At the Lord-Admiral's command, a single word unleashed an apocalyptic amount of firepower. Lances, a Nova Cannon, plasma and laser, shot and shell, missiles, torpedoes, macrocannon, railguns, coilguns, mass drivers, every type of weapon at the fleet's disposal opened up. Fire flashed across the void in a heartbeat, and an enemy Iconoclast-Class destroyer simply vanished, annihilated by a combination of firepower sufficient to sterilise an entire continent. The barrage struck a dozen Chaos craft, destroying some and merely grazing others. The Crusade fleet poured through the breach in the storm, guns blazing and drives throbbing, pushing them onward. Auspex scans went out, seeking the Soul Harvest and the other enemy capital ships. They found their targets, several hundred thousand miles away but closing rapidly, alerted by the disruption to the storm. A pleasing fantasy struck the Lord-Admiral as he imagined the despicable traitor Parthax panicking in confusion over what had caused the fluctuation in his shield from the outside world. He didn't know the precise answer himself, but a rough approximation was sufficient for him, and the Arch-Magos seemed convinced enough.
Another Chaos escort blossomed into fire, disappearing from the Auspex. But the rest of the Archenemy fleet was closing in, alerted and responding. A large cluster of a dozen or more of their bulk landers hung in space, barely visible at the planet's horizon, a mass of smaller Auspex contacts indicating that they were starting to hastily land their passengers and cargo, perhaps in panic at the sudden arrival of the Imperials. Of the Soul Harvest, there was still no sign.
'All ships, fire at will,' Marcos ordered. 'Priority targets remain the Soul Harvest and landing ships.' The fleet complied, throwing everything they had at their enemies. More Chaos ships were joining the fight, including the last surviving Grand Cruiser and the other Desolator-Class battleship. The Imperials had the advantage, but not overwhelmingly so. Return fire from the Chaos cruisers saw several Imperial frigates destroyed in moments. Lord-Admiral Marcos surveyed the scene on the holographic projection table on the bridge.
'Signal the Indefatigable,' he ordered. 'Tell them we shall provide protection for them. I want them to target their Nova Cannon on those transports. If we are to take and hold this planet, we need to knock out as many of their troops as we can before they land.' The order went out, and the Mars-Class Battlecruiser swung about to take distant aim. The escorts swarmed towards the enemy fleet, taking losses but inflicting them on their Chaos counterparts also. The Imperial capital ships swung about to present their broadside batteries. A swarm of torpedoes from the enemy escort squadrons lit up a Dauntless-Class light cruiser, smashing through its hefty prow armour and causing severe internal damage as battle was joined in earnest.
The Emperor's Judgement and Malleo Mortis formed a line, enabling the Indefatigable to take up an advantageous firing position. With the Nova Cannon loaded and ready, the Battlecruiser waited for the perfect moment, and then unleashed hell. Accelerated to a significant fraction of the speed of light, the projectile detonated in the midst of the enemy transports clustered in low orbit. A huge fireball engulfed several of them, the flames instantly snuffed out by the vacuum. Half a dozen bulk transports simply exploded, bright starbursts of light in the skies above the main continent. Many infantry were killed, but some had already evacuated, heading planetside. The other surviving transports all began to disgorge their cargo as the Imperials closed in.
The dorsal lances of the Malleo Mortis began a dance of death with those of the Grand Cruiser, fire hurled thousands of miles through the vacuum to expend their titanic energies against the void shields of their opponents. Fighters and bombers poured from the launch bays of the Imperial flagship, a swarm of flies for the enemy capital ships to swat, but packing the potential for a very nasty sting.
'New Auspex contact, bearing zero-zero-zero, range sixty one thousand. Battleship, Desolator-Class. My Lord, it is the Soul Harvest!' the sensor officer called. 'Dead ahead. Just cresting the planet's horizon now.' From behind the ring of surviving transports, the enemy flagship was climbing into view from its position beyond the curve of the planet, over the north of the main continent.
'Now we have him,' Marcos growled. 'Let him come to us. He won't dare stay out of this fight. Maintain formation,' he ordered. 'Inform the Indefatigable to load and target their Nova cannon on that flagship, and fire once it is within ten thousand miles.' The vox-crews quickly passed the word.
Ducking in below the storm now, the Imperial fleet was immediately within knife-fight range with their opponents. Every weapon could be brought into play. Ships had to be careful with their maneuvering, as the planet's gravity well would be a harsh mistress and a damaged thruster or an overlong burn could see a ship trapped. Often after a battle close to a planet, the low orbits had to be cleared of debris, with drifting hulks being towed clear to remove the risk to the planet below of an uncontrolled apocalyptic re-entry.
As the Chaos fleet organised, it began to respond with increasing ferocity. Torpedo barrages were unleashed by their escorts, their slower speed meaning the void shields could not protect against them, and they put the maneuverability and prow armour of the Imperials to the test. They held, but damage was being done, especially among the weaker frigates. Several detonated with powerful explosions, their drives overloading, peppering the shields of their capital ship charges with debris.
Powering free of the transports, the guns of the Soul Harvest joined in the fray, its massed lascannon, plasma and railgun turrets hurling death across the void as it closed the gap. Its broadside lance batteries awaited a target, a full volley enough to annihilate anything less than a heavy cruiser. Once the flagship was within ten thousand miles, the Indefatigable's Nova cannon roared, sending a high-velocity round on its way. It detonated with a pulsating bloom of light against the battleship's forward shields. They wavered, but they held, and in response the Soul Harvest began to turn, bringing its starboard lances into the equation. They played over the Indefatigable's shields, shorting out several emitters, but they survived.
More Chaos escorts were rounding the planet to commit themselves to the battle. The entire enemy fleet was closing in, and the Imperials were in the thick of it. Las-fire and missiles flew like hail, while heavy macrocannon barrages smashed and pulverised exposed hulls. The Imperial cruiser squadron turned broadside on to meet the enemy, forming line astern and spitting out masses of firepower. Their Chaos counterparts, fewer in number but fuelled by bloodlust as well as training, fought like savages. Under the intense barrage, shields on both sides began to fail.
Heavy multi-tonne turrets were ripped from their sturdy moorings by accurate and sustained fire. Compartments burst open like ripe fruit. Sensor probes and ornamental gargoyles were melted or flashed to vapour. Flames raced along entire decks where the bulkheads and hermetically sealed doors failed. Lights flickered and failed. Men died.
'Signal to the fleet. Concentrate all fire on the Soul Harvest!' Lord-Admiral Marcos' stentorian voice radiated across the command bridge. The Imperial fleet had slowed, angling their ships such that a loss of maneuvering capability would not see them continue on a fatal plunge into the atmosphere. In an ironic reversal of the first battle around Kuda Prime, it was now the Chaos fleet standing between them and the planet, trying to protect their vulnerable transports. This time, however, the fighting was at even closer ranges. Torpedoes scarcely had time to arm themselves as they leaped from their tubes and within seconds were smashing into their targets. Hundreds of projectiles were being thrown at the Soul Harvest, and its shields were suffering. But the Chaos flagship was striking back, its lance batteries combining to annihilate a Dauntless-Class cruiser in a cataclysmic explosion. The Malleo Mortis had been the target of a considerable amount of the Chaos fleet's ire, and its shields were stripped, its armour pockmarked with craters. But it had taken a fearsome toll on the last surviving Grand Cruiser in their lance duel, and the Chaos capital ship wallowed dead in space, burning in a dozen different places, a stream of plasma venting heavily from its engine room. A few of its guns continued to flash their defiance, but even as Marcos watched on the viewscreen, the Malleo Mortis dealt the death blow it had been seeking. A volley from its half-dozen remaining lance turrets blasted holes in the cruiser's backbone. White light began to shine through every hole, every crack in its frame, and a moment later the Repulsive-Class Grand Cruiser erupted with a blinding, searing triple-flash as its reactors exploded, creating a vast expanding fireball tens of miles in diameter, thousands of tonnes of debris being flung from the explosion, smashing into the ships around her and actually destroying one of her own escorts. A great cheer went up from the bridge crew of the Emperor's Judgement. But the day was not yet won.
Seemingly from nowhere the Imperial flagship was struck bodily by the lances of both Desolator-Class battleships. Its port void shields failed, and the last few lance blasts struck the hull, punching through like paper and killing hundreds instantly. The bridge was bathed in blood-red emergency lighting and Admiral Marcos swayed with the blows, riding out the shaking like the hardened veteran he was.
'Damage report!' he commanded.
'My Lord, port void shield is down. Hull breaches on decks twelve through fifteen and deck 30,' came the reply. 'Portside macrocannon battery three has been knocked out.'
'Return fire, all weapons!' Marcos ordered. His gunners complied, a great blast of fire returned toward the Soul Harvest, laser, plasma and shell alike smashing into its forward shields. It was enough, the full broadside bringing down its starboard defences. Marcos clenched his fists.
'Signal the fleet again! Fire everything they have against the Soul Harvest. Its shield is down, now is our chance.' He watched the viewscreen intently as the enemy flagship continued its advance towards the fleet.
A hurricane of fire struck the Soul Harvest, a mass of missiles, torpedoes, lasers and macrocannon shells blowing holes in its hull. Its lances thundered in reply, striking at both the Emperor's Judgement and the unprotected Malleo Mortis. Flames ripped through both of the Imperial ships, precious oxygen venting in great plumes into the void. An internal explosion sent one of the Malleo Mortis' lance turrets spiraling away into space, its crew spilling out after it, those that were not dead from the concussion flailing helplessly for the few seconds of consciousness they had in the vacuum.
Plasma fires raged from the hulls of all three capital ships, undimmed by the exposure to space. Broadsides from several Imperial cruisers pounded the Soul Harvest, but in return it struck hard against the already-reeling Malleo Mortis. More of its lances were knocked out and men died in their thousands as great gashes were opened in the portside hull. The Chaos escorts pounced, seeing their chance and unleashing a torrent of short-range torpedoes. Fired at almost minimal distance, the torpedoes barely armed before they smashed into the battleship, and ripped its belly apart. Great heaving explosions shook the giant craft as it began to rip itself apart from the inside.
'Reinforce forward shields!' Marcos shouted. The Malleo Mortis was exploding and they were too close. 'All back full! Maximum braking!' he commanded. Jets and thrusters dotted all over the flagship's prow responded, slowing their forward progress even as the main drives were thrown into reverse. The Malleo Mortis became a blazing phantasmal light show as plasma cores and torpedo banks detonated. It took a few moments for the destruction to reach the main reactors, but when it did an artificial sun blazed brightly above the planet. The shockwave propagated by the wave of superheated gases released by the explosion quickly tapered off in the vacuum, leaving the Emperor's Judgement just outside of the danger zone.
It immediately retaliated for its fallen brother, letting loose a full broadside against the Soul Harvest. But the enemy flagship had rotated again, now bringing its undamaged port side into play, its lances roaring. They found their target, ripping open the port side of the Emperor's judgement. Spasms ran through the decking and the bridge seemed to vibrate. Marcos swayed with the punches but several crewmen went sprawling. Klaxons blared anew, warning of the fresh damage suffered by the already lacerated flank of the vessel.
'Helm! Hard a port, bring us about,' Marcos ordered, needing to get the port side out of the line of fire as any more lance hits to the same locations could prove fatal. The frontal void shields and prow armour would help protect the ship. In defence of their Admiral, the Indefatigable launched a Nova cannon round at the Soul Harvest, striking it firm on the port shields. At least four cruisers leaped into the fray, interposing themselves between the two battleships and unleashing volleys against the Desolator. Finding itself pounded anew and outnumbered, the Soul Harvest's engines glowed as it tried to punch clear, its lances deprived of their primary target. They turned their attentions on the cruisers, causing catastrophic damage to one of them with a full broadside. Chaos escorts rushed to protect their leader as it retreated, forming a line in the same way the Imperial cruisers were doing. But the frigates and destroyers were a lot less hardy than the cruisers, and several were wiped out in a moment, though they managed to get an impressive volley of torpedoes away that challenged the Indefatigable's prow armour. Several struck home, punching deep into the thick ceramite before detonating, their heavy plasma warheads vapourising huge chunks out of the supportive structure. Internal damage knocked the Nova cannon out of action.
The fight was still chaotic, and, as Marcos had privately feared, it was not going all their own way. A quick glance at the holographic map showed the reality of it. The Malleo Mortis was gone, the Emperor's Judgement heavily damaged once again, the previous scars from the first battle having been opened anew by additional damage to its port side. A report had just come in from the Indefatigable that the Nova cannon was down until it could be repaired. They still possessed half a dozen cruisers and several dozen escorts, but the two enemy battleships were still fighting, several of their cruisers were coming in to join the fray from positions on the other side of the planet, and a considerable number of frigates and destroyers were still pecking away at the Imperials. With most craft having lost their shields, any standoff tactics would result in them being picked off by the lances of the two Desolators.
'Signal the fleet,' Marcos commanded. 'All ships are to advance and press home the attack. Concentrate all fire on the Soul Harvest. She must not get away!' He clenched his fists and turned to his flag captain.
'The success of this Crusade depends on the destruction of that ship,' he growled. 'If we take it out, this storm ends and we can make our landing. If not...'
'My Lord, is this planet worth the loss of the fleet?' Bormann questioned, not for the first time. 'I know it is a garden world, but...'
'But nothing, Captain!' Marcos snapped. 'This Chaos fleet is here for a reason. They want something, something on the planet. Why else would they have driven straight into orbit and put up that storm? If they wanted to merely destroy us, they took us by surprise. They could have stood and fought, but they didn't. They cut right through us and blocked us off from this place. There is something, something down there. Some resource that Parthax,' he spat the name, 'that scum wants. Whatever it is, I'm not going to let him take it. If it's useful to him, then it's either useful to the Imperium as well, or it's dangerous to us, and either way, the archenemy cannot possess it.'
'I understand, sir...' Bormann nodded. 'But we nearly lost the fleet to the storm. If we lose it to the enemy, then the traitor lord still wins.'
'Then we shall not lose. We shall not die, no, it is the enemy who will taste death and defeat!' Marcos proclaimed sagely. 'We know our duty and we will do it. The Emperor is watching over us, have you doubt of this? Why else would the storm have faded enough for us to pass through?'
Bormann didn't know the answer, but it seemed that the Emperor was not involved, given the ferocity of the Chaos resistance they had found on the other side of the otherwise-impermeable barrier. An enemy trick, perhaps, or some bizarre natural phenomenon in this part of space, or something to do with the strange readings from the planet, but not the Emperor's doing.
'Continue the pursuit, Captain,' Marcos continued. 'We have little choice in the matter. To flee would cast shame upon every man aboard. This Crusade has not shirked from its task. We have traveled far and suffered much, and here at the edge of the galaxy, we shall stand and we shall fight. Bring down that ship, and we bring down the storm. Bring down the storm, and we can bring down hell to the enemy.'
If the defenders of Griffonstone happened to glance skyward once more, a second fireworks show would have greeted their gaze, alongside the slowly fading auroras. Flashes of fire and explosions of cataclysmic magnitude could be glimpsed with the naked eye as the space battle raged above, but more pressing matters held their attention. The enemy, reinforced, was making a strong push from the east flank, coinciding with a thrust from the west. A pincer movement was squeezing the defenders, but the lines were holding, as was the shield over the palace. In the command centre, Major Harding struggled to coordinate the defences. Interoperability between the Imperials, Griffons and ponies was all but non-existent. They used different weapons and different tactics. The Xenos had no vox-equipment, no comm-beads, and no Auspex equipment. All they had in common was, bizarrely, their language and broad rank structure. That, and the will and instinct to do whatever was necessary to survive.
Both the Griffons, fighting in their capital, and the ponies, having borne witness to their homeland being overrun by invaders from space, were scared and angry. Forces they barely understood had been unleashed upon them. A species they had met for the first time scant days before had brought their foreign war to their relatively peaceful lands, and almost in the blink of an eye their lives, their world, had been shattered and irrevocably changed forever. Some had broken down completely, but for many, it hardened their resolve. They would fight, fight even harder than they had against each other, against the Changelings, against Discord, against whoever and whatever had threatened them in the past, because if they did not, there would be no future.
The enemy escort gunships had ranged over the city, probing the strength of the defensive shield with their rockets before being driven off by fire from the surviving airships. The Imperial Valkyries were out of ammo and fuel and were grounded, leaving air defence in the hooves of the crewponies, braving the skies over Griffonstone. A few times, enterprising enemies on the ground had opened up with their small arms, but everything except las-fire pattered against the shield harmlessly, and the lasgun fire that got through simply did no discernible damage against the ventral armour of the gondolas. Their anti-air ammunition nearly expended, the Canterlot and Starswirl continued to patrol, unable to engage the descending enemy dropships as the remaining rounds needed to be saved for self-defence. Their main guns and the Starswirl's bombardment cannon, however, continued to fire at targets of opportunity below, killing a good number of Chaos infantry who had spent barely seconds on the ground as they headed for the relative safety of the city. But the enemy numbers were too great, augmented by several thousand reinforcements, for the airships to make a big difference.
The attack came in from both flanks at once, a determined thrust toward the palace. Guns blazed in answer, but the enemy seemed to be everywhere- in every window, every doorway, behind every abandoned cart, coming up from the sewers, on the rooftops. Again the Chaos Marines formed the tip of the spear, advancing steadfastly through the hail of fire. When they fired, something died. Missiles raced out from the barricaded houses and tank cannons roared, knocking down several of the heavily-armoured infantry, but the rest kept coming, implacable. The baying hordes followed, their massed gunfire keeping defenders' heads down. The enemy gunships raced in again, their rocket volleys bringing down the side wall of one of the fortified houses occupied by the Imperials, sending several men tumbling to their deaths. A lucky shot from a ground-based lascannon caught one of the craft as they pulled away, bringing it down in flames.
There was too much to do. Princess Celestia could hear gunfire from all quarters, see the flashes, smell the cordite, ozone and blood. She had remained at the same location for a while until it became clear the defenders there had things in hoof. The human leader in that sector, a Lieutenant Albrecht, had told her with a rather wary tone that the enemy were making a strong push from both flanks, and she could only be at one of them. She had chosen the east, as it was closest, and it was the direction from which the enemy reinforcements would come. She had seen their craft descending, making their drops before climbing away into the sky. Even as gunfire flickered around her, she risked a glance to the firmament. She had done, and was still doing, her part- were the humans above doing theirs?
The fleet moved to obey their Admiral's orders. The lances aboard the Indefatigable took over from the Nova cannon, firing ranging shots after the fleeing Soul Harvest. Heavy fire from the six surviving cruisers peppered its aft shields and knocked them out of action. The other fleeing Desolator pulled ahead of its sister, but escaped the Imperial fleet's ire. The Chaos cruisers tried to interpose themselves between the battleships and the attackers, and they managed to knock one of their Imperial equivalents out of action. But the lances of the Indefatigable reached out again and struck the stern of the Soul Harvest. Its engine array flickered and died, leaving the hulking craft dead in space, coasting along on momentum alone, unable to maneuver.
The Lord-Admiral sensed the weakness and pounded his lectern. 'Alert all attack craft! Close in and engage the Soul Harvest!' he roared. I've got you this time, Parthax.
Starhawk Squadron Sigma-Three raced through the emptiness, at least if the lumbering void-bombers could be considered to 'race' anywhere. The box-like craft with stubby wings were the mainstay of the Imperial attack craft fleets, and along with their Fury interceptor escorts, roamed the vacuum between their fleet and that of the enemy, in search of prey. The Starhawks were capital-ship killers, at least in theory. Armed with heavy missiles and a main payload bay full of rotary plasma-bomb racks, they could, if they were able to get into range, inflict heavy damage on any enemy ship of the line.
If being the key word, Pilot-Captain Starros thought. He had been serving as a bomber pilot for years, first with the Marauder squadrons that operated in atmosphere, and then, after a transfer request was granted, aboard the Emperor's judgement during the entirety of the Western Fringe Crusade. He knew full well that every time the fighters and bombers left their launch cradles and popped out into the vastness of space to engage an enemy fleet, there was a high chance they would never come back. Space was not a kind place, especially to lowly attack craft. Point defences aboard most vessels were numerous and highly effective, to say nothing of the crossfire from the big guns, guns that could punch holes in the hulls of the mightiest battleships, guns that could destroy a town with a single shot, guns that could shatter mountains.
So imagine what they'd do to us.
The Starhawk was a well-designed machine, with a crew of fifteen and several point-defence guns of its own, with a forward twin lascannon, two multilaser turrets and two heavy bolter turrets. There were gunners, the pilot, copilot, engineseer Priest, bombardier, navigator...a motley collection of humanity, mingled with the not-quite-so-human servitors, lobotomised and thoughtless drones who handled minor and monotonous tasks like monitoring systems and processing reports. All were needed, however, to ensure the success and survival of the Starhawk. Ten craft formed each squadron.
Pilot-Captain Starros looked through his cockpit glass. Their target was some four thousand miles ahead, the traitor flagship Soul Harvest. Even from this distance it was a behemoth, a vast tainted cathedral in service to the dark powers, similar in size to their own carrier and flagship but eminently more sinister in appearance. It still shocked Starros that such a malign-looking craft ever served under the Imperial banner before the Heresy. Tapering to a spear-point at the prow, with ugly protuberances jutting from the 'wings' and a cluster of what almost looked like organ-pipes sprouting from the spine of the rear section, the Desolator-Class simply looked 'evil.'
Though the Soul Harvest showed signs of heavy damage, it was still in the fight, albeit bereft of motive power. Without any additional acceleration, the battleship was being slowed by the atmospheric drag as it had ducked lower into the planet's gaseous shield in an attempt to escape its pursuers. As a result the shoals of Imperial attack craft were closing rapidly on it, accompanied by some of the hardier frigates and destroyers. The directive had come from the Lord-Admiral himself- destroy the Soul Harvest. Starhawk Squadron Sigma-Three was happy to try and oblige.
Squadron Leader Derrick was on the vox. 'All craft, stay in attack formation. Close range to two thousand miles. Prepare to fire missiles,' came the command.
Starros acknowledged with a curt, 'Sigma-Three Eta, affirmative.' He prepped his craft to fire, should they get into range without erupting into a fireball. The checklist was long and tedious to those not well-versed in its procedures, which included such arcane and untechnical advice as, 'Intone prayer for missile warhead Machine Spirit and the Litany of Accuracy BEFORE depressing firing stud.' He rattled through them with his co-pilot Detmer, arming the missiles, activating the targeting computer, saying the appropriate prayers no matter how ludicrous they may seem to a man about to enter mortal combat, perhaps mere seconds from a sudden and violent death. The Starhawk was ready to kill.
And just like that, it nearly died, with a sudden brilliant burst of light erupting mere miles from its port side as a plasma cannon or perhaps a stray lance shot detonated. The old, venerable bomber rattled and shook like a dilapidated house, but it ploughed onward. 'Range twenty-five-hundred,' the navigator informed him, the crew confirming their status in turn. 'Bombardier is ready in position.' 'Gunners standing by.' 'Engine room, temperature and pressure nominal.'
'Standby all positions. Beginning attack run,' Starros called. His head was already sweating under his helmet, the heads-up Auspex display showing strings of coordinates and information. It showed his weapons loudout- missiles armed, bombs primed, all ready. Ahead lay the Soul Harvest, its fleeing fellow, its escorts, and its protective wall. Enemy cruisers lay between them and the battleship, and if the attack craft expended their payload on them, they would have to return to the Emperor's Judgement and Indefatigable to rearm, and that would not do. Their directive was to take out the flagship, and so the small craft, almost a thousand in number, would have to rely on their capital ships to clear a path for them, or at the very least, keep their losses to a minimum.
As if to prove the point, a sudden spray of point defence fire erupted from the cruisers as they drew within a thousand miles of them. Shells, rockets, las-blasts, plasma, railgun slugs and massed bolter fire met them in mid-space, and points of fire blossomed in the blackness as several dozen attack craft were caught by the hailstorm and shredded. The diminutive size of the attack craft made it hard for capital ships to target them with main batteries, but proximity fuses could certainly have a devastating impact, and lucky or stray shots could strike from nowhere. But it was the close-in point defences that the attack craft feared the most, rapid-fire cannon, flechette launchers, multilasers and heavy bolters that studded the exteriors of all major warships, designed to shoot down nearby threats including attack craft, torpedoes and missiles, as well as being used, in times of calm, to destroy small asteroids and micrometeorites in the ship's path. The bane of any starfighter's life, and their most likely cause of death.
Sigma-Three Eta drove onward, avoiding the incoming fire. Starros watched as craft around them died. Return fire flashed silently across the void from their own side, the Imperial cruisers engaging their counterparts directly. Explosions raged along the flanks of the Chaos ships, knocking out dozens of their point-defence weapons. The barrage coming at the attack craft thinned, though here and there a Starhawk or Fury continued to die. The massed squadrons swept beneath the Chaos ships, which were deployed as a barrier more against the Imperial warships than against their bombers. Several Imperial escort frigates, however, were not so lucky as to escape unscathed, and were caught by heavy broadsides from the Chaos capital ships, destroying two and crippling another.
Starros keyed his internal vox to address his crew. 'Standby, all stations. Range to target?'
'One thousand seven hundred,' came the reply. Starros brought the nose of the Starhawk up, the Soul Harvest in his sights. As they emerged from the shadow of the cruisers, however, their portside point defences were able to pick up the slack. A severe barrage was unleashed from behind on the attack craft. Several squadrons ceased to exist as operational entities, while other disappeared from existence entirely. Sigma-Three Eta was struck a glancing blow by a lascannon, punching a hole in its port wing, unimportant since they were operating in space and not in atmosphere.
'Steady, boys,' Starros muttered, as much for himself as for his crew. Though he was a veteran of countless bombing runs, each time was a new terror, a new chance of death. But the Emperor had protected him thus far, and he had lived through everything the universe could throw at him.
But the Emperor's grace was not unlimited.
Starros found himself thrust forward against his control console as a loud roar filled his ears. Decompression... The stick felt loose in his hand. His void-suit protected him, and he looked around the cockpit. Beside him, Detmer gave a quick 'Ok' sign to indicate he was alright, but a dozen blood-red warning lights were flashing on the console. Besides his own laboured breathing and the occasional crackle of the helmet vox, Starros' world had become silent. The air had vented from the craft, or at least the cockpit, meaning sound had no medium in which to travel.
'Damage report!' he called through the vox, hoping for a reply, as silence meant death for his crew.
'Engine room...we have damage,' came the mechanised voice of the Techpriest. 'Port motor offline. Starboard motor overheating, unknown cause. Hull breach recorded, main section, possible damage to oxygen generators. Will investigate.'
'Bombardier...station ok. Am able to continue the bombing run.'
'Port gunner...wounded...' A hacking cough filled the vox for a moment. 'Help...'
Starros looked over at Detmer, who was already unbuckling his harness. Starros gave him a nod to signal that he could handle the craft himself, and the copilot was gone, floating back to help the wounded man. Starros turned his attention back to the Soul Harvest, looming ever larger in the cockpit glass. Fire was coming from in front as well as the rear now, as the Desolator engaged them with whatever rear point defences it possessed. Coming in from astern, the Imperial attack craft were clear of the majority of the battleship's guns, but several more died all the same. Coming within a thousand miles, a loud buzz filled Starros' helmet. The firing tone- they were in optimal range. He squeezed the firing stud, and the missiles flew, heaving themselves free of their launch rack and flinging themselves across space. hundreds of others launched almost simultaneously from other craft, those that had run the gauntlet and survived.
Point defences switched targets, focusing on the missiles. A single shot from almost any of the weapons systems was enough to destroy a warhead, but there were so many. Dozens smashed into the stern of the Soul Harvest, their armour-piercing warheads punching through the hull before detonating internally. The already damaged ship was stricken, fires raging, bulkheads breached. But still it resisted, portside lances flashing and catching an Imperial destroyer foolish enough to try and flank it, the ship mercifully exploding into a million fragments as it had the potential to drop into the gravity well and strike the planet.
The next phase for the Starhawks would be to close to point-blank range and deliver their cargo of plasma bombs. Starros accelerated, but he could feel the damage to his craft. Port motor out, as the Techpriest has said. There was no drag in space, nor lift, so speeding up merely moved the Starhawk into a higher orbit, which was important given that their role was now to drop bombs upon the enemy. Starros applied just enough power to lift Sigma-Three Eta above the Soul Harvest. He momentarily couldn't remember why, then he couldn't remember what his target was, but everything came back to him, at least for a while.
'Flight deck, engine room.' The voice of the Techpriest echoed in his ears. 'Have confirmed damage to oxygen generator. Feed system is operating at 25% capacity. Cannot supply enough oxygen for extended operation. Suggest we return to the carrier immediately, or all organic crew will be deceased within, I estimate, seven minutes.'
Starros blinked. That would explain his sudden light-headedness. He hadn't really been listening to the Techpriest before, focused on the target instead, but a damaged oxygen generation system spelled danger to the crew. Their masks, fed from the central system, would run dry in seven minutes, or at least the concentration of oxygen would drop to fatal levels- he wasn't sure what the Techpriest had said. Another symptom? Absolutely. Confusion, delirium, inability to follow commands, all symptoms of oxygen deprivation. But they were so close, so close to their target, and maybe most of the crew were already dead anyway.
'Crew...all crew, sound off! Report, please,' Starros ordered, the Soul Harvest filling his view.
'Bombardier, ok...standing by...'
'Engine room, conditions unfavourable. Suggest we return to the carrier immediately.'
'Gunners...gunner? Gunner here. I'm great...!'
'Detmer? Detmer, report, please?' Starros urged. He got no response from his co-pilot. Explosions rippled all around him as other Starhawks died, and he realised he had been ignoring, or completely missing, orders from Derrick, the squadron leader.
No matter. We'll go in alone.
'Captain, I strongly advise you to turn back immediately. You will not survive continued operations without oxygen,' the Techpriest urged.
'All hands! Prepare for bombing...mission,' Starros called. 'Bombardier! Are you there?'
'Affirmative...bomber ready! I mean, bombar...bom...ready!' came the reply.
'You have control.' Starros let go of his stick and slumped back in his seat. The bombardier took control of the bomber for the final phase of the attack run, until the moment the bombs were released, when he would regain command. He felt the Starhawk sway gently, move up and down. The Soul Harvest almost completely obscured his vision now. They were so close, but things were coming at them- red things, blue things, black things.
Something's shooting at us, he reasoned.
'Captain, engine room. Oxygen generation is now at 10% of normal. Crew blood oxygen levels are likely to be below 75% within thirty seconds. Such levels are irreversibly damaging to organs such as the heart, the brain, the...'
Techpriest...saying something? Starros ignored him, instead focusing on the vast lump of metal and ceramite visible out of the cockpit.
'Bombardier...bombs gone!' came the triumphant voice over his vox. 'You...have, uh...bombardier, you have...you have control...'
The heavy plasma bombs dropped by their dozen from the belly of the Starhawk, impacting on the hull of the Soul Harvest. They punched through, exploding inside, causing severe damage. Hundreds of other bombs were released by fellow Starhawks, and the Soul Harvest was done for.
Starros watched the battle-ravaged hull of the enemy flagship draw nearer and nearer. A strangely beautiful sight, all of the fire, the plasma, consuming his gaze. They were getting closer. With a sudden, primordial stab of realisation, Starros remembered why. He was supposed to be taking them away, taking them clear, back to the carrier. But instead he was merely dreaming, his mind addled by a fug of his own making. He hadn't listened to the Techpriest, hadn't turned back when there was a chance of survival. Now it was too late, but strangely it didn't seem to matter. The Starhawk was going in, and all he could see was a ceramite wall ahead. He smiled to himself.
Sigma-Three Eta slammed into the skin of the Soul Harvest, an inconsequential flash of light against the backdrop of destruction. The battleship was exploding, vast plumes of fire and venting gas erupting from its dorsal sections, ravaged by the Imperial attack craft, its hull shredded in a hundred places. A cheer, an outpouring of joy and relief, rose from the throats of the Imperial crews as they watched on. The Soul Harvest died in a huge and sudden fireball as its reactors exploded, catching dozens of attack craft in its furious blast but signalling the death of the flagship.
And of more than that. Whatever or whoever had been aboard and controlling the warp died with the vessel, and within moments, sensors aboard the fleet, aboard the transports, and aboard the Ferrus Terra all recorded the same thing. The warp storm was fluctuating, fading, easing. The warp storm was ending.