At the height of battle a young Naval officer must step forward and make his mark on history

Mors Curre

The deck heaved beneath his boots, bucking wild as the frigate suffered. The ship wailed as Macrocannon shells tore through its spine, the Machine Spirit shrieking as it took hit after hit, flimsy armour no match for the heavy ordnance slamming into it. The cries of the bridge crew were scarcely any quieter, the crewmen bawling in terror as the servitors hissed with feedback from convulsing systems and alarums wailed. Scorpios-2 was suffering terribly and this was only the periphery of the bombardment zone. The barrage was painful but mercifully brief, one last shell slammed into the spine of the ship and then the deluge stopped, leaving behind smoke and sparking power conduits.

"Damage report," called a man standing at the centre of the bridge, on a short Dais that lifted him above the packed consoles. He was younger than most of the officers on the bridge, with black hair and a strong jawline. He eschewed the traditional naval coat and medals of a senior officer, favouring instead a white shirt and black trousers, a golden sash his only concession to his rank. He bore a broad naval cutlass, that was notched from use and his scarred knuckles showed he knew how to use it. His name was Lieutenant-Commander Georgios Mandas and he was the skipper of the Cobra-class escort frigate: Scorpios-2.

From around the bridge officers gathered themselves up and checked their screens. It was a tight space in comparison to the great cathedrals that steered a ship of the line, a hundred officers stacked into circular rows that encompassed the command dais. A stern-faced Commissar prowled the rows of sweating officers, his grim gaze settling upon any whom he deemed to be shirking in their duties. The walls were taken up by huge windows that looked out into the depths of space, though they currently were covered in armoured louvres. Around the edge of the bridge priests paced with solemn dignity, holding leather-bound books from which they read aloud scriptures of the Imperial Creed. A ship of the line could boast entire choirs to sing praises to the God-Emperor but a tiny frigate like this had to make do.

From the various stations officers began to call out situation reports, reciting various levels of damage to the ship. Mandas listened with a practised ear, forming a mental picture in his head. Scorpios-2 had suffered a serious battering but she had held true. Fortunately the barrage had been minor, a ship this small wasn't built for brawling, she was quick and nimble, made to fly past her rivals and be in and out before the enemy knew she was there. But she had teeth, oh yes she had teeth, in the form of two gaping torpedo tubes on her bow.

Mandas saw a haughty officer approaching, one who bore a tightly buttoned coat and many medals. That was First Lieutenant Samul Gataki, the second in command and he looked sullen as he reported, "The ship is damaged but functional, Sir."

"My thanks," Mandas replied magnanimously, "The Night Lords underestimated us and no mistake."

Gataki's eyes hardened as he corrected, "They weren't trying to kill us, just warn us off their troop ships."

That statement made Mandas grit his teeth. Gataki hailed from the Old-blood families who ruled Battlefleet Karyl, a son of a minor household whose name yet had enough clout to see the man rise over many more qualified candidates. Lieutenant-commander Mandas by comparison was a nobody, born into poverty and barely making it into officer school. Yet once there he had excelled, rising to command a frigate through of combination of skill, flair and outrageous luck. Mandas knew Gataki resented him for being a jumped up dock-rat, but rank was rank and both of them knew it.

Mandas looked over to the comms station and ordered, "Contact Commander Popholos and request new orders."

Yet an ashen faced comms-officer looked up and stated, "Sir… we can't raise Scorpios-1… she's gone."

"Gone?!" Gataki barked, "Warp hells, that's who the Night Lords reserved their ire for. But then who is in command of the squadron?"

Mandas' heart sank as he realised it was him, he was the next most senior commander among the group of frigates that made up their formation. The weight of it sank upon him like a Ferrocrete block, the knowledge that it was up to him to step into the breach and salvage whatever he could from the ashes. He realised thousands of Naval personnel across five frigates would be looking to him, ratings, midshipmen, officers and Tech-Priests, their lives or deaths determined by his next words. Never before had he shouldered so weighty a responsibility and the idea undaunted him, but he would be damned if he showed it, especially in front of Gatakis. Mandas drew himself up and declared, "Signal Scorpios squadron that I am assuming command of formation. All ships are to reload torpedoes and stand by for extreme manoeuvres. Auspex station: give me a tactical Hololith."

Over the crew's heads coalesced a three-dimensional image, depicting the orbits of the shrine world Sacellum. The vast curvature of the planet was spotted by the wreckage of broken ships and nebulous fires. Scorpios squadron hung high above the planet, surrounded by the dead troopships they had smashed, before falling victim to a retaliatory strike. Elsewhere Imperial frigates tumbled away into the night, locked in death grapples with Night Lord escorts. Strike craft duelled in mad dances of flaring thrusters, brief sparks proclaiming the deaths of heroic pilots and vile traitors while streams of shuttles and landing craft dove for the atmosphere, carrying armies of cultists and Traitor Marines to the helpless world below. Over the Terminus an Astartes Battlebarge was trading broadsides with a Repulsive class grand cruiser, the Bloody Hand, while streams of loyalist drop pods raced from her belly towards the planet. There would be no help from that quarter. Yet what drew Mandas' eye was the great Battleship Hyperion, the lynchpin of the Imperial resistance, ablaze down her port flank and frantically dropping into a lower orbit. The reason for her flight was obvious, three Night Lord cruisers, harrying her flanks. Their hulls were macabre declarations of pain and suffering, bronzed Daemon heads forming the snouts of their guns and vast sheets made of human skin stretched between their spinal turrets, held in place by cables so they resembled the sails of ancient sailing ships. The Skinning Knife, the Bleeding Edge and, the Dusk Queen, flagship of the Traitor warlord Vorshaan.

Mandas took in the vectors in a heartbeat and words spilled from his lips, "Signal Scorpios squadron to come to course 050 mark 270 and prepare for maximum acceleration."

The various officers looked up in shock and Gataki gasped, "Sir, that course takes up right under the arc of the Skinning Knife's batteries!"

Mandas stood firm as he replied, "And straight into the Dusk Queen's dorsal approach, if we can slip past their guns we can skewer the Traitors through the heart."

Gataki stepped towards the Dias and hissed, "You do realise it's a suicide run."

Mandas snapped back, "What I realise is that the Hyperion is done for unless we act. Without her guns this battle is lost and so is Sacellum. Our duty is clear, we must act. Now obey my order."

Gatakis glared back but then turned on his heel and strode off, moving through the packed consoles where officers bent to their labours. In the Hololith the stars wheeled as the frigate powered up, accelerating towards the battling warships. The Hyperion was beleaguered and Mandas could see the flames and bodies pouring out of her port flank. She was trying use the gravity well to swing about but the Night Lords had her by the tail, pouring on firepower into her vulnerable stern and her doom was certain. Torrents of shells and las slammed into her rear, tearing her engines to shreds and it was only a matter of time until they claimed her life. Mandas couldn't let that happen, he couldn't sit back and watch her die, not while he could yet make a difference.

Suddenly a comms officer pressed a hand to his ear and called, "Signal from Hyperion: Admiral Mikolas orders us to break off our run. The Hyperion will draw the enemy's fire long enough for the fleet to withdraw."

Mandas didn't break his gaze from the Hololith as he declared, "Signal the Hyperion: Your transmission was garbled, we did not receive your message."

From the back of the bridge Gatakis snarled, "We have received a direct order!"

Mandas' head snapped about and he barked, "You know Admiral, would 'Ironheart Mikolas' ever issue an order to retreat?!"

Gatakis' eyes fell and he said, "No Sir, he would not. You are correct, the order must have been garbled."

Mandas returned his eyes to the Hololith and saw the vectors hurtling past as the frigate dove hard for lower orbits. The enemy cruisers grew in his sight and he saw power spikes along their flanks. The capital ships had seen them coming and were rolling out their guns to greet them. Mandas' mouth went dry as he saw ranks of macro-weapons bristling along their sides, readying a broadside that would reduce the tiny frigates to scrap. To dive into that firestorm would be nigh suicidal but to change course would mean defeat for the Imperium. Armour and shields would not avail them, they would have to trust to speed alone to breakthrough.

The comms station flared again and an officer yelled, "Order from Admiral Mikolas: Break. Off. Now. You. Crazy. Bastard."

Mandas barked, "Signal Hyperion: Message unreadable, please consecrate your comm-system and retransmit!"

There was no more time for talk for the Skinning Knife had opened fire. Along her port side massed batteries of Macrocannons, turbolasers, plasma annihilators, grav-projectors and missile launchers let fly, filling the void with flashing death. Space erupted with detonations and burning energy, creating a zone of destruction that would spell certain doom for any caught in its midst and into that maelstrom Scorpios squadron flew.

The frigate howled as destruction washed over her shields, the paltry defences never meant to withstand such terrible might. The artificial gravity rocked madly as feedback tore through the ship, making systems yowl and servitors scream in sympathetic pain. The priests patrolling the perimeter shouted prayers over the din, as Commissars barked threats at any who could hear them. Officers cried out in alarm as the ship bucked like a wild colt and distress calls rang, "Shields buckling! Power lines rupturing on deck seventeen! Plasma leak in compartment nine: three hundred souls lost!"

"Stand firm and divert all power to the engines!" Mandas yelled as he clung to the rail, "We can make it!"

But another officer bellowed, "Shields collapsing!"

"More speed!" Mandas roared, "Damn your worthless hides, more speed!"

Suddenly a roving plasma blast punched through the weakened shields and tore a glancing blow across the frigate's spine, catching the bridge for a single second. An explosion ripped an armoured window apart, blasting a gaping hole into the void. An instant howling wind snatched two-score men from their stations and flung them into the cold vacuum of space. They kicked and they screamed as they were blown to their deaths but nothing could prevent their doom as they were torn from the bosom of the living.

Mandas clung to the rail of his dais as the wind tore at him. His arms were wrapped around the barrier and his chest slammed painfully into the length of it. His slick boots skidded off the smooth metal of the dais, leaving him bent double over the rail, struggling to hold on as the wind tried to prise him loose. His eyes watered and his breath was stolen from his lungs but he clung on for dear life, knowing to let go was to die. Then emergency shutters slammed home, cutting off the bridge from the void.

The bridge crew groaned and shook their heads as Mandas fell to the floor. He ached all over and his lungs protested at the beating he had taken but he had no time to nurse his injury. He forced himself to his feet and wheezed, "Back to your posts... Get back to work you dogs! Where the bloody hell is Gatakis?!"

A woozy officer stammered, "He… he… the First Lieutenant went out the hole."

Mandas swallowed a knot of disbelief but had no time to grieve, for the battle yet raged. He lifted his eyes to the Hololith and saw the barrage falling behind them, Scorpios-2 had made it through. By her side was Scorpios-5 and Scorpios-6, but of the rest of the squadron there was no sign. Half the frigates had been lost, thousands of men dead because of Mandas' order, yet three torpedo-boats were still moving and they had a clear run to their target. Mandas shoved recriminations aside and barked, "All ships Steer course 090 mark 100, fire only on my command."

The Hololith surged as the frigates dove like avenging angels and Mandas gripped the rail tight as he muttered, "Hold… hold… wait for it… one more second… now: launch torpedoes!"

Scorpios-2 roared as her prow erupted streams of vapours, ejecting two cylinders into the void. A pair of plasma torpedoes shot away, spinning slightly as they sought their target. They were joined by four more from the remaining frigates and as one the salvo tore through space. The bridge tilted as the torpedo-boats veered off, artificial gravity struggling to keep up with the violent manoeuvre. Mandas didn't care, his eyes were locked on the Hololith, watching as the torpedoes slammed into the Dusk Queen.

Two glanced off, doing little more than melting armour off the hull, but four more bit hard. Plasma explosions walked up her spine, tearing deep and vicious craters into her body. One torpedo strayed high and clipped the cruiser's bridge, plasma spilling over the protrusion and sweeping it away in a sea of burning fire. The Dusk Queen burned bow to stern as she keeled over, losing all helm control and spinning into a powerless tumble. The bridge erupted into cheers at the sight, men punching the air in triumph and the servitors chattering excitedly in binaric proclamations of a ship-kill. Mandas was among them and slapped the rail shouting "Huzzah, Huzzah!"

The kill was certain and it changed everything. In the Hololith the Skinning Knife and the Bleeding Edge heaved about and powered up their drives. They were running Mandas realised, the death of their flagship had broken the Traitor's fickle courage and they were fleeing from orbit, racing for the safety of deep space. Even the distant Bloody Hand broke off her duel and turned her prow to the stars, abandoning the Chaos troops already deployed on the planet. In one moment the entire battle had turned and Mandas realised the Imperium had claimed the skies over Sacellum.

"Well done my lads," Mandas declared to one and all, "You have just made history, tales shall be told of this day!"

Officers cheered at that but one comm-officers declared, "Signal from the Hyperion: Admiral Mikolas offers congratulations on a fine kill and says whoever commanded that run has balls of solid Adamantium."

Mandas accepted the raucous laughter of the bridge crew. His heart was heavy with the weight of the losses they had suffered but the giddy sensation of victory swept him up and he ordered, "Convey my thanks to the Admiral and tell the galley to break out the grog; we need to celebrate our victory!"