scarlet through his eyelids. Silhouettes of bodies fell in the blazing vista; men and women fell to their knees, weeping and screaming; a gunshot rang out as an officer turned his sidearm on himself. The sound of a female voice was contiguous with it, reciting paragraphs from the Saturnine Fleet’s rules and regulations in an effort to stave off the madness.
Visions forced their way into the Ultramarine’s mind; the beneficent Emperor, mighty upon his golden throne and the majesty of the Imperial Palace, and Terra, the beacon of enlightenment in a galaxy surrounded by darkness. Then he saw it burning, continents peeling off and red gouts of magma boiling away into space.
He was an Astartes. He was stronger than this.
‘Do not give in to madness,’ he cried aloud to all who could still listen. ‘Hold on and heed the Imperial Truth.’
For a brief moment, it looked like that the warp would engulf them, but then the visions melted away and the screaming ebbed and died. The ship was still again. The Wrathful had emerged on the other side.
Cestus breathed hard as the blazing light diminished, leaving a painful afterglow. He adjusted quickly and opened his eyes to see that his brothers were still with him. The shadows came back, too, swallowing the dead. The Ultramarine nodded slowly to Saphrax and Excelinor and opened up communications through his gorget as he surveyed the carnage around him.
‘Admiral, are you still with us?’
There was a pause before the vox-link crackled and Kaminska’s voice replied.
‘We are through the storm,’ she said, similarly breathless. ‘Your plan was successful.’
‘Medical teams are required at m
y location as well as fleet morticians,’ Cestus informed her.
‘Very well.’
‘Admiral,’ Cestus added, ‘as soon as recovery is underway, I request your presence in the conference chamber.’
‘Of course, my lord. I shall be there momentarily. Kaminska out.’
HALF AN HOUR later, when the crews began to organise themselves into shifts to recover the bodies and the wounded, Kaminska had Helmsmistress Venkmyer tour the worst-hit sections of the ship and make a report of their losses.
In normal circumstances, Kaminska would have done this herself, demonstrating to the crew that their leader cared about the deaths and the terrible tragedy that had befallen them. More urgent matters pressed for her attention, however, and she was not about to ignore the request of an Astartes.
So, she had made her way to the conference chamber as bidden. Within, the remaining Astartes force awaited her.
‘Welcome, admiral,’ said Cestus, standing at the edge of the oval table with Saphrax to his right and his other battle-brothers arrayed around him. The Space Wolf, Brynngar, sat opposite with his warriors, but did not acknowledge the admiral’s arrival.
‘Please sit,’ the Ultramarine captain said sternly, despite trying to soften his mood with a small smile.
Now the council was assembled, Cestus surveyed the room, looking into the eyes of each person present.
‘It is beyond all doubt,’ he began, ‘that the Word Bearers are in league with the warp. They are utterly lost.’
Hardened faces returned his gaze as the Ultramarine articulated what they already knew in their hearts.
‘With such dark allies at their disposal, together with the Furious Abyss, they are a formidable opponent,’ Cestus continued, ‘but we have a slim hope. I have discovered the nature of the Word Bearers’ plan and how it is to be employed.’
Brynngar twitched at the remark. The Space Wolf clearly knew of the methods that the Ultramarine had used to discover the information they needed. He also knew of Mhotep’s subsequent revival. The absence of the Thousand Son from the conference spoke volumes as to his demeanour on that matter.
‘Make no mistake,’ Cestus began, ‘what the Word Bearers are planning is audacious in the extreme. In assaulting Macragge, there are several factors that any enemy must consider before committing his forces,’ he explained. ‘Firstly, the planetary fleet held in high orbit consists of a flotilla of several cruisers and escorts. It would not be easy for any foe, however determined or well-armed, to break through without significant losses. Should he be successful, though, the enemy must then face the static orbital deterrents on the surface: Macragge’s battery of defence lasers.’
‘And the Furious Abyss is supposed to achieve this feat?’ scoffed Brynngar. ‘Impossible.’
Cestus nodded in agreement.
‘Had you asked me the same an hour ago I would have concurred,’ the Ultramarine admitted. ‘The Word Bearers strategy has two key elements. It all begins at Formaska, which the Word Bearers plan to hit with cyclonic torpedoes to destroy it.’
‘I know little of Ultramar,’ growled the Wolf Guard, ‘but Formaska is a dead moon. Why not use their cyclonics against Macragge directly?’
‘A direct assault against Macragge would be suicide. Its defence lasers would cripple their fleet before they made landfall and render any attempt to subdue Guilliman untenable,’ he explained. ‘The debris from Formaska’s destruction will achieve their ends indirectly. The Legion will divert forces to the aid of Macragge caught in the asteroid storm of the moon’s demise and the Word Bearers will strike as they are divided and take them utterly by surprise.’
‘I’ve seen it,’ said Brynngar, ‘on Proxus XII. An asteroid passed too close and came apart. It was a feral planet. Those people thought the world was ending. Fire was falling from the sky. Every impact was like an atomic hit. It won’t destroy Macragge, but it’ll kill millions.’
‘That is not all,’ Cestus continued. ‘The Furious Abyss will then use the debris like a shield, allowing them to get past the warning stations and satellites around Macragge and draw close enough for a viral payload to be effective. Only that ship is powerful enough to weather the inevitable storm of fire from the defence lasers. The death toll from the viral strike will be near-total. Guilliman and the Legion will be divided, some of our forces probably destroyed on Macragge, when the remainder of the Word Bearers’ fleet will strike. I do not know whether we could recover from such a blow, should it succeed.’
‘What then, is to be done?’ the Wolf Guard asked gruffly.
‘We are nearing Macragge and soon will be out of the warp,’ said the Ultramarine, a nod from Kaminska confirming his words. ‘So too are our enemies. It will require discipline, guile and timing.’ Cestus paused, and looked around the room again, his gaze ended on Kaminska. ‘Most of all it will require sacrifice.’
SPACE RUPTURED AND spat out the Furious Abyss, edged hard in the diamond light of Macragge’s sun.
Shoals of predators shimmered out alongside it, like sea creatures leaping around the bow of a ship. Caught in the anathema of reality, they coiled in on themselves and seethed out of existence, their psychic essence dissipating without the warp to sustain them.
The Furious Abyss looked little worse than it had when it had left Thule. The attack of the escort squadron had destroyed some of the gun batteries on its dorsal and ventral surfaces, and there were countless tiny pock-marks on its hull from the impacts of doomed fighter craft that had crashed into it after their crews had lost their minds. Those scars did nothing to diminish the majesty of the vast scarlet ship, however. It took a full minute to emerge from the warp rift torn before it, and in those moments the warp was full of nothing but slabs of hull plating and engine cowlings all streaming into real space.
Every warning station around Macragge instantly recognised the scale of the ship and demanded its identity. No reply was forthcoming.
THE IMAGE OF Macragge filled the central viewport on the bridge of the Furious Abyss. Flanking it were tactical readouts of the system, which were full of early warning stations and military satellites.
‘There it is,’ said Zadkiel. ‘Hateful is it not? Like a boulder squatting in the path of the future.’
Magos Gureod stood beside Zadkiel, mechadendrites clicking like insectoid limbs, withered arms folded across his chest.
‘It evokes no emotion,’ the magos replied neutrally.
Zadkiel sniffed his mild contempt at the passionless Mechanicum drone.
‘As a symbol, it has no equal,’ he said. ‘The majesty of a stagnant universe. The ignorance of the powerful. The Ultramarines could have done anything with the worlds under their dominion, and they chose to forge this tired echo of a past that never was.’
Gureod remained unmoved. He had come to bear witness to the launching of the torpedoes that would end a world, the unbridled destructive forces yielded by the mech-science of Mars’s devotion to the Omnissiah. The magos was standing in the position once occupied by Baelanos, who had fallen at Bakka.
‘I take it your presence means that my former assault-captain has been recovered?’ Zadkiel snapped, annoyed at Gureod’s unwillingness to bask in his self-perceived reflected glory.
‘He dreams fitfully, my lord. When the sus-an membrane failed and he roused, somewhat unexpectedly, I was forced to take more drastic methods to secure him,’ said the magos.
‘See that he does not waken again until the transition is complete. Once Formaska is destroyed, we shall be joining Kor Phaeron’s forces on the ground. Baelanos is to be part of that invasion force.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Gureod said, showing no fear.
Zadkiel turned his attention back to the viewport.
All was in place now. He would lead the assault that would be remembered forever in history.
A few moments passed. Then the bridge vox-units crackled.
‘Awaiting your mark, admiral,’ said Kor Phaeron’s voice, transmitted across the syst
em from Calth. Even at these relatively short distances, only the most advanced system could allow communication between the two ships without the need for an astropath.
‘It shall be forthcoming,’ said Zadkiel, turning his attention to another viewscreen. ‘Master Malforian,’ he intoned, awaiting the grizzled countenance of his weapon master.
The nightmarish visage of the badly injured Word Bearer was forthcoming.
‘At your command, my lord,’ Malforian responded.
‘Open the frontal torpedo apertures and load the first wave of cyclonics,’ Zadkiel commanded with relish. ‘It begins at Formaska. Let us unleash devastation and bring about a new era of man.’
Sarkorov snapped orders at the bridge crew, and despatched runners as the Furious Abyss prepared for battle stations. The navigation crew began orienting the ship towards Formaska, its prow arc aimed like a sniper’s sight on his kill.
The moon was on the screen. Deep lava-filled gulleys wormed their way across its continents, broken by boiling seas.
‘The primitives of ancient Macragge thought Formaska was the eye of a god, and that it was bloodshot with anger,’ Zadkiel said, to himself more than the unappreciative Magos. ‘Sometimes, when the lava fields grew, they thought the eye had opened and looked down on them as prey. They prophesied the day when the god would finally decide to reach down and consume them all. That day has arrived,’ he concluded.
‘Admiral,’ the sibilant voice of Chaplain Ikthalon came through on the bridge vox.
‘What is it, chaplain?’ Zadkiel snapped.
‘The supplicants are stirring,’ Ikthalon told him. ‘There is movement in the warp. It seems that our pursuers have yet to give up the fight.’
‘See that they do not interfere,’ snarled Kor Phaeron from the long wave vox, before Zadkiel could reply. ‘I’m bringing the fleet into an assault pattern. Guilliman knows we are here by now. Fulfil your mission, Zadkiel.’
‘So it is written,’ replied Zadkiel, ‘so it shall be.’ He returned to Malforian. ‘Your status, weapon master?’