Fallen Angels

by Mike Lee

  ‘By whose order?’ Zahariel demanded.

  ‘Luther, of course,’ Astelan replied. ‘Who else?’

  The Librarian frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Your warriors were certified for deployment. I saw the report myself.’

  Astelan folded his arms. ‘This has nothing to do with my Astartes, brother. Luther has cancelled all deployments offworld.’ Zahariel was suddenly conscious of the message tube clutched in his left hand. ‘That can’t be right,’ he said. ‘It’s not possible.’

  Astelan’s scarred eyebrow raised slightly. ‘Luther appears to think otherwise,’ he said. One of the squad leaders chuckled, but the chapter master silenced him with a sidelong glance. ‘He’s in command here, is he not?’

  Zahariel ignored the challenge in Astelan’s tone. ‘Why did he cancel the deployments? The fleet is depending on those reinforcements.’ The chapter master shrugged. ‘You will have to ask him, brother.’

  Biting back a sharp reply, Zahariel spun on his heel. ‘I will, Astelan,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘You can be assured of that.’

  HE FOUND LUTHER high in the fortress’s topmost tower, at work in the Grand Master’s chambers. Jonson and Luther had shared the huge working space in better times, shaping the future of first the Order, then the Legion. As ever, scribes and staff aides bustled through the adjoining rooms, performing the countless daily tasks of Imperial rule.

  Luther’s desk was a massive bastion of polished Northwild oak, solid enough to stop a boltgun shell even before the heavy hololith projector and cogitators were installed. He used it as a bulwark to keep visiting bureaucrats out of arm’s reach, as he often joked. Just behind the desk stood a narrow archway that led to a small, open balcony. Zahariel saw Luther out in the sunshine, glancing thoughtfully up at the cloudless sky. He rounded the desk and stepped to the edge of the balcony, reluctant to intrude even under the current circumstances. ‘May I speak to you for a moment, brother?’

  Luther glanced over his shoulder and waved Zahariel forward. ‘I take it you’ve heard about the deployments,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’ Zahariel replied. ‘Has there been some word from the primarch?’

  ‘No,’ Luther said. ‘More’s the pity. There have been… developments here on Caliban.’

  Zahariel frowned. ‘Developments? What does that mean?’

  Luther didn’t reply at first. He leaned against the balcony’s stone railing, staring down at the industrial sprawl thousands of feet below. Zahariel could tell that he was troubled.

  ‘There have been reports of unrest in Stormhold and Windmir,’ he said. ‘Worker strikes. Protests. Even, some cases of sabotage at the weapon manufactories.’

  ‘Sabotage?’ Zahariel exclaimed, unable to conceal his surprise. ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘Several months,’ Luther said darkly. ‘Perhaps as long as a year. It began with a few isolated incidents, but the problem’s worked its way through the outer territories like a reaper vine, digging deep into every chink and crevice. Now it’s bleeding us in a hundred places. Work stoppages have cut ammo production by fifteen per cent.’

  Zahariel shook his head. He held up the message tube. ‘That can’t be right. I prepared the reports personally. We’re over our quota.’ Luther smiled ruefully. ‘That’s because I’ve been making up the shortfall by drawing lots of ammunition from the fortress’s emergency stockpiles. Now we’re dangerously low.’

  The Librarian let out a long breath. ‘The emergency stockpiles were held in reserve to defend Caliban from enemy attack. Jonson would be furious if he knew they’d been cleaned out. What about the constabulary? Why haven’t they put a stop to this?’

  ‘The constabulary have been less than effective,’ Luther said, glancing meaningfully at Zahariel.

  ‘You mean they’re helping these… these rebels?’

  ‘Indirectly, yes,’ Luther said. ‘I have no proof, but I can think of no other way to explain it. There have been few detentions, and little progress on attempts to uncover who is organising the dissenters.’

  Zahariel considered the implications. ‘The upper echelons of the constabulary are filled with warriors from the defunct knightly orders,’ he mused. Once again, the sense of foreboding tingled at the back of his mind. He pressed the fingertips of his right hand to his forehead.

  ‘I was thinking much the same thing,’ Luther said. ‘There are many former nobles and powerful knights who broke with the Order when we swore our loyalty to the Emperor. Many of them possess considerable wealth and influence in their former domains.’

  ‘But what do these rebels want?’

  Luther turned to Zahariel. This time, his dark eyes glinted coldly. ‘I don’t know yet, brother, but I intend to find out,’ he said. ‘But I’m going to need warriors I can trust, so I’ve cancelled all deployments until further notice.’

  Zahariel leaned against the balcony. The decision made sense, but he feared that Luther was striding along the edge of a precipice. ‘The primarch needs those warriors in the Shield Worlds,’ he said. ‘If we delay them, it could lead to disastrous consequences.’

  ‘Worse than having Caliban descend into anarchy?’ Luther countered. ‘Don’t worry, brother. I’ve given this much thought. We’ll send in the Jaegers first. If it they appear to have matters well in hand, I’ll release the new Astartes for immediate deployment to the fleet.’

  Zahariel nodded, still uneasy. ‘We need to root out their ringleaders,’ he said. ‘Drag them out into the open and confront them with their crimes. That will put an end to this lawlessness.’

  Luther nodded. ‘It’s already begun,’ he said. ‘Lord Cypher is searching for them even as we speak.’

  THREE

  HAMMER AND ANVIL

  Diamat

  In the 200th year of the Emperor’s Great Crusade

  ‘VOX TRANSMISSION FROM Destroyer Squadron Twelve,’ Captain Stenius reported, joining the primarch at the strategium’s primary hololith display. ‘Long-range surveyors are picking up thirty vessels anchored in high orbit above the forge world. Reactor and sensor emissions suggest a mixed group of capital ships and heavy-grade cargo transports.’

  Lion El’Jonson rested his hands against the burnished metal rim of the tank. A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. ‘Identification?’

  Stenius shook his head. He was another veteran of the Legion’s earliest campaigns, and bore the scars of his service proudly. His eyes were silver-rimmed, smoke-grey lenses set deeply into sockets that were seamed with scars. Nerve damage, inflicted by razor-sharp slivers of glass from an exploding hololith display, had transformed his face into a grim, inscrutable mask.

  ‘None of the vessels in orbit are flashing ident codes,’ the captain replied. ‘But Commander Bracchius, aboard Rapier, claims the reactor signatures from two of the larger craft match those of the grand cruisers Forinax and Leonis.’

  The primarch nodded. ‘Formidable ships, but well past their prime. I expected as much: Horus has sent a second-line fleet comprised of renegade Imperial warships and Army units to plunder Diamat, while holding back his Astartes to protect Isstvan V.’

  Stenius watched gravely as the hololith image above the table updated to reflect the new data. Diamat hung in the centre of the display, rendered in mottled shades of rust, ochre and burnt iron. Tiny red icons dotted the face of the world facing the approaching Dark Angels battle group, marking the approximate size and location of the enemy ships in orbit. Two of the icons had been tentatively classified as the two rebel grand cruisers, while others were given probable classifications based on their size and reactor emissions. Currently, the plot was showing no less than twenty cruiser-sized contacts anchored at Diamat, clustered around another ten heavy transports.

  Nemiel, standing to Jonson’s left on the other side of the hololith table, saw the concern in the captain’s eyes. Second-rate or not, the rebels had twice as many capital ships as they did. For the moment, the Dark Angels enjoyed the advantage of su
rprise, and the enemy had been caught with little room to manoeuvre, but it was anyone’s guess how long that would last.

  Tension and uncertainty hung heavy in the dimly-lit chamber; Nemiel had observed it for weeks in the hunched shoulders and hushed exchanges between the fleet officers. During the two-month voyage from the Gordia system the news of Horus’s betrayal and the nature of their clandestine mission had left indelible marks on the crew’s psyche.

  They’ve lost their faith, Nemiel thought. And why not? The unimaginable had occurred. Warmaster Horus, the Emperor’s favoured son, has turned his back on the Emperor, and brother has been set against brother. He studied the faces of the men inside the strategium and saw the same fear lurking in the depths of their eyes. No one knows who to trust any more, he sensed. If someone like Horus could fall, who might be next?

  The two hundred Astartes aboard the flagship dealt with their own uncertainties as they always did: honing their skills and preparing themselves mentally and physically for battle. Early in the voyage, Jonson had issued a set of directives organising his hand-picked squads into two small companies and establishing a rigorous training regimen to cement them into a cohesive fighting unit.

  As the only Chaplain aboard the battle barge, Nemiel found himself personally tasked by Jonson to monitor the Astartes’ training regimen and periodically certify their physical and psychological fitness. Since virtually all of the Legion’s senior staff members had been left behind at Gordia IV, Nemiel soon found his responsibilities expanded to include logistics and fleet operations as well. He accepted the extra duties with pride and a certain amount of uneasiness as well, because the more he worked alongside Lion El’Jonson, the less sense the undertaking to Diamat made. Such a relatively small force couldn’t possibly hold out for very long against the full strength of four rebel Legions, and Nemiel couldn’t imagine that the Emperor would have ordered Jonson to attempt such a thing. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that the primarch had ordered the expedition to Diamat for reasons that were entirely his own. Nemiel focused his attention on the tactical plot and tried to put his foreboding aside. ‘The rebels have us outnumbered, my lord,’ he pointed out.

  Jonson gave Nemiel a sidelong look. ‘I can perform hyperspatial calculations in my head, brother,’ he said wryly ‘I think I can manage to count to thirty unaided.’

  Nemiel shifted uncomfortably. ‘Yes, of course, my lord,’ he said quickly. ‘I don’t mean to belabour the obvious; I was just curious as to your strategy—’

  ‘Easy, brother,’ Jonson chuckled, clapping Nemiel on the shoulder. ‘I know what you meant.’ He pointed to the cluster of transports above Diamat. ‘That’s going to be their weak point,’ he said. ‘The success or failure of their mission depends on the survival of those big, lumbering ships, and they’re going to hang like an anchor around the rebel admiral’s neck.’ He glanced back at Stenius. ‘Any picket ships?’ Stenius nodded. ‘Bracchius reports three squadrons of escorts in a staggered sentry formation,’ he reported. ‘They have detected our scouts and are coming about to engage. Time to contact is one hour, fifteen minutes at current course and speed.’ He straightened, hands clasped behind his back. ‘What are your orders, my lord?’ he inquired formally.

  The battle group had reached the point of no return. At this point, more than one and a half astronomical units from Diamat, the battle group still had time and manoeuvring room to come about and retreat from the system. If Jonson chose to press ahead, it would commit his small force irrevocably to battle.

  Jonson did not hesitate. ‘Execute attack plan Alpha,’ he said calmly, ‘and send the signal to launch all Stormbirds. Bracchius is to maintain speed and engage as soon as the pickets come within range. He’ll have the honour of striking the first blow against Horus’s rebels.’

  Stenius bowed to the primarch and turned about, issuing a stream of orders to the flagship’s command staff. Jonson turned his attention back to the tactical plot. ‘Brother-Redemptor Nemiel, inform the company commanders to prepare their squads for an orbital assault,’ he said. ‘I expect we will be in position to launch in just over three hours’ time.’

  ‘At once, my lord,’ Nemiel replied, and began to relay the command through his vox-bead. The image above the hololith tank updated again, this time depicting the approximate location of the battle group’s three small scout squadrons. Ahead of them, three much larger squadrons were displayed in bright red, shifting slowly into a rough crescent formation. The arms of the crescent were oriented towards the oncoming Imperial scouts, like a pair of encircling arms. Blue and red numerical data, depicting the range, course and speed of the two formations changed with steadily-increasing speed.

  Lion El’Jonson studied the glowing motes of data and folded his arms, his expression distant and thoughtful. Nemiel watched another ghostly smile play across the primarch’s face as both forces arrayed themselves for battle, and fought down another twinge of unease. At that moment he would have given a great deal to know what Jonson saw in the grim picture that he did not.

  AS SOON AS the Dark Angels’ battle group had arrived in the Gehinnon star system it had effectively split into two forces. Six of the group’s sixteen ships were sleek, swift destroyers, which the primarch immediately ordered ahead of the main division with a trio of light cruisers to provide support. These scout squadrons quickly pulled ahead of the larger and slower cruisers, their long-range surveyors sweeping the void ahead of them and attempting to fix the size and disposition of the enemy fleet.

  Now that the enemy was sighted, vox signals went back and forth between the two destroyer squadrons and the trio of light cruisers hanging back in their wake. As the rebel picket ships – no less than fifteen enemy destroyers, organised into three large squadrons – deployed into a standard crescent formation, Jonson’s light cruisers flared their thrusters and moved up to form a battle line with the rest of the scouts.

  Thousands of kilometres behind them, the main body of Jonson’s battle group was altering formation as well. The Invincible Reason and the strike cruisers Amadis and Adzikel drew ahead of the two grand cruisers and two heavy cruisers that comprised the rest of the main force. At the same time, the armoured blast doors covering the three ships’ prow hangar bays slid ponderously open and flight after flight of Stormbirds leapt like loosed arrows into the darkness. Within minutes, seven squadrons of the heavily-armed assault craft were speeding ahead of the formation, racing to join up with the distant scouts before the rebel destroyers reached extreme firing range.

  With four minutes left to contact, the rebel pickets suddenly increased speed; perhaps the flotilla commander detected the oncoming Stormbirds, or gave in to his eagerness to open the engagement, but it was too little, too late. Jonson’s Stormbirds were streaking through the scout squadron’s firing line just as the enemy destroyers opened fire.

  The rebel ships opened the engagement as Jonson expected they would, opening their bow tubes and launching a salvo of deadly torpedoes at the oncoming scouts. Thirty of the huge missiles – each one powerful enough to blow a destroyer-sized ship apart – sped towards the scouts in a wide arc that left the Imperial ships with no room to escape.

  Surveyor arrays aboard the Stormbirds detected the launches at once, and the Astartes pilots spread out their formations as widely as possible to intercept the oncoming torpedoes. They swept through the volley of missiles in the space of a few seconds; lascannons spat bolts of searing light, spearing through the torpedoes’ casings and detonating their huge fuel tanks. Massive explosions flickered angrily in the darkness in the Stormbirds’ wake, spreading clouds of incandescent gas and debris that faded quickly in the airless void. Almost half of the torpedoes were destroyed; the rest sped onward towards their targets, too fast for the assault ships to alter course and come around for another pass. The Astartes held their course, already picking out targets among the oncoming picket ships.

  The scout squadrons opened fire on the incoming missil
es as soon as they came within range. Macro cannons and rapid-cycle megalasers filled the vacuum ahead of the small ships with a veritable wall of fire. Energy lances – massive beams of voltaic power – swept in burning arcs ahead of the light cruisers. More globes of flame bloomed along the path of the onrushing scouts, blending together into a seething field of vaporised metal and radioactive gas.

  Five torpedoes slipped through the maelstrom. They crossed the remaining space to their targets in less than a second, flying into a second, smaller cloud of exploding shells as the destroyers’ flak batteries opened fire. The servitor-crewed guns succeeded in destroying two of the remaining missiles.

  Three torpedoes out of thirty struck home. One of the weapons smashed into the prow of the destroyer Audacious but failed to detonate; Hotspur and Stiletto, however, were not so fortunate. The torpedoes’ plasma warheads tore the lightly-armoured destroyers apart, transforming them into expanding clouds of gas and debris in a single instant. Horus’s rebels had claimed first blood.

  The surviving ships passed through the remnant gases of the intercepted torpedoes, wreathing their void shields with streamers of plasma and temporarily fouling their auspex returns. Hungry for vengeance, their surveyor crews strained at their scopes, searching for engine telltales amid the storm of interference. Moments passed; points of heat swelled like stars in the radioactive haze. Ranges and vectors were calculated and relayed down to the torpedomen, who entered the data into their deadly charges. While the enemy pickets were still trying to reload their tubes, the scouts launched a torpedo salvo of their own.

  By this time, the two formations were at extreme weapons’ range, and the enemy pickets were faced with a dilemma: fire at the oncoming Stormbirds, the torpedo salvo or the scout squadrons behind them. The flotilla commander was forced to make a split-second decision, ordering all gun batteries to target the scouts and leaving the rest to the flak guns.