Indomitus, p.1
Indomitus, page 1
More Ultramarines from Black Library
• DARK IMPERIUM •
Book 1: DARK IMPERIUM
Book 2: PLAGUE WAR
Guy Haley
OF HONOUR AND IRON
Ian St. Martin
KNIGHTS OF MACRAGGE
Nick Kyme
DAMNOS
Nick Kyme
VEIL OF DARKNESS
An audio drama
Nick Kyme
BLOOD OF IAX
Robbie MacNiven
BLADES OF DAMOCLES
Phil Kelly
THE PLAGUES OF ORATH
Steve Lyons, Cavan Scott & Graeme Lyon
More Necrons from Black Library
SEVERED
Nate Crowley
THE INFINITE AND THE DIVINE
(Coming July 2020)
Robert Rath
THE WORLD ENGINE
Ben Counter
Contents
Cover
Backlist
Title Page
Warhammer 40,000
Part I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Part II
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Part III
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
About the Author
An Extract from ‘Mephiston: City of Light’
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind. By the might of His inexhaustible armies a million worlds stand against the dark.
Yet, He is a rotting carcass, the Carrion Lord of the Imperium held in life by marvels from the Dark Age of Technology and the thousand souls sacrificed each day so that His may continue to burn.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. It is to suffer an eternity of carnage and slaughter. It is to have cries of anguish and sorrow drowned by the thirsting laughter of dark gods.
This is a dark and terrible era where you will find little comfort or hope. Forget the power of technology and science. Forget the promise of progress and advancement. Forget any notion of common humanity or compassion.
There is no peace amongst the stars, for in the grim darkness of the far future,
there is only war.
PART I
‘Their holds filled and courage rude,
They left the Sol for distant stars.
With fears stilled and joyous mood,
Not knowing of their future scars.
So light a flame and send a prayer,
For the souls of the Cursed Fleet.’
– ‘The Lament of Quintus’,
an Imperial Navy shanty.
CHAPTER ONE
‘They shall be pure of heart and strong of body, untainted by doubt and unsullied by self-aggrandisement.’ Praxamedes had spoken without thought, the words of the Codex Astartes coming to him unbidden and reaching his tongue before he could stop them.
‘Is that censure of a senior officer, Lieutenant Praxamedes?’ asked Aeschelus as he looked away from the command bridge’s main viewing display. The Ultramarines captain paced across the strategium of the Ithraca’s Vengeance, heading to where his second-in-command stood alongside the task force’s other lieutenant, Nemetus.
The polished blue of their armour danced with the amber-and-red glow of console lights, smudged by a bright plasma gleam shining from the tactical videolith that dominated the wall of the large command chamber. Tac-slaved servitors wired to terminals and augur banks grunted and chattered their dataflows to azure-robed overseers, who in turn compiled reports for their Space Marine officers. Behind them, Shipmaster Oryk Oloris, in heavy trousers that were tucked into knee-high boots and a crisp white shirt beneath his Ultramarines uniform tunic, prowled the deck with a watchful eye.
Praxamedes instantly regretted his momentary lapse.
‘As a scholar of the lord primarch’s teachings, you would know that the Codex Astartes has much to say on respect for the chain of command.’ Aeschelus came alongside his two officers and half-turned back towards the main screen. He opened his hand towards the screen, indicating the starship that drifted across the spray of stars, plumes of blue and white plasma ejecting haphazardly from a ruptured reactor. ‘Our preliminary surveyor reports indicate that we have disabled their weapons grid. The threat is minimal.’
‘My words, brother-captain, were in reference to Nemetus’ overly keen desire to lead the boarding,’ Praxamedes told his superior. ‘There are still enemy vessels in the vicinity.’
‘Two destroyers,’ scoffed Nemetus. ‘Too fast a prey to hunt on our own. As soon as we give chase, they will disappear into the asteroids and gas clouds on the boundary of the third orbital sphere. Would you follow them into that, knowing that they could turn on us under the cover of our overwhelmed scanners?’
‘That was not my suggestion, brother-lieutenant,’ said Praxamedes, frowning. It was an occasional fault of Nemetus to protest against an ill-thought strategy that had not, in fact, been raised, perhaps purely to show that he had considered and discarded such action himself. ‘Our primary objective is destruction of the enemy. Boarding brings unnecessary risk, at a time when the battle groups of Fleet Quintus must conserve their strength.’
‘That is a Hellbringer-class cruiser,’ added Nemetus. ‘Nobody has built one for eight thousand years. It is a piece of archeotech in its own right.’
‘The lord primarch would also favour heavily any intelligence we might glean from its cogitator banks,’ said Aeschelus. ‘We are at the forefront of the crusade, encountering foes fresh to the battle. This is a raider, an assault ship built for planetary attack. Perhaps this ship comes from beyond the Cicatrix Maledictum and could shed light on what is occurring in the Imperium Nihilus lost beyond the warp rifts.’
This time, Praxamedes was wise enough to hold his tongue, wishing the whole conversation would be forgotten. Aeschelus noticed his lieutenant’s reticence and continued.
‘You urge caution with a depleted resource, which is laudable, but I would not spend the lives of the lord primarch’s warriors needlessly.’ Aeschelus allowed his voice to travel a little further, carrying to other members of the command crew across the strategium. It was typical of Aeschelus’ fine touch of command that he would turn potential remonstration into a moment to inspire others. It was a knack that Praxamedes sorely lacked, nor had any idea how to acquire despite his efforts.
‘For near a decade, as ship-board chronometers reckon it, we have fought hard in the crusade of the lord primarch. At the outset there was treachery and catastrophe, losses suffered before the fleet had even left Terra. Our own task force lost its noble group master to the plague purges. Those here, and that came before, knew that there would be no easy victories, that a galaxy broken asunder by the witchery of our enemies would be an unwelcoming battlezone. Yet even the most pessimistic among us would not have countenanced the uncountable labours and obstacles that Fleet Quintus has found in its path.
‘Every victory has been hard-fought and we have met with more reverses than those in other fleets. Each foe must be overcome in turn – every opportunity to rise from the shadows of past setbacks must be seized. Before us lies a prize, won by our own endeavour, that may lift the fortunes of not just the Ithraca’s Vengeance or Battle Group Faustus, but perhaps bring heart to all of Crusade Fleet Quintus that our extraordinary travails have been to purpose.’
‘A prize that is even now trying to slip from our fingers,’ growled Nemetus, nodding towards the videolith. ‘See how they crawl towards the stellar flotsam, seeking sanctuary in its midst. We must seize the moment, brother-captain.’
‘And I stand ready to lead the attack, as always,’ said Praxamedes. ‘As the longest serving lieutenant it would be my honour to do so.’
‘I have no doubt that you would be determined and diligent in the execution of the attack, Praxamedes, but I think this operation is more suited to the temperament of Nemetus.’ The captain turned his full attention to the second lieutenant. ‘Assemble your boarding force swiftly. Take control of the enemy strategium and extract what you can from the cogitators.’
‘You’ll need charges, to scuttle the ship when you are done,’ said Praxamedes.
‘There will be no need for that,’ said Nemetus. ‘It looks as though their reactors are already descending towards critical state. A few hours from now there will be nothing left but plasma.’
‘All the more reason to fly swift and fight with narrow purpose,’ said Aeschelus.
‘If we’re set on the missio n, I’ll review the augur data and calculate the approach vectors that will bring you most swiftly to your objective, brother.’ Praxamedes lifted a fist to his chest to salute the departing officer.
Nemetus returned the gesture of respect with a nod. ‘For the primarch and the Emperor.’
When the lieutenant had exited the strategium, Praxamedes turned to move towards the augur terminals. Aeschelus stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He spoke quietly.
‘I know that you think I undervalue you, Prax. I will give you battle command soon, I give you my word. It’s just…’
‘Nemetus is the more dynamic of us?’
‘Restless,’ Aeschelus replied. ‘Nemetus excels in direct action. In all truth, would you have him providing overview for the expedition while you were leading the squads? Is that truly the best use of his and your aptitudes?’
Praxamedes said nothing. He had spoken out too much already and did not wish to push his superior’s patience any further. In truth, he felt it was Aeschelus, in longing to prove his worth in the eyes of the primarch, that felt undervalued. Like many in the latest cohort of recruits pushed to the leading edges of the crusade, Aeschelus had not been in the fleet when those early disasters had occurred. He had not witnessed how the hope and excitement of the crusade’s potential had withered in a matter of months.
Perhaps that was a good thing. Praxamedes had enough self-awareness to admit, to himself if no other, that those early experiences had given him a more pessimistic outlook than his new commander. The captain hoped Nemetus would bring glory to the Ithraca’s Vengeance with some daring act, and Praxamedes was well aware of his own deficiencies in that regard. He was neither charismatic nor blessed with startling initiative. He was diligent and capable, and those were qualities that perhaps Battle Group Faustus needed right now when another serious setback might break the morale of the whole Fleet Quintus.
But Aeschelus was not interested in such thoughts and so Praxamedes kept them to himself.
‘As you will it, brother-captain,’ he said simply.
Aeschelus gave a nod of dismissal to set Praxamedes about his task, yet as the lieutenant moved away the captain felt the admonition in his formality. His second-in-command doubtless meant well but the last thing the command needed at the moment was negativity. There were finally reports of good news from the other battle groups, and while Faustus still laboured hard against warp storms and a ceaseless swarm of small but diverting traitor attacks, Aeschelus was determined that he would make a breakthrough soon.
Praxamedes tended to think in tactical terms, lacking the longer view of the strategic that had been inculcated into Aeschelus as part of his rapid training to the rank of captain. He and others like him had been despatched to the cutting edge of the Indomitus Crusade to bring some renewed urgency, particularly across Crusade Fleet Quintus.
Fresh blood, fresh energy.
Those had been the words of the lord primarch. Not heard in person, as Lord Guilliman was far from Terra leading the crusade when Aeschelus had been sent to his command. It wasn’t like the days when Praxamedes and the first torchbearer fleets had been sent out. No fanfare, no primarch. Just reinforcements and a renewed will to press into the darkness.
One day, perhaps soon, Aeschelus would have the honour. One day he would stand before the lord primarch in victory, recognised for an effort that changed the fortunes of the fleet.
The captain broke from his reverie to find Oloris standing close by, a dataslate in hand. The shipmaster raised a fist to his forehead.
‘Latest fleet dispositions, captain.’ The unaugmented human presented the dataslate and withdrew a step, brushing a wisp of blond hair from his pale face.
‘Anything of note?’ asked Aeschelus, knowing that Oloris could be trusted to review the information relevant to their current course of action.
‘We received word that Sword of Justice and the Vaputatian both broke warp to rendezvous with the support fleet.’
‘That leaves nobody on our starward flank. A little early for refit.’ Aeschelus scrolled through the report but Oloris provided the answer first.
‘They each had an unexpected encounter with a battleship-class enemy. They were able to break away but not before taking heavy damage.’
Aeschelus found the entry and accessed the engagement report. ‘No identifier. Possible traitor flagship. Heavy lance arrays outranged our ships.’
‘And us, captain,’ said Oloris. He hesitated, cleared his throat and continued, ‘Lieutenant Praxamedes wishes to know if we are proceeding with the boarding action.’
Aeschelus looked up. The lieutenant was at the augur console, ostensibly engaged in his preparations, though his enhanced hearing was more than capable of picking up the conversation between captain and shipmaster. It was protocol for any matters concerning the running of the vessel to come through the shipmaster, but it seemed peculiar on this occasion that Praxamedes had not delivered his question directly. It was likely that he was being more circumspect after his uncharacteristically outspoken moment.
‘You have concerns, Prax?’ the captain said, hoping informality would assure his subordinate that he was not in any way being censured. ‘You think there is a danger presented by this rogue battleship?’
‘It is a possibility, captain,’ said Praxamedes, turning from his work. ‘The engagement with the Sword of Justice took place within the last two days, only four hundred and fifty thousand miles from our current position. What if it’s the Desolator?’
‘I am surprised you put stock in such tales, lieutenant,’ said Aeschelus. He snorted, shaking his head. ‘The Desolator? Rumour and hearsay. The grumblings of reluctant Imperial Navy officers.’
‘You think there is no truth to the reports, captain?’ Praxamedes approached, darting a look towards Oloris that betrayed their conspiracy. ‘Seven vessels lost or driven off in the last thirty days, all within this sub-sector.’
‘There is no phantom enemy battleship striking with the speed of a frigate and disappearing.’ Aeschelus raised a finger to forestall Oloris as the shipmaster opened his mouth to speak. ‘And it certainly is not The Ninth Eye, that identification was based on the tiniest fragment of augur return and vox-scatter. Battle Group Command insist that there is no Alpha Legion presence in this whole sector. You want me to ignore the prize we have won based on the chattering of Navy officers?’
‘I wished to clarify our intent, captain,’ Praxamedes said stiffly. ‘Your will is clear.’
‘It is,’ growled Aeschelus, now irritated by the lieutenant’s intervention. ‘Ready your calculations for Lieutenant Nemetus as quickly as possible.’
Aeschelus turned his eyes back to the drifting ship on the main display. This equivocation and rumour-mongering was just one of the many symptoms of the fleet’s morale problems. He should not fault Praxamedes for falling prey to the same deficiencies as others caught up in the long tale of misfortune, but it was starting to affect his judgement. Despite his earlier words to the lieutenant, this kind of irrational behaviour, coupled with overfamiliarity to the non-Space Marine crew, made Aeschelus wonder if Praxamedes really was suited to any kind of battle command.
With the order for the boarding action given, the tone aboard the Ithraca’s Vengeance changed from one of pensive watchfulness to energetic activity. The crews of the gun decks remained alert, sensor stations poring over the broken flank of the heavy cruiser, seeking any sign of sudden life from their foe. From the command bridge came firing solutions, pinpointing breaches in the enemy’s armoured skin, selected to prepare the way for the incoming attack. In the flight bays the roar of plasma engines joined the thud of armoured boots, filling each launch deck with the noise of pending war. Red-clad tech-priests croaked and burbled sermons of the Machine-God to bless their charges before launch, lower adepts of the Cult of Mars anointing the gunships’ weapons and targeting arrays with unguents while nano-laced censer smoke drifted into idling intakes to cleanse engine feeds.
Squad by squad, the boarding parties assembled at the mustering deck between the two flanking launch halls. Nemetus paced the concourse at the hall’s centre, passing a critical eye over the thirty Space Marines as they came to attention. From the ship’s complement he had selected three squads of Intercessors, the backbone of the new Primaris formations. Standing to attention, weapons presented, an unmoving line of Ultramarines blue, they awaited the order to break rank and move to board the gunships.
