The Gildar Rift

by Sarah Cawkwell

  He was granted rebirth. Eight days after he was struck down by Androcles, the former Master of the Astral Claws rejoined the physical plane and spoke to his loyal men once more. They thrilled to the reality of his impossible return, rejoicing in his restored presence. The very fact he had survived certain death awoke the spark of fanaticism. He soaked up their adulation and his arrogance knew no bounds.

  In acknowledgement of who and what he had become, he took the name ‘Blackheart’ to his breast and decreed that the name of the Astral Claws be forever stricken from their lips and memories. They had desecrated their power armour, defiling the aquila and painting over the sigil of their once-noble Chapter. In time, others had flocked to Blackheart’s banner. Cultists who revelled in the Red Corsairs brutality. Space Marines from other Chapters who felt that they had been wronged in some way. Some were convinced to serve Huron Blackheart in lieu of owed payments on substantial debts. There were those who truly believed in what he was doing, or who could be persuaded to believe in it very quickly.

  Blackheart and his men, it was said, could be surprisingly persuasive when the mood took them.

  For the most part, the Tyrant himself remained a figurehead, rarely leading the standard raids and boarding actions that formed the backbone of his Red Corsair’s activities. He remained in solitary contemplation of his dark fate. Apothecaries and tech-priests attended him as required, ensuring his augmetics were well maintained and doing whatever they could to relieve the constant pain. But every so often, something would pique his interest. At these times, he would step from his throne room as though he had never been away and he would once again indulge his voracious appetite for power.

  When he chose to take command, he did so with the same charisma and power that he had demonstrated in his heyday. He was an unstoppable, powerful force with an ability to plan for several possible contingencies and adapt his ideas at the very last minute. He was considered to be a scourge and he revelled in the moniker.

  The activities of the Silver Skulls in the Gildar Rift had engaged his curiosity and the old, unslakeable thirst for things that were not his own had bubbled to the surface. He had monitored them for long enough. He knew their patrols, understood their methods and he had decreed that the waiting was at an end.

  Today the Red Corsairs would strike.

  All across the Gildar system, the arrival of the Spectre of Ruin heralded the rousing of a rebellion that had been sleeping peacefully for several long months. The hydra heads of insurrection and incursion that had been so carefully and strategically placed reacted to the moment of the flagship’s arrival with precision timing.

  Their poisonous strikes were swift and struck true, seeing vital Imperial structures brought to their knees with alarming alacrity.

  Gildar Primus, the airless mining world orbiting closest to the sun, saw sudden raids on atmospheric generators which caused more than a dozen hab-domes to be starved of oxygen. Countless workers and defence troops died in breathless agony without ever knowing the reason why. Defence forces mustering in response to the disaster found themselves cut off by the airless, frozen domes. They stood helpless, unable to react as the Red Corsairs, safe from the ravages of the atmosphere, took control.

  The hydroponic gardens of Gildar Quintus suffered terribly. Once fruitful and yielding vital foodstuffs that served not only the Gildar system but were exported to Imperial worlds beyond, their bounty withered and died as the poisonous chemicals introduced into the feed lines by human Red Corsair infiltrators seeped forth their toxic fumes.

  For every world a different plan. Civil rioting broke out across the Gildar worlds, engaging the planetary defence forces and keeping their attention from the true threat that loomed beyond the planet’s atmosphere far above them.

  As Porteus and his squad had discovered on their way to the surface, Gildar Secundus was already dealing with its own situation. But it wasn’t the only planet that was under threat. Across the eight major planets of the Gildar system, the arrival of Huron Blackheart meant that loyal Imperial citizens were finding themselves drowned in the relentless tide that he had brought. Red Corsairs raiders, Adeptus Astartes and humans both received the call to arms from their revered leader and they did exactly what they were instructed to do.

  Everything happened quickly. Far too quickly for any kind of fast response. The Gildar system was falling.

  The full extent of Huron Blackheart’s complex strategy was only just beginning to come to light. They were schemes that were so twisted, convoluted and duplicitous that they had passed by even the uncanny predictive capabilities of the Silver Skulls greatest Prognosticators.

  ‘My Lord Apothecary.’

  If Huron Blackheart was capable of expressing any kind of pleasure, this was as close at it came. The hololithic display from the Spectre of Ruin flickered before Garreon, poor in quality, but a welcome sight nonetheless. He and Taemar had been tasked with this most important element of Blackheart’s ground plans and the one which had been in effect longer than any other. Their infiltrators had been in place for months. Taking control of the communications tower at the given moment had been a work of almost breathtaking simplicity.

  Once the communications tower had been taken, it had been the easiest thing to broadcast the message sent by the Spectre of Ruin across the system, heralding the start of the attack. The promethium refinery had fallen swiftly into the Red Corsair’s hands, the Corpsemaster himself dealing much of the death that was evidenced before him.

  Broken, bloodied bodies of Primus-Phi’s outer defence guard lay in dismembered ruin everywhere. The stench of death was dulled a little by the falling rain – but not to Garreon. He could still smell death and it fired his blood and his soul. Red Corsairs moved within the exterior compound of the refinery, some manning the cannons, others merely looting the bodies of the dead for anything of value.

  ‘My lord.’ The cadaver-like face of the Corpsemaster twisted in a brief smile. ‘I trust your arrival in the system has thus far been unimpeded?’

  ‘As if there was any doubt.’ The Tyrant’s growl was grating and harsh as it was torn from the replacement larynx and metal teeth. ‘These worshippers of the corpse-Emperor will soon come to learn the futility of resistance. Even now, they prepare their paltry defences. I welcome this. It will be an amusing distraction.’

  A rhythmic grating suggested that Blackheart was laughing. ‘But tell me, my Lord Apothecary, my most glorious Corpsemaster, are my plans progressing well?’

  ‘Aye, my lord. Our human allies did not disappoint us. They took the communications tower easily enough. The defences here at the refinery were weak at best.’ A slightly twisted smile. ‘They were easily bested. I confess, I found the brief engagement almost disappointing. But there was fine bounty to be taken from it.’ He referred to the piles of dead from whom he could take any amount of genetic material to use in his experiments.

  The Corpsemaster hesitated briefly, then grudgingly continued. ‘Taemar led quite an impressive raid. He fights well, even with his inglorious heritage.’ The Corpsemaster’s face twisted in a supercilious sneer. ‘I have never been too proud to admit when I am wrong. You have chosen your lieutenant well. Even if he is not one of our very own.’

  ‘Curb your disdain, Garreon. Has he returned to the Wolf of Fenris?’

  ‘Yes. He departed as soon as the signal was received and the moment the Wolf was in range.’

  It had been a masterstroke. The positioning of the Wolf had been vital. It had needed to be within teleport range of the planet in order to both deliver the call to arms that had launched the Red Corsairs into action – and to receive Blackheart’s second-in-command as he returned ready for the next phase.

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘He sent a most interesting communication on his return. I am led to believe that there is a particular reward awaiting me on our ship. The capture of a number of Silver Skulls warriors.’ Against any sense of control he may have had, the Corpsemaster bega
n to salivate at the thought of access to a much-coveted Chapter. The secrets to be unlocked would engage his attentions fully for months to come. He raised a hand absently to his lips and wiped the drool away from his chin.

  As though sensing what his Apothecary was thinking, Blackheart gave another of his grating, inhuman chuckles. ‘I deeply regret making you wait before you can indulge your insatiable curiosities, my Lord Apothecary. But this will be over soon. As soon as I have taken the Dread Argent, I will be joining you on the surface and we can take what we need and plenty more of that which we do not. You will ensure you hold it for me?’

  It was oddly plaintive; the request of a spoiled child and as he had always done, the Corpsemaster indulged his lord and master outrageously.

  ‘You must learn not to doubt your most faithful, my lord. Primus-Phi is ours now. Already we have destroyed a ship sent down by the Silver Skulls to investigate. We have a confirmation that all that remains is a hulk of metal. The refinery guns are firmly under our control and the wealth of this place is all ours.’

  The noise that came from Blackheart could only be described as an excitable giggle. The depth of madness implicit in the sound was extraordinary, but the Corpsemaster had grown used to his master’s growing instability over the decades. The noise ceased as abruptly as it had begun.

  ‘You are to be commended.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  ‘We have very few options, brother-captain.’

  Daerys Arrun was staring out of the viewscreen, his eyes fixed on the battle-barge as its immense proportions grew ever larger. It was enormously frustrating; the feeling of being the prey instead of the hunter. Brand’s simple words forced him to turn away from the Spectre of Ruin and to look at the Prognosticator. There was a smouldering rage barely contained beneath the surface of the Silver Skulls captain and from the way the veins stood out in his neck and forehead, he was working exceptionally hard on keeping it quelled.

  ‘We make our stand,’ was all he said. ‘They outnumber us by too high a factor. We can only pray to the ancestors that the Tyrant does not know the rest of the fleet is inbound. If we can make a stand until then...’ He turned his head towards the Spectre of Ruin once again. ‘If we can make a stand until then, we can have a chance.’

  ‘We could consider Volker.’

  ‘Yes, we could consider Volker.’ The tone of Arrun’s voice suggested that it wasn’t a consideration that was particularly high on his list of options. ‘But without Ryarus, it would be a gamble at best, destructive for us all at worst.’

  ‘The gamble may become our only option.’ Brand scratched his jaw. ‘Bear that in mind. Better by far that the Dread Argent is destroyed in the attempt than to let her fall into enemy hands.’

  There were many ships outside, effectively pinning them into position. Yet they all remained unmoving. Were it not for the occasional firing of a stabilising thruster from one of them, it could have been a scene frozen in time. They made no move to fire upon the Dread Argent which to Arrun suggested only one thing.

  The Red Corsairs wanted to take the ship.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ the captain murmured to himself.

  ‘The God-Emperor willing, it won’t come to that, brother.’ Despite his low mutter, Brand had heard him.

  Their brief exchange was interrupted as the servitor slaved to the communications console spoke up. ‘Incoming transmission over the ship-to-ship vox-net,’ it droned.

  ‘Silver Skulls vessel Dread Argent, hold your position. Slow your engines and prepare to be boarded.’

  The voice was grating and inhuman, almost mechanical in sound. But there was still a lingering trace of humanity there as well. It was sneering in its tone, making a mockery of the words with which the Silver Skulls themselves used to deal with intruders. The implied insult did not go unnoticed, but Arrun remained silent. He did not have to wait long for confirmation of his suspicions. The enemy clearly had no desire to drag out the suspense and for that, Arrun was almost grateful.

  ‘As you have no doubt realised by now, I am Huron Blackheart, Master of the Red Corsairs. Your vessel will shortly belong to me. I would suggest that it would be in your best interests to give up any foolish thoughts of resistance or some kind of dramatic last stand. I am well aware of the Silver Skulls tendency to heroics and truly, Captain Daerys Arrun, there is no point. What happens to your crew at this point is up to you... although I suspect this will be your personal final battle.’

  Every soul on the bridge of the Dread Argent listened to the words as they dropped through the vox-net, their acidic nature and understated threat carrying much more weight than an outright boast. There was a barking laugh and Blackheart’s rumble resumed.

  ‘What, nothing to say, Captain Arrun? And you have been so talkative in the past! Such interesting transmissions.’

  ‘You will not take my ship, traitor.’ Arrun finally spoke up and Brand nodded quiet approval at the level tone of his voice. ‘The Silver Skulls will never betray the Imperium. You will not succeed here. We will prevail.’

  ‘I rather hoped you would choose to resist,’ the response came. ‘Had you meekly surrendered, it would have robbed us of an ideal opportunity for some much-needed sport. Later, when I am ripping out your pathetic chapel in the heart of my new ship, I will spare a thought for your spirited attempts at defiance. Who knows? I may even make a trophy of your skull to adorn my new chambers. Or perhaps I will let you live long enough to watch as I desecrate that which you hold so precious. I will–’

  ‘Kill the link.’ Arrun’s rage was towering. ‘Kill it. Now.’

  ‘Compliance.’ As the servitor severed the audio link from the Spectre of Ruin, the lingering sound of Blackheart’s inhuman laughter could still be heard.

  The look of impotent fury that was locked on Arrun’s face could have adorned a war-mask. Yet behind his blazing eyes his mind was calculating and coming up with an alternative strategy with expediency. The evidence that he had been outmanoeuvred loomed large on the bridge hololith, mocking him, and the sight of it did nothing at all to salve his wounded pride. Yet he would never allow this ruthless warmonger the swift victory he so obviously craved.

  The Silver Skulls would never lay down arms in the face of the enemy. Huron Blackheart was a madman to think they might be persuaded otherwise.

  The bridge silenced to a hush as the crew anxiously awaited the orders that would send them into battle.

  After little more than several heartbeats, Arrun nodded and raised his head.

  ‘Reduce shields to minimal power. Divert everything we have to the engines.’ A few eyebrows raised in confusion, but he ignored them. ‘Ahead full speed. Full burn. Hard and fast as you can muster.’ An officer hastily relayed the orders and within seconds the angry thrum of the plasma reactors could be felt vibrating through the hull.

  ‘If we try to run with such weakened defences, then the Tyrant will burn us from the void in seconds,’ Brand stated. There was no reproach in the Prognosticator’s words; more a sense of bafflement at his captain’s strategy.

  ‘I know,’ Arrun replied, ‘in fact I’m counting on it.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘It’s obvious.’ A sardonic smile crossed Arrun’s face. ‘He doesn’t want a ruined hulk, he wants a trophy. As such, he will aim to cripple rather than destroy us. Once he’s achieved that, he will descend and pick us apart from within. He has played us from the very beginning. But now?’

  The smile on Arrun’s face became something different. ‘Now... I intend to do the same to him. It is time to level this playing arena.’ It was a dangerous gamble, but given their situation there was little choice.

  Brand nodded his agreement, understanding the reasoning behind what appeared to be little more than a random decision. Seeing the mixed, worried expressions on the faces of his crew, Arrun wordlessly cursed the Tyrant for his cunning. Caught as they were, with their backs on the frigate blockade that lay between them and Gildar Secundus,
they had no choice. They had to keep the Dread Argent held together and in their possession long enough for the rest of the flotilla to arrive.

  Arrun knew that his crew would trust his orders. He had never made random decisions during his time in command and he was not acting randomly now.

  Thrusters burning hot with the increase of power, the Dread Argent began its desperate lunge for freedom. As Arrun had predicted, within moments of their move, the guns of the Spectre unleashed a murderous volley. What the slave crew of Huron Blackheart’s massive vessel lacked in skill they more than made up for with enthusiasm and before the Dread Argent had truly begun to make any headway its shields had collapsed under the barrage.

  Half a second later a brass-wrought shell the size of a battle tank tore a savage hole in the armoured engine housing. Immediately, liquid plasma, the ship’s life-blood began to spill into the void. Wounded, the mighty thrusters sputtered and died, their raging fury dulling to a sullen orange glow.

  Their quarry brought to heel, dozens of barbed boarding craft detached from the belly of the Tyrant’s flagship, swarming their way towards the limping vessel like ants racing to a carcass.

  On the bridge of the Dread Argent, Captain Arrun watched their approach with grim satisfaction. The deck was bathed in flickering crimson light and several banks of cogitators belched smoke and sparks, their slaved servitors fused and ruined.

  It could have been worse, Arrun considered, but did not articulate. The Tyrant was reaching out and taking the bait.

  ‘Is there still power to the reactors?’ The captain laid a firm hand on the shoulder of the tech-adept hovering by the nearby console. The young woman looked up at him, then pressed a few buttons, turned a few dials and engaged some levers. Eventually, she nodded, although it was hesitant. There was something akin to reproach in her eyes. The ship, her charge had been damaged after all – but she fully understood the compromise. She crisply relayed the information he wanted and he gave her a grim, self-satisfied smile.