Dan Abnett - Know no fear. The Battle of Calth

‘Signal!’ he cries. ‘Encrypted signal from the surface!’

‘The surface?’ says Empion, amazed. ‘But–’

Gage steps forward. He nods at the Master of Vox to activate full encrypt, and takes the speaker horn.

‘This is Marius Gage,’ he says. ‘Who speaks for Calth?’

‘Ventanus of the 4th,’ says Ventanus. ‘Please stand by as we verify your code authority and identity.’

Ventanus lowers the speaker horn and waits until Cyramica relays a confirmation from the server.

‘Ventanus again,’ he says. ‘It is good to hear your voice, Chapter Master.’

‘And yours, Ventanus,’ the reply crackles back, tonally altered by the signal encrypt. ‘We were blind until a few moments ago. We thought the surface was dead.’

‘Not quite, sir,’ Ventanus replies, ‘but I can’t pretend the picture is good. Our losses have been severe. We have spent the hours since the attack trying to re-establish a vox-net and regain some data capacity. In the next few minutes, I will begin passing to you details of surviving surface strengths and their positions, as they come to me. We have the Mechanicum server here, and she is processing the inload for us.’

‘Ventanus, can you restore the weapons grid?’ the vox crackles. ‘Is the server able to do that? The enemy has control of it, and is using it to obliterate the fleet. We cannot hope to achieve anything in the face of their grid control.’

‘Stand by,’ replies Ventanus. ‘I believe the cogitation power of this data-engine is insufficient, but the server is examining the issue. I’m going to talk with her now. Data should be inloading to you. Captain Sydance will remain on the link for further voice contact.’

‘Gage, acknowledged.’

Ventanus hands the speaker horn to Sydance and walks back into the stack room with Cyramica. There is a tranquil but dead look on Tawren’s face, as if her body is empty, as if her mind has fled deep into remote sub-aetheric reaches and left the physical shell behind.

‘Vox contact has now been made with sixty-seven survivor groups,’ Cyramica tells him, ‘including two engine squadrons in North Erud, an armour company near the Bay of Lisko, and the 14th Garnide Heavy Infantry, who survived virtually intact at a bunker complex in Sylator Province.’

‘Keep compiling. The primarch will coordinate the active practical.’

‘The Chapter Master responded from the flagship,’ observes Cyramica. ‘Not your primarch. Have you discussed the orbital losses yet?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Orbital losses are extreme, and they are increasing every minute as the grid hunts new targets. Is your primarch still alive? Is an active practical even possible?’

Ventanus glares at her.

‘Can I speak to the server?’ he asks.

‘She is in deep interface.’

‘And I appreciate her efforts, but I need to talk to her.’

Cyramica nods. She issues a gentle binaric signal.

Tawren opens her eyes.

‘Captain,’ she nods, an underlying, tremulous carrier signal clicking along behind her voice.

‘Our priority is the weapons grid, server. What progress have you made?’

‘I can confirm,’ she says calmly, ‘that this engine is not capable of either overriding control of the grid, or of managing the grid’s operation after an override. It is simply not powerful enough.’

‘Is there an alternative?’

‘I am attempting to decide that,’ she replies. ‘So far there does not appear to be a single, functioning data-engine on Calth rated sufficient for the job that is not also infected with the enemy scrapcode. For a definitive answer, however, you must wait until my final determination.’

‘How long will that take?’ asks Ventanus.

‘I do not know, captain,’ she replies.

Ventanus hears footsteps behind him, and looks around.

Selaton stands in the doorway.

‘You’d better come, sir,’ he says.

Ventanus nods.

‘Inform me the moment you have an answer,’ he says to Tawren, and exits.

Tawren drifts back into the dataverse. Her serenity is practised and deliberate. A server can manage far greater degrees of data manipulation whilst in a calm state of mind. In truth, she is fighting a core of anxiety.

With the data-engine active, she can see it all. Or, at least, she can see more of the situation’s totality than anyone except the enemy. She can see the truly frightening scale of the losses: the death toll, the crippling injury to the XIII Legion, the burning cities, the slaughtered populations, the devastated geography and the systematic annihilation of the fleet. Under any other circumstances, Calth would be considered a loss, and the battle a defeat.

The Ultramarines‘ characteristic determination is the only thing keeping them going: their fearless resolve to devise a new practical, to circumvent and outplay even hopeless odds.

These are worse than hopeless odds. Tawren can see that. She has a simultaneous dataview of the globe, and she can see that even the surviving loyalist forces are hard-pressed and dying, cornered, fighting off attack from all sides, slowly facing elimination. They are too scattered and too isolated. The enemy has superiority in every way.

This is extinction. The grid might have made a difference, but there is no way of accessing or controlling it.

This is extinction. This is the death of Calth. This is the end of the XIII Legion.

‘I thought you needed to see this,’ says Selaton. He leads Ventanus outside, onto the cratered lawns of the palace.

‘A prisoner?’ Ventanus asks dubiously.

Most of the enemy fled after the 4th ripped into them. Many stood their ground and fought to the death. But this one has accepted capture.

He is standing on the lawn by the broken fountain, guarded by four Ultramarines.

Ventanus leaves Selaton to his duties and approaches the Word Bearer. The warrior’s armour is dented and bloody. His face is smeared with gore. He looks at Ventanus, and almost seems to smile.

‘Name,’ says Ventanus.

‘Morpal Cxir,’ replies the Word Bearer.

One of the guarding Ultramarines shows Ventanus the weapons that the Word Bearer was carrying when he was captured. A broken boltgun. A large dagger made of black metal with a wire-wound handle. The dagger is curious. It looks ritualistic and ceremonial: less of a weapon and more a totem of status.

‘Were you the ranking officer?’ Ventanus asks.

‘I was in command,’ Cxir admits.

‘Any reason I shouldn’t just kill you, you bastard?’ Ventanus asks.

‘Because you still live by a code. Your Imperial truth. Your honour. Your ethics.’

‘All of which you have forgotten.’

‘All of which we have specifically renounced,’ Cxir corrects.

‘This is the old enmity?’ asks Ventanus.

Cxir laughs.

‘How typically arrogant! How characteristic of the Ultramar mindset. Yes, we slaked our dislike of you today. But that is not why we attacked Calth.’

‘Why then?’ asks Ventanus.

‘The galaxy is at war,’ replies Cxir. ‘A war against the False Emperor. We follow Horus.’

Ventanus doesn’t answer. It makes no sense, but the apparent senselessness must at least be set in the context of the day’s unimaginable events. He takes another look at the ritual knife. It is ugly. Its shape and design make him uncomfortable. He believes that the brotherhood cultists were carrying similar weapons. He slides it into his belt. He will show it to the server. Perhaps the data-engine can provide some illuminating information.

‘So the galaxy is at war?’ he asks.