by Paul Kearney
Kerne grunted in approval. He found himself liking the square, contained shipmaster and his air of imperturbability. Such a man might have made a Space Marine, had he been discovered young enough.
‘And you, Massaron, how long have you been wearing Hunters blue?’
The shipmaster raised one eyebrow, and went so far as to scratch his jaw.
‘I was born on the Ogadai, captain. This ship and the Chapter it serves are all the home I have ever known, or ever wanted to know. The personnel of the fleet are my family.’ He seemed about to say more, but checked himself.
The elevator, a square of plasteel fifty metres to a side, came to a jostling halt, making Massaron grimace.
‘The ship is four thousand years old, captain. The repairs it requires are a never-ending process, and it consumes raw materials as though it were a living creature of great appetite.’
‘What is the lifespan of a vessel such as this?’
Massaron seemed genuinely taken aback by the question.
‘Given the due and proper maintenance it requires, the Ogadai is immortal. If we look after it, the ship will serve the Chapter for as long as there are men to crew it and space to travel in.’
Kerne suspected he had hit a nerve, and did not pursue the subject. He had noticed that some sections of the cruiser were better maintained than others, and the patina of age coated the ancient plasteel thickly. Cracks and splits had been welded over again and again, and in places the inner cabling had fallen down so that the crew stepped over it as one would over a dormant snake.
But the distant thunder of the engines was reassuringly solid, a background noise that was soon forgotten, and became part of life itself on the ship.
However, it was only a ship.
It was the Chapter that endured – that must endure. This human, however admirable, had a vision that was circumscribed by his surroundings and his lifespan, just like his fellows.
In the Adeptus Astartes the genes of the Emperor Himself were embedded, attenuated by the millennia, but never to be eradicated. In the very flesh of the Dark Hunters, in their blood, was their reason to be. A Space Marine who died in war had his gene-seed recovered from the battlefield no matter what the cost, and it was implanted into another who would carry on his work, his duty to the Emperor and the Imperium.
That was true immortality, not the feverish scrabble to repair an ancient starship, however august its history. The Ogadai was alloy and metal, plate and wiring. A Space Marine carried within himself the very essence of the living God.
It was rare to meet a human being who understood this.
‘This is the starboard drop hangar,’ Massaron was saying. The mismatched pair were now walking inside a space more immense than any yet seen, and there was a new smell in the air. The fug and stink of humanity was still present, but it was overlaid by the unguents and lubricants which attended all the heavy machinery of the Chapter.
Kerne’s heightened senses could also pick out the elusive fragrance of incense, the accompaniment of some prayer to the Machine God, and that scent immediately took him back to the Reclusiam on Mors Angnar.
A line of Thunderhawks sat on the deck plating like huge ugly birds, with their ground crews busy as a broken ant-heap all around them. A tracked servitor went past muttering in binary, dragging an ordnance sled piled high with missiles, the blunt, black-nosed armaments Space Marines called Rosaries, since they were fired in a chain of ten at a time.
The overheads glittered on long belts of brass-clad shells as they were wound into the armament cavities in the Thunderhawks’ noses. Many of the gunships had their innards and even their engines dismantled and set out on the slipways in front of the craft. They almost looked as though the ground crews were tearing them apart.
‘How many?’ Kerne asked. He knew, but Massaron might know differently.
‘Eight configured for troop deployment, eleven for close-in support,’ Massaron said. ‘We are short of spares,’ he added, frowning.
‘How many ready to fly right now, shipmaster?’ Kerne asked, his eyes narrowing.
The shipmaster gestured to a man in oil-stained blue overalls who had a multi-tooled prosthetic in place of his left hand. He was unshaven, red-haired, with sunken grey eyes.
‘Dinas, over here.’ And as the man approached, wide-eyed and saluting as something of an afterthought, Massaron demanded, ‘How many craft ready for immediate take-off?’
The man was staring up at the tall Adeptus Astartes captain, as were most of the crew behind him. He collected himself at once however, and the finger-tools of his prosthetic extended in what seemed a tiny shrug.
‘Three, shipmaster. One transport and two gunships. We are still taking in ordnance from the loading bays.’
‘This is Gerd Dinas, my deck chief,’ Massaron told Kerne.
Kerne reined in his temper. ‘When will the rest be spaceworthy?’
Dinas scratched his head with a thin finger-blade. ‘My lord, it will be several weeks.’
‘Be specific.’
The man went white under his greasy red hair. His eyes closed for a moment. He looked as though he had not slept in days.
‘Five weeks. We have yet to sort through the parts that the Forge-Master shipped up to us, and several of the Hawks are undergoing major maintenance – four have burned-out engines, and the machine spirits of two others have innate problems which are proving difficult to pin down.’
‘Would Space Marine pilots be of any use to you?’ Kerne asked.
The man flushed. ‘Why yes, my lord, their expertise would be invaluable.’
Kerne turned to the shipmaster. ‘I will second six flight-qualified battle-brothers to your people for as long as it takes to get these craft in battle order, Massaron. This is a priority.’
Massaron blinked. ‘The voyage to the Kargad system will take–’
‘Irrelevant. We have no way of knowing what awaits us on the journey, and the Thunderhawks are my brethren’s most effective close-support and resupply system if we are to fight off-planet. They must be made functional without delay.’
Massaron bowed wordlessly. Kerne realised that he had wounded the man by chastising him in front of an inferior. Well, that could not be helped.
‘Lead on,’ he said in the same harsh tone. ‘If we can make a path through this confusion, then I wish to look upon the drop pods; and I hope that I will find them in better repair.’
His cold anger subdued even Tomas Massaron, and the ground crews seemed to catch some hint of it also, because for a moment the din in the hangar sank down, and there was an apprehensive lull.
‘If you will follow me, captain,’ Massaron said stiffly. They set off again, leaving the deck chief standing in mid-salute. The crews about the Thunderhawks parted for Kerne like waves opening before a rock, and none of them dared look upon his face.
FIVE
Animo Moderari
‘Cease fire!’
The tearing crack of gunfire stopped at once. In the smoke, dark shapes shifted, darting in low and then leaping high.
Fornix blinked on his infra-red and the images steadied and clarified in his helm display. He switched to squad-vox.
‘Orsus, can you see the enemy?’
‘Affirmative, brother. They’re wheeling left.’
‘Very well. Primus, hold and cover. Secundus, go forward, at discretion. Tertius, go right, fast move. Squads move in three.’
A few moments, and then the gunfire started up again, the bolters bucking in the hands of the Space Marines. Ten stood firing steadily in short two and three round bursts. As their heads turned, so the bolter muzzles moved with them, as though the two were connected by unseen strings.
The brass alloy of cartridge casings clicked and shone as they tumbled out of the bolters’ chambers, a rain of gold. One battle-brother swept the massive shape of a heavy bolter back and forth as though he were hosing down the enemy with explosive fire, the belt clattering out of the tall pack grafted onto his g
enerator.
Ten more Space Marines rushed forward. Despite their bulk they moved more swiftly than any human athlete. Five dropped to a crouch and added their fire to the cacophony, while five advanced, then went firm and took up firing as their squad members joined them.
Out on the right, over a hundred metres away, a further squad was sprinting through the smoke on the flank. They became looming shadows in the murk, and disappeared for only an instant; then the harsh crack and boom of grenades went off in a sequence of flashes which staggered the smoke.
‘Ambush,’ Fornix said calmly. ‘Tertius, report.’
‘Tripwires, first sergeant,’ a disgusted voice came back on the vox. ‘I have three down. More movement in front.’
‘Engage and grip them, Orsus. Primus and Secundus, alphas hold down base of fire, betas forward and make contact. Close fast, brothers.’
The first two squads split, half of each opening up again, the other half charging forward. Fornix heard someone shout ‘Umbra Sumus!’ over the vox and at once he snarled back, ‘Shut your mouth. Do your job without that caterwauling.’
The line of Space Marines closed with the darting shadows in the smoke. There was a final clatter of fire, and then the noise began to sink.
Fornix looked down at the counter he held in one gauntleted fist. The digits had been counting down all through the engagement, and now it was blinking zero.
‘Report.’
‘Primus in place, position secure. No casualties.’
‘Secundus in place, position secure. One casualty.’
‘Tertius in place, position secure. Three casualties.’
‘Hold fast. All battle-brothers, listen to me.’ He paused. ‘Unload!’
There was a metallic chorus as up and down the Space Marines clicked the magazines out of their bolters and then cocked the weapons so that the chambered rounds were spat out.
‘Pick up those rounds, brothers. Every one of them will count one day. All right, squads, on me. And lift your feet, Hunters – I’m getting old standing here.’
The deck of the training area trembled as thirty battle-brothers jogged back to surround the first sergeant. He turned to the maintenance servitor which had been standing silent beside him all this time. ‘End smoke. Retrieve all target servitors. Initiate repairs.’
‘Acknowledged,’ the creature said, and lurched away, chittering in tech-speak as it went.
High above, huge fans began to turn, stirring the acrid atmosphere. The air in the massive hangar began to clear almost at once. As it did, it revealed tumbled piles of debris and rubbish scattered in mounds and ridges all over the deck.
Dozens of servitors were now busy among these, lifting up battered target servitors, some of which were still thrashing feebly. Others were touring the walls of the hangar and beginning repairs on the armoured padding which lined the bulkheads.
Fornix clicked off his helm, and stood impassively as thirty Space Marines of Mortai’s tactical squads gathered around him.
‘Take a knee,’ he growled, and at once the massive armoured warriors knelt before him in a rough semi-circle.
‘Unhelm.’
He stared at them, eye to eye. ‘Brother Orsus, who tripped the grenades?’
A broad-faced warrior, big even for his kind, rubbed his hand over his scalp. ‘That would be Brother Infinius.’
Fornix’s gaze ranged over the squad. A slim, dark warrior with black hair and downcast eyes.
‘Tripwires, Infinius? Brother, I set those there merely to combat boredom, and because of you they incapacitated three of your squad. Tripwires – really?’
‘My apologies, first sergeant.’ Infinius rubbed at a blackened dent in his armour, which was otherwise so new from the arsenal that it still had a lacquered shine to it.
‘How long have you been in Mortai now?’
‘Seven weeks, first sergeant.’
‘And already you have been killed by a trap which a drunk cultist could set.’ Fornix bared his teeth in exasperation. ‘Extra duty, Orsus. For all of Tertius. And an inspection for all squads at fifteenth hour shiptime.’
Orsus nodded, scowling.
‘And who was it who uttered our battle-cry on the vox?’ Fornix demanded. His bionic eye glowed hellish red, as though infected by his anger.
‘First sergeant, it was me.’
Fornix sighed. Another recruit.
‘Brother Gad, is it not?’
The Space Marine nodded.
Fornix strode forward, and leaned down until his scalp-lock was tickling the other warrior’s face.
‘The battle-cry of the Dark Hunters is not to be uttered except in battle, Brother Gad – do you understand me?’
The Space Marine nodded dumbly.
‘You do not scream it out in the middle of a tactical exercise in the practice hangar. Am I perfectly clear, brother?’
‘Yes, first sergeant.’
Fornix looked at the thirty kneeling warriors. He saw that Nureddin of Secundus was trying not to smile – he was one of Fornix’s oldest friends, so he chose to ignore it. Finn March of Primus was frowning. Always so serious, old Finn.
New faces in the company. Enough to make a difference to the heft of it perhaps. They were all trained battle-brothers with years of combat under their belts, but they could not compare to Mortai’s veterans – not yet.
Fornix tapped the device he held in one hand. ‘One hundred and thirty-eight targets accounted for, at a cost of four of you. Brothers, it will not be good enough. Nureddin, you were with me the last time we fought the Punishers – do you remember the odds we faced back then?’
Brother Nureddin’s grin died on his face. ‘I remember, Fornix.’
‘There were close to eight hundred battle-brothers in the Chapter at that time. We lost half of Haroun Company on the first day: forty battle-brothers. But they bought time for the rest of the Chapter to organise a defence. That one company slew well over eight thousand of the Great Enemy before they were overwhelmed.
‘They were not fighting target drones, brothers. The cultists went down in waves, it is true, but behind them were warbands of the Chaos brethren, who had once been of our own adept. They wore power armour, wielded bolters and flamers and lascannons even as we do.
‘They had begun as Space Marines, my brothers, and whatever it was they had become, they had not forgotten how to fight. And they came in their thousands.
‘So make no mistake – it is not enough to kill five, or ten, or twenty of the enemy and think you have done enough. It is not enough to die gloriously with the vile corpses of the foe piled high all around you. To be victorious, brothers, we must do two things. We must destroy the foe utterly...’
He paused. ‘And we must also survive.’
Fornix’s head sank down until his chin was inside the collar of his breastplate. For a moment he seemed very far away.
‘Inspection at fifteen. In the morning we will begin again. And I will discipline personally anyone who falls to the marker of a single drone tomorrow. Dismissed.’
‘Your first sergeant’s anecdotes leave me somewhat disquieted,’ Brother Malchai said, frowning.
‘He trains the company according to the Codex,’ Kerne rejoined. ‘You cannot fault him for that.’
The Chaplain and the captain were standing high up in the observation gallery, wreathed in ribands and knots of dissipating smoke. They cradled their helms at their sides, but were otherwise fully armoured.
‘The training is adequate, and Codex-compliant. It is his words which give me concern. Brother Kass, perhaps you could enlighten us with your opinion.’
Elijah Kass stood behind the two senior officers of his Chapter.
‘My lord, I do not feel qualified to comment.’
‘You are a psyker, are you not, Kass? Perhaps you could do us the service of sounding out the state of mind of–’
‘Enough,’ Kerne snarled. ‘My first sergeant is not a case-study. He has been training our brethren for long
enough not to be second-guessed in his methods by anyone. Is that clear, Brother Malchai?’
‘As I said, his methods are Codex-compliant – it is his attitude which concerns me, and as acting company Chaplain I am fully within the orbit of my duties to question it, captain.’
For once there was no animosity in the Reclusiarch’s white face. He meant what he said.
‘Brother Kass, leave us,’ Jonah said.
‘I would prefer it if the Librarian stayed.’
‘Prefer all you like. Elijah, the Chaplain and I would speak privately, if you will.’
‘Captain,’ Elijah said.
‘Go now, Brother Kass. I will not ask you again.’
Elijah Kass stepped away. There was a hiss, and the elevator at their backs took him down into darkness.
The two Space Marines remaining looked at one another. The line of command between a veteran Space Marine captain and the senior Reclusiarch of the Chapter was ill-defined, and depended much on the personalities involved.
In theory, everyone in the Dark Hunters, even the Chapter Master himself, had to defer to Malchai when the issue at stake was the spiritual well-being and orthodoxy of the Chapter. But when it came to military matters, the force commander on the ground was entitled to his own decisions.
‘We are of an age, you and I,’ Jonah said to Malchai. ‘We were witness to the near-destruction of the Dark Hunters, even as Fornix was. That time has seared itself into the soul of every battle-brother who survived it – and there are not many of us left who remember, now. Surely you can understand why Fornix thinks the way he does. There is no unorthodoxy in seeking to make sure his brethren survive?’
Malchai was implacable. ‘Sentiment. Always, it has been your weakness, Jonah. In past times it was your temper, but it seems you have learned to control that. Now you must expunge the last remnants of another weakness from your soul. Only then would you be even remotely worthy to fill the office you seek.’
He was right and wrong at the same time. ‘I seek no other office than that which I currently hold,’ Kerne said carefully.
‘Others seek it for you. Even the Kharne himself has stumbled, blinded by his old friendship for you and his absurd attachment to the company he once commanded. It should have been the Chapter’s senior captain who commanded this expedition, not you.’