Unsullied by self-aggrandisement.

  The words of Praxa­medes lingered in the thoughts of Nem­etus while he readied himself for the battle ahead. Whether intended for Aeschelus or Nem­etus, that softly spoken line from the Codex Astartes had carried the same vehemence as a shouted outburst from any other. Praxa­medes was calm to the point of coolness and guarded in everything he said. To have spoken as he did was almost without precedent.

  Helmet under his arm, Nem­etus walked along the ranks, inspecting every warrior. Each was impeccably turned out, a credit to themselves and the dedication of the armourium. Sergeant Villina lifted fist to chest as Nem­etus reached the front of the formation once more.

  ‘Most excellent, brother-sergeant, fit for a parade before the lord pri­march himself!’

  ‘And ready for more than just a parade, brother-lieutenant,’ added the veteran sergeant.

  ‘I am sure of it, Villina. It is my honour to lead them again.’

  The Codex Preparatory Statements on the Nature of the Adeptus Astartes continued, and it was from the following words of the lord pri­march that Nem­etus took inspiration.

  They will be bright stars on the firmament of battle, Angels of Death whose shining wings bring swift annihilation to the enemies of man.

  A bright star in the firmament of battle.

  Bright stars were in short supply of late, with the Imperium beset by all foes, both ancient and modern. A relative latecomer to the Indomitus Crusade, Nem­etus had learned from afar of its great reconquest whilst undergoing his transformation and training. He knew the power of the stories that returned from the exploits of humanity’s finest warriors. He had heard temple bells ringing the triumphs of the lord commander, listened to the cheers from hundreds of thousands of throats as great victories were read from the balcony-pulpits. As a Primaris Marine, he was to be the new exemplar of everything the Adeptus Astartes represented.

  And yet the words of Praxa­medes still bit deep.

  Unsettled, he passed an expert eye over the next warriors – a squad of Eradicators, their melta rifles at the ready. They would be the breaching team once the expedition reached the enemy strategium. Nem­etus’ gaze moved between them and the Intercessors, noting that most of their wargear was freshly issued.

  Many of Aeschelus’ command had been sent as reinforcements to Fleet Quintus, as had he and Nem­etus; only a few were longer-serving, having departed Terra at the crusade’s outset. Praxa­medes was among those that had seen the earliest fighting, the most terrible wars and dogged campaigns. A member of Fleet Quintus since its inception, he had risen from the ranks while Nem­etus and Aeschelus, and no few others, had been trained to their officer roles. Such had been the early casualties among the Space Marines – a force that lived by the creed of leading from the front – that deaths among the first Primaris officers had eliminated almost half the Adeptus Astartes leadership of Fleet Quintus within three years. Battlefield promotions and brevet ranks were good as a stop-gap, but as a longer term solution Nem­etus and others had been command-trained from the outset of their inductions.

  Was Praxa­medes’ slight genuinely aimed at Aeschelus, a subtle admonition for a superior who had been promoted ahead of him?

  That was an unkindness to Praxa­medes, Nem­etus decided. The very moments before battle were not the best time to weigh up the motivations of his brother-officers, and Nem­etus had nothing but respect for his fellow lieutenant. Praxa­medes had simply been urging his usual ­circumspect approach, nothing more.

  Nem­etus turned his attention to the remaining members of his expedition. A little apart from the Intercessors stood ten Incursors, two combat squads of dedicated close assault specialists under Sergeant Dorium and Sergeant Lato. Clad in armour incorporating the most sophisticated internal auspex systems, they would pave the way for the main force, their bolt carbines ideally suited to the closer confines of the enemy starship. It had been just days since they had last seen action, and their wargear told a different story to that of the Intercessors. Here and there the lieutenant spied bare ceramite over some recently suffered damage, and the paint of their livery was much scratched.

  ‘Is that blood?’ Nem­etus demanded, directing an accusing finger towards the gauntlet of Brother Sennecus.

  The Incursor lifted his hand and inspected it. He flexed the red-stained armoured digits.

  ‘Yes, lieutenant,’ Sennecus replied. ‘I ripped out the heart of a secessionist in our last engagement. The red mark is a trophy of our victory, brother-lieutenant.’

  ‘Yes, I have heard of this “battle paint”, brother.’ Nem­etus took a step closer and was about to deliver his chastisement when a voice cut across the muster hall.

  ‘A fitting memorial to a traitor,’ rasped Judiciar Admonius.

  Armoured all in back, the Judiciar cut a sinister figure. At his waist hung a great hourglass, filled with dark sand: his tempormortis. Each grain came from the debris of Callosi station, a renegade installation atomised in the first engagement of Battle Group Faustus. Admonius’ zealotry in that action had seen him recruited to the position of Judiciar, on the pathway to becoming a Chaplain.

  The dedication that had drawn Admonius to the Reclusiam’s ranks had increased with his acceptance, as if he were afraid that his status as novice would count against him. Nem­etus knew better than to gainsay the Judiciar and instead raised a fist in salute.

  ‘You are joining the boarding force, Brother-Judiciar?’

  ‘Of course. It is my duty to prosecute the war against the traitors with every fervour. Did you think I would pass on this opportunity?’

  Recognising the rhetoric in the question, Nem­etus returned his attention to the warriors under his command.

  ‘Brothers.’ He took a breath, trying to ignore the nagging thoughts that came to him.

  Self-aggrandisement.

  Was he guilty of that crime?

  ‘Brothers,’ he began again, taking inspiration from his own mood. ‘Some of you have raised your weapons beside me in battles before this day. Many of you have not, and indeed this is the first encounter with the foe since your preparatory missions. It matters not. We are all Adeptus Astartes. We are all sons of Lord Guilliman. We are all servants of the Emperor.’

  He could not resist a glance towards Judiciar Admonius before he continued.

  ‘It is not for ourselves that we fight, though we owe our brothers our commitment. We were created to spearhead a war far greater than any single warrior. Our foes seem without limit, but we will find it. We shall slay as many as needed, until the galaxy is secured once more for the dominion of humanity.’

  He took another breath, settling into himself, finding direction from his own words.

  ‘Remember that every blow you strike, every bolt you fire, is directed towards that single duty. Know also that at our backs stands the whole of the Imperium, its will bent to the reconquest of lost realms, the succour of enslaved worlds and the destruction of the dark enemy that has brought this wrath upon them. You are the implementation of that will. You are the Emperor’s strength given form. Fight well and you shall not die, for your names shall live on ever after in glory!’

  As his triumphant shout reverberated across the hall, Nem­etus signalled the embarkation to begin. He felt Admonius beside him and turned his gaze on the Chaplain-in-Waiting.

  ‘A fine speech,’ said the Judiciar. ‘Now let your deeds echo your words.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  While he waited for the augur attendants to collate their latest servitor reports, Praxa­medes considered Aeschelus’ apparent determination to board the enemy vessel no matter the risks. Taken at face value, the captain’s rebuke was perfectly in order. The battle group had not officially recognised the presence of an enemy battleship in the system. It was only off-channel intelligence that argued the case.

  It was the dismissal of the source that nagged at Praxa­medes. Imperial Navy officers were not warriors of the Adeptus Astartes, but they were also brave, capable men and women. Prone to superstition? Yes, but also with an instinct for their ships and environs gathered over many years of service. The informality of the intelligence was also its strength. Navy personnel gossiped, but there was always a kernel of truth in every story.

  Experience told Praxa­medes not to dismiss the rumour of The Ninth Eye as easily as his captain.

  He raised a hand and signalled for the deck officer in charge of the augurs, Lerok Catriolis. The young woman stepped smartly to attention at his side.

  ‘I want ranging scans of the dust clouds and orbital debris, at three-minute intervals.’

  ‘The debris field stretches for twenty thousand miles, lieutenant. Which part do you wish to scan?’

  ‘All of it,’ Praxa­medes replied sharply. He moderated his tone. ‘Power down our aft arrays to minimal passive coverage. There is no enemy behind us for fifty thousand miles. Divert the power to boost the active arrays and widen the search beams.’

  ‘Yes, lieutenant. Are we looking for anything in particular?’ Lerok kept her eyes fixed on the Space Marine, face impassive. ‘So that we can cali­brate the surveyors more tightly, lieutenant.’

  Praxa­medes fought the urge to turn his gaze to the captain, who he could see in the periphery of his vision checking the weapon banks. Praxa­medes was tasked with oversight of the ongoing mission, and it could easily be argued that taking the precaution of monitoring the nearest celestial cover was well within scope of that station.

  Aeschelus might not see it quite so clearly. It was not a direct contradiction of his orders, but it did seem against the spirit of the captain’s intent. Praxa­medes did not relish the thought of testing his commander’s faith further, but his sense of duty was stronger than his fears of personal or disciplinary consequence.

  ‘Plasma signature, void disturbance.’ He uttered the words quietly, as though the issuing of them from his lips was a fresh conspiracy.

  ‘Understood, lieutenant,’ she replied with another crisp salute. Her gaze lingered on Praxa­medes a few seconds longer. ‘I shall personally oversee the array and report directly to you.’

  It was an odd thing to say, so it took a few moments before Praxa­medes realised that she was offering to keep the captain and shipmaster ignorant of her new orders for the time being. Her implied consent to the conspiracy brought back Praxa­medes’ nascent guilt, but he ignored it again.

  ‘Thank you, Lerok. There is no need to distract the captain at this time.’

  She nodded and turned away, their pact finalised.

  Praxa­medes tore the scribe-copy of the collated augur data from its slot and gave it a cursory glance. As expected, all that could be found were the after-flares of the battle with the enemy ship and the flight tails of its fleeing escorts.

  ‘Void is clear, captain,’ Praxa­medes called across the bridge.

  Aeschelus turned, striding back to his position in front of the main display. ‘Very good, brother-lieutenant. Flight paths are locked in?’

  ‘Yes, brother-captain.’ Praxa­medes crossed to the display controls and overlaid the tactical grid onto the live feed. Dotted lines of three gunship routes cut across the intervening space, splitting up to present no single target for anti-assault craft turrets, coming together at the last few miles for a final run on the starboard side of the target, just aft of the control bridge. ‘Embarkation complete. Boarding parties are ready for launch.’

  ‘Gunnery crews stand to!’

  Aeschelus’ shout was picked up by the strategium systems and transmitted across the whole ship. He could have voxed the orders to the individual stations but public address allowed everyone on board to follow the progress of the operation.

  ‘Open launch bays!’

  A schematic of the Ithraca’s Vengeance changed state at the bottom of the screen. Weapons batteries cycled through orange to green as they came on line, the magazine halls following suit a few seconds later. In contrast, the starboard and port launch decks turned amber as hull integrity was relinquished, the bay openings held by energy screens only.

  ‘Commence preparatory bombardment!’

  The schematic lit up again, bright flares of energy as the cannons opened fire, even as the rumble of their discharge shook through the deck. Trails of plasma and fire sparked across the dark void to smash into the upper decks of the target vessel. Debris scattered like leaves in a wind, lit by bright moments of destruction.

  ‘Launch boarding parties!’

  Against the backdrop of fury unleashed by the weapons of the Ithraca’s Vengeance, three gunships powered across the void. They were almost insignificant against the bulk of the strike cruiser and its target. The spark of their engines was lost in the blaze of weapon batteries and bombardment cannon, their blue hulls lit by the flare of impacts, deto­nations flashing in the reflection from armourglass windows.

  Through the canopy of the lead gunship’s command deck, Nem­etus watched the firepower display with a grim smile. He tracked the course of shells ripping aftwards along the closest weapon decks of the foe, turning thick armour to ragged shreds of ceramite and pulverised plasteel. The rhythm of rapid gun deck impacts was punctuated by the larger, slower hits of the cruiser’s dorsal cannon, each building-sized shell obliterating a buttressed gun housing or tearing away a length of decking.

  There was no return fire.

  Perhaps Praxa­medes was right. The Ithraca’s Vengeance could turn the enemy ship into a rubble cloud and not a single Space Marine would risk his life in the achievement of victory.

  Bright stars in the firmament of battle…

  It was not for the safe life that Space Marines were created from the best of humanity. It was their duty to die in battle, to give their lives and ultimately their deaths in service of the Emperor. Often the better victory was harder won.

  Nem­etus turned his attention to the scrolling pathway painted in light across the interior of the canopy – an azure thread laid down by Praxa­medes’ computations that the gunship’s machine-spirit followed towards their target. An icon briefly flashed bright in the display.

  ‘Three miles from target point,’ the pilot announced.

  The fire of the Ithraca’s Vengeance crept along the length of the enemy ship as the cruiser’s guns tracked the progress of the gunships towards their landing zone. Like fire consuming parchment, the line of detonation blossoms worked its way towards the cathedral-like rise of the command superstructure. Increasing the magnification of his helm, Nem­etus looked along the line of approach towards their goal. There was a victualling platform about half a mile from the main bridge, exposed to the void by a series of earlier hits. A landing dock, ideal for the gunships, giving direct access to the main arterial corridors that would take the force to the strategium.

  Perfect.

  Too perfect?

  There was no reason to second-guess Praxa­medes’ plan. By all doctrine laid down in the Codex Astartes, the ingress mission was a balanced combination of support firepower, speed and location. On any account, Praxa­medes had surpassed a mission commander’s needs. Even so, Nem­etus found himself accessing the artificial eyes of the gunship, more powerful than the lenses in his helm, augmented by medium-range augur feeds.

  The target site was a mess of broken ship and fluctuating energy readings. The gaping hole in the side of the upper deck was consistent with the impact of a bombardment cannon hit, the point defence turrets around the locale devoid of power.

  It was too easy, too neat.

  Literally too neat, Nem­etus realised as he panned the scryers back across the breached loading dock. Both doors had sheared away, leaving the entirety of the inner deck in view. The massive hinges that had held the portal in place had all come away, leaving a rectangular hole about sixty yards across and twenty high. Not a single hinge had stayed attached to the ship.

  Another signal flashed momentarily through his vision. ‘Two miles to target,’ the pilot announced. Nem­etus felt the slightest push against his secure harness as the gunship started to decelerate to combat speed for the final approach.

  Half a mile. Close enough to the bridge to be tempting, far enough to give room for a defence force to hold ground.

  The lieutenant signalled the cruiser.

  ‘Ship command, have we identified the target vessel?’ Fingers working the scrollball of the augur controls, Nem­etus flicked the view to a section of hull closer to the strategium.

  ‘Negative, assault command.’ Shipmaster Oloris’ reply was staccato with interference from the bombardment. ‘No registry information found corre­sponding to the target vessel.’

  ‘Understood, ship command. Assault command out.’

  Whose ship was it? There were no obvious fleet or traitor markings.

  While scanning for any tell-tale signs of who or what was aboard, Nem­etus found something else. A darker patch, a shadow behind the spread of the command bridge as it jutted either side of the dorsal armoured ridge. Nem­etus increased magnification further, losing sight of the shadow for a few seconds before locating it again.

  Another breach. A hole no more than ten yards across, almost within bolter range of the strategium itself.

  It would be a difficult landing. Too tight for a gunship to enter, they’d have to void-jump the last few yards, right under the gaze of the defenders. But if Nem­etus’ growing suspicions were right, the victualling dock would be even less welcoming.

  ‘One mile to target. Starting attack approach,’ signalled the pilot.

  A last rage of gunfire slammed into the target area, the brightness of the detonation momentarily turning the auto-senses of Nem­etus’ armour to dull monochrome as they compensated. Then nothing. Darkness returned, the flight of the gunships taking them into the line of fire from the cruiser.

 

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