‘We have to defend the damned ship when we reach it first,’ Cyrion argued.
‘I hear sirens,’ Talos said, and fell forward once more into the yawning maw of nothingness.
VI
ASSAULT
He woke laughing because of Malcharion. The war-sage’s deep, rumbling declaration from over a year before rattled through his aching head, when the Dreadnought had woken with the words ‘I heard bolter fire.’
He could hear bolter fire too. There it was, that unmistakable drumbeat – the heavy, juddering chatter of bolters opening up against one another. The distinctive thuds of fired shells and the echoing crash of them detonating against walls and armour set up a familiar cacophony.
The prophet dragged himself to his feet, smacking a hand to the side of his helm, forcing the retinal display to re-tune. He stared at his surroundings: the confined troop bay of his own Thunderhawk gunship.
‘Fifty-three minutes, master,’ said Septimus, relaying the exact duration of his unconsciousness. Talos turned to see his servant, clad in his usual ragged flight jacket, low-slung pistols at his hips.
‘Tell me everything,’ the warrior ordered. Septimus was already handing him his weapons, one after the other. The human needed both hands to lift each one.
‘I know little. All claws were recalled before a brief void battle began. We’ve been boarded by the enemy. I do not know if our shields are still down, but the enemy cruiser isn’t firing with their own men on board. We came into the cortex hangar, under Lord Cyrion’s orders. He wished to be close to the bridge for the defence.’
‘Who boarded us?’
‘Imperial Space Marines. I know nothing more. Did you not dream of them?’
‘I do not remember what I dreamed. Just the pain. Stay here,’ Talos ordered. ‘My thanks for watching over me.’
‘Always, lord.’
The prophet descended the gangramp, into the hangar. Mute servitors and skull drones watched him impassively, as if expectant he might offer them orders.
‘Talos?’ one of his brothers voxed.
‘Was that Talos laughing?’ came another voice.
‘Fall back!’ That was Lucoryphus. That was definitely Lucoryphus, he could tell from the bass-edged rasp. ‘Fall back to the second concourse!’
‘Stand your ground!’ Cyrion? Yes… Cyrion. The vox made it hard to tell. ‘Stand your ground, you carrion-eating bastards. You’ll leave us without support.’
From there, the vox-network degenerated back into a melee of conflicting voices.
‘Is that Talos laughing?’
‘This is Xan Kurus of Second Claw…’
‘Where is that damned Apothecary?’
‘This is Fourth Claw to First, we need Variel immediately.’
‘Falling back from the tertiary spinal. Repeat, we’ve lost Spinal Tertius.’
‘Who was laughing?’
‘Talos? Is that you?’
The prophet heaved breath in through a throat that that felt atrophied from disuse. ‘I am awake. First Claw, status report. All claws, report in.’
He didn’t receive an answer. The vox broke apart in a fresh gale of bolter fire.
Talos staggered from his small hangar, weapons loose in fists that still spasmed with residual pain. He followed the sounds of bolter fire, and made it no more than five hundred metres down the winding corridors before he found its closest source.
Indeed, he staggered on weak limbs right into the middle of a firefight, and promptly took a shell to the side of the head.
It left him blind for a moment. The shell that cracked against the side of his helm was deflected by the angle, but hit with enough force to scramble the delicate electronics for an irritating cluster of seconds. Vision returned in a static-laden wash of red-tinted sight and flickering runic displays.
‘Stay down,’ warned a voice. Mercutian stood above him, hands shaking with the kickback from his bolter cannon. Bolt weaponry offered little in the way of muzzle flash, but the ignition from every self-propelled shell flickered a splash of amber across Mercutian’s midnight armour.
‘This is Mercutian of First Claw,’ he voxed. ‘The Bleeding Eyes have broken ranks. We are cut off in the primary concourse, strategium deck. Requesting immediate reinforcement.’
A voice crackled back, ‘You are on your own, First Claw. Good hunting.’
Talos turned as Cyrion moved into view. His brother held a gore-wet gladius in one hand, and his bayoneted bolter in the other. Cyrion cracked off three shots, one-handed, barely aiming.
‘Nice of you to wake up,’ he commented with commendable calm, never once even glancing at Talos. Cyrion threw his gladius into the air, reloaded with smart precision, and caught the sword as it fell back into his grip. Several dozen metres down the corridor, the vague figures of their foes never moved from cover. The reason for their tactical concealment was Mercutian. Or, more accurately, Mercutian’s booming heavy bolter.
‘We’re going to die here,’ Mercutian grunted over the cacophony of his pounding weapon. He never stopped firing, the cannon kicking in bellowing three-round bursts, bathing himself in stark, amber flashes.
‘Oh,’ Cyrion agreed amiably, ‘no doubt.’
‘Those kalshiel Bleeding Eyes,’ Mercutian swore as he dropped to one knee, reloading as fast as he could. Cyrion took up the screen of fire, bolter shells detonating down the length of the corridor.
‘They’ll charge any moment, Talos,’ he warned. ‘You could use that pretty bolter of yours, you know. There’s no better time for it.’
Talos half-dragged himself into cover behind a wall arch. Both his blade and bolter were on the decking by his boots. These, he retrieved with a grunt at his unclear vision and the pain weaving its way down his spine. It took him two attempts to level his massive bolter, before he added its weight to the chorus of gunfire. Torrents of explosive shells barked down the yawning corridor. Thirty seconds passed in the stuttering melody of drumming gunfire.
‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Who boarded us? What Chapter?’
Cyrion laughed. ‘You don’t know? You dreamed this, didn’t you? You said “armour of scarlet and bronze” before you lost consciousness.’
‘I recall nothing,’ Talos confessed.
‘Reloading,’ Mercutian called out. He dropped to one knee again, eyes still fixed on the tunnel, hands moving in dark blurs. A crunch, a click, and the heavy bolter sang its throaty song once more.
‘What happened?’ Talos repeated. ‘Blood of the False Emperor, someone tell me what’s happening.’
Cyrion’s explanation broke off as Uzas crashed into the middle of the corridor. He dropped from the ceiling, falling from a crew ladder with his hands around the throat of a red-armoured Imperial Space Marine. Both warriors tumbled through the line of fire, causing the opposing squads to break off their attacks, even if only for a moment.
‘Idiot,’ Mercutian breathed, finger idling by his trigger.
The Imperial warrior threw a fist to Uzas’s faceplate, snapping the Night Lord’s head back with a bone-jarring echo. As their brother staggered, the rest of First Claw cut the Space Marine down with a blistering hail of bolter fire.
The Space Marine fell with a cry of his own. Unimpeded now, the enemy squad at the other end of the corridor advanced, bolters up and crashing with the same thud, thud, thud as First Claw’s kicking guns. Shells exploded around Talos’s cover, showering him with debris.
Uzas ran, and for once he maintained enough sense to run in the saner direction, back toward his brothers. Talos watched the warrior stagger as a shell took him high in the spine, and another clipped the back of his leg. Uzas smacked against the wall at Mercutian’s side, rebounding from the steel in a hideous squealing crackle of abused ceramite. When he sank to the decking, his helmeted head crashed against the floor with the ringing finalit
y of a funeral bell.
‘Idiot,’ Mercutian repeated, his heavy bolter rumbling. The enemy squad reached halfway along the corridor, leaving their dead and dying on the deck behind them. And still, they kept to the cover of the gothic-arched walls.
Talos’s retinal display showed First Claw’s vital signs still beating strong. With more trouble than he cared to confess, he moved to Uzas’s side, dragging the twitching fool into cover. His brother’s armour was scorched black, the shreds of flayed flesh serving as his cloak now burnt to cinders. Uzas had been drenched in flamer promethium more than once in the recent past. The chemical stink rose from his blackened battle plate in a miserable tang.
‘Son of a…’ Uzas mumbled, and fell into a coughing fit. His heaving chokes were sickly wet.
‘Where’s Variel?’ Talos asked. ‘Where’s Xarl? I’ll kill you myself if you don’t start answering me.’
‘Xarl and Variel are holding the rear tunnels.’ Cyrion was reloading again. ‘These wretches had already engaged the Echo in orbit before we docked. One way or another, the Imperium was waiting for us.’
Mercutian retreated a couple of steps as a lucky shell detonated against his shoulder guard, spraying all three of them with ceramite wreckage.
‘Genesis Chapter,’ he growled. ‘Boarded us an hour ago. Scum-blooded cousins to the Ultramarines.’
‘Perhaps we left the warp too close to Newfound before we drifted into the Tsagualsa system,’ Cyrion admitted. ‘I doubt it, though. More likely that they tracked us from warp beacons left by their Librarius division. Cunning fellows, these thin-bloods.’
‘Very cunning,’ Mercutian grumbled.
‘You can blame your Navigator, of course,’ Cyrion remarked. The wall by his head burst in a spread of sharp fragments. ‘She should have sensed the beacons these tenacious dogs left in the warp.’
Talos slammed back into cover as he reloaded. ‘She said she sensed something, but she had no idea what they were,’ he said. ‘We need to fall back. This corridor is lost.’
‘We can’t fall back from here; we’re the only defenders on this arc. If they get onto the bridge, we’ll lose the ship. The void shields are still down, as well. Deltrian is sweating oil and blood trying to repair the primary generator.’
‘And we can’t run,’ Mercutian muttered. ‘The Bleeding Eyes were holding the southern walkways. The Imperials are closing on us from behind now, too.’ Mercutian cursed and fell back another few steps. ‘Oh, hell. He looks dangerous.’
The prophet left Uzas slouched and bleeding against the wall, moving to his brothers and aiming down the corridor they were generously feeding with explosive fire. His vision had fully re-tuned at last, targeting locks flickering and zeroing in on individual enemies. He could make out the ornate chains and tabards draped across the foes’ armour, and the emblems inscribed, worn with righteous pride. One warrior stood out above all, walking closer with inevitable purpose.
‘Oh,’ Talos said. What followed were several multi-syllabic curse words in Nostraman, with no literal Gothic translation. They were not fit for polite society, or even the less decadent tiers of impolite society.
Cyrion fired with his bolter at his cheek, laughing as he replied. ‘At least we’ll be killed by a hero.’
The void shields weren’t down. That wasn’t the problem.
‘Analysing,’ the tech-adept said aloud. ‘Analysing. Analysing.’ He stared through ream upon ream of runic figures streaming through his mind. The link to the generator’s cogitator was strong and fluid, but the amount of information was taking an unacceptable amount of time to filter.
The problem wasn’t that the void shields were down. The problem was they had dropped for three minutes and nine seconds, and the ship had suffered an as yet unknown degree of infestation exactly forty-eight minutes and twelve seconds previously. In the battle with the enemy ship, those precious seconds of vulnerability had been enough for the enemy to board them in heavy numbers.
The thought of all those Imperial Space Marines tearing the Echo apart from within would have made Deltrian’s skin crawl, had he any skin remaining.
The shields revived, but the generator itself was strained to the point of damaging itself. This led to a further problem: that unless he managed to bring the generator back to a semblance of stability, it might flicker-fail again if the enemy fleet fired another barrage. Perhaps it was unlikely they would, with scores of their own troops on board, but Deltrian hadn’t achieved something close to immortality by relying on supposition and assumption. He was a creature that didn’t play the odds. He weighted them in his favour.
To extrapolate further, a second flicker-fail would potentially cost them the ship if the shields didn’t revive quickly enough. Worse, it could lead to a complete failure, which would not only cost them their ship, but also their souls.
Deltrian had no intention of dying, especially not after investing so much time and meticulous care into resculpting so much of his biological frame into this artifice of mechanical perfection. Nor did he wish his immortal soul to spill out into the transmogrifying ether, to be pulled apart at the amused mercies of daemons and their mad gods.
That, as he was so fond of saying, would not be optimal.
‘Analysing,’ he said again.
And there it was. The bruise of flawed code, mixed in with the generator’s scrambled cogitations, lost and found within a thousand thoughts per second. The damage was minimal, and focused around several of the external projector arrays on the starboard hull. They could be repaired, but not remotely. He’d need to send servitors, or go in person.
Deltrian didn’t sigh. He registered his irritation with a non-linguistic blurt of machine-code, as if belching in binary. With an exaggerated patience he didn’t possess, the tech-seer activated his epiglottal vox by simulating the act of swallowing.
‘This is Deltrian.’
The vox-network replied with an overwhelming miasma of shouting and gunfire. Ah yes, the defence effort. Deltrian had quite forgotten. He disengaged from the terminal and re-tuned into his surroundings.
He considered the scene for a moment. The Void Generatorum was one of the largest chambers on the ship, with its walls layered in clanking power facilitators forged from bronze and sacred steel. All of these secondary nodes fed the central column, which itself was a black iron tower of throbbing plasma, with the churning liquid energy visible from the outside through the eyes and open mouths of gargoyles sculpted onto the pillar’s sides.
Only now, as his focus returned to the external world, did he see the madness had ceased. The chamber around him, so recently alive with crashing gunfire and vox-altered screaming, was now beautifully silent.
The enemy boarders – or rather, the fleshy, broken things that had until so recently been the enemy boarders – lay in a ruptured carpet of blood-soaked ceramite across the chamber. Deltrian’s olfaction sensors registered a severe level of vascular and excretory scents in the air, enough to make mortal digestive tracts rebel in protest. The smell of the slain was nothing to Deltrian, but he recorded the charnel house stench for the sake of completion in the reference notes he planned to compile later that evening.
His attackers hadn’t come anywhere near him. That was because Deltrian, like many adepts of the Machine Cult, was first and foremost a believer in preparation to cover all contingencies, and secondly, a practitioner in the habit of overwhelming force. As soon as the void shields had failed for that split second, he knew the Night Lords would be scattered across the ship, defending every deck against the anomalous outbreak. So he took his safety into his own hands.
Admittedly, three-quarters of his servitors hadn’t survived. He paced the chamber, taking stock of the variances in slaughter. Those still standing were slack-faced automatons, lobotomised past personality, their left arms amputated in favour of bulky heavy weaponry. Bionics covered at least half of t
heir skin and replaced a great deal more of their internal functioning. Each one was a labour of faith, if not quite love, and required unswerving attention to detail.
He didn’t thank them, nor offer congratulations on their victory. They’d never register it, either way. Still, to slay ten Imperial Space Marines was no mean feat, even at the cost of… (he counted in a heartbeat) …thirty-nine enhanced servitors and twelve gun-drones. A loss like that would inconvenience him for some time.
Deltrian paused a moment to regard the emblem on a dislocated shoulder guard. A white triangle, crossed by an inverted sigil. Their armour was a proud, defiant red.
‘Recorded: Genesis Chapter. Thirteenth Legion genestock.’ How delightful. A reunion, of sorts. He’d last encountered these warriors – or their genetic forefathers, at least – in the Tsagualsan Massacre.
‘Phase One: complete,’ he said aloud, as he pulsed the affirmation code to the surviving servitors’ waiting minds. ‘Commence Phase Two.’
The cyborgs fell into step, continuing the execution of their previously laid out order rotation. Half of the dozen remaining would move through the ship in a pack, carrying out seek-and-destroy subroutines. The other half would walk with Deltrian, back to the Hall of Reflection.
The ship quivered, hard enough for one of his servitors to miss its footing and emit an error message from its cybernetic jaw. Deltrian ignored it, tapping back into the vox.
‘This is Deltrian to Talos of First Claw.’
Bolter fire answered, distant and crackly over the vox. ‘He’s dead.’
Deltrian hesitated. ‘Confirm.’
‘He’s not dead,’ came another voice. ‘I heard him laughing. What do you want, tech-priest?’
‘To whom am I speaking?’ Deltrian asked, not bothering to inflect his voice with any aural signifiers of politeness.
‘Carahd of Sixth Claw.’ The warrior broke off, replaced for a moment by bolter chatter. ‘We’re holding the port landing platform.’
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