The guns had stopped. The fighters and Barracudas had pulled back, redocking to fuel and make repairs. The fleets had regrouped: two shoals of sullen, scarred predators, called off by their respective alpha males.
Damaged hulls gaped and vented into the starlit void, scattered wreckage tumbling thickly in the nothingness.
A withering selection of message bands and tight-beam commstreams threaded from ship to ship within each fleet; to 66.G’s multifarious senses they were rendered as vivid as glowing plasma cords or superheated cables — a network of pulsing channels that conspired to drown each pack of vessels beneath luminous gossamer threads.
The largest commstream of them all, visible to three of the drone’s filter optics as a conical blast of green light, hung suspended between the Or’es Tash’var and the Enduring Blade.
A personnel shuttle left the tau fleet, enveloped in a solid phalanx of fighters. 66.G ran a routine scan, detecting seventeen distinct lifesigns aboard the central craft. One bore the unique energy signature of an ethereal, and in immediate response the drone’s stabilisers began to charge in anticipation of movement.
The Tash’var’s AI released a quick databurst to the various drones and computer controlled craft lurking at the periphery of the scene: negating directives designed to protect Auns at any cost, their guardianship uncalled for in this instant. 66.G’s engines returned to inertia without having fully powered up and, along with the silent swarms of other drones, returned to its lonely vigil.
Its various optic clusters tracked the personnel carrier carefully, internal processors exploring routes of action and possibility, until the bulbous vessel scooped itself inside the Enduring Blade’s cavernous forward hangar and the fighters broke away. The Aun’s lifesigns, thus shielded beyond the black vessel’s hull, blinked out.
* * * * *
Kais slept.
He dreamed, a little. It was not pleasant.
Constantine stood amongst the wreckage of his bridge and glared sullenly at a stack of viewscreens, distorted images jumping and crackling.
“Can’t you make them any clearer?” he snarled, venting his frustration upon the tech-priest manning the monitors. The robed figure scowled and shook its head.
The first screen showed a door, sliding open. They came aboard in a gaggle, different sizes and shapes and uniforms making them seem, from a distance, disordered and cluttered. Only when they began to walk, guided by a white-faced ensign in a singed, torn uniform, did their rigid efficiency become apparent.
The warriors, tan armour spotless and domed, asymmetrical helmets glaring beadily through emotionless optics, fanned out cautiously on either side. There were twelve in all, four on each phalanx wing and four others — sporting bulkier armour and longer, multi-barrelled weapons — who walked silently at the head and the rear of the group. Despite the polished hoof claws in the place of booted feet, their footsteps made little, if any, noise upon the slatted grating of the deck.
Following behind them came an extraordinary group. Walking with an easy, relaxed gait, peering around at the devastated innards of the Enduring Blade with undisguised interest, the next four specimens were taller and thinner than the warriors. Constantine watched their nonchalant progress with a frown, suspicious at their confidence. More even than their galling coolness, their bizarre clothing snagged at his attention. Had they not been xenogens, contaminating his ship with every step, he might even have laughed.
The fabric of their garments was unmistakably alien: strange two-tone material that caught the light with a subtle iridescence, revealing hidden colours and patterns with every new movement. The cut of the robes was stranger still: it was as though the makers had seen images of human Navy uniforms and attempted to emulate them, without fully understanding the significance of individual parts. One xenogen wore an exquisitely hung greatcoat with floral lapels, another a stylish silver jerkin with purple braids festooning the shoulders. One even sported a decorous face mask upon its brachycephalic brow, vaguely similar to a storm-trooper’s gas mask. The tallest of them (a female, he guessed, noting her narrow shoulders and slender legs), who walked with a confident stride and wore a domed hat above her grey face, was dressed tightly in a gaudy imitation of an officer’s jacket, complete with dangling jewels upon the left breast (easily mistakable for medals, from a distance) and diamond pips in the collar. Constantine shook his head, not sure whether to be revolted or amused at the inaccurate replication.
But behind them came the most astonishing figure of all.
Taller still, robes so white they seemed to glow, honour blade tapping out a steady rhythm as he walked, came the ethereal.
Constantine glanced to his side briefly, hoping to catch some indication of the Ultramarine captain’s reaction to these alien interlopers. The Marine’s grizzled features bent their full concentration upon the image, leaving Constantine unable to tell whether Ardias was impressed or disgusted or indifferent: he seemed to wear a perpetual grimace of disapproval that was as apparent now as ever.
The admiral had felt a small surge of terror and panic, at first, when he found himself in the presence of Space Marines, but professionalism was ingrained into his very mind and he’d quickly reminded himself that, technically, he out-ranked Ardias. Provided that the gargantuan warrior couldn’t see inside his chest at the racing heart therein, he was confident he’d preserved his aloof dignity. The Space Marine’s scowl of superiority, of course, wasn’t helping.
Constantine looked back at the screen. A delicate tracery of silver chains adorned the ethereal’s narrow neck, looping around his shoulders until they became part of the fabric of his robes, a sparkling pattern too fine for the clumsy monitors to represent. A decorous hybrid, somewhere between a bandana and tiara, covered the figure’s elegant forehead, leaving its dark eyes peering from beneath a glittering constellation of jewels and patterns.
“Bloody peacocks…” Constantine muttered, but his heart wasn’t in it.
The tech-priest grunted, motioning towards a second monitor. “They’ve reached the tertiary adjunct.”
Constantine watched the group in silence for a moment, impatience growing steadily. “You’re sure this is wise?” he blurted, finally, not entirely able to disguise the doubt in his voice. Ardias raised an eyebrow.
“There’s a new threat.” He returned, obviously in no mood to justify himself. “I told you that. We need every resource we have.” He nodded at the screen. “These xenogens are of little importance, in the grand scheme of things. Until we’ve identified what we’re dealing with I want this sordid little confrontation stopped.”
“But—”
“No arguments.”
Constantine fumed, unable to restrain his indignation. He cleared his throat noisily and grumbled, “It’s not right, you know… Inviting them aboard like warp-damned dignitaries. They’re scum, not royalty.”
“I don’t recall any ‘inviting’, admiral. Consider the situation logically. Their forces are superior to our own, their units are dispersed across your vessel, their ships outnumber us two to one — and they appear unencumbered by the inadequacies of command that you appear to have demonstrated.” The admiral’s hiss of anger at the insult went unnoticed, the Marine continuing his tirade with finality. “Just be grateful they were eager to parley. They could have finished us if they’d chosen to, and you know it.”
A bubble of aggression burst in Constantine’s mind. “Is it not better to die in service to the Emperor,” he hissed, “than to consort with abominations?”
The Marine’s glare bored into him, his voice suddenly cold. “Do not presume to lecture me on ethics, lord admiral. The tau’s time will come, on that you may rely.”
“And in the meantime th—”
“You would do well to moderate your tone of address! I have seen the true face of our enemy, Guilliman’s oath! These tau are nothing in comparison.”
The room descended into a furious silence, both men turning to watch the strange pro
cession of aliens move from monitor to monitor. Constantine stroked his moustache irritably.
“Any word from Governor Severus?” he barked at the tech-priest, losing patience. The robed figured shook its head, concentrating on the camera controls.
“Perhaps he’s already dead. One can but hope.”
The silence dragged on. The admiral fidgeted.
“It’s time,” the tech-priest intoned, artificial eyes glowing. They will reach the concilium chamber shortly.”
Constantine nodded and threw a sidelong glare at Ardias. “Are you joining us for the negotiations?”
“I think not.”
“Oh?”
“Talking is not my strong point.” He fingered the bolt pistol at his huge waist absently. “I shall monitor events from the Observarius. Our mutual acquaintance is already there.”
“Mutual acquaintance?”
Ardias smiled grimly and pointed towards Constantine’s throat, leaving him self-consciously adjusting the ruffle he’d employed to conceal the ugly wounds on his neck. The admiral remembered the firm alien grip on his shoulder, its accented voice in his ear. He shuddered.
“I thought you killed it,” he muttered.
“You thought incorrectly.”
“It almost murdered me. It slaughtered the bridge personnel, by the throne!”
“Indeed. It is a great warrior.”
“You’re impressed!” Constantine regretted opening his mouth instantly. For a second he really thought Ardias was going to kill him, eyes flashing dangerously, fist clenching with a metal-on-metal groan.
“No,” the Marine said eventually, visibly controlling himself, i am not. “But one does not open a peace negotiation by slaying the enemy’s finest soldiers.”
Constantine didn’t dare reply. The clutching gauntlet looked as though it could mash his head in a second.
“Just leave it,” Ardias snarled, perhaps unconvinced by his own explanation. “I have my reasons. Now get going.”
The Ultramarine turned his huge back and stomped away towards the observation galleries. Constantine watched him go, summoning the shreds of his dignity. He rearranged his dress uniform meticulously and stepped through into the concilium boardroom to await his guests.
Shadows curled claws and tentacles around his face.
Someone, far distant, said “Welcome.”
He was falling, perhaps. Tumbling head-over-hooves into an endless pit.
Someone said, “Please accept the returned greetings of his Eminence Aun’el T’au Ko’vash, who trusts his noble host is well.”
The words made sense, possibly. He struggled to turn over, to stare upwards to the top of the hole as it receded into a distant, impossible point.
Someone said, falteringly, “Many thanks… I am Benedil Constantine — admiral of the fleet. Won’t you… Won’t you take a seat?”
There was light up there, at the entrance to the pit. He thought he could see something moving.
Someone said, uncertain, “Take a seat? A gift, admiral?”
Someone said, “Oh, no… I mean, would you like to sit?”
Behind him, deep in the abyss, something rustled and giggled and hissed.
Someone said, “His eminence prefers to stand, but is grateful for the offer.”
Someone replied, a little too sharply, “I wonder if his Eminence is able to speak for himself?”
The thing behind him, the Mont’au devil (he knew it!), stretched out a scaly hand for him, scythe-like claws grasping upwards.
Someone said, “His eminence prefers to speak through me. I am his tongue and his hand, in this circumstance.”
Someone said, angrily, “And you are?”
He concentrated on looking upwards, willing himself to rise, praying for the world to return to him, for his cascading form to levitate into the light.
Someone said, “I am Por’el T’au Yis’ten.”
The words made sense. They were important, he knew.
Someone said, “Fine, fine. Uh. As you wish. Allow me to begin proceedings, then, by protesting in the strongest terms at the unprovoked hostility demonstrated by your people, that has brought us to this poi—”
Someone said, “Admiral, perhaps you are confused. Our hostilities were the result of provocation.”
You’re asleep, Kais. You need to wake up now.
Someone said, “Well, I disagr—”
Someone said, “Admiral, his eminence is unconcerned whether you agree or not. Let us not mince words. We are in a position of superiority. We have all but seized your flagship and possess the ability to cripple your fleet further still. Let us not waste our time with protests and accusations.”
He could see, now, in the light at the pit’s head. Something opening, breaking apart like mighty doors in the sky.
He could see…
Someone said, voice thick with indignation, “If you’re so convinced that you can defeat us, why are you even here, begging for peace?”
Someone said, “Admiral, we have no great fondness for genocide. A withdrawal is all we desire.”
He could see…
Oh, by the One Path, it was eyes. Great, dark, bottomless eyes; his father’s scowling face filling the sky. Filling the world. Filling his mind with expectation and disappointment.
“Flawed,” the eyes said. “Useless.”
The devil behind him cackled and warbled and giggled, and its claws closed around his waist.
Kais lurched awake with a hiss, hands clawing at the air to ward off the nightmares. Cool air brushed across his skin with a bizarre freshness: a sensation of newborn helplessness. He realised slowly that his helmet was gone, his gun had disappeared and he lay in—
He blinked.
The room was gue’la, unmistakably. All the usual ugliness was apparent: a tumbling intestine of tubes and pipes infesting the ceiling, grille-striated walls of bleak gunmetal, stone block recesses surrounded him on three sides and the usual damp, musty smell of humanity (now unfiltered by the helmet’s breathing systems) hit his senses like a fist.
But there was something different about this place. As he levered himself upright his hooves made contact with a soft, spongy floor covering, momentarily unset-ding him as he ascertained its solidity. Here and there plush crimson tapestries and drapes decorated the bulkheads, spiderlike icons of meaningless heraldry blistering their surfaces. The chamber was better lit than any he’d seen aboard the Enduring Blade thus far, giving it a sense of cleanliness and regality that was out of place in such grim surroundings.
There was a conversation going on, somewhere.
Someone said, “I see… so… You expect us to retreat, is that it?”
Kais turned his head towards the sound, still shaking off the torpor. The fourth wall of the room was a window. Bathed in the light from whatever luminous chamber lay beyond, standing with colossal hands on hips, a Space Marine stood and stared. Kais felt the panic rising in his belly.
He straightened with a hiss, frantic sleep clouded thoughts racing, eyes seeking out a weapon, a hiding place, anything!
“Relax.”
The Marine was staring at him, helmetless features grizzled and scarred. It cocked an eyebrow and gave what, to Kais, seemed an insincere, unimpressed grimace.
“I thought you might appreciate seeing this.” The figure jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the window and turned away. A disembodied voice, relayed through a small speaker set above the window, said: “In essence, admiral, yes. His Eminence feels there’s little to be gained from continuing our hostilities.” Kais, staying alert and wary of traps, edged towards the window, curiosity piqued. “Our resources,” the voice continued, “are more than enough to overcome your own, highly effective though they undoubtedly are. We feel, nonetheless, that even in victory there would be great cost to all concerned. We’ve demonstrated our seriousness, and offer our gratitude that you agreed to negotiate… despite the initial delay.”
The window looked out onto a wide circu
lar room full of standing figures. Kais crept closer, expecting a trap, throwing furtive glances at the Marine. The figure, clad in blue armour with inverted hoof-arch icons on its shoulder guards, maintained its appearance of dismissive nonchalance.
The voice went on after a pause, its pleasant pitch undoubtedly tau in origin. Kais clung to the certainty that others of his race were nearby, letting the words themselves — disguised behind a friendly, trustworthy tonality — wash over him. “His Eminence wishes to make it clear that breaches of the Dal’yth treaty and other hostilities will no longer be tolerated, and that the mercy we have demonstrated this rotaa will not be repeated in future.”
“This is your idea of mercy, is it? Seizing my vessel and demanding my surre—”
“We would remind you that the attempted seizure of our vessel preceded yours, and his eminence suspects that, had you succeeded, a surrender on our behalf would have fallen on deaf ears. You should consider yourselves lucky, he believes.”
The figures beyond the glass began to resolve as Kais drew nearer. He spotted a domed pol-hat — characteristic of water caste diplomats — and began to understand.
“They’re negotiating for peace?” he murmured, more to himself than the scowling Space Marine. The figure turned his way nonetheless and fixed him with another imperious glare.
“That’s the idea. Your diplomats are to be congratulated, alien. They posture and make threats, all the while managing to sound as friendly as you like. The Codex approves of shows of strength — when properly executed.”
Kais felt utterly bewildered. To be so close to one of these vast killing machines, unarmed and unprepared… he ought to be dead, not standing discussing morality like a lecture-hall por’el.
The wall speaker said, “Lucky? Ha!”
“What’s going on?” Kais muttered. “What’s happened?”
[Warhammer 40K] - Fire Warrior Page 20