Warp Spawn - Matt Ralphs

by Warhammer 40K

  Drant tried to control his ragged breathing. He’d seen plenty of combat in his Imperial Guard days, so fear was not new to him, but being consigned to a wheelchair had been an agonizing test of faith and character. He had adapted, with the help of the Emperor. But now his lack of mobility frustrated him; he was fully aware that this disadvantage could be the death of him. He switched off his chair motors, knowing that their use would alert his enemy to his position. He began to roll towards where he thought the door was by turning the wheels manually. Seconds passed. Straining his ears and eyes for his aggressor, he trundled on with agonising slowness. He could see a faint light outlining the door frame. Evidently some of the glow-globes in the corridor had not gone out.

  Nearly there… ten more yards…

  There was a sudden rush of movement and something heavy collided with his chair, tipping Drant over onto his side. He grunted as all the air was knocked from his lungs. The man brought all his weight to bear and Drant was rendered completely immobile. Hot breath rasped into his ear and a voice, scratchy and cold said, ‘This is not your business, cripple.’

  Drant, terrified and helpless, felt something cold and sharp against his cheek; it slid smoothly under the skin. He pictured the man’s white skinny thumb over the syringe plunger, about to press…

  A buzzing sound filled the room and the lights burst back on, burning bright and harsh. Shouts invaded his petrified mind even as all he could think about was the needle in his flesh. There was a guttural roar of violent rage above and the weight of the man on top of him was suddenly gone. From the corner of his eye Drant saw him sprawl onto the ground, robes flying around him and limbs flailing. He smashed into a packing case and fell limp. His neck rested at an ugly, crooked angle; Drant knew he was dead. Towering over the corpse stood a mountain of uniformed muscle, it was Gunnar Larson, the captain’s mate, and huddled against the table was the raven-haired woman, cradling the child in her arms. As Gunnar approached her, she snarled, mouth twisting into an ugly grimace.

  Drant clawed at the needle that was still embedded in him, pulling it loose. He felt relief beyond measure when he saw that it was still full of liquid. Strong hands gathered him up and set his chair upright. He looked up into the concerned features of Brock, the security officer.

  ‘Drant, can you tell what in the Emperor’s name is going on?’

  MATTEUS GAZED MORTIFIED at the ravaged mess behind the stained glass window. The navigator hung half out of his harness, face a tormented mask of agony. Reddy-brown rents ran down his cheeks and, where his warp-eye should have been, was just a raw crimson pit weeping pus and blood.

  ‘What… what did this?’ Matteus stammered.

  ‘He did it to himself,’ Eusoph said. Matteus looked at him dumbly. Eusoph pointed to the navigator.

  ‘Look at his arm.’

  Matteus saw that one scrawny limb rested by his side. He had somehow managed to free it from the restraints. His fingers were curled into claws and stained with dark cerise fluid. The pipes and cables that made up the navigator’s delicate connection with the ship had been ripped from his head, leaving deep welts in his ashen skin.

  ‘One minute all systems were functioning and the navigator was guiding us,’ Eusoph continued. ‘Then he screamed something over the vox. A warning I think, but incoherent. Then he tore himself apart. He used his restraining buckle to pierce his eyes.’ Eusoph swallowed. ‘There was nothing we could do but watch.’

  Matteus tore his gaze from the dead navigator. ‘What’s our current status?’

  ‘The Bess is stable but we’re adrift within the warp,’ Eusoph said. He looked at the dead man. ‘Some sort of exposure to the outside elements may have caused this but we should be safe, the navigator’s chamber is completely sealed off.’

  Matteus calmed a little. Around them, bridge officers barked orders and conflag-servitors were dousing dozens of small fires that had broken out. Smoke filtered away through ceiling vents, and a semblance of order was being restored.

  ‘Organise damage teams to inspect every rivet and bolt on this ship, and I want all tech-priests testing warding beacons and protective veins. Get them preying to their blasted Machine God, whatever…’ Matteus checked himself. I must keep calm, he said inwardly. ‘I want our secondary navigator linked up in half an hour.’

  Eusoph looked troubled, ‘We can’t wake him. He’s in some unholy trance. Filthy psychers, I don’t understand them. It will take time to rouse him.’ He paused, as if assessing whether he should tell his visibly shocked captain any more.

  ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Someone’s opened compartment one-forty, and there’s no reason for anyone to do that. It’s empty. I’ve sent Brock and Gunnar down to see.’

  As if on cue the vox-com crackled into life.

  ‘Bridge, this is Brock. We’ve some uninvited guests. One dead man, one unconscious girl, and one woman screaming blue murder.’ In the background Matteus could hear a woman’s shrill cries of despair. Brock’s voice faded from the voice pick-up. ‘Gunnar, shut that harpy up, for Terra’s sake.’ A slap rang out, followed by silence. Brock spoke back into the vox-com. ‘I’m taking the woman to the brig and Drant’s going to see to the child in the medi-bay. And what the hell happened to the ship? I almost fell over the gantry on the way here.’

  ‘Tell Drant I’ll meet him in the medi-bay. Then I’ll see you in the brig. Find out what you can from her, and don’t stand on ceremony. I’ll talk to you then.’ Matteus looked down guiltily, ‘Is Drant alright?’

  ‘He’s had a narrow escape. This maniac was trying to stick him with a needle as long as my arm. But he’s fine.’

  Matteus breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I’ll meet you in the brig.’

  ‘Acknowledged. Brock out.’

  Eusoph raised an enquiring eyebrow, ‘Who or what was in hold one-forty, captain?’

  ‘I’ll deal with that,’ Matteus replied, trying to sound as neutral as possible. ‘Eusoph, you have the bridge. Get us moving again.’ He cast a nervous glance around him, as if expecting daemons to appear through the bulkhead, then strode hurriedly off the bridge. Eusoph stared after him, eyebrow still raised.

  BROCK LIFTED THE woman’s face up by her hair and looked into challenging black eyes. Manacled to the wall of the brig cell, she glared defiantly back at him, her mouth horribly swollen from where Gunnar had slapped her. Brock kept his expression contemptuous, but in truth the woman disturbed him. She was young, but her face had a haggered look that belied her youth, as if she had seen things so terrible they had aged her prematurely. It made him feel uncomfortable. She held him with her eyes and the depth of experience he perceived within them intimidated him further. A thrill of fear shivered up his spine.

  She spat back into his face and the spell was broken. Eusoph smacked her hard around the face, angry at himself for losing concentration. She recoiled, ugly words pouring from her lips.

  ‘Who are you?’ Brock shouted, wiping the spittle from his face. ‘And what in the Emperor’s name were you doing to the child?’

  A few seconds passed, and then she looked up, her face calm, ‘I would never expect you to understand.’ Her voice was soft and seductive, totally at odds with her weathered, beaten face; her words were tinged with a strange, melodious accent that Brock could not place. But underneath was an unmistakable undertone, like steel under satin, hard and unforgiving. ‘All I know is that you will die.’

  Chief Brock frowned, momentarily disconcerted, but he quickly regained composure.

  ‘You can talk or you can remain silent. It matters not.’ He smiled a thin smile. ‘We are reviving that poor girl. She will tell us what we want to know.’ He stepped back to see her reaction and was shocked by its vehemence.

  Her eyes widened in panic and all composure fled her face. She had a slender frame but became possessed of a strength born of terror; words gabbled from her mouth and she struggled with her bonds, arms straining and fingers b
ent into talons.

  ‘No, don’t wake her!’ she screeched. ‘Keep her dormant. They will find her, it will find her.’ Her last sentence was screamed at nerve shredding volume: ‘You don’t know what she is!’

  MATTEUS ENTERED THE medi-bay, blinking in the unforgiving glare of the lights. The infirmary was a sterile white; a room of scrubbed surfaces and gleaming surgical-servitors. In the corner, incongruous amongst all the delicate machinery, hulked Gunnar Larson. His uniform was stretched to tearing point over his muscular frame, and with his giant hands he petted his huge rat, Leman. Gunnar cooed and warbled as the rat sniffed suspiciously at the air. Against the opposite wall was a line of about a dozen examination slabs, all empty except one.

  Drant was examining the girl’s eyes for signs of shock whilst chatting quietly. She perched on the edge of the slab kicking her legs back and forth, seemingly quite happy. She was peering at the polished floor with intense interest at her own vague reflection. Lank black hair like that of her mother’s was draped in strands, obscuring her face.

  Drant looked over when he heard Matteus enter the room. His genial face turned angry and with a final word to the girl that was duly ignored, he wheeled over to him.

  ‘Are you well, my friend?’ asked Matteus with concern.

  ‘I was very nearly killed.’ Drant narrowed his eyes. ‘Gunnar told me, in his fashion, about the navigator. What have you done to us, Matteus?’ he said.

  The captain blanched and wiped his perspiring brow.

  ‘That has nothing to do with your… incident. Or the stowaways. Coincidence, nothing more.’ Matteus laid a hand on Drant’s shoulder. ‘The man is dead, the woman is in the brig and Eusoph will have us on our way soon. We’ll just have to cover this up.’ He glanced at the girl and whispered, ‘Has she said anything?’

  Drant sighed, placated for now. ‘Not a word. I gave her a stim-drug to wake her and she seems healthy enough, considering her treatment.’

  Matteus gazed at the child and was reminded of why he’d agreed to help them. There was little likeness between this girl and his daughter, but she was the same age and build as Nadia had been when she was stolen, and she exuded a vulnerability that Matteus responded to immediately. He felt a deep sympathy for the lost child who sat alone, still staring at her reflection and swinging her legs in the air. He approached her, signalling Drant to stay back. He crouched and looked up into her little white face.

  ‘What is your name, child?’

  Her electric blue eyes regarded him levelly. When she spoke her voice was light and clear as dawn in spring.

  ‘Are my parents gone?’

  ‘Your father is dead,’ he said gently. ‘But you mother is in another room helping us.’

  She dropped her gaze and bit her bottom lip.

  ‘Child, your name?’ She ignored him and turned away, scratching at the pink needle mark on her skinny arm.

  ‘My friend is coming,’ she said, suddenly brightening.

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘My friend. The one I feed sometimes.’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘I grow him in here.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Drant said. ‘Who do you grow?’

  A tiny frown darkened the little girl’s otherwise serene face. ‘My friend,’ she said.

  Seeing that Matteus still did not understand she leaned close, tapping her temple with both index fingers. ‘In here,’ she insisted.

  Matteus, confused and taken aback by the intensity of the child, stood up, obeying an unconscious desire that demanded he be taller than her and thus regain some initiative.

  She looked up at him, smiling happily, her legs swinging like incessant pendulums. ‘You’ll see who soon,’ she said airily.

  Matteus, at a loss, shook his head, ‘Drant, do you have any truth-drugs?’

  A ragged scream echoed upwards through the grilled ventilation cover set into the floor, rising in pitch then suddenly cut short. Silence fell for a split second then another cry followed, higher, and infused with so much fear and dread that Matteus felt his knees go weak.

  For the first time that day he took immediate and constructive action.

  ‘The brig,’ he ordered. ‘Gunnar, to me!’ and dashed from the infirmary with the giant lumbering in tow.

  Drant, shaking as the shrieks echoed around his infirmary, tentatively approached the girl. She was bouncing up and down, giggling and clapping her hands together. ‘He’s here!’ she said gleefully. ‘At long last, he’s here!’

  Drant grabbed her, sat her on his knee and whirred after the captain.

  IT HAD TAKEN half an hour to prise open the navigator’s chamber. He had been sealed within for decades and had since never left what had eventually become his tomb. Eusoph coughed in the stale air, holding a handkerchief over his mouth.

  ‘Get the vents working. I can hardly breathe in here.’ He cast an appraising eye around the chamber. ‘No sign of forced entry, and the hull’s intact.’ He snorted. ‘If it weren’t we wouldn’t be here anymore.’

  The secondary navigator had been revived from his self-induced trance and was getting ready to link up to the ship. He could sense the dead body even if he could not see it. Eusoph looked on in distaste as he crept blindly but with complete assurance around the small room.

  ‘What do you think caused him to do this?’

  For a moment the navigator was silent, probing the ship and the space around it with his sensitive psychic sense.

  ‘Something on board,’ he said in a blank monotone. He turned, empty sockets directed at Eusoph’s own grey eyes as if he could see him. ‘Something nearby, something close. And more are coming. They circle us like vultures.’

  ‘Ensign Jagg!’ Euposh shouted, louder than he needed to. ‘Help our new primary navigator into his harness.’ He indicated the former incumbent who lolled precariously from his straps. ‘And get that abomination out of there before I vomit on the Emperor’s holy floor.’

  ‘Sir?’ the young ensign said.

  ‘What is it?’ Eusoph snapped.

  ‘I think I can hear something.’ Jagg sidled up to the huge gothic window that commanded the entire forward facing bulkhead. An impregnable blast door had been lowered over it for protection. Jagg put his ear to the glass.

  Eusoph tapped his foot impatiently.

  ‘Ensign…’

  Jagg pressed his finger to his lips. ‘Listen.’

  Eusoph was about to scream blue bloody murder to the man who had dared silence him when the blast door jolted in its runnels and a piercing scraping sound jarred their ears. Jagg stumbled back, terror etched onto his youthful features. They watched as the bottom corner of the door tilted upward, juddered and then dropped back, as if something with unimaginable strength on the other side was trying to force it open.

  Eusoph, eyes wide with shock, did his best to rally the startled crew.

  ‘Jagg, get the navigator hooked up at the double. And seal off this chamber from the bridge when you’re done. I want that door welded shut, understand? Everybody else get out, now! I want the engines ready to fire as soon as the navigator’s in position.’ As he walked with unseemly speed from the chamber he asked himself: where is Matteus?

  The new navigator primus said nothing, even as the blast door undertook another brutal assault, shaking the ship from prow to stern.

  THE BRIG LAY in the squalid bowels of the ship, directly below the kitchens. Some said the worst part of being there was to smell the swill that the cooks produced that overpowered even the all-pervading odour of promethium fuel. This pungent cocktail was whipped sluggishly by slowly rotating fans on the ceiling.

  Matteus stepped off the ladder, wincing as his boots struck the metal gantry with a clang. The brig corridor was dim, lit only sparsely by orange glow-globes set low in the bulkhead. The noise of the engines would normally be more profound here than anywhere else on the ship, bar the engine rooms. The narrow walkway was usually filled with the powerful throb of the warp-drive and the faint cries
of the engineers and crews as they toiled with the giant machines. But now it was quiet, except for the mellifluous murmur of ventilation pipes.

  Gunnar followed, along with two security ratings who wielded power mauls. Matteus was hefting a heavy piece of pipe; Gunnar needed nothing more than his mallet sized fists. Matteus motioned for silence as he crept down the corridor. The door to the brig cell hung at an angle, the top hinge torn from the frame. It was buckled outwards, as if something with tremendous power had smashed it open from the inside.

  ‘That door’s made from solid titanium,’ the security rating whispered.

  ‘Put your mauls on full power,’ Matteus said softly, and was heartened as the buzz from the weapons increased behind him.

  ‘Gunnar go first,’ a voice as deep as a chasm intoned behind him. Matteus was startled, not by the volume but by the fact that the gigantic man had actually spoken, something he rarely ever did.

  ‘Thank you, Gunnar,’ Matteus said, patting him on the arm, ‘but I should go first.’

  After reaching the door, he hugged the wall and preyed silently, while the other three looked expectantly at him. He turned to them and mouthed, ‘‘One, two, three’’, and burst into the room.

  He stopped short, mind taking several seconds to register what he saw; he put a hand to his mouth to stem the flow of bile that rose up his throat, bitter and sharp. The others barged in around him, brandishing weapons. Their war-cries died on their lips.

  The entire opposite side of the cell was stained crimson. Red streaks spattered the brown hued steel in garish rainbow patterns, which dripped down to pool in viscose puddles at the base of the wall. Two bodies lay on the ground, one on top of the other, as if locked in a lover’s embrace. They seemed fused together, loose flaps of skin and torn flesh overlapped to such an extent that it was impossible to judge whose body they belonged to. Matteus could tell the one on the bottom was Brock only because he could see his ornate security officer’s epaulette, almost obscured by a mass of human offal.