‘Once the first cable connects, the others will follow automatically,’ he said, quietly, more to Volker than to Naryn. ‘It is similar to the method we use to connect to our power armour. I’m sorry, Volker, but you will very probably experience some considerable pain as they make their connections.’
Volker nodded, apprehension on his face, but courage there still. He quietly began to recite the Catechism of Fortitude. Naryn scanned the young man one final time and then took a step back.
‘He remains stable. It is now or never.’
‘Best be now then.’ Correlan smiled thinly, but nobody returned it. ‘Engaging connection,’ he said, a slight tremor in his voice as he brought the cable to Volker’s spine. It snaked forward, a questing, hungry tendril and then slid into the lowest of the ports that were studded up the Resurgent’s back. There was a faint slick as the cable seated and then the cradle came to active, urgent life.
Correlan watched its progress wordlessly. Before each cable implanted itself, a tech-priest ensured that there was a dab of sacred oil on its tip. Whether this aided the physical process or not he could not say, but such consecration and devotion as was being poured into Volker Straub was unprecedented.
One after the other, the cables thrust themselves into Volker’s spine. The process was not gentle and to the youth’s credit, he only let out the faintest of cries. Naryn, watching with something between concern for his patient and fascination at the process, monitored his output closely. Again, apart from the expected increase in Volker’s heart rate, he bore the process well.
Five, six, seven cables all made their connections into Volker’s body and then another eighth cable, this one a little thicker than the others seated itself at the very bottom of his skull. This time, Volker’s pain found itself an outlet and the young man screamed in anguish.
‘The third rite is complete,’ Correlan said, staring down at the outcome of all those months of careful research and tireless work. He looked at what he had wrought. Agony so intense that the boy suffering it could barely take it. Yet he still lived. Admiration overrode Correlan’s doubts and he moved back to his bench, picking up the final connection.
It occurred to him, although he did his best not to linger on the thought, that if he had paid more attention to his own litanies and prayers, had he not allowed his attentions to be diverted to the beauty of the blueprints, the ecstasy of creating things with his hands... if only he had spent more time in devotional worship of the Omnissiah, then perhaps he could have alleviated some of Volker’s suffering. The guilt was his to bear and he bore it stoically.
‘Mind impulse unit,’ he said, keeping his focus. ‘With this gift may you commune with the machine. Connection...’ He pressed the device to the back of the thrashing Volker’s head, blanking out the screams as best he could. ‘...engaged. The fourth rite... is complete.’ He stepped back again and shot a look over at the Apothecary. Naryn was looking concerned, his dark eyes fixed on his patient. Introducing drugs to Volker’s system before and during the connection process had always been an impossibility. Trying to forget the accusatory look he had gotten from Naryn when he had explained this, Correlan studied the readings on his auspex. After several moments of Volker’s screams which had by now faded into soft, agonised moans, he nodded.
Correlan closed his eyes briefly. He suspected very strongly that the sound of Volker’s suffering would be something that he would remember for the rest of his life in service to the Imperium.
The Apothecary sucked in a breath as he stared down at Volker’s biometrics, which were spiking wildly. ‘His stresses are bordering on the dangerous, Correlan. Much more and we will have to abort the procedure. Much more, and he will die.’ The Techmarine nodded grimly and opened his eyes again.
‘You can give him pain relief now,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, Volker.‘
Naryn stepped forward and injected painkillers directly into Volker’s neck. It would take several moments for them to take effect. The Apothecary was acutely aware both of the urgency of the situation and the encroaching sounds of battle outside their protective bulkhead.
‘Has it worked?’ Naryn’s question, when it came, was clipped and shorter perhaps than he had meant it to be. Volker at least had settled again. The young man’s eyes were closed, but his lips were moving as silent prayers and litanies came to the fore. Correlan’s eyes were riveted to the output auspexes. After a moment or two, he shook his head.
‘It hasn’t worked?’ Naryn was startled at the sense of disappointment that welled.
‘No. I mean, yes. Yes, it has worked. I’m just...’ Correlan looked up, his eyes wild with delight and triumph. ‘Connection is complete. All that remains is to position the cradle and connect the MIU to the ship’s systems. As soon as I perform the ritual of unbinding, he will have full access to the ship.’
‘Make it swift, brother. I don’t think that the captain will tolerate much more tardiness in this matter.’ Naryn was firm in his resolution and his confident tone gave Correlan the reassurance he needed. The Techmarine gestured to some of the menials and servitors who were bustling around and who had up until now been largely unused. They hurried forward and began the manual task of raising Volker from his prone position to the vertical upright within the tube that had housed him previously. The cradle of connectors on his back was hooked up to the wider ship’s systems. As soon as everything was ready, the armaplas tube would seal shut back around Volker.
‘Captain Arrun, this is Techmarine Correlan.’ With his burst of renewed confidence, the young Space Marine opened up a connection to his captain.
‘Go ahead. Tell me what I want to hear. If you cannot oblige, then do not bother me.’ Arrun sounded harried and his tone was tight. The unmistakable sounds of fighting could be heard as an underlying background to his words; the roar of chainswords and the sound of bolters being discharged.
‘The last rite is complete. We will be going live imminently.’
‘Good. Arrun out.’
That was all that Arrun had to say on the matter.
His pomposity slightly deflated, Correlan moved to flick the switch that would lock the cradle and engage the full connection with the MIU. He paused as a soft voice cut through the noise of the chamber.
‘Apothecary Naryn?’
The voice was Volker’s and the Apothecary turned to him immediately, crouching so that his face was levelled with that of the Resurgent. Volker offered a tired-looking smile.
‘If this works, will you get word back to my family on Varsavia? Tell them what I became? Promise me.’
‘I promise you, Volker. And Brother Correlan and I will tell your tale on the journey to many a campaign. Yours is the sacrifice of a hero and we will never let it be forgotten.’
Volker closed his eyes once, then raised his head as much as the sandwich of the two cradles would let him. When he spoke again, it was to say the last words that he would ever utter as Volker Straub.
‘I am ready.’
He smiled at Correlan and Naryn and the Techmarine threw the switch that would close the cradle, seal the tube and unlock the Resurgent’s access to the ship’s core systems.
With a hiss of servos, the tube sealed closed, with Volker within. The Resurgent’s eyes looked down on those scurrying beneath him, like some kind of benevolent god. A beatific smile flickered across his face and then he threw his head back. Runes flickered into life on the surface of the tube and scrolled down at the level of Volker’s eyes. Clearly visible from outside, the runes were not dissimilar to those that the Space Marines saw on their retinal displays when they wore their helmets. Volker’s head came slowly forward and his eyes followed the reams of text as his brain gradually merged with the primitive machine spirit heart of the Dread Argent.
He spasmed for a few brief seconds, then the smile broadened. Every system on the ship bar the main generators powered down and the
vessel was plunged into darkness.
This was death. They were the words that first came into Yanus’s mind as the lights went out, engulfing them totally. The air, always stale and recycled became bitter and the officer judged, accurately, that life support systems had gone off-line as well as every lumen-strip. All that could be seen were the strobing muzzle flares of bolters being fired in the corridor and above them, the red glow of the lenses in the battling Space Marines’ helmets. They continued to fight without showing any awareness that anything had changed.
From his vantage point on the bridge, Yanus could make out the moving figures of the two psykers, outlined in silhouette thrown by the crackling nimbus of their force weapons which continued to connect time and again. Four red helm lenses gave away their positions as they ascended ever higher.
A blaze of orange light cast by the activation of a flamer out in the corridor threw the whole bridge into sharp relief for a moment, casting grisly shadows of beheaded servitors and corpses that lay across the shattered cogitator banks where they had fallen. They flickered eerily in the firelight and then the weapon shut off again, bringing the unwelcome return of the deadly darkness.
Yanus was going to die of asphyxiation here on the bridge of the Dread Argent. He had always expected to die in the service of his Adeptus Astartes masters, but this was inglorious. He crouched down, his hand resting on the hilt of the combat blade he wore strapped to his thigh. He would not die flapping like a fish on the deck. He would die fighting.
That was presuming that the Dread Argent, uncontrolled and now drifting in the Gildar Rift was not destroyed first, of course.
Despite the certain knowledge of his own imminent demise, Yanus remained transfixed at the battle raging above him. The two psykers had fought their way up the staircase to the strategium and, thanks to its armaplas design, he could see them, lit by the blue warp fires. The soundproofing properties of the material meant that they could not be heard. But the exchange of words above him was intense.
‘What use is wisdom if it only comes with age?’
The words were spoken out loud by Taemar, the first coherent sounds he had properly uttered since he had engaged in battle with the Silver Skulls Prognosticator. ‘Look at yourself! You are failing. You are wounded – and you are old. Your own doubts plague you. Your foolish trust in your dead god is all for nothing. You will lose this battle and if my master decrees it, you will live. You will live and you will be made to watch as my brothers and I take your ship for our own.’
There was a certain element of unfortunate truth in Taemar’s taunts, but Brand did not let them bother him in the slightest. The Red Corsair’s jeers did nothing. They didn’t anger him further, they didn’t tap into some deep-rooted sense of shame, they were just words. Despite the power of words, Brand did not let them affect him.
A chance blow from Taemar’s axe had found its way past his guard, cutting into the shoulder joint of the armour covering his left arm. He had felt the blade bite through the servo cabling and coolant had sprayed like arterial blood. It had anointed him and his opponent swiftly in a slick coating of oily, dark liquid.
When the ship’s systems had gone down, Brand’s helm had instantly switched to infrared vision. Apart from a slight skip as his sensors adjusted to the new lighting levels, and a slight increase in the amount of oxygen mixed into his in-built life support, he barely noticed. The fight with Taemar was occupying all of his attention. He did not answer the other’s rhetorical questions, choosing instead to treat his opponent with the disdain he felt the traitor deserved. His force staff came around as though he were aiming for Taemar’s midsection, but he feinted at the last moment and instead struck the Red Corsair in the armoured knee. Warp energy flared, confirming what Brand had suspected. Taemar’s guard was down. His warp shield was either exhausted or his opponent’s sheer arrogance had simply meant that he no longer maintained it.
He had no desire whatsoever to engage the Red Corsairs sorcerer in conversation. He had little need to; his very actions spoke far louder than any words he could bring himself to speak.
They moved across the expanse of the strategium’s floor, their weapons flaring in the velvet darkness and lighting them in profile as they engaged in their deadly dance. For all his constant jibes and apparently ceaseless talking, Taemar was a superb warrior. What Brand had thought – in his own arrogance, he grudgingly admitted to himself – would reach a swift resolution was taking far longer than anticipated.
‘You could give yourself up to us,’ the Red Corsair hissed through the grille of his helmet. ‘We have much in common, your Chapter and the Red Corsairs. We are both small in number... betrayed by the Imperium...’
Brand finally allowed a retort to leave his lips. It was a preposterous suggestion. ‘The Silver Skulls have always been loyal to holy Terra. Thus it shall ever be. We share nothing with dogs like you and your twisted master. The Imperium has not betrayed us, traitor.’
‘The Imperium betrayed all Adeptus Astartes, you fool!’ Taemar snarled furiously and Brand could picture him beneath the helmet, spitting in rage. ‘You owe them nothing! If you would just swear allegiance to Huron Blackheart...’
‘That will never happen.’
Their weapons connected yet again and this time it was Brand’s turn to lean forward until their faces were almost touching.
‘I may die here, Taemar of the Executioners, but it will be a death most worthy.’ It went against everything Brand believed in to call this filthy traitor by his name and former affiliation and yet he knew it would be the cruellest blow he could throw.
He raised the force staff and began to channel everything that he had, everything that he was, into it. He shook his head, almost sadly. ‘How is it that you have fallen so far from grace and glory, Taemar?’ He used the other’s name, the name that had been whispered into his mind on the other’s arrival on board. He sensed the sudden moment of confusion this caused, but Taemar swiftly covered it. Brand persisted. ‘What could have happened to turn your face and heart from the Emperor’s sight? When did reason give way to such madness?’
Unlike Taemar’s attempts to goad Brand, the Prognosticator’s skill allowed him to cut through the Red Corsair’s defences like a red-hot knife through unresisting flesh. The set of Taemar’s shoulders betrayed his renewed fury and he snapped his head back, away from Brand. Helmed and hidden he may be, but the impact of Brand’s words on him was clear.
‘I chose this path myself, Silver Skull. It was my decision to make.’ The weapons came apart once again with a snapping of warp energies. ‘Others fall prey to moments of weakness and linger over regrets and lost causes. The Red Corsairs never fall. We are in the ascendant. Our star is rising.’
‘Not any more, Taemar. This ends for you. Now.’
With heavy emphasis on the final word, Brand brought his force staff down on the surface of the floor with a powerful strike. Sparks spat and bare seconds later, the rigid armaplas that had always supported a full complement of company sergeants and a heavy, priceless table began to crack like ice on a frozen pond. Filigree splits began snaking across its surface, each laced with blue warp energy. The cracks expanded and spread. Anticipating what was about to come, Taemar let out a feral howl of rage and lunged for the Prognosticator. But he was too late. Much too late.
Brand brought his staff down again and the floor shattered into a thousand glittering shards. Taemar’s hands closed around the arm of his opponent and both of the Space Marines and the heavy table tumbled to the distant bridge below.
As he fell, Taemar’s body twisted desperately as he attempted to get himself into the position that would likely cause him the least damage. A fall of such magnitude would all but destroy his power armour and likely leave him with broken bones, bruises and a risk of internal bleeding. Red warning lights flashed in front of his retinas and he swore loudly at them. He reached for the bolt pistol cla
mped in its magnetic holster on his thigh. He drew and fired, the shell shattering the Prognosticator’s battle helm, but causing nothing more than a few shrapnel wounds. He fired again, and again. Both shots found their mark, the explosive shells blasting craters in his opponent’s armour. It was little consolation.
The heavy, bejewelled table hit the deck first, killing several unfortunate crew members who had already been injured and had been unable to scramble from the falling warriors. The heavy wood splintered and broke on impact, the beautiful jewels that had once made up the map of Varsavia fracturing free and showering the deck in a rain of exotic drops of colour. It was lost on those who were still left in the darkness of a ship’s failed systems, but to Brand, as he fell, it was a most extraordinary sight. The rainbow shards were all stained peculiar hues of red through the filter of his eye lenses.
Taemar hit the floor next, landing on his back. His fusion pack buckled with the impact, spraying superheated gas in all directions and splitting the ceramite shell of his armour. The internal systems registered the shock as a final, chaotic spray of runes before going completely dead. His expertly-crafted power armour may have saved his life in this instance, but it was far from over. This was the least of his concerns however. He had a fraction of a second to move before Brand descended on him like an avenging angel, his staff raised in readiness to deliver the Emperor’s final judgement.
‘So will end all traitors. The Red Corsairs will never take this ship.’
Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell Page 52