Warhammer - Ultramarines 02 - Warriors Of Ultramar (McNeill, Graham)

by Warriors Of Ultramar (lit)

  Uriel nodded and unconsciously rubbed his neck where the burning edge of Bannon's power knife had singed his skin.

  'Captain Bannon speaks true.' said Tiberius. 'We are all servants of the divine God-Emperor and must comport ourselves accordingly. We are not animals or blasphemers who have cast off the codes of moral behaviour. There is to be no more violence between us.'

  The tension in the room slowly ebbed away and Bannon offered his hand to Uriel.

  Uriel took a deep, calming breath before taking Bannon's hand, feeling the killing rage drain from his body, leaving him vulnerable and ashamed. Deep inside he felt the touch of an ancient being within him and heard its diabolical laughter echoing within his soul.

  'Come.' said Kryptman, when he sensed his authence had calmed. 'We have much to discuss. While we have been fighting the tyranid fleet, Magos Locard has been busy in the biologis research labs on Tarsis Ultra and his findings are most illuminating.

  Blinding clouds of hot steam filled the train platform as another land train pulled into its designated berth and Pren Fallows, the platform overseer, cursed as his snow goggles fogged with condensation. He pulled off the goggles and wiped the inner face clear with the sleeve of his overalls. There was precious little snow here anyway, the heat generated by the land trains and the hundreds of milling people soon turned the snow and ice to a shin deep mucky slush.

  Trains had been arriving daily for the past month, each laden with frightened farming communities from the outlying regions and, as the largest city on Tarsis Ultra, Erebus had been receiving the majority of these refugees. As if the city wasn't crowded enough already. Pren shrugged, pushing his way through the crowds and making his way to the control booth that overlooked the platform.

  Seventeen train berths and fifty track lines radiated from the docking bays. He and his staff of seventy men had pulled double shifts for the last two months, ensuring that each train had deposited its human cargo and then departed on time to pick up yet more. It was thankless, dirty work and there was precious little reward to be had, but it was the life the Emperor had chosen for him and though he knew it would do no good to complain, Pren Fallows was not the kind of man to let that stop him.

  Powerful arc lights mounted on steel towers bathed the platforms in a ghostly white light, and despite the heat, his breath fogged before him. Yellow coated provosts from the city Commissariat directed people from the docking station, taking names on clipboards and directing them to the Ministorum camps further up the valley.

  It was a scene of organised chaos, but this train had been the last of the day and there were no more scheduled until noon the following day, which would allow Pren and his crew to enjoy a well-earned break.

  As the provosts escorted the last of the refugees from the station, a blessed calm descended. Pren stopped and smiled, enjoying the dead quiet of a winter's night and an empty station.

  He climbed the rusted iron ladder to the control booth, stamping the slush from his boots before pushing open the door.

  'Close the damn door!' shouted Halan Urquart, his deputy controller, who sat before a bank of controls, his feet up on the table, drinking a cup of hot caffeine. 'You're letting all the damn heat out.'

  'Sometimes I wonder if you understand who's in charge here, Halan.' replied Pren, unfastening the wax-lubricated zipper on his winter coat and hanging it on a hook on the back of the door.

  'Yeah, I wonder that sometimes too.'

  'Anything to report?' asked Pren, brushing the ice from his beard.

  'Nah, it's been real quiet. The provosts seem to have finally got the hang of moving people out of here without bothering us.'

  'About bloody time.' commented Pren, pouring himself a mug of caffeine. It was lukewarm, but beggars couldn't be choosers. He pulled up a seat next to the window, watching as another flurry of snow began to fall, coating the platforms in a fresh blanket of pristine white.

  Pren lifted the station logs from the basket tray beside Halan and began flicking through his deputy's scrawled handwriting. He sipped his caffeine, noting that the turnaround times for the land trains was as quick as it had been even before the war. He'd need to remember and say a few encouraging words to his staff come the morning.

  He flipped over to another page, glancing up as a shiver passed down his spine. He put down his mug and stared out the misting window, squinting through the fogged glass at the twin pinpricks of light that were approaching the station.

  'What the hell...' he muttered.

  'What's up, chief?' asked Halan.

  'Look.' said Pren, pointing in the direction of the mysterious lights.

  'What the hell...' said Halan.

  'I know.' said Pren. 'I thought we were all done for today.'

  'We are, I don't know what that is.'

  The men watched as the two points of light drew closer through the night's darkness, their sense of apprehension growing with their brightness. As the lights got closer, they came within the glow cast by the tower lights. Halan and Pren both breathed a sigh of relief as they saw the sleek shape of a land train glide smoothly into the station, its sides and roof coated in a thick layer of frost.

  The train slowed and came to a complete halt at the end of the furthest platform, its doors jerkily sliding open. Pren and Halan waited for the inevitable crowds to emerge, but nobody disembarked from the train. It simply sat, silent and unmoving on the far end of the platform, steam venting from the grilles around its engines and the track.

  Both men shared an uneasy glance.

  'I guess we should go down and have a look.' suggested Pren.

  'I just knew you were going to say that.' said Halan, pulling on his winter coat and gloves.

  Pren grabbed a portable illuminator and donned his winter gear, following his deputy outside into the biting cold. He clambered down the frosted ladder and trudged alongside Halan through the fresh snow towards the unmoving land train. As they drew nearer, they could see the windows of the train were dark and opaque with frost, even those of the driver's cab, and their sense of unease grew stronger.

  The darkness and silence of the docking station, normally a relief after the hectic bustle of a day's work now pressed in around them and Pren wished some of the provosts were still left in the station. At least they were armed.

  He gripped Halan's arm and the man nearly jumped out of his skin.

  'Guilliman's oath!' swore Halan. 'Don't do that!'

  'Look, you can see the train's number on the engine.'

  'So?'

  'Well we can tell which bloody train this is and why it's here now, you idiot.'

  'Oh, right.' said Halan, pulling out a data-slate from his coat and scrolling through a list of numbers, eventually stopping at the train's designation.

  'Got it. This was due in last week.'

  'Last week? And no one noticed it was missing?'

  'I guess not, we've been pretty busy here you know.'

  'True.' said Pren. 'Well, where's it come from?'

  'According to this, it was under the supervision of a Lieutenant Quinn from the Logres regiment. They were picking up refugees from across the north-eastern districts. Their last stop was at Prandium and they should have been here six days ago. I guess the train must've come in on auto.'

  Halan tucked away the slate and the pair gingerly continued towards the train, their steps cautious, hearts beating faster. The train's doors stood open, but still no one got off. A light flickered inside, briefly illuminating the train's interior and a tinkle of broken glass made both men jump.

  Steam gusted from the engine, melting the ice coating the train and cold water dripped from around the opened doors. Pren and Halan reached the doors and warily stepped into the darkness of the train.

  Pren flicked on the illuminator and swept the beam around the interior of the carriage.

  He heard Halan cry out in horror and fell to his knees as his mind attempted to cope with the butchery he saw all around him.

  Bodies. Hu
ndreds of gutted, flensed, dismembered and partially devoured bodies filled the carriage, like hunks of meat in a coldroom. Strung from the walls on resinous streamers of glistening mucus, their dead flesh hard and unyielding, their frozen eyes staring down in mute accusation at the station operators.

  Stalactites of frozen blood reached down to the uneven floor and Pren felt a suffocating fear swell in his chest. He dropped the illuminator and it rolled down the carriage floor, casting lunatic shadows across the interior of the frozen charnel house, the spinning beam giving the rictus features of the corpses a hideous animation.

  'Sweet Emperor-' wept Pren. 'What happened here?'

  But the dead had no answers to give him, merely frozen eyes, emptied bellies, shorn limbs and gnawed flesh.

  And further back along the train, a creature that had first come to Tarsis Ultra many months ago ghosted from its lair and vanished into the warm labyrinth of Erebus city.

  The combined naval might of the Imperial defenders of the Tarsis Ultra system hung in orbit around the world that gave it its name. A chain of linked space stations ringed the planet's equatorial belt, towed into position to face the approaching tyranids by a host of tugs and pilot boats. Dozens of defence monitors and system ships lumbered into their position in the battle line alongside Admiral de Corte's flagship Argus, the battlecraiser Sword of Retribution, and the Dauntless cruisers Yermetov and Luxor.

  Gathered around the hulking form of the carrier Kharloss Vincennes were the Cobras of Cypria squadron, together with the one surviving vessel of Hydra squadron. The two strike cruisers of the Space Marines anchored in the shadow of the

  Argus. Lord Inquisitor Kryptman and the Space Marines had already deployed to the surface of Tarsis Ultra, their presence there deemed more vital than aboard their vessels. As a result, the Mortis Probati and the Vae Victus would stand off from the main engagement and utilise their fearsome bombardment cannons, rather than entering into the thick of the battle. With only a limited number of thralls and servitors to defend them, there would be no possibility of them repelling boarders and such ancient craft were too valuable to be lost in such a manner.

  The tyranid fleet first appeared as a sprinkling of light against the velvet backdrop of stars, its scale magnificent and terrible. Reflected starlight gleamed from city-sized chitinous armour plates and glittered on trailing tentacles that drooled thick, glutinous slime. Swarms of smaller creatures, their fronts crackling with twisting arcs of electrical discharge, surrounded the hive ships, surging ahead of the main fleet with a speed hitherto unseen among the organisms that made up the alien fleet.

  Under the power of dozens of straining servitor-crewed tugs, the hydrogen-plasma refinery drifted forward to meet the tyranids. Its hull was packed with yet more explosives and volatile plasma cells, and the magnitude of the resultant explosion was sure to dwarf the detonation of the previous refineries.

  Admiral de Corte watched the tyranid creatures close on the refinery with a feral smile on his lips. Though tens of thousands of kilometres away, the refinery still dwarfed everything around it, and de Corte knew that the blast was certain to kill hundreds, if not thousands, of alien organisms. If they were lucky, perhaps another hive ship would be drawn to attack the refinery and yet another of the masters of this fleet could be destroyed.

  Swarms of aliens surrounded the refinery, many passing close, but none yet attacking. De Corte resisted the temptation to order the Argus's nova cannon to fire until one of the larger beasts moved in to attack. His practiced eye watched the vanguard of the alien creatures smoothly part as they swept past the refinery, their movements as precise as the finest naval squadron's display manoeuvres.

  'They're not attacking it.' said Jex Viert.

  De Corte chewed his bottom lip, pondering whether to order the nova cannon to fire. So long as the refinery drifted before his fleet, he was reluctant to order a general advance and the damned aliens weren't taking the bait.

  Something was wrong. The tyranids had reportedly swarmed all over the refinery the Ultramarines had sent towards them beyond Chordelis, so why weren't they doing the same now?

  Four enormous creatures approached the massive construction, rippling orifices on their elongated prows filled with rotating blade-like fangs. They surged past the refinery, their long, trailing tentacles snagging on its superstructure. Whether their actions were accidental or deliberate, de Corte was unsure, but he did not like the synchronicity with which they had moved into position. Hordes of creatures with spined crests rippling upwards from their bodies like bizarre, reflective organic sails, emerged from the swarm, moving with a grotesque, peristaltic motion to take up position before the refinery.

  'What in the name of the warp are they doing?' wondered de Corte aloud as another group of alien creatures, with crackling arcs of electricity spitting before them moved to surround the tentaded leviathans.

  'Sir.' prompted Jex Viert, 'The kraken in the vanguard of the alien fleet are approaching engagement range.'

  De Corte snapped his gaze to the plotting table and the automaton-like logisticians moving the markers representing the tyranid fleet forward towards his battle line. The refinery would have to wait. 'Mister Viert, order the monitors forward and issue clearance to engage to all ships. My compliments to each captain, and wish them all good hunting.'

  'Aye, sir.' nodded his flag lieutenant.

  Lord Admiral Tiberius watched the same scenes from the bridge of the Vae Victus, his own confusion matching that of de Corte.

  'This is damned peculiar.' he said, rubbing a hand across his jaw. 'Why doesn't de Corte shoot?'

  'I believe he is waiting for one of the hive ships to attack the refinery.' said Philotas.

  'Then he has underestimated the ability of these creatures to adapt to new battlefield situations.' Tiberius did not know how right he was.

  The tentacled leviathans whose trailing appendages had caught on the refinery strained against its massive weight, their bodies little more than a colossal series of powerful, interlinked muscles. Though internal fibres raptured within them, and each creature burned so much energy in halting the refinery's forward motion that they would soon be consumed in the process, they continued hauling on its gargantuan bulk.

  The vast overmind cared nothing for the individual creatures that made up the majority of its mass and directed its monstrous will at the muscle beasts. Even in death, the muscle beasts would not be wasted, their organic mass would be reabsorbed by the hive fleet and used to produce fresh warrior creatures.

  The hive ships lurked in the centre of the swarm, keeping a safe distance from the dangerous intruder in the midst of the fleet.

  Slowly at first, but with greater speed as they overcame the refinery's inertia, the dying muscle beasts began dragging it behind them.

  Fluids and muscle fibre was shed from their bodies as the single-minded purpose of the hive mind continued to destroy them.

  And the refinery followed behind them, gaining more and more speed as it returned to the Imperial battle line.

  Admiral Tiberius suddenly realised what was happening and shouted, 'Philotas, open a channel to Admiral de Corte. Now!'

  'Admiral?'

  'Hurry, Philotas!' shouted Tiberius, descending from his command pulpit and running to the communications station as Philotas held out the brass headset and hand-vox.

  The vox officer nodded as the clipped tones of Admiral de Corte and hissing static crackled from the gold-rimmed speaker on the panel.

  'Admiral Tiberius, make this quick, I have pressing concerns just now.'

  'Destroy the refinery. Now. The tyranids are pulling it back towards our battle line.'

  'What? Are you sure?'

  'I'm sure, admiral. Check your auguries if you must, but do it quickly.'

  'You must be mistaken, Tiberius. How could the tyranids possibly even have the capacity to understand our intentions?'

  'They learn, admiral. I should have known that we could not pull the same
trick twice with these beasts. Please, admiral, we don't have time for debate. Destroy it now!'

  'I shall have my surveyor officers confirm what you say, but I am unwilling to destroy so potent a weapon on a whim. De Corte out.'

  Tiberius handed the headset back to the Space Marine at the vox station and marched back to the plotting table. Quickly he scanned the positioning of the Imperial fleet and felt his skin crawl as he realised the scale of the disaster that could soon befall the Imperial fleet unless they took swift action. Philotas joined the admiral, furiously entering figures into his navigational slate.

  'If we move now, we can intercept the refinery, lord admiral.' he said.

  'Do it. All ahead full, divert all available power to the auto loaders for the prow cannon. I want to be able to hit that refinery with everything we've got. And contact Captain Gaiseric on the Mortis Probati and get him to join us, we'll need his ship too.'

  'Aye, sir. All ahead full.' shouted Philotas, relaying the admiral's order.

  Tiberius felt the deck shifting and prayed that they were in time.

  'Well?' asked Admiral de Corte, impatiently.

  'It would seem Admiral Tiberius is correct.' replied Jex Viert, his voice betraying his anxiety. 'The refinery does appears to be closing with us now.'

  Hot fear dumped into Bregant de Corte's system as he realised the ramifications of this new information. He nodded to his flag lieutenant.

  'Order the nova cannon to fire!' shouted Jex Viert. 'Signal all ships to open fire. Now, for the Emperor's sake, now!'

  No, thought Admiral de Corte, not for the Emperor's, for ours.

  Colossal energies hurled the explosive shell from the breech of the nova cannon on the prow of the Argus and sent it streaking on a blazing plume towards the tyranid fleet. Travelling at close to five thousand kilometres per second, the shell closed the gap between the foes in a little under twenty-five seconds. As it closed to within fifteen thousand kilometres, blazing arcs of blue lightning surged outwards from the rippling plates of the creatures that surrounded the muscle beasts dragging the refinery, enveloping the missile's shell. Instantly, the shell exploded in an expanding cloud of burning plasma, its shattered remnants spinning off into space.