Below the thick-set monitor, the cemetery world of Certus-Minor turned slowly. With cloud-cover the colour of soured milk and a surface mostly made up of graven stone, the small planet looked vulnerable and alone in the depths of the cosmos. Apotheon held station above a glassy lake near the north pole, watching over the Ecclesiarchy world like a pugnacious watchdog. The monitor had been the only vessel to remain, with the necrofreighters and transports long gone and even the system ships fled. But dread and the crushing weight of responsibility only really settled on the lieutenant when the Adeptus Astartes strike cruiser Angelica Mortis departed on a course for the Adeptus Mechanicus forge-world of Aetna Phall.
The Apotheon had remained on station, a silent observer as the Keeler Comet had approached. Heiss had then witnessed the second strangest thing she had ever seen in her relatively sheltered life. Above Certus-Minor the comet changed course. It was as though the blood-red ball of ice, rock and metal had simply changed its mind and turned, heading away from the planet on a different trajectory. When Commander Vanderberg asked her to calculate a new destination, the cogitator had offered the Vulcanis system as the most likely heading, with Ultrageddon and Voss Prime possibilities. One thing the cogitator was certain about, however, was that the Keeler Comet’s present course would take it into Segmentum Solar and on towards Holy Terra.
The strangest thing Heiss had ever seen had been the tail following the comet, a sanguine stream of dust and gas, the middle of which was a glimmering fracture. It appeared to Heiss like the comet nucleus was a zipper, opening a breach in the unstable fabric of reality behind it. She had watched as swarms of otherworldly beings bled through the haemorrhage, before being pulled towards the nearby cemetery world by the planet’s gravitational field. She had taken some solace in the way the distant beasts seem to streak towards the planet, burning up like meteorites on a fiery entry, but vox-casts from Obsequa City reported heavy fighting, confirming that much of the daemonkin swarm had found its way to the surface to test the defenders.
‘Commander Vanderberg!’ Heiss called. When again she heard nothing behind the cabin door, she pulled the plunger beside it. The bulkhead gave a hydraulic wheeze and the heavy door yawned open. ‘Sir, forgive my trespassing, but we have orders from the Adeptus Astartes… Sir?’
Heiss took a brief look around the cabin. The commander’s bunk was empty, as was his private chartroom. The first the lieutenant knew of Vanderberg was the sound of her boot in the commander’s blood. Vanderberg was sat at his ferruswood writing desk. The Apotheon’s log sat on the desk surface next to a data-slate bearing a message to the commander’s sister on Scintilla. He had got no further than, ‘My Dearest Greta…’
‘Commander…’ Heiss mouthed as she edged around. Vanderberg’s eyes had rolled over but his face was just as baggy and kindly as ever. His arms had fallen down by the side of the ferruswood chair, and both wrists still dribbled with the captain’s life. Stepping forwards into the pool of blood, Heiss kicked the surgical kris Vanderberg had used across the floor. The lieutenant reasoned the commander had probably taken it from the ship’s small infirmary. Placing her fingers against his neck, she failed to find a pulse.
Heiss stood there for a moment, uncertain. Then, slowly she turned and walked out of the cabin, leaving bloody footprints behind her. As her strides took her towards the bridge they became quicker and more determined. There was very little to do about the situation. The commander was dead. She was the only other commissioned officer on board the ship and the Adeptus Astartes had issued orders.
Walking onto the bridge, she found Midshipman Randt where she had left him, looking stricken and uncomfortable in command of the bridge under such dire circumstances. Padre Gnarls stood by the captain’s throne in his preacher’s robes, the gangly priest looking like a gargoyle thanks to his bald head and hooked nose. All Adeptus Ministorum vessels carried a padre as a requirement, and although Gnarls could be uppity and meddlesome, Heiss was glad to see him on the bridge where he was a calming influence. Beyond were a number of the monitor’s bridge staff and ghoulish servitors.
‘Thank the God-Emperor,’ Randt blurted as Heiss entered. ‘The Adeptus Astartes still await the commander’s confirmation.’
‘Confirm the order,’ Heiss called across the bridge with confidence, before sitting down in the commander’s throne.
Gnarls frowned and stood behind the throne before leaning in close.
‘Where’s the commander?’ he asked with his hooked nose over her shoulder. Heiss looked over at Randt, who was busy confirming the Excoriators’ orders with the planet surface.
‘Vanderberg’s dead,’ Heiss told him simply, without looking at the priest. ‘By his own hand.’
Gnarls started to say something, but stopped himself and nodded slowly. He moved around to the other side of the throne, pulling his vestments about him.
‘Obsequa City confirms,’ Randt announced. ‘We are no longer to observe. The Apotheon is ordered to disrupt the enemy approach and landing. We are to favour cruisers and gunships over freighters and cultships.’
‘Acknowledge the order,’ Heiss said to him. ‘And wish them luck. Send our regards to the pontifex. Inform him that the Adeptus Ministorum defence monitor Apotheon will do the God-Emperor’s work in the heavens and that we shall remain on this vox-frequency for as long as we can. Apotheon out.’
Heiss looked up at Gnarls, who gave her another, unhappy nod.
‘It’s down to you now,’ he told her simply, which was probably the nicest thing he’d ever said to her.
‘Helm, set an equatorial intercept course and accelerate to ramming speed.’
‘Aye.’
‘Mister Randt, open channels with the portside and starboard gun-decks, as well as the keel lance section. Have the enginseer informed that the lance is about to fire.’
‘Yes, lieutenant.’
‘Padre Gnarls…’
‘Yes, lieutenant?’
‘Would you be so good as to join the boatswain and help organise the repelling parties. I will keep Apotheon out of the enemy’s grasp, but should they grapple us I would like all airlocks and exterior bulkheads welded shut and barricaded from the inside. If they want in, let’s at least force them to cut their way in.’
‘I would be happy to represent your interests amongst the repelling parties, lieutenant. May the God-Emperor be with you.’
‘And with you, padre.’
With that the preacher left the bridge to seek out a weapon and the boatswain.
As the defence monitor’s reinforced Voss prow dropped, the approaching Cholercaust fleet filled the lancet screen. It was colossal, larger than any Imperial fleet Heiss had seen gathered, and she had seen a few, having served on a Navy cutter above Ultrageddon as a young ensign. It held no tactical configuration, with vessels spread far and wide like an ugly smear across the darkness of space. Smaller vessels didn’t bother to keep station on their larger counterparts and cruisers held no formation at all. The armada’s shape and organisation was merely a result of the fastest vessels, and most fervid, engine-overloading captains, streaking out in front, while the swarm of fat freighters, berserker-laden giga-tankers, renegade Guard transports and Traitor Astartes vessels formed a miasma of frustration, hatred and rage behind. About the fleet swarmed sub-light gunships, brigs, tugs and small system ships, each carrying their own blood-crazed crews and killers. Behind the armada trailed a tail of wrecks and burn-outs: damaged, crippled and engine-cored vessels that still burst at the bulkheads with murderous hordes but were forced to either limp on behind the main fleet or be towed by other craft.
The Cholercaust had arrived and it was ready to disgorge the insane, the bloodthirsty and the daemonic on the tiny cemetery world that was its prey. The defence monitor’s feeble engines pushed the heavily-armoured vessel towards ramming speed; Heiss had the Apotheon come at the tip of the approaching fleet from the pole.
‘W-w-where’s the commander?’ Randt put to Heiss. The mi
dshipman expected to see his captain on the bridge during such a serious engagement.
‘The commander is indisposed,’ the lieutenant called back. ‘Now, ready lance!’
‘Lance charging,’ the midshipman answered.
‘Find me a target, Mister Randt,’ Heiss ordered, and watched as the defence monitor’s runebank spat out a list of trajectories. Heiss couldn’t imagine what the monstrous Chaos captains called their vessels now, but the list of missing, stolen, surrendered, mutinous and captured merchantmen that made up the Cholercaust’s vanguard streamed across the screen. ‘Magnify,’ Heiss called. A lancet screen blinked before closing on the approaching rush of vessels. The flanks of the ships displayed faded names and designations: the Aurigan, Coquette, the Trazior Franchise, Sunpiper.
‘Cultships, Mister Randt,’ Heiss told him. ‘Seized freighters packed with Chaotics and volunteer degenerates, no doubt.’
‘I have a target, commander,’ Randt told her. ‘A positive identification. Frigate, Spite, Goremongers Space Marine Chapter.’
‘That’s more like it. Target that renegade Adeptus Astartes escort.’
‘Enginarium reports lance charged. Awaiting your order.’
‘Mister Randt?’
‘Target lock: thorax and batteries.’
Heiss stared at the Traitor Angel vessel. She tried to imagine the superhuman mayhem and chaos on board. Beings who if before her on the battlefield would be twice her size, brimming with the insatiable desire to kill; who would mindlessly end her in the space of a blink. She clutched the arms of the captain’s throne.
‘Fire.’
The lancet screen flashed retina-scorching white. The Apotheon’s mighty lance, underslung along the length of the defence monitor’s keel, answered the call. A thick beam of pure energy erupted from the Adeptus Ministorum vessel, crossing the vanguard of the colossal fleet like a cannonball across the bow. As Heiss and the bridge crew looked on with wide eyes and hope in their hearts, the beam seared straight through the traitor frigate. Their aim was perfect. The thorax section of the vessel vaporised and, as the sizzling beam of energy flickered and died, both the command decks and swollen engine column of the Adeptus Astartes vessel fell away in different, void-tormented sections.
A cheer exploded across the bridge, and even Heiss found herself on her feet.
‘All right,’ she called. ‘Focus. Mister Randt, have the lance charged for a second target.’
Heiss felt the Apotheon follow the path of the beam, on a collision course for the enemy armada. Her second target was a portly Imperial Guard transport, the traitor vessel decorated with feral world petroglyphs and indigenous art. Her third, a monstrous vessel that appeared a mind-scalding fusion of metal hull and red daemonflesh. The horror-ship took the Apotheon’s fury straight in its bloated abdomen of an engine column. Instead of disintegrating like the Goremongers frigate, or exploding like the traitor transport, the possessed vessel began to ripple, tremble and spume – like a wounded wild animal suffering violent death-throes. When the lance beam punched straight through the mutant-ship, the thing started vomiting globule-clouds of zero-gravity blood. It snatched out with hooks, claws and tentacular appendages, entangling nearby cultships, before tearing them apart in void-drowning fury.
With the Adeptus Ministorum defence monitor plunging down the cemetery world’s ivory curvature and cutting pack leaders in two with its brutal lance, Heiss and her crew were making themselves known to the Cholercaust fleet. Tempted by the prospect of first blood, bastardised raiders and the cannibal crews of piratical marauders surged towards the Apotheon. Heiss pushed the monitor’s feeble engines to their limit. The vessel crossed the blood-thirsty bows of the enemy ships and presented the gaping muzzles of its waiting battery of cannon.
‘Fire as you bear!’ Lieutenant Heiss commanded. At Midshipman Randt’s relaying of the order the starboard battery began a ragged, punishing barrage. Laser blasts thundered down the lengths of Chaos raiders and slaughtermen. Light and fire blazed its way through the oncoming vessels, torching warrior-cramped compartments from their prows to their sterns. ‘Give the order to fire at will,’ Heiss told Randt as the Apotheon completed its first broadside. The bridge crew watched a myriad of vandalised brigs, gunships and cutters punch through the debris field of spearhead derelicts and wreckage. Streaking out from them were a swarm of smaller vessels still – hump shuttles, fortified life-rafts, launches and assault boats, all packed with homicidal thugs, honed blades and hull-cutting equipment.
‘Lieutenant…’
‘Give Padre Gnarls and the boatswain the order, prepare to repel boarders,’ Heiss said tightly.
‘Lieutenant!’ Randt shouted. Heiss saw it. A Khornate cultship. A heavy transport – wall-to-wall with the Blood God’s murderous acolytes – passing across their own Voss prow section. It was all happening so fast. The lance. The continuous, crashing gunfire of the battery. The impending boarding action. The armada without end, Chaos vessels passing behind and about the lone defence monitor. The ships would be on an unswerving course for Certus-Minor – where from low orbit the Cholercaust fleet would launch an apocalyptic landing, its Thunderhawks, drop-ships, pods, lighters, barges, carriers, haulage skiffs and junkers numerous enough to black out the stars. From this nightmare ramshackle of craft a vast army of insane blood-crusaders would spill. Cultists, Chaotics, daemons and Traitor Angels. Uncountable. Unstoppable.
The lieutenant’s lip curled. ‘Are we at ramming speed?’
The young Randt looked at her grimly.
‘Almost, lieutenant.’
‘I want to hit her amidships, do you understand, Mister Randt?’ Heiss said. The midshipman nodded. Heiss stared at the fat transport towards which they were streaking with the queasy certainty of a torpedo. Heiss licked her lips. ‘I want to break her back…’
Chapter Seventeen
Unto Dust
The shovel bit into the cemetery world grit. Woodes Sprenger had been a grave fosser his whole life. Under his sweat-soaked shirt and dust-coat he was tough and lean; he handled his spade with speed and a working man’s determination. Tossing earth up out of the grave with hypnotic rhythm, the fosser’s blade finally hit metal. Scraping off the rusty surface of the stasis casket, Woodes kicked footholds into the side of the grave and used the tip of the shovel to prise open the coffin.
The stench of stale death rose to meet the Certusian. He coughed and covered his mouth. Reaching up for his gas-lamp by the graveside, Woodes brought it down to explore the coffin’s contents. This was borderline sacrilege for the grave fosser, whose job – like thousands of others – was to bury the dead sent to reside in the sacred cemetery world earth and dig up caskets whose tenure had expired to make way for further cadaver arrivals. Only the wealthy and advantaged could afford a plot on Certus-Minor. They were buried, the stasis-field generators on their sarcophagi deactivated and removed, and the dead allowed to rot in peace – as cemetery world custom dictated. Common fossers never went into the coffins – only grave robbers ever did. In this way, breaking the seals and prising open the casket went against every fibre of Woodes’s spiritual being, and he would not have been doing so – even given the dire circumstances on Certus-Minor – unless the pontifex himself and the Emperor’s Angels had given the order.
Inside the casket Woodes found the remains of a woman. A desiccated skeleton buried in the copious material of an extravagant grave gown. Woodes expected that she was spire nobility from some distant hive-world. The bones of her fingers were adorned with the precious metal and stone of rings, and the vertebrae of her neck were a tangled nest of priceless jewellery. The empty sockets of her skull leered up at the grave fosser and Woodes coughed again. Leaning in close, Woodes checked the system of wires running down the depth of the grave between the sculpted tombstone and the casket. Pulling the wire cord, Woodes set off the mournful peal of the bell positioned in the decorative detail of the marker.
Against the tombstone Woodes saw his weapon, t
he autorifle he’d been issued – with the scuff-scratched stock, crescent clips and long barrel shroud. The noisy weapon that had saved his life and those of others during the first battlement assaults. With Donalbain he’d held his ground, despite wanting to run from the terror and madness with his fellow fossers and Certusians.
Climbing out of the grave in a well-practised motion, Woodes picked up a small stone from the surrounding soil and posted it through the mouth of a cherubim crafted in the stone. He heard the tinny clatter of the stone as it fell down through the metal pipe connecting the tombstone to the casket and providing it with an air source.
Checking such safety mechanisms was usually the verger’s duty. Personally, Woodes had only been present at one premature exhumation. It had been in the Asphodel-East field close to where Woodes had lived. He had been summoned from his shack by Father Deodat, a passing preacher who had heard a bell from the lychway. Father Deodat, Woodes, Donalbain and several other fossers from the cenopost searched for the marker and sent for shovels before proceeding to dig up the grave on the preacher’s orders. The bell rang incessantly, and within the casket the cemetery worlders found an Imperial Guard officer – a dragoon in full dress uniform – who had been buried with his plumed helmet and gleaming sabre. The officer had been confused, claustrophobic and out of his mind with fear. In the darkness of the sarcophagus his frantic fingers had found the wire cord, and after an experimental pull had produced the chime of the bell, the Guardsman had proceeded to ring it in the hope that someone would discover him.
Woodes never saw the Imperial Guard officer again. Father Deodat informed the fosser, however, that the officer had told him that he’d been part of an eradication force sent to the jungle world of Yasargil to exterminate the k’nib infestation there. The last thing the officer recalled was being stung by a hanging creeper and reporting to the camp infirmary. Deodat hypothesised that his subsequent paralysis was taken for death, and that the colonel’s body had been stasis-shipped from Yasargil to Pyra and from his home world to Certus-Minor. As the alien toxin wore off, the dragoon found himself confronted with the horror of being buried alive.
Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1 Page 200
