Void Stalker (8 page)

Something hit Gerrick in the stomach with the force of a truck crash. He couldn’t even shout, so fast did all air leave his lungs, nor did he have time to fall before the bolt in his belly detonated, taking him apart in a flash of light.

There was no pain. He saw the stars spinning, the buildings tumbling, and fell into blackness just as his legless torso struck the mud road. The life was gone from his eyes before his skull cracked open on the ground, spilling its contents into the dirt, leaving him long dead before Variel started skinning him.

Amar Medrien pounded
his fists on the sealed door.

‘Let us in!’

The shelter entrance for three streets of his subsector was in the basement of the Axle Grinder, a dive bar set on a tri-junction. He never drank there, and the only time he’d spent more than five minutes in the place was the Grey Winter four years before, when most of his district had endured three weeks underground during dust storms that ravaged their homes.

He stood outside the sealed bulkhead with a tide of others, locked out of their assigned emergency shelter.

‘They locked it too early,’ voices were saying, back and forth.

‘It’s not a storm.’

‘Did you see the fires?’

‘Why did they seal the doors?’

‘Break them down.’

‘The archregent is dead.’

Amar ran his fingers along the door’s seams, knowing he wouldn’t find any sign of weakness, but with nothing left to do in the press of bodies from behind. If they kept packing the basement – and the flood showed no sign of slowing – he’d be crushed against the old iron before long.

‘They’re not going to open it…’

‘It’s already full.’

He shook his head as he heard the last remark. How could it be full? The bunker had room for over four hundred people. Close to sixty were still out here with him. Someone’s elbow dug into his side.

‘Stop pushing!’ someone else shouted. ‘We can’t get it open.’

Amar grunted as someone shoved him from behind. His face thumped against the cold iron, and he couldn’t even get enough room to throw an elbow back to clear some space.

The tinny whine of the door release was the most beautiful song he’d ever heard. People around him cheered and wept, backing away at last. Sweating hands gripped at the door’s seams, pulling it open on hinges in dire need of oiling.

‘Merciful God-Emperor…’ Amar whispered at the scene within. Bodies littered the bunker’s floor, each one mutilated beyond recognition. Blood – a slow river of the thick, stinking fluid – gushed out across Amar’s boots and over the ankles of those waiting behind him. Those who couldn’t see what he saw were already shoving against those in the front rows, eager to get into their false solace.

Amar saw severed limbs cast in every direction; blood-spattered fingers gently curled as they dipped into the bloody pools across the floor. Body upon body upon body, many strewn w
h
ere they
had fallen
, others heaped in piles. The walls were flecked with graceless sprays of red over the dark stone.

‘Wait,’ he said, so quiet that he couldn’t even hear himself. The shoving from behind didn’t cease. ’Wait…’

He stumbled with the pressure, staggering into the chamber. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he heard the roar of a chainblade revving up.

Streaked with blood, most notably a fresh palm-print on the faceplate of his helm, Uzas rose from his hiding place beneath a cairn of corpses.

‘Blood for the Blood God
.
’
H
e spoke through lips stringed by spit. ‘Skulls for the Eighth Legion.’

The archregent looked
down at the fires, and wondered how metal ships could burn. He knew it wasn’t the hull itself catching flame, but the flammable contents within the vessel’s body. Still, it seemed strange to watch smoke and flame pouring from ruptures in the walls of his grounded ship. The wind couldn’t steal all the smoke. Great plumes of it choked the air around the observation spire, severing his sight beyond the closest buildings.

‘Do we know how much of the city is burning?’ he asked the guard by his desk.

‘What few reports we’ve had suggest most of the population is making it to their assigned shelters.’

‘Good,’ the archregent nodded. ‘Very good.’
For whatever it’s worth
, he thought. If their attackers had come to kill them, hiding in the subterranean shelters would achieve nothing beyond herding the people together like animals for the slaughter. Still, it reduced the chaos on the streets, and that made it progress of a kind.

‘The lockdown list, sire,’ another guard said. He wore the same bland uniform as the first, and carried a data-slate in one gloved hand. The archregent glanced at it, noting the number of shelters reporting green light lockdowns.

‘Very good,’ he said again. ‘If the raiders make demands, I want to be informed the moment the words have left their lips. Where is Abettor Muvo?’

Providence answered, as Muvo entered before any of the twelve guards could reply.

‘Sire, the western granaries are burning.’

The archregent closed his eyes. He said nothing.

‘Landers are coming down in the western districts, deploying servitors, mutants, machinery and… Throne only knows what else. They’re excavating pits and hurling the bodies of our people into the holes.
’

‘Have we managed to send word to the other settlements?’

The abettor nodded. ‘Respite and Sanctum both sent acknowledgements of warnings received.’ He paused for a moment, his bloodshot eyes flicking to the scene beyond the glass dome walls. ‘Neither of them will have any better chance at defending against this than we do.’

The archregent took a breath. ‘What of our militia?’

‘Some of them are gathering, others are heading into the shelters with their families. The Watchmen are organising shelter retreats. Should we call them off storm protocol?’

‘Not yet. Spread word through the streets that all Watchmen and militia should gather at their assigned strongholds as soon as the shelters are locked down. We have to fight back, Muvo.’

He looked at his two guards, and cleared his throat. ‘With that in mind, might I have a weapon, young man?’

The guard blinked. ‘I… sire?’

‘That pistol will do, thank you.’

‘Do you know how to fire it, sire?’

The archregent forced a smile. ‘I do indeed. Now then, Muvo, I need you to… Muvo?’

The abettor raised a shaking hand, pointing over the archregent’s shoulder. Every man in the chamber turned, facing a huge vulture silhouette in the smoke. The dome was dense enough to drown out all sound, b
ut
the amber flare of the gunship’s engines cast myriad reflections across the reinforced glass. They watched it rise higher, an avian wraith in the mist, until it hovered above the dome’s ceiling. Fire washed down against the dome, spilling liquid-like over the surface, beautiful to behold from below.

The archregent saw the gunship’s maw open, a ramp lowering into the air, and two figures fall from the sky. A flash of gold from one of their hands speared downward, splitting the dome with brutal cracks from the impaling point.

Both figures’ boots struck the cracks as they fell, shattering the dome’s ceiling in a storm of glass. Razor diamonds rained into the centre of the chamber, coupling with the breathy roar of the gunship’s engines, no longer held silent by the transparent barrier.

The figures fell twenty metres before thudding down onto the deck with enough force to send tremors through the chamber. For a moment, they knelt in the dent they’d caused, crouched in their impact crater with their heads lowered. Glass hailstones broke almost musically against their armour.

Then they rose. One held an oversized chainsword, the other a golden blade. They moved in predatory unison, animalistic without intent, walking towards the desk. Each of their steps was a resonating thump of ceramite on iron.

Both of the archregent’s guards opened fire. In the same moment, both armoured warriors threw their weapons. The first died as the golden sword speared him through the chest, dropping him to the floor in a twitching heap. The second went down as the chainsword smashed into his face and torso, the live teeth eating into his flesh. Streaks of warm meat and hot blood splashed across the abettor and archregent. Neither man had moved.

The archregent swallowed, watching the armoured figures approach. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why have you come here?’

‘Wrong question,’ Xarl smiled.

‘And we owe you no answers,’ said Talos.

The archregent raised the borrowed pistol and sighted down the barrel. The warriors kept walking. Next to him, Abettor Muvo was interlacing his fingers, seeking to quell their shaking.

‘The Emperor protects,’ the archregent said.

‘If he did,’ replied Talos, ‘he would never have sent you to this world.’

Xarl hesitated. ‘Brother,’ he voxed, ignoring the old man with the gun. ‘I am getting a signal from orbit. Something is wrong.’

Talos turned back to the other Night Lord. ‘I hear it, also. Septimus, bring
Blackened
along the eastern edge of the spire. We must return to the void at once.’

‘Compliance, master,’ was the crackling reply. Within moments, the gunship was hovering by the dome’s edge, gangramp lowering like an eagle’s hooked maw.

‘The Emperor protects,’ the archregent whispered again, trembling now.

Talos turned his back on the mortal. ‘It would seem that on rare occasions, he really does.’

Both Night Lords dragged their swords clear from the dead bodies as they ran, and drew bolters mid-sprint, opening fire on the reinforced glass. Their armoured forms crashed through the damaged barrier, taking them into the smoke and out of sight. The archregent watched their silhouettes vanish into the darkness of the gunship’s innards, still unable to blink.

‘The Emperor protects,’ he said a third time, amazed that it was so very, tangibly true.

Talos held his
head in his hands. The pain was a rolling throb now, pushing at the back of his eyes. Around him, First Claw were readying their weapons, standing and holding to the handrails as the gunship climbed back into the sky.

‘Is it a Navy vessel?’ Cyrion was asking.

‘They think it’s an Adeptus Astartes cruiser,’ Xarl held a hand to the side of his helm, as if it would aid his hearing. ‘The vox reports are exciting, to say the least. The
Echo
is taking a beating.’

‘We outgun any of their cruisers
.
’ Mercutian was kneeling as he refit
ted
his heavy bolter, not looking up at the others.

‘We outgun them when they don’t break into the system and knife us in the spine from a perfectly executed ambush,’ Cyrion pointed out.

Talos drew breath to speak, but no words left his lips. He closed his eyes, feeling tears in his eyes and hoping it wasn’t blood again. He knew it would be, but holding to hope prevented his temper from flashing free.

‘The Sons of the Thirteenth Legion,’ he said. ‘Armour of scarlet and bronze.’

‘What is he saying?’

‘I…’ Talos began, but the rest of the sentence fled from him. The sword hit the deck first. The prophet collapsed to his hands and knees a moment later. Behind his eyes, the darkness was returning in a tidal roar, hungry for his consciousness.

‘Again?’ Xarl sounded angry. ‘What in hell’s name is wrong with him?’

‘I have my suspicions,’ answered Variel, kneeling beside the prone warrior. ‘We have to get him to the apothecarion.’

‘We have to defend the damned ship when we reach it first,’ Cyrion argued.

‘I hear sirens,’ Talos said, and fell forward once more into the yawning maw of nothingness.

VI

ASSAULT

He woke laughing
because of Malcharion. The war-sage’s deep, rumbling declaration from over a year before rattled through his aching head, when the Dreadnought had woken with the words
‘I heard bolter fire.’

He could hear bolter fire too. There it was, that unmistakable drumbeat – the heavy, juddering chatter of bolters opening up against one another. The distinctive thuds of fired shells and the echoing crash of them detonating against walls and armour set up a familiar cacophony.

The prophet dragged himself to his feet, smacking a hand to the side of his helm, forcing the retinal display to re-tune. He stared at his surroundings: the confined troop bay of his own Thunderhawk gunship.

‘Fifty-three minutes, master,’ said Septimus, relaying the exact duration of his unconsciousness. Talos turned to see his servant, clad in his usual ragged flight jacket, low-slung pistols at his hips.

‘Tell me everything,’ the warrior ordered. Septimus was already handing him his weapons, one after the other. The human needed both hands to lift each one.

‘I know little. All claws were recalled before a brief void battle began. We’ve been boarded by the enemy. I do not know if our shields are still down, but the enemy cruiser isn’t firing with their own men on board. We came into the cortex hangar, under Lord Cyrion’s orders. He wished to be close to the bridge for the defence.’

‘Who boarded us?’

‘Imperial Space Marines. I know nothing more. Did you not dream of them?’

‘I do not remember what I dreamed. Just the pain. Stay here,’ Talos ordered. ‘My thanks for watching over me.’

‘Always, lord.’

The prophet descended the gangramp, into the hangar. Mute servitors and skull drones watched him impassively, as if expectant he might offer them orders.

‘Talos?’ one of his brothers voxed.

‘Was that Talos laughing?’ came another voice.

‘Fall back!’ That was Lucoryphus. That was definitely Lucoryphus, he could tell from the bass-edged rasp. ‘Fall back to the second concourse!’

‘Stand your ground!’
Cyrion? Yes… Cyrion. The vox made it hard to tell.
‘Stand your ground, you carrion-eating bastards. You’ll leave us without support.’

From there, the vox-network degenerated back into a melee of conflicting voices.

‘Is that Talos laughing?’

‘This is Xan Kurus of Second Claw…’

‘Where is that damned Apothecary?’

‘This is Fourth Claw to First, we need Variel immediately.’

‘Falling back from the tertiary spinal. Repeat, we’ve lost Spinal Tertius.’

‘Who was laughing?’

‘Talos? Is that you?’

The prophet heaved breath in through a throat that that felt atrophied from disuse. ‘I am awake. First Claw, status report. All claws, report in.’

He didn’t receive an answer. The vox broke apart in a fresh gale of bolter fire.

Talos staggered from his small hangar, weapons loose in fists that still spasmed with residual pain. He followed the sounds of bolter fire, and made it no more than five hundred metres down the winding corridors before he found its closest source.

Indeed, he staggered on weak limbs right into the middle of a firefight, and promptly took a shell to the side of the head.

It left him
blind for a moment. The shell that cracked against the side of his helm was deflected by the angle, but hit with enough force to scramble the delicate electronics for an irritating cluster of seconds. Vision returned in a static-laden wash of red-tinted sight and flickering runic displays.

‘Stay down,’ warned a voice. Mercutian stood above him, hands shaking with the kickback from his bolter cannon. Bolt weaponry offered little in the way of muzzle flash, but the ignition from every self-propelled shell flickered a splash of amber across Mercutian’s midnight armour.

‘This is Mercutian of First Claw,’ he voxed. ‘The Bleeding Eyes have broken ranks. We are cut off in the primary concourse, strategium deck. Requesting immediate reinforcement.’

A voice crackled back, ‘You are on your own, First Claw. Good hunting.’

Talos turned as Cyrion moved into view. His brother held a gore-wet gladius in one hand, and his bayoneted bolter in the other. Cyrion cracked off three shots, one-handed, barely aiming.

‘Nice of you to wake up,’ he commented with commendable calm, never once even glancing at Talos. Cyrion threw his gladius into the air, reloaded with smart precision, and caught the sword as it fell back into his grip. Several dozen metres down the corridor, the vague figures of their foes never moved from cover. The reason for their tactical concealment was Mercutian. Or, more accurately, Mercutian’s booming heavy bolter.

‘We’re going to die here,’ Mercutian grunted over the cacophony of his pounding weapon. He never stopped firing, the cannon kicking in bellowing three-round bursts, bathing himself in stark, amber flashes.

‘Oh,’ Cyrion agreed amiably, ‘no doubt.’

‘Those
kalshiel
Bleeding Eyes,’ Mercutian swore as he dropped to one knee, reloading as fast as he could. Cyrion took up the screen of fire, bolter shells detonating down the length of the corridor.

‘They’ll charge any moment, Talos,’ he warned. ‘You could use that pretty bolter of yours, you know. There’s no better time for it.’

Talos half-dragged himself into cover behind a wall arch. Both his blade and bolter were on the decking by his boots. These, he retrieved with a grunt at his unclear vision and the pain weaving its way down his spine. It took him two attempts to level his massive bolter, before he added its weight to the chorus of gunfire. Torrents of explosive shells barked down the yawning corridor. Thirty seconds passed in the stuttering melody of drumming gunfire.

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Who boarded us? What Chapter?’

Cyrion laughed. ‘You don’t know? You dreamed this, didn’t you? You said “armour of scarlet and bronze” before you lost consciousness.’

‘I recall nothing,’ Talos confessed.

‘Reloading,’ Mercutian called out. He dropped to one knee again, eyes still fixed on the tunnel, hands moving in dark blurs. A crunch, a click, and the heavy bolter sang its throaty song once more.

‘What happened?’ Talos repeated. ‘Blood of the False Emperor,
someone
tell me what’s happening.’

Cyrion’s explanation broke off as Uzas crashed into the middle of the corridor. He dropped from the ceiling, falling from a crew ladder with his hands around the throat of a red-armoured Imperial Space Marine. Both warriors tumbled through the line of fire, causing the opposing squads to break off their attacks, even if only for a moment.

‘Idiot,’ Mercutian breathed, finger idling by his trigger.

The Imperial warrior threw a fist to Uzas’s faceplate, snapping the Night Lord’s head back with a bone-jarring echo. As their brother staggered, the rest of First Claw cut the Space Marine down with a blistering hail of bolter fire.

The Space Marine fell with a cry of his own. Unimpeded now, the enemy squad at the other end of the corridor advanced, bolters up and crashing with the same
thud, thud, thud
as First Claw’s kicking guns. Shells exploded around Talos’s cover, showering him with debris.

Uzas ran, and for once he maintained enough sense to run in the saner direction, back toward his brothers. Talos watched the warrior stagger as a shell took him high in the spine, and another clipped the back of his leg. Uzas smacked against the wall at Mercutian’s side, rebounding from the steel in a hideous squealing crackle of abused ceramite. When he sank to the decking, his helmeted head crashed against the floor with the ringing finality of a funeral bell.

‘Idiot,’ Mercutian repeated, his heavy bolter rumbling. The enemy squad reached halfway along the corridor, leaving their dead and dying on the deck behind them. And still, they kept to the cover of the gothic-arched walls.

Talos’s retinal display showed First Claw’s vital signs still beating strong. With more trouble than he cared to confess, he moved to Uzas’s side, dragging the twitching fool into cover. His brother’s armour was scorched black, the shreds of flayed flesh serving as his cloak now burnt to cinders. Uzas had been drenched in flamer promethium more than once in the recent past. The chemical stink rose from his blackened battle plate in a miserable tang.

‘Son of a…’ Uzas mumbled, and fell into a coughing fit. His heaving chokes were sickly wet.

‘Where’s Variel?’ Talos asked. ‘Where’s Xarl? I’ll kill you myself if you don’t start answering me.’

‘Xarl and Variel are holding the rear tunnels.’ Cyrion was reloading again. ‘These wretches had already engaged the
Echo
in orbit before we docked. One way or another, the Imperium was waiting for us.’

Mercutian retreated a couple of steps as a lucky shell detonated against his shoulder guard, spraying all three of them with ceramite wreckage.

‘Genesis Chapter,’ he growled. ‘Boarded us an hour ago. Scum-blooded cousins to the Ultramarines.’

‘Perhaps we left the warp too close to Newfound before we drifted into the Tsagualsa system,’ Cyrion admitted. ‘I doubt it, though. More likely that they tracked us from warp beacons left by their Librarius division. Cunning fellows, these thin-bloods.’

‘Very cunning,’ Mercutian grumbled.

‘You can blame your Navigator, of course,’ Cyrion remarked. The wall by his head burst in a spread of sharp fragments. ‘She should have sensed the beacons these tenacious dogs left in the warp.’

Talos slammed back into cover as he reloaded. ‘She said she sensed something, but she had no idea what they were,’ he said. ‘We need to fall back. This corridor is lost.’

‘We can’t fall back from here; we’re the only defenders on this arc. If they get onto the bridge, we’ll lose the ship. The void shields are still down, as well. Deltrian is sweating oil and blood trying to repair the primary generator.’

‘And we can’t run,’ Mercutian muttered. ‘The Bleeding Eyes were holding the southern walkways. The Imperials are closing on us from behind now, too.’ Mercutian cursed and fell back another few steps. ‘Oh, hell.
He
looks dangerous.’

The prophet left Uzas slouched and bleeding against the wall, moving to his brothers and aiming down the corridor they were generously feeding with explosive fire. His vision had fully re-tuned at last, targeting locks flickering and zeroing in on individual enemies. He could make out the ornate chains and tabards draped across the foes’ armour, and the emblems inscribed, worn with righteous pride. One warrior stood out above all, walking closer with inevitable purpose.

‘Oh,’ Talos said. What followed were several multi
-
syllabic curse words in Nostraman, with no literal Gothic translation. They were not fit for polite society, or even the less decadent tiers of impolite society.

Cyrion fired with his bolter at his cheek, laughing as he replied. ‘At least we’ll be killed by a hero.’

The void shields
weren’t down. That wasn’t the problem.

‘Analysing,’ the tech-adept said aloud. ‘Analysing. Analysing.’ He stared through ream upon ream of runic figures streaming through his mind. The link to the generator’s cogitator was strong and fluid, but the amount of information was taking an unacceptable amount of time to filter.

The problem wasn’t that the void shields were down. The problem was they had dropped for three minutes and nine seconds, and the ship had suffered an as yet unknown degree of infestation exactly forty-eight minutes and twelve seconds previously. In the battle with the enemy ship, those precious seconds of vulnerability had been enough for the enemy to board them in heavy numbers.

The thought of all those Imperial Space Marines tearing the
Echo
apart from within would have made Deltrian’s skin crawl, had he any skin remaining.

The shields revived, but the generator itself was strained to the point of damaging itself. This led to a further problem: that unless he managed to bring the generator back to a semblance of stability, it might flicker-fail again if the enemy fleet fired another barrage. Perhaps it was unlikely they would, with scores of their own troops on board, but Deltrian hadn’t achieved something close to immortality by relying on supposition and assumption. He was a creature that didn’t play the odds. He weigh
t
ed them in his favour.

To extrapolate further, a second flicker-fail would potentially cost them the ship if the shields didn’t revive quickly enough. Worse, it could lead to a complete failure, which would not only cost them their ship, but also their souls.

Deltrian had no intention of dying, especially not after investing so much time and meticulous care into resculpting so much of his biological frame into this artifice of mechanical perfection. Nor did he wish his immortal soul to spill out into the transmogrifying ether, to be pulled apart at the amused mercies of daemons and their mad gods.

That, as he was so fond of saying, would not be optimal.