‘Relay the transmission you received.’ When he finally found his voice, it was barely more than a whisper. His hands systematically clenched and unclenched. By his side, Brand stared impassively out of the viewport. His head was thick with the psychic chatter that always accompanied moments of uncertainty. Ripples of power coruscated across the crystal mesh of his psychic hood as he filtered out the tangled emotions of the Dread Argent’s crew. Confusion, uncertainty, trepidation... all of these were unwanted and impractical emotions that served no useful purpose. One by one, the psyker filtered them and kept his thoughts focused.
‘Compliance.’ The servitor’s mechanical arms reached out, connecting with the vox console to which it was slaved. It operated its post with deft ease. After a few moments, a broken and distorted message drifted across the bridge.
‘... Agna... Space Wolves Chapter, Fourth Great Company. We were boarded and comprom... Strike force led by… fought them. Gnryll Bluetooth is dead. Our ship damag...’ The message broke off into static and then resumed from the beginning.
‘Is that all?’ As silence settled once again on the bridge, Arrun’s hands remained balled into fists. ‘That is all that you can extract?’
‘Affirmative,’ replied the servitor in its monotone way. ‘Transmission is thirty-six point seven seconds in duration. Seventy-six per cent of data has been corrupted by...’ Arrun took a step towards it. Had it been truly human, it would have doubtlessly flinched at the giant’s approach. As it was, it merely swivelled its head up to meet the captain’s gaze and completed its sentence. ‘...interference from the debris field.’
‘Filter the signal more effectively.’ Arrun pointed a finger at the indifferent servitor. ‘Extract more of it. Slave the augury cogitators for processing if it is more efficient.’ He turned to the helm. ‘Hold course for now. Try to reach Sergeant Agna on the ship-to-ship vox. By the Emperor’s grace, some of the Sons of Russ may still be alive. It is our duty to lend our aid to them in this time of need.’
Arrun stepped back from the console allowing the servitor room to perform its charged task. ‘Brand, round up the senior officers and meet me in the strategium. I think we need to discuss our best course of action.’
‘As my captain commands.’ The psyker’s head lowered graciously, but Arrun had stormed off the bridge already. With another of those inward sighs that seemed to be more frequent lately, Brand headed off to find the officers, disappointed and discomfited that the captain’s moment of calm had been shattered once again.
‘We cannot just leave them drifting through the Gildar Rift.’ It was a redundant statement, but it was made anyway. ‘At the very least, even if our cousins are all dead on board the Wolf, we need to reclaim it.’ The words were spoken with confidence, despite their almost innocent naivety.
Seven squad sergeants were seated at the huge table in the strategium, each one eager to prove his worth and each one with very different viewpoints.
‘Thank you for that observation, Matteus. I’d not considered that eventuality.’ Arrun shot a glowering look at the young sergeant, who sat back in his chair, duly chastised. Sometimes it frustrated Arrun that so many of the squad commanders were so young. The Silver Skulls numbers had been low for many years, but they were at least relatively consistent. It was inevitable that the older warriors would eventually be replaced. But these fresh-faced, eager warriors lacked so much experience. He bit back further sarcasm after a look from Brand. The psyker knew well what his captain was thinking. It was a regret shared by many of the older warriors. Brand’s unspoken words drifted across his thoughts.
The old must give way to the young eventually, brother.
Arrun absorbed the psychic message instantly. They were words he and Brand shared regularly when they indulged in a rare moment of peace, seated together over a shared bottle of Varsavian wine in the captain’s quarters.
‘We need to make a decision swiftly, Prognosticator.’
He scowled slightly and dropped a data-slate on the table with a loud bang. ‘It has also been brought to my attention that the comms officer at the Primus-Phi refinery did not file his report this morning. Whilst this is nothing to necessarily be concerned about, I feel that my instincts should take precedence in this matter. There is something not right about this. Too many oddities occurring at one time raise my suspicions.’
The captain turned to one of his sergeants. ‘Porteus, I want you to take Squad Carnelian down to the surface and investigate.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Get under way now. I want you and your squad on a Thunderhawk and on your way down to the planet before we break orbit.’
Porteus rose and made the sign of the aquila, first to the Prognosticator, who returned the salute. He repeated the gesture for the captain whose distraction meant that he did not return it. He merely continued the meeting, effectively dismissing Porteus, who took his cue and descended from the strategium.
‘As for the Wolf of Fenris... I propose we send two squads over. I will make a suggestion, but I would appreciate your consultation of the Emperor’s will in the matter.’
Brand nodded. His tarot was already in his hands and he shuffled the thin wafers gently, his eyes roving over the assembled sergeants.
‘Regardless of which squads you choose, I will go as well,’ spoke up Ryarus. The Apothecary was seated at the far end of the table.
‘I can’t allow that, Ryarus. Not this close to the completion of the project. There are other Apothecaries on board. You will stay here.’ Arrun cast an eye around the table. The sergeants were all leaning forward unconsciously in a desperate effort to bring themselves to Arrun’s attention. He allowed himself the smallest of smiles. At least he would never have to ask for volunteers.
‘Matteus, Hakan... you will take your squads across to the Wolf of Fenris with a recovery team. Once you have secured the ship, I will deploy servitors and tech-adepts to do what they can in terms of salvaging the ship and making it ready for transit. Ryarus, select two of your team to send with them. Brand, do you think we should send young Baeus?’
‘I think given the Space Wolves general opinion on my psychic brethren, antagonising them may not be for the best. However, given the circumstances, a psychic presence may be essential. It will help scan for survivors.’ His tact and diplomacy was admirable. He never once used the words ‘rescue mission’.
‘Excellent point,’ Arrun replied. ‘Well made. Baeus goes.’
In their past dealings, the Space Wolves had shown a strange sort of tolerance for the Prognosticatum of the Silver Skulls. Whilst they had no love lost for the psychic children of the far-flung God-Emperor, they found the divination methods of the Silver Skulls more in keeping with their own Rune Priests. It was still prudent not to antagonise them, though.
‘Squads Kyanite and Iolite...’ Brand considered the two sergeants thoughtfully as he fanned out the tarot wafers. His deft hands moved across them, their surfaces flickering as he allowed his mind to fall into an appropriate state to receive the Emperor’s will. He selected several of the wafers and laid them out in a cross pattern.
All eyes were on the Prognosticator as he divined the future. He frowned a few times and moved one or two of the wafers into different positions, his head occasionally coming up from his task to consider the other sergeants. The images on the surface of the delicate crystals were not visible to those around the table. The Prognosticator’s eyes seemed devoid of focus, so absorbed was he in channelling the Rites of Divination.
Eventually, Brand allowed himself to focus back on the present.
‘Not Squad Iolite,’ he said. ‘Send Mohave.’ His eyes darted to Arrun. ‘And Ryarus.’ In the heartbeat that followed, he added, ‘it is the Emperor’s will.’
Arrun considered defying the Prognosticator, but to do that would have been to go against everything that the Silver Skulls held dear and to deeply offend Brand for the second time in a day. Pinpoints of colour rose in his cheeks, but beyond that, he
didn’t let his anger show.
‘Very well then. Mohave, not Iolite. You and Kyanite squads will deploy to the Wolf along with Ryarus. Assess the situation, get to the bridge and take the ship back under control. Grant our cousins as much aid as necessary. The Sons of Russ have stood at our backs many times. We will not hesitate to assist them now. Go prepared. That ship has been drifting for an unknown period of time. We know nothing about what happened, or its state. As soon as you can, check the condition of the Geller field generator.’
Arrun cast a meaningful gaze around the assembly, checking for understanding. There were universal nods and murmurs of assent. ‘Ryarus – do what you can to help their own Apothecaries. Do not linger, my brother. I need you back here swiftly. We are committed to seeing this damned project through to its end and I need my best men to be here to do it.’
‘Yes, captain.’ The Apothecary rose and descended the spiral stair from the strategium, heading for the apothecarion.
Matteus and Dasan inclined their heads and rose from the table to round up their respective squads and move to the arming chambers where they would begin the rituals of machine rites and weapon blessings. The remaining squad sergeants sat back in their chairs, disappointment obvious in their expressions. Arrun did not keep the smile from his face this time.
‘Your turn will come, brothers. War will come soon enough for all of us.’ Arrun had not yet made the announcement to the crew at large in relation to Argentius’s wishes, but saw here a perfect opportunity to begin the dissemination of that information. ‘When our work here is complete, we will be making a rendezvous with the Quicksilver. We are returning home.’
A murmur ran around the table. Being recalled to Varsavia was, as a general rule, a precursor to preparations for something on a grand scale. It was the most welcome news any of the sergeants could have hoped for. Just from the looks in their eyes and the enthusiastic manner in which they began talking to one another in low voices, Arrun felt a moment’s reassurance. Yes, the old would eventually give way to the young. But the Silver Skulls were a tough breed.
They would prevail.
FIVE
CRY WOLF
Sergeant Dasan of Squad Mohave was a reticent soul. Like many of the Silver Skulls, he had grown to young manhood amongst a nomadic tribe. Many of these tribes had their own traditions and customs. In Dasan’s tribe, unnecessary speaking before battle was considered borderline blasphemy. As such, he had a tendency towards being serious and silent, speaking only when necessary. It was the way of his people.
Sergeant Matteus on the other hand, was loquacious enough for the both of them.
Both were of an age; they had arrived at the fortress-monastery at Varsavia within a few short years of one another. They had trained together, fought together and received their promotions almost simultaneously. There was an old rivalry between them, but it was not malicious. It was the sort of rivalry that was encouraged by their superiors. A never-ending urge to be better than your peers drove you to greater and greater feats of strength and courage.
Right now though, Dasan would gladly have used every ounce of his strength to tear out his brother’s voice box if it meant Matteus would cease his endless chatter. His brother filled the silence between conversation with unnecessary observations or words of self-perceived wisdom. Not for the first time since he had become friends with the confident, outgoing Matteus, the sergeant of Squad Mohave found himself irritated by the other. He even considered breaking his ritual silence to say something.
In the event, he did not need to.
‘Still your endless tongue, brother-sergeant.’ Ryarus’s voice came from across the other side of the Thunderhawk. ‘The only words that should be coming from your mouth right now are prayers and litanies.’
‘Yes, Brother-Apothecary.’ Matteus was duly chastened and fell into blissful silence. Dasan heaved a sigh of relief.
The two squads and the Apothecary were traversing the Gildar Rift relatively slowly. With the sheer quantity of debris and asteroids hurtling through the sector, it was a treacherous route that only a fool would consider attempting at speed. Their pilot, one of the Chapter’s human serfs, was supremely good at what he did.
‘Take us on a clear circuit of the ship,’ Dasan said, his low rumble finally breaking the awkward silence that had followed Ryarus’s harsh words to Matteus. ‘That way, we may get a better idea of its condition.’
‘At once, lord.’
Engines whining, the Thunderhawk banked sharply as it went into a turn to circle the prow of the stricken vessel. The starboard side of the Wolf of Fenris was, if anything, worse than the presenting port side.
‘Boarding torpedo damage,’ observed Matteus as he squinted through the tiny porthole-sized window above his seat. ‘Evidence that they’ve been fired on – see all the scoring on the surface? Raiders, perhaps?’
‘Our cousins are fierce warriors,’ Dasan replied. ‘They would not have fallen to an enemy easily, especially not disorganised raiders.’ Matteus and Dasan exchanged looks, sharing a moment of consensus. Raiders generally attacked in small groups and usually homed in on small Imperial transport vessels. To consider raiders attempting to take on something the size of an Adeptus Astartes strike cruiser was laughable.
‘Take us to the rear docking bay, Eryk.’ Ryarus reached for his helm and tugged it on over his head. When he spoke next, all emotion and feeling was flattened from his voice.
‘Squads Kyanite and Mohave... as the captain observed during the moot, this is to be treated as a hostile environment until evidence presents itself to the contrary.’
As he would be the senior warrior present, Arrun had turned overall command over to the Apothecary. Ryarus was steady of purpose and clear-headed. He would lead a search and rescue operation with smooth efficiency and not be distracted by the opportunity to deviate from the captain’s orders in pursuit of some foolish glory quest. Dasan and Matteus were competent, capable warriors but they were content to defer to Ryarus’s superior wisdom and experience.
Throughout the Thunderhawk, the only sound for a few moments was the soft hiss of helmet seals locking into place and the rhythmic creaking of ceramite-covered hands flexing and unflexing as the Silver Skulls ensured the correct functioning of the joints.
‘If none of the crew still live,’ Ryarus opened a vox-channel to both squads, ‘then we stabilise the ship and we await the captain’s further instruction. If our cousins are still with us, then we establish what happened and we either bring them back to the Dread Argent for treatment or if they are beyond mortal assistance, I will personally deliver them into the arms of the Emperor.’
He turned his visored head to scan down the line of battle-brothers. Both squads were presently at full complement, in itself almost a miracle. Each warrior wore his silver-grey armour proudly, the yellow-hued right shoulder pauldrons of Fourth Company glinting in what little light there was in the interior of the gunship. On their left shoulders was the emblem of the Chapter, a stylised skull cast in silver. Each squad’s emblem had eyes picked out in the gemstone that gave them their name. Blue for Squad Kyanite; purple for Mohave.
Ryarus’s eyes travelled back up the line once more. His ruby-red lenses gave away nothing of his thoughts, and he continued.
‘From what we can see, many areas of the ship are going to be blocked by battle damage. There are obvious hull breaches which will cause spikes in your life support systems. Take note of your armour’s warnings and good hunting. And, my brothers... if we for one moment suspect that there is warp-taint aboard, no matter how minimal, then we scourge whatever we may find. If for any reason we find ourselves outnumbered or outclassed, then – and only then – we leave the Wolf of Fenris and we give the order to have her destroyed.’
Every head dipped in acknowledgement. Steel-grey hands closed around bolter stocks and a faint murmuring of sounds filled the gunship’s interior as each spoke his personal litany, often in the tribal dialect of their birth. Suc
h connections to their lives before ascension to the ranks of the Adeptus Astartes were actively encouraged. The Silver Skulls were proud of their heritage and those who heralded from the Chapter’s home world held onto the traditions and practices of their upbringing stoically.
‘Bringing her round for docking now, my lord,’ announced Eryk.
Ryarus nodded and allowed himself a moment for his own fervent prayers. The God-Emperor willing, their cousins would be living. It was pessimism to suspect otherwise. Ryarus, though, had always held true to a premise a former sergeant had taught him decades ago.
Never expect anything… and you’ll never be surprised or disappointed.
The interior of the Wolf of Fenris told them as little as the exterior had done. There were scorch scars in the walls that suggested heavy fighting had taken place but it was impossible to say when this had happened. The air was thin and carried the stench of old, dried blood. The fading stains of it were spattered up the walls, across the steel decking and against the sides of the landing craft where they hung lifelessly in their grav-cradles. Spent bolter shells practically carpeted the ground underfoot and there were deep gouges in the side of a Thunderhawk that a closer inspection suggested could only have been made by a chainsword.
What little light there was came from emergency lumen-strips set into the sides of the hangar bay, but they wavered with a faintly audible fizzle. Sparks of electricity spat from ruptured power cables.
‘I’d say we could confirm that there was a fight here, at least,’ Matteus’s voice came across the vox with its regular light-hearted tone and for once, Ryarus didn’t snap at him to be quiet. Each Space Marine dealt with grim discoveries like this in their own way. The gentle attempt at humour did not jar at all; it was just Matteus’s own method.
Dasan crouched and picked up a damaged bolt pistol. The barrel had been blown apart at the point the weapon had failed. Careful inspection revealed that it bore the crest of Fenris. All around, weapons lay where they had been abandoned; some damaged, others seemingly discarded.
The Gildar Rift Page 9
