Ravenwing

by Gav Thorpe

  Three engine nozzles obscured most of the ship, and Sammael frowned as the plasma discharge intensified, turning from a deep orange to yellow edged with blue and white. He looked over at the navigational team as they turned and made a report to Pichon.

  ‘Rat Two accelerating,’ the officer of the deck told Sammael. ‘Velocity increasing by five per cent.’

  ‘They are overcharging their reactors,’ the Grand Master said, the words directed to Harahel. ‘It will not be enough.’

  ‘Acceleration reaching ten per cent additional,’ reported one of the navigation serfs. ‘Velocity still increasing.’

  On the main screen, Rat Two was pulling away, adding to the separation between pursued and pursuer every second.

  ‘Report our reactor status,’ snapped Sammael. In half a minute the target ship would be beyond effective range again.

  ‘Optimal and eighty-five per cent, Grand Master,’ Pichon replied immediately, not even having to check with the engineering attendants.

  ‘Increase to one hundred per cent, all speed ahead,’ said Sammael. ‘We shall...’

  His words petered out as he saw what was happening on the screen. Rat Two’s plasma trail was almost solidly white, leaving a shimmer of energy in the ship’s wake. Steam was bursting from overheating valves, the hot gases vented from the reactor meeting with the icy coldness of space to creating swirling clouds of crystal and congealing vapour. The ship’s systems could not cope with the increased heat output from the overcharging engines and Sammael saw exhaust ports rupturing into fountains of molten metal.

  Something inside the pirate vessel was going catastrophically wrong as a jet of plasma punched out from the engine blocks, sending armoured plates and twisted lengths of immense piping spinning into the void.

  ‘Belay last order,’ Sammael said quietly as the chain reaction engulfed Rat Two. The last third of the ship disappeared into a ball of expanding white light, a miniature star that swiftly engulfed the rest of the ship, vaporising it. ‘Full power to navigational and void shields. Brace for debris. Engines full back, new heading one-zero-nine.’

  Despite breaking thrusters and a sharp turn to port, the momentum of the Implacable Justice took the strike cruiser into the expanding cloud of gas and debris. Navigational hazard warnings flashed and sirens wailed as the ship ploughed into the superheated fog. There were shrieks and whines from the servitors of the sensor banks, the half-human half-machine interfaces crying out in pain as the scanner arrays were overloaded with data. The comms network screeched for several seconds until one of the serfs shut down the open channels, plunging the bridge into silence, cutting off the reports that had started to come through from engineering and the gun decks.

  Sammael could feel the ship shuddering as it continued to turn through the dense zone of collapsing plasma, the low-frequency navigational fields pushing aside what remained of Rat Two while the void shields absorbed the energy of the artificial star.

  A circuit exploded across a cogitator to Sammael’s left, blasting sparks into the face of a serf. The young man cried out, falling back from his station as suppressant gas bloomed from a nozzle above the flickering fire creeping across the console.

  ‘They did more damage destroying themselves than their guns would have caused,’ snarled Sammael. He called for Pichon, who was supervising a medicae team coming forward from the shadow beneath the bridge gallery. The wounded attendant cried out and flailed in his blindness but Sammael ignored the distraction. ‘Full damage report. Set course for Port Imperial. All flight crews to stand by and all torpedo tubes readied.’

  ‘As you command, Grand Master.’ Pichon darted a look at the fallen serf to assure himself that all was being done that could, and then started to snap off orders. Only phase one of the battle had been finished. A lot more fighting remained between the Dark Angels and their objective.

  Primary Insertion

  With one ship destroyed and the other two unable to manoeuvre, the Dark Angels were able to press towards their primary target quickly, leaving the crippled vessels to be dealt with once the station was secured. Converging on Port Imperial at ninety degrees to one another – the Penitent Warrior approaching from above the star fort with the Implacable Justice below – the two strike cruisers made ready for the attack.

  Port Imperial looked like a city floating in the void. From a square foundation of plasteel-reinforced ferrocrete and tapering spires nearly ten kilometres across, four docking arms jutted out a kilometre from each corner of the station. Atmosphere still billowed from the spar damaged when Rat Two had broken its moorings, creating a cloud of gas and ice around the mess of twisted gantries and broken buttresses. Hab-towers banked up steeply, growing taller towards the centre of the station, but the majority were dark, only the central spire and the towers clustered directly about it shining light from scores of windows.

  In armoured bastions built around the docking spars where they met the main hub, missile batteries and macro-las cannons turned towards the approaching ships. Gigantic archways opened, spilling the gleam of launch bay lamps into the darkness beneath the station, illuminating communications dishes, sensor arrays and maintenance gantries.

  From a safe distance, outside the range of any of the fort’s batteries, Implacable Justice launched another salvo of torpedoes, targeting the closest defence turrets. In the wake of the torpedoes the Ravenwing cruiser spilled forth a cloud of fighters and gunships; another wave of Thunderhawks sped from the flight deck of the Penitent Warrior.

  Long-range laser fire sprayed from the station, cutting the void with intermittent beams of red and blue. The torpedoes and attack craft were too small to be targeted by these main weapon systems, which instead were focused on the incoming strike cruisers. Laser energy met void shields in multicoloured blasts but the Dark Angels continued on, engines at full power to bring their weapons into range.

  The fighters in the vanguard of the attack wave split, half of them staying on course with the Ravenwing gunships and the other half cutting across the vacuum to take up position with the Thunderhawks of the Fifth Company. A cloud of dark shapes spewed from Port Imperial’s bays as the pirates launched their own fighters to intercept the incoming attack.

  In one of the lead Thunderhawks, Brother Telemenus ran through his final pre-battle rituals, checking his wargear while Daellon inspected Telemenus’s armour seals and ensured there were no obstructions in his battle-brothers’ backpack vents. With a final full-spectrum diagnostic of his autosenses, whispering benedictions to the spirit of his armour, Telemenus completed his preparations and turned his attention to Daellon to make a return investigation of the other Dark Angel’s armour. All was in order and he slapped his companion on the shoulder.

  ‘We are ready, brother,’ said Telemenus.

  ‘Let us trust to the skill of the pilots and the ineptitude of our foes,’ replied Daellon.

  Telemenus nodded but said nothing. Since returning to the squad following his punishment, the Dark Angel had endeavoured to remain focused on the mission at hand. Now that they were in flight, their fate prey to forces he could not control for the moment, Telemenus found his doubts had evaporated. With missiles and las-blasts filling the void, the wider cause for battle mattered little. He had been presented with an enemy and it was his duty to slay them. Ten days in solitary reclusion had not tempered his misgivings wholly, but he had come to realise that dissenting action would not be the solution. Whatever the cause for Sammael to abandon Piscina and come to this Emperor-forsaken place, Telemenus was honour-bound to see the mission completed. The sooner these renegades were destroyed, the sooner the Dark Angels could move on to more important enemies.

  ‘You are quiet, brother,’ remarked Sergeant Amanael. ‘I would think that your First Marksman laurels are ensured this day. A boarding action against a trapped enemy will see you surpass the needed tally by dozens.’

  ‘As you s
ay, brother-sergeant,’ replied Telemenus. ‘The awarding of the laurel will be pleasing, but its attainment against such enemies lessens the honour.’

  ‘There are merchant crews and Imperial Navy captains who would argue that point, brother,’ said Achamenon. ‘This nest of serpents has required cleansing for decades, it would seem. Remember that they are traitors to a man, preying upon the loyal servants of the Emperor.’

  ‘Do not mistake my sentiment, brothers, I am glad to destroy this scum and see their perfidy ended. Yet it is an engagement not worthy of remark, merely a footnote in the Chapter annals. I would see my laurels awarded in a glorious battle that would echo down the generations to come.’

  ‘Brother Telemenus.’ He looked to the right and regretted his words as Sergeant Seraphiel approached from the bow of the gunship. The commander’s approach was punctuated by the thump and whine of the mag-locks in his boots connecting with the metal decking. ‘Have you forgotten so soon the content of my briefing?’

  ‘No, honoured brother, I have not,’ Telemenus replied. ‘I remember well that our foes may well be commanded by a renegade of the Adeptus Astartes. If I cut down this traitor whilst achieving my laurels I shall consider it a great honour.’

  ‘Yet you also recall that this traitor is to be apprehended not executed, if possible,’ said Seraphiel, stopping in front of Telemenus. ‘Those are your orders.’

  ‘And I shall obey them, brother-sergeant,’ said Telemenus, looking up at his commander. ‘I do not think there will be opportunity to do otherwise, considering our role is simply to secure the landing zones and allow the Ravenwing to make ingress.’

  ‘We are about to board a space station, brother,’ said Seraphiel. ‘Our brethren on their bikes and Land Speeders will be limited in their manoeuvring. I suspect that the warriors of the Fifth Company shall prove the more successful hunters today.’

  ‘I will give thanks to the Emperor if that proves to be so, brother. If we are the ones to deliver this miscreant to justice, it will be to the honour of the company, even if no others shall be allowed to know of it.’

  ‘Just so. The Supreme Grand Master will hear all accounts, and our actions shall be recognised by him if no other.’

  ‘Praise the primarch, in whose shadow we all follow,’ Telemenus said softly, bowing his head.

  Seraphiel nodded and turned away.

  ‘If Sammael has his way, I will be left guarding the ramp of a Thunderhawk,’ muttered Telemenus.

  ‘Cease your grumbling or I will make it so,’ Sergeant Amanael said sharply, stilling further protest.

  Several minutes passed during which Telemenus listened to the general comms reports. The Implacable Justice was moving within firing range of Port Imperial, its weapon batteries ready to pour fire into the station to cover the approach of the attack craft. The screen of Ravenwing fighters powered ahead of the gunship wave to engage the enemy interceptors. A warning chime sounded, alerting the force to incoming attackers and the subdued conversation aboard the Thunderhawk fell silent as the Dark Angels followed the progress of the pilots.

  The pirate craft were a mix of single and two-man fighters, armed for the most part with missiles and autocannons. While the strike cruisers and star base duelled over thousands of kilometres, between these behemoths the small craft of both sides engaged over hundreds of metres.

  The swarm of foes appeared as a glittering spray of plasma jets against the dark bulk of the space station, spreading out as the Ravenwing craft powered onwards, their sleek black hulls disappearing into the void.

  Stabs of blue light spat out from the four lascannon-armed Nephilim forming the tip of the Dark Angels attack, causing the motes of plasma trails to scatter. Flurries of Blacksword missiles followed swiftly after, swerving and jinking as their artificial brains guided them towards the energy signatures of the enemy craft. The pirate craft were built only for void battle, stubby boxes of bare metal illuminated by the glare of attitude jets and main thrusters, whirling away from the Ravenwing onslaught with plumes of red and orange. Rockets rippled from side-mounted pods, spraying out towards the Ravenwing, filling the vacuum with trails of fire.

  As the spearpoint thrust through the dispersing cloud of enemy fighters the second wave of Nephilim, six craft, opened fire with their megabolters. Flashes of propellant flickered between the converging squadrons, filling the firmament with a storm of tiny explosions. One craft turned into a ball of plasma as it crossed the path of hundreds of rounds, its engines punctured by the fusillade. Behind it another fighter split apart, shredded from cockpit to thrusters by a lascannon beam.

  All semblance of order disintegrated as the two forces passed each other. In a haze of manoeuvre jets the Nephilim rolled and stooped, while pirate fighters span wildly, unleashing streams of shells at their foes. Bright plasma trails criss-crossed with tracer shells and hurricane bolter salvoes as the Dark Talons came into range. Engines flared to spin the craft, ships exchanging flurries of fire as they parted and turned, hulls gleaming as another fighter was engulfed by its detonating engines. Shell fire from the heavier renegade craft littered the battlespace with explosions, hurling shrapnel into the gunship formation.

  Telemenus felt the Thunderhawk tremble as its battle cannon opened fire. The large-calibre ordnance was more suited to blowing apart ground targets, but the fusillade of shells erupting from the onrushing gunships parted the enemy fighters, punching a path through their midst. Heavy bolters chattered from the Thunderhawks’ wings as they sped on, trusting to the fighters to protect them against attack from behind.

  The Nephilim and Dark Talons formed up into hunting pairs, chasing the enemy as they tried to slip past the screen to bring fire upon the gunships. Occasionally Telemenus heard the rattle of weapons fire or the clang of debris against the hull, but nothing heavy enough to breach the armoured transport compartment. The vox-net was alive with the chatter of the pilots, snapping out target designations and grid coordinates, exchanging attack vector information and warnings.

  There was nothing that Telemenus could do, and he waited patiently and in silence as they sped towards their objective. Another announcement over the comm warned that the attack fleet was coming within range of the star base’s defence grid. Much of the close-range weapons systems had been targeted by the strike cruisers, but as the gunships passed enemy range mark, ripples of cannon fire and rockets hurtled from the station’s remaining defence turrets.

  Lacking the more sophisticated targeting matrices of the Ravenwing craft, the pirate fighters and the base gunners opted for weight of fire over accuracy. Their spewing salvoes created a blanket of missiles and shells through which the gunships were forced to pass. The impacts against the hull grew in intensity and frequency and every few seconds the Thunderhawk would rattle from a close detonation. The pilots rolled and banked their craft through the storm; the support of their harnesses rendering the Space Marines oblivious to the evasive manoeuvres being performed. To Telemenus they might well have been cruising gently through the void, as straight as a bolt shot.

  Red lights flashed and a warning klaxon filled the compartment. Moments later, a second warning lit up in Telemenus’s helm display, indicating a rapid loss of atmospheric pressure. Sealed inside their suits the Space Marines were protected against decompression; the parchment tabs of their purity seals fluttered wildly as the pressurised air evacuated through a hole somewhere towards the rear of the gunship. Everything else had been locked down as a precaution, preventing stray magazines and other items becoming dangerous debris.

  The breach was not significant, judging by the time it took for the interior atmosphere to utterly deplete. By the time Telemenus’s autosenses detected zero pressure they had passed the five thousand metres mark.

  He performed one last check on his bolter and the spare magazines clamped to his cuisses and greaves. Sergeant Seraphiel appeared again, standing by the ramp at the nose of
the gunship. The lighting dimmed, Telemenus’s autosenses compensating for the gloom, and the ramp whined down into the assault position.

  Through the open maw of the Thunderhawk, Telemenus could see the ceramite slabs of the space station’s ablative plates, many of them cracked or shattered, a haze of debris coalescing against the superstructure, drawn in by the artificial grav-field. Plasma fires raged in several of the outer towers and as Telemenus watched another streaking fusillade from one of the strike cruisers slammed into Port Imperial. Ferrocrete and metal was ripped apart by the impacts, spraying jagged metres-thick chunks into the void.

  The Thunderhawk dipped and Telemenus’s view changed. A slit of light appeared as the vista passed underneath a docking spar and a red sigil appeared in Telemenus’s view, the range to target counting down beside it: one hundred kilometres.

  Arrestor jets fired hard, killing the speed of gunship as it banked towards the opening of the fighter bay. Black blades against the grey of the port, Dark Talons swept past, opening fire with their rift-cannons. Warp generators unleashed coruscating beams that rippled with power from the immaterium, tearing through the fabric of reality. The streaming warp particles struck the plating and buttresses surrounding the fighter bay entrance, creating ravening warp holes that collapsed the armoured bulkheads in upon themselves. Iridescent implosions blossomed across the docking bastion, ripping struts and casements apart, leaving the bay entrance a ragged mess.

  The lascannon of the Thunderhawk opened fire, blowing apart the larger pieces of debris in its flight path, turning plascrete to cinder and metal to clouds of molten droplets. The fighters made one final pass, sweeping across the jagged bay entrance with missiles and heavy-gauge bolt cannons. Into this maelstrom of fire plunged the Thunderhawk, the restraining harnesses holding the Space Marines in place snapping up with hydraulic hisses.

  Telemenus took his place as the squads thudded towards the ramp, the dark of the looming fighter bay broken by the flare of the gunship’s bolters and arcs of electricity forking from ruptured power lines.