Battle for The Abyss (12 page)

Cestus nodded, processing everything unfolding on the bridge.

‘Maintain lance barrage from the
Wrathful
and the
Waning
Moon
. Captain Vorlov, add the
Boundless
’s from distance and let the escorts engage. No ship, however massive, can withstand such a concentrated assault.’

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‘At your command, my lord,’ Vorlov returned. Cestus turned to regard Kaminska, seething at her command throne. ‘As you wish, captain,’ she responded coolly.

THE
FIREBLADE
STITCHED the first volleys of lance fire down against the upper hull of the
Furious Abyss
. It had nothing like the firepower of the fleet’s cruisers, but up close it could pick its targets, and each lance fired independently to blast off hull plates and shear turrets from their emplacements with fat bursts. Defensive guns retaliated in kind and shots blistered against the
Fireblade
’s shields, some making it through to the escort’s dark green hull. The
Fireblade
twisted out of arcs of fire and sent a chain of incendiaries hammering down into the dorsal turret arrays. Silent explosions blossomed and were swallowed by the void, leaving glittering sprays of wreckage like silver fountains.

The
Fireblade
’s hull was resplendent with kill markings and battle honours. It had done this many times before. It was small, but it was agile and packed a harder punch than its size suggested.

Behind it was the
Ferox
, its younger sister ship, using the heat signatures of the
Fireblade
’s strikes to throw bombs and las-blasts through the tears opened up in the upper hull.

The
Fireblade
finished its first run and corkscrewed up over the
Furious
’s engine housings, letting the heat wash of the battleship’s engines lend a hand in catapulting it void-wards before it lined up for another pass.

Below the two escorts, the last of the squadron, now just the
Ferocious
with the dramatic and sudden demise of the
Fearless
, was making its run along the underside of the massive vessel, pouring destruction into the ventral turrets. All three remaining escorts came under fierce fire, but their shields and hull armour held, their speed too great to allow a significant number of defensive turrets to bear at once and combine their efforts.

Captain Ulargo, at the helm of the
Fireblade
, commented to his fellow escort captains that the Word Bearers appeared to want to die.

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ANOTHER BROADSIDE THUNDERED from the
Waning Moon
as the strike cruiser turned elegantly, keeping level with the
Furious
Abyss
’s prow. The void was sucking fire out of the prow, so it looked like the head of a fire-breathing monster made of smouldering metal.

The enormous book that served as the ship’s figurehead was intact. Slowly, silently, the metal book cracked open and folded outwards.

The massive bore of a gun emerged from behind it.

The end of the barrel glowed red as reactors towards the rear of the ship opened up plasma conduits to the prow and the weapon’s capacitors filled. Licks of blue flame ran over the ruined prow, ignited by the sheer force of the building energy.

The prow cannon fired. A white beam leapt from the
Furious
Abyss
. At the same time thrusters kicked in, rotating the
Furious
a couple of degrees so that the short-lived beam played across the void in front of it.

It struck the
Waning Moon
just fore of the engines. Vaporised metal formed a billowing white cloud, like steam, condensing into a silver shower of re-solidified matter. Secondary explosions led the beam as it scored across the strike cruiser’s hull, until finally it was lost in the shower of debris and vapour as its energy expended and the glowing barrel began to cool down in the vacuum.

Further explosions rippled across the
Waning Moon
in the wake of the crippling barrage, and the rear third of the strike cruiser was sheared clean off.

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SIX

The void

Squadron disengage

A way with words

THE PACE OF space battles was glacially slow. Even when seen through viewscreens it was carried out at extreme ranges, with laser battery salvoes taking seconds to crawl across the blackness.

The battle had been raging for over an hour when the cannon on the prow of the
Furious Abyss
fired its maiden shot. The broadside from the
Waning Moon
had crossed a gulf of several hundred kilometres before impacting on the enemy ship’s prow and that had been point-blank by the standards of ship-to-ship warfare. The
Boundless
’s fighter wings had flown distances that would have taken them across continents on a planet’s surface.

When something happened quickly, it was a sudden, jarring occurrence that threw everything else out of kilter. The slow bal-let of a ship battle was broken by the discordant note of a rapid development, and all plans had to be re-founded in its wake. An event that could not be reacted to, that was over too quickly to change course or target, was a nightmare that many ship captains struggled to cope with.

It was unfortunate for the captains of the Imperial fleet, then, that the death of the
Waning Moon
happened very quickly indeed.

‘BY TITAN’S VALLEYS,’ gasped Admiral Kaminska on the bridge of the
Wrathful
. ‘What was that?’

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Ben Counter – Battle for the Abyss

The instruments on the bridge suddenly lit up as one as an intense flare of light filled the forward viewscreen.

‘Massive energy reading,’ came the confused reply from Helmsmistress Venkmyer. ‘Energy sensorium’s blind.’

‘Did the
Waning Moon
just go plasma-critical?’

‘There were no damage control signs that suggested major engine damage. They’d got the reactor-seven leak locked down.

Maybe a weapons discharge?’

‘What weapon could do that?’

‘A plasma lance,’ replied Cestus.

Kaminska turned to face the Ultramarine, whose grim expression betrayed his emotions.

‘I did not know such a device had been wrought and fitted,’ he added.

The admiral’s initial shock turned to stern pragmatism.

‘My lord, if I am to risk my ship and the souls onboard, I would have you tell me what we are up against,’ she said, with no little consternation.

‘I have little idea,’ Cestus confessed, staring into the viewscreen, analysing and appraising tactical protocols in nanoseconds as he considered Kaminska’s question. ‘The Astartes are not privy to the secret works of the Mechanicum, admiral.’ The Ultramarine sensed the challenge from Kaminska, her growing discontent, and was determined to crush it. ‘Suffice to say that the plasma lance was developed as a direct fire close-range weapon for ship-to-ship combat. In any event, it matters not. Your orders are simple,’ said Cestus, turning his steely gaze upon Admiral Kaminska in an attempt to cow her veiled truculence.

‘We are to destroy that ship.’

‘They are Astartes aboard that ship, Cestus, our battle-brothers,’

Antiges said quietly. Until now, the fellow Ultramarine had been content to maintain his silence and keep his own council, but events were unfolding upon the bridge of the
Wrathful
and out in the wide, cold reaches of real space that he could not ignore.

‘I am aware of that, Antiges.’

‘But captain, to condemn them to—’

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‘My hand is forced,’ Cestus snarled, suddenly turning on Antiges. ‘Know your place, battle-brother! I am still your commanding officer.’

‘Of course, my captain.’ Antiges bowed slightly and averted his gaze from his fellow Ultramarine. ‘I would request to leave the bridge to inform Saphrax and the rest of the squad to prepare for a potential boarding action.’

Cestus’s face was set like stone. Antiges met it with a steely gaze of his own. ‘Granted.’ His captain’s curt response was icy.

Antiges saluted, turned on his heel and left the bridge. Kaminska said nothing, only listened to what Cestus ordered next. ‘Raise Mhotep at once.’

The admiral turned to regard her helms-mate monitoring communications with the
Waning Moon
.

‘We cannot, sire,’ Kant replied. ‘The
Waning Moon
’s vox array is not operational.’

Kaminska swore beneath her breath, turning to the tactical display in the hope that a solution would present itself. All she saw was the massive enemy ship manoeuvring for a fresh assault against the
Boundless
.

‘Captain Vorlov,’ she barked into the vox, ‘this is the
Wrathful
.

She’s heading for you next. Get out of there.’

There was a crackle of static and Vorlov’s voice replied, ‘What is this monster you have us hunting, Kaminska?’

There was a slight pause, and suddenly Kaminska looked very old as if the many juvenat treatments she’d undertaken to grant her such longevity had been stripped away.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I never thought I’d hear you at a loss for words,’ said Vorlov.

‘I’m breaking off and hitting warp distance. I suggest you do the same.’

Kaminska looked at Cestus. ‘Do we run?’

‘No,’ said Cestus. His jaw was set as he watched the debris from the
Waning Moon
rain in all directions as the ship’s hull split in two.

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‘That’s what I thought. Helmsmistress Venkmyer, relay orders to engineering to make ready for full evasive.’

THE BRIDGE OF the
Waning Moon
was in ruins. Massive feedback had ripped through every helm. Crewmen had died as torrents of energy had hammered through their scalp sockets and into their brains. Others were burning in the wreckage of exploded cogitators. Some of them had got out, but there was little indication that anywhere on the ship was better off. There was smoke everywhere, and all sound was swamped by the agonising din of screaming metal from the rear of the ship. The ship’s spine was broken and it could no longer support its own structure. The
Waning Moon
’s movement was enough to force it apart with inertia.

The blast doors had buckled under the extreme damage inflicted upon the stricken vessel and would not open. Mhotep had drawn his scimitar and cut through them with ease, forcing his way out of the bridge.

Engineering was gone, simply gone. The last surviving readouts on the bridge had been tracking the engines as they spun away below the ship, ribbons of burning plasma and charred bodies spilling from the ship’s wounds like intestines.

No order had been given to abandon ship. Mhotep hadn’t needed to give it.

‘Captain, power is falling all across the ship,’ shouted Helms-mate Ramket, his voice warring against the din of internal explosions somewhere below decks.

‘We are beyond saving, helms-mate. Head for the starboard saviour pods immediately,’ Mhotep replied, noting the savage gash across Ramket’s forehead where he’d been struck by falling ship debris.

Ramket saluted and was about to turn and do as ordered when a sheet of fire rippled down the corridor, channelled through the
Waning Moon
’s remaining oxygen. It flowed over Mhotep in a coruscating wave, spilling against his armour as it was repelled.

Warning runes within his helmet lens display flashed intense
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Ben Counter – Battle for the Abyss

heat readings. Ramket had no such protection, and his scream died in his burning mouth as the skin was seared from his body.

Smothered by fire, as if drowning, Ramket thundered against the deck in a heap of charred bone and flaming meat.

Mhotep forced his way through the closest access portal and hauled it shut against the blaze. The fire had caught on the seals of his armour and he patted them out with his gauntleted palm.

He had emerged from the conflagration into one of the ship’s triage stations, where the wounded had been brought from the torpedo strikes on the gun decks. The injured were still lying in beds hooked up to respirators and life support cogitators. The orderlies were gone; ship regulations made no provision for bringing invalids along when abandoning ship.

They had given their lives to the Thousand Sons. They had known that they would die in service, one way or another. Mhotep ignored the dead and pressed on.

Beyond the triage station were crew quarters. Men and women were running everywhere. Normally, they would know exactly where to head in the event of an abandon ship, but the
Waning
Moon
’s structure was coming apart and the closest saviour pods were wrecked. Some were already dead, crushed by chunks of torn metal crashing through the ceiling or thrown into fiery rents in the deck plates. In spite of the confusion, they stood aside instinctively to allow Mhotep clear passage. As an Astartes and their lord, his life was worth more man any of theirs.

‘Starboard saviour pods are still operational, captain,’ said one petty officer. Mhotep remembered his name as Lothek. He was just one of the many thousands of souls about to burn in the void.

Mhotep nodded an acknowledgement to the man. The Thousand Son’s own armour was still smouldering and he could feel points of hot pain at the elbow and knee joints, but he ignored them.

Abruptly, the crew quarters split in two, one side hauled sharply upwards in a scream of twisting metal. Lothek went with it,
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smashed up into the ceiling and turned to a grisly red paste before his mouth had even formed a terrified scream.

A huge section of the
Waning Moon
’s structure had collapsed and given way. Its inertia ripped it out of the ship’s belly and air shrieked from the widening gaps. Mhotep was staggered by the unexpected rupture and grabbed the frame of a door as air howled past him. He saw crewmen wrenched off their feet and dashed against torn deck plating that bent outwards like jagged, broken teeth. The tangled mass before him gave way and tumbled off into the void, over a dozen souls screaming silently as they went with it. Their eyes widened in panic even as they iced over. They gasped out breaths, or held them too long, and ruptured their lungs, spewing out ragged plumes of blood. Hitting space, their bodies froze in spasm, limbs held at awkward angles as they drifted away into the star-pocked darkness. The scene was bizarrely tranquil as Mhotep regarded it, the swathe of black-clad nothing silent and endless where distant constella-tions glittered dully and the faded luminescence of far off suns left a lambent glow in the false night.