‘Stay,’ he said simply. ‘You might learn something.’
This was Correlan’s main workshop and the centre of the project that had taken over their lives. Cables and wires littered the ground and Ryarus picked his way through the treacherous obstacle course with a hint of a smile on his craggy face.
‘I’ve never really quite understood how you can possibly work like this, Correlan. How in the Emperor’s name do you know where things are?’
Compared to the ordered, spotless apothecarion where Ryarus carried out his procedures, Correlan’s workshop was a place of nightmarish bedlam. Machines had been stripped back to their bare souls so that the Techmarine might better tend to them. Often, these stripped-down machines simply lay where he had left them when another, more pressing project had demanded his attention. In the far corner of the workshop was his harness, the mechadendrites motionless and devoid of animation without the Techmarine’s connection with them stirring them into life. The Techmarine treated Ryarus to an infectious grin, a stark contrast to his sour mood of earlier. Here, in what could be described as his natural habitat, the warrior was without a doubt at his best.
‘A foolish question, brother.’ His tone was playfully scolding. The Techmarine swept a pile of rolled-up schematics to one side. ‘I know precisely where everything is, Ryarus, because everything will always be precisely where I left it.’ As if to demonstrate the proof of this gargantuan, seemingly unbelievable claim, he moved aside several more mysterious objects, the purpose of which Ryarus couldn’t ever begin to comprehend and picked up a data-slate. He waved it triumphantly at the Apothecary.
‘You see?’ he said. ‘Precisely where I left it.’
As an aspirant, Correlan had demonstrated a remarkable talent with machines and an unerring ability to soothe troubled spirits. At times it was hard to believe that an individual in possession of such a fiery soul could demonstrate such patience with the stubborn servants of the Omnissiah. His training with the Adeptus Mechanicus on Mars had ended some five years previously and he had served under Captain Arrun for the entire time since his return. He worked hard and with great diligence and his prowess on the battlefield was executed with the same intensity that he delivered to everything.
Correlan was in possession of an honest, open personality and his emotions were always writ large on an unscarred, boyish face. His humours were often unpredictable but his abilities were without question. He had a tendency to insubordination and bad moods that made him tricky to handle – a trait which the Master of the Forge had frequently lamented.
‘Emotions, Correlan,’ he had said, ‘are superfluous to the purity of the machine. You must learn to put aside such petty thoughts and feelings.’ They weren’t words that the young Techmarine had taken to heart. The Master of the Forge had let it pass, knowing that in time, circumstance and the growing sense of one-ness with the Omnissiah would mark changes in him.
Ryarus liked him. He liked the younger warrior’s honesty and blunt nature and had taken Correlan under his wing in some respects, particularly during the course of the project.
More than once, Correlan’s patience and faith in his own ability had been stretched beyond its limits and the Techmarine had been on the verge of admitting defeat. What they were trying to accomplish was beyond anything the Silver Skulls had ever attempted and there was no frame of reference for the depth of work needed – no research, no failed attempts that had gone before – and as the days and weeks had blurred into months, failure had begun to look like a very real option.
Whenever those moments had loomed, dark and miserable, Ryarus had been there to encourage and support the younger warrior. A real friendship had grown between the two, as different as they were, and a mutual respect that meant they worked together like they had been a team for decades.
Daerys Arrun may have been many things: arrogant and prideful amongst others. But he was also a great judge of character. It had been no chance arrangement that Apothecary Ryarus had been reassigned to Fourth Company at the inception of the Resurgent Project. His cool, level-headedness was the perfect counterpoint to Correlan’s fire.
Correlan led the way to the far side of his workshop and placed his massive hand on the biometric scanner that was affixed to the wall. With a low hum and grinding of ancient gears, the door slid open almost reluctantly to admit them to the Resurgent’s chamber. The room was located perfectly between the Techmarine’s workshop and the apothecarion, allowing both Space Marines easy access whenever they were working.
This room was also cluttered – although this time it was with servitors rather than general debris. As the two entered, the machine-like chattering of the lobotomised Chapter servants swelled in volume. In their dull, emotionless voices, they delivered their reports. The noise would have been incomprehensible to anybody other than a Space Marine, but Correlan and Ryarus easily extracted the prudent and important information.
There was also a group of tech-priests picking their way awkwardly around the untidy area. Some were murmuring litanies that were barely audible over the noise of the servitors, whilst others were anointing various pieces of equipment with unfathomable shapes using fingers coated in sacred engine oil from a vial carried by one of their number. Everything they did was a complete mystery to Ryarus, but the earnest manner in which they behaved filled him once again with pride at his involvement.
Each one of them, from the lowliest menial all the way up to himself, had a specific purpose. A focus that related to the dominant feature of the room.
In the very centre of the room, encased within a transparent, narrow chamber – more of a tank which rose continuously from floor to ceiling – was the Resurgent himself. A massive figure displaying the over-developed musculature and slightly equine face of the Adeptus Astartes was within, moving sluggishly within its confines. He was kept in a mostly rigid, standing posture, arms out by his side, by several clamps that minimised his body movements.
A gelatinous, sticky-looking liquid filled the tank, enveloping its occupant completely. It clung to his body, giving his darkly tanned skin an unnatural sheen. His arms and legs had long been severed from his torso at the elbows and knees and the machinery that had replaced them was not dissimilar to the arm and leg pieces of the Mark VII battleplate that the Silver Skulls favoured.
The human – if this was what he could still be considered – within the tank was now far more machine than anything and yet his face remained deeply human and astonishingly youthful. He was barely out of his teens. His skin was studded at regular intervals with jack-ports, exactly as Correlan and Ryarus themselves bore. These were the interfaces that granted a Space Marine the ability to connect to his power armour. But the boy in the tank had never been granted the Emperor’s Ward, what other Chapters knew as the black carapace, the membrane that coated a Space Marine’s bones and provided the valuable connection with their power armour.
The boy in the tank was incomplete. He was imperfect. He should, by all rights, be viewed as nothing more than a failure. Yet, to Ryarus’s eyes, the boy was something else entirely. He was their future. He represented everything that they had worked so hard for over the past months.
His still-human eyes were closed. Even though he had long gained mastery of the Watchful Sleeper which allowed parts of his brain to rest whilst the rest of him remained alert and aware, old habits died hard. Perhaps, the Apothecary considered as he stared at the youth within the tank, he drew some comfort from the act of sleeping. He shook his head and crossed the room, resting his hand on the armaplas separating him from the Resurgent. He spoke a single word.
‘Volker.’
At the sound of his name, the boy’s eyes opened and he met Ryarus’s gaze. A hint of a smile gave his face added warmth. Unable to move, he simply inclined his head in greeting. When his voice came, it floated from a speaker grille embedded in the front of his habitat.
‘Apotheca
ry.’ His voice was still mostly human, with the slightest twang of artifice about it as the augmetic implants within his throat moderated the sounds. They didn’t hide the soft tone in his voice, or the lightest trace of an accent that he still retained. ‘You’re late this morning.’ The fluid surrounding him added a faint burbling to his words, but he was otherwise perfectly understandable.
‘We were spending time at the captain’s pleasure.’ Without any further time spent on idle conversation, the Apothecary prepared to take the auspex readings of Volker’s vital signs whilst Correlan began the onerous task of draining the youth’s habitat so that he could exit the transparent holding tube.
Here then, was the Silver Skulls greatest technological project and most radical advancement of their existence. Here, within this specially designed tank was the future of the fleet. Here, within this tank was a technological wonder the likes of which the Silver Skulls had never seen. Here was the end product of a true marriage between man and machine.
Here, within the tank, was Volker Straub.
Volker Straub had been one of the most promising aspirants of his intake. Hugely charismatic and a gifted athlete, he was also a born leader. From the moment he had been brought from his tribe to the fortress-monastery on Varsavia, every soul his effervescent personality touched knew that his future would be bright. Here was a future Chapter hero in the making. He had undergone his earliest trials as champion of his group, never once defeated in hand-to-hand or blade training. He was bright, questioned everything and knew when to hold his tongue. It gave him great standing with his peers and more importantly with his elders.
Every implantation during the conversion process had gone like a dream. Every last thing about Volker Straub had dazzled the Chapter from his earnest nature to his startling wit and intelligence. He had been Captain Sephera’s absolute favourite. The grizzled Chief of Recruits had written report after glowing report of recommendation and in advance of Volker’s placement with the Scouts of Tenth Company, he had personally suggested that Volker receive a command at the earliest possible date. He had even offered to put his full personal support behind such a recommendation.
This aspirant is exceptional, he wrote. Universally liked and with a capacity to think faster and with greater logic than many of his peers, I do not doubt that Volker Straub is destined for greatness.
In all this, Volker never lost sight of who – or what – he was. He was an aspirant of the Silver Skulls Chapter. His loyalty was without question, both to his Chapter, his brothers-in-arms and to the Imperium. He was assigned to Sergeant Atellus in the Tenth Company and outperformed consistently. Every time the bar was raised, he met each new challenge with confidence and competence.
Then, two days before he was scheduled to undergo the implantation of his progenoid gland, the Prognosticatum intervened.
Nobody disputed that the Prognosticatum were the controlling force within the Silver Skulls. Comprised of the Prognosticators, who were the Chaplain-Librarians who undertook a dual role and the Chaplains themselves, the Prognosticatum also boasted the elite Prognosticars. These were the Chapter champions; the heroes. They represented the very essence of the Silver Skulls.
Inspirational and powerful, this elite unit was formed of psychic battle-brothers whose prowess on the front line was second to none. Frequently, these were the psykers whose gifts tended away from the more esoteric divination and precognition that was so crucial to the functioning of the Chapter and leaned towards the more destructive in nature.
The most important decisions required by the Chapter were ultimately escalated to the Prognosticatum and the council was overseen by Vashiro, the Chief Prognosticator. Nothing involving a choice that directly affected the entire Chapter was ever settled without the rituals to cast the auguries. Every recruit, alongside his rigorous physical training regime and hypno-doctrination sessions was required to divine their future path at some point with a Prognosticator. This happened, traditionally, prior to the insertion of the progenoid gland. The most sacred of the implants, the Quintessence Sacred was the pinnacle of achievement.
Unlike many Chapters, the Silver Skulls were ignorant as to the lines of their heritage. The name of their primogenitor, the primarch whose genetic material had formed the pattern for their Chapter was unknown to them, the records lost many centuries before. Several centuries previously, the Apothecaries had performed countless genetic tests and suggested that the most likely line of heritage was that of the noble Ultramarines. But it mattered little. The simple fact was, they did exist and despite many great hardships, they thrived.
Four years ago, Volker had been on the edge of a bright future as a fully fledged battle-brother. Then the auguries had denied him the ultimate glory.
Had it really been four years ago? Ryarus remembered the decree that had been passed down from the Prognosticatum. Volker Straub was not to be given the progenoid gland that would allow him full ascension. It had been the most irrational thing the Apothecary had ever known be issued by them.
Denied that which he so desperately craved, Volker had formally requested Vashiro’s permission to walk the Long Patrol anyway. Forming part of the final stage of a recruit’s initiation, the Long Patrol saw the aspirants sent out into the feral wilds of the Varsavian tundra with no more than a combat knife to defend themselves with. Those who survived remained with the Chapter and ascended to the ranks.
Those who died were remembered with honour. Only those worthy enough to have reached the final stages of the process were permitted to walk the Long Patrol. It was better by far, Volker had said, than becoming a serf.
Again, he was denied.
Vashiro had explained to him that he was not to become a battle-brother which, at the age of sixteen and having undergone the arduous trials to reach this stage, left the boy devastated. Instead, he would continue with his physical training.
Volker was despondent. He had turned to the recruit’s own Prognosticator for advice, for a divining of the future and all that he could glean was that his destiny lay down a different path to the one trodden by so many warriors before him. He received small reassurance in the insistence that everything decreed by the Emperor’s Sight happened for a purpose – and that he was destined for greatness.
Nearly four years later, when Daerys Arrun had been approached by the Prognosticatum, the two had been twisted irrevocably together, the fate of Daerys Arrun and Volker Straub intertwining as one. The youth had gone with Captain Arrun gladly.
Now, here he was, having sacrificed his limbs, his freedom and his birthright in the name of progression.
‘Three more days.’ When Ryarus spoke, it was with complete confidence. A nod of agreement from Correlan cemented the estimate. Arrun, who had arrived in the chamber several moments before gave a brief smile of approval.
He found the answer surprising, but at the same time, pleasing. In the past weeks, whenever the captain had asked for a projected time of completion, a specific moment they could work towards when the Resurgent Project could go into its initial testing phase, he had always been met with uncertainty. The effects of connecting Volker too soon could be lethal, they had all agreed; not just for the Resurgent himself, but for the Dread Argent and the rest of its crew as well.
‘The Resurgent Project will grant our fleet a much greater advantage,’ Arrun said, reluctant pride creeping in his voice as he looked upon the assembly. He might not have been fully supportive of what was taking place, but he was fiercely proud of his team. All the anger he had felt earlier with regard to Argentius’s unprecedented orders had drained away on receipt of the news that the project was almost into its final stage. ‘I tell you this, my brothers. Assuming all goes as planned, Lord Commander Argentius will be pleased with how this project has gone. He will be pleased with all of us.’
He turned and considered the sleeping Volker, now once again returned to his semi-stasis.
&nbs
p; ‘Mark my words. One way or another, we will be remembered for this. Whether for good or ill remains to be seen. But nonetheless...’ Echoing Ryarus’s earlier gesture, Arrun laid his own hand on the armaplas tank. ‘We will be remembered.’
3
Encroachment
They moved silently through the stars, like sharks seeking out sustenance on their endless hunt through the oceans. Were it not for the periodic firing of their thrusters engaging to execute minute course corrections, the two ships could easily have been lifeless. Those bursts of activity, however, indicated that they were anything but.
There was nothing marking these two prowlers as friendly and neither was there anything to suggest that they may have been hostile. Nothing, of course, except for the very definite air of menace they seemed to exude in the manner of their transit. Keeping their movements in perfect harmony they performed a dazzling, deadly interstellar display of synchronicity.
They moved as one, slowly devouring the distance that separated them from Gildar Secundus.
These predators were in no hurry. There was no need, for they had time and cunning on their side.
Closer, they came.
Ever closer.
All was well.
For two days, nothing unauthorised had come through the Gildar system. The Endless Horizon, under the now decidedly less haphazard guidance of Luka Abramov, completed her deliveries and was escorted from the system. The Endless Horizon’s captain had promised faithfully not to repeat his performance.
Other trade vessels continued to come and go and the Dread Argent did not need to leave her geostationary orbit. For this, both Apothecary Ryarus and Correlan were exceptionally glad. A stable situation was a preferable option at this juncture. Power systems could be more effectively diverted whilst the ship maintained orbit and the extra power in turn allowed for much more productive output into the project.
Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell Page 35