A group of augur returns resolved out of the background noise, some distance
ahead of the scouts.
“Tight-beam communion established,” announced the conversi. “On main terminal
now.”
“Nova-zero-leader,” said Sarik, using the pathfinder squadron leader’s call
sign. “This is
Nomad
. I read multiple contacts inbound on your
trajectory. Report status.”
“Received,
Nomad
,” replied the comms officer aboard the lead
pathfinder, his voice clipped and metallic over the heavily shielded vox-link.
“Conducting passive augur reading of the platforms. Will relay to you when
complete, over.”
The icons on the lectern blinked as the tau vessels rapidly closed on the
pathfinder squadron. “Enemy vessels have you in their sights, Nova leader,”
Sarik growled. “You don’t have time for a full reading.”
There was a pause, before the pathfinder replied, “We know that,
Nomad
,
over.”
Sarik scowled and his grip on the edge of the lectern tightened as his
frustration mounted. Inside, he honoured the pathfinders for their dedication to
their duty, but he saw no reason for them to throw their lives away. “They’ll be
on you before you can complete the reading, you know that.”
“We have our orders,
Nomad
. Fleet has to know of those platforms,” the
comms officer insisted. “Whatever it costs.”
Sarik forced himself to calm before responding. “Nova leader, I honour your
courage.” He did not say such a thing lightly, and many Adeptus Astartes would
never have considered saying it at all. “But if you do not take immediate
evasive action, fleet will never hear your report. You’ll be dead.”
“We can’t simply—” the officer replied, but Sarik cut him off. “Listen to me,
Nova leader, and we’ll get fleet their reading and share a victory horn together
later. This is what I want you to do…”
As the Nomad had ploughed onwards towards the pathfinder squadron’s position,
Sarik had monitored the vox-channels. The elite crews of the scout vessels had
accepted his plan, and were enacting it with supreme skill and courage. Even as
the tau vessels closed, all but one of the scouts had veered off on a new
heading, on Sarik’s order, drawing the aliens away.
Only one pathfinder vessel now remained on station.
“Nova leader,” Sarik said, aware of how isolated the scout crew must be
feeling. “Status, please?”
“Preliminary readings compiling now,
Nomad
,” replied the comms officer
of Nova leader. “Initial cogitation suggests all three defence platforms are of
a different configuration to those we have previously faced, over.”
Sarik’s mind raced as he considered what devious new combination of offensive
and defensive alien technology might await the fleet as it closed on the
platforms. The tau had proved able to adapt rapidly, their forces displaying a
wide range of unpredictable technologies. “Different?” he said. “How?”
“Unclear at this stage,
Nomad
—” the scout replied. Before he could
complete his transmission, the channel burst with a sudden scream of feedback.
Sarik knew from previous fights with the alien tau what such vox interference
often foreshadowed. Yet another of their abominable weapons systems.
“Conversi Yosef,” Sarik addressed the tech-serf manning a station nearby.
“Source?”
“Enemy contact, brother-sergeant,” the crewman replied. “Augur spirits sing
of a homopolar energy surge analogous to mass driver weaponry previously
encountered.”
Sarik had no idea what that meant, his gorge rising at the prospect of losing
even a single fellow warrior of the Emperor to these aliens. Yosef’s words spoke
of the technological heresy of the tau, but they were as impenetrable and
repellent as a sorcerer’s hex to Sarik. “Meaning?”
“The xenos are opening fire, sir.”
“At?”
“At the scouts, sir.”
A moment later, a bright blue pulse illuminated the scene beyond the bridge’s
armoured viewing port. Bitter experience had taught Sarik just how lethal the
aliens’ weapons could be, and he braced himself against the sturdy lectern, even
though he doubted the shot was aimed at the
Nomad
.
He was correct. Although the distance was far too great to see any detail of
the attackers, the glowing readout on the lectern told him all he needed to
know. The blurred return that was the group of enemy vessels was resolving into
five separate icons as the scouts’ augurs got a better fix on them. One of those
icons, the vessel that had just fired, blinked as a line of cogitation data
scrolled rapidly beside it. The machine script described just how alien the
vessels were, their manoeuvring characteristics, displacement and weapons
systems so different from the Imperium’s warships and Sarik’s anger rose at the
thought of techno-heresy of the tau.
The vox-channel came to life as the comms officers of each of the scout
vessels reported in. Sarik breathed a sigh of relief that none had sustained any
major damage. Nova-zero-three had been the target of the attack, and had
suffered a temporary failure in flight control as the shot had passed
dangerously close. The scout vessel’s tech-adept was even now tending to the
outraged machine-spirits and nursing his systems back to life.
“They’re going for it,” Sarik growled, as the icons representing the enemy
ships changed course to power after the bulk of the pathfinder squadron. Nova
leader still appeared mightily vulnerable, but at least the enemy were being
drawn away. “Helm,” said Sarik. “Take us in.”
Helmsman Kuro, a bridge-serf who had served aboard the
Nomad
for three
decades and whose voidsmanship was nigh legendary, hauled on his mighty brass
control yokes, setting the vessel to come around to the new heading.
“Intercept at seven zero delta by five nine sigma,” Sarik snapped, before
addressing Conversi Loccum. “Do we have resolution yet?”
“In-loading now, brother-sergeant,” the serf replied, his face underlit by
his readout and his eyes flicking impossibly fast as he rapidly scanned the
reams of cogitation script passing across its glowing surface. “Enemy vessels
appear to be pickets, sir. Light displacement only.”
“Thank the primarch,” Sarik breathed. While the alien vessels might prove
superior to the pathfinders, they would hardly be a match for the
Nomad
.
That left the three defence platforms to face. Sarik determined to worry about
those later. Right now, his attention was focussed on closing the trap without
the loss of any Imperial lives.
Even as Sarik watched the icons swarming across the lectern screen, another
bright blue pulse illuminated the bridge. Silence followed, during which Sarik
fixed his gaze on the icons representing the pathfinder vessels. Far from
machine phosphorescence, each was a crew of dozens of brave men and women.
Then one of those icons turned red. Involuntarily, Sarik held his breath.
“Pathfinder Nova-zero-two hit, brother-sergeant,” Conversi Yosef reported
grimly.
“Damage?” Sarik replied, fearing the worst having seen all too closely the
potential of the alien weapons.
“Port drive disabled,” the serf said. “Reading grievous reactor failure.”
I’m sorry, Sarik said inwardly, no doubt in his mind as to what would happen
next.
A second bright flash illuminated space, and a small sun flared into
existence thousands of kilometres away, before collapsing in upon itself within
the span of a second. The icon representing Nova-zero-two blinked once, then
vanished. Sarik mouthed a silent Chogoran prayer to ease the passage of the dead
into the halls of their ancestors, before resuming his duty.
“Helm, open her up,” Sarik ordered. Flicking a switch on his lectern to
activate the internal vox-net, he said, “Fire control?”
“Brother Qaja here,” the reply came back. “Go ahead, brother-sergeant.”
“Qaja,” Sarik addressed the Space Marine who supervised the gun-serfs, a
warrior Sarik had served alongside for decades and counted amongst his closest
of brothers. “I want your crews to concentrate fire on any enemy vessel that so
much as
thinks
about breaking off from the decoy group to engage
Nova-zero-zero. Understood?”
As Brother Qaja signalled his understanding, Sarik turned to Conversi Nord,
the bridge-serf manning the shields station. “Nord, we’re about to draw a lot of
fire, from the enemy scouts for certain, but possibly from the defence platforms
too if they have the range. Be ready.” The conversi nodded his understanding,
and Sarik turned his attention back to the screen on his lectern.
The tau pickets were closing on the bulk of the pathfinder squadron. The
Nomad
’s projected course would bring her into weapons range within minutes.
The tau vessels opened fire on the scouts again. The scouts had scant point
defence capability, but what few weapons they did have opened fire as one,
stitching the void with streams of bright fire.
Screaming silently in, the tau pickets swept directly through the
pathfinder’s formation, reminding Sarik of a pack of silversharks attacking a
shoal of moonwyrms. The brave pathfinders ploughed on, relying on their speed to
push through the enemy. The tau vessels were fast, as Sarik knew they would be,
but they were also supremely manoeuvrable, each vessel selecting a victim and
latching onto it whatever evasive actions the pathfinder attempted. Just hold
on, Sarik thought, counting down the seconds until his own weapons would be in
range to intervene.
“Nova-zero-three’s in trouble, brother-sergeant,” a crewman said. Sarik
glanced upwards through the armoured portal, but besides the staccato flashes of
distant weapons discharges, the opposing vessels were still far too distant to
be seen with the naked eye. The readout on the lectern, however, told the full
story.
The scout vessel with the call sign of Nova-zero-three was being closely
pursued by a tau picket, the human pilot jinking sharply from side to side in an
attempt to avoid the constant hail of high-velocity projectiles streaming
through space towards him. The scout pilot was good, Sarik could tell, but so
too was his pursuer. The scout’s life must surely be measured in seconds.
“Intercept?” Sarik said, denial welling up inside him.
“Closing to long range now, brother-sergeant,” Conversi Kuro replied.
Sarik activated the vox-net link to Brother Qaja. “Fire control,” Sarik said,
“Zero-three needs our help—I got him into this situation, and by the primarch
I will get him out. Fire when ready.”
“Aye, brother-sergeant,” the other Space Marine replied. A line of targeting
script scrolled across the readout beside the icon representing the enemy
picket. “Fire control cogitation plotted. Opening fire.”
A moment later, the
Nomad
’s weapons batteries spoke, the report
shuddering through the frigate’s hull as titanic energies were unleashed. Each
shell was as large as a tank, and had been hauled into the breech of its cannon
by gangs of sweating Chapter-serfs, who even now would be racing to load the
next. A barrage of shells was propelled from the forward guns at supersonic
velocity, tearing across the intervening gulf of space in a matter of seconds.
So close were the pursuer and the pursued that Brother Qaja had been forced
to take aim at a point in space aft of the enemy picket, hoping to catch the
alien in the shell’s blast and avoid damaging the scout. More callous gunnery
masters might not have taken such precautions, but Qaja knew his commander well
and was in any case of a like mind. The first salvo of shells blossomed into
raging orange fire, but Sarik saw instantly that the shot had fallen short.
“Nova-zero-three,” Sarik hailed the pathfinder. “Cease evasion, full power to
main drives and hold on.”
The scout did not reply, and Sarik had not expected him to, for all of his
efforts would be focussed on simply staying alive. Nonetheless, Sarik’s
instruction was heeded. The scout vessel ceased its jinking and powered straight
ahead, its forward velocity increasing now its path was true. Within seconds,
the gap between the two vessels had increased.
A piercing shrill filled the small bridge.
“Enemy has cogitated terminal lock,” Conversi Yosef announced.
“Qaja,” said Sarik, his heart pounding with the ferocity of battle. “Do it,
do it now!”
The frigate shook as its forward weapons batteries roared a second time,
unleashing another salvo of gargantuan ordnance into space. Even as the shrill
warning tone continued, Sarik finally saw that the two vessels were entering
visual range. The pathfinder streaked past to the
Nomad
’s starboard, and
a second later the shells exploded violently to the fore.
A sheet of raging fire exploded across space, the infernal orange chasing
away the serene blue of the nebulae. The glow lent Sarik the aspect of a
fearsome beast from Chogoran legend, his polished white and red armour gleaming
and his fierce eyes burning with reflected flames. His face twisted savagely in
the furnace illumination and he pounded the lectern with a clenched fist with
dark exuberance. The glass of the lectern readout cracked under the impact, but
Sarik didn’t notice.
The icon representing the tau picket was engulfed in a rapidly expanding
circle that described the blast radius of the second salvo. The icon blinked out
of existence. It had been caught in the blast, and even had it survived, it
would not be in any state to continue the pursuit.
“
Nomad
,” the vox-channel burst to life, “this is Nova-zero-three. Our
thanks, we are indebted to you.”
“Never mind that,” Sarik growled, his hunter’s instinct reasserting itself
over his battle-lust as he scanned the readout. “What’s your status?”
“Alive,” the comms officer aboard Nova-zero-three replied wryly, causing
Sarik to snort in amusement. “But flight control is compromised and the
machine-spirits are grievously angered.”