ASHES OF PROSPERO Page 10

  ‘I know their sagas well,’ said Njal. Indeed, Fellfist and the Thrice-Slain were revered nearly as much as Bjorn himself. The Stormcaller met the approaching Dreadnought and lowered his voice. ‘I thought you would never return to Prospero?’

  Bjorn’s reply was an attempt at a conspiratorial whisper, though his external address system lacked the subtlety to do so, his words emanating at the volume of a man’s normal speech so that they carried across the near-silent bay.

  ‘You are travelling to the home world of our greatest enemies, to break into a warp-spawned labyrinth of dreams and nightmares, accompanied by a ragged company of thralls and greyhairs. And, if my auditory systems detected right the conversation just passed, you will do so by sailing the Othersea on a ship piloted by an untested adolescent.’ The huge sarcophagus tipped closer and the speaker crackled as Bjorn tried to lower his voice even further. ‘I think you need all the help you can get.’

  The light of Fenris’ star was nothing more than another cold glimmer in the darkness of the void. Eleven days out from orbit, the Longclaw finally reached the extent of the graviometric interference from the system’s bodies. Called the Mandeville point among Imperial scholars, to the Space Wolves it was known as the Gulf of No Return.

  From here, a ship would activate the warp drives, breaking open the barrier between reality and unreality. Slipping from the material to the immaterial sheathed in a Geller field – a bubble of mortal physics encased in a psychic skin – the Longclaw would fall into the Othersea to drift upon its strange currents and tides.

  As preparations were made for the jump, Njal did a personal inspection of the ship. Though his contingent was not large, it exceeded the transport capacity of the rapid strike vessel by some margin, so that thralls and warriors made bed space in corridors and emptied storage bays. His Space Wolves were already in full battle mindset, using their catalepsean nodes to rest parts of their brain in sequence so that they needed no regular sleep. Those who were unaugmented among the company shared bunk space between heating exchanges and coolant pipes, atop vibrating Geller field generator casings and around thrumming plasma relays. They changed shift every six hours to make room for another, living in the embrace of each other’s warmth and aroma.

  As Njal made his way to the mid-decks the passages cleared before him. His huge armour almost filled the corridor – though built for the Adeptus Astartes, the Longclaw had never been intended to carry Terminators – forcing all others to give way. Across the ship, movement from the eating halls to the shrine chambers and training ranges was carefully managed so that large bodies of warriors were not on the move at the same time. At such times, it seemed anarchic with floods of thralls moving aftwards into the spaces around the engine rooms, or flowing to the gunnery decks to make way for squads of Space Wolves on their way to conduct close-quarter drills in the main combat hall. Yet appearances were deceptive. Valgarthr and the other squad leaders had meticulously coordinated all activity, leaving nothing to chance and allowing no room for confusion.

  Arjac met Njal not far from his quarters, waiting in a junction space between three corridors and two stairwells, sufficient room for them both.

  ‘Everything is locked down in preparation for the jump, Lord of Runes,’ reported the Wolf Guard veteran. ‘Crew and transported warriors are mustering to their stations. Valgarthr has command on the jarldek.’

  His nose wrinkled. The odour from so many people thrust together was already considerable, pushing the filtration systems to their limit. So too the ablution facilities, food preparation and water supplies. To the thralls and other regular crew, it was a mild distraction. For the augmented Space Marines, the stench was ever-present.

  ‘The sooner we are out of here, the better. Some of the thralls are complaining of shortness of breath. Our warriors’ performance will be affected if they must use their halfminds for too long. We are already running our armour recycling systems to augment the ship’s capabilities.’

  It was, in galactic terms, not a long journey between Fenris and Prospero. In normal conditions one might have covered the distance in two or three shorter jumps.

  ‘I’m hoping that conditions permit us to make the journey to Prospero in a single jump, two if really necessary,’ Njal told the other Space Wolf. ‘The quicker, the better. The ruins of Tizca will provide little relief. The air is just about breathable but that is all. Within the Portal Maze? Who knows what we’ll find. We drink and eat only what we take with us.’

  ‘Just cross one chasm at a time, eh?’ said Arjac, scratching his chin. ‘Let’s just get there first.’

  ‘Await my command,’ said the Stormcaller with a nod.

  ‘Of course.’

  Arjac stomped away towards the main bridge, leaving Njal to ascend in one of the conveyors, taking him to the uppermost decks of the patrol vessel. Disembarking the heavy lifting cage brought him out onto one of two galleries that flanked the chambers of the Navigator.

  Ahead, through the high armourplas viewport, he could see the wolfshead prow of the ship against the backdrop of stars. To the stern the view was obscured by the glow of plasma discharge from the engines, while the row of windows beside him revealed nothing but the star-filled galaxy.

  A quintet of golden figures stood guard at the entrance to Majula’s quarters – a similar number of the Navis Nobilite troops stood sentry on the opposite gallery.

  ‘Navigator-elect Majula is preparing for transition, Lord of Runes,’ said Dorria, changing her stance ever so slightly to intercept his approach towards the closed archway that led up into the pilaster.

  ‘I know,’ Njal replied. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  The impasse continued in silence for several seconds before Dorria relented under the unmoving stare of the Stormcaller. He detected the slight buzz of a vox transmission and the gate slid open.

  ‘Wise as well as diligent,’ Njal told Dorria. ‘Your mistress is fortunate to have you in her service.’

  He ducked through the opening, his shoulders only barely fitting the gap. A broad, shallow-stepped staircase led up just a few paces in front. He looked up to see part of a large dome, the stars visible through the armourplas. He could see a vague reflection of red moving against the blackness as Majula paced to and fro, her passage quick with agitation.

  ‘If that is so, it is credit to the lessons of our exchange trainer, Pack Leader Stevr,’ Dorria called after Njal. ‘He always told us to do what our superiors needed, even if their orders did not quite phrase that need properly…’

  ‘A teaching worthy of the Wolf King himself,’ agreed Njal.

  As Nightwing swept over his shoulder, the gate clattered back into position behind him and he started up the steps.

  The hall was circular, the transparent dome above far higher than the walls that held it, so one felt almost enclosed by the starfield. It was a large space for a Navigator compared to some ships he had seen, considering the sparsity of room on the rest of the Longclaw. It was obvious why on brief inspection, for the hall was not just a viewing dome but also bed chambers, kitchen and recreation area. Once the warp was breached, the view below the armourplas would be of the naked warp – or as naked as such a thing could be through the interference of the Geller field. Only Majula, Njal and the handful of eyeless servitors would be capable of staying there without being driven insane by the sight. So the Navigator would remain, cared for by half-machine orderlies, her existence essentially solitary for the duration of the jump.

  Majula was stood close to the wall and turned as Njal reached the top of the stairwell. She wore the same robes and hooded cloak as when he had first seen her, but a shawl of golden lace was draped over them, hung with sparkling rubies, emeralds and sapphires. Each flickered with psychic brightness as well as physical light. Njal had not seen one before and assumed it was an amplifier to aid inexperienced Navigators – something akin to his psychic hood.

  A crease knotted Majula’s brow behind the silver band of her oracl
e-guard, visible eyes narrowing.

  ‘I gave word that I was not to be disturbed.’

  ‘I can be quite insistent.’ Njal moved closer, but not so near that his immense bulk would intimidate the young lady. Devoid of input from the Stormcaller, Nightwing landed upon the rail at the top of the stair and fell dormant. ‘There is more at stake during this voyage than your elevation from Navigator-elect to Navigator. We will make the first transition together.’

  ‘I did not know that the Librarians of the Adeptus Astartes could act as Navigators…’ Majula’s lips pursed in annoyance. ‘I do not see why I needed to come at all, if that is the case.’

  ‘I am powerful among the Rune Priests of the Space Wolves, but even I can only dimly sense the tides of the Othersea. The Allfather’s light is a warmth in my mind, and if needed for a short distance, I could steer the ship. But that will not be enough. We must travel close to the Great Rift that tears the galaxy to the core if we are to reach Prospero.’ Njal took another step and laid a hand on Majula’s shoulder, as soft as settling snow despite the immensity of the gauntlet that enclosed his fingers and the potential power of the suit he wore. ‘Just the transition. Together. After that, you alone shall be my Navigator.’

  She relaxed and acceded with a nod.

  ‘I used to stand tiller on my uncle’s jarlship from my fifth season of fire and ice,’ Njal said, taking a step back. He looked up at the stars. ‘We rode mountainous waves and sailed shores fanged like a monstrous kraken. In foam and gale, we hunted geldwhal along the northern ocean coasts. Every Long Year, Fenris breaks itself. The Imperial orbologists call it stellar-induced seismic upheaval. To a fresh young sailhand, it is the wrath of the elements, let me tell you. The sky is wreathed in lightning and clouds. The thunder is the war-cries of vast gods warring. Such a youth might think the world is ending. And well it might be, with kraken and leviathans of the abyss waiting to swallow those that sail astray into the deep waters.’

  ‘How did you find your way?’ Majula asked quietly, her fingers fidgeting with a slender silver chain around her throat. ‘When nothing is permanent, how do you steer your way home?’

  ‘There are no maps of Fenris worthy of study. No charts remain true for more than one season. Islands rise and fall. Shallows, creeks, fjords and volcanoes are as substantial as snow melting between the fingers. So we learn to steer by instinct, by the smell of the wind, the taste of the salt and ice, and the ride of the planks beneath our feet.’

  ‘It does not sound so different from what the Navigators must do,’ said Majula. ‘The currents we steer are never stable. Their speed and direction shift and the tides rise and fall without warning. Only the Astronomican is immutable.’

  Njal stood by her side. His gaze roved the stars above for a few seconds, until he found what was roughly galactic south-east.

  ‘Our fate lies out there,’ he said quietly. ‘The light of Prospero’s star, near eight thousand years old now, somewhere in that glow.’

  ‘Left a little, Lord of Runes,’ said Majula, her finger pointing as she spoke. ‘I have made the calculations and studied the charts. The Beacon of Terra is fixed in my thoughts even now, hot and bright and loving. Prospero is that way.’

  ‘I stand corrected, Navigator,’ he replied. A subvocal whisper activated his vox-link. ‘Valgarthr, send word to the tech-priests. Activate warp engines.’

  ‘Aye, Stormcaller, preparing for transition.’

  Rune Priest and Navigator stood together in silence for several seconds, awaiting the moment when the power of the warp drive was activated.

  First came the Geller field. In real space, its effect on the ungifted members of the company was negligible, but to the psychically aware it created a wyrd echo that crept from the stern to the prow. The reality within the field reflected back the physical space now enclosed, bringing with it an unnatural sense of claustrophobia.

  Njal was conditioned physically and mentally to overcome all sense of fear or distress, but his Space Marine modifications and his Librarian training could do nothing to rid him completely of the sense of entrapment that shuddered through his soul.

  He heard Majula’s heart pulsing fast, her breaths coming in short, shallow gasps.

  ‘Calm yourself, Navigator,’ he said, assuming a command tone that she could not ignore. Within moments her breathing and pulse slowed.

  The Geller field sealed completely, vibrating slightly with the catatonic thoughts of the poor psyker enclosed in the bowels of the ship whose soul was being processed to create the protective shield. Njal kept his thoughts to himself, not wishing to touch upon whatever nightmarish experience the psychic battery underwent.

  +We could have done away with all of this barbarity if we had been given more time.+

  Njal’s anger spiked in response to the sudden intervention of the sorcerer. He had thought Izzakar’s presence curtailed by the psychic hood. Majula shifted nervously.

  ‘Did you feel that?’ she asked.

  ‘Concentrate on the task at hand, Navigator,’ said the Rune Priest. He could feel the burgeoning power of the warp engine growing, an alt-dimensional buzzing that started as a whine but grew in vehemence to a drone. The warp drive pushed against the shores of the Othersea. Pressure within the Geller sheath intensified as the warp attempted to surge back into reality.

  Majula stood rigid, legs slightly apart, one hand holding the clasp of her cloak shaped in the badge of House Belisarius. With her free hand, she reached up and slipped away her headband, revealing her third eye.

  Njal snapped his gaze away, turning his head so that he could not see her face even in reflection. Even so, a haunting sight of the whirling abyss within the Navigator’s forehead swirled in his memory. He could feel her gaze upon him, probing and indelicate, its touch like the scrape of a ragged nail across his spirit.

  ‘Look not to me but the void, Navigator,’ he said to her, resisting the urge to reinforce his psychic shields. For this moment he needed to be open to the warp, to maintain contact through the medium of the Geller field – to trust in its integrity as much as his own personal defences.

  The scraping sensation abated as Majula turned her eye away.

  Flickers of gold static danced across the starfield beyond the dome. Tiny arcs of energy crawled over the red-veined marble floor, creeping from the walls towards the pair of psykers. Njal’s armour systems trembled into action, internal heating veins activated to compensate for the drop in atmospheric temperature. The breath of both psykers became a fog.

  Conflicting pressure fronts mounted against each other inside Njal’s mind. Pushing, pushing, the thrust of the void-breaker against the repulsion of the un-space that lay across the divide. He could not help but think of some obscene birth. He felt compressed and manipulated by awakening forces, the plates of his Terminator armour useless against the mounting tide. He could not resist, but had to throw himself upon the ebb and flow.

  Majula gasped, pained. Njal dared not look at her. His othersense reassured him that her discomfort was merely physical, her reaction that to the ice starting to form across armour and skin as the temperature plummeted even further.

  The golden stars became a vortex dancing across the armourplas canopy, sketching screaming faces and burning eyes in the instances between neurons firing, existing in the gaps between consciousness and unconsciousness.

  With a final pulse of psychic emanation, the warp drive exploded into full power, ripping shreds of reality from the void in front of the Longclaw. At that moment, the main engines fired full and the vessel creaked into violent life, stanchions squealing under the strain, bulkheads shuddering. Flares energy-slithered across the Geller field. Their touch pulled at Njal’s mind even as they dragged the Longclaw into the wound between worlds.

  Nightwing let out a loud caw, agitated by the change. Majula whispered mantras, eyes fixed on the opening maw of the warp ahead of the rapid strike vessel. A multicolour vortex circled wider and wider, except the opening wasn’
t growing – they were approaching at increasing speed.

  A jolt pulsed through the hull and set the dome singing with vibrations. The chorus rose in heavenly harmony for several seconds before discordancy shattered the melodies, half-heard screeching and wailing as the warp engulfed the Longclaw.

  The Geller field thrummed through Njal’s bones, increasing in strength. Unreality pressed down upon the barrier and he felt the mental equivalent of timbers protesting and rigging howling in a gale – memories dredged from his past to interpret the impossible sensations of warp interference.

  The Longclaw bucked unexpectedly as a wave of warp power spewed from the breach. Majula moved effortlessly across the tilting floor, coming to stand behind a baroque set of instruments that looked like a cross between an ancient ship’s compass, an orrery and a spider’s web. She slid and rotated etched brass discs, and pulled a small lever to adjust the psychic trim of the Geller field. Njal felt it bulge towards the stern, acting like an immaterial rudder, pushing the craft back towards the slipstream rushing into the breach.

  By this point, even the ungifted members of the company would be aware of the psychic turmoil spilling around them. A slight sense of vertigo. An itch inside the brain. Tremors along the nerves.

  Njal wondered if the servitors detected anything of the unnatural transition taking place. They still had souls, after all; that was the point of having them. Did they know, somewhere deep and unreachable inside their machine-invaded brains, that they were leaving the universe of the mortal and sane and plunging into something that living creatures were never meant to know? As they burbled and slouched through their duties, was there a momentary pause at the boundary of real space and the warp, an instance of unease that no amount of cyberfication could erase?

  His mind wandered for a purpose, to draw his attention away from the madness-inducing clash of realities playing out beyond the dome.

  An active mind kept the more revealing questions of the soul at bay. One did not simply look into the abyss with a warp jump, one threw oneself willingly into its embrace. Introspection was not a good trait at such times.