‘There will be one last vessel docking soon. Ensure all of your crew are removed from the bay once it arrives.’
Her raised eyebrow conveyed just what she thought of this unorthodox demand. And in case it didn’t, she added her own spice to it. ‘Very well. Now tell me why.’
‘No,’ said one of the other Astartes. He’d named himself as Malnor, a sergeant. ‘Just obey the order.’
The captain, Argel Tal, gestured for his brother to remain silent.
‘The last gunship will be bringing a creature on board. The fewer of your crew that are exposed to it, the better it will be for all of us.’
The first officer pointedly cleared his throat. Crew members turned in their seats. Sylamor blinked twice. ‘I will suffer no xenos presence on board the Lament,’ she stated.
‘I did not say it was an alien,’ said Argel Tal. ‘I said it was a creature. My warriors will escort it to the bridge. Do not look at it once we are underway. Focus on your duties, all of you. I have my men in the starboard docking bay, and will inform you when the gunship reaches us.’
‘Incoming hail from De Profundis,’ called an officer from the vox-console.
The Word Bearers went to their knees, heads lowered.
‘Accept the hail,’ Sylamor said. Without realising, she lifted a hand to check her hair was in neat order, and straightened her uniform. Around her, officers did the same, brushing epaulettes and standing straighter.
The occulus tuned into a view of De Profundis’s command deck, where the primarch and Fleetmaster Torvus stood in pride of place.
‘This is the flagship,’ Torvus said, ‘Good hunting, Lament.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Sylamor replied.
An awkward silence reached between both bridge crews, broken by Argel Tal.
‘Sire?’
‘Yes, my son?’ Lorgar’s smile was sincere, though vox-crackle ruined his smooth voice.
‘We will return with the answers the Legion needs. You have my word,’ he gestured to the parchment bound to his shoulder guard, ‘and my oath of moment’.
The smile remained upon the primarch’s painted lips. ‘I know, Argel Tal. Please, rise. I cannot abide you kneeling before me in this moment of moments.’
The Word Bearers rose as ordered, and Argel Tal nodded to Captain Sylamor.
‘The last vessel has docked and my warriors are leading the creature to the bridge. Take us in, captain.’
The ship trembled as its engines came alive, and Orfeo’s Lament speared away from the planet, cutting through the void towards the storm’s distant edges.
‘Three hours until we reach the storm’s outermost border,’ one of the helmsmen called.
Argel Tal held his bolter in his fists, waiting for the bridge doors to open once more.
‘When the creature arrives, do not look at it.’ He seemed to be addressing everyone, while looking at none of them. ‘This is not a matter of decorum or politeness. Do not look at it. Do not meet its eyes. Try not to breathe too much of its scent.’
‘Is this creature toxic?’ asked Sylamor.
‘It is dangerous,’ the Word Bearer allowed. ‘When I say these instructions are for your safety and sanity, I mean those exact words. Do not look at it. Do not even look at its reflection in any screen or monitor. If it speaks, focus on anything but its words. And if you feel nauseous or afflicted in its presence, leave your station at once.’
Sylamor’s laugh was patently false. ‘You are unnerving my crew, captain.’
‘Just do as I ask, please.’
She bristled, not used to being given orders on her own deck. ‘Of course, sir.’
‘Don’t act so offended, Janus.’ The Word Bearer forced some warmth into his voice, which his helm’s vox-speakers immediately stole and twisted. ‘Just trust me.’
When the doors finally opened, the first thing to wash over the bridge was the smell, which caused several of the human crew to gag.
Commendably, only one turned around to see what entered, escorted as it was by a full squad of Word Bearers – and that one soul was Captain Janus Sylamor.
In accidental defiance of the promise she’d made only minutes before, she turned to the opening doors and saw the creature framed in the light of the illumination globes in the corridor behind. The first heave of bitter sick hit her teeth and lips so fast she didn’t have time to open her mouth. The rest spread onto the floor as she went down on all fours, purging her stomach of the morning’s caffeine and dry rations, and painting the decking with her bile.
‘I warned you,’ Argel Tal said to her, without taking his eyes from the creature.
Her answer was to heave some more, ending with a string of saliva hanging from her lips.
Ingethel wormed its way onto the bridge, leaving a discoloured smear in its wake. The tap, tap, tap of the staff’s base on the metal floor acted as accompaniment to the sound of its slick flesh slithering across the deck.
Officers abandoned their posts by the captain’s throne, stepping away with undisguised disgust and covering their mouths and noses. More than one vomited into their hands as Ingethel drew nearer, though for the creature’s part, it seemed to notice none of this. Its malformed eyes stared dead ahead at the storm taking over the occulus.
Sylamor rose to her feet again, after taking Argel Tal’s offered hand.
‘What have you brought onto my bridge, captain?’
‘It is a guide. Now with the greatest respect, Janus, wipe your mouth and do your duty. Next time, perhaps you will listen to me.’
She was familiar enough with Argel Tal from fleet command meetings to know that this curt treatment wasn’t like him at all. Of all the Word Bearer commanders, he’d always been the most approachable, and the most inclined to hear the concerns of the human officers.
She said nothing. Instead, she nodded, breathing through her mouth to hinder some of the obscene reek that only fuelled her nausea. The foulness of the stench wasn’t the worst part; it was the familiarity of it.
As a young girl on Colchis, she’d survived an outbreak of rotten lung in her village, and had been one of the few left to witness the arrival of a coven of mortuary priests from the City of Grey Flowers. Over the course of a single day, they’d erected a great pyre to cleanse the dead before scattering their ashes across the desert. The smell of that funeral pyre had never left her, and when it resurfaced now, it was all she could do not to choke at the creature’s stench.
A curious drip, drip, drip ate at her attention, drawing her glance to the deck by the creature’s sluggish body. A greasy, opaque plasm dripped from the muscled folds of its serpentine lower half, bleaching the steel decking where it fell.
‘Full speed ahead,’ said Sylamor, and swallowed before another purge took hold.
Orfeo’s Lament trembled – ever the eager huntress, ever the keen explorer – and increased her pace. The storm swelled in the occulus before them as they cruised closer to its edge.
‘Have the flagship’s augurs managed to measure the afflicted area of space?’ she asked.
Thousands upon thousands of solar systems lie within the Great Eye.
She froze, cheeks paling. ‘I... I heard a voice.’
‘Ignore it,’ ordered Argel Tal.
You could sail your mortal craft for a hundred lifetimes within its depths, and see no more than a shadow of its full glory.
‘I can still hear it...’
Argel Tal growled, deep and low, his head tilted towards the creature. ‘Do not toy with their lives,’ he said. ‘You have been warned.’
None of them will survive this journey. You are a fool to believe they will.
‘Did... did it just say...’
‘It said nothing,’ Argel Tal interrupted her stammer. ‘Ignore the voice. Focus, Janus. Attend to your duties, and leave all else to us. I will not let the creature harm you, or anyone in the crew.’
She does not believe you.
‘Be quiet, false angel.’
She k
nows you lie. You hear her heartbeat, as I do. She is terrified, and she knows you are lying to her.
Across the bridge, two menials vomited over their consoles. Another fainted at his station, with blood running from his ears in a slow trickle.
‘Will this keep happening?’ Sylamor asked Argel Tal, careful not to look at the creature over the warrior’s shoulder, and hoping her voice wasn’t shaking.
The Word Bearer didn’t answer immediately. ‘I believe so,’ came the eventual response.
One of the helmsmen jerked in his seat, cracking his head against the back of the throne. Through clenched teeth, he managed a thin wail before falling into a seizure, kept in place only by his restraint harness.
‘Medicae team to the helm,’ ordered the captain.
Sylamor’s patience was close to its end when one of her adjutant servitors unplugged itself from its post and began to painstakingly crawl across the floor. The servitor in question had no legs below the thighs, having had them surgically removed in order to better remain at its post at all times. When it detached itself from its bronze cradle and started clawing its way over the decking, Captain Sylamor watched this unprecedented behaviour for several stunned moments. The augmetic servant trailed wires and cables from its spine and severed legs, viscous oil leaking from its nose.
‘Blood of the Emperor,’ Sylamor cursed under her breath. ‘Stand back, everyone. Stand back.’
She put the servitor down herself with a single pistol round to the back of the poor thing’s head, and ordered two deckhands to remove it at once.
Vox-officer Arvas turned to his captain as she passed on the way back to her throne. ‘Do you hear that?’ he asked her.
‘A contact? Another vessel?’
‘No.’ He held his earpiece, face darkened by concentration. ‘I can hear him, captain.’
Mounting irritation overrode her unease. ‘Hear who?’
Janus had known Arvas for over a decade, and on one night in particular four years ago, she’d known him – and four bottles of silver Yndonesic wine – regrettably well. Despite that lone indiscretion, he was one of her most adept and loyal crew members. ‘Tell me who you hear, lieutenant.’
He tried to retune his console, twisting a row of dials. ‘I can hear Vanic dying. He screams, but not for long. The rest is white noise. Listen,’ he offered her his earpiece. ‘You can hear Vanic dying. You hear him scream, but not for long.’
She hesitantly reached to take the earpiece. Standing next to Arvas, Vox-officer Vanic gave her an attempt at a smile. Discomfort was written across his fat features.
Arvas unholstered his sidearm and pumped four rounds into the other man’s stomach. Blood, stinging and hot, flecked Sylamor’s face as Vanic collapsed screaming to the deck.
‘Now you hear it,’ said Arvas.
The captain had no time to react – a blur of dark grey shoved her aside. Before she’d even blinked, Arvas was kicking and dangling above the ground, held aloft by Argel Tal’s fist around his throat. The ship shivered around them as if it shared the crew’s disquiet.
As he was strangled in the warrior’s grip, Arvas’s fingers scraped across Argel Tal’s faceplate with all the ferocity of a cornered beast hoping to scratch out its killer’s eyes. Sweat-smears painted across the eye lenses.
The medicae team reached Vanic’s side in time for him to die at their feet. Arvas had been right – Vanic hadn’t screamed for long.
The Word Bearer ignored the fingers scrabbling over the implacable ceramite, and turned to address his warriors. ‘Dagotal, take this wretch to the containment cells.’ He passed Arvas towards the other Word Bearers, sending him sprawling with a shove.
Another of the Astartes stepped forward, catching the struggling officer by the collar and lifting him from the ground. Arvas took over where Vanic’s screams left off.
‘And render him silent,’ Argel Tal added.
‘By your word, brother.’ Dagotal gripped the officer’s neck, squeezing his windpipe with gentle force. The human’s voice faded to a gasping squeak as the Word Bearer hauled him from the bridge.
Captain Sylamor glared up at the towering figure of Argel Tal.
‘That creature cannot remain on my bridge. It is... doing something to us, isn’t it?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Then ask it.’
‘We will take it to the observation deck, captain. Ensure your crew vacate the area, as well as the corridors between. Make full speed for the storm’s edge. I will contact you with any alterations to those orders if the need arises.’
‘Thank you,’ she said to him.
Argel Tal returned a curt nod, and moved back to his brethren.
‘You should have killed the murderer,’ Xaphen admonished.
‘He will stand trial for his sin. It could be argued that his actions were not his own.’ Argel Tal turned to watch Ingethel as the creature began its slithering withdrawal from the command deck. They followed, avoiding the slick trail it left in its wake.
‘We are walking into the unknown, and there is nothing but darkness before my eyes,’ Argel Tal said to his Chaplain.
‘And that worries you.’
‘Of course it worries me. If we are on the precipice of enlightenment, why have I never felt so blind?’
‘Everything is darkest,’ Xaphen mused, ‘before the dawn.’
‘That, my brother, is an axiom that sounds immensely profound until you realise it’s a lie.’
The observation decks on most Imperial ships were places of great serenity. Although Orfeo’s Lament was a modest vessel compared to De Profundis, let alone the grandeur of the Fidelitas Lex, Argel Tal still felt his breath catch as he entered.
Midway along the cruiser’s battlemented spine rose an armoured dome, its clear surface offering an unparalleled view of the surrounding void. In normal space, the view of a billion stars in the infinite night never failed to capture his imagination – and, he’d admit in his prouder moments, his ambition as well. These were humanity’s stars. No other species had the right to claim them, for their ages had come and gone. The future was one of purity, and it belonged to mankind.
Here, now, the stars were stained violet. Argel Tal watched distant suns drown in curling, thrashing mists of purple and red.
Do you see?
Ingethel had reared up to its full unnatural height, four stick-thin arms spread in benediction to the burning heavens. From jaws that couldn’t close, it spat out a rattlesnake’s hiss.
Do. You. See.
Argel Tal tore his gaze from the night sky. The observation deck was spacious, fitted with Spartan furniture that none of the Word Bearers were using. Each remained standing, bolters clutched in their hands.
‘I see a storm,’ said the captain. ‘Nothing more.’
‘You and I both, sir.’ This, from Dagotal. The outrider sergeant had arrived several minutes after the rest of them, coming straight from the containment block where he’d left Lieutenant Arvas in the less than tender care of the brig officers. ‘I feel something, though. The ship’s shaking itself apart.’
‘Always thought I’d die in battle,’ grumbled Malnor.
Argel Tal shook his head. ‘You dragged us into this nexus of energies, Ingethel. It is time to tell us why. What are we supposed to be seeing?’
The truth. The truth behind the stars. The hidden layer of the universe.
‘I see a storm that threatens to kill us all, comprised of a thousand colours.’
No. You see target locks and biological data streams. You see the world before you through filtering lenses. You stand on the border of heaven, Word Bearer. Remove your helm. Look upon the home of the gods with your true eyes.
It took him a moment to comply, hesitating at the thought of the creature’s smell assaulting his olfactory senses without first being purified by his helm’s intake grille. He took a final breath of his armour’s stale, recycled air, and disengaged the collar seals.
It was worse than h
e’d imagined, and the bridge crew were to be commended for the fact so few of them vomited. The chamber already reeked of a charnel house; that coppery spice of fouled blood, the stinging meat-stink of digestive organs bared to the air.
‘I still see nothing,’ Argel Tal grunted. ‘I see the storm.’
You cannot lie to me as you lie to the humans. Stare into the clashing tides around us. Do you see what stares back?
The captain stepped closer to the dome’s edge, peering out into the roiling void, where the playing energies mixed and swirled. The ship gave another tremor at the mercy of the forceful tides. There, just a for a moment, as the ship shook...
You saw. Your heart quickened. Your eyes dilated. You saw.
Argel Tal stroked his hand along the dense glass wall, staring into the tumult beyond. How could one draw meaning from this madness? The ship shuddered in the aetheric tides again, and once more the riotous energies coalesced for the briefest moment.
A human face, spoiled by frightened eyes and a screaming mouth, formed from the burning matter outside the glass. It burst against the dome, dissipating back into the raging tides from whence it came.
Do you know what this storm is?
Argel Tal wouldn’t look away from the tides. ‘It’s warp energy. The aetheric current, reaching through into the material universe. Imperial records have chronicled the presence of alien creatures in the warp itself, but they are catalogued among the lesser xenos threats.’
Ingethel’s hiss echoed in his mind. How verminous, the creature’s laughter.
Do you know what those words mean? Or do you relate lore poured into your mind by the indoctrinations that shaped you? What do you see when you stare into this storm?
The Word Bearer turned to Ingethel. A face that would have been handsome – had it not suffered the trials of Astartes surgery – stared up at the creature. ‘This is the galaxy’s blood. Reality is bleeding.’
Close. The daemon-thing chittered with a rodent’s delight. Humanity is precious in its ignorance, but that cannot be allowed to last if your species is to survive. The warp is more than a realm for mortal vessels to cut into with impunity, and use its tides to sail faster than light.
The First Heretic Page 23