by Gav Thorpe
‘As you should have already, commander. We will speak of this later.’
‘Yes, Lord Corax. Forgive my distraction.’
‘If we are still alive in ten minutes, I will consider it,’ Corax replied. He knelt down next to the imprisoned Navigator and spoke gently. ‘I am sorry, but I must attend to another matter first. Be strong.’
He stood up and turned to Soukhounou.
‘See what you can do to slow the reactor overload from here,’ the primarch said, pointing to the engineering station where a rheumy-eyed servitor murmured a monologue of status reports. ‘I want this ship taken intact.’
WARNING LIGHTS GLARED red along the corridors surrounding the plasma core chamber. The accompanying sirens had been cut off abruptly from the strategium, but the ruddy gloom was a reminder to Commander Branne that the ship was far from secured.
‘Cavall, Nerror, Hok,’ Branne called out to three nearby sergeants. ‘Flank right, one deck up.’
Their squads peeled away to a stairwell as Branne led the rest of the company forwards. The waves of grotesque ship slaves had ceased for the moment, no doubt pulled back to form a last defence around the overloading reactor. Branne did not know whether that was a final act of spite from the Word Bearers, or to prevent the Raven Guard discovering the crew’s purpose in the sector. He did know that Lord Corax had issued no warning of an evacuation and within the next one hundred and twenty seconds it would be too late for the boarding parties to escape the doomed ship.
Branne’s Raptors were fighting well and he felt a moment of pride as he watched them sweeping along the engineering deck, efficient and deadly. They had been fully blooded at the Perfect Fortress, and in later engagements against the forces of the Death Guard at Monettan, and the seizing of several traitor Imperial Army warships that had been intercepted during an attack at Tholingeist. With each battle they gained valuable experience.
Now they had been transformed from instinctively superior fighters to disciplined, effective warriors. Even those that had been twisted by the later gene-seed mutations had surpassed their bodily difficulties, fighting as equals amongst their clean-limbed brothers. Branne had become so familiar with his charges that he barely noticed the deformities that marred them. They were all simply his Raptors, though he knew that there were others in the Legion who did not wholly trust them.
The feeling of pride passed, to be replaced by an ever-present sense of profound responsibility. The Raptors, both the perfectly formed and those that had suffered the body-altering mutations, were a new generation of Raven Guard: the future of the Legion, Lord Corax had called them. The primarch certainly had no qualms about utilising the Raptors’ abilities, enhanced by their improved Mark VI armour systems. As Corax had promised, the Raptors were treated as any other fighting force from Deliverance, given ample opportunity to prove themselves worthy as legionaries.
A huge detonation ahead shattered Branne’s contemplation. For a split second he thought the plasma wards had been breached, his Raptor squads silhouetted against the sheet of white fire erupting along walls and floor, creating a stark vignette.
The instant passed as the fire washed over Branne for several seconds. Temperature warning alerts rang in his ear but his suit’s systems were more than a match for the flames, dumping coolant from the armour’s power plant into the secondary systems. Paint blistered and bubbled and thick sweat ran from Branne’s pores, but no lasting damage was done. The conflagration passed in moments, leaving the commander to assess the damage.
‘What was that?’ he demanded, striding forwards. Ahead of him the Raptors closer to the blast had not fared so well. The broken remains of a handful of his warriors lay at the top of the stairwell where the explosion had originated.
The surviving Raptors picked themselves up and regained their senses.
‘Improvised charge, commander,’ reported Sergeant Chayvan. ‘A shell from a close-defence turret, I think.’
‘Self-terminating strike,’ added Streckel, one of Chayvan’s warriors. ‘It was being carried by one of the slaves. Insane bastard.’
‘What have they got to lose?’ replied Branne as he reached the stairs. The steps had been turned to dripping slag a dozen metres below him, the walls spattered with droplets of molten plasteel. ‘Stay vigilant. There will be more of them. I want them taken out before they can self-detonate.’
Affirmatives rang across the vox-net as Branne looked up the shaft. The flight of stairs to the upper deck had been incinerated, stranding the commander and his companions below the entry-way to the main plasma conduit chambers. He glanced at the chronometer.
Eighty seconds left. Still there had been no word from Lord Corax.
The Raptors fanned out through the corridors, auspex scanners sweeping for a stair or conveyor. There was no effort wasted on Mourning the fallen; everyone knew that they would share the same fate if they could not stop the reactor overload.
There was a calm, measured fatalism about the Raptors that Branne found reassuring. Perhaps it was something about the nature of their founding, or maybe his own outlook that had shaped their demeanour. Whatever the cause, he considered the members of his company to be amongst the most sober of the XIX Legion - youthful exuberance had quickly given way to deep gravitas in the light of galactic civil war and the very likely possibility that the Raptors might be the last generation of Raven Guard to become legionaries.
Branne knew that his company would always be a step aside from the rest of the Raven Guard, despite the primarch’s words and the platitudes of the other senior officers. They were different not just physically, but in temperament also. It was nothing new. There had always been subtle divisions amongst the warriors of the Legion. There were the Terrans, who had fought alongside the Emperor himself, their legacy traced back to the start of the Great Crusade. Yet despite their proud heritage, the Terrans had never shared the same intimate bond with Lord Corax enjoyed by those who had fought for the salvation of Deliverance. The ex-prisoners, Branne amongst the many thousands who had taken part in the uprising, had taken Corax as one of their own, first as protectors and then as followers. The Terrans treated Corax with awe and respect as their gene-father, but their entire history with him was as the Emperors warrior-servants, never as equals.
Now the Raptors were added to the mix. They all shared two common experiences: they had been inducted into the Legion after the treachery of Horus had been revealed, and they had not suffered through the massacre at the dropsite and subsequent running battles. It was this that set them apart from both Deliverance-born and Terran. They were not warriors of the Great Crusade; they had a darker but no less vital purpose. The Raptors were trained not for the pacification of non-compliant worlds nor the eradication of alien foes, but for the simple task of destroying other Space Marines.
The Isstvan survivors were still haunted by their experience, either by anger or guilt, bearing a burden of loss that Branne could never share. Perhaps this was why Corax had chosen Branne to lead the newest recruits, sensing he would share an affinity with this untainted generation that he could never wholly regain with the massacre survivors. It would be typical of Corax’s wisdom and his keen insight into the minds of his warriors.
‘Enemy contacts, several hundred,’ reported Sergeant Klaverin from one of the lead squads. ‘More than a dozen Word Bearers leading the defence, commander.’
‘Acknowledged. Eliminate all resistance. Access to the plasma chamber is highest priority.’
AGAPITO HACKED DOWN another foe, the gleaming blade of his power sword slicing through flesh that was mottled a pale blue, the crewman’s strangely canine face splitting from brow to chin. The commander turned his next blow against a slave-mutant with bulging eyes and a forked tongue, driving the blade into the hideous creature’s chest.
‘One hundred metres more!’ he barked, swinging his sword to urge on the Raven Guard around him.
There had been only a handful of Word Bearers between Agapito and th
e reactor chamber, but that did not make progress any easier. Perhaps wishing to end their miserable lives, the deformed crew had flooded into the aft sections of the ship, using themselves as a barrier to prevent the Raven Guard accessing the reactor chamber. It was no spiteful scheme of the slaves to take the boarding parties with them, but a calculated sacrifice by the Word Bearers. The critical state of the plasma reactor could only be possible if they had started to push it into overdrive the moment that they had been discovered.
Across the vox-net Agapito heard the reports of other squads advancing to link up with Branne and his Raptors, attempting to force a coherent line through the mass of defenders so that a concerted effort could be made on the conduit chambers and engine rooms.
There had been no thought of retreat, and no intimation that they should abandon the ship. Intelligence was key to the war being waged by the Raven Guard; knowledge of where the enemy were weakest and where they were strong was essential to the strategy of Corax. The ship was too valuable to lose and Agapito fought like a berserker from the XII Legion to atone for his earlier distraction.
Eventually the Raven Guard ploughed through the press of defenders, the corridor thick with dismembered bodies behind them as they reached the passageway leading to the main reactor vault. Agapito detailed two squads to stand rearguard and led the rest, some seventy warriors, directly for the reactor control room.
An emergency blast door barred their path at the end of the corridor, but three well-placed melta-bombs from the Talons blew a hole through it large enough for the armoured legionaries to pass into the heart of the engine decks.
Sergeant Chovani was the first through, just ahead of Agapito.
‘Hold fire!’ the sergeant barked, lifting his bolter out of the firing position.
Ahead of them was a Raptor squad - not fine-limbed warriors in their battle plate, but the twisted unfortunates that had survived the later gene-seed implantations by the primarch. Some were wrapped in robes, too bulky even to wear power armour. Others could still wear their suits, albeit with extensive modification.
Agapito could not help but compare the late-generation Raptors with the slave-mutants he had been slaying. Scaled skin, inhuman eyes, clawed hands, clumps of wiry hair and nodules of bone and cartilage disfigured the Raven Guard warriors. Their sergeant had a hunched look; he was still able to wear armour, but elongated ears and a ridge of bone across his brow could not be encompassed by a helm. All the skin that Agapito could see, whether furred or smooth, lizard-like or broken with warty growths, was almost white in colour. They all had jet black hair and the comparison to the bleached flesh and black eyes of Lord Corax was unavoidable.
For all their physical similarities with the ship slaves, the Raptors could not have been more different in poise and attitude. They were guarding a stairwell, attentive and alert, holding themselves up with as much bearing as their warped frames allowed. All of the physical abuses heaped upon them could not mask the pride and strength of their legionary training, but their appearance still unsettled Agapito, especially in comparison to the monstrosities created by the Word Bearers. Thinking on that did not entirely make the existence of the deformed Raptors easy to accept.
‘Commander Agapito,’ the sergeant said, bowing his head in a deferential greeting. His lips were thin and revealed dark gums and tongue as he spoke, but his voice was calm and quiet, with a youthful pitch. ‘Commander Branne is securing the reactor chamber as we speak.’
‘You are?’ asked Agapito.
‘Sergeant Hef, commander. Navar Hef.’
‘Link up with my Talons, Navar,’ said Agapito, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder towards the remnants of the door. ‘I think the enemy are broken, but there may be enough of them left to try some kind of counter-attack.’
Techmarines are securing the plasma wards right now, commander,’ said Hef. ‘Commander Branne said to pass word for you to meet him in the main chamber.’
‘I’m sure he did, thought Agapito, but out loud said, ‘Very well, sergeant. Carry on.’
Agapito turned his attention to the trio of sergeants who had joined him, awaiting their orders.
‘Lock the whole area down and link up with any other Raptors,’ he told them. ‘Nothing passes the line.’
The commander was already turning away, thoughts moving back to Branne as the sergeants voiced affirmatives and returned to their squads. The route to the main reactor took Agapito up one deck, passing two more Raptor squads guarding the stairwells, and along a short corridor. The area was well within the perimeter and he sheathed his sword and holstered his pistol as he neared the reactor chamber.
Branne met him at the doorway, stepping into the passage as Agapito strode towards the chamber, no doubt informed of his fellow commander’s approach. Branne said nothing at first, but stepped past to address the squad of Raven Guard at the end of the corridor.
‘This area is secure, move down three decks,’ Branne ordered. There were a few glances at the two commanders - it was clear that they were not being moved on for strategic reasons - but the legionaries departed without comment. The ring of their boots on the metal steps grew fainter.
‘Brother, I am s-’
Branne grabbed the lip of his brother’s breastplate in a fist and thrust Agapito against the wall.
‘Sorry is not good enough!’ Though Agapito could see nothing of his brother’s expression inside his helm, Branne’s posture and voice conveyed his rage as purposefully as any snarl or frown. ‘Our orders were simple. What happened to you?’
‘I was killing Word Bearers, brother,’ Agapito replied, trying to keep calm against Branne’s rage. ‘That’s what we do now. We kill traitors.’
Agapito moved to step out of Branne’s grasp but his brother shoved him back against the wall once more, cracking the rough plaster with the impact.
‘One minute,’ rasped Branne. ‘One more minute and we would all be dead.’
‘Do you value your life so highly?’ asked Agapito, lashing out with his words, stung by the arrogance of Branne to appoint himself as judge. ‘Perhaps you should have fought harder.’
Branne raised a gauntleted fist, arm trembling, but he did not strike the blow.
‘Corax is on this ship, brother. Did you not think of him while you were pursuing your personal revenge against the Word Bearers?’
This time Agapito did not make any attempt to control his anger. He smashed Branne’s arm aside and pushed him away, almost sending him to the deck.
‘Personal revenge? Seventy thousand of our brothers died on Isstvan Five. Do you think it is only me that desires to avenge them? And what of the other Legions? The Salamanders and the Iron Hands? Ferrus Manus was slain, probably Lord Vulkan too. Lord Corax? I watched those bastards Lorgar and Curze try to kill him while you were on the other side of the galaxy, so do not tell me that I put the primarch in danger.’
Branne stepped away, shaking his head.
‘You disobeyed orders. A direct command from the primarch. Is that what has become of you?’ The anger in his voice had become sorrow. ‘You cannot change what happened on Isstvan. Our dead brothers would not thank you for jeopardising a mission for their memory.’
‘What would you know?’ snapped Agapito. He tapped the side of his helmet with a finger. ‘You don’t have the same memories as me, you were not there, brother.’
‘A fate that you never fail to mention when given the chance,’ Branne said with a sigh. He pointed to the grey sigil that could barely be seen against the black of Agapito’s left pauldron. ‘The campaign honour for Isstvan that your Talons wear is a mark of respect for the fallen, not a badge of shame. Many died there. You did not. Be thankful. You have nothing to atone for.’
‘I am not trying to atone,’ said Agapito. He could not find the words to express the mixture of feelings that swirled inside him when he thought about the dropsite massacre. He gave up and turned away from his brother. ‘I do not blame you for your absence, brother, but you will
never understand.’
THE RAVAGED FACE of the Navigator turned towards Corax as he laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder.
‘Constanix,’ she whispered. ‘That is the system you seek. Now, please, release me from this bondage.’
Delving into his encyclopaedic memory, Corax recalled that Constanix II was a forge world less than fifty light years from their current position. Its allegiance in the civil war that had engulfed the Imperium was unknown, but the fact that the Word Bearers had been there, or were heading there at all, did not bode well.
‘What purpose do the traitors have there?’ he asked softly.
‘I do not know. Twice we have travelled to the system, since we escaped from Calth and dared the Ruinstorm.’
‘Ruinstorm?’ Corax had not heard the term before.
‘The tumult of the warp,’ wheezed the Navigator. ‘It is an artifice of Lorgar’s followers. They did this to me, infected me with... Turned my mind into a vessel for one of their inhuman allies to guide-’
‘Lord Corax, the ship is secured,’ announced Soukhounou. The commander had removed his helm and a sheen of sweat across his dark skin glistened in the amber lights of the reactor displays. He ran a hand through short, curled black hair, his relief evident. His smile twisted the pale scars etched into his face; tribal tattoos that marked him out as a former praise-singer of the Sahelian League on Terra. ‘Plasma containment stabilised. Commanders Branne and Agapito are coming to the strategium to report.’
Corax nodded but did not reply, his attention returning to the broken Navigator.
‘This thing they placed inside you - is it still there?’
‘It fled.’ The Navigator shuddered and gasped, the cables and pipes piercing her flesh rattling and swaying as her whole body twitched at the thought. Still blinded by her mask, she nevertheless looked up at Corax, jaw clenched. ‘I know what you will ask of me.’
‘It is not necessary,’ said Corax. He moved his hand so that the tip of one of his claws was millimetres from her throat, just below the chin. ‘Our own Navigators can take us to Constanix.’
