‘Our shields?’
‘If we continue to divert power from non-critical systems, shield banks will operate at a constant ninety-six per cent until damaged,’ the servitor reported. ‘Damage sustained to this ship following previous attack by the enemy vessel Wolf of Fenris was minimal. There is a minor hull breach on deck six, but it is under containment. Statistical chances...’
‘Enough. Yanus, corroborate damage reports and dispatch appropriate teams as you see fit.’
‘Already begun, sir.’ Pre-empting his captain’s next question, Yanus continued. ‘The Wolf of Fenris is maintaining position for now. She’s entered a high orbit of Gildar Secundus, but augur returns aren’t showing anything coming from her. Superficially at least, it looks like she’s barely capable of maintaining her own momentum. I suggest we may have caused enough damage during that pass-by to keep her out of the fray for now.’
It was all strangely calm and ordered. Every member of the crew knew their places and knew their duties. This was what they spent most of their lives in training for and now that their time had come, each was as eager as the other to rid the Imperium of a menace that had long been allowed to go unchecked.
‘As you were, Yanus. I pass bridge command to you. The Dread Argent is, as of this moment, under your control. Keep me updated.’ The very faintest flicker of a smile played around Arrun’s lips. Both he and Yanus knew that the formal handover was little more than words. There was a need for a strong commanding presence amongst the bridge crew and whilst he was overseeing the activities of his company, Arrun could not take that role. The bridge crew liked and respected Yanus and the officer had commanded several times in his lord’s absence.
He still straightened at the words, though, and a flush of pride coloured his cheeks.
‘Yes, my lord.’
Nodding curtly to the bridge commander, the captain made his way without impedance to the apothecarion.
Naryn was already there with a number of servitors and assistants, putting together narthecium packs ready for deployment with the various squads as they prepared for battle. He looked up at the sound of Arrun’s approach and stood rigidly to attention.
Like many of the Silver Skulls, Naryn favoured wearing his hair shoulder length. Unlike many of the Chapter though, his hair was a deep, burnished copper colour. It had always marked him out amongst the largely blond or dark-haired Silver Skulls and indicated his family heritage from one of the non-Varsavian recruiting worlds that they had begun to use. With that colouring, he was likely from the ash wastes of Garanda II. He had an expressive and intelligent face with large, inquisitive eyes and those eyes fixed on the captain with great enthusiasm.
‘Apothecary,’ Arrun greeted. The other returned the greeting in kind and wasted no time at all in launching into an animated discussion.
‘I have studied Ryarus’s notes regarding the Resurgent Project in great depth,’ he said, indicating the data-slate on the table behind him. ‘I was fortunate enough to be one of his assistants during the earlier part of the project and I–’
‘If you have to put the Resurgent Project into action, how confident do you feel that you can achieve it without error or disaster?’ Arrun cut across the Apothecary’s words. He had neither the time nor the inclination for a protracted discussion about Naryn’s competencies or suitability. The fact that Brand had recommended him was more than adequate. Now was the time for expediency.
‘I...’ Naryn was thrown temporarily, but regained his composure just as swiftly – something which did not go unnoticed. ‘I am very confident, Captain Arrun.’
‘Good,’ replied Arrun. ‘Because it is very likely that you’re going to have to prove that your faith in your own confidence is justified. I would suggest that this is likely to happen sooner rather than later.’
Anything Naryn had to say regarding the matter was pushed into insignificance when the vox-bead in Arrun’s ear chirruped. He held up a hand to forestall anything Naryn might have said and turned away from the Apothecary.
‘Daerys.’ The voice sounded distant; coming as it did from the Manifest Destiny.
‘Sinopa.’ A warm smile flickered over Arrun’s face. ‘I take it you’ve not broken my ship whilst I’ve been away from her?’
‘I haven’t,’ came the genial response. ‘Which is more than I can say for what you have done to that one. What is it that has happened, brother? Your bridge officer informs me that damage is minimal, but the Dread Argent is a mess from the outside. And something about the Wolf of Fenris? I confess he seemed a little flustered by my questions. What has occurred here?’
‘Treachery of the worst kind, Sinopa.’ Arrun turned to Naryn and indicated that the Apothecary should follow him through to Volker’s chamber.
Returning his full attention to his fellow captain, Arrun continued. ‘The Red Corsairs. That is what has occurred here.’ He had no need to explain any further. ‘Right now, you are in command of our best chance of success. The Tyrant is likely to start launching attack ships at us any time now in an effort to cause as much damage as he possibly can. Prior to my retort to his opening gambit, I do not believe he had plans to actually destroy us. In the wake of that, however, I would not put it past him to soften us up more effectively.’
Arrun took a moment, then spoke with an edge in his voice that only hinted at the steel in his heart. ‘He said he wants to take the Dread Argent, but you and I both know that we cannot possibly allow that to happen. You understand what it is that I am saying here?’
Naryn finished giving instructions to his assistants and, picking up the data-slate from the bench, fell into step with the captain. He glanced up at the last sentence, easily understanding the message implicit in the instruction. He was quite correct, of course. The Dread Argent and the Resurgent Project were far too valuable to ever fall into the hands of the enemy. Every last warrior of the Silver Skulls Chapter would agree. The sacrifice would be immense, but essential.
Naryn vowed softly to himself that if he had any input into the matter, it would not come down to such a choice.
Arrun ran a hand across his jaw. Sinopa had not yet responded to his last statement. He knew precisely why it was. Undoubtedly, his battle-brother was consulting with his own Prognosticator. Finally, after several moments, the crackle of the vox brought his reply and a confirmation of his suspicions.
‘I understand, brother-captain. And though it both aggrieves me and goes against my better judgement, I will not hesitate to comply should there be no other alternative. But then, and only then. Brother Ikek agrees that it must be so.’
‘Excellent, Sinopa. Yanus has temporary command of my bridge – give your orders to him directly. But as your commanding officer in this matter, as Master of the Fleet, I have just one order at this time.’ Arrun lifted his head and Naryn saw the glint in the captain’s eyes. The Apothecary felt a familiar pre-battle thrill of anticipation run through him and he whispered a soft litany to himself. Arrun’s eyes met his and there was something hungry, almost predatory in them.
‘Annihilate them.’
The battle began slowly; almost painfully so. Every single one of the ships engaged in this combat were leviathans, built for long-distance travel or for delivering punishing retribution to transgressors on planets far below. All but three of the vessels were sluggish to respond.
The three Executor-class vessels that had come into the system like dogs at the heels of their master peeled away from the Spectre of Ruin’s larger shadow. They performed turns that were tight and graceful and now faced the Dread Argent. Their very presence was menacing and as they powered up their thrusters, their initial movement was slow and jerky, necessitating sharp movements to avoid the debris. The field of junk had been freshly stirred up in the wake of the sudden rapid thrusts of two enormous warships. Despite their early glacial pace, they swiftly gained speed and were soon accelerating with all haste towards the battle-barge.
Simultaneously, the Spectre of Ruin opened fir
e with her dorsal guns. The Red Corsairs ship was nowhere near at full turn. Consequently, the assault became more of a warning shot across their bows than anything else. The missiles ripped through the spatial void and clipped the Dread Argent on the aft side. The huge ship shuddered and groaned under the impact, but the shields held.
‘She’s aiming to cripple us,’ came the astute observation from one of the crew and Yanus grimaced his acknowledgement. Huron Blackheart had made very clear his intentions not to destroy the strike cruiser, but that strategy would likely only be the truth until the whim of a moment changed his mind. At any time, the leader of the Red Corsairs might grow bored or indifferent to the situation. They could never hope to fully plan a counter-strategy. Military research and history had taught every naval officer in the Imperium that Huron Blackheart’s methods were erratic and unpredictable.
‘Minimal damage. Shields holding.’
The Executors tore past the fore viewscreen of the Dread Argent. They moved with a grace that belied their age and design. Vessels of ancient lore, all of the Executors had been missing, presumed lost, for centuries bar one or two never-confirmed sightings. Now, here they were in all their mythological glory. Three of them. They may have been grand cruisers in their own right, but the lance boats moved with far more speed and with relatively tighter control than their sluggish, bigger counterparts.
One of them on its own presented a considerable threat; their flanks bristled with banks of energy lances and huge calibre plasma cannons designed specifically to shatter shields and pierce hulls. Such a phenomenal amount of weaponry could deliver a punishing amount of damage to any unfortunate vessel that strayed into its path.
Three of them working together was a nightmare made flesh and was, in many ways, more of an immediate threat than the sheer explosive power of the Spectre of Ruin itself.
Despite their very visible threat and menace, they were beautiful to watch. At such a time, aesthetic wasn’t something that seemed even remotely appropriate and yet even Yanus had a certain professional interest in the Executors. Any identifiable designations had long since been defiled and as the ships passed heart-stoppingly close, Yanus could make out nearly every individual battle burn and metal scar that they carried. They were brutal things. Brutal and efficient.
They were extraordinary.
Yanus forced himself to pull his thoughts away from admiration and to concentrate on the matter.
‘Open fire on the Executors.’ Sinopa’s voice came across the vox. Yanus nodded absently, then realised that Sinopa wasn’t on the bridge with him. He cursed himself softly for the moment of distraction.
‘Yes, lord.’ He relayed the message to the gunnery crews standing by far down in the gun decks and the Dread Argent spat shells of loathing from her fore bombardment cannon towards the middle Executor.
‘Reload.’
The orders were relayed through the ship to the better part of a full kilometre away. Deep within the armoured and stifling confines of the magazine, an army of servitors and Chapter serfs sparked into immediate, obedient action. Colossal racks located beneath a shielded canopy lowered pressure-heated shells onto the mass of conveyors that lined the interior of the ship. These shells were hauled into the cavernous breaches by a combination of archaic technology and serfs. The noise was deafening; the shouts of the humans, the stuttered input of the servitors and the hiss from the missiles all competing and vying with one another in an effort to be the loudest.
Once the projectiles were secured into position, the rising whine of a hundred banks of generators added to the noise, filling the air until it rose to a pitch that could no longer be heard by anyone other than the aurally augmented. When the missile was fired, the forces created by the generators propelled the massive shell towards its target.
Had there been any sort of atmosphere to carry it, the sonic shock created would have undoubtedly pulverised flesh and shattered stone. But in the silence of space, the launch was marked only by an explosive halo of vapour which ringed the cannon muzzle as the Emperor’s wrath left the Dread Argent seeking its target.
From initial order to execution, the process took a little under a minute. In a pitched battle, even this was too long. Once the ship was engaged in earnest, the crews would have to show a marked improvement and well they knew it. Their lives – and the lives of all on board – depended on it.
Their job was simply to load. Other things, such as aiming and engaging the circuits that propelled the missiles happened far away, on the bridge. The Executor had already been designated ‘Target Beta’ in response to the rapid, quick-fire exchanges taking place between the two Silver Skulls vessels. Referring to it as ‘the middle ship’ was somewhat superfluous in the situation and in the three dimensional vastness of space.
In a rare moment of poetry, something quite contradictory to his current nature, Huron Blackheart had renamed the trio of devastating ships something far more extravagant and ostentatious. Hope’s Sunset, Midnight Solitude and Nightmare’s Dawn were the monikers he had almost lovingly bestowed upon them. He would have poured scorn on such an unimaginative naming convention.
Each one of the Executors was indistinguishable from the other to the untrained eye, yet each one had a very specific role to play. He had employed them in a number of campaigns and they had always triumphed.
The Dread Argent’s payload burned through the blackness of space, a glowing trail of fire in its wake. But ship-to-ship warfare under duress, and when coupled with an area as densely packed with obstacles as the Gildar Rift, would never be an exact science. As such, the shot did not detonate on its target, instead glancing with no visible effect that burst against the Executor’s shields. As the smoke cleared, it was obvious that it was not only the Dread Argent’s shields that were holding steady.
‘Reload,’ ordered Yanus.
The three Executors veered sharply as they bore down on the Manifest Destiny; one continuing on its direct assault run and the other two breaking away in seemingly impossible synchronicity, each heading to either side of the battle-barge. They were planning to bombard the Silver Skulls flagship from three sides.
Yanus silently cursed the necessary delay of reloading and felt impotent and helpless as he stood watching the three Executors open their attack on the battle-barge.
The officer, a failed aspirant of many years past, had dedicated his life to gladly serving alongside the Silver Skulls in whatever capacity he could manage. He was every bit as fierce and loyal as one of the chosen. This had not gone unnoticed as was evidenced by the fact he now stood in command of an entire Adeptus Astartes strike cruiser. Yes, Yanus may have failed but through years of hard work and dedication, he had received his due reward. Now he felt the pressure of command weigh him down.
‘Keep concentrating your weapons on Target Beta.’ Sinopa’s voice across the vox was dark and rich, calm and measured. ‘The Manifest Destiny will deal with the other two. Fire at will. Prepare to withstand a fierce barrage from their guns. I do not doubt for one minute that they will turn on you in an instant. The augur arrays are picking up the imminent arrival of a number of our own escort vessels. They will help distract the enemy.’
‘At your command, my lord.’ Yanus turned to face the bridge officers and relayed the other’s orders. Sweat was prickling his brow and running down his sun-darkened face in a glistening line. He reached up and wiped it away. Allowing such weakness to be shown before the others would not do and Yanus was a proud man.
‘There is another attack incoming from the Spectre of Ruin.’ Yanus swallowed and nodded. He allowed himself the briefest moment of doubt, wishing that Arrun was here and that this heavy responsibility was back on his lord’s more-than-ample shoulders. Then he straightened his back and held his head up high.
‘Maintain power to the shield generators. As soon as the strike dissipates, track and fire on Target Beta again.’
There was a faraway, dissonant rumble as the second missile detonated far to
the rear of the Dread Argent. At this great distance from the physical location of the strike point, it was felt as barely more than a slight shaking. But this in itself was enough to indicate what had happened. Several red lights began to flash with some urgency on the consoles and Yanus eyed them with the sort of expression he normally reserved for upstart young crewmen. The announcement when it came held no surprise.
‘Shield bank alpha failing. Generators down to seventy-five per cent. Compensating.’
Yanus nodded. Another two or three partial hits would disable the shields completely. A direct hit after that would destroy them. They could only reroute power to the shields for so long before they burned out the systems completely. The Tyrant was trying to force them into complete surrender.
The bridge officer knew full well that would never happen. Not whilst Daerys Arrun still drew breath.
Porteus had been right. The descent from the mountains had been gruelling and perilous. Prior to their deployment, Simeon had cast the auguries and they had been excellent, according to him. Yet here they were; their Prognosticator dead, their route lethal and right now, at the end of this most perfidious journey, they faced the seemingly impossible.
Further minor injuries, little more than cuts and bruises, had been sustained during their climb down the mountains, but fortune had favoured them. There had been a number of sheer drops where they had not had any choice but to let themselves fall. Despite these inconveniences and a series of broken or dislocated bones that began to heal during the journey, they had descended without too much difficulty.
It had been good in a way; the firm belief that this mission was meant to succeed had been restored in the squad and they moved with renewed purpose and determination towards the target. They would honour Simeon’s divination. They would trust to his judgement and to his confidence, even though he was not here to reiterate it.
The Gildar Rift Page 16
