Age of Darkness

by Christian Dunn

  ‘Prepare warp torpedoes, maximum spread,’ Delerax ordered as the Dedicated Wrath continued to close the range. If the strike cruiser was allowed to gain the sanctuary of the asteroid field the less manoeuvrable battle-barge would likely lose its prey; this was a kill that Delerax wanted for himself.

  The Salamanders were still several thousand kilometres from safety when the gunnery captain reported that they were now within maximum torpedo range. Delerax held off the order to fire, judging the distance to be too great. He paced back and forth across the bridge, impatiently waiting for the moment to fire when the torpedoes would give the enemy the least time to react but catch the strike cruiser before it reached the asteroid field.

  He listened to the range being counted down by one of the aides and occasionally glanced across to the main screen. The strike cruiser’s position was highlighted by a glowing reticule but the ship itself was still too distant to be seen, even with full magnification.

  ‘Our guest wishes to be updated on the current situation.’

  Delerax turned to see his second-in-command, Captain Althix Kordassis, had entered the bridge. His blue-and-white armour was trimmed with gold, his right arm a mechanical prosthetic clad with plates painted to match his powered suit. Most remarkable was the look of disdain on his face as he spoke of the Warmaster’s representative.

  ‘He can monitor the comm-feed like everybody else,’ growled Delerax. ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘He wants a personal report,’ Kordassis said with a look of apology.

  ‘He won’t get one,’ snapped Delerax. With combat stimms flowing through his body he was in no mood for the petty requests of Horus’s ambassador. The thought of even looking at the Space Marine envoy that had been forced upon him made Delerax quiver with anger.

  ‘What shall I tell him?’ asked Kordassis.

  ‘Whatever you like,’ replied Delerax, turning back to the main screen. ‘This is none of his business.’

  Kordassis waited a few moments longer before realising he would get nothing else from his commander.

  ‘I might as well stay here and watch the excitement then,’ said the captain.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Delerax. ‘Man the weapons station.’

  When the range had closed to the optimum opportunity, Delerax gave the order to loose a full torpedo salvo. The battle-barge shuddered as the gigantic missiles were launched. They appeared instantly on the screen, four flares of yellow plasma against the stars that suddenly winked out of existence as their warp drives engaged.

  Skipping in and out of warp space, the torpedoes left a trail of multicoloured flashes in their wake, describing an arc that slowly curved to the right as the Salamanders craft tried to evade them. Then they were out of sight, reduced to warp-echo registers on the scanners.

  ‘Twelve thousand kilometres to target,’ reported a weapons officer, reading from a glowing green screen. He was Skanda Vior, a World Eater too, and like Delerax and Kordassis was clad for battle in his armour. Unlike the officers, he had painted much of his armour red, a growing trend amongst the Legion; an acknowledgement of Angron’s warrior cult. Vior waited a few seconds.

  ‘Eleven thousand kilometres to target.’

  The countdown continued and Delerax ceased his pacing at seven thousand kilometres.

  ‘Six thousand kilometres to target,’ said the weapons officer. ‘Switching to onboard data scanners; preparing for spread.’

  A sub-screen flickered into life on the main viewer, showing an aggregate view from the torpedoes, rendered in a stark black and red monochrome. Strange shapes whirled and Delerax realised they must have switched view while the torpedoes were in mid-jump. A moment later they rematerialised in the real universe and the strike cruiser flashed into view.

  It was long and thin, with a launch bay built on its dorsal superstructure. Pinpricks of plasma erupted like sparks from the flight deck as the Salamanders launched attack craft to intercept the incoming torpedoes.

  ‘Five thousand kilometres, spread launch,’ announced the officer.

  The torpedo-generated image swirled into static for a few seconds as the missiles separated, each disgorging four hundred warheads at the Salamanders cruiser. When the relay returned the view was filled with a cloud of sixteen hundred glimmering projectiles. Explosions blotted out the stars as the Salamanders craft swooped and climbed and rolled through the mass, blasting away with cannons and lasers. As the warhead launchers continued to power towards the strike cruiser – each containing a five megatonne nuclear charge – the defence turrets of the Salamanders vessel opened up. Ripples of plasma blasts and flashes of high-velocity munitions streaked across the view, detonating even more of the warheads.

  The torpedoes were close enough now to relay a direct-image. The construct-based picture was replaced by a near real-time view of the strike cruiser. It was dark green and banded with broad irregular stripes of yellow, the badge of the Legion visible against a huge white circle near its prow. Through the haze of detonations, it turned away, the captain trying to narrow the ship’s profile against the swarm of incoming warheads. Plasma engines shone like stars through the fog of explosions, distorted by a shimmer of energy fields.

  ‘Fool,’ said Delerax, smiling at the weapons officer. ‘A rudimentary mistake. One should turn into a torpedo attack, protecting the engines. A novice, no doubt.’

  Blue and purple lightning flickered as the remaining warheads, several hundred of them, slammed into the strike cruiser’s shields. The vessel was engulfed by a blaze of detonations, so bright it appeared on the main display like a nova being born. More explosions followed as the shields overloaded and the remaining warheads struck the cruiser’s armoured hull. Plasma billowed from a ruptured engine duct.

  A moment later the mini-screen vanished as the warhead launchers detonated.

  ‘Scanners confirm severe engine damage and moderate damage to the starboard gunnery decks.’

  ‘Signal the flotilla, close in for the kill,’ replied Delerax.

  ‘Receiving transmission from Legion command,’ declared a communications aide. ‘Strapped with a priority subsignal.’

  ‘On speakers,’ replied Delerax, not moving his eyes from the screen.

  The bridge hissed with static and a series of coded beeps and buzzes sounded before a bass voice broke across the noise. Delerax’s attention was immediately fixed on the message, all other considerations forgotten as he recognised the voice of Angron, the World Eaters primarch.

  ‘The treacherous sons of Corax continue to elude that lumbering engineer, Perturabo. The Warmaster has seen fit to give me free hand at the hunt and I will bring down the scum of Deliverance within days. All ships are to return to orbit to conduct the search. To me, my savage hounds! We shall let loose our fury upon the Raven Guard and wipe them from history. Obey with immediate effect.’

  ‘Shall we break away?’ asked Kordassis.

  ‘No,’ replied Delerax. He looked at the strike cruiser limping towards the asteroid field followed by a trail of expanding plasma: a predator seeing its prey wounded and ready for the kill. ‘Let the others chase the Raven Guard back and forth across the mountains. A few more hours will make no difference. I have a Salamander to slay.’

  Branne frowned and looked at the scanner report again. It did not make any more sense on the second reading. He turned to his companion, the Imperial Army praefector, Marcus Valerius.

  ‘A large residual trace of plasma and radiation, plus scattered debris clouds,’ said the Raven Guard commander.

  ‘A space battle?’ asked the praefector.

  ‘A large one,’ replied Branne. ‘Too large.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Valerius.

  Branne handed him the report and walked over to the men working the scanner console, his armour’s heavy boots muffled by the thick carpet laid over the decking. ‘Have these reading
s been confirmed by the rest of the fleet?’

  ‘Yes, commander,’ replied the chief officer. ‘Within standard parameters, all sensor returns are showing the same across the fleet.’

  ‘What do you mean by “too large”?’ said Valerius.

  ‘Dozens of destroyed ships,’ said Branne. ‘More ships than the entirety of the Luna Wolves fleet.’

  ‘Imperial Army vessels turned by the Warmaster, perhaps,’ suggested the officer. ‘Oh, and were they not renamed the Sons of Horus?’

  The praefector toyed with the red sash across his chest, a symbol of his family’s nobility. It showed signs of wear from Valerius’s constant fidgeting during the long warp jump from Deliverance to Isstvan. The praefector’s nervousness was understandable, though it irritated Branne considerably. Valerius had persuaded the Raven Guard commander to abandon his role as garrison leader of the Ravenspire to come to Isstvan and had vouched for the act with his life. Branne was more than willing to exact the price offered if the trap he suspected proved to be true.

  ‘Even so, it would indicate almost total destruction of the involved fleet,’ said Branne, ignoring the praefector’s correction. ‘That many destroyed ships indicate a much larger battle.’

  ‘How do we proceed?’ asked Valerius.

  Branne considered his options. His fleet, composed of three Raven Guard vessels including his battle-barge and a handful of Imperial Army transports and frigates, had entered Isstvan perpendicular to the orbital plane. He studied the schematic display of the fleet’s position on a monitor; a projected course drew a dotted line around the Isstvan star towards the planets currently on the other side of the system.

  ‘Activate sensor dampening protocols,’ said the commander. ‘Rig reflex shields for silent approach. We’ll come in across the star to mask our signature. I don’t want to be seen.’

  ‘What about my vessels?’ asked Valerius. ‘We don’t have that capability.’

  ‘Get them to run as quiet as possible,’ said Branne. ‘Until we find out what has happened, I don’t want anyone else to know we are here.’

  ‘Quiet running will slow us down,’ said Valerius. He blinked rapidly, another nervous tic he had developed. ‘What if we are being too cautious and arrive late?’

  ‘Late for what?’ rasped Branne, out of patience with the praefactor’s constant hectoring. ‘The battle’s already happened, Marcus. Whatever occurred here is over.’

  Five days closer to Isstvan V, where the majority of the fighting appeared to have taken place, Branne was in his quarters when he was passed word that the ship was receiving a transmission from Valerius’s flagship.

  ‘Send it through to my personal comm,’ said Branne, putting aside the data-slate of sensor readings he had been studying. The reports all confirmed the initial survey. A space battle, or rather several battles in a short period of time involving nearly a hundred vessels, had raged around Isstvan V and out-system towards Isstvan VI.

  ‘Commander Branne, we have picked up a signature code.’ Valerius’s voice sounded reedy and weak over the hissing comm-link. ‘It’s an Iron Hands identification transmission. A ship identifying itself as the Glory of Victory. It’s automated. Trying to track the signal for reply.’

  ‘Negative,’ snapped Branne. ‘Do not open transmission. Do you want everybody in the Isstvan system to know we are here?’

  ‘My apologies, commander,’ said Valerius. ‘However, a narrow-beam signal would be very hard to detect. Perhaps those on the Iron Hands ship can tell us what happened here.’

  ‘Negative,’ Branne said again. ‘Continue to monitor for other transmissions.’

  ‘But what if they need our help?’ said Valerius.

  ‘We can’t trust them,’ said Branne.

  ‘I don’t understand, commander,’ said the praefector. ‘We can’t trust the Iron Hands?’

  ‘My technicians have been analysing the readings from the battles,’ Branne explained. ‘It’s hard to be certain, but it seems that the fleet sent to deal with Horus split and fighting broke out. I fear it is not just the Luna Wolves that have turned against us. Until we know for sure who is loyal, we have to suspect everybody.’

  Static filled the room as Valerius absorbed this revelation. Eventually the officer spoke again, his voice a barely-heard whisper in the hiss.

  ‘But if that is true, what of the Raven Guard?’ he said.

  ‘Your dreams may have had something to them after all, Marcus,’ said Branne.

  ‘So now we set full speed?’

  ‘No, not yet.’ Branne took a deep breath, only now consciously acknowledging a doubt that had nagged him since he had first begun to suspect the extent of the treachery at Isstvan. ‘We have to be careful. We may be the last survivors of the Raven Guard.’

  Three days out from orbit of Isstvan V, Branne’s fleet ghosted in on minimal power, every spare watt of energy from the reactors diverted to the sensor arrays and communications systems, seeking answers to horrifying questions. The evidence was overwhelming: Horus had allies from within the fleet sent to bring him to order.

  Branne spent most of his time on the bridge of his battle-barge, the Avenger. For the last two days he had hosted Valerius on board, to ensure that the praefector was within easy reach if things went amiss. The Imperial Army officer sat beside the communications console gnawing at a worn nail, cheeks sunken, his usually smooth skin dark with stubble. He stared at the screens with haunted, bloodshot eyes rimmed with darkness and Branne guessed that the nightmares still plagued the officer, though he had not mentioned them again since they had set out from Deliverance.

  ‘Picking up some garbled comm traffic,’ one of the attendants reported. Valerius sat bolt upright, turning on the bench to Branne. ‘World Eaters protocols. Trying to crack them now, commander.’

  ‘Who are they signalling?’ asked Branne.

  ‘General Legion broadcast, commander,’ the aide replied. ‘Also picking up registers of Word Bearers and Emperor’s Children signals. They seem to be communicating with the Sons of Horus.’

  Valerius seemed to become even paler, if that was possible. He met Branne’s narrowed gaze with a wild look.

  ‘The World Eaters, Emperor’s Children and Word Bearers?’ he said. ‘All of them turned?’

  Branne said nothing, finding such a treachery impossible to comprehend. He tried to think of some other explanation for what they had discovered but could not escape the truth. This was no simple rebellion; this was the birth of civil war.

  He sat in his command throne, armour servos creaking and whining as his fingers tightened on the arms. Head bowed, he tried to clear his thoughts, to come up with a plan of action. What had happened made no sense and his mind kept coming back to an unanswered question.

  ‘What of the primarch and the Legion?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘No Raven Guard transmission detected, commander,’ said the communications orderly. ‘We’ve scanned all Legion frequencies and beyond, but no recognisable signatures detected.’

  Branne sighed. His earlier fears had come true, and Valerius’s dire predictions also. The Raven Guard were no more.

  ‘Signal the fleet to prepare for new course orders,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Valerius was on his feet. ‘Change course for where?’

  ‘Out of here,’ said Branne. ‘We’re too late.’

  ‘There may be survivors,’ said Valerius. He opened his hands imploringly towards the commander. ‘We have to at least get closer to find out the truth.’

  ‘That can come later,’ said Branne. ‘Our immediate task is to elude detection and leave the system in one piece. After that we can work out what happened.’

  ‘Commander, we are picking up a broad-beam transmission from the surface of Isstvan V,’ said the comms officer.

  ‘Directed to us?’ said Branne, taken aback.

&nbs
p; ‘No, commander, it is a general broadcast. Minimal encryption. You should hear this.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Branne, leaning back in his command throne.

  The voice that boomed from the speakers was edged with madness, every syllable spat like a curse.

  ‘...nd then we shall crush the misguided sons of Corax completely. They think they can evade us forever? They are wrong! I will hunt down Corax and break him myself. The Raven Guard have nowhere left to run. In two days our victory will be complete and the last survivors will be crushed by the World Eaters. Blood demands victory, and we shall let it flow!’

  ‘That can only be Angron,’ said Branne when the transmission was cut. On the one hand, he was elated that Corax and the Legion still survived; on the other, it seemed that survival would not last much longer. ‘Can you source that transmission?’ he demanded, standing up.

  ‘Better, commander,’ replied the technician. ‘There are planetary coordinates attached to the signal, indicating where the World Eaters plan to attack, calling for orbital support.’

  Pushing aside his doubts and confusion, Branne set his mind in motion. A strategy immediately sprang to mind, but it was risky. He reconsidered, analysing his options, but was drawn to the same conclusion. A third evaluation did not suggest any alternatives.

  ‘Marcus, I need you to signal your fleet,’ Branne announced. ‘Tell them to make full speed for Isstvan IV.’

  ‘Isstvan IV? Not Isstvan V? And won’t full speed make us instantly visible on every scanner within range?’

  ‘That is my intent,’ said Branne.

  ‘A decoy.’ Valerius spoke flatly, as if his last shred of emotion had been drained from him. ‘You want to use my ships and men as decoys.’

  Branne nodded and said nothing. Valerius closed his eyes and pinched his nose, as if he had a headache. He nodded to himself, jaw clenched.