by Gav Thorpe
‘Main view, vid-capture ahead,’ said the captain, grinning. He glanced at Price. ‘I want to see this!’
The admiral smiled in return, a little pensively, but Kulik had no time to worry about what concerns might be burdening the thoughts of his superior. The torpedoes were almost on their target. The closest peeled open, launching dozens of plasma and nuclear warheads each.
There was no need for enhancement or magnification. One moment the screen showed the asteroid field dimly glittering in the light of the distant star. The next, blossoms of pale blue and white erupted from one side to the other, blotting out the stars. Detonation after detonation rippled across the void, here and there the darker oranges and reds of secondary explosions, or the whirling, spiralling electrical storms unleashed by cyclotronic expansions.
Then the second wave caught up with the first and the display was repeated in all of its glory, and by the time the third wave of torpedoes struck debris had formed glittering sprays of light that twinkled and spread across the whole display.
On a secondary screen dozens of enemy marker sigils winked out of existence. There were cheers from the assembled officers, who stood as one transfixed by the destruction.
‘Beautiful,’ muttered Kulik, eyes wide with awe.
‘All speed ahead!’ barked Price, who appeared unmoved by the whole experience. ‘Carrier flotilla is to launch all wings and take up support positions. Form lines of attack by squadron and prepare to engage the enemy.’
Snapped out of his appreciative fugue, Kulik relayed the order automatically.
‘Lieutenant Shaffenbeck, stand all air crews to readiness. Gun crews are to await the command. Main display to tactical.’
The view on the huge screen switched from the fading glow of the torpedo detonations to a tri-d representation of the asteroid field, with the two lines of the rimward fleet approaching from beneath. The pair of columns were breaking apart as the cruisers and battleships assumed squadron formations outlined by Price before the engagement had begun. Shorter-ranged ships moved to the fore of the attack.
‘Colossus to primary carrier group,’ Kulik announced. ‘Form on our position and launch interceptor wings. Bomber wings to be held in reserve until targets have been designated.’ The captain nodded to Shaffenbeck, who gave the order for the flight decks to launch their fighters.
The torpedoes had driven the orks from their hiding places like beaters setting game birds to flight on a hunt. The alien vessels broke this way and that from the asteroids, scattered by the devastating salvos. Most came directly for the Imperial fleet, whatever subtlety they might have possessed now lost through a combination of battle-excitement and fear.
The first ork ships headed directly for the Honourable Destruction, seizing on the closest enemy to hand. They could not have picked a less suitable target, as the Ascension-class ship opened fire with its long-range prow batteries, smashing the shields of the oncoming ork ships with blazes of shells and rockets. Lance turrets arrayed along the dorsal spine of the battleship opened fire as it slowly changed heading to starboard. Beams of pure energy sliced through the shieldless ork attack ships, turning one, then another and then a third into exploding clouds of fragments and gas.
Behind the dissipating remains of these vessels the remaining orks did their best to alter course away from the Honourable Destruction. Their manoeuvring was slow and clumsy, and by the time they had arranged themselves on new headings the Bloodhawk and the Unfriendly Encounter had parted from each other, creating a gap of several thousand miles between them for the enemy ships to pass through. The two battleships opened up with their full broadsides as the orks made a dash for the open stars between them. The void was filled with plasma bursts and the blur of immense projectiles. The first four ork ships, none of them larger than an Imperial destroyer, were utterly annihilated by the outpouring of fire. Two more were surrounded by the crackling auras of their overloaded shields while the rest hastily burned navigation thrusters in a fresh attempt to assume different courses.
By now the lead elements of the fleet were moving inside the dust and gas clouds that shrouded the edges of the asteroid field. Dragging his eyes away from the display, Kulik glanced at Price, who was standing bolt-straight, jaw clenched. Although he had voiced no concerns earlier, it was obvious that the admiral was unhappy about entering the asteroid field. He looked full of nervous energy, trembling slightly, fists clenching and unclenching by his sides as he held himself immobile against the urge to pace or speak.
A few rock forts and asteroid bases had survived the torpedo onslaught, but not enough to cause any real harm to the lead battleships. The three massive vessels were bathed in the purplish glow of their void shields as they ploughed through the swirling gases and dust. Missiles streaked past the ships from deeper within the field, launched by the ork bases.
Seven ork ships, three of them at least cruiser-sized, had broken past the battleships. Instead of heading into open space, the orks could not fight their warrior desires and the alien vessels were turning for a confrontation with the cruiser lines of the fleet. It was a fight they could not hope to win, but Kulik had seen suicidal bravery before and knew that the greenskins could inflict considerable damage before they were destroyed. It was important to remember that this was simply a linking of the two fleets; the greater battle was yet to come. Every ship damaged or lost now would be sorely missed in the fight against the attack moon.
‘Should we move in to support, admiral?’ said Kulik. ‘Our bombers can deal with the smaller ork ships while the cruisers deal with the larger ones.’
‘No,’ said Price. ‘All bomber wings remain on standby. We’re going to need every attack craft we can field if we’re going to take on that ork star base.’
‘Understood, sir,’ said Kulik. The captain rubbed his chin, an instinctual action he had developed long ago in preference to showing dissent to a superior. The distraction always helped him hold his tongue. In this case he thought it unwise to risk the larger ships in exchange for some bombers, but he was not going to argue with Price about it.
‘Send word to blue, magenta and gold squadrons to intercept at first opportunity,’ Price said, rocking back and forth on his heels. ‘Red and black squadrons are to flank the battleships and scan for enemy ships and installations. None of the orks are to escape. The last thing we need are damned greenskins dogging our heels when we go in for the final attack.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Shaffenbeck, gesturing for Saul to transmit the admiral’s orders. The captain waited for any orders specific to his ship but none were forthcoming. ‘And the Colossus, sir? What are we to do?’
The unspoken part of the question asked why a fully combat-capable battleship was being held back rather than committed to the attack. Price must have picked up on the captain’s subtext.
‘No fresh orders, captain,’ the admiral said sharply, jaw clenched with irritation. ‘The carrier group will remain on current station. I am not risking this ship and her launch capabilities just so that you don’t feel left out, Rafal.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ Kulik replied with a nod of salute. He turned an eye towards the screen where the rest of the fleet was surrounding the ork ships and pounding them to ruin with their guns.
Saul caught the captain’s eye and subtly directed his superior to join him at the gunnery console a little further from the admiral. Catching Shaffenbeck’s gaze, the lieutenant overseeing the targeting matrices suddenly realised that he had urgent business at the comms desk and moved to attend to that duty, leaving the two officers alone with the monitoring servitors.
‘You seem agitated, sir,’ said Shaffenbeck, keeping his voice low as the two of them stood side-by-side looking at the main display. ‘A moment of pause and reflection might help you regain some equilibrium.’
‘I don’t know why Price is so reluctant to commit the flight wings,’ said Kulik. ‘He’s h
ad further communication from Lansung, no doubt outlining the Lord High Admiral’s plan for the attack moon.’
‘And why is that such a cause for concern?’ Shaffenbeck indicated the tactical display with a flick of his head. ‘The battle seems almost won.’
‘Because if Price is under orders to keep the carriers at the back for this battle, it has to mean as sure as a Navigator’s got a third eye we’re going to be slap-bang right in the front of the next one.’
Fourteen
Phall – orbital
The battle-barge Abhorrence dwarfed the Achilles as the Space Marine vessel moved closer to receive a shuttle from the Naval patrol ship. Standing out further in orbit were a dozen other ships, of varying size and potency, from a number of different Chapters. Not all of the Successors had yet responded, but Koorland had weighed up the number that had arrived against the urgency of the situation and he had decided the time was right to hold council.
Marshal Bohemond of the Black Templars had agreed to have the Abhorrence act as host for the Chapter council, as not only was it the largest vessel in the system but Bohemond was the longest-serving Chapter commander present.
On the shuttle heading for the Abhorrence Koorland sat across from Lieutenant Greydove, who had insisted on accompanying the Space Marine to his destination for the sake of appearance. To his credit the young commander had obliged Koorland’s demand to come to Phall without complaint and once the Achilles had been set on course the lieutenant had run a sharp, disciplined crew.
‘What do you hope to achieve?’ asked Greydove. The lieutenant leaned forward as far as the bars of his grip harness would allow. ‘Do you think the authorities will allow you to get away with this? You’ve gone rogue, captain, is what they’ll say. They’ll hunt you down.’
‘Who will?’ said Koorland. ‘The High Lords? The Adeptus Terra? The Inquisition? They have far greater concerns at the moment.’
‘That may be, but I can see that you are not wholly comfortable with this.’
Koorland remained silent for a while. There was no reason to indulge the Naval officer’s curiosity, and he owed no explanation for any other reason. For all that, Greydove was right. Koorland did have reservations, exceptionally grave ones. He would not be able to share them with the Successors, not without causing offence or sowing doubt, but they gnawed at his thoughts. The lieutenant made as good a confidant as anybody.
‘Bohemond,’ said Koorland. ‘Marshal of the Black Templars.’
‘What of him?’
‘He has a reputation. More than that. The Black Templars are a force apart. They claim lineage from Rogal Dorn as do the rest of us, but they cleave to their own code and practices. I do not know if I can find common ground with him. He is… headstrong.’
‘Stubborn? Surely you can gain the support of others and win him over.’
‘If that is how it is, I will be well-pleased. However, I think that Bohemond may raise objections and I do not have authority to bargain with him.’
Greydove looked as though he was about to speak, but after a glance at the Space Marine he shook his head and remained silent.
‘What is it?’ demanded Koorland. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘You are the last of the Imperial Fists,’ the lieutenant said, hesitantly. ‘That makes you, by default, Chapter Master. You are Bohemond’s equal.’
Koorland considered this. ‘By default? That is no great claim to position.’
‘I disagree. In your case, it is the greatest claim. The rest of the Chapter perished, but you survived. That makes you not remarkable but miraculous. Surely you have the blessing of the Emperor.’
‘Superstitious nonsense,’ grumbled Koorland, but the lieutenant did have a point behind the religious facade. ‘There is something to what you say. However, will the others agree with your position, or simply see an upstart captain demanding action of his superiors?’
‘That very much depends on you, captain,’ Greydove said quietly. He looked at his hands clasped in his lap, his gaze flicking up occasionally to Koorland. ‘You showed no lack of authority in taking my ship.’
‘That was little challenge,’ said Koorland. He saw the shame and hurt in Greydove’s gaze and realised that he was misunderstood. ‘Not because of you, but because of me. I am of the Adeptus Astartes. My size is intimidating, and the legends that surround my kind give me gravitas not even the greatest of Naval officers could match. I could be the least of my Chapter, yet even knowing nothing of me mortal men cannot help but defer to my will. If it is of any merit, you should know that you have my respect and, I believe, continue to have the respect of your crew.’
With a slightly abashed smile, Greydove met Koorland’s gaze.
‘It is of merit, thank you.’ The smile faded and the lieutenant’s brow furrowed. ‘But why should you care? Forgive any impudence, but why would a captain of the Imperial Fists be concerned about the feelings of a lowly Naval lieutenant? Surely you have weightier matters to focus on?’
‘Credit and honour to those who have earned it,’ said Koorland. ‘I make no exception in my remarks, for your conduct has been as worthy of praise as if you were a sergeant under my command who had shown similar qualities.’
The two of them fell silent, leaving Koorland to contemplate the exchange. A few minutes later the clank of the landing gear on decking announced their arrival aboard the Abhorrence. Greydove released his harness first and stood up. Koorland waited a few more seconds, gathering his thoughts.
‘What is the worst that could happen?’ said Greydove.
‘The last of the Imperial Fists will be ridiculed for his pretensions of grandeur, so that the memory of my Chapter will end not only with extinction but infamy?’
‘All right,’ said Greydove, taken aback by Koorland’s bleak forecast. ‘And the best?’
‘The Successors acknowledge that they must come together in the Imperium’s hour of need and we are able to the destroy the Beast.’ Koorland thought about what he said, comparing his goals with the price of failure. He pushed up his harness and faced Greydove, offering a hand in friendship with a smile. The lieutenant took it. ‘You are right, of course. The rewards outweigh the risks, the cause justifies the action. Even if I am to be plunged into ignominy there is still every chance that my brothers in the other Chapters will be able to make common purpose. Thank you.’
‘You may not believe it, but I think that the Emperor has chosen you for a greater purpose,’ said Greydove. ‘Of all the Imperial Fists, you have been spared. It is an honour to be the last, not a burden. I know nothing of Space Marines and their ways, nor of your Chapter, but in the small time since we met you have proven to be resourceful, determined, loyal and courageous. Everything the legends tell us to expect of the Adeptus Astartes. Your brothers, those that were left at Ardamantua, would be proud to have you represent them.’
Koorland smiled at these words, and yet what might be hollow, thoughtless praise struck a chord in the captain. He did not believe himself chosen by any higher power, but he was certain that he would carry himself according to the best traditions of his Chapter. He was an Imperial Fist – the Imperial Fist – and it was in his power to make that mean something.
The door hissed open and a ramp clanged down to the landing bay deck. A squad of Black Templars, their burnished ebon armour gleaming in the bay lights, waited with bolters at the salute. With them stood a warrior in more ornate armour, a red-crested helm under his left arm, a drawn power sword in his right hand. The officer stepped forwards as Koorland descended the ramp.
The Black Templar raised the hilt of his sword level with his chin, blade upright, in a mark of respect. Koorland placed a fist against the eagle on his chest in reply.
‘I am Castellan Clermont. I am to convey you to the Marshal and Chapter Masters.’ The castellan lowered his sword and carefully sheathed it before offering a hand in frie
ndship. Koorland shook it gratefully.
‘My thanks for the welcome, Clermont.’ The two of them started walking across the massive bay, their escort falling in behind as the pair headed between the dormant Thunderhawk gunships. ‘It makes me realise that I have been too long from the company of my fellow Space Marines.’
‘You are amongst brothers again, Koorland. Harbour no doubts in that regard.’
It took a few minutes to reach the hall where the council was to be held. Clermont announced Koorland as two Black Templars swung open the great double doors, and then led the Imperial Fists captain within.
The hall was bedecked with trophies and banners, every square foot of wall covered with gilded skulls, tattered remnants of enemy standards and icons, pieces of tile, timber and masonry from conquered citadels. The floor was obsidian, as was the long table at which sat the council of Chapter Masters; the four of them turned questioning eyes on Koorland as he entered.
Bohemond was instantly recognisable, sat at the head of the table flanked by two banner bearers carrying the Chapter standard and a long pennant in the colours of the Marshal’s personal heraldry. Clermont advanced ahead of Koorland to join his commander and the group of Space Marines around him.
Koorland also recognised Issachar, whose pale armour was in total contrast to Bohemond’s. The Chapter Master of the Excoriators was well known for his bionic arm, which was a plated mass of bare metal and cables; more precisely, known for the manner by which he had come to need it following an overly competitive honour duel with Marshal Bohemond during a previous disagreement. His artificial fingers tapped out a complex rhythm on the surface of the table, which stopped when his gaze met Koorland’s.