Dan Abnett - Know no fear. The Battle of Calth

Telemechrus zooms in on the half-open caskets beside his own.

‘Oh,’ he says.

‘What is your name, friend?’ asks Lamiad.

‘Gabril. No. It is. Not. It is. Telemechrus. Lord.’

‘Telemechrus, we have been attacked in the most underhand and cowardly fashion. The XVII Legion has turned on us. They have slaughtered us, crippled the fleet and the orbital facilities, and laid waste to vast tracts of Calth. We are close to defeat. We are close to death.’

‘I have seen. Death, lord. We have both. Seen it. Come close to. Us and yet in neither. Case. Did it claim. Us.’

Lamiad listens. He nods slowly.

‘I had not considered it that way. You are new-forged, Telemechrus, but you already display the wisdom of a venerable. The techpriests selected you well for this honour.’

‘I was. Told. It was. Because I. Was compatible. Lord.’

‘I think that is so. And not just biologically. I was almost made like you, after Bathor. The Mechanicum of Konor blessed me with a more subtle rebuild. It is not, however, as robust.’

Lamiad glances down at his shattered arm-stub.

‘Today, your Dreadnought build has allowed you to endure better than me.’

‘Without you. Lord. I could not. Even. Have got. Out of. My. Box.’

Lamiad laughs.

‘Please. Inload me. With full. Tactical,’ says Telemechrus.’

‘I was over there,’ Lamiad says, pointing towards the burning buildings in the middle distance. ‘The Holophusikon. That was supposed to be a commemoration of our future, Telemechrus. The orbital strike rained debris across this entire area. Large pieces. They struck the whole zone like a meteor storm.’

‘I was. One. Of them.’

Lamiad nods.

‘A whole ship came down over there,’ he says. ‘And that way, a section of orbital platform that struck like a rogue atomic. The Holophusikon took direct hits. There was no protection. I was hurt. Most others present were killed by the collision trauma, the shock concussion, and the subsequent fire.’

‘That’s Numinus City,’ he says, pointing in another direction.

Telemechrus scans another vast heat-source. He compares the stored grid positions of the city and the Holophusikon, and calculates his position relative to them, to within two hundred metres.

‘There is. No. Data,’ says Telemechrus. ‘There is. No. Central. Command.’

‘There is not.’

‘Have you. Determined. A theoretical. Lord?’

‘I am trying to assemble whatever strengths I can salvage,’ says Lamiad. ‘Then I intend to take the war back against the traitors who did this.’

‘What is. The strength. of your. Force. So far. Lord?’

‘It’s you, and it’s me, Telemechrus.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’ asks Lamiad.

‘Why did. Our brothers. Turn. On. Us?’

‘I have no idea, friend. I am almost afraid to know the answer. In that explanation, I fear, our future will burn again. Brother against brother. Legion versus Legion. A civil war, Telemechrus. It is the one blight the Imperium never even considered.’

‘We shall. Know. No fear. Lord.’

Lamiad nods again.

‘I. Await. Your. Orders. Lord.’

‘The city,’ says Lamiad. ‘Numinus. If we must make anywhere our killing ground, it’s there. That’s where the enemy will be.’

‘Yes.’

Lamiad turns.

‘What. About the. Vox-signal, lord?’

‘What vox-signal?’

‘The. Encrypted. Signal.’

‘My vox-link is smashed, Telemechrus. Tell me what signal you mean? Is someone out there? Is someone talking?’

The enormous security hatches, twice the height of a legionary, hiss open, retracting into the armoured frame. Internal blast shutters, like nictitating eyelids, open in sequence after them.

The auxiliary bridge of the Macragge’s Honour is revealed. One by one, starting from just inside the hatch to the right, and moving around the room, the consoles and bridge stations begin to light up, commencing automatic activation cycles. The auxiliary command has interlaced redundancy parameters. It will be, for now, clean of scrapcode. Cryptocept keys, reserved for only the most senior personnel, empower the auxiliary command to re-integrate with the flagship’s primary service and control system, to purge and rewrite the command codes, and, if necessary, to assume control of the ship.

Shipmaster Zedoff had a key, and he’s dead. Guilliman had one, and he is missing.

Marius Gage has the third.

He looks at Shipmaster Hommed and the two ranking functionary magi they have rescued during the fight downhull. Hommed is bruised, and his uniform is stiff with the blood of others. He only survived the death of his ship, the Sanctity of Saramanth, because his first officer bundled his unconscious form into an escape pod. He would have preferred to die with his ancient and honoured vessel.

Hommed also accepts that the duty thrust upon him now is as critical as it is unexpected. A qualified and experienced shipmaster must take Zedoff’s place at the helm of the Macragge’s Honour.

‘Ready?’ asks Gage. There’s no room for ‘if’ in his question. He does not even allow for a theoretical where Hommed will decline the command. The Ultramar fleet is dying. Scattered across Calth nearspace, it is being hunted, hounded and picked off by the predator warships of the XVII and the unstoppable fury of the weapons grid. Something must be done. It may already be too late, but something must at least be attempted.

‘I am ready, Chapter Master,’ replied Hommed.

Flanked by Hommed, the magi and a gaggle of deck officers and command servitors, Gage crosses to the master console, and inserts the last cryptocept key. His authority is requested, taken by gene-scan and retina print, then verified by voice and pheromone. Hommed then steps forward, and allows his biometrics to be recorded, verified, and imprinted.

‘Command is yours, shipmaster,’ says a magos.

‘Command accepted, with honour,’ replies Hommed. ‘Begin primary service and control system purge and rewrite. On three, two, one.’

‘Purge under way, shipmaster.’

‘Prepare override protocols,’ says Hommed. He walks towards the strategium with rapidly mounting confidence, or at least the determination not to look like a fool. As he goes, he starts pointing left and right to direct his officers to their stations. They hurry to respond, strapping in or, in the case of magi and servitors, plugging up.

‘Everybody to readiness,’ says Hommed. ‘All stations, all stations. I will be asserting override in three minutes, and I want every station to gather and present all and any data they can the moment we are live. Priority to drive, shields, weapons and sensors.’

‘Strategium tactical externals are to be built and viewable within two minutes of restart,’ Gage adds.

‘Let him call it,’ Empion hisses to Gage. ‘Hommed knows what he’s doing. He needs to know that chair is his.’

‘And I need to know what the battle looks like,’ says Gage. What he doesn’t say is, I need to know if, by any miraculous chance, Guilliman is still alive.

Thiel and the strikeforce watch proceedings from the hatchway, guarding against possible attack. It’s a high theoretical that the Word Bearers have already boarded the flagship. Even with Hommed installed in command, the ship may not actually belong to them at all. Thiel itches to lead squads to the main airgates and the hangar decks.

They are the sites he would use to storm-board a ship.

‘Override complete,’ announces a magos.

‘Auxiliary command is active,’ calls a deck officer.

‘I have control,’ agrees Hommed.

Almost immediately, the newly-assigned Master of Vox calls out.