Legends of the dark ange.., p.21
Legends Of The Dark Angels, page 21
Boreas stood in the cockpit of the Thunderhawk and looked over Hephaestus’s shoulder through the armoured canopy. The Blade of Caliban had moved to the permanent dayside of the moon before they had launched, and the external environment indicators showed that the interior of the gunship was growing hotter and hotter, though the Space Marines’ armour easily protected them from such extreme temperatures. Their plan was to enter orbit out of sight of the enemy base and approach at nearly ground level. They would perform a rapid attack run before turning and landing on the opposite side of the installation, coming to ground as close as possible to the complex.
The bright white of the moon’s pockmarked surface almost filled the view from the cockpit, and the gunship began to shudder slightly as the atmosphere thickened. Hephaestus pushed forward on the control column to plunge the nose of the Thunderhawk down, heading at speed towards the surface. Only a few hundred metres from impact, he levelled their flight path and the gunship roared over craters and savage trenches, climbing over the odd low peak and diving into the wide rifts that cracked open the moon’s surface.
‘Time to attack run, eighteen minutes,’ Damas announced from the gunner’s position next to the Techmarine.
‘Primary targets are those gun towers,’ Boreas told the veteran sergeant. ‘Secondary targets at your discretion.’
‘Understood, Brother-Chaplain,’ Damas replied with a firm nod, his gaze not moving from the tactical screen casting its green light onto the face of his helmet.
Boreas walked into the main compartment where the others sat silently on the benches, their weapons check finished. Zaul had his combat knife in his hand and was etching something into the casing of the flamer. Despite the bumping and rolling of the Thunderhawk, his movements were controlled and precise.
‘What are you writing?’ Boreas asked, sitting next to the battle-brother. Zaul lifted up the flamer for Boreas to see. Carved in neat script were the words, ‘Cleanse the Unclean.’ Boreas knew the rest of the verse, it was part of a dedication to the Machine God – Chastise the Unholy with the Sacred Bolt, Cleanse the Unclean with the Fire of Purity, Cleave the Impure with the Blade of Hatred.
‘Armour your Soul with the Shield of Righteousness,’ Boreas said, starting the next verse.
‘Guard your Heart with the Ward of Honour,’ Thumiel continued.
‘Strengthen your Arm with the Steel of Revulsion,’ Nestor finished the prayer.
Smiling to himself, Boreas took his crozius from the weapons locker beneath the bench. It felt good in his hands, his badge of office as well as a deadly weapon. Fifteen Interrogator-Chaplains before him had carried this crozius; he had learnt their names when he had been presented with it. He wondered for a moment what they had been like, what it had been like to live during the Age of Apostasy and taken part in the crusades that had followed the Conclave of Gathalamor. He felt that such times were coming again. His instincts told him that the rumours, the hearsay, the omens and portents were more than just idle superstition. The very presence of the Fallen so close to a Dark Angels’ world could not be mere coincidence. Forces were stirring, in this reality and in the warp, and he could only guess at what part he might play in events yet to come.
Lost in his musings, the time passed quickly and it was a slight surprise when Boreas heard Damas declare they were only a minute from firing range.
‘We are detecting some form of scanning field,’ Hephaestus announced as the Thunderhawk’s instruments scrolled data across half a dozen different screens.
A few seconds passed and then three blinding flashes of white shot out of the darkness ahead, passing below the gunship. Another volley of high-energy las-fire zipped past from a slightly different angle, crossing the path of the Thunderhawk over a hundred metres ahead.
‘Let us hope their aim does not improve dramatically,’ laughed Damas as he took up the weapons controls. ‘Our missiles’ machine spirits are becoming aware of the targets,’ he added, his voice solemn again.
Another salvo of fire flashed towards them, only a little closer than the first shots had been. Hephaestus steered the gunship even lower until it was barely thirty metres above ground level. The approach was fairly smooth, a slight incline up towards the wide brow of the hill on which the base was built.
‘Firing missiles,’ Damas announced as he pressed the launch stud. Twin streaks of fire soared away either side of the Thunder-hawk, splitting apart as the tiny metriculator in each warhead guided itself to the designated target. A few seconds later, explosions blossomed to the left and right.
‘One target confirmed destroyed,’ Damas announced. ‘Unsure of the other, definite damage inflicted.’
His answer came only a moment later as two bolts of white energy smashed into the nose of the Thunderhawk, causing the windshield to shatter into a thousand shards and the cockpit consoles to explode with multi-coloured sparks. The gunship lurched to starboard as Hephaestus wrestled with the suddenly unresponsive controls. Boreas and the others were slammed into the side of the hull. The wing dipped alarmingly and Boreas could feel them rapidly losing altitude.
‘Brace for crash!’ Hephaestus warned, letting go of the controls and seizing hold of the grab rails set into the hull over the pilot’s chair.
The starboard wing clipped an outcrop of rock first, causing the gunship to yaw violently amidst the shrieking of torn metal and roar of exploding engines. Spinning fast, the Thunderhawk smashed into the lip of a crater and flipped, sending the Space Marines inside tumbling over and over as the hull buckled and flames erupted from the severed fuel line where the wings had sheared off. Four times the gunship rolled before skidding to a stop, its nose buried under tonnes of gouged rock. The Space Marines were left in a pile on the floor, Thumiel lying across Boreas’s chest, Zaul and Nestor entangled with each other just outside the cockpit.
Ignoring the flickering flames, barely hot enough to start peeling the paint on his armour, Boreas pushed Thumiel away and clambered to his feet. He checked on the others and they reported no serious injuries, just minor damage to their armour and a few bruises.
Boreas forced his way through the tangle of buckled spars and crumpled bulkheads to the exit ramp. The hydraulics were a mangled mess spewing fluid over the decking, and he detonated the explosive bolts that held the ramp closed, giving silent thanks to the Machine God that the emergency mechanism had not been broken in the crash. The ramp cartwheeled away from the gunship before coming to a halt in the score marks carved into the rock by the gunship’s crash.
The aft of the Thunderhawk was several metres above the ground, and Boreas had to jump down, his boots throwing up plumes of dust as he landed. He reckoned that they had crashed about a kilometre short of the base’s outskirts, but pulled his bolt pistol free all the same and conducted a sweep of the crater’s perimeter while the others clambered free of the wreckage. They took up defensive positions around the shattered gunship as Boreas considered what to do next.
‘Can you confirm our position?’ he asked, looking back at Hephaestus.
‘Just under a kilometre in that direction,’ the Techmarine answered, pointing towards a part of the crater’s rim that was shallower than the rest. ‘I have notified the Blade of Caliban of the situation and they stand ready for your orders, Brother-Chaplain.’
‘We continue with the attacks, advance by pairs,’ Boreas said. ‘Hephaestus and myself, Zaul and Nestor, Thumiel and Damas. Fifty-metre intervals, Zaul and Nestor cover the right flank, Thumiel and Damas the left. We must endeavour to gain entry to the closest part of the enemy headquarters, and attack them from within.’
‘Understood, Brother Boreas,’ Damas acknowledged, tapping Thumiel on the arm and pointing to the left. The sergeant nodded in reply and they set off with long bounding leaps. Boreas led Hephaestus ahead while the other two covered the ground quickly to the right.
In a few moments, they were at the lip of the crater. Boreas looked cautiously over the top and could plainly see the lights of the Fallen’s lair against the dark sky. He could also see the silhouettes of dozens of figures advancing across the ground towards their position.
‘Attack! Attack!’ Boreas bellowed, rising from his position and raising his crozius above his head. The opportunity for subtle plans and complex strategies had been taken from them the moment the Thunderhawk had crashed; now all that they could rely on was their superior weapons and superhuman abilities. ‘In honour of the Lion, attack!’
Muzzle flashes sparkled in the darkness as the traitors opened fire, but half a kilometre away their opening shots were wide of the mark. Boreas threw himself forward, covering the ground in five metre strides, preferring to close the range rather than fire. To his left, Thumiel paused and fired several rounds from his bolter, and Damas added his covering fire as well. Fifty metres on, Boreas skidded to a halt and levelled his bolt pistol as Zaul and Nestor advanced to his right. Thumbing the fire selector to semi-automatic, he emptied the magazine in five short bursts, the explosive bolts tearing through a knot of enemy about three hundred metres in front of him.
The Interrogator-Chaplain could see the foe much more clearly now. They wore an assortment of heavy enclosing suits, visors and breather masks, their bulky protective clothing slowing their movements, making them clumsy. They carried a mix of autoguns and light machine guns, spewing tracer bullets out of the night. Having reached their next position to Boreas’s right, Zaul and Nestor halted and opened fire, the flickering trails of their rocket-propelled bolts bright in the darkness. Boreas pulled the empty clip from his bolt pistol and tossed it aside, grabbing another from his belt and slamming it home. Glancing to his left he saw Hephaestus on one knee taking aim with his plasma pistol. A searing ball of blue energy erupted from the muzzle, casting flickering shadows as it sped into the chest of a traitor, ripping through his suit and punching out of his back before its energy dissipated.
Bolt shots from ahead and to the left indicated that Zaul and Damas had advanced to their next firing position, and Boreas sprinted forward again, this time snapping off single rounds as he ran. The display imposed over his vision swam with targets, some of them running in his direction, others hunkering down behind boulders and in shallow hollows. Every time the crosshairs glowed red, Boreas squeezed the trigger and another enemy was toppled to the ground a second or two later.
For six hundred metres they advanced in formation, four providing covering fire as the other pair ran forward. Slowly the traitors were driven back before their relentless onslaught. Boreas’s audio sensors relayed the crackle of enemy gunfire, and as the range closed, the shots began to strike home, chipping off slivers of ablative ceramite, burying into the plasteel shell beneath. Discarding his fourth empty magazine, Boreas spared himself a second to assess the battle.
Forty to fifty bodies littered the ground between the Space Marines and the nearest outcropping of the traitor base. A few still moved fitfully as those who had survived their wounds suffered oxygen starvation and froze to death because of their ruptured suits. There were still over twenty enemies, more secure in places of cover, firing sporadic salvoes at the advancing Space Marines. More shapes came piling out of the nearby doors, many cut down instantly by a lethal crossfire from Zaul and Thumiel.
‘Press on to the buildings,’ Boreas ordered, setting off once more, his targeter tracking a traitor as he ran awkwardly around a corner. He snapped off a shot that shattered the man’s thigh and spun him to the ground, his gun spilling slowly from his grasp. ‘Secure entry immediately. We will eliminate any survivors once we have cleansed the interior.’
Damas headed forward, and the enemy concentrated their fire on him, bullets screaming past the sergeant and ricocheting off his armour. He made it to an entry point a hundred metres ahead to Boreas’s left. Pulling a grenade from his belt, he tossed it into the opening and a moment later the explosion billowed out, flinging the ragged corpse of a man at the veteran’s feet. Damas disappeared inside, and a few seconds later, his voice crackled over the comm.
‘Light resistance encountered,’ he reported, the dull crack of his bolter punctuating his words. ‘Entry point secured.’
Boreas waved Hephaestus and Zaul ahead, and turned to give covering fire for Nestor and Thumiel as they ran across in front of him. A bullet struck his helmet, cracking through the lens of his helmet’s right eye and driving into the bionics behind. A sudden surge of pain flooded Boreas’s face and he stumbled backwards and lost his footing. He just managed to balance himself before he fell completely, but went down on one knee. His head throbbed and his vision swam as he tried to steady himself. The augmetic eye sparked again, burning at him from the inside and he gritted his teeth against the pain. He saw vague shapes running towards him and raised his pistol to open fire.
‘Cease fire, Brother-Chaplain!’ he heard Nestor tell him and he relaxed his finger on the trigger. His vision still blurred, he saw the pale outline of the Apothecary’s armour as he loomed close, one arm outstretched to help Boreas to his feet. Pushing himself upright, he leant on Nestor for a moment while his dizzied senses settled. The pain in his face had gone. He could feel the soothing combat drugs injected into his blood by his armour. His thick blood was already clotting on the wound, but he could feel air leaking out of his helmet. He stumbled a few steps and then regained his balance. He could now make out the doorway where the others were holding position, and broke into a loping run, Nestor beside him.
The interior of the building was narrow, only wide enough for them to advance one at a time. Damas held the far end of the corridor, bolt pistol in his hand. Hephaestus stood a little way behind him, astride a pile of suited bodies.
‘Zaul and Thumiel are holding junctions ahead,’ Damas reported. ‘Still encountering only light resistance.’
‘It’s almost deserted,’ Thumiel added. ‘The rooms we have swept were bare.’
‘You think they have evacuated and left behind a rearguard?’ Boreas asked, an uneasy feeling growing in his subconscious.
‘Not just deserted, Brother-Chaplain,’ Thumiel replied. ‘Bare. Completely empty, as if there was nothing in them in the first place.’
‘That makes no sense,’ Nestor said. ‘A facility of this size could house several hundred men.’
‘Perhaps this is a new addition to the complex,’ suggested Hephaestus. ‘Not yet finished. It is at the outer reaches of the station after all.’
‘Hold position,’ Boreas told them, giving himself time to think.
His mind was still reeling from the gunshot to his head and it took him a few moments to collect his thoughts. Pulling the auspex from his belt, he set the scan to maximum range. At full power, it would not provide detailed information but it would confirm or deny his growing suspicions. It took several seconds for the power pack to warm up, and the screen hazed into life. There were a few vague patches of brightness to indicate life forms, but it was a very low signal. The silence from outside attracted his attention and he looked back through the door. Looking left and right, he could see nothing except rapidly cooling bodies. The twenty or so rebels who they had pushed through were nowhere to be seen.
‘The base is all but deserted,’ Boreas announced, shutting down the auspex and hanging it back on his belt. ‘It matters not whether it is because it has been evacuated or because it has yet to become fully operational. We must get to the control chamber as quickly as possible. With the Lion’s blessing we will find answers there.’
‘What of the cleanse?’ asked Damas.
‘There is next to nothing to cleanse!’ snapped Boreas, exasperated by this unlikely turn of events. ‘Make all speed to the central craft, sweep aside any resistance and press through.’
‘Affirmative, Brother-Chaplain,’ Damas replied. ‘Thumiel, Zaul, lead the way.’
As they advanced, Boreas saw just how accurate Thumiel’s brief report had been. There was nothing at all in the corridors they ran through, or the chambers they passed, just bare grey ferrocrete. There were no stains, no litter, no furnishings or anything else to indicate that this place had been lived in. Only the dim glow-globes overhead betrayed the fact that the area they were passing through was even wired in to the main power generators. Sporadic bolter fire from ahead occasionally broke the quiet, and as he continued, Boreas passed the odd vacuum-suited body missing a limb, head or chest. Glancing down the side passages they passed, Boreas realised that many were barely finished: the whole base looked as if it had been flung together in a short space of time and then left.
It was only when the drab grey walls turned to tarnished metal that Boreas realised they had passed into the body of the landing craft at the centre of the web of corridors and rooms. Crude paintings and mottos had been daubed onto the walls. Stopping to examine them, Boreas felt his stomach tighten as he realised that they were poor imitations of the great murals of the central chapel in the Tower of Angels. Poorly rendered black figures striding through gaudy yellow flames looked like the painting of the Cleansing of Aris.
‘This is a mockery!’ declared Zaul, as they gathered in a circular chamber. The ceiling was layered with flaking paint, the peeled picture a clumsy reproduction of the Salvation of the Lion, depicting the Dark Angels primarch in the dark woods of Caliban, surrounded by knights. A figure of pure white was holding out his hand to the half-feral man. Boreas snorted in disgust when he recognised the figure as Luther, made out to be an angelic saviour.
‘This borders on the worst kind of desecration,’ Zaul rasped, raising his bolter and firing into the mural. Splinters of metal and sprays of dust cascaded down onto him, covering his bone-coloured armour in a fine layer of speckled colours. ‘Such barbarity cannot be tolerated!’
‘The Fallen did not paint these,’ Boreas said, gazing up at the scarred scene above. Like the first, it was not simply crude in its technique, but in composition and proportion. Only their actual content bore a vague resemblance to the paintings they imitated. ‘Any one of us, though not artists, could replicate the great chapel more accurately. These were crafted by those who have never seen the originals. They were painted by the Lutherites’ servants, based on descriptions and their masters’ memories.’
