Barak nodded to the medicae officer, who then began the re-awakening process. He looked to his sides, seeing and acknowledging his subordinate guards. Both were ready incase the prisoners proved...difficult.
They had decided to use the awakening procedure on the larger prisoners first, as Arkot had identified the larger humans as Space Marines. Barak had no idea what a Space Marine was like. He had heard only legends from travellers coming to take supplies to Segmentum Obscurus, the primary battlefield of the war against Chaos. There, the Space Marines ruled supreme, having far outnumbered, and eventually learned how to counter their Chaotic counterparts, who now, he heard, skulked in the Eye of Terror, defending their homeworlds against the merciless Allied attacks.
Barak held just about every record for the Triangulum Naval Security Forces, a Tyrannic organisation. He was the most experienced security officer on-board the ship, a combat master. Vicious and merciless, he was a solid 4 metre tall block of bone, muscle and chitinous armour. Courageous beyond comparison, he was held in high regard by friends and foes alike. He had never even been scratched.
He never had a chance.
“What did you say?” Rosenadel asked, his voice almost a whisper. The blood had drained from his face and his jaw had dropped slightly. The auditorium remained eerily silent as he stood, in shock, staring at Eisenhorn liked he'd just been slapped.
Eisenhorn was about to begin to reply, when the auditorium was filled with the echoing sound of klaxons and bathed in red light. Arkot reappeared and ran out the door, and Rosenadel snapped into action as Eisenhorn hummed past him. Cagarner stayed in the auditorium, accessing the ship's data banks in the midst of the confusion.
The trio wound through the maze of corridors. Arkot at the front, taking slow, albeit long strides. Rosenadel came next, sprinting rapidly. Then came Eisenhorn in his chair, easily keeping up with the other two.
As Arkot skidded round the next corner, he stopped so abruptly that Rosenadel had to sidestep to stop himself from colliding with the motionless Tyranid. He leaned against a bulkhead as his injured leg began to ache again. Arkot hissed, and walked forward. He knelt beside what was left of a Tyranid guard, it's armour split and it's body crushed. Blood leaked from the prostrate form onto the floor. Arkot walked on further, stepping over the body, and came to a halt infront of the medicae entrance. The ridges surrounding his eyes slowly moved outwards. He stepped back, his claws seeming to grow in length, gleaming as the white light of the corridor reflected off of their unblemished surface. He hissed, teeth extending until his jaw detached. All of a sudden, the apparently sophisticated Tyranid had turned into the spitting image of one of the Tyranid Warriors of the 41st millennium.
He leaped into the room. Rosenadel moved forward infront of Eisenhorn, both of them cautious, the only sound coming from them being the whirring of the Psycannons that had extended up and over Eisenhorn's shoulders.
Suddenly, so much so that Rosenadel leaped backwards, a white form flew out of the medicae and crashed against the opposite wall. The corpse was unmistakeably Tyranid. Arkot's cadaver twitched as stray electrical signals coursed through his nerves. A giant followed, ducking through the door.
“Icarus?” Rosenadel asked as the giant turned to look at him.
“Ignatius,” Icarus nodded. Icarus, contrary to his appearance, was no Space Marine. He was one of a rare group called the Adeptus Custodes, a Centurion of that order. His combat abilities were beyond those of any adversary he had ever faced, reinforced by thousands of years of experience. Arkot had been no challenge to him.
“The others?” Rosenadel asked.
“They are alive. The Grey Knights are awake, they left for the ship's armoury shortly before you arrived. The Tyranid there,” - he pointed to the Tyranid body infront of the door - ,“Told us that our equipment was there,” Icarus replied. He nodded respectfully to Eisenhorn, commenting that it was good to see him again. “Where are we?”
“Ignatius will fill you in later. Now, you must leave. I will look after the others. Get to the armoury,” Eisenhorn said, coming forth.
“What do you mean?” Rosenadel asked. Icarus simply nodded.
“You must leave here. There are no records of you, and so the Alliance cannot track you. You must do the Emperor's bidding, for nobody else can.”
“Why are you saying this? You fraternise with xenos, yet you claim to know his bidding?”
“I hate the Tyranid as much as you do Ignatius, but we had no choice. Go, now, before more come. Escape, and take this,” Eisenhorn answered cryptically. Rosenadel took the disc Eisenhorn ejected from his chair. “Quick!”
“Where will this take us?” Rosenadel asked, eyebrow raised.
“To him,” Eisenhorn answered. Before Rosenadel could question the Inquisitor any further, Icarus took his arm and spun him round, inclining his head down the corridor. The two set off in the direction of the armoury. They heard Eisenhorn shouting good luck before they left earshot of the medicae.
The escape was simple. They gathered their equipment in the armoury. The Grey Knights had gathered munitions and supplies in cases that were now hanging from their armoured forms. Icarus did likewise, donning his ornate, golden, adamantine power armour.
They slipped through the corridors, the Grey Knights' psychic assaults killing Tyranid guards that got in the way without needing to use valuable ammunition. They took a moderately sized transport, killing the pilots and guards. It was about the size of the shuttle they had been in previously, and had enough living space for the five escapees. Leaving the ship had been relatively easy, the controls all similar to those of an Imperial ship.
The strangest thing was, instead of entering the warp. They stayed in real-space, travelling faster than light. Though Rosenadel knew it was impossible, it was happening and he didn't care how.
His attention quickly turned to the map.
It turned out they were going to a place with an ominous name.
Isstvan.
+++
“Let them go, Ivan.”
It echoed in his head, getting louder and louder, until Admiral Tchaikovsky could no longer scream orders at the men on the deck below. He tried to fight it, but it was impossible to resist. Watching haplessly as the transport accelerated to light speed, he strode out of the control room and into the parallel corridor. Men walked past him, nodding and saluting, but he ignored them all. The Master had summoned him.
He boarded the next shuttle to the Wrath of Erek, silent as he took his seat. Silent as the journey commenced. Silent as they docked. The Master's voice rang through his mind. He knew all, saw all, heard all...felt all. His Master's god had shown Tchaikovsky the glory of the warp, the way it had once been, before the Solar Wars, before the damned Emperor's death. He had to help his Master restore such beauty, such raw, pure power and energy. He felt compelled to.
The bowels of ships in the Tyrannic fleet were virtually uninhabited. The Tyranid had little scientific knowledge, and their ships were run and repaired by the Techpriests of the Mechanicus. As a result it was the perfect place to hide. In the enemy's stronghold's themselves.
“Where is the Inquisitor?” the voice rang out. It was beautiful, and horrible, at the same time. Seducing those who listen, unbearable, yet sublime.
“In the medicae, Master,” Tchaikovsky answered, his voice unemotional and plain.
“Good, good. You have served me well, Admiral. You will most definitely enjoy your prize, it is...a feast for the senses,” the voice told him. Suddenly he felt himself being lifted off the ground, ribs cracking, his spine snapping. Tchaikovsky did not have the chance to smile as he indulged himself in the sensation of death and pain. There was a chuckle, and the Master stepped over Tchaikovsky's corpse.
He left the engine room, and made his way through the winding corridors, up to the deck of the medicae. It was abandoned, all personnel called away to the control decks. The escape of the prisoners had been, though unfortunate, well timed. Now he could locate Eisenhorn, and learn of where the escapees were heading.
Too tall even to ducked into the medicae, the Master smashed through the wall and into the interview area. As Eisenhorn spun round and aimed, the Master broke through the clear wall and threw the Lord Inquisitor into a wall. He took one, large stride to the wall, and knelt before Eisenhorn. He drew a sword, and held it to Eisenhorn's neck.
“Who are you?” Eisenhorn hissed, unexpectedly. The Master stalled, and looked into the Inquisitor's fading pupils.
He was cut off by the sword which swiftly decapitated him. The Master drank some of the blood now pouring from the headless cadaver, a tribute to his God, and stood suddenly as his mind was filled with many thousands of memories. He knew Eisenhorn was ancient, but had not been prepared for such a treasure trove of images. He quickly found what he needed, and snapped back into reality. He turned and walked through into the interview room.
Pausing, he swivelled on his heels, and commented of handedly, almost comically, “By the way, my Inquisitorial friend, I am Erus.”