Wind and cold, because the Sybota tore in half.
Mandrell stared in wonder and horror. He had that much time. His final breath was long enough for him to see the fore section of the cruiser fall away from the aft. He saw all the exposed decks of his vessel. He saw plasma explode along the edges of the wound. He saw thousands of crew and troops float off into the void, tiny figures, insignificant, a tumbling swarm. He saw the dark of the void snuff out the flames, but the light did not die at once. The void shields went first, their end a chain reaction of brilliant ferocity, the ship’s defences exploding outward, failing after the hull itself.
The Sybota was a broken bone, its two halves slowly turning away from each other. The vision was immense. Mandrell witnessed a death so great, his own end was meaningless. The seconds that remained to him were consumed with bleak wonder.
Then the wind ceased, and there was only the dark, and the merciless, terminal cold.
Ochoa reached the command gallery above the bridge in time to see the Sybota break in two. The ork gravity weapon had lashed out from the attack moon, a single whip of unfurled, impossible force. It had seized the cruiser, and its grip was doom. The beam had sideswiped the Cyzicus. The blow had been nothing, the mere wake of the passing force. It had still been enough to disrupt the frigate’s artificial gravity, hurling Ochoa back and forth against corridor walls as she ran for the bridge. Klaxons still wailed, and the screens next to the oculus were filled with the red script of damage reports.
‘All batteries,’ Ochoa said. She got no further before there was another bright flash in the upper left quadrant of the oculus. The entire superstructure of the destroyer Iron Castellan vanished in the killing light. The ship began a slow roll out of formation. What looked like a small mountain had materialised in the vessel’s core, its rocky peaks projecting out of the stern and the upper portions of the hull. Ochoa stared for several seconds at the impossible vision. Just before the greater flash came, consuming the vessel entirely, she understood.
Teleportation, she thought. They teleported a chunk of the attack moon into the Castellan.
‘Signal all ships,’ Ochoa shouted to Gliese, the officer of the vox. ‘Open fire on the moon with all batteries, all torpedoes. Destroy it.’
Gliese turned to look up at her. ‘We have orders to—’
Damn Lansung and damn the Mechanicus. If those fleshless cultists wanted the greenskin toys, they could put them back together again. ‘You have new orders from me. The responsibility is mine. Now do as I say or I’ll shoot you where you stand.’
Gliese saluted and opened a channel.
‘All vessels, open fire,’ Ochoa said. ‘Full batteries, full torpedo launches. Destroy that moon.’
‘By whose authority…’
That was Huf, squawking from the frigate Steadfast Contrition.
‘By mine,’ Ochoa told him. ‘As most senior surviving captain. Open fire, Huf, or do you want the greenskins to crush your ship?’
Huf clicked off.
Moments later, Ochoa saw the streams of shells and torpedoes streak from the blockade towards the attack moon. Imperial ordnance cut through the dark of the void. No one else questioned the order. The other captains had probably already been issuing their commands. They knew what was at stake.
The barrage was immense. It was also too late. Before the first torpedo struck the surface of the moon, its terrible maw began to open once more. The shouting, raging corpse had come back to life. From its interior came a swarm of ork ships. Interceptors, fighters, bombers and torpedo ships raced for the blockade. Dozens were caught by the oncoming artillery. The near space of the attack moon became a fiery nimbus of superheated plasma and disintegrating metal. Hundreds more greenskin vessels shot through the curtain of destruction.
Ochoa stared at the oculus, at the oncoming storm of predators. Almost unconsciously, her hand moved to the tacticarium table at her side. She tapped the command vox-unit, tuning to the huge band of frequencies broadcasting the roar of the Beast.
She had no wish to hear it. Yet the need to face the full truth of the moment was too strong. She had never turned from battle. She had always sought the full measure of duty.
But there was more that directed her actions at that moment. The gaping maw of the ork base transformed the inanimate into a living skull. The face had a monstrous pull. Its power was absolute. Ochoa felt her insignificance before the presence of the active, murderous sublime.
Behold me, that gaping visage commanded. You bow before a god of stillness. I am a god of speed and violence. I am present. I am ascendant.
She turned the vox on to hear the actual voice, to blot out the words the sight of the moon tried to insinuate into her soul.
Ochoa vowed to herself she would fight the reality of the threat, and her spirit was the equal to its false divinity.
‘I AM SLAUGHTER!’ boomed through the command gallery. ‘I AM SLAUGHTER!’ It seemed the moon itself was shouting in the bridge. ‘I AM SLAUGHTER!’ And slaughter came from the moon, scything into the blockade fleet. Hundreds of ships descended on the frigates and destroyers. The Imperial cannons shifted from attack to defence. Every ship visible in the oculus flashed bright with straining void shields and the dissipating fireballs of destroyed ork craft. The attackers perished in droves. But more and more and more emerged from the maw, an endless curse from the god of violence.
‘I AM SLAUGHTER! I AM SLAUGHTER! I AM SLAUGHTER!’
The word became truth, and the truth burned the fleet.
Koorland walked the edge of the dais in the Great Chamber. He would not take his seat. He would not even stand by it. He would not associate himself with the High Lords. He understood that the realities of his position made the division he wished to enact a false one; he was part of the political machine of Terra now, whether he chose to admit it or not.
It would be close to a lie to say he accepted these facts. It was enough to say he knew them to be true. Today, he had to distance himself as much as he could from the rest of the High Lords. He was too disgusted to count himself of their number. If he sat in that chair, he might even derive the wrong sort of satisfaction from the inevitable turn the debate would take. He detested that temptation. It soiled and corrupted. If Koorland gave into it, he would truly be able to count himself a High Lord.
The thought was revolting.
He saw the sharp features and steel-grey hair of Wienand in her tier seat. Once again, she had decided to put some physical distance between herself and the other Lords. Vangorich and Veritus were in their seats. Koorland half-wondered how they tolerated their positions. Whatever else he might say of Veritus, the inquisitor was a faithful servant of the ordos and of the Imperium. Koorland had no doubt he always acted from a foundation of firm belief. Perhaps Veritus’ convictions were his form of armour. His need to pull the levers of power as he saw fit kept him in the political game. And Vangorich was the hunter on the political fields. He was where he needed to be.
Koorland was not. At least, not yet. If the High Lords would cease their posturing and accept what they all knew they had to accept, he could get on with his real duty — directing the blade that would decapitate the orks.
But the posturing must happen. Its inevitability was as certain as Daylight Wall.
‘How can they be back?’ Ekharth was saying. ‘How can the orks be back? The moon was dead!’ He pointed a trembling finger at Koorland. ‘You said it was dead!’