‘Dorium, Lato, situation report,’ he said, signalling to the Incursor sergeants. This was another moment of commitment. Once they were in the strategium the Ultramarines’ position would be locked down. He could imagine Praxa­medes monitoring the boarding action from the bridge, likely considering how he would have conducted the operation differently. Nem­etus was not going to leave any room for accusations of casualness or unpreparedness. Praxa­medes would see he could be diligent as well as resourceful.

  ‘Detecting large movement, assault command,’ reported Lato, who was covering the starboard approaches. ‘Motion data and thermal registers increasing rapidly.’

  ‘Also significant increase in activity to port side,’ added Dorium. ‘Only in the last few seconds. I think this is the counter-attack, brother-lieutenant.’

  ‘I concur. Massed movement, enemy numbering hundreds. No powered armour signatures detected. What are your orders, assault command?’

  Nem­etus felt the gaze of Admonius on him, and the more distant scrutiny of Aeschelus and Praxa­medes.

  Breach or withdraw?

  ‘Incursor squads, collapsing rearguard to our position. Intercessor tactical, operational freedom. Move forward to support Incursors’ withdrawal and then assume perimeter defence.’

  Nem­etus readied his shield and plasma pistol, looking at the Eradicators.

  ‘Breach!’

  The whine of melta rifles became a screaming hiss of flash-vaporised molecules. The outer layer of the strategium portal exploded outwards in a billow of vapour that sparkled from the field of Nem­etus’ storm shield and coated the armour of his companions in a molecule-thick layer of glistening metal. The noise of the meltas was drowned out by the shriek of distorted plasteel and titanium as the door bubbled. The pressure imbalance between the strategium atmosphere and the superheated air in the accessway caused an explosive rupture, the last sheen of metal splaying out from the command bridge, droplets of molten plasteel flying like bullets through the hot air.

  Nem­etus plunged forward, his armour moaning alarms, dotting his visor display with amber and red as he pushed himself through the radiation cloud that the portal had become. The residue of melta energy fogged his auto-senses for half a second, clearing with scatters of grey static to reveal the interior of the strategium.

  He took in the broad sweep of the command platform and dozens of waiting enemies for just a second before warning notes sounded again, even as his eyeline swept to the muzzle of a missile launcher.

  Bringing up his storm shield, he stepped to the right as fire filled the tube and the projectile sped from its housing. The missile hit his shield close to the top, the detonation strong enough to break the arm of a lesser fighter. Even with his enhanced strength, Nem­etus couldn’t stop the shield tipping back, slamming into the grille of his helm mask. The blow staggered him, fogging his vision as blue blurs flowed into view from behind him, his battle-brothers advancing into a welter of enemy fire.

  It was hard to follow what Praxa­medes was saying whilst trying to keep abreast of what was happening aboard the target vessel. Aeschelus’ second-in-command talked about plasma flows and surveyor readings, but the captain was not sure there was anything coherent; at the same time the boarding force had breached into the enemy strategium and from the overlapping vox-traffic it seemed Nem­etus might be wounded or dead.

  ‘Stop!’ Aeschelus held up a hand to interrupt Praxa­medes. He complied immediately while the captain switched to the command channel on the vox. ‘Assault command, this is company command. Respond and report.’

  The vox hissed for several heartbeats, each passing second raising Aeschelus’ concern.

  ‘This is assault command. Enemy are well-prepared in the strategium.’ Nem­etus seemed out of breath. ‘Engagement complicated by need to preserve environment. Confident of success.’

  The link cut off and Aeschelus knew better than to distract the lieutenant any further. He turned his gaze back to his other subordinate.

  ‘It occurs to me that you are telling your story backwards, Prax,’ said the captain, letting calm resonate from every syllable. It was not like Praxa­medes to be so flustered. ‘I trust your observations and calculations are correct. I do not need the theory. Just report the practical conclusions.’

  The lieutenant nodded, took a moment and then directed the captain’s attention to a display among the augur consoles. It showed a time-frozen picture of the engagement with the enemy ships, their courses and exchanges marked out with lines and sigils, nearly five minutes of conflict captured in a single image.

  ‘The entire engagement has been constructed as a lure, brother-captain,’ explained Praxa­medes. ‘If you recall, we found the enemy battle group thanks to a strange lensing effect of their energy signature. We thought it might have been debris from an earlier battle but did not question it further. I believe it was a deliberate signal. During our approach there was ample opportunity for the enemy to take one of two other courses of action. They could have withdrawn earlier into the stellar debris or they could have closed formation and engaged us directly.’

  ‘The speed of our response took them unawares?’

  ‘I don’t think so, brother-captain. At no point in the engagement did the escorts attempt to close with the Ithraca’s Vengeance nor open fire. There’s no evidence that they were even armed vessels, we just assumed they were because of their signatures.’

  ‘False destroyers?’ said Aeschelus. ‘Meant to deter attack, I suppose. But it did not work.’

  ‘No, they are messengers, brother-captain. Like the escorts, I believe the cruiser is also little more than a shell, with virtually no crew. Looking again at the readings, there’s about twenty per cent of the normal life signs for a ship that size. Often that means that the vessel has been infested with warp-denizens, but other than some mutants, Lieutenant Nem­etus has met no evidence of the warp-born. Time-lapse conclusively shows that the reactor shutdown and the loss of the ladening bay doors were almost concurrent. They were an elaborate pretence with a two-fold purpose. Firstly, to encourage us to a boarding action. Secondly, to do so through a known route of attack which the much-diminished crew could guard. Nem­etus wrong-footed their defence.’

  Although he was not sure where the lieutenant was leading him, Aeschelus could understand the logic so far. He looked back at the main display. The fight for the strategium was ongoing.

  ‘I fail to see the cause for alarm,’ he told Praxa­medes. ‘As you say, Nem­etus has nullified the enemy ruse with his insight. He will have control of the enemy command bridge within minutes. That reduced crew have been very slow to respond.’

  ‘Why, brother-captain?’ said Praxa­medes. ‘If we assume they were assembled ready to spring the original ambush, what has delayed them from moving forward to engage the new line of attack?’

  ‘I have a feeling you have a theory, Prax.’

  ‘The entire purpose of the ruse has not been to eliminate the boarding party. By striking for the strategium they are now separated from their exits. It is a literal trap, holding them inside the bridge.’

  ‘A position which they can effectively hold against a far more numerous foe. With targeted bombardment and gunship strikes, we could easily provide support for them.’ Aeschelus again halted Praxa­medes with a hand as another thought occurred. ‘Is that the plan? To lure us in closer and then power up the weapons decks from the perfectly functioning reactor?’

  ‘With gunnery control in our hands, it would be a fairly ineffective attack, brother-captain.’

  ‘True. So what is the point of keeping our warriors on board?’

  ‘To ensnare the Ithraca’s Vengeance. What can’t we do while our boarders are away? What would happen if we came under attack?’

  ‘I see,’ said Aeschelus. ‘You think this is all in place to act like a tether. With our warriors aboard, we cannot move too far away or they will be attacked, and we cannot bring them back while under fire. This is about the Desolator, yes? You have concocted this whole theory on the assumption that there is a battleship out there hunting Imperial vessels.’

  ‘If you’d allow me–’

  ‘No, Praxa­medes, you will listen to me.’

  Aeschelus stalled his comments, countering his rising anger. It was ill-discipline on the part of his lieutenant, but overly emotional behaviour would not resolve the situation. With another look at the ongoing assault, Aeschelus assured himself that Nem­etus was making good progress even if his other lieutenant was not.

  ‘You are proceeding from the assumption that the Desolator exists, then creating an interpretation of the facts to fit that view. That is not the way of the lord pri­march and the teachings you know so well.’ Aeschelus could feel frustration emanating from Praxa­medes, but his second-in-command had gone too far this time. ‘You knew I would not approve of this, so have engaged in this operation without my knowledge. If your history did not present against it, I would think that a gross act of insubordination. I know there is no malice in your intent, only…’

  Aeschelus let his gaze move to Officer Catriolis, who was trying to attract the attention of Praxa­medes.

  ‘Your part in this episode is not to be unremarked, Lerok.’

  ‘Of course, captain. Whatever consequences you deem fit I shall accept.’ She turned and thrust a finger towards one of the augur console screens. ‘Our scans of the stellar debris are detecting a massive spike in energy output.’

  ‘The escorts returning?’ said Praxa­medes.

  Aeschelus looked past his brother Primaris Marine and saw the increasing signature of multiple plasma reactors. Three of them. Not separate ships; they were too close together.

  One massive vessel.

  Engagement complicated by need to preserve environment. Confident of success.

  Nem­etus had not lied to his superior in his assessment, but had perhaps over-simplified. As a fresh eruption of fire from the enemy skulking around the strategium crashed into the Ultramarines, he wondered whether his optimism had been undue. He drew his blade, shaking the last of his dizziness from his senses as he crossed the main floor of the strategium with the Assault Intercessors around him.

  ‘Fists and blades, brothers,’ he called to his companions, seeing Judiciar Admonius racing past, sword swinging out to behead a green-faced mutant using an upturned portable hololith as a barricade. ‘Crush them at close quarters.’

  The strategium was larger than that of the Ithraca’s Vengeance, spread across three levels like an amphitheatre. The main doors opened into the middle level, and the bulk of the enemy fired down from the horseshoe-shaped deck above, creating a crossfire, with bullets, shotgun shells and las-bolts also spraying forth from the defenders holding out beneath the broad main display and the bank of cogitators and projectors in front of it. Nem­etus aimed left and right with his plasma pistol, looking for a target, but the glimpses of the enemies that appeared in his targeting display were too close to the strategium metriculating engines. Even a partial hit risked incinerating vital databanks.

  Nem­etus holstered his plasma pistol and started forward again. Enemy fire smacked into his backpack from the upper floor as he pushed on.

  ‘Audacity, vertical assault!’ the lieutenant snapped, pulling his sword to gesture towards the upper level while he continued forward into the heart of the enemy fire from below.

  The Primaris Marines broke into two combat squads, each heading for the spiral staircases that flanked the upper deck. Trusting them to make short work of the firers above, Nem­etus pressed on with Tenacity and Admonius. The Eradicators came after them, melta rifles slung, combat knives drawn. From behind them came the occasional snap of a well-placed bolter round as a few of the Intercessors picked off targets of opportunity. Had the strategium not been the prize itself, Nem­etus would have had both squads shred and melt everything in sight, but that was not an option.

  Heedless of the enemy’s guns, Judiciar Admonius vaulted over the rail that separated the main deck from the display sub-level, crushing a mutant beneath his bulk as he landed. Nem­etus followed slightly less spectacularly, descending the rampway with three long strides, shield held up to ward away the weakening enemy fusillade. Chainswords shrieking, the assault squad split between the two officers, some jumping directly into the fray while the rest pounded after the lieutenant.

  ‘Mark your targets, no collateral damage!’ Nem­etus barked again as Admonius’ long blade barely missed a bundle of cabling that hung like an Ascension Day garland between two terminals. He kept his words generic, not wanting to rebuke the Judiciar directly. ‘Watch your back-swings and follow-through.’

  Like vermin bolting from the exterminator, handfuls of mutants and untainted crew scurried away from the arrival of the Space Marines, some fleeing towards the recesses behind the display, others throwing themselves between cogitator banks and under hololith tables.

  ‘Assault command, enemy massed attack now one hundred yards from perimeter line,’ warned Sergeant Dorium from outside the strategium.

  ‘Hard defence, give no ground,’ Nem­etus replied. ‘Estimate strength.’

  ‘Fifteen hundred, increasing, brother-lieutenant.’

  How long to interface with the strategic cogitators? How much longer to inload their contents into the datatraps they had brought with them? Ten minutes? An hour?

  ‘Understood. Hold fast.’ Time was of the essence. Nem­etus slowed and then stopped, holding out his shield to signal his closest warriors to halt as well. He turned and looked up, pleased to see the purge of the upper balcony was progressing quickly. ‘Judiciar Admonius and companions will continue the cleanse down here. Ready data terminals for transfer.’

  He pulled away the bulky datatrap maglocked to his thigh and set it on the casing of the closest cogitator. He found the data port without problem and joined it to the trap with a snake of cable from the top of the storage device. The handful of Intercessors with him did the same at other consoles.

  ‘Whatever the drawbacks of the Machine Cult’s dogma, at least they have not changed their terminal connections in eight thousand years!’ laughed Brother Heraclon.

  A flurry of sparks erupted from the terminal next to Nem­etus, unleashed by a pair of mutants that had crept back through the maze of power conduits and data cables strung between the main display and the control terminals. He turned without thought, catching the next volley on his shield, a few bullets glancing from the pauldron of his armour. Two bolt rifles barked from the doorway and a second later the twisted features of each traitor disappeared in a bloody detonation, their decapitated bodies slumping to the metal deck.

  The rev of chainswords was sporadic from above as the Assault Intercessors of Audacity hunted down the last few of the enemy. Nem­etus returned to the datatrap and flipped open the case of the runepad and small status screen in its side. It whirred softly as he activated the transfer, recognising scattered pieces of navigational data as it flowed from the cogitators to the storage machine.

  There had been no sound of combat for several seconds and he waited for the confirmed clear, ready to broadcast to the Ithraca’s Vengeance that the strategium was under control. Before he could do so, the command vox chimed in his helm.

  ‘Assault command, this is ship command.’

  As he recognised the voice of Praxa­medes rather than Shipmaster Oloris, Nem­etus’ body reacted as though threatened – his pulse suddenly increasing again, providing a shot of energy that coursed along his nerves and blood vessels.

  ‘This is assault command. Enemy strategium seized, data transfer underway.’

  ‘Abort the operation, assault command. Return for gunship extraction immediately.’

  The order came like a blow, and it was several seconds before Nem­etus could reply.

  ‘Negative, ship command. Negative. We are in complete control of the objective zone and data transfer is ongoing.’ He needed something more precise and glanced at the progress monitor of the datatrap. ‘Ten minutes, brother, and we will have scoured their databanks clean.’

  ‘You don’t have ten minutes, brother. A traitor battleship is breaking from the stellar debris field. Its lances will be in range within seven minutes. You have to extract now.’

  His hearts were now a hammer, throat tightening as the substance of Praxa­medes’ warning settled. Even so, Nem­etus’ first instinct was to argue. He could not give up on victory just yet.

  ‘Surely you can gain us three more minutes, brother.’

  ‘Plus extraction time. What is your exit status, assault command?’

  Nem­etus considered the question and was forced to admit that seven minutes was barely enough time to get to a suitable extraction point even if the enemy were not in the way.

  ‘Compromised, ship command. Orders received and understood.’

  ‘I have a plan, brother, but you may not like it,’ said Praxa­medes.

  When battle commenced, there was normally a sense of focused energy that came upon the strategium of the Ithraca’s Vengeance and its ­occupants. Not a controlled chaos, because that implied there was ever anything out of the control of the shipmaster, first lieutenant or captain. It was a sudden tension and efficiency, with every Space Marine, deck officer, tech-priest and servitor forming an individual component of a greater whole. Every part operated independently, yet totally interlocked with the others, from fire control to navigation to propulsion to surveyor command. What needed to be done was done. If a decision needed to be made, it was channelled to the appropriate one of the three due authorities, and the results of that consultation carried back down to those that would execute the orders.

  There was no room for doubt, or misunderstanding, or error.

 

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