Scythes of the Emperor (Space Marine Battles) by L J Goulding

Author:L J Goulding [Goulding, L J]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Games Workshop
Published: 2017-07-29T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

FROM THE SKIES

The interceptor cannons blazed. Guided by automated targeting systems as well as the keen eyes of their gunners, they stitched the heavens with seemingly unending hails of bright tracer fire, and sent salvo after salvo of flak to follow after it.

On every facing of the bastion, the roar of the guns was almost deafening.

It was a storm inverted, with flashes of las-lightning and the thunder of heavy cannons following a hot, steel rain up into the sky. The dark clouds at ground level were drifting banks of gun smoke, rocket propellant and coolant steam, stirred only gently by the languid breeze from the jungle beyond the mesa top.

A siren sounded at the base of Interceptor Four, the whirling amber beacon signalling the ammunition loading crews to shunt fresh reserves into the turret’s magazines – it was the sixth time this particular quad-gun had run dry in the last thirty-one minutes. With their awkward, hastily learned reloading procedure taking crucial seconds longer than it should have, the serfs cursed wildly as the hoppers clanked empty, jamming three of the four barrels and settling the belt feed mechanism to its idle safety mode once more.

Inside the command centre of the Giant’s Coffin, Brother Keltru half turned in his seat. ‘I-Four is down again!’ he called out. ‘Showing multiple loading failures on my screen.’

Culmonios squeezed his clenched fists tighter.

‘Damn it – send a Techmarine in there. Clear the jams and get it firing again.’

From across the chamber, the human armoury liaison keyed his terminal display to the main tactical hololith. ‘All Chapter adepts are engaged. I have two serf engineers ready to assess, instead. Authorising now.’

Even as the man spoke, Interceptor Nine flashed up a magazine depletion warning.

Seven per cent. Five. Two. Dry.

His hearts pounding in frustration, Culmonios booted the command lectern. ‘Skyshield control! Report status!’ he roared.

Amidst all the serfs and Chapter warriors in their gold-and-black livery, a red-robed acolyte of the Adeptus Mechanicus was a far more rare sight. The woman turned her head with an artificial, mechanical smoothness, her tri-ocular lenses focusing on the bastion commander’s armoured form. The modulated tones of her voice were infuriatingly calm.

‘Skyshield status, holding. Repulsor field integrity at ninety-eight per cent.’

Culmonios gripped the lectern with both hands. Through the cold metal, he could feel the vibration of the relentless cannonfire outside the bastion.

He took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. ‘Then, it seems we might yet have a chance. Assuming the reactor can run forever…’

On the hololith, dozens of incoming contacts plunged through the skies of Miral Prime with every passing minute. It was a continent-sized spread, the spawn of two hive ships making planetfall en masse – a hundred thousand organic spore pods hurtling down towards the surface, trailing fire behind them as they came. Each of those pods, some more than ten metres long, bloated and armoured in crimson chitin against the heat of re-entry and the guns of the bastion’s defenders, would carry the xenos foe to the ground in numbers unknown.

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