Predators of the Outer Darkness

[Sothalor]

The First Axiom of Victory is to be other than where the enemy desires you to be – Attributed to the Primarch Corvus Corax of the XIXth Legion, known as the Chooser of the Slain.

 

 

In ages past, mankind’s dreamers and artists compared space to an ocean: a grand, endless expanse both filled with wonder yet inimical to human life. They saw the planets as islands of relative safety amid the turbulence of the hostile void. The more fanciful even imagined monsters, prowling the dark between the stars.

 

As it turned out, reality was far worse than any of them had dreamed.

 

*

 

Sergeant Ascylos brought his gauntleted hands up before his breastplate, making the sign of the aquila. ”Ready thine spirits for the work to come.”

 

Seven forms in gray power armor returned the salute, beacons of tranquility amid the bustle of preparations on the flight deck. The Adeptus Astartes inclined their heads in silence; pallid skin and solid black eyes stared back at their squad leader as he unhooked his helmet and slipped it over his head. Ascylos inclined the brutal, sloped Mark III helmet towards the others. As one they donned their own helmets, hiding nightmarish features behind snarling face grills and dark eye lenses.

 

Ascylos blink-clicked the squad rune in his tactical display, awakening his armor’s machine spirit and instructing it to link his battle-brothers to his vox network. The Veteran Sergeant reached up over his shoulder, brought up his worn chainaxe. Intricate script swirled about the axe head, a mirror of the fine black lines etched around his left eye lens. He pounded the haft into the flight deck with a heavy thud. “Dost thou swear to slay the Emperor’s foes?”

 

Lykurgon stepped forward. The youngest member of the squad, he’d just barely completed his stint in the Chapter’s Assault reserve. As tradition dictated the squad had drawn lots to determine this mission’s oathbearer. Lykurgon had drawn the duty; Ascylos hoped the coming battle would further temper some of his remaining impetuousness.

 

Lykurgon knelt and placed the palm of his right hand against the chainaxe’s still teeth. “We do swear to seek Mankind’s enemies,” he said over the squad channel. “We shall harry them in their deep fastness, tear them from their places of safety, and strike them down.”

 

Ascylos lifted the axe and mag-clamped it back over his shoulder as Lykurgon stood. He gave a nearly imperceptible nod as the battle-brother returned to the line, then turned to the hulking craft resting on the deck behind him.

 

“Prepare to board.”

 

*

 

“New bearing: Theta-Phi-Seven. Maintain reactor output to wake shrouds.”

 

“Compliance.”

 

Commander Jaysa Lathmoore stared out the towering plascrys screens of the Belleroph’s command deck, futile endeavor as it was. The murky, shadowy haze of the wake shroud reduced visible distance to less than a kilometer away from the frigate’s armored prow: the equivalent of total blindness in void maneuver. Hardly reassuring, especially when maneuvering through a dense asteroid field. Hands clenched behind her back, she drummed the fingers of one hand against the knuckles of the other.

 

“The first axiom of stealth is to be other than where the enemy believes you to be,” she recited, turning back towards the humming rows of flight plotter cogitators and vox banks. “Time to next update?”

 

“Six minutes, ma’am,” said the midshipman – what was his name? Ah, Fethrix.

 

“Helm, increase thrust by-“ Lathmoore did some rapid, intuitive calculations in her head. “Eight percent.”

 

“Eight percent, Commander?” That was Lieutenant Gregarin. The Belleroph’s first officer walked towards her from the weapon control banks, stepping heavily past hard-wired servitors mumbling incessantly to themselves. Gregarin was a recent addition to the fleet; his stocky frame and swarthy, sun-kissed skin attested to a previously planet-bound life. He marched up to Lathmoore, a stark contrast to her willowy frame and the pale, nearly white skin of the voidborn commander. “That’ll push the wake shroud’s capabilities.”

 

“An acceptable risk if we’re to make the target zone on time. We wouldn’t want to deny our masters their opportunity draw blood, would we?”

 

“No, Commander.” Gregarin made the sign of the aquila as he suppressed a shudder. “Certainly not.”

 

“Update from the picket,” Fethrix reported. “They suggest we come about to a new heading: Gamme-Phi-Four.”

 

Lathmoore nodded. “Do it.” She glanced down at the little patrol ship’s icon on the closest flight cogitator display; the Chapter icon overlaying it resembled the curved form of a nigh-mythical, oceanic predator from Holy Terra’s long bygone past. The reconnaissance ship slipped in and out of the wake shroud’s edges, relaying information on their prey somewhere up ahead. “Time to engagement range?”

 

“Eleven minutes,” Gregarin said. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

 

Lathmoore smiled faintly. “I would have estimated thirteen. The wake shrouds do tax the reactor machine spirits, and factor in course corrections for the asteroids.”

 

“Care to wager on that, ma’am?”

 

“Bottle of amasec to the winner?”

 

“Challenge accepted.”

 

The minutes trickled by, filled with minor course corrections and status updates.

 

“Target update,” Fethrix said. “Invoking tactical display.”

 

A flickering amber hologram appeared over the round table near the rear of the bridge. Gregarin frowned as he and Lathmoore moved over to examine it. “Is this really a target suitable for a frigate, ma’am? It must be… well, cruiser mass.”

 

The target in question must have started life as a large asteroid. Over time, the inhabitants had hollowed it out and added to it; smooth artificial tendrils circled through and out of the asteroid like some massive cephalopod boring through a stone. The alien form of the station drove spikes of disquiet through Lathmoore, but she hid it from her crew. “Relax, Lieutenant. It’s not like we’re sailing up to exchange broadsides. Our duty is just to get into position for the boarding party. Sergeant Ascylos must be keen to earn some glory indeed if he’s looking to tackle prey that size before our other fleet elements arrive.”

 

“That’s the part that worries me. These Stryggothi are deadly up close.”

 

“I forgot: you haven’t seen our masters in action yet.”

 

“No, Commander, and I pray I never have to.”

 

“Wise of you. The Carcharodons are…”

 

“Messy?”

 

“Monsters, Gregarin. They’re monsters.” Lathmoore raised a hand, pointing at a spot on the hologram of the Stryggothi station. “We should breach here. If previous encounters are any indication, this should provide the most direct route to their life sustainers.”

 

“Yes, Commander. I’ll order the macrobatteries to focus on targets here, here, and…”

 

“Here. This should be a weapon system; let’s make sure we knock it out.”

 

Lathmoore drummed her fingers together as she stared at the tactical displays, watchful for more opportunities to add to the fight. It had been a while since she’d last been able to cut loose with the full force of the Belleroph’s armament; their masters’ predilection for bloody melee ensured most void battles she fought came down to supporting their boarding actions from afar. Undeniably effective, but… boring – at least to a born voidship commander.

 

The frigate crept through the remarkably dense asteroid field, easing around dark lumps of rock and metal as it stalked towards the xenos station. The Belleroph maintained power to its wake shrouds; remnants of tech-miracles from before the Heresy, the hazy fields dampened and dispersed the emissions that rendered voidships detectable to one another, an incredibly useful feat for getting close enough to launch boarding assaults. The finicky old tech did possess a major drawback – they relied on the same emitters as a ship’s void shields.

 

Again, hardly comforting as they maneuvered past asteroids at distances equivalent to a stellar knife grapple.

 

“Prepare to divert reactor power from the shroud to void shields,” Lathmoore ordered. “Time to engagement range with target?”

 

Gregarin smiled ruefully. “Three minutes. I owe you a bottle of amasec, Commander.”

 

“Let’s make sure we’re both around to collect on that, hmm? Would you like to inform our masters of the time to target?”

 

“With respect, ma’am, I’d rather not.”

 

“Coward.” She grinned for a moment before going grim, turning to a vox bank and keying in some commands. “Sergeant Ascylos, this is Commander Lathmoore.”

 

“Continue.” The Carcharodon’s voice was a near-whisper, like the rasp of a blade being drawn from its sheath.

 

“We are three minutes from engagement range. You should be cleared for launch soon after.”

 

“Understood.” A moment passed, then, “Be prepared to withdraw as needed, Commander. The Emperor be with thee.”

 

The comm went silent. Lathmoore and Gregarin exchanged glances. “He’s in a talkative mood today.”

 

“The prospect of bloodshed, do you think?” Gregarin said.

 

“That wouldn’t surprise me. Let’s not disappoint then.” Lathmoore watched the mission clock ticking down, then turned to the rest of the bridge and raised her voice. “Disengage wake shroud, raise void shields! “

 

“Ready guns!” Gregarin bellowed. “Load dorsal batteries, charge carronades!”

 

Surrounding space snapped into clarity through the viewscreens as the wake shrouds flickered off. The bridge burst into activity; crewmen rushed to relay orders while servitors punched away at their programmed mono-tasks. Lathmoore took her place on the command throne as the Belleroph powered towards the Stryggothi station.

 

Flickering, sickly yellow beams lanced out from embedded ports in the rocky surface. Two soared past the Belleroph. The third broke apart in a spray of unreal colors off the frigate’s bow, dashing across the curve of its void shields. A pair of bulbous Stryggothi ships broke away from the station, hauling away slowly from the void predator barreling down towards them – too slowly.

 

The Belleroph surged in. Macrocannons swung into place, belched streams of fire hundreds of meters long. Explosive shells the size of small hab structures soared across space and detonated with silent flashes. The explosions wracked the transports, knocking them off axis.

 

“Ready carronades!” Gregarin yelled over the frantic activity on the bridge.

 

“Belay that order,” Lathmoore called. “They’re crippled and not our primary target.” She tapped furiously at one control arm of the throne as she eyed the various tactical displays and readouts screaming for her attention. “Helm, bring us towards the following bearing, full burn. Macrobatteries to commence suppressive fire, Solar Flare pattern. Carronades prepare for priority targets at insertion zone.”

 

The Belleroph trembled as another beam carved into its shields. Steam and smoke hissed from pipes and conduits. “Divert available power to forward void screens,” Grebarin said.

 

“Maintain fire,” Lathmoore said.

 

Bursts of fire crossed the intervening space as the Belleroph closed. The frigate slewed back and forth, performing maneuvers impossible for larger ships. Stryggothi beams left sickly splashes of color where they burst against human void shields. Macrocannon shells pounded the station in retaliation, shattering weapon emplacements with explosive force. All the while the Carcharodon vessel maintained its suicidal course, charging straight for the xenos station.

 

Lathmoore gripped the arms of her command throne as Stryggothi fire stripped another layer of their void shields away. “Carronades! Fire!”

 

Ancient magnetic impellers surged to life. Hyperdense ferrous slugs accelerated down ridged barrels and flashed across space; Lathmoore felt the jolts even on the bridge. The magno-carronade rounds smashed into the converted asteroid, obliterating weapon emplacements and sensor clusters with raw kinetic energy. Sprays of rock and xenos alloy billowed from the station, interfering with other Stryggothi fire as beams diffused and burned into the debris clouds. The Belleroph’s macrocannons kept up a blistering rate of fire, scattering even more debris and station pieces into the surrounding space.

 

Just as planned.

 

Lathmoore hit a faded old switch on her command throne, shouting to be heard over the din of the bridge. “Launch!”

 

*

 

The Caestus Assault Ram Hyraticor shot from the Belleroph’s prow launch bay. Twin-prowed and heavily armored, the dark gray vessel was more missile than spacecraft. It plunged towards the Stryggothi station, weaving through the expanding clouds of debris. Macrocannon shells soared past to detonate against the station hull. Magno-carronade penetrators punched through weapon emplacements, leaving glowing trails of molten slag.

 

The Belleroph peeled away, rolling to orient its keel towards the station as its dorsal void shields overloaded in a spray of oily colors. As it did so the frigate spewed bundles of detritus from ventral shafts, dumping garbage and accumulated junk as a form of impromptu chaff. Stryggothi beams sliced through, scattering in a dozen different directions like they were unsure of targeting priorities.

 

Amid the chaos and the dense debris clouds, the Hyraticor went unnoticed. The Caestus raced for its target point, eager to deliver its deadly payload.

 

Battle-Brother Lykurgon waited in the Hyraticor’s starboard prow, locked into the Misericorde system that held armored Astartes in place while the Caestus was underway. Armor readouts scrolled across his vision for the umpteenth time. Bolter ammunition full. Vitals steady. Squad synchronization achieved.

 

His hand twitched. He longed to reach for the worn chainsword on his back, but the heavy clamps holding him in place prevented it. Positioned first in the line, he couldn’t see his brothers behind him. Jastocoth was behind him, ready to deploy his melta. Deeper within the Caestus were Phyros and Yiphir, veterans of countless short range firefights.

 

Sergeant Ascylos’ rune blinked at him. “Patience. The single strike unto the ordained target is mightier than many blows without purpose.”

 

“Yes, Sergeant.”

 

“Thou shalt have thine chance soon, Brother.”

 

Lykurgon knew. He felt it rising; the deep-seated battle rage that ran deep within all Carcharodons. It informed so much of their identity – their tactics, their planning, their culture. The Chapter’s scholars sometimes called it the Sable Brand, an ancient term that some whispered had its origins from when the Imperium was young.

 

Lykurgon simply called it the Frenzy.

 

“Forty seconds to breach,” the pilot servitor reported over the vox in its monotone voice. “Impact imminent.”

 

Lykurgon’s fists clenched unconsciously as he released a slow breath. He barely felt the tremors of the Caestus through the Misericorde’s inertial dampeners. His breathing slowed. He felt his pulse pounding like a slow drumbeat, his twin hearts in sync. The other Marines remained silent.

 

*

 

The Hyraticor banked around a tumbling piece of rock larger than the assault ram. Another swerve brought it around a mangled chunk of metal that was still glowing molten. The craft levelled for the final approach towards a receiving bay. Thick, bladelike iris doors slid shut like nictating eyelids. The Hyraticor stayed the course.

 

Ancient, ill-understood field generators hummed to life and sheathed both armored prows in crackling force fields. A second before impact its hull-mounted magna-melta flared to life. Super-heated energy vaporized cubic meters of Stryggothi door and melted even more of the surrounding material. The assault ram pulsed its afterburners and slammed straight into the white-hot metal – all the way through. Engines roaring, the Space Marine craft blew into the cavernous bay, ignoring the sudden violent decompression.

 

The Caestus fired its magna-melta again without slowing; the dark gray transport powered towards the far side of the hollowed chamber. The heat cannon rendered rock and metal into slag and the Hyraticor slammed through deeper into the station. It punched through three segmented, tunnel-like corridors without slowing. Atmosphere swirled and screamed, sucked out into the ravening void.

 

The Hyraticor kept going, decelerating with enough force to pulp unaugmented organs.

 

It punched through another chamber filled with Stryggothi. Ichor sprays and gore vaporized off the crackling prow fields.

 

It tore through another corridor, leaving naught but twisted metal and molten rock in its wake.

 

It finally came to a screaming halt in a communal chamber. The explosive entrance tore away an entire bulkhead and rendered two dozen of the misshapen xenos to bloody paste.

 

Hundreds more remained.

 

Wing-mounted Firefury missile batteries discharged in a rippling wave. Clusters of micromunitions tore dozens of Stryggothi forms to shreds; they flattened dozens more with the concussive shockwaves. Decompression claimed more as those unable to secure solid grips went flailing past the brutal, scarred ram.

 

Inside, Lykurgon saw red. It wasn’t the Frenzy, not yet. The simple fact was that a Caestus attack inflicted awesome levels of stress and trauma upon its occupants, no matter how the Misericorde system attempted to mitigate it. If he’d been a mortal man, he’d be dead now. Instead, geneforged biology was already restoring him to full readiness.

 

Lykurgon cared about none of that. All that mattered was the presence of enemies right outside, enough to bloody his blades many times over.

 

The clamps about his armor disengaged with a heavy metal chack like a neophyte’s shotgun. Lykurgon snatched his bolter up, brought it to high ready position. The Emperor guides my hand.

The assault ramps hammered down. Noise flooded in as he charged out; the howl of voiding air fought for dominance with the high-pitched shrieks of wounded and dying xenos. Lykurgon felt his lip curl in disgust even as he lined his bolter up on one active target.

 

Stryggothi were among the more blasphemous departures from humankind’s holy form. Each one was a mass of thick tendrils, long as a man was tall, emerging from a round, bulbous body. A single circular maw ringed by eyes was the only gap in the tentacles. They looked ungainly in open air, but Lykurgon had fought them in enough campaigns to know better than to underestimate the speed and force of their flailing lashes.

 

Not that these were in any condition to fight back.

 

Lykurgon charged down the ramp into a scene of utter carnage. The Caestus breach had left dozens dead and many more wounded; severed tentacles and burst bodies lay strewn in the ammonia fog. Writhing bodies and pale orange blood coated the rocky floor. The Carcharodon fired on the move; mass-reactive rounds punched through rind-like hide to detonate in alien flesh. He moved right, clearing the way for the others in his compartment. He heard the shrieking growl of Sergeant Ascylos’ chainaxe as the squad leader charged from the port Caestus prow, placing single shots with his bolt pistol.

 

A hissing roar announced the arrival of Jastocoth; his melta boiled and burst flailing Stryggothi, further contributing to the hazy mist of alien blood roiling through the air. Phyros and Yiphir stormed out, placing rapid aimed shots into any approaching Stryggothi. The cephalopodan xenos were mostly flailing tentacles, and only bolter rounds square into the body were any guarantee of lethality.

 

Fortunately, they still died to the time-honored fashion of all creatures seeking to kill one another since time immemorial. Lykurgon brought his armored boot down hard on one twitching Stryggothi. Tentacles burst and tore as he stomped through its body; the force of it splattered strange organs over the floor. Over on the other side of the smoldering assault ram the other half of the Astartes squad finished disembarking. Bolter fire roared as the Carcharodons further savaged the stunned xenos, halting any form of organized counterattack. There’d been enough Stryggothi in the chamber that they started getting through.

 

The xenos propelled themselves along the floor with their tentacles in jerky lunges. They climbed over and through the bodies of their brethren, trying to reach the Astartes. Lykurgon shot one through the mouth, then returned his bolter to its magna-clamp position and grabbed his chainsword when a trio of tendrils wrapped around his leg. The ancient blade screeched to life and he swept it downwards in an arc, severing the alien limbs. He stabbed out, impaling the Stryggothi and revving the teeth to full speed. Blade sprayed in wild jets. Lykurgon brought up his other hand, gripping one of his combat blades, and plunged it through one Stryggothi’s many eyes. It finally grew still and he ripped both blades out of its corpse.

 

The Frenzy rose up and swallowed him.

 

Lykurgon threw himself forward into the mass of writhing xenos. Working both hands with Astartes ambidexterity, he hacked and swung. Severed tendrils flew while he punched his combat blade through tough, spongy bodies. Bolter fire echoed in the thinning air. He felt impacts, tendril whips against his armor, like the slaps of small children. He used his mass as a weapon, slamming into charging Stryggothi and hurling them away.

 

His armor’s machine spirit tried to interrupt him, slow him down. It flashed warnings in his retinal display of toxins in the air, concentrations of ammonia and other substances lethal to an unprotected, unaugmented human. He ignored it and kept killing. Stryggothi died at his hands. Blood coated his gauntlets, so thick that it completely covered the gray of his armor. Blow after blow: Astartes physiology drove him tirelessly forward.

 

The Frenzy pounded in his head, drowning out other considerations. His brothers fought alongside him, killing with bolt, blade, and fist. Finally the Stryggothi had enough; the pitiful survivors pulled themselves away towards round exits from the chamber. Lykurgon pursued, stamping on trailing tentacles and sawing his chainsword into shrieking xenos.

 

His vox clicked with Ascylos’ command override rune. “Restrain thyself,” the sergeant said. His quiet, calm tone contrasted with the effortless brutality of his chainaxe blows, hacking foes into twitching pieces. “Remember the objective.”

 

The Frenzy receded – partially. Lykurgon realized that those Stryggothi not yet dead had all fled, and Ascylos was directing the squad towards one of the larger exits with quick, sharp movements. The sergeant turned his bloody helmet to the waiting Caestus. “Continue breach patterns.”

 

“Compliance.” The Hyraticor’s assault ramps retracted with a heavy thud and the scarred craft lifted off the deck with a whine of antigrav impellers. It swung around towards another spot on the chamber. Lykurgon rushed to join his squad as the magna-melta fired; the flash whited out his autosenses and made his armor sound angry temperature warnings. The hiss-roar utterly dwarfed Jastocoth’s melta. With a screech of tearing metal and shattering rock the Hyraticor rammed through the weakened wall, seeking more avenues to open the station to vacuum. The jolt of it threatened to knock Lykurgon from his feet, no mean feat.

 

He took point in the tunnel with Jastocoth. Rock and metal ran underfoot, polished smooth by xenos use. Brycnoth and Morvex remained in center of the squad, laden as they were with the mission payloads. The toxic fog was so thick here he could barely see the floor under his boots. Illumination came from strange, shaped metal … vines, like some of the agriculture zones aboard Carcharodons fleet support vessels. The splayed branches gave off pale yellow glows like flickering torches. Distant screeches echoed through the tunnel. The Carcharodons advanced in silence: a double column along opposite sides.

 

They came to a sealed door, an iris of oily looking metal. Ascylos chopped the air curtly with his axe and Jastocoth raised his melta. A single blast vaporized the center of the door, left dribbling molten bits of metal at the edges. Lykurgon rushed through, followed closely by the others.

The bored rock tunnel took a sharp downward turn. Winding back and forth it led them on in a serpentine course. Whether by design or fortune the layout dropped line of sight to less than a dozen meters at a time. Lykurgon didn’t mind – close killing befitted the Carcharodons way. The tunnel ran down, until it partially submerged. Murky, gray indeterminate liquid filled the route ahead. Undaunted, Lykurgon plunged on. He splashed through the liquid, moving in deeper past his greaves. The tunnel levelled out once he was waist-deep.

 

The tunnel wound through one more switchback and opened up into a dim cavern. His autosenses pierced the poor lighting to pick out their objective, over a hundred meters away. A rocky island emerged from the lake that covered the chamber floor. Blasphemous alien machinery covered it; thick shaped metal clusters characteristic of Stryggothi design ran down in a pillar from the ceiling overhead and into the murky liquid.

 

The station’s life sustainers let out a constant hissing gurgle. The tubes flexed and quivered in ways never intended by the Omnissiah. Lykurgon felt renewed disgust; nine boarding missions against the vile Stryggothi and he still found reason to hate them each time.

 

“Advance: Pattern Gamma,” Ascylos ordered. The Carcharodons spread out, ensuring that brothers Tulius and Haeron were in the middle. The two carried the mission ordnance, hefting cases of melta bombs mounted over their backpack generators. Lykurgon and Jastocoth waded further into the lake; it deepened to chest height as they pushed ahead. Thick coils of toxic saffron fog roiled above the surface, almost hiding the ripples and waves – moving purposefully towards them.

 

“They come,” Lykurgon said, tracking with his bolter. The opaque liquid hid the approaching xenos well. The closest wave grew and swelled, revealing a hint of the Stryggothi beneath the surface. In an aquatic environment it was sleek and swift, with none of the jerky flailing they demonstrated on land.

 

Phyros put a bolter round through the cresting wave; it shrank and broke as the Stryggothi dove deeper, leaving a trail of orange blood dissipating in its wake. In response a dozen other tendrils erupted from multiple points in the lake, each capped with a stubby barrel pod. Lambent violet beams lanced in from the alien weapons. Phyros grunted in annoyance as beams played over his torso, scorching the thick ceramite armor.

 

The Stryggothi warriors had arrived.

 

Maser beams swept across the squad; Lykurgon’s armor held, but spiked with temperature and rad warnings. The Carcharodons responded with all the fury of their namesake. Lykurgon returned fire with the rest of his squad, targeting points in the lake surface beneath the assorted tendrils. The liquid itself churned frantically as Stryggothi darted in while the Carcharodons charged ahead, firing as they closed the distance. Mass-reactive rounds and glittering maser trails crossed the cavern, sent splashes through the fog.

 

Lykurgon emptied his magazine in seconds, stripped it from his bolter, and-

 

Tendrils lashed around his legs with violent force, pulling him over and under. Adamantine-tipped tendril claws swept in at his plate, leaving scratches and gouges. If the warrior was expecting him to be easy prey while submerged, it was going to be disappointed. Blinded, he seized the tendril wrapped around his neck. The bolter went back to its mag-clamp on his thigh as he grabbed his chainsword. The Frenzy pulsed in his mind. Going by feel Lykurgon rammed the blade down the warrior’s maw and squeezed the activation rune. The revving blades churned the slate-colored liquid to froth – heavily tinted by Stryggothi blood.

 

Lykurgon found his footing and surged up, lifting the impaled Stryggothi warrior up out of the lake with his chainsword. Embedded armor plates in its body gave it a patchwork, mottled appearance. One tendril whipped across his face, snapping his head back. He grabbed his bolt pistol, pressed the muzzle into one of the Stryggothi’s eyes, and squeezed the trigger. A savage twist and jerk tore the chainblade free and he shoved the dead warrior away.

 

He turned just in time to see Phyros hoisted into the air, impaled twice through the torso on Stryggothi limbs. The wounded Space Marine kept his silence, letting his bolter answer for him. Rounds hammered the warrior under him as Lykurgon fought towards him. Carcharodons went under, pulled beneath the surface by Stryggothi warriors in their native element. Lykurgon swept his chainblade through armored tendrils; sparks flew as the teeth deflected off and he twisted his wrist, bringing the cycling blade down and into the bulbous body.

 

Temperature warnings flashed and beeped as Jastocoth triggered his melta at a nearby target. Superheated vapor flashed up into a steam cloud – along with the partial remains of what was left of the Stryggothi. The fight degenerated into a half dozen individual melees; Stryggothi surrounded Astartes, dragged them under the surface, and found that they were still peerless killers. Blades and bolts punched into alien flesh. Gauntleted fists and ceramite boots slammed into bodies and ripped at flailing tendrils.

 

Lykurgon drove his blade deeper; the warrior let Phyros fall as its attention turned to its own survival. It turned to swim away, but a change in blade angle drove down through its body. He revved the blade motors to full strength and churned viscera into the surrounding fluid. The warrior lashed frantically, and Lykurgon traded hits, absorbing blows on his pauldrons for the opportunity to rip his blade up along the length of its body, tearing it asunder.

 

Phyros surged up to his feet despite the ragged punctures in his armor. The edges foamed an angry yellow from the toxins in the atmosphere. Phyros swapped out his bolter magazine as Lykurgon intercepted another Stryggothi warrior and put his gun back into rapid action, double-tapping the warrior in its brain cluster. Lykurgon elbowed the corpse aside; spreading orange stains marked the sites of Stryggothi corpses.

 

“Restraint,” Sergeant Ascylos ordered over the vox channel. “Continue to the objective.”

 

The Carcharodons disengaged as swiftly as they’d thrown themselves into the fray. Lykurgon switched to his bolter and joined Phyros in blasting the way to the life sustainer machinery clear. The others did the same; Yiphir squeezed single shots off so quickly it sounded like he’d set his bolter to automatic. Jastocoth’s melta flash-boiled cubic meters of liquid into steam with each squeeze of the trigger. Tulius and Haeron pushed onwards with their deadly cargo. Gethorik fired one-handed; sparks flew from his pauldrons actuators and the arm below hung limp. Ascylos brought up the rear, fending off approaching Stryggothi with dolorous swings of his axe.

 

Phyros was the most heavily wounded among the Astartes. Lykurgon half-dragged, half-carried him towards the island as he emptied his bolter again. Lykurgon hauled him up the rock shore and brought his own bolter up, placing shots into the churning waves. Phyros went to one knee as he tugged a canister of repair cement from his belt and sprayed it into his chestplate punctures. The polyplas allomers bonded and sealed the holes; it would do for now. He climbed back to his feet wordlessly and gave Lykurgon a slap on the shoulder to signal his return to the fight. The other Marine didn’t even notice: the Frenzy drowned out such insignificant stimulus.

 

“Cast them back,” Ascylos said. Bolters redoubled their fury as maser beams swept in. Hesitant to open fire towards their own life sustainers, the Stryggothi warriors pulsed their beam volleys in short bursts. That rendered their weapons ineffective against the Carcharodons’ thick armor and the Astartes hammered them mercilessly. Lykurgon fought the urge to rush back into the water and hack them apart.

 

“Charges set,” Haeron announced. He snapped off a pair of shots, severing one of the many tentacles firing beams their way.

 

“Ammunition status?” Ascylos said.

 

Lykurgon checked his combat supplies quickly. “Acceptable.” The others responded similarly and equally tersely. Bolter fire continued to echo around the cavern.

 

“Proceed towards extraction point.”

 

The Carcharodons charged as one towards the way they’d come from, pouring more fire into the lake to hold the Stryggothi tide back. Lykurgon moved easily with Jastocoth, trading places to let the melta gunner vaporize enemies and moving to cover him as the weapon recharged between shots. The squad moved in a loose formation, pairs and trios fighting together towards the exit.

 

They were halfway there when Ascylos gave the order. “Detonate.”

 

Melta charges ignited and consumed the life sustainer machinery in subatomic fire.

 

*

 

“Void shields are recharging… now!” Gregarin shouted. Blood streamed down the side of his face from a scalp cut as more sparks rained down from the overtaxed conduits above. Crackles ran through the air accompanied by that sense of otherworldly wrongness when the Warp-based archeotech reawakened.

 

The Belleroph swung out from the asteroid it had been sheltering behind. Stryggothi macrobeams shifted from slicing into the asteroid to the human vessel.

 

“Return fire,” Lathmoore said. “Concentrate on any active weapon batteries.” She blew a drop of sweat from the tip of her nose, gripped the arms of her control throne reflexively as the dorsal cannons unleashed a volley.

 

“Augurs just reported another breach in the hostile station,” Gregarin reported. “Internal breach!”

“It appears our masters’ plan is working. Helm, prepare to bring us in close again. No, of course not now! Let our guns whittle theirs down.”

 

“And how will we know when to close, ma’am?” Gregarin said.

 

Lathmoore snorted, unbefitting for a lady of her station but unnoticed in the battle. “Trust me, we’ll know.”

 

*

 

Jets of shaped flame slagged Stryggothi tech-blasphemy. The pillars of tubes groaned under their sudden compromised weight and collapsed. Lykurgon’s enhanced hearing picked out the sudden nothingness where there had once been quiet hums. Stryggothi warriors paused, as if they collectively realized what the Carcharodons had just done.

 

The Astartes didn’t relent, spraying explosive rounds into stunned xenos as they continued heading for extraction. Yiphir was first into the upwards-sloping corridor, covering the sorely wounded Phyros. Lykurgon and Jastocoth brought up the rear, firing at the regrouping warriors.

 

“Withdraw.” Ascylos pushed between them, clutching a large cylindrical grenade. Lykurgon recognized it, though such proscribed weapons were unavailable to the rank-and-file. He fell back without further urging. Even Jastocoth retreated with no further blasts from his melta; both knew what the grenade was capable of.

 

Ascylos twisted the grenade primer and hurled it towards the ruined machinery. Lambent, green-white flame blossomed – and spread. The ancient phosphex bomb was a remnant of bygone days both glorious and terrible. The ravenous chemical payload ignited on contact with air, thin as it was, and burned through metal, rock, and flesh without regard or hindrance. Liquid did nothing to extinguish it, merely spread it further and faster.

 

Stryggothi screeched and wailed as the clinging green flames sizzled over and through their bodies. Lykurgon brought his bolter up to send a few departing shots at the warriors, but Ascylos restrained him with one hand. “Such is unnecessary. Waste not the Emperor’s providence.”

They left the aliens to burn in the spreading chemical flames and withdrew back up the winding corridors. Bolters thudded up ahead as the others engaged still more Stryggothi. “Ware above,” Yiphir said.

 

Lykurgon drew up just as a pair of tendrils swung down from the crags overhead and whipped towards his faceplate. He swayed aside from one but caught the other across his right eye lens. The blow snapped his head back, frazzled his armor’s autosenses for a second. He struck out with his free hand and grabbed one of the flailing tendrils. A swift, sharp tug ripped the Stryggothi from its clinging perch. Its retaliating blows tore the bolter from his hand so he grabbed another of his combat blades in a reverse grip. Lykurgon plunged the thick forward-curved blade into the alien’s flesh and twisted savagely. Blood spurted as he struck again and again, ripping chunks of flesh loose.

 

“Disengage.” Ascylos’ voice barely registered in the height of the Frenzy. “Hyraticor muster, priority one.”

 

He barely had the mind to retrieve his bolter before scrambling after the squad. Mangled enemy bodies testified to his brothers’ activities and marked a trail of blood and organs. They made their way out towards the station surface, killing with bolt and blade in silence. Lykurgon’s armor registered lower and lower atmospheric levels as they got further out; evidently the Hyraticor had put its hull breaching capabilities to fervent use.

 

The Caestus awaited them in the voided docking bay, holding position amid floating globules of molten metal and loose, floating cargo containers. The null gravity forced the Astartes to rely on their boot mag-clamps to make the crossing, but also prevented Stryggothi pursuit. Twin ramps lowered and the Carcharodons boarded in neat order. The Frenzy faded from Lykurgon. So be it.

 

There would be plenty more opportunities to unleash it.

 

The sergeant opened a vox channel as the Hyraticor slipped out into the chaos of near space. “Ascylos to Belleroph. The deed is done. We withdraw.”

 

*

 

“Now!” Lathmoore’s command sent the Belleroph surging forward, leaving the cover of blasted asteroids to close with the beleaguered station. Each macrobattery volley resulted in less return fire from Stryggothi beams. Void shields sparked and flared, bleeding unnatural colors as they dissipated beams and swept debris aside. Magno-carronade rounds left fading afterimage trails, terminating in new holes of shattered rock and metal.

 

The Belleroph’s course carried it on a near collision course with the station, brushing past less than fifty kilometers away. Lathmoore stared calmly at the station through the armored viewports while most of the bridge crew visibly cringed at the suicidal distance. She looked down at distance readouts and hit a vox switch. “Sergeant, we’re in position to cover. Come alongside us, course follows.”

 

Ascylos waited silently as she sent over the navigation details. “Received. We comply.”

 

The Hyraticor punched out of the docking bay with a flash of melta fire, ramming its way through compromised bulkheads. It pulled alongside the frigate, swooping behind it as Stryggothi beams made a final attempt to destroy them.

 

Gregarin made his way over, field dressing over his head. “You’d think he was ordering tea!” he shouted over the bridge activity.

 

Lathmoore burst into laughter at the idea. She kept laughing the entirety of the time as the Belleroph pulled away from the station, shielding the Carcharodons Caestus with its bulk and energy screens.

 

*

 

Hours later the Belleroph still held position at a distant point from the doomed station. Atmosphere leaked from scores of breaches; a station this size did not die quickly. Lathmoore had expected orders to resume the attack immediately after the Hyraticor had docked, but none had come. The returning Space Marines had rearmed and taken care of their wounded, but it was as if their fury had been spent. They seemed content to wait, and watch.

 

The ship’s Commander remained at her post. Lathmoore eyed the tactical display, watching the Stryggothi station die in beats and gasps. Her gaze flickered to other readouts periodically. What other surprises is the universe waiting to spring on us?

 

Alarms pinged across the bridge. “Warp translation!” Gregarin said. “Distance: two-hundred thousand, bearing: two-one-eight mark seven-three.”

 

There it is. “Identify!” Lathmoore snapped. “Restore voids to maximum, ready all batteries!”

 

“Signal coming through...” Gregarin turned pale – more than she’d ever seen when facing any aliens. “It’s… it’s the Nicor…”

 

She sat up straighter. “The flagship? Where’s the rest of the fleet?”

 

“Unknown. No signs of damage or combat. It – it looks like they’re just… early. She… Commander, the Nicor has just altered course: now on intercept trajectory.”

 

“Oh, delightful. Signal our acquiescence to any orders, of course.”

 

“Commander…” Gregarin now looked nearly as pale as one of the Carcharodons. “Lord Tyberos demands to come aboard.”

 

Lathmoore felt the blood drain from her face. “Oh, God-Emperor’s mercy.”

 

*

 

She tugged her uniform straight as the Thunderhawk settled onto the flight deck with a clunk of heavy gears. Scars and nicks marred its deep gray coloring. From her limited contact with the rest of the Imperium, the spartan craft seemed unbefitting of a Space Marine Chapter Master.

 

Gregarin and several other flag officers stood a meter behind her; she heard them fidgeting and couldn’t blame them. The assembled Astartes squad stood before her facing the Thunderhawk. They still wore their armor and only Sergeant Ascylos went unhelmed.

 

The Thunderhawk’s forward ramp lowered with a hiss and Lathmoore stiffened as she saw those waiting to debark. Enormous hulking forms, outmassing even a Space Marine in power armor, walked ponderously down the ramp. Intricate etches like tribal tattoos decorated the dark gray Terminator armor. Meter-long parallel blades extended from oversized gauntlets. The Red Brethren, she thought. It really is him.

 

The Terminator suit coming down the center of the ramp stood in sharp contrast to its escorts. Slabs of plate the color of a violent storm cloud went nearly unadorned by decoration. Molecular bonding studs dotted the greaves and one pauldron at even intervals. The archaic helm panned across the assembled personnel slowly, pitch black eye lenses like the dead-eyed stare of timeless predators. Lathmoore stared at the massive gauntlets with its slowly flexing fingers. Archeotech mysteries, the relics were currently inactive but she knew of their dark reputation.

 

Tyberos, the Red Wake, Master of the Carcharodons Astra, came to a stop before Ascylos. The sergeant inclined his head, and from where she stood it looked like they were conversing quietly. Carcharodons could be remarkably quiet for their size however, and she heard nothing of what they spoke of. Lathmoore prayed silently. Please, let him ignore us. Let him turn around and leave as soon as they’re finished.

 

Tyberos’ massive helm dipped once at Ascylos – and reoriented on her. The sergeant stepped aside, leaving the way clear as the Red Wake approached.

 

Holy Throne.

 

She went to one knee with the other crew, bowed her head.

 

Tyberos stopped. His footsteps had been remarkably quiet for somebody who was essentially a walking tank. “Rise.”

 

Lathmoore tried not to cringe at the promise of death his whisper-like voice carried. She failed.

 

“Thou shalt bend the knee before none but the Emperor. Rise.”

 

At that the crew climbed to their feet. Lathmoore forced herself to look into his eye lenses, tried to steady her voice. “Lord Tyberos. We- we are honored to have you aboard.”

 

“Commander Lathmoore.”

 

Oh. Her stomach clenched; he knew her name.

 

Tyberos took another step closer, towering over her. “The Belleroph flew under thy command this recent engagement.”

 

“Yes, lord.”

 

“Thine was the will that allowed Ascylos to execute his plan… without the Nicor.”

 

“I – Lord?”

 

“We were coming to purge this station. And we have arrived with the deed mostly done.” He reached up towards his helmet. Oh please don’t no-

 

He did. The helmet detached with a sigh like a man’s dying breath. It came away in his left gauntlet, almost comically undersized in comparison. Lathmoore heard the crew behind her back away. Tyberos was paler than any Carcharodon she’d seen, like a drained corpse. Scars crossed his face, some deep enough that the bone beneath was visible. Most distinctive were the slashes running along his cheeks from the corners of his mouth. His eyes were solid pools of black, gleaming like promethium.

 

Lathmoore suppressed a shiver – or tried to. Tyberos raised his empty gauntlet. Three barbed blades slid slowly from the back of his hand with a whisper of steel. He turned his hand over and opened his hand, displaying the rows of adamantine teeth running along the gauntlet palm. The front edges extended up and out – hungrily, she thought – but the jagged teeth remained dormant.

 

“I had anticipated bloodying Hunger and Slake this day. Thou hast usurped the opportunity.”

 

Lathmoore forced herself to stare straight ahead as Tyberos stepped around behind her. The crew retreated even further. Thudding footsteps sounded and her hindbrain screamed at her to turn, face the predator circling her.

 

Or at least run.

 

Tyberos completed his circuit and halted again before her. “An audacious maneuver.” Then he did the most horrifying thing she’d yet seen.

 

He smiled.

 

Pallid skin and scar tissue stretched, deformed. Pale lips drew back to reveal his teeth, sharpened to triangular points. Lathmoore’s breath came in short, rapid quivering bursts. He chuckled, a soft wet burble that sent spikes of ice down her back in a way no void battle ever had. “Well done, Commander.”

 

What? “Thank you, my lord,” she said after finding her voice.

 

“I have seen some of the gun-pict captures. T’was impressive work. Demonstrate such aptitude again, and thou may find thyself commanding a grander vessel of the void ‘fore long.”

 

She blinked, trying to form a response. “Yes, lord.”

 

“I shall be watching thee.”

 

Well, that was terrifying.

 

Lathmoore managed a shaky nod, but before she could muster up the courage to say anything Tyberos turned away back to Ascylos’ squad. The crew behind her let out a collective gasp of relief. She stood stiff and motionless, unwilling to attract attention as Tyberos motioned to the sergeant. “Thou hast earned the right of first spoil.”

 

Ascylos nodded. “We shall return to the station forthwith.”

 

“We shall accompany thee.” The Red Brethren did not move, but Lathmoore felt the sudden sense of anticipation emanating from them. “Perhaps fell deeds yet await us this day.” Tyberos started to turn away, then looked back almost as an afterthought. “Didst thou destroy the spawning chambers?”

 

“Nay. We struck the life sustainers and withdrew swiftly.”

 

“As thou should have. Come then. Let us cast them down, consign them to ashes. Spare not the least of the Emperor’s foes.”

 

“As thou wills it.”

 

Tyberos shook his head once. “Not my will, but the Emperor’s.”

 

“Of course, lord.” Ascylos nodded towards the Thunderhawk. “When do we leave?”

 

Tyberos reattached his helmet. His voice came out as a soft, vox-modified growl. “Immediately.”

 

The Terminator retinue marched back up into the gunship. Ascylos’ squad followed after them, rearmed and eager for more killing. Last of all went Tyberos. He paused at the top of the ramp and turned back to Lathmoore for a moment, black lenses giving nothing away. She held her breath and made the sign of the aquila. His helmet tipped slightly – and then he was gone.

 

She stayed rooted to the spot until the Thunderhawk had lifted off and left the flight bay. Gregarin stepped up to her side from behind. “Ma’am.”

 

“Well.” She forced cheer into her voice. “That wasn’t so bad.”

 

“With respect, ma’am, I’d rather tackle a Stryggothi battlecruiser. That was…”

 

“Disconcerting?”

 

“To say the least, Commander. You, uh, you seemed most unfazed, if I may say so.”

 

“It’s a bad idea to show fear before an apex predator, Gregarin.” Lathmoore nodded absently. “There is one thing to bear in mind when dealing with our masters.”

 

“And what’s that, ma’am?”

 

“Monsters. The Carcharodons are monster: never forget that.” She sighed. “But mankind needs them. They’re our monsters.”

[deathspectersgt7]

Thou Likes.

[Brother Smoke]

Wow, just wow.

 

That was quite literally black library level. You, dear sir, are a gifted short story writer. I'd go as far as to say I would gladly pay for it (I bought The Judges, in Their Hunger and this was actually better.)

 

There is only one teensy detail that bothered me, though it's an easy mistake to make considering it's not something that is directly addressed in the official fluff. Tyberos is actually not the Carcharodons' chapter master, he is often considered to be because he's the highest figure of authority presented for the chapter, but he is actually the first company captain and force commander of the Nicor predation fleet.

 

Other than that, though, it was amazing, 10/10

[Furious Retreat]

loved it!

[Sothalor]

Thanks for the feedback, guys. Glad you enjoyed it!

 

As to why I wrote Tyberos as the Chapter Master, I ended up going with the way Forgeworld updated his character sheet. He's got Chapter Master stats and rules, so I figured that was probably a good indication of which way they meant it. I get where you're coming from, though. There's just so much unmentioned or unclear about the Carcharodons.

[Guest Musketeer12]

Love this mate!

 

Musket

[Teetengee]

Well Done.

[DeathbyWes]

Very enjoyable read.

Thanks for posting!

-W

[Wulfkry]

damn that was a good read...

[Nuclear Fridge]

Excellent story... but I would hate to see Lathmoore's laundry bill after her face-to-face meeting with Tyberos...

[ForlorneRaven]

Scary Carchardons! Great read :)