‘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.
‘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?’
10
‘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.