"Hadrian, report your location!" Calanthus activated his suit's vox-caster and shouted into the channel.
"Emperor preserve us, Calanthus, I'm in Section 12, lower hull near the prow. The place is crawling with damned warp-spawn."
"Hold firm, brother. All Primaris squads, status reports immediately."
The cruiser carried two companies of over two hundred Ultramarines. Aside from Calanthus and his second-in-command, Sergeant Hadrian, all other Astartes were newly awakened neophytes.
Though they had undergone rigorous training and completed numerous trials, this would be their first encounter with a large-scale daemonic incursion.
What about the previous time the engines were blown by daemons?
That had involved only dozens of daemonic entities; the power room overload was the work of a scrap-code daemon, a problem for the Tech-Priests. Astartes were not equipped to handle such technical scrap-code infestations. As for those few dozen daemons, there weren't even enough to go around for each battle-brother. It hardly counted as a battle.
But this time, thousands of servitors had already been blown out of the lower decks. Red and purple-skinned daemons, brandishing hellblades and war-talons, clung to the hull like a swarm of ants, pouring through the breaches in the lower hull. Even Calanthus felt his scalp tingle.
Daemons are immensely empowered within the Warp. Conventional weapons can almost never grant a daemon a true death; they are merely banished, their physical forms dissolved, only to return the moment an opportunity arises.
Even a Space Marine does not wish to be slain by a daemon within the Warp. Their remains would almost certainly be corrupted. Even if they did not instantly transform into a daemon-spawn, their most precious legacy, the gene-seed, would likely be tainted beyond use.
A single progenoid gland takes at least fifty years to mature. Every Space Marine, upon completing their transformation surgeries, has a secondary, immature progenoid gland implanted in their neck. This is the most vital tithe an Astartes pays in his lifetime.
Every Space Marine carries the heavy burden of ensuring the Chapter's survival. Even Chapter Master Calgar is no exception.
Calanthus knew well that, aside from himself and Hadrian, every other Primaris Marine on this ship carried an immature progenoid gland. They would serve for fifty years with this gland, waiting for it to mature so they could expand the Chapter or replenish its ranks using local recruits.
If these Primaris Marines were to fall here, the loss would be twofold. Furthermore, the ship held Axion, the ancient relic the Primarch himself had commanded them to recover.
The weight of this responsibility was immense.
The vox crackled again as the Primaris tactical squads began reporting. The collision had not caused significant harm to these demigods of the Emperor. Only a few unlucky souls suffered minor fractures from the massive impact, but that was irrelevant now. Their superhuman resilience ensured such injuries would not hinder their combat effectiveness.
There were eighteen squads in total, twelve men per squad, divided into four tactical groups. Their combat formation remained intact.
Calanthus listened to the static-heavy reports and quickly confirmed the positions of all Astartes.
"All squads, operate in your minimum units. Squads 14 through 18, head to the stern; you must protect the engine room and the power cells. All other squads proceed to the lower hull under Hadrian's command. Squads 1 and 3, rendezvous with me at Section 15 of the upper prow."
The orders were clear. The current situation left no room for the neophytes to question their assignments.
The Ultramarines immediately split into ranks according to Calanthus's directives, moving swiftly through the hull. All naval ratings along the way scrambled to get out of their path.
Against the enemies of the Warp, mortal soldiers were far too frail. While their weapons were not entirely useless, their effectiveness was marginal at best.
In the upper prow, soldiers at the front line crouched behind their shields and firearms, huddled behind corridor bulkheads, constantly swallowing hard. They prayed the enemies outside would take their time cutting through the sealed blast doors, even though they were the most elite mortal soldiers on the ship.
Facing Warp daemons while inside the Warp itself. It was the worst possible combination.
The naval veterans, however, sat silently with lho sticks in their mouths, feigning nonchalance as they meticulously checked the largest-caliber weapons they could scavenge. This wasn't their first encounter with daemons. In small numbers, they could banish them back to the Warp without Astartes intervention.
But this was different.
They were still in the Warp. With the Geller Field failing, the daemons would come in an unending tide.
The ship had struck something; the hull was undoubtedly compromised. If a breach opened, everyone would be sucked into the vacuum of the Warp. Daemons didn't need to breathe; humans did. Even with void suits, the oxygen supply was limited.
Thinking of this, the veterans silently checked the pressure gauges on their suit tanks.
There was no use being nervous. This time, to deal with daemons who would be significantly empowered by the Warp, all experienced veterans had chosen the largest-bore weapons possible. Even the boarding shotguns of the breach teams had been snatched up by the soldiers.
Standard lasguns might work against ordinary rebels, but against a daemon, a shotgun was always more reliable. And the boarding shotgun was the best "scattergun" they could find. Anything better would require stealing a Master-at-Arms's master-crafted shotgun, assuming you didn't fear the Commissar's whip or a summary execution.
The upper hull at least had armor providing a temporary reprieve. The lower hull, however, had already turned into a harrowing hellscape.
Daemons brandishing war-blades surged into the ship, ignoring the weak fire from the lower-deck Enforcer squads. Las-bolts left only small black scorch marks on their hides, doing nothing to slow them down.
Occasionally, some less-compliant servitors pulled out crude, improvised solid-slug weapons and opened fire. But their lack of power and abysmal accuracy meant the bullets flew wildly, perhaps opening a small hole in a daemon, or more likely, hitting a fellow servitor. More often than not, an over-pressured black powder charge would cause the gun to explode, taking several servitors with it.
"Ha! Fresh flesh! A joyous slaughter! What exquisite sport!"
The daemons advanced with cruel sneers, their voices echoing with guttural laughter.