Rackinruin
Braden Campbell


 	Jerrell had confronted the xenos threat for more than half his life. For the sake and safety of the Imperium, he had staged pre-emptive strikes on eldar pirates, set drahken hatchlings aflame, and ripped the cybernetic limbs from dozens of jorgall. He had faced off against entire platoons of tallerian dog-soldiers. He had been shot with vespid neutron blasters, burned by hrud fusils, and nearly crippled by a chuffian armed with one of their trademark power mauls. The missions had been tough, no doubt, but that was why they were assigned to him. Only he and the specially trained Space Marines who served under him could be trusted to get the job done, and each and every time he had succeeded. His current prey, however, was proving difficult.

 	Jerrell looked up from the display table upon which he was leaning and took stock of his team. Carbrey, the Sentinel, was double-checking his storm bolter and muttering a litany of hate. Launo, the last remaining Ultramarine, stood with his arms crossed, awaiting his commander’s decision. Archelaos, the Dark Angel, stooped his bulk across the opposite side of the display and traced its surface with a beefy, ceramite-plated finger. His face was hidden by a cavernous hood.

 	The Inquisition unimaginatively called their target ‘the jump ship’. Carbrey, on the other hand, had christened it Rackinruin, after a mythological void whale said to prowl the segmentum his Chapter called home. Unlike other greenskin spacecraft, Rackinruin was able to attain speeds so fantastic as to propel it through the warp. It was covered with ablative amour and shrugged off damage that would have gutted other ships. It had cut a swath across half the galaxy, performing devastating hit-and-run attacks on one forge-world after another. Rackinruin had evaded every ambush and defeated every fleet the Imperial Navy had sent up against it.

 	Jerrell believed all that was about to change. ‘Launo,’ he barked. ‘Prep the boarding torpedo.’

 	Carbrey looked up from his prayers. ‘We’ll nay be teleportin’ then,’ he enquired in his unique dialect.

 	‘Too many variables,’ Jerrell replied. Rackinruin had evaded the Space Marines thus far because it could accelerate faster than their small cruiser. However, in their last encounter, as the orks had barrelled towards the forge-world of Paskal, they had passed directly through the planet’s glittering rings of ice and metallic rock. For precious moments, Rackinruin’s speed had dropped dramatically. Following a furious exchange of fire between the two vessels, the orks sped off again. Behind them they left a blizzard in space, kilometres long. Whatever kind of engine was powering Rackinruin generated a magnetic field so intense that it had caused tons of rock to stick to its sides. It might also scatter their atoms across the void if they tried to materialise near it.

 	They now hurtled towards the forge-world of Chestirad, famous not only for the weaponry it produced but for its natural satellite. Chestirad’s moon was titanic and contained vast deposits of ferrite-236. Jerrell was certain that it would interfere with Rackinruin’s power source. Once again it would slow, and as it did, they would attack.

 	‘Coordinates, watch-captain?’ Launo asked.

 	‘We’ll hit them just below the bridge.’

 	Archelaos righted himself. ‘No. Wait,’ he snapped.

 	Jerrell ground his teeth. Of course, the Dark Angel had some objection. He always did. ‘What is it?’ he growled.

 	‘I disagree with your choice,’ Archelaos said.

 	Carbrey shook his head, and returned his attention to his weapon. Launo shifted his weight in strained patience.

 	After a moment, Archelaos added, ‘Respectfully.’

 	Jerrell’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am tired of having conversations like these,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I am the watch-captain, and I give the orders.’

 	Archelaos pulled back his hood. ‘I am your Second, and your technical advisor. It’s my duty to present you with the best course of action.’

 	‘And what would you have us do?’

 	Archelaos tapped the display for emphasis. The blue and white schematic they had been studying was suddenly replaced by a pict-capture of Rackinruin. ‘We board here. Aft quarter. It’s the shortest route to their primary engineering core.’

 	Jerrell shook his head. ‘The hull plating is too thick on the rear sections. A torpedo will never be able to punch through.’

 	‘We go in through the engine bell.’

 	Jerrell was incredulous. ‘Are you mad? They are moving at full thrust. Their plasma trail would disintegrate us before we even got near them.’

 	‘I’ve given this no little amount of thought,’ Archelaos said. ‘I believe the heat shielding on the torpedo will hold.’

 	‘If you’re going to suggest a course of action then make it a plausible one. We’ll board them just below the bridge, fight our way in, and slay their leader.’

 	‘We should go in through the engines,’ Archelaos repeated. ‘We can exit directly into the master control room and eliminate their technical experts.’

 	‘In half an hour that ship will have passed Chestirad’s moon and will accelerate beyond our range. We have only this one chance to stop it.’

 	‘Yes,’ Archelaos nodded, ‘and my plan will do that. Orks can’t maintain their ships or weaponry without their engineers.’

 	‘Orks fight less effectively without a commander.’

 	‘Our mission is to is discern why Rackinruin can travel the way it does, and then stop it from ransacking more Imperial worlds. We don’t need to seek out the ork leaders in order to do that.’

 	A tense silence suddenly filled the briefing chamber. Jerrell’s voice was little more than a growl. ‘That almost sounds like cowardice.’

 	Archelaos’s eyes flared. ‘What it sounds like,’ he said slowly, ‘is the recommendation for a surgical strike as opposed to a sledgehammer blow. It is tactically sound, given the time constraints and our low squad strength.’

 	‘Is it what the Dark Angels would do?’ he asked.

 	‘Without hesitation.’

 	‘But you are not in your home Chapter any more,’ Jerrell said pointedly.

 	The members of the Deathwatch were drawn from a wide variety of Chapters, and during his term of enrolment, each member was expected to don the sombre battle colours of the Ordo Xenos and work wholeheartedly with those he might not otherwise get along with. It was only natural for everyone to keep some small reminder of home, be it a trinket or pre-battle prayer, a salute or heraldic symbol. Jerrell himself wore a red clenched fist on the left pauldron of his otherwise matt-black Terminator armour that he would never paint over or disgrace.

 	Archelaos, on the other hand, had dyed his suit as black as space, but it seemed his immersion stopped there. His shoulder plate bore the white winged sword of Caliban. A cluster of pale feathers hung from the hilt of his power sword. He continued to wear the long beige robe and deep hood that were the hallmarks of his Dark Angels brethren.

 	‘The previous order stands.’ Jerrell picked up his helmet and stomped heavily out of the room. Launo and Carbrey followed without a word. Behind them, there was a cracking sound as Archelaos slammed his fist down on the display in frustration.

 	The boarding torpedo was a windowless, narrow tube. The forefront was occupied by a pilot servitor: the emaciated upper half of a heretic whose punishment was to serve the Ordo Xenos even unto a fiery, crushing death. Behind that five alcoves were recessed into each wall. Jerrell, Launo, and Carbrey each backed into one. Restraints automatically sprung around their feet, waist and shoulders.

 	Archelaos entered and closed the hatch. He performed a final check on the pilot, and then locked himself into place beside Jerrell.

 	‘Synchronise countdown on your displays,’ Jerrell ordered, and in each of their helmets a timer appeared, frozen at ten seconds.

 	‘Ready,’ Launo grunted.

 	‘Aye,’ Carbrey replied.

 	‘Synched,’ Archelaos muttered.

 	A massive bulkhead slammed down, separating the Space Marines from the pilot. Then, the torpedo rocketed forwards with an intensity that would have liquefied the bones of a normal man. The numbers in their displays began to race towards zero, counting off the time until they smashed through Rackinruin’s armoured skin.

 	The actual impact came and went in a heartbeat. From where they were ensconced, Jerrell and the others felt only a single, wrenching lurch. There was a dull thump from behind the blast door, and a staccato clacking as their restraints let go.

 	‘Five seconds!’ Jerrell announced. He hoisted his shield in front of him with his left arm, and drew his sword from its scabbard. Both were highly polished and crackled with destructive power.

 	Launo slid into place behind Jerrell and to his left. The assault cannon mounted to his right arm hummed softly. Carbrey took up position opposite him. Archelaos filled in behind. His storm bolter was decorated in an outlandish pattern of red and green, typical of the Dark Angels.

 	No one spoke. They simply waited until the bulkhead detonated outwards in a hail of thick shrapnel, and then, as one, they rushed forwards.

 	They emerged into a humid scrapyard that apparently served as a spare parts storage facility. Tall piles of rusted metal and broken machinery, salvaged from countless different planets, lay everywhere. Each pile was being tended to by a multitude of tiny, pale green creatures. They had spindly limbs and grossly oversized noses, and in the dim light looked almost like ork children. Several dozen of them had been turned into gristly chunks by the torpedo’s explosive arrival. The rest stood frozen in shock, mouths agape and watery eyes wide. They were alien rabbits caught in the glare of the Emperor’s purifying light.

 	Jerrell pointed towards them wordlessly. The others opened fire, filling the chamber with thunder. Launo’s assault cannon, in particular, produced a deafening roar as it swept back and forth. The pathetic little creatures flew apart in droves, or tried to bury themselves under the scrap. A few who were either too brave or too stupid to accept the inevitable tried to fire back with clunky revolvers. The slugs impacted futilely against the Space Marines’ Terminator armour. It was over in moments.

 	Archelaos kicked away a pile of the dead creatures, reached into the folds of his cassock, and produced a bulky scanner. He turned in a slow circle before pointing down a dark corridor to their left.

 	‘This way,’ he said.

 	Jerrell took the lead with Launo and Carbrey by his sides. The walls of the passageway were typically ork: a haphazard collection of metal plates, salvaged over the years from the wreckage of other civilisations, welded together in a slapdash fashion. Everything had the look of refuse about it, broken and corroded.

 	‘Fifty metres,’ Archelaos reported, ‘then a large open area. There’s a shaft or lift of some kind. Should take us straight up to the bridge.’

 	Behind his faceplate, Jerrell smirked in anticipation. ‘That’s where it will start,’ he said needlessly. They had all received extensive lessons in xeno-behaviour as part of their Deathwatch indoctrination, but Jerrell knew the greenskins well. Nothing was more pleasing to a mob of orks than a close-quarters brawl in which they could dogpile their opponents. It sustained their barbaric natures, but it also required a lot of space.

 	The ‘open area’ was two storeys tall and lined with discoloured metal and sparking cables. A large set of double doors was directly opposite them. Three more corridors branched off at odd angles. There was a catwalk above them where several more of the diminutive scrap-tenders cowered. At the Space Marines’ approach, they screamed and began to flee. Archelaos aimed his storm bolter at them when a piercing trumpet blast suddenly rang twice, followed by a booming, metallic voice. Its staccato words were harsh and clipped, and in a language familiar to none of them. It cut through their armour’s sound filters, and left a ringing in their ears.

 	Launo spoke in the stillness that followed. ‘What was that?’

 	‘Rackinruin’s voice,’ Carbrey replied.

 	‘You jest?’ Launo asked.

 	The auspex began to chirp before Carbrey could answer. Archelaos glanced down to see clusters of illuminated dots closing in on them from all sides. The wet air was filled with the rushing sound of innumerable, iron-clad boots.

 	Launo turned down the closest corridor, steadied himself, and let the assault cannon roar. Orks flew apart, dismembered. Archelaos and Carbrey each positioned themselves in a doorway, and emptied the clips of their storm bolters into the rushing throng. The muzzle flashes were blinding in the dank light. Discarded casings piled around their feet. The orks bellowed and cursed and died in droves, but still they came on, pushing closer, closer. They trampled over the bodies of the fallen. Their eyes were as red as blood. Their screaming maws were filled with razor fangs.

 	In the midst of it all, Jerrell stood smiling. The part of him that would always belong to the Crimson Fists could have stayed there for an eternity. If he could have fought nothing but greenskins from now until death, he would have counted his life well spent. Still, there was a Deathwatch mission to complete. They had to press on.

 	‘Archelaos! Carbrey!’ Jerrell thundered. ‘Set your charges!’

 	He ploughed his fist through the lift door and shoved it aside. There was an open platform beyond, large enough to hold the four of them. Immense chains vanished into the black shaft above. Behind him, Launo was firing down one corridor, then another, covering Archelaos and Carbrey as they released the safety locks on the melta bomb each was carrying. They set them for the shortest possible delay, dropped them to the floor, and then backed into the lift. Finally, Launo joined them.

 	The orks were pressing within melee distance. Carbrey ejected his spent magazine and slapped a fresh one into place. He fired several bursts into the orks at a range so short that blood and brains splashed across his chestpiece and soaked Archelaos’s robe. On one side of the platform there was a heavy switch which Jerrell slammed down. The platform made a grinding sound, and began to slowly ascend. Below, they could hear the orks screaming with ferocious bloodlust as their prey escaped.

 	The bombs the Space Marines had left behind were designed primarily to penetrate thick armoured targets with a concentrated burst of thermal energy. When they detonated seconds later, their power was such that they literally set fire to the air. The orks’ flesh was blacked into ash even as their lungs combusted. The walls, floor and ceiling glowed red-hot and liquefied in several places. A roiling, orange fireball raced up the shaft and washed around them. They paid it no heed.

 	‘Report,’ Jerrell said.

 	‘No apparent injuries, watch-captain,’ Archelaos replied.

 	‘Materiel?’

 	‘Two melta bombs left,’ Carbrey answered. ‘I’d say fifty per cent ammunition remaining.’

 	Jerrell turned to Launo. ‘Special weapons?’

 	Wisps of smoke curled from the end of the cannon. ‘I used two-thirds of my munitions, but the mechanics are still sound.’

 	Jerrell nodded, satisfied. ‘Then ready yourselves.’

 	The lift trundled to a stop at Rackinruin’s laughably primitive bridge. It was square and cluttered with a mismatched array of cogs, levers, oversized buttons and cranks. There were no view-screens or cogitators, only pipes spouting steam and rusty boxes filled with blinking lights. A massive window dominated one entire wall. A series of piloting chairs were set before it, as was a raised platform featuring a steering wheel of some kind. Scores of the little green creatures milled about, carrying wrenches and hammers and tending to the machinery.

 	Towering over them were eight hulking orks. Their skin was a deep green hue and their faces meaty. They sported exotic melee weapons and thick sheets of metal plating on their shoulders and chests. Pistons and gears were imbedded throughout their bodies at seemingly random points: the greenskin version of bionic augmentation.

 	Things happened very quickly then. Reacting instinctually, the burly orks moved to close the distance between themselves and the Space Marines. They fired their oversized pistols as they went. Jerrell exited the lift first holding his shield before him. Huge, heavy bullets slammed into it and fragmented. A lucky shot shattered part of his helmet and he noted with cold detachment that he was now blind in his left eye. It mattered little. The other three Space Marines fanned out and opened fire around him. The eight ork lieutenants screamed defiantly and surged forwards. The little gretchin, buoyed by the presence of their massive overseers, also gave cackling battle-cries and ran forwards. They took no notice as two of them were torn in half by bolter-fire, and crashed into the Space Marines with the force of an avalanche.

 	The little ones posed no threat, but Jerrell noted that the ork weapons were surrounded by crackling power fields. They would be slow to hit with them, but when they did, they would be enough to test even a Terminator’s redundant layers of protection. He had to strike first. He threw his full weight against the orks, shoving two of them back a few paces, and squashing a half dozen of the little runts beneath his foot. He slashed out with his sword, lopping a limb off of one and a head from another. Through a red haze, he wondered if Archelaos was doing likewise. He parried two more blows against his shield, and glanced to his left.

 	The Dark Angel’s hood had fallen back off of his helmet. His blade was indiscernible amidst a whirlwind of parries, but even he couldn’t stop them all. A rough-hewn claw, mounted to one of the ork’s forearms, punched straight through his armour and imbedded itself in his chest.

 	Carbrey and Launo had moved up to reinforce their leaders. They each bore a crushing mechanical glove on their left hands. The servos in their armour groaned as they wound back and drove them into the foe. Launo punched clear through one of the orks, and sprung back into a riposte. Carbrey, however, swung his entire arm downwards like a lumberjack cleaving logs. He ripped his opponent in half from shoulder to hip, but overextended himself in doing so. A pair of greenskin claws hammered down, catching him between the shoulders. He convulsed, and dropped face first onto the blood-soaked deck plates.

 	Jerrell roared in anger and came at them like a thing possessed. He chopped and bludgeoned, and before Archelaos or Launo could even react the orks were dead. The remaining gretchin, bereft of their protectors, scrambled and hid, diving for cover behind machinery banks or wriggling up through ventilation shafts. Jerrell stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving. He stuck his sword into the floor and peeled off his ruined helmet.

 	Launo dropped to one knee, and rolled Carbrey over. His teeth were clenched as he gave a thick, gurgling sound.

 	‘Easy, brother,’ Launo said softly. ‘Easy.’

 	Archelaos looked down. The wound was obviously fatal, and without an Apothecary there was nothing to be done. They had taken the bridge, but at a terrible cost. Now there were only three of them. ‘Captain?’ he called.

 	Jerrell didn’t respond. He was preoccupied with surveying the dead orks.

 	‘Jerrell!’ Archelaos yelled.

 	Jerrell’s head snapped up. His augmented biology was already at work. The gush of blood that had been pouring from his shattered eye socket had reduced itself to a trickle.

 	‘He isn’t here,’ Jerrell muttered.

 	Archelaos stormed over to him. ‘What?’

 	‘The ork leader. He’s not among them.’

 	Archelaos looked about quickly. ‘You’re certain?’

 	‘These bodies are all the same size,’ Jerrell sighed. ‘Bigger than regular orks, but not one of them larger than the rest.’

 	Archelaos sheathed his sword. He put his hands on his hips, shook his head, and walked away to scrutinise the crude control panels. Launo appeared beside Jerrell. He had a helmet in his free hand, and held it out.

 	‘Carbrey?’ Jerrell asked hopefully.

 	Launo’s posture was supremely rigid. ‘Fallen in the service of the Emperor,’ he said proudly. ‘The watch-captain has need of a new helmet. It would honour our brother if you take his.’ Jerrell reached out and took it with a heavy solemnity.

 	Archelaos cursed and stared out the window. A mottled grey and brown planet was looming large. ‘We’re well past Chestirad’s moon,’ he announced, ‘and still under full thrust. This ship is preparing for a low orbital raid.’

 	‘Sir, how can that be?’ Launo said to Jerrell. ‘We’re in control now.’

 	Archelaos shook his head. The ork machinery made absolutely no sense to him. ‘I’m not certain that we are,’ he said. ‘There might well be controls hidden amongst all this refuse, but it would take weeks to discern them.’

 	The watch-captain did not reply at first. He was still gazing down at Carbrey’s helmet, cradled in his massive hands. ‘I should have seen it before. A drive that lets the greenskins leap across space? What could be more valuable? What could be more rare?’

 	The tilt of Launo’s faceplate said that he wasn’t following.

 	‘Orks are incapable of building such a thing,’ Jerrell elaborated. ‘They must have pillaged or stolen it from somewhere. The ork commander would want to stay near it, the better to keep an eye on his treasure.’

 	Jerrell turned back to Archelaos. His brow was furrowed. ‘You were correct. Knocking out Rackinruin’s power source would have been far more efficient than trying to usurp command of it. I let my hatred of the orks cloud my tactical sense. Coming to the bridge has not only cost us precious time, but the life of a battle-brother as well.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I cry your pardon. Both of you.’

 	‘You weren’t wrong,’ Archelaos corrected. ‘We simply come from different Chapters. There were two options, and as watch-captain, you chose the one you thought best.’

 	Jerrell pointed to their fallen comrade. ‘And Carbrey…’

 	‘Will not have died in vain.’ Archelaos finished. ‘We still have time.’

 	They left their second-to-last melta bomb behind them, set three minutes later to turn the bridge to slag. The Space Marines would either shut down the engines, or they would ride down to Chestirad’s surface atop a cataclysmic fireball. Either way, Rackinruin’s pillaging would come to an end this day.

 	Their journey towards engineering was eerily uneventful. They could hear the little green monstrosities scrabbling about behind the walls and in the shadows, but none of them dared to come forth. Jerrell walked in between his remaining two men. ‘A ship this size,’ he said, ‘should be carrying several hundred full-sized orks.’

 	‘Then where are they?’ Archelaos asked. He had his sword drawn. The auspex was secured atop his storm bolter using strips torn from his robe.

 	Finally, they came to a thick blast door seemingly built by giants. It towered above the Space Marines and was covered with crudely painted glyphs.

 	Archelaos pulled a heavy wall switch, and it rumbled aside like a rusty curtain. Beyond was a cavernous chamber. The floor was covered ankle-deep with huge bones and fanged, lantern-jawed skulls. Amidst the charnel sat a machine that was of neither greenskin nor Imperial manufacture. It was a perfect sphere, etched in intricate patterns and lit from within by a bright yellow glow. From deep within it came a thrumming sound, like a heart beating in overdrive. Arranged around it stood five enormous orks. Their bodies were covered in layer upon layer of metal armour and cybernetic attachments. Each of them had a large-calibre cannon mounted on one arm. The opposing hand had been replaced by an unwieldy claw. Rusty cables protruded from their heads and torsos. Their faces were gaunt and starved. They stared blankly at the alien sphere as if in a trance.

 	‘Emperor protect us.’ Launo’s voice was uncharacteristically hoarse. ‘It ate them.’

 	Two sharp notes cut the air, and again came the thundering, alien voice of Rackinruin. The orks snapped awake and turned to face the Space Marines. One of them, larger and more heavily plated than the rest, gave a bellow. Then they began trundling forwards simultaneously, unleashing a torrent of oversized shells.

 	Jerrell lifted his shield reflexively. Even so, he felt a massive impact in his right knee. Another tore clean through his right shoulder.

 	Launo stood his ground, answering back with his assault cannon. When he blew the midsection out of one of the augmented orks, wires and mechanical parts spilled forth where blood and guts should have been. The monstrosity fell over dead. When the greenskins fired at him again, chunks of his Terminator armour spalled inwards, puncturing his organs. He spat blood, went to one knee and fell to the floor.

 	Archelaos dashed back next to Jerrell, spraying the storm bolter as he went. The rounds sparked and ricocheted off the orks’ armour. He glanced at Jerrell, who nodded. They would die in moments if they did not shorten the range of this fight.

 	Together they rushed forwards. Jerrell collided, shield first, into the biggest of the orks and brought his weapon down in a humming arc. There was a fountain of sparks and a screaming of rent metal. The powerful leg servos in Archelaos’s suit launched him into the air and he came crashing down, sword first, amongst the rest. A mechanical limb went flying.

 	Their foes’ armour made them slow but their massive claws had enough force to cleave either of the Space Marines in half. Archelaos and Jerrell ducked and parried, moving wholly on instinct. They swept at legs and lopped off their heads. The biggest of the orks was the last to go down, and did so only with a combined effort. Jerrell drove his sword into the beast’s chest with all his might, as Archelaos slashed it deeply through a hip joint. The deck plating shook as it collapsed.

 	Archelaos’s breathing came in shallow, rapid gasps. His armour was filled with ragged, fist-wide bullet holes. ‘We have to… stop the… ship.’

 	‘You’ve been injured,’ Jerrell said.

 	‘Yes, but we’ve no time for that.’

 	Together, they turned towards the alien sphere. The orks had obviously tried, in their crude way, to integrate the device into their own mechanical systems. Thick, rusting cables formed a nest at its base, and ran off in all directions. Red paint had been splashed across every surface. Gears and corrugated metal were piled everywhere. There was a cracked display screen recessed into a square box and surrounded by levers and buttons. Archelaos kneeled down and removed his helmet. He leaned in close to examine it. His face was covered with beads of sweat. He saw Chestirad in the foreground, a massive moon in the distance, and two bright dots that obviously represented their cruiser and this abomination of a ship. Alien hieroglyphs scrolled by at a furious rate.

 	‘I’ve served three enrolments in the Deathwatch.’ Jerrell said, slowly reaching out to touch the silver ball. ‘I’ve never seen the like.’

 	‘I have,’ Archelaos panted. He began pressing lightened buttons. ‘This is khrave technology.’

 	Jerrell pulled back. ‘The mind eaters?’ he said, referring to them by their more common name.

 	‘They’re really more like… mind copiers,’ Archelaos managed. ‘They steal memories. Imprint themselves with… personalities that… aren’t their own.’

 	‘Are you certain?’

 	‘Quite.’ Archelaos smiled grimly to himself. Although he was now certain that he would die in the service of the Deathwatch, he would always be a Dark Angel. Secrets were his forte. ‘The orks must have… found this. Tried to use it…’

 	‘And it ended up using them.’ Jerrell was suddenly very glad that Archelaos had been assigned to his team. ‘Can you disable it?’ he asked hopefully.

 	‘Let’s pray,’ Archelaos muttered, ‘that this is… main drive.’ He indicated a particular knob and pulled.

 	The air was cut once again by a piercing alarm that rang on and on. The metallic, alien voice that followed was deafening in its volume.

 	‘Forget it,’ Jerrell shouted. He grabbed the final melta bomb in both hands and moved to clamp it on to the metal sphere.

 	‘No, Jerrell!’ Archelaos screamed, but it was too late. The moment the bomb made contact, the watch-captain felt a cold presence swirl around inside his skull, rifling through every thought he’d ever had.

 	The room shook. The alarm became a scream, and the thrumming heartbeat of the khrave machine turned into a single, gut-wrenching tone. A pulse of energy threw the Space Marines across the room to land among the bones. Jerrell felt himself turned inside out for a moment, a tell-tale sign of travel through the warp. Terrible forces pressed around him. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

 	Jerrell was still holding the now charred and useless melta bomb. He got up, cast it aside, and walked back to the machine. The image on the screen had changed. Chestirad and its moon were no longer hanging there, replaced instead by a distant star. Ten planets orbited around it. The fourth one was highlighted. Hundreds of bright dots, other starships, were scattered nearby. He knew this beleaguered system. It was home to one of the largest concentrations of orks in the known galaxy; the focal point in three full-scale wars between the Imperium and the greenskins.

 	‘Armageddon, Archelaos,’ he laughed. ‘Of course it would take us to Armageddon. It brought me to where I’d most like to be.’

 	Archelaos lay in a motionless, crumpled heap. He was no longer breathing. Jerrell hauled his body into a sitting position against Launo’s corpse, and placed the feather crested pommel of his sword into his hand. Then he picked up his own weapons and stood facing the entryway of the chamber.

 	‘We’ll take them together,’ he said. There was a glint of madness in his eye. ‘You and I, brothers at the end.’

 	Within moments, he knew, this ship would begin filling up with filthy, swearing, murderous orks. They would come in the hundreds, the thousands, and they would find him blocking their way. He couldn’t wait to get started.