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Crusade & Other Stories – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Chapter One

The augur probe Kalides-Gamma-19-8_6 floated in the void. It was an Imperial monitor satellite, a bulky mass of machinery and bio-reliquaric components slaved to a deep-space Mandeville point. Kalides-Gamma-19-8_6 had a single purpose: to monitor activity around the Kalides System’s last stable warp translation point.

From here interstellar warships could break through from the strange dimension of the warp and begin their journey in-system. It fell to the augur probe, and several dozen more like it, to monitor all new arrivals and send word of their coming to the inhabited worlds deeper in-system.

Kalides-Gamma-19-8_6 had hung in place for decades. In that time, precisely twenty-seven starships had translated into real space beneath its watchful ocular receptors.

Now, came the twenty-eighth.

Auto-scriptoral data feeds scrolled through the probe’s artificial cortex. Auto-inquisitions answered auspicatory sweep readings, but as its machine-spirit prepared to catalogue another uneventful sweep, the probe’s cogitations were broken as a priority signum-interdiction signal flared within its empyric augurs.

The augur probe’s void-hardened lenses refocused. Its empyric signums whirred to life, drinking in data on every spectrum as reality buckled. The starfield warped and rippled in a patch a hundred miles across. Light bent in the probe’s staring fisheye-lens as though contorting in the grip of a black hole. Witchfires sparked and died in the darkness, each flare scorching the skin of reality.

Rents appeared, matter peeling away in strips like flesh from a leper’s face, and ectoplasm spilled through, billowing in geysers and glowing with an eerie light.

Real space convulsed, crumpling and stretching all at once before ripping open like a fractal wound.

From within burst a starship.

It tumbled, engines firing as it fought to right itself. The ship’s Geller field tattered amidst dancing corposants, revealing a craft almost a mile long, a buttressed Imperial warship whose battered hull plates were scorched and dented. Behind it, the tear in reality writhed madly, tendrils of dirty light groping blindly as if seeking to snatch back their prize before it could escape.

As the warp anomaly collapsed in upon itself and the starship sailed free, Kalides-Gamma-19-8_6 worked furiously to codify and categorise, to scan and transmit. Info-spools whirred within its armoured carapace, preparing a package of intelligence ready to be beamed through its aquila-carved macro-array. Machine-spirit interrogations determined the ship’s designation as a strike cruiser – a Space Marine vessel. Further rapid auto-scans detected and classified the heraldry of the Ultramarines Chapter, from the noble world of Macragge.

The probe worked diligently, still attempting choristry with the on-board machine-spirits of the Ultramarines strike cruiser even as the warship bore down upon it. Retro-thrusters fired in the probe’s flanks, trying to shunt it out of the starship’s path, and Kalides-Gamma-19-8_6 was still busily compiling its vox-package when it was annihilated by the impact of the onrushing craft. The probe exploded, a brief starburst of fire against the armoured flank of the vessel.

It left a slight scorch mark upon the strike cruiser’s starboard prow plating, directly below the ship’s name: Primarch’s Sword.

Within the armoured hull of the strike cruiser, a robed helot hastened along a corridor lit by strobing emergency lumens. He gripped the guide rails with one hand, ignoring the canted angle of the corridor and the shuddering gravity fluctuations. In his other hand, he clutched a freshly scribed data-parchment, intended for the eyes of the most important warriors on the ship.

He passed beneath the watchful eye-lenses of gothic gargoyles. He hurried across a gantry above a gun deck where servitors fought to extinguish fires and medicae teams saw to the wounded. He brushed past other helots, each hurrying along on their own missions; many of his fellow servants were wounded, or hollow-eyed from lack of sleep.

The helot halted for a moment as the Primarch’s Sword gave an especially violent jolt, and a groan of stressed metal rolled through the air. His eyes darted to the dark corners, whites shrinking around his pupils. He recalled the unnatural entities that had attempted to manifest during the strike cruiser’s violent trip through warp space. The ship’s Geller field had kept the warp-things at bay, but all the same the helot’s thoughts turned to the reassuring weight of the bolt pistol holstered at his hip. No servant of the Ultramarines was defenceless…

‘Emperor give your servant strength,’ he muttered, ‘and protect this unworthy soul from the terrors of the outer dark.’

Slowly the shuddering beneath his feet subsided, and the corridor righted itself as the Primarch’s Sword restabilised its internal gravity. The helot made the sign of the aquila over the stylised white U emblazoned on his chest, then hurried on.

The helot arrived at the gold-embossed doors to the ship’s strategium. Two Primaris Space Marines stood guard outside, bolt rifles held across their armoured chests. The warriors were demi-gods in the helot’s eyes. Their fully enclosing suits of blue power armour, their proud helms with the faintly glowing eye-lenses, their thrumming back-mounted power packs – all of this filled him with a near-religious awe.

He approached with his eyes cast respectfully downwards, and one of the Ultramarines nodded in acknowledgement.

‘Proceed,’ said the warrior, his vox-amplified voice a deep rumble.

The doors slid aside, and the helot passed into the strategium. The chamber was high-ceilinged and decorated with marble statuary. A huge hololithic table squatted at its centre, and banks of cogitators and strategic auspex shrines lined its walls. The strategium was large enough to hold twenty armoured Adeptus Astartes, but for now it contained just three Primaris Space Marines, the noble lords who led this strike force.

They were stood around the holotable, and their eyes turned to the helot as he entered. The gravity of their combined gaze almost pinned him in place.

He approached Lieutenant Cassian, holding out the data-parchment to the strike force’s commanding officer.

‘Missive from Shipmaster Aethor, my lord,’ said the helot. ‘He deemed it too urgent to await restoration of ship-wide vox.’

The Primaris lieutenant took the illuminated plastek printout, his noble features set in a stern frown.

‘My thanks…’

‘Kallem, my lord,’ said the helot.

‘My thanks, Kallem,’ said Cassian. He unfurled the parchment, his eyes scanning its contents with inhuman speed.

‘What is the word?’ asked Librarian Keritraeus. The helot’s eyes flicked involuntarily towards the psyker, drawn to the nest of cabling that punctured his scalp, and his dark eyes like wells of secrets.

‘The shipmaster is pleased to inform us that, with the aid of Navigator X’gol, we have escaped the empyric storm that has gripped the ship these past days,’ said Cassian.

‘That much was obvious,’ grunted Chaplain Dematris. The Chaplain’s black armour and skull helm stood out in dark contrast to his comrades’ blue armour. Dematris’ mace-like crozius was laid on the holotable before him, a symbol of both his spiritual authority and his martial might.

‘He goes on,’ said Cassian dryly. ‘The initial damage report from the tech-magi estimates the Primarch’s Sword to be operating at fifty-two per cent combat effectiveness. We’ve lost several gun decks to fires and munitions detonations, and the aft void shield generators are inactive. Ship-wide vox is down, and we’ve lost more than half of the hull auspex.’

‘And our warp drive?’ asked Keritraeus.

‘Magos Lamdaxh has been forced to render it quiescent for fear of empyric feedback or malefic overspill.’

‘Then we are crippled,’ said Dematris angrily. ‘Without the power of our warp drive to pierce the veil, we are reduced to conventional drives. A journey that would take us days in warp space would require years under such conventional power. We have no way of rejoining the Indomitus Crusade, or even of letting our comrades know that we still live.’

‘Does the honoured magos suggest how long it will take him to effect repairs?’ asked Librarian Keritraeus.

‘He does not,’ replied Cassian. ‘But let us assume for now that the gates of the warp are closed to us.’

‘Then what is our course of action?’ asked Dematris. ‘We surely haven’t succeeded in the pacification of Knossa only to be cast adrift in the interstellar darkness – that would not serve the Emperor’s will.’

Lieutenant Cassian punched a runic sequence into the holotable, muttering the rites of awakening as he did so. The device flickered to life, crafting a three-dimensional map of local space in the air from light and shadow. The Primarch’s Sword sat at its centre, a blue-and-gold rune, and around it the map slowly expanded as the ship’s remaining auspicators wove a data-fresco of its surroundings.

‘There are machine-spirit acknowledgements from deep-void satellites,’ said Cassian. ‘That would put us on the fringes of a star system, at least.’

‘There,’ said Keritraeus, pointing as further runes flickered into life. ‘An asteroid belt. A gas giant. A death world.’

‘More planets,’ said Cassian, ‘and with Imperial designators. By the Emperor’s grace, we have come to a settled system, my brothers.’

Astrogation data scrolled down one side of the map. Names began to appear in flickering, High Gothic script as the bridge crew worked to triangulate their position.

‘The Kalides System,’ Cassian read aloud. ‘And there, the capital world – Kalides Prime. Tithe-grade secundus, which would suggest sufficient orbital docks to hasten our repairs.’

‘Even better…’ said Keritraeus, tapping commands into the holotable’s runic keys. The display focused on Kalides Prime, expanding the world into a slowly spinning orb and projecting additional information in a halo around it.

‘An astropathic relay,’ said Cassian, allowing himself a tight smile. ‘This is good news. Not only can we repair the Primarch’s Sword, but with the mind-choir of that planet’s astropaths we can pierce the veil and send word to the Indomitus Crusade. We will let them know of our success on Knossa, and coordinate our rendezvous with the crusade fleet. We will return to the primarch’s side.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Dematris. ‘But let us take Knossa as a warning. According to this feed, the last confirmed contact with any world of the Kalides System was almost two years ago.’

‘Not so unusual,’ observed Keritraeus. ‘The Imperium is a vast realm, and since the opening of the Great Rift it has been harder than ever to travel safely between the stars. This would hardly be the first isolated-yet-loyal system the Indomitus Crusade has brought back into the fold.’

‘True,’ said Dematris. ‘But the corrupting influence of Chaos pervades the galaxy. Before the flesh-cults rose from the shadows to seize power, I don’t doubt that Knossa was loyal also. Following the teachings of the primarch, I suggest the theoretical that we find ourselves in a hostile system until it is proven otherwise.’

‘Wise counsel, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Cassian. ‘I will order Shipmaster Aethor to proceed under combat conditions, and have all battle-brothers stand ready for an engagement. Should the people of this system prove to be traitors, we will wrest control of Kalides Prime by force. We must be bellicose in this. Until we can achieve a true sidereal fix, it is impossible to know how much time we lost within the jaws of the warp. And we have our orders.’

Cassian keyed a sequence of runes, and the image of Kalides Prime was replaced by a towering warrior clad in magnificently ornamented armour. All but forgotten by the three Space Marines, Kallem gasped at the imposing sight of the Ultramarines’ primarch, Roboute Guilliman. Even rendered in a grainy hololithic recording, the Lord of Ultramar exuded such a god-like presence that the helot was driven to his knees in awe.

‘My sons,’ said Guilliman, his voice rich, deep and utterly commanding. ‘As the Indomitus Crusade gathers pace, we drive like a spear into the heartlands of my father’s Imperium. So the dangers to our flanks grow manifold, and must be addressed. Captain Adrastean has already given you your orders, but allow me to say this to you. You are all newforged, all Primaris battle-brothers. You are the product of my will and Archmagos Cawl’s labours. You are the ultimate warriors of the Imperium of Mankind, the torchbearers who will drive back the shadows in this darkest of hours. Know that you have my absolute faith. Let that knowledge strengthen your arms and gird your souls. Prevail, gloriously, swiftly, then return to my side. There are always more foes to be fought. The crusade must continue.’

The holorecording came to an end, and was replaced again by the image of Kalides Prime. Cassian, Keritraeus and Dematris looked at one another.

‘We have a duty to perform, and no time to waste,’ said Cassian. ‘We will not shame Captain Adrastean, and we will not fail our gene-sire.’

The lieutenant turned to face Kallem, who tried to control his shaking body and rose unsteadily to his feet.

‘Kallem,’ said Cassian. ‘You will bear these orders to the shipmaster. He is to make all speed for Kalides Prime, and to stop for nothing. The magi and Techmarines are to make what repairs they can while en route. It will take us sixteen hours to reach the planet from this position, and I expect the Primarch Sword’s combat effectiveness to be increased at least twenty per cent by the time we do. External vox is to remain shrouded unless we receive Imperial hails first – the shipmaster should assume that we are in hostile space until it is proven otherwise.’

Kallem nodded, saluting the lieutenant with the sign of the aquila.

‘At once, my lord.’

He turned and marched away, the image of the primarch’s features still burned into his mind.

‘Wise,’ said Dematris as the doors slid shut behind the helot. ‘Replaying that holorecording. It stoked the fires of that man’s faith, and those flames will spread.’

Cassian smiled. ‘It was for our benefit as much as his, Dematris.’

‘Sixteen hours, then,’ said Keritraeus. ‘Ample time to prepare ourselves for whatever lies ahead. I will meditate, and focus my powers. Passage through the warp storm was… unpleasant. I need to refortify my mind.’

‘I will look to matters spiritual,’ said Dematris, hefting his crozius. ‘There will be those who wish to make their devotions in the Reclusiam. Besides which, duty requires reconsecration.’

‘It will be good to wield that blade again,’ said Cassian. ‘Almost enough to make me hope that Kalides does play host to heretics.’

‘Always hope for enemies to slay,’ quoted Dematris. ‘For in their spilled blood will the Imperium be washed clean.’

Keritraeus raised one eyebrow, but made no comment.

‘Very good, brothers,’ said Cassian. ‘Muster will commence when we are six hours out.’

‘Until then,’ said Keritraeus.

The Librarian and the Chaplain departed, leaving Lieutenant Cassian standing alone before the slowly revolving image of Kalides Prime. He stared hard at the hololith, as though he could force it to give up its secrets. There was much to be done, he thought. Strategic inloads of the planet’s topography, settlement maps, last-known military strengths and the like. Then construction of likely battlefield theoreticals and the practical solutions to them, as the primarch taught. A tour of the ship for the sake of morale, and then his own personal preparations: the rites of arming over his wargear, and meditations to centre himself.

‘But first,’ he murmured, ‘to stoke those fires of faith.’

The ship-wide vox might still be crippled, but Space Marine armour was a marvel of arcane technology. Alongside the suites of auto-senses that sharpened their battlefield perceptions, and the servo-bundles that augmented their already prodigious strength, every Primaris battle-brother’s Mark X armour incorporated a hardened vox-emitter keyed to a set of coded command channels. This vox-net was impervious to all but the most devastating forms of disruption, and so as Cassian keyed his vox-bead to channel ultima, he knew that his address would reach every one of the seventy-two other Ultramarines aboard the Primarch’s Sword.

‘My brothers,’ began Cassian. Throughout the vessel, Primaris Space Marines ceased what they were doing and attended to their lieutenant’s words.

‘My brothers, on Knossa we crushed the heretic foe,’ he said. ‘We threw down the twisted idols of Chaos and we purged the degenerates that had fallen to their worship. We brought the light of the Indomitus Crusade to those benighted by heresy. We won victory in the primarch’s name.’

Upon the ship’s firing ranges, Intercessor battle-brothers held up their bolt rifles in salute, while heavily armoured Aggressors clenched their power fists and raised them triumphantly.

‘Upon our departure from that system, the foul powers of the empyrean attempted to punish us for our victory,’ continued Cassian. ‘Yet even the fury of a warp storm could not hold us back from our duty. We escaped. We endured.’

Knelt in meditation in the ship’s Reclusiam, the brothers of Sergeant Marcus’ Reiver squad let the lieutenant’s words echo through their minds, even as they prepared to don their sinister wargear and the terrifying personas that went with it.

‘Now, the Emperor has provided us with the means to contact the crusade forces again, and to repair our craft that we might rejoin our battle-brothers all the sooner. But the greatest gifts are not given freely. The Emperor’s beneficence must be earned, and there is every chance that we will find a world turned to madness and heresy by the malign influence of the Great Rift.’

Upon the arming deck, the brothers of Sergeant Gallen’s Hellblaster squad looked up from their prayers over the bellicose machine-spirits of their plasma incinerators. They shared stern, stoic glances, the looks of warriors committed to giving everything – even their lives – if victory demanded it.

‘Perhaps we will find a world of faithful Imperial servants, ready to aid our cause,’ said Cassian. ‘But if not, then know this – we will crush anyone foolish enough to oppose us. We will lay low any heretic who dares stand between us and our return to the primarch’s side. We are the gene-sons of Roboute Guilliman, and we will prevail. For the Emperor!’

‘For the Emperor!’ cried Cassian’s warriors, their booming voices carrying along the ship’s corridors and through its cavernous chambers, filling their helot servants with pride and courage.

‘Muster begins at seventeen hundred hours shiptime,’ said Cassian. ‘Look to your wargear and ready yourselves for battle. If enemies await us, we shall make them rue their folly…’

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