Perhaps Praxa­medes was right. The Ithraca’s Vengeance could turn the enemy ship into a rubble cloud and not a single Space Marine would risk his life in the achievement of victory.

Bright stars in the firmament of battle…

It was not for the safe life that Space Marines were created from the best of humanity. It was their duty to die in battle, to give their lives and ultimately their deaths in service of the Emperor. Often the better victory was harder won.

Nem­etus turned his attention to the scrolling pathway painted in light across the interior of the canopy – an azure thread laid down by Praxa­medes’ computations that the gunship’s machine-spirit followed towards their target. An icon briefly flashed bright in the display.

‘Three miles from target point,’ the pilot announced.

The fire of the Ithraca’s Vengeance crept along the length of the enemy ship as the cruiser’s guns tracked the progress of the gunships towards their landing zone. Like fire consuming parchment, the line of detonation blossoms worked its way towards the cathedral-like rise of the command superstructure. Increasing the magnification of his helm, Nem­etus looked along the line of approach towards their goal. There was a victualling platform about half a mile from the main bridge, exposed to the void by a series of earlier hits. A landing dock, ideal for the gunships, giving direct access to the main arterial corridors that would take the force to the strategium.

Perfect.

Too perfect?

There was no reason to second-guess Praxa­medes’ plan. By all doctrine laid down in the Codex Astartes, the ingress mission was a balanced combination of support firepower, speed and location. On any account, Praxa­medes had surpassed a mission commander’s needs. Even so, Nem­etus found himself accessing the artificial eyes of the gunship, more powerful than the lenses in his helm, augmented by medium-range augur feeds.

The target site was a mess of broken ship and fluctuating energy readings. The gaping hole in the side of the upper deck was consistent with the impact of a bombardment cannon hit, the point defence turrets around the locale devoid of power.

It was too easy, too neat.

Literally too neat, Nem­etus realised as he panned the scryers back across the breached loading dock. Both doors had sheared away, leaving the entirety of the inner deck in view. The massive hinges that had held the portal in place had all come away, leaving a rectangular hole about sixty yards across and twenty high. Not a single hinge had stayed attached to the ship.

Another signal flashed momentarily through his vision. ‘Two miles to target,’ the pilot announced. Nem­etus felt the slightest push against his secure harness as the gunship started to decelerate to combat speed for the final approach.

Half a mile. Close enough to the bridge to be tempting, far enough to give room for a defence force to hold ground.