Void Stalker Read Free Page B

occulus, sprinkling glass to the decking. ‘Fifty-five nights? That cannot be. How did this happen?’
    : you know why
    : you have always known
    : some human children are not meant to carry gene-seed
    : it breaks them apart at the genetic level
    : some die fast
    : some die slow
    : but after three centuries of biological flux your genetic incompatibilities are finally catching up to you
    ‘Lies.’ Talos watched the ship coming apart around him. ‘Lies and madness are all you ever uttered in life, Ruven. The same holds true in death.’
    : variel knows the truth
    : centuries of injury
    : centuries of endurance and pain
    : centuries of the visions born of poisonous primarch blood
    : your body can take no more punishment
    : enjoy what time remains to you brother
    : duty awaits in the waking world and you will remember precious little of our talk
    : rise talos
    : rise and see for yourself

II
    AWAKENING
    Light, muted and bleached by the red of his visor display, filtered into his eyes.
    The first thing he saw was the last thing he expected. His brothers. His crew. The strategium, with its two hundred souls engaged in their duties.
    ‘I…’ He tried to speak, but his voice was a dehydrated vox-rasp. Talos slumped in his throne, though a chain collar around his throat prevented him from falling too far forward. Voices babbled all around him, along with the growl of armour joints moving closer.
    ‘I am not in my meditation chamber,’ he said. He’d never woken from a vision anywhere else, let alone to rise and find himself on the warship’s bridge. The prophet was struck by the image of his surroundings, wondering if he’d sat here in his armour the entire time, unconscious and screaming his delusional chants across the vox-network.
    Chains rattled around his throat, wrists and ankles as he sought to rise. His brothers had bound him to the throne.
    They had much to answer for.
    Whispers of ‘He returns’ and ‘He awakens’ wove their way through the mortal crew. From his seat of honour on a raised dais at the heart of the bridge, Talos could see them pausing in their assigned duties, face after face turning to regard him. Their eyes were bright with surprise and reverence in equal measure. ‘The prophet awakens,’ kept leaving their pale lips.
    This, he decided with a crawling feeling of spinal discomfort, was what being worshipped must feel like.
    His brothers clustered around the throne, each of their faces masked behind their helms: Uzas, with his painted bloody handprint across the faceplate; Xarl, his helm crested by sweeping bat wings; Cyrion’s eyes painted with streaking lightning bolt tears; Mercutian’s helm topped by brutal, curving horns ringed with bronze.
    Variel knelt before Talos, the Apothecary’s bionic leg grinding and seizing, making the movement awkward. He alone wore no helm, his cold eyes fixed upon the prophet’s own.
    ‘A timely return,’ he said. His curiously soft voice held no shade of amusement.
    ‘We have arrived, Talos,’ Cyrion qualified. There was a smile in his voice, at least.
    ‘Fifty-five nights,’ said Mercutian. ‘We have never witnessed such a thing. What did you dream?’
    ‘I remember almost none of it.’ Talos looked past them all, at the world turning slowly within the elliptical frame of the occulus screen. ‘I remember little of anything. Where are we?’
    Variel turned his pale gaze upon the others. It was enough to get them to move back a little, no longer crowding the reawakened prophet. As he spoke, the Apothecary consulted his bulky narthecium gauntlet. Talos could hear the auspex scanner crackling with static and chiming with results.
    ‘I administered supplemental narcotics and fluids to keep you in adequate health without activating your sus-an membrane these past two months. You are, however, going to be extremely weak for some days to come. The muscle wastage is minor, but significant enough for you to notice it.’
    Talos tensed against the