Warhammer - Ultramarines 02 - Warriors Of Ultramar (McNeill, Graham) Read online

  The massive hive ship at the centre of the tyranid swarm shuddered as though in the grips of a powerful seizure and expelled millions of spores, trailing glistening birth streamers as they sped away from its toughened hide.

  The majestically swooping manta creatures moved as though swimming in a deep ocean, their wide, chitinous wings rippling with the motion of the solar wind. The bladed creatures that flocked around their birth queen swarmed forwards in a wave of seething claws, overcome with the instinctual urge to destroy those who threatened the hive.

  The Battle of Barbaras had begun.

  'Order the Sword frigates to push forwards.' said Admiral de Corte. 'Those beasts at the head of the fleet are increasing speed. I don't want them in my battle line.'

  'Aye, sir.' replied Jex Viert, his senior flag lieutenant, conveying the order to the signals officer.

  De Corte studied the observation bay, trying to guess how the tyranids would react to their movements. So far, he did not rate the tactical acumen of the enemy, if such a thing existed in the tyranid fleet, and he allowed himself a tight smile. He watched as the logisticians began moving the Sword frigates forward with their poles.

  'These ships that approach us, Lord Kryptman, what can you tell me about them?'

  The inquisitor walked stiffly along the nave of the command bridge to stand before the apse of the observation bay. He leaned closer, as though studying the creatures more closely and shook his head slowly.

  'They are drone creatures, nothing more, though they are extremely resilient. I call them kraken and the will of the hive mind controls them. Do not allow them to close with you, they are filled with all manner of deadly warrior creatures.'

  'I understand. Mister Viert, issue orders that no captain is to allow any alien organisms to approach to within five thousand kilometres of his ship.'

  'Five thousand kilometres. Aye, sir.'

  Satisfied his order would be obeyed with alacrity, de Corte returned his gaze to the observation bay. One of the larger creatures was detaching itself from the main body of the tyranid fleet, using short flaps of its wide wings to power itself forwards in sporadic spurts of motion.

  'Hydra squadron to take up blocking position on the right flank. Order the Sword of Retribution to follow the frigates in. Yermetov and Luxor to escort her.'

  'Aye, sir.' said Viert, punching in the admiral's orders. 'Might I also suggest that the strike cruisers of the Space Marines advance with the Cobras of Cypria squadron? If these alien vessels are indeed as resilient as Lord Kryptman suggests, then their heavy bombardment cannons will be of great use.'

  'Your suggestion has merit, Mister Viert. Make it so, and confirm readiness of lance decks and gun crews.'

  The admiral watched the dance of ships on the plotting table, seeing the plan of the battle unfold as the captains of his fleet obeyed his orders.

  'All weapon decks report readiness, sir. Senior gunner Mabon reports he has a firing solution for the nova cannon.'

  'Understood, inform him that he may fire when ready.' said de Corte.

  He saw that the Cobras of Hydra squadron would soon be in a position to fire as well, and the Swords had rapidly closed on the first wave of the ships Kryptman called kraken.

  The gap between the two fleets was closing fast and he knew it would not be long before aliens would be dying.

  Deep in the bowels of the Argus, the fifty-metre wide door of the nova cannon's breech groaned shut as thousands of sweating naval ratings dragged the massive weapon's recoil compensators into position. Hot steam and noise filled the long chamber, its cavernous structure fogged with the furnace heat of lifting mechanisms that hauled the enormous projectiles from the armoured magazines below.

  The chamber ran almost the entire length of the ship and stank of grease, sweat and blood. A booming hymnal echoed from ancient brass speakers set into grilled alcoves in the wall accompanied by the droning chant of thousands of men.

  Senior gunner Mabon watched from his gantry above the firing chamber as a series of bells chimed and a row of lights lit up along a battered iron panel before him. He couldn't hear the bells, his long service as a gunner in the Imperial Navy having deafened him decades ago.

  The shell was loaded and he muttered the gunner's prayer to the warhead as he squinted through a bronze optical attachment that lifted on groaning hinges from the panel. He clamped his augmetic monocle to the optical, lining up the thin crosshairs on the red triangle that represented his target. The target was closing on them so he didn't have to make any adjustments for crosswise motion. It was a simple shot, one he could have easily made, even in the earliest days following his press-ganging on Carpathia.

  Satisfied that the shell would be on target, he lifted his head and ran his gaze across the chamber, checking that his gunnery crew gangs were clear of the greased rails that ran the length of the chamber and that each had their green flag raised to indicate that all the blast dampers had been closed. He reached up and took hold of the firing chain that hung above his station.

  He grunted in satisfaction and pulled hard on the chain, shouting, 'Spirits of war and fire, I invoke thee with the wrath of the Machine God. Go forth and purify!'

  Steam hissed from juddering pipes and a high-pitched screech filled the weapon chamber as the gravometric impellers built up power in the breech.

  Mabon rushed to the edge of the gantry and gripped the iron railings. Seeing a weapon of such power discharge was a

  potent symbol of the might of the Imperial Navy and he never tired of the sight.

  The screeching rose to an incredible volume, though Mabon was oblivious to it, until the nova cannon fired, and the enormous pressure wave slammed through the chamber. The weapon's firing sent the three-hundred metre barrel hurtling back with the ferocious recoil. The air blazed with sparks and burning steam as the grease coating the rails vaporised in the heat of the recoil, the stench of scorched metal and propellant filling the chamber with choking fumes.

  Mabon roared in triumph, gagging on the stinking clouds of gas that boiled around him.

  Juddering vibrations attempted to topple him from the gantry, but he had long since grown used to them and easily kept his balance.

  The smoke started to clear and his gunnery overseers began whipping their gangs into dragging the massive weapon back into its firing position once more. The armoured bays in the floor groaned open and the looped chains descended to be attached to a fresh shell.

  Mabon had drilled his gunnery teams without mercy and he prided himself that he could have the nova cannon ready to fire again within thirty minutes. This time would be no different.

  The shell from the Argus streaked like a blur of light through space, exploding like a miniature sun in the heart of the tyranid ships. More potent than a dozen plasma bombs, the shell detonated only a few kilometres from one of the manta-like creatures, instantly incinerating it in a roiling cloud of fire, which also scattered a nearby flotilla of smaller creatures. One creature fell away from its pack, glutinous fluids leaking from its ruptured belly. It thrashed as it died, eventually becoming still as it haemorrhaged fatally.

  The swarm scattered from the blast, though a host of small organisms, each no larger than a drop pod, converged on the shrinking cloud of organic debris, exploding with terrific violence as they neared the centre of the blast.

  A group of creatures surged forward, as though galvanised into action by the blast, and closed on the approaching Sword frigates. Behind the frigates came Sword of Retribution, the Cobras of Cypria squadron and the strike cruisers of the Ultramarines and the Mortifactors.

  First blood had gone to the Imperial fleet, but the battle had only just begun.

  Uriel gripped the hilt of his power sword, listening to the sounds of the Vae Victus as her hull groaned and creaked as she manoeuvred in the battle line. The lights in the corridor were dimmed as he and his squad waited in one of the strike cruiser's reaction points. When going into battle, the Space Marines aboard a shi
p of war were stationed throughout the corridors of the ship in places where enemy forces were likely to try and board.

  His helmet's vox-bead was tuned to the ship's bridge and he could hear the excited chatter of the various captains travelling between their ships. He listened to the cheers as it became apparent that the fleet's flagship had just scored a direct hit on an enemy vessel with her first shot. Such an auspicious beginning boded well for the coming engagement, though Uriel could not rid himself of feelings of apprehension.

  He did not like the arbitrary nature of space combat, where a warrior's fate was in the hands of others, no matter how skilful or competent they might be. Uriel knew he would rather face a thousand enemies on the field of battle than wait in the sweating darkness of a starship, not knowing whether death would reach out its long, grave-dirt encrusted fingers and sweep its terrible scythe around to claim his soul. He shuddered at the thought.

  Pasanius saw him shiver and said, 'Captain?'

  Uriel shook his head. 'It's nothing, I just had a strange sensation of deja vu.'

  'Are you getting another one of your "feelings"?' asked Pasanius.

  'No, do not worry, old friend. I just do not like the idea of waiting here for a foe who may not come. Part of me wishes I had stayed with Learchus on Tarsis Ultra.'

  'Now I know you're insane.' joked Pasanius. Though the rivalry Uriel and Learchus had endured on Macragge during their training had long since been forgotten, they would never be true friends. Where Uriel had learned the virtue of personal initiative from his mentor, Captain Idaeus, Learchus seemed incapable of making that leap. He was an Ultramarine and that was to be expected, but Uriel knew that there were times when such rigid stricture was not always the answer.

  Such thoughts disturbed Uriel. He knew it was but a short step from there to beginning down the path of the Mortifactors. Was that how their descent had started? Small breaches of the codex's teachings that over the centuries became greater and greater until there was nothing left of the blessed primarch's work? Astador had claimed that their Chapter venerated the primarch, but could you hold him highest above all else and yet not follow his words?

  Had Idaeus been the first step towards the end of everything the Ultramarines held dear? Could he have been wrong in his teachings, and was Uriel on the path that lead to ultimate damnation? Already he had gone against the teachings laid down in the codex, most recently on Pavonis.

  In the dim light of the Vae Victus, Uriel felt the stirrings of doubt for the first time in his life.

  Aboard the bridge of the Sword class frigate Mariatus, Captain Payne watched the tyranid bio-ships closing on his vessel with a mixture of anticipation and dread. It stunned him that creatures so huge could be alive, though he assumed that, in the way of the larger beasts on his homeworld, they would be as stupid as they were massive.

  A clutch of drifting objects floated before the bladed ships, pulsing ahead of the alien vessel as it continued closing the distance between them.

  The captain folded his arms and nodded to where his gunnery officer stood by the weapons station.

  'You have a firing solution?' he asked.

  'Aye, sir, the lead enemy vessel will be in range in just under a minute.'

  'Very good. Order all ships to begin firing as soon as the enemy ships are in range.'

  Payne marched back towards his command chair, perched atop a raised dais at the centre of the bridge. He followed the progress of the other ships in his squadron, Von Becken and Heroic Endeavour, on the pict-slate before him, satisfied that they were holding proper station - allowing their leader to take the first shot. A shiver of premonition went down his

  spine as he watched the creatures before his ship turn ponderously to face him and he felt he could see their dead, expressionless eyes staring deep into his soul. Such a notion was plainly ridiculous: these beasts would have been blinded by spatial debris were they to rely on sight alone. But still the notion persisted and he bunched his fists to halt the sudden tremors that seized him.

  'All guns firing now.' reported the gunnery officer calmly as the ship juddered with the recoil of its powerful guns. The vibrations running along the worn teak flooring did not do justice to the violence of his guns' firing. Right now, hundreds of massive projectiles and powerful lasblasts would be hurtling through space to unleash a torrent of explosive death amongst these vile aliens.

  He watched a flurry of detonations explode around the nearest bio-ship, gradually drawing in as his gunners bracketed it. Some even managed to score direct hits, their shells blasting one of the creature's giant, bladed limbs from its body. Vast streams of fluid pumped from the bio-ship's innards as the remainder of his squadron opened fire and the flash of distant explosions momentarily obscured the tyranid ships. When the viewing bay cleared, he saw that one had been completely blown apart and another was drifting listlessly in space. He surged from his chair and punched the air in triumph.

  'Damn me, but that was some fine shooting. My compliments to the gun deck.'

  'Aye, sir.' replied the gunnery officer, proudly.

  He watched the viewing bay, seeing the remaining enemy ships shuddering, as though gripped by some form of spasm.

  'What in the Emperor's name is that?' he wondered aloud.

  Before he realised what he was seeing, bolts of gelatinous liquid spurted from the front section of the bio-ships.

  'All ships, hard to starboard!' he yelled, suddenly understanding what was happening.

  The bridge of the Mariatus heeled sideway as emergency power was routed to the engines, but a ship of war does not react quickly, even if her captain does. With terrifying speed the bolts hurtled towards his ships, streaking through space in a tightly focussed stream. Payne gripped the arMisterests of his chair as his ship fought against her forward momentum to turn away from the incoming fire.

  Even as the bolts slid to the side of the viewing bay, he saw that it would not be enough. The Mariatus would escape significant harm, but there was no way either of her sister ships could possibly evade in time.

  Three corrosive acid bolts struck Heroic Endeavour on the lower section of her engine compartment. In panic, her Adeptus Mechanicus enginseers shut the engines down, venting her combustion chambers as they realised the acid was eating away at the plasma cells that powered the engines. Their quick thinking undoubtedly saved the ship and, to their immense relief, emergency procedures were able to halt the damage before the acids could breach the volatile fuel stores. Four hundred and thirty-seven men lost their lives in the attack, but her sister ship, Von Becken, was not so fortunate.

  The full force of the tyranid weapons struck Von Becken broadside on, just behind her swept prow. The sheer force of impart smashed the bolts through the first layered sections of armoured panels, before the bio-acids ate through the remainder and the full force of the tyranid weapons engulfed the mid-level decks of the ship.

  Hundreds died in the first moments of impact, smashed to pulp or sucked into space as explosive decompression blew out adjacent sections of the hull. The acids filled compartments with burning fluids that dissolved flesh and metal in a heartbeat, the fumes as lethal as any nerve agent devised by the Adeptus Mechanicus. Blast doors rumbled closed, sealing off the area of the impact, but the corrosive fluid liquefied the doors and spilled onwards, dissolving decks and pouring down onto the screaming men below.

  The Von Becken's hull, already weakened by the acids and under stress from the violent manoeuvring screeched in protest, finally buckling as the venerable ship split in two.

  Torpedoes launched from the Cobras of Hydra squadron streaked through space on blazing tail plumes, arcing for the nearest of the giant manta-like creatures. A cloud of spores drifted before the ship, and as the torpedoes closed the gap, a

  swarm of them surged forwards to intercept the missiles. Explosions rippled through the cloud of spores as the torpedoes smashed through them, some detonating prematurely, some broken apart by the acidic explosions of t
he spores.

  Not all the torpedoes could be stopped and a handful slammed into the body of the mantis creature, the primary warheads vaporising a chunk of its hide, before the tail sections exploded, thrusting the powerful centre section of the weapons deep inside the creature to detonate.

  The monster's belly heaved as the torpedoes exploded one after the other and it listed drankenly as its lifeblood poured from its gaping wounds. But as grievously wounded as it was, the creature was by no means finished, and it could still fight back. A swelling of intercostal motion pulsed along the top of the creature and a flurry of jagged spines rippled from its flanks, thousands hurtling towards its attackers like enormous javelins. At such range, the odds of hitting a relatively fast moving target such as a destroyer were huge, but if you factored in the sheer number and density of the spine cloud the odds changed dramatically.

  Two Cobras exploded as hundred metre spines hammered through their armour, smashing through the armaplas and ceramite hulls with horrifying ease. The lead vessel's bridge was destroyed upon first impact, penetrated from prow to stern by a dozen spines, while the second was reduced to a blazing hulk as three giant spines penetrated her engine core and started dozens of uncontrollable conflagrations.

  The last vessel, shielded from instant annihilation by her sister ships, was nevertheless struck several glancing blows and suffered horrendous damage as several torpedoes being readied for launch exploded in her launch bays. Her crews fought to bring the damage under control, but her captain was forced to disengage from the battle. His ship's primary weapon systems were damaged beyond immediate repair and there was nothing more he or his ship could do to alter the outcome of the battle.

  The hive ship moved ponderously forward, explosions bursting around it as the incoming fire from the Imperial ships came within range. Hundreds of spores vaporised in the hail of blossoming explosions, but there were always more pumped into space from the ship's churning reproductive vats to replace them.