The Beast Arises

‘Castellan Ralstan!’ said Magneric, his metallic voice enthused by the prospect of battle. ‘The way prescribed by our founder is always forward! We shall not hang back like jackals while the lions fight! You have your orders. With me unto battle, bold soldiers of the Emperor! We shall destroy these paltry orks, and take the Palimodes, and return to our Chapter with it as a trophy of war! I go now to ready myself for drop in the basilicus.’ He leaned over Ralstan, and lowered his voice. ‘I will brook no more dissent, castellan, be warned.’

Magneric thundered out of the command deck.

‘By the will of Magneric, make so his orders!’ commanded Ralstan. Forcing down his own disquiet, he began to make preparations for planetstrike.

A squawking of surprised messages burst from the vox-station as the Obsidian Sky slid down towards the

Palimodes.

‘Master Divulgatus, silence that noise.’

‘Aye, shipmaster, initiating wide-band vox-jamming now.’

Ericus leaned forward, the weight of the cables plugged into his neck shifting on his shoulder. ‘We will pay no heed to the words of the traitors. Open fire on the orks and prepare to clear the way. Prow lance batteries to mark these targets and fire upon my command.’ He indicated his priorities on the hololith. ‘Primary gun batteries sweep the flanks. Spinal turrets fire at will. Scour the void. We shall shield Lord Magneric’s landing and then proceed to take the Palimodes.’

‘Drop-tubes loaded,’ reported the Master Egredorum.

The ship’s void shields flickered as the first of the orks noticed their new foe, and turned their guns upon them. Energy beams hit out first, cutting like searchlights across the dark. Across the command deck, bells tolled gently, bringing soft notice of the clouds of deadly projectiles following on behind.

Ericus settled himself into his command throne. He reached out and grasped his sword; a servant of the Black Templars always fought with a weapon in his grasp.

The command deck, rarely full of needless chatter, took on a focused air. Orders and commentary were the only words spoken. Servitors sighed and muttered quietly. Cogitators clacked in their housings. The crew of the ship was minimal, most of the work done by mind-wiped servitors or vat-born things that had never known a name, plugged directly into the ship’s systems. The fifty unaltered men who manned the command deck were sombre with the privilege bestowed on them.

‘Range to the Palimodes six thousand kilometres and closing,’ relayed the Master Augurum.

‘Open hangar bays and drop-tube shielding. Drop countdown commencing in three, two, one. Mark.’ The number 120 appeared on the hololith and began to rapidly count down, its colouring turning from green to red as it approached zero.

‘Turret pins released,’ said the Ordinatum Secundus. ‘Main ordnance ready for firing. Lance batteries one through four are charged and await your command, Master Ericus.’

Fifty years had passed since Ericus had fallen at the second obstacle in his bid to become a member of the Black Templars. Despite his high suitability, his genetic code proved incompatible with the Chapter gene-seed. The memory of that day haunted him forever, and yet here he was, armed and glorious, a mighty warship at his command. The lives of his masters were under his care. There was no greater duty.

‘For the glory of the Emperor, launch,’ he said.

‘Praise be,’ intoned the crew as one.

The distant rumble of rockets firing vibrated the deck plating. The ship shifted infinitesimally at the release of such large amounts of mass.

‘Correctional thrusters firing,’ reported the Master Egredorum. The ship pushed back against the jettisoning of its drop-vehicles. ‘Our lieges are away. Five minutes to touchdown. Praise be.’

Light flared in the hololith as an ork assault craft exploded. The Palimodes, shields twinkling with orkish fire, had rotated about its centre, presenting its stern to the Obsidian Sky. This was a ship’s most vulnerable aspect, but they were close to the horizon — one good burn would put them out of sight, leaving the Black Templars entangled with the orks.

‘The Iron Warriors are running. Proceed towards the Palimodes,’ ordered Ericus. ‘We will accomplish Magneric’s orders. My lord Sword Brother Rolans, you may prepare your boarding party. Helm, run the traitors down.’

Kalkator gripped the ork’s head in his servo-claw and squeezed. The thick skull cracked, deforming the ork’s already hideous alien features. Still it fought on, until Kalkator jammed his bolt pistol into its mouth and blew the back of its head off.