Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Who said I wanted to kill you?’

  ‘Enforcers are moving in from either end of the street,’ Solaro murmured, across the vox.

  ‘I know. I alerted them.’ Karros leaned close to his sweating prisoner. ‘Your name is Belloq. You make your money selling black market off-world narcotics and stolen merchandise, bought wholesale from pirates and smugglers.’

  The man’s eyes widened. Before he could speak, Karros continued. ‘Unless I miss my guess, you have an appointment with my brother. I expect you shall keep it directly once the enforcers have you in custody. For your sake, I wouldn’t resist.’

  Karros signalled the others. ‘Time to go.’ He let Belloq fall, and tapped him on his bald head, hard enough to make the man wince.

  ‘Remember what I said. If I have to find you, you won’t enjoy the experience.’

  Chapter Eleven

  57:00:00

  Odoacer System, coreward edge

  Ashu leaned forward on his command throne, a grisly smile stretched across his pallid features. The Word Bearer flashed obsidian teeth and growled in pleasure. ‘Look at them, Slave. Ripe and fit for plucking.’

  Slave nodded. ‘Yes, O munificent one.’ He looked at her. She was tall and willowy, like all those born in the void. Her skin was as colourless as Ashu’s own, and she wore silken raiment, plundered from an aeldari trading vessel. Her face was hidden beneath a silver mask, wrought in the shape of a daemon’s leer, and silver chains girt her wrists, waist and neck. The chains were connected to Ashu’s throne.

  ‘Once you might have been among them, eh?’ He pointed to the viewscreen and the straggling column of refugee vessels that stretched across it. ‘Fearful and blind to the predators on your trail.’

  ‘Never, my lord. I was fated to serve you. As the gods will.’

  ‘It is good you know that, Slave.’ He glanced at the ritual brands that coiled about her bare arm. He’d put them there himself, and more besides. He marked all of his slaves, so that they might never hide their allegiances. He had something of a collection – enough to act as crew for his vessel, Callyon’s Yearning.

  Even more than his slaves, the Slaughter-class cruiser was his pride and joy. He had strangled its former captain as she sat in the throne Ashu now occupied. It had carried him through two centuries of war since then, and had never failed him.

  Alongside Callyon’s Yearning were a handful of smaller escort vessels – raiders and pirates, mostly. At least one was the province of an extended clan of devoted followers of the Primordial Truth – ten generations of daemon-worshippers had crewed the creaking scow, and the vox echoed with their chants and hymns.

  Ashu turned his attentions back to the refugees. At least a dozen vessels, most of them small – pleasure yachts, short-haul trading vessels and one antique troop transport, making their way slowly out of one of the innumerable debris fields that littered the system. Most were from Pergamon, but at least one was from farther afield. He knew, because he’d been tracking it since reaching the system’s core edge.

  Amatnim had set him a pleasurable task – burning worlds and disrupting shipping throughout the outer worlds. There wasn’t much to do, but he’d managed to amuse himself. The system was a backwater, but a vital one. Hundreds of petty shipping lanes and trade routes stretching in an invisible web between a few badly defended worlds. His holds groaned with slaves and plunder.

  He glanced at Slave. ‘What shall we do with these, my pet? Shall we offer them up to the beasts of the void? Or shall we strip them bare and add to our bounty?’

  ‘Whatever you desire, O most magnanimous of masters.’ He could hear the resentment in her voice – like a lovely tune, just at the edge of his perceptions.

  ‘Yes. A good answer, my lovely one.’ He caught her chin with a finger and drew her close. He could smell her fear now, hidden beneath a miasma of incense and sacred oils. She hated him and feared him, and he found it delicious. ‘You are wise in your generation, Slave. It is why you are honoured above all your fragile kind. Where would I be without your sagacity, my dear?’

  ‘Wherever the gods willed you, my lord.’

  Ashu considered this, and laughed. ‘Yes. Luckily for both of us, they have willed me here.’ He released her and leaned back. ‘Take us in. All ahead full. I want them to see us coming. It makes for sweeter sport.’

  The engines groaned, and the cruiser’s speed increased. The deck plates shivered in their housings and Ashu licked his lips at the thought of the pleasures to come. He had been a soldier for as long as he could recall. It was not battle he enjoyed, so much as what came after. He always had. On the charnel-fields of Calth, he had spent many nights plundering the treasures of that world’s broken cities.

  He’d always looked forward to a good looting. So many offerings to be placed on the altars of the gods. So many blessings to be received. He stroked his grey armour, tracing the sigils carved into the ceramite by the hands of his first slaves, now dead these many centuries. Some had met their fate on the altars, others had died in battle. One, he’d killed in self-defence after a summoning gone wrong. He missed them, sometimes.

  None compared to Slave, of course. She’d been bred to servitude, born in the bowels of Callyon’s Yearning, like the rest of the bridge-crew. He brushed his fingers along her spine, enjoying the animal fear that seeped from her pores. She wanted to kill him, he suspected. But she dared not. Her frustration mingled with her fear in such delightful ways. He looked forward to the day when he finally offered her up to the gods. Her screams would be as the sweetest music.

  She stepped behind his throne, dragging her chains after her. He did not reprimand her for moving without his permission. Other matters had his attention. His quarry was within range of his weapons batteries and had not yet noticed him. Or if they had, they were resigned to their fate. He studied the ships, puzzled.

  Something was wrong. The vox was silent. It should have been filled with screams of panic by now. He gestured with a finger. ‘Scan the frequencies. They’re being too quiet.’

  His slaves snapped to attention, and he watched them work in satisfaction. The bridge of a ship was no place for a Space Marine. Some among his brothers didn’t agree. They didn’t trust slaves or mutants, or even cultists. But Ashu knew the trick of it. Fear was a chain stronger than any forged by man. It bound the soul, leaving the body free to work.

  ‘Patch them through to my vox-channel,’ he said. ‘Continue to close. Once they’re within firing range, destroy the closest vessel.’

  The frequencies buzzed like wasps – empty of all sound save static. Ashu stiffened. They were being jammed. Someone was jamming his prey’s sensors. Why? He signalled one of his crew. ‘Back-trace the jamming signal. Find it. I want to know why–’

  ‘Incoming,’ a slave shrieked, suddenly. Alarm klaxons wailed. Ashu jolted in his throne as impact alarms added their voices to the cacophony. ‘Multiple impacts. Shields holding!’

  ‘What was that?’ Ashu demanded. But even as he asked the question, he knew the answer. A trap. The convoy had been used as bait, to lure him in. He grimaced as another convulsion wracked the command deck. ‘Get me a firing solution,’ he roared. ‘Contact the captain of the Malice…’

  ‘It’s gone, my lord,’ Slave said demurely.

  Ashu turned. ‘What?’

  ‘Gone, my lord. As is the Skulleater and Lucius’ Blade. They’re both burning off our bow.’ She gestured at the viewscreen. Ashu stared in incomprehension. His escorts were dying and he was blind to their killer. He hammered at the controls on his throne, bringing up hull-feeds and long-distance telemetry. The commanders of the remaining escorts were screaming for orders, but he had none to give them.

  On the viewscreen, motes of deadly light stretched from unknown sources. Another escort tumbled away, ruptured, venting air and corpses. Hololithic data unspooled before him, as he searched for t
he attackers to no avail. They were jamming his sensors as they’d jammed those of the convoy.

  He looked up, as sparks cascaded across the bridge. Slaves yelped in pain, and beat at the flames that clung to their rags. Telemetry runes blinked on his display, isolating potential power sources. They were using the debris fields to mask themselves. He could feel it. Cunning. ‘Come to a new heading,’ he snarled, and rattled off coordinates. ‘Get us in broadside range of the debris. Now!’

  The ship’s turning felt ponderous to him, though he knew it was anything but. Even as it did so, he felt that he’d missed something. Something important. The broken stretch of the debris field came into view. ‘Magnify.’ The image expanded. ‘Again!’

  He saw them then – a sleek, black monster, crouched in the dark. A strike cruiser. It was surrounded by handfuls of smaller vessels. These frenzied forth as Callyon’s Yearning came about. They swarmed like flies. ‘Prime the defence turrets – knock them out of the void.’ He felt the rumble as the gunnery decks opened up.

  Something was still off. One ship – even a strike cruiser – wasn’t an ambush. There was something he wasn’t seeing. ‘We’ve come about, my lord,’ a slave cried.

  ‘Tell the lance batteries to fire – now! Target the debris fields. If we can cause a chain reaction…’ He trailed off as the answer came to him. He knew what he’d missed. ‘No, belay that. Engines, reverse full. Quickly!’

  Too late.

  He felt the shields buckle as vessels broke free of the convoy and fired. A lucky hit, or well calculated. They’d hidden well, using the civilian vessels first for bait, and then for cover. Cold. He could almost admire such ruthless pragmatism. If only they weren’t trying to kill him. ‘Send a distress signal – alert the fleet…’

  Shield generators overloaded and flickered out throughout the cruiser. His throne’s display flashed, as the smaller vessels swarmed his own, attacking from all directions. They’d drawn him in, pulled him into position and now he would pay for it.

  Fires were burning unchecked below on the command deck. Damage reports came in across the vox, even as it crackled and died. He made to push himself to his feet, but stopped as he heard the clink of chains. ‘Slave?’

  Loops of silver chain settled across his neck. Surprised, he fell back. The loops tightened, as crewmen crept through the smoke towards him, carrying jagged shards of metal as if they were spears and knives. He forced his head up, seeking Slave out. She was braced behind his throne, using all of her weight to try to strangle him. Angry, he clawed at the loops, and dragged them away from his throat. Links popped and snapped, even as the others reached him.

  They came at him in silence. He killed the first, and the second, with his bare hands. And the third and the fourth. But still they came. Determined. And the loops of chain drew tighter and tighter about his throat. Slave was singing as she hauled her improvised noose back. A hymn, he thought, though he couldn’t think where she might have heard it from.

  They pinned his arms with their bodies, held his legs. No fear in them now. He wondered if there ever really had been. As they fumbled for his sidearm, he looked up at Slave. ‘I’m very proud of you,’ he gurgled, as two of them hefted his bolt pistol in trembling hands, and placed it awkwardly to his brow.

  It was done in an instant.

  Callyon’s Yearning followed its commander a few moments later.

  Amatnim watched as ident-runes spun across the projection. The sensor-feeds showed the orbital dockyards above Pergamon. Damaged as they were, they were still functional. Another blessing from the gods. The world had offered stiffer resistance than he’d expected. Or maybe it had simply been the gods’ way of preparing him for the true test to come.

  The Glory Eternal trawled the stars now, on a slow heading to Almace. A few ships followed in the battle-barge’s wake, those who’d made it through the assault unscathed, and weren’t deployed elsewhere. It would take time for the rest of the fleet to make repairs, rearm and catch up. Hence his lack of hurry. Amatnim was not of a mind to sacrifice a numerical advantage out of impatience. Unlike some.

  He glanced at Lakmhu. The Dark Apostle stood nearby, staring at a telemetric projection with ill-disguised impatience. Now that he knew what was at stake, he seemed to vibrate with fanatical exuberance. If Lakmhu had been in charge, they would already have been in orbit about Almace, engaged in another siege. And they would have paid a heavy toll.

  The gods thirsted for blood, but they desired victory above all else. Too often, Amatnim’s brothers allowed themselves to be blinded by the former, and lost sight of the latter. That, as Kor Phaeron had often said, was the issue with Erebus and his ilk. They traded victory for success. They would rather win a thousand skirmishes than a war. And that was why, when the Urizen returned, his wrath would fall upon them.

  They had been given a gift, and they had squandered it. Freed from their chains, they had immediately sought new masters. They had turned on one another, and made the Legion into a battleground. But soon, that would end. With the prisoner of Almace freed, and all secrets come to light, Erebus would lose his standing in the Legion at last. The stalemate between factions would end and the true faith would be united once more.

  Amatnim closed his eyes, just for a moment, imagining the glories to come. Would Lorgar acknowledge him, as Kor Phaeron had promised? He wished it so. He hoped that the Urizen would see the light in him and find it familiar.

  As if reading his thoughts, Lakmhu grunted. Amatnim turned. ‘Yes, brother?’

  ‘Another barnacle adds itself to our hull.’

  Amatnim glanced at the sensor-feed. A pict-display from one of the battle-barge’s launch bays showed transport ships sliding into waiting berths, as crews of slaves raced to greet the new arrivals. ‘How many does that make?’

  ‘Fifty-six,’ Lakmhu said, watching the data twist across the projections. Sometimes it made faces at the Dark Apostle. There were daemons in the circuitry, Amatnim knew. Little ones, mostly. Brief sparks of the Great Fire. Amusing, in moderation.

  The newcomers were pirates. The system was infested with them. They lurked in the asteroid belts and debris fields that marked much of the rim expanse, venturing forth to attack lone vessels or raid the farthest worlds. Amatnim had sent envoys among them, soon after entering the system. They were a ready-made fighting force, they knew the territory, and they would require little direction for his purposes.

  ‘Excellent.’ Amatnim smiled, pleased. It was always better when they came of their own free will, when they acknowledged the might of the gods and bowed their heads.

  ‘They are useless. This is useless. What purpose does it serve?’

  Amatnim sighed. A theatrical gesture, and one he knew annoyed the Dark Apostle. ‘It serves our purpose, and through us, that of the gods.’

  ‘We are wasting time. These stragglers will only slow us down.’

  ‘We have time to waste. What is time, save a collection of moments gifted us by the gods? Who are you to attribute greater or lesser value to any given moment?’ He smiled. ‘I think you forget yourself, Lakmhu.’

  Lakmhu turned, tattooed features twisted into a bemused expression. ‘Was that supposed to mean something? What is this gibberish that drips from your lips, Amatnim?’

  Amatnim put on a bland expression. ‘Why, are these not the words of Mekesh the Rancorous, as written in the forty-second Epistle of Ruination?’

  Lakmhu frowned. ‘The homilies of Mekesh are forbidden, as you well know. Erebus himself has decreed it so.’

  ‘Erebus makes many decrees.’ Amatnim sighed sadly. ‘How is a humble soldier such as myself to keep up?’ He made a show of examining himself. ‘I trust my battleplate is the correct shade, this cycle?’ The Dark Council had decreed that there were only a certain number of proper colours for battleplate, if it was to be painted. Deviance from the permitted shades was punished harshly. Unfort
unately, the list of approved hues changed almost daily, much to the consternation of the devout.

  Kor Phaeron had explained it to Amatnim, once. Such little things kept the faithful snapping at each other over matters of dogma, and left Erebus free to do as he wished. He was like a stone dropped into a pond. The ripples he created affected the whole of the Legion, and often for the worse. That was why he had to be removed – but not just removed, erased. As if he had never been. All influence stripped, all supporters gone. Otherwise, he would simply be a martyr. And Kor Phaeron knew all about the power of martyrs.

  Lakmhu shook his head. ‘There is no paint on your armour.’

  Amatnim nodded, as if in thanks. ‘Ah. That is true.’ He smiled widely. ‘Once again, you have quieted my fears, Lakmhu. Truly, you speak with the voice of the gods themselves. I am in awe of your piousness.’

  Lakmhu’s expression was that of a man tasting poison. His hand twitched towards the ritual blade sheathed at his side, and Amatnim’s smile widened. ‘Do not think harshly of me, brother. I know it would be easier if I were a fool, but I am not. And this is not foolishness. We come to do a great thing, it is true, but we cannot forget our Legion’s purpose in our haste to claim glory. One soul at a time, or a thousand at once, we must bring them all to the light of the Primordial Truth. Only then will the gods see us and know us as their truest sons.’

  ‘There are some who might disagree with you on that score,’ Lakmhu said bitterly. He turned away. ‘Not just in our own ranks.’

  Amatnim laughed. ‘And so? Is your faith so brittle that the scepticism of lesser souls can cause it to break?’ He stepped up beside the Dark Apostle. ‘For shame. What would Erebus say to that?’

  Lakmhu stiffened and glared. Amatnim grinned. ‘Faith, brother. You should try to muster some. If the gods did not wish them here, they would not be here. As you would not be here.’ He grinned. ‘Besides, the ranks of our chattel grow thin. We need more warm bodies, and these degenerates will play the part well enough. They are eager for war, and we will give them one.’