Praxa­medes dismissed Lerok but could not stop himself from bringing up the latest augur sweep on a terminal screen. As he scrolled through the data, he activated the command vox and listened in on Nem­etus’ progress.

Speed. Speed was deadlier than any weapon, a surer guard against defeat than any armour.

Not just physical speed, though the Space Marines under Nem­etus’ command fought with lightning-quick reflexes as they cut down the disorganised gaggle of traitor crew that tried to hold the passage against their arrival. Not simply speed of thought. Nem­etus and his warriors assessed the changing situation more effectively than any cogitator, prioritising targets and snapping off shots with ruthless efficiency. It was these things combined with a speed of purpose. The simple shock of their assault and the unrelenting determination with which they applied themselves to its completion made the Ultramarines irresistible. There was never a moment of hesitation nor a backward step.

The haze of an integrity field shimmered across the opening, enough to retain atmosphere but no obstacle to the incoming Space Marines. The storm shield snarled arcs of lightning as it passed through, but that was all. Within a second of his foot finding purchase on the lip of the broken decking, Nem­etus opened fire, his plasma pistol incinerating the head and torso of the first defender. In the azure flash of its firing and detonation he gauged the strength of the force facing him, and the mettle of its individuals.

They were dressed in tunics, much like adepts of the Imperium, though they bore no symbols of allegiance nor any unifying colour. A mixture of men and women, from adolescents to middle age. The one he had targeted on instinct had been a man who, had he lived on Terra, might have seen twenty years. They were shod in boots and some wore heavy work gloves. In the instant of brightness as they recoiled from the blinding flash of plasma, Nem­etus counted pistols and basic rifles, a few lasguns among their armaments and a handful of shotguns.

Militia, better equipped than many a planetary defence force Nem­etus had seen, but little threat to the Space Marines. Most likely conscripts from invaded worlds, or indentured workers seized in piratical raids on other vessels, or perhaps some had been born into their roles, generations raised aboard the enemy cruiser.

The flare of bolts whipped past him from behind, their propellant highlighting faces that showed fear but also determination – soon replaced with pain and shock as the bolts hit home.