space fight

	Shipmaster Chelaron watched as the Glasian ship changed its course.  The huge Cylinders were surprisingly maneuverable and fast for their size, but that was still a relative thing.  A massive metal tube in space, made to go very fast in a straight line and outrun Tyranids, was not at home trying to align heavy weapons against an Imperial flagship moving at five hundred times the speed of sound.  The engines of the ship flared bright blue as it tried to adjust its course in time to continue ramming.

	“Historitors, please calculate how long it will take that ship to resume a ramming course with us if it misses at our present speeds relative to each other,” he ordered.

	The position of Ship’s Historitor was a new one, instituted by Guilliman.  It was as much a knee-jerk reaction to the anti-intellectual worldview of the Imperium as it was a means of providing him with relevant historical and tactical data.  There was a single Historitor Primus who oversaw a dozen lessers, quartered on the same deck as Guilliman himself, and armed with the highest clearance the Primarch had been able to wrest from the Inquisition for them to have.  They scrambled to search archives of previous Glasian Migrations while the ship’s hull groaned under the pressure of a powered turn at such velocity.  Inertia carried them on a long, slow parabolic arc that melted into a looser bank as engines the size of Hive arcologies strained and flared Imperial red.

	Chelaron heard a series of metallic twitters in his cranial implants and nodded slowly – the forward guns had calculated the optimal firing solutions.  Those were the long guns, the heavy shell cannons, which benefitted from being fitted to the longest axis of the ship.  The flanks had the array of macrocannons and plasma the ship had carried since the Osirians Xenocides eleven hundred twenty decades before.  The dorsal and ventral turrets were a mixture of the ship’s original weapons and those that Belisarius Cawl and the Ultramarine Techpriests had managed to retrofit over Mars’ objections, mostly Lances and obscenely potent plasma turrets.  Of course, it was a Gloriana, it had plenty of laser weapons, too.  Those just needed shorter barrels.

	The Cylinder’s flanks glowed ugly, actinic blue as plasma energy pulsed through power conduits.  What looked like steam clouds, but what sensor banks told him were actually lithium mist sprayers, sent sparkling clouds out from the glowing conduits.  “Shields, repel plasma!” Chelaron barked.  The ship’s lights darkened for a moment as the Macragge’s Honor pulsed its Void Shields past maximum.

	“Sir, it will take them about twenty minutes, thanks to their bizarre maneuvering system,” a Historitor called.  Chelaron nodded, then narrowed his eyes.  The sensors showed a buildup of energy on the Cylinder’s flanks.

	Blue Ruin Gun beams leaped from the Cylinder to the Gloriana superbattleship.  They slammed into the Void Shields at maximum range.

	“Damage report!” Chelaron snapped.

	A Techpriest looked up from his terminal.  “Praise Mars, there is no damage!  The plasma does not penetrate!”

	“That will change,” a Historitor said from his chair.  “The beams step up in power sequentially every few hundred meters.  If we close to a ship-length or closer, those things could pop our barriers with ease.”

	“Then we shall snipe them,” Chelaron growled.  “For Ultramar!  Prepare our retaliation shots!  Lances first!  Reacquire, prepare to fire on my mark!”

	The cranial implants twittered a moment later, a negative code.  The lances were not yet locked.  After a few more awkward seconds, they twittered in the affirmative.  “Time to optimal firing distance, guns?” Chelaron demanded.

	“Forty-five seconds, sir!” an operator called.

	“Time to recharge the lances for a second barrage?”

	A short pause.  “Two minutes!”

	“We hold fire, then.  All lances, we fire in thirty seconds!” Chelaron called.

	He watched as a countdown timer appeared in the corner of the screen to his left.  He memorized it and returned to listening to the twittering in his head from the implants.  Gun after gun reported optimal firing solutions.  Lances, torpedoes, weapons batteries of laser, plasma, and macro-shell…

	“Lances, on my mark, fire if you have lock… mark!” Chelaron barked.

	A hundred beams of flickering, oily yellow and blue erupted from the hull of the Macragge’s Honor.  Most impacted on the Cylinder.  Its strange alien shields buckled, but did not fail.  How the Glasians had shields at all was a mystery, given how the aliens didn’t have any Warp-tech.

	“Sir, time to optimal torpedo firing point is ninety seconds!  Lances will rearm in one hundred ten seconds!” the arms station operator called.  “Optimal laser and macrocannon shots in two minutes!”

	“Relative velocities?” Chelaron demanded.

	“Sir, both vessels decelerating has dropped their relative speeds to one million kph and slowing!” the helm station called.

	Insane speeds, enough to render the planet sterile with a collision.  “All guns, commence firing and fire at will, recalculate firing solutions on the fly,” Chelaron snapped.  “Shields, resume maximum front.  Helm, maintain course, decelerate to forty thousand kph relative to Oglith’s surface!”

	The ship’s superstructure groaned as the colossal ship started to undergo the immense shift in energy and momentum needed to slow from a measurable fraction of lightspeed to barely enough to maintain an orbit.  The superbattleship’s escort vessels shot out ahead, and the second wave of Ruin Gun shots passed between them.  Already, the Cylinder’s hull was glowing from its attempt to power up for another.  “Broadsides, arm starboard, prepare for rapid calculation of trajectories,” Chelaron called.  “All guns aft, maintain for arc shots.  Macrocannons, begin targetter blessings.”

	The Cylinder slammed on its engines in reverse, still struggling to match the trajectory of the Gloriana.  Its flanks pulsed, sending another pair of intense plasma beams into the Void Shields of Macragge’s Honor.  Chelaron eyed his screens.  “Did that penetrate?”

	“Negative, but we’re down eight percent shields.  Enemy plasma weapons have twenty five percent of the area spread that we do,” the gunnery officer said.  “They will be able to fire again soon.”

	The ship shook.  Wireframe streaks erupted from its forward guns towards the Cylinder.  A few Glasian Escorts had peeled out behind the Cylinder now, left in its wake but catching up fast.  As the ranges of the two huge capital ships shrank, the Imperial macrocannon shells struck their targets or soared past into the blackness of space.  Waves of laser fire sank into its shields, making them flicker.  Another wave of blue plasma fire erupted from its flank energy channels, and this time, the Macragge’s Honor trembled.

	Chelaron’s eyes darted to his miniature ops screen.  “Damage report.”

	“Our shields have taken thirty percent damage in the front arc, Shipmaster.”  A Techpriest from the ops station held up one mechadendrite.  “Recharging is slow while our engines are under such strain.”

	“What are the enemy’s shields doing?” Chelaron demanded.

	“Buckling.  They’re feeling it now,” a sensor operator called.

	The huge Gloriana was in range of all guns now, and the ship trembled faintly as it fired off a full spread of torpedos.  At those speeds, they could hardly miss.  The Cylinder’s wireframe shook on the sensor displays as it took six solid hits from the missiles the size of bombers.

	“Clean hits across the bow, we have penetration on torpedo six,” the gunnery officer reported.  “We will not be able to reload before the enemy is past us!”

	“Reload anyway.”  Chelaron winced as the Cylinder discharged another wave of blue plasma into their shields.  That time, the entire ship lurched.  “Damage report!”

	“Our shields are down to four percent on the bow, Shipmaster!” a Techpriest called.  It held its symbol of the Omnissiah aloft and waved it about.  “Bless our circuits and Mars, they are holding for now!”

	“Lower starboard shields to twenty percent, divert all available energy to forward and port barriers!” Chelaron snapped.  “Inertial compensators to emergency maximum!  Helm, hard to starboard, all broadsides fire as soon as you have solutions!”

	As the ship swung ponderously right, the Cylinder braked again, still determinately trying to ram the Macragge’s Honor.  Now, however, it was facing the full broadside might of the largest operational warship outside the clutches of Nurgle besides the Phalanx.  The Gloriana’s massive flank guns blared as it slowly twisted along a Y-axis, sending flare after flare of macrocannon and plasma blasts into the on-rushing Cylinder.  Its front shields ripped open under their barrage of shells.  Chelaron waited until the last moment and gave the next order.  “Roll the ship, four degrees lateral, port!  All engines to maximum forward thrust!”

	The ship lurched and shuddered at the latest series of maneuvers, then shuddered again as the Cylinder’s main Ruin Guns fired again.  Chelaron gripped the rail to keep his balance.  He heard something break at the back of the bridge.  “Damage report!”

	“Port shields are completely gone, Shipmaster!  Our left has no shields!  Forward and dorsal shields down to two and five percent!” the Techpriest called.

	“Be calm.  Maintain roll, engage maneuvering engines, bring aft section around to face the enemy!  Escorts, do it now!” Chelaron barked.

	The collection of Ultramarine and Navy ships escorting the Macragge’s Honor fired their own weapons into the unprotected center of the Cylinder.  The massive ship flared internally as a spread of torpedos detonated inside the crater the Honor had bored inside it.  The guns of the Honor were firing madly, still pouring macrocannon and laser blasts into the vessel.  Its flank power conduits started charging again, then the vessel’s entire portside went dark.

	“Sir, the enemy’s lost power on the port flank,” the sensor officer called.

	“Excellent.  Maintain roll, fire as fast as the guns recharge,” Chelaron ordered.

	The Gloriana’s huge engines slowly pushed the vessel back up to its full speed.  The Cylinder’s starboard engine fired, sending the vessel listing to port.  The colossal vessels missed collision by a ship-length.  As the Cylinder floated past the aft of Macragge’s Honor, the Gloriana emptied its rear torpedo tubes.

	“Five hits, one miss, Shipmaster!  The Cylinder is losing power on both flanks!” the sensor officer reported.

	The scarred old Shipmaster nodded with satisfaction.  “Superb.  Thank you, guns.  Flight decks, all Escorts, engage and destroy the enemy’s surviving Escort ships.  All guns, acquire the engines of the Glasian Escort vessels and fire at will.  Helm, bring us around behind the Cylinder at a safe distance.  Get me my shields, please, ops,” Chelaron ordered.  “All Marines aboard shall report to ready posts in case the crew of the Cylinder attempt to abandon their ship to board ours.  Comms, get me Lord Guilliman at once.”

	There was a general scramble to implement the order.  The vox cup on the panel to Chelaron’s side buzzed gently in the cradle.  Chelaron grabbed it.  “Lord Guilliman, this is Macragge’s Honor.  Do you have our status?”

	Guilliman looked at the holographic table and half-smiled.  “This is Ultramar Actual Thirteen; if you have the Cylinder unarmed and trailing more debris than a Mek on fire, then yes.  Exceptionally well done, Shipmaster Chelaron.  Once the Cylinder’s FTL system is destroyed, return to orbit; the Mechanicus has special quarantine protocols in place to secure the wreck.”

	“By your command, my Lord.  I do caution that orbital space is not yet secure,” Chelaron said.  “The Orks may well take advantage of this to deliver more boyz.”

	“In fact, Chelaron, quite the opposite is happening,” Guilliman said, looking over the holographic representations of the Ork ships on his screen.  “They appear to be collecting boyz from the surface and making a break for deep space.  I suppose with the death of Squiggothrider, there’s little reason for them to linger.”

	“I see.  One moment, my Lord,” Chelaron said.  He muted the vox and raised his voice.  “Belay all launch orders, Flight decks.  All fighters, scramble to assist the Navy and SDF in orbit.  The enemy is evacuating some of their surface units, and I want to see dead Ork transports on my scanners on the double.”

	“Tally ho, Shipmaster, good hunting against the Glasians,” the flight boss said over the intercom.