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Night Shriekers – Justin Woolley

About the Author

An Extract from ‘On Wings of Blood’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

Night Shriekers

by Justin Woolley

Dark shapes circled in the distant sky, twenty or more silhouettes against the yellow-orange dusk. From where she stood on the airbase’s hardstand, Marina Maranova watched the way the creatures effortlessly floated, borne aloft by warm updraughts under their leathery wings. They were nocturnadons, the apex predator on Raskova. In an hour, maybe less, when the landscape was plunged into the pitch-black of the Raskovan night, the graceful circles of the nocturnadons would become ferocious dives, their immense eyes guiding them down to pluck unwary prey from the ground.

Nocturnadons only hunted at night, and it was only at night that you could hear their calls. The darkness would fill with the banshee-like screams that gave the beasts their more colloquial name, night shriekers.

Marina Maranova smiled – today she would be joining those magnificent beasts. She was finally a member of the 2,588th Imperial Navy Fighter Wing, the ‘Night Shriekers’. Maranova waited with a dozen other recruits to the elite unit, all pilots fresh from Thunderbolt conversion training. The recruits were all women, just as all the pilots, ground-crew and support staff of the wing were women. It was only female night shriekers that hunted, and so it was with the unit that bore their name.

Maranova felt the jab of an elbow in her ribs. Beside her, fellow recruit Alena Nazoya gestured with her head. Coming in low over the rugged terrain to the south was a formation of six aircraft. At the low centre were two Valkyrie assault carriers, easily identifiable by their negative-slanted wings and their high cross-boom tails. Flying escort formation for the Valkyries, two on either side, were the unmistakable blunt-nosed shapes of Thunderbolt fighters.

Maranova leaned close to Nazoya. ‘Two rations says I get to fly a Thunderbolt first.’

‘Double it says I will,’ Nazoya whispered back.

Nazoya and Maranova had grown up together in the labyrinthine tunnels of Undermine Primus on the other side of Raskova. For everyone who lived in those pitiful depths, life was little more than a struggle for survival, but the two young girls had bonded over dreams of the sky they so rarely saw and the heroic Raskovan flying aces whose faces adorned the omnipresent Imperial Navy recruitment posters. They soon developed a friendly rivalry and pushed each other to climb from the depths all the way to the sky. They had been selected together, trained together and now accepted into the fabled Night Shriekers together.

As the formation of six aircraft flew in to Lipka Airbase, the two Valkyries broke from formation and slowed to land on a pad a short distance away. The Thunderbolts continued in a low flyby. The lead aircraft gave a small wing waggle and Maranova saw the black nocturnadon emblem on the tail, wings spread and curled talons at the ready. Night Shriekers. All Maranova had wanted these last five years was to fly with the Night Shriekers and join the fight against the t’au. For many years Raskova had produced the finest pilots in the sector, if not the whole segmentum, but now it was their own world they were forced to defend.

A woman in a stiffly pressed Imperial Navy uniform walked across the hardstand towards them. Maranova recognised her from the picts she’d seen: Wing Commander Tamara Groneva, commanding officer of the 2,588th. The recruits snapped to attention.

‘Good evening, recruits,’ Groneva said, her voice quiet yet commanding. ‘I apologise for keeping you waiting.’ She wiped her forehead with a white handkerchief, clearing away the sweat – the Raskovan heat was still punishing, despite it being dusk. ‘Welcome to the Night Shriekers. Each of you has been selected for the aptitude shown during your training. We have taken heavy losses of late as the t’au push towards the capital. We need all the reinforcements we can get.’

Groneva looked to the side as a pilot approached, one of the recently landed Night Shriekers. She was removing her black balaclava and letting her mess of blonde curls fall free.

‘Ladies,’ Groneva said, ‘let me introduce you to Squadron Leader Nina Yakleva. It takes five kills for a pilot to be declared an ace. Most pilots manage at best one or two kills before they get smoked. Squadron Leader Yakleva has thirteen. She’ll be evaluating you in a series of initial training sorties.’

Maranova stared at Squadron Leader Yakleva. She was just like the aces on the recruitment posters, helmet tucked under her arm, hair fluttering in the warm breeze.

Yakleva ran her eyes along the line of recruits. She didn’t seem impressed. ‘Am I taking some up now?’ she asked.

Groneva nodded. ‘Prepare yourselves for your first flight as Night Shriekers, recruits. Your birds are prepped and ready to fly. You’re all capable pilots already, but we’ll take you from pilots to predators.’

‘We’re flying a sortie now, ma’am?’ Nazoya asked.

The wing commander turned her attention to Nazoya. ‘You’re in a war zone now, recruit. The nocturnadons sit facing into the wind, always ready to spread their wings and soar, so must we always be ready. I’ll leave you with Squadron Leader Yakleva and will be awaiting her evaluation. The Emperor protects.’

Yakleva snapped to attention as the wing commander left and then turned back to the recruits. She unzipped a pocket on her flight suit and removed a dataslate, staring at it for a few moments before looking up. ‘Maranova and Nazoya,’ she said.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ the friends answered in unison.

‘You two supposedly finished top of your training squadron so you’ll be first. We’ll see what chaff they’ve sent us this time. Maranova, you’ll be my wingman. Nazoya, you’ll fly with Flight Lieutenant Zina Matlova. Get yourselves suited up and to your birds. We’re airborne in thirty minutes.’

Yakleva turned and walked away without waiting for their acknowledgement. Maranova and Nazoya turned to look at each other, unable to keep the smiles off their faces.

‘I suppose this means it’s a tie for those ration sticks,’ Nazoya said.

Maranova smirked. ‘Four rations says I get the first training kill, then.’

‘Double it says I will.’

Maranova shifted in the seat of her Thunderbolt. The servitor had secured her harness tighter than she liked and it dug into her shoulders through her flight suit. She looked at the Thunderbolt on the hardstand beside her. Squadron Leader Nina Yakleva was stencilled just below the canopy, and beneath that the word Rocklilly had been added, along with a decorative white flower and a line of red crosses, thirteen so far. An aircraft blessed with a name by Navy high command, an honour only bestowed on a verified ace.

Both aircraft still had their canopies open and Maranova saw Yakleva reach forward and insert a white flower, just like that painted on her fuselage, into the space between her instrument panel and the heads-up display. Yakleva was supposed to be the toughest ace in the Night Shriekers – did she think flowers could inspire fear in the enemies of mankind? When Maranova was an ace, her aircraft would be named for some vicious predator, not a flower.

Maranova’s ground fitter stepped back from the aircraft and gave her a thumbs up. Maranova returned the signal and flicked the switch on her instrument panel to lower her aircraft’s canopy. When the canopy sealed shut, the roaring engines, shouts and squealing tyres of the airbase all vanished.

Maranova was alone. Despite the chatter of vox traffic through her helmet and the surrounding activity of the airbase, there was a sense of isolation in the cockpit. The troopers of the Imperial Guard, even the fearless Adeptus Astartes, stood side by side with each other as they fought. Fighter pilots, even if they were in formation with a hundred other aircraft, were always alone in the cockpit, reliant on themselves and their machines. They were the Emperor’s loneliest warriors.

‘Shrieker Two, this is Lipka Tower, vox check.’

Maranova thumbed her vox-control. ‘Lipka Tower, Shrieker Two. Five by five.’

‘Confirmed. You are cleared for take-off, runway four-seven right. Climb and maintain flight level two five zero. The Emperor protects.’

‘Acknowledged, Lipka Tower. The Emperor protects.’

Maranova taxied her Thunderbolt onto the runway and stopped, running her eyes over the instrument panel for a series of final checks. All indicators were green. She pushed the throttle forward, activated rocket assist and was immediately planted into her seat. She pulled back on the stick, instinctively clenching the muscles in her legs and abdomen, breathing in short, sharp breaths as she climbed hard. The G-force piled onto her like rockcrete blocks laid on her chest.

When she reached twenty-five thousand feet, Maranova levelled her aircraft off and turned to link up with Yakleva’s Thunderbolt, taking the wingman position. Though they were moving at just over five hundred and fifty miles an hour, the blue-grey aircraft beside her seemed to float motionless against the burnt orange of the Raskovan sky.

Below them the landscape of Raskova stretched away, an endless vista of rust-orange rock criss-crossed with immense canyons and deep crevasses.

The people of Raskova inhabited cities clinging to the sides of these vast canyons, living in the cool shadows away from the blazing heat of the surface. Most of the population worked in mines deep inside the immense tears in the rock, extracting rich deposits of rare silicate minerals.

Years ago, the t’au had approached the planetary government offering to share advanced mining technology in exchange for a share of the planet’s silicate. They were refused. When they returned a decade later they didn’t bother asking and the planet was plunged into war. Because of its largely impassable geography, widespread movement over the planet was only possible by air, and so the battle for this world would be decided by pilots like the Night Shriekers.

‘Shrieker Two, Shrieker One,’ Yakleva’s calm voice crackled over Maranova’s vox, ‘switch to private.’

‘Shrieker One, confirm.’

Maranova reached forward and adjusted the vox-channel dial, switching to the private link between her aircraft and Yakleva’s.

‘All right, Maranova,’ Yakleva said. ‘This might be a training engagement, but I want you to treat it as if it were real. We’ll use all the sky but keep inside the designated training AO.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Somewhere ahead of them Flight Lieutenant Matlova and Nazoya were also in the air. This was to be a simulated combat, two against two, where the more senior pilots could put the rookies through their paces.

‘Two enemy aircraft bearing zero-eight-three, altitude ten thousand. Do you have them on auspex?’

‘Confirmation,’ Maranova replied. ‘I have them.’

‘Maintain speed. Turn right, zero-nine-zero to intercept. Find altitude twelve thousand.’

‘Confirm.’

Maranova maintained formation with Yakleva as they rolled, turning their aircraft towards the fight, both Thunderbolts trailing white condensation in twirling vortices off their wing tips. Maranova was itching to get into combat – even mock combat – and prove herself.

‘They’re turning,’ she reported, glancing down at her auspex.

‘Prepare for a head-to-head pass,’ Yakleva said. ‘We’ll put them on our left. On my mark, high-G turn left with hard brake. We’ll try to get inside them.’

Maranova watched the auspex. At a closing speed of nearly twelve hundred miles an hour, the distance between them was rapidly shrinking. Maranova looked up to search the sky for the two aircraft coming towards them.

‘I have visual,’ Yakleva said.

Maranova strained her eyes against the Raskovan sky. She’d always had good eyes for spotting enemy aircraft but despite scanning ahead she couldn’t see any movement. It took another few seconds but then two black dots resolved themselves in the distance at her two o’clock. ‘Confirming visual now.’

Matlova and Nazoya’s aircraft grew. At their extreme head-to-head closing speed the two black dots rapidly became the recognisable chunky-ended shapes of Thunderbolt fighters, and seemingly the next second they roared past as a blur of colour. Maranova immediately whipped her head around as far as she could to maintain visual, but they’d vanished past her sight arc into her blind zone.

‘Mark,’ Yakleva called over the vox and Maranova immediately jammed her stick over and planted her foot hard on the rudder pedal, throwing her aircraft into an extreme turn left. She pulled the throttle back and hit the speed brakes – sacrificing airspeed to turn in a sharper radius. The G-force pinned her back in the seat, her flight suit instantly contracting around her legs to keep the blood from being pulled from her brain as she suddenly weighed eight times more than normal.

As Maranova’s Thunderbolt came around in its tight turn, she caught sight of Matlova and Nazoya’s aircraft again. They had banked hard in the same direction so that the two pairs of fighters were heading towards each other again, this time around the circumference of the same circle. Matlova and Nazoya had attempted the same manoeuvre, neither pair managing to out-turn the other.

‘On my mark, come straight and level,’ Yakleva said. ‘They’ll overshoot and correct to get on our six.’

‘I know you’re the ace but isn’t having them behind us what we’re trying to avoid here?’

‘I’ll split high and come down behind them. You just keep flying straight long enough for me to get a solid tone. Ready,’ Yakleva paused, ‘now.’

Maranova levelled out of the turn. Yakleva did the same and, just as she’d predicted, Matlova and Nazoya, continuing their tight turn, shot past behind them. As soon as they did, Yakleva pulled up, splitting away from her formation with Maranova. Maranova watched on auspex as Matlova and Nazoya turned back to come around behind her. She was sure she could outmanoeuvre them this time and get in behind for a shot. Disobeying Yakleva’s instructions was her chance to prove she belonged here, that she was the best. Maranova turned hard.

‘I’ll get in behind one and you get the other,’ she said.

Yakleva’s response came back over the all-channels vox. ‘Operations, this is Shrieker One. I’m scrubbing the sortie.’

‘Shrieker One, Operations. Confirmed. Contact Lipka Tower on approach, the pattern is clear.’

‘What?’ Maranova said. ‘Why are we going back?’

‘Shrieker Three and Four,’ Yakleva said, ignoring Maranova, ‘return to base.’

‘Confirmed.’

Yakleva’s Thunderbolt came back to take position off Maranova’s wing. Maranova turned to look into the other Thunderbolt’s cockpit. Yakleva’s helmeted face was looking back at her.

‘Ma’am?’ Maranova asked again. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I gave you an order. You disobeyed me.’

‘Squadron leader, if I could explain–’

‘You don’t explain to me, pilot officer. You do as I tell you.’

‘Ma’am, I–’

‘You graduated top of your training squadron and for a moment I actually had high hopes for you. Turns out you’re just another arrogant hotshot. Get this through your skull, rookie. You are a warrior of the Emperor, a professional, you never let your ego take the stick of that Thunderbolt, you understand?’

Maranova swallowed against the rock that seemed to have become lodged in her throat.

‘I said, do you understand?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Too many pilots think they’re the God-Emperor’s gift to the air,’ Yakleva said. ‘We’re flying against Barracudas up here. They’re better armed, they turn faster, they get a lock on you and you’re dead. You keep your head on your shoulders and listen to me, and maybe you’ll live longer than five minutes, clear?’

Matlova’s voice broke through before Maranova could reply. ‘Two unidentified aircraft on auspex, north, thirteen miles.’

Maranova looked down at her auspex and saw the same thing, two blips on the screen, two aircraft that hadn’t been there before. At first Maranova thought they must have been aircraft sent in to complicate the training sortie, but this assumption was broken when Yakleva next spoke.

‘Operations, this is Shrieker One, we have two unidentified aircraft incoming fast. Confirm friendly.’

‘Shrieker One, this is Operations, negative. No friendly birds in the air.’

‘Shrieker Flight, this is Shrieker One,’ Yakleva said. ‘Shrieker Two and Four, continue to base. Shrieker Three, on my wing, prepare to intercept. We’ll hold them up. Operations, scramble ready fighters.’

Matlova turned to form up with Yakleva.

‘Shrieker One, this is Operations, confirmed. Six ready fighters away, inbound eight minutes. Auspex signature confirmation, two enemy Barracudas.’

‘Ma’am,’ Maranova said, ‘those Barracudas are less than thirty seconds away, backup is eight minutes out – don’t send us back to base. Four on two is better than two on two.’

‘Turn and burn for home,’ Yakleva said. ‘Get back within the Lipka air-defence perimeter.’

‘Ma’am, I’m your wingman. Let me stay with you.’

‘You’re not ready. You’ve already shown that. Turn and burn, Shrieker Two. Get to the safe zone.’

Maranova was weighing up whether to argue further when Nazoya’s voice came over the vox. She’d turned wide when she’d broken off from Matlova to return to base and was further north than the rest of the Thunderbolts, closer to the incoming enemies. ‘Enemy aircraft coming hard onto my six o’clock,’ she called over the vox. To an outsider her voice may have seemed calm, but to another combat pilot the panic was clear.

‘Turn left, bearing zero-nine-zero,’ Yakleva said. ‘We’re coming.’

Without hesitation, Maranova turned her aircraft to stay with Yakleva and Matlova as they flew on a course to bring them around behind the t’au Barracudas. With their unfettered use of blasphemous technology, the xenos’ aircraft were a world away from the Imperial Thunderbolts. The sleek fighters were thin triangles against the sky, and Maranova was barely able to make out their cockpits. Despite the dreaded guns of the t’au, Maranova knew the pilots of the Imperium had something the filthy xenos never would – the blessing of the God-Emperor.

‘Maranova,’ Yakleva barked over the vox, ‘get your arse back to base.’

‘I’m spiked,’ Nazoya’s voice broke in before Maranova could reply. ‘Holy Throne, I’m already painted.’

‘Go full evasive now,’ Yakleva replied. ‘We’ll turn onto the targets in ten seconds.’

‘That’s my best friend,’ Maranova said. ‘Let me help.’

There was a moment of silence before Yakleva replied. ‘This will have consequences, pilot officer. For now, you are on flight defence, drop back to cover rear angles.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Come around on attack angle now,’ Yakleva said. The three Thunderbolts turned in formation to swing around behind the Barracudas. Nazoya’s aircraft weaved left and right, turning away from the enemy and then cutting aggressively back across in front of them, limiting the time they had to establish a targeting lock. But the Barracudas were agile. They followed Nazoya’s evasive twists, turns and rolls closer than any pursuit aircraft Maranova had ever seen.

‘I can’t shake them,’ Nazoya called.

‘Hold them off for another couple of seconds and we’ll split them,’ Yakleva said.

Even as Yakleva said this, Maranova saw the flashes of blue as the Barracuda’s auto-targeting burst cannons fired. Nazoya rolled hard but a spray of sparks and sheared metal exploded from her right wing tip.

‘I’m hit. I’m hit.’

‘Weapons free,’ Yakleva called.

The other three Thunderbolts had finally come around behind the Barracudas, but the t’au aircraft swerved through the air as they chased Nazoya and the Imperial fighters struggled to gain a targeting lock. Maranova planted her thumb down on the fire stud anyway, hearing the wind up and eruption of the four autocannons in the nose of her Thunderbolt. The hail of shells sprayed out ahead of her, tracer rounds lighting phosphorous gashes across the yellow sky. She watched similar lines of fire spew forth from Yakleva and Matlova’s aircraft. A sleek white disc ejected from the rear of one of the Barracudas and, with a haze-like shimmer, both t’au aircraft momentarily vanished. Then, just as quickly, they reappeared. One had already split left, the other had pulled vertically upwards.

‘What was that?’ Maranova asked.

‘Disruptor drone,’ Yakleva answered quickly. ‘Enemy in defensive split. I’ll take the leader. Two, stay with Nazoya, escort her in. Three, break for enemy wingman. Mark.’

Yakleva pulled up, splitting off their formation to chase the Barracuda that had gone vertical. Matlova turned to chase the second aircraft. Maranova flew up beside Nazoya’s wounded fighter. White smoke trailed like an air show display from her eviscerated wing tip and Maranova could see the shudder in the top sheet of her wing, the metal ready to peel off like the lid of an Imperial Navy ration tin.

‘Okay, Nazoya,’ Maranova said, ‘how’s your bird feeling?’

‘I’ve got a mean shimmy in my damaged wing. Flight surfaces seem responsive but sluggish.’

‘You’re all right,’ Maranova said. ‘Hey, four ration sticks says I get you home.’

‘Double it.’

‘Are you betting against yourself?’ Maranova said.

‘Seems reasonable at the moment.’

‘Come on, Naz,’ Maranova said, ‘you’ll get through this. I’m with you.’

Maranova let Nazoya turn first, dropping back into a more defensive position and watching as her aircraft banked. It might still have ailerons intact but the ruined wing tip caused an extreme amount of drag that tried constantly to yaw the aircraft off course. Nazoya’s turn radius was very wide as Maranova followed her to head for home.

‘Shrieker Two and Four, lateral attack incoming, break low.’ Matlova’s voice came over the vox. The Barracuda she’d pursued had come around and was turning to intercept Nazoya and Maranova from their left side: not an optimal attack trajectory but dangerous nonetheless. Maranova turned to look towards the approaching enemy; the red-and-yellow Barracuda was banked over hard. Matlova’s Thunderbolt was in the same banked turn, trying unsuccessfully to get behind it. Maranova spotted the other Barracuda peeling down from above and recognised what they’d done – the attack run on Maranova and Nazoya was a feint to bring Matlova into a position to be targeted.

‘Shrieker Three,’ Maranova said, ‘enemy on your eight o’clock high, break.’

Matlova turned, avoiding the Barracuda diving from above. Simultaneously, Maranova and Nazoya dived, Nazoya pushing her damaged Thunderbolt the best she could. The Barracuda roared over the top of them, barely thirty feet above.

All through training it had been drilled into Maranova: the true skill of a combat pilot was not the technical ability to fly an aircraft. Mastery of the air came from situational awareness and rapid decision making. In the split second Maranova looked up and saw the yellow underside of the enemy Barracuda flash over her, she made her snap judgement. Matlova had peeled off; the Barracuda that had dropped in from above followed her, Yakleva on its tail. That left the other Barracuda isolated and in position for Maranova to attack. She banged her stick over, hit the rudder hard and turned after it.

‘Marina,’ Nazoya said, ‘where are you going?’

‘Stay on course,’ Maranova replied. ‘I can take it.’

Maranova heard Yakleva’s voice. ‘Emperor damn it, Shrieker Two. I told you to stay with her.’

But it was too late, Maranova was committed. Her hard turn brought her around behind the Barracuda. She quickly flicked the weapons selection to lascannons. She’d have one shot here and needed maximum damage output. She watched the target reticule on her heads-up display converge on the Barracuda. It locked green. This was it, she had it. Her first kill.

‘Got a lock,’ Maranova declared. ‘Firing.’

She punched down the fire button and twin streaks of glorious las-fire burst out from the nose of her Thunderbolt. The Barracuda pitched up so energetically that for a moment its nose was vertical while it still moved forward, pushing belly first through the sky, but then it disappeared upwards. Maranova’s lascannon fire streaked away, hitting nothing but the wide Raskovan sky.

‘Holy Throne,’ Maranova said, ‘negative damage. God-Emperor, it was just gone.’

Maranova strained her neck to look upwards, searching above her. Through the bright glare on the canopy she saw the Barracuda. It backflipped tail over nose so that it ended up pointing the same direction as her. She felt a recurrence of her awe at this enemy machine: it was like it didn’t obey the same laws of aerodynamics. Perhaps it didn’t – who knew what foul heretical forces the xenos might be entangled with? Her first instinct was that the Barracuda was dropping in behind her, but she soon saw it wasn’t targeting her, it was going after Nazoya. It would take out the damaged Thunderbolt first, picking off the easy prey. Maranova banked hard, skidding her aircraft through the air to pursue the enemy.

The Barracuda moved into position to target Nazoya. Maranova was flying an almost parallel course to the enemy Barracuda now, though she was at least a third of a mile away. She jammed her throttle forward and felt the rumble as the nozzles on her engines expanded, fuel dumping into the open jet stream to give full afterburner thrust. Nazoya was making small, quick turns to keep out of the Barracuda’s crosshairs, but the damage to her wing affected her ability to evade.

‘Naz,’ Maranova said over the vox. ‘Turn hard left, bring the Barracuda into my sights. I can get them.’

‘Negative,’ Nazoya replied. ‘I’m pulling too hard to the right. If I hold a left turn they’ll have me.’

‘I only need two seconds to get into position,’ Maranova said. ‘We can get this alien bastard. We can make this kill.’

‘Marina,’ Nazoya said, using her name as an almost pleading rebuke.

‘Naz, trust me. I’ve got this kill. Just bring the bogey across my line.’

After a moment, Maranova watched Nazoya’s Thunderbolt bank over to the left, beginning the turn to assist Maranova to get into a good attacking position. Nazoya was right, her rate of turn was low, the aircraft fighting against the pull of its damaged wing.

‘Keep coming,’ Maranova muttered to herself. ‘Keep coming.’

Just as she was planning whether to strafe the Barracuda with a lateral attack or try to get in on its six o’clock again, the Barracuda dramatically increased its rate of turn. It levelled out and Nazoya’s Thunderbolt flew straight across in front of it.

‘Naz!’

Maranova screamed into the vox but her warning was too late. The white-blue glow of an ion blast spewed forth from the Barracuda’s massive cannon. The high-energy beam struck the nose of Nazoya’s Thunderbolt and tracked in a diagonal line over the fuselage. Maranova watched as Nazoya’s entire aircraft was sheared in two.

Through a garbled vox communication she heard fragmented words from Nazoya. ‘I’m bailing. I say again, Shrieker Four ejecting.’

The canopy of Nazoya’s Thunderbolt burst free and Maranova watched the flash as Nazoya’s ejection seat was punched with eyeball-squeezing acceleration up and out of her doomed aircraft. Moments later a white parachute inflated, drifting away on the hot breeze.

Maranova’s cold horror morphed into hot rage. She banged her speed brakes and barrel-rolled her aircraft over hard, bringing her guns to bear on the t’au fighter. A lateral attack might not be effective but she flicked her weapons selector to autocannons and sprayed wildly across the Barracuda’s path. A series of flashes appeared over the Barracuda’s fuselage and a shower of sparks told Maranova she’d scored a hit. The Barracuda pulled up in a half-loop and rolled over to reverse direction, trailing streaks of smoke.

‘Two,’ Matlova’s voice came over the vox. ‘You’ve got an enemy on your six closing fast.’

Maranova looked down at her auspex. Two aircraft were coming up behind her, the second enemy Barracuda followed by Yakleva. Matlova was coming in at an acute angle.

Yakleva’s voice came next. ‘Two, set for break. Break left. Break left.’

She did, unconsciously obeying a call to evade from an ally. She stretched her neck to see behind her. The Barracuda was still back there. She banked hard to the left and then turned back right. Throughout her evasive manoeuvring the enemy aircraft stuck with her. Her cogitator began beeping at her and then gave off the dreaded solid tone of an enemy weapons lock.

‘They’ve got me locked,’ she called.

‘Hold on,’ Matlova called over the vox. ‘I’m on intercept.’

In her peripheral vision, Maranova saw Matlova’s Thunderbolt coming straight towards her. Matlova rolled her plane and flew straight behind her, in between Maranova’s Thunderbolt and the Barracuda that had her targeted.

‘Matlova, don’t!’ Yakleva shouted.

The Barracuda fired its ion cannon. Maranova braced but there was no impact. Matlova’s Thunderbolt was in a spin, her aircraft breaking apart and spewing a plume of thick black smoke, completely out of control and tumbling towards the rocky Raskovan ground. She had taken the enemy fire that would have destroyed Maranova.

For a moment Maranova watched the carnage, praying to the God-Emperor she’d see Matlova’s ejection seat rocket out just as Nazoya’s had, but that hope was dashed in a rush of cold horror as Matlova’s Thunderbolt exploded in a bright fireball of fuel.

‘The Barracudas are bugging out,’ Yakleva said. ‘Operations, this is Shrieker One. Enemy aircraft are retreating. We have two birds down: Shrieker Three is KIA, Shrieker Four has bailed out. Request search and rescue scramble. Shrieker One and Two returning to base.’

‘Shrieker One, this is Operations, roger that. Come home, you two.’

‘Squadron leader,’ Maranova said, ‘I’m sorry. I–’

‘You heard them,’ Yakleva said, interrupting, ‘get on my wing, Maranova. We’re returning to base.’

Once out of the cockpit, Maranova wordlessly handed her helmet to the nearest aircraft fitter.

‘Ah, ma’am, I’m not a servitor,’ the fitter replied but Maranova was already walking away, her mind so distant it might as well have been drifting in the warp.

Her oldest friend was lost out on the harsh terrain of Raskova as night was falling, and it was her fault. And as if that weren’t enough, she was responsible for the death of Matlova too. The senior pilot had sacrificed herself to protect Maranova. All this because Maranova so badly wanted to claim that first enemy kill.

‘Come with me.’

Maranova looked up from the tarmac between her boots. She’d stopped in the middle of the hardstand without even realising. Yakleva was standing in front of her.

‘Ma’am, I…’ Maranova’s voice died in her throat. ‘I’m sorry.’

Yakleva began walking away.

‘Aren’t you going to say something?’ Maranova said, her desperation coming through. ‘Emperor’s Throne, my best friend bailed out and we’ve lost a Night Shrieker because of me. Aren’t you going to tell me everything I did wrong?’

Yakleva stopped. Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep breath. She turned to look back at Maranova. ‘You already know what you did.’

Maranova nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Stop it,’ Yakleva said. ‘Stop apologising.’

‘It’s my fault though,’ Maranova said. ‘Matlova is dead. Nazoya is lost. I’m sor–’

Yakleva interrupted her with an open-handed slap across the face, hard enough that Maranova’s face bloomed red and stung viciously.

‘In the name of the God-Emperor, stop your whining.’ Yakleva reached out and grabbed the front of Maranova’s flight suit, pulling her in close. ‘You listen to me. I’d rather you be an arrogant hotshot who thinks you’re blessed by all that is holy than this blubbering worm. You are an Imperial Navy combat pilot, start acting like it.’

Yakleva’s face was stern, her lips tight, and her eyes locked on to Maranova’s like a Thunderbolt’s targeting system.

‘You disobeyed my orders. For that I will tear shreds off you, but you are not some mindless Astra Militarum grunt, you are a pilot – you made the decision to chase that enemy so in the name of Holy Terra and the God-Emperor Himself, you look me in the eye and back up that choice. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Well?’

Maranova stared directly back at the squadron leader. ‘I saw an opportunity to kill the enemy and I took it.’

‘Damn right,’ Yakleva said, finally shoving her away. ‘Matlova’s death was not your fault. She chose to fly that Divine Shield manoeuvre and block the Barracuda’s fire. As for Nazoya, you made the choice to leave her to engage the enemy when I told you not to. Part of not second-guessing decisions is living with the consequences when you’re wrong. Now come, we’ve been called to the ops room for debrief. Maybe throw a prayer to the God-Emperor just to be safe.’

‘Two more birds lost, Matlova KIA and Nazoya on the ground. All this on an Emperor-damned training mission too.’ Wing Commander Groneva was leaning forward, head down, propping herself up with both hands on her desk. ‘They’ve never pushed this close to our anti-aircraft emplacements before. Never risked coming this close to Lipka.’ The wing commander looked up to address Yakleva and Maranova, who stood stiffly at attention in her office. ‘Why didn’t you retreat into the safe zone? What happened up there?’

‘Ma’am,’ Yakleva said, ‘I ordered the two rookie pilots to turn for base and get within the air-defence perimeter. I decided that Flight Lieutenant Matlova and I would engage the hostiles and stay defensive until the scramble fighters arrived. I believed the enemy pair were a reconnaissance patrol and would bug out when they detected the incoming fighters.’

Groneva examined the fighter ace. ‘If that was the plan then why were Pilot Officers Nazoya and Maranova in the fight?’

‘Ma’am,’ Maranova spoke, her voice catching a little, ‘I can explain, that was my–’

The door to Groneva’s office swung open so hard that it slammed back into the wall. Colonel Henrik Rathven of the Ignis VII Second Mechanised Imperial Guard Regiment, commander of the entire Raskova campaign, came into the room like a clap of thunder. The man, shorter than both Maranova and Yakleva but significantly wider, squeezed between them without as much as acknowledging their presence. His long, neatly trimmed moustache billowed out as he addressed the wing commander, making him look like a walrus strapped inside a highly decorated and freshly starched uniform.

‘Groneva,’ he said, ‘what’s this I hear about you authorising a search and rescue dispatch for the downed pilot?’

‘Sir,’ Groneva said evenly, ‘Pilot Officer Nazoya is down beyond the safe zone. We’re going to rescue her.’

‘Beyond the safe zone is the operative phrase there, wing commander,’ the colonel said. ‘That pilot’s flight path took her outside the designated area of operations. We are not sending Valkyries and troops into a hot zone for one pilot. A significant ground force of t’au are mobilising through the area. We’ll be sending a mechanised platoon to engage them. You know as well as I do the xenos have been deploying their pathfinder and stealth suits more regularly and they’ve been dealing crippling blows to low-level assault aircraft. The enemy appear to be making a push to take Lipka. The Imperial Guard will meet them on the ground and the Navy will be ready to defend this base, not risking aircraft for one rookie pilot.’

‘Sir,’ Yakleva said, ‘surely we can move in ahead of the t’au to pick her up?’

Rathven turned. ‘Squadron Leader Yakleva, you may be an ace in the air but do not for a moment overestimate your part in this conversation. In fact,’ he turned back to Groneva, ‘this is not even a conversation. The rescue mission is scrubbed.’

‘Sir,’ Groneva said, ‘we are losing too many pilots. We need to rescue all those we can.’

‘That’s right, wing commander,’ Rathven said, ‘you are losing too many pilots in this conflict. The Imperial Guard will engage the t’au on the ground without air support. The Navy will keep out of the way.’ And without further comment, he turned and left the office.

Groneva stared at the open doorway. ‘Crotchety old bastard,’ she said. ‘He’s just frustrated because the Guard are essentially neutered in this campaign. His pride is what’s really keeping this battle on the ground, and trying to fight on Raskova without air support is stupidity.’

‘Ma’am,’ Maranova said, ‘permission to speak freely.’

‘Oh please,’ Groneva said, ‘spit it out.’

‘Matlova died protecting me. It’s my fault Nazoya ejected. I don’t want to be responsible for another KIA, especially not my friend.’

‘You heard the colonel,’ Groneva said, sitting in the high-backed chair behind her desk, ‘the mission is scrubbed. We will not be rescuing Nazoya. There’s nothing I can do.’ She picked up a dataslate from her desk and began reading.

‘That’s right, ma’am. There’s nothing you can do.’ Maranova looked at Yakleva, who was watching her carefully. ‘Perhaps there’s something we can do.’

Groneva lowered the dataslate. ‘What are you suggesting, pilot officer?’

‘Ma’am,’ Maranova said. ‘Nazoya is expecting a Valkyrie to come and pick her up. Perhaps we can,’ she thought carefully about how to phrase her words, ‘ensure one arrives.’

Groneva leaned forward in her chair and made solid eye contact with Maranova. ‘Are you telling me you’d like to steal a Valkyrie, pilot officer?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Good.’

‘We’d only be borrowing it.’

Groneva’s mouth twisted in contemplation. ‘It has been a while since the base garrison had an attack drill. They’re probably due for one, especially if an enemy attack could be imminent. Still, you understand I have to order you not to do this?’

‘That’s fine, ma’am,’ Yakleva said. ‘She’s not particularly good at following orders.’

Raskova had no moon and that, together with the density of dust in the atmosphere, meant the nights were incredibly dark. The enormous eyes of the nocturnadons were perfectly adapted to the low light; they could spot movement on the ground even from high above and swoop down before their prey even knew they were there. And just like a true night shrieker, Maranova would use the darkness to her advantage. When she’d returned to her barracks, she’d found a note left discreetly in her footlocker. It had stated only a time.

Maranova waited beside a Munitorum warehouse. From there she could see the hardstand where the lines of Valkyries waited. The front row were plugged into power carts, engines already primed, ready for the scramble call to protect the airbase. Maranova crouched and waited for the heavy sun to sink below the horizon.

When darkness came the lumen towers around the airbase lit up, but the dusty air meant light diffused quickly. The Valkyrie hardstand sat between two towers and there were plenty of shadows to move through.

Maranova was sure she could make it to an aircraft and climb in undetected – of course, that would change once she fired up the engines. She’d never flown a Valkyrie and had to hope she could get airborne and away before the base’s garrison of Imperial Guard decided to shoot her out of the sky.

Two hours after the fall of night, when the skies of Raskova had well and truly been given over to the nocturnadons, the wing commander’s distraction was revealed. Vox-casters mounted high on towers around the airbase began to blast a rising and falling siren, and then an announcement. ‘Alert – all active troopers to sector west three – alert.’

Maranova watched the Guardsmen ambling along the line of Valkyries look at each other and jog away.

As soon as they had left, Maranova made to move forward, but a sudden grip on her arm stopped her. She started and turned to see Yakleva.

‘Wait,’ the squadron leader said. ‘This is a response drill. They know it’s not a real attack and the troops won’t be in a rush.’

‘Ma’am,’ Maranova said, ‘what are you doing here?’

Yakleva cocked an eyebrow. ‘You think the wing commander only sent you that message? Please, rookie. If we’re doing this, I’m flying the damn Valkyrie.’

‘Ma’am,’ Maranova said, ‘you are far more important to the war effort than I am. You shouldn’t be doing this.’

‘I’ve made my decision, pilot officer, and I won’t be second guessing it.’

Maranova smiled. ‘I didn’t think you had it in you to be reckless, ma’am.’

‘You think this is reckless?’

‘We’re about to steal an Imperial Guard Valkyrie so we can disobey orders and rescue a downed pilot out from between two converging ground forces. That seems reckless to me.’

‘There’s a difference between being reckless and being daring,’ Yakleva said. ‘That difference is the reason I have shot down thirteen t’au aircraft and lived. Air combat is a balance between daring and control, Maranova. Too many pilots come in hot-headed and get themselves killed. You’re a good pilot, but so is everyone who flies a Thunderbolt. If you want to be great, you need to learn when to be restrained and when not to be. The reckless thing is not stealing this Valkyrie – the reckless thing would be letting you do it alone. Come on.’

The pair of them kept low, Maranova following Yakleva’s lead as she moved across to the hardstand, keeping to the darkness as much as possible. They slid in between two of the aircraft and crouched down. Yakleva peered out to check their surroundings.

‘Those troopers will be debriefed after responding to the drill but they won’t stay gone for long. I’ll get prepped, get the power cart going for air-start.’

Maranova checked the thick cable coming from the starter cart to the side of the Valkyrie and switched it on. She looked up and saw Yakleva through the canopy. The squadron leader strapped herself into the pilot’s seat and threw a thumbs up. Maranova returned it. The Valkyrie’s turbojets began to spin. With a loud pop the combustion chambers burst to life, puffs of black smoke shot from the exhausts and the engines began to roar. Maranova pulled the starter cable out from the connection in the fuselage and slammed the hatch shut. She climbed in the open side door and moved through the troop compartment to head for the co-pilot’s seat. Even over the turbojets spooling up to full power, Maranova could hear shouting, people alerted by the sound.

She was going to take the co-pilot’s spot but Yakleva waved her back as she pushed up the throttle. ‘Get on a door gun,’ Yakleva said. ‘Last reports are the t’au are close to Nazoya’s position. We might need the cover.’

Maranova stumbled as the Valkyrie lurched, the vertical vector thrust forcing the aircraft up into the air. Maranova grabbed on to the nearest floor-mounted heavy bolter to catch her balance. The Valkyrie rose high enough that Maranova saw Imperial Guard troopers and Imperial Navy ground crew pounding down the runway towards them. Yakleva rotated the Valkyrie’s engines for forward flight and rolled the aircraft deftly as its forward momentum took over. They roared away from Lipka Airbase, and those on the ground could do nothing but watch them go.

Yakleva flew the Valkyrie fast and low over the rough terrain. Sitting in the open side door, even at such low altitudes, Maranova could barely make out the ground. It flashed by as a greyscale blur broken only by some lighter sections of raised rock and the deeper darkness of crevasses and canyons.

‘I’ve got a strong lock on Nazoya’s tracking beacon, thirty seconds out.’ Yakleva’s voice came through the headset Maranova had grabbed off the wall; it was hardwired into the Valkyrie’s internal vox-system for crew-to-crew communication. ‘She’s moving fast. I’ve also got massed movement on the sensors – the t’au ground force is nearly on her. We’re coming up on the friendly Astra Militarum force now.’

Ahead, with their lumens bright to guide them over the dark and treacherous terrain, close to thirty Chimera transports and a dozen battle tanks tore over the ground in an extended Aquila formation, long plumes of dust billowing out behind them. Maranova leaned out of the door to look down at them as they approached.

‘Unidentified Valkyrie, this is Operations. You are ordered to deviate your flight path and return to base.’ Maranova heard the all-channels vox transmission over her headset and knew Yakleva would be hearing it in the cockpit, as would the Imperial Guard units thundering along below them.

‘Unidentified Valkyrie, this is Operations, respond or you will be declared rogue.’

Yakleva did not reply.

‘Astra Militarum Strike Force Defiance, this is Operations, you are cleared to engage unidentified Valkyrie.’

‘What? They’re actually going to fire on us!’ Maranova said. ‘So much for friendly.’

‘Hold on,’ Yakleva said from the cockpit, ‘they’ve got Hydra flak tanks. This is going to get bumpy.’

The Valkyrie roared over the Imperial Guard forces and Yakleva immediately banked hard, Maranova grabbing on to the handrail to keep from being thrown out the open door.

True to their orders, the Hydra flak tanks spun their roof-mounted autocannon turrets and began firing. The air around the Valkyrie erupted with bursting anti-aircraft shells.

Maranova was almost thrown from the Valkyrie again as they began plummeting towards the ground. ‘Are we hit?’ Maranova yelled over the rushing wind and bursting flak fire.

‘Negative. I’m taking us into that ravine to get us cover. We’ll come up near Nazoya.’

‘You’re going into a ravine?’

‘Yes.’

‘At night?’

‘We are Night Shriekers, Maranova, this is when we hunt. It looks like Nazoya is deviating from the path of the t’au force. When I bring us up, hit the searchlights and get ready on the gun just in case.’

The Valkyrie turned as it dived, descending towards the barely visible landscape, dropping below the eruptions of fire from the Hydra tanks. Maranova felt a flutter of fear as they plunged towards the dark ground but had to remind herself that Yakleva, with the instruments in the cockpit, would be well equipped to avoid collision with the rocky ground. Through the side door Maranova saw the horizon and the sky disappear, replaced by the dark wall of a ravine whipping past at frightening velocity. She was about to call out and ask if Yakleva could see where she was going but stopped herself. She had to trust; besides it might be better if she didn’t know.

But Maranova had little to fear. She may have been piloting an unfamiliar aircraft but Yakleva expertly manoeuvred the Valkyrie along the twists and turns between the narrow walls of the ravine.

‘Auspex shows the two forces are just about on each other,’ Yakleva said over the vox. ‘They’re going to meet either side of the ravine. Stand by. We’re approaching Nazoya’s location.’

Maranova felt the Valkyrie slow. Yakleva rotated the engines vertically and brought the Valkyrie to a hover in the ravine. Now that the wall was no longer whipping by, Maranova could see the sheer face of it broken up by cracks and occasional rocky ledges. It was closer than she’d imagined. Yakleva really was a hell of a pilot.

Maranova could hear the reverberating boom of the battle cannons on the Astra Militarum’s Leman Russ tanks. They had engaged the enemy. The darkness of the night was lit up with flashes like horizontal lightning and it was clear the t’au were firing back.

‘Tracking beacon is approaching. Ready?’ Yakleva asked.

‘I’m ready.’

Maranova leaned to the wall beside her and flicked a switch. Intense lumen lamps on the Valkyrie’s fuselage ignited and the darkness of the ravine wall was suddenly illuminated. The bright light momentarily overwhelmed Maranova’s vision; she felt the upward acceleration of the Valkyrie, and as her eyes adjusted, the rock wall disappeared as they flew up and out of the ravine. Through the purple afterimages across her vision, Maranova saw the dry, flat plain beyond.

In the middle distance she could see the approaching t’au ground forces. Hammerhead tanks skimmed across the ground using the t’au’s accursed technology, firing bright beams from their ion cannons. Devilfish armoured personnel carriers roared along with them, constantly changing direction, making it difficult for the Leman Russ tanks to score direct hits. Columns of rock and dust exploded into the air as a Devilfish slid sideways with movement impossible for a tracked vehicle like those of the Imperial forces.

‘Do you see her?’ Yakleva shouted over the vox.

Maranova pulled her eyes away from the battle taking place in front of them and searched the ground. Then she saw Nazoya, appearing at the edge of the light, sprinting at full speed towards them. And as if she’d known all along that a Valkyrie would rise like a blessing from the Emperor out of the canyon, she didn’t even break stride. She continued to run for the edge of the ravine.

‘I see her,’ Maranova called back.

Nazoya had managed to avoid the main conflict and the enemy appeared not to have noticed the single Valkyrie that had flown in under cover of the ravine to pick her up. Maranova silently cursed Colonel Rathven and the Imperial Guard brass. They would have left Nazoya out here to die. They’d just proven there was little risk in a search and rescue mission.

As Nazoya approached, Maranova’s attention was drawn to movement in her peripheral vision, something in the rocky darkness just beyond the Valkyrie’s searchlight, but when she glanced over there was nothing. Nazoya was almost to the ravine and yet a feeling of unease was growing in Maranova’s chest – a feeling that proved well founded when the air at the edge of the searchlight shimmered, almost like heat haze. Maranova had seen this before in the fight against the Barracudas. The air itself seemed to solidify, and then suddenly there were three t’au stealth battlesuits standing in a row, facing the hovering Valkyrie. The red lenses in their bulbous helmets glowed eerily as the elite warriors lifted the enormous burst cannons fitted to their arms and levelled them at the assault carrier.

‘Throne!’ Maranova called as the multi-barrelled burst cannons opened fire and the night was lit up by the blue-white glow of superheated plasma. Maranova took cover, the blasts causing the metal of the fuselage to bubble and evaporate away. One shot hit an engine nacelle and melted it. A second shot penetrated the engine itself and the Valkyrie lurched; flames shot in an orange tail from the exhaust until Yakleva shut down the engine. The Valkyrie dropped dangerously close to the ravine floor as the single remaining engine fought to keep it aloft.

Maranova grabbed the cocking handle on the side of the heavy bolter and pulled it back. Grabbing the dual handles, she pivoted the weapon to aim at the stealth suits and squeezed the trigger. The bolter erupted with a deafening chatter of fire as it sprayed mass-reactive rounds across the t’au troops. The recoil of every round reverberated with an intense kick through Maranova’s arms, her vision bouncing with each shot, but she kept her finger planted down on the trigger. The gun chewed through chain-guided rounds like a hungry beast.

As Maranova tracked the weapon across the t’au they ceased firing, the air around them shimmered again, and the active camouflage of their stealth suits caused them to vanish. Dirt and rock chips flew into the air as heavy bolter rounds slammed into nothing but the ground.

Maranova ceased firing. Nazoya had dropped to the rocky floor when the stealth suits had opened fire but she took the opportunity to clamber to her feet again and sprint for the Valkyrie. She reached the edge of the ravine and was preparing to jump for the open doorway when shimmering air announced the reappearance of the stealth suits.

Maranova flinched as a plasma shot struck the internal roof. She swung the heavy bolter back towards the repositioned t’au but she was too slow. As Nazoya took her final steps before throwing herself over the edge of the ravine, a burst cannon shot tore through one of her legs. Her leap towards the Valkyrie became a stumbling fall and she dropped off the edge of the ravine.

‘Naz!’ Maranova leaned forward to look down. A short distance away she saw Nazoya, lying on her side on one of the rocky ledges protruding from the cliff face. She was rolling from side to side, gripping the leg that had been all but sheared off. She was still alive but her ruined leg was creating an ever-growing pool of blood around her.

The t’au battlesuits continued to pepper the Valkyrie with burst cannon rounds. It was an extraordinary amount of firepower to be unloaded by just three enemy troops.

‘We can’t stay here!’ Yakleva yelled from the cockpit.

‘I can get her,’ Maranova replied.

‘I have to pull us out!’

‘No!’ Maranova replied. ‘I’m not leaving her!’

‘Five seconds and I’m flying us out of this shit.’

Maranova scrambled across the Valkyrie, trying to avoid the continued enemy fire. She reached up and pulled a standard-issue Imperial Guard medical kit from the wall and tore it open, ignoring the supplies that spilled across the floor. She only needed the tourniquet. She took it and shoved it into her pocket before sliding back across the compartment and grabbing a rope from a nearby hook. She tied it off to a load ring on the floor before, estimating how much she’d need, wrapping the other end several times around her waist. Tying the makeshift harness off as tightly and securely as she could, she moved out from cover into the doorway and, without hesitation, she jumped.

Maranova landed on the rocky ledge beside Nazoya. She hurried to where her friend lay groaning and clutching her leg. Maranova pulled the tourniquet out and wrapped it around Nazoya’s thigh; when she pulled the pin it instantly inflated, immediately slowing the flow of blood.

Maranova wrapped her arms around Nazoya’s body, clasping her in a tight bear hug. A second later the roaring engines of the Valkyrie increased in pitch. The rope between Maranova and the aircraft grew taut and, for a terrifying moment, the loops around her waist slid up before catching under her arms and hoisting her into the air by her armpits. Carrying the wounded Nazoya with her, Maranova silently prayed to the God-Emperor to protect them as burst cannon rounds flew past them. The Valkyrie turned, Maranova forcing her arms to stay clamped around Nazoya against the swinging pendulum motion of the rope as they retreated to the other side of the ravine and out of range of the firing t’au.

Once beyond the edge of the battle Yakleva descended the Valkyrie until Maranova could get her feet on the ground. Undoing the rope from around her waist, she helped Nazoya up and into the troop compartment as Yakleva brought the Valkyrie into an even lower hover, before clambering up and in after her.

The Valkyrie rose into the air but instead of turning directly for home, Yakleva turned towards the battle still raging between the Imperial and t’au ground forces.

Maranova grabbed the vox-headset and slipped it back on. ‘Ma’am, what are you doing?’

‘There’s incoming enemy aircraft on the auspex,’ Yakleva replied.

‘You’re not in a Thunderbolt, ma’am, and we’ve got Nazoya, that’s what we came for.’

‘Yes,’ Yakleva replied, ‘but the Guard down there need some air support. We’ll hit them with a strafing run on our way out.’

Maranova looked in the direction of the battle; it didn’t seem to be going well for the Astra Militarum. Guardsmen had disembarked from their Chimeras and were locked in a desperate fight with t’au fire warriors. Multiple Chimeras had been left as smoking wrecks and several Leman Russ tanks appeared disabled.

‘All right,’ Maranova said, positioning herself behind the heavy bolter in the door. ‘Let’s be reckless.’

‘All stations,’ Yakleva transmitted over the vox, ‘this is Squadron Leader Yakleva. I am piloting the unidentified Valkyrie. We have recovered the downed Night Shrieker pilot but Strike Force Defiance requires immediate air support. I am engaging t’au forces to assist and request immediate scramble of Thunderbolt fighters and Valkyrie gunships.’

Yakleva flew over the friendly forces and then continued fast and low towards the enemy Hammerhead tanks. Yakleva picked out one tank and two Hellstrike missiles erupted from under the wings of her craft. They slammed into the hovering Hammerhead, penetrating the outer armour on initial impact before the high explosive warheads detonated. The front of the tank burst open in a spray of metallic debris and it ploughed into the ground.

‘They’ve got anti-air,’ Yakleva said over the vox. ‘We’re spiked.’

Even from the back of the Valkyrie, Maranova could hear the scream of alarms as t’au Skyrays sitting in protection of the Hammerhead tanks locked on to the aircraft and loosed seeker missiles.

Yakleva turned one way and then back the other, jinking the Valkyrie, but she could not shake the missiles. As the first drew in close, she punched the flare release and banked so hard that Maranova thought the aircraft was going to turn inside out. The spray of hot bright flares shot from the back of the aircraft and the first missile diligently followed, streaking away into the sky.

The second missile stubbornly maintained lock on the Valkyrie and was rapidly gaining.

‘Hold on!’

Yakleva pulled up hard and then nosed over in a stomach-lurching manoeuvre that sent them diving back down towards the ground. The Valkyrie plunged into the darkness of a canyon once again and, as it grew increasingly thin, Yakleva pulled up hard, each of the Valkyrie’s wing tips scraping the walls of the ravine. She turned hard into a branch off the main canyon and then pulled back up into the clear air. Below them, in the depths of the ravine, the missile exploded in a blast of flame and rock as it speared into the cliff wall. Yakleva turned for home.

‘Valkyrie, this is Strike Force Defiance, nice flying and thanks for the assist. Get your cargo home, we’ve word of incoming air support. We can hold out.’

‘Confirmed, Defiance, the Emperor protects,’ Yakleva replied.

‘The Emperor protects.’

Maranova dropped to the floor of the Valkyrie, exhaling with adrenal exhaustion. Beside her, Nazoya was pale but her breathing was steady and the tourniquet was holding around her butchered leg.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ Maranova said as she unzipped her flight jacket and reached inside. She pulled out eight ration sticks. ‘Here, this is what I owe for not getting you home.’

Nazoya smiled weakly at her friend. ‘Keep them,’ she said. ‘You might have taken your time, but you’ve kept your word.’

Pilot Officer Marina Maranova sat in the cockpit of her Thunderbolt, ready to fly her first official combat mission following six weeks of disciplinary grounding. In the aircraft beside her was recently demoted Flight Lieutenant Nina Yakleva, also freshly restored to flight status. Considering Colonel Rathven had pushed for execution, six weeks grounded and a demotion for Yakleva was a minimal punishment for the pair. Someone had petitioned the high ranks of the Imperial Navy to step in and ensure the best pilots in the Night Shriekers could continue the fight in the skies over Raskova.

‘Lipka Tower, this is Shrieker Flight requesting take-off.’

It had been more than a month since Imperial forces had narrowly prevented the t’au from capturing this airbase and today they launched the counter-offensive. Maranova looked over at Yakleva, who shot her a thumbs up. Maranova smiled and returned the signal. They would make the enemy fear the Night Shriekers.

About the Author

Justin Woolley hails from the bottom of the world in Tasmania, Australia and is an author of science fiction and fantasy. In his other life Justin has been an engineer, a teacher, and at one stage even a magician. A long-time fan of Warhammer 40,000, he looks forward to contributing to the grim darkness of the 41st millennium.

An extract from On Wings of Blood.

The blackness of the void quivered as reality began to bleed. Pinpricks of tortured light winked into existence, pulsing and swelling as they coalesced. In a flash of weeping radiance, all the more eerie for its silence, the frothing knot of space ruptured. The wound in reality tore down its middle, a gash in the fabric of the material universe, suppurating with nightmarish illumination. A rift between the real and the unreal had been opened.

From the churning psychic miasma of the warp, a shape passed through the rift into reality. It was a slender blade, black against the roiling rift. Ribbons of disintegrating daemons, the ancient denizens of the warp, cleaved in vain to its hull as they burned at the sudden exposure to the reality beyond the chaos of their dominion. The ship was a city floating through deep space, though despite the tens of thousands of trained crew it bore, it was counted as one of the smaller of its sisters among the fleet. In the present instance, it plied the void alone.

The remainder of the vessel’s journey was brief, and it soon beheld its destination. As the ebon warship slipped closer to Medusa, hearth of the primarch Ferrus Manus and the bastion of the Iron Hands Chapter, a lone Space Marine returned to be reunited with his kindred.

Atraxii felt the changes rippling through the Corporeal Lament as it translated from the warp and entered real space. He understood it through the alteration of the vibrations in the deck plating beneath his boots, the deviation of the Gladius-class frigate’s reactor output as its protective Geller field was deactivated and real space plasma drives engaged, fluctuations of temperature and pressure, and exactly four hundred and eighteen other rapidly confirmable points of data.

A member of the Corporeal Lament’s mortal, unaugmented crew, or even Atraxii himself, in a past life, might have said that they had felt such a change occur. The conveyance of the information by such imprecise means rang hollow and inadequate to the Iron Hands Space Marine now, a frail attempt of the flesh to understand the world by means that paled in comparison to the boon of data collected by the machine.

Atraxii stood alone upon a rising lift platform, encased in thrumming power armour. Where his brethren marched to war in suits of matte-black, the curving ceramite plates of Atraxii’s wargear were lacquered in bright, arterial scarlet, gleaming from the worshipful application of lapping powder and sacred oils. In deference to the spirit that inhabited the armour, he still bore the deep midnight plate of the Chapter upon his left shoulder pauldron, bearing the laser-etched heraldry of the Iron Hands in the stark, uncluttered manner that so defined the sons of the Gorgon. Set in a disc of polished jet and pearl below his sternum was the cog and skull of the Machina Opus, the iconography of the Space Marines ordained as Techmarines by the Martian priesthood of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

From the bulk of the plasma cell generator mounted upon Atraxii’s back, a quartet of multi-jointed servo-arms gave him a spider-like appearance. The lower pair, folded beneath the arms of the Space Marine, ended in a grasping power claw and diamond-tipped industrial drill. Above his shoulders perched one armature tipped with a flamer, while the other mounted a plasma cutter, pulsing with the energy of a caged star.

Atraxii’s bare head was pale and hairless. Golden wire, finer than human hair, adorned his pallid skin, describing mechanical constellations across his face. His eyes, replaced by orbs of silver, gleamed with stark blue light.

Slowly, Atraxii lowered his helm over his head, sealing himself fully within his battleplate. The Space Marine’s retinal display linked with his bionic eyes, and panels of information leapt across his vision in screeds of pale blue. The vermillion brackets of targeting reticules flickered across the confines of the lift platform, tirelessly combing Atraxii’s surroundings for threats.

Taking a slow breath of the recycled air of the Adeptus Astartes warship, Atraxii flexed his grip upon the power axe held low across his hips – both a symbol of his sacred office and an exquisite killing implement. The Space Marine tightened his hold on its dark adamantium haft, feeling the energy of its spirit straining to be released in the form of its blistering power field. The name of the weapon, ‘Sufferentium’, was etched in silver across its cog-shaped ebon blade.

The vox-link in Atraxii’s helm chirruped as the lift neared its destination. He opened the link with a synaptic impulse, barely more than a reflex as he ignored the rumble of the machinery that echoed beyond the platform.

‘My lord,’ spoke a voice, a reed-thin and mechanical rasp.

‘I acknowledge,’ replied Atraxii to the human serf who served as the shipmaster of the Corporeal Lament.

‘High anchor has been achieved over sacred Medusa. Praise be.’

‘Praise be,’ Atraxii echoed, as the lift shuddered to a halt. The bulkhead parted, exposing a crowded corridor leading to a wide chamber. Robed adepts tending to machines genuflected as he strode between them and the hardwired servitors manipulating banks of keys and brass dials that lined the walls.

‘All is in readiness,’ said the shipmaster. ‘The rites and consecrations have been completed in preparation for your arrival.’

Atraxii said nothing. Such a statement was a redundancy he would not contribute to with reiteration. He had himself performed the blessings on the craft which he now beheld.

‘You are prepared, lord?’ the serf asked.

‘Affirmative,’ answered Atraxii. Mist rolled and coiled around his boots as the Techmarine approached the imposing avian form of a Stormraven gunship. Serfs scurried away from the Space Marine drop-ship, disconnecting fuel lines and applying sacred unguents to its weapons arrays. The Stormraven’s thrusters flexed and fired bursts of bright azure flame, sending tremors rippling through air that smelled richly of ozone and burning fuel.

‘Blessings of the Machine be upon you, lord.’ Atraxii could hardly hear the shipmaster’s voice, relegated to the outskirts of his focus as the Stormraven’s assault ramp rumbled down to admit him.

‘Medusa hails the return of its son.’

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2020.
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ISBN: 978-1-78999-928-0

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