Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘You have time now, though, Correlan. Take it.’ Arrun’s attention was riveted on the naked figure within the tank and he moved forward to consider it further. His scarred, tattooed face twisted in pleasure at the result of so many long years of work.

  ‘There is another issue I should raise with you.’ Correlan hesitated, not wishing to provoke Arrun’s ire any further than he already had done today. ‘Whilst running system diagnostics and working through the litanies that will take us to full integration, we realised another matter that needs to be dealt with. We... genuinely forgot to take it into account when we were planning.’ Correlan looked grim. ‘He told us quickly enough, though.’ The Techmarine’s anger faded away to be replaced by something that could have, in a human, been considered discomfort. ‘There is a hurdle that is proving hard to jump.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Arrun, turning his attention away from Volker. ‘I believe I know where you are going with this. Ryarus expressed concerns to me shortly before he left for the Wolf of Fenris. You are referring to the Navigator, am I correct?’

  ‘Aye,’ came the reluctant reply, then Correlan’s frustration came out in an explosive burst of irritation. ‘I cannot get him to see reason, brother-captain. He refuses to come up here to speak with Volker. I have been polite. I have cajoled and even threatened him, but he still defies me. Conversation with him is impossible.’

  For the first time in what felt like an age, a sparkle of amusement came into Arrun’s eyes. ‘Now then, Correlan,’ he said, gently. ‘You have wrought a miracle here today. I have every faith in your ability to achieve the impossible.’

  ‘A message for you, my Lord Apothecary. From Lord Blackheart.’

  The Red Corsairs warrior bowed his head in deep respect as he stood at the doorway of the hall. He glanced past the other’s shoulder to the subject on which the Apothecary had been working. The unfortunate overseer had been splayed open, his ribcage prised apart to expose his innards. The stench of blood in the room was powerful.

  ‘Proceed.’ The Corpsemaster’s hands were coated in a sticky red layer. He put down the wicked-looking blade that he had been using to carry out his grisly task and turned to face the messenger.

  ‘Taemar has failed our cause. The Executioner is dead.’ There was an unmistakable sneer on the face of the Red Corsair. Taemar had never truly garnered that much respect from his peers, not even when he had repeatedly demonstrated his prowess on the battlefield and his uncanny ability to dispose of any competitors for Blackheart’s favours.

  ‘Unfortunate,’ said the Apothecary. ‘He showed tremendous promise for a short while. No matter.’ With those words, the champion’s fate was brushed away. He gave the messenger a slightly disdainful look, which sent shivers down the warrior’s spine. It didn’t matter just how fearless in battle he was. The Corpsemaster’s gaze could chill the hardest and most stoic of hearts. ‘I am sure our leader will find himself another new champion soon enough.’ A distant sound of gunfire and shouting caused a look of annoyance to flicker across the Apothecary’s sallow features. ‘What is the gunfire in aid of?’

  ‘A small unit of Silver Skulls are attempting to hold the communications tower,’ came the slightly apologetic reply. ‘Seems that the destruction of their force to the surface was not as thorough as we might have hoped. They will not be bothering us for much longer. The situation is perfectly under control. You need not concern yourself.’

  ‘I expect nothing less. Well then, what does my Lord Blackheart want of us now?’

  ‘We are to proceed to securing secondary objectives,’ continued the messenger. ‘Everything is in position.’ The Corpsemaster nodded, evidently pleased by this news.

  ‘Then I must prepare myself for battle,’ he said. He began to move towards the door, then stopped, gesturing to the overseer with his head. ‘Dispose of that. I may need to use this area later.’

  ‘There is more to the message.’ The Red Corsairs warrior could not keep the disgust out of his voice, not so much at the thought of removing the revolting corpse of the putrid, fat overseer, but more that the Corpsemaster saw him as nothing more than a lackey.

  ‘There is more?’

  ‘He says he will see you sooner than expected.’

  A slow smile spread across the Corpsemaster’s face.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said.

  It stank in the Navigator’s chamber. Cartons of barely eaten and half-rotted food lay around, spilling their contents out on the floor. The lumen-strips were turned down to a permanent low as was its occupant’s preference. Whenever Correlan had found reason to come here in the past, he had always been put in mind of a rat eking out its wretched existence. There were no windows, no starlight or any other sense of being anywhere but in a prison.

  ‘Jeremiah?’ Correlan’s gene-enhanced eyesight adjusted easily to the gloom and he cast around, looking for the Navigator. ‘I have no time for this. Get out here, now.’

  The little man had always had a tendency to hoard and hide, the first evidenced by the stinking, rotten food. The second was almost pointless. He could not hide from the Adeptus Astartes. Not when Correlan had eyesight that could pick up the tiniest movements.

  He still tried, though. Old habits were hard to shake.

  Correlan scowled in exasperation. He had no time for this foolishness, but Arrun had suggested to him that patience and even kindness might pay. He attempted to put a kindly tone to his voice.

  ‘Jeremiah? We need to speak.’

  Arrun had delegated the job to him as Correlan had suspected he might. In fairness, the captain was too busy now with the job of ensuring the continued safety and redeployment of the fleet to concern himself with trivial matters – and he was certainly far too busy to deal with petulant youths.

  ‘Jeremiah!’ Forsaking kindness, Correlan’s tone became commanding. He caught the scurrying movement from somewhere to the rear of the chamber and strode forward. He was so massive, with his harness still attached, that he barely fit into the low-ceilinged room. One of the mechadendrites snaked forward, reaching into the little nook his physical self could never hope to reach and there was a squeak of rage as the pincered appendage closed around his tunic collar.

  ‘Out here, boy. Now.’

  Correlan tugged with the mechadendrite, wrenching the Navigator free from his little bolthole and out into the dimly lit chamber. The scrawny figure stumbled, falling to his knees. Correlan released his grip and stepped back, allowing the boy a little time to pick himself up and regain whatever he had that passed for dignity.

  ‘The ship needs me.’ It was the Navigator’s usual opening line whenever any of the Adeptus Astartes on board had reason to bring him to task. It had become his defence and he hid behind it with all the tenacity of moss clinging to a rock. ‘You can’t hurt me.’

  Correlan stared down at the thin figure. He could have picked Jeremiah up and crushed him with his hands alone. Indeed, at the moment, the Navigator’s repeated refusal to help them integrate Volker fully into the system made that prospect almost unbearably tempting. Correlan didn’t even pretend to understand how the bond the Navigator and the Dread Argent worked and he cared still less. All that mattered was getting Jeremiah’s full compliance to work with Volker.

  Correlan knew little about the man other than that he had come to the Dread Argent less than a year before and in that time had struggled to operate on any sort of social level with the giants who were now his masters. He spoke as little as possible to any of them and kept himself away from the rest of the crew, aloof and indifferent, unpopular and unliked. Correlan had to grudgingly admit that he was not a bad Navigator however, and it was this reason and this alone that had ensured his continued tenure aboard the Dread Argent.

  ‘Volker tells me that you are resisting him,’ Correlan said, keeping his expression cold and impassive. ‘This is unacceptable.’

  ‘You didn’t ask
me.’ Jeremiah got to his feet and dusted himself down imperiously. He somehow succeeded in making himself even filthier. He wore a ragged tunic over black trousers. His feet were bare beneath them and he padded back towards his nook. He met Correlan’s stare with an easy confidence. He was so sure in his position and his perceived importance that he had no fear of the Space Marines. When he spoke, he did so in clipped sentences, used to being by himself. Words cost effort and he had long ago learned to expend as little energy as possible.

  Yes, Jeremiah had no fear and perhaps unfortunately for him, he rarely showed any respect, either.

  ‘You should have asked me first,’ he continued. ‘I worked hard.’ He wiped his hands on his dirty tunic again and glowered. ‘I worked hard to build my bond with the machine spirit in this ship. Nobody helped me. I had to do it myself. He’s a stranger. I don’t know him. I don’t like him. I don’t want to help him. The Apothecary was going to talk to me, but he never came.’

  ‘You were given every opportunity to be a part of the process, Jeremiah. Apothecary Ryarus tried to give you the chance to be involved and yet you declined. You cannot now start to refuse to cooperate. I need you to come with me now and to speak with Volker.’ He folded his arms across his massive chest, but the snake-like mechadendrites at his back did not quell their writhing, giving away his anger.

  Jeremiah smirked up at the Techmarine and repeated his earlier words. ‘The ship needs me. Volker doesn’t. If he’s so clever, let him figure out the warp drives for himself.’

  It was the absolute last straw. The arrogance. The sheer arrogance and smug tone in the boy’s voice irritated Correlan whose day thus far had not gone at all well.

  ‘Treat him with patience and kindness,’ the Fourth Company captain had advised, but things had gone far beyond that now. Correlan was neither a patient nor a kind soul by nature and his temper flared.

  ‘You would stand there and ignore a direct order from your betters? You are a fool, Jeremiah.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ replied the boy in a strangely philosophical tone. ‘Perhaps I am. But either way, you don’t frighten me, Silver Skull. Without me, you are blind in the warp. Without me, you can’t ever hope to complete your project.’ He fixed his watery eyes on Correlan and smiled guilelessly. ‘You all need me.’ His smile turned into a beam that displayed several broken teeth.

  Correlan took three steps forward and with a lightning fast movement, reached out and picked the youth up bodily, this time with his hands rather than the tendrils of his harness. Jeremiah squirmed and squeaked, fighting such rough treatment with commendable ferocity. He had grown up on the streets of a hive-world and it showed now as he continued to wriggle helplessly in the Techmarine’s grip.

  ‘Enough of this,’ Correlan said, his voice grim and carrying more than a hint of threat. ‘I’ll give you a simple choice, boy. Either you come with me of your own free will right now and give Volker what he needs, or I will carry you there myself. Failing that, then I will carry you to the nearest airlock and throw you out.’

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ gasped Jeremiah, still struggling. The Techmarine caught the scruff of the Navigator’s tunic and raised him to eye level, giving him a baleful stare.

  ‘Do you want to test the veracity of that statement, Jeremiah?’

  Their gazes remained locked for a few short moments and then all of the little Navigator’s fight went out of him. He sagged weakly in Correlan’s grip and hung his head.

  ‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘I’ll give you what you need.’

  ‘Good.’ The Techmarine set the grubby Navigator back down on the floor and stood aside to allow him to scurry past. Not for the first time since he had been assigned to the Dread Argent, Correlan wondered just how on earth Jeremiah had lived as long as he had. He shook his head and followed the boy down the corridor.

  Time was running out for Porteus and his squad. Of the eleven who had taken the communications tower, only six remained standing and two of those were upstairs ready to fight the final battle and hold out to the last. The others were dead or dying, their lives fading away on this blasted rock. But still Porteus fought on. His flamer had long since sputtered out and died through lack of fuel. There was something cruelly ironic about that, particularly given the proximity of the promethium refinery – but he had abandoned the flamer, drawn his chainsword and carved his way through several of the Red Corsairs who had dared come close.

  His armour was barely protecting him any longer. Several close-range bolter shots had soon reduced the ceramite shell to little more than a weight that pulled him down and was more of a hindrance than a help. The coppery taste of blood was rich in his mouth and he didn’t need the helm’s insistent, flashing runes to tell him that he had taken internal damage.

  An agonised scream from over his right shoulder told him that Keyle had finally fallen under the onslaught of a massive Red Corsair clad in desecrated Space Wolves armour. Porteus was the last one defending. His two battle-brothers waited at the top of the tower, ready to defend the array for several minutes longer. Right now, though, every weapon was trained on him. He gripped the hilt of his chainsword determinedly and he stared defiantly at the enemy through the shattered lenses of his battle helm. Let death come. He had served well and he would die well. He would not surrender. The thought never even crossed his mind.

  But death did not come for Porteus. Instead, he heard one voice above all the others. A soft, whispering voice that was so low that it was barely more than a susurration on the very edge of his awareness. Yet it carried above the driving wind and rain, cutting through the battle shouts of his enemy. The words it spoke contained far more menace than any of the red-hot bolter muzzles that had been pointed at him.

  ‘Keep this one alive for now.’ The whispering voice held an unmistakable tone of command and Porteus turned his head, trying to locate its source. ‘Restrain him and bring him to me. He could prove useful. No doubt the heroic Silver Skulls will soon rush to take back what they consider to be theirs.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Several warriors in the defiled battleplate of the Red Corsairs swarmed towards Porteus, but he would not be taken down so easily. Planting his feet firmly on the ground, he filled the entrance of the tower and let them come.

  His left arm dangled uselessly at his side, the cracked and broken ceramite of his armour painted crimson with blood; some that of his brothers, most his own. Surveying the carnage his valiant stand had wrought, Porteus allowed himself a glimmer of satisfaction. The first traitor to reach him died beneath his screaming blade. The second staggered away missing a hand, while the third spun away blinded. Porteus was still swinging his sword and roaring in righteous fury when the crashing rapport of a bolt pistol punched him from his feet and into all-encompassing darkness.

  12

  Counterstrike

  The strategium aboard the Quicksilver possessed none of the grand ostentation of the Dread Argent. But it was adequate. It was more than adequate. Plainly and sparsely furnished, this was a room where siege plans were drawn up. This was a room where Adeptus Astartes worked out ways and methods of destroying entire cities. The heavy, plain wooden table dominating the room was scored with countless lines where captains and their men over the years had drawn up plans of attack on vast diagrams and plans.

  Despite being so similar on the outside, the interior of the Quicksilver was nothing like its sister ship. It was claustrophobic almost – a complete contrast to the airy, open ziggurat style of the Dread Argent. The strategium was located off the bridge and on his arrival, Arrun and three of his company sergeants had been led there by one of the Ninth Company Devastators. He was joined in time by the Company’s Prognosticator who had been sent ahead to greet Arrun and his men. Inteus was young, as were so many of the Silver Skulls these days, and following the formal greetings had turned thoughtful and intense eyes on Arrun.

  He had offer
ed more in the form of conversation, but once the formalities were complete had spoken with much less stiff tones. ‘Siege Captain Daviks extends apologies for his absence,’ he had explained, ‘but he will be along in a little while. He is gathering what schemata and available data he can locate on the refinery and the outlying buildings.’

  The absence of his own Prognosticator was keenly felt in the presence of this young psyker. Like all the Silver Skulls, Arrun had the greatest of respect for those battle-brothers who wore the cobalt-blue of the Prognosticatum, but he could not help feel unsettled in Inteus’s youthful presence. He did not take a seat as offered, but instead paced the length of the room. The three squad sergeants he had been able to spare to bring with him took seats at the table and kept their silence, occasionally sharing grim glances.

  Arrun would have been happier in many ways if he had not left the Dread Argent. He had been reluctant to do so given that Volker was still in his fledgling hours in control of the ship. But the plans had to be drawn up and discussed and without a strategium, the Quicksilver was the natural choice. Daviks, of course, as Siege Captain was far better placed to lead the assault that would inevitably have to take place.

  It came as no surprise to discover that the Ninth Company captain was gathering everything together already. The Siege Captain’s nature had always been to pre-empt the needs of a mission. He had demonstrated such a propensity for this that the Prognosticatum had tested his skills on more than one occasion, suspicious that he may have had latent psychic ability. Of all his brothers amongst the other company captains, Arrun had always found Daviks to be the most serious and earnest. Nobody could ever recall seeing the Ninth Company captain at ease. He was in a perpetual state of tense readiness; a spring coiled and ready to strike at a word. Solid and dependable, nigh on as impregnable as the defences he had designed during his tenure, Daviks was frequently deployed as the ambassadorial face of the Chapter. His earnest brand of solidity loaned an aspect of seriousness to the Silver Skulls that Argentius liked to present to the universe beyond the borders of Varsavia.