It was a surprising question and Correlan wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to hear Volker’s reply. The youth had reassured him that the initial pain was long passed, that he had transcended beyond it. Volker considered for a moment before answering, then laid a hand on the inside of the tube.
It is uncomfortable, but we are getting used to it. We feel a sense of disquiet. ‘Hurt’ is something which fades in time. What we feel... we feel the cold of the void on our skin. We taste the eternal emptiness and we see the energies that sweep from the stars. We are finding that understanding is a slow process, Jeremiah. But we are proud. It is an honour to serve.
The words were beautiful, almost poetic, but they were lost on the Navigator. A simple soul, with simple needs, he merely wrinkled his nose. ‘You sound like him.’ Jeremiah gestured over his thumb to the Space Marine who scowled slightly at the continued lack of respect the little bastard was demonstrating. ‘He’s always on about duty and respect and all that sort of stuff. Me...’ Here, Jeremiah broke off and tapped himself proudly on the chest. ‘I just like being here. I like guiding the ship through the warp.’ He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. He didn’t particularly lower his voice and Correlan heard every word he said. He kept his face stoic and unemotional, however. ‘I like being needed.’
And that is why we need you too. We need you to work with us, Jeremiah.
There was something soothing and almost gentle in Volker’s mechanical tone and the Navigator chewed on his lip thoughtfully. Then he looked down at his stubby, dirty fingers with the chewed nails.
‘It’s all I have,’ he said and the honesty of his tone was disarming. ‘Wasn’t good for nothing ‘til they brought me here. Don’t want to give it up, you see?’
Jeremiah… you would not be surrendering your position. We would work alongside you. We are capable of doing many things and our senses can reach far. But for all this, Jeremiah, we lack what you possess. Our senses cannot penetrate or understand the shifting tides of the empyrean. We cannot proceed without you. We need you, too.
Jeremiah looked up and peered at the shape ensconced in the tube. His head tipped on one side. ‘You’re just saying that.’
No, we speak nothing but the truth. Your skill and expertise are required. The Dread Argent knows you and so, by extension, we know you. We ask that you extend to us your trust.
The silence that grew between the two of them was lengthy and Correlan found himself holding his breath. Kindness and patience, it seemed had been the best approach because the Navigator slowly nodded his head. Jeremiah’s watery eyes turned to Correlan and the Techmarine was half-amused at the ferocity implicit in the glance shot in his direction.
Jeremiah. Volker spoke again and there was something almost urgent in the way he spoke. The ship and I have formed a tentative bond, but I cannot complete the process. Not alone.
‘Are you scared, Volker?’ Jeremiah put a hand to the tube again.
More than you can even begin to comprehend. I am scared, yes. But I am honoured to do this thing for the Silver Skulls. Please, Jeremiah. Help me to do this thing. Don’t let the Dread Argent consume me completely. We… I… do not want that to happen.
The Navigator considered Volker carefully and seemed to weigh things up in his mind.
‘I told the Apothecary that they were all mad doing this thing. I don’t think that now. No, not mad at all.’ His watery eyes grew as hard as diamonds. ‘Cruel. Selfish. But not mad. Not so much.’ He thought for a little while longer, then turned to Correlan.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘But because Volker asked. Not you.’
Correlan didn’t bother to hide a sudden amused smile. Perhaps it was relief that this exchange had gone so swiftly and easily. Certainly it had not been as lengthy and protracted as he had estimated. Perhaps it was a deep-seated spark of humour at the feisty little Navigator’s continued defiance. Whatever it was, it mattered little. Jeremiah had agreed to cooperate and that was all he personally cared about.
The Navigator’s words of insult against the Chapter were quietly noted and stored away for future reference. Jeremiah was given a certain amount of leeway now due to his required services. He took that leash and ran as far as it would allow him. Eventually one of the Silver Skulls would pull it taut and rein his attitude in. Of that, Correlan had no doubt.
He inclined his head. ‘Of course, Jeremiah.’
‘Direct insertion is not an option.’ Daviks tapped the plans laid out on the table and looked around the room. ‘The enemy has tight control of the defences within the refinery and fine as our battle-brothers may be, they would be cut apart long before they were able to fully deploy.’
‘Your recommendation, Daviks?’
The Siege Captain frowned and scratched his nose in thought. He considered the plans on the table before him. ‘If we deploy all our units to this shuttle terminal in the east, we will be visible for quite some distance.’ He drew a trajectory across the plans with another finger and tapped it down firmly. ‘The refinery’s position, nestled as it is in the mountains is an obstacle, but none of the difficulties here are insurmountable. The highway from the terminal to the refinery is well maintained and can take our ground support. Brothers Pallaton and Apenimon are awakened and will be fully prepared.’
‘The venerable brothers will deploy with Fourth Company,’ Arrun nodded. The Dreadnoughts would undoubtedly prove to be one of the key components in the success or otherwise of the Silver Skulls counterstrike. ‘They will more than make up for the shortfall in numbers we have in infantry.’ Daviks raised one eyebrow. Arrun had not elaborated on the company’s losses incurred during the ship battles and it was not in his nature to press a point. If the information was felt at any time to be salient or relevant, then it would emerge.
Daviks returned to the matter at hand, straightening his back and standing up. ‘We have enough heavy weaponry in our arsenal to burn the facility beneath us to nothing more than a pile of ashes if we so desire. But the last thing we want to do is level the objective. We can provide you with heavy covering support for as long as it takes. We must place our missiles well, though. Sending such powerful fire into a promethium refinery... well, I don’t believe I need to elaborate.’
‘Aye.’ Arrun nodded and studied the plans thoughtfully. Built into a natural bowl in the mountains, the refinery was remarkably defensible. Apart from the road that came from the shuttle terminal, there was no other obvious direct way into the refinery apart from above. All the treated promethium that was destined for other parts of the Imperium had always been shipped down the road to the terminal. Arrun tapped this structure now.
‘What of this?’ he said. ‘Should we blockade the road? You could land the heavy artillery at the terminal and prevent any sort of escape strategy that they might have put into place.’
‘Absolutely.’ Daviks nodded. ‘From that distance, none of those vehicles will be able to lend any sort of support to you at the refinery, but if you can draw the Red Corsairs out of the mountain’s cradle, then we can deal with them very quickly.’ Again, he drew lines with his finger across the chart. ‘Undoubtedly we will find resistance there. The Red Corsairs must have landed at that location to begin with. But if we hold that highway, there will be no exit for them.’
He rubbed at his jaw. ‘It concerns me a little. It makes me wonder whether they have a second escape route planned out. But with the information I have managed to obtain, I cannot see how or where.’
Arrun studied the plans carefully. ‘I will deploy my assault squads from the air, one to the north, the other to the south. They can be dropped in deep cover within the mountains and they can work their way to the refinery on foot. Once they are in position, their objective will be to disarm the guns and aerial defences. That will allow us to send the gunships in with a lesser degree of danger.’
‘A sound idea.’ Daviks nodded sagely. ‘Once the turrets are stilled, the retaking of the refinery will become little more than a m
atter of time. It was a rash, foolish notion on the part of Blackheart to think this was in any way a plan at which he could succeed.’ Daviks shook his head slowly. ‘The people of Gildar Secundus have become lax in their defences. Perhaps they simply became too comfortable with their own perceived safety.’
‘Idleness breeds heresy, brother. They have undeniably paid for their complacency in this matter.’
‘Perhaps,’ Daviks sniffed his disdain. ‘It will not be a mistake they make again. Let us hope that this unfortunate incident is dealt with swiftly and effectively and that their replacements are more vigilant in their defence of such important Imperial assets.’
‘I do not doubt that they are already regretting their laxity, Daviks. That is a discussion for later, however.’ Arrun’s brow drew together in a frown. ‘Let us dispense with the traitors first, then we can proceed with the investigations as to what it was that went so wrong. I only regret that my duties as Master of the Fleet will keep me aboard the Dread Argent to ensure the cowards don’t try to send in any further reinforcements.’ He closed his hands into fists and growled softly. ‘At times, much as I appreciate the honour of my position within the Chapter...’
‘Hungry for a fight, brother?’ Daviks interjected, his craggy face twisting into an expression that could almost pass as a smile.
‘Against the Red Corsairs?’ Arrun fixed Daviks with a cool gaze. ‘Against the Tyrant of Badab? Are you not hungry for the same?’
‘Starving, brother-captain.’ For the first time since they had come aboard the Quicksilver, Daviks grinned wickedly.
‘Wake up, sergeant.’
The voice was soft, almost whispering and Porteus clambered from the pit of unconsciousness with frantic desperation. Recall came and he groaned; a curious noise that expressed his pain and grief at the loss of his battle-brothers. He remembered a heavy weight falling onto him as Keyle had been cut down. He remembered holding his ground for as long as he was physically able; until a well-placed shot had penetrated his battered and damaged power armour and pierced his primary heart. His body had dropped him into healing stasis and now he was...
There was no indication as to where he was. He was no longer outside and he was lying on a cold, ferrocrete surface. He was restrained, his hands bound behind his back. A brief test of the restraints confirmed that whoever had trussed him thus was experienced in holding an Adeptus Astartes. Of course they were, he thought, bitterly. They were once loyal Space Marines themselves. They would have all the necessary methods to keep a warrior under their control.
He hawked up a mouthful of blood and spat it out. He raised swollen eyes that would not open fully to the owner of the voice that had invited him back to the land of the living.
The pitted, scarred face of the Corpsemaster smiled benevolently down at him and patted his cheek in a fatherly way. Porteus pulled his head back from the touch. ‘You see? He wakes. An excellent constitution.’
Porteus knew who he was – or at least knew of him. The Corpsemaster was well-documented in the many records and visuals that all the Silver Skulls were required to study. His face was as recognisable as though he were staring at his own reflection.
The Red Corsairs Apothecary busied himself with putting away equipment and Porteus shifted position. Pain sang in every nerve ending and he attempted to mentally assess his condition. His power armour had been removed and he was dressed in nothing more than the black bodyglove that he wore beneath. A mental check of his own body drew his attention to the source of the pain. The bodyglove had been torn apart to reveal a raw, freshly sealed wound in his chest.
The Corpsemaster watched him and added a commentary. ‘You were seriously injured,’ he said, sounding almost delighted about the fact. ‘Once the rest of your squad had been dealt with, I repaired the worst of the damage to your primary heart.’ His tone was so cheerful and friendly that it disorientated the injured Silver Skulls warrior. ‘Come now, sergeant. Do you have no words of thanks for me?’
‘I have no words for traitors.’ His own voice sounded strangely husky. The slow awareness of pain around his body suggested that he had probably taken a further shot to the throat. ‘You would have done well to kill me when you had the chance. Because when I am free, I will visit that fate upon you.’
‘I think not, sergeant.’ The Corpsemaster reached down and patted his prisoner’s cheek again. ‘Once you stand before my Lord Blackheart, once you come to understand the lies of the Imperium, you will serve his cause. Just as many others before you have done.’ The Corpsemaster held up a jar in which a single, bloodied pulpy mass could be seen. ‘And if you don’t, it matters little to me. I have what I want.’
Porteus stared at the jar. The progenoid gland. The most precious of all his Adeptus Astartes organs was in the hands of an enemy. The traitor must have removed it whilst he was dealing with the injury. Several wild thoughts ran through Porteus’s mind. How long had he been here? What had happened to the two battle-brothers left guarding the array? The sergeant raised himself to his knees and lifted his head to stare at the Corpsemaster in furious defiance. His situation, had he but known it, mirrored that of the one Ryarus had faced aboard the Wolf of Fenris.
‘I will never turn my back upon my brothers,’ he said, meeting the Apothecary’s amused gaze full on. ‘I will never betray my Emperor and I will die before I swear allegiance to Lugft Huron.’
‘Greater warriors than you have attempted to resist the truth,’ retorted the Corpsemaster, moving to set the jar containing Porteus’s precious gene-seed down. ‘Why do you feel that you are different? All of them see the truth in the end. All of them come to understand the lies of your Corpse-God. You misunderstand our motives, Silver Skull.’
‘I will never turn my back upon my brothers,’ Porteus repeated. ‘When they come for you...’ His words had an electrifying effect on the Corpsemaster who whirled to face him. All the surface calm that the Apothecary had previously exuded fled to be replaced by the mask of a madman.
‘Are you speaking of those same brothers who even now leave you to your fate at my hands? Where were they when you and your pathetic squad attempted to infiltrate and disrupt our plans? Where are they now? Nobody is coming to your aid, sergeant of the Silver Skulls. Your fate is sealed. You will either join us or you will die. There is no third option.’
‘Then you may as well save your words, traitor.’ Porteus lifted his bloodied face and met the Corpsemaster’s fevered gaze. The calm indifference that was now apparent in the Apothecary’s expression infuriated and unsettled him. The Corpsemaster’s moods swung as erratically as anything he had ever experienced. The sergeant’s hands, clasped firmly behind his back by the strong restraints, clenched and unclenched, as did his jaw. ‘You talk too much. You should kill me now.’
‘I think not. You have much value to us at the moment and I would certainly not want to risk my lord’s ire by dispensing with you prematurely.’ The tone was almost reproachful, even amused.
‘My brothers will be here soon,’ said Porteus with easy confidence. He nodded at the jar containing his gene-seed, the organ that the Silver Skulls, like all the Adeptus Astartes, venerated above all others. They called it the Quintessence Sacred for a reason. It was the quintessential element of what and who they were. It was the genetic legacy of many generations, whose memories and knowledge lingered in some small way in the DNA threads that wove through the bodies of those gifted.
Porteus had heard many tales of battle-brothers who, on the verge of death, touched and tasted the memories of their forebears. In quiet moments of meditation, he had sometimes felt the shape of something... of someone, but he had never been able to fully grasp it. ‘The shape of glories past’, Vashiro had called it once, that feeling.
‘Ah, yes. Your brothers. The noble Adeptus Astartes of the Silver Skulls Chapter.’ The Corpsemaster nodded sagely and ticked off his words on his fingers as he spoke. ‘Fierce warriors. Noble and relentless, fearsome in battle. Deploy only on the word
of their psyker brethren. Unusual in that regard. And yet what did your psychic brothers have to say about Gildar Secundus?’ The Corpsemaster spread his hands in query. ‘What prevented them from seeing us here?’
Porteus said nothing. The question had crossed his mind many times since Simeon’s death. Surely the Prognosticator would not have travelled to his own demise so willingly? He remembered whispers, forbidden words passed from battle-brother to battle-brother. Words that were bordering on blasphemy. Words that he should never have listened to. Words directed at the Prognosticatum and the power they wielded over the Chapter.
Doubts. Suspicions. Fallacies.
‘But where are your brothers now, sergeant?’ The Corpsemaster looked around as though he expected an entire company of Silver Skulls to be there. ‘Why have they not come to save you?’
The question was rhetorical and did not allow time for a response. The foul traitor continued. With every word he spoke, Porteus’s hatred became something more tangible. His fury and rage was all he had, now. He took it and shaped it. In the event he freed himself, he would use that weapon, formed in the heat of his fury and he would tear out the Corpsemaster’s hearts.
‘Ask yourself the question “why”, sergeant,’ the Apothecary said, picking up the jar containing Porteus’s precious gene-seed and twisting it as he studied it. ‘Ask yourself why it is that your Prognosticators are continually making poor choices and giving advice that leads to your Chapter’s slow, systematic destruction. They claim to interpret the Emperor’s will…’
He set down the jar again. ‘Had you considered that the Emperor has no will to interpret? Because the truth is… the Corpse-God to whom you are all so enslaved does not care for you.’ A smile, cruel and self-assured twisted his lips. ‘The Silver Skulls are a dying breed, sergeant. Much as the Astral Claws were before my Lord Blackheart realised the Imperial truth was nothing more than a lie.’ The Apothecary’s pockmarked face twisted in savage delight. ‘You and your Chapter are dying, sergeant. Actually and metaphorically.’
The Gildar Rift Page 26
