When one stepped into the departure bay, though, one was immediately reminded not only that they were in a space-borne vessel, but that the Phalanx was far more than merely immense or gigantic—it was gargantuan.
On the other side of the bay, so far away that the sight of it hazed with the distance, were the bay doors which opened out onto the cold vacuum of the void, before which were arranged Thunderhawks, shuttles and other such craft in their hundreds. Overhead, hanging from the rafters that were barely visible from the deck, hung decommissioned aircraft and space-faring vessels of the Chapter, preserved and displayed in honour of past victories, and of those who had fought and died onboard them.
It was said that the departure hall was so large that it had developed its own microclimate, separate from the artificial environment which prevailed throughout the rest of the fortress-monastery, and that there were strains of avian life-forms, roosting up in the rafters and onboard those ancient and honoured craft hanging from them, that had evolved into entirely novel forms and physiologies over the millennia, unseen by human eyes.
On a somewhat more human scale, though still towering over the Scouts who walked beneath, were arranged on the walls battle trophies from past victories, and enormous murals depicting famous battles from the annals of the Imperial Fists. There were ancient weapons and armour that dated back even as far as the Great Crusade, preserved eternally and displayed here reverentially after age finally robbed them of their use, each one of them carrying a provenance as long and celebrated as that of the Chapter itself.
Fluttering slightly in the pressure differential between the departure bay and the hatches which led to the corridors, there hung immense banners, each of them easily as wide as four Adeptus Astartes in full power armour standing abreast, and more than twice as tall. There was one for each of the battle companies of the Imperial Fists, each bearing the heraldry and litany of the company in question. Surmounting them all was an even larger Chapter banner, golden yellow and trimmed in jet-black and blood-red, on which was inscribed “VII”—remembering the Chapter’s origins as the Emperor’s VII Legion during the Great Crusade—and the word “Roma”—referring to the Imperial Fists’ earliest battle honour, which now existed only on a ceramite icon which itself was considered too precious and valuable even to put on display in the Inner Reclusium of the Phalanx—and finally the icon of the black fist grasping a red thunderbolt, beneath which was scrolled the legend “Sons of Dorn”. There were several Chapter banners, but only one of them was put on display at any given time, rotated out at regular intervals in recognition of important actions and significant victories. It was perhaps a testament to the long lifespan of the Chapter itself that in all the four years Zatori had lived onboard the Phalanx the Chapter banner had not yet been changed out, which suggested that all of the great victories the Chapter had won in the time since had not risen yet to the level of a “significant victory”.
The Scouts of Veteran-Sergeant Hilts’ Squad Pardus were not the only ones to be summoned to the departure bay, it was immediately clear. As Hilts led them to their place alongside the neophytes of Scout Squads Vulpes and Ursus at the rear of the assembly, Zatori could see on the auto-reactive shoulder plates of the nearest Space Marines the markings and heraldic colours of both the 1st and the 5th Companies, at least. There were more than a hundred Imperial Fists gathered in the departure bay, battle-brothers and Scouts, arrayed in serried ranks facing the nearest end of the bay. Every eye was directed at the balcony which rose above the hatches through which Squad Pardus had entered, and as Zatori and the others took their places, a hush fell over the already-quiet assembly.
Scout Zatori raised his eyes to the balcony in time to see a group of worthies trooping into view. First came Captain Taelos of the 10th Company, the commander over all of the Chapter’s Scouts. Next came Captain Khrusaor of the 5th Company, his golden-hued power sword at his hip. Then followed Darnath Lysander himself, First Captain of the Imperial Fists, Master of the 1st Company, Overseer of the Armoury and Watch Commander of the Phalanx. On one arm was his massive storm shield, and in the other hand he carried his master-crafted thunder hammer, the Fist of Dorn. Zatori had been given the rare and great privilege of seeing Captain Lysander charging into battle on Tunis, and cherished the memory like a treasured heirloom.
After the three captains had taken up position on either end of the balcony, Captains Taelos and Khrusaor on one end and Captain Lysander on the other, Librarian Franz Grenstein and Chaplain Lo Chang emerged into view side-by-side. Both Librarian and Chaplain wore force swords in scabbards slung at their waists, and both had cheeks nicked white with the crisscrossed duelling scars typical of the Imperial Fists, though Chaplain Chang’s cheeks were further marked by crater-like wounds he had gained when his power suit’s helmet had been shattered during a fire-fight, leaving him with a visage like the face of a meteor-scarred moon.
As the Librarian went to stand a few paces to Captain Khrusaor’s left, Chaplain Lo Chang stepped towards the balcony’s railing and extended his hands towards the rafters, lowering his eyes in an attitude of prayer.
“Oh Dorn, the dawn of our being,
Lead us, your sons, to victory.”
The Scouts and battle-brothers assembled below echoed the words, lowering their eyes to the deck plates. Then, when Zatori raised his gaze again and saw that Chaplain Chang had stepped aside to stand to Captain Lysander’s right, he could not help but feel a small twinge of relief. The litany that Chang had recited was one of the shortest in the liturgy of the Imperial Fists. As honoured as he was for any opportunity to hear the Chaplain speak, Zatori was thankful that he would not have to listen to one of the much longer litanies before learning why they had all been called together.
He did not have much longer to wait. After the way was cleared, and the Chaplain and Librarian had taken up positions with the captains to either side, Chapter Master Vladimir Pugh himself strode onto the balcony.
Stern-faced, lips down-turned in a perpetual scowl, Chapter Master Pugh was clad in a gleaming suit of artificer-armour, forged by master craftsmen and nearly as ancient and honoured as the Chapter itself, festooned with purity seals, votive chains, ribbons and scrolls. Behind his head rose an iron halo, which even in a deactivated state seemed to crackle and coruscate with the powerful energy field contained within. A cloak the colour of new-spilt blood hung from Chapter Master Pugh’s shoulders, and his left hand rested on the hilt of the master-crafted sword which hung in its scabbard at his waist.
Chapter Master Pugh raised his right hand in a fist, then crashed the arm across his armoured chest, then raised the fist on high again, saluting the Space Marines gathered before him.
“Imperial Fists, Proud Sons of Dorn, your Chapter Master greets you!”
As one, the battle-brothers returned the salute, crashing their fists and forearms against their chests, and then raising their arms overhead.
“Hail Chapter Master Pugh, First Among the Imperial Fists!” the assembled battle-brothers shouted in near-unison.
The Scouts, who had seldom been invited to partake in this traditional exchange of honours with their Master, whom they saw at all in only the rarest of circumstances, trailed fractionally behind the movements and words of the battle-brothers before them, closer in time with the echoes bouncing back off the nearest walls than to the original utterances. But the Scouts were not castigated for the delay by their sergeants, and so Zatori had to assume there were allowances made in such situations for neophytes.
Chapter Master Pugh lowered his arm and regarded the assembled Imperial Fists before him for a long moment before continuing.
“Imperial Fists, I greet you in the name of the primarch, Rogal Dorn, father to us all. Today you are to be given the opportunity to win glory in Dorn’s name, and to bring honour to the Chapter he founded.”
Pugh turned and motioned to Captain Lysander, who stepped forwards to address the assembled. As he watched the captain move to the front o
f the balcony, Zatori fought the temptation to glance to his left and right, stifling the curiosity to see how his fellow Scouts in Squad Pardus were reacting to this. Were they to be sent on an undertaking with these veteran battle-brothers?
“The Phalanx and the rest of the Imperial Fists fleet,” Captain Lysander began, “has been on a slow approach to the outer reaches of the Segmentum Obscurus for the last few years, on our long patrol, and as such we are now the nearest Imperial force to the Imperial world of Vernalis, whose rulers have sent an urgent request for assistance. Vernalis has recently seen an incursion by Chaos forces of a largely unknown composition and size, which have put the population in peril and threatened the Emperor’s hold on that area of space.”
Captain Lysander rested an armoured hand on the balcony’s railing, and passed his gaze from one side of the assembled to the other.
“It falls to us to defend Vernalis, and to scour the stain of Chaos from the face of the planet. To that end, Task Force Gauntlet has been commissioned, a mixed force whose primary objective will be to retake Vernalis, to eradicate any Chaotic presence and to secure the world against future invasion. I will command Task Force Gauntlet, and will be joined by Captain Khrusaor and elements of the 5th Company, and Captain Taelos along with several Scout squads of the 10th.”
Captain Lysander nodded towards the far end of the departure bay with a barely noticeable movement of his head.
“The strike cruiser Titus is currently docked with the Phalanx, fully fuelled and ready to depart. You are to proceed immediately to your designated berths onboard the strike cruiser and depart within the hour. Your Chapter and your brothers will await your return, wreathed in glory and crowned in victory.”
Captain Lysander stepped back while Chapter Master Pugh took his place at the forefront once more. His expression still as dour and stern as ever, Pugh reached his right hand down to his left hip, and drew the sword scabbarded there. He held the blade out over the railing, the point towards the distant bay doors like a needle pointing unerringly to magnetic north, aiming the way forwards for the assembled task force.
“Primarch-progenitor,” Chapter Master Pugh shouted, his voice echoing in the cavernous bay.
The battle-brothers below all drew their blades—chainswords, power swords, naked adamantium—and raised them overhead, returning the salute. A beat behind, Scout Zatori and the rest of Scout Squad Pardus did the same, drawing their combat blades in salute, while the Scouts of Squads Vulpes and Ursus on either side did the same.
“To your glory and the glory of Him on Earth!” Chapter Master Pugh finished, even louder than before.
As one voice with a hundred throats, the assembled Imperial Fists shouted the antiphonal response. And this time, the Scouts were right in time with their elder brethren, shouting in unison.
“Primarch-progenitor, to your glory and the glory of Him on Earth!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Scouts’ first glimpse of the surface of the planet Vernalis came by moonlight, as they disembarked the Thunderhawks that had brought them down from the strike cruiser Titus which hung in low orbit above the world. Their boots crunched on the rocky shore of a beach, which rose up from the edges of an ocean whose glass-smooth surface stretched out to the eastern horizon. In the near distance, just north along the ocean’s shore, rose a huge structure of some kind, and though they could see little of its detail, they could clearly see the bright lights which twinkled merrily on towers and steeples, and the brilliantly bright yellow flames that danced atop the tallest spires. But for a sour, somewhat acrid scent which wafted on the warm night breezes, it was an idyllic scene.
The smell triggered a scent memory for Scout du Queste, and he found himself remembering the faery stories his grandmother had told him as a child. Though he knew better, he could easily imagine this place to have been a page torn out from one of those tales and given life, the structure secretly the palace of some fey queen, with elegant ships sailing somewhere out there on the black waters of the seas, carrying treasures back from some distant lands on the far side of the world.
But when the sun rose a short time later, Task Force Gauntlet prepared to move out from the drop-point, the Scouts got their first clear look at their surroundings, and the faery tale scene of the dim-lit night gave way to the harsh and unforgiving reality of the daylit hours. And all that they had learned in their briefings en route from the Phalanx were given concrete and unavoidable form.
The name of the planet, Vernalis, meant “springtide” in some ancient and forgotten Terran tongue, or so they had been told, a time of new life and green growth. But it was clear at first light that nothing was growing on Vernalis, and that nothing ever would again. Perhaps the name had been some bit of hopeful magic on the part of the original settlers from the Imperium, a fervent wish that the mere act of naming might change the nature of the world? Perhaps it had been a reference to a time in the planet’s unimaginably distant past, when it had supported life? Or perhaps it was with a bitter sense of irony that they chose to remind themselves forever after of all that they had left behind by coming to such a barren, lifeless world.
The hills that rose to the west, like the beach upon which they stood, were rocky and hard going. The jagged flint and crumbling shale that covered the landscape was the same hue as corpseflesh, a light shade of grey only a few values darker than the lifeless grey sky which arched over them. The sluggish sea which stretched out to the eastern horizon was not water, but instead a vast ocean of black oil, which surged and slurped audibly against the rocky shore—once the planet had supported an ecosystem of zooplankton and algae, at least, but what life there had been had been reduced to petrochem.
The structure which rose to the north on the shores of the petrochem sea was a massive refinery constructed of corroded black metal, the towering spires and steeples being massive chimneys through which black smoke and excess gases from the refining process were pumped out, the yellow flames of the burning gases above seen only as shimmering waves of heat in the bright light of Vernalis’ white sun.
The already-warm air, growing even hotter as the sun rose higher in the sky, was hazed by the smoke and smell of the refinery. But through the haze they could see the rising peak of the mountain that loomed to the west, a few kilometres away over the rolling hills. It was to the mountain that the inhabitants of this region of Vernalis had retreated, scurrying into the chambers and corridors bored and blasted into the living rock itself. And it was to the mountain that Task Force Gauntlet was proceeding.
“Could they not have built a landing strip nearer the mountain?” Scout Rhomec complained as the squad mustered at the foot of the hills.
“The Chapter grew muscles for you to use,” Scout Valen said with a grin. He had been raised on a mining world, and the grey flint and shale underfoot and the smoke and haze overhead seemed to remind him of home. “Surely you’re not afraid of a little exercise, are you?”
Rhomec turned his scarred-cheek grin on Valen. “I prefer to get my exercise with bolter and blade. Shall you offer me a target for my use?”
“Enough chatter,” Veteran-Sergeant Hilts voxed on a private channel to the micro-beads in their ears. “We’re moving out.”
The rocky and irregular terrain meant that mechanised units could not be easily used on the planet, so the bulk of the task force sent to the surface was restricted to infantry elements. Already Captain Lysander was leading the members of the 1st Company in the task force up and over the hills, while Captain Khrusaor stood ready with the elements of the 5th Company to head out in a flanking arc to the south. Orbital surveillance suggested that there were no Chaotic elements between the landing point and the mountain stronghold to the west, but there was no reason to take any chance.
As the last of the Imperial Fists of the 1st Company disappeared over the rise of hills, Captain Taelos motioned to the commanders of the three Scout squads, and they began to climb the hills in a single-file rank, striking a middle path
between the 1st Company to the north and the 5th Company to the south, all of them aiming west towards the foot of the mountain.
“I just hope we get some real exercise before this is through,” Scout Rhomec muttered, humping his way up the hill.
Rhomec would have cause to regret that hope, in the coming days.
In the weeks spent travelling to Vernalis through the warp, the Scouts had been briefed extensively by their squad sergeants, by Captain Taelos and even on rare occasion by the task-force commander Captain Lysander himself. What was known about the opposition they would be facing on Vernalis was not much, based as it was on the fragmentary and sometimes contradictory communications received from the planet’s inhabitants. Virtually all communication had been lost with Vernalis some time before Task Force Gauntlet set out from the Phalanx, though, so it was possible—likely, even—that the situation on the ground had changed considerably in the intervening time.
Vernalis was a mining world, of a sort, though there were few if any actual “mines” on the planet. Instead, the mineral wealth of Vernalis was found in the massive oceans of oil that rested on her surface. Settled by Imperial colonists some millennia before, Vernalis was a world entirely dependent on the rest of the Imperium to survive. Though rich beyond the dreams of avarice in theory, given the all-but-endless supply of petrochem that could be leeched off her surface, Vernalis was in practice lacking in virtually all of those things necessary to sustain human life.
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