by Ben Counter
Cestus allowed a moment’s pause before he spoke.
‘Something is deeply wrong. It is my belief that the Word Bearers are allied against my Legion, and, in so doing, against the Emperor too. They have supporters in the Mechanicum. How else could such a vessel have been made yet none of us have known of it?’
At that remark the Astartes were united in a common purpose. What the Word Bearers had committed was an outright act of war, but it smacked of something more. Though they had their differences, the sons of the Emperor were all siblings after a fashion. They would fight and die together against a common enemy. The Word Bearers were now just such a foe.
What then are we to do?’ Brynngar asked at last, his choleric mood abating, even though he cast a baleful glance at the Thousand Son sitting opposite.
Cestus caught the path of the Space Wolf’s gaze, but ignored it for the moment.
‘We must find a way to disable the ship. Attack it when it is vulnerable,’ the Ultramarines captain told them. ‘For we are at least agreed that our enemy is our brother no longer. They shall be destroyed for this treachery, but not before I find out how deep it goes. The Warmaster must know of the enemies arrayed against him. So, for now, we follow the ship and await our opening.’
‘Still sounds like cowardice to me,’ grumbled Brynngar, taking his seat at last and slouching back in it.
Cestus got to his feet quickly, fixing the Space Wolf with a steely gaze.
‘Do not dishonour me or your Legion further,’ he warned.
The Wolf Guard matched the Ultramarine’s hard stare, but nodded, grumbling his assent beneath his breath.
Mhotep remained silent throughout the exchange, as ever careful to mask his thoughts.
Cestus sat back down, regarding the animosity of his brother Astartes sternly. The Great Crusade had united the Legions in common purpose. Many were the times that he had fought alongside both the sons of Russ and Magnus. Yes, the primarchs each had their differences, and this was passed down to their Legions, and though they bickered like brothers, they were as one. He could not believe that the foundation of their bonds, and the bonds between all of the Legions, were so fragile that by merely putting them in a room together outright war would be declared. What the Word Bearers had done was an aberration. It was the exception, not the rule.
The walls of the conference chamber shook violently, interrupting Cestus’s thoughts.
Brynngar sniffed at the air.
‘The stink of the warp is thick,’ he snarled, with a glance at Mhotep despite himself.
Another tremor struck the room, threatening to tip the Astartes off their feet. Warning klaxons howled in the corridors beyond and the decks below.
Mhotep gazed into the reflective sheen of the conference table, before looking up at Cestus. ‘Our passage through the empyrean has been compromised,’ he told him.
The Ultramarine returned the Thousand Son’s gaze.
‘Antiges,’ he said, his eyes still upon Mhotep, ‘accompany me to the bridge.’
Cestus turned to address the gathering.
‘This isn’t over. We reconvene once we have left warp-space.’
Muttered agreement answered him, and Cestus and Antiges left for the bridge.
‘I TAKE IT you have come to find out why our transit isn’t exactly smooth, my lord,’ said Admiral Kaminska, who was standing next to her command throne. She had been appraising tactical data garnered from the disastrous battle against the enemy ship and was in close conversation with Venkmyer, her helmsmistress, when Cestus arrived on the bridge. Alongside the strategic display was the sudden fluctuation in the external warp readings.
‘Your instincts are correct, admiral,’ Cestus replied. Despite their shared experience fighting the Furious Abyss and the obvious validation of his mission, Kaminska’s demeanour towards the Ultramarine was still icy. Cestus had hoped it would have thawed slightly in the cauldron of battle, but he had effectively taken her ship, despite her experience and her knowledge. Though Cestus was a fleet commander and his naval tactical acumen was superior to Kaminska’s, given that he was an Astartes, he had trampled on her command as if it was nothing. It did not sit well with him, but needs must in the situation they were in. Macragge, maybe more besides, was at stake. Cestus could feel it, and that burden must rest squarely on his shoulders. That meant taking command of the mission. If it also meant that he had to put a vaunted Imperial admiral’s nose out of joint then so be it.
‘I am about to visit my chief Navigator for an explanation, if you would like to accompany me.’ Kaminska’s attempt at being cordial was forced as she left the command dais.
Both Cestus and Antiges were about to follow when she added.
‘The Navigator sanctum is small, captain. There will only be room for one of you.’
Cestus turned to Antiges, who nodded his understanding and took up a ready position at the bridge.
IN THE CLOSE confines of the Navigator sanctum, Cestus felt the bulk of his power armour as never before. The tiny isolation chamber above the bridge, where Orcadus and his lesser cohorts dwelt whilst in warp transit, was bereft of the ornamentation ubiquitous in the rest of the ship. Bare walls and grey gunmetal austerity housed a trio of translucent blister-like pods in which the Navigators achieved communion with the Astronomican and traversed the capricious ebbs and flows of warpspace.
Kaminska who was looking less dignified than usual in the cramped space next to the Astartes, addressed her chief Navigator.
‘Orcadus.’
There was a moment’s pause and then a hooded and wizened face appeared in the central blister, blurred through the translucent surface. There was the suggestion of wires and circuitry hanging down from some unseen cogitator in the domed ceiling of the pod.
‘What has happened?’ asked Kaminska.
With a hiss of hydraulics, the central blister broke apart like petals on a rose and Orcadus emerged through a gaseous cloud of vapour, rising as if from a pit.
‘Greetings, admiral,’ said Orcadus, his voice low and rasping outside of the blister, as if he were struggling to speak. The Navigator’s skin was a sweaty grey and he wheezed as he breathed. ‘When I was preparing to enter the warp and traverse the Tertiary Coreward Transit as instructed, the empyrean ocean swirled and split.’
‘Make your explanations brief please, Navigator, I am needed at the bridge,’ Kaminska prompted.
Cestus was gladdened to see that her ire was not reserved for Astartes hijacking her ship.
Though much of Orcadus’s face was concealed by his hood, Cestus could see a tic of consternation on his lip. All Navigators possessed a third eye, and it was this tolerated mutation that allowed them to plot a course through the warp. To look into that eye would drive a normal man insane.
‘The Tertiary Coreward Transit is down,’ he explained simply. ‘I had detected a worsening of the abyssal integrity, prior to the collapse, but we were already too far engaged in the warp to turn back,’ he said.
‘How is this possible?’ Cestus asked. ‘How did the enemy collapse the route?’
Orcadus’s attention fell on the Astartes for the first time during the exchange. If he thought anything of the Ultramarine’s presence in his sanctum, he did not show it.
‘They deployed some kind of psionic mine,’ Orcadus replied. ‘The effect would have been felt by our astropaths. As of now, we are sailing the naked abyss,’ he stated, switching his attention back to Kaminska. ‘What are your orders, admiral?’
Kaminska could not keep the shock from her face. To be effectively cut adrift in the warp was a death sentence, one that she was powerless to do anything about.
‘We follow the enemy vessel and stay in its wake as best we can,’ said Cestus, cutting in. ‘They are bound for Macragge.’
‘From Segmentum Solar to Ultramar, outside stable routes?’
‘Yes.’
‘The chances of success would be minimal, my lord,’ Orcadus warned without emotion.
> ‘Even so, that is our course,’ Cestus told him.
Orcadus considered for a moment before replying.
‘I can use their vessel as a point of reference, like a beacon, and follow it, but I cannot speak for the warp. If the abyss sees fit to devour us or make us its prey then the matter is out of my hands.’
‘Very well, chief Navigator, you may return to your duties,’ Cestus told him.
Orcadus bowed almost imperceptibly and, just before retreating back to his station, said, ‘There are things abroad in the empyrean, the native creatures of the abyss. A shoal of them follows the enemy ship. The warp around it is in tumult, as it has been in the abyss these last several months. It does not bode well.’
At that Orcadus took his leave, swallowed up into the blister once more.
Cestus made no remark. In his experiences as a fleet commander, he was all too aware of the creatures that lurked in the warp. He did not know their nature, but he had seen their forms before and knew they were dangerous. He did not doubt that Kaminska knew of them, too.
With a shared look of understanding, Cestus and Kaminska left the sanctum and headed back down through a sub-deck tunnel that led to the bridge. They had been walking for several minutes before the Ultramarine broke the charged silence.
‘Your attitude towards me and this mission has been noted, admiral.’
Kaminska breathed deep as if trying to master her emotions and then turned.
‘You took my ship and usurped my command, how would you feel?’ she snapped.
‘You serve the Emperor, admiral,’ Cestus told her in a warning tone. ‘You’d do well to remember that.’
‘I am no traitor, Captain Cestus,’ she replied angrily, standing her ground against the massive Astartes despite his obvious bulk and superior height. ‘I am a loyal servant of the Imperium, but you have ridden roughshod over my authority and my ship for a chase into shadows and probable death. I will lay my life on the altar of victory if I must, but I will not do so meaninglessly and without consideration.’
Cestus’s face was an unreadable mask as he considered the admiral’s words.
‘You are right, admiral. You have shown nothing but courage and honour throughout this endeavour and I have repaid it with ignorance and scorn. This is not fitting behaviour for a member of the Legion and I offer my humble apology.’
Kaminska was taken aback, her expression sketched into a defiant response. At last, her face softened and she exhaled her anger instead.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said quietly. Cestus bowed slowly to acknowledge the admiral’s gratitude.
‘I shall meet you on the bridge,’ said the Astartes and departed.
When Cestus was gone, Kaminska realised that she was shaking. The vox array crackling into life got her attention.
‘Admiral?’ said Helmsmistress Venkmyer’s voice through the conduit wall unit.
‘Speak,’ Kaminska answered after a moment as she mustered her composure.
‘We’ve made contact with the Fireblade.’
AFT DECKS THREE through six of the Wrathful were clear. Most of the non-essential crew were locked down in isolation cells for their own protection. For Huntsman and his small band of three armsmen, it was like patrolling the halls of a ghost ship.
‘Squad Barbarus, report.’ Huntsman’s voice broke the grave-like silence as he strafed a handheld lume-lamp back and forth across the corridor. Shadows recoiled from the grainy blade of light, throwing archways and alcoves into sharp relief.
Huntsman could feel the tension of his men, drawn up in V formation behind him as the radio-silence from the vox-bead in the officer’s ear persisted.
‘Squad Barbarus,’ he repeated, adjusting his grip on the service pistol outstretched in his hand next to the lume-lamp by way of nervous reflex.
Huntsman was about to send two of his armsmen in search of the errant squad when the vox crackled.
‘Squad Barb… report… experiencing interfer… all clear.’ The clipped reply was fraught with static, but Huntsman was satisfied.
The Officer of the Watch was breathing a sigh of relief when a figure darted across a T-junction ahead, picked out briefly in the light beam.
‘Who goes there?’ he asked sternly. ‘Identify yourself at once!’
Huntsman moved to the T-junction quickly, but with measured caution, using battle-sign to order his armsmen to fan out behind him and cover his flanks.
Reaching the end of the corridor, Huntsman looked left, strafing the light beam quickly.
‘Sir, I’ve got him. This way,’ said one of the armsmen, checking down the opposite channel.
Huntsman turned, in time to see the same figure disappearing down another corridor. He could swear he was wearing deck crew fatigues, but they weren’t the colours for the Wrathful.
‘This area is locked down,’ barked Huntsman, heart racing. ‘This is your final warning. Make yourself known at once.’
Silence mocked him.
‘Weapons ready,’ Huntsman hissed and stalked off down the corridor, armsmen in tow.
AFTER THE DISASTROUS war council in the conference room, Mhotep had taken his leave of the other Astartes and retired to one of the Wrathful’s isolation cells, intending to meditate for the remainder of their transit through the warp. In truth, the confrontation with the Space Wolf had vexed him, more so his loss of control in the face of Brynngar’s berating, and he sought the solitude of his own company to gather his resolve.
Mhotep reached down to the compartment in his armour that contained the wand-stave rescued from the Waning Moon. Seeing that the item was intact, he muttered an oath to his primarch. Sitting upon a bench in the cell, the only furnishing in an otherwise Spartan room, Mhotep regarded the wand-stave. In particular, he scrutinised a silvered speculum at the item’s tip and stared into its depths.
Focusing his thoughts, Mhotep slipped into a meditative trance as he considered the events unfolding, drawing on the mental acumen for which his Legion was famed.
An anomalous flicker, something inconsistent and intangible, flashed into existence abruptly and was gone.
The Geller field, Mhotep realised. It was the soft caress of the unfettered warp that he had felt, so brief, so infinitesimal that only one of Magnus’s progeny, one with their honed psychic awareness, could have detected it.
And something else… Though this, for now at least, slipped beyond Mhotep’s mental grasp like tendrils of smoke through his fingers.
The Thousand Son broke off the trance at once and returned the wand-stave to its compartment in his armour. Donning his helmet, he headed for the Wrathful’s primary dock.
CAPTAIN ULARGO SAT strapped into his command throne as the warp breached the blast doors at the back of the Fireblade’s bridge. All around him was chaos as the hapless crew screamed and thrashed in terror as their minds were unravelled by the warp. Some were already dead, killed by flying debris or simply torn apart as the warp vented its wrath upon them. Ulargo’s calm in the face of certain disaster, with chunks of metal hull tearing away into nothing as his bridge was disassembled, was unnerving. The entire chamber was cast in an eldritch light and strange riotous winds buffeted crew and captain alike.
‘It goes on… it goes on forever,’ he said, his voice caught halfway between wonderment and fear. ‘I can see my father, and my brothers. I can hear them… calling me.’
They had entered the empyrean in the Wrathful’s wake in accordance with Admiral Kaminska’s orders, but upon the collapse of the Tertiary Coreward Transit, their Gellar fields had suffered catastrophic failure, leaving them undefended against the raw emotions of warp space.
It had already changed the place. The bridge shimmered with the skies of Io and the canyons of Mimas, the places where Ulargo had grown up and trained as a pilot in the Saturnine Fleet. The corpses of the navigation crew, slumped over the sextant array, had sprouted into Ganymedian mangrove trees, twisted roots looping through the steel floor of the bridge that in turn wa
s seething with river grass. Waterfalls ghosted over reality, shoals of fish leaping through the shattered viewport. Ulargo wanted very much to be there, back in the places that lived on only in his memory, back when he had been a boy and the universe had felt so infinite and full of wonders.
He held out his hands and felt them brush against the reeds that grew by the River Scamandros on Io. Reptilian birds wheeled in a sky that he could somehow see beyond the torn ceiling of the bridge, as if the torn metal and loops of severed cabling were in another dimension and the reality in his head was bleeding through.
He stepped forwards. The rest of the crew were dead, but that did not mean anything any more. They were ghosts, too.
The stuff of the warp seethed through the blast doors and caught Ulargo up in a swirl of raw emotions. He filled up with regret, then fear, then love, each feeling so powerful that he was just a conduit for them, a hollow man to be buffeted by the warp: the way his father’s eyes lit up with pride when he received his first commission. The grief in his mother’s eyes, for she knew so many who had lost sons to the void. The fury of space, the ravenous vacuum, the thirsting void, that he always knew one day would devour him. In the warp they were ideas made as real as the mountains of Enceladus.
The side of the bridge gave away. The air boomed out and flung the corpses of the bridge crew out with it. One of the bodies was not yet dead, and in the back of his mind, Ulargo recognised that another human being was dying.
Then he saw the warp beyond the Fireblade.
Titanic masses of emotion went on forever, seen not with his eyes, but with his mind: rolling incandescent mountains of Passion, an ocean of grief, leading down to infinity through caves of misery, dripping with the poison of anger.
Hatred was a distant sky, heaving down onto the warp, smothering. Love was a sun. The winds that stripped away the hull of the Fireblade were fingers of malice.