[Rogue Trader 02] - Star of Damocles

by Andy Hoare - (ebook by Undead)

  She looked down each bay, one at a time, catching movement in the darkness behind the bars on either side of the long spurs. She knew that one spur would contain the tau prisoners, but which?

  “Look for a manifest, a log, anything that might tell us where they are.” She called to Naal, rifling through the parchments and scrolls piled on top of a bureau nearby. Papers scattered in all directions. “And see if you can deactivate that alarm.”

  Naal looked around the chamber, located a section of wall, and depressed a barely discernible panel. A small section of wall lifted up, to reveal a bank of bright-lit controls. Naal reached up and deactivated the alarm with a single motion.

  “Thank you,” Brielle said. “That was really getting on my…”

  “I have them, my lady,” Naal said. “Cell block Eta.”

  “Good,” Brielle replied. “Cover that up when you’re done. Which one’s Eta?”

  “This way,” Naal said, indicating one of the dark passages radiating from the area in which they stood.

  “Good. Follow me,” she replied, setting off for the cell block. She was soon engulfed in darkness, and she slowed lest she stumble. As her eyes became accustomed to the low light, she became aware of subtle movements within the shadows beyond the bars, and halted to look closer. She noticed too that the air in the block was even closer, the subtle taint of despair drifting upon a stale breeze. She squatted, determined to discover who, or what was imprisoned within.

  A low moan emanated from the cell, sending a shiver up Brielle’s spine. It was the moan of the damned, she thought, and had surely not been voiced by one of the tau prisoners. As her eyes adjusted to the dark still more, she began to discern lumpen forms within the cell, the source, she realised, of the movement and the terrible sound.

  “Deserters,” Naal whispered from behind Brielle, causing her to start. “Bound for trial, or what passes for trial in the Imperium.”

  She turned and looked into his face, her eyes taking in the aquila tattooed across it. “These men are criminals?”

  “Who can say, my lady.”

  “They refused to fight?”

  “According to the records, yes.”

  “Then they are criminals.”

  “In the eyes of the Imperium, yes,” Naal replied, his voice low and dangerous. “Perhaps they merely refused to fight against the Tau Empire. Perhaps they see what the crusade council, what the High Lords of Terra themselves, cannot.”

  “Perhaps,” Brielle replied, “but it matters not a bit. If they refuse to fight, they will die. That’s how it is. That’s how it’s always been and how it always will be.”

  “Not if more like them, like you and me, see an alternative.”

  “There’s a big difference,” Brielle said, looking back towards the forms within the cell, “between aiding the tau, and actually turning on your own race.”

  “No one has asked you to turn on your own, my lady. Though you yourself have asked…”

  “Not yet, they haven’t, Naal, but I’m not stupid. I know where this could lead. But know this. If I join, I do so on my terms, when I’m ready to. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.” Naal stood as he spoke. “All I can ask is that you do what you think right, for the Greater Good.”

  Brielle stood without answering. She resumed her search of the black, peering into the darkness beyond the bars on either side as she passed along its length. As she approached the end of the passage, she knew that she had found what she had come for.

  She halted, indicating with a gesture that Naal should do likewise. She saw a row of figures slumped across the deck, through the bars on her right, and by their form, they were obviously not human.

  At that instant, a wave of nausea washed over her, and the air around her tasted suddenly tainted. She had experienced that horrible sensation once before, in the presence of…

  A whisper, low and laden with menace, rasped from the cell to her left. “My lady Arcadius.”

  She turned, sweat appearing at her brow as the cell block felt suddenly humid and stifling.

  “And our friend, Captain Delphi, though I doubt Brielle here knows him as such.”

  Brielle knew that it was Inquisitor Grand. She felt, on some primal level, the corruption of his presence even before he had spoken. She felt paralysis clawing at her limbs, and knew that the inquisitor used his witchery against her. She tried to look at Naal, confusion at Grand’s naming of him rising within her. She found she could barely turn her head, and through her peripheral vision saw that Naal was likewise afflicted. She looked back towards the inquisitor just as he emerged from the cell, a dark shadow against an even darker backdrop, only his mouth visible beneath the folds of his black hood.

  “I’d hoped to find one of you here,” Grand said, his voice still low and rasping, “but to find you both… surely the Emperor smiles upon me.”

  Brielle heard Naal try to respond, but only a pained croak emerged.

  “Hush, Delphi,” the inquisitor told Naal. “There’ll be plenty of time for confessions later. There’s much for us to discuss, and much you’ll wish to tell me, in time. You’ll go to your grave, Delphi, but you’ll be unburdened of your many sins against the God-Emperor of Man.”

  Brielle heard Naal’s response. Though unintelligible, its meaning was unmistakable.

  “And you, my pretty.” Grand turned his attention back to Brielle. “What shall we do with you? Is it even worth my while attempting to extract a confession from you? Or should I just practise my tender arts upon your soft flesh, beginning with your mind, perhaps, and working my way out. Maybe Delphi here would like to watch.”

  Brielle spat an incoherent curse at the hooded inquisitor, hate welling within her. She screamed in silent, mental denial, directing all her rage and frustration at her capture.

  “Now now, my dear, settle down,” the inquisitor said, turning his back on Brielle and advancing upon Naal. Feeling her rage boil out of control, she pushed with all her might against the mental bonds that restrained her. She focused on Grand’s back, boring her hatred deep into his soul.

  The inquisitor turned sharply, his attentions entirely focused on Brielle. She felt a strange sense of triumph; though she would likely die, she would do so with defiance and with honour. That much had been instilled in her by her upbringing amongst the savage nobility of the feral world of Chogoris.

  “You are a strong one, aren’t you?” Grand said, reaching out a hand towards Brielle’s face. She felt his caress upon her cheek, reeling at the witch power coursing through it and into her body, the source of the paralysis against which she struggled.

  “You can feel me, can’t you?” Grand moved in closer, his hand snaking around to the nape of Brielle’s neck, and grasping the flowing plaits of her hair. The sight of his hooded face filled her vision. She saw into the shadows beneath the hood, witchfire guttering in the depths of his shadowed eyes. “Let me see you.”

  As Grand closed in upon her, Brielle felt her soul begin to wither beneath his baleful gaze. Corruption radiated from him, focused and burning through his touch where it gripped the back of her neck. She screamed within against the pain of his touch, pushing against him with all the power her soul could muster, determined beyond reason to expel the paralysis entering her body, to push it back into his.

  Alarm appeared in Grand’s eyes, and Brielle was stunned to see him stagger backwards, backing into Naal as he did so. Unable to control his limbs, Naal fell to the deck with a painful crash, knocking him senseless against the bars.

  “You think you can resist me do you, girl?” the inquisitor growled as he regained his balance. “What little power you might have is insufficient. Now, you are mine.”

  Focusing all her pain and rage, Brielle lashed out in one final effort to break the bonds paralysing her body. She felt her soul slipping from her, and her vision blurred into blinding white fire. She pushed one last time, feeling something yield beneath her effort. She realised with a start th
at it was her own flesh that yielded so, movement returning to her limbs. With a rush of sensation, her body was returned to her, and she collapsed to the ground before she could fully take control of her motor functions.

  The sudden loss of control saved her life. A deafening report filled the cell block, followed an instant later by the unmistakable sound of an exploding bolt as it struck the bulkhead behind the space she had just vacated.

  Brielle rolled, her vision clearing. She looked up and saw the black-robed form of the inquisitor advancing upon her, bolt pistol in hand, his eyes swirling with the ectoplasmic whirlpools beneath his hood.

  As Grand lowered the pistol to draw a bead on her head, she lifted her arm and with a single flick of her thumb activated the tiny, one-shot flamer she wore in the guise of a ring. A cone of chemical fire erupted from the weapon, leaping the two metres between Brielle and the inquisitor, engulfing him instantly. The inquisitor’s robes caught fire, and he gave voice to a scream that Brielle felt in her soul as much as heard, searing her mind and threatening to knock her out. She clambered to her feet and rushed to Naal’s side as me inquisitor staggered against a wall and collapsed. She saw that Naal lived yet, but was still overcome by the paralysis inflicted by Grand’s psychic attack. She hooked an arm beneath each of his shoulders, and pulled with all her might. Naal’s body was a deadweight, but she succeeded in dragging him along the passageway and back to the entrance to the detention block.

  “Come on,” she breathed, shaking Naal’s shoulders in frustration. She knew that the guards might return any moment, and the conflagration still guttering at the end of Cell Block Eta might trigger a real alarm and bring damage control parties down upon them. “Come on, Naal, fight!”

  “My lady… I’m…” Naal’s voice was weak, but Brielle felt overcome with relief as she saw movement return to his limbs.

  “Don’t speak,” she replied, standing while lending him a hand in doing likewise. “We have to leave, right now.”

  With a last glance over her shoulder before leaving, Brielle saw that the fire that had consumed the inquisitor was beginning to spread. She looked around and saw the console that controlled the locking mechanisms for the entire detention block. She slammed her fist down upon the master lock release, hearing the cell doors in each of the blocks swing upon.

  Seeing the tau prisoners stir, she drew a breath and yelled. “If you’re coming, follow me!” Whether or not they could understand her, she saw that the prisoners were responding, creeping through the shadows to join her.

  With that, she hitched an arm behind Naal’s back, lending him what support she could as his strength returned, and left the detention block as fire and smoke engulfed it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Lucian winced as a titanic grinding echoed the length of the Oceanid’s drive service deck, the sound of the fleet tender Harlot being made safe alongside, her docking clamps grasping the Oceanid’s holding points with immense force. A glance to his side told him that Korvane had the same reaction, a poor indictment of the quality of the crews of the crusade’s auxiliary vessels.

  “Heave, you worthless scum!”

  Lucian grinned as the petty officers below bellowed their orders to the press-ganged ratings crowding the service deck, each hauling on the mighty chains that secured the docking clamps.

  “Well enough,” Lucian said, turning to the red-robed tech-priest at his side. “Commence the operation.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the adept replied, mechadendrites snaking from his back, the grasping claws of each arm operating a lever on the consoles mounted all around the gallery.

  Lucian watched as the toiling crews below completed their work, and the petty officers corralled the cursing men from the service deck. The area below the gallery from which Lucian and Korvane observed was a vast, spheroid chamber, dominated in the centre by a mighty column from floor to ceiling that resembled nothing less than a vast stalactite grown so huge it had merged with the stalagmites below. Pipes and valves dominated the column’s every surface, clouds of steam and other exhaust gases venting from spitting valves, rivulets of run-off pouring down its flanks to pool in great steaming, oily lakes across the deck.

  “I’ve always hated this,” Lucian said, his son nodding in agreement with his words. Of all the practicalities of void faring, replenishing the warp drives had always been the task he loathed the most. It was quite unlike the taking on of the fuel required by the Oceanid’s myriad plasma generators, although thankfully, it was only rarely required. With the imminent crossing of the Damocles Gulf, all of the crusade’s capital vessels had been replenished, with only the rogue trader vessels remaining to be tended.

  The wailing of a siren filled the deck, accompanied a moment later by a low crash of the Harlot’s umbilical probe locking with the service deck’s airlock. Warning lights flashed red as the airlock equalised, atmosphere venting from its release valves in angry plumes. Lucian watched intently, for he knew what to expect next. He heard Korvane mumble a low spacefarer’s prayer, an imprecation against the perils of the warp, and all the dangers that awaited those who would cross it.

  A low ramble filled the service deck, and the airlock’s armoured door rose, a cloud of thick mist escaping, to creep across the deck. As the door receded into the bulkhead above, Lucian could just make out the silhouettes within.

  A droning canticle emanated from the airlock, as a number of figures emerged from the mist. Soon, a column was snaking its way across the service deck, a funereal procession, the mourners carrying upon their shoulders great lead caskets glittering with etheric frost. Those figures were, even to Lucian who had seen some horrific sights in his time, disturbing in the extreme. Each wore long robes of woven, gunmetal grey metallic thread, and thick, lead gloves upon his hands. The robes were dotted with valves, to which long, pulsing cables were attached, each coiling behind the bearer to disappear into the airlock behind. The head of each bearer was bared, but his eyes, ears, nose and mouth were fitted with the same valves that covered his body. Forcing himself to look closer, Lucian could see that the bearers’ hands, though protected by the thick mitts, gave off an oily smoke, as did the side of the face of each bearer that was closest to the casket he shouldered. Small, humanoid creatures walked at the side of each bearer, vat-grown cyber-constracts, mono-tasked to the whims of their masters.

  The contents of each coffin-shaped casket was evidently hazardous in the extreme, for Lucian could see, even from the gallery on which he and Korvane stood, the flesh of each bearer slowly cooking, sloughing from his face to reveal muscle and bone beneath.

  As the procession wound its course across the curved deck below, Lucian watched the tech-adepts of his own crew as they worked upon the many dials and levers mounted around the base of the great column at the centre of the chamber. Lucian knew that the tech-priests would have prepared long and hard for their task, for it was the most perilous operation a vessel could undertake, including, Lucian mused, actual combat. The consequences of a mishap were scarcely worth considering, and would cost Lucian and his crew far more than their ship and their lives.

  The procession neared the column, and Lucian could see that the body of each bearer was beginning to disintegrate as time wore on, the pulsing of the hundreds of cables snaking behind growing more rapid as, Lucian presumed, some alchemical concoction that prolonged life was fed to them. He mumbled a prayer, as Korvane had minutes before, seeing the open distaste on his son’s face.

  The scene became even more ghastly as the first of the caskets neared the column. It’s bearers visibly staggered beneath what must have been a terrible weight to bear. Singed matter trailed behind the bearers, great chunks of burnt flesh having detached from their limbs as they walked, only the ministrations of the horrific machinery keeping them animated as their bodies, quite literally, fell apart. The small attendants gathered the burnt remains into heavy chests carried between some of their number.

  At the last, the bearers of the lead casket lift
ed their burden high upon arms almost bare of flesh. The casket was pushed forward into a gaping socket in the side of the column, the door of which swung wide as the Oceanid’s tech-priests pulled levers and voiced their prayers to the Machine God. With one, final heave, the bearers pushed their casket into the waiting maw, the frost encrusting it vaporising in a cloud of mist as it was slid home. With a crash, the door swung shut. The bearers collapsed, each lead robe almost entirely empty. With an obscene, sucking noise, the cables attached to the remains of each corpse tightened, before snaking back to the airlock, the small attendant gathering up the remains of each bearer, before turning back for the airlock.

  “Emperor preserve us.” Lucian heard Korvane mutter, and turned to see that his son had developed a severe and quite spontaneous nosebleed. He touched his hand to his own nose, unsurprised to see blood upon his palm as he pulled it away.

  “I’ve seen enough,” Lucian said, knowing that his duty as ship’s master was done by ensuring that the first of the caskets was safely received. Many more would be delivered over the next hours, but he had little desire to watch the scene he had just witnessed repeated over and over again. “Care for a drink?”

  “Indeed, Father, I feel I need one,” Korvane replied, turning his back on the drive service deck.

  Lucian and his son passed through the warren of the Oceanid’s companionways, trying to avoid the areas most crowded by work crews going about the business of preparing the vessel for the crossing of the Damocles Gulf.

  “The last intake,” Korvane asked. “Have they given you any trouble?”

  Lucian chuckled as he watched a gang of ratings struggle to seal a defective plasma run, which, fortunately for them, had been bypassed lest they fail in their task and incinerate themselves in the process. “Well, Craven’s Landing provided some veteran crews, not surprising considering the trouble the port’s had with the chartists.”

  “And what of the Kleist intake?” Korvane asked.