Fear the Alien

by Christian Dunn - (ebook by Undead)

  Tsu’gan appeared to stiffen, but then Emek’s voice softened. “There’s no shame in grief, but it’s dangerous if channelled inwards.”

  Tsu’gan didn’t turn, though he wanted to. Finding out what Emek knew of his pain addiction would have to wait—something else had caught his attention. “What do you know of grief?” he muttered instead, and walked over to an archway leading from the room into a wide gallery.

  The long chamber was lined with doors on either side. It looked like some kind of isolation ward for patients receiving intensive treatment. The floor was partially tiled, some of the white smeared grey and cracked or chipped away. The doors too, plasteel with a single porthole window, were white. Some carried faded marks that in the half-light looked almost brown or black.

  A smell, like ozone and burning meat, made Tsu’gan’s nose wrinkle. The dull report of his footfalls thumped in time with his heart. A faint tapping became a chorus to these louder beats, like a finger on glass. Tsu’gan followed it. His auto-senses came back with no threats. Gravity and oxygen were at stable and acceptable levels. All was well on the Protean. And yet…

  It was coming from one of the doors. An image flashed across the surface of Tsu’gan’s memory but discerning it was like grasping mental smoke. His heart quickened. He approached the door, closer with every step. He realised he was reluctant, and chided himself for being a weakling. And yet…

  Tsu’gan’s retinal display was still reporting zero threats. No heat-traces, no kinetics, no gas or power surges. The long chamber was clean. And yet…

  He reached the door, fingers to his chainfist outstretched and probing towards the glass. Tsu’gan was a few centimetres away when the lights flickered and he gazed upwards at the lume-lamps. When he looked back a face regarded him through the porthole. Partially dissolved flesh and sloughed muscle revealed more of a skull than any recognisable human visage. And yet, Tsu’gan knew exactly who it was.

  “Ko’tan…” His dead captain glared at him through the glass. Tsu’gan was horrified when he saw bony fingers reaching up to match the position of his own, as if he were staring into some grotesque mirror and not glass at all.

  Another smell quashed the stink of burning meat and melta discharge. There was heat and sulphur, the sound of cracking magma and the redolence of smoke. A hazy figure was reflected in the glass behind him.

  Red armour the hue of blood, festooned with horns and scale…

  Dragon Warrior…

  Tsu’gan whirled around as fast as his cumbersome suit allowed, triggering his storm bolter as he let out a roar of anguish.

  Praetor parried the gun aside, directing the explosive salvo harmlessly into the ground.

  “Brother!” he urged.

  Tsu’gan saw only foes. Heat shimmered off the Dragon Warrior’s armour, hazing his outline. These were the renegades who had killed Ko’tan Kadai. How they came to be upon this ship mattered not. All that concerned Tsu’gan was the manner of their deaths at his hands—the bloodier the better. He gave up on the storm bolter and activated his chainfist instead. More were coming. He could hear them, pounding towards him across the deck. He had to finish this quickly.

  Praetor braced the chainteeth against his shield. Sparks cascaded down onto his face as he deflected the blow upwards.

  “Brother!” he repeated.

  Spat through clenched teeth, it was a declaration of disbelief as much as it was anger.

  Tsu’gan pressed the churning blades against the shield, his rage lending him the strength to overpower his enemy. The bastard was grinning—he could see fangs beneath the mouth grille of the Dragon Warrior’s battle-helm.

  I’ll rip them out…

  Then the red fog before his eyes faded and Praetor was revealed. A moment’s distraction was all that the sergeant needed to land a blow from the thunder hammer’s haft against Tsu’gan’s chest. A jolt of energy shocked the Firedrake and put him on one knee.

  The whine of the chainfist died and Praetor let his hammer fall to his side with it. But then he moved in close, ramming the cleaved edge of his storm shield under Tsu’gan’s chin and bringing him to his feet.

  “Are you with us?” Praetor asked.

  Tsu’gan’s tongue was paralysed. The world around him was only just making sense again. The others were looking on, weapons primed.

  Praetor pressed the shield up harder, lifting Tsu’gan’s head. “Are you with us?”

  “Yes…” It was a rasp, but the sergeant heard and believed it.

  Nu’mean was not so quick to stand down. He levelled his storm bolter.

  “It’s finished,” Praetor told him, stepping into the other sergeant’s firing line.

  “The warp—”

  “Infests this ship, this entire hulk, Nu’mean. It’s done.” Praetor ushered Tsu’gan away to be cursorily examined by Emek. A side glance at Hrydor told the Firedrake to go with him and keep watch.

  Nu’mean lowered his weapon.

  “How can you be sure?” he asked, when Tsu’gan had moved away.

  Praetor leaned in close.

  “Because I saw things too,” he whispered. “This floating wreck is alive with the sentience of the warp. Something is channelling it, into our minds. Tsu’gan was taken off guard, that’s all.”

  Nu’mean fashioned a snarl. “He is weak, and not to be trusted.”

  “He passed through the gate of fire and endured the proving-forge—he is one of us!” Praetor asserted. “Can you say this mission, this ship, has not influenced your behaviour in some way? I have seen it plainly but will you admit it, Nu’mean?”

  Nu’mean didn’t answer him. He eyed Tsu’gan as their Apothecary conducted a bio-scan instead. By now the other Firedrakes were securing the chamber, checking each of the cells in turn and the hub annexe. “You made a mistake with that one, brother.”

  “There was no mistake. Guilt masters him for now. Know this: his destiny is with the Firedrakes. I won’t abandon him—”

  Nu’mean spat back with anger. “As I abandoned others, is that what you are driving at, brother?”

  Praetor moved in close. “Get a hold of yourself, or I shall assume command of this mission. Are we clear on that, sergeant?”

  Though he simmered with rage, Nu’mean conceded and gave the slightest nod before stalking away.

  Praetor let him go, using the few seconds to gird his own emotions. He looked back at the portholes that lined the infirmary and his ire bled away, replaced by regret.

  “I won’t abandon him,” he repeated solemnly to himself.

  There were faces staring at him from the portholes that only he could see. Gathimu and Ankar, slain on Sepulchre IV; Namor and Clyten, killed on Scoria, and a dozen others whose names blended into memory but were still his charges.

  “We’ve already lost so many.”

  “It is nothing, little-wyrm…” Hrydor was at Tsu’gan’s shoulder as Emek examined him for injury. After releasing the pressure clasps, the Apothecary then carefully removed Tsu’gan’s helmet. Immediately, the unfiltered atmosphere washed in. Despite the years, the air still stank of ammonia and counterseptic. The sanitised aroma made Tsu’gan’s skin itch and he found himself yearning for the touch of fire. But there was no rod, no brander-priest’s iron to slake his masochistic urge.

  “What is ‘nothing’? Speak plainly, brother. You sound like a Dark Angel,” Tsu’gan shot back venomously.

  “Hold still,” said Emek, seizing Tsu’gan’s chin and shining a light in his eyes. They burned suddenly brighter. He reviewed the readings on his bio-scanner, logging the data for later analysis.

  “I am myself.” Tsu’gan glared at the Apothecary, daring him to arrive at any other conclusion. The memory of Kadai’s face still lingered like an old dream in his subconscious though, and he wondered what had triggered it.

  “Physically, I can discern no adverse effects. Mentally, I cannot—”

  “Then release me.” Tsu’gan jerked his chin away and took back his helmet.


  Emek left with a parting remark. “Your demeanour certainly remains as amenable as usual.”

  “Are you sure you’re a warrior, Emek?” Tsu’gan sneered, before ramming on his battle-helm. The pressure clamps cinched into place automatically as Tsu’gan went to Hrydor. “Now, explain yourself.”

  The other Firedrake didn’t look intimidated. If anything, he was pensive. “The bulk and the strain of the great armour you wear—they are difficult burdens, little-wyrm. It once belonged to Imaan. His aegis is woven into that of the suit.”

  “I know that. I was at the ritual. I stood before the proving-forge and crossed the gate of fire. I carry Imaan’s icon upon my flesh alongside many other honour scars, given unto me for the deeds I performed in battle. It’s the reason I am beside you now. I am Zek Tsu’gan, former brother-sergeant of 3rd Company and now Firedrake. I am not your little-wyrm!”

  Hrydor looked blankly at his battle-brother for a moment before laughing loudly.

  “I can handle the suit and the mission,” Tsu’gan protested, earning a backwards glance from Praetor. It would be a few more minutes until they were done searching and securing the gallery. Then they could move on. Tsu’gan had that long to re-prepare himself. He lowered his tone in response to his sergeant’s scowl. “I saw… something. A relic of the past, nothing more. Old ship, old ghosts—that’s all it is.”

  Hrydor became suddenly serious. “Perhaps you’re right.” His voice took on a brooding tone. “On Lykaar, before I became a Drake, I fought with the Wolves of Grimhildr Skanefeld. It was a bitter campaign warred over winter-fall, and the ice upon Lykaar was thick. We Salamanders brought fire to counter the ice; the Wolves brought fury. It was a good match. Greenskins had invaded the planet, making slaves of its people and siphoning from its promethium wells like common pirates.”

  Tsu’gan interrupted. “What’s the purpose of all this?” he hissed. “If you must watch me, then do it in silence and spare us both this doggerel. Allow me to re-consecrate my arms and armour without your endless chatter.”

  “Listen and you may just hear the purpose of it, brother.”

  Yes, thought Tsu’gan, the Fenrisians have much to account for. They too are fond of overlong sagas.

  “We were few,” Hrydor continued, “but the orks and their stunted cousins had been fighting indentured men with picks and ice-nailers. They were ill prepared to face Astartes. But, there was something we did not know. A creature, a kraken, slumbered under the ice. Our warring disturbed it and brought it forth.” Hrydor’s voice darkened. “It took us by surprise. I was among the first. Before my bolter could speak, the beast seized me, swept me up in its tentacles. A lesser man would’ve been crushed, but my armour and Emperor-given fortitude saved me. Had Grimhildr not intervened, casting his rune axe to sever the creature’s hold, I doubt I’d have survived. Others on the field that day were not so lucky.”

  “A stirring tale, I am sure,” said Tsu’gan, sarcastically, “but we are ready to depart.”

  “As always, you fail to see what is before you, Tsu’gan,” Hrydor replied. “I see the kraken still. I will it to find me in my solitorium chamber, to face it and conquer it.”

  Tsu’gan didn’t move, still not understanding.

  Hrydor rested a hand on his pauldron. “Harbouring ghosts doesn’t make you unique. All warriors have them, but it is the manner of how we deal with them that defines us as sons of Vulkan.”

  Tsu’gan shrugged Hrydor’s hand away and went to find Praetor. He was eager to move on. “Whatever you say, brother.”

  Having dispersed around the infirmary, the Firedrakes were forming back into squads and preparing to advance again. Hrydor was about to fall in when he caught a glimpse of something slithering away in his peripheral vision. His auto-senses came back with nothing and when he tried to follow it, the thing, whatever it was, had gone. Only the scent of the ocean, of ice and the deep reek of something ancient and long forgotten, remained.

  “It’s nothing,” Hrydor said to himself. The ship had begun to affect them all. “Just an old ghost.”

  According to the ship schemata, following the medi-deck’s south-east access conduit would lead them first to an emergency hangar and then to the cryo-stasis chamber. After reviewing the other options in the infirmary, this was determined the most expedient route and therefore sanctioned by Nu’mean as their best method of approach. Though it mattered little to the other sergeant, who’d become increasingly driven ever since they’d boarded the Protean, Praetor had concurred with this assessment. He led his squad separately to Nu’mean’s, this time taking the rearmost position, whilst the other sergeant had the scent and the lead.

  “Steady your pace, brother. The ship is badly damaged and may not stand up to such rigours.” Praetor said through the comm-feed.

  Nu’mean replied on the same closed channel. “It’s not your conscience, though, is it, Praetor?”

  “You’ll make less ground if—” A flash of something in the shadows of the access conduit—which was long, narrow and badly lit—made Praetor stop. “All squads, halt.”

  A chorus of clunking feet gave way to the low murmurs of the ship as the Firedrakes stopped.

  “What is it? ’Stealers?” Nu’mean sounded irritated.

  Praetor’s sensors came back empty. If the xenos were present, they were invisible to all mundane methods of perception.

  “What’s happening here…?” he whispered to himself. He noticed Hrydor eyeing the shadows keenly as well.

  “Are we safe to proceed or not? I’m getting nothing on my scanners,” said Nu’mean.

  Praetor looked at the Firedrake to his left. “Tsu’gan?”

  Tsu’gan had his eyes fixed forwards. He kept his voice low. “I can smell burning flesh and ozone.”

  Nor any physical thing I can touch or slay. Praetor’s own words came back to him. “Give me the status of the cryo-chamber.”

  There was a pause as Emek checked his data.

  “Fully functional, my lord.”

  “Proceed or not?” Nu’mean didn’t bother to mask his impatience.

  Praetor hesitated. The sealed doors of the emergency hangar were less than a hundred metres away. Nothing but darkness ahead of them.

  Something wasn’t right, but what choice did they have?

  “Lead on, Nu’mean.”

  The hangar was massive. Several bays, consisting of antechambers, refuelling stations and maintenance pads, comprised the vast space. The bulk of it, however, was taken up by the landing zone itself, which sat directly under a segmented adamantium-reinforced ceiling. There was evidence of force-shielding too, a last fail-safe to keep out the ravages of realspace when the roof to the chamber was open to the void. Six vessels were in dock, all Thunderhawk variants with stripped-down weapon systems, sacrificed for greater troop capacity. They were arrayed, one per docking pit, in two rows of three, noses angled inwards so the line of the ships crossed at diagonals and pointed towards the approaching Firedrakes.

  Unlike the other doors in the Protean, Emek had been unable to open the one to the emergency hangar via its external console. They’d had to breach it. The air inside had escaped like a death rattle. Suit sensors revealed it was heavy in carbon dioxide and nitrogen.

  The modified gunships were not alone. The dead kept them company.

  “This is no gunship hangar, it’s a morgue,” said Hrydor, panning his suit lamps into some of the darker recesses.

  Skeletons in scraps of uniform—some in fatigues, others wearing what was left of their robes—were clustered against the dust-clogged landing stanchions of the vessels in dock. A few were strewn in the open, rigor mortis having curled their limbs grotesquely. Some carried lasguns and other small arms, or once had. There were other weapons, too, of non-Imperial design.

  Nu’mean showed no respect for the dead, ploughing straight into the room, intent on crossing the four hundred metres of the hangar deck to the cryo-stasis chamber beyond as quickly as possible. I’ve wait
ed a century for this.

  “Move out. We can do nothing for—” He stopped short when his boots brushed a corpse he had not expected to see.

  “Xenos?” Tsu’gan saw it, too, noticed several alien bodies in fact. He recognised the lithe forms and segmented armour of the eldar. They were less badly decomposed than the humans, resembling desiccated corpses rather than fleshless skeletons. The eldar were grey and shrunken, their eyes dark hollows and their hair thin like gossamer. Some wore helmets of a conical design with angled eye slits to match their alien physiognomy.

  Emek stooped by one of the bodies. Wiping away a veneer of dust, he found a strange sigil he didn’t recognise. “Some kind of advanced warrior caste? What were they doing here?”

  Praetor appraised the scene. “Fighting against us at first then fighting for their lives. There are claw marks here in this wall, too large and broad for any of these bodies.”

  He shared an uneasy glance with Nu’mean.

  “There is little time,” the other sergeant muttered in a small voice.

  Swathes of diffuse light, scything through the dust-fogged air from above, flickered once and died. The power cut out, plunging the room into sudden and total darkness.

  * * *

  Tsu’gan felt his massively armoured body start to rise. Gravity, as well as the lights, had failed.

  Lances of magnesium-white from their halo-lamps stabbed into the gloom, criss-crossing as the Terminators began to float around. Despite their bulk, they were lifting steadily. So too were the gunships. Untethered in their docking pits, the Thunderhawks rose as if in a slow-motion launch, like heavyweight dirigibles set loose on a skirling wind. Silently they pulled free of their landing stations, the slightest change in the air influencing their laboured trajectory.

  Tsu’gan was trying to engage the mag-clamps on his boots but a system failure message scrolled across his retinal display in icon-code.

  “Mag-locks are down,” he growled to his brothers. The lances of light issuing from his suit flickered intermittently. “Halo-lamps failing too.” A final burst before the light died completely lit the broadside of a Thunderhawk, groaning towards him like a gun-metal berg.