by Paul Kearney
Brother Parsifal was a study in white and blue. The Prime Helix on his shoulder guard marked out his vocation. An Apothecary of incredible skill, he had been largely responsible for saving Calgar’s life after Cold Steel Ridge. He wore plain Mark VI armour and a Corvus helm, which turned to Calgar now in the red light of the Thunderhawk interior, and nodded slightly.
Mathias and Parsifal and Proxis were among the oldest remaining brethren of the Chapter, and regularly accompanied Calgar when he went off-world. They had come up together, and formed an immensely powerful trio of courage and experience; by virtue of long association they were entitled to address Calgar as familiarly as they would any battle-brother of the line companies.
It warmed Calgar to look upon them. Their faith and dedication was always heartening to him. They were creatures of indomitable will and unflagging devotion. More than that, they were his friends.
The rest of the entourage on both Thunderhawks was made up of a reinforced squad drawn from the veterans of the Ultramarines First Company. The brethren of this company held an election every few years to vote for those members who should have the honour of joining the Chapter Master’s personal detail. Those who won were, quite simply, the outstanding warriors of their time, and a tour of duty on the Fidelis was an almost certain route to sergeant’s stripes.
Their First Sergeant was Brother Avila, who had started out in Sixth many decades before – a quiet, somewhat morose veteran of countless campaigns who was as dogged in defence as he was ferocious in attack. He had led the escort squad for thirty years, and his prowess in battle was legendary. In another few years, if he survived, Calgar contemplated promoting him into the honour guard itself.
If one included the crew, then the Alexiad housed some sixteen Adeptus Astartes in all, and there were eight more in the Rubicon. But they were the apex of the Chapter, the best the Ultramarines could produce.
Whole worlds had been conquered with less.
‘Ten seconds,’ the Alexiad’s pilot, Brother Markos, intoned over the vox. He had a co-pilot, a gunner and a navigator, but in the main, the responsibility for flying the Alexiad was his alone. He went through the last items on the checklist yet one more time. The flight was routine, as was the landing drill. Once on the ground, the gun-servitors stowed in the side bays would follow the rest of the detail out and set up a perimeter, which would be checked and rechecked by the Rubicon’s storm troopers before the Chapter Master himself and his immediate companions disembarked from the Alexiad. The routine never varied, not even for the most secure Imperial world. Every landing was treated as hostile. No precaution was ever overlooked.
‘Launch, launch, launch,’ came over the Fidelis vox, and there was a shunt, a clank, and Marneus Calgar’s huge armoured bulk rose in its restraints as the gravitics in the launch bay switched off and the Thunderhawk nosed out of the hull of the barge and into open space.
‘Clear away,’ Markos said. ‘Main engines in three, two, one–’ The Alexiad jumped under them, like a horse of old Terra that has felt the spur. Calgar closed his right eye, and through the enhanced optics of his left he brought up the visual feed from the cockpit. Lines of figures ran down in his sight, absorbed, documented and analysed without conscious effort.
Plugged into the Thunderhawk’s cogitators, he could have flown the ship himself without leaving the hold. But Brother Markos was peerless as a pilot, and he had trained the battle-brothers of his crew up to a standard which few others in the Chapter could attain. Calgar monitored the info-feed, the augur relays, and sat relaxed in the launch cradle that stopped him from floating weightlessly away from the bulkhead supporting his back. All was going according to plan. All was–
‘Chapter-Master–’ It was Brother Markos. ‘We have what appears to be a meteor shower approaching from the planet’s terminator, rounding the dark side now. Low orbit, skimming the atmosphere. Some appear to be losing altitude and falling planetside. Their speed is unusual, and they are on an intercept course.’
Calgar frowned. ‘Analyse,’ he said tersely.
‘They appear to be–’
‘Alexiad, Rubicon – this is Fidelis.’ The ship’s vox interrupted him. It was Tyson himself, the shipmaster. Calgar tensed at once, reading the man’s tone even over the crackling vox.
‘Meteor cluster is travelling at high speed on intercept course with our location. Augur detects energy blooms within the cluster consistent with drive engines. My lord, it is a ruse. Those–’ He grew muffled, as if he had turned away from the vox-mic.
‘Enemy fleet, enemy fleet approaching. Those are no meteors. Battle stations. Alexiad and Rubicon, come about at once and dock. We have incoming torpedoes, thirty thousand miles out and closing.’
‘Acknowledged,’ Markos said.
‘Belay that order,’ Calgar barked. ‘Tyson, take evasive action. You can’t dodge torpedoes if you hold for docking procedures. Brother Markos, Brother Dextus, make full speed for planetfall.’
‘Acknowledged, lord,’ Markos said.
‘Tyson?’ Calgar asked.
There was a pause. Finally the shipmaster came back online. ‘My lord, the risk to you–’
‘Protect the Fidelis,’ Calgar snapped. ‘We will take care of ourselves. Relay enemy strength and composition as soon as you are able. Fight with your ship, Tyson, and give me more information as soon as you can.’
‘Acknowledged, my lord,’ Martyn Tyson said. ‘I will try to head them off and draw them away.’
‘Throne be with you. Calgar out.’
The man did not need his Chapter Master breathing down his neck over the vox, not in the midst of a battle. Calgar put the fate of the Fidelis out of his mind, studying the stream of information being relayed by the Alexiad’s cogitators.
An ambush – or mere coincidence? It mattered not. The Thunderhawk rolled and wheeled under him as Markos threw it about in the void.
‘Energy signatures consistent with ork ships,’ Markos said. ‘Firing chaff, and taking evasive manoeuvres. Smaller craft are now launching from the larger meteors – I mean ships. Landers are heading down to the planet. I see also Onslaught attack ships breaking free of the main body. My lord, this is no mere raid. This is a major incursion.’
And they have caught us wholly by surprise, Calgar thought, the fury simmering in him.
‘Get us down on the ground, brother,’ he told Markos. ‘We cannot survive up here, not in the middle of all that heavy metal.’
‘Acknowledged. Going for emergency orbital insertion. Rubicon, follow us in. All crew, brace for turbulence.’
The dorsal gun was firing now, up on the superstructure of the Thunderhawk, and Calgar could register the thrumming vibration of the heavy bolters in the sponsons. They must be close. He logged into the battle-array and saw a cloud of scarlet lights surrounding the Alexiad and Rubicon and the farther bulk of the Fidelis. Ork tactics were crude but effective. They charged in close and fast and hammered away with everything they had. Even as he watched, he saw a red strike on the Fidelis, but refrained from voxing Tyson. The man’s hands were full enough.
‘A ramship just struck the Fidelis amidships,’ Markos said, spitting out the words like a curse. ‘Launch bays look heavily damaged. More are closing.’
Calgar watched the augur feed, analysing with cold calculation. It was impossible; the Fidelis could not weather this storm.
‘Planetary defence fleet is moving in on the enemy flank. I see a frigate and a squadron of Furies.’ There was a pause. ‘They have no chance,’ Markos said with weary disgust.
‘Fidelis, this is Alexiad,’ Calgar said. ‘Do you read?’
The vox came back with a series of explosions stunning it. Calgar winced at the shrill squawk of them.
A sizzling, intermittent comm. ‘We read you.’ It was not Tyson.
‘Break off, repeat, break off and make an emergency warp jump
. You cannot stay here. Jump and make for Seventh Company if you can. Do you acknowledge?’
No answer.
‘Fidelis is burning,’ Markos said in a low voice.
There was a crash in the stern and the Thunderhawk was shunted forward as though given an enormous slamming kick from behind.
‘Fighter-bombers on our tail,’ the dorsal gunner said. ‘I count eight, no, nine–’
Then an immense explosion struck the Alexiad. Calgar was thrown forward in his restraints, then back again. One of the Ultramarines further down the hold was knocked partially free of his harness. Proxis grabbed the battle-brother’s arm in his own massive gauntlet and held him fast.
‘Losing atmosphere in the hold,’ Calgar said calmly, studying the readout in his bionic eye. ‘Helm up, prepare for vacuum.’ He locked down his own helm with its corvid beak, and it immediately took over the relay feed. He could see more clearly now. The compartment was filling with smoke.
‘Emergency landing, brother,’ he said to Markos. ‘Put her down anywhere you can.’
‘Main engines offline,’ Markos came back. ‘We’re working with retros only. Dorsal gun gone. My lord, I have failed you.’
‘We will discuss that later,’ Calgar said.
The atmosphere hit them like a wall, and the battered Thunderhawk bucked and leapt under them. There was a series of tearing crashes, and Calgar watched the readout and noted with approval that both Markos and Dextus were launching every missile they had, lightening the two gunships and ridding them of dangerous ordnance. The ramshackle ork fighter-bombers were trying to stay close, but even as he watched the feed, he saw three of them wink out, no doubt battered apart by the rough orbital entry.
‘Stand by for crash landing,’ Markos said over the Alexiad’s vox.
Calgar watched the shimmering data feed inside his helm, the altitude warnings roaring a red klaxon inside the compartment. The ork fighters were peeling off, what was left of them. They were trying to regain orbit, their systems being shredded by the thick atmosphere of Zalidar. And it was the Fidelis they were after, most of all. A single pair of Thunderhawks was poor pickings.
They don’t know I am on board, Calgar realised. Well, thank the Throne for that at least.
The readout went dark. Calgar blinked, but it was dead – the onboard cogitator systems had failed. He was as blind as the rest of those inside the hold, a mere passenger being rattled around a punctured, broken tin can that was hurtling to earth almost uncontrolled.
His enhanced hearing still caught the shriek of the airbrakes, and the grating roar of the forward retros. Markos was trying to bring her nose up. His suit systems noted a change in the outside atmosphere and automatically shifted from vacuum mode to save power. The air in his helm tasted different, and was warmer. He was breathing the air of Zalidar for the first time.
‘Brace for impact,’ Markos said over the Chapter vox, and Calgar repeated the phrase out loud for the sake of the storm troopers in the bow, raising the volume with his suit speakers. Even so, he was not sure they would have heard over the roar and rattle of their headlong descent.
Gravity and G-forces were clamping him down – he could feel them even through the artificer power armour he wore.
A crash forward, not an explosion, more as if they had hit something yielding. The nose was up – Markos was working wonders with the crippled ship – and then another thunderous bang. Thank the Emperor’s mercy that the prow of the Thunderhawk was heavily armoured.
Then there was a sensation as though an immense hammer had slammed into them. Calgar had a glimpse of broad daylight as a chunk was torn out of the bow. The ship cartwheeled and whirled in a dizzying series of leaps and crashes, the massive craft tumbling like a stone tossed downhill. He glimpsed vegetation, green, then blue sky, then the limbs of trees torn off and sent flying through the compartment.
A final, withering crash, and then all was black and silent.
Nine
There was blood in his mouth. He swallowed it. His auto-senses fizzed a little, and he lay there, taking stock as he had so many times before on so many battlefields. It took only a few seconds to realise that he was whole, and relatively uninjured. His body’s superb auto-repair systems were already at work, and the suit he wore worked with them, administering stimulants and painkillers, clearing the fog of concussion from his mind.
He cast off the tattered restraints, and caught himself as he fell from the uptilted hull of the Alexiad, his six-hundred-pound frame making a hollow boom as he landed on his feet. Some suit systems were flashing red in the heads-up display within the helm, but by and large the damage was minimal. Calgar’s ancient armour had seen much worse.
Other figures were stirring in the tumbled mayhem of the hold. He saw the gleam of gold on Proxis’ helm as the veteran unclipped himself and punched the side of his own head. The vox crackled.
‘My lord?’
‘I am fine. See to the others, Proxis. Get everyone out. I am going outside.’
He stepped over strewn equipment, bolters, and broken plating. The battle-brethren of his entourage had fared well despite the violence of the crash, protected by their superlative armour. He saw that brother Parsifal was already administering to those who were lightly injured, and blinked upon the Apothecary’s sigil on the vox.
‘I want a casualty list as soon as you are able, brother,’ he said. ‘If the Rubicon came down as hard as we did, Janus’ Guardsmen will have suffered severely.’
‘It shall be so,’ Parsifal told him. ‘I must find my narthecium.’
‘Make it fast. I want everyone out. Proxis?’
‘Yes, lord?’
‘A perimeter, as soon as we are on our feet. And then an inventory of all surviving stores and armaments. Valerian?’
The Librarian came over the vox. ‘Yes, lord.’ His vox feed broke, then steadied.
‘Outside, now. I need you to find out where we are and what is around us. Let us be at it, brothers. Time is not our friend.’
His brethren went to their duties with the smooth economy of men who have seen it all before. Sergeant Avila was barking at his squad, and they were searching in the wreckage for their weapons, which had been blasted free of mag-lock by the impact of the crash.
Marneus Calgar clambered over the wreckage at the bow ramp – the landing had bent the adamantium shell open like the lid of a can – and set foot on soft, black earth that was still smoking from the Alexiad’s landing. The forward retros had burned a blackened clearing out in front of the wrecked craft and there was a trail of destruction stretching for fully half a mile behind it.
It would have been a superb feat of flying, that final, almost unpowered approach, had not the Thunderhawk struck a massive forest tree in the last moments, slashing it onto one side. The tree was cloven in half three hundred yards back and its smouldering branches lay all about, entangled with shards of metal and broken plating. Through his auto-senses, Calgar could smell the deep reek of the jungle, even over the carbonised stink of the wreck. He looked up and saw Zalidar’s star, still not quite at its zenith. It was hot, and getting hotter, and there was a thickness of moisture in the air, which his suit systems immediately adjusted to.
Figures were piling out of the wreck behind him. To his side, Valerian appeared. His armour was scored and dented and there was a gout of brown dried blood down one side of his face, but his eyes were clear, except for the black flecks floating within the iris that spoke of a life spent fighting the immaterium and its perils.
‘My hood is dead, my lord,’ the young Librarian said. ‘I will be able to bring it back online, but it will take time.’
‘Get to it,’ Calgar said. He touched his own thigh, but the mag-locked bolt pistol was gone. He was weaponless for the moment, but that would be remedied presently. He strode around the downed Thunderhawk, past the angular prow, so he could lo
ok into the shattered cockpit.
It was a mess in there. Brother Markos had been decapitated and his crew dismembered by the jagged limbs of the trees they had crashed through. Leaning in, Calgar set one hand on the dead pilot’s shoulder guard for a second.
‘You did well, brother,’ he said quietly. ‘May you have peace now. In His name.’
He straightened, looking around. The crash had stilled the jungle noises for a while, but now they were starting up again, a cacophony of hoots and screeches from creatures unseen in the eaves of the towering canopy all around.
‘Well, here we are,’ he said, still in that same quiet tone.
Lieutenant Janus could be heard shouting hoarse orders off to the left – so he had survived. Looking over, Calgar saw that the Rubicon had come down hard perhaps four hundred yards away. The escort gunship had flipped onto its back on the final approach, and looked even more mangled than the Alexiad. Janus’ surviving Guardsmen were hauling the dead and wounded out of the wreck, and beyond them, a half-squad of Sergeant Avila’s battle-brethren were already fanning out across the clearing, weapons raised. Their armour was scored and dented, scraped down to the bare ceramite in places, but the bolters they held were loaded and cocked. It was in hand.
Orhan and Proxis joined Calgar at the Alexiad’s cockpit. Their parade finery seemed out of place in that setting. They had discarded the ceremonial scarlet cloaks, but the gold ornamentation of their armour caught the light. They both bore bolters and had their power axes locked to their thighs.
They looked down on Markos’ ruined corpse, faceless masks of blue and gold. There was no need to say anything.
‘We need to know where we are,’ Calgar said. ‘We must also leave the crash site as soon as we have salvaged everything from the gunships that we can. There is no telling what is in these forests, or what may be dropped on our heads at any moment.’
‘What of the Fidelis?’ Proxis asked.