Scythes of the Emperor, page 23
‘Shipmistress, I hope you are not suggesting that we abandon our mission…’
She drew herself up, her jaw squared. ‘I suggest nothing of the kind, my lord. I am simply informing you that direct combat with the tyranid fleet is not an option, at this time.’
Tapping at the hololith controls, Cassander called up the tactical data screed once more. ‘I still see only one hive ship, and a swarm spread thin across two simultaneous invasion efforts. What do we know about this ambitious beast, then? Give me something to work with.’
‘The hive ship’s designation is #37067 Daedalus,’ Hannelore replied. ‘Though its void-warfare capabilities are to be considered average for a tyranid vessel of its size and displacement, its true strength lies in its swarm vessels, which are numerous and heavily weaponised. Daedalus is known to favour winged bio-forms in a planetary assault, and…’
Esau noted the shipmistress’ pause. So too did several of his brethren.
She steeled her nerve.
‘…and we have confirmed that it was present at the fall of Sotha, my lords.’
Angry murmurs passed between the warriors gathered around the table. The home world of the Scythes of the Emperor, a shining beacon of Imperial glory on the fringes of Ultima Segmentum for countless millennia, had fallen to the implacable advance of Hive Fleet Kraken several years ago. The loss of hundreds of brother Scythes defending the fortress-monastery at Mount Pharos had wounded the Chapter deeply, but it was the shame of their forced retreat that still rankled with so many of the survivors.
That this monster had been part of the invading xenos forces should not have made a difference and yet, of course, it did.
Cassander cast about the group, irritation twisting his features. ‘Be still, brothers! Do not let your desire for vengeance distract you from our objectives, here and now – that was the lesson we learned after the slaughter at Giant’s Coffin. We fight a different kind of war, now. A war for survival.’
He gestured to Esau.
‘This young warrior is of the last generation to ascend from the neophytes of noble Sotha, and so too is the honourable Sergeant Quintos. If any of us should feel such righteous fury then it should be them, and yet they stand with us, dedicated in body and soul to the vision of Master Thracian for the future of our Chapter.’
Esau felt the gaze of his brothers upon him, and straightened. He did not let any admission of the unreserved hatred he felt in his hearts towards the xenos burn a hole in Cassander’s fine speech. ‘For the future!’ he repeated, with every ounce of conviction he could muster. ‘For Sotha!’
The sergeant nodded. ‘Aye, for Sotha. Now – our original objectives remain. What is the optimal course of action, given these new terms of engagement and the presence of pre-deployed enemy forces in-system?’
It was the veteran Galerius who answered, almost without hesitation.
‘Twin flights, brother-sergeant. We mirror the tactics of the xenos in striking for both worlds simultaneously, but use our superior speed and tactical advantage to achieve our objectives and withdraw again before the swarm can bring its full might to bear. As it is written, we must be the reaper’s blade, as well as the hand that wields it.’
‘Division of assets required?’ Shipmistress Hannelore queried, gruffly, while rubbing at her forehead. ‘We certainly cannot shield two dropship flights, so one of the missions will be running without orbital support.’
Esau stepped forwards. ‘Respectfully, honoured servant, the mission to Brakur Dominus does not require support from the strike cruiser. The tyranids have not yet reached the planet. We send the two gunships with the largest hold capacity to assist in the civilian evacuation effort – they can easily outrun the xenos at full burn, in the void.’ He pointed to the hololith, and the flashing golden scythe icon in the shadow of the hive ship. ‘On the fourth world, we have the Apothecary’s locator signal already locked in, regardless of any communications disruption. We can mount a rapid, precise aerial insertion to retrieve him from the surface, with covering fire from your esteemed gunners on the Atreides.’
Sergeant Cassander, evidently impressed, rapped the knuckles of his gauntlet on the table’s edge. ‘Young Esau has it, brothers. Squad Quintos, you will undertake Reaper operations on Brakur Dominus. Squad Cassander, to the armourium – prepare for deep strike combat drop. We’ll be up against whatever horrors this Daedalus wants to throw our way.’
The strike cruiser’s primary hangar rang with the din of hurried assembly.
Loading servitors racked anti-air missiles into the waiting pods of the great Thunderhawks, the austere Chrepan Steed and battle-scarred Harpagus, along with weighty battlecannon shells for the main guns. The servitors’ Techmarine overseers checked and re-checked the belted ammunition feeds of the auxiliary weapons, knowing full well that they themselves would soon be piloting the gunships, and directing the efforts of the drafted human gunners if the xenos managed to catch up with them. Tech-adepts fired the engines, cycling up through the pre-combat flight routines.
Across the wide hangar apron, on launch rails intended for much larger craft, were the three elements of the Atreides’ only remaining assault wing – two ‘Talons and a single workhorse Storm Eagle gunship. As Esau and his brethren were towed up towards it on a repurposed cargo flatbed, he saw the two members of Squad Quintos take the knee before their sergeant. They hurriedly swore the oaths scribbled on parchment now being pressed onto their battleplate by liveried retainers.
As they rose, they raised their voices to join the battle hymns that echoed across the strike cruiser’s many decks. Serf and Space Marine alike, man and woman, young and old, all joined in the ancient rite, singing in glory of the Adeptus Astartes and to the destruction of their foes. These words were as old as Sotha itself, dating back even to pre-colonial times, and every servant of the Chapter knew them as their birthright.
Simply because Sotha was no more did not mean that the old ways would change.
Sergeant Cassander stepped from the flatbed as it came to a halt beneath the Storm Eagle’s open troop compartment, gathering his armour’s umbilical in both hands. ‘Brothers, take your marks for embarkation.’
They did as ordered, attended by mortal armourers every step of the way. A young man was directing an even younger man as he machined Esau’s pauldron into place. ‘No, loosen the bolts – you’ve caught the fibre loom behind the plate. This mighty warrior won’t be able to raise his arm beyond shoulder-height, if you send him to war like that.’
Esau slowed to allow the novice to make the adjustment. He saw the youth’s hands trembling.
‘Take your time,’ he reassured him with a smile that softened the harsh scar around his eye, and the cold blue of the augmetic lens itself. ‘You’ll remember this, now, and you’ll never make that same mistake again.’
The novice nodded his thanks as he fixed the pad back into place, and Esau leaned towards him in mock conspiracy.
‘It’s the same for us all. This is my first deep strike drop, outside of simulation,’ he whispered.
Keeping his trailing umbilical clear of the deck, he looked down to see where a large white circle had been painted on the scuffed metal. His name was written in chalk next to it, where the name of a previous battle-brother had been hastily scratched away.
So was each member of Squad Cassander assigned a place beneath one of the rails above their heads, with seven jump packs hanging ready in the cradles, facing each other in pairs. Esau glanced at the three empty spaces, and the disconnected fuel lines that dangled limply over them.
Their names had been obliterated, too.
Behind the Storm Eagle, klaxons signalled the readiness of the two Thunderhawks to depart, the whine of their engines growing louder as they traversed the launch rails. Cassander opened a vox-channel to Quintos and his warriors. ‘Emperor speed you, brothers. Do not look back.’
Brother Galerius narrowed his eyes. ‘Theirs is the easier task, but ours is the more noble…’
Other members of the Assault squad murmured their agreement – Tolliver and Xristos, both Sothan-born, and Kenai from distant Beremin. As ever, the dour-faced veteran Sorgn said nothing, staring absently into the empty pack cradle opposite him, lost in his own thoughts.
Status lights flashed green and the drop-rails descended, the packs guided down over the squad’s shoulders by the armoury serfs. Something was out of place, and the lights turned red as the rails withdrew again. Esau shifted from foot to foot, anxious to be underway. He could see his sword and helm ready on the arming frame before them.
Cassander called out over the roar of the Thunderhawks’ engines as they powered out through the atmospheric field. ‘Haste, honoured servants! The world below us will be long devoured by the Kraken, ere we launch!’
Two serfs scrambled up to the hanging rails, and heaved Sorgn’s pack back and forth in its cradle until some unseen connection was made true and the lights switched back to green. The warrior didn’t seem to notice, not even reacting until it was lowered onto his waiting back.
Each of them attended by two serfs in a rehearsed series of arming checks, the jump packs interfaced with Squad Cassander’s battleplate, and their umbilicals were disconnected as suit power switched to the turbofanned micro-reactors. Esau felt a tremor in his armour’s servos, and then the weight of his heavy limbs dropped away to almost nothing. He looked up to see Tolliver’s helmet being fastened into place, the mismatched eye lenses flickering to life as the inbuilt auto-senses took over.
Then he caught Galerius’ gaze, and they shared a nod of respect as their armourers stepped up. The older warrior’s helm was a Mark IV, crowned with the laurels of a Sotharan champion – far more impressive than Esau’s own reclaimed cast-off that was pulled over his brow with a snap-hiss of pressurisation.
His chainsword was thrust into the sheath-clasp at his hip, though he could not see by whom. With his head locked forwards in the jump pack harness, he felt his greaves being mag-locked into the cradle runner as the drop safeties were engaged.
The sergeant’s ident-rune flickered onto the squad display inside Esau’s visor. ‘Squad Cassander, all readouts confirmed for rail loading,’ he announced over the vox. ‘Be the blade, brothers! Pilot, we are ready.’
‘Cassander, confirmed. Initiating loading sequence.’
The deck seemed to fall away from their boots as the rails were hoisted back into place, and then tilted madly as each cradle rotated ninety degrees up and around, dragging the Space Marines into a facedown dangle from their pack harnesses. It felt undignified, but it was the quickest and most efficient way to deploy a full Assault squad from the air.
Even so, Esau felt like a bolt-round about to be chambered.
The drop-rails slid inside the gunship hold with a squeal of gears. The sounds of the hangar receded as the hydraulic ramp closed behind them, the Storm Eagle’s engines cycling up. A single amber beacon lamp whirled in the cramped space.
The pilot’s voice came again. ‘Atreides-actual, assault wing ready. Escort flights Talon One, Talon Two, trap for launch. Mark. Clear. Switching to manoeuvring thrusters.’
Esau took a steadying breath as the gunship lifted off. All he could see was the floor of the hold close beneath him, and the soles of Xristos’ mag-locked boots in the next cradle along.
The engine note rose sharply, inertia tugging at their harnesses.
‘Accelerating to combat speed. Escort flight inbound.’
Then they breached the atmospheric field and raced into the void beyond.
The orbital approach to Brakur IV was mired by the brood-swarm of Daedalus. The largest vessel-organisms were bladed devourers the size of an Imperial cruiser – whether these were immature siblings of the great hive ship or lesser craft in their own right was impossible to say.
The assault wing flew in tight formation, the pilots attempting to skirt the edge of the swarm on their way in. The void was lit by strobing flashes from the mighty gun batteries of the Atreides, though even direct hits on the xenos were eerily quiet in the upper reaches of the planet’s exosphere, lending the engagement a strange feeling of disconnection.
That changed soon enough. The bio-cruisers were far from being the only threat to the Scythes gunships.
In the spaces between them, many thousands of kilometres wide, there swooped drone ships and other sundry bio-forms too numerous to catalogue. They reacted like a swarm of angry insects, perceiving the threat to their parent vessels from these strange newcomers, with their cold metal skin and fiery trails. There was no sign of any remaining resistance from the original human defenders of Brakur; no frigates driving at the tyranids for one last, glorious attempt at martyrdom, no isolated satellite guns determined to keep firing until their magazines ran dry. The invaders had evidently rolled over them and already begun their conquest of the planet below.
The Stormtalon escorts opened up on the stalker drones. They shredded chitinous armour with their blazing assault cannons, tearing xenos craft asunder and scattering their remains to the clutches of the fourth world’s gravity well. The drones were fast, and they were agile, but they could not stand long before the sheer weight of firepower levelled against them.
‘Assault wing, surgical strike on grid one-one-nine,’ came the pilot’s voice over the comm. ‘Rockets free, rockets free!’
The larger Storm Eagle joined the attack, loosing a flurry of Vengeance missiles that filled the emptiness before them with detonations and whirling shrapnel. Though such a barrage could never hope to do significant damage to anything bigger than light voidcraft, one of the tyranid cruisers at their starboard wing juddered and convulsed in response, slowly rolling its exposed flank away from the unexpected irritation.
And with that, the assault wing had a clear corridor through the periphery of the swarm. Daedalus still loomed above them, blotting out the light of the stars beyond, but the Techmarine pilots saw their chance and lit their engines for the surface. The Atreides, having remained comfortably out of bio-weapons range, powered up and away from the orbit of Brakur IV, striking out for the cover of the system’s binary suns.
In their haste, the assault wing pilots did not see the vast hive ship beginning a glacial turn after them. Its brood had been stung, when all resistance should have already been extinguished. In the void over this first delectable prey-world, they howled their petulant frustration in the silent gestalt of the hive mind’s alien consciousness.
Daedalus was compelled to answer that cry.
Heaving the cavernous birthing chambers deep within its foul interior, the hive ship clenched in a manner that nothing of such immense size had any right to do – not in any universe where goodness and wholesome things still endured. Its toothy mandibles spread in a silent scream. Its great spine arched.
With a final spasm, Daedalus spawned a new horror. Then another.
The twin hulks, formless and yet vaguely ovoid, tumbled into the vacuum in clouds of icy amniotic matter and slick with unspeakable residues. They trailed long, spined tails behind them, scattering the lesser bio-ships as they went, propelled by the force of their birth down towards the prey-world below.
Streaking contrails from a dozen other bio-ship landers scored the heavens around them. They were not the only xenos objects making planetfall, but they were to be among the most disastrous for the Scythes of the Emperor and their mission to the surface. As they plunged through the atmospheric boundary, the heat of re-entry warmed their void-chilled hearts. Ablative flesh and horned shell scorched, and cracked, and finally split apart.
Hatched on the wing, the two fledgling beasts drew their first fiery breaths, and roared at the almost unbearable agony of their new existence.
Brother Esau’s world was reduced to the square metre of hold decking in front of his eyes, and the vox-chatter inside his helm. Though they had broken away from contact with the strike cruiser, the Storm Eagle was beginning to pick up signals from the embattled defenders of Brakur IV, and they did not paint a promising picture of the mission ahead. The locals were throwing everything they had against the tyranids and, by all accounts, Squad Cassander was about to drop right into the heart of the invasion.
They streaked now across the open skies over the ocean, banking between poisoned clouds towards the continental city of Tamuero. Far from the planetary capital in the northern hemisphere, the Scythes were nonetheless headed straight for their intended target.
From somewhere up ahead in the gunship’s troop compartment, Sergeant Cassander reviewed the mission parameters. ‘Brother-Apothecary Aratus’ locator signal is strong,’ he said, ‘even though we have not been able to raise him on the secure Chapter frequencies. He was in Tamuero’s inner ward districts to screen potential recruits, along with a handful of medicae staff from the Heart of Cronus. In an ideal scenario, we would evacuate all of them, as well as the gene-seed stocks...’
The sergeant paused. His implication was clear, but it was as well to spell it out.
‘The primary objective is the retrieval of the gene-seed. Aratus himself is secondary.’
Esau spoke up. ‘And the medicae adepts? The recruits?’
‘Negative. We couldn’t fit them in here, anyway, even if we wanted to. I am authorising the immediate use of lethal force, if a confrontation occurs – we cannot waste time arguing with our human servants about who is supposed to be ensuring the survival of whom.’
That left a bitter taste. A moment of silence passed between them all, broken only by the rapid crack of the Storm Eagle’s lascannons engaging another airborne target outside. Then Cassander went on.
‘Brother Galerius, you have fought alongside Aratus before. What can we expect from him, under these circumstances? Is he the “pragmatic” sort?’
