Ravenwing

by Gav Thorpe

  The Unworthy appeared crazed, with wide eyes and wordless shouts as they charged along the platform. Realising that he would be overwhelmed, his options diminishing quickly, Annael decided that Sabrael had been correct about surrendering the initiative. Sitting where he was would not stop the renegades.

  He revved hard and let loose Black Shadow, roaring into the foe like a black-armoured missile. Controlling the bike one-handed, firing his pistol in the other, he slammed through the enemy, breaking legs and shattering ribs. Black Shadow bucked and slid as a body passed under the front wheel and Annael accelerated, clearing the press of bodies. Braking, he skidded to a stop before the steps at the end of the platform. There were still more pirates coming out of the darkness but he had no time to worry about them – those already in the station were converging on him from behind. Evidently they were intent upon him, with no thought of breaking towards the rest of the squadron.

  Tactically it made no sense, but that was to be expected. Sabrael’s conclusion had been accurate. The Unworthy had no greater purpose or plan, they were simply seeking to kill as many of the Dark Angels as they could.

  His bolt pistol emptied, he holstered the weapon and raced forwards again, taking the handlebars in both hands as he opened fire with the mounted bolters again. A woman bounced across the front faring, her screeching face passing within centimetres of Annael’s as she thudded against him and span away. Las-bolts and projectiles whined around him and hands vainly tried to rip him from his steed, but he sped free of their grasp with ease, bringing the bike around again as he reached the passage-

  way entrance where he had begun the engagement. A momentary glance at the scanner showed that Sabrael was on his way back but still three hundred metres away.

  Looking up from the screen, Annael saw a spark of fire from the tunnel mouth. A missile screamed from the darkness, heading straight at him.

  Acting out of instinct, he turned his left shoulder towards the projectile, to take the blast on his pauldron. The missile did not hit directly, but glanced from the curved plate and slammed into the wall behind Annael. Ferrocrete fragments and dust engulfed him as the missile exploded.

  He opened the throttle, trying to find the missile firer with his targeter. There must have been two of the heavy weapons, for there had not been time to reload when a second missile powered from the tunnel.

  Now moving, Annael was able to wrench Black Shadow to the right, avoiding the rocket, which hurtled into the passageway entrance. The crack and rumble that followed was far longer and louder than a missile detonation and as he ploughed through the enemy once more, Annael glanced back to see the archway collapsing.

  Whether by intent or accident, the pirates were bringing down the chamber roof.

  Ferrocrete and mangled steel fell across the station. A beam bracing the ceiling twisted and bent under the extra load, the screech of tearing metal sounding through the tumbling of ferrocrete blocks. The ceiling came down in a welter of jagged clumps of stone and plaster, sending debris smashing through the pirates and clattering from Annael’s armour.

  More and more of the station was crumbling, decades, perhaps centuries of poor maintenance taking its toll as pillars and supports crashed onto the tracks and platform. The only place for Annael to go was down onto the rails and he steered Black Shadow over the lip scant seconds before the whole of the platform was buried by an avalanche of masonry.

  Swinging a lasgun as a club, a man smashed his weapon across Annael’s face. The lasgun snapped and Annael did not even blink as he flung out a fist, turning the man’s face to a bloody pulp, cheek and jaw shattered. Someone grabbed Annael’s left arm and he let go of the handlebar to lift up the female pirate, hurling her into another enemy aiming a pistol at Annael’s chest.

  The detonation of another missile took Annael by surprise. The armoured chamfron of Black Shadow took the brunt of the explosion, metal and ceramite splinters cutting through the enemy who had been thrown back by the blast.

  ‘Annael? Brother, are you alive?’ Sabrael’s voice seemed distant in Annael’s ear. ‘Annael, respond!’

  ‘Still alive, brother,’ snarled Annael, kicking out, the toe of his armoured boot crushing the ribcage of a man trying to climb onto the front of the Dark Angel’s mount. Annael pushed Black Shadow forwards into the tunnel, firing the bolters in a steady stream to rip through the remaining renegades. ‘Take no credit for that fact. I will demand restitution, brother.’

  Sabrael’s reply devolved into wordless static as more of the station roof fell down behind Annael, closing off the platform and track entirely. The Dark Angel dismounted as pirates swarmed around him, breaking bones with both hands as he waded into them with armoured fists.

  ‘Sabrael?’ There was no reply to Annael’s inquiry and he switched channel with a sub-vocal command. ‘Brother Araton?’

  The comm was dead, the signal blocked by the tonnes of debris choking the station chamber. Annael grabbed the throat of the last foe – one who had been manning a missile launcher – and threw him against the tunnel wall, snapping his spine.

  The only sounds were the rumble of the bike’s idling engine and the patter and creak of settling debris.

  Now that the immediate situation had calmed, Annael appraised the situation. He was cut off from the rest of the squadron, trapped in the tunnel. The only route out, if he wanted to maintain possession of Black Shadow, would be the next station. There might be maintenance access on foot somewhere in the tunnel, but Annael knew he would be shamed if he abandoned his mount. The loss of a mount was felt almost as keenly as the loss of a Space Marine, and Annael would give up a limb rather than be separated from his bike. The thought turned his mind back to Cassiel, who had done just that. The squadron was already one warrior down. It was imperative that Annael rejoined them.

  Opening a panel in the left vambrace of his armour, Annael pulled free a cable and jack, plugging his vox-system into Black Shadow’s. The bike had a stronger transmitter and receiver, but with a snarled curse as static filled his ears Annael discovered that the last missile hit had damaged the communications array.

  A normal soldier in his situation might have despaired, but Annael had no thought of fear. Though he was physically separated from his squadron and unable to contact any of the other Dark Angels, he dispassionately assessed his situation. Panic was counter-productive to mission success.

  His greatest concern was that effort would be wasted trying to search for him in the wreckage of the transit station. Thus, he concluded, the first priority was to establish contact with his force. Once he could assure them he was still alive he could set about devising a plan to rejoin the attack.

  A cursory search of the corpses revealed no hand-held communications devices. If the group had possessed some means of contacting other forces it was lost in the station. The most obvious solution to the communication problem was the star fort’s internal system. If Annael could locate a console, he would be able to boost his bike or armour’s transmitter. If the internal system still worked, which was far from likely given the general poor state of Port Imperial.

  With no better plan coming to mind, Annael mounted Black Shadow and rode on through the darkness of the rail tunnel.

  Unexpected Foes

  Mechanical thumping echoed along the corridor from a chamber ahead, as regular as a heartbeat. Steam leaked from cracked pipes overhead and rust was smeared along the walls as if daubed by some inhuman hand, mixing with patches of dark lichen. Droplets of water formed on the armour of Telemenus and his battle-brothers and mist condensed around the heat exchanges of their backpacks.

  Moving through the quadrant designated grid-west, the squad had divided into two combat teams to cover the ground more swiftly. With Telemenus were Amanael, Cadael, Achamenon and Daellon.

  ‘Water filtration plant?’ suggested Cadael.

  ‘Environmental system,’ countered Serg
eant Amanael. ‘Humidity regulator.’

  ‘Whatever it is, that pounding is annoying,’ said Telemenus. The monotonous clanging masked the tread of the Space Marines as they advanced towards a sealed doorway at the end of the passage. ‘Surely it is not meant to make such a din?’

  ‘Anything to keep it working, I assume,’ said Achamenon. ‘One can let void shields and lighting fall to ruin, but breathable air is essential. I am surprised that they have managed to keep the station habitable for this long without the aid of tech-adepts.’

  ‘Some of the tech-priests must have survived the secession,’ said Amanael. ‘Even if working under duress. To salve the machine-spirits of a star fort requires knowledge possessed by just a few.’

  The passageway past the door was in an even poorer state, and even through his olfactory filters Telemenus could detect the rankness in the air. Mould and fungi grew in clumps where the walls met ceiling and floor, patches of drab greens and greys broken by brighter purples and blues. The bulkheads were heavily corroded and the decking underfoot had rusted away completely in places, leaving holes down into the crawlspaces beneath the Space Marines.

  Picking their way around these, the five Dark Angels advanced.

  ‘Strong life signals, through the next chamber,’ reported Cadael. ‘Not sure if it is hostile or background life.’

  The doors lining either side of the passage were rusted shut. Achamenon tested the first and it only shifted after considerable effort, showering the Space Marine with dark flakes of oxidised metal. The room beyond led nowhere and held a few empty crates and nothing more.

  ‘Press on,’ said Sergeant Amanael, waving the squad forwards. ‘These doors have not been opened in decades. No rebel could force them.’

  The corridor took a forty-five degree turn to the left, angling directly towards the hub. Turning the bend, Telemenus could see the doorway at the far end was open. Roof panels had been torn away leaving piping and cabling hanging like bunting across the entrance. Looking further ahead, the Dark Angel could see that the chamber was in a ruinous state, criss-crossed by a nest of jury-rigged wires and conduits. Bare cables sparked occasionally, lighting the darkness with blue glare.

  ‘Touch nothing,’ warned Amanael. ‘Nobody can say what systems they have bypassed with this mess.’

  Ducking beneath a pipe covered with a thin rime of frost, Telemenus stepped carefully, negotiating a path between the haphazard mass. The hum of exposed power lines buzzed through his autosenses and he registered a sharp rise in temperature and humidity. The conditions were perfect for the mould, which formed large slicks on the walls and a soft carpet underfoot. Spores drifted into the air at the tread of the advancing Space Marines, creating a cloud of fluttering particles.

  ‘Atmosphere extractors and projectors are off,’ Telemenus said, noting no breeze moved the floating spores. ‘This environment is deliberate.’

  ‘Who would want to live in this dank hole?’ asked Cadael. He lifted up the auspex. ‘Readings show this whole sector is the same, for about half a kilometre ahead and a kilometre to either side.’

  ‘A micro-climate,’ said Daellon.

  ‘But for what?’ Telemenus’s question went unanswered.

  A motor chugged hoarsely in the far corner, dribbling exhaust fumes, fuelled from a pipe jutting from a torn bulkhead. It was attached to a series of gears and chains that disappeared into the far doorway. Its purpose seemed to be to power the emergency door, which was closed.

  ‘I have our answer,’ said Amanael, stooping to inspect the crude machine. He pointed to a beaten metal panel poorly riveted on one side of the motor. Telemenus saw small blotches of red and green and as his autosenses improved the resolution he recognised the shape of pictograms. Their meaning was unknown but their type was immediately recognisable.

  ‘Orks,’ he muttered.

  ‘It seems that not only humans can be Unworthy,’ said Cadael.

  ‘Brother Seraphiel, we have ork signs, quadrant four,’ Amanael reported. ‘Numbers unknown. Judging by the state of this place, they have been here for some time. Initiating cleanse protocols.’

  ‘Acknowledged, sergeant,’ replied the Fifth Company’s commander. ‘Continue with your advance and exercise standard doctrine.’

  ‘Confirmed, sergeant, we will proceed.’ Amanael gestured to Daellon, who was currently in possession of the squad flamer. ‘Stand ready, brother.’

  The sergeant pulled a lever on the motor, engaging the gears. The door mechanism snarled into life, the metal slab sliding sideways into the bulkhead, revealing a chamber much the same as the one in which the Dark Angels were standing. Daellon turned to face the way they had entered as Amanael led the squad through the doorway. As Telemenus stepped past, Daellon opened up with the flamer, bathing the mould and fungi with burning promethium.

  The flames seared through the cabling, plunging the chamber into darkness, lit by the greenish-blue of the burning spores. Stepping backwards, Daellon played his flamer across the floor and ceiling, igniting everything. Fumes from the motor fuel line ignited, filling the room with a billowing ball of orange fire as Daellon rapidly backed away. The chain links melted through and the door crashed back into position just in front of Daellon, the last spurts of the Dark Angel’s flamer splashing against rusted metal.

  ‘Contacts!’ barked Cadael. There were two doorways leading from the small room. He pointed to the right. ‘Strong. Moving towards us. Directly towards us. Forty metres and closing.’

  Telemenus readied his bolter as Cadael slung the auspex on his belt and brought up his weapon. He heard the noise of a door being slammed open and Amanael opened fire. Cadael turned to cover the other entrance with the flamer as Telemenus stepped up next to his sergeant, just in time to see an ork’s head exploding from a bolt impact. Its body fell amongst the corpses of two more aliens, and there were twenty or more of the beasts rushing down the passageway behind.

  Telemenus needed no order to open fire. He sighted past the closest ork and fired at another greenskinned creature just behind it, the bolt shell taking the alien in the shoulder. Amanael’s next burst brought down the foremost alien and Telemenus had a clear shot at his target’s body, his round hitting it squarely in the chest, ripping through flesh and organs. A following ork tripped over the falling carcass, Telemenus’s next shot cracking open the top of its head as it fell, dead before it hit the ground.

  With the orks only ten metres away now, Telemenus released his grip with his left hand and pulled out his combat knife, still firing. Amanael’s chainsword growled into life beside him and the sergeant leapt forward to meet the orks as they burst into the chamber. His first swing took the arm off the closest alien as it raised a pistol to fire.

  Telemenus sidestepped to his right, to get a line of fire past his sergeant and Achamenon. While the two Dark Angels went blade-to-blade with the greenskins, Telemenus continued to fire at the orks pressing in from the corridor, blowing off arms and legs, occasionally landing a clean shot in a torso or head.

  A warning from Daellon and the sound of the flamer caused Telemenus to turn. His battle-brother fired another long burst down the other corridor, the flames dying out as the weapon’s fuel canister emptied.

  ‘I have you covered, brother,’ Telemenus told Daellon, stepping up to fire through the doorway, his first salvo cutting down an ork that was covered from waist to shoulder in burning promethium.

  He picked his shots carefully, ignoring the blasts from the orks’ crude pistols and rifles. A lucky burst of orkish fire caught him full in the chest, cracking the emblazoned ceramite eagle on his plastron and sending his aim astray. With only one more burst left in his bolter’s magazine he aimed high, stitching the three shots across the faces of the closest foes. A glance confirmed to Telemenus that Daellon was still fixing a new fuel canister.

  The orks were moments away, firing wildly. There was no time
to reload before they would enter the chamber and their numbers would count in their favour. Telemenus counter-charged, swinging his bolter like a club as he plunged through the doorway. The heavy casing cracked open the skull of the first, sending it sprawling to the floor with blood spattering on the walls. A spiked maul missed the Dark Angel’s head by millimetres as he plunged his knife up to the hilt, burying it in the throat of the next ork. He could not avoid the next blow, the club smashing into his wrist. With a grimace, he held onto his bolter as pain briefly flared up his arm.

  Surrounded by fanged, snarling faces, Telemenus rammed his helmet into one of them, forcing the creature back. Warning icons flared across his view as the orks fired their pistols at him and pounded on his armour with heavy cleavers and cudgels. His knife opened up the face of a third foe, sending long teeth spinning through the air, the slash ripping out the alien’s eye. In return, a hooked axe head lodged into the flexible joint seal between his waist and left thigh, deep enough to bite into flesh.

  ‘Die, xenos filth!’ The wound angered Telemenus more than it hurt him. Forced to batter his foes to death in close combat, every ork that he felled would not count against his marksman tally. The thought of killing so many enemies and yet his laurel award remaining out of reach sent a fresh surge of anger through him.

  An ork was trying to twist off his head, its arms wrapped around his helm. Launching himself backwards, Telemenus hurled himself and the ork into the wall of the corridor, crushing it against the unrelenting bulkhead. Dazed, it relaxed its grip for a moment, giving Telemenus the opportunity to stab backwards over his shoulder, his knife finding flesh and bringing forth a howl of pain.

  ‘Clear the corridor, brother,’ barked Daellon. Telemenus knew instantly what his battle-brother intended and flung himself back into the chamber, the ork still clinging to his back. Burning promethium scorched above him as he rolled across the floor, his weight squashing the last vestiges of life from the greenskin.