Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  With nothing else left to cling to, every soul on the bridge hung on his every word.

  ‘The Emperor will judge me in the next life, of that I am certain, and he will find me wanting, but in this life I have one more action to perform. When I have finished speaking to you, I am going to draw my pistol, leave the bridge and fight my way down to the engine room where I will overload the sub-warp drives and tear the Revenge apart. Any crewman wishing to join me is welcome to do so, and given the gravity of our situation, it is perfectly understandable if you would rather spend your final moments in silent prayer or speeding up your journey to the next world.’

  Kranswar raised his voice, building the speech to a crescendo.

  ‘They may have taken our lives, robbed us of our sanity and savaged our pride, but by the Emperor, they will not have our ship!’

  Kranswar unclasped the holster at his hip, drawing the archaic six-shot stubber by its ornate ivory handle. He opened the cylinder to check that each chamber was loaded with a round and spun it back into position. When he looked back up, he found that he was standing shoulder to shoulder with the entire bridge crew. Even the emotional vox-operator had found the courage to participate in this final, desperate act of defiance and he stood alongside Lieutenant Faisal with a laspistol in his hand.

  Kranswar stifled a quiver of his lower lip. In spite of everything, in spite of all the death and horror he had brought upon them, they were still prepared to follow him.

  ‘Come on then!’ he cried out, turning to open the ornate wooden doors. ‘If they want this ship, they’re going to have to pay for it in blood!’

  766960.M41 / Red Six. Pythos blockade, Pandorax System

  Despite the camaraderie of the pilots’ mess and the close bonds that existed between the men and women of each Naval wing – intensified by the fact that they constantly relied upon each other in matters of life or death – the lot of a Kestrel pilot was a lonely one. Forced to spend hours, sometimes days, alone in the cockpit with only your own dark thoughts for company, it took a certain kind of individual to cope with the pressures, both mental and physical.

  As Shira Hagen wrestled with the control stick of her fighter, battling to prevent it from entering a terminal spin, she had never felt so lonely nor had her thoughts ever been darker. Far beyond the range of her vox, she had not had contact with anybody else for over an hour, and other than the occasional brief bloom of fire from the direction of Gaea, the only evidence that she wasn’t out there alone was the daemonic war engine currently pursuing her in a high stakes game of cat and mouse. Every time the blackness of space lit up, she hoped it was one of the Chaos vessels being scattered to the heavens, but the law of averages dictated that at least a few of them had been Imperial ships. The fact that she didn’t put much stock in laws or rules was of little solace.

  Coming out of the spin before it could take hold, Shira dipped her wing and banked, tempting the Heldrake with her undercarriage. The creature opened its jaws in anticipation of finally claiming the kill but as its baleflamer spewed molten death, she decelerated rapidly causing the Heldrake to overshoot her. Much to her surprise, she found the beast was directly in her crosshairs.

  The Imperial Navy Academy teaches a pilot many things. The unintentional overtaking manoeuvre that Shira had just performed being one of them, how to escape a terminal spin another, the maximum relative speed at which you can come in for a landing onto a moving carrier yet another. But there were many skills and nuggets of information useful to a pilot that the Academy did not pass on: techniques and technical data that even the adepts of the Machine-God, who tend to and preserve the holy flying machines when they are not performing sorties or missions, did not know about. Secret knowledge that could only be acquired by learning them for yourself at the stick of a fighter or by trading with others of the pilot fraternity or sorority. How to reconfigure an ejector seat so that it doesn’t kill you the first time it was activated was one such piece of wisdom. So too was the real maximum speed at which you can land a fighter onto a moving carrier while preserving your own life, though not necessarily the integrity of the craft that delivered you there.

  Right now, the one piece of forbidden flying lore that was jumping into Shira’s mind, bartered from a ten-year veteran with almost a hundred confirmed xenos kills to his name, was how to reroute energy from the Kestrel’s power plant to the lascannons. Unlike the Thunderbolt on which it was based, the spacefaring variant eschewed a combustion engine, replacing it with power cells that gave it a far greater range than a fuel-based drive ever could. Although it ran on an isolated circuit to prevent non-essential systems from unnecessarily draining it, those who had forbidden gen on the inner workings of the Kestrel’s electrics could channel the power into the nosecannons and cause an effect not unlike fitting a standard Imperial Guard lasrifle with a hotshot power pack. It would drain the fighter’s power plant massively but, as Shira’s self-appointed mission was to keep the Heldrake away from the fleet, returning to the Revenge – if there was a Revenge to return to – was hardly a consideration.

  Pulling a thick grey wire from its port by her knee, Shira inserted the plug into the neighbouring socket and depressed both firing studs. Bright to the point of retina-searing, twin lances of super-heated energy leapt the gap between Kestrel and Heldrake, impacting against the largest of the three wings along its right-hand side. It stopped dead, forcing Shira to pull up sharply to prevent a collision, and emitted a silent wail. As she looked back over her shoulder, Shira saw the ragged gash she had torn in its wing. Eyes burning brighter than the flame from its mouth, the Heldrake fixed Shira’s craft with a murderous glare before renewing its hunt.

  Good. She had made it angry.

  Game on.

  766960.M41 / Revenge, Pythos blockade, Pandorax System

  The iron tang of fresh blood filled Kranswar’s nostrils, the pained cries of the dying his ears. Struggling to maintain his footing on the metal floor of the corridor slick with vitae, he raised his stubber and directed a shot at the lone Traitor Legionary barring their passage, its gold-trimmed black armour glistening as much as the wet floor. The bullet flew true and straight, striking the Space Marine in the visor over his left eye and shattering it, breaking the spell that had held Kranswar’s impromptu militia under its sway.

  The journey into the bowels of the ship had been lethal and fraught. Only a handful of the men and women who had followed him off the bridge had made it this far but their numbers had swelled as ratings, stragglers from Imperial Guard regiments and members of the criminal underclass that always took root on a ship the size of the Revenge, rallied around the Lord Admiral. Not including the scores of cultists they had exchanged fire and traded blows with, or the half-real horrors that come at them gibbering and slashing, this was the fourth Traitor Legionary they had encountered, and on each occasion the reaction had been the same.

  Awe. Pure, unadulterated awe.

  Bred millennia ago to serve the Emperor on His mission to reunite the scattered pockets of humanity spread out across the universe, fully half of the Space Marine Legions had turned upon Him, instead swearing fealty to the Master of Mankind’s favoured son, Horus Lupercal. Freed from the restraints of servitude to humanity, their methods of fighting grew ever more brutal and the new gods they venerated revealed to them ever more effective methods of killing and subjugation. Horus’s rebellion was ultimately defeated but many of his followers survived, fleeing into the warp from where they could wage a long war, chipping away at the Imperium’s defences until one day their blasphemous banners would fly over the great palace on Terra. The traitor blocking the corridor wore the colours of the Black Legion, Horus’s old brethren, now renamed and re-liveried under the command of his most trusted lieutenant, Abaddon the Despoiler.

  Had this Traitor Marine once stood alongside Horus? Had he waged war upon noble Terra, doing battle with beings of legend like Sanguinius, Lorgar and the mighty Russ? Had he been a blight on the Imperium for nigh
on ten thousand years, Kranswar wondered? It mattered not. If the three hundred men under the Lord Admiral’s command had their way, the black armoured figure’s remaining lifespan could be measured in seconds, not millennia.

  The report of the stubber echoing along the corridor, the rag-tag band of the Revenge’s crew surged forwards, swallowing Kranswar up in the throng. The Space Marine raised his bolter with alarming swiftness, and cut down the first few ranks in a shower of blood and limbs, but the mob carried on charging. Weapon still firing, a wall of bodies collided with the Black Legionnaire, sheer weight of numbers pushing him to the ground. Like a pack of feral dogs they leapt upon him, battering him with anything they had been able to press into service as a maul or shooting him at point-blank range with laspistols and autopistols. A flight officer, his face a scarred jigsaw of lacerations, drove the point of a crowbar through the smashed eye lens, driving it down hard into the traitor’s skull and spraying his filthy uniform in a shower of red.

  Another Black Legionnaire rounded the corner at the end of the corridor, opening up with a bolter. Some of the charging crowd paused, transfixed by the dark killer before them, but momentum drove those behind them on. The Traitor Marine’s rate of fire could not match the rate of attrition, and he too was toppled, drowning under a sea of humanity. Losing grip of his gun, he swung wildly with armoured fists and forearms, each swipe claiming three or four lives, until, battered and bleeding, two surviving Cadians found an opening in the pile of bodies crushing the Space Marine and discharged their lasrifles into him.

  Bodies choked the hallway in front of him and as Kranswar climbed over the hill of corpses accompanied by the two Cadians, the lacerated flight officer and a handful of other survivors, the vox-bead in his ear crackled with reports from other ships in the fleet. Sensing its imminent demise, the Chaos fleet had swarmed the Revenge and were targeting it with all weapons batteries. The Stalwart could not come to her aid as she was currently engaged with the Might of Huron, and the rest of the battlefleet were still too far off to lend their strength, since Kranswar had waited too long to recall them from their futile assault. He grinned humourlessly. When he had set out to overload the Revenge’s engines, it was purely to prevent it from falling into the enemy’s clutches. Now, with so many Chaos vessels in such close proximity, perhaps his ship’s final act would be to live up to her name.

  Turning the corner from where the second Traitor Astartes had emerged, the doors to the engine room loomed large at the end of the new corridor, glowing pale red in the reflection of the emergency lighting. Setting off at a sprint, he hadn’t made it halfway down when a roar of exertion sounded from behind him. Looking back over his shoulder, the mound of dead crew collapsed as the black armoured figure burst out from beneath the array of limbs and torsos, blood leaking from cracks in his helmet and armour. The two Cadians reacted quickest but were no match for the Space Marine’s augmented reflexes, bolt pistol in his hand, and both their heads exploded in a shower of crimson mist before their lasrifles were raised.

  Panicked shots whizzed past the Black Legionnaire as the last few survivors fought desperately to fell the brute but none of their shots found their target, unlike the traitor who brought down four of the resisting crew with only three rounds. Suppressing the desire to draw his own weapon and turn and face the Space Marine, Kranswar continued his run. If he could get to the engine room and shut the doors behind him, even the post-human strength of the Traitor Astartes would not be able to tear them open. With just metres to go, he stretched out his hand ready to strike the control lever that would cause the twin doors to swing open and admit him to the sanctuary within, but, heralded by the boom of bolt pistol discharge, the bottom half of his right leg disappeared from beneath him and he sprawled to the floor.

  Lifting his broken face from the cold metal, Kranswar crawled forwards, each stretch of his arms taking him closer to his goal. Different noises echoed down the corridor, the sound of a magazine being ejected and striking the ground, followed by the clatter of a new one being driven home. He reached out one final time and, making contact with the door, lifted himself up. The lever was mere inches from his grasp when the bolt pistol rang out again, the round striking him a glancing blow at the base of his spine and dropping him to the floor, paralysed.

  Preceded by the clang of metal on metal, the Traitor Marine stalked slowly towards the Lord Admiral’s prone body. As the vast shadow fell upon him, the vox-bead in Kranswar’s ear came alive with excited chatter, a myriad of voices clashing with each other over the airwaves. Closing his eyes, Kranswar concentrated, trying to cut through the background noise and zone in on one strong signal. When he heard the voice of the Stalwart’s chief vox-officer and what she was saying, he wished the traitor’s second shot had finished him off.

  ‘Multiple contacts reported. New vessels attempting warp translation in our midst. At least a dozen and none transmitting identification codes,’ she practically wept, all hope having long since fled.

  766960.M41 / Remnants of Revenge and Stalwart fighter wings. Pythos blockade, Pandorax System

  Death was never an easy thing to witness. Be it the violent fiery death of an enemy pilot, the gradual demise of a fellow flyer exposed to radiation or blight, or the peaceful passing of a loved one in their sleep, the snuffing out of a life always left a mark on the soul of any who observed it. Strapped into the seat of his Kestrel, weapons systems spent and power indicator insistently flashing at him to warn him that his engine power was almost exhausted, Barabas Hyke reluctantly prepared to watch the death of the Revenge.

  Like savannah predators circling a wounded herd animal, the Chaos frigates and destroyers lined up for their share of the Revenge’s carcass. Amazingly, tranches of the Emperor-class battleship’s shields still held, and though every shot that struck an unprotected section caused massive structural and collateral damage, the majestic vessel clung to life defiantly returning fire from its few remaining defence turrets and torpedo tubes. Despite being wounded, the Revenge could still bite back.

  Hyke and the few Imperial fighter pilots who had made it back with the bulk of the fleet cruised listlessly on the periphery of the battle. Like their enemy counterparts, the Navy fighters’ guns were dry and their missile racks empty, but whereas the Chaos craft had returned to their hangar bays content that their part in the battle was over, the Imperium flyers did not have that luxury. Hyke had ordered the Kestrels to attempt to land on the Revenge in the desperate hope that they could rearm and repower, but had to rapidly abandon that plan when it transpired both the primary and secondary launch tubes had mutated into vast maws, tongues languidly flicking into the void and swallowing any craft foolish enough to get too close. All that remained now was for their engines to fail, at which point they would drift on the celestial current until dehydration claimed them.

  Of course, before that happened, Hyke was going to order all wings to target one of the larger Chaos vessels and attempt to ram it. If they could make it past the anti-fighter defences, then maybe, just maybe, they could exploit a gap in its shields and slam into the hull. Even then, the chances of destroying the ship would be slim, but at least they’d take some of the enemy with them and their deaths would have counted for something.

  ‘Wing commander? Are you picking up anything odd on your auspex?’ A voice cut across the vox. It was Allonsy from Blue Wing.

  ‘I’ve been picking up nothing but weird since this whole shooting match started,’ Hyke replied. ‘What’s different now?’

  ‘I’m getting ghost returns. Ten… twelve at least. Just blinking in and out.’ Allonsy said.

  ‘I’m seeing them too,’ said another voice. More confirmations followed.

  Hyke, who hadn’t so much as glanced at his auspex for hours, such was the effectiveness of the enemy’s jamming, peered down at it. Not believing what he was seeing, he used the sleeve of his flight suit to rub the screen. When that didn’t alter the reading, he finally believed what his eyes were tell
ing him.

  ‘Throne alive!’ he broadcast over the general channel. ‘They’re going to translate right on top of us. Get out of here now!’

  ‘They must be addled to exit the warp this close to a planetary body,’ Allonsy added, his engine ports glowing bright orange as they spooled up.

  The expansion of humanity among the stars had only been made possible with the discovery of warp travel, the means by which great distances that would normally take many years, perhaps lifetimes, to traverse could be crossed in a matter of weeks or months. It was an inexact science at best, an uneasy marriage of technology and sorcery that was as likely to leave travellers stranded in the immaterium or deliver them to their destination before they had even set off, as it was to get them to the right place at the right time. Because of its unpredictable and hazardous nature, many safeguards were put in place to reduce the risk of warp travel, chief among them never translating inside a system where the potential existed to emerge too close to a planet and be sucked into its gravity well. Whoever had ordered this warp jump was either very desperate or dangerously foolish. Potentially both.

  Oily black ripples coalesced in the fabric of space, denoting the points of egress from the warp, a shimmering wrongness that was painful to look upon. Like the cosmos giving birth to vast metal children, ships tore through the gashes in reality, ten green-hulled leviathans materialising in the heart of the Pandorax System, followed in quick order by a sleek, silver cruiser.

  Unable to move out of the way quickly enough, Kestrels and Furies impacted against void shields, disintegrating the instant they made contact with the unimaginable energies. Allonsy, who had been running ahead of the main pack of fighters, avoided the initial collisions but, reeled in by a faster moving capital ship, his Kestrel smashed against the prow shields and was wiped out in a tiny explosion that barely registered among the firmament.