Warhammer 40K - Farseer

by William King

  One pulse. They stabbed downwards. The ship heeled and rocked. It began to move in a direction that Simon could only describe as upward, heading away from the depths of the immaterium, up towards the light of the real world. The current fought against it, and the daemons fought against it, but Simon knew they were fighting now against the natural tendency of a product of the normal sane universe to return to its point of origin. It bobbed upward like an air-filled bladder heading towards the surface of the sea.

  The daemons screamed in frustration as they reached an area where the immaterium was too thin to support all but the most powerful of them. A few clung on, chipping desperately at the side of the ship, determined to get at their meal no matter what.

  Simon saw a look of fear, frustration and apprehension on the daemonette's face. He could almost tell what she was thinking. She had come so close, and she did not want to let go. Then it was suddenly too late, the ship had settled into the groove that would take it out into normal space. It raced up and away. The daemon let go and he saw her drift downward and away, dwindling into the distance of the abyss far, far below.

  He gave his full attention to the controls as he wrestled the ship into her final approach to the exit gate. It erupted into night and space and cold, and looking at the strange stars, Simon knew with dread that they had emerged deep within the Eye of Terror.

  FIFTEEN

  REPORTS

  Simon Belisarius relaxed as the ship emerged from the immaterium. Nothing to it, he thought sardonically, knowing that memory was already doing the work of smoothing the rough edges of the jump. He forced the images of daemons and disaster from his mind. There would be time enough to think about what he had seen later.

  He snapped open his eyes and exhaled, then glanced at the chronometer on his wrist. The hands indicated that eighteen hours had passed in subjective time. He would need to wait until they contacted another ship or world to find out how much time had passed in reality. The discrepancy could sometimes be immense. He remembered one trip in which two weeks had passed aboard ship, but only two days in real time. There had been another when he had been in the immaterium for barely two hours according to the ship's chronometers, but three months had passed in the real universe.

  And of course, such time, measured in the ticking of clocks, the beating of hearts or the atomic pulse of ancient artefacts, bore no relation to his own experience of time. A Navigator in a jump was always in the 'now'. Time seemed infinite until the experience ended. Something he knew he never could and never would be able to describe to any of the ancestrals.

  He unhooked the command crown from his head and began the long and nasty process of detaching himself from the Navigator's chair. He unhooked the drips that pumped fluid and nutrients directly into his system. He unscrewed the life support tubes. His body felt weak, as it always did after a jump, and his stomach growled, wanting something solid. He knew that his legs would still be too rubbery to let him stand, so instead he closed his eyes, breathed deeply and tried to relax.

  It was not easy. The strain of piloting a ship through the immaterium took a terrible toll on the body and mind at the same time as it flooded the system with adrenalin. He felt tired and weak. Human bodies were not meant to endure what his just had, just as human minds were not meant to experience all of the things his had just undergone.

  He reminded himself that he was not a human. His people had risen above the ancestrals a long time ago. Even so the images of the journey were starting to fade, as if his mind did not want to hold onto them, or simply could not.

  He took another breath and began to tense and relax his muscles. At the moment, even the pain in his arms, legs and hips was almost welcome. It was a reminder that he was back in his body, back in the flesh, not linked to the enormous inhuman bulk of his ship. He hit the command button and the navigation platform lowered back to deck level. The crew looked at him, awed and a little shaken.

  As always there was a tangible sense of relief in the air. The jump had been made. The ship had not foundered. They were all alive, or at least he hoped so.

  'Reports,' he said. His words came out a hoarse whisper. It took a near super-human effort to voice them. His voice seemed crude and strange after the supernatural beauty of listening to the psychic choir of the Astronomican. Even now the last faint echoes of their plainsong were only just fading from his memory.

  The master helmsman studied his control altar. The divinatory runes flickering on the viewscreen below him were mirrored on his face. 'Shields down to fifty per cent. Some hull damage. Engines at optimal magnitude. Location: alpha null two two one, omega pi five six zero.'

  Simon allowed himself a satisfied smile. Point of emergence was only a few hundred thousand kilometres off, which was nothing in terms of the cosmic magnitude of the jump. The shields had taken more wear and tear than he would have liked. Still, considering how close they had come to being overwhelmed, they should be grateful.

  'Very well, the command deck is yours, Mister Raimes.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  Simon felt strong enough to take a stimmtab and lift himself out of the throne. As he did so, the door of the command deck opened, and Janus Darke and the two eldar entered.

  Janus looked a little stunned. His pupils were dilated, his movements oddly slow. The two xenogens had a swift eerie electric quality to their movements. They were still far more fluid than a human's but there was a stiff, jerky look to them. Simon at once realised how tense they were.

  'What is it?' he asked in eldar, beckoning for them to follow him off the command deck. The crew usually considered it bad luck to have passengers there. Doubtless they would consider the presence of aliens doubly unfortunate.

  With their usual awareness, the eldar seemed to sense his reservations and held off responding until they had crossed the corridor and entered the small cabin that was usually kept empty for him when he came off the navigation throne. There was a bunk, a couple of chairs and some food. Little else.

  'Something came for us,' said Auric. 'I felt it.'

  From the tension in their voices, Simon guessed that they were afraid. 'Nonetheless we made it,' he said.

  The two eldar considered this for a moment. It was like watching them draw a cloak over their feelings. Slowly all of the tension subsided from them and they became their usual calm and inscrutable selves once more.

  'You are correct, Simon Belisarius,' said Auric. 'We have survived the journey and done something few eldar have done in ten thousand years. We thank you.'

  With that he turned and left, Athenys following after him.

  'What was that all about?' Simon asked.

  'I do not know,' said Janus. All I know is that there is something about the warp that terrifies them. I get the sense that no eldar would ever travel through it save at direst necessity.'

  Simon nodded. 'I agree.'

  He studied his friend. Janus Darke's speech was slow and his manner listless. That odd eldar jewel glittered on his forehead. He thought back to the farseer's foreboding words before they had made the jump. It seemed that they had indeed taken precautions.

  'Are you all right?' he asked. Janus nodded groggily. 'I slept through most of the journey. I had strange dreams.'

  Simon did not like the sound of that at all. There was something going on here. His instincts, honed by years of growing up within the political whirlpool of a Navigator House, told him that the eldar were playing a far deeper game. He was going to ask Kham Bell and Stiel to keep an eye on them. Right now though he needed sleep himself.

  'How long till we make orbit over Belial IV?' asked Janus.

  'Two days or so. I had to bring us in at the edge of the system, and there was a little more deviation than usual in the jump.'

  'Was it bad?' Janus asked.

  Simon surprised himself by answering.

  'It was very bad. We should not have come here. There are more hazards in the immaterium of the Eye of Terror than anywhere I have ever bee
n. I am not looking forward to taking us out of here.'

  'Assuming we survive what is waiting for us down there.'

  'Do you have any idea what it is they are looking for yet?'

  'They are seeking some ancient weapon.'

  'Why?'

  'They think they can use it to kill a daemon.'

  Simon could see that Janus was being evasive, that he truly did not want to answer him. He considered pressing the matter for a moment, but he was too tired. 'They have certainly come to the right place, if they are looking for those.'

  Janus lurched to his feet. 'I will let you sleep now,' he said.

  Simon slumped down wearily on his bed. In moments, his mind sank into slumber with the speed of a foundering ship. His dreams were troubled by images of things rising from the warp to devour them all.

  Janus felt a little better. The caffeine had tasted good, the food had settled in his stomach. The tranquillising effect of the eldar medicine had almost worn off. A pity, he could have used some more of its artificial calmness. This was a moment he had been dreading. His fingers toyed with the amulet Justina had given him. Just get it over with, he told himself, and then you can rest.

  He leaned against the lectern and looked around the briefing room at his chiefs. He could almost ignore the glances they gave to the jewel in his forehead. He could see that they all wanted to probe, to ask more about it, but as yet none of them had summoned the courage. They still had that much respect for him at least.

  The briefing hall looked empty. There were only two of the ship's officers and the three sergeants present, along with Stiel. This chamber could have held ten times as many.

  'Reports,' Janus asked.

  'The men are ready for action whenever you say so, captain,' said Kham Bell. 'I'll have them going through the drills ten hours a day.'

  Janus nodded his approval. Exercise would stop any slackness slipping in and help keep discipline among the men.

  Ruarc, the narrow-faced chief tech-adept, looked at Janus. As ever his robes seemed two sizes too big for him. He rubbed his nose with his sleeve. 'I have engineering checking the hull for breaches and weakness. It was a rough passage, as the Navigator said.'

  'Are you going to tell us where we are and what we are doing now?' asked Kham Bell.

  Janus gave it to him straight. 'We're in the Eye of Terror.'

  Silence filled the room. He guessed a lot of them had already worked this out. Most of the men present could have done so by taking a sighting through the observation windows. He wondered how they were going to take this admission. If there were going to be a mutiny, now would be the time. He waited; the silence lengthened. As ever, Stiel's eyes raked the crowd, then he looked at Janus reassuringly. If things came down badly, Janus knew he could count on the assassin. He might need to.

  The men looked at each other and then at Kham Bell. He would be the spokesman. He could almost see the wheels turning in their heads as they made the calculations. They were here, and they were stuck unless Simon Belisarius took them out. And it did not matter now if he had misled them about their goal—to the Inquisition it would all be the same. They had broken the interdict, they had gone where no man was supposed to go. Their lives would be forfeit whatever they did. The best they could hope for would be a painful death on their return—even if they rebelled against him now. Fear spread across the room marking every face.

  'What are we looking for?' the sergeant asked. Janus relaxed a little. They were not going to rebel, at least not until they had heard what he was going to say.

  'Eldar treasure,' he lied. Some of the men relaxed a little. This was something they could understand: the riches of an alien race.

  'Very good,' said Kham Bell. 'But how are we going to live to spend it?'

  'To begin with, tell no one what I have told you. When we are done every one of your men will be sworn to silence,' Janus said. 'They will all know the penalties for loose lips.'

  'What of those who won't swear?' The sergeant was determined to push this. And Janus understood why -there would always be some Janus knew, religious fanatics who feared more for their souls than for their bodies. He knew what he had to say, but he still found himself reluctant to give the order. After all, these men had followed him here on trust. He had not given them any choice. He was making them take risks in what might be a futile effort to save his own soul.

  How had things come this far, he wondered—but he already knew the answer. He had just let himself be swept along by events. Things had happened so fast that for once in his life he had not been able to take control of them. The eldar had always held the initiative. He was going to have to do something to change that.

  'What about those who won't swear?' Kham Bell asked.

  'Make them see reason,' said Janus. 'Otherwise...'

  He drew his finger across his throat and looked meaningfully at Stiel. He felt more like a traitor with every moment that passed. 'I'll brief you more when we arrive. Until then everything is on a need to know basis.'

  The men nodded and departed, until only Stiel and Janus remained.

  'You want me to keep an eye on the eldar,' said the assassin.

  Janus nodded. 'And be ready to kill them if I give the command.'

  'I have always been ready to do that,' said Stiel sombrely.

  Zarghan, once a Space Marine of the First Founding, looked into the mirror and on Shaha Gaathon's beautiful, evil features. The daemon wore nothing save a translucent diaphanous gown, and she appeared to be reclining on a couch that consisted entirely of writhing naked human beings. An interesting effect, thought Zarghan. The fleshy walls of her chamber were a bit tasteless though. As he watched the whole scene changed colour. Was that his eyes again, he wondered, or was it some peculiar effect of the mirror? He supposed it did not really matter.

  Shaha Gaathon continued to speak in that husky sensual voice, but he did not pay too much attention. The music in his head was too loud and too entertaining. Although she was technically his superior, and he was supposed to obey her, it did not come easy to Zarghan. After all, if it had, he would still be serving the Emperor of Mankind, as he had done ten thousand years ago.

  Pride—that had always been his greatest flaw, he decided, with the insight of a man who has had ten millennia to contemplate his many character defects. He had been unable even to obey his own primarch in the end, or see eye to eye with his own captain. To tell the absolute truth, he had trouble even getting along with his own battle-brothers, even linked as they were supposed to be in the service of the Liberator of the Flesh and Spirit. And lovely and vicious as she was, Shaha Gaathon was probably not even the equal of one of those. Alas, he thought, so few were—the Emperor's Children had always been special.

  He took another puff from the hookah of crystal and black iron and let the pleasure smoke enter his atrophied lungs and then his brain. His mind pulsed with chemical joy in time to the changing colours of the walls of his cabin. The music in his head reached a crescendo. Outside the depths of space were cold but here in his great warship, things were just fine.

  'Are you listening to me, Zarghan Ironfist?' asked Shaha Gaathon, a note of anger tinkling in her wonderful throaty voice.

  'But of course, great mistress,' said Zarghan in his oiliest tones, not bothering to conceal his contempt. 'Every word. Should I repeat them for you?'

  If necessary, he could have, too. His mind had that capacity, along with many others. It had been there ever since the Emperor and his primarchs had altered Zarghan all those thousands of years ago. He inspected the silver filigreed gauntlet that covered his left fist. The metalwork looked a little chipped, he thought, best get Gormar to replace it. Then he realised that it would be impossible: he had ordered the armourer thrown out of the airlock without a suit for some infraction of discipline. He could not at this moment recall exactly why, but he was sure it would come back to him.

  'That will not be necessary. Simply see that your orders are carried out. You and your
crew of scum will go to Belial IV and capture the man, Janus Darke. Kill all who are with him. There will be two eldar. Make sure they die.'

  'My crew would be... very hurt to hear you speak so disparagingly of them, great mistress,' said Zarghan, allowing just enough mockery to show in his voice to goad her, not enough to drive her to outright rage. 'They are very sensitive souls, really. Poets, in their own way. Poets of violence and blood.'

  Poetry—that was it. Gormar had composed some exceptionally tedious verses in honour of his captain's latest victory. The metre was off, the rhyme scheme atrocious and the imagery quite frankly stale. Zarghan stifled a yawn with his fist of iron. Of course, when you had endured ten thousand years of indulgence almost everything was inclined to seem stale. Perhaps he had been a little harsh -death was so irrevocable and mortals were so frail. Still, no use crying over spilled milk. He would just have to go a little easier the next time one of the crew decided to sing his praises. Well, he would if he remembered. A thought sidled into his mind. There had been something about one of those names...

  'Janus Darke—that is a familiar name, milady. Was he not the owner of several of the vessels I pillaged for you?'

  'Your insight is remarkable considering how much of that vile weed you smoke,' said the she-daemon sardonically. 'I am surprised that ten thousand years of it has not reduced your brain to mush.'

  'Great mistress, I was, and am, a Space Marine of the Emperor's Children. My geneseed is of the earliest and most potent generation. My body was designed to be able to process any level of toxicity. It would take more weed than you could grow on a jungle world to begin to impair my mental functions.'

  It was true, too, thought Zarghan, although there were times when he did feel like he was paying the price for all of those centuries of indulgence. It was impossible to understand what hell was until you had suffered the hangover brought on by a decades-long spree. There were times when even his Emperor-designed frame, reinforced by all the gifts the Liberator had lavished on him, felt like it was unable to endure. Fortunately, today was not one of those times. The music in his head faded, almost as if it was in agreement.