“Meaning?” Xarl asked.
“Meaning the Geller field is damaged,” Talos answered. “The warp engines won’t work for much longer unless the shield generators are repaired.”
“Yes,” Deltrian confirmed. He appreciated the purity of precision in the warrior’s words. He nodded to Legiones Astartes One-Two-Ten; preferred appellation: Talos. “Precisely,” the tech-adept finished.
“Ninth… Blood Angels…” Lucoryphus rasped. “No longer a Legion.”
“Acknowledged.” Deltrian tilted his head a moment. “Recorded.”
Cyrion gestured to the hololithic. “The Geller field is flawed?”
Deltrian’s voxsponder unit built into his throat gave a blurt of machine-code. “Terminally flawed. Temporary repairs will degrade with greater frequency. The longer we remain in the immaterium, the greater the potential of a breach-risk.”
“This is going to take weeks.” Talos shook his head as he watched the hololithic ship turn. “Maybe even months.”
Deltrian gave another blurt of vocalised code in a static rush of numerals, as close as the adept ever came to cursing. “The immaterium engine flaw is not the Covenant’s principal concern. Observe.” His skeletal fingers keyed in a code on the table’s keypad. The hololithic shivered before them, several other areas along the hull flickering red. When none of the warriors said anything, Deltrian emitted a tinny growl. “I restate: Observe.”
“Yes, I see,” lied Cyrion. “It all makes sense now. But explain it for Uzas.”
Talos silenced his brother with a glare. “Humour us, tech-adept. What are we seeing here?”
For several seconds, Deltrian merely watched the warriors as if awaiting some kind of punchline. When nothing was forthcoming, the tech-adept pulled his black robe tighter, his silver facial features sinking deeper into the depths of his hood. Talos had never realised a mechanical skeleton could look exasperated while still grinning, but there it was.
“These are projected statistics equating to damage we will sustain in the remaining days of our journey, based on the turbulence of the immaterium so far.”
Talos smoothed his gauntleted fingertips over the scars streaking down from his temple, unaware of the unconscious habit in the making. “That looks like enough to cripple the ship.”
“Almost,” Deltrian allowed. “Our Navigator is untested and weak. She steers the ship through savage tides. She ploughs through warp-waves because she can sense no way around them. Visualise the damage her route is inflicting upon the Covenant.”
“So she’s not a smooth sailor,” Xarl grunted. “Get to the point, tech-adept.”
“In Nostraman vernacular, the Navigator is shaking the ship apart.” Deltrian cancelled the hololithic. “I will state the situation in the simplest terms. Until this date, we have counted on ingenuity and the fictional concept of ‘fortune’. These resources are no longer viable. Slave 3,101, preferred appellation: Octavia—will destroy this ship through incompetence if she fails to make peace with the machine-spirit and alter her techniques of navigation.”
The Raptor growled, drawing in breath through his speaker grille.
Deltrian raised a hand of chrome bones to forestall Lucoryphus’ comment. “No. Do not interrupt this vocalisation. There is more. We will reach the destination dock. I speak of eventualities and concerns for the future. She must learn to navigate with greater haste and proficiency, or she will continue wounding the Covenant each time she carries us into the immaterium.”
Talos said nothing.
“Furthermore,” Deltrian pressed on, “our journey is hastening the erosion of several vital systems. Ventilation. Liquid waste recycling. The recharge generator pods supplying the port broadsides. The list is long and severe. Our vessel has sustained such a degree of damage in the last standard solar annum that less than thirty per cent of function is operating within reliable parameters. As my servitor crews move deeper through the ship’s organs in reconstruction operations, they locate new flaws and bring them to my attention.”
Talos nodded, but remained silent.
“I lack expertise in reading unaugmented facial emotional signifiers.” Deltrian tilted his head. “You seem to be experiencing an emotional reaction. Which is it?”
“He’s annoyed with you.” Uzas licked his teeth. “You’re insulting his pet.”
“I do not understand,” Deltrian confessed. “I speak only in realities.”
“Ignore him.” Talos gestured to Uzas. “Tech-adept, I understand your concern, but we work with the tools we have.”
Lucoryphus, quiet for several minutes, broke his silence with a susurrating laugh. “Is that so, Soul Hunter?”
Talos turned to the Raptor. “You have something to say?”
“Did this warband not once have a warrior who could pilot vessels through the warp?” Lucoryphus twitched, hissing another laugh. “Yes-yes. Oh, yes, it did.”
“Ruven is gone, leashed to the Warmaster’s side, and we have no other sorcerers among us. No sorcerer is a match for a Navigator, brother. One possesses the lore to guide a vessel through the warp. The other was born to do nothing else.”
The Raptor snorted. “Champion Halasker had sorcerers. Many Eighth Legion warbands treasure them.” Lucoryphus either gave a sharp nod or his neck twitched at the right moment. “They speak of you, Soul Hunter. Talos of the Tenth, the warrior with the primarch’s gift without ever staring into the warp’s secrets. How many of our brothers only claim the father’s foresight after mastering the secrets of the warp? But not you. No-no, not Talos of the Tenth.”
“Enough,” Talos narrowed his eyes. “This is meaningless.”
“Not meaningless. Truth. You have been gone from the Great Eye too long, prophet. You are a wanted soul. Your talents should be shaped. Sorcery is as much a weapon of this war as the blade you stole and the bolter you inherited.”
Talos didn’t answer. His skin crawled as his brothers in First Claw turned their eyes to him.
“Is this true?” Xarl asked. “The Black Legion’s warp-weavers want Talos?”
“Truth and true,” Lucoryphus rasped. His helm’s bleeding eyes stared unwavering. “Potential bleeds from the prophet like a black aura. Soul Hunter, did not Ruven seek to train you?”
“I refused.” Talos shrugged. “If we could focus on the matter at hand…”
“I was there when he refused,” Cyrion smiled. “And in my brother’s defence, Ruven was—at the very best of times—a piss-drinking, snide little whoreson. I would have refused to loan him a weapon, let alone allow him to shape me into one.”
Lucoryphus crawled around the table on his metallic claws, the thrusters on his back swinging with his uneasy gait. For several steps, he rose to a bipedal stalk—standing as tall as his Legion brothers—but the movement clearly frustrated him. He dropped back down to all fours as he prowled by the chained sarcophagi, still idly musing in his serpent’s voice.
“And what of you, First Claw? Xarl? Mercutian? Uzas? What are your thoughts on the prophet’s reluctance? How do you see him now, in this new light?”
Xarl chuckled, offering no comment. Mercutian kept his stoic silence, his features betraying nothing.
“I think,” Uzas growled, “you should watch your mouth. The prophet chose his path, same as all of us, same as every soul.” The warrior grunted in dismissal.
The others looked at him in undisguised surprise. Even Lucoryphus.
“Enough,” Talos snarled. “Enough. Honoured tech-adept, please continue.”
Deltrian didn’t miss a beat. “…and a discrepancy with the subsidiary feeds powering the forward lance array was acknowledged and recorded forty-six minutes and twelve seconds ago, Standard Terran Chronology. Fifteen seconds. Sixteen. Seventeen.”
Talos turned to the tech-adept. “I think what you’re trying to say is that we’ve been lucky so far, that the ship hasn’t crumbled to pieces.”
Deltrian gave a faint machine-code hiss of disapproval. “I would never vo
calise the matter in those terms.”
“How long will this take to repair?” Xarl asked. “All of it.”
Deltrian’s hood turned to face the warrior. Emerald eye lenses and a silver smile glinted in the shadow. He had the exact calculations, but suspected the Night Lords would refuse to hear them anyway. “With full crew workforce at eighty per cent efficiency: five-point-five months.” It almost pained him to be so imprecise, but their too-mortal intellects demanded compromise. “Eighty per cent efficiency allows for mortal sickness, injury, death and incompetence in the repairs.”
“Five and a half months is a long time to be stranded in Hell’s Iris,” Xarl scowled. “What if we barter for the Blood Reaver’s dock crews to aid us? We trade for materials and labour, rather than dealing with the labour ourselves.”
“Blood Reaver…” Talos was watching the hololithic, his voice distracted by the pain in his temples. “A ridiculous title.”
Cyrion chuckled. “A damning statement, from a warrior called ‘Soul Hunter’.”
Talos covered his smile by scratching at his scarred cheek. “Continue, tech-adept.”
“With the Hell’s Iris work crews, the overhaul could be completed within a time frame of one month.”
“Forgive me for being the one to mention this, but we are not exactly beloved there,” Mercutian pointed out. “There’s every chance the Tyrant will refuse to let us dock, let alone lend us the services of his work crews. And we are not bearing a wealth of resources to barter with. We need everything we liberated from Ganges.”
“Just say ‘stole’,” Xarl sneered at the other warrior. “Liberated? What does that even mean? You stinking City’s Edgers, always dressing things up in pretty words.”
Mercutian returned the glare, anger in his eyes. “Only Inner City gutter trash ‘steal’. This is a war we’re fighting, not robbing a store on a street corner for handfuls of copper coins.”
Xarl’s nasty smile never faded. “Stern talk from the rich man’s son. Easy to use pretty words when you’re up at the top of the tower, overseeing a crime syndicate where everyone else does all the dirty work. I used to shoot City’s Edge juves when they came slumming in our sector. I loved every minute of it, too.”
Mercutian breathed through his teeth, not saying a word.
The pause lasted exactly 6.2113 seconds. Deltrian knew this, because his grasp of chronology was an exercise in numerical perfection. He ended the silence himself, offering a rare attempt at humour to pierce what he considered to be a tangential and bemusing confrontation.
“If we are not allowed to dock, to use Nostraman parlance, that would be very… unlucky.”
The word felt unclean and uncomfortable. He immediately wished he’d not vocalised it, and responded in two ways. The first was a human tic of sorts, a motion of pointless reassurance that felt intriguingly mortal to indulge: he pulled his robe tighter around his skeletal frame, as if cold.
He was not cold, of course. Deltrian had removed the capacity to register temperature against his epidermal surfaces, and only tracked such variances with detached measurements from thermal signifiers in his fingertips.
The second reaction, taking place in the very same split second, was to dump the word from his short-term memory with a calculated data-purge.
It worked, though. Talos smiled at the tech-adept’s attempt at humour, and silenced the warriors with a soft, “Brothers, enough, please. Even the tech-adept of the Machine God looks awkward to witness yet another family argument.”
“As you wish,” Mercutian saluted, fist over his heart. Xarl feigned interest in the hololithic, his sneer remaining in place.
“Lucoryphus?” Talos asked.
“Soul Hunter.”
“Please do not call me that.”
The Raptor cackled. “What do you want?”
“Inform the Exalted of the tech-priest’s estimated time frames.”
“Very well,” the Raptor breathed, already turning to crawl from the room.
“I don’t like him,” Cyrion thought aloud.
Talos ignored his brother’s remark. “Can you translate the details of the repairs to an encrypted data-slate? I will ensure everything proceeds apace once we reach dock.”
“Compliance.” Deltrian hesitated. “But do you mean to imply that I will not be going ashore in Hell’s Iris?”
“Do you want to?” Talos frowned. “Forgive me, I hadn’t considered it. First Claw will accompany you as an honour guard if you choose to leave the ship.”
“I offer you this expression of vocalised gratitude,” the tech-adept said. “As an addendum to the exchange of vital linguistics, I apply a further question. Is your arm functioning to an acceptable degree?”
Talos nodded. “It is. My thanks again, tech-adept.”
“I am proud of that work.” Deltrian grinned at him. But then, Deltrian always grinned.
Maruc looked over to where Septimus was working. The lamplight was dim, doing no favours to Maruc’s straining eyes, but he was slowly getting used to it over recent weeks.
“What’s this?” He held up a metal object the size of his thumb.
Septimus glanced over to the older serf. Maruc’s desk in the shared workchamber was a mess of drill bits, files and oiled cloths. A half-assembled bolt pistol was scattered over the surface. Septimus put down the creased schematics he’d been studying.
“A suspensor. It’s for Lord Mercutian’s heavy bolter.”
The ship gave another shiver.
“Was that—?”
“No.” Septimus turned from Maruc’s worried gaze, silently hoping Octavia would head for calmer tides. “Whatever you were going to ask, it wasn’t that. Don’t ask, just work.”
“Listen, Septimus…”
“I am listening.”
“This is a rough ride. Rougher than even the bulk transport rigs I’ve sailed on. What if something goes wrong?”
Septimus just stared at him. “What do you plan to do? Run outside and bind the hull together with industrial adhesive? By all means, go ahead. There are a million monsters waiting to cut up your soul, and I’ll have the unwelcome pleasure of training someone else.”
“How can you be so calm?” Maruc scratched his cheek, leaving a smear of oil on his skin.
“I am calm because there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“I’ve heard stories about ships getting lost in the warp…”
Septimus went back to his reading, though one gloved hand rested on his holstered pistol. “Trust me, the stories do not approach the truth. The reality is much worse than your Imperial fairy tales. And now is really not the time to dwell on it.”
The ship gave another shake, this one severe enough to throw them both from their seats. Yells from other decks echoed through the ship’s hull in an eerie cacophony.
“Warp engines are dead again,” Maruc swore, touching his fingertips to a bleeding temple. He’d cracked his head on the table edge as he went down.
“Sinthallia shar vor vall’velias,” Septimus hissed as he picked himself up off the decking.
“What does that mean?”
The other serf brushed his gloved fingers through his hair, keeping it out of his face. “It means, ‘That woman will be the death of us.’”
Octavia leaned forwards in her throne, knuckling her closed eyes. Sweat dripped from her forehead onto the decking, making the soft pitter-patter of gentle rainfall. She spat, tasting blood and choosing not to look. The eye in the middle of her forehead ached from staring too long, and itched from the sweat trickling at its edges.
With a sigh, she slouched back. At least the ship had ceased its trembling. If the last few times were anything to go by, she had between one and three hours’ rest before the Exalted ordered her to pull the ship back into the warp. This last juddering fall from the Sea of Souls had been the worst by far. Octavia felt her lingering connection to the ship, and the distress of the crew bleeding through the vessel’s steel bones. People were injured
this time. She’d dropped out of the warp much too sharply, though she’d held on as long as she could, until she’d almost felt her blood starting to boil.
“Mistress?” she heard a voice ask.
She knew the voice, and felt how close it was. She knew if she opened her eyes, she’d see a dead girl staring back at her.
“You’re not there,” she whispered.
The dead girl stroked her fingers along Octavia’s knee. The Navigator’s skin prickled, and she jerked back in her seat.
Opening her human eyes was exquisitely difficult. A moment of strangely pleasant reluctance preceded the closing of her third eye, and the thrashing uncolours faded to a more traditional nothingness. Her human eyes opened with some effort, gummy with tears.
Hound kneeled at the front of her throne, his bandaged hands on her knee.
“Mistress?” he almost whined.
Hound. It’s just Hound. “Water,” she managed to say.
“Already have water for mistress,” he replied. He reached beneath his tattered cloak, drawing forth a grubby-looking canteen. “It is warm. For this, I am sorry.”
She forced a smile for the eyeless freak. “It’s fine, Hound. Thanks.” The first swallow was no different from drinking honeyed nectar. She could almost imagine the sweet, warm liquid rehydrating her sore muscles. Back on Terra, she drank imported wine from crystal glasses. Now she was pathetically grateful for lukewarm water, recycled from who knew what, offered by the hand of a heretic.
She was too tired to cry.
“Mistress?”
She handed him back the canteen. Her stomach sloshed with the warm water, but she didn’t care. “What is it?”
Hound wrung his wrapped hands, watching her with blind eyes. “You are struggling to fly. I worry for you. You sweat and moan more than Etrigius ever did when he guided the ship into the secret tides.”
[Night Lords 02] - Blood Reaver Page 12
