Know no fear. The Battle of Calth hh-19

by Dan Abnett

Telemechrus checks for a noospheric, but there is none. He cannot patch and configure a global position with any accuracy.

  ‘You fell from a low orbit facility,’ says Lamiad. ‘Two of your kind fell at the same time, but their caskets were already damaged and they did not survive.’

  Telemechrus zooms in on the half-open caskets beside his own.

  ‘Oh,’ he says.

  ‘What is your name, friend?’ asks Lamiad.

  ‘Gabril. No. It is. Not. It is. Telemechrus. Lord.’

  ‘Telemechrus, we have been attacked in the most underhand and cowardly fashion. The XVII Legion has turned on us. They have slaughtered us, crippled the fleet and the orbital facilities, and laid waste to vast tracts of Calth. We are close to defeat. We are close to death.’

  ‘I have seen. Death, lord. We have both. Seen it. Come close to. Us and yet in neither. Case. Did it claim. Us.’

  Lamiad listens. He nods slowly.

  ‘I had not considered it that way. You are new-forged, Telemechrus, but you already display the wisdom of a venerable. The techpriests selected you well for this honour.’

  ‘I was. Told. It was. Because I. Was compatible. Lord.’

  ‘I think that is so. And not just biologically. I was almost made like you, after Bathor. The Mechanicum of Konor blessed me with a more subtle rebuild. It is not, however, as robust.’

  Lamiad glances down at his shattered arm-stub.

  ‘Today, your Dreadnought build has allowed you to endure better than me.’

  ‘Without you. Lord. I could not. Even. Have got. Out of. My. Box.’

  Lamiad laughs.

  ‘Please. Inload me. With full. Tactical,’ says Telemechrus.’

  ‘I was over there,’ Lamiad says, pointing towards the burning buildings in the middle distance. ‘The Holophusikon. That was supposed to be a commemoration of our future, Telemechrus. The orbital strike rained debris across this entire area. Large pieces. They struck the whole zone like a meteor storm.’

  ‘I was. One. Of them.’

  Lamiad nods.

  ‘A whole ship came down over there,’ he says. ‘And that way, a section of orbital platform that struck like a rogue atomic. The Holophusikon took direct hits. There was no protection. I was hurt. Most others present were killed by the collision trauma, the shock concussion, and the subsequent fire.’

  ‘That’s Numinus City,’ he says, pointing in another direction.

  Telemechrus scans another vast heat-source. He compares the stored grid positions of the city and the Holophusikon, and calculates his position relative to them, to within two hundred metres.

  ‘There is. No. Data,’ says Telemechrus. ‘There is. No. Central. Command.’

  ‘There is not.’

  ‘Have you. Determined. A theoretical. Lord?’

  ‘I am trying to assemble whatever strengths I can salvage,’ says Lamiad. ‘Then I intend to take the war back against the traitors who did this.’

  ‘What is. The strength. of your. Force. So far. Lord?’

  ‘It’s you, and it’s me, Telemechrus.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’ asks Lamiad.

  ‘Why did. Our brothers. Turn. On. Us?’

  ‘I have no idea, friend. I am almost afraid to know the answer. In that explanation, I fear, our future will burn again. Brother against brother. Legion versus Legion. A civil war, Telemechrus. It is the one blight the Imperium never even considered.’

  ‘We shall. Know. No fear. Lord.’

  Lamiad nods again.

  ‘I. Await. Your. Orders. Lord.’

  ‘The city,’ says Lamiad. ‘Numinus. If we must make anywhere our killing ground, it’s there. That’s where the enemy will be.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lamiad turns.

  ‘What. About the. Vox-signal, lord?’

  ‘What vox-signal?’

  ‘The. Encrypted. Signal.’

  ‘My vox-link is smashed, Telemechrus. Tell me what signal you mean? Is someone out there? Is someone talking?’

  [mark: 11.40.02]

  The enormous security hatches, twice the height of a legionary, hiss open, retracting into the armoured frame. Internal blast shutters, like nictitating eyelids, open in sequence after them.

  The auxiliary bridge of the Macragge’s Honour is revealed. One by one, starting from just inside the hatch to the right, and moving around the room, the consoles and bridge stations begin to light up, commencing automatic activation cycles. The auxiliary command has interlaced redundancy parameters. It will be, for now, clean of scrapcode. Cryptocept keys, reserved for only the most senior personnel, empower the auxiliary command to re-integrate with the flagship’s primary service and control system, to purge and rewrite the command codes, and, if necessary, to assume control of the ship.

  Shipmaster Zedoff had a key, and he’s dead. Guilliman had one, and he is missing.

  Marius Gage has the third.

  He looks at Shipmaster Hommed and the two ranking functionary magi they have rescued during the fight downhull. Hommed is bruised, and his uniform is stiff with the blood of others. He only survived the death of his ship, the Sanctity of Saramanth, because his first officer bundled his unconscious form into an escape pod. He would have preferred to die with his ancient and honoured vessel.

  Hommed also accepts that the duty thrust upon him now is as critical as it is unexpected. A qualified and experienced shipmaster must take Zedoff’s place at the helm of the Macragge’s Honour.

  ‘Ready?’ asks Gage. There’s no room for ‘if’ in his question. He does not even allow for a theoretical where Hommed will decline the command. The Ultramar fleet is dying. Scattered across Calth nearspace, it is being hunted, hounded and picked off by the predator warships of the XVII and the unstoppable fury of the weapons grid. Something must be done. It may already be too late, but something must at least be attempted.

  ‘I am ready, Chapter Master,’ replied Hommed.

  Flanked by Hommed, the magi and a gaggle of deck officers and command servitors, Gage crosses to the master console, and inserts the last cryptocept key. His authority is requested, taken by gene-scan and retina print, then verified by voice and pheromone. Hommed then steps forward, and allows his biometrics to be recorded, verified, and imprinted.

  ‘Command is yours, shipmaster,’ says a magos.

  ‘Command accepted, with honour,’ replies Hommed. ‘Begin primary service and control system purge and rewrite. On three, two, one.’

  ‘Purge under way, shipmaster.’

  ‘Prepare override protocols,’ says Hommed. He walks towards the strategium with rapidly mounting confidence, or at least the determination not to look like a fool. As he goes, he starts pointing left and right to direct his officers to their stations. They hurry to respond, strapping in or, in the case of magi and servitors, plugging up.

  ‘Everybody to readiness,’ says Hommed. ‘All stations, all stations. I will be asserting override in three minutes, and I want every station to gather and present all and any data they can the moment we are live. Priority to drive, shields, weapons and sensors.’

  ‘Strategium tactical externals are to be built and viewable within two minutes of restart,’ Gage adds.

  ‘Let him call it,’ Empion hisses to Gage. ‘Hommed knows what he’s doing. He needs to know that chair is his.’

  ‘And I need to know what the battle looks like,’ says Gage. What he doesn’t say is, I need to know if, by any miraculous chance, Guilliman is still alive.

  Thiel and the strikeforce watch proceedings from the hatchway, guarding against possible attack. It’s a high theoretical that the Word Bearers have already boarded the flagship. Even with Hommed installed in command, the ship may not actually belong to them at all. Thiel itches to lead squads to the main airgates and the hangar decks.

  They are the sites he would use to storm-board a ship.

  ‘Override complete,’ announces a magos.

  ‘Auxiliary command is active,’ calls
a deck officer.

  ‘I have control,’ agrees Hommed.

  Almost immediately, the newly-assigned Master of Vox calls out.

  ‘Signal!’ he cries. ‘Encrypted signal from the surface!’

  ‘The surface?’ says Empion, amazed. ‘But–’

  Gage steps forward. He nods at the Master of Vox to activate full encrypt, and takes the speaker horn.

  ‘This is Marius Gage,’ he says. ‘Who speaks for Calth?’

  10

  [mark: 12.00.00]

  ‘Ventanus of the 4th,’ says Ventanus. ‘Please stand by as we verify your code authority and identity.’

  Ventanus lowers the speaker horn and waits until Cyramica relays a confirmation from the server.

  ‘Ventanus again,’ he says. ‘It is good to hear your voice, Chapter Master.’

  ‘And yours, Ventanus,’ the reply crackles back, tonally altered by the signal encrypt. ‘We were blind until a few moments ago. We thought the surface was dead.’

  ‘Not quite, sir,’ Ventanus replies, ‘but I can’t pretend the picture is good. Our losses have been severe. We have spent the hours since the attack trying to re-establish a vox-net and regain some data capacity. In the next few minutes, I will begin passing to you details of surviving surface strengths and their positions, as they come to me. We have the Mechanicum server here, and she is processing the inload for us.’

  ‘Ventanus, can you restore the weapons grid?’ the vox crackles. ‘Is the server able to do that? The enemy has control of it, and is using it to obliterate the fleet. We cannot hope to achieve anything in the face of their grid control.’

  ‘Stand by,’ replies Ventanus. ‘I believe the cogitation power of this data-engine is insufficient, but the server is examining the issue. I’m going to talk with her now. Data should be inloading to you. Captain Sydance will remain on the link for further voice contact.’

  ‘Gage, acknowledged.’

  Ventanus hands the speaker horn to Sydance and walks back into the stack room with Cyramica. There is a tranquil but dead look on Tawren’s face, as if her body is empty, as if her mind has fled deep into remote sub-aetheric reaches and left the physical shell behind.

  ‘Vox contact has now been made with sixty-seven survivor groups,’ Cyramica tells him, ‘including two engine squadrons in North Erud, an armour company near the Bay of Lisko, and the 14th Garnide Heavy Infantry, who survived virtually intact at a bunker complex in Sylator Province.’

  ‘Keep compiling. The primarch will coordinate the active practical.’

  ‘The Chapter Master responded from the flagship,’ observes Cyramica. ‘Not your primarch. Have you discussed the orbital losses yet?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Orbital losses are extreme, and they are increasing every minute as the grid hunts new targets. Is your primarch still alive? Is an active practical even possible?’

  Ventanus glares at her.

  ‘Can I speak to the server?’ he asks.

  ‘She is in deep interface.’

  ‘And I appreciate her efforts, but I need to talk to her.’

  Cyramica nods. She issues a gentle binaric signal.

  Tawren opens her eyes.

  ‘Captain,’ she nods, an underlying, tremulous carrier signal clicking along behind her voice.

  ‘Our priority is the weapons grid, server. What progress have you made?’

  ‘I can confirm,’ she says calmly, ‘that this engine is not capable of either overriding control of the grid, or of managing the grid’s operation after an override. It is simply not powerful enough.’

  ‘Is there an alternative?’

  ‘I am attempting to decide that,’ she replies. ‘So far there does not appear to be a single, functioning data-engine on Calth rated sufficient for the job that is not also infected with the enemy scrapcode. For a definitive answer, however, you must wait until my final determination.’

  ‘How long will that take?’ asks Ventanus.

  ‘I do not know, captain,’ she replies.

  Ventanus hears footsteps behind him, and looks around.

  Selaton stands in the doorway.

  ‘You’d better come, sir,’ he says.

  Ventanus nods.

  ‘Inform me the moment you have an answer,’ he says to Tawren, and exits.

  Tawren drifts back into the dataverse. Her serenity is practised and deliberate. A server can manage far greater degrees of data manipulation whilst in a calm state of mind. In truth, she is fighting a core of anxiety.

  With the data-engine active, she can see it all. Or, at least, she can see more of the situation’s totality than anyone except the enemy. She can see the truly frightening scale of the losses: the death toll, the crippling injury to the XIII Legion, the burning cities, the slaughtered populations, the devastated geography and the systematic annihilation of the fleet. Under any other circumstances, Calth would be considered a loss, and the battle a defeat.

  The Ultramarines‘ characteristic determination is the only thing keeping them going: their fearless resolve to devise a new practical, to circumvent and outplay even hopeless odds.

  These are worse than hopeless odds. Tawren can see that. She has a simultaneous dataview of the globe, and she can see that even the surviving loyalist forces are hard-pressed and dying, cornered, fighting off attack from all sides, slowly facing elimination. They are too scattered and too isolated. The enemy has superiority in every way.

  This is extinction. The grid might have made a difference, but there is no way of accessing or controlling it.

  This is extinction. This is the death of Calth. This is the end of the XIII Legion.

  [mark: 12.07.21]

  ‘I thought you needed to see this,’ says Selaton. He leads Ventanus outside, onto the cratered lawns of the palace.

  ‘A prisoner?’ Ventanus asks dubiously.

  Most of the enemy fled after the 4th ripped into them. Many stood their ground and fought to the death. But this one has accepted capture.

  He is standing on the lawn by the broken fountain, guarded by four Ultramarines.

  Ventanus leaves Selaton to his duties and approaches the Word Bearer. The warrior’s armour is dented and bloody. His face is smeared with gore. He looks at Ventanus, and almost seems to smile.

  ‘Name,’ says Ventanus.

  ‘Morpal Cxir,’ replies the Word Bearer.

  One of the guarding Ultramarines shows Ventanus the weapons that the Word Bearer was carrying when he was captured. A broken boltgun. A large dagger made of black metal with a wire-wound handle. The dagger is curious. It looks ritualistic and ceremonial: less of a weapon and more a totem of status.

  ‘Were you the ranking officer?’ Ventanus asks.

  ‘I was in command,’ Cxir admits.

  ‘Any reason I shouldn’t just kill you, you bastard?’ Ventanus asks.

  ‘Because you still live by a code. Your Imperial truth. Your honour. Your ethics.’

  ‘All of which you have forgotten.’

  ‘All of which we have specifically renounced,’ Cxir corrects.

  ‘This is the old enmity?’ asks Ventanus.

  Cxir laughs.

  ‘How typically arrogant! How characteristic of the Ultramar mindset. Yes, we slaked our dislike of you today. But that is not why we attacked Calth.’

  ‘Why then?’ asks Ventanus.

  ‘The galaxy is at war,’ replies Cxir. ‘A war against the False Emperor. We follow Horus.’

  Ventanus doesn’t answer. It makes no sense, but the apparent senselessness must at least be set in the context of the day’s unimaginable events. He takes another look at the ritual knife. It is ugly. Its shape and design make him uncomfortable. He believes that the brotherhood cultists were carrying similar weapons. He slides it into his belt. He will show it to the server. Perhaps the data-engine can provide some illuminating information.

  ‘So the galaxy is at war?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A civil war?’ />
  ‘The civil war,’ replies Cxir, as though proud of it.

  ‘Warmaster Horus has turned against the Emperor?’

  Cxir nods.

  ‘News takes time to travel,’ he says convivially. ‘You will hear of it soon enough. Except you won’t. None of you. None of the XIII. Accept the fact that you have just hours to live.’

  ‘If you allowed yourself to become a captive just so you could try to threaten us,’ says Sullus, walking up to join them, ‘then you are a fool.’

  ‘I am not here to threaten you,’ says Cxir. ‘I would have preferred to have died, but I have a duty as commander. A duty to offer you terms.’

  Sullus draws his sword.

  ‘Give me permission to silence this traitor,’ he says.

  ‘Wait,’ replies Ventanus. He looks at the Word Bearer. Cxir’s expression is scornful and confident.

  ‘He knows we won’t hurt him while he is a captive, Sullus,’ Ventanus says. ‘He has mocked us for it. He has mocked our civilised code and our principles. He taunts us for having humanitarian ethics. If that’s the worst thing he can say, let him.’

  Sullus growls.

  ‘Seriously, Teus,’ says Ventanus, ‘he thinks that’s an insult? That we have moral standards and he does not?’

  Cxir looks Ventanus in the eyes.

  ‘Your ethical stance is admirable, captain,’ he says. ‘Do not misunderstand me. We of the XVII admire you. We always have. There is much to be admired about the august Ultramarines. Your resolve. Your sense of duty. Your loyalty, especially. These comments are not intended to appear snide, captain. I am being genuine. What you stand for and represent is anathema to us, and we have taken arms against it. We will not rest until it is dead and overthrown. That does not prevent us, all the while, from admiring the strength with which you champion it.’

  Cxir looks from Ventanus to Sullus and then back again.

  ‘You were everything we could not be,’ he says. ‘Then the truth was revealed to us. The Primordial Truth. And we realised that you were everything we should not be.’

  ‘His jabbering bores me,’ Sullus says to Ventanus.

  ‘You are creatures of honour and reason,’ says Cxir. ‘You understand terms. That is why I refrained from seizing a death I was happy to embrace, and undertook this humiliation. I have come to offer you terms.’