Captain Straden was all too used to being ordered into lesser duties — duties that he considered far below the honour worthy of an Imperial cruiser. He sat in his command throne now, feeling the heavy thrum in his bones as his beloved, underestimated ship came about to a new heading. The engines shook the entire ship, and well they might, for five thousand slaves and servitors laboured in the endless layers of the Fury’s aft decks. The enginarium was a hothouse of banging machinery, burning furnaces, sweating slaves and bellowing petty officers armed with pistols and whips.
“I count twenty-six hostiles, captain,” called out a junior officer from his place in front of a bank of crackling scanner monitors. “Sacred Throne!”
“Report,” Straden ordered, his voice still calm.
“The flagship reads as the… the Terminus Est.”
Lantyre Straden had captained Depth of Fury for eleven years. He’d captained a Cobra-class destroyer for six years before that, and served as a lieutenant aboard a Lunar-class cruiser before even that. A long career in the Holy Fleet. Honourable if not exquisitely distinguished, and with a record of victories that entitled him to sit where he was now: in the spacious, antique throne of one of the Emperor’s own blessed battle cruisers. At his command was the power to obliterate incredible amounts of life, of entire cities, of whole worlds. He had done so many times before — simply by speaking a single word, he had annihilated thousands of lives. It was his duty, and his duty was his passion. Such was the power of Depth of Fury, ill-favoured main armament or not.
This was the first time Straden could ever remember thinking that the metres-thick adamantium armour of an Imperial ship, coupled with the invisible, crackling protection of void shields, would simply not be enough. Upon hearing those words, the name of that accursed ship that had been Segmentum Obscurus legend for thousands of years, he knew with cold certainty that he would die here.
He steepled his fingers as his elbows rested on the arms of the command throne. Death… The thought was oddly liberating.
“Bring us about until Terminus Est is in our forward fire arc. Status on the nova cannon?”
A weapons rating looked up from his console, one hand raised to his earpiece. “Prow fire control reports all systems ready,” he said.
“Warn the enginarium to make final preparations.”
There was the chatter of dozens of voices around the bridge speaking into vox mics, alerting fellow officers across the ship that the main armament was readying to fire.
Straden requested ship-wide vox, and a rating patched it through to the systems within his enclosing command throne.
“This is the captain,” he began, and his mouth grew dry even as his calm took greater hold on his heart. “All crew to battle stations. Brace to fire the nova cannon in thirty seconds. Station commanders to sound off when ready.”
The vox blared into life as returning signals crackled through.
“Navigation, ready,” boomed a voice across the bridge, emanating from the speakers.
“Port laser batteries locked down and ready,” came a second voice.
And on it went. As the districts of the colossal ship chimed back their readiness, Straden watched the rotted hulks of the Archenemy ships tearing closer. The ship began to shake anew, taking the first impacts from the light cruisers thrusting ahead of the behemoth, Terminus Est.
Fighters spilled from the larger Chaos ships, but while the smaller vessels of the Imperial fleet took a hammering from their interceptor weapons, Depth of Fury ignored them utterly. It speared away from the planet, launching towards its target like a shrike diving at its prey.
“Signal the captains of the Precious Loyalty and The Lord Castellan to power up and flank us for the first five thousand kilometres of our run. Then they are to break away when we fire the nova cannon, lest they catch the first wave from our broadsides.”
“Compliance,” murmured a vox-servitor, and relayed the orders to the commanders of the smaller frigates. Depth of Fury shuddered harder, taking serious impacts on its void shields and shaking through the stress of the plasma drives propelling the ship far in advance of standard thrust.
“Come on,” Straden whispered. “Come on. Please, come on.”
“Enginarium…” the voice began, and the captain was already out of his seat before it finished, “…ready.”
Straden stared at the viewscreen, at the bloated shape of Terminus Est powering closer through the void. He drew his formal sabre, and aimed it at the image before him.
“Kill. That. Ship.”
* * *
The principles of nova cannon technology are relatively simple.
Generators mounted in Depth of Fury’s prow and the cannon itself charged up, creating a series of powerful magnetic fields. Teams of slaves in the prow work with great loading machinery to feed a specially prepared projectile — an implosive charge the size of a small building — into a great hallway known as the release chamber.
Bulkheads slam down as the nova cannon readies to fire. The firing mechanisms must be isolated from the rest of the ship, and it is rare that all slaves escape in time. As Depth of Fury thundered towards, Terminus Est, battered by the anger of a dozen lesser vessels, Straden demanded haste above all else. Hundreds of slaves and servitors were killed in the preparation even before the ship’s destruction several minutes later.
Upon the order to fire, the magnetic fields accelerate the payload and hurl it from the fixed cannon at something close to the speed of light. Then the time-consuming and dangerous reloading process takes place, and the cycle repeats.
The payload hurtles through space faster than the human eye (and indeed, most instruments of human design) can track. It is programmed not to implode within safe distance of the firing vessel; a nova cannon’s destructive force is immense.
This failsafe can, of course, be overridden. In only a handful of minutes, it would be.
The projectile lanced across the distance between the two converging ships faster than the blink of an eye. Once it struck, it was programmed to implode, collapsing in on itself and achieving a density so intense all nearby matter would be sucked inside it and compressed to practically nothingness.
This is how stars die.
And this is what hit the oncoming prow of Terminus Est.
A sizeable chunk of the diseased ship simply ceased to exist, wrenched out of physicality and into nothingness. Consoles chattered and servitors grunted as Depth of Fury’s bridge instruments registered the damage.
“Direct hit,” said the lieutenant by the main weapons console.
Now the gangrenous ship was wounded. Detritus, mutated crew and shards of armoured hull span away into space, drifting from the gaping hole ripped into the prow of the advancing Chaos warship. The blood Straden could see was a flood of dark droplets — some hideous fluid leaking from the wounded sections of hull, turning into glittering crimson crystals as they froze in space.
It began to rotate — a fat whale rolling to avert its face.
“She’s hiding her bridge,” Straden cursed. “Sixteen per cent hull damage, captain. They’re venting air pressure and… and thousands of kilolitres of some kind of dark, organic fluid. Terminus Est is still coming, captain.”
Straden looked at the man as though he were the lowest form of idiot.
“Then by the God-Emperor,” he said, “you will fire again!”
The unfolding drama above Kathur became a smooth orbital ballet as the ships slid past each other in graceful slowness. Formations broke and reformed. Lesser ships danced around the greater ones, and the heavier cruisers unleashed silent beams that lanced across space to burn out as fountains of high energy sparks spraying away from crackling void shields.
When a ship’s shields finally buckled, the lances of light cut directly into the hulls, scarring them deeply, cutting ships into pieces one shard at a time.
The Second Shadow did not follow Depth of Fury. The rest of the Imperial fleet did.
Thes
e lighter cruisers and destroyer frigates powered at the Archenemy flagship, plasma drives leaving streams of energy-charged mist in their wake. While the slaves and servitors in the bowels of these vessels laboured on, unknowing of their fates, no bridge officer in the fleet was under any illusions. There was no hope to survive this. All that remained was to sell their lives as dearly as possible.
Had The Second Shadow joined this assault, Imperial forces would have inflicted a great deal more damage on their foes. But the strike cruiser remained in orbit — the very embodiment of Astartes autonomy. Frantic calls for aid clashed in the vox as the Navy vessels demanded (and in several cases, pleaded) for aid. Yet the black cruiser sat in seeming silence, its outward calm concealing the activity within.
The frigate Precious Loyalty was captained by Lieutenant Terris Vyn, born to a wealthy family on the planet Gudrun. In the final moments of its life, two thoughts span around his mind, casting all others aside. Firstly, that these were the worst circumstances one could make the rank of captain, and secondly, that he had no idea where his right arm was. The torpedo had struck, and after a moment’s blackness, he found himself crawling to his feet a great deal less whole than he had been a moment ago. Choking smoke flooded the bridge as blood poured from the stump of his severed bicep.
Every other officer of higher rank was dead, buried under the wreckage of what had been a fully-functioning bridge only scant minutes before. Half the servitors and ratings were similarly incapacitated: dead, dying, or doomed to spend their last seconds of life trapped under twisted metal rubble.
Terris Vyn ordered the enginarium to give him maximum thrust, little realising only a quarter of the one thousand slaves were still alive down there. The same torpedo barrage that devastated the bridge had inflicted equally horrendous damage across the rest of the vessel. By all design logic, it was a miracle the ship was still holding together.
He then ordered the helm to stabilise course and make straight for the Terminus Est. In this, his orders were more successful. The Dauntless-class vessel veered sharply, and plunged back on course.
Another Chaos cruiser, the dark-hulled Daughter of Agony, drifted between Terris Vyn and his target. The cruiser was busy opening up with its broadsides, unleashing hell on the flaming form of Depth of Fury.
“Forward batteries!” he cried through the smoke. “Forward batteries fire!”
Half of the batteries fired. Due to the excessive damage already sustained, the other half no longer existed. They were reduced to deep, ruined scars in the Loyalty’s prow.
The diminished cutting beams sliced out, making harmless lightning patterns as the Daughter of Agony’s void shields repelled the incoming fire.
“Go around!” Terris Vyn screamed. “Ram the Terminus Est!”
A noble plan. Had it succeeded, it would have been delicious vindication for the slain Imperial crews.
Instead, Daughter of Agony began to twist. Lance fire licked from the turrets across the vessel’s back, turrets so numerous they were like scales on a reptile’s skin.
“Lieutenant…” a helm officer began a sentence he would never finish.
Precious Loyalty exploded in a bright star of plasmic energy, sending debris slashing through space in a thousand directions.
It was a scene being repeated across the Imperial fleet.
Depth of Fury powered on, shieldless and streaming jagged metal from its wounds. Like a plague of locusts, Chaos fighters flitted around the cruiser, a cloud of annoyance harassing all four kilometres of the great vessel. Depth of Fury shuddered under the withering hail of fire, geysers of pressurised air and quickly-killed flames gushing from the holes blasted in its ridged hull. The cathedral-like structures adorning its long back were in ruins, resembling the bones of some long-dead civilisation. The ship’s destruction was inevitable. The damage was already nearly total.
The reports reaching Fury’s captain flashed through his mind and were discarded by all but the core parts of his consciousness. The hull was literally collapsing on too many decks to keep track of. The void shield generators had been ejected into space to prevent a critical internal detonation. Half the plasma drives had ceased functioning. Navigation was fighting to keep the ship under control, and what control the officers had was unreliable in the extreme.
The cruiser passed between two Chaos vessels, and a final chorus of broadsides fired. The banks of cannons roared into the silence of space, tearing great scars along the edges of the grey-green ships as Fury sliced between them like a crumbling dagger.
Still, somehow, the prow was aimed at Terminus Est, following the larger ship as it rolled.
We’ll only get one more shot, Straden knew. By the throne, I pray we make this count.
“Main weapon primed!” yelled a rating.
“Fire! In His glorious name! Fire!”
No preparations this time. The nova cannon charged its magnetic fields and spat its implosive gift at the Archenemy flagship.
Two things happened in the wake of that release. Close to the speed of light, the projectile hammered into Terminus Est, unleashing the physics of a collapsing sun into the ship’s underbelly. Several decks simply ceased to exist as the implosion gouged a wicked, bleeding hole in the Traveller’s vessel. More wreckage, more crew and more diseased fluids drifted into space from the grievous puncture.
The second thing was that Depth of Fury lost all pretence of stability. The kickback from firing the nova cannon was colossal, effectively killing the cruiser’s forward motion and sending it veering to starboard, out of control.
The predator sensed its prey was crippled: Terminus Est loomed in the viewscreen, drifting closer.
“We’re dead in space,” said one the younger bridge ratings. His face was white with fear. “Do we abandon ship, sir?”
The side of the young man’s head exploded outward in a dark mess. The corpse toppled over in the same direction a moment after. The ship’s commissar, hook-nosed and thin-faced, lowered his pistol.
“How dare he shame this vessel’s final moments with a coward’s talk?”
Straden ignored the man. He was already on the ship-wide vox, speaking his last order.
“Stand to your final duties, men of the Imperium. Be ready to greet the Emperor with pride.”
The Second Shadow was also taking a beating. Encircled by lesser destroyers, frigates and fighter wings, the black strike cruiser still sat in orbit, returning fire with its formidable weapons array. But going nowhere.
Boarding ports opened like widening eyes along the hull, and assault pods shot from the Shadow’s launch bays, engines burning with fiery contrails. Almost as small as the fighters swarming the strike cruiser, they fired across space in a formation blur, passing practically unnoticed. The few Chaos ships that did notice the pods failed to target-lock the fast-moving objects as they hurtled through the void, directly towards the distant shape of Terminus Est.
A Space Marine strike cruiser was a Chapter commodity so precious that its value to the Raven Guard could not be described. The lives of fifty of its Astartes were similarly priceless.
With no escape from this colossal tragedy taking hold, the Raven Guard had decided how best to sell their lives. The ship-to-ship assault pods streamed on, ever closer to the Archenemy flagship. A textbook boarding operation.
Petty Officer Ovor Werland laboured shirtless in the prow armament chambers of Depth of Fury. He was forty-three years old, and would never see forty-four. In his right hand was a laspistol, its ammunition expended. In his left hand was a whip, the leather cord slick with blood.
He’d lashed them, he’d shot some of them, but he’d done it. His team of slaves, now down to barely a hundred men, had reloaded the nova cannon in just under seven minutes. The mouth of the great turret had been fed with the huge warhead it would unleash.
Werland sprinted across the wreckage-strewn deck, leaping at the last moment over the still-twitching body of a man he’d shot himself. He dropped his weapons, keye
d the wall vox-speaker active and shouted over the wailing sirens that the captain could fire the main armament.
His last duty done, Werland turned from the wall.
And froze.
The remaining hundred men of his slave team ringed him in an impenetrable semicircle. As the ship shuddered and came apart, the men stood there, pieces of wreckage held as weapons.
Petty Officer Ovor Werland paid the price many slavemasters have paid since time out of mind.
With nothing left to lose, his property rebelled and took their vengeance.
Depth of Fury was doomed. Although it would end its honourable but understated career in less than a minute, Ovor Werland was quite dead by then.
“Their cannon amasses power once more, great Herald.”
Typhus nodded his horned helm once. “End them. Now.”
“Main armament ready!” crackled the voice over the vox. Ovor Werland’s last words.
Straden’s mouth fell open for a moment. For one insane second he wanted to get back on the vox and ask that officer’s name, in order to recommend him for special citation.
“Fire my damn gun!” he roared at the surviving weapons officers.
They tried. Depth of Fury twisted slowly, exploding as it turned, bringing its cannon to bear with agonising slowness.
Their bridge. Straden breathed fast, unable to believe what he saw. The Archenemy flagship was filling the viewscreen now. And he saw…
Their bridge.
“It’s too close to fire, sir,” spoke one of the ratings. “We’ll be caught in the implosion.” Straden couldn’t believe what he’d heard.
“Do I look like I give a shit? We’re dead already! Fire! Fire, fire, fire!”
The magnetic fields powered up. Straden could feel them. He didn’t care that it was impossible. He could feel the magnetic fields charging, heating his blood, vibrating his bones. He ignored the bridge detonating around him.
[Imperial Guard 07] - Cadian Blood Page 15
