More Space Marine Conquests stories from Black Library
THE DEVASTATION OF BAAL
A Blood Angels novel by Guy Haley
ASHES OF PROSPERO
A Space Wolves novel by Gav Thorpe
WAR OF SECRETS
A Dark Angels novel by Phil Kelly
OF HONOUR AND IRON
An Ultramarines novel by Ian St. Martin
More tales of the Space Marines from Black Library
• DARK IMPERIUM •
by Guy Haley
Book one: DARK IMPERIUM
Book two: PLAGUE WAR
THE LORDS OF SILENCE
by Chris Wraight
BLOOD OF IAX
by Robbie MacNiven
• BLACK LEGION •
by Aaron Dembski-Bowden
Book one: THE TALON OF HORUS
Book two: BLACK LEGION
Contents
Cover
Backlist
Title Page
Warhammer 40,000
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
About the Author
An Extract from ‘Knights of Caliban’
A Black Library Publication
It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of His inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that He may never truly die.
Yet even in His deathless state, the Emperor continues His eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
Chapter One
00:10:50
Odoacer System, spinward edge
There was something screaming out in the dark, beyond the system’s edge.
The sound was raw. Animalistic. It spilled across the frequency bands like blood and flooded the vox-systems of Silvana’s Martyrdom, echoing eerily across the cavernous command deck of the Cardinal-class heavy cruiser. Ancient campaign banners hung from the cathedral arches, and towering observation plinths rustled, as if disturbed by the noise.
Commodore-Captain Aldo Ware listened to the scream, as he had every day for the past year. He strained, despite himself, trying to find some pattern in it, some sense that it might be a human voice, rather than just a sound. Sometimes, vox signals were caught in celestial eddies and twisted out of joint. They ricocheted among the stars until they were at last caught and deciphered, often centuries after they’d been sent.
Ware was an older man, born and bred to the void, with craggy features and thinning hair the colour of ice. His uniform was immaculate, thanks mostly to the constant attentions of his aide, Noels.
‘Your recaff, sir.’
Ware looked up and took the steaming mug from the man. Noels was big, ugly and imposing, built for boarding actions rather than for cleaning boots. He made for a surprisingly efficient aide, despite the unpleasant implications of his scarred features and massive, blunt-fingered hands.
‘Listen to it,’ Noels murmured, staring at the closest vox-station. ‘It never stops. Whatever it is must have died by now… but it doesn’t stop.’
Ware nodded. ‘No.’ The sound had been echoing for weeks. Whenever the ship’s vox-operators cycled through the channels, Ware had them stop on it, just to see if it had changed. But it hadn’t. It was always far away, never drawing any closer, never growing any louder. He knew that if it ever changed, things were about to get worse. Even so, if a man could get used to such an awful thing, he had.
Suddenly tired of listening, he gestured sharply to a vox-operator, and the scream fell silent. He leaned back and sipped the recaff, grimacing in pleasure. It was unsweetened, as he preferred. The taste reminded him of long nights at a duty station, and endless labyrinths of reports. Better days. Before the sound. Before… all of it.
Ware glanced towards the viewscreen that stretched across the far side of the ship’s command bridge. He already knew what he’d see. He’d stared at it long enough that it was etched on his mind’s eye. One could not easily shake the image of a galaxy collapsing in on itself. It was as if the very concept of normalcy had been butchered before him.
Ware still remembered the screams of the ship’s Navigator, as the light of the Astronomican flickered and went out. He could only imagine what sort of effect that moment must have had on her – a Navigator’s whole purpose, their reason for being, was tied to that great light. To see it simply… blink out must have been the worst moment of her life. She still hadn’t recovered. Might never recover.
He closed his eyes, trying not to remember. For an instant that seemed to stretch for an eternity, all of reality had gone as dark and as silent as the grave. And when the light returned, however weakly, it revealed vast shapes, rolling in the cosmic deeps. Monsters. Hungry immensities, feeding on wounded stars, or pawing at the innards of gutted vessels.
There had been so many of them. Things that were full of stars and heat, with teeth like broken comets. And smaller ones as well – things that crept and slunk through the lower decks. Things he’d only seen once before, when a ship he’d served on as a junior officer had suffered a momentary Geller field disruption during warp transit. Things he never wanted to see again. He took another gulp of recaff, trying to drown the memory.
‘Any sign of the Guelphian, sir?’ Noels asked, startling him. It was the same question Noels asked every day. The same question Ware asked himself, when he stirred from his nightmare-tainted sleep at the beginning of each duty cycle. Had they returned?
‘No,’ W
are said. ‘No sign of her.’ He looked down into his cup, trying to read his fortune in the leaves. ‘Perhaps that is for the best.’
Noels nodded, stoic as ever. The Guelphian was among those ships that had gone out – on Ware’s orders – and had not returned. Or worse, had come back… changed. All but unrecognisable. Only the Guelphian was unaccounted for.
He held little hope that they’d see her again. His ship’s astropathic choir had yet to fully recover from the sudden darkness. But what transmissions they had picked up on had been enough to give Ware some idea of conditions outside the system. Everything was in upheaval – strange voices prowled the ether, and ghost signals haunted the fleet’s telemetry. The universe was coming apart at the seams.
Worlds – entire sectors – had vanished into the black, their fates unknown. New celestial bodies formed, reshaping the firmament about themselves, as if they had always been. Worse were the whispers of the return of the Emperor’s holy sons – hope was an enemy. It gnawed at a man’s certainty, and made him contemplate foolishness.
There was no hope. The galaxy was dying around him, and there was little he could do save watch and pray. He was not used to feeling so helpless. Old as she was, Silvana’s Martyrdom was still a ship of the line, and capable of reducing a world to slag if he so desired. But all that power was as nothing compared to the horrors he’d seen in the months since the heavens had been rent asunder, and the distant stars extinguished.
His hands tightened about his mug. It had been nearly a year, but the horror of it all was still fresh. He remembered the flicker of weapon batteries, slicing the dark, punching through vessels commanded by those he’d called friends. All gone now, their wreckage drifting spinward. Whatever nightmares haunted them were left to do so alone.
‘Might I ask what you’re reading, sir?’ Noels asked.
Glad of the distraction, Ware looked down at his book, and traced the gilded spine, seeking comfort in the sign of the aquila. He tapped the book with a finger. ‘Sermons. From some preacher of note, though I fear I’ve never heard of them.’
‘Not your usual reading material, sir,’ Noels said gruffly.
Ware smiled. ‘A gift. From his lordship.’ His lordship was Cardinal-Governor Eamon, spiritual and material authority of the Odoacer System. The system was small, by the standards of the Imperium of Man – mostly agri worlds, with only two major planetary bodies. The world of Almace was the blue-green heart of the system, a cardinal world. Its ruler wasn’t as bad as some, and better than most. Eamon wasn’t the sort to bankrupt his own holdings with harsh tithes, but neither was he particularly spendthrift. No more or less corrupt than most in his position.
Noels grunted. ‘A refit – or better, new ships – would have been nicer.’ It was said without any particular rancour. Silvana’s Martyrdom had been old even before the Great Rift had torn a bleeding hole in the galaxy’s gut. In sensible times, the ship would have already been decommissioned and salvaged for parts, her name bestowed upon another, more advanced, vessel. But these were not sensible times.
Ware chuckled. ‘That it would. Still, we’re not for the scrapper’s yard yet.’ He thumped the armrest of his command throne for emphasis. ‘The old girl has a bit of fight left in her, I think. One more, at least.’
Suddenly tired, he rubbed his face. His palm scraped against stubble. He needed a shave, but it seemed a useless affectation at the moment. Worse, a waste of water. Noels glanced at him, frowning. Ware forced a smile and sat back. ‘Status report?’
Noels straightened. Ordinarily, it would have been a junior officer’s job to deliver a report, but Ware loathed taking them away from their duties, unless absolutely necessary. Noels could summarise well enough, and Ware knew he’d already read the briefings. The big man cleared his throat. ‘The malfunction in the intake system on deck twelve has been corrected by the enginseers. All other systems performing within acceptable parameters.’
‘What about the Geller field fluctuations we detected last cycle?’
‘Negligible risk, according to the enginseer prime.’
Ware nodded. ‘Fine. What does Klemistos say?’
The chief astropath hadn’t been as badly affected by recent events as the Navigator, but not for lack of effort. When the Astronomican was snuffed out, it had been Klemistos who had cast his mind into the dark, and given warning of the horrors surging up in the absence of the God-Emperor’s light.
Noels scratched his chin. ‘A few scattered messages. According to him, there’s something interfering with astropathic transmissions. A sort of… static on the wind.’ He glanced at the viewscreen. ‘Not that there’s any wind out here.’
‘There’s a wind,’ Ware said. He rose from his command throne and stretched. Joints popped and muscles protested. Juvenat treatment aside, he was feeling his age. ‘We can’t feel it, but it’s there. A solar wind, slipping between the stars, and pushing all the heavens along a cosmic tide.’
Noels peered at him. ‘Kaminski?’
‘Hardacre. Ode to a Starbound King.’
Noels grunted. ‘Never read that one.’
‘You should.’ Ware stepped to the edge of the observation deck. Around him, the bridge of the ship hummed with activity. Every station below the command deck was manned, either by a rating or a servitor hardwired into a control throne. The atmospherics pumped a chill coolant across the bridge, lowering the temperature. It reduced the risk of heat fatigue in the ancient cogitators that ran most of the vessel’s low-priority systems.
Everything was performing as it should. On the viewscreen, he could see the rest of the fleet, strung out in a patrol formation. Besides Silvana’s Martyrdom, there were two cruisers – the Crassus, a Gothic-class vessel, and the Drusus, a Lunar-class – and Orlanda’s Wrath, an ageing Exorcist-class grand cruiser. Around them, a dozen Sword-class frigates acted as escorts. The fleet had been larger, once. This was all that remained, and he intended to see that it stayed that way.
The monsters had grown fewer, as the light of the Astronomican returned, if weakly. But other things had been left in their wake. Pirates and raiders haunted the asteroid belts that girdled the system, and in the wake of the dark, they’d come. They always had, but things were worse now. A weakened fleet meant freedom to attack at will. Ware had run himself and his crews ragged trying to be everywhere at once.
‘Something is out there.’
Ware turned. ‘Chief Astropath.’ Klemistos was tall and spare. A gaunt, withered husk of a man, he was clad in worn green robes, and leaned against a staff, topped with a golden aquila. He had no eyes – his sockets were scarred ruins, puckered and blackened. Like everyone else, he looked tired.
‘Did you hear me? Something is out there. Creeping towards us.’ Klemistos tapped an ear. ‘I can hear it.’ He looked around, as if whatever it was were close at hand. Crew members drew back, unsettled by Klemistos’ sightless gaze.
Ware stiffened. ‘Hear what, exactly?’
‘I cannot describe it.’
‘Try,’ Ware said.
‘I cannot.’ Klemistos frowned. ‘The universe is coming undone, commodore-captain. The tides of the empyrean roll savage, and things long sleeping have since begun to stir. One of them is coming.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve been trying to catch it these past weeks, but it keeps just out of my perceptions – as if… as if it knows. But I can hear it now… it’s coming.’ He leaned close. ‘Do you understand?’
Ware could feel the eyes of the nearby crew on him. They were nervous. They were always nervous, these days. But they had reason to be. The galaxy was unravelling around them. So far, the system had been spared the worst of it, but for how much longer?
‘Where?’
Klemistos pointed to the viewscreen. ‘Out there. The spinward edge.’
Ware frowned. Asking for specifics from Klemistos was a waste of time. He looked down at the dregs in
the bottom of his cup and gave them an experimental swirl. He was going to need more recaff.
He returned to his command throne. As he stepped onto the platform, holo-displays flickered to life and swarmed about him. They jostled for his attention, and he gestured, sending them fleeing. At his command, a star map flared into view. The spinward edge of the system. Not far. A few hours – a day, at standard power. Ware took another slow sip of recaff. An anomaly could mean anything – a stray astropathic signal, a solar flare. Or something worse.
Decision made, he activated the deck-vox. There were orders to be relayed. The fleet would split. His captains wouldn’t be happy about it, but they would follow orders. That was the most important thing, these days. Discipline was what kept the fleet in one piece. Kept it functioning, despite the relentless pace of the past few months, despite the losses and dwindling resources. And not just the fleet. The system as a whole was a machine on the verge of breakdown.
The cardinal-governor had kept it running on sheer will, or so it seemed to Ware. The system was largely self-sufficient, which meant the lack of trade coming in wasn’t as big a blow as it might otherwise have been. But there were already food shortages on a number of worlds, and it was getting harder to keep the fleet running on continuous cycles. Too, there was growing unrest in the outer worlds, not to mention among the bloody asteroid miners. Then, that wasn’t particularly new.
None of it was, really. But whatever had happened to the galaxy was bringing it all to the surface, all at once. One crisis after another. He could only pray that this – whatever it was – wasn’t another problem for the pile.
Orlanda’s Wrath, the cruisers and half of the frigates would return to Almace. Keel, the captain of Orlanda’s Wrath, had protested, but Ware had ignored him. Keel was capable enough, but unimaginative. Dogged on defence, but lacking in initiative. He’d been passed over for command of the fleet twice, but seemed to bear no grudge. Indeed, when word had come that Ware was to be in command, Keel had been visibly relieved. Ware hoped that if the worst happened, Keel was up to the task of managing the fleet.
Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds Page 1