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None More Loyal

Mike Lee

The rendezvous was a set of coordinates in the depthless void almost six hours from Indremer’s bustling jump point. Turbulent sailing through the warp from Beryl Ultra had set the Crimson Fists behind; Veteran Brother Fuentas, master of the strike cruiser Intractable, had been forced to push the warship’s engines to the utmost to arrive at the appointed hour. The summons – a priority omicron and embellished with the Inquisitorial seal – had made it clear that time was of the essence.

Veteran Sergeant Sandor Galleas linked a data-slate to the Thunderhawk’s forward auspex array and studied the massive ship awaiting them. Nearly twice as large as the Intractable, the Duchess Hespera’s armoured flanks bore the scars of battles fought when the Imperium was still young. Craters from torpedo strikes and macro-cannon shells left jagged pockmarks along the length of its dark-grey hull, and its swept bow was crisscrossed with the characteristic scars of particle lance fire. The two Cobra-class destroyers providing close escort were all but lost in the great vessel’s shadow.

Ancient and battered but still formidable, Galleas thought, gauging the strength of the surviving batteries and power readings from the reactors. No signs of recent combat. No indications of a takeover. He pored over the data scrolling past the ship’s image. The better informed he was, the greater the odds of victory. The Chapter Master had handpicked his squad for the mission – his first independent command since taking charge – and the honour of such an assignment weighed heavily on him.

Brother Efraim’s voice crackled over the vox. ‘Sixty seconds to touchdown,’ the pilot said. ‘The cruiser’s starboard shuttle bay is open, and mag-seals are active.’

‘Acknowledged,’ Galleas replied. ‘Still no word from the Hespera?’

‘Not even a standard challenge. All three ships are running silent.’

‘That’s strange, is it not?’ asked Veteran Brother Ibraim Salazar. He shifted in his crash harness to glance across the troop compartment at Galleas, who stood in the place of honour at the head of the Thunderhawk’s forward assault ramp. Red lantern light shone wetly on the double row of fresh ork tusks that hung from Salazar’s right pauldron. As the newest member of the squad, and only recently elevated to the elite ranks of the Chapter’s Crusade Company, Salazar was jealous of the many battle-honours his brothers wore.

‘There’s no such thing as normal where the Inquisition is concerned.’ Veteran Brother Timon Royas folded his arms across his chest and glanced up and down the troop compartment, as though daring the rest of the squad to refute him. A Crimson Fist with more than two hundred years’ service in the Chapter’s Crusade Company, Royas wore the ornate silver pauldron of the Deathwatch upon his left shoulder, signifying time served in the Ordo Xenos’s kill-teams. ‘Secrecy for its own sake is second nature to them.’

‘True enough.’ Veteran Brother Mikael Tauros spoke in low, measured tones, as befit a warrior of his age and experience. He was the oldest battle-brother in the squad, a Crimson Fist of nearly five hundred years’ service and a veteran of some of the Chapter’s greatest campaigns. ‘But this involves the subsector governor. Perhaps the need for secrecy is justified.’

Galleas glanced up from the data-slate. ‘How do you know that?’

Tauros chuckled. Sitting next to Galleas, he leaned forward in his restraints and tapped gently at the image glowing on the data-slate. ‘I know this ship of old, brother. The Duchess Hespera fought in the Vexan Crusade, and stood in the battle line against the Reavers of Ythramar. After the Reavers were broken at the Battle of Tamar, the Hespera was retired from the fleet rolls with honour, where it passed into the hands of Admiral Ishmael Garth. The same Garth that now serves as governor of the Numidea subsector.’

‘Garth? I know that name.’ Across the troop compartment, Veteran Brother Yezim Olivar turned his red-lit gaze upon Galleas. Unlike his brothers, Olivar’s battle armour carried no battle trophies or campaign seals; instead, long curls of parchment bearing Ecclesiarchal verses hung from his pauldrons and breastplate, and the Imperial aquila on his chest was polished to a mirror sheen. ‘Ishmael Garth and his family are renowned for their devotion to the Imperial cult, and their generous tithes to the Adeptus Ministorum.’

Servos whined softly off to Galleas’s right. Veteran Brother Valentus leaned forward, his polished, steel skull reflecting the red lantern light as he addressed Galleas. ‘Secrecy is well and good,’ he said, the words rasping from the vox-grille set into the hollow of his scarred throat. ‘But why pull us from the fighting at Beryl Ultra, when there are other Chapters closer to Numidea that could have answered the summons?’

A momentary chill swept through Galleas’s body as the Thunderhawk passed through the grand cruiser’s void shields. Ghostly fingers brushed along his bones and seized at his twin hearts. For the briefest instant, an abyss yawned inside him, hungry and vast, and then it was gone.

‘The answer is self-evident, brothers,’ Galleas declared. ‘We have been called because we are the Crimson Fists, the shield-hand of Dorn. Of all the Space Marine Chapters across the Imperium, there are none more loyal than we. That is why so many of our brothers stand the Long Watch with the Ordo Xenos. That is why the Ordo Malleus called upon us to carry out the ultimate sanction on the Sons of Gideon and the Marines Vigilant when they forgot their oaths to Terra.

‘Time and again the Inquisition has called upon us, because our honour and devotion is beyond reproach. The very fact that we were summoned from the undertaking on Beryl Ultra should underscore how serious the situation must be.’ He blanked the data-slate and secured it to a cradle set into the forward bulkhead. ‘It is a great honour to serve the Inquisition, and we should be proud that Chapter Master Kantor selected us for this task. We must not fail him.’

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