Ahriman: Exile by John French

crystal core quiet, but his mind and body ready. Fatigue pulsed through him, but he had used the time since breaking Astraeos from the cells to pull himself into a state of calm focus. He would pay later, he knew, but only if they survived.
    The guards turned to look at him. Ahriman kept walking.
    One of the guards must have sensed something was wrong because the chainsword in his hands growled to life. Ahriman could see doubt and brute instinct flicker amongst the guards’ minds. They began to move, closing to the side and behind him. He formed a thought, let it multiply and take form in the aether. After years of denying such power it almost made him lightheaded.
    ‘Open the doors,’ he said quietly. The head of the mute guard directly in front of him twitched in what might have been a denial.
    The sound of revving chainblades filled the air. He felt time slow as if it were his own heartbeat. His mind was like mirror-still water. He breathed out and with that breath the sword lit in his hand.
    The first blow came from the front, an overhead cut with a chainaxe aimed at Ahriman’s head. It was fast, but nowhere close to fast enough. Ahriman pivoted to the side. The chain teeth roared within an inch of his face. The tip of Ahriman’s sword punched through the guard’s neck. Bright red blood spat from the wound as he pulled the sword free to meet the next blow. He could see the fight unfolding in front of him, a net of possibilities and his own movements meshed perfectly together.
    The sword in Ahriman’s hand shook as it met the turning teeth of a chainsword. He willed fury into the sword’s core, and felt the chainsword shear in two. He stepped and turned, slicing low to cut the leg from beneath one guard. A broad-headed axe hacked at his head but he was already moving. He did not need to see his enemies, he had watched each movement already. He kicked backwards, and felt his foot slam into a chest that he knew would be there. He cut to his left. The sword shuddered as it ended a life. A shape moved in front of him, the muzzle of a pistol rising. He took a step forwards and cut off the hand holding the weapon, turned back and rammed the point of the blade into the groin of a guard rising from the floor. He cut again, blind but still finding a join in the armour. He stepped to his right, and a blow missed him, and he gave a backhanded cut that parted a skull to red ruin, and…
    …the webbed-strands of the future dissolved into the present. For a second he felt nothing, and then his hand began to shake. He blinked and the chamber drifted back into focus. He was kneeling; on the ground around him, the dead lay still. Astraeos was walking towards him, unease dancing in his eyes.
    ‘We need the tech-witch now,’ said Ahriman between deep breaths. ‘Will she come?’
    ‘She is here already,’ said Carmenta.
    It was like returning to the embrace of the mother she had never known. The cradle of cables snaked around her, and lifted her from the deck of the bridge. Her awareness of her body faded. Mind-links opened her to the systems of her ship. She was dimly aware of gasping as the beat of the plasma reactors became her own, as her skin became asteroid-pitted iron, her gaze the sweep of sensors through the void. Her mind and instinct briefly rebelled, fighting the alien instincts and sensations of the Titan Child . Then they were one, the ship and its mistress, their wills and senses bound together. It was like dying and coming to life, like plunging into ice water only to find you could breathe. You were not supposed to control a starship like this; its spirit was too large and too powerful, the intellect of a controller too weak to do anything but break in the grasp of such a machine. Blasphemy, they had called it, the crowning sin in a life of sins. To Carmenta it was the most precious thing she had ever known.
    She felt the familiar touch of servitor feedback, and the grumble of waking systems. The background hum