Battle for The Abyss (7 page)

‘Greetings brothers,’ Cestus began, taking his seat alongside his fellow Ultramarines. ‘You have the gratitude of Guilliman and the eighth Legion for your attendance here this day.’

‘As is well,’ said a bald-headed Astartes with richly tanned skin, ‘but we beseech you to illuminate us as to your plight.’ His voice was deep and powerful. Clad in the panoply of the Thousand Sons Legion, a suit of lacquered dark red and gold power armour, as angular and proud as the monuments of Prospero, he cut an intimidating figure. Antiges had already informed Cestus that the Thousand Son was Fleet Captain Mhotep.

Darkly handsome, bereft of the usual battle scars and functional facial bionics wrought by years of unremitting warfare, this Mhotep had a curious, aloof air. His shining eyes seemed to bore into Cestus’s very soul.

Not all of the assembly were so respectful of his obvious power.

‘The Great Wolf values silence over idle chatter, so that he might heed wise words otherwise lost in needless interrogation,’

snarled Brynngar, the animosity he felt towards the son of Magnus obvious.

It was the Wolf Guard, already pledged to Cestus’s cause, together with Antiges, that had summoned the Legions on Vangelis to this meeting. They had done so with passion and curt request, divulging little of what Cestus needed of them. The Space Wolf had at first railed against the inclusion of the Thousand Sons to be their potential sword-brothers in this deed. The conflicting character of the two Legions did not lend itself to a ready accord, but Cestus had reasoned that they needed every soul, and Mhotep had answered the call. What was more, he also had
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his own ship, a fact that only served to bolster the small fleet he was trying to assemble.

The captain of the Thousand Sons ignored the Space Wolf’s thinly veiled insult and leant back in his seat with a gesture for Cestus to proceed.

The Ultramarines captain told the assembly of his squad’s scheduled extraction from Vangelis by the
Fist of Macragge
, and of the astropathic message that had very nearly wrecked the control hub of Coralis dock. He even confided in them his fears that some unknown enemy had destroyed the ship, but he did not mention his experience in the reactor core. Cestus was still processing what he had seen. Visions were the province of sorcery and to divulge that he, an Ultramarine, had witnessed one would undermine his credibility and arouse suspicion as to his motives.

‘Perhaps this deed was committed by an alien ship. Ork hulks have been fought and crushed by my Legion as far as the Segmentum Solar,’ said a voice like iron. Skraal was a World Eater, an Astartes of the XII Legion, and the third of the invited warriors, including Brynngar.

He wore battered Mark V power armour, rendered in chipped blue and white, the colours of his Legion, clearly eschewing the Corvus pattern suits worn by his battle-brothers. The armour was heavily dented in several places, sporting numerous replacement parts, and the battlefield repair work was obvious.

Formed of basic materials, the plates were held together by spikes, the manifest studs clearly visible on the left pauldron, greaves and gorget. The helmet rested on the table next to the warrior. It was similarly adorned and bore a fearsome aspect of blade and ballistic damage that revealed bare, grey metal beneath.

Skraal’s face was the mirror of his armour, cross-hatching scar tissue a map-work of pain and suffering. A thick vein across his forehead throbbed as he spoke. His bellicose demeanour, coupled with a nervous tic beneath his right eye, gave him the outward appearance of being unhinged.

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The World Eaters were a fearsome Legion. Much like their primarch, Angron, they were a primal force that fought with fury and wrath as their weapons. Each and every warrior was a font of rage and barely checked choler, bloody echoes of the battle-lust of their primarch.

‘That is possible,’ said Cestus, deliberately holding the gruesome warrior’s gaze, despite Skraal’s obvious belligerence. ‘What is certain is that a ship of the Emperor’s Astartes has been attacked by enemies unknown and for some nefarious purpose,’ he continued with building anger and got to his feet. ‘This act cannot go unreckoned!’

‘Then what would you have us do, noble son of Guilliman?’

asked Mhotep, ever the epitome of calm.

Cestus spread his hands across the table, laying his palms flat as he regained his composure. ‘Astropathic decryption revealed a region of space that has been identified by the station’s astro-cartographer. I believe this is where the
Fist of Macragge
met its end. I also believe that since the ship was headed for the Calth system and a rendezvous with my lord Guilliman, it is possible that their attacker was heading in the same direction.’

‘A substantial leap of logic, Ultramarine,’ Mhotep countered, unconvinced by Cestus’s impassioned arguments.

‘I cannot believe that the very ship carrying five companies of my battle-brothers and en route to Calth was destroyed before reaching Vangelis in a random art of xenos contrition,’ Cestus reasoned, his need for urgency fuelling his frustration.

‘How are we to find this slayer vessel, then?’ asked Skraal, thumbing the hilt of his chainaxe, the urge for carnage obvious.

‘If what you say is true, and the distress call you received from the vessel is old, the prey will be far from that location.’

Cestus sighed in agitation. He wished dearly that he could make his brothers see what was in his heart, what he knew in his gut. For now, though, he dared not, at least, not until he could make some sense of what he had seen. There was no time for delay.

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‘Our position on Vangelis bisects the route of the
Fist of Macragge
; the route it would have taken to Calth. In short, it is ahead of the site of its demise. If we make ready at once, it is possible we may be able to catch the enemy’s trail.’

Silent faces regarded him. Even Brynngar did not look certain of the Ultramarine’s reasoning. Cestus realised that it was not logic that guided him on this course, but instinct and inner belief.

The image of Macragge seen for an instant in the flash of the reactor burned fresh in his mind, and he spoke.

‘I do not need your aid in this venture. I have already sent one of my battle-brothers to commandeer a vessel from this very station and I will take it to the site of the
Fist of Macragge
’s last transmission. With luck we can pick up a trail to follow and find whoever is responsible for what happened to it. No, I do not
need
your aid, but I
ask
for it, humbly,’ he added, pushing the seat back and kneeling reverently before his fellow Astartes with head bowed.

Antiges was aghast at first, but then he too left the table and kneeled. The other Ultramarines followed his lead, and soon all six of Guilliman’s sons were genuflecting before the rest of the council.

‘The sons of Russ do not refuse an honour debt,’ said Brynngar, getting to his feet and laying Felltooth upon the table. ‘I will join you in this endeavour.’

Skraal stood next and set his chainaxe with the Space Wolf s rune blade.

‘The fury of the World Eaters is at your side.’

‘What say you, son of Magnus?’ Brynngar growled, his savage gaze falling upon Mhotep.

For a moment, the Thousand Son sat in calm reflection, considering his answer. He laid his ornate scimitar with the other weapons, its gilded blade humming with power as he unsheathed it.

‘My ship and I are at your disposal, Ultramarine.’

‘Bah! This council’s greatest opponent; I should like to know why,’ said Brynngar.

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Mhotep smirked with amusement at the Space Wolf’s rancour, but refused to be baited.

‘You all know of the events at Nikaea concerning my primarch and Legion, and the sanctions placed upon us that day,’ the Thousand Son said plainly. ‘I am keen to foster improved relations with my fellow Legions and where better to start than the vaunted sons of Roboute Guilliman.’ Mhotep nodded respectful-ly at the final remark, a deliberately weak attempt to cover the slight.

Cestus cared little for the discord between the two Astartes and arose, Antiges following his example.

‘You do me great service this day,’ Cestus said with genuine humility. ‘We meet at Coralis dock in one hour.’

THE SATURNINE FLEET had existed before the Great Crusade, carving out a miniature empire among the rings of Saturn. Its strength and longevity had been based on a tradition of navigational skill, essential to negotiate the infinitely complex puzzle of the rings. Its rolls of honour noted the first time it had encountered the warships of the fledgling Imperium. Its admirals saw a brother empire, based on the demonstration of power and not just empty words or fanaticism, and signed a treaty with the Emperor that still held pride of place in the Admiralty Spire on Enceladus. Its ships had accompanied the Great Crusade to all corners of the galaxy, but their spiritual home had always been in the rings, the endless circle of Saturn boiling above them.

The
Wrathful
was a fine ship, Cestus admitted to himself as he stood upon the bridge alongside Antiges. It was old and lavish, panelled and decorated with the heritage of a naval aristocracy that pre-dated the Imperial Army and its fleets. Its bridge looked like it had been lifted from a naval academy on Enceladus, all dark wood map tables and glass-fronted bookcases, with only the occasional pict screen or command console to break the illusion. A ring of nine viewscreens was mounted on the ceiling, where they could be lowered to provide an all-angles view of what was happening outside the ship. The command crew were
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in the dark blue brocaded uniforms of the Saturnine Fleet, all starch and good breeding.

In commandeering this vessel, Saphrax and his battle-brothers had performed their task well.

‘Rear admiral,’ said Cestus as he approached the captain’s post, a grand throne surrounded by racks of charts.

The throne rotated to reveal Rear Admiral Kaminska. Cestus could almost see the proud heritage etched upon her face: strong jaw, fine neck, high cheekbones, with a slight curl to the lip that suggested acute arrogance.

‘Captain Cestus, it is an honour to serve the Emperor’s Astartes,’ she responded coolly. Saphrax had described the admiral’s reaction to the acquisition of her ship to Cestus as he and the rest of the Ultramarine honour guard had boarded. It was prickly and vociferous.

She gave a near imperceptible nod by way of acknowledgement. The gesture was all but lost in the high collar of her uniform and the thick, furred mantle that hung around her shoulders. Admiral Kaminska was a stern-faced matriarch. A monocle over her left eye partly obscured a savage scar that cracked that side of her face. The monocle’s sweeping chain was set with tiny skulls and pinned to the right breast of her jacket. She carried a control wand at her waist, secured by a loop of leather, and a naval pistol sat snugly in a holster at her hip. Gloved hands bore a lightning flash emblem made from metal; they were tense and gripped the supports of her command throne tightly.

‘The
Wrathful
is an impressive ship,’ said Cestus, attempting to dispel the fraught atmosphere. ‘I am glad you could respond to our summons.’

‘Indeed it is, Lord Astartes,’ Kaminska said in clipped tones. ‘It would be a great pity to sacrifice it upon the altar of futile vengeance. As for your summons,’ she added, face pinching tight with anger, ‘it was hardly that.’

Cestus held his tongue. As an Astartes fleet commander, it was within the remit of his authority to take command of the ship.

For now, he decided he would allow the admiral some leeway.

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He was sketching a suitable reproach in his mind, when Kaminska continued.

‘Captain Vorlov of the
Boundless
has also requested to accompany us, although you’ll find he is of a more placid demeanour.’

Cestus had heard of the vessel, and of Captain Vorlov. It was a warhorse ship of the fleet, its combat scars too numerous to count. Its star was in decline, as better, more powerful ships made their presence felt in the greater galaxy. Cestus suspected that the
Boundless
had been docked at Vangelis for some time, its role in the Great Crusade somewhat diminished, and that Captain Vorlov did not wish to submit to atrophy just yet.

‘Very well,’ said Cestus, deciding against rebuking the admiral.

He had, after all, taken her ship for a mission of dubious reasoning. Her attitude, he told himself, was to be expected.

‘You have your heading, admiral. There is little time to lose.’

‘The
Wrathful
is the fastest vessel in the Segmentum Solar. If your enemy is out there in the void then we will catch him,’ Kaminska assured him, and whirled her command throne back around to her instrument panels.

ADMIRAL KAMINSKA BRISTLED furiously as the Astartes departed the bridge. She had come to Vangelis to effect repairs and take on supplies and replacement crew. She had been looking forward to a week or so of recuperation. Yet, at the word of the Emperor’s Angels, lord regents of the galaxy it seemed, she and her ship were pressed back into service with barely a moment’s notice.

‘By the authority of the Emperor of Mankind’, those words were an unbendable edict that Kaminska could not refuse. It was not that she resented serving – she was a dutiful soldier of the Imperium who had distinguished herself on numerous occasions for its greater glory – no, she took umbrage at the fact that this particular mission was fostered on hunches and, as far as she could tell, whimsy. It did not sit well with Kaminska, not at all.

‘Lord admiral, the escort squadron is in position,’ said Helmsmistress Athena Venkmyer. Her long hair was tied up se-51

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