Chapter 59: Operation Sunder Bridge

Chapter 59: Operation Sunder Bridge

Elsewhere in the starport, other brutal slaughters were underway.

Randolph and his three-man team had been assigned the Astropathic Chamber. It was the sanctum where the star-messengers sent their whispers into the void, their powers amplified by the arcane machinery within.

The chamber was the furthest point from their insertion, and its defenders were disciplined armsmen. This had given them time to form a barricade, their weapons trained on the corridor.

The armsmen were behind a makeshift barricade, their lasguns and shotguns aimed at the kill-zone. Worse, their squad had four mortal-pattern boltguns, weapons theoretically capable of piercing their scout armor.

Leading them was a man in a black, peaked cap and a matching greatcoat, a skull-and-aquila on his hat. A Commissar. He held a mortal-pattern bolt pistol.

"I don't know what our chances are, men," the Commissar's voice boomed, "so we will fight as one! Show them your faith in the Emperor!"

As the Commissar spoke, something flew over their heads. BOOM! The battle began with an air-burst frag grenade. But a shimmering kine-shield flared to life in the corridor, deflecting the shrapnel. The armsmen, though shaken, held their ground and returned fire, a wall of las-beams and shotgun pellets.

Randolph and his team fired their bolters, the shells detonating uselessly against the same shield. They saw the source: behind the armsmen, a pale, white-haired Astropath, his eyes bound by psychic-hoods, had his hands raised, projecting the barrier. Cursing, Randolph ducked back as an armsman's bolt-round ricocheted off his pauldron, close enough to draw blood.

Randolph was trying to figure out how to break the stalemate when the Lord's voice came over the vox, asking for a sit-rep. Randolph reported the psyker. The Lord's reply was simple: "Vent them."

Before he could even understand, a dozen blast doors down the corridor hissed open, one of them exposed to the hard vacuum of space. Instantly, the corridor became a wind-tunnel. The armsmen, the Commissar, and the Astropath all clawed at their throats as the air was ripped from their lungs, collapsing in a suffocating heap.

Randolph felt the air tear from his own suit's ventilation, but a mental-flick sealed his helmet. His team advanced, stepping over the dead. They found the Astropathic Chamber's main door. Peering through the small observation port, Randolph saw a single, bald, young female Astropath, her face a mask of terror, kneeling at her console, her hands clasped in prayer.

Randolph grinned, his sharp fangs showing. "Here's Randolph!" he roared, knowing she couldn't hear him. He raised his chainaxe and began to hack at the adamantium door.

Inside, the young Astropath wasn't praying. She was sending. Her eyes were rolled back, her hands on her amplifier-throne. Her last, desperate mental-scream lanced across the planet to the Governor's spire: "CONFIRMED. HOSTILE ASTARTES. EXECUTE OPERATION SUNDER BRIDGE!"

In the Port-Master's office, Petros was scrolling through the planet's data-feeds when a massive, lurching vibration shook the entire station. A deep, grinding BOOM echoed through the deck-plates.

"Barnabas!" he voxed, "What was that?!"

The Ship-Master's voice was grim. "The Sky-Hook. They just blew it. Explosive charges, detonated from the ground. It's severed."

Petros slammed his gauntlet on the console. Their direct route to the hive-surface was gone. Dammit! It was all because that Astropath had gotten his message out. The Imperium was a slow, stupid beast... how had it reacted so fast?

Meanwhile, in a distant system, aboard the Ethereal Tentacle, Ferdinand Varrus was performing. He sat on a sofa upholstered in what looked suspiciously like flayed skin, strumming a guitar and singing a high, lilting ballad:

"In the endless ocean of sensation, ecstasy quietly spreads... The invisible tentacles of joy, touching the nerves of pleasure... O, who is it that whispers, the forbidden verse of the Prince of Delight..."

As he finished, the "guitar" didn't just strum; it wailed. It was, of course, a living man. His ribcage formed the body, his tendons the strings, and his spine the neck, his still-living, flayed head moaning at the top. His tongue had been cut into dozens of thin, writhing strips, his eyelids removed. He was a perfect instrument.

Below the stage, his warband of Emperor's Children, along with a host of Daemonettes and cultists, cheered, waving glowing stim-wands in the air.

Ferdinand finished, then pulled out a small, silver mirror, admiring his own dead-white features. "Tell me, Ronan," he sighed, "am I not more beautiful than Lucius?"

The swordsman, Ronan, replied instantly, "My Lord, you are perfection. Lucius is a scarred hag in comparison."

Ferdinand smiled. "And Fulgrim?"

A Daemonette purred, "The Phoenician is a pale shadow of your glory."

Ferdinand preened. "And... Sanguinius?"

A cultist, hitting a stim-sl inhaler, wheezed, "The hawk-boy was nothing compared to you, my Lord!"

Ferdinand laughed, a sound like glass chimes. "You must not spread such rumors. It is so very tiring, being this beautiful."

He stroked his flesh-guitar. "Now, Ronan," he said, his voice turning cold, "my other little project. Is the message... circulating?"

Ronan smiled. "Yes, my Lord. By now, every Imperial station in this sub-sector has heard the news: The Judgment's Edge has been captured by heretics."

Ferdinand pouted. "Hmph. That's what he gets. He dared to ignore me. A petty, anonymous little tip-off to the Imperium... it's the least he deserved for such an insult."