The Gildar Rift

by Sarah Cawkwell

  Talking to the Space Marines captain, on the other hand... that filled him with trepidation.

  Abramov ran nervous fingers through his greying hair and looked up at the captain. He swallowed back the comments and self-assured responses that he had been so sure he would have been able to muster and shook his head. Arrun’s sheer physical presence had quashed any attempts at being even remotely sarcastic. In the end, the best he could manage was a rather pitiful excuse that sounded plaintive and poor even as it left his mouth.

  ‘You were late. We... are on a schedule and thought we would make progress until your arrival.’ Arrun’s brow arched, distorting the tribal markings on his face briefly.

  ‘I am never late, Captain Abramov. In this instance, I was unavoidably detained. I deeply regret that our astropath’s message did not reach you before you entered the warp. But you should have waited. You did not. Fortunately for you, the Dread Argent arrived before you were pulverised.’ Those cold, emotionless eyes scoured Abramov once and in that penetrating glance, the Endless Horizon’s captain was aware that he was being weighed and measured. He shifted uncomfortably. It was time to fall back on his only possible course of action.

  ‘You have my sincerest apologies and deepest gratitude, of course, Captain Arrun...’ Abramov hated how wheedling his voice sounded. He was guilty of no crime other than being in possession of an impetuous nature. If he told himself that enough times, perhaps he might start to believe it. He squared his shoulders and straightened his spine. With the very greatest of concentration, he injected energy and enthusiasm into his voice. ‘Of course, now that you are here, we can resume our journey to Gildar Secundus.’ He lifted his head and smiled brightly. He couldn’t hold Arrun’s gaze for longer than a few moments.

  ‘Yes,’ mused Arrun, turning his back on Abramov. ‘Yes, I imagine you can.’ He stared out of the view portal at the Dread Argent. As Master of the Fleet, he had a keen and abiding interest in all the vessels of the Imperium, particularly his own. With practiced confidence, he let his eyes roam across it, calculating its external condition. Despite his apparent distraction, he continued the conversation with Abramov. ‘You have the report I requested, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Abramov offered the cargo manifest in a hand that shook only slightly. One of the Silver Skulls serfs who had accompanied Arrun stepped forward to take it. It was duly handed to Arrun without words and the captain pulled his gaze from the Dread Argent.

  ‘Confirm for me what your cargo consists of, if you please, Captain Abramov?’

  ‘Of course, Captain Arrun.’ Made more comfortable by the familiarity of this process, Abramov relaxed a little. ‘We are taking replacement machine parts bound for the promethium refinery.’ It was correct and the physical inspection of his ship would corroborate that statement.

  From that point, the Silver Skulls captain was nothing but solid business. No more was said about the transgression and when Arrun announced he would be returning to his own ship, Abramov allowed himself a moment to breathe.

  ‘Be wary, Abramov. Something translated into the Gildar Rift several solar days ago and disturbed the peace. It appears to have gone again, but you never can tell. This debris field could well be the least of your worries.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.’

  Offering Arrun a deep bow as he strode away, Abramov returned to his bridge and crew in contemplative silence. He knew he should count himself lucky that whatever it was that was distracting the Silver Skulls captain meant that he had escaped a sterner, more serious chastisement – but the sense of deep unease that Arrun’s parting words had engendered in him negated any relief he may have felt.

  The least of your worries.

  TWO

  RESURGENT

  The Gildar Rift

  In geostationary orbit above Gildar Secundus

  ++ One week later ++

  Gildar Secundus was a harsh and cruel planet. Yet despite its inhospitable, almost suffocating environment, it was one of the wealthiest places in the segmentum. The promethium refineries sprawling across much of its surface like creeping mould were extensive, industrious, productive sites that churned out seemingly endless quantities of the much-coveted fuel.

  Promethium, the life blood of the Imperium, not only sated thirsty machine spirits in vehicles and fuelled weaponry, but was the core ingredient in any other number of industrial products. Its value was incalculable and its appeal was a beacon to would-be raiders to take it for themselves.

  Ever since the very first attempt at taking the spoils had been made, ever since piratical raiders had exploded into the Gildar system, the Silver Skulls had established their patrols across the Rift. From the moment they had responded to the first foray, any further such incursions that had been attempted had met with swift justice, delivered by a Chapter who were not known for their patience. Generally, the Silver Skulls delivered their judgement on transgressors with the minimum of preamble – and such judgement was invariably punctuated with a punishing and ultimately terminal salvo from a bombardment cannon.

  The Chapter’s home world of Varsavia hugged the outer rim of the Gildar Rift and in this far-flung, oft-neglected area of the Imperium they were the closest Adeptus Astartes response force. With the increasing, although still irregular raids threatening the region, Lord Commander Argentius had agreed the very real need for providing semi-permanent protection. Regular patrols were provided from the fleet, a rotating duty for those brothers who were not deployed on the field of battle elsewhere.

  Captain Arrun had been Master of the Fleet for several decades and possessed a quicksilver mind and the forward thinking ability of a true tactical genius. At any time he knew the status of every functioning ship in the fleet. His eidetic memory allowed him to bring to mind every flaw, every weakness and, conversely, every strength. He knew in seconds which ship was the most appropriate to deploy to any given situation when the requests for assistance were received. He had overseen operations in the Gildar Rift from the very beginning. Now, in response to new orders received that morning from Varsavia, it looked as though the scale of patrols would be stepped down.

  It was something of a puzzle to Arrun. The Chapter Master knew the dangers this system presented and yet still he had put out the order for them to return. The only explanation Arrun could consider was that Argentius must be recalling the fleet for deployment on a different operation. This would come as a relief to those patrolling the Rift. Space Marines needed purpose to their existence and whilst they may have been protecting the inhabitants of the Gildar system and overseeing the smooth operation of the Imperium at large – they were warriors first and foremost. They needed to be at war.

  Arrun had consistently conveyed his personal concerns to the Chapter Master that the Gildar Rift possessed many hidden threats and had maintained his argument that the current numbers deployed in the system were necessary. Even if they had not been necessary, he had argued, maintaining a visible presence would be wise. Argentius, it seemed, did not agree. As such, the Master of the Fleet’s mood was decidedly dark as he assembled his key advisors.

  The strategium rested atop the pyramid-like interior of the strike cruiser. It was one of the few locations in the main structure that had something other than the functional steel mesh that ran everywhere else. In this instance, the floor itself was constructed from armaplas mesh. It afforded a dizzying view down to the bridge and with a little effort someone could see through the steel mesh even further still; to the deeper levels of the ship where the training cages and habitation areas were located. The interior of the Dread Argent had been constructed in tiers of concentric rings, each level getting smaller, ziggurat style, until it reached the top and this domed room at its pinnacle. The sounds of the everyday activity of the ship floated up to them in a muted murmur.

  The only furniture within the strategium were the chairs and table that dominated the room’s centre. All of these items had been specifically designed with the
increased bulk and weight of the Space Marines in mind. On the extremely rare occasions when the regular crew members were brought up here, they looked ridiculously child-like in the immense seats. There was no décor on the walls other than Fourth Company’s battle banner, unfurled and pinned out and the aquila that spread its wings imperiously across the wall behind Arrun’s head. Seated at the top of the table, the wings of the Imperial symbol opened out behind him. It was not merely a design coincidence that situating the aquila in that location created an illusion that the captain himself bore the wings of the Imperium.

  Captain Arrun looked from one face to the other, a slight tic under his right eye the only betrayal that he was struggling to keep his annoyance as well controlled as he could manage. Eventually, he spoke in a dark, gravelly tone. The discontent in his voice was evident.

  ‘We received orders from Varsavia this morning. We scale down our patrols with immediate effect.’

  The other Silver Skulls gathered at the table exchanged brief glances. It was unheard of for Arrun to begin such a meeting with anything other than requesting that the Prognosticator lead them all in the litanies. It certainly didn’t bode well for the rest of this gathering. The battle brother seated to the captain’s right reached out and laid a hand on Arrun’s arm with easy familiarity. Irritated, Arrun was about to shrug off the touch, then glanced at the other warrior. The Prognosticator was dressed in a heavy, dark grey robe with a hood that obscured his features completely. All that could be seen of him was the glitter of two green eyes deep within the hood’s depths.

  Arrun felt the touch of his advisor’s mind brush his own and gave a brief, terse nod. The unspoken chastisement was all that was needed. He adjusted his attitude with visible reluctance, but his face betrayed the fury bubbling just beneath the surface.

  ‘My apologies, Prognosticator. Brothers, I beg your indulgence a while longer. Please forgive my mood, but as I am sure you can appreciate, this news concerns me deeply.’ He ran a hand over his shaven head and leaned forward. ‘I have communicated back to our Lord Commander my worries about activity in the system. Despite incursions into the Gildar locale being sporadic, the fact remains that they are still happening. The threat in this system is very real. And despite this...’ Arrun scowled. ‘Despite this, until our astropaths receive his response, we must make every move towards prosecuting his request to reduce the number of the patrols in the Gildar Rift.’

  His words had an electrifying effect on his battle-brothers. The silence that descended was suddenly broken by the crack of a balled metal fist slamming down on the table. The suddenness of the noise reverberated around the strategium’s dome and all eyes turned to the young Techmarine whose synthetic hand trembled with barely suppressed rage. Arrun’s eyes swivelled to him, hardening like diamonds.

  ‘Brother Correlan? Is there something you want to say?’

  The Techmarine, never known for his subtlety, shook his head. His augmetic right eye whirred softly as he focused on the captain and the red lens flickered briefly. His voice shook with the irritation that Arrun was sure they all felt. ‘After all our work, after all that we have achieved here, I hope the Chapter Master is not putting a stop to the project.’ He kept the question out of his tone, keeping his voice moderate with obvious difficulty. The others seated at the table nodded slowly, each harbouring the same thought. They had been assembled as a team for a very specific reason and the project that was nearing its completion had taken each and every one of them firmly into its grip.

  ‘You can consider yourself fortunate on that front, brother. To the best of my knowledge and until the Lord Commander decrees otherwise, the Resurgent Project will continue as planned.’ There was a tone of something largely akin to disgust in the captain’s voice. He had committed time and resources to an experiment that he had never wanted to truly be a part of. Events had overtaken him, though, and Vashiro’s will was not something to be denied.

  His words garnered no response. All present knew Daerys Arrun’s thoughts on the Resurgent Project. It was something that he had inherited from his predecessor who had in turn, inherited it from the Master of the Fleet before him. A legacy of sorts; a plan that had been waiting to come to fruition for several centuries. It had waited on the orders of the Prognosticatum for the conditions to be right. Even with the Chapter Master’s approval, even with the Chapter’s wisest and most revered Prognosticators fully in support of the project, Daerys Arrun’s open distrust and scepticism had remained. He had even tried to argue against it when he had been initiated into its deepest secrets.

  It had been a tense, lengthy debate which had ultimately been swayed with the additional enthusiasm and backing of the Master of the Forge. Finally convinced that the idea had some small amount of merit and that to resist the will of Chapter command would be ultimately detrimental, Arrun had capitulated.

  Correlan nodded and folded his arms before him, the servos and minute air compressors in his mechanised arm hissing softly as he made the gesture. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Because to be brutally honest, captain, we passed the point of no return several days ago. I very much doubt that the work Brother-Apothecary Ryarus and I have accomplished can be undone now.’ His young face was open and honest, hiding nothing of his aggressive nature or underlying indignity and yet there was open challenge in his tone.

  ‘Mind your attitude, Techmarine.’ The hooded warrior seated next to Arrun folded his own arms, deliberately mimicking Correlan’s body language. ‘Captain Arrun must, as we all must, obey our Lord Commander’s orders without question. Believe it or not, he has as much invested in this project as you do. More, in fact. You are not even an officer in this company, something which you would do well to remember. Remember your place and hold your tongue.’

  Correlan scowled even more deeply and leaned back in his seat. In his life before his ascension to the ranks of the Adeptus Astartes, he had been one of the few Silver Skulls raised to adolescence amongst one of the semi-feral, aggressive tribes of the southern Varsavian steppes. Some habits and mannerisms took longer to overwrite than others and a tendency to fall prey to a hair trigger temper was one.

  ‘My apologies, Prognosticator.’

  The psyker threw his hood back and studied the young Space Marine with a cool, appraising look. ‘Whilst your lack of sincerity in those words is duly noted, your enthusiasm is to be commended, brother. I ask you to not mistake my words for those of anger. Consider instead that I am offering you advice. You would do well to heed it.’

  Correlan, out of a habit borne from months of working alongside Prognosticator Brand let himself fall into sullen silence. He would never argue such a point. Fourth Company’s principal advisor may have been ageing, his long hair threaded through with silver and his tattooed face lined and wise, but his acuity was as sharp as ever it had been. His not inconsiderable psychic abilities went a very long way towards ensuring that no secrets were ever kept from him.

  ‘Thank you, Brand.’ Arrun had used the natural pause offered by the brief exchange as an opportunity to cool his own temper and was already much calmer than he had been before. He had engaged Correlan’s involvement in the project knowing that the younger warrior had occasionally been described as borderline reckless. It was a small price to pay because his particular skills had been perfect for this work. Varsavia was something of a technological backwater and as a consequence, those who demonstrated technical aptitude and who had undergone training at the hands of the Adeptus Mechanicus were afforded similar levels of respect as the Chaplain-Librarians of the Prognosticatum. Regardless of how bad-tempered they might have been.

  Drumming his fingertips on the table, his chin held thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger, Arrun considered his comrades for several moments. Then he nodded, his course of action determined.

  ‘We will comply with Lord Commander Argentius’s request, of course. I do not think that it is a secret that I am not happy about it. I am confident that by the time he receives the astr
opathic response, he will be more than aware of that himself.’ Arrun let out an exasperated breath. ‘As such, we must proceed to discussion of the fleet’s redeployment.’ He gestured towards Correlan who tapped out several digits on the control panel set into a recess before him.

  A static hiss filled the strategium and a hololithic display flickered into life above the featureless surface of the table. Created almost lovingly after months of mapping the system, it was a perfect graphical representation of the Gildar Rift. Satellites orbiting the many planets in the system wheeled and spun in proper calculations of their trajectories. Even the asteroid field was recreated practically to the last piece of rock. Of course, it was constantly shifting. The recent transgression of the Endless Horizon had stirred up the asteroid belt in particular and it had taken time to settle back down.

  ‘I updated the display mere hours ago,’ Correlan, now unleashed from the constraints of obeisance and allowed free rein to do what he did best, was almost unrecognisable from the sullen, resistant Space Marine he had been bare moments before. His confrontational body language dissolved under a relentless assault of enthusiasm and energy. His hands moved rapidly and with great animation as he spoke. ‘The Omnissiah be praised, I had no major problems this time. Here.’ He took a cable that dangled from the table and plugged it snugly into the jack port of the device he wore on his arm, an integral part of his metal hand replacement. There was a soft click as the cable bedded into it.

  His fingers danced nimbly across the keypad at his wrist and several bright runes winked into existence amidst the dancing display. Their own vessel was shown as a softly pulsing red light that moved in perfect time with the planet of Gildar Secundus. At Correlan’s gentle coaxing, other symbols gradually brightened up.