Fire Warrior (warhammer 40,000)

by Саймон Спуриэр

  “Tell me, Por’el. Have your entreaties achieved any success?”

  Yis’ten appeared to deflate, all of her cocksure confidence deserting her in the face of the ethereal’s attention.

  “No, Aun’el. Our hails are either ignored or returned with viral data streams. Nothing threatening to our systems, of course, but hardly a diplomatic victory. I’m confident that if I can converse with ranking personnel rather than the machine constructs manning the comms I could make some headway.”

  “Mm.” The Aun’el pursed his lips. “Ifs and buts, Por’el. Ifs and buts.” He swivelled in his spot again, turning to the Fio caste.

  “El’Boran?” he invited. “Anything to report?”

  The engineer took a final glance at his data wafer and stood, obviously uncomfortable at the attention. His voice was a characteristic earth caste burr.

  “Yes...” he said, scratching at his chin. “The damage to the power stack seems minimal, despite everything. I’ve sent a crew down to find out what the gue’la were up to in there. Nothing major, we don’t think.”

  “Full speed?” the Aun’el asked, tilting his head.

  “Two decs. Maybe three. As for the ship... I’d say we’re probably structurally sound — no more breaches — provided we can dry dock in, oh, two rotaa, maximum?”

  “Thank you, Fio’el.” The Aun’s honour blade tapped on the floor. He twisted to face Tyra.

  “Kor’o. Please.”

  Tyra unfolded himself from his seat and waved his first fingers in the customary air caste greeting. “T’au’fann,” he said, considering his words with care. “I must admit to being... bewildered, by the gue’la strategy. Initially I was convinced of their intention to destroy us, perhaps out of some Mont’au sense of revenge for our liberation of the Aun’el’s personage. Who amongst us could appreciate such things, but they are at least plausible. Then the boarding began.

  “My duty... my place within the One Path, has never been to understand the ways of the alien. I leave such duties to my esteemed cousin.” He nodded respectfully at El’Yis’ten, who returned the gesture with a smile. “But these gue’la... To me it seemed clear they were intent upon capturing this vessel — a worthy prize for any race, enlightened or otherwise.

  “But now it seems their attempts to slow us, to outwit us... it seems they are outdone in these things. As the noble shas’o opined, they came close, but we are stronger for it. They are defeated, then. We can evade their main weapons indefinitely and, provided we remain alert and mobile, their boarding assaults will consistently fail. The question, then, esteemed tau’fann, becomes this: Why do they persist in their pursuit?”

  Ko’vash stared at him for a long time, bottomless wisdom filling him with light and acceptance.

  “Your logic, Kor’o,” he sang, “is flawless.”

  The Aun stepped into the very centre of the circle and stared at each face in turn, the light never leaving his long, thin features and the decorous i’helti cap disguising the scar upon his brow.

  “It seems clear that the prize the gue’la pursue is not this vessel, nor the eradication of its crew. I rather suspect they want me.”

  “That won’t happen, Aun’el,” O’Udas grunted, standing. “I won’t allow it.”

  Ko’vash almost smiled. “Rash words, Shas’o, are the enemy of the One Path. My presence among you is the cause of this pursuit. I think the time has come to put an end to it.”

  Figures at all sides of the table leaped to their feet, protesting. Tyra found himself amongst them, sickened by the idea of sacrificing the Aun.

  “Nothing so dramatic,” Ko’vash said, waving the throng to silence with a half smile. “I have no intention of surrendering myself, or of losing my faculties to sentimentality and seeking a martyr’s death.

  “No, what we face, tau’fann, is a simple decision. We can run with our tail between our legs, like an anxious ui’t, all the way to Rann. Perhaps the gue’la will catch us, perhaps not. Perhaps it won’t matter, either way. There are, to my knowledge, three Auns aboard the dry-dock station at this time — more than enough to render my presence entirely superfluous. We would, I think, be leading these humans to a greater prize than that which they currently pursue.

  “Or...” He took a deep breath, ancient eyes narrowing. “We make a stand.”

  Quiet murmurings erupted from all quarters of the room, delegates and aides discussing the disclosure animatedly. Shas’o Udas, Tyra couldn’t help noticing, wore a small smile — he’d get his retaliation after all. Even El’Yis’ten was nodding quietly.

  “Aun’el,” Tyra said, standing. “Should I contact Rann? Perhaps they could spare us reinforcements?”

  Ko’vash stared at him, again drowning him in perfect peace and calmness.

  The ethereal smiled. “That won’t be necessary, Kor’o,” he trilled. “I summoned the flotilla two decs ago.”

  The room fell into astonished silence. Every tau stared at the tall figure, wordlessly contemplating his revelation. El’Yis’ten recovered first.

  “You... You had already decided, Aun’el?” she asked, confused.

  “I had.”

  “Then why this? Why the Aun’chia’gor?”

  Ko’vash smiled, his long fingers forming a thoughtful cradle. He turned the warm expression upon each caste group in turn. “Understand, tau’fann. This course of action is in the best interests of the tau’va.

  The gue’la grow more opportunistic with every rotaa. In the past tau’cyr alone there have been four sizeable breaches of the Dal’yth Treaty and countless smaller operations and incursions into our space. Until now the council within the Aun’t’au’retha has been reluctant to antagonise the gue’la, broadly tolerating these... infringements. The council places great importance upon good will. This episode, it would seem, has swung the balance.

  “I contacted Aun’o T’au Kathl’an as soon as I was aboard the dropship that returned me from captivity...”

  The mere mention of the prime ethereal, a figure of almost mythical status, was enough to leave Tyra and the other delegates around the table fighting to restrain their shock. Ko’vash allowed the pause to hang in the air before continuing.

  “He is no longer prepared to allow these hostilities to go unanswered.

  “A demonstration must be made, the council has decided. Oh, let us pity them, these gue’la. Let us not hate them for their ways, nor seek their extinction as they might seek ours. But hate or not, let them underestimate us no longer.”

  Shas’o Udas led a chorus of consent, rapping his knuckles appreciatively against the tabletop. The other castes joined in with varying degrees of accordance. The ethereal bowed gratefully to each corner of the room, turning finally to Por’el Yis’ten.

  “To answer your question, honoured cousin, I had no great need to conduct the Aun’chia’gor, it is true. My decision was made and I might have ordered you, in the name of the One Path, to conduct your duty as I commanded. Is that not so?”

  “It is, Aun’el.”

  “And yet I know, Por’el, as do you, that a being is far more content in the execution of its duties when it has unravelled the need for them, than when forced to comply. We each are called to serve the tau’va without question, but let us be under no illusion: the need to understand one’s niche is often powerful indeed. The Aun’chia’gor is a great tool in removing the reliance upon unthinking obedience. To become dependant upon such a thing would make us little better than the gue’la, with their stark Emperor and their blinkered, narrow little minds.” He leaned in close to the Por group, infinite eyes drinking them in. “Tell me, El’Yis’ten. Will you support me in this burden I carry, now that you see its necessity? Will you aid me in this unhappy duty?”

  She looked directly into the ethereal’s eyes and Tyra, watching from across the room, was again struck by her beauty subtly enhanced by her proximity to the Aun.

  “Without hesitation,” she replied.

  The portal latch chimed, shatterin
g the expectant atmosphere. Tyra watched the door melt open silently, recognising the entrant as the middle-aged shas’el who had accompanied Ko’vash to the bridge earlier. He looked tired.

  The Aun tilted his head. “El’Lusha?”

  “Apologies, Aun’el. And, ah, honoured tau’fann. There’s something wrong. The gue’la are scanning us, somehow. Some sort of transmission, fixing on the bridge. The AI doesn’t recognise it.”

  Fio’el Boran stood, frowning. “Is it a tightbeam signal?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Fio’el. Is security an issue?”

  The engineer nodded, brows furrowed in thought. “I should think it is, yes... We picked up a peculiar sort of signal just before the assault on the power core. Some sort of... ‘matter transmitter’, I suspect. Fascinating.”

  O’Udas addressed the room patiently, ignoring the fio’el’s enthusiasm. “I’m invoking Martial Command, just for now. With your permission, Kor’o?”

  Tyra nodded helplessly, feeling events slipping beyond his grasp.

  The general continued with gusto. “All ranking personnel to evacuate the bridge.”

  The shas’el hurried to escort the ethereal from the room, already a hive of activity. Tyra sat in silence — how could they expect him to desert his bridge? The very idea was ludicrous.

  His troubled thoughts were shattered by Udas, calling after El’Lusha. “Shas’el?” the general barked. “What’s the infantry situation?”

  “Not good, O’Udas. We’re diverting all units to the central promenade — the gue’la are making a last stand.”

  “Can you spare any to guard the bridge?”

  “I wouldn’t like to. We’re not out of trouble yet.”

  “Very well.” The general fidgeted with the single braid of hair hanging over his shoulder, deep in thought. He fixed El’Lusha with an inquisitive, if troubled, gaze. “Tell me... Where is La’Kais?”

  They were a magnificent sight, Ensign Kilson thought (with, he admitted, a healthy twinge of fear). Clambering aboard the grid plate at the centre of the tech shrine, easing their way between resonating coils of copper viscera — they were enough to leave him staring dumbstruck, mouth hanging open.

  Their enormity was, in itself, daunting. Half as tall again as an average man, they hulked above all the personnel around them, grey-green armour plates glinting dully in the light. More striking even than their appearance was their reputation: warriors such as these saturated the legends of the Imperium with tales of glory and honour and valour. They were avatars of humanity’s magnificence, living weapons designed solely to serve the Emperor’s guiding light.

  Kilson had never imagined in his wildest dreams being so close to a Space Marine that he could almost touch its articulating armour segments, feeling the vibrations of its colossal strides running through the deck beneath his feet. To see even one of the legendary figures in an entire lifetime was considered extraordinary. To escort a full squad, across four decks and two vertices of a battlecruiser, no less... it was beyond incredible.

  The chamber he’d led them to, a cavernous hangar with floating glow-globes and buttressed walls, was alive with the cloying emissions of two incense drones, circling one another in the shadows high above. A trio of tech-priests, sinister figures peering out beneath heavy cowls, chanted litanies from a pulpit nearby Arranged with sprawling organic randomness at one end of the hangar, the strangest machine that Kilson had ever seen thrummed with barely restrained energy. Its looping coils and copper ducts reached a higher resonance and Kilson felt sure the air itself had begun to shiver.

  He’d been astonished at how enthusiastically the squad — a brother-sergeant and five Marines of the Raptors Chapter — had volunteered for the mission. On the admiral’s orders he’d visited the isolated section of the vessel where they were quartered, mind awash in excitement and trepidation. He’d not been allowed entry into the vaulted hallways and chapels of their habitation, of course (the very thought of desecrating those purified chambers was insane), but his stammered vox call across the internal comm had been answered almost immediately.

  They’d come stamping along the deck like ancient giants, red eyeplates glowing, titanic frames easing forwards in a chorus of voices requesting information. With their helmets cradled uniformly in their left arms, Kilson had taken the opportunity to compare the exteriors of the armoured giants with the all too human, almost frail-seeming faces peering from within. Not that their features betrayed any fragility, of course; their dark expressions put him in mind of starving men, reacting to the promise of food.

  He’d done his best to satisfy their curiosity, though they spent much of the journey to the tech bay in vox-communication with the admiral, clarifying their mission. He’d caught a snatch of their rumbled conversation as he led them along the secured corridors of the ship’s core (hastily cleared of ratings scum by a small horde of armsmen). They’d seemed eager for action.

  At one point they’d passed through a crewspace where someone had daubed red graffiti across the tarnished bulkhead, an illiterate splatter of paint.

  THEY iNSiDE AMUNG. ALL DiE!!

  “Ensign,” one of the Marines had barked, gauntleted finger jabbing in his direction, then gesturing at the inscription. “What is this?”

  “J-just nonsense, my lord. Ratings gossip. Superstition, you understand.”

  “Explain.”

  He swallowed, throat dry. “There’s talk of... uh... things, sir. Aboard the ship.”

  “What ‘things’?”

  Kilson shrugged helplessly, cheeks burning. The Marines exchanged glances, faces invisible behind glowering eyesockets.

  “Lead on,” the sergeant growled.

  And now, four decks and two vertices later, Kilson was forgotten by them — a brief insect guide that had fulfilled its purpose and vanished. He lurked in the doorway of the tech bay and watched the priests fussing around the energy grid.

  As they worked, the Space Marines replaced their helmets and linked arms, bodies swaying almost imperceptibly in time to some unknown purification prayer or litany. Kilson found himself wishing that they’d share its comforting verses with those beyond their circle of internal communication. Despite the awe and fear he felt, he was quickly finding an urge growing within himself to cherish every moment of their presence, as if somehow their unmistakable righteousness and purity might rub off, even on one so humble as him.

  “The locarus has a deployment solution,” a priest hissed, studying a complex arrangement of brass-bound gauges. “Omnissiah be praised.”

  “Begin,” another barked, his cassock marking out his seniority, tracing a complex shape in the air. A group of servitors began opening valve wheels, atrophied muscles bunching at the command of their unthinking logic engine minds.

  “The fixation target is acquired,” the first priest intoned. “All is ready.” The trio of chanting acolytes raised their voices higher, sonorous mantras ringing throughout the echoing cavern. The thrumming of the copper coils became almost unbearable, and Kilson clamped his hands over his ears in pain.

  “Now,” the senior priest demanded, striking his censure against a plated duct in a flurry of incense. An inhuman howl consumed the chamber.

  “For Corax and the Emperor!” the brother-sergeant roared through his helmet speakers, startling Kilson.

  The incense danced, sparks drizzled from the air, the Marines clashed their weapons together with a roar and—

  And a perfect orb of light flickered into existence, flared more brightly than Kilson’s eyes could stand, and vanished. The Space Marines were gone.

  Something moved further ahead.

  A piece of shadow detached from the smoothness of the duct, oscillating slowly into a new position. Kais tensed, raising the carbine. The tight confines of the crawl tube made the simplest movements a process of contortions and cramping muscles. The object shifted again. It flitted from shadow to shadow, hovering off the ground in the rounded cavity peaking the duct. It came to a halt a
nd blinked a green light.

  Kais relaxed.

  “Kor’vesa?” he whispered. “Identify and report.”

  The green light winked out.

  Kais tried again. “Drone? What’s your status?”

  The shape clicked: a slow reptile rattle, building in volume. Two bright points of light, like eyes, fixated on Kais and flicked off and on.

  Then the thing was rushing forwards, breaking from the cover of the shadows with the hiss of displaced air. Light fell across it like a blade and Kais saw it fully, gasping: This was no efficient tau drone, perfectly engineered gravitic stabilisers allowing unrestricted and silent manoeuvrability.

  It was a gue’la head.

  Disembodied and cadaverous, frail skin necrotic and sallow, pitted with maggotlike extrusions of circuitry and cabling. Its ancient lips, long since desiccated by age, were peeled back in a papery sneer to reveal the gap-toothed gums below, a network of bloodless flesh and exposed bone. From its abortive neck a thrumming anti-gravitic drive held it aloft. The ghoulish machine’s jawbone ratcheted open with an audible crack, hanging monstrously in a silent shriek. A gun barrel, hidden in the leering maw, briefly reflected an overhead light.

  Kais blasted the ugly device into spinning fragments before it could fire, scattering the tight confines of the duct with scorched components and lumps of bone. A series of teeth rattled cheerfully on the dome of his helmet. He shook his head and moved on, too exhausted to wonder where the monstrous attacker had come from.

  The journey was proving tortuous. He’d been ready to rest following the incident in the engine bay. It had seemed fair. He felt like he’d spent tau’cyrs — his whole life, perhaps — fighting and killing and running; the exhaustion had finally overwhelmed him and he’d stood, swaying, as things returned to normal by degrees and his friends and comrades gathered around him. The ship was still full of gue’la, but they’d be hunted down. It had been as good as over, and the conflicting sides of his brain had gratefully segued into a single, relieved whole.