Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell

by Warhammer 40K

  The dull monotone of the servitor’s voice confirming the problem irritated him still further.

  ‘We’re almost through the field,’ Telyna said between gritted teeth. Her jaw had been clenched so hard for so long that it ached terribly. ‘If I can just use the remaining thrusters to stabilise our position... our shields should deflect the smaller stuff. I just have to avoid the rest of it.’

  ‘Our shields should deflect, yes,’ said Abramov grimly. ‘They should – and I don’t doubt that they will. But they won’t do so indefinitely.’

  ‘Do you have a better plan, captain?’ Again, the rising sense of hostility on the bridge deck was detrimental to the situation and the captain bit back the harsh retort. He gripped the arms of his command throne until his knuckles turned white. All it would take would be a single big hit to their shields, enough to break through. Once that happened, they would be torn apart and join the unfortunate dead that they had observed already outside the ship.

  ‘Anticipated time to exit this accursed junk pile?’ His question came out as a bark. Before she could answer, Telyna let out a string of blasphemous expletives. At her outburst, several of the bridge crew hurriedly made the sign of the aquila, their faces horrified. When she spoke, Abramov merely nodded as though he had expected this to happen.

  ‘New contact.’ She looked round at him and her face was a picture of abject terror. ‘Xenos raiders, sir.’

  They were practically drifting, with very little in the way of firepower to defend themselves. If they didn’t collide violently with the debris and junk that threatened their path, then they would be blasted apart by the pirates, or worse, crippled and boarded.

  All at once, the calmness of the bridge descended into a discordant babble, a far cry from the orchestrated glory of earlier. Voices spoke over one another, but with the ease of the years, Abramov filtered out what was important and added his own orders to the tumultuous noise.

  ‘Front starboard thrusters are also starting to fail. Transferring power from port thrusters to compensate.’

  ‘Shield generators still holding steady. Ninety-eight per cent.’

  ‘Power to fore thrusters stabilising. Levelled at sixty per cent.’

  ‘Time to exit?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Maintain current pattern. Telyna…’

  A staccato of sound, a counterpoint of voices that rose to a crescendo of noise. Cutting across it all, the whispered, fervent litanies of each crew member as they prayed with due diligence to the distant God-Emperor of Mankind to get them through safely. The uproar continued.

  ‘Incoming. Dead ahead.’

  ‘Enemy ships are moving to intercept. There are two of them. No, not two. Three, sir! There are three of them! Holy Terra...’

  ‘I’m trying to... damn it!’

  ‘Impact in ten... nine...’

  ‘All stations, this is Abramov. Brace for impact. Channel whatever power we have into the guns and fire on the xenos ships. If we’re going to go down, we’ll not go quietly.’

  The three xenos vessels were manoeuvring their way with practiced ease through the field of destruction. The freighter captain had seen them before... eldar. In days past he had fought against them. ‘Nightshade’ was the human designation for the three vessels bearing down on them with silent menace. But they were now officially the least of their immediate worries. Let the eldar launch their torpedoes. It would be a violent, sudden death, but at least there was a chance of obliterating them outright. Better by far than what could happen.

  The captain leaned forward, his hands clasped in silent prayer as he stared through the Endless Horizon’s occulus. Their demise was spinning towards them: a twisted, unrecognisable hulk of girders, conduits and crushingly dense hull plating. Something so warped and broken had absolutely no right to be pirouetting with such majesty through the airless vacuum of space.

  ‘Eight... seven...’

  In seven seconds, it would strike their void shields. It was big enough to burst through the Endless Horizon’s shields like its protective layer was nothing more than an ephemeral bubble. One good, solid hit and the freighter vessel would be ripped apart. Unlike the flare of pain and death of an explosion caused by a torpedo strike, they would be helpless as their ship was torn apart. They would be adding their corpses and destroyed ship to everything else that lay outside the hull.

  ‘Six.’

  We haven’t got a hope. Abramov’s confidence fled in the face of his imminent demise. For a fleeting moment, he despised everyone on the deck with him. Hated them for being here with him. Blamed himself for their deaths.

  ‘Five.’

  So this is how it ends, then.

  ‘Fo– incoming vessel! Extreme proximity. It’s... it’s powering up its weapons, sir!’

  Abramov should perhaps have been feeling terror, or at least a modicum of fear, but there was nothing. His heart was like stone. Instead of being atomised by a chunk from a long-destroyed ship, they were going to be vaporised by a hostile vessel. There wasn’t time to ask why it was that nobody had picked this new threat up on sensors. Indeed, Abramov wouldn’t even question that until much, much later. The moment was now, and he was irrevocably caught up in it.

  The eldar raiders simultaneously turned at impossible angles that the bulky, practical transports of the Imperium could never hope to achieve and launched their torpedoes at the new arrival. There were three sudden blossoms of light as the projectiles detonated harmlessly against their target’s shields.

  A second later, light lanced from the ship that had apparently come out of nowhere, destroying the chunk of wreckage in a silent spray of molten metal. A second shaft of searing brightness incinerated one of the eldar ships immediately. The intense glare temporarily blinded the bridge crew of the Endless Horizon and Abramov turned his face away. Gradually, as the intense brightness dwindled away and vision returned to normal, the shape of their surprising saviour could be made out.

  ‘Gladius-class frigate,’ Abramov observed. An Adeptus Astartes escort vessel. Of course it was. Despite himself, a smile tugged at his lips. It seemed that their chaperone had arrived. Late, but perfectly timed nonetheless. The frigate banked slightly and moved away so that it was running alongside them.

  Of the other two eldar ships, there was no sign. Abramov did not know if the Gladius had destroyed them or if they had fled. Either way, they had gone and that was a perfectly acceptable outcome. There was a crackle, a hiss and the ship-to-ship vox spat into life.

  ‘Endless Horizon, hold your position. Slow your engines and wait for further instructions.’ It was a clearly human voice, not desensitised and changed as one would expect from one of the Emperor’s Angels. Doubtless it was one of the Silver Skulls Chapter serfs serving aboard the craft.

  As quickly as the channel of communications was opened, it was silenced again. A reply was not invited, not that any of Abramov’s crew could have found words anyway. The crew of the Endless Horizon drew a collective breath when the Gladius-class frigate veered sharply away allowing another vessel clear passage through.

  It was an ugly thing on first glance: a closed-fist of a vessel with a prow bombardment cannon clenched menacingly at its fore. Uniformly painted in serviceable machine grey, it was possible at this proximity to pick out some of the painstakingly worked lettering on the ship’s exterior. It was huge, a gargantuan monster of metal that filled the viewscreen completely as it placed itself between the ailing freighter and the punishing debris field.

  The unseemly appearance of the front of the strike cruiser gradually tapered into a long, graceful neck and ultimately resolved into a veritable fortress astern. Abramov couldn’t help but gaze at it with awe.

  ‘They’re forming a barrier!’ Telyna leaned forward on the console as she stared up at the seemingly endless grey ship. ‘They’re shielding us from the onslaught.’
Her voice was filled with astonished reverence, a far cry from her usual casual manner.

  Abramov nodded, grimly. Ship-to-ship vox communication channels remained closed but he knew well who this monstrosity belonged to. The gold and silver worked insignias that could be made out on the grey ship’s edge displayed quite clearly the Imperial aquila, the Chapter emblem of the Silver Skulls and the vessel’s name.

  The Dread Argent.

  Abramov cleared his throat, which suddenly seemed to have become completely dry.

  ‘Then we had better hail them,’ he said. ‘And we had better make it formal.’

  Captain Daerys Arrun, Master of the Fleet and Commander of the Silver Skulls Fourth Battle Company loomed in front of Luka Abramov. His closely shaven head did nothing to hide the mass of scar tissue on his skull – something that on a human would be considered disfiguring, but which on a Space Marine could only be a mark of honour. His face was covered in swirling whorls of dark ink that all but obscured his flesh, the battle tattoos of the warriors that all commanding officers of the Chapter earned the right to. If his sheer breadth and height and forcible presence hadn’t been fearsome enough, the tribal-like brandings would have done the job admirably.

  Eyes that were ice-blue and just as cold pierced into Abramov for a while before Arrun spoke, his voice a deep and sonorous rumble.

  ‘There are a thousand things I can think of that might have encouraged you to act against your very clear and very specific instructions, Captain Abramov.’ Arrun held up a massive hand to forestall any protest. ‘And yet for every one of those, I can think up another reason as to exactly why you should not have done it. I trust that you have something to tell me that will prove my thousand theories wrong?’

  The Dread Argent had run alongside the Endless Horizon for some time, deflecting the worst of the debris field as though she had been flicking insects away. In time, the message had come that Captain Daerys Arrun would be boarding the freight vessel to speak to Abramov. An explanation, it was communicated, was in order. The Endless Horizon would also be subjected to the standard check for smuggling at the same time. Abramov was not worried by the latter. He had nothing to hide.

  Talking to the Space Marines captain, on the other hand... that filled him with trepidation.

  Abramov ran nervous fingers through his greying hair and looked up at the captain. He swallowed back the comments and self-assured responses that he had been so sure he would have been able to muster and shook his head. Arrun’s sheer physical presence had quashed any attempts at being even remotely sarcastic. In the end, the best he could manage was a rather pitiful excuse that sounded plaintive and poor even as it left his mouth.

  ‘You were late. We... are on a schedule and thought we would make progress until your arrival.’ Arrun’s brow arched, distorting the tribal markings on his face briefly.

  ‘I am never late, Captain Abramov. In this instance, I was unavoidably detained. I deeply regret that our astropath’s message did not reach you before you entered the warp. But you should have waited. You did not. Fortunately for you, the Dread Argent arrived before you were pulverised.’ Those cold, emotionless eyes scoured Abramov once and in that penetrating glance, the Endless Horizon’s captain was aware that he was being weighed and measured. He shifted uncomfortably. It was time to fall back on his only possible course of action.

  ‘You have my sincerest apologies and deepest gratitude, of course, Captain Arrun...’ Abramov hated how wheedling his voice sounded. He was guilty of no crime other than being in possession of an impetuous nature. If he told himself that enough times, perhaps he might start to believe it. He squared his shoulders and straightened his spine. With the very greatest of concentration, he injected energy and enthusiasm into his voice. ‘Of course, now that you are here, we can resume our journey to Gildar Secundus.’ He lifted his head and smiled brightly. He couldn’t hold Arrun’s gaze for longer than a few moments.

  ‘Yes,’ mused Arrun, turning his back on Abramov. ‘Yes, I imagine you can.’ He stared out of the view portal at the Dread Argent. As Master of the Fleet, he had a keen and abiding interest in all the vessels of the Imperium, particularly his own. With practiced confidence, he let his eyes roam across it, calculating its external condition. Despite his apparent distraction, he continued the conversation with Abramov. ‘You have the report I requested, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Abramov offered the cargo manifest in a hand that shook only slightly. One of the Silver Skulls serfs who had accompanied Arrun stepped forward to take it. It was duly handed to Arrun without words and the captain pulled his gaze from the Dread Argent.

  ‘Confirm for me what your cargo consists of, if you please, Captain Abramov?’

  ‘Of course, Captain Arrun.’ Made more comfortable by the familiarity of this process, Abramov relaxed a little. ‘We are taking replacement machine parts bound for the promethium refinery.’ It was correct and the physical inspection of his ship would corroborate that statement.

  From that point, the Silver Skulls captain was nothing but solid business. No more was said about the transgression and when Arrun announced he would be returning to his own ship, Abramov allowed himself a moment to breathe.

  ‘Be wary, Abramov. Something translated into the Gildar Rift several solar days ago and disturbed the peace. It appears to have gone again, but you never can tell. This debris field could well be the least of your worries.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.’

  Offering Arrun a deep bow as he strode away, Abramov returned to his bridge and crew in contemplative silence. He knew he should count himself lucky that whatever it was that was distracting the Silver Skulls captain meant that he had escaped a sterner, more serious chastisement – but the sense of deep unease that Arrun’s parting words had engendered in him negated any relief he may have felt.

  The least of your worries.

  2

  Resurgent

  The Gildar Rift

  In geostationary orbit above Gildar Secundus

  ++One week later++

  Gildar Secundus was a harsh and cruel planet. Yet despite its inhospitable, almost suffocating environment, it was one of the wealthiest places in the segmentum. The promethium refineries sprawling across much of its surface like creeping mould were extensive, industrious, productive sites that churned out seemingly endless quantities of the much-coveted fuel.

  Promethium, the life blood of the Imperium, not only sated thirsty machine spirits in vehicles and fuelled weaponry, but was the core ingredient in any other number of industrial products. Its value was incalculable and its appeal was a beacon to would-be raiders to take it for themselves.

  Ever since the very first attempt at taking the spoils had been made, ever since piratical raiders had exploded into the Gildar system, the Silver Skulls had established their patrols across the Rift. From the moment they had responded to the first foray, any further such incursions that had been attempted had met with swift justice, delivered by a Chapter who were not known for their patience. Generally, the Silver Skulls delivered their judgement on transgressors with the minimum of preamble – and such judgement was invariably punctuated with a punishing and ultimately terminal salvo from a bombardment cannon.

  The Chapter’s home world of Varsavia hugged the outer rim of the Gildar Rift and in this far-flung, oft-neglected area of the Imperium they were the closest Adeptus Astartes response force. With the increasing, although still irregular raids threatening the region, Lord Commander Argentius had agreed the very real need for providing semi-permanent protection. Regular patrols were provided from the fleet, a rotating duty for those brothers who were not deployed on the field of battle elsewhere.

  Captain Arrun had been Master of the Fleet for several decades and possessed a quicksilver mind and the forward thinking ability of a true tactical genius. At any time he knew the status of every functioning ship in
the fleet. His eidetic memory allowed him to bring to mind every flaw, every weakness and, conversely, every strength. He knew in seconds which ship was the most appropriate to deploy to any given situation when the requests for assistance were received. He had overseen operations in the Gildar Rift from the very beginning. Now, in response to new orders received that morning from Varsavia, it looked as though the scale of patrols would be stepped down.

  It was something of a puzzle to Arrun. The Chapter Master knew the dangers this system presented and yet still he had put out the order for them to return. The only explanation Arrun could consider was that Argentius must be recalling the fleet for deployment on a different operation. This would come as a relief to those patrolling the Rift. Space Marines needed purpose to their existence and whilst they may have been protecting the inhabitants of the Gildar system and overseeing the smooth operation of the Imperium at large – they were warriors first and foremost. They needed to be at war.

  Arrun had consistently conveyed his personal concerns to the Chapter Master that the Gildar Rift possessed many hidden threats and had maintained his argument that the current numbers deployed in the system were necessary. Even if they had not been necessary, he had argued, maintaining a visible presence would be wise. Argentius, it seemed, did not agree. As such, the Master of the Fleet’s mood was decidedly dark as he assembled his key advisors.

  The strategium rested atop the pyramid-like interior of the strike cruiser. It was one of the few locations in the main structure that had something other than the functional steel mesh that ran everywhere else. In this instance, the floor itself was constructed from armaplas mesh. It afforded a dizzying view down to the bridge, and with a little effort someone could see through the steel mesh even further still to the deeper levels of the ship where the training cages and habitation areas were located. The interior of the Dread Argent had been constructed in tiers of concentric rings, each level getting smaller, ziggurat style, until it reached the top and this domed room at its pinnacle. The sounds of the everyday activity of the ship floated up to them in a muted murmur.