Armageddon Saint - Gav Thorpe

by Warhammer 40K

  I have to stand there and take it, because he’s through my defences and nailing every shot. I rose to my natural level in Acheron, a warlord of sorts, but that’s the summit of my abilities as an underhiver. If I’d stayed on Olympus maybe it’d have turned out the same. But the moment I joined the Imperial Guard I was not going to be destined for the officer corps and a heady rise through the ranks… By the Emperor, my rank of lieutenant – prior rank – was essentially administrative because I was in charge of a platoon at one point.

  ‘One more thing, Kage,’ he says, his words coming through a fog of misery. I look at him just in time to see his fist swinging.

  It connects perfectly between nose and cheek, smashing my head back to send me crumpling to the floor. I lift up my hands to protect myself too late as he looms over me.

  ‘If you ever strike me again, I will shoot you.’

  He stands there, waiting for my response. I nod, feeling blood trickling down my top lip. It’s nothing really, but of all the injuries I’ve suffered in these last several days this one hurts the most. I nod again, utterly submissive to his will.

  ‘I am glad we have come to this accord,’ he says, and offers a hand to help me to my feet. I accept it and rise with a grunt.

  ‘I have three words for you,’ he says, stepping away, looking up at the landing pad and back to me. ‘Are you ready?’

  I stand to attention, my salute as sharp as a chainaxe this time.

  ‘Yes, Colonel,’ I reply.

  ‘Then come with me, Lieutenant Kage.’

  Nineteen

  VOIDBOUND

  Before we ascend to the drop-ship an armoured warrior breaks from the others. I recognise Librarian Afahiva, staff in one hand, bolt pistol in the other. He stops beside the warphead, which is beginning to stir even more, grumbling in the last throes of sleep.

  The Space Marine holds out a hand, a nimbus of gold playing between the fingertips. The ork’s lips ripple, baring sharp teeth, a moan emanating from deep in its chest. Afahiva steps back as though struck.

  ‘Strong,’ he says, withdrawing his hand. He looks at me and then the Colonel. ‘This is your psychic bomb?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen how these warpheads react to the warpborn and Nazrek agrees. Exposing it to the rift should give us a big psychic bang.’ I look at the warphead, to the Colonel and then the Librarian. ‘I have a question.’

  ‘Ask it,’ says Afahiva.

  ‘Why don’t we use the Thunderhawk?’ I jab a thumb over my shoulder to where the Salamanders gunship is circling the port, battle canon and heavy bolters tearing ruin through the attackers. ‘I figure that’s a quick and safe way up into orbit.’

  The Space Marine laughs, a deep rumble given a nerve-jangling edge by the mechanical address system of his armour.

  ‘By Vulkan’s fire, that would be insane!’ the Librarian replies. ‘Your plan is almost certainly doomed to fail, Lieutenant Kage. You will all die, either getting into the rift or when your ork psyker explodes. Even if you get that far I think there is only a small chance that what you hope to achieve will come about. No, Lieutenant Kage, the Salamanders will not be accompanying you on this one-way voyage. It is courageous of you, foolhardy probably, but we will continue to target the World Eaters here on the surface.’

  ‘Right,’ I say. I notice Sister Superior Aladia is close by and turn to speak to her. ‘I guess you’ll be leaving us now too. The Space Marines can probably take you back to rejoin your company, or one of the others from your order.’

  She steps past the last few hivers and wasters, a living statue of silver marred with bloody splashes and grime. Her eyes move from Nazrek to the others, then to the Colonel, to Afahiva and eventually to me.

  ‘Colonel Schaeffer is right, you are no commander,’ she says. I sag, about to turn away, but she continues. ‘But I look at these people and I can see something of why they are here. You are not a commander, Burned Man, but you are a leader. I see you fight, not just with your weapons but with your soul. I see good intent war with selfishness. Some would say that makes you impure, unworthy of the love and protection of the Emperor.’

  She raises her voice as the Thunderhawk’s circuit brings it closer, guns booming and barking.

  ‘I believe that we are born imperfect and that we must strive to prove ourselves to the God-Emperor each and every day He grants us. You fell so low, but you have brought yourself back and in your journey from the flames you have re-enacted that struggle. The noblest of my Sisterhood have been elevated to saints and a handful have become living saints, sustained by the Will of the Emperor to fight on after death’s grace. Deniumenialis believed that you had led a blessed existence and gave his life for that belief. A martyr. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps a saint of the Astra Militarum is not an ideal. Perhaps they are a fighter, a leader, one that defies the enemies of the Imperium not with piety, purity and righteousness, but with a deeper, bloodier faith.’

  She steps forward and I can feel tears in my eyes. Something I’ve never felt before stirs inside as this Battle Sister, a divine hand of the God-Emperor, kneels on the broken ferrocrete and holds out her sword.

  ‘Deniumenialis’ death reminds me of a simple truth gifted to us by Saint Sabbat.’ She bows her head, the clink of her weapon on the ground at my feet seeming louder than the crack of the mightiest wall gun. ‘There are no miracles. There are only men.’

  Struck dumb, I stand there for several seconds, amazed by this being of grace and power supplicating herself before me. All of the praises of the Burned Man rise up in memory, ringing in my ears. I see again Old Preacher stepping in front of a bullet. The Will of the God-Emperor made manifest through the actions of a human being.

  ‘Pick up your sword, Sister,’ I tell her. ‘I can’t claim to be a saint, and this is the Colonel’s team from here. But I would take your company as a sign that the Emperor is still watching over this gaggle of poor bastards.’

  A smile cracks her mask of sincerity as she lifts up her blade, the first sign of the woman within the Battle Sister.

  The drop-ship squats atop the landing pad among a crowd of red-robed tech-priests and augmented servitors, the air thick with the smell of Martian oils and human sweat. In the glare of the lights I can make out a patch of plasteel on the hull, about three metres by two. It stands out because the rest of the ship is a pale grey, scorched brown and black in places by re-entry, while the patch is clearly new, almost polished in finish.

  ‘What’s that?’ I say, pointing.

  ‘Most of the operational orbital ships were evacuated along with the crews,’ a woman calls out from behind me. I turn to find myself looking at a short, dark-haired pilot – so it seems from the flight suit and the helmet under her arm. ‘This is mine, the Eutychia. She’s been in line for refit for three weeks, but it was only a call from your Colonel that got things moving.’

  ‘So, they’ve just repaired it?’ I say. ‘Like, in a hurry?’

  ‘She’ll be fine.’

  ‘You must be Commander Neri,’ says the Colonel, pushing past me. ‘Are you ready to take off?’

  ‘Waiting on you, Colonel Schaeffer. I’ll finish preflight checks.’

  ‘You know where we’re going, right?’ I say, wondering just how dedi­cated she’ll be to the mission. It’s not the first time the Colonel has pulled a fast one on some poor pilot or driver.

  ‘Right into that big gleaming arsehole up there, I hear,’ says Neri, closing one eye and mimicking a pistol shot with her finger into the sky.

  ‘And you’re fine with that?’

  ‘Your Colonel tells me we’re going to save the planet. Isn’t that right, Colonel?’

  ‘That is the objective.’

  ‘Let’s not hang about here then, time to get going,’ she says before she disappears through the open docking ramp in the hull.

  We get ourselves
ready to embark. There’s a fresh lasgun apiece – Nazrek chuckles and keeps its massive customised shoota – plus some ration packs and sealed cans. Dried synthi-grain bar washed down with tepid, metallic water never tasted so good. As we devour these gifts the engines whine into life, stuttering occasionally as they warm up. A speaker above us in the gangway blares into life.

  ‘Arses in seats, everybody. We leave in five minutes.’

  I cock an eye towards the Colonel.

  ‘She seems… stable,’ I say to him.

  ‘She is a highly decorated pilot.’ He glances up to the crew pod a few metres above us at the nose of the drop-ship. ‘She’s been grounded a while, that is all. Eager.’

  ‘Yeah, eager. Not at all crazy.’ I turn on the others and clap my hands to get them moving. What is it with these Imperial Navy folk? ‘Everybody on board! Take lots of power packs. I get the feeling we might still have one more battle to fight.’

  We’ve just had the warning from the pilot that we’ve broken void. Nothing but a few centimetres of plasteel between us and a cruel vacuum death.

  The hivers and wasters have never been off-world and there’s an outbreak of consternation and excitement among them. Some peer out of the slit windows at the starry expanse, the ones on the other side of the compartment laughing as they look back at the receding view of Armageddon. When I left Olympus it was with relief. The Imperial Guard promised something more than scabbing an existence in the underhive. It’s very different for these folks. Whether they realise it or not, this is a short, one-way trip.

  Silence descends again as the novelty wears off, some of them realising that they’re in actual space now, more turning their thoughts to what lies ahead.

  After another couple of minutes, I feel an itch inside my blood, not like anything I’ve experienced before. I feel like I need to scratch inside my veins.

  Scattered muttering breaks the mute tension. Prayers from some, swearing from others. Nazrek lets out a disconcerted groan, banging a hand against the side of its head as though trying to dislodge a blockage.

  ‘It’s the warp effect,’ I say out loud, trying to make it sound matter-of-fact. ‘We’re getting closer to the breach. Keep an eye on each other.’

  My warning is met by quizzical looks, reminding me that none of them have experienced anything like warp travel before.

  ‘The warp, it gets into your thoughts. Maybe you’ll start to hear things or see stuff that doesn’t seem right. But it’ll feel normal. If you see anybody acting twitchy, make sure they’re okay.’

  ‘The closer we get to our target the more pronounced these sensations will become,’ the Colonel adds. ‘There are subtle ways the warpborn can influence your thoughts. If you see anything suspicious do not hesitate to act. Remember that the mission and your lives depend upon keeping this ship free of warp taint. Any doubts should be made known to me.’

  This declaration unsettles them until Sister Aladia starts to pray, her words spoken with a conviction that pushes away the fears. Though much of it is in High Gothic, we all become wrapped up in her devotion, feeling the strength of her righteousness like the heat that comes from her armour.

  A few minutes into this, a disturbed cry from one of the wasters draws everyone’s attention. It’s Tormas, who fumbles at his safety restraint, trying to pull the buckle with trembling hands.

  ‘Burning, burning,’ he mutters, a hand raising to ward away something only he can see. He carries on in the waster dialects, only one word in five understandable, and even then barely. His attempts to get out of his seat become more desperate despite the attempts of those around him to bring calm. He pushes at them, looking into their faces as though staring into a nightmare, flinching from their reassuring hands.

  Here and there others start to moan and whisper, speaking of fogs and lightning and eyes that won’t stop staring. Some shake it off, trembling but lucid. Others take on glazed looks, sitting as still as statues, falling deep into the warp dreams. The occasional panicked shout breaks through the growing disturbance.

  I exchange a silent look with the Colonel. A craft this small hasn’t got a Geller field but I figured that wouldn’t be an issue until we were actually inside the warp break. I guess pockets of unreality are leaking out. I can feel them as sudden paranoia sweeping through me, or the distant thunder of drums only I can hear. Now and then I catch myself scratching at the back of my hand, almost drawing blood with my ragged fingernails.

  ‘Time on target is about five minutes,’ Neri informs us across the intervox.

  The Colonel turns in his seat and presses the stud on the vox-panel between us.

  ‘Is it five minutes or is it not?’ he growls.

  ‘We’re flying into a big wavy break in the fabric of time and space, Colonel, but feel free to get out there and measure.’ The link hisses with static, probably masking the pilot’s curses. ‘About five minutes.’

  The throb at the nape of my neck has returned, stronger than anything I felt down on Armageddon, like a boom compared to a tinny rattle.

  I check on Oahebs, at the aft of the compartment next to the warphead, which has been strapped onto a medicae stretcher and is now propped up between two rows of seats.

  He feels my gaze and looks up, tension written into his features. The ork shudders, fingers moving slowly. Now and then a puff of greenish vapour ejects from its nose as it breathes.

  ‘Not long,’ Oahebs says. ‘It’s going to be tight.’

  ‘We’ll move it to the airlock,’ I say, hitting the release clasp of my harness to get up. A warning light comes to life above my position, accompanied by a repetitive ding-ding-ding of an alarm. For a heartbeat the noise rings louder, the red light becoming a blur of brightness in my vision. I shake my head and the moment passes.

  ‘Kage?’ The Colonel looks up at me, frowning.

  ‘We’re about to have company,’ I manage to say before a wave of nausea hits me, sending me spinning to the hard deck.

  The floor feels like wet sand beneath my fingers, though when I focus it becomes dimpled plasteel again. The air is hot though, I can feel the sweat pushing out of my skin in response, like a furnace door has been opened.

  A shout from the front of the compartment rings hollow in my ears and more dizziness sweeps through me as I try to turn my head to see what’s happening.

  The Colonel is standing up, impossibly slowly it seems, mouth distorted impossibly wide as he shouts. The sounds come to me as an incoherent moan filled with alarm. Eyes widening, he moves his hand to the holster at his belt. Twisting my neck, I look up to see something fading through the roof, gathering from a cloud of sparks dancing over the plain grey fuselage.

  I close my eyes to regain some equilibrium, trying to blot out the hallucination of the face leering down at us. That somehow makes it worse, random noises becoming voices chanting in my ears. I can’t understand the words but they speak to me of blood and death, edged with the crash of big guns and screams of slaughter. Reeling, I stand up, feeling like I’m in the midst of a raging battle. An armoured figure more beast than man looms before me, a mane of bloodied hair spilling from its scalp beneath a crested helm.

  All around are thousands of warriors, some Traitor Astartes, others feral creatures of claw and horn, some of them obviously human or mutant, dressed in rags of bloody red, skulls and disgusting runes carved into flesh or daubed onto plaques and banners. The image of the Burned Man springs to mind and I feel sick at the thought of what might have really inspired such icons.

  I see a dozen terrifying warp spawn giants, winged apparitions of pure anger like the monstrosity that manifested in the underhive. Some carry axes and whips, others swords or maces, each weapon streaming with black fires of hate.

  With them stands one that is different. Clad in armour that reminds me of the Traitor Astartes, it is as much monster as man, a behemoth of red skin and ruddy h
air. Its armour is moulded with grotesque spikes, its face a horned and fanged mask of infinite rage. In its hand it wields a chainaxe born of nightmares, its head larger than a man, its teeth forged from the teeth of dragons on a haft of warp spawn bone.

  Daemons.

  The true name springs to me again and I realise that I look not into something real but into the other side of the portal. This is no image of madness but a vision of what awaits Armageddon should we fail.

  In my hazy dream a hound with a red lizard’s body and teeth of bronze leaps at me.

  The zip of a lasgun cuts through everything and I feel the hot flash of the discharge across the side of my face.

  I open my eyes, realising I’m the one that’s opened fire.

  And the hound is with us, inside the drop-ship.

  Its shoulder is as high as mine, tail lashing, leathery crest flexing as it tilts back its head and lets out a growl that reverberates through the deck.

  Some of my companions open fire too, but not just at the blood monster. There are other things manifesting around us – blood-warriors with black swords and winged warpborn made of fire and darkness. Flashes of las-fire streak blind spots across my vision, the clamour of weapons joined by the fearful shouts and screams of those trapped with the daemons.

  A serrated immaterial blade slashes through cloth and flesh, cutting down one of the wasters just in front of me. I fire my lasgun into the warpborn’s chest as its tongue flashes out to catch droplets of blood spraying from the wound. Another infernal hound appears, smashing up through the seats in the centre of the compartment, heaving its bulk out from nothing as though prowling from a hidden lair.

  ‘Behind me!’ Oahebs’ call cuts through the din.

  A glance in his direction shows the daemons are ignoring him completely, the air a few metres around him free from the miasma of red that thickens around us. On the other side of the chamber is Sister Aladia. I swear every bolt from her gun shimmers with a golden trail as they cut through unreal beast and warrior alike. Nazrek fires its ridiculous gun, the detonating shell tearing apart three warpborn as well as one of our own who was in the grips of the enemy. Pieces of daemonflesh spatter the wall and ceiling. Others are not so fortunate, overwhelmed by the ferocity and suddenness of the attack.