Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  Audible murmuring rippled around the table which, like so many other things, the Lord Admiral ignored.

  ‘Our strategy is this: the bulk of the fleet will move forward as a screen and engage the larger enemy vessels within the Adamantium Fields. The Revenge and Stalwart will stay within Gaea’s orbit and launch successive waves of attack craft, refuelling and rearming each wing as it returns, ready to be sent straight back out to battle.’

  The murmur became louder and some of the officers gesticulated with each other.

  ‘Does anybody have a problem with that?’ the Lord Admiral said coldly.

  Blaise was the first to speak up. ‘The Revenge and Stalwart are the most heavily armed ships in the fleet. They need to be at the forefront taking the battle to the enemy, not kept in reserve as mobile launch platforms.’

  ‘You’ll be leaving the capital ships vulnerable, not to mention putting another world in peril. What if the attack fails? The path to Gaea would be left wide open,’ added Commodore Yarl of the Banshee. Younger than either Kranswar or Blaise, he was an ambitious officer who hailed from the Pandorax System.

  ‘Having Revenge and Stalwart in the heart of the battle means the attack squadrons won’t have so far to return to resupply,’ said Ibzen, a tall, gaunt man who commanded Inviolate, one of the fleet’s Sword-class frigates.

  Kranswar’s cheeks flushed red again. ‘This is not a committee!’ he raged. ‘Those are your orders. Now return to your ships and be ready to carry them out.’

  Still discussing amongst themselves the wisdom of the Lord Admiral’s tactics, the officers took their leave of the bridge, returning to the shuttles waiting to ferry them back to their own vessels. As they exited through the high set of elaborate mahogany doors, a young ensign squeezed past them, handwritten note clutched in his hands. He briskly strode over to Kranswar and snapped off a sharp salute.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I have a message from a Commander Keene of the Mordian Fifth. He has asked if he and his men could take shuttles down to–’

  The retort that followed could have stripped flesh from bone.

  766960.M41 / Merciless Death, Adamantium Fields, Pandorax System

  Malgar Irongrasp, warlord of Abaddon’s fleet, navigated the corridors of Merciless Death with the confidence of a man assured that victory was close at hand. His ancient suit of black power armour, once the bleached ivory of a White Consul, hissed and clanked as he moved, and footsteps rang out as heavy boots met iron floor. Though many Chaos vessels developed characteristics and modifications akin to the patron god of those who crewed it, the forces of the Black Legion were pragmatic in their worship and, as such, Abaddon’s ship remained relatively untouched by the pervasive influence of the warp.

  One such enhancement, however, was the door that Irongrasp now approached, resembling more a curtain of woven flesh than any conventional aperture. When he halted on the threshold, a globular eyeball detached itself from the organic sheet and leered out at the Chaos warlord on a stalk constructed of twisted sinew. Unblinking, the amber sac looked him up and down before rapidly retreating back into the folds of skin with a wet sucking sound. The flesh peeled back to allow him access to the chamber within.

  Two robed acolytes turned to see who this newcomer was and, upon reaching the realisation that it was the commander of the fleet, bowed in supplication before quickly taking their leave. The doors closed behind them with the sound of bloody meat hitting an abattoir floor.

  The chamber was small but packed from floor to ceiling with all manner of esoteric artefacts and ephemera, both mechanical and organic. Jars of assorted liquids sat upon shelves, their contents casting an unnatural multi-coloured glow over everything around them. Brass syringes and bizarre callipers and vices of all shapes and sizes sat alongside rotting wooden trays of desiccated organs and skeletal remains of small alien creatures. Scanning the tightly packed shelves, Malgar found what he sought.

  Submerged within a glass barrel filled with viscous green liquid was a human head, dreadlocked hair matted to the sides of its face, features barely visible through the opaque fluid. As soon as Malgar espied it, the head’s sightless eyes opened yet its face remained entirely devoid of expression. Taking the container down from the high shelf, he placed it on a small rusted table at the edge of the chamber and unscrewed the lid. With a hiss of escaping pressure and a stench comparable to that of the grave, Malgar plunged his hand into the barrel and pulled the head out by its hair, planting it on the table alongside its former housing. Its eyes remained open, staring blankly ahead.

  ‘I wish to commune with Lord Abaddon,’ said Malgar Irongrasp, wiping some of the excess green ooze from the severed head’s face. Its milky orbs rolled in their sockets and its mouth moved in a wordless incantation, the stump where its tongue used to be flapping every time it moved its jaws. Slowly, in the space before the disembodied psyker’s head on the table, the flickering, diminutive form of Abaddon coalesced. The psi-image was washed out and distorted as if it was being viewed through water. Malgar was about to address it when another, similar image gradually faded into reality beside that of his master. Crimson armour washed out to pink by the projection process, Huron Blackheart leered as his features realised.

  ‘Why is he present for our communion, lord?’ Malgar asked, trying to retain some respect in his tone. Blackheart’s intervention in the Third Battle of Sunward Gap had neither been sought nor welcomed by Irongrasp, and the brief vox-communications they had exchanged since the Red Corsairs fleet arrived in-system had been terse and confrontational.

  ‘You should count yourself fortunate that you are present at this communion, Irongrasp.’ Abaddon’s words resonated with power and a malign dignity. ‘If it wasn’t for the centuries of flawless service you have given my Black Legion prior to this campaign, another would already have taken your place at the head of the fleet.’

  ‘A role I would have accepted only too gratefully, Lord Abaddon,’ Huron said, his lips peeled back in a vicious grin.

  ‘There are a thousand men under my command who would lead my fleet before you entered into my consideration, Blackheart.’ Even as a small psycholithic projection, the expression Abaddon wore on his face could have razed cities. ‘Until you take to your knee before me, you will not so much as set foot on one of my ships, let alone command one. Are you prepared to do that, pirate? Here and now. Bend your knee and bow before me to pledge your allegiance and that of your band of renegades to the Black Legion? Willingly, and without query or reward, make a gift to me of your spacecraft and engines of war?’

  The watery image of Huron Blackheart said nothing. His bared teeth remained on show.

  ‘Of course not, for you are nothing more than an aspiring usurper. One eye constantly on my mantle of Warmaster, the other on your back lest you find a blade sticking in it,’ Abaddon said once it was clear that Huron wasn’t rising to the bait. ‘For the time being, you are useful, Blackheart. The instant that situation changes, our arrangement will be at an end and you will be considered an enemy once more.’

  ‘Understood, Abaddon.’ Huron’s lack of honorific was entirely intentional. ‘Though I have a feeling I will be of more use to you during the coming campaign than even you yet realise,’ he added cryptically.

  Ignoring the Red Corsair’s attempt to draw him, Abaddon addressed Irongrasp once again.

  ‘The Imperial fleet should be nothing more than drifting wrecks by now, Irongrasp. With the Cache open, Corpulax and our daemonic allies are keen to spread their influence away from Pythos and into the Pandorax System and beyond.’ He cast Huron a sideways glance. ‘Besides, if I find that which I seek, I’d prefer to keep knowledge of it from those beyond the veil.’

  Huron feigned a dismissive expression.

  ‘Our forces are too evenly matched, lord, and their admiral follows Imperial naval doctrine to the letter. His every manoeuvre and feint is straight out of the academy textbooks and his execution has been flawless.’ Malgar leant his
head forward slightly as he spoke.

  ‘So you have finally been outclassed. Perhaps it is time for fresh blood to assume command of the fleet.’ There was no anger in Abaddon’s words, only cold logic.

  ‘Far from it, my lord,’ Irongrasp asserted. ‘During our last encounter I allowed him to believe that we were weak in certain areas and that his fast attack craft held the greatest threat to us. I also know exactly what his tactics will be during the next battle.’

  ‘And how do you know that?’ sneered Huron. ‘Have your psykers read his mind? Do you have a spy on his bridge?’

  ‘Neither. The fool is so predictable, so wed to Imperial naval dogma, that when he next assaults us he will do so with his small fighter craft backed up by frigates and destroyers. Instead of committing his two capital ships to close quarters fighting within the Adamantium Fields, he will keep them both back as launch platforms before moving them into position once our larger craft have been destroyed.’

  ‘And what are you going to do to prevent your craft being destroyed? He has a numerical advantage in terms of fighters and if the battle is to be fought at close quarters, bringing them down is likely to cause as much damage to your own vessels as theirs.’ As both a loyal servant of the Imperium and a renegade warlord, Huron Blackheart had fought countless space battles and was the consummate tactician.

  ‘He believes that we will remain in the cover of the asteroid field and so his entire strategy rests on that. Once his first wave of fighters and their escorts have reached the point of no return, we shall burst forth from the ships’ graveyard and engage them head-on, nullifying any advantage they would have gained from engaging us among the wrecks. Without having to worry about getting swarmed by fighters, my ships can smash through the escorts and take the battle directly to his capital ships held in reserve.’

  Abaddon nodded in approval. Even Blackheart’s impressed expression seemed genuine.

  ‘A sound stratagem, Irongrasp,’ said Abaddon. ‘But still not entirely without risk. What if I were to supply you with the means to guarantee victory and ensure the utter annihilation of the Imperial fleet?’

  ‘Lord Abaddon, any boon you could grant me would be a welcome one,’ Irongrasp said with relish. ‘Are you going to unleash the Legion for boarding assaults?’

  ‘Resistance is stronger down here than anticipated. It seems an entire Imperial Guard regiment found themselves stranded on Pythos by the capricious whims of fate. Jungle fighters too so they’re able to make the most of the terrain.’ Abaddon’s image began to diminish. ‘I will spare you several hundred of the Legion, no more. Blackheart will also lend his aid to the fleet. I’m sure you will find his strategy an… interesting one.’ The Warmaster disappeared altogether, his last words disembodied. Huron’s image lingered, still wearing a feral grin.

  ‘Tell me, Irongrasp,’ he said. ‘What do you know about asteroids?’

  766960.M41 / Primary Flight Deck. Revenge, Pythos blockade, Pandorax System

  Shira Hagen stood upon the boarding ladder of her Kestrel-class fighter-interceptor, desperately resisting the urge to leap down and pummel into a bloody mess the flight officer who was disrupting her launch preparations.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me, pilot?’ the officer said, pitching his voice so it carried over the bustle of the flight deck preparing to launch three entire wings of attack craft. ‘I said your headgear isn’t regulation issue.’

  In annoyance, she broke off from her pre-flight check and slid down the ladder propped against the void-capable Thunderbolt variant. Removing her helmet to reveal shoulder-length black hair, she placed it under the crook of her arm and stared the officer, several years her senior, dead in the eyes.

  ‘Would you rather I miss my launch slot and go and requisition another? Or should I forgo the mission entirely and repaint it.’ She tilted her head towards the helmet. Instead of the standard grey-green headgear that her fellow pilots wore, Shira had modified hers so that the visage was that of a great bird of prey. Majestic white feathers were individually depicted along the ceramite shell and perfectly rendered eyes stared out from either side. The visor too had been customised so that it resembled a hooked beak. Finding the material necessary to personalise it had not come cheaply, but on a ship the size of the Revenge, anything could be had. For a price.

  The flight officer cleared his throat. ‘Imperial Navy statute gamma epsilon twelve niner quite clearly states that no personnel are to make modification, adjustment or adornment to…’ His voice tailed off. Shira had replaced her helmet and was leisurely clambering back towards the cockpit. ‘Do not ignore me. I am your superior and you will look at me while I am addressing you.’

  She halted her ascent and turned back to face him, her head in line with the almost two score depictions of talons rendered in white against the drab grey hull of the Kestrel. Kill markings. Each one confirmed, each one hard won. ‘I’ll listen to you once something sensible comes out of that puckered hole you call a mouth. Until then, either throw me in the brig or let me get my bird ready for take-off.’ Perched atop the ladder, she looked every inch the predator she imitated.

  ‘I’ll have you on a charge the instant you return to this ship, flight lieutenant…’ He consulted the data-slate that he had unconsciously raised into a defensive shield before him. ‘Hagen. Enjoy your mission. It’ll be the last one you fly for a while.’ He turned on his heel and walked off at pace back to the launch control booth. Shira made a single-digit gesture by way of send-off, much to the delight of her fellow pilots who were similarly engaged in readying their craft.

  ‘You and that mouth of yours, Hagen. Always getting you in trouble,’ a man’s voice crackled through her helmet vox. ‘Why don’t you let your flying do the talking for a change?’

  ‘I thought you’d be happy to see me sit this one out, boss,’ she voxed back, looking over to the other side of the hangar and the source of the voice. Already strapped into his cockpit, Wing Commander Barabas Hyke sat shaking his head. Like all of the pilots of Red Wing, his hull sported kill markings in double figures, but only his tally came anywhere close to Shira’s. ‘It’d give everybody else a chance to catch up with me.’

  ‘Hey, Shira. Your mouth can get me in trouble any time you like,’ said another voice over the vox.

  ‘Hey, Forczek,’ Shira replied. ‘Can you count backwards from five?’

  ‘Huh? I don’t get it,’ the other pilot responded looking towards Shira. Forczek’s Kestrel was at an advanced stage of preparation and the cockpit was already closed.

  Shira held her hand up, fingers outstretched. ‘Five. Four. Three. Two…’ Each time she said a number, she dropped a finger until only one remained extended which she used to salute Forczek, the same way she had the flight officer.

  ‘Cut the crap, both of you,’ Hyke admonished. ‘There’ll be time for fun and games later. Right now we have a job to do.’

  The ship-wide address system, which had been nothing but background noise until now, rose in volume. The Lord Admiral’s voice boomed out, the closing stages of a no doubt rousing speech by which to inspire and rally the men and women under his command.

  ‘…to the heart of the Archenemy and liberate the brave and loyal people of Pythos,’ Kranswar intoned in his slightly nasal timbre. ‘Our actions this day will determine if our names will live on in triumph or be eternally despised. Launch all attack squadrons and prepare to engage the enemy! Let us win glory!’

  ‘You heard the Lord Admiral,’ Hyke voxed, pulling down his canopy and locking it in place. ‘We have a war to get back to.’

  Ahead of her, Forczek’s afterburners became tiny red pinpricks as Shira sat at the entrance to the launch tunnel awaiting her slot. The other nine pilots who formed Red Wing were already clear of the Revenge and racing to catch up with their slower moving escorts, who were nearing the Adamantium Fields. Shira didn’t hold much belief in superstition – she didn’t believe in much other than her abilities as a combat pilot – but, as she had
done for every single sortie since the Pandorax campaign started, she would be the last of her wing to launch. Last one out and, provided her Kestrel didn’t let her down or she didn’t do anything stupid in the heat of battle, last one back in.

  ‘Red Six you are cleared for take-off. Commence launch procedure when ready.’ Shira recognised the voice in her headset and turned to peer out of her cockpit into the launch control booth. There, hunched over a bank of instruments, the lights of which cast a pale blue glow over his strict features, was the flight officer from earlier.

  ‘Acknowledged, launch control,’ she replied. The flight officer seemed to freeze momentarily. From behind the plastiglass shield, he looked up as understanding took hold of him. Shira inclined her head, regarding him with the eagle’s eyes painted on her helmet.

  The officer spoke again but even through Shira’s helmet vox his words were swallowed by the noise of her engines spooling up to full power. This ran entirely contrary to Imperial Navy statutes, fighter pilots were not allowed to engage full thrust until they hit the red line halfway down the launch tube, but Shira suspected that the flight officer already knew this. As the whine of her engines grew louder, he abandoned all attempts to communicate with her verbally and instead gesticulated wildly. Shira smiled, and in that instant the flight officer realised her intent. He dived to the floor of the launch booth and wrapped his arms around his head.

  Shira’s power gauge reached its limit and, using one hand to engage forward thrust, the other to disengage the ground brakes, her Kestrel shot forwards like a mass reactive shell from a bolter, massive G-force pinning her back in the pilot’s seat. The sonic boom it generated shattered the window of the launch booth into thousands of tiny shards, but by the time the first of them hit the floor and showered the hapless officer in glass, she had already cleared the launch tube and was in the cold embrace of the void.

  She didn’t need the power of premonition or a reading from the tarot to know that her immediate future contained a multiple-week stay in the brig, but that was of no concern to her. Every moment spent on board the Revenge felt like incarceration to Shira and it was only when she was at the controls of her own craft that she felt truly free.