The words arrived in Taemar’s mind at the same time as Brand’s staff thundered mercilessly into his fractured breastplate, blowing both it and the flesh beneath into pieces. Shards of armour and scorched meat rained for a brief moment, accompanied by the ozone stench of psychic discharge.
The Prognosticator remained vertical for a few seconds and then, as his body finally reacted to the shock of the impact and injury, collapsed on top of the ruptured corpse of the Red Corsair. His hands released their grip on the force staff, but it remained standing proud, embedded in what remained of Taemar’s chest.
‘Report! I need a report!’
Arrun had reacted to the shutting down of systems on his ship with less than good grace. He was making his way towards the bridge, his enhanced eyesight and helmet providing him with clear, unobstructed views of the way ahead.
Correlan’s voice crackled across the vox. ‘All critical systems have shut down throughout the ship. Repeat, we have a system failure.’ Reception was poor and his voice was broken and distorted, holding onto the vestiges of the short-range vox-net before it too shut down. ‘Resurgent Project has failed. Working on bringing emergency sys–’
Correction, Techmarine Correlan. The Resurgent Project has not failed.
A sudden silence fell following the words. Every soul on board the Dread Argent heard it, Silver Skulls and Red Corsair alike. It was an inhuman voice, its timbre altered forever by the artificial means of its production. It issued from every single vox-grille, every micro-bead and address system throughout the strike cruiser. It echoed around the spaces inbetween. It pervaded all.
It sounded calm and rational – and yet its humanity was nonetheless blunted by its synthetic tones.
Emergency systems... detecting. Rerouting power. Bridging failed connections. Emergency systems will come back on-line imminently.
The Dread Argent lurched violently and the hull began shaking. Arrun was thrown ungraciously against the corridor wall and he swore loudly. He was barely feet from the bridge corridor now. Emergency lumen-strips flared briefly, then died again.
‘Correlan. Report. Now. What is happening to my ship?’
‘Volker is happening to it, brother-captain. He is... assimilating the system controls. Integrating himself into the ship’s consciousness.’
‘You said it had failed.’
‘I thought–’
Emergency systems fully rerouted. Power diverted. Life support, emergency lighting. Activating. Diverting all core systems to restore shields.
The voice ceased and then the sensors in Arrun’s helmet readjusted as the low coils of the emergency lumen-strips warmed and bathed the ship in a soft, ambient glow. The captain had no time to think on the situation however, because he was now within eyesight of the bridge. Between him and the ship’s command chamber was a mob of fighting Space Marines. He waded into the fight, chainsword screaming and bolt pistol barking.
‘Nice of you to join us, Captain Arrun,’ said Emareas as Arrun fell in beside him. ‘Something has happened. I think that we have broken the back of their assault. They are starting to lose cohesion.’
‘Loss of their leader.’ It was a hypothesis based on the many times he had fought against traitors like these. Arrun aimed his pistol and squeezed off more shots. Emareas’s words were correct: the Red Corsairs were falling back but they were falling back in the direction of the bridge. Of the original strike force that had transported in, there were only four still fighting. Any hope that they had of maintaining control over the bulkhead was rapidly diminishing and they were trying to fall back. Krak grenades were making an appearance and Arrun urged his Assault squad onwards. The Silver Skulls would put paid to this threat once and for all.
‘Correlan... instruct Volker to bring our shields back on-line as urgently as po–’
You do not need to go through him, Captain Daerys Arrun. I can hear you. I am already calculating a solution to the problem.
‘It worked.’ Arrun laughed aloud, despite the situation. ‘It worked!’
His triumph and joy was short-lived, however. ‘Prognosticator, situation on the bridge?’
There was no reply and for Arrun, that was far, far worse than anything that had happened so far. Two more calls for his advisor returned nothing and he had no choice but to fear the worst.
I am alive. The Omnissiah be praised.
I am alive. The Emperor be praised.
It’s dark. It’s so dark. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know who I am. But I am alive. I think. I feel. I must be alive.
I am alive, certainly, but I do not know who I am. I do not know what I am. I have a name. I had a name. I am... I was... Volker Straub.
++I do not know you.+++
It was not a voice. Not really. It was a feeling more than anything. A sense of confusion and suspicious mistrust that could best be expressed with what he remembered. Words. This new form of communication was unlike anything else.
On the periphery of his hearing there was the sound of chanting. A strange sound and he could not place it. It was almost musical in its tone. Musical, lyrical, impassioned... prayers to the machine spirits. Yes. He remembered the tech-priests. He remembered them. With that memory came others, a rush of them one after the other.
I know my name. I know who I am.
++I do not want you.+++
Hatred, rejection. A staunch denial to accept an otherwise truth.
I am Volker.
++Leave me.+++
Querulous and uncertain – it was all the shades of red. Anger, tinged by a pink halo of fear.
++You are not familiar. Leave me.+++
I know who I am and I know who I was. You and I are one. I will not leave. Do not fear me.
More feelings and images flashed before whatever it was that now passed as his consciousness. A peaceful coexistence with one other – the ship’s Navigator. The machine spirit of the vessel was truly afraid of this intruder. As such, the humanity remaining within Volker Straub softened in his approach.
I am more than the others, now. I am something else. I am greater. I have reached my potential. I am something new. I am something better. Together, we are ultimate.
There was still denial, resistance, and Volker gently soothed.
It is the way things must be for the future. We need to work together. It is the will of the Emperor himself and the greatest of blessings from the Omnissiah. The Prognosticatum have ordained that this be so.
The change these words effected over the mechanical mind of the ship was spectacular. Like the warriors whose prayers and thoughts echoed through its corridors and hangar bays, it knew its place. The fear melted away, replaced by a warm glow. A sense of pride. A sense of honour.
++If it is the will of the Emperor, then I must concede.+++
The being that had once been Volker felt the ship’s virtual embrace. He felt himself sink into its endless depths and the two became one. There was a lingering sense of uncertain doubt and as though to reiterate the bond, he tried it out for size.
I am the Dread Argent.
++I am the Dread Argent.+++
We are one.
We are awake.
We hear you, Captain Daerys Arrun.
We obey.
One Executor was utterly destroyed, a hit from the Manifest Destiny’s primary cannons having obliterated the bridge almost instantly. It had been a chance hit and Sinopa knew it well. But the Emperor’s favour had smiled on them, just as the Prognosticator had said it would.
Of the remaining Executors, one was now completely removed from the battle having taken a hit which had effectively disabled its main weapon banks. Whilst it continued attempting further fire from its secondary guns, the damage it delivered was negligible. One continued to pound at the battle-barge, but with the effective removal of just one target, their chances of d
efending themselves increased exponentially.
With the continuing arrival of more of the smaller Silver Skulls ships into the battle, the Red Corsairs no longer had the advantage of numbers. Huron Blackheart had been left with no choice but to recall some of the ships that he had placed in the blockade around Gildar Secundus and they tore into the fray with fresh blood and sharp teeth.
Many of the Doomfires had also been recalled, those that were still able limping desperately back to their parent craft. Several of them were picked off as they tried to retreat, but others made it back to the bigger vessels that had brought them here. Some headed to the Wolf of Fenris, still in slow orbit around Gildar Secundus, others headed straight for the Spectre of Ruin.
On the bridge of the Manifest Destiny, Sinopa’s heart lifted at the sight of the fleeing ships. Huron Blackheart’s plan was failing. The Silver Skulls were winning the battle. Yet whilst the immediate threat of the Executors was reduced to practically nothing, there was a new situation that demanded their attention.
‘The damaged Executor is accelerating. Its current vector heading suggests…’ There was a pause of barely a heartbeat. ‘It intends to ram us,’ Sinopa cursed loudly. Clearly the remaining crew of the cruiser had determined that if they were going to be reduced to a burning chunk of debris that would forever drift along in the Gildar Rift, then they may as well do as much damage as possible on the way out. It was a bold, desperate final measure. It was also, though it pained him to admit it, exactly what Sinopa would have ordered had the roles been reversed.
There was no way that they would be able to manoeuvre the huge ship away from the Executor’s planned course. The best they could hope for was damage limitation. It was gunning whatever remained of its engines and steering towards a head-on collision, aiming to destroy itself by hurtling down the throat of the battle-barge. The Manifest Destiny would not move very far if they engaged engines now, but it could be enough to prevent major damage.
‘Status of our shields?’ Sinopa knew what the answer would be, but there were protocols. Protocols must be observed.
‘Shields are down.’
Sinopa nodded grimly. ‘Then we have to take our chances. Engage engines. Move away as much as we can.’
Combined with the damage of an exploding vessel on the hull of their ship, the continued fire from the remaining Executor would neutralise them altogether. The Thunderhawks were firing heavily on the approaching vessel, trying to disable it before it made contact with the Silver Skulls battle-barge. The grand cruiser’s shields had long since collapsed under the relentless fire from Sinopa’s ship and parts of it were starting to fracture and break up.
‘Collision imminent. Five minutes.’
‘All hands, brace for impact. Fire teams prepare to deploy on my mark.’ Sinopa’s hands curled around the arm of the command throne. If the Manifest Destiny were to fall now, then the Dread Argent would not be far behind her. ‘Open a channel to the Dread Argent. Explain our situation. Tell them...’
Sinopa stared at the occulus, at the churning drama of ship battle that was taking place outside the sanctuary of the ship’s hull. ‘Tell them that we will do the best we can to continue lending support, but that we may well be out of action following this. Tell them also…’ Sinopa’s dark face twisted in a smile. ‘Tell them that we will bleed every last drop from them before we go.’
‘Four minutes.’
Another shot from the still-intact Executor shuddered across the ship. With their shields gone, they were taking damage and Sinopa knew true frustration. They had been winning. They had been at the point where they could have taken out Blackheart’s Executors. But now the tables had turned. His hands curled into fists.
The burning prow of the stricken grand cruiser loomed large through the occulus, a deadly spear levelled at the heart of his ship. There was no doubt at all that it would cripple the proud vessel. Sinopa fancied that he could see tiny, burning figures spilling from the blazing wounds torn in the hull of the ship, but logic told him that it was nothing more than debris being forcibly ejected by decompression.
The view was abruptly eclipsed by an eruption of light so brilliant that the screen dimmed to compensate. After a few seconds it slowly returned to transparency revealing an expanding cloud of plasma where, mere moments before, the enemy craft had been. A few shattered and twisted pieces of the wreck pattered harmlessly against the armoured hull of the Manifest Destiny.
‘Report!’
‘Augur reports new contact.’
The look on the officer’s face as he turned to Sinopa was one of sheer joy. Unadulterated, unbridled and thrilled.
‘Sir, it’s the Quicksilver. She’s translated in-system.’
Sinopa nodded, delighted by the news, but not allowing himself the luxury of assuming all was going to be well.
‘Incoming transmission.’
‘Manifest Destiny, this is Quicksilver. Siege Captain Daviks extends his cordial greetings and asks if you require any further assistance, or if you wish to take care of the matter yourself.’
It was just like Daviks to send such a message and despite himself, Sinopa grinned wickedly. The Siege Captain would not have been in command of the vessel, but as the ranking Adeptus Astartes aboard would certainly have been granted permission to broadcast whatever he wanted.
‘Concentrate all guns on the remaining Executor,’ he told his bridge crew and looked up at the occulus and the beautiful shape of one of the last remaining Executor-class grand cruisers in the entire Imperium of Man. Such a prize. Such a wonderful vessel: so rare and mythical. And Huron Blackheart had produced three of them seemingly from nowhere.
Now Sinopa was going to destroy them.
The Emperor’s grace had indeed favoured them. Once the Executors were no more than a memory, the rest would be academic.
‘Fire all weapons,’ he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. The servitor slaved to the main weapons array whirred slightly as it turned to the console.
‘Compliance,’ it acknowledged.
The captain of the enemy vessel had evidently decided that the destruction of its sister ship tipped the odds very much against him. He had altered course and had already begun to flee towards the protective shadow of the Spectre of Ruin. Shells and plasma fire clawed at its shields as it accelerated away, though a few lucky shots scorched the hull. The battle-barge itself had also begun to retreat, its titanic engines burning hard towards the scattered screen of escort vessels.
Two battlegroups of destroyers and frigates nipped at its heels as it forged ahead, but were forced to disengage as the remainder of the traitor fleet closed in. The Manifest Destiny’s guns roared their defiance and in a blazing flash of a reactor breach, the Executor was destroyed. The tide was well and truly turned.
The arrival of the Quicksilver triumphantly heralded the arrival of the rest of the ships that had been alerted before this attempted incursion began. Messages flew between the captains; throughout the Gildar Rift, the Red Corsairs attack fleet was being gradually forced back out of the system.
You do not belong there.
We can see you. We can feel you, stalking my decks. We can sense you, attempting a stealthy approach to the enginarium. Another few feet. Just a little more. That’s right. There is nobody in the corridor. Your way is clear. A few more feet. You are very clever, yes? You have managed to find a way through the belly of the ship – a way not protected by the warriors.
So many of you. Our sensors detect you. The machine spirit at the heart of this fine ship knows what you are. You are Adeptus Astartes. But you are all wrong. Everything about you is an insult to the glory of the Imperium. You are the ultimate traitors and you are going to be cleansed.
A few more feet.
++Open airlock. Maintenance sub-deck Alpha Two.+++
You are clinging onto whatever gives you purchase, but you
know the futility of it. Your death is imminent. Embrace it. Die like the warriors you purport to be.
++Venting complete.+++
++Seal airlock.+++
All across the Dread Argent, Volker Straub was proving the Prognosticatum’s faith in him to be justified and correct. Everywhere, systems were coming back on-line. His adaptation to manipulating the ship’s systems was incredibly swift. The process of venting the enemy into space could have been carried out by the bridge crew, but they had not performed it. The ship itself had.
It was thinking autonomously.
Everywhere, airlocks opened and vented Red Corsairs pirates and cultists alike out into space. Arrun received report after report detailing where those who could not be disposed of so easily could be found. Teams were deployed to mop up the lingering remains of the threat.
On the bridge, the lights had come back up to reveal a scene of grisly horror as the tattered remnants of the human crew gathered around the fallen psykers. Splinters of armaplas were strewn around them, carpeting the floor of the bridge. The dead and dying were everywhere, but through it all, Yanus continued grimly commanding what remained of his crew.
The Silver Skulls Prognosticator, against all odds, stirred slightly as Daerys Arrun arrived on the bridge, anxiety in his face for the fate of his Prognosticator and his friend. Brand’s breathing was ragged and he reached up to remove the tattered remnants of his helm, his white hair spilling across his shoulders.
‘I fear that any chance of this traitor’s skull being added to my collection is nulled,’ he said. Blood dribbled from the sides of his mouth, but it was superficial. He was damaged beneath his ruined power armour, certainly – but he would heal in time. Arrun clapped his advisor’s shoulder and rose to face Yanus, whose face was pale but determined.
‘The Spectre of Ruin is on an escape vector and is preparing to leave the system,’ he reported. ‘Several of the smaller ships have already fled like the cowards they are.’ There was a pause, a hesitation in his voice and Arrun read it accurately. His glowing red eye lenses fixed on Yanus as he waited for the officer to complete the sentence.
Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell Page 53