Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds Read online

  ‘Is that wise, my lord?’

  Ganor laughed. ‘Probably not!’ He rose. ‘But do it anyway. I’ve waited too long – endured too much – to let someone else have first sight of what is mine by right. Now – all ahead full.’

  Loomis obeyed. The command flew from one station to the next, and the thrusters fired. The frigate surged ahead, weapons batteries hammering at the debris around it. Ganor stumbled slightly, and braced himself on the side of his command throne. More vox messages came in but he ignored them all. If they couldn’t understand, he didn’t have the patience to explain it to them.

  ‘I’m coming home,’ he growled, his hand falling to the shuriken pistol on his hip. No one was going to stop him. Not this time. Not like all the other times he’d led raids, or tried to slip the sensor nets. This time, he had an army at his back – a real army. Not just whatever ships he could scrape together.

  Welcome home, Ganor.

  And then the last of the asteroids tumbled past, breaking up, leaving the way ahead clear. Kabalevsky’s Wrath sailed into the open. ‘Cease fire,’ Ganor said. Loomis relayed the order, and the command deck fell silent.

  On screen, their destination swelled. ‘Magnify,’ Ganor said. Then, more loudly, ‘Magnify, damn you! Let me see it!’ His crew hastened to obey. The image expanded.

  ‘Almace,’ Ganor breathed. It was even as he remembered. A blue jewel, hanging in the firmament. He had been little more than a child when they’d been forced to leave, but it hadn’t changed in all that time.

  ‘Augurs to full,’ he said. ‘I want to know what’s waiting for us.’

  On his tactical display, runes denoting orbital defences flickered into view. Pergo had only had a few dozen, mostly automated torpedo launchers. But Almace was a different beast entirely. Hundreds of defence-stations ringed the world, extending from the immense wreath of orbital dockyards. Others drifted independently, their autonomous systems activated by proximity. He heard the blurt of binaric, and knew these vanguard posts were asking for identification codes.

  He turned. ‘Loomis – introduce us to the bastards, eh?’

  ‘Aye, captain,’ Loomis growled. Klaxons howled as Loomis barked orders into the vox. The forward batteries of Kabalevsky’s Wrath spat fire, and a defence platform was reduced to spinning wreckage.

  ‘Torpedoes – wide sweep, target the closest platforms. Let’s clear the decks for our allies.’ Ganor raised two fingers. ‘On my mark – fire.’

  Chapter Twenty

  87:32:02

  Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world

  When the first enemy vessel emerged from the asteroid belt, Almace’s orbital defences were waiting. Lance platforms and macro-cannon batteries opened fire, splitting the black with streamers of hot light. A frigate died in that opening volley, its hull pierced from a dozen angles. Attack craft burned, reduced to drifting motes. But as more vessels emerged, the orbital defences were less able to concentrate fire.

  Calder watched it all from the strategium, noting the position of the largest vessels and estimating their targets. It would have been impossible for a human to keep up with the rapid flow of data, but Calder consumed it greedily. Every pict-capture, every scan, all of it helped him build a map to victory.

  Many of the smaller enemy vessels were heading for the slowly trundling refugee vessels. Easy pickings. Calder felt a flicker of sympathy, but quashed it. Their deaths would preoccupy the foe, allowing for the closest defence platforms to properly triangulate their firing patterns. Every man and woman must do their duty for the Emperor, even if that duty was only to die at the appointed time.

  The strategium chamber was strangely silent, despite the crowd of officers, scribes and Ecclesiarchial representatives that occupied it. A squad of Intercessors stood arrayed about the foot of the observation dais, bolt rifles held at the ready. Dozens of cyber-cherubs flitted this way and that, recording everything, or filling the air with incense.

  ‘They’re concentrating on the western hemisphere,’ Calder said out loud.

  ‘On us, you mean.’ Eamon stood beside him on the observation dais, watching as his world’s defences fell one by one. ‘He was right – they have no interest in the rest of the planet. Just us.’ He sounded exhausted. Calder wondered when he’d last slept.

  ‘That is to our advantage.’

  Eamon looked at him. ‘I don’t see how.’

  ‘We know what they want. They can’t simply obliterate us from orbit. They must come and take it.’ Calder brought up a holo-schematic. ‘I have identified eighteen potential landing points within easy distance of an entrance to the cathedral-palace. Of those eighteen, ten have been rendered unsuitable by controlled demolition…’

  ‘Those parts of the city are still on fire, by the way,’ Eamon said.

  ‘And they will remain so until the battle is done.’ Calder indicated another grouping of highlighted areas. ‘Of the eight remaining areas, five have been prepared by Solaro and Rukn – concealed weapons emplacements, pressure mines and plasma charges.’

  ‘They might detect them.’

  ‘I am counting on it. That leaves three potential landing zones.’ Calder traced a finger along the schematic, illuminating areas as he spoke. ‘All three provide direct access to the Processional Way. From there they will make for the Cardinal’s Gate, via the reliquary boulevards.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  Calder looked down at him. ‘It is what I would do.’ He turned back to the schematic. ‘The quickest way for them to reinforce any assault on the Cardinal’s Gate will be to break the Pilgrim’s Gate, along the northern processional. That’s the closest major vehicle transit path and that’s where they’ll bring up their siege equipment.’

  ‘What about gunships?’ Tyre asked. He looked up from his data-slates. ‘If they’re coming in like they did at Pergamon…’

  ‘The White Scars will handle those. Any gunships that make it down in one piece won’t be in any hurry to take off again. To have any hope of delivering an intact force to the cathedral-palace, they’ll have to come by foot.’

  ‘If there are enough of them, they’ll be able to force their way past any cordon we erect,’ Eamon said. Calder nodded.

  ‘Thankfully, most of their forces will be occupied in Low Town.’

  Eamon grimaced. He knew what that meant. ‘For how long?’

  Calder turned away. ‘Long enough.’ He paused. ‘Siege-craft is about limiting an enemy’s options. You force them to choose the least worst option, and then exploit that choice mercilessly. Their resources are limited. They cannot maintain a siege for long. We will force them into a stalemate.’

  A klaxon sounded. Startled, Eamon turned. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘They’ve reached the tropopause,’ Calder said. On the projection, a ship the colour of a torn scab pierced the upper atmosphere. It was a frigate – or had been. Its prow was surmounted by a massive leering face, and its flanks consisted of corkscrew towers and barnacle-like weapons batteries. The great face seemed to grimace as the atmospheric sensors struggled to capture its enormity. Ground-to-air flak greeted its arrival, and the grimace became a snarl of fury.

  More vessels joined the first – long streaks of red, marring the horizon. The first strike, when it came, was so sudden that even Calder flinched. Lances of light fell like rain. The atmosphere screamed as cloud cover tore and split. Mountaintops soon followed. Bulwarks of metal and stone that held anti-air batteries vanished into blackened craters, leaving nothing behind but fused glass and burning forests. Sensor-feeds went black one by one. Soon they would be isolated from the rest of the world.

  If there was a pattern to the strikes, Calder could not see it. Some of them were clearly positioned to eliminate flak batteries, but others seemed to be simply for destruction’s sake. A map of Almace spun slowly, red dots marking impact points. The number d
oubled. Tripled. The first shock wave reached the city a moment later. The stained-glass windows flexed in their reinforced frames. With the second shock wave, they shattered. Multicoloured shards scattered across the chamber, and he heard shouts of pain. He turned, sheltering Eamon as more rained down. The cardinal-governor was praying, his eyes closed.

  Sirens echoed up from the city, the sound scrabbling through the windows. Pict-feeds displayed emergency crews and enforcers moving to cordon off areas where the shock waves had done more than break windows. Calder checked the positions of his warriors as he swept glass from his armour, making sure that all of them were where they should be.

  Another blast shook the cathedral-palace to its core and cracks formed in the walls. ‘They’ll be finished soon,’ Tyre said as he climbed the dais. He plucked a shard of glass from his cheek. ‘They’re just softening us up so they can land troops.’

  ‘Yes.’ Calder activated his vox. ‘Torag?’

  ‘It is time,’ the White Scar growled, immediately.

  ‘Yes. Good hunting, brother.’

  A moment’s pause. Then, ‘And to you, son of Dorn.’

  Calder cut the link and looked at Eamon. ‘You should get to the command bunker. Tyre will oversee transfer of the primary strategium functions.’ He looked around. ‘This chamber is no longer defensible.’

  ‘What about you?’ Eamon asked.

  ‘I will be overseeing the defence of the Cardinal’s Gate personally.’ He descended the dais and accepted his bolt rifle from one of the Intercessors waiting there. ‘I will remain in contact with Tyre and the planet’s command structure for as long as possible. In the event that I am no longer able to oversee the defence, the swordmaster will be in overall command.’ He looked back at Tyre, who nodded. Ordinarily, Calder would have left one of his own subordinates in charge, but efficiency was not the only consideration in this matter. Politics, as ever, played their part. In any case, Tyre’s knowledge of the planetary defences were second only to his own, and he was confident the swordmaster could handle the responsibility.

  ‘May the God-Emperor be with you, lieutenant,’ Eamon said.

  Calder paused. Then, he nodded.

  ‘May He be with us all, cardinal-governor.’

  Almace, Primus asteroid facilities

  Spiros moved quickly along the plasma conduits. Quietly, the way he’d been trained to do, almost two centuries ago. It was no easy thing to move silently in power armour, even with noise bafflers activated. It required a different way of thinking – an attention to one’s surroundings that most Space Marines weren’t interested in. The warriors of the Adeptus Astartes were terror weapons first and foremost. Sound and fury manifest. But there were different types of terror.

  Below the Raven Guard, the transit corridor was full of bodies. Cultists, renegades, mortals. Easy meat. Thirty of them. They moved slowly, looking every way but up. They paused at an intersection, murmuring. The leaders were obvious – they were the ones that looked like they knew what they were doing. Former soldiers, these, at least going by their uniforms. He knew the regiment, though they’d defaced their equipment. He wondered if they’d been taken captive, given the choice between servitude or death.

  It didn’t matter. The reasons for the treachery were irrelevant. All that mattered was the treachery itself.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘What is it, human?’ Spiros asked, not without some annoyance. He recognised the voice, but couldn’t immediately recall the speaker’s name. Giving the miners access to their encrypted vox-frequency had been a mistake. He’d told Karros so at the time, but the lieutenant rarely listened to him.

  ‘We are in position, as you requested.’ Culch. That was it. A blunt-faced ore-dredger that Reyes claimed was her second-in-command. He was unimaginative but dogged in following orders. Tolerable, for a mortal.

  ‘As I ordered, yes. Meet me at the next access corridor. We need to hold them here.’ He cut the frequency before Culch could reply.

  He studied the mortals below, considering. Then, he drew his knife and quickly punctured the conduit in three places. His battleplate issued an internal warning chime as the temperature increased. He was already moving as the air of the corridor began to ripple from the plasma leak. The men below wouldn’t notice. Not in time.

  Every few hundred yards, he stopped to repeat the action. Three blows, no more, no less. Just enough to rupture the conduit, but not enough to cause it to explode. Not right away, at any rate. Eventually. But not yet.

  When he reached the end of the corridor, he slid quickly to the floor. The cultists were behind him, around the bend in the intersection. The transit corridor was wide and full of machinery. Plenty of cover. They were in no hurry to advance. He moved to the bulkhead leading to the access corridor. His auto-senses detected warm bodies, and he knew Culch and the others were waiting. Autoguns rose as he stepped into view. ‘Lower your weapons, fools,’ he said. ‘It is just me.’

  Culch stepped forward, mopping at his sweaty features. ‘We’re here, lord.’

  ‘I have eyes, Culch.’ Spiros made a quick headcount. ‘I only see ten of you. Where are the others?’

  ‘I – ah – I thought it best to leave them at the last bulkhead. They can cover us, just in case we have to retreat. Which we won’t, of course, my lord.’ Culch sketched an overenthusiastic bow. ‘Unless you want us to?’

  Spiros shook his head. ‘Stop talking. It irks me.’ He tapped a control rune on his vambrace, activating a holo-schematic of this part of the facility. ‘Here. There are four access hatches along this corridor…’

  ‘We know them,’ Culch said. Spiros grunted.

  ‘Then you know that they will give you an unrestricted field of fire into the corridor itself. Split up into fire-teams – you know this term?’ He paused, until several of the miners nodded. ‘Split up and take the hatches. Keep them pinned, but do not let them rush the hatches. We want them to call for reinforcements. You understand?’

  Culch nodded, and then shook his head. ‘No. But we’ll trust in your wisdom, my lord.’ The other miners murmured agreement. Spiros sighed.

  ‘When I give the word, seal the hatches and retreat to the rendezvous point.’ He paused. Then, because they were who they were, he added, ‘Do not tarry.’

  ‘Why?’ Culch asked.

  Spiros looked at him. ‘Because the plasma conduit is going to overload and you will perish. And because I have given you an order.’

  Culch didn’t ask any more questions. Nor did any of the others. They spread out as Spiros had ordered. He tracked them on his armour’s auspex, watching as they flanked the enemy. The Word Bearers’ slaves lacked knowledge of the facility. And if their masters had any, they weren’t sharing it. The traitors’ strategy was simple – flood the facility with bodies. But they would run out soon enough.

  When he was satisfied that Culch and the others were in position, he extracted a picter-bead from his combat belt. The bead would feed images directly to his helmet display. With a twitch of his wrist, he sent it rolling around the corner, towards the gathered cultists. As it rolled, it scanned its surroundings and fed him data. He took in their positions as he released the mag-clamp on his boltgun and lifted it from where it hung on his thigh.

  Quickly, he stepped around the corridor and paused long enough for them to see him. His first shot punctured a pressure valve, filling the corridor with obscuring steam. His second and third shot killed the leaders he’d identified earlier. That left the others in a state of panic. They wouldn’t retreat. If they fled, their masters would kill them. That meant they had to call for help. Reinforcements.

  Spiros settled in to wait. Every few moments, he would fire off another shot, to keep them interested. In between, Culch and the other miners did the same. And the plasma continued to leak, filling the air. Warping the breached conduit out of shape. When it finally exploded, it w
ould fill the corridor, vaporising everything not wearing power armour.

  Deron and the others would be preparing similar ambushes throughout the main facility, or helping the miners to do so. The farther and deeper they drew the enemy from their entry points, the easier it would be to isolate them and cut them off.

  ‘Spiros, status.’

  Karros. Spiros lowered his weapon. ‘Transit corridor delta-epsilon-six. Third level. Initiating plasma purge.’

  ‘Acknowledged. Be advised, reinforcements are on the way.’

  ‘Good. More of them to kill.’

  ‘Fall back to designated rendezvous point Acrius-Oslo once you’re done.’

  Spiros frowned. That wasn’t the plan. ‘Are we pulling back?’

  ‘For the moment.’

  ‘Acknowledged.’ Spiros blink-activated the picter-bead. From its position, he could see that the cultists were firing into the spreading steam, attempting to prevent an assault that wasn’t coming. He heard the thump of heavy boots, and realised that the reinforcements weren’t mortal. He grinned fiercely, pleased. ‘Culch – fall back.’

  No reply. He heard the roar of autoguns. Screams. The feed from the picter-bead went dark as something heavy trod on it. The vox crackled with a babble of voices. He stepped into the open, boltgun at the ready. Targets sprang towards him and he fired, putting them down. Culch was screaming in his ear.

  The ambushers had been ambushed.

  Something thudded out of the steam. Massive and twisted. It bellowed savagely, the blade it clutched in its talons gleaming with an ugly radiance. Spiros threw himself to the side as the blade tore a chunk from the wall. He rolled to his feet, boltgun roaring. The blade came down again, quicker than thought, and his weapon was torn from his grip along with several of his fingers. Spiros cursed and clawed for his combat blade. A claw caught him by the throat and drove him back against the wall. A beatific mask leered out of the steam. He thrust his blade up awkwardly, and felt it bite into something that might once have been flesh. Boiling ichor spurted, burning through the seals of his gauntlet. A gurgle of bestial laughter was the creature’s only reaction.