Aaron Dembski-Bowden - The First Heretic

‘My hearts beat now,’ the sergeant replied. ‘As do yours.’

Argel Tal saw the same. Retinal displays didn’t lie. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘is not the time. We need to get to the bridge.’

The warriors moved again, stepping over the dried corpses that grew more frequent as they neared the command deck.

Eighty-one dead bodies waited for them on the bridge.

They lay sprawled or sat hunched, with several locked foetal on the floor, while others were cringing, curled, in their seats.

‘They knew what was happening,’ said Xaphen. ‘This wasn’t fast. They felt something as they died.’

Argel Tal hesitated by the twisted figure of Captain Janus Sylamor, curled in her throne as if she sought, in her last moments, to escape something that prowled nearby. Her sunken features, almost mummified, told him all he needed to know.

‘Pain,’ he said. ‘What they felt was pain.’

Dagotal was already by one of the drive consoles, dragging an officer’s body off the controls. The cadaver slumped to the decking, only to find its rest further disturbed by Xaphen, who set about examining it – carving into it – with his combat blade.

Dagotal swore in back-alley Colchisian. ‘I drive a jetbike, sir. I can’t fly an Imperial warship, even if we had the slaves necessary to feed the engine furnace.’

Argel Tal turned from the ship captain’s husk. ‘Just give me an overview.’

His voice still didn’t sound, didn’t feel, quite right. As if someone nearby was speaking the words in unison with him, in mocking chorus.

‘We’re dead in space,’ Dagotal adjusted more controls to no effect. ‘Power hasn’t been restored to all systems. Not even close. The Geller Field is enabled, but we lack void shields, plasma propulsion, energy weapons, projectile weapons, and life support on half the decks.’

‘Manoeuvring thrusters?’

‘Sir,’ Dagotal hesitated. ‘We’ve drifted significantly in the storm’s tides from where we came to all stop. Taking that into account, and lacking warp flight... On manoeuvring thrusters it will take us at least three months to break clear of the... nebula.’

‘It’s not a nebula,’ Xaphen murmured. ‘You’ve seen what’s outside. It’s not a nebula.’

‘Whatever in the name of hell it is,’ Dagotal snapped back.

‘Hell is a good enough word for it,’ Xaphen muttered, still distracted in his work.

Argel Tal lifted the body of Captain Sylamor from the oversized Astartes command throne, laying her to rest at the edge of the command deck. When he returned, he took her place, his armour clanking against the metal of her seat.

‘Fire the thrusters,’ he ordered. ‘The sooner we begin, the sooner we’ll be back with the fleet.’

‘Bloodless,’ Xaphen announced. He rose from his knees, blade in hand, the grisly dismemberment complete at his feet. Vox-officer Amal Vrey’s autopsy would never enter any official record, but it was unarguably thorough.

‘The bodies,’ Xaphen said, ‘they’re bloodless. Something leeched the blood from their veins, killing them all.’

‘Ingethel?’

‘No, Ingethel was with us. Its kin did this.’

Its kin. The daemon’s words resurfaced in Argel Tal’s aching mind. ‘ Yes. One of my kin. It comes for you.’

He felt something slither within him. Something stirring, wrapping around the bones of his arms and legs, coiling in a tight spiral around his spine.

‘Summon every warrior to the bridge,’ he ordered, hearing his own voice echoing in his mind, a silent chorus twinned with his words.

‘And Dagotal,’ said Argel Tal, ‘get us out of here.’

The ship that limped its way from the warp storm was a far cry from the noble Imperial vessel that had cut its way in. It trailed psychic fog around its membrane-thin Geller Field, turning in a slow roll that spoke of flawed guidance systems and damaged stabilisers.

Pulsing from its mangled communications towers was a repeated message, the Colchisian words rendered into fuzz by detuned vox.

‘This is the Orfeo’s Lament. Critical casualties sustained. Grievous damage. Requesting extraction. This is the Orfeo’s Lament... ’

‘Contact re-established with Orfeo’s Lament,’ called out one of the bridge crew.

The command deck of De Profundis was alive with activity – a hive of officers, servitors, analysts and crew members of every stripe, all working around a central platform that rose above the consoles. On the platform, a golden giant in robes of grey silk watched the occulus screen. His face, so close to the face of his father, was softened in a way the Emperor’s never was: Lorgar was both curious and concerned.

‘Already?’ he said, glancing to the officers at the vox-console.

‘Sire,’ the Master of Auspex called from his bank of flickering monitors, ‘the ship is... horrifically damaged.’

The bustle of the bridge began to quieten, as more and more crew members watched the occulus, seeing the Orfeo’s Lament in its powerless drift.

‘How can this be?’ Lorgar leaned on the handrail ringing the raised podium, his golden fingers gripping the steel. ‘That’s not possible.’

‘Receiving a distress pulse,’ said one of the vox-officers. ‘Sire... My primarch... The Orfeo’s Lament has suffered critical casualties. We’re getting an automated message.’

Lorgar covered his parted lips with a hand, unable to conceal his unrest where another primarch might have stood stoic. Worry was etched onto his handsome features, replacing the confusion that had taken hold moments before.

‘Play the message, please,’ he asked in a soft voice.

It came through in a crackle of vox, grating across the bridge speakers.

‘...the Orfeo’s Lament. Critical casualties sustained. Grievous damage. Requesting extraction. This is the Orfeo’s Lament... ’

‘How can this be?’ he asked again. ‘Master of Vox, get me a signal to that ship.’

‘By your word, sire.’

‘Argel Tal,’ Lorgar breathed his son’s name. ‘I know his voice. That was Argel Tal.’

At his side, Fleetmaster Baloc Torvus nodded, his stern features emotionless where his primarch’s were tormented. ‘Aye, sire. It was.’

Contact took three and a half minutes to restore, during which the rest of the 1,301st Fleet had raised its shields and armed all weapons. Tug-ships sailed from the flagship’s docking bays, ready to drag the limping Lament back to its sister vessels.

At last, a picture resolved on the occulus, showing the other vessel’s bridge. Audio contact filtered back a few seconds afterwards, heralded by a burst of static.

‘Blood of the Emperor,’ Lorgar whispered as he watched.

Argel Tal wore no helm. His face was gaunt, a pathetic wraith of his former vitality, with his eyes ringed by the dark smears of countless restless nights. Speckles of old blood decorated the left side of his face, and his armour – what was left of it – was pitted and cracked, devoid of any holy parchment.

He rose from his command throne on unsteady legs and saluted. There was the softest bang as his fist hit his breastplate.

‘You’re... still here,’ he rasped. All strength was gone from his voice.

Lorgar was the one to break the silence. ‘My son. What has befallen you? What madness is this?’

Behind Argel Tal, other figures were moving into view. Word Bearers, all. They were just as weak, just as ruined, as their commander. One fell to his knees as Lorgar watched, praying in a senseless stream of conflicting words. It took several moments for the primarch to realise it was Xaphen, recognisable only because of the broken black armour.