by Guy Haley
‘The enemy responds,’ said Guilliman. ‘All fleet to engage full thrust. We fall upon them without mercy.’
Shipmaster Brahe stood from his throne and leaned upon the array of viewscreens that clustered about his station.
‘Macragge’s Honour to full thrust,’ he said. ‘All fleet to full thrust.’
‘All fleet to full thrust!’ repeated the Master Divulgatus to his opposite numbers across the fleet. A ripple of activity spread out across the tiered work banks and station pits of the deck. Field-integrity technicians adjusted the energy matrices that stabilised the ship’s frame, compensating for the coming acceleration. Enginarium tech-priests passed on minute adjustments to their counterparts deep in the ship’s engine halls. Reactor outputs were carefully monitored.
‘Reactor ready,’ reported a metal-faced tech-adept.
‘Enginarium ready,’ said a man in a smart ensign’s uniform.
A coterie of electro-priests began the hymn, Body Electric. Tech-priests muttered their prayers over their desks.
The Master Motivatus gripped the rail of his podium. Around him in a circular array a dozen servitors sat, the calculations required to move the Macragge’s Honour from its current position into its attack run flickering through their butchered brains. Cogitators bleeped out rapid beats of binharic as the data was transferred to them.
‘Compliance. Engines operating at maximum efficiency,’ the servitors said with one voice.
‘Full thrust in three, two, one. Mark,’ said the Master Motivatus.
‘Mark. Engaging.’
A rumbling sounded aft, drawing closer like the approach of a great engine. A tremor passed up the ship, growing stronger. Machines burbled as it passed through their fabric. It joined with the never ending thrum of the ship’s systems, became one with it, and passed from the crew’s notice.
Acceleration was a gentle push in the chest, a trailing heaviness that dragged at the heels.
The Macragge’s Honour built up to one hundredth of the speed of light. Around it, the fleet’s engines blinked into life as all the vessels began their acceleration, holding formation perfectly.
108/Beta-Kalapus-9.2 grew rapidly.
The first round of projectiles came at them not long after. The smaller destroyers escorting the larger cruisers and battleships fired anti-munitions weapons in response. A series of pinprick explosions started up and soon became a constant accompaniment to the advance. A handful of torpedoes got through, dangerous for their kinetic energy more than the payloads they carried, but they exploded upon the void shields of the ships, hundreds of metres short of the hulls. The shields blinked and flashed as they shunted destructive energies into the warp.
Guilliman watched without concern. Such long-range exchanges were never decisive, nor particularly damaging. On the main tacticarium, the fingers of Guilliman’s claw formation expanded. He tapped out a few orders on a data-slate to adjust the positioning, but for the moment the most important part of his plan was being performed correctly. The Null Ships were moving between the Pit of Raukos and the planet. Their presence would disrupt any daemonic incursion that might come through, while Sisters of Silence and Grey Knights Adeptus Astartes were stationed across the fleet, ready to deal with any on-board manifestations. There would be no supernatural aid for the enemy.
108/Beta-Kalapus-9.2 grew larger and larger. It was a dull, orange ball of a world with ice caps of frozen water. Miserable patches of green covered its equatorial regions, but in the main it was desert. Another low-grade world too remote to settle.
They were close enough now that the engine flares of the enemy were visible to the naked eye. The Chaos ships were spreading out, attempting to intercept the fingers of the claw head on. Guilliman watched their manoeuvring. There was no one warlord in control; he could see that by the way the ships were operating. They moved in close groups, each warband sticking to its own.
Chaos resisted authority. It was a weakness the primarch had exploited time and again.
Four smaller groups struck out on their own, poorly coordinated with each other and with the fifth, largest group. This last formation made up the majority of the fleet, and its ships moved in good order, fanning out in a standard interception pattern towards the leftmost of the two leading Imperial battlegroups.
The challenge was there, in the Word Bearers fleet. They were behind the construction of many temples to the Dark Gods. Something of the scale of the orbital fane was rarely undertaken by other traitors. The Word Bearers were fanatical in their devotion, raising giant temples on the worlds they conquered, and they would fight to the last to defend them.
The leading elements of Guilliman’s fleet started firing as soon as they approached to within a million kilometres. Broad spreads of torpedoes fanned out in intersecting patterns. Cannons hurled multi-ton anti-ship shells at the enemy. Such munitions would take minutes to arrive, and most would not hit their targets, but they were not intended to. Guilliman was closing off avenues of manoeuvre for the traitors with streams of explosives, forcing them into the positions he wanted.
The second finger of his claw was intercepted by one of the smaller enemy battlegroups. Both were travelling at such speed that only a brief flurry of broadsides was exchanged before their respective velocities tore them away from each other. The discharge of powerful nova cannons obscured the combat. A brighter light suggested a reactor death had consumed a vessel. When the augurs cleared and the light died away, the Imperial battlegroup was speeding on, leaving one of its cruisers wallowing afire. The traitor fleet had come off worse, being badly mauled. Four grand cruisers made up the core of its force, surrounded by a crowd of lesser ships. Two of the cruisers had been hit hard: one listed off the flightpath of its fellows, engines out, while fires burned all along the side of the other, and it was falling behind. The remaining two cruisers were coming straight for the flat wall of the claw’s palm.
Guilliman’s hands tapped out targeting data on his instruments. ‘Wall grouping gamma – target and annihilate traitor battlegroup,’ he said. The Master Divulgatus relayed his orders to the relevant ships.
‘They are rash’ said Tribune Colquan. ‘They cannot get by us.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Guilliman. ‘They may be attempting to disrupt our formation.’
‘To damage one battlegroup? We have seven, and the wall of the claw-palm.’
‘Then to distract us, or perhaps there has been a falling out between their warlords. Or maybe they are running.’ Guilliman took his eyes from his displays and the tacticarium to spare the Custodes a glance. ‘I make no assumptions. Neither should you.’ As he spoke, his scar itched, reminding him of the last time he had been in error, a situation the primarch had sworn privately never to repeat.
Colquan’s lip curled. He disliked being lectured on tactics. Guilliman did not relent. Though they remained superlative individual warriors, the Adeptus Custodes had rarely served as generals since the old times, and centuries of isolationism had dulled what command abilities they had once possessed.
‘Never underestimate the enemy, Colquan. Nine times out of ten, a mixed group of traitors will be disorganised and internally divisive, but the tenth time they will surprise and destroy you. Their greatest lords can forge the most antagonistic warbands into a devastating fighting force. Their intentions here are counter-envelopment and delay. Their sorcerers will be attempting to summon daemonic allies while their battlefleet keeps us occupied.’
He glanced at his concilia psykana, several Space Marine and Primaris Librarians stationed close at hand. The mortal humans looked pained by the nearby Sisters of Silence.
‘It is so,’ confirmed their leader, Codicier Donas Maxim of the Aurora Chapter. ‘There is a weakening in the veil. The warp is unquiet.’
‘Then they are attempting to bring in warp-spawned aid. It will not help them.’ Guilliman put from his mind the uns
peakable things the sorcerers would be doing; the creatures of the gods would only come to offerings of blood, souls and pain.
‘My lord,’ said the Master Augurum. ‘Primary target will be within range in ten minutes, nine seconds.’
‘He’s fifty seconds off in his estimation,’ said Colquan.
‘If you prefer, you can take his place, tribune.’
Colquan made a dismissive noise.
The main body of the Chaos fleet was coming into range of the Imperial battlegroups. The various signifiers for each enemy vessel acquired screeds of tagged data as the augurs of the fleet gathered more information on them. Five ancient battleships formed the core of the chief grouping. Three were of the Word Bearers Traitor Legion, as Guilliman had expected; the remaining two belonged to the Iron Warriors. Ancient beacons in their corrupted hulls broadcast codes dating back to the Great Crusade. Guilliman recognised the names of two of the ships. The fleets of Chaos often differed to those of the Imperium, incorporating many classes of ship no longer produced. Their battleships were spear-headed things, sleek and deadly – superior patterns from a more enlightened time.
The remaining three subgroups of Chaos vessels were speeding past the outstretched fingers of the claw to get behind the Imperial fleet and engage their vulnerable rear. One flotilla bore the markings of the Lords of Pain, a once-loyal Chapter whose full strength had turned to Chaos during the Noctis Aeterna; the rest were motley collections of pirate vessels and mixed ships from Traitor Legions and other renegades.
The three lesser battlegroups could be ignored, for now. Space Marine ships were line breakers, intended to crash through enemy lines and deliver their warriors to the surface before disengaging. They were less effective in void combat.
The battleships were a bigger problem. They had arrayed themselves into an arrowhead that stepped up as it went back. A formation like that could do serious damage to the wall as the two formations passed through each other.
As one, the enemy opened fire with their prow weapons. Lance beams slashed across the void, splashing to blinding displays of displacement energies on the void shields. A glancing blow off the Macragge’s Honour’s forward shield lit up the deck with lilac energy discharge. Energy waves from an off-target nova cannon shot sent ripples of sparks over the shields of the six ships nearest the flagship.
‘They are targeting our position,’ said the Master Augurum.
‘Any fool can see that,’ muttered Colquan.
The tribune’s contempt for baseline humanity troubled Guilliman.
‘You have spent your life guarding the Emperor, yet you forget who the Emperor guards in His turn,’ said Guilliman. ‘Be more forgiving.’
‘As you wish,’ said Colquan. Traditionally, the Adeptus Custodes had taken orders only from their own officers and the Emperor. That was until Guilliman had been declared Imperial Regent: the Emperor’s living voice.
‘Hold course,’ Guilliman ordered. ‘All power to forward void shields. Battlegroups Three and Five, break off and engage outflanking enemy elements. Target all Lords of Pain Chapter assets. All fleet to fire on targets of opportunity as subsidiary enemy groupings pass. All batteries load for close-range combat. Prepare prow weapons for forward fire. Charge lance batteries to maximum. Nova cannons to draw firing solutions ready for my order.’
Various stations reported their understanding of Guilliman’s order. Activity on the command deck intensified.
On the forward oculus, the ships grew from flecks to objects the size of models, then bigger, swelling as the Indomitus Crusade fleet swept in at high speed. Perspective in the void lies. When the ships seemed close enough to touch, they continued to grow. Their spear prows went from scalpel sharp to giant, blunt cliff walls bristling with sensor spikes and weapons cupolas.
‘My lord?’ asked Brahe questioningly.
‘No order to fire,’ said Guilliman.
A storm of laser and solid-shot fire blasted from the forward batteries of the Chaos ships. Guilliman ignored it and swept his gaze over the enemy, seeking weak points no augurs could see. Another barrage of lance strikes sparked off the forward shields. The majority of fire was coming at the Macragge’s Honour, the Chaos battleships adjusting position to track its approach.
‘Forward void shields failing!’ called out the Master Scutum.
‘We have multiple target locks on the flagship,’ reported the Master Augurum.
‘My lord?’ said Brahe again. He was remarkably calm, more curious to see what the primarch would do than anything. Men like Brahe were rare.
‘A moment,’ said Guilliman. His fingers danced along the gel screen, the giving material distorting as he touched it. Schematics and augur data flashed up in quick succession on phosphor displays and minor hololiths. Guilliman read each page quicker than a man could blink, processing volumes’ worth of data in seconds.
There.
A void shield flicker, out of syncopation with its pulse modulators.
A weak spot.
‘That vessel, the Steel Lord,’ he said decisively. ‘Target these positions.’ His hands danced over his displays, depressing keys and activating holomarks in a blur. An image of the Steel Lord materialised upon a secondary hololith in front of Brahe’s throne. Targeting data for a score of ships appeared almost as quickly.
The orders were disseminated via datasquirt across the fleet. A flurry of affirmations were returned via the Master Divulgatus.
‘All vessels confirm targets acquired.’
‘Then open fire,’ said Guilliman.
The reserved fire of ten great ships of the line flared out at once, all aimed at the Steel Lord.
Battleships could withstand hours of pounding. Layered void shields protected their hulls, and the hulls themselves were metres thick, their vital cores hidden deep inside. Even gutted, a battleship might be salvaged and fight again, for their frames were forged from adamantium.
But a primarch was in command of the Imperial fleet. And as a master knapper knows how to strike a flint just so to cause it to split, so Roboute Guilliman knew how to slay a starship. One tiny weakness was exploited, and the ship was cracked wide by overwhelming firepower.
The Steel Lord’s void shields were overwhelmed instantly, undone by the frequency flicker in their generators. Lance beams spread themselves as golden pools before the shields gave out with a guttering, brandy fire. Thousands of tons of solid and explosive ordnance followed. The Steel Lord weathered the impacts for a good twenty seconds before the sparking fires on its hull gathered into one giant eructation of flame that broke its spine. A second later, the reactor blew. A miniature sun engulfed the ship in a perfect yellow sphere. The oculus of the Macragge’s Honour dimmed in response. The edges of the reactor nova touched the shields of the Steel Lord’s sister ships, bringing them down in storms of squirming purple lightning.
The Imperial fleet had not slowed, and the enemy ships were vast in their oculi.
‘All ships, engagement manoeuvres!’ commanded Guilliman. ‘Fire at will!’
Expertly, the formation of the palm broke apart, passing between the enemy vessels. The Macragge’s Honour punched through the boiling cloud left behind by the Steel Lord. Wreckage flashed to nothing on its void shields and then the Imperial flagship was through, its guns raking down the sides of the exposed Chaos vessels.
The Imperial ships fired their broadsides. The Chaos ships fired back, but two of the remaining four were shieldless, and they peeled away, venting flaming atmosphere. As the palm wall went through the enemy formation, the three fingers of the claw not engaged with the lesser fleets had turned and were coming back, firing directly at the vulnerable engine stacks of the Chaos vessels. A titanic explosion rocked one into an uncontrollable spin as its stacks went up. It rolled away, missing its stern.
There were no cheers on the deck of the Macragge’s Honour. All worked
to ensure victory. Celebration could wait.
The Chaos formation was disrupted. The fingers of the claw harried the remaining three battleships and their escorts as the palm raced on towards the orbital platform under construction at 108/Beta-Kalapus-9.2’s highest orbital anchor.
The fane was far from finished, but its basic framework was in place: an eight-pointed star like a compass wheel, the symbol the priests of the Dark Gods called the octed. Strange lights played about its centre.
As fire flashed behind them, the ships of the palm approached unopposed. The light about the hub of the wheel of Chaos shone brighter.
‘Ninety degrees to starboard,’ ordered Brahe. ‘Show it our big guns. Target enemy battlegroup with the portside batteries.’
The ship rumbled around as torpedoes from the smaller craft accompanying it raced towards the octed. The turn was performed in the face of decelerative force, and the vessel moaned as it was forced around, but it was done quickly. The orbital moved out of view of the forward oculus. Side views were brought onto the main hololith tacticarium.
‘Open fire!’ roared Guilliman as the ship lined up. ‘Bring it down!’
Banks of macrocannons boomed in series along the side of the battleship, their recoil making the command deck shudder. Energy had to be diverted to the integrity fields that held the ship together, so great was the violence of the guns combined with that of the turn. Giant munitions slammed into the incomplete temple-station, pruning it of spear-tipped arms and breaking its hub. Bombs designed to kill whole worlds were deployed to ensure its demise. After two volleys, all that remained of the octed was an area of spinning orbital debris a thousand kilometres across and still expanding.
‘And so they see, no fane to their Dark Gods will they raise that I shall not cast down!’ said Guilliman. ‘These traitors oppose the will of the Emperor’s last faithful son. They will learn the error of their ways. Ten thousand years some of them have defied the Emperor. Their lives end now!’
There was no vessel powerful enough to defy the Macragge’s Honour. There were a few remaining Chaos battleships, and under different stars they might have been a match for the venerable flagship, but the Imperial fleet outnumbered the traitors and Guilliman wielded his armada expertly. The traitors were disunited. The last battleships were quickly isolated. Unwilling to act in concert at first, then rapidly made unable to do so, the disparate battlegroups of the Chaos fleet could do nothing to halt the Macragge’s Honour as it powered through the debris field of the temple-station and towards the world beyond. As the Imperial fleet swung into orbit, the stratosphere flashed to the discharge of ground-based defence lasers.