'Emperor's blood, this thing is persistent!'

He rolled right and dived, twisting his Fury in a looping spiral.

'Range, one hundred and fifty metres!' yelled Pelaur, 'Too close! Get us out of here!'

'What do you think I'm doing?' snapped Morten, climbing hard and pushing the throttle all the way out. If the damned thing was still with him now then it was only a matter of time before it caught them.

'Range, one hundred metres and closing!'

It was too close for any of his wingmen to shoot at and Morten could only hope that the thing, whatever it was, had to impact to detonate, or whatever it did.

'Captain!' shouted Harlen, 'Break right, Mark nine-three. Now!'

Without question Morten obeyed, hauling right and diving at full speed. He was just quick enough to see the shape of Harlen's Fury flash past his canopy, lasfire blasting from its underside.

Though he couldn't hear it, he felt the enormous pressure wave of the tyranid weapon's explosive death throes as the flurry of lasfire blew it away.

But it had been too close for them to avoid its vengeance completely. The rear quarter of the Fury lurched drunkenly sideways as hundreds of chitinous fragments scythed into the fighter's body.

Morten fought for control of the shuddering craft as it spun crazily. His helmet smashed into the side of the cockpit and his vision swam as warning lights winked into life all over the control panels. His suit expanded and despite the pressure helmet he could feel himself on the verge of blacking out. If that happened it was all over. The centrifugal forces would tear his ship apart, leaving their bodies to freeze in space.

Sparks and smoke obscured his vision and he could only just make out the shape of the throttle. Morten strained to reach it over the rising forces in the cockpit.

He could hear the squeal of tearing metal and knew that his Fury was beginning to disintegrate.

With one last effort he lunged forwards and hauled the throttle back to idle.

Almost immediately, the violent shuddering of his wounded craft ceased, to be replaced by the soft creak of twisted metal, Pelaur's rapid breathing and the protesting whine of the engines as they powered down.

The Fury drifted and spun sideways for a while, before Morten repressurised the cockpit, cleared it of fumes and gently restored power to the engines.

'You okay in the back?' he asked, craning to see how his gunnery officer was doing.

'I've been better, captain. But I'm still here. Nice work,' gasped Pelaur, obviously shaken by their close call.

'Yes, real nice work. I should have known there could be active bio-weapons.'

'We're still alive,' pointed out Pelaur.

'Yes, I suppose we should be thankful,' said Morten, making the sign of the aquila and pressing his glove to the small shrine beside him. He could see Harlen's squadron paralleling his course. From the lumps of flesh drifting past his canopy, he could see that as well as shooting down the bio-weapon, Harlen's squadron had also vaporised the original target.

He thumbed the vox and said, 'Nine-zero-two, we're allright here. A little shaken up, but other than that we're fine. By the way, thanks. That was nice shooting.'

'Don't mention it, sir,' said Harlen lightly. 'Hold still now. I'm going to give you a once over, see how bad you're hurt.'

'Right. Holding steady,' replied Morten, which was easier said than done as the Fury fought his every attempt to hold her in a straight line.

Harlen's craft slid below and round the stricken fighter and came to rest off Morten's port wing.

'How bad is it?' he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

'It's not good, that's for sure. You've taken a lot of hits on the engine vectors so she's going to be hell to steer. And it looks like you're losing fuel. Not much, but we better get you home to the Vincennes before you run dry.'

Morten suddenly realised how close they had come to dying. If even one piece of the bio-weapon's chitin shrapnel had hit the centreline fuel tank, they'd have been incinerated in a raging fireball.

'Thanks. Get your squadron home to the Vincennes and we'll be back as soon as we can. If we need help we'll let you know,' said Morten. 'And let the tactical officers know about these things. I have the feeling we'll be seeing more of them.'

'Yes, sir. You sure you'll be allright?'

'We'll be late, but we'll get there. Now get out of here before I have to order you.'

'Yes, sir,' acknowledged Harlen as his three Furies accelerated to combat speed and were soon lost in the darkness.

'You ready to go home, Kiell?' asked Captain Morten.

'More than ever.'

Captain Owen Morten gingerly rolled the limping Fury towards home and slowly fed power to the engines, grimacing as the vibrations on the twisted airframe increased.

It was going to be a long ride home.

FOUR

The unknown artist had used the entire chamber as his canvas. A mosaic of enormous proportions covered the walls, the ceiling and even the floor. The workmanship was exquisite: none of the shards of coloured glass that made up the mosaic bigger than a thumbnail. Larger than the Chapel of Heroes on Macragge, the scale of such a work was breathtaking: the chamber stretched over two hundred metres long and its barrel-vaulted ceiling rose thirty metres or more above them.

Uriel and the Ultramarines walked in rapture around the perimeter of the long room, speechless in wonder at the magnificent sight, any faded expectations of Tarsis Ultra swept aside by the spectacular mosaic. Pastoral images of a rugged land of primal beauty stretched before them, the colours wondrously bright and vivid, the skill of the artist perfectly capturing the wild majesty of his subject. Glass mountains soared above glass seas of glittering azure, vibrant emerald fields teemed with proud animals.

Uriel reached out and touched the wall, half expecting to reach within the mosaic and feel the sea. Breeze scudding across the foaming waves that broke on cliffs of dazzling white. Atop the mountains, he recognised a majestic marble fortress with columns and golden domes that made his heart ache with longing. The Fortress of Hera, rendered in such loving detail that he could almost taste the salt of Macragge's seas and smell the sweet sap of its highland firs in his memory.

He could see the mosaic was having the same effect on Pasanius and Learchus, their faces alight with joy. Uriel craned his neck upwards, seeing a host of glass warriors at the hunt, mounted on horseback and wearing blue chitons, the loose, knee-length woollen tunics worn by men and women of Macragge in ancient times.

Leading the hunt was a giant of a man with golden curls and alabaster skin, his face alive with love and strength, carrying a long spear and oval shield. Uriel froze before this image, overcome by emotion, as he recognised Roboute Guilliman. Many times had he gazed upon the pallid, dead face of his primarch in the Temple of Correction on Macragge, where his lifeless body was held immobile in a sepulchral stasis tomb, but seeing him portrayed like this, with so much life and animation, filled Uriel with a terrible ache of sorrow for his passing. Until this moment, Uriel had never given any credence to the tales that the primarch's wounds were slowly healing, and that he would one day arise from his deathly slumber, but seeing this sight, he could now understand why people needed to believe that such a mighty warrior could return from the void.

Further along were scenes of battle, images of war from a bygone age when heroes stood as tall as mountains and could topple the earth with their strength. Here, magnificent and noble, Roboute Guilliman fought the armies of evil. Behind him, slinking from the shadows, an unseen champion of evil poised to deliver a treacherous deathblow. As Uriel's eye travelled further along the fresco he saw a warrior save Guilliman's life, masterfully rendered in chips of sapphire and glass as he thrust his bayoneted rifle deep into the enemy's belly. Sprays of rubies and garnet glittered from the wound.