Sons of the Emperor by Warhammer 40K

Author:Warhammer 40K [40K, Warhammer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781784967239
Published: 2018-06-12T04:00:00+00:00

'I am in blood. Stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more,

Returning were as tedious as go o'er.'

- attributed to the Nameless Thane of Old Albia

The flagship was trying to kill them. There could be no other explanation.

Blearily, Lotara eyed the canteen that rested upon the arm of her command throne, thirst making her tongue fat and heavy in her mouth. She shook the tiny silver pillbox in her hand absently, and her last few analgesic tabs rattled within it. Her headache was a sharp, grinding reminder that she hadn't taken any liquid in nearly two days.

And, of course, she had nothing to wash the painkillers down.

The Conqueror was surely trying to kill them.

Her ship. Angron's ship.

Angron's prison.

Her first officer circled around behind the raised dais. Where once Ivar Tobin had been a model example of the Legions' naval officer class, now he would regularly pace the deck with the nervous agitation of an addict, his brow dull with dry, cold sweat.

He halted abruptly, covering his earpiece with one hand. 'The door is sealed from the inside, ma'am. They are sending for a cutter. Still no contact with Mistress Andrasta, or her attendants.'

Lotara frowned. Her thoughts continued to drift.

The bridge space felt stiflingly warm, though that was likely just another effect of the dehydration. The crew preferred to keep the lighting low, because the lumen sconces had begun to flicker randomly and buzz like angry hornets, and even the most void-seasoned among them could not last a whole watch without suffering migraines or waking nightmares. Lotara herself had ordered the air cycler vents blocked up, in an effort to keep out the slaughterhouse reek that clung to every fibre of their uniforms. In a space designed for three hundred souls and more, barely sixty had reported for duty that night, and many of them were red-eyed and stripped down to their stained fatigues. A few were sprawled at their posts, sleeping fitfully.

There was little she could do about that, beyond hauling them down to the brig one by one with her own two weary hands, and hammering on the doors of every bunk-room to find suitable replacements. All of her slavers - no, discipline masters, she corrected herself - were engaged elsewhere on the ship. The Conqueror had to keep moving, and her engines were thirstier even than her crew.

Tobin straightened, staring blankly past his commanding officer like a grimy parade-ground recruit. It was his new way of reminding her of her duty, her superior rank, without actually saying a word, and it irritated her immensely.

'Ma'am… You might ask the good captain to intervene,' he offered. 'Send a legionary or two down to the Navigator's chambers, perhaps? We're losing pace with the Trisagion and the rest of the Word Bearers fleet, and Lord Aurelian's patience is not without its limits.' Tobin paused just long enough to make it seem as though he might be waiting for an answer, then addressed the warrior directly. 'My lord, what say you?'

Kharn was the only legionary on the bridge, though that was nothing unusual.

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