[Space Marine Battles 01] - Rynn's World Read online

  Grimm met his captain halfway back to the Land Raider.

  “You told them of the Waaagh, my lord?”

  “Briefly,” said Alvez. “There was no time to elaborate. Word has just come through from Arx Tyrannus, Huron. The ork ships are already here.”

  “In-system?” asked Grimm. “It cannot be!”

  “It is.”

  Alvez clambered up the side of the Land Raider and lowered himself down into his cupola again. Once Grimm had done the same, and the vehicle began to move off in the direction of the Cassar, Alvez raised his voice over the growl of the Land Raider’s engine. “Be ready, sergeant. The killing will soon begin.”

  TWELVE

  The Blockade, Rynn’s World Local Space

  “Bring us around. Get me a forward firing solution. I want our prow batteries locked onto that destroyer before she fires again!”

  Ceval Ranparre sat atop his massive command throne, on a dais that extended to the back wall of the ship’s bridge. In the work-pits below him, his subordinates were frantic, a thousand voices talking at once, half of them in Binary, the machine-language of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

  Another massive impact shook the ship, the third such blow in a minute, scattering charts and data modules all over the metal decking. Ranparre felt the artificial gravity flicker for the briefest instant, and knew from long experience that his battle-barge, The Sabre of Scaurus, must have been hit amidships, close to where the critical systems were located. The ship’s shielding was heaviest there, but it couldn’t take impacts like that for long. The void shields would give out soon. The Astartes and Imperial Naval ships were outnumbered a hundred to one, and more of the ugly, scrappy ork vessels were bleeding into the system every minute the battle raged on.

  We weren’t ready, thought Ranparre. The line was still forming. Of all the blasted xenos in the galaxy, only orks would try a jump as psychotic and self-destructive as this.

  He had seen the worst effects of breaching real space so close to the planet already. At the beginning of the engagement, a number of neatly severed prows had tumbled past him, bleeding breathable atmosphere and lifeless alien bodies into the freezing void. Some of them would impact on the planet with the all the explosive power of a long-range, high-yield missile. There was nothing Ranparre and his crews could do about that. Blasting those wrecks to pieces would only turn one deadly mass into many. Besides, every last bit of offensive firepower at their command was needed to fight off the greater threat of the manned alien vessels that were trying to fight their way through. It was already clear to him that the blockade was pathetically inadequate. Such numbers!

  Ranparre had several centuries of space battle experience behind him. Under his command, the ships of the Crimson Fists had saved over a dozen worlds without the need to drop any troops on the surface. Rebels, traitors, heretics, xenos, even warp-filth… Ranparre had beaten all kinds of enemy craft in high-orbital and deep-space combat. But he had never, in all his unnaturally long life, faced the kind of numbers that the Arch-Arsonist of Charadon was throwing at the planet now.

  Even in the gaping black vastness of space, there seemed no quarter that was not under assault, filled with ork craft scything inwards on angry trails of glowing plasma.

  “Order the Aurora and the Verde to close formation with us. I want the Aurora on our left flank, the Verde on our right. All forward batteries to target the command bridge of their flagship. If the beast Snagrod is aboard that vessel, we may still have a chance to end all this.”

  From a row of stations sunk into the metal floor on the bridge’s right, one of the weapons coordinators called out, “I have your forward firing solution, my lord. Permission to fire forward lances?”

  “Hold,” said Ranparre. “We fire together with the strike cruisers. If that monstrosity has shields, we must hope to overload them at the very least.”

  Seconds later, a comms-station operator on the left reported that the Aurora and the Verde had plotted their firing solutions, and were awaiting Ranparre’s order to engage.

  “Give the signal,” barked Ranparre. “All forward batteries… open fire!”

  The central display screens in front of him crackled with blinding white energy as the massive weapons loosed their fury. Thick spears of light burned across ten thousand kilometres. A dozen small ork fighters and support craft caught between the two closing flagships were obliterated, simply wiped from existence. Then the lances stuck the ork flagship full in its gargantuan beastlike face.

  “Direct hit, all batteries,” the weapons coordinator reported.

  We could hardly miss, thought Ranparre. Just how big is that monster?

  “Damage assessment on enemy vessel,” he demanded.

  “Unclear, my lord,” replied another voice from the pit on the right. “Our forward auspex array has been badly damaged. Operating at forty per cent efficiency. Preliminary scans suggest enemy shielding absorbed most of the impact. Enemy still advancing with full offensive capabilities.”

  “How long till another charge builds up?” Ranparre demanded. “I need our forward guns online again now!”

  “Does my lord wish to issue a call for further support?” asked one of the comms-operators. “The battle-barge Tigurius is only twenty thousand kilometres away. Strike cruisers Hewson and Maqueda are six and nine thousand kilometres away respectively.”

  Ranparre scanned the tactical displays in front of him, focusing on those that showed the situation to port and starboard. What he saw was utter chaos. The planetary blockade was fracturing in countless places as the ork vessels ploughed in amongst the Imperial ships on a hundred different assault vectors at once. Between the battle line and the planet, space was glittering with ship debris and bright ordnance impacts.

  He found the Tigurius quickly enough by its ident-tag. She was leaking atmosphere from her port side, listing to starboard, harried by a swarm of ork assault ships, all far smaller than she was. The ork craft buzzed around her like angry wasps, peppering her sides with explosive slugs and energy weapons. She was in no position to lend The Sabre of Scaurus any kind of assistance.

  His eyes picked out the tags CF-166 and CF-149—the Hewson and the Maqueda. Both were engaged in heavy fighting. Even as he watched, the Maqueda’s hull started to rupture. Desperate to take some of the foe down with him, her captain, Darrus Gramedo, must have ordered her brought around and onto a full forward ramming course. Plasma streamed from her rear thrusters, and she ploughed headlong into the side of an ork heavy cruiser that had been launching relentless port broadsides at her from her two-o’clock position.

  As Ranparre watched, the Maqueda’s sharp prow bit deep into the side of the ork ship. The hulls merged violently. There was a ripple of bright flashes, then, as one, the ships imploded, collapsing in on themselves, every last light onboard winking out.

  “We’ve just lost the Maqueda,” said a voice from one of the pits.

  Ranparre turned his attention to the Hewson and saw that she, at least, was doing better. She rolled to her right and launched a blistering broadside just as a monstrous ork craft attempted to pass by overhead. The enemy’s iron belly was punctured in a hundred places, shedding thick pieces of bulkhead into space. Critical systems overloaded. An explosive chain reaction started, ripping the entire alien craft apart seconds later. As the space around the dying ship filled with spinning fragments, the captain of the Hewson ordered her crew to swing about for a portside volley against three ork light cruisers that had been flying in support.

  For all these worthy kills, Ranparre saw too many gaps where the ork ships were getting through. The xenos were just too numerous to stop, and the biggest of all their ships was closing on his own, second by second, kilometre by kilometre. The Sabre of Scaurus would not have the advantage of range and accuracy for much longer.

  “Prow batteries at maximum charge in eighty-three seconds, my lord,” reported the senior weapons coordinator.

  “Someone get me the captain of the Hews
on,” barked Ranparre. “And get me a direct link to Chapter Master Kantor at once.”

  “As you command, lord,” said the closest of the comms-operators.

  Dorn help us, thought Ranparre as he continued to process the nightmare on his tactical screens.

  Dorn help us, we are lost.

  THIRTEEN

  The Upper Rynnhouse, New Rynn City

  “It must be a mistake,” Baron Etrando called out. “An auspex glitch, surely. Martial law? It’s… it’s unheard of. Preposterous!”

  Maia could barely hear him over the din the rest of the Upper Rynnhouse was making. The Speaker had called repeatedly for order, but the place was in an uproar. There were one hundred and eighteen nobles in the Upper Rynnhouse, twenty-six of whom were members of her cabinet, and every last one seemed intent on expressing his or her horror or denial at the very same moment.

  Jidan Etrando was only three seats away from Maia. Any further and his words would have merged completely with the wall of noise.

  “There is no mistake,” she called back. The lunar tracking stations on Dantienne and Syphos both confirmed it before they went dead. The entire orbital defence grid is on combat standing. “They are coming. There is no doubt of that.”

  “Why here?” asked a young minister in the row behind her. “Why now?”

  Maia half turned and saw that it was Bulo Dacera, Under-Secretary for Mining and Ore Processing.

  “They are aliens, Bulo. We are not supposed to understand them. The fleet will stop them before they can land.”

  Those close enough to hear her went quiet now, and the silence spread until the noise in the plush, vaulted chamber died off to the level of a murmur.

  The Speaker, whose ancient body was as much machine as man and was permanently hardwired into the data systems that served the Upper Rynnhouse, could at last be heard properly. “In the name of the Emperor,” he blustered, “you will remember yourselves. All matters, even such as this, must be handled with the decorum this noble establishment demands.” He turned his sensor-studded head towards Maia.

  She felt his electronic eyes lock onto her as he added, “If the governor wishes to take the floor, she will step to the Lectern of the aquila.”

  “I will take the floor,” said Maia formally, and rose from her bench. Her steps were measured, presenting a confidence she did not really feel. The news of the Waaagh had rocked her. In her mother’s time, no conflict greater than a prison breakout had ever occurred. The sharp-tongued, cold-hearted female politico from whose womb Maia had sprung had taught her many, many things, most of them the hard way. But she had not prepared Maia for the possibility of an alien invasion that threatened the lives of every man, woman and child on the planet.

  Maia was clinging desperately to her faith, but a voice at the back of her mind persisted in asking how the Emperor could let this happen to people who loved and honoured him so?

  She stopped behind the lectern and cleared her throat, then looked out at the nobles watching her expectantly on the benches to either side of the chamber.

  They are as terrified as I am, she thought. More so, perhaps. I wonder how many believe this is punishment for their sins?

  There had already been an incident with local law enforcement. Eighteen ministers had attempted to secure illegal outward passage on a fast ship. Had Captain Alvez not grounded all non-military craft already, Maia suspected she would be speaking to an empty room.

  She told herself that she would not have fled. Situations like this were what the Crimson Fists trained for, what they excelled at. To turn back the enemies of man—it was the reason they existed at all. Pedro Kantor would not let her down.

  For a moment, she turned her eyes heavenwards, staring up at the underside of the exquisite diamond dome. Through its panels, the sky was deep blue, the sibling suns already halfway towards the western horizon where the waters of the Medean would swallow them for the night. Painted on the inner surface of the largest and most central of the diamond panels was an image of the Emperor, looking down on the assembly with a face she had always thought stern but loving, dark locks framing his golden skin.

  Lend me strength, she silently begged him.

  “Fellow members of the house,” she began, her voice amplified by the vox-mic concealed in the eagle’s head that decorated the lectern, “We face something each of us has only ever read about in the archives. No one thought the greenskins foolish enough to return here. Now they have, and I understand your fears. But I do not share them.” This, of course, was something of a lie. “We are leaders,” she continued, “and we must act as such. It is to us that the common man will look for his example. The Crimson Fists are here in force. Surely there is no greater source of comfort than that.”

  On a bench to her left, Eduardo Corda looked as if he might disagree. His hair was still a little damp.

  The other faces turned towards her were pale and beaded with cold sweat. Regardless of her words, they still seemed terrified. Only Viscount Isopho looked composed. That shouldn’t have surprised her. As a young man, he had bucked family tradition to remain in the Rynnsguard for a commission twice as long as any other noble, and had only left due to his father’s passing. By all accounts, he had been a good officer, and the Rynnsguard still afforded him a certain respect they did not afford others.

  I should keep Nilo close, Maia thought. His perspective might be useful if…

  “The Rynnsguard, too,” she went on, “assure me that they will protect us. Additional forces are even now being sent from Targis Fields. Once they arrive, they will help to secure the city. The people in the fringe settlements are being brought into the protection of the outer wall even as we speak. We do not expect a protracted siege, if indeed the orks get through at all. Nevertheless, emergency provisions are being shipped in by sea and road, and all goods for export have been recalled from the spaceport.”

  Presented with these facts, the ministers seemed to calm a little, their minds latching on to details rather than vision of a hideous alien scourge undoing all they held dear. One woman, Countess Maragretto, whimpered from the back row on the right at mention of a siege, but she managed to stifle it quickly.

  “Trust in our protectors,” Maia told them. “They have taken an oath to defend this planet, and so they shall. Trust, too, in the Civitas enforcers and, by extension, the Adeptus Arbites that supervise them. They too have sworn a solemn oath before the Emperor and will not allow our society to descend into panic and self-destruction. A curfew is being put into effect to facilitate proper control. And trust, above all others save the Emperor himself, the mighty Space Marines of the Crimson Fists. Therein lies our surest hope. They will end the nightmare. Already, they are about it, and my own faith in them is absolute. Let your faith be as mine, and it will be rewarded.”

  She looked out at her peers, reaching for more words that would gird them, but there was nothing more to say for now. They would simply have to watch and wait while others took the fight to the foe.

  “I now offer the floor up to any member who wishes to speak.”

  She stepped out from behind the lectern and, with the same measured grace, returned to her bench.

  When she was seated, the Speaker rasped, “Raise your hand, you who wish to address this noble House.”

  Immediately, a hundred arms were thrust into the air, and the chamber exploded once again into the din of voices raised in abject panic.

  FOURTEEN

  Arx Tyrannus, Hellblade Mountains

  Kantor was striding rapidly across the inner courtyard towards the central hall of the Strategium when he saw the first signs of battle in the sky above.

  The sky was darkening. From the peaks of the Hellblade Mountains, the last remnants of the day shone as little more than a soft, lambent glow beyond the horizon in the far west, but the sunset was hidden from view by the high walls all around him, not that he would have had time to stop and appreciate it anyway. Above him, the sky was dark purple, shifting t
owards black, and the stars were coming out.

  It was there, up among the familiar constellations, that he saw it all begin. There were more stars than normal tonight, and many of them moved restlessly towards each other. Some were short lived. Every bright flash the Chapter Master saw up there represented either the blast of powerful energy weapons, or the dying moments of a sizable craft. For every one of the latter, how many lives were lost in those ever-so-brief flares? He could only hope that each marked the violent end of ork lives, not human.

  Other lights, even brighter and more distinct, appeared, following fiery arcs across the sky. They glowed with the orange heat of atmospheric entry, and he knew the worst had now begun. The line had been breached.

  Orks began to rain down on the planet.

  So soon, he thought to himself? Can it really be?

  The Imperial blockade simply hadn’t had time to organise itself. Snagrod must have known this, must have guessed his best hope lay in a full-frontal surprise attack that no human commander would dare. To translate from the warp so close to the planet… No human commander would have dared.

  And that is why I should have foreseen this, Kantor thought bitterly. I should not have expected the beast to think as we do. I should have considered the alien nature of the ork mind.

  This was no time to stand here and berate himself. The Chapter Council waited. He entered the Strategium’s outer halls, sped along the stone corridors, reached the broad double-doors a matter of seconds later, and flung them open.

  A dozen faces, all lined with deep concern, turned to regard him. The Chapter Council rose to its feet. Kantor took the carpeted steps down towards the crystal table two at a time. Above the table hovered a static-ridden hololithic image of the battle in orbit.

  “My brothers,” said Kantor as he reached his onyx throne. He sat down, and the throne accepted his weight. The gears under the floor began to grind, and the mechanism wheeled him forward, stopping when his breastplate was half a metre from the edge of the table and his booted feet were underneath it. “Sit.”