by Nick Kyme
The retreat turned into a rout before the fury of the Dark Angels. Some of the soldiers threw down their weapons in their flight, their panicked shouts drowned out intermittently by the crack of exploding bolter rounds, the hiss and boom of frag missiles and the distinctive snap of lascannons.
‘Hold pursuit,’ Astelan ordered. ‘Find me a dozen wounded for prisoners.’
‘Armour! Armour! Armour!’ Riyan suddenly shouted over the comm. ‘Tracked fighting vehicles approaching our position from the north and west.’
There was the sound of an explosion close at hand and the line buzzed with static. Another voice cut in.
‘This is Brother Nikolan,’ the Astartes said. ‘Armour has large-calibre weapons. Sergeant Riyan is seriously wounded.’
‘Jak, move up to Riyan’s position and take command,’ snapped Astelan.
The sergeant gave an affirmative and headed off northwards at a run. Astelan waved for the remaining Astartes to follow him to the north-west.
Within a few minutes, the growl of combustion engines drifted through the trees. Denied his auto-senses, Astelan relied on the reports of his battle-brothers to identify the tanks’ positions in the darkness. Exhaust plumes lit up like fireworks on their helmet displays and a steady stream of coordinates was passed across the comm-net.
The stench of oil-based fuel wafted from the west, and Astelan peered into the gloom. A moment later he saw the glaring blossom of a muzzle flash highlighting a tank less than two hundred metres away, its bulk concealed behind an outcrop of rock. The shell exploded just behind the Chapter commander and he heard cries from wounded Astartes as grit and dirt showered down onto him.
Now that he knew where it was, Astelan could make out the tank’s shape a little better. It was compact, its turret seemingly oversized for its hull, with a short-barrelled cannon. Secondary weapons opened fire with flashes, and more bullets screamed past. The turret adjusted slightly and the main gun angled down towards the Dark Angels’ position.
‘Disperse!’ bellowed Astelan, sprinting to his right. His power armour took him across the ground in huge leaps, covering half a dozen metres with every pace.
The explosion smashed apart a tree trunk just metres from where the squad had been stood. Brother Andubis was flung sideways by the detonation, smashed head-first against another tree. He sat up and raised his arm to show that he was not badly injured.
As the squad regrouped, Brother Alexian took up a firing position with his lascannon. He shouldered the anti-tank weapon like an immense sniper rifle, peering along its sight towards the hull-down tank. A beam of blinding energy spat forwards as he pressed the firing stud, smashing into the tank just above the turret ring. Flames sprang up immediately, and in their light Astelan saw helmeted figures popping the hatches and scrambling free. Two cleared the wreck before the ammunition inside ignited, blowing apart the vehicle in a spectacular detonation that sent fire and shrapnel high into the air. The light of the explosion revealed scores of soldiers were now moving back into position to attack, bolstered by their armoured support. The Astartes levelled their weapons and began to fire once more.
Over the din of bolter rounds and the burning tank, Astelan recognised a loud roar overhead: the tell-tale engines of a Castellan bomber. Explosions rippled through the blasted trees barely a hundred metres from the Astartes’ positions, tearing apart scores of enemy. The rapid barking of heavy bolter fire heralded a strafing run that cut down dozens more. Satisfied with his work, the pilot banked his craft back towards the landing zone.
Astelan sent the order for the rest of the force to fall back by squads and secure the perimeter of the landing zone once more. Though the enemy attempted a counter-attack, the swift intervention of Castellans and Deathbirds pouring missiles and fire into the woods soon convinced the opposing soldiers to allow the Astartes to pull back in peace.
Back at the landing site, Astelan saw that though the enemy had suffered horrendously, the Dark Angels were not without their losses too, mostly from bombs, artillery strikes and tank guns.
Clusters of wounded Astartes sat or lay around the force’s three Apothecaries, who stapled wounds, cauterised gashes and did what else they could to patch up the injured warriors until they could receive proper treatment back aboard ship. Most were back on their feet and ready to fight within minutes. Three would never fight again.
Astelan watched with grim resignation as Vandrillis, his Chief Apothecary, moved from one dead Astartes to the next. He disengaged the cables of the Astartes’s backpack and pulled it aside. Vandrillis then used his reductor, a complex array of blades mounted on his forearm, to cut through the back armour plate to expose the flesh below.
The shiny, hard shell of the battle-brother’s black carapace was slick with blood. Vandrillis drilled down into the flesh of the dead Astartes and then punched the reductor deep into the exposed spine. With a twist and a yank, he tore free the lower progenoid, an egg-shaped gland that stored the Astartes’s gene-seed so that it could be recovered and implanted into a new recruit. Vandrillis placed the precious organ into a vacu-flask and continued his bloody work on the Astartes’s neck.
Though it was a reminder of the fate of every Astartes, to die in battle, it was also reassuring. Every warrior carried within him the primarch’s gene-seed and with it the means to create more Astartes. To know that even in death the Legion would be strengthened was a thought that allowed the Astartes to fight without fear, to make the noblest sacrifice without hesitation.
Astelan knew that his fate would not be on the end of a reductor, for his progenoids had matured over two decades ago and had been removed in the relative safety of a shipboard medical bay. He had made his contribution to future generations of Dark Angels and could fight now safe in the knowledge that others would be able to follow.
Turning away from the grisly scene, Astelan signalled for Gemenoth to bring him the long-range comm-array; with his helmet damaged it was the only way for Astelan to contact the fleet. He punched the frequency of Belath’s battle-barge into the readout.
‘Signal received, this is Belath,’ the Chapter commander answered. ‘What is your situation?’
‘Get us off this rock,’ Astelan replied.
THE WITHDRAWAL OF Astelan’s landing force was to last for the rest of the night, during which the local forces tried three more times to attack the drop-zone. Under heavy air cover, three more Harbingers were brought down from Belath’s fleet and the Dark Angels were able to collapse back to their transports under the covering fire of the heavy weapons and armoured support that the reconnaissance force had lacked.
Astelan was the last to leave, staring balefully at the ravaged drop-zone as the ramp closed in front of him. All he had wanted was to secure some locals for intelligence, and now he had overseen a significant battle. In the dim light of dawn he looked at the ravaged forests and crater-pocked field that had been the battleground. This did not bode well for a peaceful introduction to the Enlightenment of the Emperor.
HE WAS NOT surprised to find Belath aboard the Spear of Truth’s operations room, awaiting his arrival.
‘We must move fast and regain the initiative,’ said Belath. ‘We have lost the element of surprise and even now the armed forces of the world will be at full readiness. The more time we give them, the harder the battles ahead.’
‘What are you proposing?’ asked Astelan, his gaze directed towards the glowing orb above the hololith.
‘While you were sparring with the locals, I conducted more analysis of the transmissions data,’ said Belath, leaning with his fists on the edge of the glass tablet, his eyes fixed on Astelan. ‘The locals refer to the world as Byzanthis. There are six continents, each in essence a separate nation-state. We strike at each state simultaneously, dropping from orbit into their capitals. We disable their governments and military command within hours, and isolate power and transport networks in a matter of days.’
‘Divide and conquer?’ said Astelan, finally meeting the stare of Belath.<
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Before Belath could answer, the door hissed open and Galedan strode in.
‘You should listen to this,’ he said, crossing to the comms centre. As he dialled in a frequency a tinny voice crackled from the speakers.
‘—ed. Unwarranted attack on the sovereign territory of Confederate Vanz will not be tolerated,’ the voice was saying. ‘Byzanthis Committee of Nations has convened to decide a response. Confederate Vanz will not stand alone. Aggressor strangers will be resisted. Unwarran—’
‘It’s a looped message on a broad range of frequencies,’ said Galedan, switching off the unit.
‘We can reply?’ asked Astelan.
‘Of course,’ said Galedan.
‘This is a distraction,’ said Belath. ‘We need to strike now!’
‘We have a means to make peaceful contact,’ said Astelan. ‘Why choose to ignore it?’
‘There is little sense of a planetary nationhood,’ Belath argued. ‘Two states are currently at war, the others have all fought against one another on and off over the past centuries. Crush each state individually and the world falls.’
‘There is a global council, this Committee of Nations,’ said Astelan. ‘The situation is easily retrieved through them.’
‘Diplomats and ambassadors for the most part,’ countered Belath. ‘You have not heard what I have heard. The Committee of Nations is considered weak and ineffective. They have no real power or control.’
‘Then we will give them that power,’ said Astelan. ‘We shall make amends for the inadvertent conflict and communicate with the council. The state governments will be forced to treat with us through the Committee of Nations, and from that we will forge a common fate for the whole planet.’
‘And if they refuse?’ said Belath, straightening. ‘We simply give them more time to swell their armies. Not only will more delays give these forces time to build their strength, they will spread propaganda about their supposed victory over us.’
‘It does not strike me as right that we give these people no chance for a peaceful solution,’ argued Astelan. ‘What would history think of us? What would Caliban be now if the Emperor had come with a closed fist rather than an open hand?’
‘Caliban is different,’ said Belath.
‘Because it is your world?’ said Astelan, pacing towards Belath.
‘Because we have the Lion,’ said Belath confidently. ‘The Emperor had no choice but to treat with us. Any invasion would have been costly and counterproductive.’
‘And so because no primarch dwells here, we should offer them no choice?’ snarled Astelan, stepping right in front of Belath, who stood his ground. ‘Their blood, their lives, are worth less because of a chance of fate?’
‘It was not chance that brought the Lion to Caliban,’ said Belath with quiet assurance. ‘Destiny brought our leader to us.’
Astelan did not speak for a moment and stepped back, rubbing the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
‘I will contact the Committee of Nations and explain our peaceful intentions,’ Astelan said finally. ‘Galedan, make preparations.’
The captain left the room, casting a wary glance at Belath as he walked past.
‘I cannot consent to this course of action,’ said Belath as soon as the door had hissed shut. He raised a placating hand before Astelan could respond. ‘It is clear we cannot agree on this. We must send word to the primarch for guidance, so that his orders might be understood by us.’
Astelan laughed but there was no mirth in tone.
‘We are Chapter commanders of the Dark Angels,’ he said scornfully. ‘We cannot run to the Lion or the Emperor every occasion that we face difficulty. We are leaders of an Astartes Legion. We must act, not vacillate. If you wish to cry off to Caliban, then you are free to leave. I am staying here and contacting the council.’
‘This is a war of reconquest,’ spat Belath. ‘What we are building is more important than the lives of a few men, larger than the sacrifice of thousands, even millions. You are soft, and I wonder what the Lion will make of your lack of courage.’
With a wordless shout Astelan seized Belath by the edges of his breastplate and charged him into the wall, plascrete cracking under the impact.
‘Your lack of respect will not be tolerated,’ snarled Astelan.
‘Nor yours,’ replied Belath calmly, his blue eyes piercing in their intensity.
‘I fought for the Emperor and he chose me to be the tip of his spear,’ said Astelan, his tone low and measured. ‘My Chapter has fought on a dozen worlds against foes the like of which you have no comprehension. We have earnt battle honours given to us by the Emperor of Mankind, and I have earnt his respect and praise.’
‘I too have my honours,’ replied Belath with no sign of trepidation. ‘I was the first of my order to be chosen by the Astartes, I am the first to be made Chapter commander. I have been raised on traditions far older than your Legion, Terran. Many generations of my forefathers fought for the Order of the Raven’s Wing and their blood flows in my veins. You may look down in dismay at the heritage of Caliban, but it is your home now. Its people will be your people. It is the world of the Lion, and his traditions shall be the traditions of the Dark Angels. It is by his judgement that I mark my worth, not by yours.’
Astelan released his grip and sighed.
‘I say not these things to insult your heritage, nor as a threat, but as a warning,’ the Chapter commander said quietly. ‘Be ready for battle at all times, but do not rush heedlessly towards it. It is not just the lives of those below that you condemn, but some of your own. Your battle-brothers will shed their blood in this cause, and some will lay their lives upon its altar for you. Do you not owe it to them to make sure that what you do is righteous and unavoidable?’
Belath turned away and walked towards the door. He stooped just short of it and turned.
‘It was your mistake that has precipitated this situation,’ he declared. ‘I cannot forgive that but I shall allow you the chance to redeem yourself. You have seniority and I would not have it known that I abandoned a battle-brother.’
With that he opened the door and strode out, leaving Astelan with his dark thoughts.
ASTELAN CAST HIS gaze upwards in frustration, his fists clenched. He was sat at the main comms panel of the operations room, with Galedan, Belath and a horde of technicians on hand. He had spent the greater part of the last two days dealing with various Byzanthisian functionaries in his attempts to organise a delegation; two days spent talking to bureaucrats and politicians had left his patience very thin. Now he was finally talking to somebody who had the power to convene the Committee of Nations.
‘There was no premeditated attack,’ he repeated, forcing himself to remain calm. ‘I only acted to defend my men.’
There was a pause while his message was transmitted. A few seconds passed before the response came from the planet below.
‘What assurances do you give that you do not “defend” yourselves again?’ the voice of Secretary Maoilon hissed from the speakers.
‘You expect to land troops at a military base and not consider it provocation?’
‘Our choice of landing site was an error that I deeply regret,’ said Astelan, and never had he felt the truth of his own words so strongly.
‘I will attend a meeting of your committee and explain everything. All of your questions are best answered face-to-face.’
Again there was a pause filled with static.
‘You alone will come?’ asked Maoilon. ‘Unarmed?’
‘I and my fellow commander,’ said Astelan. ‘Two of us. Unarmed. Transmit the location of the chambers and a time suitable for the meeting.’
‘Treachery will be dealt with harshly,’ said Maoilon.
‘There will be no treachery,’ said Astelan and then he signalled for the radio link to be cut. He swivelled in his chair to face Galedan.
‘Organise whatever needs to be organised. Belath and I will teleport in.’
Astelan considered arguing, but from the expression on Belath’s face he had already made his decision.
‘Do what you will as precaution, but you will accompany me unarmed,’ said Astelan.
‘Agreed,’ said Belath.
CRACKLING ENERGY SWATHED Astelan, bathing the Chapter commander and his squad in an actinic glare as the teleporter activated.
Astelan felt the usual jarring dislocation and a burning sensation throughout his whole body. In milliseconds the transition was over, but just like the Spear of Truth emerging from the warp, Astelan needed a moment to gather his wits.
He blinked rapidly to clear his fogged vision and found himself in a wide circular hall built from white marble, or some similar local stone. It was a circular amphitheatre in layout, with rows of seats ranged around the low central platform on which he was stood. Five sets of steps led up to tall, narrow double doors spaced evenly around the hall’s circumference. Halfway between each set of doors were windows of the same proportion through which Astelan glimpsed a deep-blue sky.
The hall was filled with people, some dressed in strangely cut suits, others in bright robes or simple smocks. There were all manner of different skin colours and features, jewellery and headdresses, but the hundreds packed into the auditorium had one thing in common: the absolute terror written upon their faces.
Most were wide-eyed and open-mouthed, some were visibly shaking and sweating and others were on their feet or cramming themselves into the backs of their chairs in an effort to put as much distance between themselves and their new arrivals.
A few moments later more teleporter energy crackled across the floor to Astelan’s left, and where there had been empty air now stood Belath. He was dressed, as was Astelan, in simple robes of black. At his right ear Belath wore a comm-piece and Astelan could see that it was on open transmission; the Chapter commander’s troops in orbit would hear everything said.
Astelan raised his arms out and held his palms up to show that he held no weapon.
