The Devastation of Baal

by Guy Haley

The Servile of the Watch looked up from his podium over the augur pits, where baseline humans less fortunate than he laboured in unbreakable communion with the ship, their eyes and ears removed and sensory cortexes plugged directly into the auspectoria’s cogitators.

  ‘They take minerals of every kind, my lord,’ said the servile. ‘I have compared spectrographic analysis of this world with records of how it was. It shows massive depletion of all main range elements. The devourer remakes the worlds it consumes. Although I notice a small inconsistency with the oldest records of tyrannic-stripped worlds.’

  ‘Small enough for me to ignore?’ asked Erwin. The Servile of the Watch was an earnest fellow, genuinely fascinated with his work. He had been known to bore his masters with unnecessary detail.

  The servile pulled a neutral expression, making his slave tattoos shift across his face, a sense of motion exaggerated by the low light of the command deck. The Servile of the Watch was unusually expressive for one of his breed. ‘Whether it is relevant or not I shall leave to your deep percipience, my lord.’

  Erwin grunted. ‘Edify me then.’

  ‘The older worlds show a larger loss of mass. The tyranids spent longer on each, digesting parts of the planetary crust. They do not remain so long as they once did. Once the biological components of the world have been devoured, they target only sources of refined metals, such as the Mechanicus station here, in preference to the source minerals.’

  ‘Then they are running scared, feeding, moving on before they can be interrupted,’ said Erwin. ‘Commander Dante has them afraid.’

  ‘Or, my lord, they are presented with a surfeit of food. They have nothing to fear. They have too much choice. The Imperium is a banquet to them. They have become fussy eaters.’

  Erwin shifted in his throne. For the first time he looked at the Servile of the Watch properly. He was a wholly unremarkable man to his Space Marine eyes, a tool of his Chapter, here now, soon dead. But there was something about him, an unusual courage. Most humans would never look a battle-brother in the eye. Erwin supposed the servile must have a name. He never bothered learning their names, they lived so short a time.

  ‘You dare disagree with me?’ said Erwin.

  The servile stared out of the oculus, an expression that Erwin took a moment to place.

  ‘Are you amused, servile?’

  The Servile of the Watch dared look at him. ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I find it amusing that I disagree with you and you have not killed me.’

  Erwin slapped his armrest and let out a solitary bark of laughter.

  ‘By the Blood, servile, you are a brave one.’

  ‘To reach a position such as I have, one must be bold,’ said the Servile of the Watch.

  Erwin had no idea how the serviles were chosen for the roles they fulfilled, and he did not care. Logistics work was no fit use of a warrior’s time. That was the duty of the Master of the Household, an office given in Erwin’s Chapter to a captain no longer capable of fighting. So it had been since the 36th millennium, when their glorious order had been founded.

  ‘You may be right,’ Erwin conceded. ‘It is heartening to err on the side of optimism. I applaud you, servile, for prodding the uncomfortable truth.’

  The Servile of the Watch bowed.

  Erwin smiled, baring his long, sharp canines. ‘Now do not do it again, or I will kill you.’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’

  ‘Continue scanning the area,’ said Erwin. He stood and addressed the whole command deck. ‘We have a few hours before we must depart. We will make the translation directly to the warp from the nearest gravipause. There is no need to go to the Mandeville Point, this is a dead system. But if there are any tyranid organisms remaining here, I will destroy them before we leave.’ Erwin thought he should not tarry for such pointless exercises, but he and his men needed action. Morale was as important a consideration in war as any other variable.

  ‘As you will it, my lord,’ responded the Servile Locum, the mortal who commanded the vessel when the Space Marines were absent. When Erwin was present, he did his duty by saving Erwin from the dull business of giving orders to the rest of the serviles.

  Erwin settled himself back into his throne and kicked out one massive booted foot. ‘All forward, Servile of the Helm. Bring us around Sciothopa, full orbit. Make it fast, let us see if we can find anything to kill. And call in our craft, I have seen everything I need to see of the facility. Give me a maximum gain augur sweep when we break orbit. Absenting a target, we leave in three hours.’

  Three hours passed. Erwin’s concentration drifted to past battles.

  ‘My lord! We have a contact. Something is moving in a debris field twelve thousand miles ahead.’

  Erwin snapped out of his contemplation to full alertness.

  There was nothing visible against the red void in the oculus.

  ‘Hololith,’ he ordered.

  A projection sphere sprang into life over the forward strategium. In its false-light rendition the glow of the Red Scar was even more lurid. Erwin leaned forward. Away from the dead world a spread of wreckage was slowly dispersing. Datascreed sprang up around the pieces. Subsidiary view fields magnified the larger items to fuzzy, indistinct shapes.

  ‘Analysis,’ he ordered.

  ‘A mixture of Imperial and tyrannic debris. Augur readings give a preliminary estimate of seventy per cent metallic to thirty per cent organic.’

  The Adeptus Mechanicus put up a weak fight, thought Erwin.

  ‘Lock on to the contact. Show it to me.’

  ‘Adjusting view now,’ said the Servile of the Watch. Servitors mumbled out rote responses to the servile’s commands. The hololithic view swung around. A black shape moved at the heart of a debris field, then the hololith view encompassed a second, and a third shape.

  ‘I have three targets,’ said the Servile of the Watch. There was an excitement in his voice that Erwin approved of.

  ‘Magnify,’ ordered Erwin.

  Living ships moved among the wreckage. Coiled shells sprouted masses of tentacles from wide apertures at the front. Their arms waved, plucking morsels from the ­shattered carcasses of bio-vessels, stuffing gobbets of flesh and frozen fluids into hidden maws.

  ‘A salvage operation,’ said Erwin.

  Achemen looked up from his screens for a moment. ‘To what purpose? It does not seem a sensible use of resources.’

  ‘Who knows? I have heard reports that this tendril of Leviathan is preparing to splinter, putting out fresh shoots, as it pushes on towards Baal. This could be a seeding swarm,’ said Erwin. ‘Or it may not. I do not care. They are xenos, unworthy of life. All that matters is that they are in low numbers, and therefore vulnerable.’

  ‘It may be a trap,’ said Achemen.

  Erwin tapped the arm of his throne. ‘You are probably right. Prepare for engagement. Do not bring us too close. Attack from maximum range. Bring torpedoes to readiness. We will stand off and destroy them.’

  ‘We should let it be,’ said Achemen. ‘This could be what they want.’

  ‘Leave it?’ said Erwin dismissively. ‘It is alive. It is an enemy. It should be dead. You are too timid, my sergeant.’

  ‘I am cautious, brother-captain. Letting the thirst guide our actions in this war would be a mistake.’

  ‘It is not the thirst that guides me,’ said Erwin. ‘You are not captain of the Second Company yet, Achemen, and will not be as long as I am alive. We will destroy them. That is my command.’ He looked at his second in command. ‘From a distance. Cautiously. I heed your counsel, brother.’

  ‘Firing solutions calculated, my lord. Forward ­torpedo batteries are aimed and ready for your command,’ announced the Servile Belligerent.

  ‘How many are required?’

  ‘Three torpedoes apiece should do it, m
y lord,’ said the Servile of the Watch. ‘I recommend multiple warheads, standard atomics.’

  ‘Recommend full spread of six for all targets,’ barked the Servile Belligerent.

  ‘Is that not a waste of munitions?’ said Erwin, testing his men.

  ‘Better to be sure, my lord,’ said the Servile of the Watch.

  Erwin grinned. ‘Very good. Six apiece it is then. Time to impact, if we fire from here?’

  ‘Eighteen minutes, my lord.’

  ‘Too long,’ said Erwin. ‘Servile of the Helm, bring us closer. Accelerate to quarter speed. Loose torpedoes at five thousand miles. Prepare three spreads as per the Servile Belligerent’s recommendation. One spread per vessel.’

  ‘I say again, captain, it may be a trap,’ said Achemen.

  ‘We will release them all and break off,’ Erwin said to the sergeant. ‘Let the impetus of the ship speed our vengeance away.’

  ‘Revised time to impact after acceleration is seven minutes, my lord.’

  ‘Better,’ said Erwin.

  A short-lived flurry of activity took hold of the serviles. A few moments later, the Splendid Pinion shuddered as its drive stacks pushed it towards the debris field. Erwin picked out the broken hulk of a small mechanicus arkship. He could see none of their warships among the wreckage – unsurprising for a research system.

  ‘I am detecting increased activity from the enemy, my lord,’ said the Servile of the Watch.

  ‘They have seen us,’ said Achemen.

  ‘If they have, what of it? They will not catch us,’ said Erwin. ‘Their ships are slow in-system. They have no power to give them speed. We will finish these ones easily enough.’

  ‘We are approaching optimum firing position in five seconds, my lord,’ said the Servile Belligerent. He counted down. ‘Four. Three. Two. One.’

  Erwin raised his hand lazily. ‘Fire torpedoes.’

  ‘Volley one away!’ called the Servile Belligerent.

  The ship jolted. Six torpedoes raced from the ship.

  ‘Second spread loaded,’ reported the Servile Belligerent. ‘Target locked.’

  ‘Fire!’ said Erwin. He leaned forward. This brief moment of action fired his sluggish blood. His mouth watered, and his sharp eye teeth slid a fraction further from his gums. He forced his attention away from the men under his command, their warm bodies and pulsing necks, and instead focused on the torpedoes. The hololith dimmed to cut the glare from their drive units. The first spread ran ahead of the ship where it divided into two subgroupings of three. The second spread followed the same pattern. The torpedo drives obscured the debris and their targets for a moment, but they were soon far out from the ship, reduced by the unimaginable vastness of the void to jewels of yellow on the wide red sash of the Scar.

  ‘Third spread loaded and ready,’ said the Servile Belligerent.

  ‘Swiftly accomplished. Commend the gunnery crews,’ said Erwin. ‘Extra rations and an additional five minutes’ sleep this rest cycle for such fine loading. Now fire.’

  The last volley burst from the tubes in the ship’s bull-nosed prow far from the command spire.

  ‘Turn about,’ said Erwin. ‘Full reverse thrust. Turn us away from the enemy. Keep the hololith locked on our targets.’

  Jets of fire stabbed out from the starboard prow shield, slewing the ship to portside. The Splendid Pinion groaned under the pressure of the manoeuvre. Erwin laughed as the ship shook.

  ‘Accelerate into the turn, Servile of the Helm,’ said Erwin. ‘Servile of Empyrical Transit, have the warp engine prepared.’

  ‘The Master of the Enginarium insists activating the core under this stress is unnecessary and risky,’ said the Servile of Empyrical Transit.

  ‘Noted. Do it anyway,’ said Erwin.

  Achemen’s boots clunked as he activated his suit maglocks. Erwin grinned savagely to see his brother reach out to the dais rail to steady himself; Achemen was not so strong as he maintained. Inertia pulled the Space Marines sideways against the drag of the deck grav-plating. It was good to push his ship and his men so.

  ‘Spikes the blood, eh, Achemen?’

  Achemen stared stonily ahead, disappointing Erwin. Achemen was a fine warrior, but precious little joy was to be had from his company.

  The ship’s real space engines thundered, shaking the command spire with their sudden, massive increase in output. At their driving, the Splendid Pinion swung around in a wide arc, coasting along the gravity plane of Sciothopa and using it to accelerate out of the system. Perfectly done, thought Erwin. He was proud of his crew, mortal and Adeptus Astartes alike.

  ‘My lord, torpedoes about to make contact.’ The Servile Belligerent’s voice sounded out of the hardline vox by the throne, vastly amplified but barely loud enough to be heard over the roar of the ship. ‘The enemy have released torpedo spines and boarding pods in response.’

  ‘Then destroy them!’ said Erwin. The thirst rose in him, eager for the kill. ‘They will get no time for a second volley.’

  Indeed they did not. One of the tentacled scavenger vessels disappeared in a sphere of brilliant fire. So bright, Erwin thought. Nuclear fission purged the sick redness from the void for a moment with pure, clean light. Seconds later, the next torpedo spread hit the second ship. Three bright globes of fire were followed an instant after by three more, the six together swelling into a ball the size of a miniature star. Then the third ship was hit, and the small fleet was gone. The fires faded.

  ‘All hit,’ reported the Servile of the Watch. ‘Targets destroyed.’

  ‘We have debris coming in hard after enemy munitions. Activating point defence systems,’ said the Servile Belligerent.

  Faintly, right at the edge of Erwin’s enhanced hearing, guns chattered. A cloud of approaching shapes picked out in red on the hololith thinned as bio-missiles were shot down. Large segments of the cloud blinked out of existence.

  ‘A fine job, serviles,’ said Erwin. His brief joy at ­battle was fading as quickly as the spheres of fire. ‘Are there any more?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ responded the Servile of the Watch.

  ‘Then set course for the next system.’ Erwin glanced over to Achemen. ‘Gather the company. I will address them in the Siege Joyous. We head to Baal after our next reconnaissance, at last.’

  ‘My captain,’ said Achemen.

  Erwin depressed the head of the leftmost lion. It clicked gently. A flicker of status lights ran over his displays.

  ‘Captain departing,’ said a machine voice, broadcasting the news across the command deck.

  Gas sighed as the cables detached themselves from the rear of Erwin’s armour. He stood with difficulty, the armour briefly dead on him with neither power pack nor ship to provide energy to its systems. His backpack descended from the ceiling above, the stabilisation nozzles delicately grasped by long-nosed grips. Like the ceramite of his arms and legs, it was a marbled white, setting off the deep crimson of his torso plate. His golden helm followed on a telescopic arm.

  Arming serviles crept out from the dark places at the rear of the dais and wordlessly attached the backpack to Erwin’s armour. His growl of satisfaction at the strength flooding back into his battleplate systems was amplified as his helmet passed over his head and locked in place.

  ‘Servile Locum, you have command,’ Erwin said, glad to be free of the command throne. He looked out at the throbbing wound of the Red Scar. ‘Close the oculus. There is no need to look upon this painful smear any longer. I hear it drives men mad, and it troubles my heart.’

  The shutters were ground down over the oculus. He strode along the pier and out through the doors at the rear, thence off the command deck.

  Before he reached the hall of the Siege Joyous, a servile from the astropathicum came bearing urgent news. Upon reading the scrip presented him, Erwin’s day became immeasurably better.


  With a savage shout, Erwin crumpled the parchment, returned to the command deck and ordered a course alteration to the Zozan system.

  He would get a proper battle soon, after all.

  To human eyes, a tyranid organism was a single thing, a beast like any other. This was not so.

  Each monster in the limitless swarms was a carefully designed colony of symbiotic creatures. Once incorporated into the hive fleet’s genetic knowledge, the baseline genome of those organisms chosen for a primary host was pared back to the bare essentials, and gifted with the characteristics common to all tyranid creatures – thick, chitinous armour, a hexapedal anatomy, multiple redundant organs – characteristics that, above all else, made them incredibly difficult to kill. Only then were the true adaptations added.

  Though the finished creature may have looked like a complete, single being, it was made up of a multiplicity of individual creatures, many of them semi-sentient in their own right. This was most obvious to the casual observer in the weapons borne by the larger constructs, whose repurposed anatomies still retained recognisable biological shapes. There were other, less obvious examples of forced parasitism. Thinking blood. Organs that could live separately from the creature they served. Subsidiary brains that awaited the death of the main nerve stem or the presentation of some unusual circumstance that required specialist knowledge not present in the basic mentality of the creature; both events that might never come to pass. Organs could be installed, fully aware, and live for centuries, never realising their potential. The hive fleet was so huge it could afford to be profligate with flesh.

  This modularity of being allowed the enhancement of creatures at short notice, or modification for particular roles. As the Angels Excelsis annihilated the small tyranid scavenging fleet, one such colony of beasts approached the Splendid Pinion.

  Among the debris of the dead hive ships floated something that appeared to be another piece of biological wreckage, but was in fact a cunningly conceived single-occupant void pod.

  The nature of the tyranids made it impossible to say which part of this gestalt biomechanism possessed the guiding mind. Was it the sensor beast, mounted upon the blunt nose, that perceived the Space Marine ship and originated the nerve pulses that dictated the pod’s action? Or was the Splendid Pinion spied by the eyes of the pod itself, and was it then the pod’s rudimentary brain, housed at the rear, that directed it? Or were these elements of the colony subsidiary to the mind of the infiltration beast carried within, that slumbered and yet looked out upon the void through the linked brains of its outer casing? They were all ultimately part of the greater whole of the hive, so which was the driving sentience? The classifications used by the Imperium to define levels of consciousness among the swarm’s parts were crude. They lacked subtlety. Perhaps even at the height of its power, mankind could not have understood the tyranids.