Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Warhammer 40,000
Maps
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
About The Author
Legal
eBook license
Warhammer 40,000
It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
ONE
INTO THE RIFT
The emptiness of space buckled and bulged just for an instant as though it were being sucked into a vacuum. Stars wheeled and distorted and then the endless night shimmered, disgorging a single vessel back into realspace. Its engines burned white-hot for a few moments, the internally-generated field that had cocooned it on its journey through the warp flared briefly and flickered out. Then gradually, the thrusters began to cool, slowly making their way down through the spectrum to standard operating levels.
Space around the ship rippled as cycling shield generators doubled their output to compensate for the dense clouds of particulate debris, then the scene returned to normal as though the ship had always been here.
The Endless Horizon, a lone trader vessel, decelerated dramatically as soon as it was able; a hot blast of plasma drives stalling its headlong flight from the empyrean to a crawl. Within the ship’s interior, countless system checks and re-calibrations were taking place. Several of its crew murmured thanks to the God-Emperor and to the ship’s machine spirit for a safe trip through the warp.
They had gotten this far intact, but whether they would survive their trip through this sector remained to be seen. They had translated into the fringe of the Gildar Rift.
‘We’re definitely alone, sir.’
Silence followed this ominous pronouncement as the bridge crew of the Endless Horizon exchanged glances. There was concern in those looks; a deep anxiety that was almost palpable. Luka Abramov frowned, running a hand across his jaw as he considered the situation. His eyes passed over the unfortunate young man who had delivered this worrying report and his grey eyes steadily narrowed in obvious disapproval. It was not the news he had wanted to hear.
The youth shifted uncomfortably under the captain’s gaze, aware instinctively that more was expected of him. A slow, creeping realisation that every pair of eyes on the bridge was riveted on him began to seep unpleasantly through his body and he cleared his throat, tapping at the data-slate in his hand. Before he could speak however, Abramov leaned forward.
‘Let’s try basics. Our coordinates are correct, yes?’
‘Y… yes, sir. Captain.’ The youth offered up the data-slate and Abramov took it without even bothering to look down at it. The lumen-strips on the bridge were still dimmed, not yet back to full power after their trip through the warp and in the dull half-light, Abramov’s hawkish face was unreadable.
‘Then the words “We’re definitely alone” are, as I’m sure you appreciate Kaman, completely unacceptable.’ Abramov rose from his control throne and stepped down from the dais so that he was on a level with the other man. ‘Are we so very early? Or even late?’ Abramov silently cursed the inconveniences of warp travel. Its time dilation effects were generally considered the very least of the problems a ship could encounter; but they were a frequently irritating side-effect nonetheless.
‘Ship’s chronometers put us approximately four hours ahead of schedule,’ came the answer from somewhere over to Abramov’s right. The captain glanced across and nodded curtly. When he spoke, it was with an outward confidence that he wasn’t feeling inside.
‘Then we keep going. We may as well continue onwards to our destination.’
‘But, sir...’ Kaman hesitated, biting back the words that rose to his lips. He used the honorific without even thinking. It was a sure sign he was nervous and Abramov noted it. He liked to encourage an element of informality amongst his crew. Some of them had come to him from spells in the Naval service. Sticklers for tradition and formality to a man. It seemed that some old habits died hard.
Kaman rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thoughtful finger. He did not wish to appear patronising or condescending, but every member of the bridge crew was thinking what he was rather clumsily attempting to put into words. ‘But, sir. The dangers...’
‘The dangers of the Gildar Rift are well known to me, Kaman. I would be most grateful if you did not presume to lecture me on that of which I am well aware.’ A look of shame coloured the youth’s features and Abramov softened his attitude slightly. ‘For now, concentrate on assessing all available data so that our helmswoman can get us safely through the belt and to Gildar Secundus. I’m prepared to compromise. We’ll wait a while for our escort. I’m sure that they will show up soon enough.’ Or perhaps, he added mentally, not at all. ‘You all know just as well as I do that we’re on a tight schedule.’
This was not the first time he had commanded a vessel through the treacherous straits of the system and he sincerely hoped that it would not be the last. But without the safety net of their intended escort he could not help but feel an anxiety that would not settle. A knot of discomfort began to twist in his stomach, but he retained a stoic expression. There was little point in displaying uncertainty to his crew.
‘Yes, sir, straight away.’ Kaman crossed his hands over his chest and returned to his station. Abramov nodded. They were a good crew, reliable and trustworthy. There were a number whose experience was lacking but they would learn in time. Kaman was a case in point. But Abramov had very carefully cherry-picked his crew over the years. There was enough combined expertise on board to ensure that their journey to Gildar Secundus should have presented no major difficulties. He believed he had taken all the factors into consideration. Indeed, he was completely confident in that knowledge.
And yet...
Were he brutally honest with himself, he would have admitted the truth of the matter. Had he been allowed to have his own way, he would have preferred to navigate through the debris field with his crew alone. The Endless Horizon was a good ship; she handled well. His helmswoman was a skilled and seasoned veteran of many years and was without question one of the most extraordinarily gifted pilots he had ever known. They were a fine assembly and they had an excellent track record. So his ship may be old and, as he often joked, was held together with little more than wishful thinking. But she was certainly reliable. The old girl had many years of service left in her yet.
Abramov had not wanted an escort for this trip, but in the event he had not been given a choice. If there had been the option to refuse the vessel assigned to oversee their passage through the Rift, he would have taken it without question. However, he had not been given the chance to repudiate the suggestion. He had been told in no uncertain terms that he would receive the escort.
Luka Abramov was a shrewd man and an excellent captain – and he knew better than to refuse what was tantamount to a direct order from the Adeptus Astartes. They were, after all, entering the Silver Skulls patrol corridor and to have gone against that one instruction would have been a grave insult that would inevitably have courted disaster. On top of that, from what he knew of the Silver Skulls Chapter in general – and of Captain Daerys Arrun in particular – it would possibly be perceived as more than simple disobedience. The Silver Skulls were noted throughout this sector for their ferocity. To contravene an order was something that would be seen as a challenge, or something that would raise suspicion. It was the sort of activity that freebooters and smugglers engaged in. Abramov, whilst he may occasionally and almost always entirely accidentally have transported the odd microgram over his allowance, was no smuggler.
Not all ships were guided with an escort through the Rift. Most of the time, as long as their presence was made known, that was enough. But when the order had come through that the Endless Horizon was to rendezvous with another ship on arrival in the system, it wasn’t something that could be lightly dismissed.
Abramov had enough problems to deal with – he neither wanted nor needed the displeasure of Captain Arrun adding to his load.
‘Maintain regular augur sweeps,’ he said to the operative at the scanner console. ‘I want to know the very second they show up.’ Unlike some other ships, the Endless Horizon had an almost entirely unaugmented human crew. Abramov had served in ships crewed largely by servitors and had never felt comfortable around them, at least not when he had employed them on his own bridge. As such, the moment he had taken command of the vessel, he had instigated his own rules. Lobotomised servitors still moved around the engineering section in their lifeless way, never needing their morale attending to and keeping the literal cogs of the ship turning. But all of Abramov’s core crew were human. There was not a servitor in sight. He was proud of that fact.
‘Of course, Luka,’ the operative replied. She was more comfortable by far with the informality adopted on board the Endless Horizon. Like Abramov, she was dressed in dull grey overalls emblazoned with the ship’s insignia, that of a sun setting on a horizon. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back from her face in a highly unflattering manner, emphasising the tired eyes and frown lines that marred her handsome profile. Abramov watched her with undisguised affection for a few moments as she expertly worked the buttons and dials on the archaic systems at her fingertips. The cogitators and systems groaned into semi-obedient life and she murmured soft thanks to the machine spirits that she had disturbed from their slumber.
After some time, activity on the bridge of the Endless Horizon resumed some sort of normality. Abramov allowed himself the opportunity to relax a little. The earlier tension had been uncomfortable, but had been inevitable. There was always a brief spasm in the bustle and flow of regular activity after re-entry from the warp. Those moments may have been laden with apprehension, but there was nonetheless a certain peace in the wake of re-entry; it represented a marked change from usual hubbub of life and animation that dictated his existence on board the freighter.
Information was passed to him both verbally and in the form of printed reports and as things resumed their normal pace, he took a great comfort in the perfect symphony of the workings of the bridge crew. It was a familiar, well-orchestrated pandemonium of sound that he could have conducted perfectly without even trying. The chimes on the quarter hour that reminded the machine operators to renew their litanies. The slow, steady growl of the engine’s pulse far beneath them – and the occasional lull in that constant background noise as a slightly worn piston skipped a beat. There was the accompanying sound of the monotone responses of the few engine room servitors as they obeyed orders and relayed information across the ship-wide vox… Abramov leaned back in his command throne and closed his eyes, allowing it all to wash over him like a soothing balm. All was calm. All was well.
Abramov had taken ownership of the Endless Horizon several years ago and although his preference had always been for drawing up his own contracts and working for no master but himself, he had nonetheless served the Imperium well when called upon to do so. Particularly when the agreed contract was as lucrative as the one he had negotiated for this run to the promethium refineries. For all his strong and notable points, Luka Abramov’s head was turned with promises of financial reward. It was not a trait that he ever allowed to display itself, though.
Known for his thoroughness and diligence and an honesty that was almost disarming, he was well respected and had often been entrusted with an assortment of precious cargo. He had spent the first ten years of his ship-board life working solely for the Imperium. It had been long enough to give him a strong urge to work for himself and so he had become freelance. Ironic really, that here he was, back under contract to them once again. He’d developed a taste for the life of a freelancer, however – and had already decided that once he had run a few more Imperial contracts, he would reclaim his independence. He had established that there were many opportunities for ships to make trade runs to the Gildar system. Blessed with a wealth of natural resources, there were always contracts available to this part of the Segmentum Obscurus. It didn’t hurt to run a few more ‘official’ missions. Practice, he knew, made perfect.
There were certainly far more contracts than there were ships willing to travel there. Abramov had no compunction about such a journey. He knew the risks and welcomed them as part of what he considered his responsibility.
For countless centuries this part of space had always presented itself as a major hazard to all vessels entering its vast tracts. ‘The Gildar Rift’ was the name that had been bestowed upon the shipping channel cleaving its way through the area. Comprised of a number of scattered, largely uninhabited worlds, it was a potentially lethal zone to traverse.
Through the centre of the system, an asteroid belt orbited the densely populated planet of Gildar Secundus. The field’s intrinsic dangers were made far more lethal by the vast quantities of space debris drifting eternally through the void. Remains of smashed vessels that had failed to heed warnings not to attempt transit were strewn throughout the Rift, an area that was too hazardous by far to salvage. Any opportunistic would-be looters who had tried to recover the wrecks often added their own ships to the mass.
Ruptured and broken, the ships slowly leached slow trickles of plasma and other toxic wastes into the area. The lethal cocktail created a permanent chemical haze that constantly caused interference with auguries and communications signals.
So the asteroid belt was both a blessing and a curse; presenting difficulties for any who wished to descend to or leave Gildar Secundus, but also offering an excellent natural defence for a planet whose promethium reserves were a critical resource for the Imperium. The challenge faced by visitors to the system in the shape of the swirling band of rock and ship debris was only the beginning. Xenos ships were regular trespassers here and, so it was rumoured, pirate a
ctivity was increasing not just here in the Gildar Rift but in the whole of the furthest reaches of the Segmentum Obscurus.
Relishing the challenges that maintaining peace in the sector offered, the Silver Skulls had long ago set themselves to the task of patrolling the Gildar Rift. Other Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes would rarely volunteer themselves for such a plain, inglorious duty. But the Silver Skulls considered the sector as part of their territory. And the Silver Skulls were proud.
Their presence loaned an air of safety to what was otherwise a treacherous place. But it came at a cost. The Silver Skulls monitored and maintained control over passage through the system with a rule of iron. The more fortunate vessels, such as the Endless Horizon, followed protocol, alerting the Space Marines to their planned transit in advance. After the necessary approvals and verifications had been carried out, they were granted permission and provided with coordinates where they would be met by an escort. Those who simply translated into realspace on the fringes of the Gildar Rift were very swiftly met with a ‘welcoming party’. A misnomer if ever there was one. The stoic Space Marines weren’t known for their warm and embracing natures. They were, however, definitely well known for their adherence to and the enforcing of Imperial regulations and didn’t take kindly to chancers. Woe betide any ship’s captain who thought to argue the point with the Silver Skulls Chapter. No, there were protocols to be followed.
Yet for all he had followed the guidelines and adhered rigidly to instruction in this instance; for all he had dutifully waited a tedious length of time for Captain Arrun’s grudging acknowledgement before he had arranged to travel here... for all he had ensured that the coordinates he had been given had been adhered to most rigidly, Abramov and his crew were completely alone.
The Gildar Rift Page 1