Battle for the Abyss Page 11

  Cestus nodded, appraising the brave warriors before him with great respect.

  ‘Make no mistake about this: we are at war,’ the Ultramarine warned them, finally. ‘We are at war with our brothers, and we must prosecute this fight with all the strength and conviction that we would bring against any foe of mankind. We do this in the name of the Emperor.’

  ‘In the name of the Emperor,’ growled Skraal. ‘Aye, for the Throne,’ Brynngar agreed. Cestus bowed deeply.

  ‘Your fealty does me great honour. Prepare your battle-brothers for what is ahead. I will convene a council of war upon Captain Mhotep’s return to the Wrathful.’

  Cestus noticed the snarl upon Brynngar’s face at the last remark, but it faded quickly as the Astartes took their leave and returned to their warriors.

  ‘Admiral Kaminska,’ said the Ultramarine, once the other Legionaries were gone.

  Kaminska looked up at him. Dark rings had sunk around her eyes. ‘I shall have to prepare Navigator Orcadus. We can follow once the enemy is clear.’ She thumbed a vox-stud on the arm of her command throne. ‘Captain Ulargo, report.’

  ‘We’ve got mostly superficial damage; one serious deck leak,’ replied Ulargo on the Fireblade.

  ‘Make your ship ready. We’re following them,’ Kaminska told him. ‘Into the Abyss?’

  ‘Yes. Do you have any objections?’

  ‘Is this Captain Cestus’s order?’

  ‘It is,’ she said.

  ‘Then we’ll be in your wake,’ said Ulargo. ‘For the record, I do not believe a warp pursuit is the most suitable course of action in our current situation.’

  ‘Noted,’ said Kaminska. ‘Form up to follow us in.’

  ‘Yes, admiral,’ Ulargo replied.

  As the vox went dead, Kaminska sagged in her command throne as if the battle and the comrades she had lost were weighing down on her.

  ‘Admiral,’ said Cestus, noting her discomfort, ‘are you still able to prosecute this mission?’

  Kaminska whirled on the Ultramarine, her expression fierce and the rod at her back once more.

  ‘I may not have the legendary endurance of the Astartes, but I will see this through to the end, captain, for good or ill.’

  ‘You have my utmost faith, then,’ Cestus replied.

  The voice of Helms-mate Venkmyer at the sensorium helm helped to ease the tension.

  ‘Captain Mhotep’s saviour pod is locked on,’ she said, ‘and the Fireblade has picked up additional survivors from the Waning Moon.’

  ‘What of the Boundless?’ asked Kaminska.

  ‘I’m sorry, admiral. There were none.’

  Kaminska watched the tactical display on the screen above her as the Furious Abyss’s blip shivered and disappeared, leaving behind a trace of exotic particles.

  ‘Take us into that jump point and engage the warp engines,’ she ordered wearily, Venkmyer relaying them to the relevant parties aboard ship.

  ‘Captain Mhotep is secured, admiral,’ Venkmyer said afterwards.

  ‘Take us in.’

  ABOARD THE FURIOUS Abyss, the supplicants’ quarters were dark and infernally hot. The air was so heavy with chemicals that anyone other than an Astartes would have needed a respirator to survive.

  The supplicants, sixteen of them in all, knelt by the walls of the darkened rooms. Their heads were bowed over their chests, but the shadows and darkness could not hide their swollen craniums and the way their features had atrophied as their skulls deformed to contain their grotesque brains. Thick tubes snaked down their noses and throats, hooking them to life support units mounted on the walls above. Wires ran from probes in their skulls. They were dressed neatly in the livery of the Word Bearers, for even in their comatose states they were servants of the Word just like the rest of the crew.

  Three of the supplicants were dead. Their efforts in psychically assaulting the Imperial fighter squadrons had taxed them to destruction. The skull of one had ruptured, spilling rust-grey cortex over his chest and stomach. Another had apparently caught fire, and his blackened flesh still smouldered. The last was slumped at the back of the quarters, lolling over to one side.

  Zadkiel entered the chamber. The sound of his footsteps and those of one other broke the hum of the life support systems.

  ‘This is the first time you have seen the supplicants, isn’t it?’ said Zadkiel.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said Ultis, though his answer was not necessary.

  Zadkiel turned to the novice. ‘Tell me, Ultis, what is your impression of them?’

  ‘I have none,’ the novice answered coldly. ‘They are loyal servants of Lorgar, as are we all. They sacrifice themselves in a holy cause to further his glory and the glory of the Word.’

  Zadkiel smiled at the phlegmatic response. Such zeal, such unremitting fervour; this Ultis wore ambition like a medal of honour emblazoned upon his chest. It meant he was dangerous.

  ‘Justly spoken,’ offered Zadkiel. ‘Was it a worthy sacrifice?’ he added, probing the depths of the novice’s desire for advancement without him even knowing.

  ‘No one ever served the Word without understanding that they would eventually give the Word their life,’ Ultis responded carefully.

  He is aware that I am testing him. He is more dangerous than I thought.

  ‘Very true,’ Zadkiel said out loud. ‘Still, some would think this sight distasteful.’

  ‘Then some do not deserve to serve.’

  ‘You always answer with such conviction, Ultis,’ said Zadkiel. ‘Are you so sure in your beliefs?’

  Ultis turned to regard his lord directly. Neither of the Astartes wore a helmet, and their gazes locked in unspoken challenge.

  ‘I have faith in the Word. It is such that I need not hesitate; I need only speak and act.’

  Zadkiel held the novice’s vehement gaze for a moment longer before he broke away willingly and knelt down by the third dead supplicant. The Word Bearer tipped its head upwards to reveal burned out eyes.

  ‘This is conviction, Ultis. This is adherence to the creed of Lorgar,’ Zadkiel told him.

  ‘Lorgar’s Word is powerful,’ Ultis affirmed. ‘None of his servants would ever forsake it.’

  ‘Perhaps, but think upon it. Many of our Legion have a seductive way with words. We are passionate about our lord primarch and his teachings. We are most talented in spreading that to others. Could it not be said that this blinds lesser men? That to blind them with such passion, and have them do our bidding, is no different to slavery?’

  ‘Even if it could be said,’ replied Ultis carefully, ‘it does not follow that we would be in the wrong. Perhaps some are more use to the galaxy as slaves than as free men, doing as their base instincts tell them.’

  ‘Were these men suited to being slaves?’ asked Zadkiel, indicating the supplicants.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ultis. ‘Psykers are dangerous when left to their own devices. The Word gave them another purpose.’

  ‘Then you would enslave others to do Lorgar’s will?’

  Ultis thought about this. The novice was no fool, and would be well aware that Zadkiel was evaluating his every word, but failing to answer at all would be by far the most damning result.

  ‘It is better,’ said Ultis, ‘that lesser men like this lose their freedom than that the Word remains unspoken. Even if what we do is slavery, even if our passion is like a chain that holds them down, these are small prices to pay to see Lorgar’s Word enacted.’

  Zadkiel stood up. These supplicants will require some time to recover. Their psychic exertions have drained them. It is good that the weaker were winnowed out, at least. The warp will not be kind to them.

  ‘You show remarkable tolerance, Novice Ultis. Many Astartes, even those of our Legion, would balk at the use of these supplicants.’

  ‘Those are the lengths to which we must go,’ said Ultis, ‘to fulfil the Word.’

  Yes, very ambitious, Zadkiel decided.

  ‘How far would you go, Brother Ultis?’


  ‘To the very end.’

  Driven, too.

  Zadkiel smiled thinly.

  Dangerous.

  ‘Then, there is little left to teach you,’ said the Word Bearer captain.

  The vox-emitter in Zadkiel’s gorget chirped. ‘Master Malforian has indicated that he is ready,’ said Helms-mate Sarkorov.

  Delegating already, are we Reskiel? thought Zadkiel, seeing rivals and potential usurpers in every exchange, every obsequious nod.

  ‘Deploy at once,’ said Zadkiel.

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘They pursue us still?’ asked Ultis.

  ‘It was to be expected,’ Zadkiel replied. ‘Doubtless, some sense of duty compels them. They will soon learn the folly of that emotion.’

  ‘Pray enlighten me, my lord.’

  Zadkiel considered the novice as he bowed before him.

  ‘Join me on the bridge, Brother Ultis,’ he said, ‘and merely watch.’

  THE WARP WAS madness made real. It was another dimension where the rules of reality did not apply. The human mind was not evolved to comprehend it, for it had no rules or boundaries to define it. It was infinite, and infinitely varied. Only a Navigator, a highly specialised form of stable mutant, could look upon it and not go insane. Only he could allow a ship to travel the stable channels of the warp, fleeting as they were, and emerge through the other side. To traverse an unstable warp route, even with a Navigator’s guidance, would put a vessel at the capricious mercy of the empyrean tides.

  The Furious Abyss had plunged into this sea. It was kept intact by a sheath of overlapping Geller fields, without which it would disintegrate as its component atoms ran out of reasons to stay neatly arranged in its metals.

  From the ordnance bay, wrapped in its own complement of fields, emerged a large psionic mine, spinning rapidly as it tumbled away from the Word Bearers’ ship. Though not visible on the outside, within the mine’s inner core was a coterie of screaming psykers, insane with a poisonous vapour that had been pumped into the chamber and then hermetically sealed. Their combined death cry would send psionic ripples through the empyrean. With a flash of light, which bled away into emotion as it was absorbed into the warp, the mine and all its raving cargo detonated.

  The warp quaked. Love and hate boiled and ran together like paint, the agony of billions of years breaking and shifting like spring ice. Mountains of hope crumbled, and oceans of lust drained into the nothingness of misery.

  With a sound like every scream ever uttered, the Tertiary Core Transit collapsed.

  SEVEN

  Ghosts in the warp

  Hellbound

  Legacy of Magnus

  ‘ULARGO!’ SHOUTED KAMINSKA. ‘You’re breaking up. I can barely hear you. Keep the fields up and get into our wake!’

  The Wrathful, with the Fireblade in tow, had entered the infinite that was the warp. Interference from the rolling shadow sea had rendered vox traffic all but dead as the last vestiges of real space fell away. The final transmissions from the escort ship were fraught with panic and desperation as the Fireblade encountered unknown difficulties during transit.

  Ulargo’s voice was heavily distorted as he relayed a fragmentary message, the words dissolving into crackling non sequiturs. Strange waves of static flowed through the Wrathful’s bridge speakers, the short distance between it and the Fireblade filling up with the impossible geometries of the warp.

  Entering the warp through a stable route, even guided by a Navigator, was dangerous. To do so once that route had collapsed and without the beacon of the Astronomican was nigh-on suicidal.

  Admiral Kaminska swore beneath her breath, smashing her fist against the arm of her command throne in frustration.

  ‘The link is severed,’ she muttered darkly.

  ‘We’ll get no further contact with the Fireblade until we leave warpspace, admiral,’ said Venkmyer.

  Kaminska and her crew were alone on the bridge. Captain Cestus and the other Astartes had convened in one of the vessel’s many conference rooms to receive Captain Mhotep, find out what he knew and formulate some kind of plan.

  The mood was subdued because of the warp transit, and the unknown fate of the Fireblade had not alleviated the grim demeanour that pervaded on the bridge.

  ‘I know, helmsmistress,’ Kaminska answered with resignation.

  The Wrathful shuddered. Warning lights flickered up and down the bridge, and in the decks beyond klaxons sounded.

  ‘We’re on full collision drill,’ Helms-mate Kant informed them.

  ‘Good,’ said the admiral. ‘Keep us there.’

  The whole bridge heaved sideways, scattering navigational instruments and tactical manuals. Kant grabbed the edge of a map table to keep his footing with the sudden warp turbulence.

  ‘At your command,’ he replied.

  Kaminska sat back in her command throne, exhausted. She had finally come up against a problem she couldn’t solve with tactical acumen and audacity. The Astartes captain of the Ultramarines had put her in this situation, and for all her loyalty to the Imperium and the greater glory of mankind, she resented him for it. Lo Thulaga, Vargas, Abrax Vann of the Fearless and now Ulargo, all gone. Vorlov, of the Boundless, had been her friend and he too had fallen ignominiously in pursuit of an unbeatable foe at the behest of a reckless angel of the Emperor.

  Now, in the thrall of the warp and impotent as she was, trusting to her Navigator to guide them out safely, Kaminska’s anger was only magnified.

  ‘Helms-mate, get me Officer Huntsman of the Watch,’ she ordered with forced resolve.

  ‘Admiral,’ said Huntsman’s voice over the vox array after a few moments.

  ‘Assemble your best men and have them patrol decks. I don’t want any surprises or unforeseen accidents during transit,’ she replied. ‘Any signs, any at all, and you know what to do.’

  ‘I shall prosecute my duty with due and lethal diligence, admiral,’ Huntsman responded.

  HUNTSMAN KILLED THE vox link and turned to the three armsmen waiting patiently for him in the upper deck barracks. They were equipped with pistols and shock mauls and light flak jackets. The four men stood in a small group, their features cast with deep shadows from the low-level lighting that persisted whilst the Wrathful was in warp transit. The rest of the barrack room, all gunmetal with stark walls and bunks, was empty.

  ‘Four teams, decks three through eighteen,’ said Huntsman with curt and level-headed precision. ‘I want regular reports from the below decks overseers, every half hour.’

  The three armsmen nodded and left to gather the enforcers.

  As Officer of the Watch, it was Huntsman’s job to ensure that order and discipline were maintained aboard ship. He was brutal in that duty, an unshakeable enforcer who suffered no insubordination. He had killed many men in pursuit of his duty and felt no remorse for it.

  Warp psychosis could affect any man, and even Huntsman, though possessed of a stronger will than most, felt its presence, even through the shielding of the Geller fields surrounding the ship that acted as a barrier against the empyrean. He had seen many suffering from the malady, and it took many forms. Both physical and mental abnormalities could present themselves: hair loss, babbling, catatonia, even homicidal dementia, were common. Huntsman had the cure for each and every one of them sitting snugly in his hip holster.

  Wiping a hand across his closely-cropped hair, Huntsman checked the load in his sidearm and patiently awaited the return of his men.

  CESTUS, ANTIGES AND the other Astartes captains sat around a lacquered hexagonal table in one of the Wrathful’s conference rooms. Wood panelling decorated the room and gave it false warmth, despite its obvious militaristic austerity. Plaques hung on the walls describing the deeds of the many great commanders, captains and admirals that had served in the Saturnine fleet. Kaminska’s was amongst them. Her roll of honour was long and distinguished.

  There were several artefacts too: crossed cutlasses, an antique pistol and other traditional oceanic trappi
ngs. Presiding over all was an icon that spoke of the new age. The Imperial eagle was the symbol of the Emperor’s War of Unification and a symbol of the union between Mars and Terra. It was a stark reminder of all they were fighting for and the fragility inherent within it.

  ‘As soon as we leave warp we get into their wake and launch boarding torpedoes at their blind side. Let the fury of the wolf gut this prey from within!’ snarled Brynngar. The Wolf Guard, unlike the rest of them, was on his feet and had taken to pacing the room.

  ‘They would shoot our torpedoes down before they even breached their shields,’ countered Mhotep. The Thousand Son had been given the all-clear by Apothecary Laeradis after his ship had been destroyed and was keen to attend the council. ‘And should they not,’ he added, before the Wolf Guard could protest, ‘we do not know what kind of armour they have or what forces are onboard. No, we must be patient and wait until the Furious Abyss is vulnerable.’

  The debate as to how to stop the Word Bearers had been raging for over an hour. In that time, Mhotep had revealed what little he knew: the name of the vessel and its admiral, the weapon systems that had crippled his vessel and the heresy embraced by the Word Bearers. He neglected to speak of Zadkiel’s offer of alliance, leaving that to his own counsel. Despite the heated arguments, little had been agreed upon, other than that they were committed to their current course of action and that an all-out assault upon the Furious Abyss was tantamount to suicide.

  ‘Bah! Typical of the sons of Magnus to advise caution in the face of action,’ bellowed the Space Wolf, his feelings for the Thousand Son as direct and pointed as his demeanour.

  ‘I agree with the wolf,’ said Skraal. ‘I cannot abide waiting in the dark. If we are to sacrifice our lives to ensure the destruction of our enemies then so be it.’

  ‘Aye!’ Brynngar agreed, making the most of the support. ‘Any other course smacks of cowardice.’

  Mhotep bristled at the slight and looked unshakeably into the feral grin that had crept across the Space Wolf’s savage features, but he would not be goaded.

  ‘This gets us nowhere,’ Cestus broke in. ‘We know for certain that the Astartes aboard that ship have turned traitor. What that means for the rest of the seventeenth Legion, I do not know. Certainly, the Mechanicum built the vessel and that raises further questions about the nature of its construction. The fact it was kept secret suggests complicity on their part, at least to some degree.’