by Nick Kyme
Olvo Sharna was dead. This much she had managed to learn. Her end was neither horrific nor worthy of note. She had simply faded, found in her bunk, eyes wide, pale of skin and bereft of life. She had seen it, the beast. She had felt its presence first-hand, and Vedaeh had no doubts, based on her own reaction, that this is what killed the quartermaster. It saddened her. She had liked Olvo, though she knew little of her life or desires. A quiet woman with a quiet sort of strength. To survive all that she had when even the Adeptus Astartes had perished almost to a man… it gave Vedaeh pause in considering the Emperor’s benevolence.
‘Are we all just children, crying at a golden sun for deliverance?’ she asked of the shrine. ‘Except the sun is dead and we simply don’t realise yet because it is so far away…’
She bowed her head, chastising herself for such unworthy thoughts, and wrinkling her nose at the scent of cinder still clinging to her nostrils. It was bitter, acrid, like old dying fires reluctant to grow cold. The nightmares persisted too. Of fire. Of blood. Of fell places and dark imaginings. She had slept in the Reclusiam these past few nights, finding no peace in her quarters, which stood empty and untouched like a tomb.
The ship was not much different. The dead were many. Olvo Sharna had not been the only casualty. Every day the overtaxed armsmen found more deckhands hanging by their necks or comrades with their skulls shot through and their brains spattered over the wall. Piece by piece, they were eroding, their collective voices quieter and quieter until the silence finally drowned them.
The sodium lamps flickered overhead, reminding Vedaeh of the other crisis. As if they needed another one. Haephestus had found a temporary solution to the ‘siphoning’, as it was being called by some of the crew, but the effect was like placing an ill-fitting bung in a split dam – the water still leaked out. It was almost drained. More decks had been shut off to preserve what little power remained. These places were now the province of the dead, left in void-frozen passageways and airless chambers to drift and to dream endless dreams…
Vedaeh shook herself, fighting down maudlin thoughts. She raised her eyes, meeting Trajan’s shattered retinal lenses.
‘You don’t say much…’ she said, then smiled sadly. ‘Please forgive me, Lord Chaplain. I have a great need.’
She rose to her feet, grunting with the effort. The chain around her neck was heavy. It was heavier than she thought it would be. The lights flickered again, and went out for a few seconds. In the last eight days, they had lost power seventeen times. On one of those occasions the outage had lasted for six hours. Madness had seized the ship. Madness and fear. Not all of the interlopers and traitors had been caught. Or simply more had turned, desperate and afraid. Rabid. A purge had proven difficult, with resources so stretched – and the experience with the ration riots and the cultists who had been lurking in the open, men and women who had turned from the Emperor’s light, suggested the problem was ingrained. With tens of thousands of crew, despite the losses, it made excision of this taint almost impossible. The warp would have its way, Vedaeh supposed. Only it seemed to coincide with the darkness. As the light came back on, she muttered, ‘Ave Imperator.’
A gentle knock at her door saw her smoothing down her robes.
‘Enter,’ she said, when she had composed herself.
An armed escort bowed as they came in, a woman and a man. She was an older woman, her dark hair cut short and with a worn sort of appearance. By contrast, her companion looked young and slightly haunted about the eyes, but there was something about the two of them together that gave Vedaeh hope. She couldn’t explain exactly why. Perhaps it was because they still looked human under all of the suffering, or that the woman favoured her with a genuine smile.
‘At least we have light,’ said Vedaeh.
‘He’s making his address on the hour, ma’am.’
‘For posterity, is it?’ asked Vedaeh, reaching for a leatherbound journal.
‘I believe it must be, ma’am. That, or a course of action has been determined.’
‘He always was impetuous. Saw things others could never see,’ said Vedaeh, almost to herself. ‘Liked to act on them, too. It garnered him an ill-deserved reputation.’
‘I would not know, ma’am.’
Vedaeh snapped out of her reverie. ‘I don’t recognise you, I’m sorry.’
‘Lieutenant Reda.’ She gestured to her comrade. ‘Corporal Gerrant.’
The man nodded to Vedaeh.
‘What’s your first name, lieutenant?’ she asked. ‘And you too, corporal.’
‘Arna, ma’am. Arna Reda.’
‘Vanko Gerrant, ma’am.’
‘Arna… Vanko.’ She looked at them both in turn. ‘Please don’t call me ma’am. That is an overly officious title. I am Vedaeh.’
‘As you wish…’ said Reda, though the awkwardness she felt was obvious, ‘Vedaeh.’
‘There are so few of us left, Arna. I think we should at least know each other’s first names and take some comfort in that familiarity.’
Reda nodded, though it was unclear if she did so because she agreed with the sentiment or because she wanted to move things along.
Vedaeh didn’t see the need to press.
They left the Reclusiam together, Vedaeh with her journal under one arm, as the young armsman led them out. The lumens were flickering again, the effect strobing and monochromatic.
‘I’m not sure I will ever get used to that,’ said Vedaeh, gesturing to the overhead strip lamp and tapping out a metronomic walking rhythm with her cane. ‘I find it disconcerting. Do you find it disconcerting, Arna?’
‘I do, ma’am.’
Vedaeh didn’t correct her this time. Her gaze went to a knot of grubby deckhands coming the opposite way. The transit corridor was a relatively major thoroughfare of the ship, but recent events had left it almost always deserted. The appearance of the deckhands seemed incongruous then, but not unwelcome. At least it was evidence of life.
Again, the lights flickered, snapping out completely for a second or two, before juddering and fizzing back.
‘Is it the main muster hall?’ asked Vedaeh. ‘Where Cato is making his speech?’
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am?’ Reda replied.
The deckhands were fairly close now, talking amongst themselves in low voices, their faces and fingers stained with enginarium grime. Loose smocks overlaid rugged uniforms beneath. Shaved heads showed old cuts and bruises from their heavy manual work.
‘Apologies,’ said Vedaeh, her eye lingering on the lead deckhand, who had not stopped looking at her for a few seconds. Perhaps she looked strange to him, a robed woman with a bone-white arm the texture of porcelain and inlaid with gold. ‘It’s a bad habit. Lord Sicarius, his speech is in–’
‘The Ultima Hall,’ Reda interjected to be helpful. ‘That’s correct, ma’am.’
Vedaeh mused to herself. ‘Expansive for so few…’
Above, the whine of failing power conduits built to a scream. The deckhands, whom Vedaeh had not stopped watching, seemed to speed up just as a second group appeared to the rear. She was already moving, reaching for the pistol she kept beneath her robes, as Reda pulled her back, the lieutenant putting her body between Vedaeh and the threat.
The lumen strip popped and went out. In that same instance, the deckhands attacked.
AT ANY COST
‘Firing!’ yelled Reda, and the explosive report of her shotgun rattled the corridor, hurting Vedaeh’s ears. The forwardmost deckhand spun, smashed into the wall with half his torso missing. The shotgun’s muzzle flare lit up the rest, who had donned makeshift scare masks painted with strange sigils.
From behind her, Vedaeh heard the younger armsman, Gerrant, shout out.
‘Here too!’
The staccato blurt of an autocarbine sounded like an angry insect swarm as the two armsmen effectively swapped places and the corporal strafed the corridor. A muted cry, a grunt of pain. Another attacker went down.
Shots came back at them,
stubber rounds that went wild or lodged in heavy carapace armour but couldn’t penetrate. Vedaeh saw blades and cutters brandished in the noisy, fractured light of the fire exchange. She also counted five deckhands in front and a quick glance revealed three more behind.
Reda blasted another, before letting her shotgun fall loose on its strap and reaching for the power maul tethered at her belt as the fight swiftly moved to close quarters. At the back, Gerrant had already emptied his ammunition clip and switched to a combat knife.
Five remained, revealed in the energy dispersion field of Reda’s maul. Three in front and two behind. Vedaeh shot one through the top of the skull, scalping and trepanning the deckhand who fell back in a smoking heap. She was about to turn, as Reda was engaging the other two, when she felt a massive weight bear her down. Flailing, Vedaeh lost her grip on the pistol, which went skittering off out of sight and out of reach. Her cane flew sideways as her bad leg buckled underneath her. Hot, stagnant breath washed over her face. A burly hand pressed her shoulder down with considerable strength. She half turned, as much as she was able with her attacker on top of her. Gerrant staggered, empty-handed, struggling to breathe with a length of chain wrapped around his neck, and a female deckhand on his back and pulling hard at the rusted links.
Vedaeh’s attacker was bigger, much bigger. Almost certainly male, despite the ragged anonymity of his leather mask. He had a knife. Serrated. Made for filleting. As he stabbed down with it, Vedaeh realised the mask wasn’t leather, and the meat he used that knife on was probably not animal either.
‘Longpig…’ he murmured, sweaty, eyes wide with cannibalistic hunger.
The blade didn’t make the cut. It stopped short, instantly blunted as it struck Vedaeh’s outstretched arm. A blood-shot, red-rimmed gaze regarded the augmetic arm and the knife dully. Vedaeh used the distraction to bring her knee up into her attacker’s groin. He squeaked in pain, and she heard teeth clench. Then she punched a hole through his chest with her fist, and that was that.
She had managed to roll the burly cultist aside, his weight in death even more considerable, and was about to try to help Gerrant when a shot rang out and the female chain-wielder snapped back, her forehead cored through with a perfectly cauterised hole.
Breathing hard, Vedaeh looked up to see Reda, her concern for the younger man obvious as he retched on his hands and knees.
‘This is yours, I believe, ma’am,’ she said, handing the still-smoking lasgun back to its owner grip first. ‘Damn fine weapon.’
‘It is,’ said Vedaeh, catching her breath at last and tamping down the sudden fear that came in the wake of spent adrenaline. ‘You keep it. I’d say you earned it. If you could retrieve my cane, though, I’d appreciate it,’ she added, picking up the journal she had dropped when she’d drawn the pistol.
Reda obliged, returning the cane as the lights fizzed on again.
‘Is he alright?’ Vedaeh asked of Gerrant, who had yet to regain his feet.
The corporal slowly nodded, getting up gingerly and rubbing his neck as he stooped to retrieve his autocarbine.
‘He’ll be fine,’ Reda answered, though her gaze lingered on Gerrant and Vedaeh thought she saw concern in those hard eyes of hers. ‘What about you?’
‘I feel physically sick, but am otherwise unscathed.’ She nodded her appreciation. ‘Thanks to the two of you. I owe you my life.’
‘Ours would not have been worth living if we’d let anything happen to you,’ Reda replied.
Gerrant dragged the mask off the larger man who had tackled Vedaeh. ‘This is a crew mark,’ he said, ‘lower deck, aft. He’s not cult.’
Reda looked on with distaste. ‘Well, he is now. Who can we trust any more?’
‘I say, each other.’ Vedaeh eyed the corridor ahead, lighter now but not without its shadows and alcoves. ‘Is it safe to go on?’
‘I have no idea, ma’am,’ said Reda honestly. ‘I thought this zone had been cleared.’ She got on the vox, but cut the link when an Ultramarine appeared at the end of the corridor. He removed his helmet to reveal a youthful face with dark, inquisitive eyes.
‘Apologies, Madame Vedaeh,’ he said, raising his voice as he approached the group. ‘I hope you are unhurt.’
‘Were it not for Arna and Vanko here, I would not have been.’
‘I’m to escort you the rest of the way. Sergeant Vorolanus.’ He paid little attention to the armsmen.
‘Did Sicarius send you?’
Vorolanus nodded.
‘Do you have a first name?’
He paused for a second, momentarily wrong-footed. ‘Scipio.’
Now it was Vedaeh’s turn to nod. ‘Very well, Scipio. You, I and Arna and Vanko are headed to the Ultima Hall together.’
Vorolanus briefly glanced at the armsmen. ‘I assure you, I can see to your protection.’
‘Nonetheless.’
Reda made to protest, ‘There really is no need, ma’am. We can return to–’
‘Trust, Arna. You saved my life.’
Vorolanus tried to hide a frown. ‘As you wish, but stay close to me.’
‘The ship remains unsafe?’
‘It is still being determined,’ he said, eyeing the armsmen with suspicion.
‘As I said, Scipio,’ said Vedaeh as she caught his look, ‘I trust them.’
‘Attacks have come from within,’ he explained. ‘Prolonged exposure to the warp can have a degrading effect upon the human mind, and we have been amongst the tides for a long time.’
‘And you do not consider yourself human?’
‘I did not mean…’ Vorolanus gave a small sigh. ‘Are you ready to depart?’
Vedaeh nodded. ‘Please, lead on.’
The Ultima Hall echoed emptily, like a choir bereft of voices.
Banners hung from its vaulted ceiling, still and faded. It had a sepulchral quality. Even the air tasted old and dead. A statue of Guilliman stood proudly, though, a massive plinth raising it so high that you had to arch your neck to meet the primarch’s gimlet eye. It had been wrought of Iaxian marble, Guilliman in the form of the warrior statesman, armoured but unarmed, a cloak hanging about his shoulders and a senator’s wreath crowning his head. One foot rested upon some nondescript rock, a strange affectation of many an Imperial sculptor and ever the artistic fashion. It gave him a pioneering, redoubtable aura that Vedaeh found some comfort in.
The light was faint, and the low lumens cast lonely shadows upon the few that had mustered here.
Sicarius regarded them all, standing at the foot of the great statue, every inch the Ultramarian paragon that his father was. He had his Lions to his right hand – Daceus, his eyepatch giving him a roguish air; Venatio, clad in the white of the apothecarion and Vandius, ill at ease without the company banner in his hand. They were the only three left, now that Gaius Prabian had fallen. Vedaeh knew them by appearance, if not name. Sicarius spoke of them often, as a father might his sons, or a brother his closest siblings. To his left was a warrior Vedaeh did not recognise but knew must be Argo Helicos, commander of the Ultramarines Primaris contingent. He looked majestic in his fine armour, but could cast no shade on the Knight of Talassar. Here, even in this hall of heroes, Sicarius was peerless.
Sadly, his warrior vassals were few. Of the century and more Ultramarines who began this voyage aboard the Emperor’s Will, barely half remained. Far from the proud and uniform force that had set out on the crusade, a piecemeal body of men now stood in that place.
Not all wore power armour, and even those that did had patched and battered war-plate. The hum of generators barely raised an utterance, as the warp siphon took its toll. Of the warriors standing in that hall, few were fully equipped, and a mixture of training cuirass and half-plate could be seen amongst the blue Aquila, Tacticus and Gravis armour.
Sicarius wore his Suzerain’s Mantle, though the cloak had been torn from fighting the beast. It hung a little raggedly now, a flag at half-mast. He met Vedaeh’s eye, giving the slightest nod of recogniti
on. If he thought anything of the two mortal armsmen who attended her, he offered no sign of it.
‘No more long speeches,’ he said, his ice-blue gaze taking in the meagre crowd. ‘We are badly bloodied and stand upon the brink. We can no longer remain in the warp and must break free of it.’ He looked to the battered figure of his Techmarine, a bloody splash of red in the spattering of blue. Vedaeh noticed he shuffled uncomfortably as if carrying an injury. She also realised his armour’s generator was missing, and could only imagine the heft of his unaugmented war-plate. ‘Haephestus has bought us all the time he can. There is none left after this. So, we must leave.’
‘My lord, how?’ asked a sergeant in full plate. He had a hard face, as if carved from stone, with a flat nose and square-edged features. His right arm, Vedaeh noticed, was a bionic. ‘Arkaedron is dead, may Hera have mercy, and our Navigator…’
‘Has been returned to us, Fennion.’ Now Sicarius glanced over at the armsmen, just a fleeting moment of regard, and Vedaeh realised these two must have been the ones responsible for retrieving Barthus from his sanctum. She had heard that had been a bad business, with many lives lost. Vedaeh regarded Reda and Gerrant with renewed respect. It took a strong will to keep your sanity after something like that. ‘The Navigator will serve, and Apothecary Venatio has given assurance he is physically up to the strain.’
‘Then our hopes rest on this creature,’ said another warrior, much taller and wider than the one Sicarius had called Fennion. He was a Primaris Marine, and wore arrogance as casually as a cloak. No armour this one, barring a cuirass, and he clenched the haft of a spear with imperious disdain.
‘Not a creature, Pillium, one of us. He is crew. Barthus will breach the confinement of the warp or we will all perish. It is a dangerous course, not taken lightly. We are few, but we must protect this ship, for have no doubt that when we attempt this feat – and we will attempt it – the hosts of hell will come for us.’
