Fire Warrior (warhammer 40,000)

by Саймон Спуриэр

  “How many breaches?”

  “Twelve boarding groups. Eighteen more were destroyed in transit.”

  Lusha nodded, impressed. “My compliments to the gunnery drones. What of our troops?”

  “Not nearly enough of them, Shas’el. Not nearly enough.”

  A firm hand landed on Lusha’s shoulder, surprising him. “I thought I might find you here, El’Lusha. Never one to take a well-earned rest, I recall.”

  He turned to face O’Udas with a slight bow. “As the One Path leads,” he said, pressing his hands together in respectful greeting.

  The shas’o dismissed the ritual with a wave of his hand. “Enough of that, Shas’el — unless you want me to bow to you too.” He smiled, regarding the knot of personnel across the bridge. “You’ve done well. I can scarcely believe the Aun’el is amongst us again.”

  Guiltily, Lusha wondered if it had been worth it. Whatever happened to the equality of every tau? Would they have sent a warship to rescue him?”

  More of Kais’s bitterness, addling his mind. It was too easy to lose faith. Too easy to set aside the ideals of unity in a fit of acidic hubris.

  The serene part of him — the part he trusted — whispered: Of course. Of course it was worth it. It was done in the name of the tau’va.

  In the path of the Greater Good, it said, all are equal. All are as important and as fallible. As worthy and as worthless. As a being, as a cog within the machine, the Aun’el is as valuable as any of us. There is no injustice here.

  But as a thing, as a receptacle of knowledge, his importance warrants any sacrifice.

  Lusha breathed out with a clearer mind.

  “It had little to do with me, Shas’o,” he returned.

  “Ah, yes... Our heroic shas’la. I shouldn’t have doubted your choice, El’Lusha. You have my apologies.”

  Lusha dipped graciously, surprised. The shas’o went on, waving him upright. “Tell me — where is this La’Kais? I should like to meet him.”

  Lusha wanted to say: He wouldn’t rest, Shas’o. He wouldn’t stop for reward or remonstration. He’s out there killing, destroying, out of control.

  He wanted to say: O’Udas — he is not like us.

  He wanted to say: He is a weapon. We may aim him and set him loose — but nothing more. We could never hope to control him.

  He wanted to say: We’re losing him.

  He wanted to say: He is Mont’au.

  But instead he avoided O’Udas’s inquisitive stare and mumbled:

  “He fights on, Shas’o, by the One Path. He fights on.”

  Kais primed the explosive, surrounded by gue’la bodies.

  Some were alive still, injured and dying. Crooked legs hanging, useless. Shattered arms, spurting wounds, pallid faces. They writhed and groaned in their own fluids, leaving slick patterns across the deck. Some of them watched him, too weak to intervene. Finishing them off, he’d decided, would be a waste of ammunition.

  The surprise at his own survival was beginning to fade. Luck, skill, enthusiasm; it didn’t matter why he lived whilst so many others had died. That he had survived, that he would continue to survive, was all that mattered. It presented an unreal cocktail of pride and guilt to his mind, making him frown.

  The pulse carbine was an improvement, at least. All the new wargear was. Exchanging the filthy shell of his old armour for the pristine new suit had been an almost miraculous process. Standing there in the dropship with Lusha and the Aun, he’d seen himself as a kathr’yl desert reptile, heavy with the weight of its years, fronded scales pitted and sore, unable to walk any further. In the hottest part of the rotaa the oldest of them would slump to the dry sand and split from head to toe, tattered bodies disgorging a single unblemished offspring into the arid air. Purity out of infirmity.

  That was how it had felt. Rebirth. Shrugging off all the doubts, the maelstrom of uncertainty and dissatisfaction that raked at his mind falling away like a tangled morass of withered skin. He should have known it wouldn’t be so easy.

  So: new armour, new weapon. He’d slipped away through the besieged corridors of the Or’es Tash’var a new tau, thoughts washed clean by the Aun’s inexplicable serenity, refreshed, renewed. Then Lusha and the Aun were left behind, the gue’la were everywhere and—

  And the killing started again.

  He couldn’t run from it. Couldn’t hide it behind the cleansing influence of an ethereal or the guilty reassurances of sio’t lessons. He’d been a fool to believe he could expunge the rage with such little effort.

  The winch dominating the rear section of the ugly gue’la assault craft gurgled and steamed, thick chains looping over and under the grinding drive-wheels. Outside, Kais knew, approaching inexorably, a troop-holder was guiding itself into position to dock. The assault craft contained elite storm-troopers, bursting into the deck to clear a space for their more numerous comrades aboard the carriers. They’d failed, in this instance. He checked the remote detonator, reassured by its glowing yellow status light, and hurried from the craft.

  The damage it had wrought upon the Or’es Tash’var as it penetrated was astonishing: whole rooms crippled and caved-in, helpless kor’las crushed or suffocated as entire walls split and shifted, floors buckling and bulging. And where the doors of the gue’la vessel — itself little more than a hollow missile — hung open at the prow, a strange metamorphosis occurred, the serrated bore head of the barge amalgamating almost organically with the undulating disorder of the warship’s wound. Black ceramite, melted by superheated charges, fused in a splattered vomit cast to the mangled edges of the beige and cream hallway. It was like passing through tumorous flesh, leaving an area of ugly foreign material and entering the wounded layers of once healthy tissue around it without being able to pinpoint exactly where the transition occurred.

  Kais stepped from the angular vessel into the ruptured innards of the Or’es Tash’var, slipping on human blood and tripping on singed, unidentifiable bodies. The grenade launcher slung beneath the carbine, he reflected, had already proved indispensable.

  That was when he’d known. That was when he’d felt the Mont’au devil clinging to his shoulders, refusing to let go. It was in him.

  He’d thumbed the grenade trigger apprehensively as he approached his appointed reaction zone, still accustoming himself to the lighter weight of the carbine. The gue’la were everywhere, spilling from the barge like sludge, shouting and whooping as they came. The grenade had bounced off a wall with a clatter.

  Then everything went outwards. There was no fire, no grandiose gout of flame or smoke roiling, mushroomlike, out of the grenade. There was just a wall — an expanding sphere — of force. Flesh came off bone and hurled itself across walls and ceilings. Bodies flipped in midair, slinking head over heels to collapse in boneless disarray. Shrapnel flickered like a galaxy. There was noise and fear and screams, and afterwards only groans.

  And Kais had known, in that moment. He’d known that this was his purpose. He faced a choice, he saw now. He could pretend that every death was a step on the road to the tau’va, some distant glowing impossibility on the horizon, or he could accept the truth: he killed because he could. Because he was good at it. Because... because every death dimmed the glowering embers of his father’s eyes, boring into his mind.

  You see? he wanted to scream, shrieking deep into that critical gaze from his memories, You see that I excel now? You see my gift?

  But it wasn’t a gift, it was a curse. And he knew it.

  “La’Kais here,” he grunted into the comm. “Forward-core segment. The first charges are primed. Whenever you’re ready, control.”

  “Good work, fire warrior.”

  Kais recognised the voice. “El’Lusha?”

  “That’s right. Still here, Shas’la.”

  Kais grinned inside his helmet. Lusha’s presence, no matter how remote, was strangely reassuring.

  “Get clear of the area,” the voice rasped. “We need to voidseal before detonating. There’s anoth
er impact point on the next level up.”

  “On my way.”

  Kais took a final look at the riot of gue’la bodies littering the floor and headed for the portal. It ghosted shut behind him, locking with a clang.

  The charges detonated and everything went white.

  A servitor twitched its head, owl-like. Its taut skin, stretched to near-transparency over the metal latticework of fibres and components riddling its skull, bunched in ugly dumps as it affected a frown — some vestigial impulse remaining from the machine host’s previous life as a living human.

  Fleet Admiral Constantine had learned long ago to translate the foibles of his staff — even those not blessed with sentience. “Report,” he grunted.

  “Assault craft #3/G9 destroyed,” the servitor droned, voice deriving ghoulishly from a speaker tube on its shoulder. “Winch assembly compromised. Troop carrier Sillandrus detached and free-floating. Contact severed. Assumption of all hands lost.”

  Constantine almost spat. That was the sixth boarding point compromised within as many minutes. He lifted his peaked cap to smooth his silver hair and stared around the control deck with a sigh. Immense banks of copper-piped gauges and obsidian-panelled switch consoles blinked and hissed, dutifully manned by a menagerie of bio-machine servitors and gaudily dressed officers. The enormous logic engines rising in stacks to either side were tended by chanting tech-priests and crewmen, work seats on vertical rails slumping and ratcheting their way up and down, twitching datum drones exchanging nonsensical binary conversations. To one side surveyor screens glittered and strobed, to the other weapons data was scrutinised and processed by watch officers.

  It was pandemonium to the untrained eye, but all conducted in hushed tones and infused with the ghostly scent of incense and myrrh.

  The boarding craft, he knew, were woefully outdated. He’d seen stock footage of the assault boats of the Segmentum Obscura in action, a smooth and deadly deployment of resources that left little room for enemy defence. The resources of the Fleet Ultima were worryingly behind the times.

  “Fury interceptor, report,” Constantine barked. A pale-faced ensign looked up guiltily.

  “Seventy per cent operational, sir. Sixty-five per cent for the Starhawks.”

  “So why’s that warp-damned thing still moving? Their engines should be crippled by now!”

  “Wing Commander Keamil says there are enemy squadrons rejoining from the surface. They’re holding the bombers up, sir.”

  “You tell Keamil that if that bloody ship isn’t powerless and coasting within the hour I’ll be holding him up on a charge of professional inadequacy. Clear?”

  “Sir.”

  “Good. Now. Infantry command.”

  An officer saluted. “Sir. Heavy resistance, as anticipated. If we can land a troop carrier or two it’ll turn the tables.”

  “If, commander?”

  “When, sir.”

  “Better. What about our special delivery?”

  A cowled tech-priest stood with a perfunctory nod. “Adept Yenus encountered some... problems. It seems the machina locarus is somewhat decayed and the teleport array couldn’t adequately secure a lo—”

  “Adept — I’m not remotely interested. Just tell me if it worked.”

  “Partially, admiral. We believe two adepts survived the transmission and are in position.”

  “They have protection?”

  The personnel officer chimed in smartly. “Of course, sir. The storm-troopers are converging on their position and the area’s sealed with a tri-lock.”

  “Hmm.” Constantine nodded minutely — the nearest he ever came to demonstrating his satisfaction. “And what about these ‘disturbances’ I keep hearing about? Commissar Varadiel’s reports aren’t reassuring.”

  The officer rubbed his eyes and shook his head. “Nothing concrete, sir. Just some missing ratings scum and a lot of rumours. Too much dreamstimm amongst the conscripts and not enough whipping, if you ask me—”

  “I didn’t. I want armsmen on full alert. If there’s something going on aboard my ship I want to know abo—”

  He was interrupted by a commotion from the entranceway. A knot of ensigns were restraining a tall figure with as much decorum as they could muster.

  “...let me through, warp take you!” a whinnying voice demanded. “I’ve been kept waiting quite long enough!”

  “Sir, you can’t go on the bri—”

  “Don’t you dare tell me what I can’t do, you odious little creature! Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes, sir, bu—”

  Constantine rolled his eyes. “Let him through.”

  The ensigns shrank back. Governor Severus sneered at them victoriously, framed by the colossal archway from the chapel hold beyond the command deck. He brushed himself down, making a show of his ermine-collared greatcoat, and stalked forwards. Constantine was reminded of a strutting peacock, all gaudy colours and self-assurance. He raised an irritated eyebrow.

  “Ah, admiral,” the governor neighed, saluting with insincere pomposity. “I was beginning to doubt you were actually aboard.”

  “Some of us have things to do, Severus.”

  “And some of us have been kept waiting like common ratings.”

  Constantine sighed, fighting a migraine. “I haven’t got time for an aristocratic tantrum,” he snapped. “What do you want? Make it quick.”

  “I demand to know how the battle fares.”

  “Request denied. Get off my bridge.”

  Severus almost roared, stalking forwards until he was face to face with Constantine. “Admiral! This system — every planet, moon, throne-loathed lump of rock and all the space between them falls under my jurisdiction! You will keep me appraised of the situation!”

  Constantine’s temper, legendarily short at the best of times, snapped.

  “Fine. The situation, governor, is that on your behalf I’m wasting time and men on a conflict that serves no purpose. I might remind you that the fleet arrived here under the impression that there was an invasion underway. Take a look at the surveyors, governor. The godless bastards can’t wait to get away!

  “So the situation, ‘sir’, is that I won’t risk damaging my fleet for the sake of your wounded pride, and until we can slow them down enough to get in some broadsides we’re twiddling our thumbs.”

  Severus blanched in the face of Constantine’s fury, leaning away involuntarily. “This is insubordination! I demand a full-scale assault!”

  The admiral barely paused for breath, stabbing his finger against the governor’s chest with a snarl. “Governor, this ship is three millennia old. Its warspirit has fought in more campaigns than you could imagine and the inscriptions of its victories cover every last wall of the chapel you just passed through. It carries innumerable souls aboard and of all of them, only one’s word is law. Make no mistake, governor: it is not yours. Do not presume to give me orders aboard my own vessel.

  “Now. All you need to know is that I’m going to capture that bulbous piece of orkspoor xenotech out there, kill every last grey-skinned abomination onboard and send it to the Adeptus Mechanicus for study with a gold ribbon and the compliments of the navy. The situation, therefore, is that everything is under control, we shall prevail and you needn’t concern yourself with it a moment longer.

  “Now kindly remove your bloated carcass from my command deck or, governor or not, I’ll have you shot for timewasting. Is that clear?”

  The chamber plunged into astonished silence.

  Severus rallied magnificently, gashing open his face with an indignant sneer. “Eminently.”

  “Good. Now get off my bridge.”

  Severus turned and stalked away, all eyes following him. Something occurred to him and he turned with a hungry smile. “Oh, admiral,” he said, “there’s one other thing.”

  Constantine grunted. “Astonish me.”

  “I want my prisoner back.”

  “You w...” Constantine didn’t know whether to roar with laughter
or throttle the obnoxious fool. “You’re unbelievable...” he growled. “Get him off my bridge! Now!” The ensigns stepped forwards menacingly, but Severus wouldn’t budge.

  “I’m quite serious, admiral.” His voice adopted a formal tone. “I was commissioned by the Administratum, in conjunction with the Officio Xenobiologica, to capture and study a high-ranking tau ethereal.” He pushed a hand into his pocket and extracted a thick wedge of papers, all of them marked by the winged black seal of the administratum. “This isn’t some vanity project to keep me amused, admiral. It’s all here: official tactical sanctions and permissions, resource allocations, requisitioning documents. I think you’ll find I’m perfectly within my rights to demand your assistance in this matter. See for yourself.” He proffered the wad with a sly grin, enjoying himself.

  Constantine bit his tongue in fury. “‘Commissioned’?” he managed to choke, resisting the urge to splatter the governor’s smug grin all over the deck.

  “Well... I admit it was my idea,” he grinned, “but evidently the proposal went down well with the robes on Terra. They’ve been most agreeable.”

  “And you didn’t think to tell me this before?”

  “‘Need to know’, admiral. You know how it works.”

  Constantine had to concentrate hard to prevent himself from shouting. “You get off my bridge,” he whispered. “Right now.”

  Severus gave a friendly grin. “One tau ethereal, unharmed. I’ll expect delivery by the end of the day. And don’t worry about the gold ribbon, admiral, presentation isn’t everything. I’ll be in my cabin if you need me.”

  He walked out humming cheerfully.

  Constantine counted to twenty before he trusted himself to talk.

  “Adept Borial?” he said, keeping his voice calm. The robed tech-priest stood obediently. “Get that teleporter repaired. I want the wretched thing operational within the hour.”

  The priest nodded quickly, knowing better than to protest. Constantine stroked his chin thoughtfully “And send someone down to the seventeenth starboard vertex. The solitarium complex. Tell the... tell them I want volunteers.”