Two
Anger
Moments. Moments was all it took for the largest and most powerful ship in the Flesh Tearers arsenal to ready itself for war. Weapon ports ground open, their shutters hoisted free by lengths of chain, each link stained by the sweat and blood of vat-muscled serfs. Weapon batteries hummed in rhythmic pulses as they built to firing power. The engines bucked in their housings, rumbling as they prepared for sudden acceleration. Corridors, access ducts and intersections filled with gun-servitors, the red pinpricks of their targeting lasers casting the dark passages in hellish relief. Three hundred Flesh Tearers assembled in the assault bays, stowing themselves in drop pods that were lowered from their cradles into launch position, or boarding the Thunderhawk gunships that sat fuelled on deck.
Every non-active serf had been thawed and pumped full of adrenal-stimms, handed a welding las and dispersed around the ship to await signs of structural damage. The bio-freezing was a harsh and unusual practice. It left serfs disorientated and ate away at their sense of self. After several incubations most behaved more like servitors than men. It was a necessary process, though. The conditions aboard a Flesh Tearers warship were spartan and the lives of serfs short; there were enough things vying to kill them without age lending a hand. Replenishing their numbers meant withdrawing from combat, an act Amit was unwilling to countenance.
‘Status?’ Ronja winced as a series of spiked mechadendrites emerged from her throne and stabbed into the auxiliary jacks studding her spine. Her body spasmed as the serpentine cabling locked in place with a clacking hiss. A tremor rippled across her skin, distorting her features as her nervous system adjusted to the mono-molecular electro-filaments that slipped from the tip of the mechadendrites to infiltrate her musculature and coil around her heart. She was now linked directly to the Victus’s power core and regulatory cogitators. The electros would keep her mind and body functioning even beyond death, allowing her to command the vessel until the battle was over.
The storm of motion had lasted only moments. The clamour of movement ceased, the agitated reports of cogitators settled, and the klaxons dulled and fell silent.
‘Providence measures complete, mistress. All hands signal full readiness.’ Bohdan, Ronja’s aide, looked like a badly dubbed pict recording as he spoke, the movements of his mouth at odds with the words coming from it. One week out of the training schola and Bohdan had been late to duty. He had wasted precious seconds straightening his uniform and slicking his hair back. She had seen to it that he would never look polished again, injecting the muscles of his face with a wasting mix of chemicals. In time, if he redeemed himself, she would have his mouth replaced by a vox implant and see that any longer-lasting effects were retarded. If not, she would leave him to devolve into a drooling mess.
Ronja glanced over the data-slate Bohdan handed her and nodded; it confirmed what she already knew to be true – the Victus was battle ready. Deep in the marrow of her bones, Ronja felt the battle-barge’s machine-spirit. ‘Helmsman–’
She paused as the bridge doors hissed open and the familiar thud of armoured boots sounded over the background murmur of her crew. ‘Master Amit.’ Ronja dipped her head in greeting as the lord of the Flesh Tearers ascended the ramp to her command platform. The squad of armsmen guarding the platform issued hurried salutes as they stepped aside, visibly shaken as the Chapter Master moved past them.
It was a sentiment she sympathised with. Amit’s presence made her uneasy. His temperament was not well suited to the detached nature of Naval combat. The tension in his body was palpable. He was like a caged beast, constantly pacing in an effort to exhaust the energy he’d sooner be using to rip apart his foe. Once, he had ordered her to let an enemy vessel close, to let its warriors board the Victus. He had spoken of sparing the vessel in order to salvage it. Ronja ground her teeth at the memory. She knew even then that he was lying.
‘Shipmistress.’ Amit shot her a look in greeting before shifting his gaze to the hololith. ‘What do we know of our enemy?’
‘Very little, lord. Judging by their warships and engagement pattern, they are, or at least were, human. They have made no declaration of allegiance or intent.’
‘They powered their weapons?’
Ronja nodded.
‘Then their intent is clear enough.’ Amit stood a moment, studying the hololith. ‘Bring them death.’
‘Lord.’ Ronja hid a smile and placed her fist against her chest in salute. Amit had appraised the situation and not found her lacking. He would leave her to her task. Pride swelled in Ronja’s heart as she turned back to the main tactical hololith. ‘Helmsman, hold position. Ask the Fist and Shield to form up and stand ready,’ said Ronja. She would never dare issue an order to a Flesh Tearer, let alone the captain of a strike cruiser. Even with Amit’s support, she had no doubt that such an act would see her swiftly join the ranks of drooling servitors that swept the waste from the engine vents. If I were lucky, she thought, darkly.
‘Vox-link established, mistress. Request relayed.’
‘Launch torpedoes, full spread.’ Ronja fixed her gaze on the tactical hololith as the Zurconian fleet closed on them.
‘Aye, mistress.’
Six triangular ident-icons sprang onto the display as the silos in the Victus’s prow snapped open and a salvo of melta torpedoes shot into the void. The icons streaked across the tactical display as the torpedoes continued to accelerate, their onboard thrusters hurling them towards the Zurconian ships.
‘Second salvo ready, mistress.’ The metallic grille replacing the gunnery serf’s mouth leant his words a gnarled tone.
The sound pleased Ronja. It served as a reminder that those controlling the Victus’s weapons batteries were strangers to both pity and mercy. ‘Fire.’ At her order, another clutch of torpedoes blinked onto the hololith.
Her eyes narrowed as she shifted her gaze to the far side of the hololith and the Zurconian ships, weighing them up, measuring their strength through virtue of the endless stream of data scrolling across the display. Compared to my ship they are… She shook her head and muttered a curse, admonishing herself for allowing such a notion to enter her thoughts. The Victus was not hers. She was its mistress, and served only as long as its machine-spirit would have her.
The Victus was a mighty vessel, capable of challenging any ship the Imperium had in its arsenal, but the Flesh Tearers flagship lacked the long-range firepower afforded by lance batteries. Like all Space Marine vessels, it was designed for surgical attacks, angling in with only its super-reinforced prow armour showing, to deliver a barrage of ordnance before peeling off and diving back for another attack run. At current range, the spread of torpedoes would be unlikely to cause serious damage to the Zurconian ships. Indeed, that was not her intention. The torpedoes would slow the Zurconians down, force them to break formation.
‘Third salvo loaded, mistress,’ said the gunnery serf.
‘Launch.’ Ronja allowed herself a smile. Endless drills and combat simulations had birthed a crew at peak efficiency. Yet she knew that sweat in training was not the only cost. Far below, in the ordnance decks, dozens of serfs had already given their lives. The second and third salvos had been ready too quickly; there was no way the serfs could have cleared the firing chamber. As each subsequent salvo was fired, the preceding gang of loaders would have been incinerated, boiled to ash by the backwash of thrusters.
‘If they want us, then they’ll have to fly through hell to get to us,’ she said, revelling in a rush of adrenaline. Death in the void was as cold a thing as man had witnessed, but the thought of it warmed her veins like thrice-distilled rice wine.
At the edge of her mind, a press of system reports clamoured for attention. She ignored them, her eyes remaining fixed on the hololith, studying the Zurconians as the torpedoes streaked towards them. She tracked and interpreted every fluctuation in engine output, each subtle change in trajectory and cou
rse. Patience – a single gap in their line was all they needed. She formed the words in her mind as she felt the Victus’s machine-spirit rail against her caution. It wanted to attack. To unleash the fury of its guns. To pict-record the silent screams of the dying. It wanted to kill. Now. Patience, she repeated, layering her measured tone over the snarl of the ship. When the time came, they would strike hard and fast, exploiting the Zurconians’ inevitable error before they were even aware of their mistake.
‘Comms, open a channel to the strike cruisers.’ Ronja issued the order without shifting her gaze.
‘Mistress.’ The comms-man nodded and manipulated a series of dials on his console. In response a pair of hololiths stuttered to life on the arms of Ronja’s command throne. The images did not hold the crisp detail of the tactical hololith or onboard pict viewers, and looked to be assembled from thick grains of light stood on top of one another. On the left, Captain Aamon of the Bleeding Fist. On the right, Captain Eligus of the Shield of Baal.
‘Greetings, lord captains.’ Ronja addressed the Flesh Tearers without looking at them, her attention fixed on the Zurconian fleet.
‘Shipmistress,’ Aamon returned her greeting.
Eligus said nothing.
‘The Victus will draw the Zurconians’ fire and weaken their shields,’ Ronja began. ‘I will drive a wedge through their formation, allowing you to move in from the flanks and pick them apart a ship at a time.’
‘As the Blood wills it.’ Aamon’s assent was typically brief.
‘We will hold position as requested, but do not have us waiting long,’ Eligus spat, his contempt for Ronja as obvious as the thick scar that bisected his face.
She bit back a reply. She knew he hated her. The captain of the Fourth Company was first among the Flesh Tearers warship captains, and had openly questioned Amit’s decision to place her in command of the Victus, an honour that should have fallen to him. True, she was not as physically strong or robust as a Space Marine, and death would likely render her a soulless husk long before it claimed Eligus, but she had been crafted to be a shipmistress. It was her sole purpose for being. The cognitive and neural enhancements wired into her mind made her sharper than even an Adeptus Astartes. Moreover, she was not subject to the same outbursts of temper that led to rash decisions. No, in this theatre of war she was neither their subordinate nor their equal. She was their better. A tight smile of resolve drew across her face as the Victus’s machine-spirit growled in agreement.
‘The escorts will–’ Ronja paused, distracted by a line of code spiralling across the hololith. A shiver ran up her cheek, terminating in her eye as she brought the data-packet to the fore of her mind. ‘Two of the Zurconian cruisers are breaking off from the main formation. They will encroach on our flank within ten minutes, Terran. Lord Aamon, the Bleeding Fist is best placed to head them off. The Redeemer can provide support.’
A bark of static preceded Aamon’s reply. ‘Agreed.’
‘Lord Eligus, the Shield must be ready to accelerate to attack speed once the Zurconians break formation. We’ll cut across their right flank and link up with the Bleeding Fist to swing around their rear.’
Eligus grunted and cut the holo-feed.
‘Full thruster burn, bring us to strafing speed.’ Sergeant Namtar felt the shift as the Redeemer gathered momentum. He drew his hand through the shimmering holo-display projecting from the command console. In response, everything but the two Zurconian vessels he was hunting and the Flesh Tearers strike cruiser Bleeding Fist faded from view. ‘Captain Aamon, we have your flank,’ Namtar signalled the Fist.
‘Acknowledged. Target the lead vessel then rejoin the Victus,’ Aamon’s voice sounded in Namtar’s helm.
‘As the Blood wills it.’ Namtar regarded the Zurconian vessels as they swelled to fill his hololith. They were each many times the size of the Redeemer. His ship was as a child challenging a pair of gods. He grinned. As a novitiate Scout, stood in defence of Holy Terra, he had cut down a foul servant of the Archenemy – a many-limbed beast that died in pieces, ripped apart by a thousand strokes of Namtar’s chainsword. He frowned at the memory. Size didn’t matter. Aggression and tenacity were everything. He would tear strips off the Zurconian vessels, blasting apart their hulls until they were reduced to burned-out shells. ‘Valac, their ident-tags.’ Namtar barked the command, eager to know the names of his foes.
‘Sensorium scanning now,’ the Techmarine answered without looking up from his console, the sand-red of his armour cast in copper relief by the low light of the bridge.
Namtar nodded in approval. Valac had been on board for less than a Terran week, and had yet to prove himself in combat. His predecessor, Techmarine Ose, had died in the Redeemer’s last engagement.
‘Scan complete. The lead Zurconian vessel is the Paladin. The other is the Divine Light.’ Strobing ident-tags flashed onto the holo-display as Valac spoke.
‘The Divine Light, again?’ Brother Zegan’s voice was thick with disdain. The Redeemer’s gunner was a veteran of Naval engagements and had served on the Gladius-class frigate since before Namtar took command. ‘It seems that only the unimaginative are allowed to name vessels in this millennium,’ he snorted, referring to a cruiser they had recently destroyed. Yet his jest was a thin mask for his rage: that such heretics would claim anything as divine burned him to his core.
‘You’d rather we let this one pass, Zegan?’ Namtar smiled. Unlike the vast strike cruisers and battle-barges it accompanied to war, the Redeemer was a relatively small ship. Besides Namtar, Zegan and Valac were the only other Flesh Tearers aboard. The three sat close together in the armoured housing of the bridge’s raised dais, and were as close as any brotherhood.
‘I’d rather we had a different honorific to write on the wall when we kill these wretches.’ Zegan cast Namtar a dark grin, indicating a bulkhead to his left. The plate of adamantium was rough-hewn, scarred by the manifold names of the ships the Redeemer had destroyed.
‘You need to use a smaller blade if we’re to fit anything else on there,’ said Namtar.
Zegan laughed. ‘I’ll see what I can find.’
‘Bring us in high over its bow, drop hard when we reach battery range, and bring us to attack speed along its underside,’ said Namtar.
Valac muttered a raft of machine prayers as he began programming the course into the navigation and tactical systems. Below him, in the data-trenches, a mass of servitors and cogitators chattered with increased fervour, turning his commands into something the Redeemer’s machine-spirit could interpret.
‘Three minutes to engagement range,’ said Zegan. On the gunner’s mark, a slew of icons trailed across his console, indicating that the legion of servitors and Chapter-serfs manning the lower decks were battle ready.
Namtar consulted the hololith. The Bleeding Fist was trailing to their port side. Tapping a button on his console, he signalled attack readiness to Brother-Captain Aamon.
‘Incoming fire,’ Zegan said as the Redeemer’s sensorium registered a beam of super-heated energy exploding off their port side. Yet his warning held no trace of alarm. Despite the torrent of lethal weapons fire stabbing towards them, the Flesh Tearer could have been reporting a power outage in one of the chamber’s luminators.
‘Entering ordinance range in five,’ said Valac.
‘All hands brace for impact.’ Namtar issued the order over the ship-wide comm, and gripped the armrests of his command throne.
The Redeemer was too small and moving much too fast for the Paladin to lock on to with its lance batteries, but the Zurconian cruiser’s gun batteries would throw out a dense wash of explosive missiles and plasma bursts. Without the protection of its shields, the Redeemer would be as a naked man swimming through an ocean of glass.
‘Shields holding within tolerance.’ Valac relayed the update as the Redeemer shuddered, rocked by the Paladin’s weapons. The frigate’s shields fl
ared as it drove deeper into the maelstrom, exploding with incandescent energy as they repelled the worst of the fire.
‘Hold course.’ Namtar leant forwards in his chair, glaring out through the main occulus as the crenellated hull of the Zurconian vessel loomed large, rushing to meet them like the side of some giant mountain. ‘Keep our approach tight to their prow.’ Like most warships, the bulk of the Paladin’s weapon batteries lined its flanks. A tight insertion line was all that stood between the Redeemer and oblivion. If they drifted too far to either of its sides, they were dead.
Seven thunderous heartbeats passed as they closed on the Paladin. Warning sigils and strobing luminators flashed over them as the Redeemer continued to shudder, ravaged by the swathe of ordnance loosed against it. Finally, Valac spoke. ‘We’ve cleared the prow.’
‘Now, down.’ Namtar snapped the command, bracing himself as the Redeemer dived. What his ship lacked in firepower, it more than made up for in thrust and agility. The hull around them squealed in protest as the manoeuvring boosters fired on full, arresting their course and spearing them downwards under the Paladin’s belly. Even with the motion dampeners in his armour and the mag-locks holding him in his command throne, Namtar had to fight to stay in his seat. ‘Target launch bays and gun hatches.’
‘Firing,’ Zegan said.
The deck shuddered as the Redeemer’s weapon batteries opened up in anger, raking the Paladin with tight streams of plasma and searing laser blasts.
‘Optimum range achieved,’ Valac said as the Redeemer closed to terminal distance with the Paladin. It was a testament to both the Redeemer’s construction and Valac’s skill as a pilot that they did not simply collide with the Zurconian vessel.
‘Launching.’ Zegan tapped a series of dials on his console, opening the Redeemer’s silos to send a barrage of missiles up into the Paladin. ‘Pass complete. Clearing their aft in three.’
‘Get us out of range,’ Namtar ordered.
The Redeemer’s weapons fell silent as it accelerated to maximum speed, boosting clear of the Paladin before its guns could reacquire them.
Sons of Wrath - Andy Smillie Page 4
