The pain must have been terrible, even with the numbing stimms that were all they could use. They could not render Volker unconscious at this stage of the process because they needed him to tell them that things were working. He had to be alert and he had to be awake at the moment of truth. Without it, he could not take control. He cried out once or twice, but always bit it back. His stoic acceptance of his fate was a boon and a great incentive to those who were operating on him.
It was not a process that could easily be hurried and it was exceptionally fortunate that by the time Arrun’s order was barked through the comm-bead in Correlan’s ear, they were in a position where they could step the pace up. Correlan had begun to protest, but had realised that Arrun had switched channel. Swearing softly, he had wiped a bloodied hand across his face. He had worked tirelessly during the course of the Resurgent Project and had hoped to take his time over the binding process. This was not purely altruistic of course; he did care that Volker didn’t suffer too much but also the process was delicate and rushing it could end in disaster.
‘You are doing fine, brother,’ Naryn reassured the young Techmarine. The Apothecary had learned very quickly during the intense bonding process he had been forced to undergo with Correlan that the exterior mask of swaggering arrogance was just that. A mask. Correlan had spoken barely a single word to either Naryn or Volker during the surgical process, concentrating so hard that the veins in his head stood out.
It didn’t help that they could hear the sounds of bolter fire outside the chambers. Still reasonably far away – but approaching, nonetheless.
‘Fine may not be good enough,’ the Techmarine had responded. ‘But it is the best I can offer.’ He shot a look at the Apothecary that told of his anxiety and doubt. ‘Give me a biometric reading.’
The Apothecary passed his auspex over the prone Volker and nodded. ‘Accelerated heart rate, but nothing beyond expected parameters. Biometric signs are perfect.’
The harried Techmarine nodded. ‘Then I am engaging the third rite.’ Correlan took a deep breath and stepped back from the cradle, turning to a control panel. He punched a few buttons on it and fervently murmured prayers to the machine-spirit that he had harnessed during its creation.
The tech-priests repeated his prayers, surging to stand close to Volker. Each one of them laid a hand on the cradle and recited blessings over and over until Correlan thought the scandalously unthinkable and wished they would all just leave him to complete this in peace. He chewed his lip and closed his eyes briefly.
For all the overconfidence that his youth gave him, Correlan was an undoubted prodigy of the Adeptus Mechanicus. He had excelled during his training on Mars, demonstrating a love of design, a natural affinity for the fickle machine spirits and an outstanding grasp of the necessary rituals. All these strengths had served him well during the course of his tenure on the project. The device that now lowered from the ceiling was the end product of several years work in which he had been but one link – although a crucial one – in the chain and now all those modifications he had worked on with such great attention to detail and care were coming to fruition. He had slaved over them in his own time, what little of it he had. He never participated in the social gatherings when his brothers indulged themselves with stories of their past greatnesses. He was too busy working hard for their future success.
The very real fear of failure weighed heavily on his shoulders.
Humming softly as it lowered, the cradle was nothing more than a neatly arranged number of cables and connectors that lay dormant and unmoving. As the Techmarine pressed a few more buttons, the cradle woke into a seething, writhing mass of electrical life. It was oddly reminiscent of the Techmarine’s own mechadendrites.
The chanting of the tech-priests grew to a crescendo and they all looked on, awestruck at the sight of the seemingly living, breathing thing. It was a marvel of technology and the Omnissiah had seen fit to grant it existence. Something akin to holy fervour grew in Correlan’s breast and his fears were quashed. This was what he had been building up to. This was his moment. In the next few minutes, he would either fail or succeed. There was no grey area.
‘Connections live,’ he reported, looking at the built-in auspex on his wrist. ‘All systems appear optimal.’
‘Biometrics remain stable.’
The brief exchange was odd, the Techmarine thought in a rare moment of introspection. Technology and biology coming together to work on something that was, ultimately, technology and biology coming together. He pulled his mind from the distracting thought and moved to take hold of the cradle. He carefully removed the first of the end connectors and angled the cable so that it was ready to marry up with the port that had been embedded in Volker’s spine. Almost instantly, a tech-priest reached across to anoint the cable. It took all of Correlan’s patience not to swat him away. This had to be done. It needed to be done.
‘Once the first cable connects, the others will follow automatically,’ he said, quietly, more to Volker than to Naryn. ‘It is similar to the method we use to connect to our power armour. I’m sorry, Volker, but you will very probably experience some considerable pain as they make their connections.’
Volker nodded, apprehension on his face, but courage there still. He quietly began to recite the Catechism of Fortitude. Naryn scanned the young man one final time and then took a step back.
‘He remains stable. It is now or never.’
‘Best be now then.’ Correlan smiled thinly, but nobody returned it. ‘Engaging connection,’ he said, a slight tremor in his voice as he brought the cable to Volker’s spine. It snaked forward, a questing, hungry tendril and then slid into the lowest of the ports that were studded up the Resurgent’s back. There was a faint slick as the cable seated and then the cradle came to active, urgent life.
Correlan watched its progress wordlessly. Before each cable implanted itself, a tech-priest ensured that there was a dab of sacred oil on its tip. Whether this aided the physical process or not, he could not say; but such consecration and devotion as was being poured into Volker Straub was unprecedented.
One after the other, the cables thrust themselves into Volker’s spine. The process was not gentle and to the youth’s credit, he only let out the faintest of cries. Naryn, watching with something between concern for his patient and fascination at the process, monitored his output closely. Again, apart from the expected increase in Volker’s heart rate, he bore the process well.
Five, six, seven cables all made their connections into Volker’s body and then another eighth cable, this one a little thicker than the others seated itself at the very bottom of his skull. This time, Volker’s pain found itself an outlet and the young man screamed in anguish.
‘The third rite is complete,’ Correlan said, staring down at the outcome of all those months of careful research and tireless work. He looked at what he had wrought. Agony so intense that the boy suffering it could barely take it. Yet he still lived. Admiration overrode Correlan’s doubts and he moved back to his bench, picking up the final connection.
It occurred to him, although he did his best not to linger on the thought, that if he had paid more attention to his own litanies and prayers; had he not allowed his attentions to be diverted to the beauty of the blueprints, the ecstasy of creating things with his hands... if only he had spent more time in devotional worship of the Omnissiah, then perhaps he could have alleviated some of Volker’s suffering. The guilt was his to bear and he bore it stoically.
‘Mind impulse unit,’ he said, keeping his focus. ‘With this gift may you commune with the machine. Connection...’ He pressed the device to the back of the thrashing Volker’s head, blanking out the screams as best he could. ‘...engaged. The fourth rite... is complete.’ He stepped back again and shot a look over at the Apothecary. Naryn was looking concerned, his dark eyes fixed on his patient. Introducing drugs to Volker’s system before and during the connection process had always been an impossibility. Trying to forget the a
ccusatory look he had gotten from Naryn when he had explained this, Correlan studied the readings on his auspex. After several moments of Volker’s screams which had by now faded into soft, agonised moans, he nodded.
Correlan closed his eyes briefly. He suspected very strongly that the sound of Volker’s suffering would be something that he would remember for the rest of his life in service to the Imperium.
The Apothecary sucked in a breath as he stared down at Volker’s biometrics, which were spiking wildly. ‘His stresses are bordering on the dangerous, Correlan. Much more and we will have to abort the procedure. Much more, and he will die.’ The Techmarine nodded grimly and opened his eyes again.
‘You can give him pain relief now,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, Volker.‘
Naryn stepped forward and injected painkillers directly into Volker’s neck. It would take several moments for them to take effect. The Apothecary was acutely aware both of the urgency of the situation and the encroaching sounds of battle outside their protective bulkhead.
‘Has it worked?’ Naryn’s question, when it came, was clipped and shorter perhaps than he had meant it to be. Volker at least had settled again. The young man’s eyes were closed, but his lips were moving as silent prayers and litanies came to the fore. Correlan’s eyes were riveted to the output auspexes. After a moment or two, he shook his head.
‘It hasn’t worked?’ Naryn was startled at the sense of disappointment that welled.
‘No. I mean, yes. Yes, it has worked. I’m just...’ Correlan looked up, his eyes wild with delight and triumph. ‘Connection is complete. All that remains is to position the cradle and connect the MIU to the ship’s systems. As soon as I perform the ritual of unbinding, he will have full access to the ship.’
‘Make it swift, brother. I don’t think that the captain will tolerate much more tardiness in this matter.’ Naryn was firm in his resolution and his confident tone gave Correlan the reassurance he needed. The Techmarine gestured to some of the menials and servitors who were bustling around and who had up until now been largely unused. They hurried forward and began the manual task of raising Volker from his prone position to the vertical upright within the tube that had housed him previously. The cradle of connectors on his back was hooked up to the wider ship’s systems. As soon as everything was ready, the armaplas tube would seal shut back around Volker.
‘Captain Arrun, this is Techmarine Correlan.’ With his burst of renewed confidence, the young Space Marine opened up a connection to his captain.
‘Go ahead. Tell me what I want to hear. If you cannot oblige, then do not bother me.’ Arrun sounded harried and his tone was tight. The unmistakable sounds of fighting could be heard as an underlying background to his words; the roar of chainswords and the sound of bolters being discharged.
‘The last rite is complete. We will be going live imminently.’
‘Good. Arrun out.’
That was all that Arrun had to say on the matter.
His pomposity slightly deflated, Correlan moved to flick the switch that would lock the cradle and engage the full connection with the MIU. He paused as a soft voice cut through the noise of the chamber.
‘Apothecary Naryn?’
The voice was Volker’s and the Apothecary turned to him immediately, crouching so that his face was levelled with that of the Resurgent. Volker offered a tired-looking smile.
‘If this works, will you get word back to my family on Varsavia? Tell them what I became? Promise me.’
‘I promise you, Volker. And Brother Correlan and I will tell your tale on the journey to many a campaign. Yours is the sacrifice of a hero and we will never let it be forgotten.’
Volker closed his eyes once, then raised his head as much as the sandwich of the two cradles would let him. When he spoke again, it was to say the last words that he would ever utter as Volker Straub.
‘I am ready.’
He smiled at Correlan and Naryn and the Techmarine threw the switch that would close the cradle, seal the tube and unlock the Resurgent’s access to the ship’s core systems.
With a hiss of servos, the tube sealed closed, with Volker within. The Resurgent’s eyes looked down on those scurrying beneath him, like some kind of benevolent god. A beatific smile flickered across his face and then he threw his head back. Runes flickered into life on the surface of the tube and scrolled down at the level of Volker’s eyes. Clearly visible from outside, the runes were not dissimilar to those that the Space Marines saw on their retinal displays when they wore their helmets. Volker’s head came slowly forward and his eyes followed the reams of text as his brain gradually merged with the primitive machine spirit heart of the Dread Argent.
He spasmed for a few brief seconds, then the smile broadened. Every system on the ship bar the main generators powered down and the vessel was plunged into darkness.
This was death. They were the words that first came into Yanus’s mind as the lights went out, engulfing them totally. The air, always stale and recycled became bitter and the officer judged, accurately, that life support systems had gone off-line as well as every lumen-strip. All that could be seen were the strobing muzzle flares of bolters being fired in the corridor and above them, the red glow of the lenses in the battling Space Marine’s helmets. They continued to fight without showing any awareness that anything had changed.
From his vantage point on the bridge, Yanus could make out the moving figures of the two psykers, outlined in silhouette thrown by the crackling nimbus of their force weapons which continued to connect time and again. Four red helm lenses gave away their positions as they ascended ever higher.
A blaze of orange light cast by the activation of a flamer out in the corridor threw the whole bridge into sharp relief for a moment, casting grisly shadows of beheaded servitors and corpses that lay across the shattered cogitator banks where they had fallen. They flickered eerily in the firelight and then the weapon shut off again, bringing the unwelcome return of the deadly darkness.
Yanus was going to die of asphyxiation here on the bridge of the Dread Argent. He had always expected to die in the service of his Adeptus Astartes masters, but this was inglorious. He crouched down, his hand resting on the hilt of the combat blade he wore strapped to his thigh. He would not die flapping like a fish on the deck. He would die fighting.
That was presuming that the Dread Argent, uncontrolled and now drifting in the Gildar Rift was not destroyed first, of course.
Despite the certain knowledge of his own imminent demise, Yanus remained transfixed at the battle raging above him. The two psykers had fought their way up the staircase to the strategium and, thanks to its armaplas design, he could see them, lit by the blue warp fires. The soundproofing properties of the material meant that they could not be heard. But the exchange of words above him was intense.
‘What use is wisdom if it only comes with age?’
The words were spoken out loud by Taemar, the first coherent sounds he had properly uttered since he had engaged in battle with the Silver Skulls Prognosticator. ‘Look at yourself! You are failing. You are wounded – and you are old. Your own doubts plague you. Your foolish trust in your dead god is all for nothing. You will lose this battle and if my master decrees it, you will live. You will live and you will be made to watch as my brothers and I take your ship for our own.’
There was a certain element of unfortunate truth in Taemar’s taunts, but Brand did not let them bother him in the slightest. The Red Corsair’s jeers did nothing. They didn’t anger him further, they didn’t tap into some deep-rooted sense of shame, they were just words. Despite the power of words, Brand did not let them affect him.
A chance blow from Taemar’s axe had found its way past his guard, cutting into the shoulder joint of the armour covering his left arm. He had felt the blade bite through the servo cabling and coolant had sprayed like arterial blood. It had anointed him and his opponent swiftly in a slick coating of oily, dark liquid.
When the ship’s systems had gone dow
n, Brand’s helm had instantly switched to infrared vision. Apart from a slight skip as his sensors adjusted to the new lighting levels, and a slight increase in the amount of oxygen mixed into his in-built life support, he barely noticed. The fight with Taemar was occupying all of his attention. He did not answer the other’s rhetorical questions, choosing instead to treat his opponent with the disdain he felt the traitor deserved. His force staff came around as though he were aiming for Taemar’s midsection, but he feinted at the last moment and instead struck the Red Corsair in the armoured knee. Warp energy flared, confirming what Brand had suspected. Taemar’s guard was down. His warp shield was either exhausted or his opponent’s sheer arrogance had simply meant that he no longer maintained it.
He had no desire whatsoever to engage the Red Corsairs sorcerer in conversation. He had little need to; his very actions spoke far louder than any words he could bring himself to speak.
They moved across the expanse of the strategium’s floor, their weapons flaring in the velvet darkness and lighting them in profile as they engaged in their deadly dance. For all his constant jibes and apparently ceaseless talking, Taemar was a superb warrior. What Brand had thought – in his own arrogance, he grudgingly admitted to himself – would reach a swift resolution was taking far longer than anticipated.
‘You could give yourself up to us,’ the Red Corsair hissed through the grille of his helmet. ‘We have much in common, your Chapter and the Red Corsairs. We are both small in number... betrayed by the Imperium...’
Brand finally allowed a retort to leave his lips. It was a preposterous suggestion. ‘The Silver Skulls have always been loyal to holy Terra. Thus it shall ever be. We share nothing with dogs like you and your twisted master. The Imperium has not betrayed us, traitor.’
The Gildar Rift Page 21
