Ignis in Vacui Chapter 37
Inquisitor Zerban stood stock still, anger and indignation pouring off him. The old man was a terrifying sight in his matt-black power armour which was covered in Inquisitorial sigils and at his belt he bore a fat-barrelled plasma pistol and a wicked power knife. If anything his expression was more frightening, a visage of judgement and wrath all aimed at the errant Rogue Trader. Saffor saw that Zerban's rage was about to erupt, a devastating explosion of condemnation that would grind the Rogue Trader into a humiliating stupor.
Zerban opened his mouth to pronounce his verdict upon the man who had betrayed him but Saffor had other ideas. Barely had the Inquisitor's lips managed to form the word "You" when Saffor was diving to one side in a blur of unexpected movement. Saffor's hands twitched and his pistols were in his grip, the smoothly textured wraithbone settling into his palms with their familiar warmth. Shuriken pistols were Eldar devices, far more advanced and sophisticated than crude human engineering. They did not use primitive chemical propellants or rudimentary las-bolts but rather precise gravimetric impellers. The ammunition was a solid block of plastek-crystal, shaved off a few nanometers at a time to create serrated disc projectiles that moved with unthinkable velocity. Saffor had spent a small fortune acquiring these pair and in his opinion they had been worth every credit.
Saffor's fingers feathered the triggers and the pistol's gravimetric impellors awoke to spit death at eye-watering speed, the recoil being as smooth as a virgin's thighs. Monomolecular discs erupted out of the fluted barrels of the pistols, making the air hiss with their hypersonic passage. Saffor practised with these weapons every day and at short ranges his accuracy rivalled an Imperial Stormtrooper's. He knew Zerban was clad in thick power armour but he had foolishly left his head exposed and Saffor sent a dozen discs straight at his scarred face. The Inquisitor was caught off-guard but there was nothing wrong with his reflexes, even as Saffor began to move his arm was rising to place a ceramite-clad forearm across his face. The spinning discs impacted the armour and embedded themselves in the plate, sticking out like splinters of crystal light from the dark material. Zerban was unharmed by the barrage but his wrath was incandescent and with a snarl of anger he pulled free his plasma pistol.
As he hit the floor and rolled Saffor heard the distinctive thrum of fuel cells charging and grinned to himself. He had made a study of weapons of many types and instantly grasped that Zerban had not expected him to make a fight of this. A plasma pistol was a lethal weapon, able to burn through thick armour with contemptuous ease but its rate of fire was low and it took precious seconds to charge. Saffor reckoned that against a lightly armoured opponent, like him, the Inquisitor would have been better off bringing a las-pistol or even a basic stubber.
Zerban pointed his weapon at the Rogue Trader but Saffor was already in motion, rising to his feet and racing off to one side. Zerban tracked him and then squeezed the trigger but Saffor had been expecting that and at the last instant he reversed direction and threw himself backwards. There was a flash of searing bright light and Saffor felt his skin tingle as the magnetically contained bolt of plasma flew past him, impacting the wall beyond. The plasteel melted under the blast, running like molten wax as the inconceivable heat reduced it to slag.
Zerban snarled in anger and stomped forward brandishing his power knife but Saffor wasn't stupid enough to stand up to someone in power armour, not when the plasma pistol would take precious seconds to recharge. The Rogue Trader sent another burst of shuriken discs at the Inquisitor's face, which was deflected off a raised arm and in that second of distraction he ran towards the door and dashed out into the corridor.
Saffor had been half-expecting Zerban to have back up and he wasn't disappointed when he found himself confronted by a dozen armsmen, all clad in thick leathers and carapace breastplates. They must have been preparing to storm forward and help the Inquisitor, for they clearly were not expecting the Rogue Trader to emerge so unexpectedly. They gaped stupidly for a heartbeat and then began to bring up blunt shotguns but Saffor's reactions were quicker.
The Rogue Trader's fingers twitched and his pistols discharged with their smooth hiss. There was an art to Shuriken fighting, the lightest touch enough to send out a deadly burst, but if one held too firmly then the weapons would exhaust their ammunition in one overwhelming barrage of utter carnage. Saffor employed this now, squeezing the triggers hard as he swept the pistols back and forth. He didn't even really need to aim; the pistols simply filled the air with spinning death. A hurricane of lethal discs spat forth, tearing into the shocked armsmen. Carapace armour stopped a few rounds but the rest of the projectiles tore into the helpless men without even being slowed. Faces crumpled inwards and limbs were neatly severed while throats were torn open and arteries ruptured as the Eldar weaponry did its lethal work. In moments the squad of men had been reduced to steaming offal, a disgusting pile of bleeding flesh comprised of broken and dying men.
Saffor wasted not a moment to look at them, not least because he might recognise a few. Instead he leapt over the bodies and dashed down the corridor, running for all he was worth. He had barely taken a few steps when he heard the solid clump of armoured boots on the deck and the distinct whine of a plasma gun reaching full charge. Saffor glimpsed a side passage opening up before him and threw himself down it with desperate haste just as a shining bolt of plasma flew past him. A voice cried something after him but he wasted not a moment as he put his head down and ran. His boots hit the deck over and over as his coat whipped around him and his long braid snapped back and forth, everything he wore designed to be elegant but not restrictive. His breathing was fast but not laboured for he spent time everyday training and fighting, once more he was grateful that he had never let indolence overcome him.
Saffor heard no more boots behind him but he did not pause in his flight, running for all he was worth. He had covered perhaps a mile already but he knew Zerban commanded the ship, all he had to do was vox ahead and more foes would be on their way. Saffor had to get to shuttle bay four; he had to let Vevara in and pray that her escorts would be enough. Perhaps he should have let her bring the Space Marines en-masse, he thought, collateral damage be damned.
Saffor ran and ran towards his goal, letting no doubts or fears slow him down. He did not know what he would find when he arrived but resolved to deal with the situation once he got there. All he could worry about now was arriving in one piece. Just as Saffor's breath was becoming laboured and spikes of pain began shooting up his shins he spied a cargo elevator ahead, open and inviting. Without a second's thought he skidded inside and pulled down the wire mesh then jammed the control lever firmly downwards. With a jerk the lift began to descend and Saffor took a moment to catch his breath.
He realised he was still holding his pistols and hurriedly ejected their spent magazines, replacing them with solid blocks of crystal-plastek from his belt. Last ones he thought, better be sparing with the ammunition. He wondered how far ahead of Zerban he had got and if it would be enough, then he cursed himself for a fool. Instantly Saffor reached out and grabbed the control lever and brought the lift to a juddering halt. Damn it, he thought, Zerban must know where he was headed, it was almost certainly a trap.
Saffor saw he was a couple of decks above the bay and decided to alight here. He crept out, pistols raised and peered about, but nobody was to be seen. Saffor spent a moment considering fleeing into the bowels of his ship but dismissed the notion. The Inquisitor would run him down sooner or later, he had to reach the shuttle bay somehow or he was a dead man. He leapt into motion, running down the corridor, pressing himself hard to keep going no matter what.
Thankfully no more armsmen emerged to confront him and after a few minutes Saffor saw a ladder ahead, a simple maintenance accessway. He practically leapt at it, sheathing his pistols and grabbing the sides with his palms and boots. He promptly slid down the ladder, dropping two decks in seconds before jumping off. He drew his pistols again and took stock, surveying his surroundings with a keen eye. Saffor realised he had emerged over the very landing bay he had sought, arriving on a metal catwalk suspended over the hanger. As with all starship hangers it was immense, with room for dozens of shuttles and all the equipment required to service them. There were landers and cargo-haulers lined up in neat rows mixed with servitor loaders and pallets of tools and parts. It was also the scene of a battle, knots of crewmen ducking into cover as shotguns blasted to and fro in a thunderous din.
Saffor realised that Zerban had sent word ahead and tried to seize the bay but it looked like Murr's loyalists had decided to fight back. They were hunkered down behind their pallets and boxes, laying down a crossfire to catch anyone who tried to advance. Saffor scanned the room one more time and was satisfied that they could hold their ground for now but there was a complication, the hanger doors were still closed. Saffor grimaced as he realised nobody could reach the controls, a large pedestal set off to one side of the hanger. Yet the situation was not beyond hopeless, for in the bedlam nobody had seen him arrive.
Hurriedly Saffor made his way along the catwalk until he was right over the pedestal, then he sheathed his weapons and climbed over the rail. He sat on the metal bar for a heartbeat, staring downward and felt his palms tingling with vertigo as he considered the drop. It was a long way down, not enough to be fatal but enough to cripple him if he landed wrong. Saffor felt the icy grip of fear clutch his heart but knew from experience that looking at it would only make it worse, so he simply leapt.
The air whistled past him and he felt his arms and legs trying to stiffen up but he forced himself to flex as the deck surged up at him. His boots touched the ground and his legs slammed painfully up into his chest as he bent at the knees, rolling over to dissipate his momentum. The shock felt like it was going to rip him apart but he kept rolling and came up right where he wanted to be, behind the pedestal. Shotguns turned his way but he moved fast, grabbing the biggest lever and hauling it upwards before diving behind the pedestal for cover. Instantly hazard lights began to flash overhead and Saffor grinned as the thick exterior door began to rise upwards, the glimmer of an atmospheric shield visible beyond. The Rogue Trader was elated by the sight, he had done it, the way was open for his reinforcements to arrive. He just had to hold this position until they got here.
His self-congratulations were cut short however when he heard a deep roar from behind him. He leaned out of cover slightly and his jaw dropped as he spied what was occurring. On the far side of the bay more armsmen were pouring into the hanger, overrunning Murr's gang with sheer numbers. Shotguns blasted and screams arose as the crewmen were overrun and executed one-by-one.
Yet what truly drew his eye was the hated sight of Zerban striding into the room, now with a helmet firmly attached to his armour. One step behind him came the looming presence of Kreg, his former Ogryn bodyguard now utterly loyal to the Inquisitor. They were marching slowly forward behind the fresh armsmen, peering about and Saffor realised they were looking for him. The truth was inescapable; once they found him they would tear him to bits.