Battle for the Abyss

by Ben Counter

  The Ultramarine had heard stories from his fellow Legionnaires about the so called ‘cleansing’ of Ariggata, one of the World Eaters’ more infamous battle actions. The Legion’s assault on the citadel there had reputably left a charnel house in its wake. Cestus knew full well that Guilliman still sought a reckoning with his brother primarch, Angron, concerning the dire events of that mission, but this was no time for recrimination. Necessity had forced Cestus’s hand, and whether he liked it or not, this is what he had been dealt.

  Skraal led twenty World Eaters on the Wrathful and Cestus was determined to make the best use of them. Brynngar had brought the same number of Blood Claws, and while they were raucous and pugnacious, especially when forced into idleness in the confines of the ship, they did not harbour the same homicidal bent as the bloody sons of Angron. Mhotep was the only Astartes not aboard the Wrathful. He had his own ship, the Waning Moon, but no squads of Thousand Sons, just cohorts of naval arms-men at his command.

  Barely fifty Astartes and the vessels of their makeshift fleet, Cestus hoped it would be enough for whatever was in store.

  ‘What troubles you, brother?’ asked Antiges, their brief altercation swiftly forgotten. The Ultramarine finally turned his back on the battling World Eaters, deciding he had seen enough.

  ‘The message at Coralis dock sits heavily on me,’ Cestus confessed. ‘The clenched fist, crested by a laurel crown represents Legion… our Legion. The golden book – I don’t know what that means, but I saw something else.’

  ‘In the reactor flare,’ Antiges realised. ‘I had thought I was hearing things when you asked us if we’d seen anything.’

  ‘You were not, and yes, I saw it in the reactor flare, so fleeting and indistinct that at first I believed it was my imagination, that my mind was articulating what my heart longed for.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  Cestus looked Antiges directly in the eyes. ‘I saw Macragge.’

  Antiges was nonplussed. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘I saw Macragge and I felt despair, Antiges, as if it presaged something terrible.’

  ‘Signs and visions are the province of witchery, brother-captain,’ Antiges counselled warily. ‘We both know the edicts of Nikaea.’

  ‘Brothers,’ a voice broke in before Cestus could respond. It was Saphrax, come from the bridge where Cestus had instructed he maintain a watch on proceedings.

  Both Saphrax’s fellow Ultramarines turned to him expectantly.

  ‘We have made visual contact with the ship from the site of the Fist’s destruction.’

  ‘THAT IS A Legion ship, captain. You are not suggesting that a vessel of the Imperium fired upon one of its own?’ Admiral Kaminska warned the Astartes.

  Following Saphrax’s report, Cestus and Antiges had made for the bridge at once. What they saw in the viewscreen when they got there had stunned them both.

  The vessel they tracked in the void was of Mechanicum design and clearly made for the Legion. It was bedecked in the iconography of the Word Bearers.

  It was the largest ship that Cestus had ever seen. Even at a considerable distance it was massive, easily three times the size of the Wrathful, and would have dwarfed an Emperor-class battleship. It bore an impressive array of weapons; tech-adepts aboard the Wrathful had suggested port and starboard broadside laser batteries and multiple torpedo tubes to the prow and stern. It was the monolithic statue towering at the vessel’s prow, however, that gave Cestus the most concern: a gigantic golden book, the echo of the fragmented image in the astropathic message on Vangelis.

  ‘We’re at extreme strike range,’ said Captain Commander Vorlov. ‘What are your orders, admiral?’

  ‘Hold them back,’ said Cestus, deliberately interrupting Kaminska. ‘They are our Legion brothers. I am certain they will be able to account for themselves. They may have information regarding the Fist of Macragge.’

  Vorlov was a paunchy man with jowls that wobbled independently of the rest of his body. He had a gnarled red nose that spoke of long nights drinking to keep away the cold of space, and dressed in the heavy furs typical of his Saturnine heritage. His presence filled the viewscreen through which he was communicating with the bridge of the Wrathful. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said.

  ‘No point rattling the sword without reason,’ Cestus muttered to Antiges, who nodded his assent. ‘Hang back and keep them within range, but do not approach. Admiral Kaminska, bring the Wrathful in at the lead. Keep the Waning Moon and the escort fleet in our wake.’

  ‘As you wish, my lord,’ she said, swallowing her annoyance and her pride. ‘Relaying orders now.’

  The tension around the bridge was palpable. Brynngar, having joined them a moment before, growled beneath his breath.

  ‘What is your plan, Cestus?’ he asked, eyes locked on the viewscreen and the mighty vessel visible beyond it.

  ‘We draw in close enough to hail them and demand to know their business.’

  ‘On Fenris, when stalking the horned orca, I would swim the icy depths of the ocean taking care to stay in the beast’s wake,’ Brynngar said with intensity. ‘Once I drew close enough I would slip my baleen spear from my leg and launch it into the orca’s unprotected flank. Then I would swim, long and hard, to reach the beast before it could turn and impale me on its horn. Within its thrashing swell I would seize upon it and with my blade pare its flesh and gut its innards. For the orca is a mighty beast, and this was the only way to be sure of its demise.’

  ‘We will hail them,’ Cestus affirmed, noting the savagery that played across Brynngar’s features with unease. ‘I won’t commit us to a fight over nothing.’

  ‘Admiral,’ the Ultramarine added, turning to Kaminska.

  ‘Helms-mate Kant, open up a channel to the vessel at once,’ she said.

  Kant did as ordered and indicated his readiness to his commander.

  Kaminska nodded to Cestus.

  ‘This is Captain Cestus of the Ultramarines Seventh Chapter. In the name of the Emperor of Mankind, I am ordering you to state your designation and business in this subsector.’

  Static-fringed silence was the only reply.

  ‘I repeat: this is Captain Cestus of the Ultramarines Seventh Chapter. Respond,’ he barked into the bridge vox.

  More silence.

  ‘Why do they not answer?’ asked Antiges, his fists tightly clenched. ‘They are Legionaries, like us. Since when did the sons of Lorgar fail to acknowledge the Ultramarines?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps their long-range vox is out.’ Cestus was reaching for answers, trying to deny what he had known in his heart ever since Vangelis, that something was wrong, terribly, terribly wrong.

  ‘Signal one of the frigates to make approach,’ Cestus ordered after a brief silence, eyes fixed on the viewscreen like every other soul on the bridge. ‘I don’t want to come in with our cruisers,’ he reasoned. ‘It might be perceived as a threat.’

  Kaminska relayed the order in curt fashion and the Fearless closed on the unknown vessel.

  ‘I shall follow them in,’ said Mhotep from a second viewscreen on the bridge. ‘I have half a regiment of Prospero Spireguard standing by to board.’

  ‘Very well, captain, but keep your distance,’ Cestus warned.

  ‘As you wish.’ The viewscreen went blank as Mhotep took active command of the Waning Moon.

  A tactical array abruptly activated, depicting the closing vessels that were virtually lost from sight in the viewport. The Word Bearers ship was a red icon on the display surrounded by sensor readings of the approaching frigates, little more than green blips in its presence.

  ‘This reeks,’ snarled Brynngar, who had begun prowling the bridge with impatience, ‘and my nose never lies.’

  Cestus kept his eyes on the tactical array.

  Macragge. The image of his Macragge, seen as part of the astropathic warning in the reactor core, came to mind once more. How were the fates of this vessel and his home world entwined?

  The Word Bearers were h
is brothers; surely they had nothing to do with the destruction of the Fist of Macragge? Such a thing was unconscionable.

  Cestus would have his answers soon enough.

  The Fearless had reached its destination.

  FIVE

  A line is drawn

  Silver Three down

  Open book

  ‘YOUR ORDERS, CAPTAIN?’ came the vox from the ordnance deck.

  Zadkiel sat back on his throne. The feeling of power was intoxicating. The battleship was his to command, like an extension of his body, as if the torpedo tubes and gun turrets were his hands. He could simply spread his fingers and will destruction on the enemy.

  ‘Hold,’ said Zadkiel.

  The central viewscreen showed the closing vessels: a frigate with a strike cruiser in its wake. The frigate did not interest the Word Bearer captain, but the cruiser was an entirely different prospect: fast, well-armed and designed for precision attacks and boarding actions. It was painted in the livery of the Thousand Sons.

  ‘Magnus’s brood,’ said Zadkiel, idly. Astride his command throne, he glanced at a supplementary screen that depicted a tactical readout of the ship. The Furious Abyss’s archive had identified it as the Waning Moon. It had many battle honours, and had followed the Thousand Sons Legion across half the galaxy prosecuting the Great Crusade. ‘I have always admired their imagination.’

  Assault-Captain Baelanos was standing behind the command throne. ‘They’re within range, sire.’

  ‘There is no hurry, captain,’ said Zadkiel. ‘We should savour this moment.’ Additional readings flicked up on the viewscreen. The Waning Moon was showing life-signs equivalent to a full regiment of troops gathering at the boarding muster points.

  ‘Helms-mate Sarkorov, open up a clandestine channel to the Waning Moon,’ Zadkiel ordered.

  ‘At once, my lord,’ came the reply from deep inside the dark city of the bridge.

  After a moment, Sarkorov added.

  ‘Channel is secure.’

  ‘On screen.’

  The central image was replaced with a view of the Waning Moon’s gilded bridge. The Astartes in the command throne, which was massively ornate and inset with numerous jewels and engraved runes, looked up in mild surprise. He had light brown skin and hooded eyes, with a face that spoke of discipline and resolve.

  ‘This is Captain Zadkiel, addressing you from the Furious Abyss. Am I speaking to the captain of the Waning Moon?’ asked Zadkiel.

  ‘You are. I am Captain Mhotep of the Thousand Sons. Why have you not responded to our hails?’

  ‘No, captain, I demand to know what this display of force means,’ Zadkiel said, unwilling to be interrogated by his brother Astartes. ‘You have no authority here. Disengage at once.’

  ‘I repeat, why have you not responded to our hails and what do you know of the Fist of Macragge and its fate?’ Mhotep was relentless and would not be cowed.

  ‘I do not appreciate your tone, brother. I know nothing of the vessel you speak of,’ Zadkiel replied. ‘Now, disengage.’

  ‘I do not believe you, brother,’ said the Thousand Son with certainty. Zadkiel smiled mirthlessly.

  ‘Then I shall give you the truth. Great deeds are unfolding, Captain Mhotep. Lines will be drawn. Flame and retribution is coming, and those who are on the wrong side of that line will be burned to ash.’ Zadkiel paused for a moment, allowing his words to sink in.

  Mhotep remained impassive. The Thousand Sons were quite the experts at concealing their true emotions.

  ‘We are on a secure channel, Captain Mhotep, and the Legion of the Word have ever been supporters of your lord Magnus. The events of Nikaea must rankle.’ That got a reaction, near imperceptible, but it was there.

  ‘What are you suggesting, Word Bearer?’

  Hostility now, the icy reserve was thawing at the mention of what many in the Legion regarded as Magnus’s trial and that what happened at Nikaea was performed by a council in name only.

  ‘Lorgar and Magnus are brothers. So are we. What side of the line will you stand on, Mhotep?’

  The retort was curt. The Thousand Son’s face was set like stone.

  ‘Prepare to be boarded,’ he said.

  ‘As you wish,’ replied the Word Bearer.

  The vox link to the Waning Moon was cut.

  ‘Master Malforian,’ said Zadkiel, levelly.

  The ordnance deck flashed up on the viewscreen, a deep metal canyon beneath the prow crowded with sweating ratings hauling massive torpedoes.

  ‘My lord.’

  ‘Fire.’

  A spread of torpedoes flew from the Furious Abyss towards the Waning Moon, which had positioned itself before the massive ship’s prow. Starboard, a bank of laser batteries lit up at once, and beams of crimson light stabbed into the void. They struck the Fearless and the frigate was broken apart in a bright and silent flurry of blossoming explosions.

  ‘THRONE OF TERRA!’ Cestus could not believe what he was seeing through the Wrathful’s viewscreen. Powerless, and benumbed, he watched the Fearless fragment like scrap as a firestorm ravaged it, hungrily devouring the oxygen on board and turning it into a raging furnace. It was over in seconds, and after the conflagration had died all that remained was a blackened ruin. Then the torpedoes hit the Waning Moon.

  ‘SHARKS IN THE void!’ cried Helms-mate Ramket from the sensorium on the bridge of the Waning Moon. The crew were all at battle stations, carefully monitoring the actions of the Word Bearer ship. The lights in the elliptical chamber were dimmed as was protocol for combat situation, and the tiny blips that represented the ordnance launched by the Furious Abyss glowed malevolently on one of the bridge’s tactical display slates.

  ‘Evasive manoeuvres. Turrets to full! Withdraw boarding parties to damage control stations!’ Mhotep scowled and gripped the lip of the command console in front of him. Shields were useless against torpedoes; he had to hope their hull armour could bear the brunt of the Furious Abyss’s opening salvo.

  ‘At your command, my lord,’ came Ramket’s reply.

  Warning runes flashed on multiple screens at once, presaging the missile impacts. Mhotep turned again to his helms-mate.

  ‘Open a channel to the Wrathful,’ he ordered as the first of the torpedoes hit, sending damage klaxons screaming as a massive shudder ran through the bridge.

  ‘Mhotep, what’s happening out there?’ asked Cestus over the ship-to-ship vox array.

  ‘The Fearless is gone. We are taking fire and attempting to evade. The Word Bearers have turned on their own, Cestus.’

  A burst of crackling static held in the air for the moment combining with the din of relayed orders and cogitator warnings.

  When he finally spoke, the Ultramarine’s voice was grim.

  ‘Engage and destroy.’ ‘Understood.’

  THE BRIDGE OF the Wrathful moved to battle stations, Kaminska barking rapid orders to her subordinates with well-drilled precision and calm. The professionalism of the Saturnine Fleet’s officer class was evident as the weapons were brought to bear and shields focused prow-ward.

  ‘How shall we respond, lord Astartes?’ she asked, once they were at a state of readiness.

  Cestus fought a cold knot of disbelief building in the pit of his stomach as he watched the spread of blips on the tactical display move into attack positions.

  The Word Bearers have turned on their own.

  Mhotep’s words were like a hammer blow.

  His words, the words that Cestus had spoken earlier on the training deck to Thestor and Antiges, of brotherhood and the solidarity of the Legions, suddenly turned to ash in his mouth. He had admonished his brothers for even voicing mild dissent against a fellow Legionnaire, and now, here they were embattled against them. No, they were not World Eaters. They were not the murderous, blood-letters that Antiges had described. They were the devout servants of the Emperor. Ostensibly they were his most vehement and staunchest supporters.

  How far did this treachery go? Was it confined merely to
this ship, or did it permeate the entire Legion? Surely, with the vessel crafted by the Mechanicum it had the sanction of Mars. Could they be aware of the Word Bearers’ defection? Such a thing could not be countenanced. With these questions running through his mind like a fever, Cestus could not believe what was happening. It did not feel real. From disbelief, anger and a desire for retribution was born.

  ‘Break that ship in two,’ Cestus said, full of righteous conviction. He could feel the ripples of shock and disbelief passing through the non-Astartes as the full horror of what they had witnessed sank in. He would show them that the true servants of the Emperor did not tolerate traitors and any act of heresy would be summarily dealt with. Cestus’s feelings and the ramifications of what had transpired would have to wait and be rationalised later. ‘Relay astropathic messages to Macragge and Terra at once,’ the Ultramarine added. ‘The sons of Lorgar will be held to account for this. Admiral Kaminska, you have the helm.’

  ‘As you wish, my lord.’ Kaminska said. Trying her best to maintain her cold composure in the face of such developments, she swivelled the command throne as the screens around her shifted to show every angle around the ship. ‘Captain Vorlov, are you with me?’

  ‘Say the word, admiral.’ Vorlov’s enthusiasm was obvious, despite the static flickering through the fleet’s vox array.

  ‘Take the lead behind the Waning Moon. If they stay on the Astartes ship, swing up in front of them. Give them a bloody good broadside up the nose, and scramble attack craft. Keep their gunners busy. I’ll send what’s left of our escorts with you. In the name of Emperor!’

  ‘At your command, admiral,’ replied Vorlov with relish. ‘Main engines to full, all crew to battle stations. Watch my stern, admiral, and the Boundless will pick this swine apart! In the name of Emperor!’

  ‘Mister Castellan,’ Kaminska barked, terminating the vox link with the Boundless. The Wrathful’s Master of Ordnance appeared on screen, toiling ratings just visible behind him on the gun decks.

  ‘A lance salvo to their dorsal turret arrays and engines, if you please,’ said Kaminska. ‘Load prow plasma torpedoes, but hold in reserve, I want something up our sleeve.’