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loyal to the Chapter and ultimately respected command. Any reservations he had were kept to himself, for

now.

From the collective mien of some of the other sergeants, notably those of the Tactical squads, barring

Dak’ir’s own, it was clear that Tsu’gan was not alone in his displeasure either. Dak’ir had thought again of

the rumours to discredit their nascent captain, impeach him before Tu’Shan himself and sue for another to be

installed in his place. Tsu’gan’s ambition was voracious; Dak’ir was convinced that he did indeed covet

command of 3rd Company.

“Restless, brother-sergeant?” inquired Bak’en, as if penetrating his thoughts, shifting slightly in his gravharness

to turn in Dak’ir’s direction. Two blazing ovals of deep red loomed above him.

Deep space transit required that they wear their battle-helms at all times in case of a hull breach, their

enclosed power armour suits combined with their mucranoid gland enabling survival in the vacuum of space

until they could be recovered.

“I am, brother.” It wasn’t a lie. Dak’ir simply didn’t elaborate further. He’d caught Emek’s attention too, the

Salamander’s gaze burning behind his ocular lenses as he regarded his brother-sergeant closely. “Restless for

combat,” he said to them both. “There is no cause for concern.” Now Dak’ir lied.

The dream-visions had at first only surfaced during battle-meditation. They were rare, occurring once or

twice every few months. Usually he dreamt of his childhood, of his life on Nocturne before becoming one of

the Emperor’s Astartes and venturing into the stars to bring flame and retribution to mankind’s enemies.

Many Space Marines didn’t remember their existence prior to donning the black carapace. Recollection was

often fragmentary and clouded, more a series of impressions than any distinct or ordered catalogue of

history. Dak’ir’s memories of his humanity were lucid and could be recalled with absolute clarity. It

awakened a yearning in him, a sorrow for what he’d lost and a desire to reconnect with it on some

fundamental level.

Occasionally he would remember Moribar, and his first mission. With the passing of years, these

remembrances grew ever more frequent, violent and bloody. They were focused on death, but then Moribar

revelled in the certainty of death. Mortality and the veneration of the fallen were its stock in trade. Dak’ir

had been merely a scout back then, one of 7th Company. The grey sepulchre world had stained the

Salamander somehow, a patina of grave dust coating him like a veil; it had wormed its way under his skin

like the parasites consuming the rotten flesh of those buried beneath Moribar’s dark, forbidding earth. The

deeds wrought on that terrible world had tarnished him deeper still, and like the unquiet dead they would not

rest. Nihilan would not rest.

At the thought of Moribar again, Dak’ir looked directly in front of him to where Tsu’gan was harnessed.

Iagon was alongside him staring intently, his thoughts inscrutable. For once his brother-sergeant seemed far

away and unaware of the brief exchange in the Thunderhawk’s troop compartment. Twenty battle-brothers

filled it, two squads of ten. Though the Fire-wyvern had alcoves for five more, they went unused. Venerable

Brother Amadeus took up the advanced positions in the gunship’s forward hold. The massive Dreadnought

rocked quietly in his scaffold, subconsciously reliving old victories.

Crackling static fought for dominance over the thrumming of the Thunderhawk’s engines as the internal

vox-link attached to one of the gunship’s bulkheads came to life.

“Brother-sergeants, report to the flight deck immediately.” Librarian Pyriel’s silken voice was clipped, but

unmistakable even above the din of rocket boosters. “We have found something.”

Tsu’gan responded immediately. Unlocking his grav-harness by punching the release clasp, he levered the

frame above his head and moved through the crowded chamber in the direction of the access stairs to the

flight deck. He said nothing as he passed Dak’ir, who had just released his own harness with a hiss of

escaping pressure.

Dak’ir wasn’t about to question his brother’s taciturnity. He was glad of the respite from Tsu’gan’s choler.

Instead, he followed swiftly in the brother-sergeant’s wake and met both he and Pyriel in the upper forward

section of the gunship.

The Librarian had his back to them, the clawed tips of his long salamander cloak just touching the floor. The

curve of his psychic hood was starkly apparent above the generator of the power armour that dominated his

upper back. Skeins of wires protruded from the arcane device and fed into the hidden recesses of his gorget.

It reminded Dak’ir of the Salamander’s exceptional talents and the precarious line that psykers, even those as

accomplished as Pyriel, walked when they communed with the unknowable forces of the warp. The

Epistolary’s earlier scrutiny of Dak’ir during the ceremony of Interment and Ascension came to the forefront

of the Salamander’s mind. Had he been communing with the warp then, using his prodigious abilities to

know his thoughts? There had been recognition in Pyriel’s eyes when Dak’ir had met his gaze. Since that

moment, and confronted with him again, the sergeant’s sense of unease in the Librarian’s presence hadn’t

lessened.

“It is incongruous,” said Pyriel, staring at something visible though the Fire-wyvern’s occuliport.

The cockpit itself was a small space, made smaller still by the presence of the Librarian and two sergeants.

Four Space Marine crew worked at the vessel’s controls: a pilot sat in a grav-couch situated in the Firewyvern’s

stub nose; a navigator carefully monitored sensor arrays and complex avionics; a co-pilot and a

gunner filled the other two positions. Each wore power armour but with their back-mounted generators

removed — all of their suits’ internal systems were maintained by the Thunderhawk’s reactor.

Tsu’gan and Dak’ir came forward together to stand either side of Pyriel to see what had caught the

Librarian’s attention. Though still distant, but closing all the time, the sheer size of Pyriel’s discovery almost

filled their view. It was a ship, not a small fighter like the Fire-wyvern but a vast cruiser, akin to a floating

city of dark metal.

The ship was evidently of Imperial design: long, but bulky like a long-hafted mace and with a slab-ended

prow like a clenched fist. There was obvious damage to the hull, charred and laser-blackened as it was by

munitions fire. Several of its numerous decks were breached. Ragged wounds in the metal were like the bites

of some insect that had become infected, the vessel’s flesh sloughed away by the contagion. Dormant

weapon systems still held a threat, however — vast banks of laser batteries bowed down as if crestfallen

along its ruined flanks. Auto-turrets, forward-arc lances and much larger ordnance made up the rest of the

ship’s guns. It was a fearsome array, but one laid low by some unknown enemy.

Clusters of factorum and munitoria comprised the vessel’s hard-edged core, and gargantuan foundry-engines

filled its belly. Deep crimson and black, and displaying the symbol of the cog, the cruiser had clearly

originated on Mars. It was an Ark-class forge-ship, a vessel of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

“No energy signature from the shields or engines. No radiation reading from the reactor.” Pyriel’s voice

sounded tinny and echoing beneath his battle-helm. He exhaled a long breath, as if cogitating what might

have befallen the stricken ship.

“The ship is dead.” Tsu’gan’s tone betrayed his impatience.

“For some time, judging by the damage sustained to its port and aft,” added Dak’ir.

“Indeed,” Pyriel replied. “But no enemy in sight, no plasma wake or warp signature. Adrift in realspace for

us to find.”

“Have we tried hailing it?” asked Tsu’gan, clearly suspicious.

“No response,” Pyriel told him flatly.

“And is this the source of the psychic resonance?”

“No,” Pyriel confessed. “I have not felt that for some time. This is different entirely,” Tsu’gan’s reply was

pragmatic.

“Whatever the cause, vessels of that size don’t simply appear in realspace crippled and without power. It’s

possible whoever did this is still lurking in-system. Pirates maybe?”

Dak’ir was only half-listening. He’d stepped forward to get a closer look.

“There is something on that ship,” he muttered.

The slight incline of Pyriel’s head in Dak’ir’s direction betrayed his interest.

“What makes you say that, brother?”

Dak’ir was taken slightly aback, though he kept the reaction from affecting his body language; he’d not

realised he’d spoken out loud.

“An instinct, nothing more,” he confessed.

“Please elaborate.” The Librarian turned his scrutinising gaze upon him fully now. Dak’ir felt it like probing

tendrils peeling back the layers of his subconscious, trying to get at the veiled secrets of his mind.

“Just something in my gut.”

Pyriel lingered for a moment, but then seemed content to leave it there and turned back to stare through the

occuliport.

Tsu’gan’s tone suggested a scowl.

“My gut is telling me we should not waste our efforts further. The Dragon Warriors are not here on this

drifting husk. We should move on and let the Vulkan’s Wrath decide what to do with her.”

“We should at least search for survivors,” Dak’ir countered adamantly.

“To what end, Ignean? The vessel is nothing but a floating tomb. There is no time for this.”

“What time do you think we need, Brother Tsu’gan?” asked Pyriel with a slight tilt of his head in the

sergeant’s direction. “It has been weeks since we translated in-system, a few hours exploring this vessel

won’t—”

“Archimedes Rex…”

Pyriel turned slowly at the interruption.

“What did you say?” Tsu’gan snapped.

Dak’ir was pointing through the occuliport.

“There,” he said, as if he hadn’t even heard his brother’s words. He was indicating the vessel’s port side as

they slowly came abeam. The vessel’s designation was stamped there in massive letters. “It’s the name of

the ship.”

Tsu’gan was nonplussed as he turned on his battle-brother.

“What of it?”

“It’s… familiar.”

“Meaning what, exactly — that you’ve seen it before? How is that even possible?”

Pyriel broke the sudden tension, evidently having come to a decision.

“Return to the Chamber Sanctuarine and prepare your squads for boarding.”

“My lord?” Tsu’gan could not see the logic in that, his pragmatism allowing him to put his issue with Dak’ir

aside whilst he dealt with this latest concern.

Pyriel was disinclined to explain it to him. “It’s an order, brother-sergeant.”

Tsu’gan paused, chastened. “Should we not at least wait for the Vulkan’s Wrath and deploy via her boarding

torpedoes?”

“No, brother-sergeant, I want to breach the Mechanicus ship quietly. Sensor arrays have discovered an open

fighter bay, we can dock there.”

“I see no need for caution, Brother-Librarian,” he pressed. “As I’ve said, the ship is dead.”

Pyriel’s penetrating gaze fell on Tsu’gan.

“Is it, brother?”

II

Archimedes Rex

The Fire-wyvern’s landing stanchions extended as the gunship came to rest in the darkness of the forgeship’s

fighter bay.

Winking emergency lighting was strobing up and down the massive lozenge-shaped hangar, washing it

blood-red. Squadrons of small vessels were revealed in the sporadic, visceral light.

The Salamanders deployed quickly, the rear embarkation ramp engaging as soon as they had docked. It hit

the steel deck with a resounding clang, followed by the thunder of booted footsteps as the Space Marines

dispersed. Mag-locks on the soles of their boots allowed them to traverse the plated floor in the absence of

gravity, albeit in slightly syncopated fashion, and assume defensive positions. The manoeuvre was done by

rote, but proved unnecessary. Aside from the host of dormant Mechanicus fighters, the hangar was empty.

Only the echo of the Salamanders’ approach, resonating off the stark, buttressed walls and up into a high,

ribbed ceiling, gave any indication of life in the massive expanse.

“Leaving their fighter bay open and unsecured, someone must have fled in a hurry.” Emek’s voice came

through the comm-feed in Dak’ir’s battle-helm. The two squads and the Librarian were synched with it in

order to stay in constant contact.

“I doubt it,” growled Tsu’gan, already inspecting the many rows of small vessels. “There looks to be a full

complement here, all in dock. Nobody left this vessel. Or if they did, they didn’t use any of these craft to do

it.”

“Perhaps they were in the process of leaving,” offered Ba’ken, standing alongside one of the fighters. “This

glacis plate has been disengaged.”

It wasn’t the only one. Several of the fighters had the glacis shields of their cockpits left unsecured; some

were even wide open. It was as if the pilots, getting ready to launch, had left their posts and marched away to

only the warp knew where.

“No pilots, no flight crew of any description,” added Dak’ir. “Even the control consoles are empty.”

“It begs an obvious question—” Bak’en’s query was left unspoken, as he was interrupted by the front

embarkation ramp of the Fire-wyvern opening and easing to the deck with a metallic clunk.

Pounding footfalls announced the armoured form of Venerable Brother Amadeus. The Dreadnought was an

imposing sight.

The mechanised exoskeleton that framed the armoured sarcophagus of Brother Amadeus was fraught with

ribbed piping, cables and whining servos. Two broad and blocky shoulders sat either side of the

Salamander’s casket. Brave beyond measure, Amadeus had fallen at the siege of Cluth’nir against the hated

eldar. Such were his deeds that the wreckage of his mortally wounded body was taken from the battlefield

and interred within a suit of Dreadnought armour, so that Amadeus might fight on in the Chapter’s name

forever.

Looming over five metres in height and almost as wide, it wasn’t just the sheer bulk of Amadeus’

cyborganic body that made him formidable — both of his mechanised arms carried a potent weapon system.

The left was a massive power fist that crackled with electrical discharge; the right bore a multi-melta, its

barrel nose scorched black.

Ba’ken shifted uncomfortably at the sight of the Dreadnought, though only Brother Emek noticed it.

“In the name of Vulkan,” Amadeus boomed in automated diction, having only recently been awakened.

The Salamanders saluted as one, rapping their plastrons with clenched fists to show their veneration and