Like the true-scarabs that the canoptek constructs had been modelled upon, the enhanced human warriors descended upon Zozar’s collapsed body. Rather than burrowing at dead flesh with mandibles, they hewed at the living metal of his form with rapacious blows of gleaming blades. The skorpekh lord tried to rise, hardening his cortical shield against their assault, arms assisting his remaining two legs in the attempt.

  It was impossible to defend against every attack. A blow hammered at the back of Zozar’s head, splitting it to the neck. With growing detachment, he watched part of his skull drop down his torso and clang to the floor.

  The greater cortical network was awash with convulsive signals. There were no protocols, no automated translocation programs to remove heavily damaged vessels from the battle. His retrieval broadcast went unanswered, drifting out into the empty void of space.

  He was utterly alone.

  Zozar closed off his sensors, cocooning himself against the continued blows raining down upon the outer shell of his being. It was a body; one he had modified continually in his quest for efficient lethality. It mattered even less now that it would not be replaced. Death was imminent.

  Death.

  The cessation of life. His mission had been to serve death, an uncompromising killer in pursuit of an orderly universe without the anarchy of sentience.

  He had no regrets. It was too late for that.

  Power supply was almost diminished, expended trying to repair wounds that could not be healed, warding off blades out of instinct, removed from any conscious desire to remain alive. His cortical field retreated to the core nexus, a particle-cluster in the heart of the engine he had created for killing.

  In absence of all other stimuli, a singular image imposed itself upon the last vestiges of awareness. A face, beautiful, lit by the red sun of Zozar’s world. It was rife with lesions and scabs, balding and radiation-burnt, but it was still smiling.

  She was gone and his rage had tried to extinguish all life to mask the pain. He had not succeeded and in the last instant of cogitation Zozar admitted his failure.

  Yes, life was persistent.

  Aeschelus and a cluster of his warriors watched the real time vid-feed from the palaces as the massive installation powered out of its ordained orbit. Heat and light flared from the lower levels as they skimmed the outer atmosphere. Ahead, the necron bulk hauler hung like a black obelisk against the distant stars, the jade engine-gleam of its transports shining across bizarrely faceted sides.

  The palaces’ guns opened fire, streaming plasma and shells into the alien vessel. Amid the fury of the Imperial commander’s fusillade the glow of atmospheric entry grew bright. Fronds of white and yellow passed across the vid-feed, briefly eclipsing the blue of plasma bolts and dark red of high explosive detonations.

  ‘In the Emperor’s name, they shall be remembered,’ Aeschelus intoned solemnly, watching as a green crack of light spread along the length of the alien obelisk. Secondary fractures snaked outwards as the palaces continued their bombardment.

  The view was almost lost as the flare of atmospheric friction grew brighter and brighter, but in the final few seconds before the feed died, Aeschelus saw the mysterious alien edifice split, a shard larger than a starship falling away from its side, the break blazing with emerald sparks.

  The screen turned to static even as Aeschelus felt a lifting of the burden that had weighed upon his thoughts for many days. He heard a laugh from one of the Primaris Marines behind him, for no particular reason yet infectious all the same. Aeschelus turned and smiled at his battle-brothers, giving release to the relief he felt.

  He thought of the massive enemy fleet still coming towards the planet but met the recollection without fear. In the other direction, the Ithraca’s Vengeance had passed out of range, accelerating towards the periphery.

  ‘May the Emperor speed you onwards, Prax,’ he whispered. ‘By our deaths we honour the Lord on the Throne, but by your life you protect His servants.’

  There was no way to outrun the xenos scum, Praxa­medes concluded with reluctance. Admitting that they were not going to turn back meant he faced a decision. He had hoped when the sensors had picked up the destruction of the necron heavy hauling ship that the escorts would be afflicted in some way. They had not. With single-minded persistence they continued to close on the Ithraca’s Vengeance despite running the strike cruiser’s engines at one hundred and twenty per cent capacity. Very soon the plasma drives would explode under the pressure.

  He viewed the system charts, looking for inspiration, wishing he could have some lateral leap of thinking like Aeschelus or Nem­etus. Something like using a gravity well to accelerate, or a way to slow down the necron attackers.

  A sudden blurting from the navigational servitors drew his eye. Officer Kaloses translated their distress.

  ‘Lieutenant commander, we have a spatial obstruction four thousand miles ahead.’

  It was a stretch of asteroids; hundreds of thousands of ice and rock chunks ranging from dust to behemoths larger than the strike cruiser. With the augurs running on minimal power, they had not been seen further out.

  ‘Suggest course change to heading oh-forty-two, declination seven, lieutenant commander,’ said Oloris. ‘We will need to reduce speed for thruster manoeuvring.’

  Praxa­medes said nothing and turned to the display controls. He brought up the local charts again and superimposed the augur readings, such as they were. The asteroid field was a big one, tens of thousands of cubic miles. The theory of void warfare held that smaller craft like the pursuing escorts were better at navigating such phenomena. The Ithraca’s Vengeance would have to slow to give the helms officer any chance of avoiding the largest asteroids with enough time to steer round them.

  He thought back to what Nem­etus had said about his decision to activate the warp drive.

  ‘There was no time for reason, brother. Had I waited even another second we might never have broken through the barrier.’

  ‘The situation required action.’

  ‘We were adrift in the warp. There was nothing to lose. There was no gamble.’

  ‘Lieutenant commander?’ prompted Oloris.

  They were two thousand miles from the edge of the field.

  ‘Power engines to nominal,’ Praxa­medes commanded helm control. ‘Navigational fields active. Power to gunnery.’

  The deck officers relayed his commands, working quickly at their terminals, their affirmatives sounding back in the following half a minute. Quiet descended – only the faint murmur of servitors, clack of tele­metric gauges and clicking metriculators could be heard. It was broken by Shipmaster Oloris.

  ‘Helm orders, lieutenant commander?’

  ‘Ahead steady,’ Praxa­medes replied calmly.

  He saw disbelief in Oloris’ eyes. ‘Ahead steady?’ It was a rare loss of discipline from the veteran, one that earned him a barked reprimand from Exelloria.

  ‘Attend to your orders, shipmaster, or recuse yourself from your role.’ The Chaplain stomped across the strategium while Oloris saluted and passed the order to helm. Exelloria continued on the vox-link, unheard by the deck crew and astropaths. ‘It seems that we are plunging straight into a volatile celestial phenomenon with enemy contacts at our starboard quarter. Is that your intent, brother?’

  ‘The marshes of Cothyria, Brother-Chaplain,’ replied Praxa­medes. He switched to vocal address so that the others could hear again. ‘I recall the lord pri­march’s actions in the marshes of Cothyria, as related in the Book of Macragge.’

  ‘I think this is poor timing for a history lesson, lieutenant,’ rasped one of the astropaths.

  ‘In the days before he took up the rulership of Macragge, Roboute Guilliman led a patrol along the Cothyr ridge, at the border with rival Illyria,’ Praxa­medes continued, paying the interruption no heed. He watched the asteroids getting closer. Navigational warnings flickered amber across the main display. ‘He was following an Illyrian raiding column that had crossed over and razed several settlements. The lord pri­march was only meant to locate them but as a heavy rain fell, he stumbled upon the Illyrians in the downpour.’

  ‘Entering navigational obstacle,’ reported the navigation officer.

  Alarms sounded briefly, accompanied by warning red runes. There was muttering from several directions and disquieted gasps.

  ‘Silence!’ bellowed Exelloria. ‘Attend to your tasks! I hope you are right, brother,’ he continued across the command channel.

  Praxa­medes switched the view to the vid-link from the prow, a realtime feed of the debris ahead. Red flares and streaks showed where the low-power navigational shields shunted aside the smaller asteroids. He felt a moment of release. It was too late to change course or power down. The instant of commitment had passed, but this time he had acted.

  ‘The Illyrians were a five-hundred-strong cavalry company, far outmatching even the lord pri­march,’ he continued, turning to face the crew. ‘As their camp roused at the intruders, revered Guilliman realised he could not outrun them, nor outfight them.’

  Many of the crew were looking at the display, not him. Some shared worried glances, others were whispering among themselves. A glance at Exelloria showed that the Chaplain had also become fixed on the main display, the crew’s transgressions overlooked. Praxa­medes strode across to the gunnery terminals and made some adjustments, powering down most of the portside batteries to bolster the energy distribution to the starboard side and dorsal cannon.

  ‘Rather than trying to retreat back towards Macragge Civitas, he headed further into Illyrian territory. He knew that the foothills quickly gave way to a river delta marsh, much swelled by the recent rains.’

  The main screen was almost full scarlet as the cruiser continued to bull its way through the chunks of rock and ice, the crackle of the fields now audible within the strategium, accompanied by the occasional clang and crunch of smaller pieces hitting the hull.

  ‘The Illyrians pressed on after him, confident of overwhelming the much fewer enemy, ignorant of the super-warrior that led them. But it was not the lord pri­march’s physique and skill that won that day but his intellect. The Illyrians’ horses were soon bogged down by the marsh, the riders stranded, and from out of the rain the lord pri­march counter-attacked. No more mobile than their foes, out of their element, the Illyrians were butchered. Only a third of them survived to flee back to their treacherous king.’

  ‘He changed the battlefield to one that equalised both sides,’ said Exelloria, finally turning from the large screen.

  ‘He gave up some of his advantage to negate an even bigger advantage of the enemy.’ Praxa­medes lifted a hand to the gunnery officer. ‘Pay attention, all of you. Prepare for split fire. Helm. Ready for new heading, hard turn to starboard.’

  The lieutenant watched the necron ships slowing as they approached the asteroids. He thought about the rest of the account of Cothyria marsh. The part he had chosen to keep to himself. The Illyrians had been defeated, but Guilliman also lost half his patrol in the battle. The lord pri­march admitted in his reflections that had the enemy dismounted before pursuing, his plan would have failed.

  Like the young pri­march and Nem­etus, Praxa­medes had come to a point where he had nothing to lose. Preservation of future opportunity was no longer a reasonable objective.

  They either escaped or they did not. There would be no second chances.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-4: Slowing. Enemy has entered celestial debris.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-1: Slowing. Enemy has made a mistake.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-4: Desperation.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-3: Slowing. Detecting high-density obstacle field.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-4: Enemy course unchanged. Enemy sustaining damage from impacts.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-1: Enemy is stupid. Partial acceleration. Close range for weapons fire.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-3: Enemy is clearing path for us. Targeting weapons at engines.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-4: Targeting weapons at engines.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-1: Energy pulse – enemy flank thrusters activating.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-3: Enemy taking more damage, turning into debris field.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-4: Weapons have range. Target locked.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-1: Enemy arresting speed, incoming targeting lock.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-4: Enemy weapons signature increasing.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-1: Enemy turn accelerating rapidly. Massed weapons coming to bear.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-3: Enemy is preparing to open fire. We are compromised.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-1: Disloyalty will not be tolerated! Formation protocols active. Pursuit command protocol override.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-3: Evasive manoeuvres required.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-4: Evasive manoeuvres required.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-1: Evasive manoeuvres required.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-3: Insufficient clear space. Evasion compromised.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-4: Target lock. Cannot manoeuvre to evade.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-1: Break formation.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-3: Insufficient room to bre– Target firing.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-1: Aversion protocols inactive. Pursuit command active.

  Barque, Star of Natarun-4: Energy weapons dischar–

  Barque, Star of Natarun-1: Barque 4 lost. Incomin–

  Barque, Star of Natarun-3: Protocol direction to engage. Opening fire. Target–

  Fire-dampening fog filled the strategium, forcing the deck officers to don their rebreather masks and anti-flare goggles. Still encased in their armour, Praxa­medes and Exelloria herded the astropaths into the sanctuary of the anterium, their charges choking and spluttering until the door sealed behind them.

  ‘Warp engines on line,’ Praxa­medes commanded, activating the console within the secondary chamber. ‘To my terminal. Activate Geller fields.’

  ‘Affirmative, lieutenant commander,’ Oloris replied over the intervox.

  ‘Now?’ coughed Fedualis.

  ‘We are in an asteroid field!’ moaned one of his order from the station.

  ‘Navigator, are you ready for translation?’ Praxa­medes asked, ignoring the complaints. He turned his attention to the green-clad psykers. ‘I need you to broadcast now. Together. We cannot risk the soul-dampening returning. This is our chance.’

  Fedualis silenced any more objections with a raised hand.

  ‘Together, brethren and sistren,’ he said, holding out his hands. With varying degrees of reluctance, the astropaths joined in a circle, regarding each other with empty eyes. Praxa­medes’ armour reported a several-degrees drop in the chamber temperature. Moisture from the astropaths’ laboured breaths and the anti-fire gas condensed on the terminal plasteel.

  ‘Ready. Awaiting the command, lieutenant,’ Kosa told him from the dorsal pilaster.

  ‘Helm control to Navigator’s tower,’ Praxa­medes ordered. The routine settled him, allowing him to push aside the massive stakes at play and the distinct possibility that they would all die within the next few minutes. That was beyond his control.

  The air around the astropaths was getting colder still, puffs of vapour forming briefly. He saw their lips moving, silently voicing words together, the regular transmit-identifiers that preceded all broadcasts. Fedualis was shaking, as were two of the others. Frost started forming on their eyelashes.

  ‘Now, lieutenant,’ croaked Fedualis, barely heard.

  Praxa­medes wished he had something poignant to say, some brief exhortation to mark the moment. He voiced the only thought that came to him.

  ‘For the Emperor and the pri­march! Courage and honour!’

  He touched the runes that activated the warp drive. A few seconds later, reality disappeared.

  EPILOGUE

  The night sky bore witness to the fiery demise of the orbital palaces. True to his pledge, the Imperial commander and his closest advisors had remained on the station during its destruction, their luxurious homes becoming a martyr’s pyre.

  The last of the other inhabitants disembarked from a newly arrived orbital elevator carriage. Orestean officers guided the non-combatants to the central buildings while Nem­etus issued a stream of orders to the arriving troopers and specialists. Many were having difficulty focusing, the necron soul-dampening having grown stronger again as the second alien fleet approached. The high spirits Aeschelus had enjoyed after the demise of the obelisk had passed.

  Scanning the crowd, the captain saw the distinctive robes of a Sister-Chatelain among them. He eased his way through the throng, people parting before him as water breaks before a ship’s prow, until he came upon Sister Aures.

  ‘You did not follow your appointed master into death?’ He turned so that the Sister could precede him out of the press of people along the path he had forged.

  ‘It is not my place to choose martyrdom, and I did nothing worthy of the penance.’

  ‘The xenos fleet is less than twelve thousand miles from their teleportation range. They will be upon us in minutes. Your survival is short-lived.’

  ‘And yet duty demands I am here,’ said Aures. ‘As are you, Captain Aeschelus of the Ultramarines. Why did you not leave on your ship?’

  ‘Every second of delay to the departure put the escape at risk.’

  ‘Do you truly believe Lieutenant Praxa­medes managed to break warp?’

  ‘I have no idea, Sister,’ Aeschelus admitted. ‘They could be dead, or adrift in the becalmed wilderness of the warp, lost forever. We will not know before we die.’

 

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