The communications tower was hardly worthy of the name. A basic, two-storey structure, it was heavily shielded, with defences that were designed to hold out against an orbital attack. The topography and shielded location of the Primus-Phi refinery meant that its builders and defence planners had arrogantly held no suspicion that it might be vulnerable to any sort of ground assault. Such a blind oversight had been the core factor in ensuring that the building had fallen quickly from the hands of the Imperium into the Red Corsairs’ ownership.
Huron Blackheart’s plan had been simple in theory, but in its execution had proved extraordinarily brilliant. With the Wolf of Fenris in orbit acting as a strategic relay, Gildar Secundus had become the key communications lynchpin for the ground actions of the Red Corsairs. With the aid of the strike cruiser’s greatly enhanced long-range vox, all of the Tyrant’s instructions could be relayed from here.
Bereft of information, Porteus knew none of this. All he knew for certain, as he surveyed the communications tower from his vantage point between a natural cleft in the mountains, was that there were Imperial traitors wearing defiled armour coming and going. There were many of them within the compound – far too many for him and his squad to take on with any hope of victory. But the communications array itself seemed to be manned by the Red Corsairs’ slaves. They would be far easier to deal with.
That was the first obvious advantage in the situation, but certainly wasn’t the greatest. The communications tower was built some distance from the rest of the refinery. The massive facility was still within sight, but its distance from the tower was a clear bonus. A small militia garrison was situated at its base, with only a single clear entrance. From the burn scars, broken masonry and corpses littering the ground, it was evident that the guard had made a determined stand in their attempts to hold the tower.
It didn’t take a huge leap of logic for Porteus and his squad to deduce what had happened; at least here at the Primus-Phi refinery. They remained oblivious to the torrid battle raging out far above them, focused as they were on dealing with their own situation.
The sergeant’s mind was working swiftly as he studied the scene before him. He was certainly practical enough to realise that there was no possible way they could hope to retake the facility. He cast a brief eye over at it. It was a huge sprawl of industrialisation, spread across the natural valley in virtually every direction but that which led into the mountains. The crawling tangle of pipelines, stacks and ferrocrete buildings were all a uniform slate grey, dull and eminently practical. Steam and smoke billowed out from the stacks in equal quantity, carrying forth their unique brand of snow-reddening pollution into the atmosphere. Everywhere there were puddles of stagnant, stinking water.
Screams came from somewhere over to the right of the compound: agonised, terrible screams that were torn from a throat not designed to express such anguish. They didn’t end abruptly, merely grew weaker before ceasing altogether.
Movement caught the sergeant’s eye and he blink-clicked his visual display to zoom mode. Targeting reticules immediately came into being and he gazed past them at one of the Red Corsair, he could make out. He was talking to a refinery worker. Closer examination reviewed that ‘talking’ wasn’t quite the word. The raider was threatening the man who was obviously and very gamely attempting to resist. Porteus felt no sympathy, but a moment’s pity for the man as the renegade Space Marine delivered a backhand that would no doubt have killed him in an instant. Although the deduction was nothing new, it was evident that this section of the facility was in enemy hands. From what Porteus knew, which was not very much, this was a small-sized operation in terms of staffing; remote and largely independent. A strike force of Adeptus Astartes would have taken it easily.
He registered a moment’s curiosity that they had not simply slaughtered all the workers. It broached the question: why?
Interesting.
‘Brother-sergeant, what are your orders?’
Porteus turned away from the refinery and back to his squad. ‘We cannot hope to take the refinery,’ he said, stating aloud what they all knew. ‘We do, however, need to get a message to the Dread Argent. I presume our efforts to do that are continuing to fail?’
Keyle shook his head. ‘There’s a signal jam. I would guess that it is actually being emitted from that tower though,’ he added. ‘The interference is particularly strong here.’
‘From that tower. Is that so?’ Porteus smiled grimly beneath his helmet. No, there was no chance they could hope to take back the refinery. Not without a huge influx of additional infantry. All attempts to contact the Dread Argent were proving futile. Had Simeon lived, he may have been able to connect with the astropaths on board, but they were denied that opportunity in the wake of the Prognosticator’s death. For now, they needed to focus on one step at a time.
That first step was going to be to wrest back control of the communications tower. Once that happened, they would have to move as swiftly as they could to get the message back to their company that they were in need of support.
It was all they had to do. It was a big, seemingly impossible ‘all’, but they were Adeptus Astartes. The impossible was what they excelled at.
At this level, the snow had become driving rain that drummed off the armour of the Silver Skulls, forming dirty, polluted puddles at their feet. Through the precipitation, the lights of the refinery were blurred and wavering, almost unreal. They could hear the low exchange of voices, but even with their enhanced hearing, improved still further by their helmets, they could not make out specifics.
Porteus looked up at the sky. The inky blackness of the Gildar night was fully upon them now and if they were going to make any sort of move to reclaim the communications array, night would give them the best possible cover and greatest advantage.
Whilst the behemoths of the two opposing Chapters traded their opening salvoes, the fighters and gunships that both had launched were weaving their way through the spinning debris of the Gildar Rift. The lethal route had already claimed a number of casualties on both sides; although the Red Corsairs were perhaps faring worse.
A battlegroup of Thunderhawks which had burst from the front of the Manifest Destiny ploughed through an expanding cloud of gas and wreckage that had, up until mere moments ago, been a squadron of Doomfire bombers. The first unit to have been scrambled on the Silver Skulls battle-barge’s arrival in-system, Seventh Strike had been stalking the hazardous space lanes whilst more of their brethren spewed forth into the void surrounding the escalating conflict.
Designed and modified by the Chapter’s tech-priests and Techmarines, these close-support variants of the ubiquitous Space Marine gunships were of a slightly sleeker design and boasted las-weapons in place of the more common heavy bolter mounts. Clutches of high explosive warheads hung beneath the stubby wings. The ships punctured through the dissipating smoke and raced onwards towards another one of the seemingly endless stream of traitor craft that poured from the shadowed interior of the Spectre of Ruin.
Piloted by human serfs – the Adeptus Astartes battle-brothers considered too valuable to deploy into a dogfight – Silver Skulls were nonetheless stringent about the training their pilots undertook. Each one was exceptionally talented at what they did, in receipt of intense, relentless instruction.
The vox-net linking the Thunderhawks to one another was alive. Some of the transmissions filtered back to the bridge of the Dread Argent where Yanus was listening grimly.
‘Pursuing target... just out of range...’
‘You’ve got one on your tail. Do you need–’
‘No. No, it’s all right. I can lose him in the debris field.’
There was a pause, then a flare of light burst forth as a Red Corsairs Doomfire misjudged a turn. The overcompensation caused it to collide with an asteroid, a chunk of rock that was easily half its size. It never stood a chance of avoiding its doom. The moment of victory was short lived as the pilot who had lured the Red Corsair raider to its end
spoke again.
‘There’s another three of th–’
Another detonation blossomed and the pilot’s communication went dead.
Through the expanding aurora, another Silver Skulls craft emerged, its weapons blazing. The lascannon carved a dazzling blue path through the void and the engine housing of the furthermost Red Corsairs ship was ruptured. Burning fuel spilled into space, spitting and boiling away. As the Thunderhawk screamed past, the helmsman caught the briefest of brief glimpses of the pilot and gunner of the traitor ship, both roaring in impotent fury as he burned past them.
A moment later, the Doomfire was lost in a cloud of plasma as its drives detonated.
‘They’re still coming!’
‘And they will be met in kind! Punish them for their insolence, for the Silver Skulls and for the Emperor!’
The words were simple but stirred the blood. The Thunderhawks renewed their attack run with gusto. Two more of the Silver Skulls ships were lost within scant seconds to the continued fire of the Red Corsairs. Another was lost due to a moment’s overconfidence on the part of the pilot, who misjudged his distances. He was clipped by a spinning piece of debris that had once been the wing section of one of his own fleet. The ship went spinning wildly out of control. The only saving grace was that as it came to a stop, it did so embedded in one of the other Red Corsairs ships. Both of them were vaporised in an instant.
The pace of battle was fierce and relentless, but the Silver Skulls pilots were keeping the worst of the pounding at bay. Were it not for the undoubted skill and efficiency of their efforts, things would have been far worse.
Despite the fleeting moments of triumph, the Silver Skulls were still heavily outnumbered. The rest of their fleet may be inbound, but they needed to arrive sooner rather than later.
‘Their defences are holding, lord.’
The bridge deck of the Spectre of Ruin was dimly lit and crewed predominately by Red Corsairs Space Marines. Ships power systems were far too valuable to waste on things like maintaining bright lighting when they had vision that could see into the infrared. The power was far better diverted to the engines to increase the velocity of the turn they were making. The fact that there were lumen-strips at all was a grudging concession to the human contingent.
Standing stock-still in the middle of the bridge deck, Huron Blackheart stared out of the fore occulus of the battle-barge. If it had not been for his heavy, rasping breathing, he could well have been a statue placed there to honour the dread Lord of the Red Corsairs. At the helmsman’s words, he whipped his head to the right, spittle flying as he roared a string of furious, guttural curses. Daerys Arrun had outmanoeuvred him once already. He would not do it again.
‘How long until we have a firing solution?’ His voice grated, the vocal cords straining over metal augmetics. The Red Corsair to whom he spoke showed no fear in the onslaught of his commander’s wrath and consulted the ship’s augurs.
‘Soon, my lord.’ The Red Corsair remained totally calm in the face of Blackheart’s spitting fury. ‘The dorsal cannons have been brought to bear...’ He glanced back at the augur arrays. ‘The broadside batteries still do not have their range. Not yet.’
‘Soon?’
‘Very soon.’
‘Boarding parties to embarkation decks. We will take them down from within. They cannot hope to hold that ship against my men. The minute we come about, unleash.’
He headed towards the console. Despite his massive bulk, he moved with a predator’s grace; almost a prowl. He put a gauntleted finger on one of the switches, opening a vox-channel to the Wolf of Fenris.
‘Taemar. Execute the plan at your leisure.’ Blackheart closed his hand into a tight fist. ‘Break them. Destroy them. I want their ship and I place the responsibility into your hands.’
‘About time.’
Blackheart’s scarred, disfigured face twisted at his first captain’s words. Taemar was a bloodthirsty warrior from a bloodthirsty Chapter. He would delight in the slaughter he would create this day.
‘I want the Dread Argent as my trophy before the day is through. Make it happen. I want you to bring me Daerys Arrun alive.’ He paused, flickering embers of malice glittering like jewels in the depths of his mismatched eyes. ‘If, of course, it is reasonably practical to take him alive. I will show him that nobody can stand against the might of the Blood Reaver. Your reward will be great if you accomplish these things, Taemar. As will your punishment should you fail in this.’
‘Yes, lord.’ The hunger and impatience in Taemar’s voice perfectly mirrored that in Blackheart’s own.
‘Open fire on the battle-barge as soon as we are able. If we can take that as well, so much the better. But right now, it is that strike cruiser I want. ‘
His augmented eye flared red deep in its socket. There was a sudden sound, like the fluttering of wings and the Tyrant raised his head. He felt the settle of a familiar weight on his shoulder. He could not see it, but that was its nature. Nobody could see it, not properly. Only glimpses of... something out of the corner of one’s eye. To look directly upon it effectively rendered it invisible.
Its presence was welcome, however. When the hamadraya was not with him, he was mighty. When it was, then he was invincible. Such was his arrogance.
‘I want it. And I will have it.’
‘It’s too soon. Far too soon.’
Correlan stood, young and defiant in the face of his captain, not even attempting to keep his expression neutral. He folded his arms across his chest. Fully armoured, now wearing his harness, Correlan had the height advantage. But Arrun had dealt with many arrogant young warriors in his time and he was neither the slightest bit intimidated nor in the least impressed at the display of attitude.
‘I gave a direct order, Techmarine. I want you to work with Naryn and I want the Resurgent Project on-line within as short a time frame as possible.’ Arrun’s ice-blue eyes burned as he stared down the younger warrior. ‘We are holding the enemy at bay, but there is no saying how long that will be the case. You will do as I order you and you will do it now. I am your captain and you will not defy me like this.’
The Techmarine’s mechadendrites twitched with some mental impulse that Correlan was barely keeping contained, snaking briefly around him in a defensive gesture. He shook his head. Several of the ever-present tech-priests looked as though they would step forward and protest, but at a signal from Correlan they held their position and they held their tongues.
‘I mean no disrespect, captain, but you do not understand the sheer magnitude of what you are asking of me. There are protocols and rituals that must be observed; individuals that need to be present. If we are lax on even one element of the process, the machine spirits may not accept him and the consequences of that–’
The second shot from the Spectre of Ruin struck at that point and everyone in the Resurgent chamber stumbled, except Volker himself, who was secure in his restraints. The young novitiate’s eyes were closed and he looked for all the world like he was meditating peacefully.
Correlan continued where he had left off as though he had not even been interrupted. ‘…could be grave indeed. Not to mention the sheer biological issues surrounding the project. If we try to engage the subject with the systems at this stage in the process, he will experience mental stresses the like of which you and I couldn’t even begin to fathom!’ Correlan was hugely animated as he spoke, his hands weaving about. The tendrils on his harness moved with him, adding further emphasis to his words. ‘Captain, even Vashiro himself would struggle with this if he wasn’t given the right preparation time.’
Arrun glanced up at the youth restrained in the chamber, then back at Correlan. ‘We don’t have preparation time, Correlan. The wolf is quite literally at our heels. You will work with Naryn and you will find a way. This is not a request. I am warning you. Do not make me repeat myself a third time. It is an order.’
Correlan’s mouth opened again, but the look that Arrun shot him was so furious
that he clamped it closed again. The young Techmarine was not afraid to speak his mind and for that, he knew he engendered equal responses of respect and frustration from his superiors – but he would never openly disobey a direct order. He limited his disapproving response to a scowl and he nodded abruptly.
The Apothecary had taken a step back to avoid being a part of the heated debate between his battle-brothers but now that the worst of it seemed to have dissipated, he moved forward again with his data-slate in hand. He engaged every ounce of diplomacy he possessed and he gauged it accurately. His words put a thin veneer of calmness back over the situation.
‘I took the liberty of compiling an implementation checklist based on Ryarus’s notes. I am sure that with Brother Correlan’s assistance, we can achieve what you ask of us as swiftly and with as few hindrances as possible. I really need you to help me in this, Brother Correlan. Nobody else knows the project as well as you.’
The gentle compliment was enough to mollify the Techmarine and he took the proffered data-slate, scanning his eyes across it. Within moments, the two of them were locked in technical conversation.
Arrun left them to it. He shot one last glance at the apparently sleeping Volker Straub. The boy would soon be introduced to his full potential. He fervently hoped that the Prognosticatum had been right when they had picked him out from his peers.
The captain made his way to the assembly tier, usually alive with the sounds of the training cages, but now thronging with fully armoured battle-brothers who stood to attention in mute respect as he passed. They maintained an attentive stance as their captain made his way to the dais where his chief advisor already stood. Arrun lived for these moments; the times when he could speak the words that would spur his company on to great things. This was something usually reserved for either the Prognosticator or Chaplain, depending on which a company had with them at the time. Captain Arrun, who would have become a Chaplain had he not demonstrated such aplomb and skill in the field of strategic planning, had always preferred to take responsibility for his company’s inner fires. The Silver Skulls had thus lost a great Chaplain, but had gained a frenetic, powerful warrior who had risen to become Master of the Fleet.
The Gildar Rift Page 17
