The Hunt for Vulkan

by David Annandale

  No way they could have outwitted and outfought and humiliated the Imperium again and again.

  No way they could have destroyed an entire Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes.

  No way they could have trapped the strike force. Not when he had already witnessed their capabilities. Not when he knew better.

  The taste of failure was bitter. The taste of shame was ash. Koorland swallowed them both. He gave himself to rage. He would not let the mission fail.

  He marched into the vortex. There was no other option. There was no other path open. No choice.

  He advanced as though will alone would defeat the reality before him.

  It was like walking on the surface of a sun. Solid ground was an illusion. Koorland walked into eruption, into the kinetic fury of war embodied.

  He was that fury too. He was the vengeance and the justice of the Imperial Fists. He was the Emperor’s war given flesh. He roared his challenge to the enemy.

  The storm of war answered him with its greater voice. It mocked him. It hurled him back.

  A cannon shell landed a few metres ahead. The blast knocked him to his knees. A volley followed, and everything before him vanished. The earth erupted, and he was tumbling through the flame. He landed hard. He slammed his fist into the slope, punching through rock to arrest his slide. He stood. On either side, his battle-brothers were recovering.

  They had been pushed back down the hillside. The storm marched down towards them, eating the slope, a volcano opening its jaws to swallow the Last Wall.

  Koorland’s retinal lenses were a riot of death and warnings. They were a single message. The way forwards was barred to him.

  The stimms coursed through Rodolph’s bloodstream. They boosted his adrenaline. His eyes were clear. He could think. He’d taken several shots of painkillers and his body was distant to him, its pain merely information transmitted through heavy interference. He stood, but he did not know how long that would be possible. He was leaning against the pulpit, his left hand still locked around the aquila as if it had been soldered to the iron. His blood flowed from his palm. His breath rattled like stones in a canteen. His body was broken. He knew this. It would not last long.

  ‘Admiral,’ the medicae tried again.

  ‘I’m not interested, Feld.’

  ‘Without treatment–’

  ‘No time. Go be useful elsewhere. That’s an order.’

  Plenty of wounded for Feld to tend. More all the time. Rodolph had tuned out the news of the Finality’s wounds and the casualties in the crew in the same way he had blocked the weakness of his body. All that mattered was the war outside. What mattered was what he and his cruiser could do.

  The Finality and the Absolute Decree ploughed through the ork ships as through an ocean in full gale. The Imperial fleet was moving closer to the attack moon, but it was shedding ships. The two cruisers reinforced each other with their salvoes. There was never a pause in the barrage and the orks could not get close enough to ram, but their torpedoes took a toll. And the escorts were dying. The orks came at them in overwhelming numbers and picked them off one by one.

  The upper right of the oculus flared. Just beyond its view, something had died.

  ‘The Protocol of Judgement is gone,’ said Groth.

  Another of the Adeptus Mechanicus frigates. Half of the Martian fleet had been destroyed.

  ‘Admiral,’ voxed Broumis on the Absolute Decree. ‘There’s a gap in the enemy formations.’

  Rodolph looked at the tacticarium screens. He saw what had drawn Broumis’ attention. Below the ecliptic and to starboard, only a single ork cruiser appeared. Rodolph exchanged a look with Groth.

  ‘Too easy,’ she said, but she had the oculus trained to that region. The greenskin vessel had taken severe hits. Its bow was cratered. One of its engines was dead. It had been left behind by its escort, which was closing with the destroyer Lord Commander Celadion. Beyond the ork cruiser was a clear run to the attack moon.

  Inviting.

  Three torpedoes shot through the defensive fire and struck the Finality in the stern. Rodolph felt the impact vibrate through the deck and travel up his spine. His knees sagged. As the void shields flickered, teetering on the edge of cascading failure, his body reached out for him and tried to drag him down into the mire of its pain.

  He gritted his teeth. Groth was speaking. He forced himself to hear.

  ‘Negative,’ she was saying to Broumis. ‘The enemy concentration around us is too great. We can’t break through to that gap.’

  ‘I can.’

  The Decree was running below the Finality, while the bulk of the ork fleet had risen above it.

  ‘We can make the run,’ Broumis said. ‘If you can hold them, we can smash that cruiser and reach the moon.’

  ‘The instant you try, the entire fleet will turn from us to you,’ Groth objected. ‘We’re only holding our own because we’re together. Divided, they’ll finish us.’

  ‘We’re finished anyway. What are we doing except delaying the inevitable by a short period? Our sacrifices will be in vain.’

  ‘Captain Broumis,’ Rodolph said. Speech was difficult. His tongue was as distant from his command as the rest of his body. Did Groth notice the delay between his thoughts and his actions?

  He blinked the absurdity away. He dragged his palm over the aquila, pulling the wound open, jolting himself with another burst of pain. He would need more stimms soon. ‘Captain,’ he said again, ‘delay is the value of our sacrifice. The success of the mission will be decided on the surface of Caldera, not by what we do here.’

  ‘If we destroy the moon, we will be guaranteeing victory planetside.’

  ‘You’ll never get close enough,’ said Groth. ‘The gravity weapon will tear you apart.’

  ‘We’re already closer than should be possible. All of the weapon’s energies must be being used in the construction. The moon is vulnerable. Admiral, you must give the order.’

  I will do no such thing, you insubordinate fool, Rodolph thought. When Groth turned to stare at him, he realised he hadn’t said the words. ‘I wuhhh…’ he said. His tongue was clumsy. It was too big. How could it fit into his mouth?

  His left hand went numb. He could no longer feel the pulpit. He looked down. He saw his fingers open. He willed them closed. They disobeyed. His hand fell to his side. His knees folded. He slumped forwards. The eagle’s heads rushed to meet him. They cracked his skull. His vision filled with swarming dots of black.

  Was he still falling?

  No, the ship was shaking again. He was lying on the floor of the strategium. His ears were filled with lead, but he thought he heard Groth’s voice.

  Yes, he did. She was bending over him, her lips were moving. She was shouting, first at him, then at someone else. Who would she be talking to?

  Broumis?

  Yes, Broumis. Who was doing something foolish. Who must…

  Who must…

  The swarming black covered his eyes. Deal with Broumis later. Perhaps he would sleep. But it was so cold.

  Electronic shrieking. Those tocsins again. Not as loud as they were. That was good. Easier to sleep.

  Sleep.

  Then he was awake, gasping, adrenaline surging again, fire racing up his left arm and through the back of his neck. His heart hammered at his ribcage. He sat up fast. His temples throbbed.

  Feld was kneeling beside him. ‘He’s back,’ the medicae said to Groth. ‘But I can’t give him another dose like that.’

  ‘You’ll dose me like that for as long as we have a ship,’ Rodolph snarled. He took Groth’s proffered hand and got to his feet.

  The pict screen to the left of the aquila showed the dispositions of the fleet. The runes beside the representation of the Absolute Decree began to flash. The ship’s orientation was changing.

  ‘Broumis!’ Rodolph yell
ed. ‘Do not break formation!’

  ‘Your wounds are severe, admiral. You were unable to articulate your orders a few moments ago. You have been incapacitated, and are no longer able to command. By virtue of seniority, I am now the ranking officer in this fleet. I must take the actions that stand the best chance of leading to victory for the Imperium.’

  ‘You’re grandstanding, Broumis!’ said Groth. ‘There’s no glory to be had here!’

  ‘Hold them off us, captain. Those are your new orders. Keep their attention for as long as you can.’

  ‘Don’t be insane!’

  ‘He won’t listen,’ Rodolph said quietly. The runes on the screen kept changing. The angle between the two grand cruisers was growing. The Absolute Decree was pointing her bow down towards the ork vessel and the attack moon beyond. ‘No choice now,’ he told Groth. ‘Do as Broumis says.’ He was too exhausted to feel the rage that should be his. ‘Do what you can.’

  He moved to one side of the pulpit, making room for Groth.

  She stepped forwards. ‘Helm,’ she said, ‘make for the primary cluster of ships at fifteen degrees starboard. Weapons stations, concentrate fire on the lead cruiser.’

  The vox clamoured for Rodolph’s attention. It was Princeps 4-Syndesi, commanding the Mechanicus ships. ‘Admiral Rodolph. We observe trajectory alterations. Please advise of tactical revisions.’

  ‘This is Illaia Groth,’ the captain answered. ‘I am speaking for the admiral. The Absolute Decree is proceeding alone. Form up on the Finality. Keep the enemy’s focus on our positions.’

  ‘Requesting elaboration. What is the purpose of the manoeuvre?’

  ‘To hold off disaster as best we can, princeps. Captain Broumis is proceeding against orders.’

  ‘Clarification accepted. Requesting our negative estimation of the approach be noted.’

  Rodolph straightened. Groth let him lean forwards to answer. ‘Our estimation is the same.’

  He leaned against the pulpit once more. He winced as the shell and torpedo hits became more numerous as the Absolute Decree put distance between the cruisers, making them both more vulnerable.

  ‘Hull breach in launch bay sigma,’ Groth said.

  ‘I don’t need to know,’ Rodolph gasped. ‘When we die, we die.’ He nodded at the oculus. ‘Show me what Broumis is doing.’

  The orientation of the view changed. Most of the attacking ships vanished. The Absolute Decree appeared in the centre of the oculus, its engines flaring hot. Nearly eight thousand metres of war leviathan turned away from the fleet, almost twice the size of the ork cruiser coming to meet it. No other ork vessels joined the duel, and the struggle was a brief one. The Decree’s armament overwhelmed the orks’ guns and shield plating. Long before it could attempt to ram, the cruiser broke in half. Broumis kept up the barrage. The enemy ship disintegrated in a chain of plasma flares.

  The path to the attack moon was clear.

  ‘Was he right?’ Rodolph wondered. He hadn’t doubted his decisions until now. But Broumis had far more experience. Rodolph’s strength was slipping away. Perhaps he was no longer fit to command.

  ‘No,’ said Groth. She widened her stance, standing firm against the hammering jolts to the bridge. ‘He was wrong.’

  ‘He’s getting through.’

  ‘The enemy’s mistake is too obvious.’

  The Absolute Decree moved towards the moon. It picked up speed. All its batteries trained their fire on the target. On the surface of the moon, bright flowers blossomed.

  Pinpricks.

  ‘Cyclonic torpedoes,’ Rodolph muttered.

  As if Broumis had heard, two fateful streaks shot from the cruiser’s bow.

  Rodolph held his breath. Now he hoped he and Groth were wrong. He hoped Broumis’ disobedience would save them all.

  Groth was shaking her head.

  ‘Why not?’ Rodolph asked.

  She pointed. Objects scattered throughout the near space of the moon glinted. ‘Orbital defences,’ Groth said.

  A few moments later, a web of las-fire cut short the flight of the torpedoes.

  More pinpricks from the Decree’s guns flickered on the surface of the moon, assaults so trivial they were ignored.

  Broumis voxed them again. ‘I have ordered ramming speed. In the name of the Emperor, we surrender our lives.’

  ‘No!’ Groth called. ‘That won’t be enough to pierce the crust. Captain, turn around. It isn’t too late.’

  ‘The planetside face,’ Rodolph said. ‘The incomplete portion of the moon. It might be vulnerable.’

  ‘My thanks, admiral,’ said Broumis.

  When Groth looked at him, Rodolph said, ‘It is too late.’ But perhaps there was a last chance to make Broumis’ gambit work.

  The Absolute Decree accelerated. Its orientation changed again. Its bow began to turn towards Caldera, preparing for the swing around and into the target.

  ‘We can’t even see that face,’ Groth said.

  ‘We know what we can see is invulnerable. What else is left to try?’

  She remained unconvinced. ‘You believe the ship can manoeuvre through that?’ She pointed at the huge masses of crust rising from Caldera. They were larger than the Decree.

  ‘What else is left?’ Rodolph repeated. The Finality was pummelled again. He heard a weapons officer confirm another ork vessel destroyed. Rodolph was in the midst of an end-game battle, but his awareness shrank to the oculus and the ponderous movements of the grand cruiser. Broumis had doomed them all. The war would end sooner because he had broken rank. All that mattered now was the tattered hope he had become.

  The Absolute Decree moved closer, reaching a lower orbit than the moon. Broumis was in position to make the run at the unfinished region.

  ‘Why is he not being attacked?’ Groth asked.

  Rodolph’s blood chilled. He would have liked to believe the space around the Decree was empty because the rest of the fleet had drawn the attention of all the enemy ships. But these orks did not make such monumental tactical errors. Not even the orbital defences were firing.

  Not a single shot.

  Only the moon, the Absolute Decree, and the void.

  And the mountains. The flying mountains.

  ‘No,’ Rodolph whispered.

  ‘Why couldn’t we see?’ Groth said, agonised. She called to Broumis. She tried to warn him. Rodolph didn’t hear what she said. For him too, now, there was only the moon, the ship, the void. And the mountains.

  It was, he realised, not a question of Broumis having to avoid the terrible masses.

  The doom began in the form of a single pulse of light. A corona around the moon. The surface seemed to ripple, perception distorted by the intensity of the gravitic wave. An invisible hand grasped the rising chunk of Caldera. The rock was over twenty kilometres across, the size of a small planetoid. The grip whipped the mass away from the moon, and into the path of the Absolute Decree.

  The cruiser’s orientation shifted once more. The movement was slow, minute, futile. There would be no evasion.

  A mountain range smashed into the Absolute Decree. The cruiser shattered like glass. The fragments of its hull spread apart with awful grace, backlit by a billowing inferno. The warp drive erupted. Killing light filled the oculus, consuming the meteor. The shock wave travelled ahead of the hurtling fragments of ships and rock, washing over the fleets and moon. The Finality shuddered in the midst of holocaust. Rodolph saw the names of smaller ships vanish from the pict screen. After the light, darkness taking ally and foe alike.

  But there were still so many orks. Even as ships collided with the wreckage of others, the armada kept attacking.

  The darkness reached into the bridge of the Finality. It wrapped its fist around Rodolph’s head, squeezing, trying to force him into the night of despair and unconsciousness.

  ‘K
eep fighting,’ he whispered. He clutched the aquila for strength. He clutched it for hope.

  All he felt was cold iron.

  Through the creeping dark of his pain, all he saw was the final approach of an enemy with the power of a god.

  She almost didn’t see the battlewagon. A chance parting of the smoke, the luck of her glance to the east. The ork tank was some distance from her position. If not for the fires of burning vehicles, it would have been invisible in the falling night. But Imren saw it, and she saw the flash of its gun. Instinct said down. She dropped through the hatch of the Chimera.

  A second later, the shell tore through the roof of the tank. It destroyed the turret. A burst of flame reached into the interior. Imren protected her head with her arms, and the sleeves of her uniform caught fire. She beat them out against the inner hull, blinked through pain and smoke. Her gunner was dead. The command table was shattered. But the Chimera was still moving.

  ‘Nissen!’ she called out. ‘Tell me it’s you driving!’

  ‘It is, general!’ Nissen shouted back from his compartment.

  ‘Do you still have vox capability?’ The equipment around her was ruined.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then you’ll relay my orders. For now, keep going.’

  Imren grabbed the ragged edge of the roof and pulled herself up. She looked around at the state of the rout.

  The Imperial forces were in full retreat. They had abandoned any thought of advancing. They were racing for Laccolith and the hell of urban warfare. There was no advantage to be gained, no siege to prepare, only the flight and the play for time.

  This was wrong. All of it. She had come to Caldera to restore honour. She wished to repair the name of the Lucifer Blacks, guardian regiment of the heart of the Imperial Palace, battered by the eldar incursion and the brazen arrival of the ork ambassadors. Even more crucially, the pride of the Astra Militarum needed to be rebuilt after the disaster of the Proletarian Crusade. The mission to Caldera represented the first true hope for the Imperium since the start of the war.