Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell

by Warhammer 40K

  Normally, Arrun found the monosyllabic chantings of the tech-priests almost too much to bear, removing himself from their presence before they began their daily rounds of the bridge systems. Today was different. Tomorrow, the Dread Argent would represent the most technologically and biologically enhanced radical move that the deeply traditional Silver Skulls had made in centuries.

  Glory and honour was in his Chapter’s grasp and despite his own doubts and misgivings, nothing could take that away.

  Closer still, they came.

  They were in sensor range now. If the Dread Argent was going to notice them, it would do so swiftly and take appropriate action. The plan had been drawn up and memorised so many times that there was no possible way it could fail.

  The Gildar system would fall.

  ‘Incoming unidentified ships.’

  The words were spoken in an emotionless, flat monotone by the servitor at the sensor lectern and they cut through Arrun’s mood with all the accuracy and cruel savagery of a chainblade. He rose immediately from his command throne and took the steps down to the pulpit where the servitor stood. It turned its head to him and fixed him with eyes that gave away nothing.

  ‘Unidentified? No. That is unacceptable. Activate any working augur banks and sweep them for their designations immediately.’

  ‘Compliance.’ The servitor turned away, a faint hiss of hydraulics audible as it did so. The tech-priests were still chanting their apparently endless blessing and Arrun coolly bit back the urge to banish them from his deck. He turned to a young man seated at one of the control panels.

  ‘Run the manifests and schedules. Determine what is due into the system today. I checked it myself this morning. There was nothing slated for either arrival or departure. Prepare to send out a response ship. These intruders will answer to me.’

  ‘Yes, captain.’

  Arrun balled his hands into fists at his side, furious at this unwelcome intrusion. These fools would learn swiftly what it cost to cross the path of the Silver Skulls. They would not be the first to learn that lesson.

  A few more clicks and the servitor spoke again. ‘Profile fits Infidel-class design. No identifiable livery.’

  ‘Infidels?’ The word immediately sent the hairs on the back of Arrun’s neck standing on end. Once one of the favoured fighting ships of the Legiones Astartes, but now no longer used. Knowledge of their construction had long been lost and no Chapter of Adeptus Astartes or even the Imperial Navy had any remaining. At least, that was what Arrun had believed. Infidels were almost mythical. Any such vessels still flying were antiquities left over from the time of the Great Heresy.

  ‘Confirm. Infidels. They are not responding on any known vox frequency codes. They are not transmitting verified data.’ It chattered mechanically, turning to interface with the other console. ‘Augury data confirms identification. Both vessels recorded as Infidel Raiders. Records are incomplete.’

  Infidel Raiders. One of the escort vessels commonly favoured by a number of Traitor Legions of the Adeptus Astartes. The servitor made another chattering noise as it calculated distances. ‘They are not yet in weapons range. They are holding position just beyond our ship’s capability.’

  ‘Clever,’ muttered Arrun. ‘Very clever.’ He moved across the bridge to the schemata that were displayed as a shivering, unstable hololith. Just like that in the strategium, it showed the positions of the fleet currently deployed within the Rift. He turned to the tech-priest maintaining the image.

  ‘Improve quality.’

  The tech-priest nodded and, murmuring words to the Omnissiah, turned a few dials on the console that projected the image. It came into sharper focus and Arrun traced a line across the bottom section of the display. It rippled in the wake of his hand’s passage and the tech-priest shot him an unseen look of irritation as it fiddled again with the dials.

  ‘They crossed in through the fringes of the Rift,’ Arrun said, more to himself than any of the others. ‘It’s used a lull in augury sweeps. Whoever this is, they planned ahead.’ He turned to one of the humans standing close by. ‘Muren, make a note of that and make arrangements to contact one of our smaller patrols to work that area.’

  ‘Yes, captain.’

  Arrun tapped at a small console, his fingers moving with nimble, practiced ease and on the rendered hololith before him, the flickering representation of the Quicksilver relocated from its current position to the point that it should have been. He similarly moved a number of the other ships to new locations on the plan and scowled deeply.

  ‘We are the only ship in range should the need arise and unless they make a move from their current position...’

  Arrun stood away from the plinth and turned to the occulus. At this distance, the two ships were little more than dots in an endless sea of stars.

  If what the servitor stated was correct, they were Infidel-class. The escort ships were well known as being favoured by the Legions who had turned their backs on the light of the Imperium. That, combined with the continued lack of communication and the generally hostile manner of their approach suggested that they were more likely than not perfect fits to that profile. The mathematics needed no further thought. This, more likely than not, was enough to make a decision.

  Arrun’s brow furrowed and a surge of hatred bubbled up in the pit of his stomach. Cool, clinical detachment overrode his moment of anger and he began to bark orders. Every bellowed command was obeyed immediately, without question. Daerys Arrun ran a smooth, ordered ship and his crew, Space Marine, human and servitor alike, bowed before his will without hesitation. In a moment, the irksome chanting of the tech-priests had been blissfully drowned out by the overall volume of noise.

  ‘Enemy craft are accelerating. Augury readings are returning power spikes in their forward lances.’

  ‘Bring us around. We’ll meet them head on. Run the design through the cogitator. I want every weakness brought up. Whoever they are, they’re unannounced and uninvited. I will not stand for interlopers in my system.’ He clenched his hand into a fist. ‘Alert the gun decks. Load all cannons. Present forward batteries and prepare to fire on my word.’ He paused briefly. ‘Just in case.’

  ‘Marks are continuing to increase speed, but they are no longer on a direct heading. They’re still holding just on the edge of firing range.’

  ‘This is the captain. All hands hear this. Take us out of geostationary orbit. We’ll...’

  ‘Captain Arrun?’ The only questioning tone so far came from the Prognosticator at his side. Arrun turned. The Prognosticator was so quiet, he’d not even noticed the psyker’s arrival. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘They won’t come to us, Prognosticator. So I’m taking the fight to them. They’re piloted by traitors. I won’t suffer their kind to continue their mockery of an existence.’

  The Prognosticator looked out of the viewport. The two ships were moving ever closer. Brand stared at the screen as though his psychic powers could somehow reach through the womb of plasteel and armaplas that surrounded them. Indeed, having seen what his psyker advisor was capable of, Arrun didn’t rate the chances of the ships had they been a little closer. Brand’s eyes burned with a momentary fervour.

  ‘You should use caution,’ he said in his whispering voice. ‘The shape of the future is unclear to me. I should read the signs.’

  ‘Understood, Prognosticator.’ Arrun felt a moment’s uncertainty at Brand’s words. The Prognosticator’s connection with the Emperor’s will was not a thing to be taken lightly, but he would not permit this sortie to continue without intervention. He hesitated briefly. Protocol demanded that the Prognosticator cast the auguries, that they wait for the Emperor’s guidance in this.

  Daerys Arrun, however shrewd and brilliant his strategic mind may have been, was also exceptionally arrogant. He had neither the time nor the inclination to observe protocol in this instance. He took a d
eep breath and shot Brand a peculiar glance that was somewhere between defiant and apologetic.

  ‘We don’t have the time, Prognosticator. In this, you will need to trust to my judgement for once.’

  If the other was shocked at this blatant disregard for what was undoubtedly the strongest of the Silver Skulls traditions, he did not show it. Instead, he turned away and took a seat to the right of the command throne. His hard green eyes gave away nothing of his reaction to the insult that had just been made to his face.

  ‘Orders, Captain Arrun?’

  Aware that he had just transgressed and that there would be a discussion on the matter later, Arrun turned away from the Prognosticator and nodded.

  ‘Power up shields and begin loading prow cannons. Cogitator operators, begin calculating firing solutions.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Reroute power from the Resurgent banks.’

  ‘Captain, you will delay the...’ Correlan’s voice snapped over the ship-wide vox, but Arrun ignored it.

  ‘Yes, captain.’

  Scant seconds later, the huge strike cruiser hauled herself free of Gildar Secundus’s orbit and began cutting through space, closing the distance between herself and the Infidels with ponderous majesty.

  There had been much trade activity in the Gildar system in the past few weeks. Many cargo vessels had come and gone, each without incident, each without question. Gildar Secundus was the usual destination but there were other, smaller worlds in the sector that received regular shipments from all across the Imperium.

  None of them had been suspicious. None of them had raised any call for alarm. All of the ships that came into the system conducted their business swiftly and without lingering too long. It was possibly the presence of the Silver Skulls that encouraged such expediency, but it worked. They came, they transacted and they left.

  But the ships did not always leave with the same numbers aboard with which they had arrived. Even this was not by itself cause for misgiving. People came and went all the time. Sometimes, larger vessels travelled through, bringing and removing regiments of young men and women to their assignments with the Imperial Guard in other systems. All these were entirely normal activities. Nobody paid attention when a ship came in with two hundred souls aboard and left with one hundred and eighty.

  Had Daerys Arrun scraped beneath the surface, he would not like what lay there.

  He would have found tiny things. But tiny things that came together to form a far bigger picture. A team of prospectors returning to the habs of Gildar Secundus from the plains had mysteriously disappeared. Local law enforcement officers reporting a spate of murders that shared no apparent reason or commonality. Mechanical failures that caused system shutdowns and rolling blackouts. All small things that happened with systematic regularity on Imperial worlds. There was nothing unusual in it. But thanks to tireless planning and effortless cunning, on the many worlds of the Gildar system, things were beginning to fall into place.

  The wind howled around the comms-tower which served the Primus-Phi refinery. It whipped up and bore the endless red dust with it. It pattered constantly against the armaplas of the window, scoring and pitting it. Not that the panel served much of a purpose; during these storms, it reduced visibility to nothing more than a dark red haze. Officer Evett shivered at the thought of going out into the howling dust storm and thumbed the rune that closed the armoured shutters. The interior lumen-strips flickered briefly as the heavy panels locked into place, but at least the eerie screech of the relentless gale outside was instantly muted.

  ‘Your turn for the recaff run,’ he grinned at his subordinate who lounged back in his seat with a groan.

  ‘Is it really my turn? Really? I could have sworn that it was yours, sir. I grabbed us some of those seed bar things from the shipment, remember?’ He raised his eyebrows and gave Evett a hopeful look, about as keen as the comms-officer to venture out into the unforgiving storm.

  ‘Nope, definitely your turn. I picked up the lho-sticks. Recaff. Now. And don’t forget to close that damn bulkhead properly or we’ll be shovelling dust out of the vents for days.’ Evett threw himself into his seat and propped his boots up on the console, confident that there would be little to disturb him until the weather improved.

  ‘Fine. Just don’t blame me if it’s cold when I get back.’

  Evett replied by stretching out an arm languorously and pointed at the stairwell. The engineer groaned and dragged himself down to the maintenance room. He struggled into an enviro-suit, rebreather and visor. The refinery entrance was only a few hundred metres away, but if he had to go out, he was at least going to go out prepared.

  The small barracks on the ground floor that housed the militia detachment assigned to the tower was virtually empty, the troopers no doubt engaged on one of their endless and thankless patrols. The engineer didn’t envy them tonight.

  ‘Going out?’ The voice came from Trooper Bessin, seated atop his bunk.

  ‘No, Deeko. I’m all dressed up like this for my own personal comfort and entertainment. Why would you even ask that question?’

  ‘Great,’ the soldier smirked, unfazed by the dripping sarcasm. ‘Grab me some lho-sticks while you’re out.’

  The engineer rolled his eyes, executing a theatrical bow. ‘Anything else you would like while I’m out, Oh Glorious Lord of the Imperium?’

  ‘Yeah, some dancing girls would be nice. And maybe a large bottle of something relaxing.’

  ‘Amasec?’

  The soldier laughed, a raucous sound. ‘You and your amasec! It’s a big Imperium. Why don’t you find something a little more creative?’

  The engineer’s reply was short, crude and garnered another bout of explosive laughter from the off-duty soldier. The bulkhead marking the entrance to the tower was whistling softly in the wind and a few drifts of scarlet dust had blustered over the floor. The particulate matter would need to be swept out soon before it started to clog the atmosphere filters, but the engineer certainly wasn’t about to undertake the onerous task. He stumped up to the access panel and punched a few runes.

  A second later the heavy portal groaned and slid to one side admitting a blast of freezing wind and dust. Still grumbling in discontent and keeping his head down to avoid the wind, the engineer moved forward. He took barely five steps before he collided with something.

  Entirely filling the entrance stood a hulking figure cast in blood and shadow. Too large by far to be one of his colleagues, the engineer raised his head up. Behind the visor of the rebreather, his eyes widened in shock.

  The massive creature in the gloom moved slightly and the engineer caught the faintest glimpse of something shining in the sliver of light that came from the door. Transfixed by the fractal edge of the combat knife, Engineer Schafer felt the first, searing pain of the weapon as it opened his throat from ear to ear. Before he had even hit the ground, his life’s blood had already begun to drain from the expertly opened gash.

  He died quickly. He was one of the lucky ones.

  ‘Starboard mark is accelerating to attack speed – her weapons are primed.’

  On the Dread Argent, Arrun had taken his seat in the command throne. He leaned forward, his massive shoulders hunched with the tension of the moment. ‘Focus your attention on that one, but do not lose sight of what her sister ship is up to.’

  ‘She’s training her guns on us, sir.’

  The captain sneered. ‘A genuine shame. I’m sure Correlan and his team would have liked the opportunity to strip that ship bare and expose her secrets. Shield power?’

  ‘Deployed at sixty-eight per cent, captain. It’s the best we can get.’

  The Dread Argent was not without her own design flaws. She was old, but she was reliable. In the decades that Arrun had known her, she had never been perfect. He mused on it only briefly before everything once again became a babble of noise.

  ‘Unacceptable. D
ivert more power from the port plasma coils.’

  ‘Compliance.’

  ‘Cannons loading.’

  ‘Get me the Head Astropath. I need a message sending to the fleet.’

  ‘Compliance.’

  ‘And don’t lose sight of that port ship. Continue tracking.’

  ‘Augury glitch!’ One of the human crew applied the ritual blow, slamming the palm of his hand against the end of the gas-lens scope that he was using to track the second Infidel. He swore. ‘Tech-priest, I need you here.’

  The tech-priest’s subsequent chant, soft and barely audible underscored everything else that was taking place. Arrun’s senses could separate and ignore it through a combination of years of practise and his own mental acuity. The tech-priest blessed the gas-lens viewer and stepped back. The serf checked its functionality and nodded. The tech-priest moved on to his next duty.

  ‘Infidel Alpha still holding position.’

  ‘Target Beta is powering up her weapons.’

  ‘Shield power?’

  ‘Shield generators now at eighty per cent, sir.’

  Arrun drew a breath. Eighty per cent would have to be enough. They were an Imperial strike cruiser and the odds were heavily in their favour that they could withstand a bombardment from the Infidel and remain intact. But Arrun had seen odds defied before.

  ‘What is it that this runt is trying to achieve?’ Prognosticator Brand also leaned forward in his seat. ‘Is it a distraction tactic, perhaps?’ The question was entirely rhetorical, but Arrun turned to face him sharply.

  ‘A distraction from what?’ His tone was ice-cool and the unease he felt at the Prognosticator’s suggestion was not at all welcome.