Deathwatch: The Long Vigil (Warhammer 40,000) by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2020-11-07T00:00:00+00:00

VIII

We emerge from the shattered remains of the Righteous Contempt, trading one hell for a worse one.

The flaming wreckage of our vessel gives way to a hideous, biomechanical amalgamation of barbed crenellations and laboratorial horrors. Gurgling tubing runs like a monstrous capillary system through tunnel after darksome tunnel, funnelling unspeakable excretions to places echoing with screams. A greasy film, stinking of rotted blood and ozone, clings languidly to every blackened surface. Filth-encrusted sluice-grates slurp up the detritus. The humid air is cold, saturated with the reek of alchemic compounds and bodily fluids.

The haunting, inescapable aura of suffering that assaulted us before permeates every iota of this evil place. Every step sends dagger-like pain shooting through our feet. Every breath feels like swallowing a razor blade. Defying all logic, our power armour offers no protection against it.

Dorthos hastily reconfigures our medicae systems to ration our macro­narcotics and life support systems; we have no way of telling how long our supplies will have to last, and aboard this cursed vessel the raw agony is strong enough to incapacitate even a Space Marine. Ray’gor leads us in a steady mantra of prayer to the Emperor to armour our souls. It is like a single drop of water on a man set aflame.

And still we endure, step by step, mile by mile, as we journey deeper and deeper into the drukhari labyrinth, because the only other option is to accept defeat.

Kill-Team Beymund, now Kill-Team Arkamedies, moves quickly, silently – we are rodents hiding in the grass of the Altak beneath a sky choked with berkuts. We pass patrols and hunting parties, gaggles of patchwork horrors with weaponry erupting from their skin, and one by one we silence them with combat knives and pulverising blows. As a warrior most at home when mounted on an assault bike, racing with staff blazing and pistol screaming into the enemy lines, such skulduggery suits me poorly.

Still, I suffer the imposition of stealth better than some.

‘What are we looking for?’ Vrohn whispers, for perhaps the third or fourth time since we left the Contempt.

The Techmarine blink-pushes an updated diagnostic to us, the tentative result of the ad hoc augur-mapping he’s conducted since our insertion.

‘Regardless of this vessel’s size and xenos design, it still must obey basic laws of shipcraft. It is capable of thrust, surrounded by a holoshield, and armed with weapons systems capable of devastating capital ships, including the pain-aura. All of these require an immense amount of energy, ergo it possesses the xenos approximation of a generatorium. The tactical acumen displayed in the assault of Yuvan Tertius and the subsequent destruction of our fleet reveals a cunning leadership presence, ergo it has a commander, and likely a bridge,’ Arkamedies explains, himself sounding wearied. ‘The Codex decrees we neutralise whichever we encounter first.’

‘Aye.’ Vrohn nods pensively. His burn-scarred face shows little expression. ‘So what are we looking for, exactly?’

Arkamedies looks to me for an answer.

‘We will know it when we see it,’ I respond, having no better answer to give.

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