Dark Hunters: Umbra Sumus

SEVENTEEN

Miles Mortuus est

Tomas Massaron stifled a yawn. The fleet-ensign snapped to attention before him with all the enthusiasm of the young and handed him the data-slate. He studied the lists and thumbed each one.

His flag lieutenant stood to one side, scanning the towering monitors and glancing now and then through the viewports at the bright ochre-coloured sphere of the planet turning below. Around them, the servitors of the command dais muttered to themselves in binaric and broken threads of Low Gothic. In one corner, Enginseer Miranich extended a fleshless metal arm and plugged into a console. The senior servitor nodded, grunted, and then withdrew the limb.

‘Transport away, shipmaster,’ he said, his artificial voice box flattening the words.

Massaron nodded at the young ensign, handing back the text-tab.

‘I sometimes wonder if Captain Kerne means to transport the entire Ogadai planetside piece by piece, Rob,’ he said to his lieutenant.

‘He has a world to make secure, sir,’ the lieutenant said. ‘I don’t suppose there’s much down there that survived the war.’

Massaron smiled. ‘Correct answer, Lieutenant Gershon. Still, at least he has the manufactoria down there in some sort of order now. If he had wanted yet more munitions from our own little operation, I believe we might well have had to start cannibalising the ship.’

‘It’s true we are running very low on raw materials, sir. I have had to postpone routine maintenance on sections three-four-six and seven.’

Massaron raised his head, calculating. ‘That’s the starboard hatches where we took out the lasburners to make room to extend the flight-deck. Yes, there was some very old stuff in there.’

‘The maintenance will be delayed some five days, sir – they’re sending up raw materials from the Armaments District next week. Shall I reschedule?’

‘No. Their need is greater than ours at present, Rob. But keep it in mind.’ He slapped the console beside him. ‘This old warrior needs constant watching.’

A flash on the vox display. A servitor tapped thin pointed fingers into the tiny rounded buttons there. ‘Priority receipt. Stand by.’

Massaron took the call, looking at the callsign on the board. It was from Arbion.

‘Diez, this is the flag, send, over.’

‘Shipmaster, we are halfway through our patrol and are getting some strange readings on augur in the vicinity of the Dardrek moon.’

‘Define strange, Diez.’

‘That’s the problem, sir. It seems to be some kind of spatial disturbance. There’s nothing rockcrete on augur, but there is a massive energy bloom in that area. Shall I investigate?’

A chill felt its way about Massaron’s heart.

‘Negative. Stand off from the phenomenon and observe only. Diez, could it be a ship coming out of warp?’

‘That was my first thought, sir, but the disturbance is too vast to be something like that – it’s fully half the size of the moon. My navigator speculates that it may be some kind of anomaly, a warp-boil about to burst.’

‘Stand well clear of it and keep me informed,’ Massaron said.

‘Affirmative. Arbion out.’

Diez was a capable commander who had been shipmaster of Arbion for five years, but his combat experience was limited. More than that, he had not been as long in space as Massaron had.

There were many strange phenomena in the void, few of them documented with any scientific clarity.

The strangest encounters were usually investigated by the Inquisition, who had no interest in the physics of what they saw, only the implications it held for Imperial orthodoxy. As a result, many shipmasters chose not to report some of the odder things they chanced across in their travels.

This might well be one more of those events. But Massaron did not like it, all the same.

He tugged at his lower lip, his gaze ranging across the flickering screens and data-monitors of his beloved ship.

It might be nothing – it probably was nothing. But the Ogadai had not survived this long because its shipmasters were complacent men.

Dardrek was three days away at normal cruising speed, but at full sub-warp velocity it could be reached in as little as eighteen hours. That was a very slim margin for error in Massaron’s book.

His voice changed as he spoke, becoming harder. ‘Cancel the next transport to the surface. Begin ignition sequence on main engines. All gun battery crews to their posts. Voidsunder crews are to end maintenance duties at once and ready weapons for firing.’

He paused. Well, it would be a good practice, even if nothing came of it. To get his ship from hatches-open maintenance-mode to battle readiness in the shortest time. But he knew he had to stagger the orders.

‘All compartments, crew to your stations. I say again, all compartments, crew to your stations.’

The flag lieutenant, alarmed, spoke up. ‘Sir, do you mean to go to battle stations?’

‘Not yet, lieutenant. We have too many key personnel scattered about the ship – it’ll be mayhem down on the decks if we go red right now. But as soon as they are in place I want battle stations sounded.’

‘Is it a drill, sir?’

He looked at the vox panel. No word yet from Arbion.

‘This is no drill, Rob. Vox, get me Captain Kerne on the planet.’

The servitor trickled its metal fingers over its board. Then it did so again. There was an edge of almost human puzzlement in its voice as it spoke.

‘Shipmaster, vox is… ineffective. There is considerable interference. Will attempt again.’

Massaron leaned over the console. ‘What kind of interference?’

‘Shipmaster,’ Miranich spoke up. ‘Massive energy bloom detected eleven thousand kilometres off our port side.’

Lieutenant Gershon was peering at the cascading figures on the screens in front of him. He cursed, and looked up with wild eyes.

‘Ship coming out of the warp right on top of us, sir. She’s got to be–’

The entire massive length of the Ogadai shuddered and shook, groaning, the ship’s ancient frames creaking under the impact of a massive ripple in space.

‘Augur, tell me what it is,’ Massaron said. ‘Rob, sound battle stations.’

‘Sir, an Oberon class battleship of unknown origin has materialised out of the warp eleven thousand kilometres away and is now launching torpedoes. I count fifteen – twenty – twenty-five inbound at eleven thousand kilometres and counting.’

‘He has Voidsunders in his broadside – they’re powering up,’ Gershon said. His voice was shaking with shock.

Emperor’s blood, who could that be?

‘The enemy,’ Massaron said grimly. ‘Con, bring the ship about ninety degrees to port – get our own lances pointing at the bastard and reduce our profile. Port broadside torpedo bays – do you read me?’

A voice on the shipboard vox. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Launch them as they bear, Lieutenant Tribo. Every tube you’ve got.’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Put me shipwide.’ Massaron cleared his throat.

‘This is the shipmaster speaking. We are being engaged by a capital ship at ten thousand kilometres. Enemy torpedoes are inbound. All stations and compartments, do your duty to the Dark Hunters and to the Emperor. My comrades, it is for days like this that we wear Hunters blue, and it is for days like this that we have trained all our lives. I know you will not let me down.’

He clicked off the receiver himself, and then elbowed a servitor aside and punched up the inter-ship vox. ‘Beynish, do you read?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The other Dark Hunters destroyer was on station fifty thousand kilometres out, on patrol.

‘Clem, take to the warp at once. Get back to Phobian. Let them know that it was a trap. We have an Oberon class to fight here, and Emperor knows what else is coming.’

‘Sir, I will not–’

‘You will obey orders, Clem. Get out of here, back to the Chapter. They must know of this at once – do you hear?’

‘Torpedoes at four thousand kilometres,’ Gershon was saying. Sweat was pouring off his face as he scanned the readouts. ‘Countermeasures launched.’

‘Good luck, Clem,’ Massaron said. ‘Above all else, you must get through – do you–’

The vox link was cut with a squawk of piercing static. Massaron winced. ‘Miranich, what just happened? Get me linked to the Beynish again.’

The enginseer was curt and emotionless. ‘The vessel Beynish has been lost on augur, but there are now three sword-class signatures at its last known location. The new signatures do not possess Imperial codes. Energy readings from that area of space suggest that the Beynish has been destroyed.’

Massaron staggered slightly, and steadied himself by holding onto the console.

‘Torpedoes two thousand kilometres out, impact in fifteen seconds.’ Gershon sounded as hoarse as a crow. ‘Countermeasures away.’

‘Ogadai, this is Arbion – come in, flag!’

‘Yes, Diez,’ Massaron said, calmly, but with eyes shut.

‘Sir, a massive enemy fleet has come out of warp eighteen thousand kilometres from the Dardrek moon. I am seeing heavy cruisers, Mars class battlecruisers, and dozens of transports. It is a Punisher fleet, sir, an armada the likes of which I’ve never seen before.’

‘Save yourself, Diez. Get home if you can,’ Massaron said quietly.

And then: ‘Voidsunders, fire one and two.’

‘Torpedoes – brace for impact!’ Gershon shouted, eyes wide.

The Ogadai bucked under their feet, and there was a series of titanic echoing booms that carried clear through the four-kilometre-long hull of the ancient ship. All over the boards, the scarlet lights began flashing up, a constellation of disaster.

‘Voidsunders have fired, sir,’ Miranich said, as serene as ever.

Gershon studied the monitors. ‘One tracked on target. We have hit the enemy ship square on the bow – major damage. The other beam went clear.’

‘Recharge. I want every torpedo we have in the air. Fire every ton of chaff we possess, Miranich. I want a cloud around us.’

‘The flight deck took three torpedoes,’ Gershon was saying. It’s totally destroyed, sir. Damage control teams are sealing off the section.’

‘How’s our power?’

‘At sixty per cent. A lot of broadside batteries are out of action – we took eight direct hits.’

‘Enemy Voidsunder beams inbound,’ Miranich said.

‘Evasive action,’ Massaron snapped out, anger burning in his face now, doing away with the confusion, the fear, the beginnings of despair.

‘Sealing off sections thirty-six through forty-five,’ Gershon was saying. ‘Sir, there are fires in the manufactorium, and in crew quarters port side aft. Damage control cannot approach, and they warn that the munitions stores in the manufactorium are being destabilised by the heat.’

‘Seal them off and blow the hatches,’ Massaron said.

‘Yes, sir,’ Gershon’s voice was thick with the responsibility as he punched the necessary orders into the command frame. He was blowing many hundreds of crewmates out into the void to die, so that the ship might fight on.

Another almighty crash and jerk. Massaron was knocked off his feet and smashed his head on the corner of Miranich’s console. He rose streaming blood. ‘What was that?’

‘A Voidsunder beam has struck us directly amidships, shipmaster,’ the enginseer said. ‘Damage is extensive. Power-lines forward have been severed. Am attempting to reroute. Auxiliary systems are being brought online. There will be a minor interruption–’

The lights on the command dais flickered as though to lend credence to his words. Then they went out entirely, and for some three seconds the bridge crew of the Ogadai were in complete darkness, save for the stars glittering coldly in the viewports above. They might as well have been standing in some darkened metal sarcophagus adrift in the void.

Then the auxiliaries kicked in, and power was restored. But the lights were dimmer now, and many of the less vital systems had been shut down. The forward sections of the Ogadai were now running on battery power alone.

‘Damage control, I want all power conduits amidships repaired, as a priority,’ Massaron said, thumbing the shipboard vox.

‘Con, give us all the speed you can. Take her away from the planet.’ They could do nothing here now except die. The Ogadai was badly hurt, facing a foe twice its size. There could be no victory here, and the survival of his beloved ship itself was at stake.

‘Gershon, try and get me Kerne on the vox.’

Gershon beat his knuckles on the console. ‘We’re being jammed, sir.’

‘I don’t care if you have to write a letter on parchment and throw it to him, lieutenant, but we must warn the ground of what is happening here. Put a despatch in an escape pod and fire it off if you have to, but you will contact our ground forces. They have to know what they are facing.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Gershon lifted a ship-intercom and began barking orders and information down it, never taking his eyes off the screens for a second.

‘Under way, engines at forty per cent,’ a servitor grated in rusty Low Gothic.

‘Lasburners firing. Sixteen torpedoes away,’ Miranich said. ‘Those are our last, shipmaster. All other torpedo banks have been destroyed.’

‘Voidsunders?’

‘Attempting a targeting resolution. Voidsunders will fire again in eight seconds.’

Massaron wiped blood out of his eyes.

‘We hit them – we hit them hard, sir,’ Gershon exulted, teeth bared in triumph, the intercom forgotten. ‘All torpedoes impacted. We’ve lit the bastards up.’

‘Enemy Voidsunder beams inbound,’ Miranich said.

‘Brace for impact. Gershon, I want you to–’

Then there was a white light, soundless, filling up the world, swamping every sensation. Massaron felt his feet leave the deck. There was no pain, only an instant’s regret before the light died, and the void claimed him.

I am so sorry, he thought. I failed you.

And then he was gone.

The Ogadai broke up under the repeated impact of the massive energy lances, the forward third of the great ship shearing free of the rest, spinning through space and trailing a wake of wreckage behind it.

Fires flared and then died as the vacuum snuffed them out, but the molten scars of the Voidsunder blast glowed in the darkness, liquid metal streaming from them in brilliant rivers, to cool and harden and wink out.

The rear section of the ship yawed, out of control, a leviathan sinking into death’s oblivion. The lights flickered along the hull, and here and there a lasburner battery fired wildly at the stars, its crew venting a last moment’s impotent rage.

The final Voidsunder salvo struck the drives in the stern, the energy beams slicing through armour and dying shields and spearing into the bowels of the ship. The powerful lances burned through and through those compartments deep in the maimed cruiser which still possessed atmosphere and light and warmth, and laid them open to the void. The Ogadai rolled, spewing wreckage and hundreds of bodies, here and there a solitary escape pod shooting out of the ruined vessel.

Then the main drives, bereft of coolant, open to the vacuum, overloaded and exploded.

A white nova, soundless, savage as the heart of a birthing star. It tore the remnants of the Ogadai to pieces, and sent those ragged remnants of the ancient ship careering into space. Many were sent flashing and spinning towards the planet Ras Hanem. Others were propelled out into the void, to sail through it for all eternity, broken relics with frozen corpses drifting inside them.

The ship-explosion hovered there above Ras Hanem, the energies of the vast detonation consuming themselves, darkening moment by moment as though reluctant to quit the universe. But they died at last, and all that remained was darkness, a debris-field of fragments and flotsam and jetsam of every size and degree spinning outwards, all of it so broken and shattered as to be unrecognisable.

Thus ended the Ogadai, the flagship of the Dark Hunters, whose decks had once been trodden by the Primarch Jaghatai himself.

Four thousand years of history and endeavour and service were gone, and with them, the lives of some twenty thousand men and women for whom that venerable vessel had been home.

The huge Punisher battleship powered through the debris, pieces of its adversary clunking and scraping against its hull. It moved implacably towards the bright planet ahead with fires still sparking and flaming along its hull, and at its leisure, it took up station in high orbit, a dark looming giant peering down upon a world now at its mercy.

And upon the battle-bridge of the immense ship, a creature stood in the pale-painted power armour of the Adeptus Astartes, that holy armour now out of place amid the Chaos symbols and grotesque battle-trophies which surrounded it, and the thing smiled.

‘Brothers,’ it said, ‘it has been a long time.’