by Nick Kyme
‘Are you all right?’ Zytos asked, helping the woman to her feet.
‘Just a cut, I’ll be fine,’ she replied, frowning. She smiled, grateful. ‘Thank you. For saving us. We all thought we’d die in that place. Ever since the war…’ There was loss in her eyes; Zytos recognised that selfsame look in his own face. ‘None of us have met Space Marines like you before.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ Zytos knelt down to speak to the girl, who was cowering and hugging the woman’s leg. ‘And you? Are you injured, child?’
She slowly shook her head, eyes wide with awe and fear at the onyx-skinned warrior. The lights across the corridor flared, flickered and then dulled. Zytos’s eyes looked bright as burning coals in the sudden gloom.
‘Find some quarters and stay inside, understand?’ he told them, rising to his feet. ‘No harm will befall you whilst there are sons of Vulkan on this ship, but it’s not safe to be wandering around.’
The woman appeared to take heart in that, though the little girl gave a last fearful glance before burying her face in the woman’s leg.
‘She’s your daughter?’ asked Zytos.
‘No, I don’t know her,’ replied the woman. ‘She latched on to me when we arrived. Didn’t seem right to leave her.’
‘I see,’ said Zytos, for want of something better.
‘Brother.’
Var’kir’s voice brought Zytos’s attention to the Chaplain, who now stood in the corridor before him, watching the refugees disappear into their quarters.
‘I have no idea what we are supposed to do with them,’ Var’kir admitted.
‘What happened?’ asked Zytos.
Var’kir suddenly looked grim.
‘We dropped back out of warp.’
‘Already?’
Var’kir nodded.
‘The storm repelled our Navigator.’
‘Wasn’t Ushamann supposed to shore her up and prevent that?’
‘He couldn’t, the tumult was too strong. It–’
Another tremor shook the Charybdis; struts groaned and flexed in protest and the heavy boom of psychic aftershocks struck the side of the ship like gargantuan breakers.
Zytos frowned. ‘Is she taking us back in?’
‘I don’t–’
The lights down the corridor flared again, so intense and magnesium-bright that Zytos had to shield his eyes. A loud drone presaged every lumen fizzing out, and the ship was plunged into sudden darkness.
The resonance of engine shutdown carried through the skin of the ship, echoing loudly. The perpetual hum of onboard systems died, replaced by silence. Atmosphere recyclers, illumination, life support, everything failed.
Several seconds passed in tomb-like silence before the dull machine shunt of emergency systems kicked in, washing the corridor in a crimson glow. Air filtration returned but at fractional strength.
Zytos was already on the vox to Zonn.
‘We briefly lost power, sergeant,’ came the Techmarine’s reply without need of prompting.
‘It has yet to return in this part of the ship, Techmarine. What happened?’
‘Damage sustained coming out of warp prematurely. It has knocked some of our essential systems offline. I am working to rectify it.’
‘What parts of the ship have been affected, brother?’
‘All of them. We have minimal life support, our engines are at motive power only. All weapon systems, augurs and void shields are also down. Bridge, novatum, sensorium, apothecarion, barracks, interrogation, even the galley are all–’
Var’kir interjected.
‘Interrogation?’
‘Affirmative, Chaplain. All bulkheads and access doors are powered down.’
‘Damn it.’
Kaspian Hecht had braced his hands across the table, palms down, and was waiting for his gaolers to return when the sense of dislocation struck him.
A mental impulse sent tremors through his psyche strong enough to make him stagger. His hands turned into claws, gripping the table in order to stay upright as he was nearly thrown from his seat.
‘Throne of Terra…’ he muttered, awash with feverish sweat.
His respiratory rate escalated suddenly as a burning itch flared across nerve endings. He clutched at his face, as if trying to keep the flesh from tearing apart and considered the fact he might be under some form of psychic attack.
Lord Malcador had warned of the perils of his mission, of the attention it would draw. Those within the Knights Errant were often alone and with Hecht’s intended partner missing and probably dead, it meant reinforcement was not going to be forthcoming.
Another seizure gripped him, forcing Hecht’s body into spasm and igniting hundreds of tiny misfires across his synapses. His enhanced biology did its best to compensate, flooding his system with chemicals, thundering his secondary heart into action to expedite a palliative reaction.
Hecht slipped and kicked the chair out from under him. He would have fallen had he not seized the edge of the table, gripping it firmly and sending small cracks webbing across its surface.
In the flickering light above hitting the table’s reflective veneer, he caught sight of his face... and recoiled.
Backing away, Hecht reached for a weapon he no longer carried. His fingers trembled as he fought for control.
Then it stopped. And he knew.
Calmly, assertively, he stood up.
As he approached the table again, he still did not recognise the face staring back at him but now he knew why.
His gaze went to the door. A crimson symbol lit up on the locking mechanism indicated his passage was barred.
Then the lights flickered again, before cutting out. So did the crimson symbol. The low, metallic thunk of deadbolts disengaging followed.
Divine providence?
Hecht thought not as he made for the door.
Zytos swore under his breath. ‘Does anything still function, Zonn?’
‘Low-range sensorium and astronavigation. We are outside of the new Imperium, somewhere in the Charadon Sector. I have also detected an inbound vessel.’
‘What?’ Zytos felt his blood run cold as he exchanged a worried glance with Var’kir.
‘It is the Necrotor, brother-sergeant. Somehow they have found us.’
‘How soon can we get shields and weapon systems up and running again?’
‘Not soon enough. Judging on its approach vector, the Necrotor has its engines on full burn.’
‘Is it powering up lances? Any torpedoes in the void?’
Zytos knew the Charybdis was a much larger ship than the light cruiser currently bearing down on them. But he also suspected the Death Guard vessel was an outrider for a bigger fleet. Besides, superiority of size and weapons meant nothing if you could not unleash them.
‘Negative. They are closing with us. My tactical analysis is that they mean to board us. I expect the imminent departure of launch boats and docking torpedoes.’
The same thought had struck Zytos too.
Var’kir was already on the vox, warning of the imminent assault.
‘How long?’
Zonn told him.
‘Helfyre…’ Zytos severed the link.
Var’kir met his gaze.
‘What about Hecht? We can’t have him running free whilst all this is going on.’
‘How many aboard that cruiser, do you think?’
‘Could be a hundred legionaries. Maybe more.’
Zytos shook his head ruefully. The Charybdis was a massively powerful ship but it was woefully undermanned.
‘Muster the Pyre – do it now, brother. I’ll find Hecht.’
‘And Numeon?’
‘He heard the order,’ said Zytos. ‘He’ll either stay where he is or he’ll answer the call. Either they know
who we carry and are coming here to make sure he’s dead, or they’re opportunists looking for a hefty scalp. It doesn’t matter either way.’
Var’kir nodded, donning his helmet.
‘It will be done.’
As he was about to leave, Zytos gripped his forearm.
‘I know this is not your role, Chaplain. I know you aren’t my equerry.’
Var’kir clapped Zytos on the shoulder, brother to brother.
‘All of us are what we need to be on this journey. Into the fires, brother,’ he said.
Zytos let him go.
‘Let’s hope we don’t burn in them.’
Inside the sanctum, the lights flared once and then died.
Numeon was kneeling in silence, and looked up at the sudden interruption. He then stifled an irrational surge of panic when he heard the bio-scanner bleep once then fail too.
It was not life-sustaining, he reminded himself; it monitored only. Still, the psychological blow of seeing it dead and inert rather than registering the faintest spike of biological or neurological activity had Numeon’s heart racing for a moment.
He pushed himself up, back onto his feet. His knuckles were raw and bruised. His face the same. It was reflected in the glass of Vulkan’s funerary casket.
Drawn, haunted, he looked more of a corpse than his father did. He was also bleeding, his lip split and his right eye swollen. These were wounds earned in shame, not battle.
The sigil was laid in front of him like an offering. Numeon realised there were flecks of blood on the hammer’s head. Salamander blood. His, Zytos’s… Did it matter?
Numeon tried not to imagine accusation and judgement in Vulkan’s face. Had he been awake to bear witness to two of his most trusted sons beating all hell out of one another, his reprimand would have been severe.
Denial, anger… His grief had taken him on a dark journey. He needed to emerge now. He had to take up the mantle, to lead these desperate warriors.
Salamanders did not raise fists or weapons against one another in anger. Vulkan had made them better than that. He had taught them the value of life, and brotherhood. He had spared them from destruction.
‘How easy it has become to forget your lessons, father,’ Numeon said in a quiet voice. ‘When you are no longer here to remind us.’ He wiped away the blood from the hammer’s head.
Above, he heard the atmosphere recyclers slowly powering down. In a few more seconds, their drone had faded completely until there was only abject silence and the dull humming activation of the ship’s emergency systems.
Something had happened during warp translation. They were still in real space. Without power, they were also vulnerable.
His place was on the bridge, not here by his father’s side. Not yet. Numeon held the sigil tight and brought it close to his face.
‘I promise you, father,’ he whispered. ‘We will see Nocturne again and revive your body in the earth. But I have abandoned my brothers and must make amends. I see that now. I see the path I must take. But please,’ he said, weeping, ‘give me some small sign. Show me there is life yet in the Lord of Drakes.’
Looking down upon the recumbent form of the primarch, Numeon only saw the quiet sleep of the dead. But despite the many months since his demise, Vulkan had not decayed or putrefied. His flesh remained inured to entropy. Eternal.
It was faint hope but they had left Macragge with little more than that.
Before he left the sanctum, Numeon uttered four solemn words that he hoped would resonate.
‘Unto the anvil, father…’
Twenty-Nine
Breach
Battle-barge Charybdis, interrogation chamber
As he came up on the room where they had left Hecht, Zytos had one hand on his sidearm. He had no reason to believe the grey legionary had malicious intentions but until he knew the agenda and motives of Malcador’s supposed agent, he would not trust him.
As suspected, the door was unlocked. It was also open.
Zytos pulled his bolt pistol out of its holster and began to wonder if he should be doing this alone. Setting off a needless panic just as they were about to come under attack was a further complication he could well do without. As was a largely unknown legionary, roaming freely about the ship.
On Macragge it had been easy. Lead the Pyre, watch over Vulkan. But it was without purpose. Numeon had given that purpose back to the Legion, or what dregs of it remained, but had left it up to Zytos to grasp the burning brand.
Pushing his irritation aside, Zytos edged into the interrogation room, staying low and holding his pistol in a two-handed grip. He quickly relaxed. No Hecht.
‘Sked-eating, son of a–’
He was about to raise Var’kir over the vox when a voice called out to him.
‘Son of Vulkan…’
Zytos turned and saw Hecht standing in the corridor that led to the interrogation room, one opposite to the prow-facing stretch he had just run across.
Instinctively, he raised his pistol.
Hecht’s hands went up.
‘I am still unarmed,’ he said. ‘You took my weapons, remember?’
Hecht stood next to a glassy viewport still shrouded after the recent aborted warp translation. His reflection came back at him in a silvery blur.
‘May I lower my hands?’ he asked.
Zytos holstered his pistol.
‘Why did you leave the room?’
‘The door unlocked when the power cut out,’ he explained. ‘I went to investigate. Did we drop out of warp?’
‘You know we did,’ said Zytos, scowling.
The Salamander met him halfway down the starboard corridor.
‘Why didn’t you run?’ asked Zytos.
Hecht smiled, nonplussed.
‘To where would I run? And to what end? I am where I need to be.’
Zytos had no idea what that meant, and he doubted the enigmatic legionary would tell him either.
‘Well, I need you back in that room.’
‘No, you don’t,’ said Hecht, and had Zytos reaching for his sidearm again.
‘Are you defying me?’
‘We are about to come under attack.’
‘How did you–?’
‘Your vox is on an open channel, easy enough to listen in to. I wanted to know what you were saying about me. Arm me. Let me help you, as you did on Rampart.’
Zytos was sceptical. ‘For someone who craves his freedom, you have an odd way of garnering trust.’
Hecht held up his hands in a gesture of contrition.
‘I am not trying to antagonise you. I can, however, help with your current predicament.’
‘For your freedom?’
Hecht nodded. ‘I can be an ally to you, Salamander.’
Zytos was wracked with indecision. Numeon would have known what to do, but Zytos was alone and had to make this call himself.
‘Help us now, and I will revisit the decision to keep you under lock and key.’
Hecht laughed mirthlessly.
‘It seems I have little choice.’
‘You have none at all.’ Zytos handed Hecht his sidearm. ‘Betray us and I will kill you myself.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Hecht, feeling the grip and getting used to the pistol. ‘What about my own weapons?’
Zytos pulled out his hammer. ‘No time for that.’ He gestured to the starboard corridor. ‘That way, towards the bridge. You lead.’
‘Are you watching my back or your own?’
‘Once we reach my brothers, I won’t need to do either.’
Hecht laughed again.
‘War has made you all cynical.’
Zytos thought of Isstvan V, and then the corpse lying in the Charybdis’s cargo hold.
‘Treachery has made us cynical. I won’t deny it, but we
have much reason to be.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Hecht, ‘but I have never seen a more devoted band of brothers.’
‘We have had to be.’
‘You have lost much.’
Zytos muttered darkly as they headed off, ‘We’ll lose more before this is over.’
Flocks of servitors, enginseers and indentured menials scurried through the maintenance decks hefting tools and welding equipment.
They were running.
The last dregs got through the defensive cordon just as the barricades closed.
Far’kor Zonn activated the raft of sentry guns. Hard-mounted multi-lasers and autocannons cycled up into readiness. The ammo gauge of each one flashed up onto the Techmarine’s retinal display as they came online.
As he issued a blurt of binaric cant, thirty-six weaponised servitors manned the first foot of the barricades. Targeters filled the gloomy enginarium with a cross-hatching of grainy, red light. The rest of the defences were manned by human menials armed with carbines and shotguns.
Zonn’s culverin hummed gently in his clenched gauntlet. Though he knew the others could not detect it yet, his augmetic hearing tracked the pitch of the magna-cutters slowly boring through the Charybdis’s battered hull. His enhanced auto-senses mapped heat fluctuations, determining the most likely point of ingress. It was here Zonn had placed his defences.
Before he had detected the approach of the Necrotor, Zonn had marshalled every available serf trained in the basic rudiments of engineering and capable of using heavy tools in the reparation of the Charybdis with the skill of an experienced general.
He had sent those who were Mechanicum trained to the enginarium to assist with bringing the ship’s main power back online, while the rest were dispatched in labour gangs to areas of reported structural damage.
Zonn’s diagnostic of the Charybdis had revealed minor breaches in the vessel’s inner skin but nothing to trouble its void-integrity. However, even an insignificant fissure could develop into something more serious if neglected, and there was also the ship’s age to consider. On Isstvan V it had taken a fierce pounding from the renegades’ surface-to-orbit guns. Patched-up wounds, Zonn knew, had a tendency to reopen if not re-stapled and re-sutured from time to time.
