Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘In the name of the Emperor,’ Brand said, planting his feet firmly on the steel mesh of the bridge deck, ‘this will end here.’ The members of Squad Malachite who were with him formed up at his back. The Prognosticator’s head was screaming in protest at the proximity of the warp field, but he dared not shut his mind off to it lest he lose a vital advantage over the enemy. Behind him, the serfs had their hands clasped to their ears, the noise that accompanied the warp field finally reaching levels that could only be heard by the ears of the Adeptus Astartes and then beyond even that, reaching a pitch that only the foulest daemons of Chaos could respond to.

  An abrupt silence and the bulkhead door began the pink-pink of super-heated metal. Where the lone Red Corsair had been at its epicentre there was now nothing but a perfectly concave impression in the deck where the warp field had formed. There was plasteel so hot that it was melting – and a hemispherical opening in the bulkhead itself. The vestiges of the warp field finally collapsed. It turned in on itself and then, there was no longer one, but eleven Red Corsairs raiders standing on the bridge of the Dread Argent. They stood, back to back, some facing out to the corridor, others facing inwards to the bridge.

  Huron Blackheart’s intrinsic knowledge of the interior of a strike cruiser had served him well yet again.

  The intruders wasted no time at all in engaging the stunned Assault Marines in battle. Emareas and his squad responded immediately and battle was re-joined. Brand slammed his force staff down on the bridge deck and blue sparks of warp power crackled up its length. His eyes flared with the surge of energy and his psychic hood burned with a rage that could at last be given voice.

  ‘Primus inter pares!’

  The bowels of the ship were crawling with the traitors as they attempted to mutilate and burn their way through the serried ranks of loyal Silver Skulls and Chapter serfs. What the Red Corsairs slaves lacked in functional weaponry, they more than made up for in sheer numbers. Whilst they had fielded an impressive force, there were still less of them than the Silver Skulls. However, with the sprinkling of heavy weapons that they had brought with them, they were more than holding their own.

  Despite the ferocity of their attack, they met with equally fierce resistance not just from the Silver Skulls, but their loyal servants. More than one of the cultists was lost under a flurry of blows from anything that the Chapter serfs could arm themselves with. Amongst their number, the skinny little Navigator prowled, armed only with an omni-tool that he had picked up on his way to join the fighting.

  It may not have looked much of a weapon, but Jeremiah had already caved in the heads of three Red Corsairs cultists. Blood joined the grime on his shabby clothing and his face burned with fury. He cast around himself, seeking another victim and saw the back of a robed cultist attacking several serfs.

  ‘Get off my ship,’ he screamed, bringing his weapon to bear again. He hurled himself bodily onto the cultist. He was comparatively tiny and his thin frame meant that he weighed very little but the sudden attack unbalanced the cultist. He whirled desperately trying to shake his assailant free, but Jeremiah had no plans at all to let go. Raising the omni-tool, he brought it down again and again on the cultist’s skull until he felt the grimly satisfying break of bone. The cultist sank to his knees and died in terrible agony, the Dread Argent’s Navigator still attached to his back like a limpet.

  Jeremiah sucked in several lungfuls of air. It had been a long time since he had expended so much energy.

  ‘Get off my ship,’ he repeated in a threatening tone, raising the omni-tool yet again.

  Deeper they pressed. There was a relentless tide: Space Marines, cultists and human pirates of every shape and size. The numbers were inconceivable. For now, at least, they were being kept from the main enginarium – and the precious home of the Resurgent Project. For now, they were holding a defensible position.

  Defensible maybe, but certainly not desirable. Daerys Arrun’s rage was smouldering just beneath the surface. Within seconds, his mood darkened still further as he received not one, but a whole chain of vox transmissions. The first came loud and clear from Emareus, sergeant of Squad Onyx. The rest of the voices tumbled over themselves as the signal jamming that had been coming from Gildar Secundus via the Wolf of Fenris was finally broken. Many voices began to flood the vox-net and Arrun filtered out the pertinent points amidst the babble. Amongst them was one that he did not need to hear.

  ‘Red Corsairs have infiltrated the bridge.’

  ‘Squad Tabasheer already on route.’

  ‘Quicksilver inbound.’

  ‘...Porteus on Gildar Secundus. Distress call. I repeat, distress...’

  ‘Squad Iolite containing breach in mid-section.’

  ‘...refinery has fallen into enemy hands. Red Corsairs... anybody recei...’

  The growl that had been building up in Arrun’s chest since the first sighting of the Spectre of Ruin broke forth and he levelled his bolt pistol, firing off a series of shots that struck down several of the slaves. There was no longer time to carefully consider the pros and cons of the ultimate decision that now loomed hugely before him. It was time to commit himself to making it. He dropped back against the hull as las-blasts and bolt shells whistled past, perilously close to him.

  ‘Naryn. Correlan. Status report.’

  ‘We are at ninety per cent engagement, sir. Volker is...’

  ‘Make it one hundred. Bring the Resurgent on-line.’

  Arrun switched channel before Correlan could start his protest and transmitted a brief message to the stranded sergeant down on the planet. ‘Porteus, I understand. Received you. Hold your position for as long as you can.’ The captain fired more shots from his bolt pistol, then flung aside the spent magazine, reloading even as he talked. ‘We will be with you soon.’

  10

  Turning of the tide

  Psyker battling psyker.

  It was the sort of battle that was born out of legend and here it was, taking place on the bridge deck right in front of Yanus’s eyes, even as he dealt with his own dire situation. As a young man born into one of the Silver Skulls vassal families, he had grown up with the same degree of awe and reverence for the Chapter’s Prognosticators as the Silver Skulls themselves. A psychically arid world, Varsavia’s heroes who were born with the ability of the Emperor’s Sight were considered blessings from the God-Emperor of Terra himself.

  The two of them had swiftly become locked in a blistering melee, the force staff that Brand favoured ringing as its metallic length connected with Taemar’s rune-inscribed axe. Physically, the two warriors were more or less equally matched. Taemar had the slight advantage of youth, but Brand had the added bonus of at least three decades more experience – and the fact that he was not half-insane.

  Blue, gossamer strands crackled between the two weapons as they connected, spitting eldritch fire in all directions. Taemar hooked the head of his axe over the staff and pulled hard, temporarily knocking Brand off balance, but the older Silver Skulls warrior found his footing deftly. He raised the staff above his head and easily parried Taemar’s second furious swing. The two Space Marines leaned in to one another, their helmeted faces almost touching. Not a word left the speaker grilles, but they were engaged in a conversation that only they could hear.

  ‘You will die here, traitor.’

  ‘Less talk and more fighting, lapdog. Your god is long dead. Your ship is ours and your gene-seed is forfeit. It will not be me who dies here. Now ready yourself for battle and prepare to meet your demise like a warrior, not an insect.’

  With those words, Taemar unleashed his first psychic attack. It was almost tentative, probing; aimed at testing the strength of his opponent’s defences rather than an offensive attack that could cause any real damage. The paltry effort met the solid construct of Brand’s mental bulwarks and went no further.

  He may have tried to disguise his origina
l allegiance by obliterating the sigil of his former Chapter, but the core colours of his armour proclaimed that Brand’s opponent had once been one of the Executioners. Behind him, his twisted battle-brothers were keeping Emareas and his squad well and truly occupied. Having opened fire on the bridge crew immediately following their arrival, it had not taken them long to burn through their ammunition.

  The Red Corsairs were not interested in preservation of the ship’s condition. They were barely interested in their own self-preservation. They discharged their weapons without discretion or care for the delicate bridge instruments. It was reckless; they did not have regular supplies of ammunition and weaponry. They took what they found and they did what they could to make every round count. As soon as the last shell was spent, they had discarded their projectile weapons and were now fighting with blade and fist.

  Bodies of loyal Silver Skulls Chapter serfs and broken servitors, their electrical implants fizzing and popping lay strewn across the floor. Led by Yanus, those who still lived were juggling the twin demands of keeping the ship running with a skeleton crew and defending themselves. Fortunately, barring their leader, the Red Corsairs were occupied with the Assault Marines in the corridor – who were even now being joined by those from the bridge and others who were making their way forward.

  It was a tight, frenetic battle, confined to the area immediately inside the bulkhead and it meant that Taemar and Brand’s epic fight was free to roam around the bridge wherever it so desired.

  Their weapons connected time and again, each pre-empting the other’s strike repeatedly. All the while, both were gathering in their respective considerable abilities, ready to unleash the power of the warp on the other.

  Centuries of battle training had long taught Brand to assess an opponent’s vulnerabilities and weaknesses and already he believed he had the measure of the Red Corsair who faced him. Too eager to kill, caught up in the moment and not thinking several steps ahead… these errors in judgement would be his downfall. Brand had already foreseen several ends to this battle, a combination of his own strategic mind and his gift of foresight. The Emperor had given him a number of choices. It was up to him now to steer the battle in the most effective direction.

  Brand swung his staff in a low, wide arc, forcing Taemar to step back. The Prognosticator raised a hand, palm outward, towards the Red Corsair sorcerer. He could feel the shape of the warp power forming in the back of his mind, shapes that were almost comforting in their familiarity. Words of fealty to the Emperor dropped like jewels from his lips and he felt the rush of power as he unleashed a bolt of energy at his enemy. His body thrummed with the ecstasy of it.

  Reacting with alacrity, Taemar moved with preternatural speed, raising his own hand and swatting the bolt out of the air as though it were nothing more than an insect. The force of the psychic impact pushed both warriors back away from each other, a mentally induced wedge that separated them. But it was only a temporary thing. Again, they struck at one another.

  All the while, Brand could sense Taemar’s fury; could hear the other psyker’s crazed laughter and it sickened him to the core. That a loyal and noble brother of the Adeptus Astartes, one who had belonged to such a great Chapter, could have fallen so far...

  A thought crossed his mind. The seeds of an idea embedding themselves and the Prognosticator leaped backwards away from his attacker. He hurled another bolt of psychic energy at Taemar and turned, bounding up the staircase that led to the strategium at its pinnacle above the bridge.

  With a roar that was the first sound the pysker had made out loud since his arrival on the bridge, Taemar tore after his prey.

  Volker lay on his front in the supporting cradle that would ultimately become his permanent home. His eyes were open and he was fully conscious and very aware of everything that was occurring around him – and specifically, to him.

  He blinked, startled as a tech-priest crouched beside him and drew a series of binary symbols on his face with an oiled finger. Dutifully repeating the words of the litany offered to him by the priest, Volker’s voice shook only very slightly.

  The cradle that supported him was a network of cables, purity seals were attached to every part of it. It had been consecrated and re-consecrated so many times that surely the machine spirits could not deny them. Mechanically, the project was proceeding well. The tech-priests had expressed their acquiescence that the process was going ahead and had moved to obey Correlan’s summons within minutes.

  Biologically things were not so reassuring.

  The young man’s body had already undergone a considerable amount of stress, but his biometric readings had remained stable and he had even made one or two light-hearted comments whilst Naryn had been systematically severing his nerve endings. Very soon after, Correlan picked up where the Apothecary left off and replaced those nerve endings with fine wires that he inserted with great care, threading them inside Volker’s neural system. There were hundreds of tiny incisions, and at the completion of each connection an adept stepped in and cauterised the wound with an arc-brander, lacing the flesh with a lattice of electoos.

  The pain must have been terrible, even with the numbing stimms that were all they could use. They could not render Volker unconscious at this stage of the process because they needed him to tell them that things were working. He had to be alert and he had to be awake at the moment of truth. Without it, he could not take control. He cried out once or twice, but always bit it back. His stoic acceptance of his fate was a boon and a great incentive to those who were operating on him.

  It was not a process that could easily be hurried and it was exceptionally fortunate that by the time Arrun’s order was barked through the comm-bead in Correlan’s ear, they were in a position where they could step the pace up. Correlan had begun to protest, but had realised that Arrun had switched channel. Swearing softly, he had wiped a bloodied hand across his face. He had worked tirelessly during the course of the Resurgent Project and had hoped to take his time over the binding process. This was not purely altruistic of course; he did care that Volker didn’t suffer too much but also the process was delicate and rushing it could end in disaster.

  ‘You are doing fine, brother,’ Naryn reassured the young Techmarine. The Apothecary had learned very quickly during the intense bonding process he had been forced to undergo with Correlan that the exterior mask of swaggering arrogance was just that. A mask. Correlan had spoken barely a single word to either Naryn or Volker during the surgical process, concentrating so hard that the veins in his head stood out.

  It didn’t help that they could hear the sounds of bolter fire outside the chambers. Still reasonably far away – but approaching, nonetheless.

  ‘Fine may not be good enough,’ the Techmarine had responded. ‘But it is the best I can offer.’ He shot a look at the Apothecary that told of his anxiety and doubt. ‘Give me a biometric reading.’

  The Apothecary passed his auspex over the prone Volker and nodded. ‘Accelerated heart rate, but nothing beyond expected parameters. Biometric signs are perfect.’

  The harried Techmarine nodded. ‘Then I am engaging the third rite.’ Correlan took a deep breath and stepped back from the cradle, turning to a control panel. He punched a few buttons on it and fervently murmured prayers to the machine-spirit that he had harnessed during its creation.

  The tech-priests repeated his prayers, surging to stand close to Volker. Each one of them laid a hand on the cradle and recited blessings over and over until Correlan thought the scandalously unthinkable and wished they would all just leave him to complete this in peace. He chewed his lip and closed his eyes briefly.

  For all the overconfidence that his youth gave him, Correlan was an undoubted prodigy of the Adeptus Mechanicus. He had excelled during his training on Mars, demonstrating a love of design, a natural affinity for the fickle machine spirits and an outstanding grasp of the necessary rituals. All these strengths had s
erved him well during the course of his tenure on the project. The device that now lowered from the ceiling was the end product of several years work in which he had been but one link – although a crucial one – in the chain and now all those modifications he had worked on with such great attention to detail and care were coming to fruition. He had slaved over them in his own time, what little of it he had. He never participated in the social gatherings when his brothers indulged themselves with stories of their past greatnesses. He was too busy working hard for their future success.

  The very real fear of failure weighed heavily on his shoulders.

  Humming softly as it lowered, the cradle was nothing more than a neatly arranged number of cables and connectors that lay dormant and unmoving. As the Techmarine pressed a few more buttons, the cradle woke into a seething, writhing mass of electrical life. It was oddly reminiscent of the Techmarine’s own mechadendrites.

  The chanting of the tech-priests grew to a crescendo and they all looked on, awestruck at the sight of the seemingly living, breathing thing. It was a marvel of technology and the Omnissiah had seen fit to grant it existence. Something akin to holy fervour grew in Correlan’s breast and his fears were quashed. This was what he had been building up to. This was his moment. In the next few minutes, he would either fail or succeed. There was no grey area.

  ‘Connections live,’ he reported, looking at the built-in auspex on his wrist. ‘All systems appear optimal.’

  ‘Biometrics remain stable.’

  The brief exchange was odd, the Techmarine thought in a rare moment of introspection. Technology and biology coming together to work on something that was, ultimately, technology and biology coming together. He pulled his mind from the distracting thought and moved to take hold of the cradle. He carefully removed the first of the end connectors and angled the cable so that it was ready to marry up with the port that had been embedded in Volker’s spine. Almost instantly, a tech-priest reached across to anoint the cable. It took all of Correlan’s patience not to swat him away. This had to be done. It needed to be done.