The Ultramarines Omnibus

by Graham McNeill

  Uriel could see the realisation of this pass through the Deathwatch captain.

  He saw what Bannon intended and shouted, ‘No!’

  But it was too late. Bannon reached up and slashed his power knife through the cable.

  He and his monstrous opponent plummeted to the mountainside below, landing amid the swarming creatures.

  Cursing the tyranids with all his heart, Uriel pulled himself up the Thunderhawk’s fuselage and hammered the ramp’s closing mechanism. Now able to achieve escape velocity, Harkus spun the gunship on its axis, punching the engines and kicking in the afterburners. Flocks of gargoyles snapped at the gunship’s wings, but he was able to break clear and the aircraft banked around, heading back towards Erebus with hundreds of flying monsters in hot pursuit.

  Uriel stared through the vision port.

  Below him, Captain Bannon fought his last battle against thousands of screeching killers.

  PHASE IV – SUBDUAL

  FOURTEEN

  THE THUNDERHAWK STREAKED through the lightening sky, vaporous contrails streaming from the trailing edges of its wings. The flight from the gargoyles had burned much of their precious fuel and Harkus was forced to climb to where the air was thinner and every kilometre of range could be squeezed from what little fuel the gunship’s tanks still contained.

  Should that not prove sufficient, then there was no way they would survive to reach Erebus.

  The interior of the gunship was eerily empty, the five members of the Deathwatch, the tech-priests and Uriel all that filled its now spacious storage bays. Without the heavy capacitors, the Thunderhawk could fly much faster and had quickly outdistanced the pursuing gargoyles, concealing itself among the cloud layer.

  The howl of the wind was deafening, but even over the tremendous noise, Uriel could hear the valedictions of the Deathwatch and though he too felt Captain Bannon’s loss keenly, he respected their need to say their farewell privately.

  Uriel closed his eyes and offered a short prayer for the departed captain of the Deathwatch. It was the least he could do to honour his memory.

  HEAVY BLAST DOORS slid smoothly aside, the freezing chill of an Erebus morning rushing in to fill the wide hangar as the Magnificence lifted from her moorings in a haze of screaming jets, heavy blast deflectors venting her exhaust fumes into the cold air.

  The vessel ponderously nosed out of the hangar, its pilot proceeding with extra care since the owner of the starship was seated directly behind him and with the hold filled with such a vast array of wealth, she handled less deftly than usual. Hardwired into the controls of the ship, he was aware of every aspect of the Magnificence, but with a master as volatile as Simon van Gelder it never paid to take chances.

  Simon watched the rocky interior of the hangar slide past through the viewing bay, to be replaced by the pristine white of the sky. He smiled as he saw his mountain estates below the ship, still guarded by his privately funded army. Though he expected Erebus to fall any day, there was no reason to leave his property unprotected. If he did return, he would require to reside in prestigious lodgings once again.

  The ground slowly fell away as the pilot gained altitude. Simon could see tiny figures lower down the valley pointing at his ship and felt a smug glow of satisfaction as he pictured their dismay at his escape.

  A buzzing warning sounded from the speakers, drawing his attention away from the rapidly diminishing landmarks of Erebus.

  ‘The valley defence guns are interrogating us,’ said the pilot, with a nervous edge to his voice.

  Simon nodded, looking up through the viewing bay to see the massive defence guns rotating in their housings to acquire his ship. He smiled and removed a plain, metallic box from his long coat, unwinding an insulated cable from one end and plugging it into the pilot’s console. He pressed a black button on its side and said, ‘Broadcast this signal on all frequencies. It will shut down the protocols controlling the guns.’

  ‘We shall be quite safe,’ said Simon, deciding to retire to his sumptuous quarters in the upper levels of the ship.

  ‘HANG ON TO something,’ shouted Harkus as the Thunderhawk banked sharply around the highest peak to the east of Erebus. ‘We have incoming hostiles!’

  Uriel strode through the crew compartment to join the pilot in the cockpit. Ahead he could see the gouge in the mountains that was Erebus. Rising from mountain roosts, black flocks of gargoyles and other, more lethal, flying beasts clustered around the highest peaks.

  They sped through the air towards the Thunderhawk and Uriel saw it would be a close run thing whether they reached the covering fire of the city’s guns before they were caught.

  ‘How are we for fuel?’ he asked.

  ‘The reserve tanks are virtually dry. We’re flying on fumes and prayers now,’ answered Harkus testily.

  ‘Not enough to use the afterburners?’

  ‘Barely even enough to land safely’

  Uriel nodded, watching as the valley of Erebus grew in the windshield. So too did the growing flock of flying monsters that raced to intercept them.

  The Thunderhawk s speed increased as Harkus dipped the nose and the mountainside raced up to meet them. Snow-covered rocks flashed beneath them. What he wouldn’t have given for some of the gunship’s weapon systems right now.

  Suddenly the ground dropped away and Harkus hauled back on the controls, deploying the air brakes and pulling the gunship into a screaming turn. Daylight speared inside as bio-weapons fire punched through the thin sheets of lightweight metal welded to its side. Uriel heard one of Gossin’s tech-priests screaming as alien organisms ate away his flesh. He gripped onto the empty co-pilot’s chair as the gunship swayed violently in the air and a warning light flashed on the controls.

  ‘We’re under the cover of the guns, but they’re not firing!’ yelled Harkus.

  Uriel let out the breath he’d been holding, watching as flying aliens closed in around them. Dozens of impacts perforated the thin hull of the gunship. Fresh screaming echoed.

  ‘Emperor’s blood!’ shouted the Techmarine, and Uriel looked up in time to see a silver behemoth with heraldic crests emblazoned along the length of its hull rising through the air directly in front of them.

  SIMON HEARD HIS pilot’s shout of alarm and turned, ready to rebuke him, but the words died in his throat as he saw the roaring Thunderhawk hurtling towards them and the thousands of black, winged monsters that pursued it.

  His legs sagged and he dropped to his knees.

  ‘No,’ he moaned, ‘not like this…’

  THE THUNDERHAWK BROKE left and dived, Harkus pushing the weakened airframe beyond the limits of its endurance. The pressure tore the thin sides free and hurricane-force winds roared through its interior. Uriel saw the reflective silver hull of the vessel before them streak past, so close he could have reached out and touched it. The Deathwatch managed to grip onto the bars and struts of the frame, but the three tech-priests were swept screaming to their deaths.

  Uriel slammed into a thick stanchion, grabbing onto it as he slid along the violently heaving deck. Over the howling air he heard Harkus swearing and invoking the name of the machine god in equal measures.

  The deck lurched again and Uriel saw the ground terrifyingly close through the gaps in the Thunderhawk’s flanks. It raced past then vanished from sight as Harkus brought them level again. Uriel pulled himself upright, still clutching the stanchion tightly.

  The noise of rushing air diminished, Harkus easing back on the thrusters and bringing the gunship level.

  ‘Imperator, that was close!’ breathed Uriel.

  ‘Brace yourselves!’ yelled Harkus. ‘We’re coming into land and it’s going to be a rough one!’

  THOUSANDS OF GARGOYLES swarmed across the Magnificence, clogging air intakes and smashing into control surfaces. Larger creatures skidded across its hull, tearing and biting through her metal hide with acidic saliva and diamond-hard teeth.

  Scores of creatures attached themselves to the underside of
the hull, clawing and biting open access panels and climbing

  through the open undercarriage ports. Within seconds, tonnes of extra weight had been added and the already overburdened craft began to list drunkenly to starboard.

  Simon’s pilot pushed the engines out in an attempt to dislodge the creatures, but with so much of the craft overbalanced and clogged with alien flesh, one simply flamed out, causing the vessel to yaw uncontrollably.

  The ship’s windshield blew out. Screeching creatures swarmed in and Simon screamed as they tore the flesh from his bones.

  A sweeping silver wing struck the rock face and sheared from the hull.

  The Magnificence tumbled from the skies, gaining speed as she fell until she crashed in a spectacular fireball amid the buildings of District Secundus.

  STREAKING BLACK SHAPES spun in the sky above Snowdog as he made his way through the ruins of the destroyed warehouse. Smoking rubble tumbled from the shattered walls and the baleful orange glow from the twisted piles of blazing wreckage more than resembled his vision of hell.

  Weeping families hugged the crushed bodies of loved ones and dazed survivors wandered through the ruins, blinded and burned by the crash of the falling starship. A silvered wing pointed towards the sky and a burning section of its hull was embedded in the ground before the warehouse.

  Broken crates from the ship’s hold littered the ground, spilling smashed porcelain and gilt-edged finery to the snow. A framed portrait of an ancient nobleman lay smashed in the ruins, rolled rugs and tapestries burned in a pool of fuel and fluttering pages from a library’s worth of books filled the air. Fabulously expensive clothing soaked in pools of melted snow, ruined beyond repair, and valuables of all description lay scattered throughout the fiery hell of District Secundus.

  There was a small fortune just lying on the ground, and Snowdog helped himself to as much as he could fit into his backpack, all the while keeping an eye on the wheeling shapes above and cursing the damn pilot who’d brought his vessel down on top of them. The rear of the warehouse was gone, obliterated by the impact of the plummeting starship. Every one of the crates of supplies he’d heisted, scammed from crooked supply sergeants or killed for was gone, burned HQ ashes in the searing conflagration.

  Tigerlily stood numbed at the scale of the destruction unleashed by the crash, while Lex and Trask scooped up handfuls of gems and stuffed them into their pockets. Jonny helped himself to a vast hunting rifle that poked from a smashed crate, the size of the shells now looped around the big man’s body in crosswise bandoliers simply staggering.

  ‘You could bring down an angry grox with that, Jonny!’ shouted Snowdog.

  Jonny laughed and raised the rifle, miming the rifle’s colossal recoil.

  The grin fell from Snowdog’s face as he saw Silver lying under a pile of cracked stones, her face bloody and arms outstretched. He ran over to her and checked her pulse. It was thready, but strong. She groaned, and Snowdog saw a length of reinforcement bar impaling her side. Blood leaked from the wound and he gently eased her off the steel bar, grimacing as he saw fully fifteen centimetres had stabbed into her.

  He removed his scarf and plugged the hole in her side, tying it around her body. It wasn’t much, but it was the best he could do for now.

  A hand gripped his upper arm and spun him around. He reached for his pistol, but relaxed as he found himself facing a weather-beaten old man.

  ‘What you want, grandfather? Can’t you see I’m busy?’

  Papa Gallo slapped Snowdog hard in the face.

  ‘You owe these people, Stanker. You took their money and possessions in exchange for safety.’

  ‘What?’ snapped Snowdog, pulling his arm free of the old man’s grip. He pointed to the sky and said, ‘Hey, I gave ’em a place to stay out of the cold and kept these damned things from killing them. I think I done my share. I got problems of my own now.’

  Tigerlily moved up to stand behind him and nudged him in the ribs, but Snowdog ignored her, too intent on the confrontation with the old man and the wounded Silver.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Papa Gallo, folding his arms.

  ‘Tough,’ retorted Snowdog, ‘Anyway, all the stuff they gave me’s gone up in smoke.’

  ‘Not our problem. You owe us.’

  Tigerlily nudged him again and this time he shot her an irritated glance. She nodded in the direction of the blazing warehouse. He followed her gaze and felt a hot thrill of fear slide around his body. Hundreds of soot-stained civilians, gathered silhouetted in the flames, many of them armed. Armed with weapons Snowdog himself had given them.

  They were on edge and looked ready to use them.

  Snowdog locked eyes with Papa Gallo and saw the fierce determination there.

  He saw Jonny slide a shell for his rifle from the bandoliers and shook his head.

  ‘Okay, man, you win,’ said Snowdog, kneeling beside the unconscious Silver. ‘What do you want? But be quick.’

  There’s a lot of wounded here and you don’t have the sup-dies to deal with them any more.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we need to get these people some help. I want you to lead them to the nearest medicae facility,’ stated Papa Gallo.

  ‘Shit, man, the nearest one still standing’s in District Quintus’ protested Snowdog.

  ‘Mot my problem,’ repeated Papa Gallo, and as Snowdog looked at the bleeding girl beside him and the many weapons lacing him, he realised he had no choice.

  ‘Okay then,’ he shrugged, shucking his backpack onto his shoulders and gathering up Silver in his arms. ‘Let’s get gone. You don’t wanna be hanging around with those things flying overhead.’

  THE LICTOR THRASHED against its restraints, flesh hooks lashing out at the armoured glass that separated it from those who observed it. Bound to three upright dissection tables shed together, its powerful muscles bunched as it attempted to break free, but the restraints rendered it immobile. Even so, it had killed two magos-biologis who had wisely failed to observe full xeno-containment procedures pd wounded a third who had subsequently been put to death for his lapse.

  With the lictor’s capture, Magos Locard’s work had professed with a new urgency following the failed attempt to destroy both hive ships between the defence lasers and the Imperial fleet. Things had gone from bad to worse when the

  cowardly Simon van Gelder had attempted to flee Tarsis Ultra and treacherously shut down the valley’s defences.

  The aerial exclusion zone had eventually been re-established, but not before hundreds of gargoyles and their monstrous brood-mothers had penetrated deep into the valley of Erebus. It appeared that they were without the controlling influence of the hive mind, as the majority of the creatures had reverted to their basic, animalistic instincts, nesting in the caves of the valley sides and attacking small groups of civilians. Others had rampaged through the densely-populated quarters of the city, killing in an orgy of random violence for two days before being hunted down by volunteer groups from the Erebus Defence Legion.

  The fighting at the District Quintus wall raged with undiminished ferocity, the tyranid swarm almost doubling in size with the addition of yet more creatures as they were drawn to Erebus by the single remaining hive ship. Time was running out for the defenders of Tarsis Ultra and Magos Locard was their last, best hope.

  Deep in one of the Adeptus Mechanicus vivisectoria, Magos Locard held forth to an assembled audience of Colonel Stagier, Major Satria, Lord Inquisitor Kryptman, Chaplain Astador and Uriel. A blank-faced servitor with augmented bionics grafted to its head and upper body stood in attendance to the magos, carrying a silver pistol case. They watched the lictor through the armoured glass with revulsion, its physiology repugnant, its mental processes beyond their comprehension.

  ‘As you can observe,’ began Locard, ‘the lictor organism, even restrained by level three xeno-containment – unfortunately the highest level available in these facilities – is still 45.43% lethal.’

  ‘So why are you k
eeping the damned thing alive?’ demanded Stagier. ‘Why not just kill it?’

  ‘To defeat these aliens, we must first understand them,’ explained Kryptman. ‘When fighting the ork, the hrud, the galthites, the lacrymole we do so armed with knowledge of their undoing. To fight one tyranid is not to know another. Their adaptive nature is what makes them such superlative predators. It is their greatest asset and, potentially in this case, the one weakness we might exploit.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Uriel.

  ‘Tell me, Captain Ventris, have you heard the phrase “to turn an enemy’s strength against him”?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That is exactly what we intend,’ said Kryptman with a sly smile. ‘Magos Locard, if you please.’

  Locard nodded and turned to the servitor, his mechadendrites unlocking the pistol case with precise turns of cog-toothed keys that slid from their tooled digits. He lifted a magnificently crafted silver pistol and a large calibre glassy bullet from the foam interior. With exaggerated care he slid the bullet into the breech and handed the weapon to the servitor as his mechadendrites relieved it of the case. At a nod from Kryptman, he spun the locking wheel that led into the lictor’s cell and said, ‘Proceed with instruction one.’

  The servitor turned and pushed open the heavy door, marching to stand beside the dissection tables. Locard sealed the door as the lictor renewed its efforts to break free. The servitor approached and raised the pistol, pressing it against the fleshy portion of the lictor’s midsection.

  ‘What in the name of the Emperor is it doing?’ asked Uriel.

  ‘Observe,’ said Locard, with more than a hint of pride in his voice. He pressed a thumb to the intercom and said, ‘Perform instruction two.’

  The servitor pulled the trigger, firing the glassy shell into the lictor. Ichor spilled from the wound, hissing on the vivisectoria’s floor. Without pausing, the servitor placed the pistol carefully on the floor as Locard released the dissection table restraints.