James Swallow - The Flight of the Eisenstein

that lashed blindly, snapping at the frigate's heels. Her void shields glowed but held firm. The true test of them would come in a few seconds.

The engine cores began to melt and deform, the power inside them grown to such capacity that it was a self-fulfilling reaction, drawing potency from the differential states between the dimensions of the warp and the common vacuum of real space. Circular sheets of exotic radiation, visible though the entire spectrum, radiated out of the lumpen cluster of mat­ter and energy. Too soon the warp motors had ripped into the madness of the immaterium, and the rush of force that flooded out was too much, too fast.

The reaction collapsed inward, the jettisoned hull panels, the slagged metals, dust and specks of free-floating hydrogen molecules, the very space around it folding in a final desperate trawl to fuel itself.

If there was an eye that could have seen something so abnormal or glimpsed into a range so far from that of normal sight, an observer might have glimpsed a screaming, clawing beast peering out of the core of the implosion, but then came the detonation.

Across barriers of dimension, the catastrophic destruction of the warp motors produced a sphere of radiation that lit space like a dying sun. In the empyrean, it became a towering shriek, a flash of dead blue, a surge of raw panic and a million other things. In real space it was a wave of crackling dis­charge that slammed into the fleeing Eisenstein and threw her bow over stern with murderous, lethal force.

In the deep shades of the empyrean, the ragged edge of a shockwave broke upon the preternatural senses of an enhanced mind. The wash of raw input blotted

out all other thought-sights in an instant of punish­ing, agonising overload. It struck the storms of insanity that clung to the mind and tore them away, blasting them apart. The mind was tossed and thrown in the impact, flailing for unending seconds in the turbulent undertow of its passing. Then the flare was gone, fading, leaving only the echo of its creation. Where there had been storms and fog, now there was clarity and lucidity.

The mind turned and peered across the wilderness of the immaterium and found the point of origin. As a flash of night-borne lightning might illuminate a darkened landscape, the shockwave made the molten terrain of the warp visible, gave it solidity when all other means of understanding had failed. Suddenly, paths that had been concealed were clear and dis­cernible. The way was abruptly opened, and across the incredible distance, the epicentre of the effect's creation still burned.

With care, the mind began to compute a route to take it there, curiosity brimming from every contem­plation.

Garro put down the electroquill and ran his gaze down the text rendered on the flat, glassy face of the data-slate. He released a deep breath and a cloud of white vapour emerged, fading into the cold, thin air of the observatorium. Everything in the chamber was covered in a thin patina of hoarfrost, the steel stan­chions and the wide sweeps of the windows painted with patches of white. In the shockwave of the warp flare, several power mechanisms already stressed by the headlong escape from the Isstvan system failed entirely, and whole decks of the frigate were without life-support. Carya had closed the flying bridge and

moved the command crew to a secondary control pulpit, leaving the upper deck to go dead and dark. Moment by moment, the Eisenstein was becoming a frozen tomb.

'Captain,' Qruze said coming into view, lit by the dull glow of the starlight through the frosted armour-glass, 'you summoned me?'

Garro showed him the data-slate. 'I want you to wit­ness this.' Nathaniel removed his gauntlet and pressed the commander's signet on his left forefinger to a sen­sor plate on the slate's case. The device chimed, recognising the unique pattern of the ring and the gene-code of the wearer. He passed it to the Luna Wolf and the old warrior paused for a moment, read­ing what was written there.

'A chronicle?'

'Perhaps it would be more accurate to think of it as a last will and testament. I have recorded here all the events of note that preceded our escape from the fleet, and all matters since. There should be a testimony for our kinsmen to find, even if we do not live to deliver it ourselves.'

Qruze snorted and mirrored Garro's actions, seal­ing the contents of the slate with a touch from his signet. 'Planning for the worst. First that boy Sendek and now you? Death Guard by name, dour by nature, is it?'

Garro took the slate back and secured it in an armoured case. 'I only wish to cover every eventuality. This container will survive explosion and vacuum, even the destruction of the ship.'

'So those words on the bridge, then? Your declara­tion to the Apothecary, all that was just an act, captain? You tell us you know we will survive, but secretly you prepare in case we do not?'

'I did not lie, if that is what you are implying,' snarled Garro. Yes, I believe we will see Terra, but there is no harm in being thorough. That is the Death Guard way.'

'Yet you do this thing out of sight of the men, with only a Luna Wolf in attendance? Is that perhaps because you would rather not undermine the faith you have kindled in the others?'

Garro looked away. 'Age has not dulled your insight, Iacton. You are correct.'

'I understand. In times like this, conviction is all a man can cling to. Before… before Isstvan, we might have looked to our faith in our Legions, our pri-marchs. Now, we must find it where we can.'

'The Emperor is still our constant,' Garro said, look­ing out at the stars. 'Of that, I have no doubt.'

Qruze nodded. Aye, I suppose so. You have made believers of us, Nathaniel. Besides, that chronicle of yours is a wasted effort.'

'How so?'

'The story there is only half-told.'

Garro's scarred face turned in a faint smile. 'Indeed. I wonder how it will end?' He walked away a few steps, thin rimes of ice crunching under his boots.

'Has your saint not told you?' Qruze asked, a note of wry reproof in his words.

'She is not my saint,' Garro retorted. 'Keeler is… she has vision.'

'That may be so. Certainly, enough of the crew seem to agree. There are many more attending her sermons on the lower decks. I have it on good authority that the iterator Sindermann has moved their makeshift church to a larger compartment among the armoury decks, to better accommodate them.'

Garro considered this. 'Closer to the inner hull spaces. It will be warmer there, more protected.'

There have been Astartes seen in attendance, cap­tain. It appears your conference with the woman has given legitimacy to her claims.'

Garro eyed him. 'You don't approve.'

'Idolatry is not the Imperial way'

'I see no idols, Iacton, only someone who has a purpose in the Emperor's service, just as you and I do.'

'Purpose/ echoed the Luna Wolf. That is what this all comes down to, is it not? In the past, we have never had to struggle to find it. Purpose has always been given to us, passed on from Emperor to pri-march to Astartes. Now events force us to seek it alone, and we splinter. Horus finds his in sorcery, and we… we seek ours in a divinity.' He chuckled dryly. 'I never thought I would live to see the like.'

'If your wisdom of years allows you to find another path, tell me of it/ Garro said firmly. This way is the only one that opens to me.'

Qruze bowed his head. 'I would not dare, battle-captain. I granted you my fealty, and I will follow your commands to the letter.'

'Even if you disagree with them? I saw the reproach in your eyes on the bridge.'

"You allowed the Apothecary to go without him being chastised for his actions.' Qruze shook his head. 'It was a punishable offence towards a senior officer. He drew a weapon on you, Garro, in anger!'