The Red Path

by Chris Dows

  ‘Khârn, report.’

  Samzar’s urgent voice crackled inside Khârn’s helmet. Khârn looked back up the corridor down which he had slid. It was completely blocked.

  ‘Get in position to repel boarders. Have you received any communication from Roderbar?’

  Khârn spat the words into his vox. He had heard nothing from the shipmaster since the bombardment had started, which, for all of his faults, was unexpected. Roderbar would die in his command throne rather than abandon his position. As far as Khârn was concerned, that was his only saving grace.

  ‘I have tried to contact him but have received no reply. Same with Lukosz. We do… know… attacking…’

  Samzar’s voice broke up then fizzled into static. Khârn fought down the rage building in his chest. He was not accustomed to being separated from a fight. The buzzing in his head receded and he threw himself down the corridor, reaching the steeply angled walkway that stretched for nearly the full length of the Skulltaker in both directions. The high guard rail separating the gantry from the cavernous drop was strong enough to take the weight of Khârn as he leaned upon it, gripping with his left hand and pulling himself along as his foot screamed in protest at not finding flat ground. Stretching before and above him, the massive outer hull armour shook and sang with a fresh pounding from outside. Khârn had been in enough space battles to realise they were being hit by either one very large, very powerful vessel or several smaller ships. He also knew that just about the worst place to be in space combat was close to the exterior of an attacked vessel.

  As if to reinforce that point, the passageway exploded before him.

  The detonation point was far enough away to avoid him being showered in white-hot molten slag, but close enough for the sudden decompression to drag him from his feet and towards the gaping hole. Khârn’s hold on the guard rail began to slip as he was sucked upwards with the escaping air from the chamber. Quickly holstering Gorechild on his back, he reached out with his ruined right arm to increase his grip. The hole in his shoulder tore wider still, and in the distance he heard the clanging of emergency doors sliding into their airtight housings. It would only be a matter of seconds before the air was completely vented and he could make his way to an internal emergency airlock and safety, so all he needed to do was stay in place. But then three more brilliant blooms erupted on the hull’s interior above and to his left. Three more exits into space appeared, and the thunder of escaping air became deafening. Khârn started to pull himself along the rail towards the closest emergency door that had descended some yards distant, but his weight on the pole, quadrupled by the decompressive force, became too much. He felt the metal beneath his hands come away from its mountings. His view began to spin crazily, from the rapidly receding gantry to the darkened inner bulkheads to the looming hole in the outer hull. Khârn twisted and grasped for something to hold on to. With a bellow of frustration he tried to catch the dull red metal of the rupture’s edges but it came away in his hands. All he could see now were the white streaks of stars flashing by.

  ‘Replace your helmets. Prepare to repel boarders!’

  Lukosz bellowed at the half-dozen berzerkers bustling around the hangar deck, recovering ammunition and ordnance that had broken its storage and scattered across the blackened deck plates. They looked up to him with sneers and scowls, but a few of them could see Lukosz was in no mood for being contradicted and reluctantly walked over to the wall where their helms had slid during the Skulltaker’s loss of attitude. While Lukosz had not been able to raise Roderbar, he – or someone on the bridge – was clearly still alive and in control of the ship, because it had eventually regained its normal gravitational orientation and its guns were still firing. Most of the equipment that had not been locked down had slid over to the bulkhead walls of the deck and stayed there. Two Havocs had already recovered their heavy weapons and were checking them and cycling ammunition as they stepped back towards their brothers in arms. Within seconds a pair of heavy bolters had been trained directly at one of the landing bay doors on the far side of the deck. Two other Havocs muttered dark promises to their missile launchers as they readied them on either side of the defensive position. Lukosz resisted the temptation to go over and make them do what he said. He knew from experience that heavy weapons could be assembled far faster without the restricted view and movement created by a helmet, but the berzerkers with missile launchers would be unwise to open fire without head protection, regardless of how loudly their blood might be singing in their veins. Lukosz hoped they were taking note of the constant groans and creaks from the Skulltaker. The ship itself was promising a far greater threat than a group of marauding foes, regardless of who they might be.

  Lukosz looked across the cavernous space, past the Thunderhawks, past the claimed White Scars bikes chained to the deck, and counted the number of berzerkers he could see. There were less than two dozen. Just his accursed luck to have a fraction of the warband here. If their assailants knew the layout of the cruiser, they would choose a different route in. Trying to board a ship from a narrow transport’s hold into a wide open, heavily defended area would be very low on a list of desperate options. He did not yet know the identity of their attackers, but he suspected them to be Imperial Adeptus Astartes warriors due to the force and precision with which they were bombarding the Skulltaker. The boarders would split into smaller groups, enter at multiple points and head for key areas in a coordinated assault. Looking over to a wall console, Lukosz activated a schematic of the Skulltaker and studied it. The image flickered and faded with every rumble that tore its way somewhere through the vessel, but he saw enough to plan exactly how to deploy the pitiful numbers he had.

  Lukosz knew he was too far away from the bridge to reach it in time, so instead chose the primary access to gunnery control as his defensive objective. He would keep the Havocs on this deck and split the rest of his warriors across vital junctions and intersections, confident they could repel any boarders they encountered. Their meagre number was not tactically ideal but he knew the warband would outfight any enemy until every last berzerker was dead – perhaps even to the destruction of the Skulltaker itself. While admirable in many respects, it was not the most appealing of scenarios.

  ‘Samzar.’

  There was a hiss of static, then the familiar rumble of his comrade’s voice filled his ears.

  ‘Yes, Lukosz. I hear you.’

  Samzar sounded distant, as if he was distracted.

  ‘I am preparing to repel boarders on the port flank. All key areas are covered, but reinforcements will be needed.’

  Samzar breathed heavily and muttered something Lukosz could not quite make out through the interference.

  ‘I have commanded several kill packs to join you but there are… obstacles… damaged and… lost Khârn…’

  Lukosz stiffened. Lost Khârn? What in the darkness of the warp did Samzar mean by that? He tried to clarify the message, but all he received was crackling static in return.

  The deck vibrated beneath his feet, pitching him to one side, and he saw the majority of the berzerkers look to him. Despite their individual motivations, they had enough clarity of vision to realise some forward planning would be to their advantage. Lukosz began barking orders, quickly selecting and dispatching teams of two and three to sensitive areas of the Skulltaker he hoped could still be reached. There was no hesitation, no resistance, no need for clarification. With curt nods and muttered curses, the berzerkers started thudding out of the hangar’s access doors into the bowels of the ship, weapons raised and ready to sate their bloodlust. Lukosz’s blood raced within his veins and he gloried in the sensation. Insufficient numbers or no, he would defend this ship and Khârn, if he still lived, to the bitter end.

  Khârn ignored the swelling in his exposed left arm and brought Gorechild down onto the surface of the outer deck. Without the benefit of gravity, artificial or otherwise, he knew the blow would not h
ave anything like the power of a normal swing, but all he needed was for the chainaxe’s teeth to bite into the thick steel and anchor him in position. The handful of molten metal he had ripped from the rupture’s now-solid edge floated off into space behind him, cooled to absolute zero. With Gorechild gouged into the hull and holding firm, he had saved himself from a similar fate.

  The ship tipped beneath him, and he wrapped the chains on his rapidly freezing arm around Gorechild’s shaft to secure his anchorage. Yet another warning rune changed from amber to red and began winking for attention on his retinal display. The air within his armour was leaking out of the junction with his bare arm, and the signal indicated he had no more than ten minutes left of useful consciousness. Khârn needed no reminder of his predicament. Pulling himself along the chains, he bounced gently against the gored flank of the Skulltaker and considered his position.

  If he pulled himself back into the hole through which he had been ejected, he would have to navigate his way through a series of emergency airlock doors and then into the interior of the ship, with no guarantee of it being passable. There was not enough time.

  Khârn played out the chains, keeping his feet clamped securely to the deck, and stood upright. The hull of the Skulltaker stretched out in all directions. Fire belched through several gaping holes, while others bore silent witness to the vacuum of space. The ship had taken a severe battering, and as a brilliant light arced past him and smashed into the plating on the decks above, it was clear to him the attack was gaining momentum. But who were the enemy?

  In the distance, twinkling like malevolent stars, he could see three vessels. Even as he watched, they loomed closer, the lead ship unleashing yet another salvo. The Skulltaker lurched violently and Khârn lost his footing as the ship turned to avoid the barrage. As he reeled himself back towards the hull, the enemy fire soared overhead, and a deep rumbling came from somewhere within the Skulltaker. Khârn saw a line of torpedoes dart out towards the enemy ships. A number of them scored direct hits, blooms of white and yellow blossoming on their outlines, while several more continued their path towards a shimmering asteroid belt thousands of miles distant. Khârn grunted his pleasure. Roderbar was fighting back.

  The vessels were too far away for him to identify their livery, but Khârn still recognised them as ships of the Adeptus Astartes. Exactly which Imperial Chapter it might be was inconsequential. Whoever they were, they would make excellent trophies for the Blood God. Khârn played the chains out from Gorechild until he was drifting some distance away from the hull, and inspected its projections and indentations with methodical care. He could not assume that a given spot would provide access to the ship. Exterior airlocks would have to be avoided because his berzerkers would assume any attack would come through them. He had no desire to die in a hail of friendly fire the second he appeared through the hatch. Dismissing the burning sensation building in his lungs, he continued to scan the surface until a shaft of light caught his eye. A blast shield had not fully deployed to protect a nearby viewing portal.

  Looking to his left, Khârn saw a crenulated ridge running up the side of a slab-like projection that would take him to within jumping distance of his goal. Reeling himself back towards Gorechild, he pulled at the chainaxe until it came free. Ignoring the protests from his wounded shoulder, Khârn mustered his strength and hurled Gorechild towards the projections. The chainaxe drifted over in slow motion, but its churning teeth once again gouged their way into the hull plating. Within seconds Khârn had pulled himself along its chains and was throwing himself from one ledge to another.

  Something exploded behind Khârn and he was thrown against the outer plating of the Skulltaker, the impact adding to the flashing runes on his display. Pieces of metal soared in all directions, some careening off his back armour, some digging themselves into his bloated left arm. An object smashed into him and he coughed out a mouthful of air he could not afford to lose. Looking behind, he saw the blackened body of a berzerker, its head missing and legs bending backwards at an unnatural angle. Khârn looked to his right and saw the rear of an Imperial boarding torpedo jutting out of the side of the Skulltaker. The force of its impact had torn away several deck plates, most of which were spinning away into space. Brilliant flashes lit up the ragged hull fracture around its head, a clear indication the boarding party had deployed. Khârn’s hearts thumped within his breast. The Blood God had sent him this gift and he would gladly take it. Judging the distance, Khârn kicked with his right leg and sailed above the hull of the Skulltaker, crashing into the side of the torpedo’s hull. Taking hold of a protruding seam with his right hand, Khârn pulled hard on the metal hull plate and propelled his way through the rectangular entrance he had created, Gorechild at the ready.

  The drop-ship exploded just as a dozen berzerkers ran past it on their way to their various defensive positions. Lukosz had no time to call out a warning as the blast threw him into the console he had been addressing only seconds before, smashing it into useless, sparking glass. The Skulltaker made a low, wrenching sound, as if something had come away. Red-armoured Thunderhawk crews and servitors rushed straight towards the flaming wreck, bravely trying to prevent fire from spreading to the other ships. Lukosz had not run five yards before he saw that the majority of his defensive teams were dead or mortally wounded. Their armour had been torn apart by the lethal detonation, and while several of them slowly got back to their feet, Lukosz realised he had just lost around half of his defensive force.

  Smoke belched out of the burning carcass of the Thunderhawk, and a Warpsmith surrounded by damage-control servitors frantically waved Lukosz back. He had no time for this. Calling back the remaining berzerkers, he met them at the end of the deck furthest away from the raging inferno and reassessed their position. He had twelve warriors to cover six crucial points. With most of the Havocs killed in the drop-ship blast, they would have to rely on their excellent skill at close quarters, the gory melee fighting they all lived for. Lukosz was uncertain whether this would be enough without a guarantee of reinforcements from Samzar. It mattered not. The defensive teams had to get into position, and he needed to reach gunnery control as soon as possible. The deck of the Skulltaker suddenly dropped. Lukosz lost his footing and staggered over towards a nearby line of White Scars bikes. They strained against their chains but kept in position, their thick tyres and hefty suspensions absorbing the brunt of the movement. Lukosz pushed himself back upright with a curse, but then paused for an instant. Standing back a couple of paces, he looked the single-seat bikes up and down, calculating their length and width. His eyes flicked over to the line of blast doors leading to the interior of the Skulltaker. They were sealed at the moment, but fully opened…

  Lukosz turned to the berzerkers and ordered them all to mount up. At first they looked to each other, but then understood what they were being commanded to do and began sawing through the tethers with excited hollers. Lukosz ordered the closest berzerker to come with him, a veteran World Eater called Faldocran, one he trusted to follow his orders without question, and began unshackling a bike for himself.

  Amid the smoke swirling around them from the still-burning drop-ship, they freed the bikes from their restraints and saddled up. The Skulltaker lurched and rolled, tipping over several of the berzerkers who were not as accustomed to balancing on the machines, but Lukosz skirted around them with a deft flick of the steering. In a time long ago, he had ridden a similar machine into battle many times. Those attacks had often been on stable, open ground, but as he leant into a sharp turn, his old skills reawakened. Lukosz powered through the opening set of blast doors, and roared down the wide thoroughfare.

  Minutes later, Lukosz’s machine crashed to the deck and bounced twice before it skidded to a halt mere inches from a safety rail. Any further, and Lukosz would have broken through it and fallen over the edge into an open shaft.

  Lukosz fully locked the bike’s front wheel and spun around one hundred and eight
y degrees to race up the next ramp. This was the level on which gunnery control was located, but the doors to the corridor that would put him in position were sealed shut in front of him. A red light winked balefully over the top of the bulkhead, indicating it had gone into combat lockdown when the attack had begun. Lukosz tried to contact Roderbar on the bridge to get it unlocked, but there was no reply. Switching channels, he voxed Faldocran to join him. Within seconds, his bike pulled up alongside Lukosz, their engines’ heavy purrs reverberating around the metal chamber.

  ‘Do we know if the passageway has decompressed?’

  ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

  Lukosz backed up his mount as far as it would go, and Faldocran followed suit. The door had a manual release mechanism, and it would take time to get it working. There was a much quicker solution. As the two berzerkers depressed their firing runes simultaneously, the thick steel doors disappeared in a hail of bolter fire from the bikes’ weapons. Five seconds later, all that was left was twisted shards of metal and smoke. Through the ticking, glowing remains of the hatch, Lukosz could see the gunnery control station’s primary access passage. It was tantalisingly close. The Butcher’s Nails were urging him to action, to abandon any caution and throw himself into whatever fight might come, and for a few seconds he struggled to concentrate.

  Lukosz shook his head in anger and regained control over the Nails. It was a split-second longer than the last time he had forced his will upon them, and he noticed the fractionally greater effort required.