Chapter 12: Unexpected Gain
The Ironclad had been in the Immaterium for approximately two months, at least according to the ship's internal chronometers.
Barnabas sat on the command throne of the bridge, his focus absolute as he maintained the flagship's operations. In those two months, he had not slept for more than twenty minutes at a stretch. The mortal crew ran in two shifts, but he merely rested in a shallow doze, jolting awake at the slightest irregularity.
A mortal would have been crushed by such a high-intensity workload. But an Astartes's brain contains the Catalepsean Node. It activates at the onset of sleep deprivation, allowing him to function with only short periods of shallow rest. If necessary, he could remain awake indefinitely, until his own metabolism failed and he literally worked himself to death.
Petros had named him "Master of the Fleet"—even if the fleet was currently just one ship. On this vessel, his command was absolute. By the laws of The Forged Steel Brotherhood, he could, in theory, order even Lord Petros on a suicidal boarding action, and Petros would have to obey.
But he would never give such an order. They were brothers, and he would not waste a single life. It was for this reason he wore the older, heavier Mark II 'Crusade' Pattern armor, leaving the superior plate for his brothers in the assault squads. The Master of the Fleet's battlefield was not the bulkhead, but the command throne and the cold void.
Barnabas stared at the data-feeds, his mind processing the ship's status. Suddenly, he saw it—an anomaly. At the same instant, the Master of the Augurs spoke.
"My Lord, dissipating plasma trails to starboard," the officer reported, his voice tight. "Engine spoor. Two vessels, recently passed."
A good officer, Barnabas thought. He only spotted it a moment after I did.
"Class and armament?"
"Vague, my Lord. Small-to-medium tonnage. Their projected course is... similar to ours. We must close the distance for a proper scan."
It was the same conclusion Barnabas had reached. He was testing his senior crew. In a true fleet engagement, he wouldn't have time to hold their hands. They had to learn to think for themselves.
Barnabas stroked his beard, calculating. The Ironclad was a Sword-class frigate. Her firepower was middling, but she was fast. Two small vessels were not a Naval patrol. And they were on the same heading. A coincidence. Whether they were friend or foe, The Ironclad had the advantage of speed. The initiative was theirs.
"Bring us alongside," the Ship-Master ordered.
The helmsman below acknowledged, and the ship's angle of approach shifted.
In an unknown star system, realspace tore open. Two ships burst from the Immaterium, the massive, churning wound of their passage beginning to seal. But just as the rift collapsed, a third, larger vessel surged out, hard on their heels.
Charter-Captain Borislav was panicking.
He'd been on a standard run, just his armed freighter and a Vagabond-class hauler, when this thing had appeared on their augurs in the Warp. He had tried multiple maneuvers to shake it, all ending in failure. He'd even risked a blind exit, and they still followed him out.
Now, in realspace, Borislav finally saw his pursuer: a Sword-class frigate. A small Naval escort. But "small" was relative. It was more than enough to gut his two modest freighters.
The comms officer's voice was thin. "Captain, the... the other ship. They are hailing us."
Borislav's heart hammered. At least... at least there were no overt markings of Chaos. "On screen."
The hololith projector flickered, and the massive, helmeted form of an Astartes solidified on the bridge.
"Imperial vessel," the synthesized voice boomed. "We are the Forged Hand Chapter, conducting an active pursuit. I order you to lower your void shields and disengage all weapon locks. We are coming aboard to conduct an inspection."
Captain Borislav looked at his own Augur officer, who gave a tiny, terrified shake of his head. "Sir, our database has no record of a 'Forged Hand' Chapter. There is no charted Astartes presence in this entire sector."
Cautiously, Borislav signaled his weapons officer to disengage the locks. Angering an Astartes, real or not, was a death sentence.
"We are a fleet-based Chapter," the Astartes growled. "We are hunting a fugitive. Lower your shields now, or we will launch boarding torpedoes."
"My Lord, that is highly irregular... It is against all Imperial protocols."
Borislav was sweating now. Letting an unknown, unverified Astartes onto his ship... Throne, this was bad.
"Your refusal is noted." The Astartes didn't wait for an answer. "We are launching boarding torpedoes."
The transmission cut.
They were going to board by force. Damnation! Borislav wondered if he should fire. His meager point-defense cannons might be able to shoot down a torpedo... maybe.
But to fire on a ship claiming to be Astartes? He'd be declared Excommunicate Traitoris. He was dead. If he didn't fire, they'd board his ship and... what?
As he stood frozen in indecision, his weapons officer's voice cracked. "Torpedoes launched! They're in the water!"
"Captain! I can still acquire a lock! What are your orders!?"
Borislav was drenched in sweat. What could he do? Fire and be executed, or run and be blown out of the void. Or... let them board, and pray they only kill a few of his crew.
"Captain, two minutes to impact!"
His ship was clean. His manifests were legal. But... what if? What if some high-value fugitive was stowed away in his holds? A fugitive wanted by Astartes... what in the Emperor's name could someone have done?
"Captain! Final intercept window! Ten... nine... eight... five, four, three, two... one!" The weapons officer sounded hopeless.
Too late.
A heavy, percussive THUD shuddered through the entire vessel. The torpedo had breached the hull.
Borislav wiped his sleeve across his sweaty forehead. "It's... it's fine. We are clean. Order the armsmen on the Vagabond to receive them. Assist their... inspection."
It's fine, he thought, trying to calm his racing heart. Our papers are in order. Our cargo is legal. They will search, find nothing, and leave.
And if there is a fugitive... let them take him. So they kill a few crewmen in the process. We just have to endure it. They will take what they want and go.
He'd saved enough credits. Just this one last run, and he could retire. Go home. Get married. He unconsciously pulled a locket from under his shirt, snapping it open to look at the pict-image of the girl inside.
"Vanessa," he whispered. "Wait for me."