Now Sinopa was going to destroy them.
The Emperor’s grace had indeed favoured them. Once the Executors were no more than a memory, the rest would be academic.
‘Fire all weapons,’ he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. The servitor slaved to the main weapons array whirred slightly as it turned to the console.
‘Compliance,’ it acknowledged.
The captain of the enemy vessel had evidently decided that the destruction of its sister ship tipped the odds very much against him. He had altered course and had already begun to flee towards the protective shadow of the Spectre of Ruin. Shells and plasma fire clawed at its shields as it accelerated away, though a few lucky shots scorched the hull. The battle-barge itself had also begun to retreat, its titanic engines burning hard towards the scattered screen of escort vessels.
Two battlegroups of destroyers and frigates nipped at its heels as it forged ahead, but were forced to disengage as the remainder of the traitor fleet closed in. The Manifest Destiny’s guns roared their defiance and in a blazing flash of a reactor breach, the Executor was destroyed. The tide was well and truly turned.
The arrival of the Quicksilver triumphantly heralded the arrival of the rest of the ships that had been alerted before this attempted incursion began. Messages flew between the captains; throughout the Gildar Rift, the Red Corsairs attack fleet was being gradually forced back out of the system.
You do not belong there.
We can see you. We can feel you, stalking my decks. We can sense you, attempting a stealthy approach to the enginarium. Another few feet. Just a little more. That’s right. There is nobody in the corridor. Your way is clear. A few more feet. You are very clever, yes? You have managed to find a way through the belly of the ship; a way not protected by the warriors.
So many of you. Our sensors detect you. The machine spirit at the heart of this fine ship knows what you are. You are Adeptus Astartes. But you are all wrong. Everything about you is an insult to the glory of the Imperium. You are the ultimate traitors and you are going to be cleansed.
A few more feet.
+++ Open airlock. Maintenance sub-deck Alpha Two. +++
You are clinging onto whatever gives you purchase, but you know the futility of it. Your death is imminent. Embrace it. Die like the warriors you purport to be.
+++ Venting complete. +++
+++ Seal airlock. +++
All across the Dread Argent, Volker Straub was proving the Prognosticatum’s faith in him to be justified and correct. Everywhere, systems were coming back on-line. His adaptation to manipulating the ship’s systems was incredibly swift. The process of venting the enemy into space could have been carried out by the bridge crew, but they had not performed it. The ship itself had.
It was thinking autonomously.
Everywhere, airlocks opened and vented Red Corsair pirates and cultists alike out into space. Arrun received report after report detailing where those who could not be disposed of so easily could be found. Teams were deployed to mop up the lingering remains of the threat.
On the bridge, the lights had come back up to reveal a scene of grisly horror as the tattered remnants of the human crew gathered around the fallen psykers. Splinters of armaplas were strewn around them, carpeting the floor of the bridge. The dead and dying were everywhere, but through it all, Yanus continued grimly commanding what remained of his crew.
The Silver Skulls Prognosticator, against all odds, stirred slightly as Daerys Arrun arrived on the bridge, anxiety in his face for the fate of his Prognosticator and his friend. Brand’s breathing was ragged and he reached up to remove the tattered remnants of his helm, his white hair spilling across his shoulders.
‘I fear that any chance of this traitor’s skull being added to my collection is nulled,’ he said. Blood dribbled from the sides of his mouth, but it was superficial. He was damaged beneath his ruined power armour, certainly – but he would heal in time. Arrun clapped his advisor’s shoulder and rose to face Yanus whose face was pale but determined.
‘The Spectre of Ruin is on an escape vector and is preparing to leave the system,’ he reported. ‘Several of the smaller ships have already fled like the cowards they are.’ There was a pause, a hesitation in his voice and Arrun read it accurately. His glowing red eye lenses fixed on Yanus as he waited for the officer to complete the sentence.
‘They have deployed drop-pods and landing craft across the system.’
ELEVEN
OBSTACLES
They were surrounded. But as long as they drew breath, they would never give up the fight. Porteus and his squad had already held the communications tower long enough to disable the jamming signal that the Red Corsairs had been sending. The moment that had been successfully overridden, they had successfully transmitted to the Dread Argent. His captain had ordered him to hold his position and that was exactly what he and the squad would continue do.
The rain was coming down harder now, drumming against the roof of the tower relentlessly, providing a pounding, accompanying beat to the fight that was taking place. For now, the Silver Skulls were still maintaining control of the situation, but their grip was tenuous at best and fragile at worst. Their advantage was being lost with every passing second. As soon as the first shot had been discharged, the Red Corsairs had come running.
This location was strategically vital to both sides and although it would be a hindrance, its destruction would do great damage to the enemy’s cause. Porteus was largely counting on the Red Corsairs appreciating such a fine point and forcing himself to focus on the hope that they would not attempt to destroy it. But the traitors were such a confused mass of different Chapters, a melting pot of vastly different backgrounds with a complete lack of ethics or sense that there was no predicting what they might do.
From outside, the sound of orders being shouted could be heard; some came from human voices, others were issued in deeper tones that were evidently those of the Red Corsairs. Glancing briefly at his squad, Porteus checked the magazine in his bolt pistol and mag-clamped it to his thigh. He took his flamer from across his shoulders and hefted its weight easily, shifting his stance so he was standing firm.
‘We hold here,’ he informed the others. ‘For as long as we are able.’ Without question, the entire group took up positions near the door.
The vox noise from the six warriors engaged in fighting outside was intense and difficult to properly filter. At least Porteus was able to monitor their personal readings through the information feed in his helmet’s visor. Data scrolled constantly across his retinas and his expression darkened as at least three of the runes glowed between healthy white and a deep, unfriendly red. Three of his squad were incapacitated – although not dead. Not yet, at least. The three Silver Skulls still standing outside the tower were still fighting. They wouldn’t stop fighting until they were told, or until they breathed their last.
‘Keyle, Ignus, on me.’ Porteus turned. ‘You two remain here. Hold this array for as long as you possibly can.’ Porteus led the way down the creaking staircase, his flamer held close to his chest. They would provide whatever extra support was required and with the Emperor’s will, would keep the Red Corsairs from entering the facility.
An ululating battle-cry sounded from somewhere just outside the building and the report of firearms was unleashed once again. The enemy were drawing closer. Porteus’s flamer burst into life as the ignition light flared. It would take nothing more than a squeeze of his finger and he could produce holy, purifying fire that would cleanse all in its path.
‘In the name of Argentius,’ he roared, his defiance obvious in every syllable. ‘Die!’
The three Space Marines pounded across the ground floor of the tower and burst out into the torrential downpour. Porteus turned the throttle on the flamer and the gout of burning promethium erupted into a roaring inferno.
The close-quarters fighting was intense and they were greatly outnumbered, but their sheer determination and raging fury e
nsured that for now they were able to keep a healthy distance between themselves and the raiders. The open ground between the tower and the refinery was littered with the dead and dying of both sides. A carpet of ragged, bloody corpses revealed the terrible toll the stoic Silver Skulls had inflicted upon the treacherous cultists, but strewn here and there amongst the mass the bulky, fallen form of one of their own could be seen. The Red Corsairs were driving their slaves into the killing field in an effort to exhaust the ammunition of the entrenched Adeptus Astartes. It was slow and ruthless, but a winning tactic for all that.
As Porteus watched, a pair of cultists raced in from the refinery gates and hastily began assembling a tripod upon which to mount a heavy weapon. Well placed shots from his brothers turned the pair into ragged, ruptured corpses before the job was even half done. A quick cast around the compound confirmed that his squad had done an excellent job of holding things at bay, and even now, even with the wounds they had borne during the attack, continued to carry and prove themselves with ferocity and grim determination.
‘Give no quarter!’ Porteus ordered across the vox. ‘Hold your positions. Punish these traitors for daring to set foot on Imperial soil!’ Those who were still capable, still standing and still very much fighting confirmed receipt of the order and within a few moments, the Silver Skulls were defending the door. Porteus cast a grim nod at his injured brethren. Down, but not out. Commendable, but no less than he expected. The sergeant’s flamer fizzed slightly as it began to wane under the endless precipitation, but the bolters in the hands of his battle-brothers were still functioning and until they finally ran out of ammunition were still doing their job.
A distant scream of atmospheric retro-jets was heard and the Silver Skulls raised their heads, fresh hope stirring in their bellies.
‘Drop-pods,’ murmured Keyle. ‘Thank the Throne.’
‘Aye, brother,’ said Porteus grimly. ‘We will thank the Throne once we know that these newcomers are actually on our side. Otherwise, there will be precious little to be thankful for.’
Arrun was torn. The Spectre of Ruin was already on the fringes of the Gildar Rift, preparing to enter the warp. He knew that Huron Blackheart must be on board that ship. It was an opportunity being handed to him on a plate and it felt almost as though it were too good to miss. They could engage in a pursuit; leave the Manifest Destiny and the Quicksilver to mop up the ground assaults. He struggled with the matter for scant seconds before his decision was made. Decades of faithful, loyal service and endless hypno-doctrinations made the choice for him. His loyalty, his duty was to the Imperium first and foremost. It did not help; he acknowledged that what remained of his fleet bore significant damage. For the first time since Daerys Arrun had taken the position of Master of the Fleet, his precious charges had been forced into limping away from battle. The decision not to pursue Blackheart was, therefore, one borne of necessity. Had he had the choice...
He did not have the choice. Huron Blackheart would not be his. Not today. He had to rid the Gildar system of these traitors. It was his duty and his responsibility.
As though adding insult to injury, as if losing a chance to capture the prize of Huron Blackheart, the Wolf of Fenris broke from its orbit around Gildar Secundus and tore its way through the void, sustaining major damage from the Rift’s endless fields of debris as it fled. Arrun watched its departure, his heart heavy. Carrying the news of its loss to the Space Wolves would not be an enviable task.
Brand had been taken down to the apothecarion with countless others who had sustained injuries during the boarding action. Initial reports on his condition were positive. The Prognosticator required a few grafts and there was possible damage to one lung that may require intervention surgery at a later date, but he would survive. Remarkably, the majority of injuries sustained were not severe or immediately life-threatening. Of the close to one hundred Silver Skulls on board, only eighteen were deceased or were temporarily incapacitated beyond anything that could be dealt with expediently.
Porteus’s squad were on the surface, which reduced the company’s numbers still further. Fortunately, they now had the Quicksilver and the Manifest Destiny, which provided them with at least three other companies.
But eighteen dead was eighteen too many.
Already he had lost good warriors to this incursion. He would purge this taint and he would deliver the Emperor’s retribution swiftly. With the exodus of the Wolf of Fenris came the brief, searing knowledge that any hope they had of recovering Apothecary Ryarus was gone. The loss of his friend and battle-brother was perhaps the deepest wound amongst the many that the captain had taken so far during this bloody battle.
Several of the serf crew, continuing to fight alongside the Silver Skulls, had cleared the Dread Argent of the Red Corsairs who remained. Not a single one of the intruders had been taken alive. Wherever the raiders roamed unchecked, Volker’s new-found consciousness demonstrated ruthless efficiency in dealing with them: venting the Space Marines to the void, or closing off areas and shutting down life support where the Red Corsairs slaves tried the stealthy approach.
Many of the Red Corsairs escort vessels that had formed the blockade around Gildar Secundus were also showing signs that they were planning on following the Spectre of Ruin and the Wolf of Fenris out of the system. The guns of the Quicksilver and the Manifest Destiny made the gauntlet run far from easy for them and more were satisfactorily obliterated as they tried to flee. Several of the escort vessels employed an unexpected move of throwing themselves deliberately between the Silver Skulls fleet and the retreating Red Corsairs battle-barge. They absorbed the lion’s share of the pounding punishment meant for the Spectre of Ruin until they too were shattered into pieces. Their sacrifice was not in vain either, as the distraction had given the Spectre of Ruin enough time to achieve an escape vector. More drop-pods were ejected from the huge hulking ship as its dread shadow passed over the planet. Accelerating, using the planet’s gravity well to aid its exit from the system, the Spectre of Ruin rent its way through space, disappearing into the empyrean as though it had never been there.
It made no sense. They had apparently deployed countless raiders and vessels across the entire system, judging from the continued flood of messages that were now pouring through the unhindered communications system. Yet they were sending their means of escape away.
Huron Blackheart was throwing away the lives of his warriors either through insanity or spite; but then not a single strategy that he had employed thus far had been predictable in any way, shape or form. Daerys Arrun found that unsettling.
It was not long before the guns stilled completely and all that remained of the battle that had raged for several hours in the heart of the Gildar Rift were fading, dying contrails of smoke and fire and many broken ships. Dotted amongst the destruction drifted corpses, some whole, some shredded or broken. All of them tumbled through the void, faces forever frozen in their last throes of death.
Arrun immediately opened a vox-channel to the Manifest Destiny, conversing with Sinopa in short, clipped sentences that barely concealed the rage that he was feeling. Sinopa himself reported minimal losses, although the Manifest Destiny had taken some quite considerable damage. The conversation between the two captains was tense, even strained, particularly for two battle-brothers who had always been so close.
‘We need to deploy ground troops, Daerys. We cannot allow the enemy more time to further entrench themselves. They need to be rooted out and they need to be purged.’
‘I do not dispute the logic in that statement, Sinopa. What does not sit well with me is the fact that we have no idea how many Red Corsairs have been sent down and to which locations. We are blind here.’ Arrun ran his hand over his shaved scalp, his face set in a rigid scowl. ‘My proposal is that we send a strike force down to join Porteus and retake the promethium refinery as our first priority. I will contact Daviks and he can join me here. His expertise will be invaluable in planning such an attack.’
; ‘Aye. You’ll get no argument from me on that front, brother,’ Although equally tense, Sinopa’s mood was in stark contrast to the Fourth Company captain’s tone. Where Arrun’s fiery rage told through the simple cadence of his voice, Sinopa was calm and measured. His continued calm eventually helped bring Arrun’s mood down and he was able to set aside the grief and anger. There would be time enough to mourn those who had fallen in the ship’s defence. Sinopa deferred to Arrun’s overall command in his position as Master of the Fleet and when the orders began to pour thick and fast, his compliance was assured.
‘Sinopa, review any data that our ships have been able to glean regarding numbers of ships and pods sent down by the Red Corsairs. Daviks and I will concentrate our forces on Gildar Secundus. I leave it to you to coordinate the offensives on the other worlds in this system that have been afflicted by this madman’s taint. As soon as we are able, we will lend you our aid.’ He slammed his fist into his thigh. ‘Expedience. They will be eliminated and they will think twice before they dare set foot in Imperial space again. The Silver Skulls will prevail – and we will show them the futility of their actions.’
His confidence was infectious and Sinopa’s instant assent buoyed Arrun’s energies once again. The momentary loss of control he had suffered when he had been unable to fathom the twist of Blackheart’s plans had been horribly unfamiliar. He had always been a man who held the reins of power tightly in his hand. Now they had been passed back to him once again and he would end the matter once and for all.
In the meantime there was a matter awaiting his attention in the heart of the ship. Since his bonding with the Dread Argent’s machine-spirit, Arrun had been acutely aware of Volker’s presence everywhere. He was unsure whether that consciousness was genuine, or whether it was just the knowledge of what Volker was becoming that prickled his senses; made him feel that the youth was somehow watching him.
The Gildar Rift Page 23
