by Guy Haley
Motors whirred, pulling up the shutters on both sides of the window. Immediately the bridge was flooded with harsh, blue light. Galt shielded his eyes.
‘Dim windows, ninety-eight per cent,’ shouted Clastrin.
‘Compliance.’
At the servitors’ unspoken commands, the machine-spirits of the bridge exerted their influence on the glass, darkening it. Galt dropped his hand to his side.
The shutters clanged into their housings, revealing a window that ran the entire width of the bridge. Ten metres tall, and many times wider than that, the window filled the whole of the forward section’s wall. The armourglass was framed by heavy mullions, each tall support cast in the likeness of a Chapter hero. The edges of the window were stained, tiny panes set in a labyrinth of metal incised with the names of the glorious dead, displaying in a long, colourful ribbon of pictures the story of the Chapter’s founding nearly eight thousand years ago.
A bright blue sun occupied most of the view. The ship was close enough that the men aboard could see flares ejected from its churning surface, the top and bottom of the star cut off by the window. The light was raw, dangerous despite the windows’ protective dimming, bleaching out the subtle colours of the stained glass. There were no planets around Jorso, it was too violent a star for fatherhood. Its searing light had blasted the dusty stuff of its offspring into interstellar space before they had had chance to coalesce.
Against the sun, the other ships in Galt’s fleet were silhouettes both small and insignificant. He recognised them all from their shapes, they were as familiar to him as children are to their fathers. Two strike cruisers and four escorts. One caused Galt concern. Corvo’s Hammer sparkled with vented plasma, the price of victory in their last engagement.
A curling plume of blue flame burst from the sun. Far more than a ball of gas it seemed, but a great, ravening animal. How could something that writhed so not live?
‘The hulk will pass between our orbit and the star soon brother-captain,’ said Persimmon.
‘In five, four,’ began one of the serfs, ‘three, two, one…’
‘I see it.’ Galt breathed the words.
A vast black shape slid across the boiling blue surface of Jorso.
‘Bring detail views up on the main chartdesk. Compensate for stellar luminosity,’ said Persimmon.
‘Yes, lord captain,’ said a serf officer. Commands were issued to the relevant servitors and by them relayed to the machine-spirits which inhabited the ship’s systems. The bridge filled with machine noise as affirmations of compliance ground out from uncaring throats.
The chartdesk shimmered. Bands of light resolved themselves into a holographic image of the space hulk in front of Persimmon’s throne-cradle.
‘Corvo’s oath,’ murmured Galt. His hand went to the Chapter pendant that hung about his neck.
‘First Captain,’ said Persimmon. ‘I present the space hulk Death of Integrity, our target.’
Even against the immensity of the growling sun, the hulk designated Death of Integrity appeared huge, an agglomeration of vessels and cosmic flotsam tossed together by the shifting tides of the empyrean. Novum in Honourum was a battle-barge, one of the greatest vessels the Imperium could command, but she was a toy in comparison. The hulk presented itself as a broken ornament the size of a small moon, its surface a bewildering mosaic of protrusions. Ship prows, engine units, nacelles, crumpled cargo barges, the smooth lines of xenos craft, pocked half-mountains of asteroids and the ice spires of comets projected chaotically from its surface. Many of the elements that made up the hulk were forged by thinking creatures, men or otherwise, but its shipwright was the warp, and that had little respect for the physics of real space.
Servitors growled and chirruped in binaric, half-formed words in standard Gothic slipping drool-slicked from their mouths. Not for the first time, Galt wondered if any awareness remained in their wiped minds.
One of the serf-officers overseeing the augur arrays spoke. ‘Mass, thirty-seven point nine trillion tonnes, albedo point eight-seven, gravitic displacement…’
He went on, describing the physical qualities of the hulk. Portions of the holograph representing the vessel winked bright green as another officer identified component parts, a gridded funnel came into being around it, depicting its weak gravity field, other icons and graphical demonstrations of mass and potentially active power sources blinked up one after another, cluttering the air of the bridge with informatics.
The serf overseeing the augur array had a face half of metal, a slatted round covering one eye. When he spoke, it was with the emotionless burr of a vox-grille.
‘Estimated composition, three hundred and seventy vessels, of which fifty-three per cent class gamma or lower, twenty-four per cent class beta, eighteen per cent class alpha. Remainder unknown. All best estimates. Certainty impossible.’
‘That,’ Galt pointed at a part of the hologram. ‘That is an Imperial warship, heavy cruiser, Avenger-class?’
‘Indeed, brother-captain. One of several.’ Clastrin said in his twin voices, his ordinary reserve swept aside by excitement at the hulk. ‘All ages, many patterns.’
‘A rich prize then, when we are victorious,’ said Mastrik, a broad grin across his face. ‘We had best send a message to your friends on Mars, Forgemaster, so they may pick the carcass clean.’
‘Archeotech is valuable to all who live under the Emperor’s protection, brother. I urge you to curb your flippancy. Respect is the appropriate response to this gift from the Omnissiah.’
Galt turned slightly, his gaze moving from the windows to the chartdesk holo.
‘The core? What lies at its centre?’
‘Unknown,’ replied the serf.
‘There is a great deal of stellar interference, First Captain,’ said Clastrin. ‘Our augurs do not function well in this close proximity to a star of Jorso’s class. We have detected several large, unstable sources of radioactivity within the hulk also, and these further cloud the eyes of Novum in Honourum. Deep augur scans are impossible.’
‘Any indication of the xenos threat? Where do they lair?’
‘None, First Captain, not by machine means, at least. It is impossible to say at this time.’
‘Epistolary Ranial? What does the Librarium say?’
‘It is as the request maintained, First Captain. Psychic activity is indicative of genestealer infestation.’
‘That is a very large hulk, Brother-Epistolary,’ said Galt.
‘And there are a great many genestealers aboard it, brother-captain’ said Ranial drily.
‘We shall have to see then, what our cousins say,’ said Galt. ‘Any news on their fleet?’
‘None, lord captain,’ spoke the chief augur-serf. ‘We cannot pinpoint them against this background of interference, but I expect contact soon.’
The clanging of power armour boots on deck-plating rang out as Captain Aresti hurried onto the bridge. He wore his armour, the bone-and-blue quartered heraldry of the Novamarines still scarred from their last battle. His tattooed face was bare, his helmet tucked under his arm.
‘My apologies, brothers.’
‘You are experiencing difficulty, I take it?’ said Galt. ‘Corvo’s Hammer bleeds; I thought the main drive repaired.’
Aresti shook his head. ‘We are down to only one containment unit, brother-captain. Two destroyed and one damaged. The one the Forgemaster repaired ruptured as we exited the empyrean. We were fortunate that it held so long.’
‘The damage is great First Captain,’ said Clastrin. ‘My Techmarines labour through all the watches. I myself will attend and personally implore the machine-spirits within to hold fast to life, but I fear Corvo’s Hammer will not survive another voyage through the immaterium. The vessel requires full dry dock facilities if it is to recover.’
‘And they are in short supply here,’ said Rania
l.
Mastrik gave a gentle laugh. ‘That they are, brother.’
‘The potential loss of a strike cruiser is no matter for levity, brothers!’ protested Clastrin. His artful electronic voice strained with annoyance.
‘My apologies,’ said Mastrik. ‘‘All is but dust in motion’,’ he added, quoting the script of Corvo. ‘And yet I think you will no doubt find a way to keep the dust of Corvo’s Hammer together a little while longer. Perhaps our new friends will aid you?’
‘Where are they?’ asked Aresti. ‘Our deep augurs are beyond use. Corvo’s Hammer is as good as blind.’
Galt shook his head, and lifted his pendant to his lips. He kissed the jet icon absent-mindedly, and let it fall.
‘If they were working, you’d still be as blind as the rest of us are, brother,’ said Mastrik.
‘I have them, lord captains,’ a serf spoke. ‘Tightbeam transmission coming in now.’
The chartdesk flickered, bands of colour rippled, and the light-model of the Death of Integrity vanished like a broken reflection. In its place appeared the shoulders and head of another adept, a genetically altered Space Marine like the brothers of the Novamarines, but subtly different. His face was impossibly beautiful, his black hair shoulder length and scraped back from his forehead. He wore ornate plate of red and gold, as if ready to march into battle. The image crackled violently, the sound buzzed.
‘Stabilise the image, compensate for stellar wind,’ ordered Clastrin.
The image shook and became a little clearer, although it shivered and popped constantly.
‘I extend the greeting of brotherhood to the Novamarines,’ intoned the figure.
‘It is gladly accepted, and returned twofold.’ Galt stepped closer to the projection. ‘We have heard and accepted your call for aid, as detailed in the Covenants of Trust. Brother hears the call of brother and responds. I am Captain Mantillio Galt of the Novamarines First Company, Master of the Watch and commander of Battlefleet Trident. How may we be of assistance?’
‘I, Chapter Master Caedis, Lord of San Guisiga and of the Blood Drinkers Chapter, thank you for your response. Might I suggest we meet face to face and discuss the matter at hand?’
Galt dipped his head. ‘Naturally. As you have done us the honour of inviting us to battle, I extend the hospitality of Novum in Honourum to you and yours in return.’
Caedis bowed his own head. ‘The Blood Drinkers thank you brothers. We shall attend you shortly. In five hours time?’
‘We shall bring our fleets together, cousin Blood Drinker, and thence parlay.’
‘That is agreeable. Wings of Sanguinius shield you.’
The holo winked out.
‘Brother-Captain Persimmon,’ Galt called, ‘rendezvous with the Blood Drinkers fleet. Brother-Captain Artermin, rouse Major-domo Polanczek. I will not have our brethren think us misers. They are honoured brothers, and should be entertained as such.’ He looked to the other captains. ‘And now, brothers, how do we greet these sons of Sanguinius? As brothers of peace, or prepared for war?’
‘In plate, brother-captain. It sends a certain message,’ said Ranial. ‘We wish for them to think us ready; warriors, not aesthetics, although we are both, we should show our steel to our allies, as their master has shown us his.’
The others nodded their assent.
In the furious glare of Jorso, two fleets drifted. Their colours were distorted by the harsh cyan light of the star, making one set of vessels black as old blood, the other two clashing shades of blue. Spotlights and landing beacons illuminated portions of the crafts’ hulls with cleaner light, and here one could see that one fleet was a bright and threatening red, the other ivory, with portions of the vessels picked out in sombre blue. The two largest craft hung side by side in the vacuum, thrusters occasionally flaring as they fired to maintain the ship’s positions; battle-barges, both immense. Towards the stern they rose in stepped decks, as massive as mountains. Long, narrow hulls studded with hangars and drop pod launch bays thrust forward like proud necks, growing wide at their heavily shielded bows. At the prow armour was held out either side on stanchions, emblazoned with the marks of their respective Chapters. A stylised chalice below a suspended blood drop upon one, a skull surrounded by a starburst on the other. Upon the bridge of the bone-and-blue vessel the name Novum in Honourum was inscribed. The bow plating of the red vessel bore the legend Lux Rubrum.
They were similar yet different, these vessels. Lux Rubrum’s upper decks flared more fully than Novum’s, its decoration was more elaborate. A statue of an armoured angel stood upon the highest point, sword upraised, adding fifty metres to the ship’s height. A chalice hung from the angel’s other hand, spilling drips of metal, as if it were blood frozen solid in the chill of the vacuum. Novum was a hundred metres longer, its prow plating thinner, its figurehead a modest aquila set to the fore of the command section. Starbursts of gleaming adamantium were set over the eagle’s eyes, a skull on a chain about its neck. Sisters, then, not twins, these mighty fortresses of the stars.
A flash of light winked halfway along the port side of Lux Rubrum. A half-second afterwards a small shape glimmered in the hard shine of Jorso: a ship, propelled by a blade of flame, navigation lights blinking. It crossed the space between the battle-barges rapidly, slowing only slightly as it entered a docking bay in the starboard of Novum in Honourum.
Lord Caedis of the Blood Drinkers went to enjoy the hospitality of the Novamarines.
The Thunderhawk’s turbines roared as it came in from the launch tube to hangar 73. It slowed to a hover, turning side-on to the tube as it did so. Heated air blew in all directions, causing the robes, banners and scrips of the Novamarines welcome guard to snap violently. Motors whined, deploying landing gear, secondary wings went up, and the ship touched down, sinking into the hydraulics of its claws.
The deep red of the Blood Drinkers Thunderhawk was shocking in the muted colour of the Novamarines landing bay. Like a wound, or a cancer, an alien body alike and yet unlike to that which encompassed it. This contrast carried the imputation of inimicality, and Galt was perturbed by that.
The Thunderhawk engines’ crescendo dwindled swiftly, humming to a stop. The smaller noises of the hangar took their place; the leaden clump of servitors as they dragged cables and refuelling lines to the craft, the three blaring notes of the all clear klaxon. The metal of the Thunderhawk creaked. Two of the Novamarines own Thunderhawks sat on mobile pads to the rear of the launch bay, their bone-and-blue sombre in comparison to the Blood Drinkers vivid livery.
Galt, Odon, Mastrik, Aresti, Ranial, and Clastrin waited by the hangar bay’s doors in their full armour, bareheaded. A pair of serfs in Chapter colours attended each, dwarfed by the helmets and weapons they carried for their masters.
The standard bearers of the Third, Fifth and First Companies stood behind them, silver-helmeted veterans carrying elaborate and ancient flags. Two files of Novamarines stood to attention, veterans also, flanking the standard bearers, four honour guard at their head. The fleet’s Master of Astropaths, a fleshy man by the name of Feldiol, stood with them, as did several of the higher ranking Chapter serfs; even Lord Navigator Gulfindan Van Heem had come down from his lofty perch atop the Novum in Honourum, looking uncomfortable out of his low-gravity apartments. His witch eye twitched behind its lid in the centre of his forehead.
Long seconds passed.
‘Are they disembarking, or not?’ grumbled Mastrik.
‘Patience, brother,’ said Ranial.
There was the muted click of mag-locks disengaging, and the Thunderhawk’s assault ramp opened. Gasses hissed outward, bringing with them strange scents. The air of the Novum in Honourum was dry and flavourless, reminiscent of the thin atmosphere of the Chapter home world; that coming from the Thunderhawk was rich with perfume and the smell of copper and iron.
The ramp lowered to the floor of the landing
bay, red light spilled outward.
The Blood Angels disembarked.
Galt had studied all he could on the Blood Drinkers while the fleet was in transit, but the data in their Librarium was old, the Novamarines having had few dealings with the other Chapter. The personnel detailed in the Librarium records were all long dead, and Galt did not recognise the five Space Marines who stepped out from the Thunderhawk alongside Chapter Master Caedis. Their markings made it apparent what ranks they held. There was their Chief Apothecary, the Chapter Reclusiarch, an Epistolary, and a captain who wore the black shoulder rims of the Fifth Company. The sixth Blood Drinker was a veteran who stopped by the door to the Thunderhawk to unsling a tube from his back, from which he produced the Chapter’s rolled banner. He fitted his standard poles together quietly, raised the Blood Drinkers flag high, and fell in behind the officers.
All wore markings and badges exactly as laid down in the Codex Astartes, and this Galt approved of. Guilliman’s wisdom was not to be ignored. One might argue that the precise form of a campaign badge mattered little, but Galt thought this an ill-thought opinion. The Codex Astartes was a system, all parts of it interlocked to create a perfect doctrine of war and being. Those who strayed from Guilliman’s tenets were foolhardy, no matter how small the deviation.
The Blood Drinkers armour was richly decorated, incorporating badges and personal heraldry rendered in relief. All well within the Codex’s precepts, but to the more ostentatious end of what was advised. Caedis’s armour was chased in gold, a heavy fur cloak was held to the front of his shoulder pads by large, circular brooches, partly obscuring his plate’s markings. Like Galt’s men, Caedis’s followers were bareheaded. They carried their own helms. No serfs attended them.
The Blood Drinkers were exceptional specimens, even for the Adeptus Astartes. It was said that their primarch, Sanguinius, had been of unnatural beauty, and that all his sons bore an echo of his physical perfection, whether of the Blood Angels or their successors. Galt was taken aback by the poise and fineness of these men’s features; they were angels made flesh, so close to perfection they made Galt feel graceless. Only close to perfection, however. There was something about them that fell short; some indiscernible flaw. It was not until Caedis and his brethren drew closer that Galt could see that their skin and hair appeared dry, desiccated almost, the flesh of their faces grainy as if carved from moistureless stone.