Ultramarines Omnibus (warhammer 40000: ultramarines)

by Graham McNeill

  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 trie'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 supplies 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.

  'Not 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 and 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 ah 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 Stagler, 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 keeping the damned thing alive?' demanded Stagler. '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, 'Pro
ceed 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.

  In a blur of motion the lictor pounced, its severed upper claws smashing the servitor across the room. Its heavily augmented body cracked the glass, drawing cries of alarm from the observers.

  Uriel and Astador unholstered their bolt pistols and aimed them through the glass.

  'Wait!' cried Kryptman.

  The lictor charged the servitor, its lower arms tearing into its grey flesh in a frenzy of violence. Blood sprayed the walls as the beast ripped its victim to shreds, tearing and gouging its body until mere was nothing even remotely humanoid remaining. The beast reared up and hammered against the glass. Fresh cracks spread wider, rapidly spiderwebbing across its surface.

  'Kill it! Kill it!' shouted Colonel Stagler.

  Before Uriel and Astador could fire, the lictor doubled up, dropping to the floor of its cell. The beast let out a keening wail, its entire body convulsing as a frenzy of rippling motion undulated within its flesh.

  'Ah yes, now it begins,' noted Locard. 'Resilient, but I expected that, what with its genome being relatively fixed.'

  'What's happening to it?' said Uriel, staring in disgust at the convulsing monster.

  The lictor fell onto its back, wracked by massive spasms, its body heaving into a giant inverted ''U''. Even through the glass, Uriel heard a loud crack as its spine snapped. The lictor's flesh split and monstrous growths erupted from within, its flesh writhing in uncontrolled evolution. Semi-formed limbs writhed from its viscera and other unnameable organs swelled from its mutating body.

  The monster let out a final, tortured screech as an explosion of black blood vomited from its every orifice. Finally it was still.

  Uriel was repulsed beyond belief. The lictor was undoubtedly dead, but what had killed it? Simple poison? Sudden hope flared in him as he realised that they might have a weapon with which to defeat the entire tyranid race.

  'Excellent work, magos,' said Kryptman as the servitor's blood dripped from me cracked glass.

  'Thank you, my lord.'

  'What did you do to it?' said Astador.

  Locard smiled. 'Using the lictor's genetic sequence, I was able to isolate the base strands of this splinter fleet's original mutation. With that "key", if you will, I was able generate a massive over-stimulation of its adaptive processes. In effect, I drove it into a frenzy of hyper-evolution that not even a tyranid's body could stand. A lictor's genetic structure is normally extremely stable, hence the infection took a little longer to take effect than I anticipated, but I think you'll agree that the results speak for themselves.'

  'This is incredible,' breathed Uriel.

  'Indeed it is, Captain Ventris,' agreed Locard, with no hint of false modesty.

  'With this weapon we can finally defeat the entire tyranid race!'

  'Ah, regrettably, that is not the case,' explained Locard. 'Each hive fleet's gene sequence is vastly different and it was only due to the capture of such an early generation of creature that we were able to isolate this hive fleet's genetics at all.'

  'So we can only utilise this weapon on this fleet?' said Stagler.

  'Regrettably so, and it may not prove effective against these aliens either. Many of the creatures on Tarsis Ultra have evolved to the sixth or seventh iteration and may have deviated too far from the base strand to be affected.'

  'So it may not work at all?' asked Uriel.

  'I believe it will, though of course I cannot be certain,' answered Locard.

  'We should distribute this ammunition as soon as possible,' said Major Satria excitedly.

  Uriel saw a look pass between Kryptman and Locard and suddenly the purpose of the demonstration became clear.

  'It it not that simple, Major Satria,' he said.

  'No?'

  'No, it is not. Is it, lord inquisitor?'

  Kryptman stared at Uriel for long seconds before nodding sombrely.

  'Captain Ventris is correct. It would be pointless to manufacture ammunition with this gene-poison at this stage in the battle. No, this must be taken to the heart of the enemy where it will do the most damage.'

  'And what does that mean?' asked Satria.

  'It means,' said Uriel, 'that we are going to have to fight our way into the hive ship. It means we must infect the hive queen.'

  In Thine Everlasting Glory had always been one of Sister Joaniel's favourite prayers, speaking as it did of the joy and duty of service to the Emperor. She had dedicated her life to the preservation of life and the healing of those whose frail bodies and minds had come back broken from the horrors of war. On Remian she had lived when those in her care had died and she wept as she prayed, feeling the same guilt burn within her at she thought of the poor unfortunates who lay bleeding and dying throughout the medicae building.

  As she had known would happen, the flood of casualties had risen to a raging torrent, with hundreds of men being brought in every day. No matter how hard she scrubbed, she could not get the stench and taint of blood from her hands. No matter how many soldiers they mended, there were always more being brought in by the stretcher-bearers.

  And as the front line had drawn ever closer to District Quintus, she and her staff had worked under the noise of artillery and gunfire. The noise of war, screams, explosions and sobbing was always with her, and the sight of so many wounded men haunted her dreams.

  Their faces blurred together so that she could no longer tell who lived and who died. So many times she had thought of just giving up, driven to tears by the sheer impossibility of their task. But each time, she recited her favourite prayer and the doubts and guilt were pushed back for a time.

  She began the prayer for a fourth time and was midway through the second verse when she heard slamming doors and sounds of a commotion from the vestibule. Rising painfully to her feet, she limped from the chapel to see what all the fuss was about.

  Climbing the steps to the vestibule, Joaniel saw a throng of injured people gathered before the doors to the wards. Uniformed orderlies were barring their way, arguing with a youngish man with bleached hair who carried a silver-haired girl whose midriff was a bloody mess.

  'What in the name of all that's holy is going on here?' she said, her voice cutting through the babble of voices that filled the vestibule.

  The man with the girl in his arms turned and ran his gaze Up and down her. A woman with her flame-red hair shaved into stripes flanked him, her face lined with exhaustion.

  'I got injured here, figured you could take care of her,' said the man.

  'And who are you?' asked Joaniel.

  'Me? I'm Snowdog, but that don't matter. I got saddled with bringing these people here and that's what I did. This girl's hurt bad, can you help her?'

  One of the orderlies pushed his way towards her through the crowded vestibule, his annoyance plain. He waved a hand at the crowd, more of whom were gathered outside the medicae building, and said, 'They're not military personnel. We can't take them. We're too crowded as it is.'

  'Hey man, you gotta help,' said Snowdog. 'Where the hell else am I gonna go?'

  'Not my problem,' snapped the orderly.

  'I have heard of you,' said Joaniel. 'You are a killer and a dealer in guns and narcotics.'

  'So?'

  'So why should I help you, when the
re are thousands of men risking their lives every day against the tyranids?'

  'Because that's what you do. You help people,' said Snowdog, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  Joaniel smiled at Snowdog's simple sentiment, ready to rebuke him for such naivety, before it hit her that, yes, that was what she did. It was that simple and she suddenly realised that she could not turn these people away. To do so would betray everything her order stood for. And that she would not do.

  Joaniel nodded to Snowdog and pointed to a wide set of stairs that led to the upper levels of the medicae building.

  'The top level is not as crowded as the others. I will send food and corpsmen to see to your wounded. We have few staff and even fewer resources thanks to our supplies being stolen, but I promise we will do what we can.'

  'But they're not military personnel!' protested the orderly.

  She turned to the orderly and snapped, 'I don't care. They will be given shelter and all the care we can spare. Is that understood?'

  The orderly nodded, taking the wounded woman from Snowdog's arms and carrying her inside to the wards.

  'Thank you, sister,' said Snowdog.

  'Shut up,' said Joaniel. 'I'm not doing this for you, it's for them. Let me make myself quite clear. I despise you and all that you are, but as you say, there are wounded people here, so let's get them in out of the cold.'

  Gigantic yellow bulldozers finished clearing the worst of the rubble from the long boulevard that led to the front line, teams of pioneers of the Departmento Munitorum overseeing the final sweeps of the makeshift runways for debris. A stray rock or pothole could spell doom for any aircraft unlucky enough to hit it and this mission was too important for a single craft to be lost. Fuel trucks and missile gurneys crisscrossed the rockcrete apron, delivering final payloads to the multitude of aircraft whose engines filled the air with a threatening ramble. Everywhere there was a sense of urgency as pilots and ground crew prepared their airborne steeds for battle.

  Captain Owen Morten, commander of the Kharloss Vincennes' Angel squadrons, made a final circuit of his Fury interceptor, checking the techs had removed the arming pins on his missiles and that the leading edges of his wings were free from ice. The greatest danger in flying in such cold conditions was not the additional weight of any ice, but the disruption of the airflow over the wing and subsequent reduction in lift. Satisfied that the aircraft was ready for launch, Morten zipped his flight suit up to his neck and patted the armoured fuselage of the Fury.