Aliens poured from every street into the open ground before the warehouse, charging through the hail of fire that awaited them without fear or thought for their own lives. Before this had all gone nova he'd heard on some of the devotional vids that there were supposed to be large creatures that controlled the smaller ones, but thankfully they hadn't seen any of them yet. Perhaps they were all at the front line, which, judging by the noises coming from the west, was getting closer every day.
He wondered why no soldiers had come to their aid, but figured that they knew this was a Stank ghetto and that the city would be better off if the tyranids conveniently wiped out a few thousand Stankers. So it looked as though they'd have to do this on their own. So far, each attack had been sent packing by Snowdog and his gang, leaving more and more alien dead on the ground.
What he couldn't figure was why the hell were they so furiously attacking this place?
Trask fired his shotgun into the midst of the charging aliens, and even with one eye swollen shut by the rash that covered half his face, he still couldn't fail to hit something. A knot of aliens attacked that section of the barricade, and Snowdog opened up on full auto, cutting two in half and blowing another one's legs clean off.
Tigerlily, Rentzo and a dozen other members of the Night-crawlers waited at the doors to the warehouse in reserve, fear etched on every face.
Another wave of screeching aliens poured into the square and now Snowdog knew he wasn't imagining things: the attacks on the warehouse were getting more frequent and more ferocious. It seemed as though every alien in the city was coming for him. What the hell was the matter with these aliens? Did they resent him making some money of the back of their invasion or something?
Silver crouched down to reload her pistols and raised her eyebrows. 'Some day, huh?' she said.
'Yeah, some day,' he agreed.
The Thunderhawk was a dark shadow against the blackness of the night, the blue of its armoured hull visible only on the leading edges of its wings and tailfins, the rest having been stripped off to reduce its weight. Uriel and the members of the Deathwatch stood in a loose circle, their hands clasped in prayer. Each had made his peace with the Emperor and was prepared for the mission.
Uriel had cleaned and repaired his armour as best he could, but its fabric was still beaten and in need of months in the forge. Teams of struggling lifter-servitors carried the last of the Thunderhawk's cargo on board, the landing skids creaking under the strain.
As they finished loading the gunship, Harkus emerged from within and gave Uriel a nod of affirmation. Everything was loaded and securely locked down. The Thunderhawk was going to be doing some hard flying and the last thing they needed was loose cargo spilling in the back. Looking at the thin panels on the sides of the gunship, Uriel knew that the cargo would go straight through it.
'We are ready,' said Bannon, slinging his weapon.
'Aye,' agreed Uriel, checking the action on his own weapon and ensuring his sword was secure in its scabbard. The remainder of the Deathwatch silently checked over their own and each other's armaments with the silence of the elite soldiers they were. Satisfied, each man recited the first five verses of the Catechism of the Xeno before turning and marching aboard the gunship.
Uriel took a deep breath and looked around the soaring peaks of the mountains. Distant specks spun in the starlit sky far to the west. He shook his head as a sudden premonition of doom passed through him and followed the Deathwatch into the gunship's crew compartment.
There was barely room for the Space Marines to move inside, with creaking pallets stacked to the roof and the gun-ship's other passengers taking up a great deal of room. There were no armoured benches to sit on, their weight deemed unnecessary, so he crouched with his back to the rumbling fuselage.
The ramp whined closed, shutting out the starlight, and Uriel's auto-senses took over.
A screaming whine built as the engines spooled up to vertical take-off power and Uriel offered a quick prayer that Harkus had not let them down and that Lord Admiral Tiberius was near. He felt the Thunderhawk lurch as it lifted easily into the air, and turn on its axis as Harkus set their course. He was surprised at the ease with which the gunship had lifted off before remembering that the problem was not now its weight, but its range.
It was all a question of whether they could reach their objective, carry out their mission and still have enough fuel to get them back.
Uriel felt the acceleration of the gunship as the engines built up to full power, pushing them eastwards across the mountain tops. There was cloud cover higher up and while nap-of-the-earth flying might keep them safe from being spotted, it was hugely inefficient and burned up vast quantities of fuel.
As the gunship sped eastwards, Magos Gossin, the most senior of their Adeptus Mechanicus passengers, tapped him on the shoulder and pointed through the vision port.
'Even if we succeed here, will this world ever truly be ours again?'
Uriel twisted his head to look outside.
Purple clouds boiled in the distance and streamers of multicoloured smog hugged the horizon, reaching into the upper atmosphere like a smeared painting.
Uriel wanted to lie, but felt he would choke on the words.
'No,' he said. 'No, it will not.'
The Thunderhawk streaked through the night sky.
The Vae Victus was a far cry from the gleaming vessel that had set out from Macragge so many months ago. Her central nave was buckled and splintered, the polished timbers blackened and scorched. Many of her previously manned console stations sat empty, their systems damaged beyond repair without months of time in dock. Wisps of steam gusted from hastily sealed pipes and many of her weapons were unable to fire.
Her surveyors were functioning at minimum capacity, most of the external auguries having been incinerated in the fiery blast of the refinery's destruction. Much of her hull had been melted or stripped away in the explosion and her engines would only allow her captain to perform the most basic of manoeuvres.
And Tiberius knew that they had escaped relatively lightly.
They had lost the Argus, most of the local fleet and the Kharloss Vincennes would never launch fighters again. He had been forced to order all hands to abandon the Dauntless cruiser Yermetov, when it became apparent her warp drives had been damaged in the blast and would soon implode. Her crew had escaped to the Sword of Retribution and sent her into the warp on her last voyage.
The two remaining vessels of Arx Praetora squadron and the Mortis Probati of the Mortifactors limped alongside the Vae Victus. Captain Gaiseric and his crew were eager to exact a measure of revenge against the tyranids.
One Overlord battlecruiser, two battered Space Marine strike cruisers and a carrier that could not launch any strike craft was not much of a fleet to take on the full might of a hive fleet, but it was all they had.
Tiberius ran a hand over his scarred, hairless skull and chewed his bottom lip.
'Any word from Uriel?' he asked.
Philotas looked up from the cracked plotting table. Its slate was dark and his deck officer had rolled star charts spread across its surface.
He shook his head. 'No, lord admiral. The last message we were able to receive was over an hour and a half ago saying they were on schedule.'
'I don't like this, damn it. We could be sailing into a trap!'