by Nick Kyme
The light subsided as an image slowly resolved around Dak'ir. The actinic stench remained, as did the blood lining his teeth and in his mouth. He saw metal, felt it concretely beneath his booted feet. A sensation of nausea followed, supplemented by a bout of sudden vertigo making Dak'ir stagger as the corporeal world reestablished itself.
He was on a ship. The device in Lorkar's hand had been a homing beacon, through which he'd teleported them aboard.
'The nausea will pass,' a grating voice Dak'ir recognised as Sergeant Lorkar's assured them.
Dak'ir was standing in a large circular room. It had a vaulted ceiling that led away into unfathomable darkness, and was poorly lit by sodium simulacra-lamps. Around its vast circumference, the room was papered with cloth banners describing numerous victories with rubrics daubed in High Gothic script, yellow-and-black armoured Astartes holding skulls and other grisly talismans aloft to the adulation of a horde. A hundred campaigns or more were arrayed across the chamber's ambit, each devoted to the Marines Malevolent Chapter's 2nd Company. The Marines Malevolent were not a First Founding Chapter, they had not fought in the Great Crusade, bringing thousands of worlds into compliance, but on the evidence of their laurels, one could be forgiven for thinking otherwise.
Accenting the self-aggrandising banners were other trophies - the actual macabre totems depicted on the cloth. Dak'ir saw the flayed skulls of xenos: orks, their jutting jaws and sloped brows unmistakable; the tyranid bio-form he recognised from the Chamber of Remembrance on Prometheus and the wing devoted to 2nd Company recounting their exploits on Ymgarl, when they cleansed the moon of a genestealer infestation. The bleached cranium of a hated eldar also sneered down at him, its countenance as haughty and disdainful in death as it was in life. The graven battle-helms of the Traitor Legions were also present, hollowed out and staring balefully. Disturbingly, he caught sight of a battle-helm that did not bear any Chaotic hallmarks he could discern, though it sparked a pang of remembrance in him. It was difficult to tell in the gloom and he was still fighting off the unpleasant lingering sensation of the recent teleport, but it appeared to be stygian black with a bony protrusion punching through the apex of the helmet like a crest.
'Idiot - you could have killed us all with that stunt.' Tsu'gan's voice arrested Dak'ir's attention. His fists were bunched as he directed his wrath at Lorkar. The Salamander sergeant was shaking, though Dak'ir couldn't tell if it was with anger or if he too was still acclimatising to their sudden transition from the Archimedes Rex.
Tsu'gan was right, though. Teleportation was a dangerous and inexact science. Even with the benefit of a homing beacon, the chances of becoming lost in the warp or translating back as a gibbering morass of fleshy blubber as your insides became your outsides were still uncomfortably high. To engage in teleportation when those translating had not been primed or were not wearing Terminator armour to protect them from the physical rigours of the process was even more hazardous.
'I did it to make a point.' The voice was hard like iron, full of power and self-confidence. It echoed from the edge of the room where the gloom gathered, and the Salamanders followed it to its source.
Bisecting the circle of glory was a steel dais holding up a black throne upon which sat a figure in the manner of a recumbent king. Only the tips of the figure's boots were visible, together with the suggestion of a yellow greave cast in the corona of light issuing from a nearby simulacra-lamp. His identity was swathed in shadow for now.
He was evidently a student of war history. Above the throne were numerous maps of ancient conquests and crusades. There were weapons, too: esoteric firearms, blades of unknown origin and other strange devices. The throne room was a proud boast, designed to promote the captain's obvious sense of vainglory.
'I am Captain Vinyar and this is my ship, the Purgatory. Whatever control you think you have here, you are wrong. The Mechanicus vessel is mine, I lay claim to all its contents.'
'Lay claim? You may lay claim to nothing, and will release the Archimedes Rex to our charge in the name of the Emperor,' said Tsu'gan.
'Cool your temper, brother-sergeant,' Pyriel warned in a low voice, a spectator until now. 'You are addressing a captain of the Astartes.' Dak'ir noted that unlike him and his brother-sergeant, the Librarian showed no outward signs of discomfort from their enforced journey.
'You are wise to rein your sergeant in, Librarian,' said Vinyar and leaned forward into the light in order to show his face.
The captain's countenance was as adamantine as his voice. Callous eyes glared out from an almost square head sat on broad Astartes shoulders. Bald, apart from the sporadic tufts of closely-shaven hair infecting his scalp like hirsute lesions, Vinyar had a stubbled chin with a jaw like a hammer-head. Three platinum service studs punctuated a line across his brow above a bloodshot left eye.
Vinyar wore the yellow and black battle-plate of his brothers. Both pauldrons carried chevrons, the veteran ''hazard'' markings of the Marines Malevolent, and a ragged cloak of black ermine unfurled from his shoulders like old sackcloth. His left arm ended in a power glove, though the fingers looked to be fused, indicating they could no longer be opened. Dak'ir sensed that Vinyar had no use for gripping with it anyway, and needed it only as a hammer with which to brutalise his enemies.
A trace of amusement curled up his top lip in the approximation of a smile, but there was no mirth in it. If Lorkar was grizzled, then Vinyar was positively leaden by comparison.
Dak'ir noted that the hard-faced captain did not bother to ask Pyriel's or, indeed, any of their names. The fact was evidently unimportant to him.
'He makes a valid point, though, Brother-Captain Vinyar,' Pyriel asserted, stepping forward as Lorkar was dismissed by his superior.
'Oh yes…' invited Vinyar.
Dak'ir noticed armoured figures lumbering in the penumbral shadows at the edge of the throne room, just beyond the walls of victory banners. He recognised the forms as Terminators, but wearing an ersatz variant of the modern Tactical Dreadnought Armour. It was bulky with raised pauldrons surmounting a sunken, box-shaped battle-helm that had a rudimentary mouth-grille. The armour was much less refined with restricted dexterity, though it carried a fairly standard weapons array consisting of a power glove, but with a twin-linked combi-bolter in lieu of the more usual storm bolter. Despite their archaism, the Astartes wearing those suits were still deadly. Pyriel went on undaunted.
'That you will leave the Archimedes Rex at once and render the forge-ship to us.'
'You are welcome to it, brother.' Vinyar grinned. Dak'ir likened it to the expression a shark might make if ever amused. 'I only desire its contents.'
'Which you will also yield to us,' Pyriel replied, not rising to Vinyar's facetiousness.
Vinyar leaned back and was lost to shadow again, evidently tiring of the game he was playing.
'Bring it up on the screen,' he said into the ship's vox-link, situated on the arm of his throne.
A small antenna poked its way up insidiously from between the cracks in the deck plate a short distance from Vinyar's throne. Once it had reached two metres in height it stopped and expanded into three metre-length prongs at its apex, between which a holographic image was revealed. It showed the Archimedes Rex, or rather a close up view of a section of its generatoria unseen from the Fire-wyvern's angle of approach. The pict threw off grainy blue light, and cast Vinyar macabrely in the half-dark.
'The generatoria you see in the holo-cast provides power to the forge-ship's life support systems, amongst some others.'
The image panned out swiftly, showing the end of a scorched cannon turret. 'One of the Purgatory's many,' Vinyar revealed. 'Master Vorkan, do you have a firing solution?'
A disembodied voice replied from the vox-link. 'Yes, my lord.'
Vinyar turned his attention back to the Salamanders.
'A single lance salvo will critically damage that generatoria, destroying the life support systems and with it any chance of rescuing any survivors aboard.'
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Tsu'gan bristled with barely contained rage. Dak'ir felt his knuckles crack as he subconsciously made fists. Such an act was unconscionable. To treat human life with such flagrant disregard; it made him sick to the stomach, so much so that his objections came out in a grating rasp.
'You cannot mean to do this. To appropriate arms, to steal from a crippled ship is one thing, but murder?'
'I am no murderer, brother-sergeant.' Vinyar's eyes were dark hollows pinpricked by tiny spots of malice as he regarded Dak'ir. 'Murder is an assassin's bullet or a hiver's blade in the back. I am a soldier, as are you. And in battle, sacrifices must be made. I act out of necessity, in order that my Chapter should prevail. It is your hand that forces mine, not the other way around.'
'Do that and I will have no other recourse but to order my Astartes aboard the Archimedes Rex to take custody of yours, the outcome of which would not end favourably for you,' said Pyriel, re-entering the fray. 'Would you condemn your warriors to that fate?'
The holo-pict shut off, killing the light as the broadcast antenna retracted.
Vinyar leaned forwards again, scoffing. 'Of course not, they would be extracted before the attack even took place.'
'How?' Tsu'gan's tone was scornful. 'Even the Raven Guard couldn't perform such a manoeuvre.'
Vinyar turned his attention to the brother-sergeant. 'In the same way we extracted you. Teleportation is much easier going out than coming in, hence the reason I favoured boarding torpedoes for our initial breach.'
The arrogant captain allowed a pause. In it, his mood of vainglory seemed to gloss over for a moment, replaced by a veneer of sincerity.
'We Astartes are brothers. We should not come to blows over this. There is no malice here; it is only war. I have fought in over a hundred campaigns, over hundreds of worlds and hundreds of systems. Xenos, traitors and heretics, witches and daemons of all forms - they have died by my righteous hand. Humanity owes a debt of gratitude to my Chapter, as it does all the Chapters of the Astartes. It is by our will and strength of arms that they are kept safe, ignorant of the terrors of Old Night.' He made an expansive gesture with his arm as if to suggest the universe was contained in his very throne room. 'What are the fates of a few balanced against a galaxy of trillions?'
'Bad deeds are bad deeds,' countered Dak'ir. 'There is no scale upon which they can be weighed against your victories, brother-captain, no measure that can account for monstrous acts.'
Vinyar held up his hand, his voice never more serious.
'I am no monster. I do what I must to serve the Emperor's light. But make no mistake…' And like a harsh wind blowing away the ash from a smothered fire, his plaintive demeanour came away. 'I am the master here. And it is I who shall dictate what—'
The crackling of the vox-link on the arm of his throne interrupted him.
'Yes.' Vinyar hissed with impatience.
'My lord,' the disembodied voice issued from some other unknown part of the ship, 'a vessel is hailing us.' There was a short pause before the voice continued. 'It is an Astartes strike cruiser.'
Vinyar raised an eyebrow as he turned to regard the Salamanders. The exchange between them remained unspoken, and as he suddenly felt his dominance slipping away like earth from a sundered hill, he issued a reluctant command.
'Broadcast it into my throne room.'
The link was cut and a new rain of static began as the ship's communications patched in from another source.
'Yours, I presume,' Vinyar muttered with bitter disdain.
Pyriel didn't even have time to nod as Captain N'keln's voice rang powerfully throughout the room from concealed vox speakers in the walls.
'This is Brother-Captain N'keln of the Salamanders 3rd Company, aboard strike cruiser Vulkan's Wrath. Release my men at once or face the consequences.'
Dak'ir smiled behind his battle-helm. Evidently Brother Apion had managed to establish contact with their ship.
'You address Captain Vinyar of the Marines Malevolent, and we do not respond to demands.' Vinyar was bullish, despite the precarious position he was in.
'Youwill respond to mine,' N'keln replied curtly. 'Escort my men back to the Archimedes Rex. I will not ask a third time.'
'Your men are free to go when they choose. It was they that requested an audience.'
'You will also hand over the forge-ship to our authority.' N'keln pressed, ignoring what the other captain had just said.
Vinyar scowled, clearly not liking where this was going.
'The ship is ours,' he hissed, his expression dark as he surveyed the three Salamanders before him, foisting all of his anger upon them in lieu of their absent captain. 'I will not relinquish it.'
There was another pause before the vox-link crackled again and the disembodied voice from before issued out.
'My lord, we are detecting weapons priming on the Vulkan's Wrath.'
Vinyar whirled to confront the vox-link as if it were an enemy that could be threatened or intimidated to change its report.
'What?' he snapped, flashing daggers at Pyriel. 'Confirm: the Salamander ship is bringing weapons to bear?'
'A full broadside of laser batteries, yes my lord.'
Vinyar hammered the arm of his throne with his power fist and crushed it. With the remnants of shattered circuitry and other detritus dripping to the ground from his fist, he glared at the invaders in front of him.
'You would fire upon a fellow Astartes vessel, but rail at me for threatening to execute a gaggle of human serfs?'
The Salamanders remained stoic in their silence. The confrontation was all but over now; they only needed to wait it out.
Vinyar slumped back heavily in his half-demolished throne, all arrogance and superiority having bled away from his expression and his body language - in its place was seething annoyance. The air was charged, and for a moment it seemed as if the Marine Malevolent captain was debating whether or not to engage the Vulkan's Wrath anyway and slay the interlopers aboard his ship. In the end, he relented.
'Take the vessel, if you must. But mark me: this misdeed will be remembered, Salamanders. None who raise arms against the Marines Malevolent do so without consequence or reply.' Vinyar turned away from them then to quietly brood in the shadows. When he did speak again a few seconds later, his voice was little more than a hate-filled whisper.
'Now, get off my ship.'
Not wishing to risk the capriciousness of the Purgatory's teleportarium or its captain's spite, Pyriel transported the errant Salamanders back aboard the Archimedes Rex by psychically opening a gate of infinity into the immaterium. Invoking such power was not without risk, but Pyriel as an Epistolary-level Librarian was accomplished in his craft. The three Astartes arrived back in the cryo-vault aboard the forge-ship without mishap.
Though still uncomfortable, Dak'ir found the experience much less disconcerting as the metal walls of the room slowly resolved around him. An eldritch storm heralded their arrival as the veil over the material realm was peeled back to allow the Salamanders through. Re-emerging into reality, they found themselves encircled by their battle-brothers, weapons ready in the event of something unnatural coming across with them, seeking access via the breach in the fabric of reality that Pyriel had torn in order to effect their crossing.
Upon transition back aboard the Archimedes Rex, and after the dispersal of their vigilant battle-brothers, Dak'ir noticed that the Marines Malevolent were gone. Vinyar had evidently made good on his promise to haul his warriors out of the ship. But that wasn't all that was missing. The modest cache of arms the Marines Malevolent had piled up ready for teleport was absent too.
'When did this happen?' Tsu'gan demanded to know as soon as he'd realised the weapons and armour were missing.
'Upon extraction, no more than a minute before your arrival,' offered Brother S'tang, 'Men and materiel fled as one.'
S'tang was one of those keeping sentry and who had reacted upon his errant sergeant's return.
Tsu'gan shook his head in disgus
t and turned to Brother Apion, who was stationed farther away by the ship's vox-link. It was he who had re-established contact with the Vulkan's Wrath.
'This cannot stand. Raise Captain N'keln at once. We must chase these curs down and take back what they've stolen.'
'With respect, brother-sergeant, Captain N'keln has already been informed.' Tsu'gan's wrath was stayed a moment. 'And what is to be done?'
'Nothing, sir. The captain is content that we have the ship and the bulk of its arms. He does not wish to press the issue with the Marines Malevolent any further.'
'For what reason?' Tsu'gan asked, his anger abruptly returned. 'They are pirates, tantamount to renegades in my eyes. Vinyar and his whoresons must be brought to account for this.'
Brother Apion, to his great credit, was unflinching in the face of the sergeant's ire. 'Those are the captain's orders, sir.'
'Given without explanation?'
'Yes, sir.' Iagon's voice insinuated its way into the debate.
'I am certain the captain would have had his reasons, brother-sergeant. It is likely he did not wish to risk the lives of any potential Mechanicus survivors.' He had not been amongst the sentry party, and was standing just below the raised platform having recently descended following his duties and cast his gaze over the cryo-caskets. Few as that may be. The company is also sore from its previous campaign. We are still licking our wounds. He may not have favoured conflict with another strike cruiser bereft of the element of surprise.'
'You should hold your tongue, Iagon, forked as it is.' Ba'ken loomed over the other Salamander. 'The captain's orders are not for you to discuss.'
