[Battlefleet Gothic 01] - Execution Hour

by Gordon Rennie - (ebook by Undead)

  “Sir?”

  Magell turned. Acting Officer of the Watch Kelto was standing to attention before him. Kelto was young and inexperienced for such a veteran position, but Magell judged that the ambitious young officer had earned the post when he executed the previous holder of the rank during their initial violent take-over of the command deck. Kelto’s uniform was torn and bloodstained from the fighting, but Magell noticed with approval that this keen youngblood had already ripped off the silver Imperium eagle crest and epaulettes from his stained tunic.

  “All decks report victory, sir,” grinned the young officer. “There’ll still be a few stragglers hiding out in the remotest sections or even in our own ranks, but we’ll find them all soon enough.”

  “Abaddon be praised, captain, the ship is ours.”

  The clash of steel on steel rang through the metal cavern of the flight deck. The deck, the largest open space aboard the Macharius, would normally be full of noise and activity: the scream of revving engines, the shouts of officers barking out orders to sweating ground crew, the rumble of missile-laden loading bay elevators arriving from the arsenal section deep within the ship’s hull, the chanting of choirs of tech-priests as they blessed the rows of attack craft suspended in their launch cradles before the start of a combat mission. But today all normal activity on the flight deck had been brought to a halt. Flight officers and ground crew mingled together around the space cleared amongst the deck’s maintenance bays. Of the hundreds of crewmen crowded around or watching from the gantry walkways above, only the machine-like servitor drones had not paused from their pre-programmed duties to watch the spectacle now taking place in the centre of the deck.

  Lieutenant Hito Ulanti danced back out of reach of his opponent’s blade, mindful of the patches of spilled fuel and lube-fluid that covered the floor of the flight deck. Back home in the towering cities of Necromunda, duelling had been elevated to almost an art form amongst the ruling clans of the upper hives, a worthy pastime for every ambitious young blade keen to prove himself in the harsh and unforgiving world of Spire politics, where assassination and violent inter-clan rivalry were as much a part of life as the suffocating layers of aristocratic ritual and etiquette. But in the Imperial Navy things were different. Here, when one faced an opponent in close combat, it was not in the rarefied atmosphere of the duelling chamber, where well-executed moves and flourishes were greeted by a polite chorus of appreciative hisses from the assembled onlookers. In the navy, close combat came as the result of vicious and bloodily-fought boarding actions, hundreds of participants slaughtering each other within the close confines of a ship’s passageways and holds, fighting with whatever weapon or heavy tool came to hand.

  Ulanti hefted the sabre in his hand, its blade cutting the air in a series of precisely practised parry moves which caused his opponent to pull back from his intended counterattack. Heavier than the Necromundan duelling foil he was used to, Ulanti’s sabre was a concession to the different combat style demanded by the facts of space warfare. Hand-crafted to his own specifications, it was a weapon fit for both a Necromundan aristocrat and an officer in His Divine Majesty’s Navy, and this was the first time that Ulanti had used it in combat. A weapon’s first blooding was an important ritual for any warrior and the fact that it was to be conducted here at the expense of the blood of a fellow officer rather than an enemy of the Emperor was not a problem that much troubled the young nobleman.

  “Hive-trash! Convict press-gang fodder!” sneered his opponent, prowling around the edge of the other side of the circle. “Why don’t you come over here within reach of my blade and I’ll give you a much-needed lesson in how a real fleet officer fights!”

  Ulanti feinted forward, the expression of exaggerated anger on his face not matching the coolly calculated manner in which he made his attack. Spotting a pool of spilled lube-fluid on the deck in front of him, he pretended to slip, stumbling awkwardly into the path of his opponent, who quickly took the bait, moving forward to finish the duel. Ulanti closed the trap, easily side-stepping his opponent’s lunge, bringing his own blade up to bear, its point punching through the heavy material of his opponent’s flight suit and through into his body. Ulanti slipped the blade with practised ease through the ribcage and into his opponent’s heart. He stepped back, withdrawing the blade contemptuously and allowing his opponent’s body to slump to the ground, its blood pooling out to mix with the other fluids staining the floor of the flight deck.

  Ulanti turned, raising his bloody sabre in salute to the stolid figure of Broton Styre, the ship’s Officer of the Watch, acting here as the captain’s representative supervising the proper conduct of the duel. Styre mutely nodded his assent and Ulanti turned and walked away, followed by the young junior officer whom he had selected as his second. The only sound in the entire flight bay was that of the two officers’ jackboot heels echoing loudly on the metal decking, and Ulanti could feel the simmering resentment of the hundreds of crewmen around him as they stared silently at the retreating figure of the slayer of one of their own.

  Behind him, acting on a tech-priest’s gestured command two servitors paced forward to remove the dead squadron commander’s body, their lobotomised machine-minds uncaring of the details of the human drama that had just taken place.

  “You disapprove of my duel with Squadron Commander Luccian, captain?”

  “I disapprove of the loss of an able and experienced Starhawk squadron leader, lieutenant. I expect the killing of the Emperor’s loyal servants to be the task of our enemies, not my own second-in-command.”

  Ulanti was standing to attention before the seated figure of his captain, Leoten Semper. It was dark in the captain’s private quarters, but Ulanti’s experienced hive-born eyes could pick out the details of the place. What he saw was a room decorated in a strict spartan style, far less luxurious than Ulanti’s own quarters. Even the bed was little more than a simple pallet of the kind given to the lowliest Schola Progenium cadet. Tellingly, there were none of the small but important details to suggest that the captain enjoyed any female company in his quarters. No ornamentation or frivolous pieces of decor.

  Nothing to relieve the starkness of grey bulkhead walls and bare metal decking. It was permitted for officers of Battlefleet Gothic to keep concubines aboard ship; indeed, it was rumoured that Lord Admiral Ravensburg kept a harem of fifty or more in his staterooms aboard the fleet flagship, Divine Right. Ulanti himself had kept a particularly energetic example of fiery Stranivar womanhood with him in his quarters, until tiring of her recently and deliberately losing her in a game of dice with one of Remus Nyder’s junior ordnance officers. Ulanti couldn’t imagine Semper allowing himself to be distracted by base pleasures, and the look of Semper’s private quarters only confirmed the flag-lieutenant’s opinion of his commanding officer.

  A career officer, he lives and breathes only for the Imperial Navy, Ulanti thought. Every minute wasted relaxing in his quarters is a minute not spent overseeing the running of his ship.

  Ulanti’s gaze fell on the large and ornate desk before him, the only object of any real note in the entire room, its surface cluttered with star maps and report files. Ulanti recognised the captain’s characteristic High Gothic scribbled handwriting. With an effort, he looked away from the pile of sealed holo-script scrolls marked with the sigil indicating they were for the captain’s eyes only, until he noticed an object very much out of place amongst all the other detritus of the captain’s burden of leadership. It was a skull, larger than any human’s, its heavy jutting jawbone crowned with two savage-looking upturned tusks. The eye sockets were small, sunk deep beneath the thick bony plate of the sloping forehead, and Ulanti saw that the top of the skull’s inches-thick dome had been smashed open long ago by what must have been a blow of some considerable force.

  Semper followed his second-in-command’s gaze, reaching out to touch the grisly object with what seemed to Ulanti a certain amount of fond regard.

  “A souvenir of the first boardin
g action I ever led,” he said by way of explanation, picking up the skull and weighing it in his hands. “A disabled ork raider, part of a pack operating out of the fringes of the Cyclops cluster. I was terrified, but more afraid of failing in my duty than in dying gloriously in battle. At the height of the battle, I found myself face to face with this brute, one of the creatures’ leader breeds. He gave me this—”

  With his other hand, Semper touched the long jagged scar that cut down one side of his gaunt face and smiled grimly to himself. “As you can see, I gave him something even more memorable in return. We took the ship and I was awarded my first combat honours. It was only the Medallion Crimson, but to me then it felt as if I had won the Obscuras Honorifica itself.”

  Semper laid down the trophy and looked sharply at his second-in-command. “You see, Mr. Ulanti, I do still remember something of what it is to be an ambitious and hot-blooded young officer. But understand this: while this sector is still at war, there will be no more death duels amongst my officers. Both the Emperor and I would prefer if you killed the enemy instead of each other.”

  “I was defending my honour as an officer in His Divine Majesty’s Navy,” Ulanti answered stiffly. “As second-in-command of this vessel, my authority is derived directly from your own, captain. If any member of the crew does not respect that authority, then they are challenging not only my position but yours also. I did what I had to in accordance with Lord Admiral Ravensburg’s own edicts on duelling to defend my honour and maintain respect for this vessel’s chain of command.”

  Semper sat back in his chair, pausing before answering the flag-lieutenant. Like Ulanti, the commander of Battlefleet Gothic was a highborn aristocrat, but while Lord Admiral Ravensburg came from the finest blueblood stock of Cypra Mundi’s naval cadre elite, Ulanti came from one of the noble clans of one of the most notorious hive worlds in the Imperium. According to the ancient and hidebound traditions of the Imperial Navy, all hive worlders were scum, trash, a source of mass conscript labour suitable only for use as Imperial Guard cannon fodder or to fill the most lowly and menial positions amongst the vast expendable scrum of press-ganged ratings and indentured workers that made up the bulk of any navy vessel’s crew. Officers originating from any of the hundreds of hive worlds within the Imperium were rare within the ranks of Battlefleet Gothic, and almost unheard of at anything approaching the senior rank now held by Hito Ulanti. His second-in-command’s battle was not with his individual brother officers, Semper knew, but with the millennia-old traditions and prejudices of the Imperial Navy itself.

  Semper leaned forward to regard his second-in-command, deliberately hardening his voice as he spoke. “I do not know how things are done on Necromunda, but here in the Segmentum Obscurus, here in the ranks of Battlefleet Gothic, respect from one’s brother officers is something to be earned, not won as a duelling arena blood-prize. It is earned by loyalty. Loyalty to the Emperor, to the fleet, to one’s own comrades. It is earned in action against the enemies of the Emperor. It is earned by leadership and sacrifice; by the often hard decisions we must make in the course of our duty to the Imperium of Mankind. Ravensburg’s edicts be damned! He may be lord admiral of Battlefleet Gothic, but I am captain of this ship, and I say there will be no more duels fought aboard the Macharius. I have consulted with Commissar Kyogen on this matter, and he concurs with my judgement. Brawling and fighting are punishable offences amongst the lower ranks and now so shall it be amongst officers too, no matter what form it may take.”

  Semper leaned back again, seeing something cold and hard come into his flag-lieutenant’s eyes. I’ve insulted him, Semper realised. On his world, any comparison between the conduct of a noble and that of the teeming billions living below him in the hive must be an insult of the gravest sort. Well, so be it. I’ve read him the page from the Book of Judgement, so maybe now I should offer him something from the Litanies of Contrition and Compassion.

  “If it is blood and glory you seek, lieutenant, if it is a chance to prove yourself to your brother officers, then it is fortunate indeed that you are standing before me now. A short time before I sent for you, Chief Astropath Rapavna arrived bearing an urgent astropath-sent message from Battlefleet Command at Port Maw. The message was sent for my ears only, but I would like you to hear it too. Adeptus Rapavna?”

  Semper suppressed a smile as Ulanti visibly stiffened with shock at the sound of soft footsteps behind him and the green-cloaked figure of the astropath shuffled forward out of the darkness behind him. Ulanti had not known that the astropath had been in the room with them all along, Semper realised. Technically, it might be though of as poor protocol to have another present at what had essentially been a private reprimand of a senior officer, but Semper did not consider that such niceties applied in the case of Adeptus Rapavna. Astropaths were a vital part of the Imperium, found by the side of every fleet commander, every Space Marine Chapter Master, every planetary overlord. They stood in the shadows at gatherings of the mighty Council of the High Lords of Terra, waiting silently as their masters debated on issues which would affect the fates of untold billions. There were few secrets in the Imperium that had not first passed through the mind of an astropath; Semper judged that the dressing-down of one impetuous young flag officer would be of little interest to one of these eternally silent keepers of the Imperium’s deepest secrets.

  The astropath took his place before the captain’s desk, nodding briefly in acknowledgement of Ulanti. The lieutenant shifted slightly, clearly uncomfortable to be in such close proximity to the psyker. The very existence of the Imperium depended on psykers such as astropaths and the mutant Navigators, but on a million inhabited worlds within its far-spread borders, the citizens of the Imperium were taught from birth to hate and fear the mutant and the psyker. The higher one rose in Imperial service, Semper noted, the more one was forced to consort with the likes of astropaths and other such officially-sanctioned abominations.

  Rapavna’s already mask-like features settled into a fixed waxen image as he entered a trance state, his enhanced mental senses reaching down into his subconscious to find the psychically-transmitted message hidden there. The dark skin of his face was covered in an intricate webwork of tattoos: psychic wards favoured by many of his kind to protect themselves from warp daemons. His eyes were sewn shut—his sight long ago destroyed as a side-effect of the agonising ritual of soul-binding with the Emperor—but two painted eyes were tattooed onto his closed eyelids, these false eyes staring blindly ahead as the astropath opened his mouth and delivered the message. The voice which emerged was not solely Rapavna’s and in its eerie whispering tones Semper knew he could also hear, not only the voice of the other astropaths in the chain that had psychically relayed the message from Port Maw to the Macharius, but also the distant echo of the voice of the senior command officer who had originally given the message to the very first astropath in the chain.

  “Imperial Standard 0274143.M41. Ship of the line Bellerophon, Dauntless class light cruiser assigned Battlegroup Fularis, Bhein Morr subsector, has attacked and destroyed Adeptus Mechanicus way station, Oreicha system. Assumed Bellerophon crew forsaken the Emperor’s light and gone over to side of enemy. Believed important technical information stolen from Oreicha way station. His Divine Majesty’s Ship Lord Solar Macharius to intercept and destroy Bellerophon. Mission priority highest. Ave Imperator.”

  Rapavna paused, a look of slight confusion on his face. Then his features shifted subtly again as he came out of the fugue state, before he bowed to Semper and glided away from the two officers. Semper glanced at Ulanti, the two of them sharing the same look of sharp anticipation. The Macharius had been assigned to escort duty on the Bhein Morr Run for the last few months since the onset of the Gothic Sector War. It was a vital task, they knew, keeping the supply routes open to the front line systems and protecting the desperately-needed convoys from the pirate raiders of the wolf pack fleets, but both officers yearned for a chance to engage directly with their main enemy.
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br />   “It would seem that our victory over the Contagion has not been forgotten after all,” said Semper, unrolling a large chart across the expanse of his desk. “We have finally been given a mission worthy of our devotion to the Emperor. The recovery of the stolen technical data is a vital task, certainly—but to allow a mutinied crew to escape unpunished or one of His Divine Majesty’s ships to join the ranks of the enemy would be to bring dishonour on the entire battlefleet. Make no mistake about it, the successful completion of this mission is matter of honour for all of Battlefleet Gothic.”

  “Of course,” he added, indicating the spread-out starchart, “to bring vengeance to the enemies of the Emperor, we must first find them. Your opinion, Mister Ulanti?”

  The captain indicated the map and Ulanti leaned forward, inspecting the complex network of star system positions, interlinking warp passages, tide patterns and time-dilation estimate equations that made up any normal Imperium starchart. The ability to read such charts, to absorb and understand the multi-layered levels of information contained within them, was just one of the many skills required of a senior officer in His Divine Majesty’s Imperial Navy.

  Ulanti ran his fingers across the surface of the chart, tracing out the Bellerophon’s most likeliest course headings. “They’re probably without any navigator capability,” he suggested, looking up to see Semper nodding in agreement. The Navis Nobilite was one of the oldest and most crucial cornerstones of the Imperium, and a ship’s navigator traditionally chose death rather than giving himself up to the Emperor’s enemies.

  “That means they can only make short blind warp jumps of no more than a few light years at a time,” continued Ulanti, one finger marking out a cluster of star systems in the upper corner of the chart. “Their last reported position was in the Oreicha system, but the nearest enemy-occupied territory is here in the Killian-Ator group. That’s where they’re probably making for. But to get there they have to make six or seven separate warp jumps, avoiding Imperium-controlled systems and standard fleet patrol routes on the way.”