‘Five returns on auguries. Signatures concurrent with atmospheric or local support vessels. Breaking planetary exosphere.’
‘Where are they going?’ Yanus thought the question out loud and turned to his vox-officer. ‘Those are Thunderhawk transports. They can’t traverse long distance, they can’t possibly escape into the warp…’ His thought process was external and eventually, aware of expectant eyes upon him waiting for orders, he nodded. ‘Something has to be coming for them. Alert any ships still patrolling the system perimeter. Tell them to monitor the stable warp jump points. Prepare for interception of one or possible more Red Corsairs vessels.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Yanus stepped down from the command dais, making his way through the still damaged bridge to the weapons bank.
‘Short-range systems…’
‘Have already been brought on-line.’ The officer looked up at him. ‘Volker, sir. He’s already begun the subroutines and processes necessary to ensure that our weapons will be available as soon as we need them.’
‘He has?’ Yanus hadn’t even given the order for this.
Affirmative, Eduar Yanus. We took the liberty of pre-empting our best defence strategy. Presently calculating optimum trajectories and extrapolating probable outcomes of further incursion.
‘Oh. Oh, well… excellent. Let me know when you’ve finished your cogit…’
Chance of Dread Argent eliminating the five ships approaching with weapons at full charge is approximately ninety-three point four seven per cent. Our apologies for the delay in this calculation.
A brief, fleeting smile tickled at his lips. Speaking to Volker was like speaking to Brother Correlan, the Techmarine. Yanus wondered how much of that might be deliberate. ‘It’s no matter, Volker. Your cogitations are more than adequate.’ He switched to a ship-wide channel. ‘All gunnery crews and outfliers prepare to scramble on my word.’ The last came with no small amount of trepidation. They had lost a good many pilots already this day. Further engagement would, without any doubt, take an even higher toll.
‘Sir…’ The voice came from one of the deck officers standing before the hololithic display. It had taken a severe beating with the weight of two fully armoured psykers falling on it, but a veritable flock of enginseers and tech-priests had succeeded in getting the damaged device working again. The visual output was nowhere near as clear as it had been, but it was serviceable enough and would suffice under the circumstances. The tone of urgency in the officer’s voice drew Yanus’s attention and he crossed the bridge swiftly.
The recreation of the debris field before him was far more cluttered than he had remembered from before and he felt a moment’s sadness that the battle here had contributed to it more. His eyes followed the direction in which the officer’s finger pointed.
‘What exactly is it that I am supposed to be looking at?’ Yanus’s tone was testy, but the officer explained as succinctly as possible.
‘We have been reading a broad spectrum of energy and radiation throughout the Gildar Rift since our arrival. It is an output that is totally anticipated from so many dead and dying ships. But there is a spot right… here… where those readings are starting to edge slowly upwards.’
‘What the…?’ Yanus moved closer and stared at the hololith in suspicious disbelief. ‘That’s virtually on top of us!’
‘Sir.’ The officer had raised his head and was now looking out of the viewport. ‘Sir, you should look at this.’ Yanus did as he was instructed without thinking, a cold chill running down his spine.
‘Systems are registering a power spike!’
The whole time. It must have been there the entire time. Sitting there with its engines dead and blanking any signs of life. All through the battle, it had never registered any activity. Yanus cursed loudly.
The ship peeled itself slowly and lazily away from the asteroid to which it had been anchored, righting itself and very evidently moving into position. So many times the sensor arrays had swept over it; nothing more than flotsam and jetsam space wreckage. It had most likely been in the system for weeks. This entire time it had just been sitting there like a predator. Just waiting patiently.
Rumour was that Huron Blackheart commanded Chaos sorcerers of extraordinary strength and ability. They would no doubt have been behind the problems they had experienced with sending astropathic messages and now this.
‘Enemy vessel is powering up its forward lance batteries.’
All his hesitation and distrust regarding the human heart of the ship melted away in the face of duty and he barked a command. ‘Volker. Bring those shields on-line as fast as you can.’ Yanus activated the ship vox again, transmitting the report straight down to the surface. It was of little use given that the Adeptus Astartes were on the planet whilst they were in orbit facing this new threat, but protocols must be obeyed.
‘Captain Daviks, enemy sighted. There are five Thunderhawk transports heading straight for a ship that’s been right here all the time.’
There was a crackle of static, then Daviks spoke. ‘I will no doubt get the full story of this peculiarity from you later, Yanus. I must ask you to trust to your instincts and deal with the situation as you see fit. We have our own…’ The sound of bolter fire drowned out the rest of Daviks’s statement, but it didn’t take much of a leap to deduce the remainder of the sentence and to realise what was happening on the surface. For the second time since all of this had started, Yanus felt the weight of command drag him down.
Powering shield generators. Sixty per cent functional. Working to increase power...
‘Enemy ship has opened fire.’
‘Evasive manoeuvres.’
‘Doing what we can, sir.’
Combined with the minimal amount of movement a vessel the size of a strike cruiser could muster in such a short time was the fact that the enemy had fired off a badly judged shot. Badly judged, maybe, but it was enough to glance across the hull of the largely unshielded Dread Argent. As it burned its way across the hull, it abruptly ended the existence of the servitors who had been set to work there. The shot scored a ragged line across the weakened ship, shorting out systems and collapsing bulkheads, but not enough to fully penetrate its armoured skin.
The impact groaned through the decks, knocking people from their feet. But something far worse brought the crew to a momentary standstill. An agonised, terrible scream of pain resounded from every part of the Dread Argent. The scream eventually resolved into a babbling voice, a very human voice that was perhaps even more unsettling than the mechanical alternative.
It hurts! Throne of Terra! System damage is creating a feedback loop and my systems are translating it into pain! It is like I actually feel the ship’s pain! The void… it’s so cold! I feel its touch on my very skin… Omnissiah, hear me! Give me the strength to bear this pain...
Volker’s words drifted into gabbled prayers and words that ran into each other in their haste to receive some sort of blessing or some sort of reassurance. His voice became interspersed with a strange, high-pitched squealing that caused several of the crew to clamp their hands across their ears. The bridge’s tech-priests responded in kind; bursts of machine code, Yanus supposed. He wondered, wildly, just what they were saying to him.
Yanus listened to the words spoken to him by the strange creature that now had such close control over his ship and he felt the empathy one would feel for a child. Volker had spoken about himself in the singular. He had said ‘I’. Not ‘we’. That somehow made the situation even more disquieting.
Volker’s shock had been replaced by loud static that continued to sound through the vox and Yanus spoke loudly but with as much genuine feeling as he could muster. His tone was stern, but gentle. Strange creature though Volker was, he was effectively under Yanus’s command and he had a duty to discharge. He could not speak machine code and he had no idea if he was speaking to Volker or the
machine, but he did the only thing he could do. He reassured.
‘Volker. Listen to me. You need to reroute more power to the shields or we will all be feeling the cold, the pain.’
There was a pause. It was barely a heartbeat, but when the voice returned, all trace of that moment of humanity was gone. The voice was once again so clinical that Yanus wondered if he had merely imagined the moment.
Yes, of course, Eduar Yanus. We apologise. There are many... there are many things that are unfamiliar to us at this time. Shields coming back on-line. Power being diverted from auxiliary decks and service areas Alpha through Delta. All unprotected personnel must withdraw immediately to their designated safe areas. Void banks one through seven now charging to full capacity. Eighty-three... eighty-four...
Yanus shuddered again. The shriek of pain had been ear-splitting, but far worse had been the chink in the inhuman machine that had exposed its very human core.
Breaking contact with the ship, Daviks turned his focus back to the brief scuffle that had broken out. A few Red Corsairs had been left behind and their presence demanded immediate attention. The traitors had been put down swiftly enough, but the new broadcast from orbit had left him with newer, deeper concerns.
‘Your orders, Captain Daviks?’ The request was subdued. Every one of the Silver Skulls was devastated at the loss of Daerys Arrun. Arrogance may have characterised him and he had occasionally displayed tendencies to hot-headed behaviour. But that was neither more nor less than any of the other Silver Skulls. Arrun’s leadership skills and excellence in his role as Master of the Fleet had been second to none. His passing would leave a huge gap in the officer’s ranks that would be difficult to fill. It was up to Daviks to pick up command of Fourth Company as well as his own for now.
It occurred to him that perhaps at the heart of it, the challenge Arrun had faced in reconciling his duties as Master of the Fleet with those of the warrior he had always been may have finally proven the push that had sent him careening so violently away from the path of the Prognosticators.
Pushing the uncomfortable thoughts from his mind, he considered the sergeant who had spoken. ‘Search every last centimetre of this refinery. Kill anything that does not belong here. Gather any of our fallen brothers so that the Apothecaries may recover their legacies.’ He glanced around the immediate vicinity and looked up at the dull skies ahead. Streaks of fire burned across its expanse; the full deployment he had called was making its way to the surface. There was a chance that they would encounter little further resistance, but the cautious and methodical Siege Captain had not been prepared to take any chances. Now doubt plagued him. It was a brief moment though and he nodded assertively, squaring his shoulders.
‘Prosecute my orders with all due haste, brother-sergeant. I do not know about you, but I have no desire to linger in this place longer than is necessary.’ A breath of air exhaled through the vent of his helm, closely approximating a sigh. ‘I will personally attend to Captain Arrun’s body.’
The transport ships screamed into the waiting frigate, dumping their prizes unceremoniously. The promethium tankers that had been recovered were lowered with considerably more care, but for the most part the maglev cars that had been stacked high with spoils from the refinery were just dropped to the deck.
Emerging from one of the transports, Huron Blackheart looked around at his Corsairs as they gathered. Already they were busying themselves with the task of emptying out the spoils taken from the planet. Everywhere, fights were breaking out. A smirk on his face, he left them to it and made his way towards the bridge of the ship, his slightly limping stride eating up the distance swiftly. The two Terminator elite who had accompanied him to the planet’s surface were at his shoulder, their wordless presence a given. Not too far behind the trio came the Corpsemaster, eager to tend to his master’s injuries as soon as he was told to.
The unnamed escort ship had formerly been part of an Imperial convoy. Due to a warp miscalculation, it had suffered the misfortune of straying into the Red Corsairs territory several weeks previously. It had then spent the best part of that time employed as a fail-safe backup to Huron Blackheart’s plans. It had lain silent, posing as a hulk in the Gildar Rift. It had been easy enough to read and predict the Silver Skulls patrol pattern and to insert the vessel into the Rift. Everything had been shut down. Crewed entirely by Space Marines, there had been no need for life support systems and Valthex, Blackheart’s trusted Master of the Forge, had designed a device that had kept the ship effectively dispersing its own energy signature, giving it the impression of nothing more than background noise.
It had also been Valthex who had designed the bombs that had entirely failed to detonate. Were it not for the fact that Blackheart thought so very highly of his long-serving Techmarine, were it not that Valthex’s efforts and genius had been core to his very survival following the battle at the Palace of Thorns, he would have paid the price for his failure. Like the Corpsemaster, Valthex was largely exempt from Blackheart’s full fury. The Tyrant’s hand strayed absently to the ornately worked green vial at his waist.
‘Status,’ he ordered as he walked onto the bridge. Dried blood caked his largely fleshless face, a remnant of the fight with Daerys Arrun and the subsequent efforts at locating the Silver Skull’s gene-seed. Apart from the superficial damage to his face caused by Arrun’s claws, the Tyrant showed no other obvious signs of injury. In the emergency red-hued half-lighting currently being employed in the ship, the leader of the Red Corsairs seemed even more drained of colour than before.
‘All of our systems are back on-line, Lord Huron. The Dread Argent is bringing her prow weapons to bear. She will no doubt attempt to cripple us as we leave.’ The Forgemaster himself had taken command of this stealthiest of missions. In the face of his success, Blackheart’s anger at the non-detonation of Valthex’s bombs subsided.
‘Then get us out of here, Valthex.’ A deep chuckle sounded from the Tyrant’s throat and he turned his head to the Corpsemaster. ‘The Forgemaster’s little toys do not always work, Garreon, but when they do…’ He brought his hands together in a thunderous clap, the gauntlet crashing against the power claw in a snap of sound. ‘When they do work, they work superbly. Get us out of here,’ he repeated. ‘We have left several of our number behind. Those who are resourceful enough will find their way back to us. Those who are not will be culled. Either way is satisfactory. But we leave. Right now.’
‘As you command, Lord Huron.’
‘All unidentified Thunderhawks have now boarded the escort vessel. Sub-routine Epsilon Gamma Six-Two engaged. Recalibrating the Dread Argent’s guns to track escort ship.’ The servitor’s monotonous commentary went almost unheard.
‘What are they doing?’ Yanus moved closer to the viewport and stared out at the frigate. ‘They’re surely not planning to enter the warp at this proximity, are they?’
With mounting horror, the officer realised that this was precisely what the Red Corsairs had in mind. Years of service and training took over.
‘All hands brace for impact! Get me power to the shields!’ He bellowed the commands rapidly. ‘Volker, do whatever you can to protect us. The moment that ship enters the warp, we’re going to get caught in the wake.’
Compliance.
It was a gamble, a masterstroke, a parting shot and manoeuvre that could potentially cause as much damage to his own ship as to the one that they would leave behind in the Gildar Rift. But it was painfully clear to the crew aboard the Dread Argent that Huron Blackheart did not care one bit. It was without question both dangerous and foolhardy to open a gateway to the warp this close to a planet. Furthermore, so close to another ship and with all the debris that littered the Rift, opening a warp gate was going to be a risky move. Huron Blackheart had not survived as long as he had without being prepared to take risks.
This was certainly a bold tactic and evidently designed more as a means to add gra
ve insult to serious injury. The Silver Skulls may have ultimately driven the Red Corsairs from the system, but it had cost them dearly to do so. As space itself began to buckle and bend, it was evident that it may yet cost them even more.
‘In the name of the Emperor,’ said Yanus, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. ‘The wreckage of the Rift will rip us apart.’ He ran a shaking hand across his jaw and swallowed. Then the muscles in his neck tensed, his back straightened and he began to act with the calm efficiency that had made him such an invaluable officer for so many years. ‘We need to begin an evacuation.’
‘But the ship...’
‘The cost of losing the ship will be great,’ Yanus acknowledged. ‘If we evacuate now, we stand a fighting chance. Disaster cannot be avoided. Not now.’
Your words are incorrect, Eduar Yanus. Give over full control of navigational systems to us. We are approximately two hundred per cent more efficient than your human crew and we can provide you with a far greater chance of survival. We were created for situations like this.We are blessed beyond measure. Our mind is pure and at one with the heart of the machine. Trust in our skill, Eduar Yanus. Trust in the gift of the Omnissiah. Trust in the Emperor.
More softly, the voice added three more words.
Trust in me.
Granted that second view into the heart of Volker Straub, Yanus could no longer afford to let his discomfort rule his thoughts. He nodded, although he knew that there was no feasible way that Volker could see the gesture. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. All hands – switch controls to fail-safe.’ He did this in the knowledge that the overrides were directly wired into Volker’s chamber. He was essentially giving over complete control of the Dread Argent to an inhuman child.
‘Sir?’
‘I didn’t ask for a discussion on the matter. Do it. Transfer full control of the ship to Volker. Now.’
The whole ship was effectively his.
Every system that mattered, everything that was needed for the safe navigation and control of the entire strike cruiser was his. In a state of panic, the bridge officers had even transferred full communications across to him. It presented him with a freedom and a swathe of knowledge that he had never, in his wildest dreams, ever imagined could possibly belong to him.
Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell Page 69