A personnel shuttle left the tau fleet, enveloped in a solid phalanx of fighters. 66.G ran a routine scan, detecting seventeen distinct lifesigns aboard the central craft. One bore the unique energy signature of an ethereal, and in immediate response the drone’s stabilisers began to charge in anticipation of movement.
The Tash’var’s AI released a quick databurst to the various drones and computer controlled craft lurking at the periphery of the scene: negating directives designed to protect Auns at any cost, their guardianship uncalled for in this instant. 66.G’s engines returned to inertia without having fully powered up and, along with the silent swarms of other drones, returned to its lonely vigil.
Its various optic clusters tracked the personnel carrier carefully, internal processors exploring routes of action and possibility, until the bulbous vessel scooped itself inside the Enduring Blade’s cavernous forward hangar and the fighters broke away. The Aun’s lifesigns, thus shielded beyond the black vessel’s hull, blinked out.
Kais slept.
He dreamed, a little. It was not pleasant.
Constantine stood amongst the wreckage of his bridge and glared sullenly at a stack of viewscreens, distorted images jumping and crackling.
“Can’t you make them any clearer?” he snarled, venting his frustration upon the tech-priest manning the monitors. The robed figure scowled and shook its head.
The first screen showed a door, sliding open. They came aboard in a gaggle, different sizes and shapes and uniforms making them seem, from a distance, disordered and cluttered. Only when they began to walk, guided by a white-faced ensign in a singed, torn uniform, did their rigid efficiency become apparent.
The warriors, tan armour spotless and domed, asymmetrical helmets glaring beadily through emotionless optics, fanned out cautiously on either side. There were twelve in all, four on each phalanx wing and four others — sporting bulkier armour and longer, multi-barrelled weapons — who walked silently at the head and the rear of the group. Despite the polished hoof claws in the place of booted feet, their footsteps made little, if any, noise upon the slatted grating of the deck.
Following behind them came an extraordinary group. Walking with an easy, relaxed gait, peering around at the devastated innards of the Enduring Blade with undisguised interest, the next four specimens were taller and thinner than the warriors. Constantine watched their nonchalant progress with a frown, suspicious at their confidence. More even than their galling coolness, their bizarre clothing snagged at his attention. Had they not been xenogens, contaminating his ship with every step, he might even have laughed.
The fabric of their garments was unmistakably alien: strange two-tone material that caught the light with a subtle iridescence, revealing hidden colours and patterns with every new movement. The cut of the robes was stranger stilclass="underline" it was as though the makers had seen images of human Navy uniforms and attempted to emulate them, without fully understanding the significance of individual parts. One xenogen wore an exquisitely hung greatcoat with floral lapels, another a stylish silver jerkin with purple braids festooning the shoulders. One even sported a decorous face mask upon its brachycephalic brow, vaguely similar to a storm-trooper’s gas mask. The tallest of them (a female, he guessed, noting her narrow shoulders and slender legs), who walked with a confident stride and wore a domed hat above her grey face, was dressed tightly in a gaudy imitation of an officer’s jacket, complete with dangling jewels upon the left breast (easily mistakable for medals, from a distance) and diamond pips in the collar. Constantine shook his head, not sure whether to be revolted or amused at the inaccurate replication.
But behind them came the most astonishing figure of all.
Taller still, robes so white they seemed to glow, honour blade tapping out a steady rhythm as he walked, came the ethereal.
Constantine glanced to his side briefly, hoping to catch some indication of the Ultramarine captain’s reaction to these alien interlopers. The Marine’s grizzled features bent their full concentration upon the image, leaving Constantine unable to tell whether Ardias was impressed or disgusted or indifferent: he seemed to wear a perpetual grimace of disapproval that was as apparent now as ever.
The admiral had felt a small surge of terror and panic, at first, when he found himself in the presence of Space Marines, but professionalism was ingrained into his very mind and he’d quickly reminded himself that, technically, he out-ranked Ardias. Provided that the gargantuan warrior couldn’t see inside his chest at the racing heart therein, he was confident he’d preserved his aloof dignity. The Space Marine’s scowl of superiority, of course, wasn’t helping.
Constantine looked back at the screen. A delicate tracery of silver chains adorned the ethereal’s narrow neck, looping around his shoulders until they became part of the fabric of his robes, a sparkling pattern too fine for the clumsy monitors to represent. A decorous hybrid, somewhere between a bandana and tiara, covered the figure’s elegant forehead, leaving its dark eyes peering from beneath a glittering constellation of jewels and patterns.
“Bloody peacocks...” Constantine muttered, but his heart wasn’t in it.
The tech-priest grunted, motioning towards a second monitor. “They’ve reached the tertiary adjunct.”
Constantine watched the group in silence for a moment, impatience growing steadily. “You’re sure this is wise?” he blurted, finally, not entirely able to disguise the doubt in his voice. Ardias raised an eyebrow.
“There’s a new threat.” He returned, obviously in no mood to justify himself. “I told you that. We need every resource we have.” He nodded at the screen. “These xenogens are of little importance, in the grand scheme of things. Until we’ve identified what we’re dealing with I want this sordid little confrontation stopped.”
“But—”
“No arguments.”
Constantine fumed, unable to restrain his indignation. He cleared his throat noisily and grumbled, “It’s not right, you know... Inviting them aboard like warp-damned dignitaries. They’re scum, not royalty.”
“I don’t recall any ‘inviting’, admiral. Consider the situation logically. Their forces are superior to our own, their units are dispersed across your vessel, their ships outnumber us two to one — and they appear unencumbered by the inadequacies of command that you appear to have demonstrated.” The admiral’s hiss of anger at the insult went unnoticed, the Marine continuing his tirade with finality. “Just be grateful they were eager to parley. They could have finished us if they’d chosen to, and you know it.”
A bubble of aggression burst in Constantine’s mind. “Is it not better to die in service to the Emperor,” he hissed, “than to consort with abominations?”
The Marine’s glare bored into him, his voice suddenly cold. “Do not presume to lecture me on ethics, lord admiral. The tau’s time will come, on that you may rely.”
“And in the meantime th—”
“You would do well to moderate your tone of address! I have seen the true face of our enemy, Guilliman’s oath! These tau are nothing in comparison.”
The room descended into a furious silence, both men turning to watch the strange procession of aliens move from monitor to monitor. Constantine stroked his moustache irritably.
“Any word from Governor Severus?” he barked at the tech-priest, losing patience. The robed figured shook its head, concentrating on the camera controls.
“Perhaps he’s already dead. One can but hope.”
The silence dragged on. The admiral fidgeted.