Текст книги "Deliverance Lost"

Автор книги: Гэв Торп

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The hope that the Imperial Army ships had survived was faint; the Therions had last been the target of a World Eaters armada and several other vessels. With the Raven Guard Legion and fleet on the brink of extinction, every ship and soldier was a vital asset, and after weighing up the rewards and risks, Corax judged it worth a few days to see if he could bolster his forces a little more with the Therions.

Branne had also argued persuasively that the Raven Guard had an obligation to their allies to at least attempt to link up. As much as the Therions might be a military asset, the message that those loyal to the Emperor would not be abandoned was equally important given the calamitous events that Isstvan had witnessed. Corax had made it clear to his commanders that the Avengerwas now too valuable to risk without good cause, and that the search would be short. If there was any risk of discovery, the battle-barge would immediately cease the hunt and head out-system for warp transit.

As soon as the Raven Guard’s ships were far enough from the planet below to be safe from ground-based fire, they engaged their reflex shields. An innovation from the planet of Kiavahr, orbited by the home-moon of the Raven Guard, the reflex shield was a modified version of the void shields that protected most Imperial warships and installations.

A void shield worked by using the power of the warp itself to displace incoming projectiles and high-energy attacks. The reflex shield changed the modulation of the warpcores that powered the void shields, calibrating them to a much higher tolerance and turning them inwards, so that matter and energy generated by the ship was redirected instead; all forms of radiation emitted by the Raven Guard’s ships could be displaced, rendering them undetectable to scanning equipment.

The advantages of the reflex shield technology fitted well with Corax’s ethos of war, allowing Raven Guard ships to approach their targets unseen, striking swiftly and decisively before withdrawing. The low energy requirement meant that such stealth could be maintained almost indefinitely. There was, however, a serious downside to their use. By employing its void shield generators for the reflex shields, a Raven Guard vessel had no defence against physical attack and it took time to power the generators from one state to the other, leaving a ship vulnerable for several minutes with neither its cloaking field nor its energy defence fully operational, hence the swift exit from orbit.

To the augurs and scanning arrays of the Traitor bases and ships throughout the Isstvan system, the three Raven Guard ships seemed to melt away into the stars. To the naked eye they would have appeared to shimmer for a while, as the reflex shields engaged and shifted away the light reflecting from the ships’ surfaces, until eventually all such energy was being dampened and the vessels were rendered invisible.

One other problem with the reflex shield, one that Corax had unsuccessfully laboured to overcome for many years, was the low energy threshold for which it could compensate. Reactors could only be run at half power without generating too much energy to be displaced, in turn reducing top speed and blinkering the ship’s sensor capabilities. So it was that slowly, half-blind, the Avengerslipped away from Isstvan V, tracing an arc around the world until it came to its chosen heading.

The ship did not make directly for Isstvan IV, it being a doctrine of the Legion to always approach a target by an indirect route, but instead took a circuitous, zigzagging path, using a timing and distance formula devised by Corax to maximise the damping effect of the reflex shields, enough to throw off any pursuer or sensor that might somehow detect them. Corax did not believe in taking chances when it came to moving freely and unseen.

It would be several days before the Avengerwould bring Isstvan IV within range of its reduced sensor screen, and Corax took the time to review the organisation of the remnants of his Legion.

Including Branne’s companies, he had a little fewer than four thousand legionaries of varying ranks and specialisations. The majority he had formed into the ‘Talons’ – tactical companies under Agapito’s command. The survivors of the various assault platoons, along with several Dreadnought-incarcerated veterans, had been banded together into the ‘Falcons’, led by Aloni Tev. Lastly, the handful of bike squads, land speeders and aircraft crews still remaining were put together under the command of Captain Solaro An, and were given the designation ‘Hawks’.

Two days out from Isstvan V, Corax called a council of his four commanders and explained the reorganisation and reassignments that would be made once the Legion was gathered again at Deliverance.

The five of them met in Branne’s chambers, given over to the use of the primarch since his arrival on the ship. The main room was plainly decorated, the plasteel walls painted a muted blue, broken only by an armour and weapons rack on which the commander’s artisan-crafted wargear would normally hang; it was empty at the moment as every legionary in the force was permanently geared for battle, so that they even slept in their armour with a bolter in their hands.

The floor was carved with a relief of the Raven’s Guard’s device – a heraldic bird with wings and claws outstretched, surrounded by a coiled chain. Upon the symbol was a table of burnished bronze-like metal, inscribed also with the insignia of the Legion, circular in shape and with vox-thieves and display stations for a dozen attendees. The screens were dull slabs of lifeless grey at the moment, their keypads and emitters dormant while silent running protocols were in effect; every watt of energy saved might prove the difference between escape and detection.

Corax stood facing the double doors that led back to the strategium, leaning forwards with his fists resting on the table. Agapito and Aloni sat to his right, Branne and Solaro to his left. As brothers, Branne and Agapito were alike, with square jaws, heavy brows and flat cheeks. Both were from the slave-prison of Deliverance and even the augmentations and manipulations that had turned them into legionaries had not completely eradicated the somewhat sallow and pitted cast to their skin. Agapito was marked out by his fresh scar, but it was the anxious flicker that occasionally crept into his gaze that bore greater testament to the harsh experience he had suffered during the dropsite massacre.

Solaro was the youngest and had been only a child when Corax had freed Deliverance from the tyrannical grip of the Kiavahran overlords. He was pale, like the primarch, with a sharp nose and thin lips, and had an air of constant movement about him. Even as he listened to his primarch, his gauntleted fingers fidgeted on the edge of the table, tapping and scratching.

Aloni was the eldest of the four, and of entirely different complexion. Born amongst the Asiatica dustfields on Terra, his skin was darker than the others, and there was a narrowness and slant to his eyes not found in children of Lycaeus. His head was shaved bald, with many gilded service studs riveted into his scalp.

‘And what is to be my purpose, Lord Corax?’ asked Branne when he realised that he had not been assigned a command.

‘You will be my Commander of Recruits,’ Corax informed him.

‘Recruits?’ Branne did not hide his disappointment. ‘But for a quirk of chance, I would have been with you on Isstvan and Aloni or Agapito would have drawn the lot to stay with the garrison at Deliverance. I would prefer a combat command, my lord.’

‘And you have it,’ replied the primarch, leaning closer to place a hand on Branne’s shoulder guard. ‘Horus and his traitorous allies will not allow us the luxury of keeping our recruits long from the fighting.’

‘With respect, lord, I am not of a disposition to be leading Scout squads,’ said Branne.

It pained him to argue with his primarch, and he feared that perhaps pride fuelled his words, but even in the couple of days since the rescue, Branne had noticed a difference growing between those who had been on Isstvan V and those who had not. The Legion once had been bound by common experience, now it seemed that the massacre and escape was a stronger bond than the Legion, one not shared by Branne and his warriors. He wanted to prove himself worthy amongst his peers, and the thought of being left on Deliverance again to marshal recruits soured his mood.

‘Perhaps I could be the captain of your guard,’ Branne continued. ‘Since Arendi was killed at the dropsite you have yet to name a successor.’

There were chuckles from the other commanders, sharing some joke that Branne did not understand. It irked him to feel so detached from his comrades.

‘I dispensed with the pretence of an honour guard,’ said Corax, not unkindly. The primarch straightened and fixed Branne with his dark, penetrating stare and the commander expected a rebuke for his stubbornness. Instead, Corax smiled slightly.

‘It is to you that I am bestowing the greatest honour, Branne,’ said the primarch. ‘As a reward for coming to our rescue, I am placing you in charge of rebuilding the Legion. There is no more important task I could give to you. In your hands will be the future of the Raven Guard.’

Branne thought about this for a moment, his confidence restored a little by Corax’s words. He looked at the others and saw them nodding in agreement with the primarch, sincerity in their expressions.

‘I accept the honour, lord, of course,’ said Branne, bowing his head. ‘But, still…’ he muttered to himself. ‘Running around with the Scouts?’

‘There will not be any more Scouts,’ said Corax, his acute hearing catching Branne’s slight whisper. ‘The existing Scout squads will become part of Solaro’s recon forces. Any of them that are close to full initiation will be given their black carapaces and taken into the Talons. Your recruits will have to learn to fight as full warriors from the outset; we do not have years to train them cautiously.’

This brightened Branne’s mood further and he felt some contentment at his allotted role. The discussion moved on to other topics, including the need to replenish the Legion’s stock of weapons and ammunition as well as its warriors. A full audit of all armour, armaments, vehicles and ships would need to be undertaken to evaluate the extent to which the Raven Guard’s claws had been dulled.

‘What of the rest of the fleet?’ asked Solaro. He looked at Branne. ‘Any sign that any of our ships escaped?’

‘Unlikely,’ said Branne. ‘A few might have been able to get away, but I would not hold out any hope. We detected no transmissions, though any Raven Guard vessel would have been running silent by the time we arrived.’

‘The Shadow of the Emperorwas certainly destroyed,’ said Corax, referring to his flagship, ‘along with the escort flotilla. I received their stand-to and distress broadcasts when the Traitors opened fire. It was cut off within minutes, too soon for the reflex shields to have been raised, and against such numbers that would have been the only defence.’

Silence followed, a tension brought about by mention of the treacherous act committed by Horus and the Legions that had sided with him. Branne saw Agapito unconsciously hunch his shoulders, a distant look in his eyes. Solaro’s gauntlets formed fists on the table while Aloni bowed his head in contemplation, eyes closed.

‘The fallen will be avenged.’

Corax’s words were a whisper, but spoken with such vehemence that Branne did not doubt his primarch for a moment.

The chime of the door broke the pregnant atmosphere within the chamber. Corax operated the control and the double doors slid open to reveal a human member of the crew dressed in a white tunic and black leggings, a digital slate in his hand. Even the Avenger’s internal vox frequencies had been suspended to conserve energy usage, so that a number of the fittest serfs and crew were employed as runners to convey orders and messages around the battle-barge.

‘Forgive the intrusion, lord, masters, but Controller Ephrenia sends word that we are within nominal scanning range of Isstvan IV,’ the messenger reported.

‘Very good,’ said Corax. ‘Tell Ephrenia to divert twenty per cent reactor capacity from engines to the surveyor arrays. I will join her shortly.’

The serf bowed and left the commanders with their primarch.

‘Someone should inform Marcus,’ said Branne.

‘Marcus?’ asked Corax.

‘Praefector Valerius,’ explained Branne, ‘the ranking officer of the Therions. It was his ships and men I sent to Isstvan IV.’

Branne did not mention that it was also Valerius’s strange dreams that had eventually prompted him to come to Isstvan in the first place, overruling his primarch’s orders to garrison Deliverance. The whole matter had been unsettling for Branne, and it was something he wished to discuss with his lord in private. An occasion had not yet arisen to do so.

‘As you say,’ said Corax, gesturing for the commanders to precede him to the door. ‘Inform the praefector that we can spare seven hours to perform a sweep for his ships, no more. He is welcome to join me on the strategium during the operation.’

Branne nodded and went, leaving the chamber before the others. Three youths, two boys and a girl, stood to one side in the corridor beyond, dressed in simple tunics and hose. Branne gestured for one of them to step forwards.

‘Take a message to Praefector Valerius, ask him…’ Branne stopped himself. ‘Never mind, I will see him myself. Stand down.’

The commander turned aft and strode away quickly as the others came out of the chamber. He would have to tell Lord Corax about the dreams soon, but it would be better if Valerius did not say anything just yet. When they were away from Isstvan and the situation was calmer, the two of them could broach the thorny subject.

TWO

A Primarch’s Summons

Ghosting By Reflex

The Cabal Steers a Path

‘WHAT IS IT?’ Marcus asked as he heard his manservant, Pelon, calling his name.

The praefector was lying on his bunk, a thin treatise on naval tactics held in his hands, though he had read the last page more than a dozen times since Corax had come on board and not taken in a word of it. He had yet to see the primarch, a matter that gave him a small measure of regret, but equal relief.

‘Commander Branne to see you, master,’ Pelon informed him. The youth stepped through the doorway from the main room into the bunk chamber, swathed in the shadow of the legionary behind him.

Marcus swiftly hauled himself from the bed and tucked the tail of his shirt into his breeches. He smoothed his hair with a quick hand as Pelon stepped aside and ushered Branne into the small bunk room.

‘Commander, I am honoured,’ said Marcus, bowing briefly. ‘I thought you would be busy with other duties.’

‘I am,’ said Branne, his expression hard. He glanced at Pelon.

‘Leave us please, Pelon,’ said Marcus. ‘Perhaps you could head to the officers’ galley and inquire after my luncheon?’

Pelon nodded and left them. Branne said nothing until the outer door had hissed open and closed with a dull thud.

‘Lord Corax has permitted us seven hours to search for your fleet,’ said the commander. ‘No more than that.’

‘A vain search, I fear,’ sighed Marcus. He sat down on a low, plain couch and gestured an invitation to Branne to do the same. The commander declined with a shake of the head and a scowl.

‘You are also invited to attend the primarch on the stategium.’

‘Invited?’ Marcus smiled. ‘That is most welcome. I have been eager to pass on my regards to Lord Corax since his arrival.’

‘The dreams, Marcus, have they stopped?’ Branne loomed over the army officer, arms folded across his massive chest.

‘Yes, thankfully, yes they have,’ said Marcus. ‘The ravens call no more, the fires have burned out in my nightmares.’

‘That is good,’ said Branne, his expression lightening slightly. He bent one knee so that his face was level with Marcus’s. ‘It would not be wise to distract Lord Corax with unnecessary concerns.’

‘Unnecessary concerns? I am not sure what you mean, commander.’

‘Don’t mention the dreams when you see the primarch.’

‘Well, I wasn’t going to blurt it out in front of everyone on the strategium, if that’s what you were thinking,’ said Marcus, offended by the suggestion. ‘It is a delicate matter, I understand that.’

‘More than delicate, Marcus.’ Branne’s eyes were intent, his expression ferocious. ‘There may be something unnatural about those dreams. It is not normal for a man to know what happens to another light years distant.’

‘Of course there is something abnormal,’ said Marcus. ‘It is not natural for a man to have such dreams, but I think Lord Corax is far from natural.’

‘You still think the primarch sent the dreams to you? That he somehow called to you across the void to warn of the danger he was in?’

Marcus was unsettled by the note of accusation in Branne’s tone.

‘Undoubtedly,’ the praefector said, standing up. ‘Perhaps there is something in your Legion conditioning that hardened your minds to his message, I don’t know. I am sure Lord Corax will confide in us when he feels the time is right.’

‘Don’t embarrass me, Marcus, not in front of the primarch,’ said Branne, betraying the cause of his anger. ‘He has not inquired deeply as to why we left Deliverance, it may be better that the matter is left to lie in silence.’

‘Whatever you think best, commander,’ said Marcus, holding up a placating hand, worried by the tension in Branne’s voice. ‘I will not raise the matter if you or Lord Corax do not.’

‘And what of the serf?’

‘Who?’

‘Your boy, the one that was just here. Can he be trusted not flap his tongue?’

‘Oh, Pelon. He is utterly trustworthy. His family have served the Therion nobility for generations. Loyalty is bred into him like that blond hair and flat nose. He attends a praefector of the Therion Cohort and understands his place, and the necessity of discretion.’

‘Be sure that he does,’ said Branne. ‘For your sake, it is better that there is no rumour flying around at this time. Horus’s treachery, and the turning of the other Legions, has made everyone very suspicious. Your dream hints at something strange, something that should not be spoken of.’

‘I understand,’ said Marcus, though he did not. The edgy look in Branne’s eyes was something the praefector had never seen in the expression of a legionary before. If he didn’t know better, Marcus would have taken it as a sign of fear.

‘We had best not keep Lord Corax waiting,’ said Marcus, stepping past Branne to unhook the dress coat hanging on the wall. He pulled on the heavy coat, adjusted the braiding and epaulettes to fall smartly, and nodded towards the door. ‘After you, commander.’

THE STRATEGIUM WAS silent save for the background hum of the surveyor stations and the mechanical chatter of data-strip printers. Corax stood behind the command throne – the chair was too small for his massive frame – while his commanders waited behind him on the upper tier overlooking the strategium. Marcus Valerius stood, with head bowed, beside Branne, dwarfed by his legionary companions.

It was a risk to stay in the Isstvan system any longer than was absolutely required, and even more of a risk to come so close to Isstvan IV, where a large part of Horus’s armada was mustering. Yet for all the risk, Corax knew that he owed it to the brave men and women of Therion to look for any survivors. He held little hope – no hope if he was being truthful with himself – but in times such as these it was important that the debt he owed to the Therions was recognised.

The Avengerghosted towards Isstvan IV on minimal engine power, nothing more than a smear of background radiation on the screens of the enemy fleet. It was not solely to honour the Therions that Corax dared approach so close. Any intelligence he could gather regarding the capabilities and dispositions of the Traitors might prove vital, for the war that was to come as well as his chances of leaving Isstvan alive.

There were dozens of ships, perhaps even hundreds. They belonged to the Sons of Horus, the Word Bearers, the World Eaters, the Iron Warriors, and others who had, for reasons Corax would never understand, turned on the Emperor.

He had not seen the like since first coming to the system, when the Raven Guard and the Therions, along with vessels representing the Mechanicum of Mars and others involved with the Great Crusade, had brought compliance to Isstvan. He had been sent here by Horus, before he had been elevated to Warmaster. Back then it had been a request, an invitation even, rather than an order, but to Corax, a word from Horus had been like a command from the Emperor.

The primarch of the Raven Guard had never been on cordial terms with Horus. He had always found him too extravagant, too ready to make displays of power during his conquests. Corax preferred to be understated, to obtain compliance with the minimum of fuss and posturing.

Yet for all he had disliked Horus, Corax had admired him. He had admired his easy camaraderie with those under his command, and had known that Horus was the more accomplished commander over many campaigns, gifted with a rare ability for both the overview and the fine management of details, something that Corax had never quite equalled.

Physically, Horus and Corax had proved an even match for each other in their mock-duels and wrestling bouts. Such sparring had not created any greater bond between them, as it had done with the other primarchs, but Corax had never considered the possibility that one day he might have to test his worth against Horus for real.

He had been happy to provide the services of the Raven Guard, to lead the attack secretly against those that held out against compliance, fighting behind enemy lines, attacking shipping like a common pirate to weaken supply lines, while Horus and his Legion – they had been the Luna Wolves back then – had reaped the glory with their eye-catching drop assaults and massed battles.

Corax had allowed Horus the plaudits; he had no need for them. The Emperor had told Corax as much on several occasions. The Master of Mankind knew Corax’s worth, even if it was not loudly praised, and that was enough for the Saviour of Deliverance.

Now Horus’s brashness looked like vanity, and his extravagance seemed to be warmongering, when viewed through the lens of his treachery. He had teetered on the precipice of self-aggrandisement, and he had dragged many of Corax’s gene-brothers with him when he had finally fallen.

‘Quadrant six report is in, lord,’ announced Controller Nasturi Ephrenia, breaking into Corax’s thoughts. She was a short, ageing woman, a native of Deliverance. Ephrenia’s skin was deeply wrinkled, her white hair thinning, but her eyes were sharp and intelligent as she bowed over the cluster of screens at the primary surveyor station. Artificial tubing snaked just beneath her skin, pulsing gently from the life-sustaining fluids passing within. Augmetic braces glinted on either side of her neck and along the fingers of her hands as she tapped protocols into a keypad.

The strategium controller was dressed in simple grey trousers tucked into short boots, the lapels of her black, wide-collared jacket pierced with a single ruby-headed brooch in the shape of the Legion’s icon to signify her position as controller of the strategium. Her expression betrayed nothing as she looked at the most recent scanner returns and communications sweeps.

She always had been cool-headed, even as an infant.

THERE WAS ALMOST no light at all. Something glittered through a crack in the rocks, providing just enough of a glow for him to make out the outline of the objects around him. There was something half-buried in the rubble behind the boy, cracked and distorted by an immense impact, shattered glass spread across the uneven floor.

The light glinted from one thousand and eighty-six shards.

He wondered if that was important, and decided it wasn’t. What was important was that the air was breathable, well within tolerable limits, and the gravity a little less than… less than what? What did ‘Terran-normal’ mean? His thoughts were still scattered. He understood gravity, and if asked could have written out many long equations regarding the calculation of its strength and effect, but it was just one fragment of information tossed haphazardly across his mind, like the shining glass pieces strewn over the floor.

There was quite a lot of nitrogen in the air.

How did he know that? He took another deep breath, and came to the same conclusion. He just knew it to be true, just as he also detected a higher concentration of carbon dioxide. Both of these facts hovered in his thoughts before a connection was made and a conclusion surfaced.

An artificial atmosphere.

It was by no means a definitive conclusion, but seemed a safe assumption given the other environmental factors his body had been steadily assessing since in the few moments since he had awoken in this dark place.

There was definitely a generator close by; he could sense the electromagnetic disturbance emitted from its coils.

The source of the light strobed at a particular frequency that resonated with the generator coils. That was how he knew the light was electrically generated, which was confirmed by his analysis of the spectrum of light falling onto his enhanced retinas.

It was very disturbing.

He had no memory of this place at all. In fact, all he could recollect was soft warmth, some muffled background whirrs and clicks, and a dull light permeating a layer of liquid. Not at all like this cold, dry, black place.

And some voices, disturbing, demented voices that hovered on the edge of memory. He could not recall what they had said, but was left with an uneasy feeling of defiance and distrust.

Air moisture was also quite high. Combined with the low temperature, he was forced to conclude that he was close to ice of some kind. He noticed his breath formed vaporous tendrils against the flickering gleam.

He remembered his ears, surprised that he had not paid attention to them sooner.

There were sounds nearby, sounds that did not seem artificial in origin; sounds that reminded him of occasional visitations while he had been growing and learning. Human sounds.

Voices.

He could understand the concept of language. He knew seven thousand, six hundred and forty-one languages, dialects, argots and cants from across the Old Empire. He was not sure how he knew them, and was trying work out into which of them the words he heard could be categorised. There was something of a Pan-Sannamic lilt to the words, but their expression was harshly pronounced. He could not identify the particular sub-strand of the idiom, but it was not so great that he could not form a cognitive appreciation. In short, he decided what they were speaking and listened in.

‘Near four hundred dead, at least.’

‘Four hundred less mouths to feed,’ said another voice. ‘Least, that’s the way they’ll see it.’

‘These arc-drills are not meant for icework,’ said another. ‘This was bound to happen.’

‘Quit gossiping and start digging!’ This was spat, filled with false authority. He could hear the trembling beneath the vehemence, the edge of fear that lurked in the speaker’s subconscious.

There came a high-pitched whining, and a flickering red light shone through the tiny gap while the rock started to vibrate fractionally more.

He waited, apprehensive but intrigued.

The laser drill crept closer and closer. Rock splintered and light flooded in as the chamber was breached. He took in the scene in an instant. A crowd of humans dressed in shabby blue overalls, seven male and three female, were directing the laser, five of them steering its head, another five on the tracked cart behind. Their age was indeterminate, obliterated by obvious signs of malnourishment and hard labour. Creased, leathery skin, cracked lips and sunken eyes gave them all an aged appearance that was probably beyond their chronological existence.

There was also a child with them. A female infant, clinging to the leg of one of the women riding on the traction cart that propelled the drillhead. She had long blonde hair and a narrow face with large lips and bright blue eyes. She seemed very thin, as fragile as an icicle. She was covered in rock dust like all of the others, but had smeared it away from her forehead with a wipe of her hand, revealing skin that was unhealthily pale.

Every one of them had ceased working and was now staring at him. He swiftly concluded that they had not intended to find him, and he wondered why his presence here was a surprise. It was another vexing question.

‘What’s stopping you?’ Another male, bigger built and better fed than the others, stepped from behind the mining cart. He wore trousers and a jacket of dark blue, covered with a film of dust. His feet were booted, the thick footwear capped with metal at toe and heel. His face was concealed behind the tinted visor of a helmet, and in his hand he carried a whip whose handle was heavy enough to serve as a cudgel. The man stopped in his tracks as he also saw what was in the pocket chamber that had been breached. ‘How the…?’

The adults, the ones in the coveralls with the tools, started jabbering amongst themselves, almost too fast for him to understand. The one with the whip, the one with the false authority in his voice, pushed to the front. The small girl had dropped down from the cart and was walking through the breach into the chamber.

‘Get back,’ said the uniformed man, snatching hold of the girl’s hair to drag her from the gap.

He decided he did not like the man with the whip. The girl’s shriek was full of pain and fear, cutting through his thoughts like a hot knife touching a nerve.

He stood up and walked towards the group. They backed away from him, still whispering and muttering in fear. The man who had hurt the girl stood his ground, pushing the infant aside. The man lunged forwards to grab him, but he moved so slowly it was easy to avoid the outstretching hand. The boy nimbly stepped around the flailing grasp of the guard and grabbed the wrist in both hands. It snapped easily, bringing a howl of pain from the man.