Wrath Of The Lost (Warhammer 40,000) by Chris Forrester

Author:Chris Forrester [Forrester, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2023-01-14T00:00:00+00:00

Eighteen

The Overlord nosed through the atmospheric retention field, squeezing its massive frame into the primary hangar. Barachiel surveyed it through the external pict-feeds, a cavernous space lit only by the wing-mounted lumens. A handful of Arvus and Aquila shuttles squatted in launch cradles, crowding its mouth. Corroding pressure hoses trailed from fuel ports to rows of tankers and silos. Plasteel hulls gathered rust. Bright flickers fringed the feed, timed to precise bursts of ionised plasma vapour as the craft steadied itself to land.

A countdown flickered live on Barachiel’s retinal feed, and he felt his pulse quicken in both anger and pleasure. He stood at the head of the assault column, his armour bathed in the blood-red glow of the overhead lumens. His frustration at being left behind on the strike cruiser was only slightly ameliorated by the opportunity to search the star fortress. In the absence of a chance to grasp their salvation with his own hands, he wanted to work towards it.

Once the star fortress was cleared, nothing could keep him from Cretacia.

The Overlord settled into the primus hangar, her engines cycling down and her assault ramps descending before the landing claws touched the deck. Barachiel thundered down the assault ramp, his armour servos absorbing the shock with a sharp squall as he dropped the last five feet. Castiel’s six Hellblasters and the three Eradicators of Squad Azariel dropped behind him. They fanned out into a broad arrowhead formation, weapons trained on every approach. Adariel’s Assault Intercessors swept from the second compartment to join him.

‘This station has not been functional for twenty years, at least,’ Adariel said, indicating the Militarum-issue ration crates stacked to their right. Dates were stamped in off-white paint, and dust formed a thick layer atop them. Scaffolding and sheets of industrial plastek extended along one wall, machine tools and varied lengths of pipe left next to sections of plasteel with scuffed white paint and directional markers. ‘Are we certain of the augur data? The station does not seem under power. It does not even appear that servitors have been active here.’

‘Hariel himself confirmed it,’ Barachiel said, his helm’s cartolith identifying the hatch that led to the command deck. He blink-clicked the rune, the cartolith’s projection shifting to show an overhead view of their route, a gold line between thin blue lines.

At Barachiel’s signal they exited the hangar, helm stablights active and guns panning across every hatch and firing position. Shimmering heat spills curled from their reactor packs. The air was thin, void-cold and sluggish, yet scrubbed clean of contaminants. It was the only life-support function operational in the outer layers of the star fortress. The rest of the critical systems read as minimum, or null, on his retinal feed, the power siphoned away to other areas of the installation. Only the command-deck cogitators could provide more details.

The hairs on Barachiel’s arms prickled in response to the cold, anticipation tightening his abdominal muscles. Torn cables trailed overhead like forest creepers, puddles of frozen coolant and armaglass glittering like gemstones, an eerie grey beneath the star-white stablights.

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