This was her fourth meeting with the Water Caste envoy. He had introduced himself with a long and intricate name consisting of many interlinked parts, but she had come to call him by the first segment of that name, Por’el, and he had appeared quite content with that. After the initial, highly formal meetings, Por’el had appeared to take a more relaxed approach to his dealings with her. The envoy had appeared content merely to talk, to enquire informally on a whole range of subjects, but had not, as yet, made any solid proposal or proposition. Brielle knew that would not last; the tau wanted something from her, that much was obvious, and at some point she would have to decide exactly what it was that she wanted from them. Circumstance had driven her here, but, she knew, fate still had a lot more to reveal before her course would become clear.
“Por’el,” Brielle said as she finished her fruit, “I am, as ever, grateful for your ongoing hospitality. May I enquire how I might serve you today?”
Por’el bowed his head, his black, oval eyes glinting in the stark white light of the small, but comfortably furnished chamber. Brielle had found him incredibly well informed regarding human social mores, though she suspected he had only the somewhat quaint, by high court standards, manners of the eastern rim sectors to go by. Nevertheless, Por’el seemed highly skilled at assimilating new social forms, and had adapted quickly to Brielle’s more relaxed style. She knew that it was the sign of a highly accomplished diplomat, and she had resolved to be especially cautious in her dealings with him.
“Today, Lady Brielle, I had thought to tell you some more of our empire, that you might be more informed of our ways, and of our intentions.”
Brielle’s guard was instantly up. She had guessed that the envoy was building towards something, and perhaps now, she might get some idea as to what. Perhaps, after weeks aboard the Water Caste vessel, there might finally be some form of deal on the table. She sat back in the recliner, catching herself before she placed her feet on the low table before her.
“I would be honoured to hear your words,” Brielle replied, determining to listen very carefully indeed to what the envoy had to say.
“I would tell you,” the envoy began, “of our society. I and my masters wish you to see some of the perfection that comes from the Greater Good, that you might spread such knowledge amongst your own people, for the profit of all.”
Brielle nodded, her mind analysing Por’d’s intentions even as he spoke. Did he expect her to return to the Imperium and proselytise the Greater Good?
“You see,” Por’el continued, “the Imperium, as encountered by my people, appears to us fractured and disparate. It is spread across a wide area of space, so I am informed, yet each small group of worlds is almost entirely cut off from the greater community, or at least cut off from it for long stretches.”
The envoy looked to Brielle as if affording her the opportunity to correct him should he prove misinformed. She nodded that he should continue, for his words were true, even if he appeared more than a little ignorant of the Imperium’s size.
“You enjoy mastery of many technologies still unknown to us. Yet, you have little understanding of the elementary forces at work in the universe. Instead of seeking such understanding, you indulge in needless ceremony and superstition, believing the cosmos populated by creatures that, in fact, exist only in your nightmares.”
Brielle raised an eyebrow at this, but allowed the envoy to continue without interruption.
“When you make contact with other races, you rarely open any form of dialogue with them. Instead, the human race sees enemies in every corner of the galaxy.”
Again, the envoy paused, giving Brielle the chance to correct him. She considered his words, judging them essentially true, even if they did not necessarily apply to rogue traders such as her.
“There exists among the ranks of humanity, however,” Por’el went on, “those who do not share this view. Others such as I have established links with a number of planetary rulers, each of whom appeared quite content to have dealings with us, even though such a thing was proscribed by their own laws.”
“Those rulers,” Brielle interjected, “have been replaced.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” Por’el replied, “but the seed has been planted, for you are here, now, are you not?”
“I am,” Brielle said, “though I am doubtful as to how that might serve your aims.”
The envoy smiled, though Brielle suspected the expression was for her benefit, for his wide, flat mouth appeared unfamiliar with the movement. “Therein lies the path to the Greater Good we must all follow. Lady Brielle, it is quite beyond my station to decide how you might serve the aims of the Tau Empire. I am merely a servant, whose role it is to facilitate your journey. Therein lies the dialectic through which a resolution may be found.”
“Might I ask, Por’el, how you intend to do so?”
“Indeed, Lady Brielle. I propose to bring you before a council of my masters. I propose to take you to my homeworld, to show you everything the Tau Empire has built, that you might compare its glory to that of the Imperium, and make your own decision as to your true calling. Should you decide to act on behalf of the empire, then you will have all the support you require to do so.”
Brielle took a deep breath, seeking to steady her nerves lest she show any outward reaction to the envoy’s words. What Por’el proposed could lead her to a position of enormous influence, perhaps one from which she could profit enormously. But it might also lead to her being labelled a grand heretic. The Damocles Gulf Crusade might throw its entire effort into bringing her to justice. But, she considered, perhaps there was a middle way. Perhaps, she could accomplish her original aim and stymie the insane ambitions of Cardinal Gurney and his tame inquisitor. Perhaps she could do so in such a way that she might return to her clan in a position of power, one from which her rant of a stepbrother could never assail her. Perhaps, she smiled as the idea formed, she could lead the Arcadius to glory, forcing her father to hand the dynasty to her, and her alone.
She realised that Por’el was watching her, his face returning to its normal, inscrutable expression. “I thank you for the opportunity to serve,” Brielle said.
“That,” Por’el replied, “is all any of us can ask for.”
Lucian was reaching for the decanter to pour a third glass of svort when the intercom by the cabin door buzzed. He considered ignoring the irritating sound, but decided to answer it. Too many unsettling events were occurring on his vessel for him to ignore even a routine communication.
He stood, and crossed to the intercom.
“What!” He spoke into the brass horn protruding from the ornate console. This had better be good, he thought, casting a glance back at the half empty decanter.
“My lord,” a female voice he did not recognise came from the horn, “this is the medicae bay.” It was one of Estaban’s assistants. “The chirargeon, sir, he requests your presence, urgently.”
Lucian could hear an obvious element of panic in the woman’s voice. “What’s the matter?” he asked. If the chirargeon was unable to speak, then something very wrong was occurring.
“It’s Master Karaldi,” she continued, her voice cracking even more. A voice raised in obvious anger interrupted her, before she continued. “My lord, Master Karaldi has gone mad! He’s ranting and raving that something is on the ship, that you are in great danger!”
“Well enough,” replied Lucian, the last effects of the two glasses of svort vanishing entirely. “Inform Chirurgeon Estaban that I’ll be with him shortly.”
“Thank you, my lord,” the woman replied, relief evident in her voice.
“And please,” Lucian added, “ensure that no harm comes to Master Karaldi. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir, but he does not respond to any of the sedatives we have administered, we fear he may…”
“Good!” Lucian cut in. “We may need him, mad or not. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to sedate him, that is a direct order.”
“Yes, my lord,” the woman replied, raising her voice over a background din of shouting. “Please hurry!”
Lucian cut the channel and made to open the door. Something gave him pause, and he looked back into his cabin. He saw his holster lying over a high backed chair, and considered for a moment taking up his arms. No time, he thought, and besides, he would hardly have need of his plasma pistol or his power sword in the medicae bay, no matter how out of control the astropath had become.
Giving the matter no more thought, Lucian hauled open the heavy cabin door. Stepping through, he hurried down the corridor that led to his bridge, his mind rapidly filling with a thousand concerns as to what might await him when he reached Chirurgeon Estaban’s medicae bay.
He was so distracted by such thoughts, that he was entirely unprepared for the scene that awaited him on his bridge. He came to an abrupt halt as the bridge door swung open, all thoughts of the astropath having fled his mind entirely.
The bridge resembled a slaughterhouse. Bodies and parts of bodies were cast across the deck, and blood dripped from every surface. The metallic taint of blood was in the air, as was the foul stink of stomach contents. It took Lucian a moment to take all this in, before he raised his head to meet the gaze of the one figure still living on the bridge.
It was his helmsman, Mister Raldi.
“My lord,” whispered the helmsman, his voice sounding distant, as if muffled by dense rolling fog. The man’s body was drenched in blood, and he stood as if supported by a puppeteer’s strings. His neck, it seemed to Lucian, was not supporting the man’s head, for it lolled to one side, drool slowly pouring from his slack mouth.
“What in the Emperor’s name…” Lucian started, before he saw Raldi’s eyes. There was no point finishing the question.
“Daemon!” Lucian spat, knowing as he looked into his helmsman’s eyes that the man he had known was far, far away. Whatever stood before him, clothed in the flesh of his officer, was not human, but some fiend from the depths of the warp.
“Please, my lord,” the whisper continued, sounding yet more distant, “don’t let it…”
The helmsman’s body lurched forward, its movements grotesquely jerky as if me entity that controlled it had yet to master control of the unfamiliar form. Lucian was shocked into action, reaching instinctively for his holster.
“Damn it!” he spat, cursing himself for a fool for his decision to leave his weapons in his cabin. Knowing that he had no choice but to face the creature down, before it got loose on his vessel, he hauled on the bridge door and ran back down the corridor towards his cabin.
Once there, he retrieved his weapon’s belt, and immediately unholstered the heavy, plasma pistol. Depressing the activation stud, he was profoundly grateful to hear the whine of the pistol’s war spirit as it awoke. Pausing only to take a deep breath, Lucian returned to the passageway, steeling himself for the confrontation ahead. Checking one last time that his weapon was primed, he hauled open the bridge door and stepped into the opening, pistol raised.
The bridge was empty.
“Bastard!” Lucian cursed, seeing that the opposite door, the door leading to the Oceanid’s central thoroughfare, was ajar. Knowing that the entity was loose on his ship, Lucian saw no alternative but to hunt it down. He cursed the fate that had brought such a cruel turn of events upon him. Lucian knew that once a creature from the warp had control of a body within a vessel crossing the empyrean, that ship might be damned for all eternity. If he did not isolate the creature now, it would turn his ship into a charnel house.
Lucian crossed his bridge, cautiously, for entrails and unidentifiable organs were scattered across it, and all was drenched in steaming blood. Reaching the far door, he peered out warily, seeing that the companionway beyond was empty. Leaning back against the bulkhead, he slammed his fist into the intercom console, activating the ship wide address system.
“All hands,” Lucian said into the horn, feedback howling as his voice boomed from a thousand speaker grilles. “This is your captain. Adopt protocol extremis. I repeat, extremis.”
He leaned back against the bulkhead, scarcely believing that he had issued an order that none of his line had been forced to give in over three millennia. He knew that incursions by the things that dwelled in the warp could occur, it was his duty to know and to prepare for it, but he had never actually been faced with such an occurrence, and had prayed he never would be. He turned his face towards the console by the door, and punched the alert control. Instantly, the lighting of ship’s day flickered and was gone, plunging the bridge into darkness, punctuated only by flickering pict-slate and flashing consoles. Seconds later, the red light of ship’s night flickered on, indicating that the Oceanid was at general quarters.
Even as the bridge was bathed in light the colour of the blood that covered its every surface, a distant siren began to wail. The sound was taken up by another, this time closer. Within moments, Lucian could hear the apocalyptic wail start up all over his ship. At the last, the speaker grill over the bridge door came to life, almost deafening Lucian as it did so.
Focus, Lucian told himself; do what old Abad would have done. Not that Abad had ever faced down a fiend of the warp on his own ship, Lucian thought. Checking once more that his pistol was at full charge, he took a deep breath and stepped out into the corridor.
The flash of alert lights accompanied the wail of general quarters, and over it, Lucian heard the distant sounds of the crew rushing to their stations. But this was not ship-to-ship combat. This was something that every spacefarer dreaded far more than the clean death afforded when one’s body was spat into the cold void or incinerated by plasma bolts as powerful as suns. This intruder should not exist, having infiltrated a weak soul and become real aboard his ship. The order he had issued, “protocol extremis” was a desperate reaction to a situation few expected to survive. Those who could would close on his location. Those who could not, would lock themselves away in the darkest, deepest corner they could find and not come out until the alert was ended.
Lucian reached a junction, the flashing alert light directly over his head. He looked left, and saw nothing. He spun around, pistol raised, as if an enemy lurked in the shadows at his back. None was there, but as he lowered his pistol he saw a crumpled form sprawled across the companionway, one half of its head several metres from the other, and the body, further away still.
Stepping over the bloody mess, Lucian pushed on down the corridor until he reached another intercom console. “To me!” he almost screamed. “Command deck forward, passage delta one-one-one!”
Where were they? Lucian thought, feeling utterly alone despite the comforting weight of the heavy plasma pistol he held before him. A scream answered his question. They were in the service tunnel leading to the torpedo decks. He started running forwards along the corridor once more, his boots clanging on the metal deck plates all the way. Reaching another junction, he found the source of the scream.
A group of armsmen, the bully boys employed primarily to keep the press-ganged crewmen in line, stood in a wide utility area. Each carried a heavy gauge shotgun, but by Lucian’s estimation, only a couple had found the time to don the crimson and gold armour they were issued. Before them, his back to Lucian as he entered the area, was the helmsman, or what used to be the helmsman, Lucian thought.
Lucian came to a halt as he took in the scene. He saw the creature spread its arms wide as in some mockery of benediction, its head lolling to one side. The uniform that Helmsman Raldi had worn was ragged and singed, as if contact with the skin the creature wore was toxic in itself.
A scream issued from the beast’s mouth. Lucian bent double and dropped his pistol as he covered both his ears with his hands. Despite his best efforts, the terrible sound leaked in, forcing him to fight for consciousness lest it overcome him entirely. Raising his head, he forced himself to focus on the scene ahead, gritting his teeth against the infernal cacophony that filled the air.
The creature stood frozen
before him, its arms raised above its head. In front of it, the armsmen had been caught in the full onslaught of its hellish assault. All had collapsed to the deck. One was coughing up his guts, almost literally, in a fountain of blood and bile. One bled from every orifice, his ears, eyes, nose, mouth and groin streaming red. Those armsmen marginally further back scrambled across the steel deck, made slick with the blood and vomit of their compatriots.
Drawing on reserves of strength he had no idea he possessed, Lucian raised himself to his knees as he reached out to grab his plasma pistol. He missed, sending the weapon clattering across the deck to land nearer the creature. The screaming died, and Lucian realised with stark horror that the creature was slowly turning to face him.
“My lord…” The creature’s head lolled as it spoke. Its eyes rolled in their sockets, each facing in a different direction, before focusing on him. “Please my lord, don’t let this happen.”
The voice brought a choke of despair to Lucian’s throat, for he knew it belonged to Helmsman Raldi. He guessed that the creature was yet to establish total control over Raldi’s body, but knew that surely, it must soon do so.
“I promise,” Lucian said as his groping hands found the plasma pistol, his voice riven with anguish, “I won’t…”
Even as Lucian raised the pistol, the creature reacted. Its movements, though jerky as before, were impossibly fast.
The creature was in front of Lucian in the blink of an eye. He found himself on his knees before the wrecked form of his erstwhile helmsman, fighting to raise his pistol before the beast from the warp rent his body asunder.
“He’s gone now,” said a new voice, little more than a whisper, but laden with all the pain and suffering of the abyss. “Gone.”
“Get… off… my… ship,” Lucian spat, raising the pistol in both hands as its war spirit sang its high-pitched tone. He pulled the trigger, turning his head, squeezing shut his eyes and gritting his teeth. The weapon spat its payload of incandescent plasma straight into the creature’s head, at point blank range.
[Rogue Trader 02] - Star of Damocles Page 15