Secured in a grav-harness, Dak’ir saw he was surrounded by his battle-brothers. Their eyes glowed faintly in the gloom like hot coals. Fully armed and armoured, the Salamanders’ green armour shone dully. Bolters and blades were secured alongside them in reinforced steel racks. The heavier weapons — multi-meltas, flamers and heavy bolters — were stored in the Thunderhawk’s armoury locker.
Nocturne was months away. Brother-Captain N’keln had assembled his sergeants, just as he told Dak’ir he would, and outlined his plan to return to the Hadron Belt. Librarian Pyriel had been present, explaining to the officers of 3rd Company that he had detected a faint but distinct psychic echo out amongst the debris and star clusters of the system. Brother-Captain N’keln conveyed his belief that this would lead them to Nihilan, the Dragon Warriors and a much needed victory.
Dak’ir remembered the look of disapproval on Tsu’gan’s face as the mission was described. Though he kept his feelings well guarded from N’keln, Dak’ir knew that his fellow brother-sergeant thought the captain’s gambit was desperate and a waste of time.
Tsu’gan hadn’t decried him openly this time; his objections to N’keln’s captaincy had already been heard twice over and rebuked by the Chapter Master on both occasions. No: despite his misgivings, Tsu’gan was loyal to the Chapter and ultimately respected command. Any reservations he had were kept to himself, for now.
From the collective mien of some of the other sergeants, notably those of the Tactical squads, barring Dak’ir’s own, it was clear that Tsu’gan was not alone in his displeasure either. Dak’ir had thought again of the rumours to discredit their nascent captain, impeach him before Tu’Shan himself and sue for another to be installed in his place. Tsu’gan’s ambition was voracious; Dak’ir was convinced that he did indeed covet command of 3rd Company.
“Restless, brother-sergeant?” inquired Bak’en, as if penetrating his thoughts, shifting slightly in his grav-harness to turn in Dak’ir’s direction. Two blazing ovals of deep red loomed above him.
Deep space transit required that they wear their battle-helms at all times in case of a hull breach, their enclosed power armour suits combined with their mucranoid gland enabling survival in the vacuum of space until they could be recovered.
“I am, brother.” It wasn’t a lie. Dak’ir simply didn’t elaborate further. He’d caught Emek’s attention too, the Salamander’s gaze burning behind his ocular lenses as he regarded his brother-sergeant closely. “Restless for combat,” he said to them both. “There is no cause for concern.” Now Dak’ir lied.
The dream-visions had at first only surfaced during battle-meditation. They were rare, occurring once or twice every few months. Usually he dreamt of his childhood, of his life on Nocturne before becoming one of the Emperor’s Astartes and venturing into the stars to bring flame and retribution to mankind’s enemies. Many Space Marines didn’t remember their existence prior to donning the black carapace. Recollection was often fragmentary and clouded, more a series of impressions than any distinct or ordered catalogue of history. Dak’ir’s memories of his humanity were lucid and could be recalled with absolute clarity. It awakened a yearning in him, a sorrow for what he’d lost and a desire to reconnect with it on some fundamental level.
Occasionally he would remember Moribar, and his first mission. With the passing of years, these remembrances grew ever more frequent, violent and bloody. They were focused on death, but then Moribar revelled in the certainty of death. Mortality and the veneration of the fallen were its stock in trade. Dak’ir had been merely a scout back then, one of 7th Company. The grey sepulchre world had stained the Salamander somehow, a patina of grave dust coating him like a veil; it had wormed its way under his skin like the parasites consuming the rotten flesh of those buried beneath Moribar’s dark, forbidding earth. The deeds wrought on that terrible world had tarnished him deeper still, and like the unquiet dead they would not rest. Nihilan would not rest.
At the thought of Moribar again, Dak’ir looked directly in front of him to where Tsu’gan was harnessed. Iagon was alongside him staring intently, his thoughts inscrutable. For once his brother-sergeant seemed far away and unaware of the brief exchange in the Thunderhawk’s troop compartment. Twenty battle-brothers filled it, two squads of ten. Though the Fire-wyvern had alcoves for five more, they went unused. Venerable Brother Amadeus took up the advanced positions in the gunship’s forward hold. The massive Dreadnought rocked quietly in his scaffold, subconsciously reliving old victories.
Crackling static fought for dominance over the thrumming of the Thunderhawk’s engines as the internal vox-link attached to one of the gunship’s bulkheads came to life.
“Brother-sergeants, report to the flight deck immediately.” Librarian Pyriel’s silken voice was clipped, but unmistakable even above the din of rocket boosters. “We have found something.”
Tsu’gan responded immediately. Unlocking his grav-harness by punching the release clasp, he levered the frame above his head and moved through the crowded chamber in the direction of the access stairs to the flight deck. He said nothing as he passed Dak’ir, who had just released his own harness with a hiss of escaping pressure.
Dak’ir wasn’t about to question his brother’s taciturnity. He was glad of the respite from Tsu’gan’s choler. Instead, he followed swiftly in the brother-sergeant’s wake and met both he and Pyriel in the upper forward section of the gunship.
The Librarian had his back to them, the clawed tips of his long salamander cloak just touching the floor. The curve of his psychic hood was starkly apparent above the generator of the power armour that dominated his upper back. Skeins of wires protruded from the arcane device and fed into the hidden recesses of his gorget. It reminded Dak’ir of the Salamander’s exceptional talents and the precarious line that psykers, even those as accomplished as Pyriel, walked when they communed with the unknowable forces of the warp. The Epistolary’s earlier scrutiny of Dak’ir during the ceremony of Interment and Ascension came to the forefront of the Salamander’s mind. Had he been communing with the warp then, using his prodigious abilities to know his thoughts? There had been recognition in Pyriel’s eyes when Dak’ir had met his gaze. Since that moment, and confronted with him again, the sergeant’s sense of unease in the Librarian’s presence hadn’t lessened.
“It is incongruous,” said Pyriel, staring at something visible though the Fire-wyvern’s occuliport.
The cockpit itself was a small space, made smaller still by the presence of the Librarian and two sergeants. Four Space Marine crew worked at the vessel’s controls: a pilot sat in a grav-couch situated in the Fire-wyvern’s stub nose; a navigator carefully monitored sensor arrays and complex avionics; a co-pilot and a gunner filled the other two positions. Each wore power armour but with their back-mounted generators removed — all of their suits’ internal systems were maintained by the Thunderhawk’s reactor.
Tsu’gan and Dak’ir came forward together to stand either side of Pyriel to see what had caught the Librarian’s attention. Though still distant, but closing all the time, the sheer size of Pyriel’s discovery almost filled their view. It was a ship, not a small fighter like the Fire-wyvern but a vast cruiser, akin to a floating city of dark metal.
The ship was evidently of Imperial design: long, but bulky like a long-hafted mace and with a slab-ended prow like a clenched fist. There was obvious damage to the hull, charred and laser-blackened as it was by munitions fire. Several of its numerous decks were breached. Ragged wounds in the metal were like the bites of some insect that had become infected, the vessel’s flesh sloughed away by the contagion. Dormant weapon systems still held a threat, however — vast banks of laser batteries bowed down as if crestfallen along its ruined flanks. Auto-turrets, forward-arc lances and much larger ordnance made up the rest of the ship’s guns. It was a fearsome array, but one laid low by some unknown enemy.
Clusters of factorum and munitoria comprised the vessel’s hard-edged core, and gargantuan foundry-engines filled its
belly. Deep crimson and black, and displaying the symbol of the cog, the cruiser had clearly originated on Mars. It was an Ark-class forge-ship, a vessel of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
“No energy signature from the shields or engines. No radiation reading from the reactor.” Pyriel’s voice sounded tinny and echoing beneath his battle-helm. He exhaled a long breath, as if cogitating what might have befallen the stricken ship.
“The ship is dead.” Tsu’gan’s tone betrayed his impatience.
“For some time, judging by the damage sustained to its port and aft,” added Dak’ir.
“Indeed,” Pyriel replied. “But no enemy in sight, no plasma wake or warp signature. Adrift in realspace for us to find.”
“Have we tried hailing it?” asked Tsu’gan, clearly suspicious.
“No response,” Pyriel told him flatly.
“And is this the source of the psychic resonance?”
“No,” Pyriel confessed. “I have not felt that for some time. This is different entirely,” Tsu’gan’s reply was pragmatic.
“Whatever the cause, vessels of that size don’t simply appear in realspace crippled and without power. It’s possible whoever did this is still lurking in-system. Pirates maybe?”
Dak’ir was only half-listening. He’d stepped forward to get a closer look.
“There is something on that ship,” he muttered.
The slight incline of Pyriel’s head in Dak’ir’s direction betrayed his interest.
“What makes you say that, brother?”
Dak’ir was taken slightly aback, though he kept the reaction from affecting his body language; he’d not realised he’d spoken out loud.
“An instinct, nothing more,” he confessed.
“Please elaborate.” The Librarian turned his scrutinising gaze upon him fully now. Dak’ir felt it like probing tendrils peeling back the layers of his subconscious, trying to get at the veiled secrets of his mind.
“Just something in my gut.”
Pyriel lingered for a moment, but then seemed content to leave it there and turned back to stare through the occuliport.
Tsu’gan’s tone suggested a scowl.
“My gut is telling me we should not waste our efforts further. The Dragon Warriors are not here on this drifting husk. We should move on and let the Vulkan’s Wrath decide what to do with her.”
“We should at least search for survivors,” Dak’ir countered adamantly.
“To what end, Ignean? The vessel is nothing but a floating tomb. There is no time for this.”
“What time do you think we need, Brother Tsu’gan?” asked Pyriel with a slight tilt of his head in the sergeant’s direction. “It has been weeks since we translated in-system, a few hours exploring this vessel won’t—”
“Archimedes Rex…”
Pyriel turned slowly at the interruption.
“What did you say?” Tsu’gan snapped.
Dak’ir was pointing through the occuliport.
“There,” he said, as if he hadn’t even heard his brother’s words. He was indicating the vessel’s port side as they slowly came abeam. The vessel’s designation was stamped there in massive letters. “It’s the name of the ship.”
Tsu’gan was nonplussed as he turned on his battle-brother.
“What of it?”
“It’s… familiar.”
“Meaning what, exactly — that you’ve seen it before? How is that even possible?”
Pyriel broke the sudden tension, evidently having come to a decision.
“Return to the Chamber Sanctuarine and prepare your squads for boarding.”
“My lord?” Tsu’gan could not see the logic in that, his pragmatism allowing him to put his issue with Dak’ir aside whilst he dealt with this latest concern.
Pyriel was disinclined to explain it to him. “It’s an order, brother-sergeant.”
Tsu’gan paused, chastened. “Should we not at least wait for the Vulkan’s Wrath and deploy via her boarding torpedoes?”
“No, brother-sergeant, I want to breach the Mechanicus ship quietly. Sensor arrays have discovered an open fighter bay, we can dock there.”
“I see no need for caution, Brother-Librarian,” he pressed. “As I’ve said, the ship is dead.”
Pyriel’s penetrating gaze fell on Tsu’gan.
“Is it, brother?”
II
Archimedes Rex
The Fire-wyvern’s landing stanchions extended as the gunship came to rest in the darkness of the forge-ship’s fighter bay.
Winking emergency lighting was strobing up and down the massive lozenge-shaped hangar, washing it blood-red. Squadrons of small vessels were revealed in the sporadic, visceral light.
The Salamanders deployed quickly, the rear embarkation ramp engaging as soon as they had docked. It hit the steel deck with a resounding clang, followed by the thunder of booted footsteps as the Space Marines dispersed. Mag-locks on the soles of their boots allowed them to traverse the plated floor in the absence of gravity, albeit in slightly syncopated fashion, and assume defensive positions. The manoeuvre was done by rote, but proved unnecessary. Aside from the host of dormant Mechanicus fighters, the hangar was empty. Only the echo of the Salamanders’ approach, resonating off the stark, buttressed walls and up into a high, ribbed ceiling, gave any indication of life in the massive expanse.
“Leaving their fighter bay open and unsecured, someone must have fled in a hurry.” Emek’s voice came through the comm-feed in Dak’ir’s battle-helm. The two squads and the Librarian were synched with it in order to stay in constant contact.
“I doubt it,” growled Tsu’gan, already inspecting the many rows of small vessels. “There looks to be a full complement here, all in dock. Nobody left this vessel. Or if they did, they didn’t use any of these craft to do it.”
“Perhaps they were in the process of leaving,” offered Ba’ken, standing alongside one of the fighters. “This glacis plate has been disengaged.”
It wasn’t the only one. Several of the fighters had the glacis shields of their cockpits left unsecured; some were even wide open. It was as if the pilots, getting ready to launch, had left their posts and marched away to only the warp knew where.
“No pilots, no flight crew of any description,” added Dak’ir. “Even the control consoles are empty.”
“It begs an obvious question—” Bak’en’s query was left unspoken, as he was interrupted by the front embarkation ramp of the Fire-wyvern opening and easing to the deck with a metallic clunk.
Pounding footfalls announced the armoured form of Venerable Brother Amadeus. The Dreadnought was an imposing sight.
The mechanised exoskeleton that framed the armoured sarcophagus of Brother Amadeus was fraught with ribbed piping, cables and whining servos. Two broad and blocky shoulders sat either side of the Salamander’s casket. Brave beyond measure, Amadeus had fallen at the siege of Cluth’nir against the hated eldar. Such were his deeds that the wreckage of his mortally wounded body was taken from the battlefield and interred within a suit of Dreadnought armour, so that Amadeus might fight on in the Chapter’s name forever.
Looming over five metres in height and almost as wide, it wasn’t just the sheer bulk of Amadeus’ cyborganic body that made him formidable — both of his mechanised arms carried a potent weapon system. The left was a massive power fist that crackled with electrical discharge; the right bore a multi-melta, its barrel nose scorched black.
Ba’ken shifted uncomfortably at the sight of the Dreadnought, though only Brother Emek noticed it.
“In the name of Vulkan,” Amadeus boomed in automated diction, having only recently been awakened.
The Salamanders saluted as one, rapping their plastrons with clenched fists to show their veneration and respect.
“What is your will, Brother Pyriel?” added Amadeus, stomping over to the Librarian. “I live to serve the Chapter.” Pyriel bowed.
“Venerable Amadeus,” he uttered, before straightening again. “Your orders are t
o remain sentry here and guard the Fire-wyvern. The Archimedes Rex is obviously damaged. There will likely be little room for one as mighty as you, brother.”
“As you command, sire!” The Dreadnought clanked back towards the perimeter of the gunship, weapons whirring into position as he adopted overwatch.
“Sergeants, form up your squads,” said Pyriel over the comm-feed, facing his battle-brothers, “and follow me.” He was walking towards a pair of immense bulkhead doors at the far end of the hangar when he intoned. “In the name of Vulkan.”
Twenty voices echoed back.
The hangar led into a smaller, but identically shaped, airlock. Emek, who had disengaged the bulkhead and then sealed it back behind them, worked at the room’s only access terminal, setting the entry protocols in motion. Oxygen flooded the chamber, amber warning beacons rotating whilst it was repressurised. The Salamanders stood stock still and silent until the process had finished and the icon on the far bulkhead door turned from red to green.
Upon interrogating the Archimedes Rex’s maintenance logs and ship schemata, Emek was able to discern that much of the Mechanicus vessel’s structural integrity was still intact. Deck by deck scans revealed that there was also still limited oxygen on board, the admittedly weak atmosphere perpetuated by reserve life support systems.
Most of the damage the Salamanders had seen outside during their approach appeared to have only affected the ship’s ablative armour. Internal puncturing of the hull was restricted to only a few locations, and those areas had been sealed off.
With ponderous momentum, the vast bulkhead doors split and opened into the Archimedes Rex proper.
A wide and gloom-drenched hall stretched out before the Salamanders. The Space Marines switched on the luminators attached to their battle-helms. Several grainy, white beams strafed outwards like lances to alleviate the darkness. Scads of expelled gases clung to the deck plates in a roiling, artificial smog. Recessed columns ran the entire length of the hall. They were linked by sepulchral arches that framed Stygian alcoves, seeming to go on forever as they disappeared into the thickening shadows ahead.
[Tome of Fire 01] - Salamander Page 5
