Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell

by Warhammer 40K

  The only furniture within the strategium were the chairs and table that dominated the room’s centre. All of these items had been specifically designed with the increased bulk and weight of the Space Marines in mind. On the extremely rare occasions when the regular crew members were brought up here, they looked ridiculously child-like in the immense seats. There was no décor on the walls other than Fourth Company’s battle banner, unfurled and pinned out, and the aquila that spread its wings imperiously across the wall behind Arrun’s head. Seated at the top of the table, the wings of the Imperial symbol opened out behind him. It was not merely a design coincidence that situating the aquila in that location created an illusion that the captain himself bore the wings of the Imperium.

  Captain Arrun looked from one face to the other, a slight tic under his right eye the only betrayal that he was struggling to keep his annoyance as well controlled as he could manage. Eventually, he spoke in a dark, gravelly tone. The discontent in his voice was evident.

  ‘We received orders from Varsavia this morning. We scale down our patrols with immediate effect.’

  The other Silver Skulls gathered at the table exchanged brief glances. It was unheard of for Arrun to begin such a meeting with anything other than requesting that the Prognosticator lead them all in the litanies. It certainly didn’t bode well for the rest of this gathering. The battle brother seated to the captain’s right reached out and laid a hand on Arrun’s arm with easy familiarity. Irritated, Arrun was about to shrug off the touch, then glanced at the other warrior. The Prognosticator was dressed in a heavy, dark grey robe with a hood that obscured his features completely. All that could be seen of him was the glitter of two green eyes deep within the hood’s depths.

  Arrun felt the touch of his advisor’s mind brush his own and gave a brief, terse nod. The unspoken chastisement was all that was needed. He adjusted his attitude with visible reluctance, but his face betrayed the fury bubbling just beneath the surface.

  ‘My apologies, Prognosticator. Brothers, I beg your indulgence a while longer. Please forgive my mood, but as I am sure you can appreciate, this news concerns me deeply.’ He ran a hand over his shaven head and leaned forward. ‘I have communicated back to our Lord Commander my worries about activity in the system. Despite incursions into the Gildar locale being sporadic, the fact remains that they are still happening. The threat in this system is very real. And despite this...’ Arrun scowled. ‘Despite this, until our astropaths receive his response, we must make every move towards prosecuting his request to reduce the number of the patrols in the Gildar Rift.’

  His words had an electrifying effect on his battle-brothers. The silence that descended was suddenly broken by the crack of a balled metal fist slamming down on the table. The suddenness of the noise reverberated around the strategium’s dome and all eyes turned to the young Techmarine whose synthetic hand trembled with barely suppressed rage. Arrun’s eyes swivelled to him, hardening like diamonds.

  ‘Brother Correlan? Is there something you want to say?’

  The Techmarine, never known for his subtlety, shook his head. His augmetic right eye whirred softly as he focused on the captain and the red lens flickered briefly. His voice shook with the irritation that Arrun was sure they all felt. ‘After all our work, after all that we have achieved here, I hope the Chapter Master is not putting a stop to the project.’ He kept the question out of his tone, keeping his voice moderate with obvious difficulty. The others seated at the table nodded slowly, each harbouring the same thought. They had been assembled as a team for a very specific reason and the project that was nearing its completion had taken each and every one of them firmly into its grip.

  ‘You can consider yourself fortunate on that front, brother. To the best of my knowledge and until the Lord Commander decrees otherwise, the Resurgent Project will continue as planned.’ There was a tone of something largely akin to disgust in the captain’s voice. He had committed time and resources to an experiment that he had never wanted to truly be a part of. Events had overtaken him, though, and Vashiro’s will was not something to be denied.

  His words garnered no response. All present knew Daerys Arrun’s thoughts on the Resurgent Project. It was something that he had inherited from his predecessor who had in turn, inherited it from the Master of the Fleet before him. A legacy of sorts: a plan that had been waiting to come to fruition for several centuries. It had waited on the orders of the Prognosticatum for the conditions to be right. Even with the Chapter Master’s approval, even with the Chapter’s wisest and most revered Prognosticators fully in support of the project, Daerys Arrun’s open distrust and scepticism had remained. He had even tried to argue against it when he had been initiated into its deepest secrets.

  It had been a tense, lengthy debate which had ultimately been swayed with the additional enthusiasm and backing of the Master of the Forge. Finally convinced that the idea had some small amount of merit and that to resist the will of Chapter command would be ultimately detrimental, Arrun had capitulated.

  Correlan nodded and folded his arms before him, the servos and minute air compressors in his mechanised arm hissing softly as he made the gesture. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Because to be brutally honest, captain, we passed the point of no return several days ago. I very much doubt that the work Brother-Apothecary Ryarus and I have accomplished can be undone now.’ His young face was open and honest, hiding nothing of his aggressive nature or underlying indignity and yet there was open challenge in his tone.

  ‘Mind your attitude, Techmarine.’ The hooded warrior seated next to Arrun folded his own arms, deliberately mimicking Correlan’s body language. ‘Captain Arrun must, as we all must, obey our Lord Commander’s orders without question. Believe it or not, he has as much invested in this project as you do. More, in fact. You are not even an officer in this company, something which you would do well to remember. Remember your place and hold your tongue.’

  Correlan scowled even more deeply and leaned back in his seat. In his life before his ascension to the ranks of the Adeptus Astartes, he had been one of the few Silver Skulls raised to adolescence amongst one of the semi-feral, aggressive tribes of the southern Varsavian steppes. Some habits and mannerisms took longer to overwrite than others and a tendency to fall prey to a hair trigger temper was one.

  ‘My apologies, Prognosticator.’

  The psyker threw his hood back and studied the young Space Marine with a cool, appraising look. ‘Whilst your lack of sincerity in those words is duly noted, your enthusiasm is to be commended, brother. I ask you to not mistake my words for those of anger. Consider instead that I am offering you advice. You would do well to heed it.’

  Correlan, out of a habit borne from months of working alongside Prognosticator Brand let himself fall into sullen silence. He would never argue such a point. Fourth Company’s principal advisor may have been ageing, his long hair threaded through with silver and his tattooed face lined and wise, but his acuity was as sharp as ever it had been. His not inconsiderable psychic abilities went a very long way towards ensuring that no secrets were ever kept from him.

  ‘Thank you, Brand.’ Arrun had used the natural pause offered by the brief exchange as an opportunity to cool his own temper and was already much calmer than he had been before. He had engaged Correlan’s involvement in the project knowing that the younger warrior had occasionally been described as borderline reckless. It was a small price to pay because his particular skills had been perfect for this work. Varsavia was something of a technological backwater and as a consequence, those who demonstrated technical aptitude and who had undergone training at the hands of the Adeptus Mechanicus were afforded similar levels of respect as the Chaplain-Librarians of the Prognosticatum. Regardless of how bad-tempered they might have been.

  Drumming his fingertips on the table, his chin held thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger, Arrun considered his comrades for several moments. Then he nodded,
his course of action determined.

  ‘We will comply with Lord Commander Argentius’s request, of course. I do not think that it is a secret that I am not happy about it. I am confident that by the time he receives the astropathic response, he will be more than aware of that himself.’ Arrun let out an exasperated breath. ‘As such, we must proceed to discussion of the fleet’s redeployment.’ He gestured towards Correlan who tapped out several digits on the control panel set into a recess before him.

  A static hiss filled the strategium and a hololithic display flickered into life above the featureless surface of the table. Created almost lovingly after months of mapping the system, it was a perfect graphical representation of the Gildar Rift. Satellites orbiting the many planets in the system wheeled and spun in proper calculations of their trajectories. Even the asteroid field was recreated practically to the last piece of rock. Of course, it was constantly shifting. The recent transgression of the Endless Horizon had stirred up the asteroid belt in particular and it had taken time to settle back down.

  ‘I updated the display mere hours ago,’ Correlan, now unleashed from the constraints of obeisance and allowed free rein to do what he did best, was almost unrecognisable from the sullen, resistant Space Marine he had been bare moments before. His confrontational body language dissolved under a relentless assault of enthusiasm and energy. His hands moved rapidly and with great animation as he spoke. ‘The Omnissiah be praised, I had no major problems this time. Here.’ He took a cable that dangled from the table and plugged it snugly into the jack port of the device he wore on his arm, an integral part of his metal hand replacement. There was a soft click as the cable bedded into it.

  His fingers danced nimbly across the keypad at his wrist and several bright runes winked into existence amidst the dancing display. Their own vessel was shown as a softly pulsing red light that moved in perfect time with the planet of Gildar Secundus. At Correlan’s gentle coaxing, other symbols gradually brightened up.

  Every ship that was presently deployed in the region showed up on the tactical hololith and Arrun pointed a finger to them in turn, naming each individually as he did so. In all cases, he named the ship before its occupants – a reflection on his position.

  ‘The Quicksilver is closest to us. Our brothers of Ninth Company were to begin their journey back to Varsavia within the next few days. For now, however, I will inform them to resume their patrol.’ Seeing the furrowed brows of the others, he elaborated, his face unmoving. ‘Our ship may be incapable of quick response should the Resurgent fail at inauguration. We may need their support should such a thing occur.’ He flashed the briefest of smiles. ‘It is essential to always remain one step ahead of the enemy, particularly when there is no enemy visible.’

  Arrun was aware of the sudden bristling of both the Techmarine and the Apothecary at the implication that the project may fail. He ignored them carefully.

  The Dread Argent and the Quicksilver were only two of the Silver Skulls strike cruisers, the others all presently deployed elsewhere throughout the segmentum and beyond. Arrun resumed his register of the other ships still in the Rift. Most of these were Gladius-class escorts, many crewed largely by Chapter serfs. With the ease of decades of commanding the fleet, he drew up the outline of the redeployment.

  Ryarus, the taciturn, stoic Apothecary had up until now remained silent. Now he tipped his head slightly and studied the redesign of the fleet. He made a laconic observation.

  ‘Lord Commander Argentius is planning something.’ It was not a question, but a shrewd observation. The sheer number of ships that Arrun was picking off from the display was extraordinary. When the orders were prosecuted and transmitted to the rest of the fleet, the presence of the Silver Skulls in the Gildar Rift would be cut by more than half.

  ‘Aye. He probably is. Despite my repeated reports that something is not right in this system, he has chosen to downscale our activity here. We aren’t to leave Gildar entirely without protection, of course. But yes.’ Arrun stared at the hololith, his brow furrowing. ‘Yes, he has something planned. It is not the place for me to question or begin to second-guess his judgement...’

  He left the rest of the sentence unspoken.

  Arrun turned from the strategium table to stare out of the ship’s viewport and down at the world of Gildar Secundus. From here there was no way of recognising the volcanic nature of its surface. Far above the swirling atmosphere, there was a faint reminiscence of distant Mars. It was a uniform shade of murky red, as though someone had poured dust and ancient blood into the crucible at the time of its forging. Millennia of brutal eruptions during its cataclysmic formation had formed the distinctive jagged peaks and deep valleys that scarred its surface.

  Hundreds of years had passed since the last active eruption and an exploratory geological mission had not only declared the planet was suitable for human colonisation, but had discovered rich deposits of the raw minerals needed for the refining of promethium which also bubbled to the surface in plentiful lakes. It was a double blessing from the Father of Mankind.

  Far beneath them on the planet, thousands of Imperial citizens now dwelt largely in subterranean blocks tunnelled kilometres beneath the surface. Most worked the promethium refineries but as was the way with the children of mankind, they had an unerring habit of taking root wherever they could and making a life for themselves. After several years, agricultural domes began to output their produce and despite the best efforts of the planet’s militia, there was a steady underground trade in obscura. Over the past years, it had become a thriving planet, the destination for many traders of the Imperium – and those serving themselves first. Despite its prosperity, it was first and foremost a human settlement and as such, had swiftly become a target for thieves, raiders and smugglers.

  ‘Ryarus, Correlan... transmit the orders to the other ships,’ he said. ‘Advise the fleet to wait on my word.’ With a brusque nod, Correlan shut down the hololith, unplugged the cable and left the room with Apothecary Ryarus.

  Left alone with his chief advisor, Arrun turned from the viewport.

  ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to once again divine the omens in this matter, Prognosticator.’

  ‘Of course. But I must ask that you be very specific with your question, brother-captain.’ Brand reached into a pouch at his waist and extracted a number of card-thin crystalline wafers. He shuffled them together as he spoke to Arrun, the surfaces of each brushing against one another with a faint whisper. ‘The Emperor does not like to repeat himself.’

  Arrun considered for a few moments. Since the inception of the Resurgent Project, he had used Brand’s psychic connection with the Emperor to determine the appropriate course of action on many occasions. Thus far, the Prognosticator hadn’t steered them wrong. But he had never asked the questions that he most wanted the answer to.

  Until now.

  ‘Are we doing His will by facilitating the creation of this... thing? Will we succeed?’ he said, asking the question in a cool, calm voice. Brand let the captain’s words fill the silence and die out, then inclined his head graciously before dealing out the pattern that would determine the answer to the captain’s question. He dealt each wafer one at a time, relishing the familiarity of them beneath his fingers. He had come into the possession of his own personal tarot four hundred years before, and when his psychic abilities activated the illustrations hidden in their mystical depths, they were quite beautiful.

  He closed his eyes, a flicker of blue warp lightning crackling between his fingertips as he extended forth the probing, questing tendrils of his psychic conduit with the Emperor of Mankind.

  His voice barely audible, he mumbled the Litany of Conjecture and turned over the first card. Its crystal surface shimmered and flickered into life. He studied it thoughtfully, then passed his hand over it again.

  ‘The Emperor. The most powerful card in the pack.’ Brand looked up. ‘Inverted.’
>
  His heart had leaped at the first words, but had then sunk. Even Arrun who was not gifted with the foresight of the Prognosticators knew that the most powerful card in the tarot deck inverted was never to be taken as a good sign. An involuntary sense of unease ran like a chill of ice through his veins, trickling down his spine.

  ‘Continue,’ he said. ‘I would know more.’

  The engineering deck was a bustling hive of activity. Servitors, enginseers and Chapter serfs created a constant, dull monotone which dipped in pitch momentarily as Ryarus and Correlan entered. As the two warriors crossed from one side of the deck to the other, the throng parted silently to let them through. The ripple closed behind them in a smooth wave and the raucous, incomprehensible noise started up again.

  There was little to no ostentation on board the Silver Skulls vessels, apart from the rich displays of the company trophies that were located in the chapels. The Chapter was not aesthetically barren of course – they took great pride in their body art and the tattoo artists, the Custodes Cruor, were regarded highly. Many of the Silver Skulls designed their own tattoos and a number of them were genuinely talented, gifted artists. The ancient Varsavian tradition of marking their bodies was considered the ultimate battle honour and every brother of the Silver Skulls Chapter wore designs that were completely unique to the individual. Some chose representations of great battles that were breathtaking in their detail.

  In all cases, the last part of a Silver Skull’s body to receive markings was his face. Only on ascension to the rank of captain were they allowed to receive that honour.

  Passing through the bustle of the engine decks, Ryarus and Correlan headed for another room that was certainly not notable for any decoration. It was, however, notable for the many pieces of machinery strewn on every available surface. The smell of machine oil, burned promethium and lapping powder was all-pervading in here, its acrid odour permeating the air strongly. There was another Techmarine working who got up to leave when Correlan and his companion appeared. Correlan stilled him with a wave of his hand.