On Wings of Blood Read online

  Oblexus watched Voitek stride down the gunship’s assault ramp, the plate ringing with his heavy tread. The Iron Father turned to the sergeant as he came to a stop at the ramp’s base.

  ‘It is secured,’ said Oblexus. It was not a question.

  Voitek was silent, a simple fist brought to his chest all the answer needed. Oblexus nodded once.

  ‘Prepare our brothers. We are returning to the Corporeal Lament.’

  The veteran sergeant turned, marching back up the assault ramp without a word.

  Oblexus heard the thin rasp of bionic footsteps behind him. He turned to regard Colonel Dionaki as the Vostroyan commander approached. She came to a halt before him, standing straight yet still daunted by the Space Marine towering over her.

  ‘Well met, colonel,’ said Oblexus.

  ‘And to you, my lord.’ Dionaki made the sign of the aquila across her chest with a clinking of dark iron limbs. ‘The Remnant of Fire burns still, and for that we give thanks.’

  ‘Your warriors acquitted themselves efficiently,’ replied the Iron Father. ‘You have brought distinction to your world.’

  ‘We fight for the lost, my lord. We are but an echo of the dead, seeking their vindication until the last of us falls silent.’

  Oblexus looked down at the Vostroyan for a moment. ‘I understand.’ The Space Marine turned away, striding up the ramp of the Stormraven.

 

  Oblexus stopped.

 

  The Iron Father pictured the slack form of Adept Wyn, hanging within her web in the darkness at the centre of the forge temple.

 

  Oblexus marched up the ramp, punching a control panel at its apex, and it rose to seal on grinding hydraulics. Vengeance of Santar lifted from the landing platform, surging into the air above the forge refinery. A trio of black shapes swung down towards the Stormraven. With Atraxii in the vanguard, the Medusan Wing formed up around Oblexus as the Iron Hands departed Halitus IV.

 

  The Iron Hands gathered in a small reliquary deep within the heart of the Corporeal Lament and sealed the bulkhead behind them. The twelve Space Marines stood in silence, their gaze locked upon the shape hanging suspended within a humming stasis field. A barrage of sensations rippled through their biological components – shock, wonder, awe, anger, reverence and a dozen more emotions assailed the base flesh and blood of their organics. In any other circumstance, the assembled brothers would have crushed these reactions beneath logic and will, and placated their shame with ritual sacrifice and penance.

  Here, the warriors allowed themselves the emotions rushing through them. For they stood in the presence of a treasure thought lost to oblivion for ten thousand years, never to be seen again.

  To the unenlightened, the collection of chips of dark armour plate and webs of dense mail links did not appear significant. The utterly exquisite skill of its craftsmanship was plain to see, even broken away and abraded by the ravages of one hundred centuries. The mailed fist of the Iron Hands glittered in the pale light of the stasis field, proud and unbroken by the millennia spent in darkness.

  ‘You are certain?’ Atraxii whispered, cautious awe sketched across his porcelain features.

  ‘I am certain,’ answered Oblexus. ‘This is a fragment of the Medusan Carapace. The battle armour worn by the Gorgon himself, crafted by his own hand. It adorned him in his last days, during the Great Failing.’

  Without a word, the Iron Hands sank to one knee. Helms clanged to the deck plating as the Space Marines bared their faces before the remnants of the armour of the demigod who had fashioned it and baptised it in the crucible of war when the Emperor walked among mortals. Armour that had failed to protect their primarch from his own passions. Oblexus knelt beside Atraxii, the light glinting dully from his iron mask. The words of Clan Captain Bannus echoed through the young Techmarine’s head as he thought of his mentor.

  This is his face now.

  The Iron Hands remained in genuflection for several minutes, contemplating the example of the primarch, their father’s weaknesses and strengths, before they stood as one.

  ‘Mars sought to keep this from us,’ said Atraxii.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied the Iron Father. ‘Even now, they demand its delivery to Mars, so that whatever knowledge it contains can be gleaned from it in service to the Adeptus Mechanicus.’

  ‘Will you surrender it?’ asked Atraxii, turning the shining sapphires of his eyes upon his mentor.

  ‘Mars does not suffer the forfeiture of such a relic to anyone, nor shall they, even to our Chapter. If we defy them, there will be a cost.’

  ‘It is logical,’ said Vladoc in the muted tones of his bionic larynx. ‘Surrendering the carapace to the Adeptus Mechanicus avoids strife with Mars, and its secrets would be used to strengthen the armies of mankind.’

  Some of the Space Marines nodded at this.

  ‘In this,’ said Oblexus, ‘we must divorce ourselves from the emotions of the flesh, and the weakness they tempt us to succumb to. We must act according to logic, to the ironclad will of the machine.’

  ‘Must we?’

  The Iron Hands turned. For an instant, confusion clouded Atraxii’s mind. He had not realised that the one who had spoken the words was him.

  ‘Brother?’ asked Oblexus.

  Atraxii was silent for a moment, his eyes lingering on the Medusan Carapace hanging suspended at the centre of the chamber.

  ‘In our zeal to purge the weakness of our flesh, to be replaced with blessed iron, we must take care not to forsake the strengths of our blood.’

  Atraxii looked to each of his brothers. ‘It is true, the flesh is weak – but not all of it. The machine, for all its power, cannot fashion courage, honour or loyalty. It bears no instinct, and it cannot hate our enemies. We must strive with every moment to plane away our frailties, but we must also seek to elevate the strength already within us, for such an inheritance cannot be replaced. Once this is alloyed with the machine, we will face no foe that can break us.’

  Atraxii looked to the Iron Father. ‘Is the logical course to cede our primarch’s wargear to Mars? Perhaps. But has this war not shown us that there are eventualities where the most logical course is to be illogical? Carrying this sacred item, our father’s inheritance to us, back to the hearth of Medusa to be safeguarded by his sons may not be logical, but it is right.’

  Silence reasserted itself within the chamber. The gathered Iron Hands cast their glances upon one another, and upon the treasure floating before them. Oblexus stepped forwards, feeling the eyes of his brothers settle upon him.

  ‘There is wisdom in your words, brother,’ said the Iron Father. He looked to each of his brothers. ‘We set course for Medusa.’

  Across the Corporeal Lament, serfs and robed adepts hurried to their tasks, preparing the Iron Hands vessel for warp translation. Bridge crew attended to their stations, and servitors murmured in their hardwired sconces as they readied the warship’s Geller field. Standing upon the command dais, Iron Father Oblexus watched the void disappear as slabs of dense armour descended over the armourglass viewports.

  Within the primary hangar bay, the spirit of Ironhawk snarled as it was coaxed into slumber by a flock of robed menials, locked securely into its cradle alongside the other Stormhawks of the Medusan Wing and Vengeance of Santar.

  Alone in the chamber at the vessel’s heart, Atraxii knelt before the Medusan Carapace, hands raised as he chanted canticles in praise of Ferrus Manus.

  As the fabric of reality tore to admit the Corporeal Lament into the warp’s dismal tides, the Iron Hands began the voyage to Medusa, bearing the mantle of the Gorgon back to its home.

  ACCEPTABLE LOSSES

  Gav Thorpe

  ‘Captain on the flight deck!’

/>   The assembled aircraft crews of the Imperial cruiser Divine Justice moved as one. Captain Kaurl strolled into the vast hangar to the resounding clang of one hundred boots stamping in near-perfect unison on the steel-mesh decking. Walking two strides behind the stocky flag captain, Flight Commander Jaeger looked over his new comrades.

  Most were dressed in regulation fatigues, standing smartly where they had been working or lounging before their commander’s arrival. Jaeger’s eye was drawn towards a particular crowd off to one side, towards the rear of the aircraft bay. There was something surly about their bearing: their uniforms were not quite so smart, their posture not so rigid as the other flight crews, their attention not totally focused on the newly arrived captain. Instinctively, Jaeger knew that they were Raptor Squadron, his new command.

  That explained a couple of things, at least: Kaurl’s slightly amused look when he had greeted Jaeger earlier, and the glances from the other flight commanders during his initial introduction. So, the Raptors were in need of some discipline? Well, Jaeger would soon knock them into shape.

  Jaeger realised that Captain Kaurl was addressing the flight crews and tuned his wandering mind into what his new commander was saying.

  ‘…and I expect every one of you to accord Flight Commander Jaeger the same amount of respect and cooperation you gave to his predecessor, Commander Glade. Proceed with your duties – we break from dock at zero five hundred hours.’

  With a nod, the captain sent the gathered men back to work and turned to Jaeger.

  ‘I see from your look that you’ve already spotted Raptor Squadron,’ he said plainly.

  Jaeger nodded slightly, keeping his expression as neutral as possible.

  ‘They’re not as bad as they might seem at first,’ Kaurl continued. ‘There are some damn fine pilots there, and with the right man in charge they’ll make a fine showing. I think you’re that man, Jaeger, and I’ll be watching your progress with interest.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Jaeger replied, pleased the captain had confidence in him. ‘I don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about from Raptor Squadron.’

  ‘Go and meet your men then, I’ll see you later. Give them a chance and they’ll prove themselves worthy of the Emperor’s Navy.’

  The two officers exchanged respectful bows before Kaurl turned on his heel and strode from the flight deck. Jaeger took in all the sights, sounds and smells of his new home. Although most flight decks had similarities, each always had a unique odour, a different edge on the lighting, variations in layout and a hundred other small details which made it special. The flight deck of the Divine Justice had space to carry, prepare and launch ten of the massive Marauder bombers, along with a complement of ten Thunderbolt fighters. All of the aircraft were currently in their docking bays, each nestling in its own arched alcove along the sides of the flight deck. Above the flight commander’s head, a labyrinthine criss-cross of gantries and steps hung in the distant shadows, centred around a pair of enormous cranes capable of picking up and transferring the planes to the launching bays. The chatter of the flight crews filled the cavernous chamber with a constant murmuring, and the fragrances of the tech-priests’ unguents and incense hung heavy in the air, mixed with the more mundane smell of oiled metal and human sweat. Taking a deep breath, Jaeger started towards his new flight crews.

  As he strode across the flight deck, Jaeger quickly inspected his new men more closely. Despite Kaurl’s parting words, he was not impressed with what he saw. They slouched amidst a scattering of crates, idly passing the time arguing heatedly, playing with dice or just sprawling around relaxing. All but a few wore loose-fitting, light grey fatigues, presenting a drab, uninspiring sight. Some of them turned to look at the flight commander as he strode briskly over, and a couple managed to get to their feet. One of them, a gunner of Jaeger’s own plane judging by his insignia, pulled himself upright and snapped off a sharp salute.

  ‘Fine day!’ proclaimed the gaunt-looking gunner. ‘May I welcome you to the auspicious role that is flight commander of Raptor Squadron.’

  One of the others, a burly-looking bombardier, shot a murderous glance at the man.

  ‘Shut it, Saile. The new commander don’t want to hear your creeping!’ the bombardier warned, his sweat-beaded brow knitted in a glowering scowl.

  ‘That’s enough from you both!’ Jaeger snapped, irritated by their indiscipline. ‘Let’s get something straight right from the start – I don’t like you, any of you.’ Jaeger made a point of looking them over slowly. ‘From what I’ve already seen, you are a bunch of shoddy, undisciplined, no-hoping slackers. Well, not any more!

  ‘You will address me as Commander Jaeger. Unless directly addressed by me, in non-combat situations you will only talk to me by first receiving permission, in the manner of “Permission to speak, Commander Jaeger?”. Are those two simple facts absolutely clear?’

  The men looked at Jaeger in stunned disbelief.

  ‘I believe the words you are looking for are, “Yes, Commander Jaeger”,’ he prompted, eyebrows raised.

  Their reply was quiet and faltering, but it was a start.

  ‘Ahm, permission to speak, Commander Jaeger?’ came a quiet voice from one of the men around them.

  Jaeger looked at the flyer who was stepping lightly between the others to stand in front of him. He was swathed in the voluminous robes that marked him out as one of the tech-adepts, responsible for the mechanical and spiritual well-being of the planes, as well as the Divine Justice itself. The man’s neck was criss-crossed with wires and scar tissue, and an interface plug dangled from the back of his right hand. In battle, the tech-adept would literally wire himself into the Marauder bomber, monitoring any damage and prompting the plane’s repair mechanisms into action.

  ‘Granted,’ Jaeger said with a nod.

  ‘As I am principally a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, and only aligned to the efforts of the Imperial Navy by secondary venture, I consider your treatment of myself and the other tech-adepts as subordinates in a very serious light,’ the tech-adept said, his chin raised proudly to look the tall flight commander full in the face.

  Jaeger grabbed the man’s robe, pulling him up until he was on the tips of his toes. The adept’s hood fell back, exposing more bio-wiring. The coils of thin cable sprung from his shaven head like metallic hair, attached to his scalp through a hundred scabrous incisions in the skin. Some of the others stepped forward but were stopped in their tracks by a murderous glance from their new commander.

  ‘While you fly my planes, I am your commanding officer!’ Jaeger snarled. ‘I don’t care what rank you have in the worship of the Machine-God – on this flight deck and in the air, you answer to me! Make no mistake, I have every intention of turning this squadron into a respectable fighting unit. Cooperate and you may come through it with your lives and your rank. Go against me and I’ll chew you up and spit out the pieces.’

  Jaeger let go of the adept and stalked off, cursing himself for losing his temper. But if there was one thing that Jaeger hated, it was sloppiness. He had seen too many good men die because of another’s carelessness, and he wasn’t going to let it happen again.

  Jaeger ordered the men to stand down, pleased with their performance during the training session. As they sloped off to their communal sleeping chambers, Jaeger headed back towards the bunkroom he shared with the other three flight commanders. Jaeger wiped the sweat from his face with the palm of his hand, and was glad to be leaving the heat of the flight deck, warmed beyond tolerance by the bombers’ engines. As he walked down the corridor towards the officers’ quarters, Jaeger heard the clump of boots on the metal deck and turned. Marte, one of his gunners and a veteran of many years’ service, jogged slowly up, saluting as he approached.

  ‘Permission to speak, Commander Jaeger?’ the man asked cautiously.

  ‘What’s on your mind, gunner?’

 
‘Excuse my saying, but I don’t reckon you’re as hard-edged as you make out, sir.’ The gunner was sheepishly inspecting the backs of his hands, avoiding Jaeger’s stare. ‘We – that is, the other lads and me – we were wondering how you ended up as our flight commander. I mean, what did you do wrong?’

  ‘What are you getting at, gunner?’ Jaeger rested his hands on his hips. ‘And look at me when I speak to you,’ he added, annoyed at having to address the top of the gunner’s bald head.

  Marte looked up reluctantly to meet his gaze. It was obvious that the other crew members had put him up to this. ‘Well, getting stuck with Raptors,’ the gunner explained quietly. ‘I mean, you seem like you know what you’re doing, so why did you end up in this dead-end assignment?’

  ‘”Dead-end”? Raptor Squadron may not be spectacular, but you’re all competent, dedicated men. Why should this command be so bad?’ Jaeger asked, genuinely puzzled.

  ‘So you’ve not heard the stories, sir?’ The gunner’s face was a picture of incredulity.

  ‘I don’t listen to rumour, I deal with facts and my own experiences,’ Jaeger snapped, annoyed that the gunner considered the flight commander the type to listen to scuttlebutt.

  ‘Very wise, sir,’ the old gunner said quickly. ‘Look, Raptors get the worst deal, it’s that simple. If there’s some dirty work to be done, we’ll get it. You must have seen the records – we’ve got the highest loss rate for the last three tours. That idiot Glade didn’t help either, Emperor rot him.’

  To Jaeger, the gunner was making no sense at all. ‘What about the other Marauders?’ he asked. ‘Devil Squadron?’

  ‘The Devils?’ The gunner laughed, a short and bitter noise. ‘They don’t know the meaning of hard work. Flight Commander Raf is Admiral Veniston’s nephew, if you take my meaning…’