The Ultramarines Omnibus

by Graham McNeill

  Save for the buildings at the very edge of the valley, Uriel could see no discernable pattern to the city’s construction. Here and there he recognised flourishes of Macraggian architecture, but where there should have been space and light, he saw newer, brasher constructions, towering carbuncles overshadowing the elegance of the oldest buildings.

  The Thunderhawk gained altitude and altered course so that it was flying parallel to the valley. Uriel could see that the valley floor rose the further into the mountain it penetrated until it reached a long, defensive wall, a foaming waterfall at its centre, that in turn rose towards another, shorter wall as the valley narrowed. The stepped structure of the city’s defences continued towards the valley’s end and now that he could look down into the city, he saw ruined areas, collapsed structures that looked as though they had been shelled. Hundreds of jumbled structures squatted here in the frigid shadows of the high towers of the deep valley, thin plumes of white smoke rising from a multitude of cooking fires.

  The sense of disappointment in what had become of Guilliman’s legacy was a physical pain in Uriel’s chest. He sat back in his captain’s chair and felt his fists clenching again.

  He looked over as he heard a shocked intake of breath from Learchus.

  ‘What is this?’ he breathed. ‘Are we too late, has the war begun?’

  ‘No,’ said Uriel sadly. ‘It has not.’

  THE GUNSHIPS OF the Space Marines touched down on the upper landing platforms of Erebus city, the screaming of their engines drowning out the pomp and ceremony of the hundred-strong band that played rousing tunes of welcome. Uriel marched down the ramp of the gunship, feeling the sharp bite of the cold air as he moved away from the heat of the engines.

  ‘Now this is a welcome,’ said Pasanius, raising his voice to be heard.

  Uriel nodded in agreement. The platforms were awash with men, thousands upon thousands of soldiers drawn up in ordered ranks before the Space Marine gunships. Vast banners flapped from standard poles thirty metres high, supported by a dozen men with suspensors and guy ropes.

  Gold braid fluttered and the blue and white of the Ultramarines Chapter symbol rippled hugely on their fabric. The company banners of all ten of the Ultramarine companies were present as well as those of individual heroes from Chapter legend. At the forefront of the banners, Uriel could see the heraldry of Captain Invictus, and next to that, the banner of the Fourth company. He did a double take as he saw that a battle honour in the shape of the white rose of Pavonis had been added to the design.

  Chaplain Astador joined him from the ramp of his own Thunderhawk.

  ‘It seems your fame precedes you, Captain Ventris,’ he said.

  Uriel nodded, staring at this full ceremonial reception. He had expected to be met, but this was insane. How much time and effort had been put into this welcome that could have been better spent strengthening the city’s defences or training? Did these people not realise that they would soon be at war?

  An honour guard of perhaps two hundred armoured troopers formed up in ordered ranks either side of the Thunderhawks, dressed in ridiculously impractical blue armour. Fashioned to resemble power armour, the soldiers looked absurd next to the bulk of the Ultramarines.

  A cold wind whipped across the landing platforms as another column of men strode towards them between the honour guards. The soldiers marched in perfect step, their drill flawless and uniforms spotless. In front of them came another group, headed by three men who, judging by the elaboration of the leader’s dress, commanded this garnering. The lead officer wore the same ceremonial blue armour as the honour guard, with a silver trim and gold braid looping around his shoulders and trousers. He wore a dazzling silver helmet with a long, horsehair plume that reached down to his waist, and he carried a golden, basket-hilted sword before his face. His chest was awash with gold and silver insignia and his boots were an immaculately polished black learner. His companions obviously eschewed such frivolous adornment, preferring the simple dress uniforms of their Imperial Guard regiments.

  Uriel recognised the heavy greatcoat and fur colback of the Krieg regiment and, from the silver laurel and pips on his collar, deduced that this was that regiment’s colonel. The final member of the group was a thickly-waisted older man, with a neatly trimmed beard, wearing simple, well-pressed fatigues and a thickly padded jacket with a fur collar. Like the colonel of the Krieg regiment, he wore a fur-lined colback and, also like his fellow colonel, seemed deeply uncomfortable at this ostentatious welcome.

  ‘Captain,’ said Pasanius, pointing towards the edges of the landing fields.

  Further down the valley, huge crowds gathered beyond the high fencing that surrounded the platforms. Expressions of worship and awe stared back at the Ultramarines and Uriel could see people praying and weeping tears of joy.

  The delegation of officers came to a halt before them, their over-dressed leader slashing his sword through the air in an elaborate gesture of salute. He sheathed the sword and stepped forward, bowing his head and dropping to one knee before Uriel.

  ‘Honoured lords, I am thine humble servant, Sebastien Montante, Fabricator Marshal of the world of Tarsis Ultra, and in the name of the Divine Master of Mankind I bid thee welcome,’ said the man in tortured High Gothic. ‘May your beneficence shine over our world at the glory of your return. A thousand times a thousand prayers of thanks shall be offered up in praise of your names. Many are the salute—’

  ‘I thank you for your welcome, sir,’ interrupted Uriel brusquely. ‘I am Uriel Ventris, captain of the Fourth company.’

  Montante looked up, startled and more than a little crestfallen to have had his speech halted in its tracks. Uriel saw he was about to continue, and hurriedly said, ‘These are my senior sergeants, Pasanius and Learchus. And this is Chaplain Astador of the Mortifactors.’

  Realising that he wouldn’t be able to finish his speech, Montante rose to his feet and brushed his trousers flat. He bowed nervously to Astador and said, ‘Chaplain Astador, we have heard of your illustrious Chapter and bid you welcome also.’

  Astador nodded and returned the bow. ‘Your display of welcome is overwhelming, Fabricator Montante and we thank you for it.’

  Montante smiled crookedly and nodded, turning to face the two colonels who had accompanied him.

  ‘Allow me to introduce the senior officers of our brave defenders,’ said Montante, recovering well.

  The leader of the Krieg regiment stepped forward and snapped a curt salute to the Space Marines, saying, ‘Colonel Trymon Stagier, regimental commander of the 933rd Death Korp of Krieg and overall theatre commander. I apologise for this waste of time, but Fabricator Montante kept it from us until an hour ago.’

  Stagier ignored Montante’s frown of indignation as the second man stepped forwards and offered his hand to Uriel. ‘Colonel Octavius Rabelaq, commander in chief of the 10th Logres regiment. Pleasure to meet you, Uriel. Heard a lot about you from Sebastien. Looking forward to fighting with you. Well, not fighting with you, but you understand, eh?’

  Uriel took the proffered hand and Rabelaq enthusiastically pumped his hand up and down, gripping Uriel’s elbow with his other hand as he did so. Eventually, he released Uriel and stepped back with a brisk salute as Montante nodded briskly in the direction of the honour guard.

  ‘Yes, yes, well, now that we all know each other, we should get on with the formal inspection, yes? Then onto the feast of welcome, eh? Don’t want to let all that delicious food and amasec go to waste,’ smiled Montante, again indicating that the Space Marines should follow him towards the honour guard.

  ‘Fabricator Montante,’ said Uriel. ‘We do not have time to tarry here and should begin preparations for the coming battles. The tyranid fleet is probably less than a month from your system at best and you would have us indulge in frivolity?’

  Montante’s mouth flapped as he considered this breach of formal welcoming etiquette and looked towards the Guard colonels for support.

  ‘Captain V
entris is correct’ said Colonel Stagier. ‘We must begin planning. The enemy is at the gates.’

  Uriel thought he could detect just a hint of anticipation in the colonel’s voice.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ said a figure emerging from the honour guard behind Montante.

  Uriel saw a hooded adept with a retinue of scribes, lexmechanics and green robed astropaths limp painfully towards them using a claw-topped silver cane.

  ‘The enemy is indeed at the gates,’ repeated the hooded adept. ‘My astropaths tell me that the first vanguard drone-ships are even now entering the outer reaches of the system. The rest of the hive fleet cannot be far behind.’

  ‘And who are you, sir?’ asked Uriel.

  The man pulled back his hood, revealing an ancient, weathered face, with a tonsured crown of silver hair. His features had the pallid, waxy texture of frequent juvenat treatments, but his eyes had lost none of the fire that Uriel remembered from the numerous images of him in the Chapel of Heroes on Macragge.

  ‘I am Lord Inquisitor Kryptman of the Ordo Xenos, and we do not have much time.’

  SIXTY THOUSAND POUNDS of thrust roared from the twin engines of each Fury attack craft as they howled along the internal flight deck of the Kharloss Vincennes, a Dictator class cruiser, and shot from the launch bays of their cruiser’s flank like bullets from a gun.

  Two squadrons, each of three fighters, lifted off and circled back around, ready to begin their intercept. An anomalous contact had registered on the powerful surveyor systems of Listening Station Trajen, a lightly manned orbital anchored at the edge of the Tarsis Ultra system. Their job would be to investigate the contact and, if circumstances were favourable, engage and destroy it. Should that not be possible, they would provide exact positional data and allow the heavier guns of the Kharloss Vincennes to obliterate it.

  The Furies were aerodynamic fighters with swept-forwards wings and twin tails with a rack of high-explosive missiles slung under each wing. Designed to shoot down incoming torpedoes, intercept attacking bombers and destroy other fighters, Furies were the workhorses of the Imperial Navy.

  Each Fury carried extra fuel in a centreline tank, which would enable them to remain on patrol for longer periods of time without having to return to their carrier.

  The Fury could carry up to four crew, but for scouting missions, a pilot and a gunnery officer were all that was required.

  ‘Angel squadrons, sound off,’ came the voice of the ordnance officer from the Kharloss Vincennes.

  ‘Angel squadron nine-zero-one, clear,’ acknowledged Captain Owen Morten, commander of the Kharloss Vincennes’ fighter squadrons, thumbing the vox-toggle on his control column as he checked left and right for his two wingmen. He waited for Lieutenant Erin Harlen, lead pilot of the second squadron of Furies to call in as Kiell Pelaur, his gunnery officer, fired up the surveyor link to the Kharloss Vincennes.

  ‘Ditto. Angel squadron nine-zero-two. We are clear, and that’s official,’ came the drawling voice of Erin Harlen over the vox-net.

  ‘Cut the chatter nine-zero-two. Combat readiness is in force. Do you understand that at all, Lieutenant Harlen?’ replied the ordnance officer in a voice that suggested he had been through this routine many times.

  ‘Yes, sir! That order has been understood, sir!’ shouted Harlen.

  ‘Harlen, keep it down for a second will you?’ said Pelaur over the internal vox-net. ‘Let’s find out where we’re supposed to patrol before you start driving us all mad, huh?’

  ‘Understood, Lieutenant. We were beginning to wonder that ourselves,’ replied Harlen’s gunnery officer, Caleb Martoq.

  The Furies circled the Kharloss Vincennes as they awaited navigational data to be transferred into their own attack logisters.

  The voice of the ordnance officer came again. ‘Angel squadrons, confirm patrol circuit.’

  Kiell Pelaur checked the pict-slate before him as the tactical plot of their squadron appeared and thumbed the vox. ‘Confirmed. Circuit is acquired.’

  ‘Confirmed. Angel squadrons one and two are weapons-free and cleared to engage. Good hunting.’

  ‘You bet we’ll have good hunting. We don’t take prisoners,’ said Harlen. He glanced through the toughened canopy to where his squadron commander and the rest of his squadron were flying on station with him.

  ‘Ready, Captain Morten?’ he said, the anticipation in his voice unmistakable even over the vox-net. Morten smiled beneath his helmet and said, ‘Angel squadron nine-zero-one has the lead. Harlen, take our lower quadrant and stay close.’

  ‘Understood, Captain. Nine-zero-one has the lead.’

  Captain Morten turned his control column to the required heading, took a deep breath and opened up the Fury’s throttle.

  It felt as though he had suddenly been kicked in the back as the giant engines thundered and hurled the craft forwards. The suspensor wired pressure suit expanded to prevent his blood from pooling, counteracting the horrendous forces exerted on his body by such rapid acceleration.

  Super-oxygenated blood pumped directly into his body via spinal connections and the contoured helmets both he and his gunnery officer wore exerted outward pressure on the surrounding air to prevent them from blacking out.

  This was what it was all about, he thought to himself with a wide, boyish grin. The long years of training, the unbelievable physical demands and the risks were more than made up for by moments like this. Powering through space at the command of one of the most sacred pieces of military hardware ever forged, with the power to bring righteous death to the enemies of the Emperor, was as close to perfection as life ever got.

  His two wingmen were keeping station with him in a standard V formation. Satisfied, he rolled his fighter slightly to make sure that Harlen was in position below him. Morten knew that despite his often cavalier attitude, Erin Harlen was one of the best pilots in the squadron, if not Battlefleet Tempestus itself. For that reason and that reason alone he was cut a little more slack than would normally be allowed in such a regimented place as an Imperial Navy starship.

  As Harlen’s squadron commander he was entrusted with the often troublesome job of keeping him in line and not allowing him to stray beyond his already widened boundaries of discipline.

  Sure enough, Harlen’s squadron of Furies were right where they were supposed to be, slightly below and behind him on his starboard wing. He rolled level again and continued on course. This intercept should take less than an hour and until then there was very little to do except sit back and keep an eye on the gauges to make sure they were flying within the tolerances of the craft. There wasn’t much of anything to look at through the canopy, and, without a fixed point of reference, it was impossible to perceive their motion.

  Thirty minutes of their patrol circuit had passed before the surveyor screen before Lieutenant Pelaur picked up their target.

  ‘Target acquired, captain. Bio readings consistent with tyranid life forms. Bearing, zero-three-six right, range one thousand kilometres,’ said Pelaur from his slightly elevated position in the cockpit behind Morten, ‘Recommend approach vector mark four-six.’

  ‘Affirmative, lieutenant,’ said Morten, adjusting his course so as to come in from the optimum attack position in space combat – behind and above the target. Pelaur’s course would also put the light of the sun behind them, such as it was, and hopefully mask their presence a fraction longer.

  In space combat, where death could travel the distance between combatants in seconds, the difference between life and death could often rest on those fractions.

  ‘Lieutenant Harlen, come in.’

  ‘Captain Morten! My gunnery officer has a contact.’

  ‘As does mine, Lieutenant Harlen. Approach vector mark four-six.’

  ‘I concur,’ said Caleb Martoq.

  ‘Thirty seconds to attack run,’ said Pelaur.

  They were fast approaching the point where they would make their final turn before beginning their attack. From here onwards they were on a
war footing.

  ‘Confirmed,’ said Morten, starting the countdown to their turn and cutting the throttle back, decelerating towards combat speed.

  ‘Twenty seconds,’ counted down Pelaur.

  The pilots rapidly bled off speed from their engines, slowing so that they would be able to attack without shooting past their target.

  ‘Lieutenant Harlen. Ten seconds, be ready,’ said Morten, flexing his fingers on the control stick.

  ‘Aye, captain. In ten.’

  ‘Turn on my mark,’ said Pelaur, his face fixed on the pict-slate before him. ‘Mark!’

  Morten banked the Fury sharply right and downwards, following the plot on his attack logister. The other Furies swung in smoothly behind his fighter like a flock of hunting birds.

  ‘What do you have, lieutenant?’ he asked.

  The icon displayed on Pelaur’s screen flashed and held a steady red.

  ‘I have a hostile contact, captain.’

  ‘Affirmative,’ said Martoq.

  ‘Attack pattern delta four,’ ordered Morten. ‘I want a volley from your squadron, Lieutenant Harlen.’

  ‘Attack pattern delta four confirmed,’ said Harlen. ‘Breaking right.’

  The three Furies in Harlen’s squadron peeled away to the right and increased speed as they closed with the target.

  ‘Missiles ready,’ said Martoq.

  ‘Fire at will,’ returned Morten.

  Morten watched the Furies of Harlen’s squadron shudder as a missile detached from each of their wings and his cockpit was suddenly brilliantly illuminated as the rocket motors ignited and the six missiles flashed into the darkness.

  ‘Missiles away!’ shouted Harlen.

  ‘Angel flight nine-zero-one, with me. Let’s go,’ ordered Morten.

  He pushed the throttle open again and sped off after the missiles, arming his own and powering up the lascannon. If anything flew out from the target to try and intercept the missiles, he and his Furies would be waiting for them. He mouthed a quick prayer to the Emperor and checked his display. The pict-slate showed the flashing red icon of the target with two green arrowheads rapidly converging on its position.