WARHAMMER 40,000

It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

Note:

The majority of this novel takes place in 887.M39, two thousand years before the present year of 998.M41.

CHAPTER 1

MEMORIES OF HONOURUM

Serenity entered the mind and hearts of Mantillio Galt. The whispered prayers of the chapel serfs receded to be replaced by the sough of soft wind. The buzz of the tattooing needle faded. The rapid prick, prick, prick of it on his skin was kissed away by cold mountain air. His perception of the battle-barge’s Grand Chapel became uncertain. His eyes were closed, all he saw was the fleshy dark behind his eyelids, but the sense of it, the weight of years and prayer, grew lesser and replaced by an impression of open spaces. He was hanging between the physical and the metaphysical; a disquieting sensation of being neither here nor there. He reminded himself that he was aboard Novum in Honourum, in transit through the warp. He lacked the dubious witch-gifts that would allow him to sense it, but at these times, halfway into his meditative state, he felt he could almost see it.

He quashed his anxiety.

‘Glorious is the Emperor, mankind manifest as one, he shall light the way.’ He quoted the Codex Astartes, and concentrated on his breathing.

The scents and sounds of home called to him, but he would not go there, not yet. For the Flesh Remembrance to take, for it to be bright with truth and glorious for the Emperor’s eyes when his time came, first he must relive the incident which the tattoo would commemorate.

The material world flickered, and went away entirely.

Fire. Fire blazing in the fluted corridors of the eldar craft. The osseous plastics of the alien vessel burned ferociously. Blue-tinted flame washed against his battle-plate; blue from bone licking at the blue-and-bone of his Chapter’s heraldry. The temperature indicators of his sensorium were far into the red; without his power armour he would be burned alive. Even now, he sweated from the heat.

The roar of the fire was deafening. Flickering movement had him raise his bolt pistol rapidly, his power sword ready. Nothing, nothing but fire and burning psychoplastics.

Most of the eldar pirates were dead, their slender forms shattered by bolter fire. Gaudy corpses draped the platforms of the chamber, some already afire. Reports from Novum in Honourum had the remaining three eldar vessels fleeing, strike cruiser Ceaseless Vigilance and Battlefleet Trident’s four escort craft in hot pursuit. They would not catch the fleeter xenos craft, but Galt was confident they would not return to trouble the Orin Gap. Ten fragile alien spaceships were wrecks. It had been a costly victory; Corvo’s Hammer wallowed in the void, heavily damaged. And it had not been won yet.

‘Form up on me,’ he ordered his squad of Sternguard veterans. Four remained. They ceased their checking of the dead, and gathered around their captain, ever alert. Firelight danced over their armours’ ornate decorations.

Galt nodded toward the large door at the head of the chamber. Delicate galleries framed it, drawing the eye toward its curved symmetries. The personal badge of the eldar corsairs’ leader adorned this portal; a blank-eyed face, dripping with tears.

Decadent xenos trash.

‘Through there, the bridge,’ Galt said. ‘Slay their leader, and they will not return. Brother Verderio, blow the door.’

‘Yes, captain.’

The door was as fragile as the rest of the ship. Verderio’s melta bomb reduced it to slag. Beyond lay their target.

They marched in, bolters high. Shuriken fire came at them from several quarters. Pistol shots. Razored discs embedded themselves in the thick ceramite of the Space Marines’ battle-plate. Not a single Sternguard fell, their relic armour proof against such feeble alien devices. Bolt fire replied. Three eldar died, joining their brethren already draped across the bridge’s shattered instrument consoles.

Ruination greeted Galt, fallen spars and shattered bonework all around. The corsairs had been heavily punished by Battlefleet Trident’s weapons. Broken machinery and dead aliens surrounded a raised dais, upon which, in an ornate throne, an eldar princeling lolled, his chin upon his fist. He wore no armour, but was instead clad in garish robes. Nor did he carry any weapon, although he looked at the Novamarines with such disdain it seemed he thought his glare alone deadly enough. Two forms flanked him, grasping evoluted weapons. They were so still that, for a second, Galt took them to be statues. They were not. He watched them closely for movement. He had seen their kind before, despicable thinking machines; robots, abominable intelligences, forbidden tech made doubly vile by its alien origin.

Galt holstered his pistol and unclasped his helmet. He placed it upon the floor, looking upon the alien lord without the mediation of his power armour’s senses. His purpose was twofold. Galt would allow the eldar to see the tally of his deeds that were marked upon his face, and he would view the alien in his turn with his own eyes, to test his spirit’s mettle against its uncleanliness unshielded.

‘Surrender!’ he called. ‘And die with what little honour your kind possesses.’

The eldar shook his head as if enormously disappointed. He toyed with a glittering jewel on a chain about his neck and curled his lip in distaste. ‘So predictable, so very, very predictable.’ He stood. ‘For a thousand years I have plied the stars, mon-keigh, and you march in here in your…’ He gestured at the Space Marines, at a loss for words. ‘…ugly suits of armour, shouting at me as if I were deaf, expecting me to hold my hands in the air and allow you to end my life with your crude devices.’ He pursed his lips. His sing-song, accented Gothic was loaded with contempt. ‘I am not deaf, Captain Galt. Far from it. How else would I know your name? I hear all.’

Galt’s face was unmoving. He was unimpressed with the eldar’s attempts to unnerve him. He jerked his head. The Sternguard raised their weapons.

‘Then die without honour. It matters not a whit to me. Only that you no longer prey upon the citizens and shipping of the Imperium.’

The eldar laughed. ‘You think I die today? No. I am not done with this path yet, let alone my life.’

Suddenly, the pirate captain dropped from view through a circle of light that burst open in the floor. Bolts cracked into the throne, their target gone.

‘Cease fire!’ Galt ordered. He signalled with his hand to Brother Aster, that he should investigate the pirate captain’s escape route. ‘Brothers, cover him. Beware the statues beside the throne.’ Aster ran forward, bolter raised. He looked downwards, then back at his captain.

‘An energy portal of some kind, brother-captain. I cannot see through it. Do we follow?’

‘No,’ said Galt. ‘The doorway will not go where he went, I’ll warrant. Trust not the pathways of the alien.’

Sure enough, the light winked out. The portal closed, revealing nought but a patch of smooth floor.

‘Well said, brother-captain,’ said Brother Kederion.

‘Captain,’ warned out Brother Gorfillio. He raised his gun. ‘The constructs awaken.’ The statues were moving.

Aster backed away from the dais, bolter up.

‘As I thought, eldar ghost machines,’ spat Galt. ‘Aster, stand clear. Take them down.’

‘Stand firm, brothers,’ said Aster, ‘these things are tougher than they look.’

The machines moved slowly, as if time ran differently for them. Boltgun rounds smacked into them, but failed to penetrate. Together, the ghost machines raised their weapons.

‘Take cover!’ shouted Galt. He and his veterans were familiar with the deadly effects of wraithcannon fire.

The guns were silent. A black orb appeared on Verderio’s chest. He glanced down at it, and died. Verderio collapsed in on himself, pulled toward the ball of unlight. His armour shattered with a deafening crack. Blood sprayed in all directions as his body imploded.

The Sternguard went for cover, keeping up fire as they went. The machines were slow, but their shots many. They tore chunks from the battle-scarred bridge. Dozens of bolt rounds spattered off them without harm, a few exploding when they ricocheted and buried themselves in the fabric of the chamber.

Throughout it all the ghost machines made not a single sound. The Space Marines were fighting the dead.

Galt watched from behind a fallen spar. The roaring of flames from the adjoining room had become louder, punctuated by the crashing of falling chunks of wraithbone. He had to end this now. He waited until the wraithguard were facing away from him, ready to exploit their poor reactions.

‘For Honourum! For Corvo! For the Oath!’ he cried, and ran full tilt at the eldar machines. He slammed into one, jarring his own body. It staggered back from the force of his impact. The second registered his presence, and brought its deadly rifle to bear. The machines overtopped him by thirty centimetres or more, slender giants. Galt looked into the long, cold face of the thing’s helmet. His own was reflected in the gloss of its surface.

Galt swung his power sword with all his might, the crackling edge of it slamming into the bulbous end of the ghost warrior’s cannon. The strange alloys of it split. He stepped back and brought the sword down again, severing the end of the gun from the stock. The wraithguard dropped the shattered weapon, and made a clumsy lunge for him. He sidestepped, sweeping his sword around toward the leg of the first wraithguard, now recovered from Galt’s charge. The sword dug deep into the back of its knee. The construct rounded on him, gun coming toward his head. Galt wrenched at his power sword, the tug of it coming free sending him backwards. He regained his guard in time to stare right down the muzzle of the wraithguard’s gun.

And then Aster was there, followed by Gorfillio, advancing on the dais. Their guns spoke, and now the bolts buried themselves deep. Galt’s charge had bought the Sternguard time to change their magazines for those holding vengeance rounds, the unstable fusion cores of these bolts allowing them to penetrate the thick armour of the constructs. Even so, such was the density of the materials used to make the wraithguard that evidence for the explosions of the rounds within was but a splintering upon the surface.

The ghost machines did not react as living beings would. They were neither knocked back by the rounds nor did they convulse. They simply stopped; one remained standing, becoming the statue the Space Marines had originally taken it for, the fingers of one hand splayed to grab at Galt. The other folded in on itself and sank to the floor.

‘Thank you, my brothers,’ said Galt. He deactivated his sword, and went to retrieve his helmet. As he went he called up the embarkation deck flight control of Novum in Honourum ‘This is Captain Galt,’ he said. ‘Immediate retrieval required. We are done here. Imperator vincit omnis. One casualty, Brother Verderio. Inform the infirmary and Chaplain Odon. We commend his soul to the Emperor.’

‘Brother-captain!’ called Aster. In his hand he held a jewel, similar to the one the captain had toyed with. ‘What shall we do with their stones? Should we keep them? They may be useful as bargaining chips in the future.’

Galt’s face hardened. Aster was being pragmatic. They knew enough of the eldar to understand how important their jewels were to them and their vile alien religion. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not deal with the alien. Crush them.’

The scene melted away, the essence of the action against the eldar even now being pinned to Galt’s flesh with needle and ink. He returned to the no-place between waking and dreams, and awaited judgement.

The rush and roar of air going into and out of his lungs became the crash of vast oceans. He felt a gentle tugging at his mind. Home called to him.

His actions were deemed worthy by the spirits of his departed brothers. Deep within his skull he felt a subtle shift as his gifts, the Hibernator and the Unsleeper, worked in concert to push him fully into the trance. He smelled bo-heather and cold, wet rock.

He opened his eyes. He was no longer in the tattooing chair within the Grand Chapel of Remembrance. The battle with the corsairs retreated once more into memory. Rough stone was beneath his bare feet, a wide vista before him. He stood upon a small balcony carved directly from the mountain, the cliff it projected from dropping to rocky plains riven with crevasses. To either side of the balcony an endless array of bastions, turrets, statues and galleried windows stretched away, chipped from the mountains by generations of Novamarines.

Galt was in the Fortress Novum, or rather he was within the Shadow Novum, the dream of the real place, although to invoke dream does not adequately convey what Galt experienced. It was as if he were there upon the ramparts, while his fleet sailed a thousand light years away from Honourum. He had not put into port there for many long years, and so he treasured his rare visits, even to this facsimile.

He marvelled at the veracity of his vision. He closed his eyes and breathed deep of the thin atmosphere, and he smiled at the chill of it on his lungs.

The fortress-monastery of the Novamarines was vast. It had never been completed. It was said it would only be finished when the last Novamarine had laid down his life in the service of mankind. Every victory saw a new hall hewn from the living stone, every dead brother a fresh shrine consecrated. After eight thousand years, the fortress-monastery occupied three-fifths of the Heavenward Mountains. No one, living or dead, was aware of its true extent, and its deepest halls contained mysteries beyond the knowledge of all but the Chapter Master himself.

Like men, so too do Chapters have their secrets.

There was no sound in this shadow of Novum beyond that provided by nature, and no brothers or their servants. Not living, at least. The Shadow Novum was the hall of the dead, home of the shades of Novamarines gone before, a place where guidance could be sought from the heroes of the past. Why else did the living carve ceaselessly at the mountains? The dead needed their barracks and armouries as much as the living, and their numbers grew with every passing year.

Galt leaned his hands upon the balustrade. The sky boiled with black cloud. Lightning lit it from within, making strange sculptures of the heavens. Green aurorae flared where the storm brushed the fortress-monastery’s void shields, a foretaste of the shifting patterns the defences spread across the stars when night fell. The monastery sculpted the world it occupied – tangible and intangible aspects both – as the world sculpted the men who became the brothers who resided within the monastery; a pleasing symmetry.

The sky was dark, but below the storm the land was bright. It was late afternoon, and Honourum’s young sun threw its rays under the attention of the tempest building around the mountains. Light painted the sculpted peaks and hard plains golden. Honourum was a harsh but beautiful world, a world of painter’s light and its contrasts. Galt stared at the horizon, letting the sun and the wind refresh his soul.

He had not been home for so long.

Galt waited. He must be patient. The storm drew blackness over the sky, the slot of sky the sun shone through narrowed. Thunder rumbled. Fat spots of rain speckled Galt’s robes, sleet quickly followed, cutting slanted lines through the air. He watched crystals of ice melt on the warmth of his skin.

A movement behind him, more than the wind.

His guide had arrived, a hero drawn from the halls of the dead to this halfway place to aid him; the boon of the tattooing ritual.

Galt turned. A figure stood in the doorway leading out onto the balcony. Like him he wore a bone-coloured habit, a deep-blue tabard hanging down the front displaying the Chapter badge: a skull surrounded by a stylised starburst. A silver sash embroidered with many campaign markings, the honours of a Deathwatch kill-team veteran, crossed the brother’s chest. This gave Galt a start, he knew that sash. He knew it too well. He prayed it was mere coincidence; the Novamarines were an old Chapter, it was not impossible two brothers separated by millennia could have won identical badges.

Not impossible, he thought, but unlikely.

‘Brother, what aid may the dead grant the living?’ said the figure, and Galt’s heart chilled. The voice was as familiar to him as his own. The figure stepped forward, pulling back his hood as he did so.

Galt frowned. It was as he had feared, the spirit wore the scarred face of Veteran-Sergeant Voldo, the man who had overseen Galt’s training as a neophyte and his creation as an initiate, the man who was as good as a father to him.

Voldo was heavily tattooed with scenes depicting important moments from his life. Some were crude and faded with time; those given him centuries ago by his human family before he was chosen by the gods to live in the halls of the dead and fight for the Sky-Emperor. Some were Chapter icons. Others were full images, glorious in their colour and artistry. There was little room left upon Voldo’s skin for more. Every millimetre of his bald head was covered with marks of honour. They covered his neck, and crept from the sleeves of his robes to wrap delicately around each finger of his hands. As with all of the brothers, the Chapter badge was tattooed upon his forehead. This was the first mark they received upon initiation, but in Voldo’s case each trough between the rays of the nova were filled with long-service studs, forming a secondary starburst of unyielding adamantium.

‘How can this be, brother?’ asked Galt. A complex mix of emotions troubled him, catching at his voice. ‘You live, I saw you not an hour ago.’

Voldo rested a hand on the balustrade and looked out over the plain. ‘The dead are not subject to the laws of time as are the living, lord captain. This place is eternal. Time has no meaning here. I died a long time ago. Or yesterday. Or tomorrow. It matters not. We are all here, all the brothers past and all the brothers yet to be. You are here, as am I. Tell me, are you living, or are you dead? Do you know yourself?’

Galt started to say something, but thought better of it. He fought to regain his poise. It was not wise to query the dead too closely. What was not openly displayed by the flesh art was not for other men to know. And so he too turned to the stony plains of Honourum, unreal and empty below him. Far away, a lone figure struggled across the broken stone pavements, fleeing the storm. He went up and down the peaks and ridges of the rock, as small and insignificant as an ant.

Galt watched the man’s progress a while before speaking. ‘I am troubled by this. Honourum is illuminated as if the sun shines strong, and yet black storms wrack the sky. What does it mean?’

Voldo ran a hand over his head and smiled wryly. ‘You know our world boy; storm and chill and golden light.’ No other would address Captain Galt with such familiarity. No one else had the right.

‘Not in the dream-place, not together, not like this.’

Voldo put his other hand on the balustrade and leaned fully on it. His robe fell away from his straightened arms, revealing more tattoos. Here an ork died, there a city celebrated liberation; moments in time captured in ink on flesh. ‘Light and dark struggle together, First Captain. This is what the storm represents.’

‘Who prevails?’

Lightning cracked. The void shields flared purple and green; oil on troubled waters.

‘Our kin down there will say the gods are fighting,’ said Voldo, nodding at the man in the distance. He had made his way to the edge of the plains of crazed stone, and was ascending a spur in the mountain carved into a lunging aquila. One head of the eagle looked down at the figure with an expression of avarice; the other looked away in dismay. Galt did not recognise the statue, but that was nothing strange. The geography of the Shadow Novum was not entirely the same as that of the real.

‘They also say the Fortress Novum is the kingdom of the dead,’ said Galt. ‘They do not think of us as alive at all.’

‘And they are right. Do you not seek counsel of the dead? The physical Novum stands upon Honourum, but you stand here. Which is the phantom? All men inducted to the Chapter die in the service of mankind, only time stands between life and death, and time is nothing at all. You will know yourself, soon enough.’

‘You speak like Reclusiarch Mortiar.’

Voldo gave a gruff laugh, a single sound, quickly gone. ‘I am dead. I am entitled to. Ask him, he too resides in these halls. All reside here.’

‘Do I?’

Voldo did not answer directly, he shifted, scanning the horizon. ‘Listen to what I say, lord captain.’

Galt tried to remain impassive. Seeing the living Voldo as the honoured dead could betoken nothing good, but to show concern in the presence of his shade would be inexcusable. ‘You have not answered my question, Brother Voldo, as is your duty as the honoured dead. Favour your living brother, who will prevail in this age-old contest; light or dark?’

Voldo gave a small smile, almost imperceptible. The same smile Galt remembered so well from the moment of his choosing at the end of the Contest of Fire, and later from his time as a novitiate, serving in Voldo’s Scout squad in the Tenth, the same smile he had seen on Voldo’s living flesh that very morning.

‘Who said they were fighting with each other, First Captain? Difficult times are ahead. Be wary.’

‘And the figure, the tribesman who flees the storm? Why does he climb? What does he signify?’

‘Who told you he was of the tribes, or that he runs from the storm?’

Lightning blasted at the void shields directly, its discharge rushed across energy shields in splintering branches. Thunder boomed, the void shields crackled as loud as gunfire reply.

With a jolt, Galt left the Shadow Novum. His vision-quest was done; abruptly, without warning, as was always the way.

The quiet songs of the Reclusiam serfs standing in a circle about the couch welcomed him back. Galt’s eyes opened. The air was dry and still. The couch vibrated slightly with the ship’s reactor.

‘The ritual is complete, my lord. My work is done.’ The auto-artisan withdrew its needles from Galt’s shoulder. The auto-artisan had once been a man. What remained of it was barely human. One arm had been replaced by a jointed metal prosthetic which, in place of a hand, carried a drum mounted with dozens of fine needles and jars of pigment. It had no legs, its torso being affixed to a gimballed arm that allowed it to move around the tattooing couch in the Sanctuary of Marking. Where the serf’s other arm had been, the robe was sleeveless.

‘A fine piece to commemorate a grand deed,’ the auto-artisan croaked. Its voice was weak, unaccustomed to use.

Galt flexed his arm and craned his neck to look upon the artwork. Dots of blood oozed from the microscopic holes the needles left. They clotted rapidly, the effect of the Larraman cells, another of his Space Marine gifts. The skin was red, irritated by the tattooing, but Galt could see how it would look once he had healed. The new art depicted him with his bolter upraised, the corpses of eldar reavers and their strange battle-machines about his feet.

‘A good addition,’ he said. ‘I thank you.’

‘I am glad it pleases you. Thanks are not necessary. You do your duty, lord, and I do mine.’ The auto-artisan bowed its head and crossed its arm over its chest. The gimbal withdrew, pulling the half-man back into the alcove where it resided in hibernation between the times its services were needed. Somewhere upon its body would be the tattoo that told how it had come to be this way, how a young aspirant to the plate of the Novamarines had become nameless, wizened flesh trapped by metal.

Cold gasses engulfed it. The alcove door slid shut.

Chaplain Odon, spiritual leader of Galt’s company and lord of the Grand Chapel of Remembrance, stepped into view. He grasped Galt’s newly marked shoulder and made a noise of approval. ‘A good likeness, brother-captain, it augurs well. Surely this image alone will swell the Emperor’s heart with pride when the time comes for him to judge the tally of your deeds.’

‘By the marks upon thee, shall he know thee,’ said Galt.

‘And so judge the iron of a brother’s soul,’ responded Odon.

Galt sat up and faced the Chaplain. Odon’s robes were black and he was hooded, the skull tattooed over the features of his face only just visible in the candlelight of the chapel.

‘Your dreams, did they bring you anything, brother-captain? Did the honoured dead speak to you of victory?’

Galt was silent.

‘You are troubled, brother. Unburden yourself.’

‘Tell me, Chaplain, what does it portend when the living appear within the Shadow Novum?’

Odon’s face became thoughtful, causing the skull to move as if it had a life of its own, a face upon a face. ‘This man, he is among us?’

‘Yes. It was–’

Odon laid a hand on the First Captain’s shoulder. ‘No brother, do not speak his name, not to me nor to anyone else, and especially not to him. Time is meaningless in the place beyond. The ancestor-grounds of the Shadow Novum are populated by all those who have died, and will yet die. For the living to see one there who still breathes is unusual, but no cause for alarm. Indeed, for the shade of a man who still lives to seek out a supplicant is a sign of great honour, you should be proud, brother-captain.’

Galt nodded hesitantly. ‘Yes, Brother-Chaplain. It is an omen of ill-fortune for the man who will become the shade, is it not?’

Odon made a noise of affirmation. ‘Death is soon to come for the brother whose phantom so shows itself. It is best the living brother not know of the closeness of his shade, no matter that his presence in the Shadow Novum tells us his soul is safe.’

‘Chaplain, there was something else.’

‘Yes brother-captain?’

‘A great storm raged in the heavens, although the land below was bright. At first the two – light and dark – seemed to fight, but the shade told me this was not so. A man fled across the Plain of Judgement before the western face of Fortress Novum and ascended Mount Bordon, in my vision carved into the likeness of the aquila. What does it portend?’

‘You saw another figure?’

‘Far in the distance. A tribesman perhaps.’

‘Troubling,’ said Odon. He frowned, although the skull superimposed on his features continued its eternal grin. ‘I will think on it. There are forces at play around us at all times that we cannot understand. Nor should we try to. Such understanding is the gift of the Emperor alone, for he sits in the doorway between the worlds of the living and dead. It is not for we, the children of his children, to contemplate. Still…’ Odon paused. His grey eyes narrowed in the tattooed sockets of his second skull.

A quiet fanfare interrupted them, an all-ship vox announcement followed. ‘Brothers and servants of the Novamarines, hearken! All attend your duty. Prepare for real space translation.’

A countdown commenced, the culmination of three days’ preparation to leave the warp. Galt and Odon waited for it to reach zero.

The battle-barge’s reactor built to a terrific howl. Warp engines pulsed with arcane forces that sent shudders rippling through the ancient vessel’s fabric. The lights flickered as all power was diverted to the bracing fields that helped hold the craft’s enormous mass together. A strange sensation settled over Galt, a feeling of impermanence, as if he were only the possibility of Mantillio Galt, and not the actuality of him; a ghost of himself. Coming so soon after seeing the shade of the still-living Voldo, this was an unsettling sensation.

The feeling ceased. Galt was who he was, real and flesh, a servant of mankind and the Emperor unto death. The thrum of millions of tons of plasteel under his feet grounded him in reality even as the vessel hung precipitously on the cusp of non-existence. Galt’s faith in the ancient ship calmed him.

The ship quaked, and was still.

‘Rejoice, brethren! Geller fields deactivated. Safe translation to real space accomplished,’ the ship-wide vox said.

‘We have arrived then, and in good time. Shall I accompany you to the bridge?’ said Odon.

‘Yes, Brother-Chaplain.’ Galt stood and pulled on his habit, covering his coloured flesh. As their fortress home was never finished, so the flesh art was never done, not until a brother fell in battle and the record of his achievements was buried with him. Galt called out his signifex code, engaging a vox in the ears of a nearby statue of an angel. ‘Captain Galt orders Captains Mastrik and Aresti, Epistolary Ranial, and Master of the Forge Clastrin to the bridge.’

Odon smiled, his second skull spreading wider its own awful grin. ‘I do not know why you call Forgemaster Clastrin, brother. Where else would he be today, when there is treasure in the stars?’

Galt smiled and gave a quiet grunt of affirmation. ‘You are right. Let us go. I don’t want Mastrik getting impatient and ordering the ship forward before I get there.’

The chorus of Reclusiam serfs around the couch, gold-masked and dressed in bone-and-blue, dipped their heads as Galt stood. Their circle parted to let the captain and the Chaplain through. As they left the sanctuary and entered the main body of Novum in Honourum’s Grand Chapel, Galt’s serf aides Artermin and Holstak stood up from the pews where they had been praying and fell in behind him, their ship’s uniforms emblazoned with the Chapter heraldry. They were not weaklings, these lesser men, but vigorous starfarers. Nevertheless, Galt and Odon towered over them. Six black-clad servitor-worshippers detached themselves from alcoves in the walls, and fell in behind.

‘We have arrived,’ Galt said to the men, ‘and I would look upon our foe.’

On the way out of the chapel, the party turned and bowed as one to the statue of Lucretius Corvo, founder of their Chapter, which stood five times life-size by the soaring doors.

Odon led them in a request for guidance. Not as an ecclesiarch would beseech the Emperor, but as a respectful officer asking advice of a much-loved leader. They were all brothers after all, even if long millennia separated their births.

They left the chapel to its serfs. Their songs continued, gentle as the breeze that blew unceasingly over Honourum’s stony plains.

CHAPTER 2

BROTHERS IN ARMS

‘First Captain on the bridge!’

Galt stepped onto the bridge of the battle-barge. Chapter serfs and full brothers alike snapped to attention. Servitors, oblivious to his rank, went about their ponderous business. A fragment of flesh half-hidden in a web of cybernetic command and life-support cables turned to the door – the remains of a brother. The entirety of the machine he occupied rotated with him.

‘Brother-Captain Galt, we have arrived in-system.’

‘Brother-Captain Persimmon, how goes it?’

‘A smooth translation, Novum in Honourum serves us faithfully as always.’

Persimmon was a wreck of a man, crippled in battle by a vicious xenos species never encountered before or since. Neurotoxins had destroyed his limbs and much of his musculature. Only chance had brought him to the Novum in Honourum’s infirmary and not delivered the bolt of the Emperor’s Grace. The Apothecaries had been ready to send his soul to the Shadow Novum, where he would await the final call to battle from the Emperor. Yet he had lived, clawing his way back from the dead with his single, bloodied hand. Somehow, his body had healed itself enough to remain viable, and so he had also escaped the sarcophagus of a Dreadnought.

Unfit for combat duty, Persimmon had been invested as the Chapter’s Master of the Fleet and installed directly into the bridge of the Novum in Honourum. Technically Novum was Galt’s command, but Persimmon was the true captain of the ship, body and soul. Already noted for his great acumen in naval engagements, his skill had only grown after his injury and subsequent bonding with the vessel. In many respects he was Novum in Honourum.

Persimmon’s cradle occupied the space where the command throne of the battle-barge had once been. A Shiplord’s Seat had been installed to one side of the cybernetic captain; this was Galt’s place, but he walked past it to stand on the walkway over the operations pits and their many-tiered rows of servitor drones, wired in as Persimmon was directly to the ship, before the broad windows of the bridge.

Others of the officer clade of the Chapter were there. Clastrin, Master of the Forge, worked busily, surrounded by human serfs and servitors, and aided by two Techmarines. He, unlike the other Space Marines present, wore his power armour. It was as red as rust, only his right shoulder pad bearing the bone-and-blue colours and badge of the Chapter. Tentacles of metal darted out from the harness upon his back, working controls. Chitters from his augmitter of rapid binaric, the tech-speak of the priesthood of Mars, compelled both his own cyborgs and the bridge servitors to greater efforts. His helmet was off, and his face, marked by strange tattoos that owed more to the Omnissiah than the traditions of Honourum, was tense with anticipation.

Captain Lutil Mastrik and Epistolary Ranial stood side by side on the walkway in front of the windows; Mastrik animated as always, Ranial distracted. Odon and Galt’s retinue dispersed, and the captain and Chaplain joined the Librarian and Mastrik.

Galt looked to the main window, its armourglass covered by external and internal blast shielding.

‘You waited for me, brother?’ he said.

‘I was sorely tempted not to,’ said Mastrik.

‘Brother-Captain Aresti?’ said Galt.

‘En route from Corvo’s Hammer, brother-captain,’ said Mastrik. ‘He is late as usual.’

‘Our brother has problems that require his attention,’ said Clastrin. His words were doubled, his organic voice overlaid by a melodious second projected by a vox-emitter. The two spoke with simultaneous disapproval.

‘Shall I engage the chartdesk, brother-captain?’ asked Persimmon. ‘We have good pict captures of the hulk already.’ Persimmon indicated the black glass bed of the chartdesk, eight by eight metres, situated in front of his throne. ‘Forgemaster Clastrin has excelled himself today.’

Galt shook his head. ‘Open the blast shields, I wish to see the hulk with my own eyes first. Let us get a feeling for our battleground, before we lose ourselves in the detail of it.’

A chorus of grinding servitor voices spoke as one. ‘Compliance.’

‘You paraphrase Guilliman, brother’ said Mastrik. ‘The wisdom of the Codex is never far from your lips.’

‘As it should not be far from your own, brother,’ said Galt mildly.

Motors whirred, pulling up the shutters on both sides of the window. Immediately the bridge was flooded with harsh, blue light. Galt shielded his eyes.

‘Dim windows, ninety-eight per cent,’ shouted Clastrin.

‘Compliance.’

At the servitors’ unspoken commands, the machine-spirits of the bridge exerted their influence on the glass, darkening it. Galt dropped his hand to his side.

The shutters clanged into their housings, revealing a window that ran the entire width of the bridge. Ten metres tall, and many times wider than that, the window filled the whole of the forward section’s wall. The armourglass was framed by heavy mullions, each tall support cast in the likeness of a Chapter hero. The edges of the window were stained, tiny panes set in a labyrinth of metal incised with the names of the glorious dead, displaying in a long, colourful ribbon of pictures the story of the Chapter’s founding nearly eight thousand years ago.

A bright blue sun occupied most of the view. The ship was close enough that the men aboard could see flares ejected from its churning surface, the top and bottom of the star cut off by the window. The light was raw, dangerous despite the windows’ protective dimming, bleaching out the subtle colours of the stained glass. There were no planets around Jorso, it was too violent a star for fatherhood. Its searing light had blasted the dusty stuff of its offspring into interstellar space before they had had chance to coalesce.

Against the sun, the other ships in Galt’s fleet were silhouettes both small and insignificant. He recognised them all from their shapes, they were as familiar to him as children are to their fathers. Two strike cruisers and four escorts. One caused Galt concern. Corvo’s Hammer sparkled with vented plasma, the price of victory in their last engagement.

A curling plume of blue flame burst from the sun. Far more than a ball of gas it seemed, but a great, ravening animal. How could something that writhed so not live?

‘The hulk will pass between our orbit and the star soon brother-captain,’ said Persimmon.

‘In five, four,’ began one of the serfs, ‘three, two, one…’

‘I see it.’ Galt breathed the words.

A vast black shape slid across the boiling blue surface of Jorso.

‘Bring detail views up on the main chartdesk. Compensate for stellar luminosity,’ said Persimmon.

‘Yes, lord captain,’ said a serf officer. Commands were issued to the relevant servitors and by them relayed to the machine-spirits which inhabited the ship’s systems. The bridge filled with machine noise as affirmations of compliance ground out from uncaring throats.

The chartdesk shimmered. Bands of light resolved themselves into a holographic image of the space hulk in front of Persimmon’s throne-cradle.

‘Corvo’s oath,’ murmured Galt. His hand went to the Chapter pendant that hung about his neck.

‘First Captain,’ said Persimmon. ‘I present the space hulk Death of Integrity, our target.’

Even against the immensity of the growling sun, the hulk designated Death of Integrity appeared huge, an agglomeration of vessels and cosmic flotsam tossed together by the shifting tides of the empyrean. Novum in Honourum was a battle-barge, one of the greatest vessels the Imperium could command, but she was a toy in comparison. The hulk presented itself as a broken ornament the size of a small moon, its surface a bewildering mosaic of protrusions. Ship prows, engine units, nacelles, crumpled cargo barges, the smooth lines of xenos craft, pocked half-mountains of asteroids and the ice spires of comets projected chaotically from its surface. Many of the elements that made up the hulk were forged by thinking creatures, men or otherwise, but its shipwright was the warp, and that had little respect for the physics of real space.

Servitors growled and chirruped in binaric, half-formed words in standard Gothic slipping drool-slicked from their mouths. Not for the first time, Galt wondered if any awareness remained in their wiped minds.

One of the serf-officers overseeing the augur arrays spoke. ‘Mass, thirty-seven point nine trillion tonnes, albedo point eight-seven, gravitic displacement…’

He went on, describing the physical qualities of the hulk. Portions of the holograph representing the vessel winked bright green as another officer identified component parts, a gridded funnel came into being around it, depicting its weak gravity field, other icons and graphical demonstrations of mass and potentially active power sources blinked up one after another, cluttering the air of the bridge with informatics.

The serf overseeing the augur array had a face half of metal, a slatted round covering one eye. When he spoke, it was with the emotionless burr of a vox-grille.

‘Estimated composition, three hundred and seventy vessels, of which fifty-three per cent class gamma or lower, twenty-four per cent class beta, eighteen per cent class alpha. Remainder unknown. All best estimates. Certainty impossible.’

‘That,’ Galt pointed at a part of the hologram. ‘That is an Imperial warship, heavy cruiser, Avenger-class?’

‘Indeed, brother-captain. One of several.’ Clastrin said in his twin voices, his ordinary reserve swept aside by excitement at the hulk. ‘All ages, many patterns.’

‘A rich prize then, when we are victorious,’ said Mastrik, a broad grin across his face. ‘We had best send a message to your friends on Mars, Forgemaster, so they may pick the carcass clean.’

‘Archeotech is valuable to all who live under the Emperor’s protection, brother. I urge you to curb your flippancy. Respect is the appropriate response to this gift from the Omnissiah.’

Galt turned slightly, his gaze moving from the windows to the chartdesk holo.

‘The core? What lies at its centre?’

‘Unknown,’ replied the serf.

‘There is a great deal of stellar interference, First Captain,’ said Clastrin. ‘Our augurs do not function well in this close proximity to a star of Jorso’s class. We have detected several large, unstable sources of radioactivity within the hulk also, and these further cloud the eyes of Novum in Honourum. Deep augur scans are impossible.’

‘Any indication of the xenos threat? Where do they lair?’

‘None, First Captain, not by machine means, at least. It is impossible to say at this time.’

‘Epistolary Ranial? What does the Librarium say?’

‘It is as the request maintained, First Captain. Psychic activity is indicative of genestealer infestation.’

‘That is a very large hulk, Brother-Epistolary,’ said Galt.

‘And there are a great many genestealers aboard it, brother-captain’ said Ranial drily.

‘We shall have to see then, what our cousins say,’ said Galt. ‘Any news on their fleet?’

‘None, lord captain,’ spoke the chief augur-serf. ‘We cannot pinpoint them against this background of interference, but I expect contact soon.’

The clanging of power armour boots on deck-plating rang out as Captain Aresti hurried onto the bridge. He wore his armour, the bone-and-blue quartered heraldry of the Novamarines still scarred from their last battle. His tattooed face was bare, his helmet tucked under his arm.

‘My apologies, brothers.’

‘You are experiencing difficulty, I take it?’ said Galt. ‘Corvo’s Hammer bleeds; I thought the main drive repaired.’

Aresti shook his head. ‘We are down to only one containment unit, brother-captain. Two destroyed and one damaged. The one the Forgemaster repaired ruptured as we exited the empyrean. We were fortunate that it held so long.’

‘The damage is great First Captain,’ said Clastrin. ‘My Techmarines labour through all the watches. I myself will attend and personally implore the machine-spirits within to hold fast to life, but I fear Corvo’s Hammer will not survive another voyage through the immaterium. The vessel requires full dry dock facilities if it is to recover.’

‘And they are in short supply here,’ said Ranial.

Mastrik gave a gentle laugh. ‘That they are, brother.’

‘The potential loss of a strike cruiser is no matter for levity, brothers!’ protested Clastrin. His artful electronic voice strained with annoyance.

‘My apologies,’ said Mastrik. ‘‘All is but dust in motion’,’ he added, quoting the script of Corvo. ‘And yet I think you will no doubt find a way to keep the dust of Corvo’s Hammer together a little while longer. Perhaps our new friends will aid you?’

‘Where are they?’ asked Aresti. ‘Our deep augurs are beyond use. Corvo’s Hammer is as good as blind.’

Galt shook his head, and lifted his pendant to his lips. He kissed the jet icon absent-mindedly, and let it fall.

‘If they were working, you’d still be as blind as the rest of us are, brother,’ said Mastrik.

‘I have them, lord captains,’ a serf spoke. ‘Tightbeam transmission coming in now.’

The chartdesk flickered, bands of colour rippled, and the light-model of the Death of Integrity vanished like a broken reflection. In its place appeared the shoulders and head of another adept, a genetically altered Space Marine like the brothers of the Novamarines, but subtly different. His face was impossibly beautiful, his black hair shoulder length and scraped back from his forehead. He wore ornate plate of red and gold, as if ready to march into battle. The image crackled violently, the sound buzzed.

‘Stabilise the image, compensate for stellar wind,’ ordered Clastrin.

The image shook and became a little clearer, although it shivered and popped constantly.

‘I extend the greeting of brotherhood to the Novamarines,’ intoned the figure.

‘It is gladly accepted, and returned twofold.’ Galt stepped closer to the projection. ‘We have heard and accepted your call for aid, as detailed in the Covenants of Trust. Brother hears the call of brother and responds. I am Captain Mantillio Galt of the Novamarines First Company, Master of the Watch and commander of Battlefleet Trident. How may we be of assistance?’

‘I, Chapter Master Caedis, Lord of San Guisiga and of the Blood Drinkers Chapter, thank you for your response. Might I suggest we meet face to face and discuss the matter at hand?’

Galt dipped his head. ‘Naturally. As you have done us the honour of inviting us to battle, I extend the hospitality of Novum in Honourum to you and yours in return.’

Caedis bowed his own head. ‘The Blood Drinkers thank you brothers. We shall attend you shortly. In five hours time?’

‘We shall bring our fleets together, cousin Blood Drinker, and thence parlay.’

‘That is agreeable. Wings of Sanguinius shield you.’

The holo winked out.

‘Brother-Captain Persimmon,’ Galt called, ‘rendezvous with the Blood Drinkers fleet. Brother-Captain Artermin, rouse Major-domo Polanczek. I will not have our brethren think us misers. They are honoured brothers, and should be entertained as such.’ He looked to the other captains. ‘And now, brothers, how do we greet these sons of Sanguinius? As brothers of peace, or prepared for war?’

‘In plate, brother-captain. It sends a certain message,’ said Ranial. ‘We wish for them to think us ready; warriors, not aesthetics, although we are both, we should show our steel to our allies, as their master has shown us his.’

The others nodded their assent.

In the furious glare of Jorso, two fleets drifted. Their colours were distorted by the harsh cyan light of the star, making one set of vessels black as old blood, the other two clashing shades of blue. Spotlights and landing beacons illuminated portions of the crafts’ hulls with cleaner light, and here one could see that one fleet was a bright and threatening red, the other ivory, with portions of the vessels picked out in sombre blue. The two largest craft hung side by side in the vacuum, thrusters occasionally flaring as they fired to maintain the ship’s positions; battle-barges, both immense. Towards the stern they rose in stepped decks, as massive as mountains. Long, narrow hulls studded with hangars and drop pod launch bays thrust forward like proud necks, growing wide at their heavily shielded bows. At the prow armour was held out either side on stanchions, emblazoned with the marks of their respective Chapters. A stylised chalice below a suspended blood drop upon one, a skull surrounded by a starburst on the other. Upon the bridge of the bone-and-blue vessel the name Novum in Honourum was inscribed. The bow plating of the red vessel bore the legend Lux Rubrum.

They were similar yet different, these vessels. Lux Rubrum’s upper decks flared more fully than Novum’s, its decoration was more elaborate. A statue of an armoured angel stood upon the highest point, sword upraised, adding fifty metres to the ship’s height. A chalice hung from the angel’s other hand, spilling drips of metal, as if it were blood frozen solid in the chill of the vacuum. Novum was a hundred metres longer, its prow plating thinner, its figurehead a modest aquila set to the fore of the command section. Starbursts of gleaming adamantium were set over the eagle’s eyes, a skull on a chain about its neck. Sisters, then, not twins, these mighty fortresses of the stars.

A flash of light winked halfway along the port side of Lux Rubrum. A half-second afterwards a small shape glimmered in the hard shine of Jorso: a ship, propelled by a blade of flame, navigation lights blinking. It crossed the space between the battle-barges rapidly, slowing only slightly as it entered a docking bay in the starboard of Novum in Honourum.

Lord Caedis of the Blood Drinkers went to enjoy the hospitality of the Novamarines.

The Thunderhawk’s turbines roared as it came in from the launch tube to hangar 73. It slowed to a hover, turning side-on to the tube as it did so. Heated air blew in all directions, causing the robes, banners and scrips of the Novamarines welcome guard to snap violently. Motors whined, deploying landing gear, secondary wings went up, and the ship touched down, sinking into the hydraulics of its claws.

The deep red of the Blood Drinkers Thunderhawk was shocking in the muted colour of the Novamarines landing bay. Like a wound, or a cancer, an alien body alike and yet unlike to that which encompassed it. This contrast carried the imputation of inimicality, and Galt was perturbed by that.

The Thunderhawk engines’ crescendo dwindled swiftly, humming to a stop. The smaller noises of the hangar took their place; the leaden clump of servitors as they dragged cables and refuelling lines to the craft, the three blaring notes of the all clear klaxon. The metal of the Thunderhawk creaked. Two of the Novamarines own Thunderhawks sat on mobile pads to the rear of the launch bay, their bone-and-blue sombre in comparison to the Blood Drinkers vivid livery.

Galt, Odon, Mastrik, Aresti, Ranial, and Clastrin waited by the hangar bay’s doors in their full armour, bareheaded. A pair of serfs in Chapter colours attended each, dwarfed by the helmets and weapons they carried for their masters.

The standard bearers of the Third, Fifth and First Companies stood behind them, silver-helmeted veterans carrying elaborate and ancient flags. Two files of Novamarines stood to attention, veterans also, flanking the standard bearers, four honour guard at their head. The fleet’s Master of Astropaths, a fleshy man by the name of Feldiol, stood with them, as did several of the higher ranking Chapter serfs; even Lord Navigator Gulfindan Van Heem had come down from his lofty perch atop the Novum in Honourum, looking uncomfortable out of his low-gravity apartments. His witch eye twitched behind its lid in the centre of his forehead.

Long seconds passed.

‘Are they disembarking, or not?’ grumbled Mastrik.

‘Patience, brother,’ said Ranial.

There was the muted click of mag-locks disengaging, and the Thunderhawk’s assault ramp opened. Gasses hissed outward, bringing with them strange scents. The air of the Novum in Honourum was dry and flavourless, reminiscent of the thin atmosphere of the Chapter home world; that coming from the Thunderhawk was rich with perfume and the smell of copper and iron.

The ramp lowered to the floor of the landing bay, red light spilled outward.

The Blood Angels disembarked.

Galt had studied all he could on the Blood Drinkers while the fleet was in transit, but the data in their Librarium was old, the Novamarines having had few dealings with the other Chapter. The personnel detailed in the Librarium records were all long dead, and Galt did not recognise the five Space Marines who stepped out from the Thunderhawk alongside Chapter Master Caedis. Their markings made it apparent what ranks they held. There was their Chief Apothecary, the Chapter Reclusiarch, an Epistolary, and a captain who wore the black shoulder rims of the Fifth Company. The sixth Blood Drinker was a veteran who stopped by the door to the Thunderhawk to unsling a tube from his back, from which he produced the Chapter’s rolled banner. He fitted his standard poles together quietly, raised the Blood Drinkers flag high, and fell in behind the officers.

All wore markings and badges exactly as laid down in the Codex Astartes, and this Galt approved of. Guilliman’s wisdom was not to be ignored. One might argue that the precise form of a campaign badge mattered little, but Galt thought this an ill-thought opinion. The Codex Astartes was a system, all parts of it interlocked to create a perfect doctrine of war and being. Those who strayed from Guilliman’s tenets were foolhardy, no matter how small the deviation.

The Blood Drinkers armour was richly decorated, incorporating badges and personal heraldry rendered in relief. All well within the Codex’s precepts, but to the more ostentatious end of what was advised. Caedis’s armour was chased in gold, a heavy fur cloak was held to the front of his shoulder pads by large, circular brooches, partly obscuring his plate’s markings. Like Galt’s men, Caedis’s followers were bareheaded. They carried their own helms. No serfs attended them.

The Blood Drinkers were exceptional specimens, even for the Adeptus Astartes. It was said that their primarch, Sanguinius, had been of unnatural beauty, and that all his sons bore an echo of his physical perfection, whether of the Blood Angels or their successors. Galt was taken aback by the poise and fineness of these men’s features; they were angels made flesh, so close to perfection they made Galt feel graceless. Only close to perfection, however. There was something about them that fell short; some indiscernible flaw. It was not until Caedis and his brethren drew closer that Galt could see that their skin and hair appeared dry, desiccated almost, the flesh of their faces grainy as if carved from moistureless stone.

‘I bid you welcome to the battle-barge Novum in Honourum, Lord Chapter Master Caedis,’ said Galt. ‘In the name of brotherhood, I give you its freedom. If you require anything of the Novamarines, lord, you have but to ask.’ He dipped his head, and clenched his fist over his heart in salute. He then held out his right hand. Caedis reached his own out, and they grasped each others’ forearms in the warrior’s clasp, bone armour to blood.

‘The sons of Sanguinius hail you, sons of Roboute Guilliman,’ replied Caedis. ‘As our primarchs were brothers, let us be brothers also.’

‘We shall fight together, side by side.’

‘And I welcome it.’ Caedis’s dry lips curved into a smile. He spoke well, with something of an aristocratic hauteur. Galt sensed a luxury at odds with the simple aestheticism of the Novamarines. Caedis had very white teeth, and somewhat long canines. Galt found these physical and cultural differences unremarkable. All the Chapters differed a little, those that followed the Codex Astartes closely also. He thanked Corvo silently in his mind that his Chapter was lucky enough to be of the purer sort, descended from the Ultramarines themselves, first among all the Chapters of the Imperium.

The greeting done, the two groups relaxed. ‘Captain, may I present to you my chief aides?’ said Caedis. ‘Reclusiarch Mazrael, spiritual leader of our order, Epistolary Guinian, and Sanguinary Master Teale. Captain Sorael there leads the Fifth Company.’

Each of Space Marines bowed their heads in turn. Galt did not recognise the title of Sanguinary Master, given as that of the one he had taken to be Chief Apothecary.

‘Finally, Veteran-Brother Metrion,’ said Caedis, gesturing to his Chapter standard bearer. ‘Our Chapter Ancient.’

Galt responded, introducing his own men. ‘You see here Brother-Captain Lutil Mastrik of the Novamarines Third, and master of strike cruiser Ceaseless Vigilance. Captain Aresti commands our Fifth Company, and is master also of Corvo’s Hammer. Epistolary Ranial, Chaplain Odon and Master of the Forge Clastrin make up the others of the senior initiates you see here. Master of Astropaths Feldiol, Fleet Chief Lord Navigator Gulfindan Van Heem of House Meld, and my principal serf aides Artermin and Holstak. Finally, Major-domo Polanczek. Should you require anything while you are here, please direct your requests to him.’

‘Anything at all, my lords,’ said Polanczek with a deep bow. He looked behind the blood-red warriors quizzically. ‘You have brought no servants, no Chapter serfs in attendance?’

Caedis essayed his slow smile again. ‘No, major-domo, we have not.’

‘Then I shall assign men to you for your stay, my lord.’ He clapped his hands, and serfs dressed in the livery of the Novamarines stepped forward briskly. ‘Come, we have refreshments awaiting you.’

‘We thank you,’ said Caedis. ‘I am sure the others are as thirsty as I.’

The banquet took place in Galt’s quarters. Diplomacy was a part of the art of war, Guilliman himself had written, and thus the master of the ship’s dwelling space incorporated audience rooms and the like. Galt’s personal rooms were spartan, in keeping with the temper of his Chapter. In contrast the Hall of Welcome where the Novamarines entertained the Blood Drinkers was lavishly appointed. Friezes of the deeds of Lucretius Corvo, founder of the Novamarines, filled every wall. The ceiling sported twin domes, both filled edge to edge with cunning trompe l’oeil. The one above the feasting Space Marines depicted an allegorical interpretation of the Emperor’s ascension. Clad in golden armour, the Lord of Mankind reached up to the sky pointing to where, upon a cloud, a golden throne shot out rays of light, his other hand reached for outstretched hands rising below him, showing his reluctance to leave the mortal world. Winged vat-children of the Adeptus Mechanicus hurried his ascent. His down-turned face was full of authority and regret. The dome nearer the door showed Roboute Guilliman – primarch of the Ultramarines, and through their descent from the Ultramarines, also of the Novamarines. The image depicted him as a thinker, at work in his cell on the Codex Astartes while generals and lords of all kinds waited in animated discussion for his wisdom to be delivered.

Caedis sat in the place of honour to Galt’s right. Care had been made by Major-domo Polanczek to assure the visiting Chapter Master’s high rank was recognised, so although his throne was on an exact level with Galt’s, it was far more heavily decorated.

‘We were beginning to lose hope,’ Caedis was saying. Despite his protestations of thirst, he ate and drank sparingly of the dishes laid before him. ‘We have been tracking the Death of Integrity for nearly three decades, following a trail of infested worlds, always one step behind. Our astrometric data presented us with a pattern that our Master of the Forge was able to untangle somewhat, giving us projected destinations and worlds under threat.’ He sighed, and pushed at the meat on his plate with a silver fork. ‘But we were always too late, arriving after the hulk had departed, and thus our frustrations grew. We were fortunate three months ago, when we were able to confront the creatures in their lair. Epistolary Guinian tore the mind-scent from the thoughts of their young. Only then could we follow the hulk with certainty through the warp, and predict where it would next emerge. I am greatly relieved we have caught it. The worlds we have cleansed thus far are of minor importance, but this is the hulk’s third appearance in proximity to Vol Secundus. A genestealer infestation within the hives there would have been disastrous, and sown the seeds of a greater contagion that perhaps only a crusade could have contained.’

‘Why has it manifested here?’ asked Galt. ‘Master Clastrin knows of nothing special about this star. It possesses only a moderate mass despite its luminosity, not enough to bend the fabric of real space sufficiently to aid the warp translation of such a hulk.’

‘Who knows?’ replied Caedis. He spoke softly, but his words cut through the conversation filling the air. ‘It is however the seventh star of such a class the Death of Integrity has emerged by.’ He waved his hand. ‘This sector is full of them, the young and the radiant.’ Caedis blinked. Even his eyes looked dry. Galt imagined he could hear the eyelids rasping over them. ‘We are close to the stellar nurseries of Gennak Minoris, the stars here were born not so long ago,’ he smiled. ‘At least, not by the reckoning of stars.’

‘Gennak Minoris is the outermost boundary of our patrol routes,’ said Galt. ‘You were lucky that we caught your astropathic plea.’

‘You go no further?’

Galt picked up a morsel of food from his plate and examined it before putting it into his mouth. He concentrated on the flavour, ignoring the wash of information the Emperor’s gifts fed him. ‘We swore eight thousand years ago to the Lord of Macragge to defend the Segmentum Ultima, body and soul, living or dead. Our business takes us far and wide, but does not often take us beyond segmentum bounds.’

‘And yet, were it not for your heraldry, I could be sitting with the warrior-kings of Ultramar themselves. So distant is that realm, but you maintain their culture as if it were your own.’

‘It is our own,’ said Galt with some force.

‘You are exiles then?’ said Caedis casually. His eyes followed a serf as he poured wine for the adepts. Galt frowned slightly at the look in the Chapter Master’s eyes. There was something predatory about it.

‘We are not. We are guardians of the Imperium, and loyal sons of Ultramar. We do our duty gladly.’

‘So it would seem.’ Caedis paused, considering whether or not to say whatever was on his mind. ‘Excepting your tattoos,’ he said.

Galt’s hand strayed to his cheek. ‘A custom of Honourum, and one of the few of our home world we retain after induction as novitiate Scouts. This way we honour those who birthed us, as we honour the heritage of Ultramar in all else we do.’

‘All are the customs of pure men. Who is to judge one higher than the other?’

‘Honourum’s tribes are primitive in the extreme,’ said Galt. ‘Theirs is a harsh existence. Honourum is a bare world.’

‘Primitivism embraces purity of heart and of mind. You hold the sophisticated ways of Ultramar above those of your parents?’

‘They are self-evidently superior,’ said Galt.

‘Is that so? I doubt I would have received so personal a welcome from Lord Macragge.’

‘Our world is hard, the laws and customs of hospitality are inviolable. The tribes must cooperate, or all would perish,’ said Galt.

‘Ah, so some primitive customs are worth preserving? Another difference between you and your brothers. Interesting,’ said Caedis. He looked around the room. There was an easy elegance to all he did. ‘I see you are not all tattooed.’

‘All initiates are, even those few who were not born on Honourum,’ Galt said. ‘Those servants you see who are not marked do not hail from our home world. Honourum has few people, Lord Chapter Master, we draw serfs and criminals for cyborgisation as tithes from systems all over the segmentum. Those of our servants who hail from elsewhere do not always follow the flesh marking.’

Caedis nodded as if he had known all along and he was testing Galt. It was a self-satisfied nod, a master’s gesture to a pupil, and Galt found it irksome. His guest’s questions were intrusive and irrelevant. ‘And what of your strength?’

Galt was relieved at this change in topic. Battle and matters of war were safer ground. ‘In the fleet: the Novum in Honourum, two strike cruisers, and four escorts. We have approaching three companies here, near the entirety of the First and Third, much of our Fifth also. But the Fifth suffered in our last battle, and bore the brunt of our foe’s retaliation. Many brothers are in the infirmary. Their vessel is badly harmed.’

‘I saw your strike cruiser,’ said Caedis. ‘The damage is extensive.’

‘Eldar raiders, corsair scum. They fought hard in space and on the ground, but they will trouble the Orin Gap no more. Some elements of the Fourth, Tenth and Ninth accompany us. It is an unusual gathering of strength for our Chapter,’ said Galt. ‘Were it not for the damage to Corvo’s Hammer, the fleet would have broken up already, lord. Our tasks are many, we are spread thin.’

‘You spoke of luck before, but I sense the guidance of the Emperor in this,’ said Caedis thoughtfully. ‘We do not have the numbers to either assault or bombard the hulk alone, I called in our Second and Fifth Companies, but the Second were forced to divert. A greater threat was brought to my attention, greater even than the one posed by the Death of Integrity’s stowaways. I am therefore left with little more than one and three-quarter companies aboard Lux Rubrum and our four escorts. I have many of my veterans, thankfully, although the skills of my First Company captain are sorely missed.’

‘He is not with you?’

‘As you, manifold are our tasks also. He has his own mission. But what was taken with one hand has been paid for handsomely with the other.’ He gave his food one last desultory taste, and then pushed it away.

‘And now?’

‘It is our nature to assault the foe at close quarters, blade to blade,’ said Caedis.

‘A direct assault, lord?’ said Galt. ‘Surely, bombardment would be the better strategy? We have readings of dangerous radiation levels in many places within the hulk, only Terminator plate would be proof against that. My Epistolary tells me that there are large numbers of xenos aboard. Let us break it apart with torpedo and cannon, and cast its remains into the sun.’

Caedis gave a laugh. ‘And what would your Master of the Forge say? There could be a wealth of archeotech aboard.’

‘Clastrin?’ Galt said. ‘He will doubtless object, but taking the hulk by force is too large a risk for our forces, even combined.’

‘My Forgemaster also will be displeased.’

‘Forgemaster Clastrin bows first to Ultramar and Honourum, and then to Mars,’ said Galt. ‘I will set out to him that he has little choice; the possibility of forgotten treasures comes with the certainty of losing a strike cruiser, and that he will not countenance.’

‘Although I hunger for the fight, I cannot but agree. Bombardment is the wiser option, and as much as the battle-joy calls to me, wisdom must prevail, is that not what Guilliman teaches?’

Galt nodded solemnly.

‘There is, dear captain, another factor at play; the hulk is never in-system for long, five to ten days at most, before departing. A decisive assault could not perhaps be mounted in such a short time. We would be forced to rush, and such tasks should not be rushed.’ Caedis smiled broadly, revealing his long canines fully. ‘Our combined fleets are more than up to the task. Bombardment and the cleansing heat of starfire it is. We are agreed. Together, we may rid the galaxy of this menace, and be on our way. As you say, our tasks are many.’ He raised his goblet. ‘A toast, then, to our rapid success.’

‘Our rapid success, lord,’ repeated Galt.

Their cups clanked together. The toast was taken up around the table, until it was shouted with approval.

CHAPTER 3

BOMBARDMENT

The two fleets had become one. The hallways of the battle-barges echoed to the sound of servitors as they prepared for war. Ponderously Lux Rubrum and Novum in Honourum manoeuvred around one another, until the vessel of the Blood Drinkers, black-red in the sun’s light, drew ahead of its Novamarines sister. The Lux Rubrum’s engine stack flared as bright and blue as Jorso. The ship pulled ahead, until it became a wink in the dark, the engine little larger than the stars. Novum in Honourum’s reactor rumbled and it fell into line five thousand kilometres astern of Lux Rubrum. Strike cruiser Ceaseless Vigilance angled downward to fly below and to the port of the Novamarines battle-barge. Corvo’s Hammer limped behind. Escorts moved easily above and to the front of two flagships, Thunderhawks flew in formation, full weapon load-outs slung beneath their stubby wings. To the fleet’s portside the hulk continued its orbit around Jorso, massive and squamous, a canker that would soon be excised from the galaxy it so troubled.

Quiet bustle characterised the bridge of Novum in Honourum. A large tactical view of the hulk hung in the air over the chartdesk, reticules in bright red marking points of weakness that should cause the hulk to break apart swiftly. All nine brothers on the bridge wore their full plate. The serfs carried sidearms at their waists, and racks of guns had been extruded from the walls for masters and servants both. Several weapon-servitors stood station at the doors, and squads of battle-brothers patrolled the corridors of the command and gunnery decks. Counter-boarding was unlikely, but all was done as strictly dictated by the Codex.

Armoury savants had calculated it would take two days of bombardment to utterly destroy the hulk.

On the bridge, Ranial stood at Galt’s side. Occasionally he closed his eyes as he eavesdropped on the astropathic chatter among the fleet, catching stray metaphorical images the psykers used to communicate with one another. Odon had retired to his cathedral to lead the serfs there in prayer for their victory, Aresti and Mastrik were aboard their own ships. Clastrin had removed himself to Corvo’s Hammer, ostensibly to monitor the ship’s damage. The Master of the Forge had taken the news of the bombardment with stoic silence, Galt nevertheless knew the tech-priest was sorrowed by the decision and had withdrawn so as not to witness the loss of his prize.

On the long spine of the battle-barge, giant turrets swung to port, pointing squat, broad-muzzled cannons at the hulk between Novum in Honourum and the sun. A symphony of mechanical noises – distant clanking, whines, the muffled sounds of munitions trucks many decks below, the muted roar of weapons powering up – added themselves to the grumble of the ship’s main power core.

‘Brother-Captain Galt,’ said Persimmon. ‘All gunnery decks report ready. You may give the order when you desire.’

Galt reached for his pendant reflexively. Only when his gauntleted hand touched the eagle emblazoned across his chest did he realise it was beyond reach beneath his breastplate. He clenched his fist. ‘We wait for Lord Caedis, he commands here.’

‘As you wish, brother-captain.’

A few moments later Caedis’s voice crackled over the vox. The systems aboard both ships were more sophisticated than most, but still they struggled with the star’s furious heliosphere. ‘Brother-captain, you answered our call for aid. The honour of the first salvo belongs to you.’

A cheer went up from the non-servitor personnel on deck, the loudest coming from Persimmon, who banged his remaining hand on his throne-cradle.

‘Many thanks, Lord Caedis,’ said Galt. ‘The honour is gladly received. All guns acquire target. Prepare to open fire on my mark.’

His brothers on the bridge stared out of the curved window toward the Death of Integrity. They were composed as warriors of the Emperor should be, but their eyes betrayed their excitement. This was their meaning, to purge the galaxy of alien life, leaving it safe for mankind’s Imperium. To further this goal was the greatest satisfaction a Nova-marines had. Their work never ceased, but each xenos dead was one less to prey upon the children of Terra.

The brothers waited. Galt let the feeling build a moment, to heighten the release. He permitted himself a small surge of satisfaction.

‘Port broadside, fire,’ he said.

The floor shook as the port weapons batteries discharged. Plumes of fire erupted all down the ship from the cannons between its launch bays. The bridge vibrated with every report.

‘Bombardment cannons, fire at will,’ he said. ‘Corvo’s Hammer, Ceaseless Vigilance, commence firing when ready. Thunderhawk wings, await my command.’

The turreted bombardment cannons spat no fire, their munitions, magnetically impelled, shot from their gaping muzzles at a velocity so high there was only the briefest spark of sunlight on metal to tell of their passing.

Corvo’s Hammer and Ceaseless Vigilance’s prows flashed as their guns discharged. Away ahead of them, made small by distance, Lux Rubrum sparkled with righteous violence.

The hulk was a long way away. If would be nearly half an hour before the first rounds hit home. The bridge fell back to quiet, muttered orders and muted conversation the order of the day as the complicated affair of space combat was undertaken.

Twenty-seven minutes or so later the bombardment cannon rounds, outpacing the explosive-cast shells of the weapons batteries, hit home.

Bright explosions flared on the side of the hulk, round blisters of fire welling up on its rough skin. Those less sophisticated than the adepts called such rounds lava bombs. Each contained a large fusion generator. In the brief moment the fusion generator operated, the bomb generated several gigatons of explosive energy, hotter than the surface of a star. Weapons like that could crack a planet’s crust, given time.

They were equally effective against the space hulk.

‘Target report.’ Galt directed his question at one of the battle-brothers acting as officers on the bridge. Brother Montan, Fifth Company, he noted. He should and did know the names of all the initiates under his command.

‘Target integrity holding, brother-captain.’

‘Continue bombardment,’ said Galt. He cast his eye over the tactical hologram over the chartdesk. It pulsed and flared with bursts of light, denoting hits. ‘Concentrate on target point alpha ten, I see a weakness there. Exploit it.’

Energy beams flicked across the void. Shells glimmered in the eternal night of space. The black between the fleets and the hulk sparkled with short-lived stars.

‘Lord captain!’ Brother Montan said. ‘We have our first major collapse!’

All eyes on the bridge went from the display to the distant hulk. A dazzling flash preceded a billow of flame toward the hulk’s nominal stern, and a long, thin shape detached itself from the main body of the hulk. Half a starship, at least, it span slowly about its axis, wheeling gracefully as it fell toward the sun.

Grim smiles on the bridge. The hulk was almost obscured by clouds of fire. A tail of debris now trailed behind it.

‘Lord captain,’ called a serf. ‘We have some unusual readings…’ Puzzlement creased the man’s face. He was heavily tattooed, a man of Honourum.

‘To me!’ said Persimmon. Within his throne-cradle, the crippled captain leaned forward as the serf sent the information to the captain’s data-slates. Persimmon’s remaining eye narrowed. His face lit up as his screens flashed. ‘Strange. I’m reading multiple, concerted energy emissions. If that were a warship I’d say they were powering up to fire or flee.’ Persimmon lay back in his cradle. ‘Not unusual. Probably feedback from dying systems, it is hard to tell in all this static, brother-captain.’

‘It is not a concern at this time,’ said Galt. ‘Have the Forge examine the data after the bombardment. Continue firing.’

The tac-screen fizzed, then went out. The lights on the bridge flickered. All faces turned upward instinctively. All but Galt’s. ‘Have faith brothers, and continue to fire.’

‘Probably a stellar pulse, not unusual so close in,’ said Persimmon. ‘Jorso’s magnetosphere is lively. But we’ve lost most of our auto-targeters, brother-captain.’

‘I trust your hands and eyes to guide the gun crews, brothers,’ said Galt. Not once did he take his eyes from the blazing hulk. The bombardment would now rest with the judgement and skills of the brothers. They were trained to solve the difficult calculations of combat over such a distance. The hulk was two light minutes away, and so what they saw was where the hulk had been two minutes ago. The actual position of the hulk and the differing speeds of the Space Marine projectiles all needed to be taken into account to ensure effective targeting. Taxing work, but this was better, the minds of adepts and not the spirits of machines bringing death to the unclean.

He was pleased that most of the rounds he watched hit home. More wreckage fell away from the hulk, some of it revealed to be burning as it floated across the hulk’s silhouette, before the fires were lost against those of the sun.

Ranial, who had remained silent and still, suddenly came alert.

The ship’s vox crackled, more laden with static than ever. ‘Lord captain,’ Van Heem’s voice was serpent-smooth and oddly accented. ‘Inbound fleet. Emperor preserve us, lord captain, warp translation imminent!’

‘What?’ shouted Persimmon.

‘We are receiving an astropathic broadcast. Mars-stamped,’ Lord Feldiol’s voice sounded over the vox. ‘We are decoding it now.’

‘I feel it, a powerful sending preceding a fleet.’ Ranial’s eyes shut. ‘They are coming in hard by.’

‘Where?’ said Galt.

‘Between the fleet and the hulk.’

‘All hands! Prepare for evasive action!’ shouted Persimmon. ‘Hard to starboard! Hard to starboard!’

Alarms wailed. Novum in Honourum’s deck tilted as the ship pitched. Galt had the uneasy feeling of being trapped between warring forces far mightier than he, cosmic forces ignorant of the fragility of man: the inertia of the craft’s forward motion, the pull of the artificial gravity plates, the mass of the ship itself and its sudden movement to the side.

Between the hulk and the fleet space flickered, the fabric of reality wavered as if a blanket shaken. The star’s light took on an unnatural hue, a colour not native to this universe.

‘Translation underway!’ shouted Van Heem.

Thunderhawks darted nimbly from the warp point, escorts following swiftly. The Ceaseless Vigilance crawled around, thrusters and braking rockets jetting all over it as it sought to avoid the incoming vessels. Corvo’s Hammer trailed dangerously behind. Novum in Honourum heeled to the side, nose sweeping out and away from the star.

‘Throne! We’re going to end up right in the middle of them! All ahead full! Ahead full!’ shouted Persimmon.

Further pressures assailed those on the bridge. In a great, round arc, Novum in Honourum lumbered away from the ripple in the sky, the fabric of the ship groaning in distress.

There was a blinding flash. Reality folded into itself, torn asunder by warp engines. A third fleet disgorged itself from the warp, ships tumbling from nonsensical geometries into shapes suited to material space.

A great vessel, longer than either of the battle-barges and at half their mass again, floated serenely between Novum in Honourum and the space hulk as if it had always been there, its rust-red exterior betraying none of the violence of its arrival. Void shields flared as weapons fire intended for the Death of Integrity slammed into them.

‘They’re opening fire, brother-captain!’ shouted Persim-
mon.

Galt bared his teeth, ready to return the favour, but stopped. The arcane cannons that lined the vessel from prow to stern remained silent. Only swarms of interceptor missiles issued from it, not ship killers, and they slammed in their hundreds into shells still streaking from Lux Rubrum.

Galt saw what he expected to see, a skull, half-human, half-mechanoid, contained within a white-and-black cog – the badge of the Adepts of Mars.

‘All decks hold! Hold fire!’

Alarms clamoured across the bridge, proximity alerts, emergency evasion, firing aborts, damage warnings.

‘Tech-priests?’ said Ranial.

‘Hail them,’ said Galt angrily. ‘Let us see what they want.’

Caedis got there first.

The hiss of static from the star and the backwash from the fleet’s arrival could not conceal the fury in his voice.

‘Mechanicus vessel, remove yourself immediately from the area. You are interfering in the affairs of the Adeptus Astartes Chapters Blood Drinkers and Novamarines. If you do not do so, your dangerous warp translation will be interpreted as an attack and we will open fire.’

‘What does he think he is doing?’ hissed Ranial, as he took in the array of giant weapons festooning the Adeptus Mechanicus ship.

The Adeptus Mechanicus reply was swift in coming, broadcast wide band, so any and all could hear it. It cut easily through the star’s voice.

‘This is Lord Magos Explorator Vardoman Plosk of the Adeptus Mechanicus. You will cease firing immediately upon the space hulk designated Death of Integrity and stand down your weapons.’

Galt licked his lips. ‘On whose authority?’ he shouted. ‘By what right do you command the defenders of humanity? By what right do you interrupt our given task of ensuring the safety of mankind? By what right do you halt the work of the Emperor?’

The vox hissed.

‘On the authority of the Adeptus Mechanicus of Mars, to whom all troves of archeotech are sequestered by right, custom and Imperial law. On the authority of the Holy Omnissiah and the God-Emperor, whose work we do.’ There was a pause, deliberate, calculated.

‘And upon the authority of my sponsors, the High Lords of Terra.’

CHAPTER 4

THE LORD MAGOS EXPLORATOR

Galt and Caedis received the tech-priest delegation within Galt’s audience rooms. The two Space Marines sat side by side upon their thrones, clad in full armour. The room had been cleared of tables and chairs. Caedis and Galt’s chairs were raised on a dais under the ceiling depicting the ascending Emperor. Five Novamarines and five Blood Drinkers veterans stood beside the thrones of their leaders, helmeted, weapons ready. Forgemaster Clastrin stood at the foot of the dais, also fully armoured. The chamber’s hidden weapons had been uncovered, and were trained upon the space before the thrones. There would be no warm welcome for the mechanicians of Mars.

The magi came into the room in force. Twelve all told, strange creatures of flesh and metal clad in robes of deep red. They came bearing toothed power axes, and exotic firearms not all of which were of human manufacture.

Twenty-four lesser tech-priests and skitarii cybernetic troopers attended them, also garbed in red. Some carried short banner poles bearing holy machine plans, many were hideously altered. Five carried nozzled machines that belched smoke that smelled of burned oil and harsh chemicals. These came first, preparing the way for their masters. A dozen servitors followed in their footsteps, the flesh stripped back to their skulls, fusion weapons perched on armless shoulders. Servo-skulls dipped and buzzed around the delegation.

The tech-priests’ attendants and servitors stopped at the rear of the room in an arc. Nine of the twelve magi walked through them. They formed a second crescent, halted, and together they brought their axe hafts down, sending a ringing crash through the audience chamber. Their augmitters twittered and chirruped.

‘Lord Magos Explorator Plosk,’ one intoned. ‘Magos Cogitator-Lexmechanic Nuministon, Novo Magos Samin. Masters of Excommentum Incursus. Chosen Explorators of Mars, most favoured of the Omnissiah.’

The remaining three tech-priests passed through a gap in the centre of the crescent to stand before the thrones of the Adeptus Astartes. Smoke from the censer bearers billowed around them.

One of them pulled back his hood to reveal a jowled face. Their leader. ‘I am Lord Magos Plosk, of the forge world Triplex Phall.’ Plosk was a stout man. The metal of cranial implants studded his bald scalp, long steel-covered cables went from the rear of his skull to a machine concealed by a hump in the robes on his back. His face was otherwise unaltered, and presented an expression of equanimity. ‘I apologise to you, Lord Chapter Master Caedis of the Blood Drinkers, and you, Lord Captain Galt of the Novamarines, for the manner of our arrival. But we cannot allow any harm to come to the Death of Integrity.’

‘The hulk is the harbinger of doom,’ said Caedis. He gripped the arms of his throne sufficiently hard to cause the wood to creak. ‘For a third of a century I have followed it, determined to destroy it and spare the worlds of the Emperor infestation by the plague that it carries. And you would deny me at the moment of my triumph?’

Plosk stood firm in the face of Caedis’s anger. ‘I would.’

Caedis leaned forward. ‘I am a Chapter Master of the Adeptus Astartes, Lord of San Guisiga, with a rank equal to that of an Imperial commander. You stand before me impudently, you and your followers do not kneel as is appropriate to my station.’ He hissed his words between his teeth, spittle chasing them into the air.

‘I do not,’ said Plosk equably. ‘It is I who hold higher authority here, not you, my lord.’ He dipped his head.

‘Insolence!’ spat Caedis. Galt looked sidelong at him. Caedis’s face was contorted with rage. The Blood Drinkers Reclusiarch stepped forward and rested a hand upon the Chapter Master’s shoulder plate. Galt was surprised at this lack of deference. Caedis shook it off.

‘A fact, my lord,’ said Plosk with a shrug. ‘I deal only in fact.’

‘You are not beyond the customs and laws of the Imperium, tech-priest. You have interrupted a military operation against the enemies of the Emperor. I demand to know the meaning of this outrage!’

‘It ever was my intent to do so,’ Plosk waved his metal left hand.

From behind the clouds of incense, a pair of servo-skulls flew forward, red eye beams cutting through the smoke. They bore between them a man-high scroll that dragged on the air.

‘Behold,’ said Plosk. ‘My authority. The first part of it. You may see the other fifty-seven segments as and when you wish. This is the pertinent scroll, however, verified by the Masters of Mars, and the High Lords of Terra. This document grants seniority in any and all Imperial matters appertaining to the recovery of STC data. Without exception.’

The servo-skulls floated to a stop in front of Galt, the scroll pulling the smoke into curls. Galt stood, and read the scroll.

‘It is as he says, Lord Caedis.’ Galt picked up one of the heavy seals adorning the bottom; black wax, and smooth to the touch. ‘It is sealed by High Lord Garm, Lord of the Munitorum.’

‘Garm died a century ago,’ said Reclusiarch Mazrael.

‘Did he now?’ said Plosk. ‘I did not hear, we have been to the very edges of the galaxy and back, beyond the light of the Astronomican, searching for this hulk. And to think!’ he gave a watery smile. ‘Here it was, all this time, lodged as a thorn in the heart of the Emperor’s dominion.’ His smile fell away. ‘Nevertheless, the authority stands, whether Garm lives or does not live. His word is inviolate.’

‘How come you by such authority?’ growled Caedis.

The youthful Magos Samin answered for him. He spoke like a fanatic, and made no attempt to hide his sense of superiority. ‘Magos Plosk has been most efficacious in recovering archeotech. Very successful. The High Lords would see more of that success.’ Samin was barely augmented, some kind of apprentice, thought Galt.

‘I have reason to believe that this hulk contains many first and second generation STC printouts, perhaps still functioning. Even one is a treasure beyond reckoning from the Dark Age of Technology. And you would smash them like brutes!’ Plosk shook his head. ‘This I cannot allow. There are greater considerations here than the immediate destruction of mankind’s enemies. The death of a hundred worlds would be a fair price for such knowledge. Ask your Forgemaster there. He knows something of the inner mysteries, seek his counsel.’ He nodded in the direction of the Techmarine.

Clastrin shook his head. His mechadendrites twitched in the air. ‘I do not serve two masters. I am of the Novamarines and my loyalty is to them alone, not Mars. You misspeak, magos.’

‘But do you hold this hulk a treasure?’ said Galt.

‘Indubitably, brother-captain. You know this,’ said Clastrin in his twin voices. ‘A boon to all mankind, and should what the magos claims exist, of incomparable importance.’

‘I have studied this derelict for long ages, lords,’ said Plosk, gesticulating floridly with hand and mechadendrite. ‘From certain intelligences I have gathered the length and breadth of the galaxy, I have come to believe that at its heart are certain… vessels, that postdate the ascension of the Emperor to his golden throne by only a few millennia. Perhaps even that predate the time of the Great Crusade and our lord’s leaving the world of men.’

‘Where? We see no evidence of any such vessel within the agglomeration,’ said Galt. Next to him, Caedis seethed.

‘And you are expert in these matters, lord captain?’ said Plosk. ‘No? I humbly inform my lords that I am.’

‘Lord Magos Explorator Plosk has retrieved five first-generation STC printouts, my lords,’ said Samin haughtily. ‘He is an unparalleled master in this field.’

‘I understand why you cannot detect them,’ continued Plosk. ‘Their siting is uncertain, the stellar environment here is… difficult,’ he smiled. ‘And so our first task must be to map the hulk.’

‘Our task?’ said Caedis.

‘You would not have us simply withdraw, so you can be about your business? When that is completed, then we may conclude ours,’ said Galt.

‘You are shrewd, lord captain, but no. My authority gives me the power to sequester such forces as I see appropriate to the furtherance of my efforts, and as of this moment, you and your Space Marines seem appropriate to me.’

‘You mean us to cleanse the hulk?’ said Caedis. He licked his lips. A smile ghosted across them.

‘Indeed. I thought you and yours would find that prospect appealing, Lord Chapter Master.’

‘If we refuse?’ said Galt. ‘What then?’

‘I will lodge my objections with the High Lords,’ said Plosk. ‘I recovered the tech-trove of Ophilio the Twisted from the Maelstrom. I broke the ciphers of the long-dead Martusi and brought much power to the arm of man. I have great influence. Investigation of your Chapters by the Inquisition and a penitential crusade would be the most likely outcome.’

Caedis tensed at this threat. Mazrael shifted. Galt felt this more than saw it, but their concern was palpable.

‘And if we agreed? I admit, the thought of so great a challenge fires me,’ said Caedis. A brittleness had entered his voice. He is hiding something, thought Galt.

The third tech-priest, Lord Cogitator-Lexmechanic Nuministon, rolled forward. His movement was too smooth to have been produced by legs, and Galt suspected a track unit hidden under his robes. It would not have been out of place, for Nuministon’s arms and most of his head had been replaced by metal prostheses and implants. Only fragments of the original man remained. He resembled a spindly, iron skeleton, scraps of grey skin embedded in it to no immediately apparent purpose.

‘In recognition of your services,’ Nuministon said – unlike Plosk’s natural voice, his was that of a machine – ‘the fleet yards at the forge world of Triplex Phall will undertake to construct and present the Chapters of the Blood Drinkers Adeptus Astartes of San Guisiga and the Novamarines Adeptus Astartes of Honourum one strike cruiser apiece in a period not exceeding thirty standard years after date of construction, of a class of your choosing. This we swear by the holy will of the Omnissiah, and will agree to be bound by contract to be astropathically verified by the offices of the Adeptus Terra, Adeptus Administratum, and the Lord Magi of Mars. Let our promise be lodged for all to see, for we shall honour it, this we swear before you.’

Clastin turned to look at the First Captain. ‘Brother-captain, this is an unprecedented offer…’

Galt held up his hand.

‘What use is that to us, if we should lose one cruiser, only to gain another? I could withdraw my fleet now, and save the one I have,’ said Galt.

Plosk snorted, the fat on his face wobbling. ‘And abandon your sworn duty to defend the Ultima Segmentum? I think not. No, the records speak more highly of the Novamarines than that, lord captain. Do you mean to tell me that you are nought but mercenaries away from Lord Chapter Master Hydariko’s noble leadership? I should like very much to hear what he says in response to your words. In any case, your ship Corvo’s Hammer will not survive another transit through the warp.’ Plosk sighed, and inspected his well-manicured right hand. Unlike his metal left, only the smallest digit had been replaced there. Galt wondered at what obscure sub-sect of the tech-priests this man pledged allegiance to be so unaltered. ‘I will offer this also to the Novamarines: that my fleet shall undertake repairs on Corvo’s Hammer, beginning this very day, and make it warp-worthy at the least. Full repair is a possibility, dependent upon the extent of the damage. Excommentum Incursus is a Megiron-class forge vessel, lord captain. Such minor works are well within the bounds of its many capabilities. What say you? Aid me to the greater glory of the Imperium, or turn your back upon a legitimate request? All combat operations will remain under your purview. All I request is your aid in my venture, not your servitude.’

Galt sank back into his throne. The servo-skulls buzzed away, trailing the might of Terra behind them. Here was a knotty proposition. What path to take? For a moment he wished that Lord Chapter Master Hydariko was there to make the decision, and that the burden was far from his shoulders. He looked to the lord to his right.

‘Lord Caedis?’

Caedis fixed him with eyes the colour of pale amber. A look of longing entered into them; perhaps almost of fear. The Chapter Master was breathing heavily, his grin fixed. Sparse drops of sweat stood out on his dry skin. He squeezed the throne arms, then released them, and some of the tension in his face went. He glanced aside to Reclusiarch Mazrael, who gave the slightest of nods. Caedis let out a ragged breath, he had been holding it. When he looked back at Plosk, his features were calm. ‘I say let us do it. Yes. Such a challenge, Brother-Captain Galt; one worthy of the heroes of old, do you not agree?’

‘I see no legitimate objection I can make,’ said Galt. ‘Although it vexes me to say so.’ He touched his breastplate, his hand unconsciously searching out his pendant. ‘Very well. You have the support of the Novamarines, on the condition that you do not interfere with our operations beyond that which is needed to secure any archeotech that may lie within the Death of Integrity.’

Plosk gave a broad smile. ‘As I said, lord, I wish your aid, not your fealty. It is beyond me to demand that anyway, and what do I know of military matters?’

More than you would have us believe, thought Galt.

‘We are agreed then, Lord Caedis, Lord Galt?’ said Plosk. His face had become bright.

‘Wait, High Magos Explorator,’ said Galt. ‘I have not yet finished. There is a further condition.’

Plosk glanced at his aides; the withered machine man and the boy. His lips pursed. ‘Pray tell, oh lord. We of Mars are listening.’

‘I say this to you, should four days elapse, or the hulk begin to drift back into the warp before that time has elapsed, it will be bombed into oblivion by the Novamarines. I trust I may rely on the Blood Drinkers to aid us should this occur. It fits your original intention, Lord Caedis, and it is a sensible intention, no matter how the prospect of combat entices you.’

Caedis nodded, his mouth curled in something akin to distaste. ‘Agreed. Come what may, the plague of genestealers stops here, in orbit around the star Jorso. I have striven for too long to see them slip from my grasp one more time.’

‘Marvellous!’ the magos clapped his hands together. ‘Then might I suggest we begin our plans at once, lords? A little reconnaissance will be in order, and time is of the essence.’

The Adeptus Mechanicus had evidently determined that a deal would be made prior to the meeting, for soon after the assault was agreed upon they brought into the audience room a great wheezing machine that hovered on buzzing anti-gravitic engines ten centimetres from the floor. The whole of the thing was black, so black that the edges of it were indistinct to the eye, the many arms grouped around its centre impossible to count. It cut a loathsome shape as it was shepherded into the audience chamber, spinning unsteadily on its cushion of force, until prodded in the correct direction by its handlers. It resembled nothing so much as a dead spider, legs curled in the air, carried upon the back of some pill-shaped predator on the way to its lair. The young tech-priest, Samin, stood back, hands dancing on a heavy instrument console he had taken from a servant and hung by a strap from his neck. The device spat lengths of scroll as he wrote, a serf working quickly to scoop it up from the marble floor, a second folded it efficiently and packed it into a brass-bound wooden box.

Plosk stood aside as Nuministon directed his drones to deploy the machine. Augmitters twittered as he spoke to his minions in the secret machine-speech. The spider-thing wavered to a halt. The buzz of its impellers shut off, and it dropped onto the floor heavily. Arms uncurled from the top, opening like an iron flower. A new electric noise, brazen and harsh, started up. By some contrivance the tech-priests caused the lighting in the room to go out, plunging the chamber into darkness. The sound of movement came from behind Galt as his and Caedis’s men snapped to readiness in alarm, for if the tech-priests could so influence the lights, it was not beyond reason that they could suborn the ship’s other systems, but Galt bade them stand down with a whisper into his vox.

The room burst into view again, a new light emanating from the tech-priest’s device. Formless shapes coalesced above the spider-legs, revealing its purpose as a chartdesk or pict display, although Galt had never before seen its like.

All of a sudden the most perfect false image Galt had ever seen was suspended above the spread arms of the device. The Death of Integrity sailed the air of the room, so real that he thought he could reach out and touch it. It was entirely possible that if he did so, he thought, that his hand would meet solid metal and warp-tossed stone, not light and air.

‘As you can see, my lords, our wisdom is deep. We have many gifts of the Machine-God in our possession. This device, the Imagifer Maximus, comes from the Heptacombs of Danarion, taken from the grave goods of the world’s first human lord, aeons dead and rich with technology.’

Caedis spoke from the half-light. His indignation was not so great as before, but anger stole back into his voice. ‘We are not savages of a forgotten world to be awed by your technology, High Magos.’

‘Quite. I merely bring this to your attention; that together, with your might of arms, and our many blessings, we will triumph all the quicker. There is a further reason for my deployment of the Imagifer Maximus, and it is this. With your leave, I would humbly make a suggestion.’

‘Proceed,’ said Caedis. ‘Quickly. Your prolixity tires me.’

‘No doubt you both have noticed an amount of radiation emanating from the hulk itself. The stellar environment here is turbulent, and our nearness to the star Jorso does not aid our cause one iota.’

‘Aye, we are not fools, Explorator,’ said Caedis.

Galt broke in, seeking to head off Caedis’s building irritation. ‘Our ship communications and deep scans are much affected,’ he said. ‘We are aware, magos.’

‘Then you are also probably aware that the youthful violence of Jorso is not the sole cause of your difficulty.’

The hulk grew in size until it filled the whole of the room. The long spines of a primeval spacecraft brushed past Galt’s face, so close he could see how much the hard hand of time had plucked at its surface. The hulk’s opacity lessened, the outer shell became near-transparent, uncovering a nightmarish warren of corridors, chambers, and caverns within. This was revealed in far greater clarity than Novum in Honourum’s own augur suite could manage. Nevertheless, much of the interior was blank. At the hearts of these dark spots on the map, pict representations of power sources could be seen, picked out in livid purple.

‘Within the hulk are an unusual number of active power sources. The warp engines and reactors of countless ships, that so many are still active doubtless makes our undertaking harder. Much of the hulk is flooded with radioactivity surpassing the sigma ten level. Deadly. But it is also a promising sign.’

The twinned voices of Clastrin rang out, and there was excitement in them. ‘Any datacores may still be not only part-viable, but functioning. Active, not dead, supported by the reactors. More data could thus be present, perhaps all data. A full template database?’

‘Exactly, oh son of Mars. As I said, I believe there are several ships of unsurpassed vintage contained in this agglomeration. By my reckoning, at least three of these are active. It is not beyond the bounds of hope that a full Standard Construct Database might be present. Think of it!’

Silence descended onto the room. This was the grail of the tech-priests of Mars, the condensed knowledge of the Dark Age of Technology.

‘However, it does present us with difficulty, even for our machineries,’ continued Plosk. ‘So many overlapping power signatures in such a vast object make accurate mapping difficult.’

‘‘To go into battle not knowing of the enemy’s disposition is folly,’’ quoted Galt.

‘Just so.’

‘Curse your endless circumlocution, magos. What will you tell us?’ snapped Caedis.

‘There is a way around our particular problem, a manner of mapping that is foolproof and simple.’

Red dots appeared at a dozen places around the hulk.

‘A seismic map?’ said Clastrin.

‘If we were to plant explosive modules upon the skin of the hulk, then we could build an accurate representation of the agglomeration, accurate to within eighty per cent, I would say.’

‘The other twenty per cent?’ said Galt.

The magos spread his hands and made an apologetic face. ‘Seismic mapping is a mathematical exercise, lord captain. Our devices are made aware of what shape and size things are by how quickly waves of force move through materials. Often, we have enough data for our savants and cogitators to unpick the signals and create an accurate map. It is all done by inference, you understand. But certain substances generate unusual signals. Unknown alloys, for example, or liquids of peculiar density, or anything of abnormal atomic structure might throw off our findings, lord captain. There is always a degree of guesswork in our craft. Science is an art.’

‘Very well, go to it then,’ said Caedis. ‘Why not simply proceed?’

‘The sensors operate by measuring the rapid passage of vibrations through the fabric of the gathered mass. By calculating their rapidity, how they slow and accelerate, we can discern what is stone, what is metal, what is void, and so forth. Truly is the wisdom of the Omnissiah great! He is artful and cunning indeed.’ Plosk sighed regretfully. ‘But we require a node for the vibrations, a place from which they may be gathered, triangulated and uploaded for due processing by our logicators and cogitation engines.’

‘For the result to be most effective, brother-captain, that source would best be inside the hulk,’ said Clastrin.

‘A first mission inside?’ said Galt. He sat forward. ‘You propose a reconnaissance in force.’

‘Precisely, lord captain,’ said Plosk with a shallow bow. ‘There are further benefits to an exploratory expedition. While within, other variables could be determined, variables that may well influence the composition and deployment of our – your – forces when it comes to the attack. The distribution of the radioactivity that so fills the hulk, the whereabouts of vacuum, gravitic variance, hull density, presence of atmosphere, the operational status of ships within the agglomeration, whether any of the machine-spirits inside cling to life, the placing of informational caches and other, more esoteric yet highly useful data could be gathered, processed by my tech-priests, and the knowledge gained gladly shared.’

‘That is as may be, magos. However, as soon as we enter the hulk to begin the mapping process, the genestealers will become aware of our presence,’ said Galt. ‘At the present time they do not know of us, and the majority will be in hibernation. To enter the hulk will stir the hornets’ nest. Our few men would be swiftly killed, and then a large force will be waiting, fully wakened, when we attempt the main assault.’

‘You have experience of fighting such infestations?’ asked Nuministon.

‘A great deal,’ said Galt sternly. ‘Have you, magos?’

Plosk ignored the retort. ‘Surely the hornets’ nest will be disturbed should you arrive in force? You would not have time to breach their brood chambers and purge them, then. Besides, we know of the location of but a few of their nests. Without a reliable map your efforts will be cogs too small for good gearing. Immediate assault will provoke the xenos in any case, and as an additional hindrance you will have no reliable charts to guide you.’

‘A number of small assaults is unlikely to succeed, I admit. Stealth and swiftness are our surety against death in situations such as these. They have often served us well aboard such derelicts, but here?’ Galt clucked his tongue, ‘No. Only overwhelming force will suffice.’ He gestured to pulsing green clusters, the biosigns of uncovered genestealer roosts. ‘They are many, and we are few. Even as two Chapters we are too few.’

‘Then I advise stealth first, Lord Captain Galt, the stealth you yourself say is your greatest weapon. And then, why, then the hammer blow, once our intelligence is gathered.’ said Plosk. He steepled his fingers in front of his lips and smiled. ‘Choose your battleground wisely, good disposition is half the battle.’

‘You speak sense, tech-priest, and you quote the Codex at me, whose tenets are dear to all who wear the battle-plate of the Adeptus Astartes. You are sly, but slyness alone will not sway my decision. Tell me more.’ He sat forward. ‘Where would this device of yours require its planting? Show me.’

The hulk rotated. Part of it expanded greatly, pushing the hulk out through the chamber walls. The detail became uncertain, with many gaps. In a dark patch, a ruby skull blinked.

Galt nodded curtly. ‘It is possible. The location is far from the brood roosts. Teleportation is impossible I take it Clastrin?’

‘Regrettably so, brother-captain. Matter patterning will not hold in the face of the sun’s emissions and the energy fluctuations within the hulk.’

‘Then entry must be made from the surface. Here.’ Galt pointed a finger at the skin of a starship’s back, exposed to the stars. ‘They will have to cut their way in. Boarding torpedoes will cause too much of a disturbance. One squad of Terminators, two at most. And they will have to move quickly. Three kilometres down. Hmmm.’ Galt sat back in his chair and narrowed his eyes. ‘But yes. It can be done. Lord Caedis, what is your opinion?’

‘My Chapter has little recent experience fighting such battles,’ said Caedis. ‘Although we have faced the genestealer threat on many worlds lately, we have not combated them in space for a long time, not for four recruitment generations. I defer to your Chapter’s more recent experience. I propose that you, Lord Captain Galt, should assume responsibility for this initial mission. Choose one of your warriors to lead it. I will provide a squad of my own brothers as support, under your overall command.’

‘It is an honour, Lord Chapter Master.’

‘It is prudence, lord captain, I am a proud warrior, but I will not let pride come in the way of sense.’

‘Cogitator-Lexmechanic Nuministon will accompany you,’ said Plosk.

‘Impossible,’ said Galt.

‘Necessary,’ said Plosk. ‘I doubt even your Forgemaster has the expertise required to activate our seismic probe and extract the relevant data from it.’

Galt checked readings dancing close to the mechanism of the Imagifer Maximus. ‘Only Terminator armour is proof against such a high radiation count, lord magos, you will surely perish.’

‘I will survive. The flesh is weak, but there is little of flesh about me,’ grated Nuministon. ‘And you will find my armour to possess a sufficient grade of shielding. We have our means.’

‘Very well,’ said Galt reluctantly. ‘I will not be held accountable for your fate. You come on your own recognisance, and will suffer whatever befalls you on your own account.’

‘Agreed,’ said Plosk.

‘I will accompany them,’ said Clastrin. ‘My plate, too, is sufficiently shielded.’

‘As you desire, Forgemaster,’ said Galt, inwardly pleased that the Techmarine would be there. To have ordered him would have spoken too loudly of his mistrust of the tech-priests, that he volunteered removed his opinion from the equation.

‘Who will you choose to lead the mission, lord?’ asked Clastrin in his twin voices.

Galt did not say. There was only man who should, even if to attempt this mission might mean his death, one man who had fought against xenos the length and breadth of the segmentum, including five successful hulk purgings.

Veteran-Sergeant Voldo.

CHAPTER 5

MISSION THE FIRST

Galt stood by the window of his sparsely furnished state room. He had removed his armour, and wore the robes of his order. He toyed idly with his pendant. The room’s window lay on the starboard side, opposite to the side facing the hulk and sun. He stared out through his own reflection at a starscape he had come to know very well from every angle over his long lifetime. He knew the ways it changed from place to place in the Ultima Segmentum. The stars always seemed so strong to him out in space, burning with eternal, unwavering light away from the occluding impurities of atmosphere, as if the cosmos were a thing of such cleanliness light could travel unimpeded to its every corner. Experience told him that this was not so, that the pure rays of the stars shone upon uncountable horrors, things that would snuff the life of all of mankind out given but half a chance. The universe was far from kind, no matter the beauty of the stellar light.

How long ago was it, he thought, before he had been accepted into the halls of the dead, and shown a universe he could not have imagined? Time and many wars separated the adept from the boy he had been, a boy who had believed that the stars were the eyes of the Emperor’s judges, constantly measuring a man by the tally of deeds written upon his skin, choosing the most noble of them to present to the Sky-Emperor himself upon their death.

He knew differently now, but part of him still believed. He and the others marked their skins for the Emperor even after they had learned the truth of the stars’ nature. They still expected to be judged by their markings by the Emperor. Just as much as he knew that the Emperor had been a man, a man whose legacy he carried within his altered body, still the Lord of Man was also a god to Galt. He could never distance himself entirely from that belief, and his visits to the Shadow Novum only hardened them. The bonds between the Novamarines and their brothers in Ultramar weakened as all things will weaken over time, as the Novamarines stepped steadily further down the road of veneration.

He supposed it was no different for the Blood Drinkers; that they too wandered their own path, further and further away from the habits of their primogenitor Chapter. He had no experience of the Blood Angels, and so could not compare their ways.

‘Can not a thing contain two natures?’ he muttered to himself. He rubbed at his new tattoo. He hoped it would please the Emperor, on that day he finally saw him for the reckoning of his own deeds, and that he would be judged worthy to join the legions of dead heroes he gathered for the final days. He had a feeling that what occurred here, in orbit around Jorso, would have great bearing on that acceptance.

He considered again using the fleet astropaths to ask Chapter Master Hydariko for his guidance, but decided against it. The captains of the Novamarines operated alone much of the time, and were expected to use their own discretion. That went doubly so for him, captain of the First Company, and heir-apparent to the Chapter mastership of all the Novamarines. Why he had been so elevated, he did not know. He deserved his captaincy; he was sure of his abilities, but to become Chapter Master? He had too many doubts, he was unsure of too much.

The watch chime tolled for evening contemplation, but he would meditate later. Galt had other business. Punctually, a knock sounded upon the door.

‘Enter!’ called Galt.

The door slid back and Major-domo Polanczek stepped in. He bowed deeply. ‘Lord First Captain, Lord Veteran-Sergeant Voldo is here to see you.’

‘Thank you. Show him in.’

Polanczek bowed once more and departed. A moment later Voldo came into the room. He wore the sash over his robes Galt had seen in the Shadow Novum. A chill gripped his spine, and he had to force himself to remain composed.

‘Veteran Brother-Sergeant Voldo,’ Galt said. He stepped forward and grasped his old mentor’s forearm.

‘Mantillio, how are you?’

‘I thought all eyes were on me,’ said Galt. ‘Do you not know?’

‘Eyes are upon you as they should be upon the one who leads us, as lord captain. But I meant, how are you? How is the man, Mantillio Galt?’

‘Captain and Galt… They are one and the same man, brother.’

Voldo scratched an old scar on his head, one that cut through an abstract image of an alien warrior dying under Voldo’s chainsword. ‘There is always room for yourself, even for the likes of us. If we cease to think for ourselves, we lose our usefulness as tools of the Emperor’s will.’

Galt shook his head. ‘If you avoid the rank of captain, perhaps.’

‘Precisely why I did so,’ said Voldo with a grin.

‘Please, sit.’

Voldo and Galt took seats at the room’s only table. The few pieces of furniture within were fine antiques, a selection from Ultramar and Honourum. Galt took a glass stopper from a thin-necked decanter on the table and poured a yellow wine from it into two small glasses.

Voldo picked his up, and swirled it round. ‘Carain. A long time since I tasted this.’

‘I have only the one flask remaining,’ said Galt. ‘Nearly gone now.’

‘Has it been so long?’

‘Six years since we last trod the halls of Fortress Novum,’ said Galt. He held up his glass, they rang them together and drank. The sweet taste of heather and clean, moorland water washed over his taste buds. The alcohol in the drink was rendered ineffective by his gifts, but the drink served a finer purpose than intoxication. Galt permitted his mind to slip back home to Honourum, borne upon the drink’s flavour, the chemical signatures he detected brought the memories of the plants that made it to his mind, adding to the richness of his own recollections.

They sat a moment, savouring the drink and the memory of home and the oath of protection it represented. Galt said nothing to Voldo about his visitation in the Shadow Novum.

Voldo broke the silence.

‘Why did you wish to see me, lord captain?’

‘You of all people need never refer to me as such, brother,’ said Galt. ‘We are brothers first and foremost.’

Voldo shrugged and turned the empty glass around in his hand. ‘We talk the business of the Chapter now. ‘Respect is the foundation of victory’.’

‘So said Guilliman in the Codex Astartes.’

‘Yes. Holy writ.’ He laughed softly. ‘Although I doubt Guilliman intended us to worship his words, I pay heed to them, and I give you your due respect as lord captain.’

‘If anyone deserves respect in this room, brother, it is not I but you.’

‘You are not a neophyte any more, you cannot speak so. You are my lord and I am glad for it. I saw potential greatness in you as a boy and I see greatness realised in you now as a captain. I follow your lead gladly, as any master will when his pupil’s talent is fulfilled for all to see.’

Voldo was old, one of the oldest of all Novamarines, not a millimetre of his skin was uncovered by ink. He was a riot of colour with it, images abstract and realistic, icons, badges, and scripts. Of all men, his soul was the most armoured against the dark, protected by the images that covered his skin. The grey stubble of his hair and the light hair of his arms showed starkly against his ink. Honour badges and citations of every kind adorned him – earrings, service studs, pendants, and badges sewn upon his robes. Engraved silver rings circled six of ten fingers, mementoes of his many secondments to the Deathwatch, as was his sash, embroidered with six Inquisitorial campaign badges. Voldo was highly respected, a living hero, but had always refused promotion. He could have – should have – been captain many times over. Galt had decided some time ago to change this situation should he ever become Chapter Master. He was astounded Hydariko had allowed Voldo to remain a sergeant.

He suppressed a shiver as cold as the wind of Honourum as he remembered Odon’s words. ‘Death is soon to come for the brother whose phantom so shows itself.’ He debated with himself whether he would be doing the right thing sending him into battle. But who was he to defy the will of the Emperor?

‘Tell me what you know of the sons of Sanguinius.’

‘Of these Blood Drinkers, lord? Little. They have had precious rare contact with our Chapter, as you have doubtlessly discovered in the Librarium.’

Galt nodded. ‘They are elegant, and speak well.’

‘Pretty princes,’ said Voldo disparagingly, ‘if they are like others of their lineage; obsessed with form and art. I do not know them, but I know their kind. They neglect their true vocation: war, and the contemplation of war. Our way is better.’

‘Are you sure of this? They seem eager for the fight.’

Voldo raised his eyebrows, ‘Oh, I did not say that they were not eager for battle, far from it. A thirst for combat and a deeper understanding of the art of war are not the same thing, lord captain.’

‘Tell me, why does their Chief Apothecary hold such an exalted rank? Caedis introduced him as one of his chief advisors. And his title – Sanguinary Master? I have never heard of such. Their markings and ways all speak of close adherence to the Codex Astartes, but this exaltation of an Apothecary is unusual.’

‘Aye, lord. That it is.’ Voldo set his glass down on the table. ‘I will tell you this. I have never fought with the Blood Drinkers, nor with the ten thousand-times honoured Blood Angels, but I have made war alongside others of Sanguinius’s sons. Here, ninety-six years ago, on my third secondment to the Deathwatch.’ He tapped an engraved ring on his left forefinger. ‘I was part of a kill-team led by Lord Inquisitor Holm on expedition to the world of No Glory. Damned Dovarr had overrun the place. They were alert to our presence and proved to be beyond our means, and so Holm brought out his seal and demanded aid.’ He shook his head. ‘Our kill-team fought alongside the Knights of Blood. And they too had their Apothecaries fight at the forefront, and their captains paid much attention to their counsel.’

‘Were they bold warriors?’

‘Yes lord, bold – bold beyond measure. You speak of eagerness, and well were they eager, but too eager. Granted, they were effective,’ said Voldo. ‘I saw them storm a Dovarr fortress, from above and by ground assault, but they were incautious, throwing themselves forward at the enemy when the Codex would have advised staying back, heedless of the risk and paying no mind to the subtleties of greater strategy. They prevailed, although I expected them to perish, and the cost to them in fallen brothers was not one we of the Novamarines nor the Primarch Guilliman himself would have found acceptable. I will tell you, lord,’ Voldo hunkered over the table, the fine glass tiny by his massive hand. ‘I have never seen such savagery before or since. When the enemy were all dead, I thought they would turn on us, such was their fury. Our kill-team stood, weapons raised, thinking the unthinkable was to occur, until Holm himself stepped in and ordered them back. For a moment I thought they would disobey and that I would have no choice but to kill a brother Space Marine, but their Apothecaries and Chaplains restored some order to them, and they departed No Glory without apology before the campaign concluded. Be careful, lord captain. They say the sons of Sanguinius are noble of appearance and manner, but that something dark hides inside them all.’

Galt thought on Caedis’s behaviour. ‘Their lord, he seems conflicted. His desire to bombard the hulk was considered, yet it was plain to me also that he wanted to blood his weapon.’

‘That is my point, lord captain. I mean no slander, they say those of Sanguinius’s lineage are amongst the most loyal of the Emperor’s servants, and his most accomplished warriors, but still, be wary.’

‘Very well, I thank you for your guidance, Veteran Brother-Sergeant Voldo. You remain my teacher in all things.’

‘You are welcome to my advice, Lord Captain Galt, and have but to ask to receive it, although the burden of command is yours alone. Whether or not you follow my advice is a matter for your judgement and conscience.’

‘There is one more thing I wish to discuss with you.’

‘And that is, my lord?’

Galt hesitated. He saw Voldo as he had seen him in his vision of the Shadow Novum, beyond the affairs of the living. He tried to keep his voice steady, not to let tremors of worry for his teacher unseat his authority. Self-doubt is ever the overthrow of reason, Guilliman had written.

‘A small matter of a mission, veteran-sergeant. To the hulk. It shall be your honour to be first aboard. You have fought within many space hulks, and you more than any officer here have experience of fighting alongside brothers of other Chapters. I can think of no one more suited to this task. Success is required; many eyes watch us. The honour of the Novamarines is at stake. You will have but a limited time to succeed, your action must be coordinated with those of the Adepts of Mars upon the surface, and with no means of communication between your men and the hulk’s interior, you will be forced to operate with haste to ensure the mark is hit.’

Voldo smiled. ‘A grave responsibility, lord captain, but one I gladly accept. I will see us victorious, you may have no doubt of that.’

They spent some time examining mapping data and plotting a route for Voldo’s force, debating the advantages and disadvantages conferred by varying squad weaponry, the role the Blood Drinkers would fulfil, and how best to protect Magos Nuministon should the worst occur. It was good talk, battle talk, and the detail of it occupied Galt’s mind and drove away his misgivings.

And yet, when they were done and Voldo strode out of his chambers to gather his men, Galt still wondered if he had done the right thing.

The star Jorso blazed at the Space Marines upon the hulk, its angry light unfettered by atmosphere or shielding. The radiation it emitted was enough alone to kill a man, and Voldo was glad of his Terminator armour, and the protection its sensorium offered his own eyes.

Sparks sprayed into space, silent shining rain, as Veteran Brother Gallio carved at the hulk’s surface. Voldo felt the action of Gallio’s chainfist through feet mag-locked to the skin of the ancient ship they sought to access, some bulky Imperial merchantman of uncertain age. There was no noise in the vacuum. Clastrin, almost as bulky as the Terminators in his full servo-harness, knelt by the veteran brother, plasma torches burning on the end of two of his additional mechanical arms, cutting four metres away from Gallio. Slowly, the pair of them were sketching a hole in fire of sufficient size to allow themselves access to the inner hull, where they would cut a doorway large enough to accommodate the massively armoured brothers.

Voldo watched their transport lift off and retreat to a safe distance, weaving a path through the clouds of debris sent up by the earlier bombardment. Static hissed through his helmet vox. The remainder of Squad Wisdom of Lucretius stood about Voldo and Gallio in a defensive pattern – Veteran Brothers Militor and Eskerio, and Veteran Brother Astomar with his heavy flamer under his right forearm. The Blood Drinkers Squad Hesperion stood close by, lightning claws gleaming. They wore Mark-IIIc suits, more recent than his own squad’s armours, although the youngest was doubtless a thousand years old. Tuilles hung from their belts, protecting their thighs, the adamantium reinforcement ribbing was slighter, while their sensorium augur units, mounted upon the top-left front of their suit cowls, were larger and more complex than those of Voldo’s brothers. He read their nameplates again: Genthis, Curzon, Tarael, Azmael and their leader, Alanius. Between the two squads were Nuministon and his two servitors, clad in thin, transparent vacuum suits. They carried a device somewhat like a large urn. A foot on a piston descending from a cylindrical component topped with access ports, a screen and a keypad; the seismic probe that would gather the vibrational data needed to form an accurate map of the hulk.

Nuministon wore armour of reticulated plates fitted to his machine body. It was made of a metal that could not decide if it were gold in colour or cold, metallic green and shimmered between the two. His armour incorporated powerful machine legs, and was topped by a pig-snouted helmet adorned with numerous emerald sensor eyes. The insectile look of it was bizarre, not something fit to clad a man. Voldo looked away from it, his eyes offended. He swept his gaze across the unnatural landscape of the hulk, helmet tactical overlays picking out points of strategic interest and peril.

The Death of Integrity was the biggest space hulk Voldo had seen, big enough to ape a moon in feature and form. The surface stretched away tens of kilometres, ships’ prows raised in baroque mountain ranges, buckled hull skins waterless valleys edged with knives. It was a topography forged of ruin. The shadows cast by Jorso’s strong light were hard, night-blue, confusing the pseudo-landscape further, and with the nearness of the hulk’s horizon made the scale of the hulk difficult to judge. Still, some parts of the Death of Integrity were recognisable as the craft they had once been, and this gave Voldo some reference by which to gauge distance. Close by, the flank of an Imperial light freighter canted at a drunken angle, nose buried in the agglomeration, cargo pods torn, whatever they had contained long gone. Other components of the hulk were beyond comprehension, strange vessels made by alien hands, or rotting things that looked grown, not built. Many were so battered and crushed as to be unidentifiable, reduced to tangled superstructure or plaited rucks of metal. The exteriors of those that retained their shape were scarred with long exposure to space and the warp. Patches of paint and colour were a rarity. Massive rents split the surface of the hulk, leading down into a fuliginous dark so complete as to be tangible. Rock there was aplenty, stray asteroids pulled in by the hulk’s weak gravity and impacted into the surface. Dirty ice hid in nooks, and hoarfrost coated every surface not exposed to the sun, the legacy of ruptured water tanks, aquatic shipboard environments, and hydrogen-oxygen mass reaction drives.

Not far distant was the evidence of the earlier bombardment; massive craters, droplets of frozen metal sprayed around them in elaborate patterns. Somewhere beyond that, three other groups would be working their way within the hulk, placing explosive devices just under the surface to generate tremors via sequenced explosions. It was these detonations that would be recorded by the seismic probe, and their timing that necessitated his own party’s haste.

Voldo’s eye strayed to his mission clock on the inside of his visor display. For now it was still, the eight hours on it would not count down until Galt and Caedis had been informed that the Adeptus Mechanicus teams had withdrawn. When the clock reached zero the Adepts of Mars would detonate sequenced charges, sending shockwaves rippling through the hulk.

He checked the progress of the cutting, wanting to steal a march on the clock’s activation. The Forgemaster and Terminator were through the outer layer of the hull. They pulled the metal away, their efforts enough to send it spinning off into space, and quickly cut through the reinforcements, frames, conduits and cables that lay underneath. They stepped down into the pit they had made and began to tackle the inner skin, cutting a smaller hole within the hole. White plumes of gas jetted out as they breached the compartment below and its atmosphere vented into the vacuum. Gallio worked anticlockwise from his starting point, Clastrin starting at the other side, moving toward where Gallio had begun. Gallio’s cuts were ragged from the action of his chainfist, Clastrin’s smooth and continuous, beaded with molten metal that cooled slowly in the absence of atmosphere, losing heat only through direct radiation.

The gas jets lessened and ceased. The corridor below them had emptied of its air quickly, suggesting to Voldo that it was sealed. He mentally calculated its volume based on the amount of gas he had seen vent. A thought brought up the incomplete map they had of their immediate surroundings on to his visor display. The surface corridors had been as thoroughly scanned as circumstance allowed and were well-defined, but further in, and especially closer to a nearby reactor, the map faded into probabilities, and then blankness. He compared the conclusion to his calculations with the map. It appeared they matched, and so they should. He grunted with satisfaction.

The Forgemaster and veteran brother worked fast. Within three minutes the two cuts were close to meeting. Not too soon either. Debris was falling back down onto the hulk’s surface with increasing regularity. Voldo’s suit told him that the hulk’s gravity field was under 0.02G. Not enough to make him safe were his mag-locks to be disengaged – he would be lost to the void simply by taking a step – but enough to bring some of the debris circling the hulk back down onto the whole, even so soon after the bombardment.

The vibrations from Gallio’s chainfist cut out, informing Voldo the entryway was finished. He turned to watch as Clastrin stood and stamped on the metal. It fell inwards.

‘The way is clear, brother-sergeant,’ said Clastrin, his twin voices broadcast into the helmets of everyone present. Although the pops and crackles of interference marred his words, at such close range he could be heard clearly.

Voldo walked over to the hole in the hull, slowed by the locking and freeing of his feet on the metal. He bent forward and willed his suit light on, his mind interfacing directly with the suit’s sensorium via his subdermal black carapace and the nerve shunts embedded into it. A thin beam stabbed down from the cowling over his helmet. A circle illuminated a mesh floor. ‘Contacts?’

‘Negative, brother-sergeant,’ said Eskerio, Wisdom of Lucretius’s operations specialist. He had a modified power fist, incorporating a slot for an advanced auspex in its palm. ‘But I cannot vouch for the device’s accuracy in this environment.’

Voldo brought up the overlay that would show him Eskerio’s auspex readings. The display jumped, stuttered by the stellar broil. ‘Be steady, my brothers. We go within. Squad Wisdom of Lucretius shall enter first. Inside I suggest you pair your warriors with mine, Veteran-Sergeant Alanius.’

‘Agreed, cousin.’ The Blood Drinkers sergeant spoke for the first time. None of the red-armoured brothers had said anything beyond their initial greeting on the Thunderhawk.

‘Brother Astomar shall lead the way. I shall go second. Magos Nuministon, you and your servitors will stay in the centre of the group unless I say otherwise. Is that clear?’

‘Entirely, lord sergeant.’

Voldo looked around at the fourteen-strong party; five Novamarines veterans, five of the Blood Drinkers, Forgemaster Clastrin, Magos Nuministon and his two servitor drones. ‘Today we are all brothers, although the colour of our plate be different. We are brothers born from similar seed, brothers sworn to the same service, and today in the fires of war, our brotherhood will be forged anew. Protect each other as you would your own, and we shall emerge unscathed, and glorified.’

Voldo switched his helmet vox-caster to long range, speaking directly to the fleet. ‘Lord Captain Galt, Lord Chapter Master Caedis. We are about to enter the space hulk.’

‘Good fortune to you, veteran-sergeant,’ replied Galt, his voice distant and thin in the static.

Another voice, far clearer, broadcast by the arcane might of Mars filled his helmet. Magos Plosk. ‘Mechanicus teams one and two have placed their devices and withdrawn. Mechanicus team three will be done shortly.’

‘You may start your clock now, brother-sergeant,’ said Caedis.

With a thought, Voldo activated the clock. The first digit fell away; seven hours, fifty-nine minutes, fifty-nine seconds remaining.

‘Emperor watch over us,’ said Voldo.

‘We commend our souls to his armies in this life and the next,’ intoned the Novamarines.

‘Sanguinius’s wings shield us all,’ said Alanius.

Voldo stepped into the hole and fell slowly into the space hulk. His feet met its corroded decks with a low clang he heard through the metal of his armour.

The battle for the Death of Integrity had begun.

The first corridor was empty of anything but detritus. The party arranged themselves according to Voldo’s orders, a Blood Drinker paired with each Novamarine, the tech-priest and Techmarine in their centre, and set out toward a bulkhead door some ten metres ahead. According to the data they had, the ship they had entered was a bulk agri-hauler of antique design. This close to the surface they were in the ship’s service corridors, where once upon a time maintenance crews would have patrolled, keeping sensor nets and life-bearing systems functioning, and checking for breaches in the outer hull.

‘Is there power?’ asked Voldo. ‘Forgemaster, do the ship’s mechanisms function?’

Clastrin shouldered his way forward, the corridor cramped by the great suits of armour they all wore. He extruded a sensor probe from his harness’s lower arm. The metal tentacle insinuated itself into a port below the door keypad.

‘They do, but weakly,’ he said. ‘I detect little in the way of artificial gravity or lighting. This door should open under its own power, however.’ Clastrin withdrew, leaving the activation of the door to Voldo.

‘Then stand ready, I may need you to recite your prayers for the compliance of the machine.’ Voldo reached out his free hand to the touchpad by the door. He depressed a button caked with hardened dust. For a moment, nothing happened, and then a green light feebly glimmered. The door opened, shaking on gears whose oil had long ago congealed.

A brief wind blew out as the chamber beyond decompressed. Voldo stepped in, his feet thunking onto the metal floor. The lights were non-functional, the compartment dark, patches of it lit fleetingly by the Adeptus Astartes’ bobbing suit lights.

There was barely enough room in the vestibule for the whole party, but Voldo ordered them all in. If there was atmosphere beyond these doors, he wanted to preserve it. Air of any kind would allow the motion detector’s subsidiary sensory systems to awaken; tasting the atmosphere for the taint of xenos, and feeling the mildest perturbation of gas molecules should the enemy move.

With practised ease the Terminators spread themselves around the chamber, each pair of bone-and-blue and blood-red Space Marines covering a door, glancing blows of torchlight shining off their armour as they manoeuvred round one another. Alanius took up station in the centre close by Nuministon. Militor let his storm bolter drop from his left hand to hang by a cord from the wrist. He took out a thick stick of yellow pigment from his belt, cracked the top, and used it to paint a cross on the wall by the doorway they had entered through.

‘Good,’ said Voldo. ‘Mark every turning we make, brothers. I do not trust our maps. Militor, seal the door behind us.’

Militor did as ordered.

Voldo checked the feed from Eskerio’s auspex. There was no sign that they had been noticed. ‘Prepare, brothers,’ he said. ‘I will open this door.’

Terminators shifted stance, bringing their weapons up, readying themselves for whatever might be within the next chamber. Voldo keyed the door open. This second portal opened smoothly, the wind that blew from it was over quickly as the pressure between the two compartments equalised. On the other side a handful of ceiling lamps flickered dim yellow, still clinging to their purpose centuries after their intended operational lifespan had been exceeded. They lit a corridor that ran straight down the spine of the ancient craft, still straight, despite the spaceship being pressed hard into the body of the agglomeration.

‘The atmosphere is thin, but breathable should we require it,’ said Brother Azmael, who fulfilled a similar function in Squad Hesperion to Eskerio.

‘Let us hope we do not, brother,’ said Alanius.

‘This is the way, brother-sergeant,’ said Eskerio, gesturing forward. ‘In the centre of this vessel is a vertical shaft – a cargo lift, I judge – that leads right through this ship. From there we shall be able to head downwards, and from a lower deck access the vessel abutting this and so deeper into the hulk. That way we will swiftly reach the point determined by the tech-priests as best for their device.’

‘How far to the shaft?’

‘One hundred and fifty metres.’

Voldo’s eyes flicked over to his rad-counter, down in the bottom right of his helmet display. ‘Radiation levels appear low,’ said Voldo. ‘They will increase.’

‘Yes brother-sergeant,’ said Eskerio. ‘This component vessel’s tertiary reactor is still active, and leaking.’

‘Will your servitors last, Magos Nuministon? They are not shielded,’ said Alanius.

‘They are disposable, Lord Sergeant Voldo, and they will last long enough to fulfil their purpose,’ Nuministon said. His voice, unlike the others, blared from his helmet speakers, violating the deathly peace of the hauler.

‘Deactivate your external helmet vox, magos. We are here as shadows. Do not announce our presence. Communicate via vox-caster only,’ said Voldo.

There was a click as Nuministon obeyed without demur. Voldo was grateful, he had half-expected a refusal and an arrogant proclamation on the strength of the Machine-God and the power of the metal over the flesh. He had seen many men die painfully because they held fast to the convictions of one sect or another. In his long experience, providence and plate were better shields than conviction.

‘An oversight on my part. You have my apologies,’ said Nuministon.

‘We proceed. Brother Militor, hold position and cover our rear.’

‘Yes, brother-sergeant.’

‘I shall leave Brother Curzon with you,’ said Alanius.

‘That is wise,’ Voldo turned to face the two Space Marines, blood and bone armours stood shoulder to shoulder. ‘The two of you await my command,’ said Voldo. ‘You will cover and monitor this accessway. The nearest known brood chamber lies some way outside this vessel, but we are still deep in the genestealer’s primary habitation zone, and I will not leave our rear exposed.’

‘Yes brother-sergeant,’ said Militor.

There was a rumble. The hulk shook. Flakes of corrosion fell down from the pipes along the ceiling. The Terminators’ massive torsos twisted atop rock-steady legs as they scanned the ceiling and walls. The tremor lasted twenty seconds or so, bringing with it the sounds of grinding metal and the impact of mass against mass before gradually subsiding.

‘What was that?’ said Azmael.

‘A hulk quake,’ said Voldo.

‘Level seven on the Meullin scale,’ said Clastrin.

‘Indeed,’ said Nuministon.

‘The agglomeration is unstable. Our bombardment will have redistributed its mass loading,’ said Clastrin. In any one place in the hulk the gravity was so low as to be non-existent. But gravity wells formed by active grav plates unevenly drew in loosened mass, there was the irregular motion of the hulk to accommodate, and then variance in its own localised gravity fields owing to the density of its constituent parts. All contributed to the violent shifting of the material trapped in the hulk. ‘A further peril.’

‘There will be more,’ said Eskerio.

‘In all probability, brother,’ said Clastrin.

‘Another reason to be on our way, fulfil our objectives and depart swiftly,’ said Voldo. ‘Brothers, on me.’

In a long line the party clumped on down the corridor, alert to signs of the enemy, leaving Militor and Curzon alone in a lonely pool of suit-cast light.

They gained the shaft without incident, their passage disturbed only the dust and the ghosts of the dead. Voldo kept an eye on the mapping and motion tracking equipments’ feeds as they progressed. Within his suit display, corridors sharpened as their equipment gained a grasp on the true form of their proximate environs. The auspex detected no signs of movement other than their own. Only the reconnaissance party showed up on the map. Each member was represented by a pulsing icon; the appropriate badge for their order – skull and nova, blood drop and chalice, and the skull and cog of Mars. Far to the rear of the line in the corridor Militor and Curzon’s markers throbbed. The life signs of Voldo’s men and feeds from their suit picters crowded the left of his visor screen, the tick-tick-tick of the rad-counter a metronomic beat to their advance.

Voldo walked slowly but effortlessly, the great mass of the Terminator armour moved by its own motive systems. As such, its size required only a little more effort on his behalf than his usual plate; it was cumbersome but did not hinder him. His breath came easily, the sound of it filling his helmet. This, the ticking of the rad-counter, his steady, heavy footfalls, the whirr of motors, the quiet hum of the armour’s power plant – these were the sounds that made up his immediate world. The suit’s sensorium, far more complex than that found in simple power armour, filled his vision and his mind with information gathered from the environment. He could feel the armour as if it were his own skin, in a numbing, distant way, like he wore an overcoat made of his own shadow, doubled sensations that required much acclimatisation. The suit’s feeds attempted to be all-encompassing, but paradoxically the effect could be isolating, dangerously so. One could fall into a kind of trance within the suit. Lulled by the sense of protection it conferred and the womb-noises of its mechanisms, a certain blindness to peril could set in, until it was too late.

The armour, for all its sensorium’s sophistication, provided a limited view to his eyes of flesh. His peripheral vision was circumscribed by the edges of the suit’s cowling and shoulder pads. He could turn his head only so far to the left or right. In a similar manner, he could not look far either down or up without tilting his torso, the movement allowed by the plastron and outer placard that made up his breastplate being restrictive. He could not, of course, see behind him without rotating the whole of his body, and the suit cameras of his squad were invaluable in providing alternative views of the environment.

On the open battlefield, such things were a lesser concern, but in the cramped confines of the spacecraft, they could be deadly. It was fortunate that the ceramite and armourplas that clad his body was proof against most weapons. Brothers equipped in tactical Dreadnought armour had to maintain a high level of situational awareness. Making war in this manner was mentally and psychologically taxing even for the superhuman Adeptus Astartes. It was not only matters of honour that restricted the armour’s use to the Veteran Company; inexperience was as perilous as a direct lascannon hit to those wearing Terminator plate.

A broad doorway emerged from the dark. Glittering motes of dust danced in the beams of their suit lights. Voldo raised his right fist and clenched it. Behind him, the brothers of the Novamarines and Blood Drinkers fanned out. Voldo had his map zoom in, mentally selected the icons for brothers Astomar, Eskerio and Tarael. He used his suit visor overlay to plot new positions for them. He executed the command and sent it to the two squads. All this took a breath, his thoughts conveyed from his mind to the ports in his black carapace and thence to the Terminator armour’s own cogitator and on to the squad. Wordlessly, the veteran brothers obeyed. The deck shook as they plodded past him.

‘I request access to your squad’s feed, Veteran-Sergeant Alanius.’

‘Granted freely, cousin,’ said Alanius, his voice was liquid, as perfect as his physical form, but there was a hint of arrogance to the Blood Drinkers sergeant which Voldo found objectionable.

A chime from his vox, and five more square pict views popped into life in his helmet. Those of his own squad reduced in size to accommodate them. In the views from the three Space Marines by the door, he could see a large, high-ceilinged room twenty metres across. A yawning, black square pit seven metres each side occupied its centre.

‘Brother Astomar, Brother Tarael, pan left to right.’

The Terminators obeyed, torsos rotating as they tracked their augur eyes over the room. Voldo watched as the suit lights slid over the wreck of dead machinery embedded in the walls. One corner of the room was wrinkled up into a metal wave, never to break, the result of the vessel’s impact when joining the hulk.

He developed a better picture of the room. Eskerio had been correct, it was a cargo lift. Doors like the one they stood in were in three of the four walls. A short corridor lined with dirty hazard striping led away from the fourth side to his left, almost certainly to an external airlock.

He watched as the lights went back and forth, bright spots on dead walls, a fainter halo around each, and in that halo…

‘Wait!’ Alanius said. ‘Brother Tarael, pan back one metre, drop the vertical twenty degrees.’

Tarael bent forward slightly, the full beam of his suit light picking out a huddled shape upon the floor.

‘Do you see it, Brother Voldo?’ asked Alanius.

‘Yes. A corpse.’

‘A crewman. Cover my advance,’ Alanius said.

Without discussion, Alanius clumped past and went into the lift room. Voldo cursed inwardly. That was reckless, as reckless as those damned Knights of Blood had been on No Glory, and he chided himself for not heeding his own warning to Galt. He resolved to keep a sharper hold on his counterpart in future. To stop him now, mid-action, would be a grave insult for one of the same rank, for all Voldo being designated commander.

Voldo checked the motion tracker. Nothing. Annoyed, he followed the Blood Drinkers sergeant into the lifthead.

The impact damage was worse close up. He glanced to the left side, checking the airlock as he walked past. The doors were so buckled they barely deserved the name, ruptures formed jagged metal lips that puckered round slashes of dark. Whatever the craft abutted in the crush of the hulk had formed a seal over the torn airlock, keeping in the tenuous atmosphere.

Alanius knelt on one knee by the corpse. Voldo stood over him and bent forward. His suit beam lit upon a human skeleton within a standard Imperial ship’s emergency suit. Both hands were thrown up to the face. Alanius gently lifted an arm with the tip of a claw away from the helmet visor. The glove of the hand was missing, exposing the dead man’s grey finger bones. The hand flopped onto the floor with a rattle, bones coming apart and rolling across the metal like dice and bouncing into the air.

Behind the yellowed plastek faceplate a skull gaped. Its jaw hung loose, mouth wide in a silent scream.

Voldo ran his light down the suit. The chest had been ripped open, ribs shivered into fragments.

‘Eviscerated,’ said Alanius. ‘What is your opinion as to this man’s fate, cousin?’

‘Xenos pirates mayhap. But look, these are surely the marks of claws.’

Alanius ran his light up the wall. ‘Aye,’ he let it rest on a gruesome sight. A hand and arm hung from the wall. A screaming face protruded above it, its terror preserved for all time in metal. ‘I know of few weapons that can cause such melding between the organic and inorganic.’

Voldo called Clastrin to join them. A moment later he stood by their sides.

‘A Geller collapse,’ Clastrin’s paired voices said, ‘followed by uncontrolled translation from the empyrean. This is a likely explanation for the contamination of the ship’s metal by human flesh. This man would have become displaced into the metal, becoming one with its fabric.’

‘A Geller field collapse? This other was clearly slain,’ said Alanius, gesturing at the corpse.

‘Pirates, raiders quick to fall upon a stricken ship,’ said Clastrin. ‘The possibilities are many.’

‘Yes,’ said Voldo.

Alanius stayed kneeling, staring at the dead man. Voldo felt a rush of brotherhood for the Blood Drinker.

‘You think on his fate?’

‘Dying, alone in the dark. Yes. It pains me our kind are too few to protect them all,’ said Alanius. ‘They treat us like gods and yet they still die.’

‘The Adeptus Astartes cannot be everywhere. We do what we can. The loss of a billion lives is nothing if the Imperium stands,’ said Voldo sternly.

‘We are here now, are we not? Too late for him and his comrades. He would have died in terror, with no succour.’

Voldo rested his hand on the other sergeant’s shoulder. ‘If that is so or not so, they are long gone and we have other foes to concern ourselves with. I admire your care for life, in these dark times men are careless with what is most precious of all, and for the nature of this man’s death I feel also grave regret. But we have another task that will save others from similar pain. Come, we must go on.’

Alanius rose from his knees, a laborious action in Terminator armour, despite the minimal gravity.

Voldo asked Eskerio to mark the doorway and then the two sergeants had their men gather around the lift shaft. While Astomar and Gallio kept watch, the others retrieved flares from their utility pods and threw them down into the shaft. The flares flew more than fell, tumbling into the dark until they became little bigger than matchlights. Their connection with the bottom was nearly inaudible, bouncing around the shaft until their energy was spent. They continued to burn, flickering over the dross at the bottom of the shaft.

‘Sounding, five hundred metres,’ said Eskerio.

‘Magos Nuministon, Forgemaster Clastrin, is the lift still functional?’

By this point Clastrin had gone to an interface unit by one of the doors, Nuministon beside him, a freshly unscrewed panel lay on the floor. Various manipulators from Clastrin’s harness were plugged into the guts of the wall. Nuministon’s supplications to the dormant machines murmured in the force’s helmets.

‘No, brother-sergeant. It is inactive. If you would but wait, I will reroute power… Ah. I have it.’

A screech from behind the walls, an unsteady thrum, and running lights flickered on in the four corners of the shaft. Most remained dark, but there were enough to pick out the shaft’s general condition.

‘I have accessed the ship’s datacore, what is left of it. I have activated what systems I can. Our way may be easier ahead.’ said Clastrin. ‘This ship was the bulk agricultural hauler Father Harvest, registered 481.M37, in the Segmentum Obscurus. Crew complement of one hundred and eighty-nine, thirteen passengers. Lost 329.M38 with all hands. Take note of the name for the records of the Administratum, so that its fate might be noted.’

Voldo checked his sensorium map. ‘We will best exit this vessel by the deck seven below this one. Confirm, Brother Eskerio.’

Eskerio adjusted the device set into his power fist. ‘Deck eight has a weakened section that can be cut through quickly, so that we might attain entry to the deeper vessel.’

Voldo addressed Clastrin and Nuministon. ‘Once we have reached the deck, use our safety lines to help bring you down. Brother Blood Drinker Tarael, remain here with the magos until we call for him. Militor, Curzon, respond.’

‘Brother-sergeant,’ said Militor, his voice peppered with interference.

‘Redeploy to the lifthead. Curzon and Tarael are to rejoin us, following down the shaft once we have established a perimeter on deck eight.’ If they ran into difficulty, Voldo reasoned, the close combat capabilities of the Blood Drinkers would be useful, while Militor’s longer-range armament made him the natural choice for covering such a large area as the lifthead. That Voldo wished to keep all the Blood Drinkers where he could see them was a further consideration.

Tarael stood back as the other Terminators stepped over the edge of the void, feet tapping at the walls of the shaft until their mag-locks made a firm connection. Armour motors whining, fibre bundles straining against the hulk’s weak native gravity and the armours’ mass, the Terminators hauled themselves over so that they were at ninety degrees to the ship’s nominal floor. They were facing down directly to the hulk’s mass centre, held to the side of the shaft by their boots. The gravity was so weak, up and down were illusory. Safety lines shot out from the back of their suit cowls, super-strong wires tipped with razor grapnels that punched into the ceiling, spreading wide within the ship’s skin. Should the mag-locks fail, they would prevent the veterans from floating free.

The descent took some time, the Terminators proceeding carefully. Far below them, they could make out bones amid the debris at the foot of the lift shaft before the flares burned out.

They made it to the eighth deck without incident, where they clambered into that level’s lift room. It was a match for the lifthead, the lift being open on all sides on every loading deck. The Space Marines spread out, investigating the few chambers on the level around them. These were cargo holds in the main, expansive spaces that filled two decks vertically, with entry points so they could be loaded from two points, one every other deck. The holds were full of putrid, unidentifiable rot. Their walls were bowed inwards by the pressures exerted upon the ship by the rest of the hulk, and the catwalks that ran over them were buckled.

‘There is no sign of the enemy, veteran-sergeant,’ said Alanius over the vox, reporting back to Voldo. ‘The damage to the ship is greater here, and in two of the three holds there is a large amount of radioactivity. I am glad we do not go that way.’

While the others secured the deck, Azmael, Eskerio and Voldo repeatedly checked their auspexes. Voldo directed the two veteran battle-brothers to probe this direction and that until he was satisfied they still moved unnoticed. A perimeter established, the seismic device was lowered down and pulled in by the Novamarines. Clastrin, Nuministon and the servitors followed. Clastrin spurned the safety lines, using the four additional limbs of his servo-harness to clamber down the shaft in the manner of a mechanical spider. Then the two brothers of the Blood Drinker’s Veteran Company rejoined the main body of the party. Militor remained above. The group gathered together again, Voldo checked the dwindling long-range vox signal strength, and hailed the Novum in Honourum.

‘We are on the eighth deck of the agri-hauler, and about to proceed further, lord captain. Communication will become more difficult as we go on.’

Galt’s voice crackled back, almost lost to the voice of the star and the seep of radioactive particles spilling from the ships’ reactors. ‘Let the flash of righteous weapon fire light your way. Come home safe, Veteran-Sergeant Voldo, Veteran-Sergeant Alanius.’

‘Yes, lord captain.’ Voldo disengaged the long-range link, glad to be rid of the hiss of static. ‘Brothers, onwards.’

Further into the ship the Space Marines of the two Chapters went, checking and rechecking each door and corridor as they went.

‘Your caution increases, lord sergeant,’ said Nuministon.

‘Genestealers rarely venture to the very outermost levels of an infested hulk,’ said Voldo. ‘But it is in dark places like this, deeper in, where the unwary might be ambushed and infected unseen, that they prefer to wait,’ said Voldo. ‘I would have thought that you, magos, with your remit you would be aware of this.’

‘Rarely do I encounter such creatures,’ said Nuministon haughtily. ‘My work is of a higher order.’

‘Be thankful that you do not, then,’ said Voldo sharply.

They made it into a corridor where most of the lights were on and the artificial gravity was working. The Forgemaster checked the stability of the corridor’s grav plating.

‘They are active,’ Clastrin said. ‘You may disengage your mag-locks.’

Voldo was pleased. With the mag-locking off, they could proceed with greater speed.

The corridor was bent out of true, the damage to the ship’s fabric growing greater the deeper they went into the hulk. In one place the Terminators had to squeeze through a section where the floor rose up close to the ceiling. Small cells lined the corridor, crew quarters, or perhaps those for passengers paying for passage on the merchantman. Not far beyond the narrowing, they passed a room the doorway of which was part-blocked. A barricade had been thrown up behind it; heavy bars welded in place. It looked formidable but had not held, the door had been slashed open and peeled back into wicked triangles, the barricade smashed down.

Voldo had Brothers Genthis and Curzon approach. Light played along their claws as they activated their energy fields. They adopted combat stances, wheeled into the doorway, investigated, and let their weapons drop and deactivate.

‘Brothers, we have found the remainder of the ship’s crew,’ said Genthis. He bowed his head and pointed inside with his lightning claws.

The room, a kitchen, it seemed to have been, contained a scene of ancient slaughter. The bones of the men who had once staffed Father Harvest were scattered like twigs across the floor, black bloodstains on the walls marked their passing from this life into the next. All else had passed, ground to dust by the passage of time.

‘Emperor preserve their souls,’ said Alanius softly.

It was a small room, insignificant, its mundane purpose adding to the poignancy of what must have been a desperate last stand.

‘They await the final call to serve, their lot in this life is done, in the next they may excel,’ said Voldo, emotionlessly reciting the prayer of Honourum. ‘Had xenos broken into the ship, at least the crew would have died quickly.’

‘That is somewhat callous, brother-sergeant,’ said Alanius. ‘They were men of the Imperium, men such as we are sworn to protect.’

Voldo turned away from the grey bones and black blood. ‘I meant no callousness nor disrespect to these men; but conjecture on their fate, however awful, is ultimately meaningless. Whatever battle was fought here was done long ago. Long before the ship was attracted to the agglomeration and found another peril to stalk its halls.’

They passed on toward the final corridor they had to traverse in the broken agri-hauler, the way to the next ship in the hulk. They opened the door to this corridor, and Voldo’s rad-counter buzzed like an insect taking flight.

There was a strange mist low on the air, green and heavy. Tendrils of it uncurled themselves into the doorway, trailing across the feet of the group.

‘Radioactive fog,’ said Voldo.

‘It is the air itself, poisoned by the dying of machines,’ said Clastrin. ‘This we certainly may not breathe.’

‘We are far from the sources of active radioactivity,’ said Voldo.

‘That suggests the fog will only grow thicker as we proceed. The environment here is poorer than anticipated,’ said Nuministon. ‘This is valuable data, useful for the assault. It will not harm you. Your armour is proof against such hazards, as is mine.’

‘You speak truly,’ said Alanius, ‘but your servitors, magos, their organic components will die.’

‘And as I stated before, they will persist long enough to fulfil their purpose,’ replied Nuministon.

‘We should hurry our pace nevertheless, lest they fail. It would go ill if two of our brothers are occupied with transporting the device and we are attacked,’ said Voldo.

‘I concur, brother Novamarine,’ said Alanius.

The party proceeded, kicking the fog into uncanny shapes. It grew thicker, rising from the floor to fill the corridor to the ceiling, crowding their vision and disabling their long-range sensors. Suit light beams were forced nearer and nearer to their source as the fog grew denser, until each Terminator appeared as a bulky phantom led by a bobbing will-o’-the-wisp. The glow from the ship’s functioning light fittings withdrew within the vapour, becoming pale smears of uncertain origin. Doors gaped wide and sudden. Where the floor buckled it came as a surprise and the Terminators stumbled. Lesser men, even lesser members of the Adeptus Astartes, would have felt their nerves fray in these circumstances, but these were the veterans of two great Chapters, and they felt nothing but a heightened sense of wariness.

‘Switch to echo location,’ said Voldo. ‘Sound will be our guide.’

‘Will it not alert the xenos?’ asked Azmael. ‘When we fought them on Xoros Ten, they appeared to be able to hear well into the ultrasonic range.’

‘Yes,’ said Voldo. ‘They will be able to hear the echo locator’s voice, but only if they are near. It is better to know the ground and risk combat than to be blind.’

The Terminators did as ordered. Sonic units pulsed.

‘This is a poor situation, brothers,’ said Eskerio. ‘Radiation is far higher than we anticipated.’ The motion tracker was a useless fuzz beyond seventy metres, the map limited to a series of stacked boxes painted in high-pitched sound.

‘We are close to the exit point,’ said Voldo. ‘Be steady.’

They came to the end of the corridor, where it took a sharp bend to the left, following the hull’s inside. Further that way the corridor was blocked, the hull and ceiling pressed down as if a hand had crushed the ship, but the wall directly ahead was clear, with space for Clastrin and Gallio to work. They approached, and Voldo and his comrades felt their weight shift.

‘The grav plates here are dead,’ said Clastrin. ‘Re-engage mag-locks.’

A series of clunks sounded as boots locked to the floor.

‘Here Brother Gallio, this is to be our way into the next ship.’ Voldo indicated a patch of wall.

‘I will aid you, Brother Gallio, as before,’ said Clastrin.

The Master of the Forge and veteran brother set to work, the others standing guard over them. Alanius had Brother Curzon station himself by debris, in case something did come through. Others hunted out underfloor access ways, or roof vents and crawlways that led into the ship’s systems. Genestealers could cram themselves into remarkably tight spaces, to emerge where least expected.

The veteran brothers stood as still as statues, green fog caressing their armour, the long silence of the ship torn by the crackle and whine of Gallio’s chainfist and the hiss of Clastrin’s plasma torches. Voldo checked his mission clock. Three hours in. In another five the tech-priests of the explorator fleet would expect the device to be functional and start their own machines. There was no way to signal them should that not be the case.

The Forgemaster and Gallio were close to breaching the inner skin when Eskerio called out. ‘Brother-Sergeant Voldo! Quadrant five, coordinates 917.328.900.’

Voldo sent his map over to that point, a labyrinth of corridors and rooms and crawlspaces and cracks whisked past his eyes. He was just in time to see a small, pulsing red dot, before it moved off the edge of their equipment’s effective range. Five hundred metres, slightly forward, down and to the left of them. Not close, but close enough.

‘Are we noticed?’ asked Alanius.

‘It is hard to say,’ said Voldo. ‘Genestealers sleep most of their time aboard these hulks, but there are always a few awake. Sentries, if you will. If one has seen us, all have. They are psychically attuned to one another.’

‘Aye,’ said Alanius. ‘It is the way Brother-Epistolary Guinian tracked them here, through their psychic bond.’

‘They are beasts. Beasts do not post sentries,’ said Curzon.

‘If our Novamarines brother says they do, believe him. Do not dismiss the genestealers as animals,’ said Alanius. ‘We have not fought side by side with Master Caedis these last twenty-five years against them. They have claimed more than a few of our brethren who thought as you do. Do not underestimate them.’

‘It is my eternal regret our squad was with the Fifth Company all this time, brother-sergeant,’ said Curzon.

‘Do not despair, brother, we will have chance to blood your claws.’

‘You have not faced this foe before?’ said Voldo.

‘No. Squad Hesperion had been attached to the Fifth Company’s taskforce for some time, and we have been separated from the rest of our veteran brothers,’ said Alanius. ‘Lord Caedis wished us to accompany you, so that when the assault comes, all the First Company will have faced the genestealers in battle. You have great experience, he desires us to share it.’

Voldo could see the wisdom in that, and the lack of it.

Gallio pulled back a wide section of hull plate with the help of Clastrin’s servo-harness. ‘Brother-sergeant, we are through.’

A black space gaped, into which the radioactive fog was rapidly sucked, spilling over the lip of metal like a waterfall.

Voldo strode forward. The ships had been pushed so hard together the metal of their hulls was mashed into one. He stepped one foot over the raw doorway, and lowered himself the fifty centimetres difference between the two ships’ decks. A black space gaped in front of him, his suit light too feeble to dissipate the imprisoned night.

He drew his power sword. Blue lightning crackled along its edges.

‘Brothers,’ said Voldo. ‘Be on your guard.’

CHAPTER 6

FIRST CONTACT

The second ship was also of Imperial origin, but far older and in worse repair than the Father Harvest. Many of its compartments were crushed to nothing. In places the floor had fallen away entirely, giving view to deck after crumbling deck until they were swallowed by the hulk’s fathomless dark. Paths the map showed as clear were clogged with wreckage many metres deep that they could not cut through. One passage was a solid mass of rippled ice, another cut by a chasm they could barely see across. Each time they were forced to double back and find another route. All systems aboard the ship were inert and remained so despite the best efforts of Nuministon and Clastrin to coax them into life. Neither their tools nor their prayers would awaken them, and after a time the Techmarine and magos abandoned their efforts, and the group pressed on as best they could. Every door they encountered had to be cut through. Gallio’s chainfist made short work of such obstructions, but the screech of metal on metal and the rapid bangs of the weapon’s disruption field shattering matter threatened to bring the foe upon their heads. Each door breached was followed by a tense pause, every member of the party listening for the approach of furtive claws while Eskerio and Azmael scrutinised their instruments.

There was no sign of the enemy.

The Space Marines did not speak but to offer status reports. The ship was so full of holes that every corridor presented a tactical nightmare should the enemy choose to attack. They were free of the fog for a time, allowing their auspexes to see deeper into the structure. No new contacts were reported, but then they passed through a crumpled bulkhead and they were into the fog again. The range of the auspexes abruptly contracted, and Voldo’s rad-counter screamed so loudly he was forced to silence its audio function.

Not long after they re-entered the radioactive fog, one of the servitors stumbled and went down onto its knees. The other did not register its companion’s malfunction, dragging the seismic probe forward and pulling the dying servitor off balance until Nuministon halted his slave. The kneeling once-man panted slowly behind the clear cylinder of its environment suit helmet, then it toppled forward to lie half-hidden in the mist.

Genthis, directly behind the servitors in the party line, called a halt. He strode forward and pushed the servitor over with his foot. Milky eyes stared out of a face clearly exhibiting radiation burns. ‘Dead,’ he called. ‘One of us will have to take up the burden.’

‘Who?’ said Astomar. ‘You Blood Drinkers all bear claws, you cannot carry the machine, nor can I.’ He waved his heavy flamer, its housing clasped firmly around his right hand, by way of illustration.

‘Brothers, I will bear it alone,’ said Clastrin. ‘The other servitor will be dead soon in any case.’ He spoke to the remaining cyborg in the twitters of machine speak. It let go of the probe and stepped back. Clastrin moved the dead servitor from his path, and, gripping the device in his servo arm’s manipulators, heaved it off the ground.

‘Sergeants,’ said Azmael, ‘I am picking up contacts.’

‘I too,’ said Eskerio. ‘Fifty metres distant, two of them.’

Voldo hurried his map over to the edge of the auspex’s current range. Two blips. They faded.

‘They have stopped,’ he said. ‘They have stopped because we have stopped.’

‘They are following us,’ said Alanius. ‘Could they be herding us into an ambush?’

‘It is possible,’ said Voldo. ‘They might simply be waiting for reinforcements. We have been noticed. Even now, their vile kin will be stirring from their slumber. We must move on quickly.’

‘We are nearly at our objective,’ said Alanius.

‘We are, but our way back is blocked,’ said Voldo.

‘No. If we are quick, we might fight our way free before too many come and retrace our steps,’ said Alanius. ‘My brothers are armed for close quarter fighting. Let them come to us, we will drive a way through for us all.’

‘Very well,’ said Voldo. ‘Brother Astomar, you are to take rearguard. Fill the corridor with promethium should the genestealers come. Burn them.’

‘As you order, brother-sergeant.’

Astomar dropped to the back of the line. They forged ahead, moving as quickly as they could in their armour, all pretence at stealth gone. The corridor they travelled creased inward from both sides, and for one heartbeat Voldo thought they would have to retrace their steps yet again. He pushed on. His plate screeched on the wall, his Crux Terminatus leaving white streaks as it grazed the metal. Then he was through.

They wasted several minutes negotiating the seismic probe through the gap. The mission clock ticked down. In an hour, the tech-priests would detonate their explosives. The probe had to be active by then.

The two dots stayed forever on the edge of the auspex’s range, disappearing when pockets of extreme radiation reduced the auspexes’ efficacy, appearing worryingly close when the machines were able to cast their sensing nets out further. Sometimes the contacts were together, and sometimes apart, but always they were there.

The party broke through into a series of corridors and chambers that had retained something of their original shape. Their speed increased. Voldo had Astomar hang back from the main body of the group, covering its rear, before rejoining them under the watchful gaze and gun of Eskerio, and then remaining behind once more. This seemed to keep the creatures shadowing them back a little, and Voldo breathed easier.

They passed into a lozenge-shaped compartment, where the tattered remains of radiation suits hung from rusted hooks and traces of hazard signs were visible under ancient corrosion. A further door led into a square room, double doors marked with sigils of warding and warning at its far side. On Voldo’s map the mission objective marker glowed bright in the centre of the wide room beyond.

‘And so providence brings us nigh to our goal brothers,’ said Voldo. ‘Magos Nuministon, Forgemaster Clastrin, to the front with me.’

They forced open the double doors by dint of main force. On the other side, four long, four-storey machines filled the room, spaced regularly apart; the vessel’s Geller field generation room.

Nuministon spoke. His harsh voice was unpleasant over the vox-speakers, but for once Voldo was glad to hear it.

‘We are here. I shall deploy my machine.’

‘There are ten minutes left upon the mission clock,’ said Voldo. ‘Be swift so that we might be away as soon as the soundings are taken.’

Before Voldo would allow Nuministon through, he had Eskerio conduct a thorough scan of the room, then investigated it himself with Brother Gallio and Brother Eskerio at his side. There were two other exits; a door to the left and a broad way opposite the double-doored entrance. This wide corridor was filled with wreckage, a narrow gap at its top.

‘There is a hole in the ceiling, brother-sergeant,’ said Eskerio, gesturing upward with his power fist. ‘Easy ingress for the xenos.’

Voldo tilted his torso backward, sending his suit light beam leaping up the wall. The breach it revealed was wide, fringed with streamers of bent metal bracing, the room above inky black. ‘I see it. It is unfortunate. Gallio, cover the breach. We cannot secure this room entirely, but we will do all we can. Brother Astomar, report.’

‘No sign of the enemy, brother-sergeant.’ Astomar was twenty metres back down the corridor by the far door of the old suiting room, weapon pointing the way they had come.

‘If we have arrived at our objective, Brother Voldo, Azmael and Curzon should join your brother at the rear. They can engage the xenos should they weather the flames, while Brother Azmael’s presence there will extend the boundaries of our auspex’s range,’ said Alanius.

‘Yes, a good course of action.’ Voldo checked his map. He set out a plan for the others as Curzon and Azmael stamped back through the forechamber to join Astomar. Genthis and Tarael joined Eskerio and all took up station beside the door leading from the forechamber into the suiting room, covering Astomar, Curzon and Azmael’s retreat. By mutual agreement, Alanius set off to the debris pile, ready to intercept anything that might force itself over the top, while Voldo himself strode to the doorway leading out of the side of the Geller room. He sheathed his sword and wrenched the doors open a crack, an impossible task without the Terminator armour amplifying his already considerable strength. The corridor beyond it was empty.

‘Lord Forgemaster Clastrin, please weld this door closed.’

Clastrin deposited the sensor probe where Nuministon indicated and joined his Chapter brother. His servo-harness’s manipulators locked themselves to the doors and pushed them shut again. A hissing plasma torch descended on a slender mechanical arm and burned into the metal. Voldo looked away, its brightness interfering with his armour’s sensorium.

The map within his helmet showed his group’s disposition, icons overlaid on a green wireframe representation of the rooms. Nuministon was by his device. Gallio stood back from the hole in the ceiling. He glanced at the magos from time to time, checking his progress. Through Gallio’s suit picter, Voldo saw the tech-priest activate the machine. Light glowed from the upper screen. Nuministon pressed at something. Arms extruded themselves from cavities in the device’s four corners, descended to the ground and locked it down. The foot, which Voldo had originally taken to be the main support, was now suspended fifty centimetres or so from the ground.

‘I am ready,’ said Nuministon. ‘Now we must wait for the detonations.’

Voldo went through the placing of his and Alanius’s warriors one more time, thought of tactical responses to attacks from various quarters, committing courses of action to memory. It was always the same, no matter how many times he fought. The sense of oneness he felt with his armour retreated, the feed from the sensorium crawling into the back of his skull, leaving him feeling pinned and helpless within the suit’s thick layers of ceramite, plasteel and adamantium. For more than one brother he had known, the armour had become a trap, and then a tomb. Despite their strength and durability, the Terminator suits could be damaged, and if their own guiding machine-spirits died, they were impossible to free oneself from. And if one could free oneself, it begged the question, where would a brother go? Into the near-airless, toxic environs of the hulk? Voldo was not a normal human. He had not been a true man for long centuries. He did not feel fear as other men feel fear, but all the same in those moments of waiting he became acutely aware of his own mortality, of the air in his lungs, the pump of his hearts; a body that for all its gifts was comprised of weak bone and weaker flesh, a body encased in a machine that itself was, in the larger scale of things, also weak. Whatever the tech-priests might say, what power technology had in the face of the universe’s hostility was meagre at best.

These were not doubts. These were not frightened musings. Voldo knew his limitations, and compensated for them accordingly. ‘Only will is indomitable,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Will is armour proof against any foe. By will alone will mankind rightfully rules the stars.’

Then the feeling was gone, and he felt the suit as part of himself again, its feedback mechanisms sending its machine sensations directly into his mind.

There were three faint rumbles, one after the other.

‘My colleagues start their soundings,’ said Nuministon. Through Gallio’s pict-feed, Voldo saw the magos crouch low over his instrument panels. ‘Good, good!’ The magos’s artificial voice abraded away any inflection; his excitement delivered as a monotonous, electronic dirge.

Three more rumbles resounded through the hulk. Flakes of corrosion drifted free from the ceiling.

‘How many must we hold for?’ asked Alanius.

‘Five repeats,’ said Nuministon distractedly. ‘That should suffice.’

The hulk rumbled in response. The chamber rocked, Voldo could not be sure in the uncertain gravity, but it felt like the floor dropped ten centimetres or more. He swayed a little, his suit’s gyroscopic mechanisms keeping him steady. There were distant sounds, as of metal grinding on metal. After the movement ceased, these continued for several seconds.

‘The soundings, they exacerbate the instability of this section of the hulk,’ said Clastrin. He swept lights around the chamber and pointed. ‘There, fresh buckling. It will do us well to be quick here.’

‘Stand firm,’ said Voldo. ‘The ground may be uncertain, our purpose is not.’

Another set of soundings. The vibrations sent the motion tracker of the auspex wild, crowding it with multiple false positives, and after every one Voldo checked the auspex feed and his own sensorium’s data in case their enemy had moved forward as the ground shook. It remained clear. ‘Brother Astomar, report!’

‘All clear, brother-sergeant.’

‘He speaks truth,’ said Azmael. ‘I too register nothing.’

‘No movement here, brother-sergeant,’ called Eskerio.

Voldo nodded. They might yet be fortunate, it could be that the movement picked up by the auspex was not what it seemed; more falling or floating debris, or sudden pressure shifts between compartments. Voldo’s duty was to slay xenos, and he hungered for their deaths, but far better in a situation as this to infiltrate and withdraw with no conflict. That would be the…

A mighty slam rang through the engine chamber, reverberating around it like the striking of a bell.

‘By the Lord of Man, what was that?’ shouted Alanius.

Voldo strode from his position, rounding one of the giant defunct generator units to confront Nuministon. He was in time to see the device’s broad foot pull itself up and then hammer down into the deck, sending out another deafening concatenation.

‘Magos! What is the meaning of this?’

Nuministon was crouched over the device, insectile and horrible. His thin arms darted out to depress this button or flick that switch. He turned his many-eyed helmet to the Space Marine.

‘Why, the machine answers, of course. There are sensors on the surface also, only with my machine’s reply can we build a true representation of the…’

‘Shut it off! Shut it off immediately!’

‘That is impossible, lord sergeant, you see we must gather the data...’

Voldo moved as quickly as he could in his armour, sword upraised. ‘No detail was given of this, you will bring every genestealer within five kilometres down upon us!’

‘I am sorry, lord sergeant, a regrettable oversight if so, I believed that all this had been discussed.’

Clastrin stepped inbetween Voldo and the machine. He held up a hand, and shielded the device with the arms of his servo-harness. ‘Hold sergeant!’ his twin voices demanded. He looked at the screen for several seconds as another series of vibrations shook the chamber, and the seismic probe answered with another loud slam.

‘Brother-sergeant, you have been given overall command, but listen to him. What he says is correct, after a fashion,’ Clastrin said.

‘Why did you not tell me of this, Forgemaster?’

Clastrin looked to Nuministon for a long moment, then said to Voldo, ‘I was not told myself, brother-sergeant. It should have been possible to map the upper levels of the hulk with spaced explosive pulses on the surface, as we were led to believe would be the process. Why this additional sounding, I know not. It is a matter we must discuss when we return.’

‘If this is so, stand aside, we must stop this noise!’

Clastrin shook his head. ‘The damage is done now. The magos is right in one regard. This additional source will provide better mapping, and deeper. To the centre of the hulk?’ he asked of the magos.

‘Yes, Forgemaster, just so. I require one more sounding, that is all.’

Voldo stood back. ‘Very well, conclude your business. But mark my words, there will be consequences to this, magos,’ said Voldo.

The roar of promethium igniting filled their suit helmets.

‘The consequences are upon us,’ said Alanius. There was irony in his voice, and excitement.

‘Incoming!’ called Astomar. Flame light flickered up the corridor. Inhuman screeching followed.

‘Movement, brother-sergeant, all around us,’ said Eskerio. ‘Brother Gallio! Above you!’

The rapid cracks of storm bolter fire echoed in the chamber. Two bolts shot fractions of a second apart from the weapon’s twin barrels, an unmistakeable pattern of sound; the noise from the report from the gun, the ignition of their ammunition’s propellant, the detonations as they impacted, the sequence repeating rapidly as the weapon discharged dozens of rounds a minute.

‘Some consequences are more immediate than others,’ said Clastrin. ‘Argument must wait. We are discovered.’

Weapons fire died away. A dead genestealer fell from the hole in the ceiling, drifting through the air toward the floor, globules of black blood trailing it. A taut silence snapped back into place.

‘Sound off!’ shouted Voldo.

‘Brother Astomar, here.’

‘Brother Curzon.’

‘Genthis.’

‘Alanius.’

‘Gallio.’

‘Azmael.’

‘Brother Tarael.’

‘Eskerio.’

‘Forgemaster Clastrin.’

‘High Magos Cogitator-Lexmechanic Nuministon of Mars present.’

Voldo checked the screen for Militor’s suit pict; a grey snowstorm. The fifth member of his squad was too far away to be hailed and warned. ‘Any signs of movement?’ called Voldo.

‘There is a large group of xenos bearing down upon us, brother-sergeant,’ said Eskerio.

‘I register them also, Sergeant Voldo,’ said Azmael. ‘I estimate twenty to forty genestealers, heading toward us on two vectors. One main body split into two smaller groups, one approaches within the ceiling, the other approaching whence we came. There is a third, smaller group coming down from reference 40.3.21.’

Voldo sent his map skittering to the coordinates. ‘The breach in the ceiling. Brother Gallio, stand ready!’

‘Yes, brother-sergeant.’

‘Brother Astomar, keep that corridor covered.’ Voldo looked around.

‘Despite our angry hosts, we have the advantage of knowing the way back, at least,’ said Alanius.

‘Negative. They are converging to mass along our route, brother-sergeant,’ said Eskerio.

‘By Corvo’s oath! Cousin Alanius, what suggest you?’ said Voldo.

‘Are there alternate routes?’ said the Blood Drinker.

‘One. Perhaps, but it is poorly defined, and lengthy,’ answered Eskerio.

‘Forty genestealers you say?’ said the Blood Drinkers sergeant. ‘A not insurmountable number. I say again, let us fight our way through, Blood Drinkers to the fore, your men can cover our exit should they decide to pursue.’

‘An inevitability, now the nest is disturbed,’ said Gallio.

‘They have yet to taste our steel, my friend, once they have, we shall have the measure of their enthusiasm,’ said Alanius, and Voldo could hear the excitement growing stronger in it. The Blood Drinkers were shifting about, fists clenching and unclenching.

Like the thrice-damned Knights of Blood, thought Voldo, they are too keen for the fight. There was nothing for it. They had to react swiftly, or they were lost.

‘Very well. We depart the chamber. Brother Gallio, cover the door. Brother Astomar, you are to engulf as many of the aliens as the Emperor wills in flame. Brother Eskerio, to the front. Thin their numbers, give our Blood Drinkers brothers the greatest advantage when they engage. Brother Gallio, to me! Keep your eyes on the ceiling, beware the third group. We cannot let them outflank us!’

‘We shall smite them righteously with fist, blade, and boltgun!’ said Brother Gallio.

‘So it shall be,’ intoned the other Novamarines in response.

Voldo’s helmet chimed as his threat indicator passed one level and then another. Flashing icons were converging on the corridor, two splinter groups of a greater whole to the front of his party, funnelling into the corridor the party had taken to their objective, a smaller number moving quickly to the breach in the ceiling. ‘Quickly now!’

The party members lumbered from the machine room, hindered by the mag-locks keeping them to the floor. Voldo stopped by the door, covering Gallio as he walked backwards, his storm bolter never leaving the hole in the ceiling. Alanius moved past him, claws active.

‘What of my machine?’ said Nuministon. ‘It is of great value, it should not be left behind!’

‘Perhaps we would not have to abandon it if you had revealed the full extent of your plans, magos. If we survive, and if this cleansing is a success, then it can be collected along with your archeotech treasures. For now, it remains here. Every one of us must fight,’ said Voldo.

‘I must protest!’ The grinding voice of Nuministon became loud and wheedling.

‘Perhaps the magos would rather remain behind and guard it himself?’ said Alanius, bringing forth harsh laughter from the Blood Drinkers.

Voldo waited until Alanius, Clastrin, and finally Gallio, had filed out of the room. He and Gallio then took up station inside the open door, storm bolters ready.

‘They are here!’ called Eskerio. His bolter barked twice. A shrill scream followed it, hard on the heels of that came the whoosh of Astomar’s heavy flamer. The pict-feed in Voldo’s helmet from Astomar whited out. When the flare died back, he noted five or six flaming forms tumbling through the air, a couple coming forward still despite the fire, and then genestealers were crawling through the hole in the engine room ceiling, carapaces glittering in the beams of their suit lights, and his attention was occupied by his own role as rearguard.

Hunched bodies, over-sized heads, yellow eyes, four arms each, two lower topped with hands in parody of mankind’s own, the upper three-taloned claws capable of punching through adamantium, the genestealers came; deadly enemies each and every one.

‘Fire!’ he shouted. He and Gallio opened up, the muzzle flash of their bolters illuminating the field generation room. The strobing light penetrated only as far as the units, obscuring the view of the genestealers further in. The aliens moved rapidly, their sharp claws digging into metal and pulling them along far quicker than the Terminator’s mag-lock boots could. They flickered nightmarishly in the lightning flash of weapon’s fire, so quick that Voldo was not certain he had hit his targets or not. From over his head, Clastrin fired plasma from his servo-harness’ weapon arm. A glowing ball of gas blazed through the room. Genestealers shrank back from the plasma’s glare. The round slammed into the wall below the rupture in the ceiling, obliterating two of the creatures as they crawled head-first down the wall.

‘Corvo’s oath!’ shouted Gallio. ‘They are at least a score in strength!’

Voldo’s bolter shouted an answer for him.

They shot round after round, blasting genestealers apart in fountains of green-black ichor. From behind them came the relentless chatter of Eskerio’s bolter and the periodic roaring of Astomar’s heavy flamer. The corridor leading away from the engine room burned; metal glowed dull red with heat. Snatches of what was happening to Astomar and the others were revealed to Voldo through the suit cameras and squad sensorium feeds: a flash of teeth; lashing, hollow tongues; claws; scurrying movement from things that seemed too big to move as quickly as they did.

Voldo was unfazed by this. Combat was a frenetic affair, that against genestealers especially. He and they were old foes.

‘Stand fast!’ he shouted. ‘They draw nearer.’

The bolts spat by Voldo and Gallio’s guns felled monster after monster, but each xenos down allowed another the chance to come closer. They advanced screeching, heedless of their losses, pushing through the floating gore, and now the aliens were by the edge of the engines, not more than seven metres away.

Gallio’s gun clicked. A red icon sprang to life next to Gallio’s suit-view in Voldo’s visor, indicating the brother’s gun had jammed.

‘Blessed is my wargear!’ called Gallio. He deactivated his power fist’s energy field and attempted to free the stuck bolt, giant armoured fingers working dextrously and without hurry.

Voldo widened the cone of space he was covering while Gallio unjammed his gun. He felled another genestealer, a bolt piercing its bulbous skull between the eyes. The mass reactor within detonated the round, spraying the genestealer’s brains to float in the air. Its arms folded in on its ribbed chest, and it floated serenely backwards.

The sensorium jam icon by Gallio’s feed flashed twice, went green, and blinked out.

‘Clear!’ shouted Gallio. He raised his gun again, power fist field re-engaging simultaneously. Together Gallio and Voldo fired and fired. Twinned magazines dropped from the bottom of Voldo’s storm bolter. Another icon sprang up next to his own emblem in his suit display. ‘I am out of ammunition!’ An alarm chimed.

A genestealer hurled itself down directly from above the door, feet scrabbling to arrest it from bouncing back into the air. Gallio’s bolter tore half its upper body away before his magazines too emptied and clattered to the floor.

‘Empty!’ The Terminators carried spare rounds in their suit’s stowage, but such was the bulk of the armour that it was impossible to retrieve them and reload in combat. Clastrin’s servo-harness made the dry cough of plasma weaponry still, annihilating genestealers. Those pouring in through the ceiling came quickly forward. Clastrin extended his two lower mechanical arms, those tipped with flamers, and burned the aliens away with a blast of promethium.

‘I have but four shots’ worth of fuel for my flamer, brother-sergeant,’ said the Forgemaster. ‘My plasma cutters must cool also, or they will emergency vent and become useless.’

Past the writhing genestealers, more dark shapes moved, a tide of aliens creeping downwards. One launched itself from the wall, powerful legs sending it through the air toward Voldo.

‘They are coming again!’ shouted Voldo.

Gallio raised his fist. Voldo prepared his blade, and the genestealers were upon them.

Voldo’s world narrowed to a maelstrom of flashing claws and teeth as the leaping genestealer landed on his shoulders. Its four arms wrapped themselves around him, clawed feet scrabbling madly at his breastplate. Its long, hollow tongue lashed at his helmet, seeking to implant him with its vile seed. He drove upward with his power sword, the weapon’s field crackling as it passed through the beast’s chitin and into its gut. Voldo wrenched the weapon and flung his arm out to cast the creature’s body from his armour. Immediately he was re-engaged, two more scuttling over the floor, another imitating the first’s leap.

The genestealers were so fast it was all he could do to match their speed with his sword. He cut and parried, deflecting blow after blow. One riposte severed a genestealer’s lower left arm, and he stepped forward to finish it with a thrust to the neck. A second raked a broad hand, horribly manlike, across his chest eagle, scoring the ceramite. He felt the pain of the machine through his sensorium as a dull throb layered over his body’s native senses. Nothing vital was hit, the claws not penetrating far enough to snag a power line or damage the suit’s fibre bundles. He pivoted, and slew the genestealer before it could bring its heavier upper claws in for a killing blow.

Gallio fought more slowly, the power fist on his suit was a clumsy weapon. He too expended much effort fending off the genestealers’ attacks, but when he did manage to land a blow the effects were devastating, the disruption fields surrounding the heavy gauntlet ripping alien flesh apart at the atomic level with a thunderous crack, bursting the creatures like smashed fruit.

Clastrin waited for a propitious moment before letting off another shot from his flamer. Genestealers dropped writhing, two more fell back, and Clastrin cut them down with his plasma cutter.

And then there were no more.

Voldo panted, body singing with adrenaline. He scanned the room carefully. Nothing lived within. No more shadows flowed down the wall. His helmet was a clamour of alarms, his vision dazzled by icons on his visor. His sensorium filled his mind with further information, the condition of the suit pasted over his own senses as pseudo-pain and phantom sensations. He twisted around, scanning the room with his own eyes and the sensorium of the Terminator armour. The motion tracker was wild with false positives, tripped by the dismembered parts of genestealers floating slowly to the floor all around them.

‘Remain here, brother!’ he told Gallio. Clastrin nodded, and took Voldo’s place as the sergeant turned himself around and lumbered toward the other front of the battle. Clastrin reached for Gallio’s stowage to retrieve a full bolt magazine. He was forced to scrape alien flesh from the clasp. All of them were besmirched with the vile fluids of the xenos.

Astomar and Eskerio had stepped back from the suiting room. Eskerio had his gun trained on a fresh hole in the suiting room ceiling. A dead genestealer hung from the gap, waving as if caught in an ocean current, its black blood wobbling globules that drifted through space. Astomar had retreated around a corner. He was kneeling and had his flamer arm up. He had ejected his promethium flasks from the weapon and was in the process of unclipping a spare from his belt.

What Voldo saw in the corridor beyond the suiting room made the breath catch in his throat. Alanius and his men fought, claws flashing. They were not so fast as the genestealers, but their technique was greater. Energy-sheathed metal blocked alien chitin, and responded with deadly efficacy. The Blood Drinkers were a whirl of motion and blades. Genestealer dead choked the corridor.

The final alien was cut down, a snarl upon its face. ‘We are done,’ shouted Alanius, his voice wild. ‘The enemy are destroyed! Rejoice brothers!’

‘Let the blood flow! Let it flow!’ the Blood Drinkers chanted. ‘Let it flow!’

‘Well fought, oh Adeptus Astartes!’ rasped Nuministon. ‘I knew full well your skill at arms would see us through, and you are all unharmed. A commendable efficiency.’

‘Untrue, magos,’ Astomar said. ‘Cousin Genthis’s suit is damaged.’

Voldo checked the Blood Drinker’s vital signs. The outer ceramite shell of his armour had been cut clean through on his lower chest, but the inner plasteel layers remained intact, and sealant foam bled from the machine’s mechanisms, hardening rapidly to close the tear.

Eskerio held up his power fist, looking to the auspex. ‘There are no more signs of movement. Threat indications are low.’

‘Then our way home is free!’ shouted Curzon. ‘Come, brothers, let us return in triumph!’ He, Tarael, and Azmael turned and marched down the corridor without waiting for guidance from their leaders.

‘We should wait, Brother Alanius!’ called Voldo. ‘We should set our next plans.’

Alanius turned to the Novamarine. His hands would not be still. ‘Your own brother says the way is clear, brother-sergeant. And I could not restrain them now if I wished it. The battle-joy is upon them, and nothing will keep a Blood Drinker back when this is so.’

With that, Alanius cast about, rolling genestealers corpses over until he found one that met with his approval. With a great blow of his claws, he carved the thing’s exoskeleton away from its chest, and quickly cut free its heart. He unfolded a hook on his suit, and pinned it in place.

‘Barbarism,’ muttered Gallio. ‘Suffer not the unclean.’

‘Will you follow with us, brother-sergeant? My men will cut our way through should the enemy return, nothing can halt a Blood Drinker when…’

The hulk shifted. A rumble that built rapidly, and suddenly all was noise and motion.

‘Hulk quake! Steady yourselves!’ called Voldo.

The quake lasted longer than the others. The hulk rolled and groaned like a man in a fever dream. The corridor rippled, its metal twisting as fluidly as cloth. Alanius swayed, feet locked to the floor. Nuministon stumbled against a wall. Bulkheads buckled under phenomenal pressure as the troubled mass of the agglomeration shifted. The floor under Voldo’s feet bent upwards, dislodging his mag-lock, and he toppled forward with a bang, rebounding to hang in the air. The augur feed from Eskerio and sensorium data from the others’ suits jumped wildly. He lifted his head in time to see the corridor collapse.

Tarael was furthest ahead and free. Voldo thought he saw the brother turn and look back as the central section convulsed inwards, Azmael leapt away, stumbling as his suit tried to match his sudden movement and simultaneously deal with the lack of gravity and unstable environment, his claws raking furrows in the corridor walls as he reached out to steady himself. Curzon was not so lucky. The Space Marine had time to look up before floor and ceiling met each other, metal jaws that swallowed him whole.

The hulk convulsed again, and was still.

Voldo checked the suit augurs of his men and Alanius’s. Tarael’s showed a wall of debris, but judging by the way the picture was moving around, Tarael was free and getting to his feet. Curzon’s was active, and his vital signs indicated that he lived under the twisted mass of metal. All Voldo’s own men were unharmed and untrapped. He rocked awkwardly, trying to attain a position from which he might once again bring his boots to the floor, lock them, and stand.

Alanius approached.

‘It appears you were correct. We are trapped, brother Novamarine,’ he said. Black blood from the genestealer’s heart ran down his leg. His voice was thick, ripe with arrogance and violence. ‘What are your suggestions?’

CHAPTER 7

CAEDIS

Chapter Master Caedis worked in his chambers. He was stripped to the waist; baggy, blood-red trousers on his lower half, soft black boots on his feet and a black tabard hanging between his legs – the manner of dress all Blood Drinkers affected when out of their battle-plate. The battle-barge was warm, the way the Blood Drinkers preferred; warm as the volcanic halls of San Guisiga, warm as blood. Incense drifted from cyborg creatures that flitted about the vaulting of the room. Gentle music, composed by a long-dead brother, played.

An unfinished stained glass panel two metres tall rested within a cradle before Caedis, tilted slightly so that it was not quite erect. Much of the glass was in place, the intricate framework braced and clamped so that it would not sag and break as Caedis fitted it with more coloured panes.

Caedis’s room was full of such works. Sculptures of past heroes, tapestries of great victories, exquisitely carved furniture and more, all made by his own hands over the centuries. The creation of art was a tonic to the soul, a distraction from the infernal itch of the Thirst. How ironic, thought Caedis, that it should lose its effectiveness as he worked upon an item venerating Holos, the brother who had brought a measure of peace to the Blood Drinkers and saved them from damnation.

In the glass picture, Holos climbed Mount Calicium. The hero-saint had set out after a dream, disobeying the will of the Chapter Council to fulfil his quest. This was the fifth window in a series of seven Caedis had planned depicting Holos’s legend. These earlier parts of the story – Holos’s dream, the secret counsel of the Reclusiarch Shanandar, the climb begins, Holos’s battle with Lo-tan, lord of the astorgai – Caedis had completed already.

In this fifth window, Holos had reached the summit. His armour had been broken by the violence visited upon him by the astorgai that infested the mountain’s crags, so damaged that its spirit and aiding systems had died and its weight become a burden. What armour Holos’s could free had been thrown off. His arm hung uselessly at his side and his weapons were gone. But Holos will remained.

As Holos lay close to death upon Mount Calicium’s peak, a winged figure had appeared to him, revived him at the point of his death and given him the secret that would enable the Blood Drinkers to keep the Thirst at bay, if they dared.

Holos dared.

Brother Holos had returned weeks later to the fortress-monastery on San Guisiga, long after he had been given up for dead. Celebrations at the hero’s return turned to uproar when he revealed what he had been told. What the winged figure proposed nearly tore the Chapter in two, but those were desperate days, a time when more and more battle-brothers were falling into the Black Rage with every passing year, and the Thirst tormented them endlessly. Any measure to alleviate it was attempted, all without success.

These two events – Holos’s Return and the Blood Schism – they were to have been the conclusion of the panels, to surround the glass of Holos in Glory that dominated the wall of the Reclusiam at the fortress-monastery on San Guisiga.

Holos’s solution, the rite and the way of being he brought back with him from the summit of the volcano, had worked. The Blood Drinkers had since known an equilibrium that the other scions of Sanguinius could only pray for.

The Rite of Holos. The Blood Drinkers greatest secret and their greatest strength. Without it the Chapter would have descended into savagery and been lost. With it the brothers remained stalwart defenders of the Imperium. There was, however, a cost.

‘Celebrate the blood,’ murmured Caedis. He recited the catechism of Holos, his eyes fixed on the hero’s outstretched arm. ‘To deny the blood is to deny life, to deny life is to deny duty. To deny duty is to betray the Emperor. Betrayal is worse than damnation. Service has its price, and we willingly pay it.’

Caedis had completed this panel’s Holos some time ago, but a gap remained, the top left quarter of the work was unfinished. The mysterious winged figure who had come to Holos and which Caedis had intended as the focal point of the piece was entirely absent. He had worked on the window cycle for many years. During that time he had always had an idea of how he would portray the angel in this, the crucial panel, but as he had come to craft the being his vision had become elusive. Try as he might, he could not capture the image in his mind, the face he wished to show stayed constant in his imagination until he tried to express it, and then it would shift and change or ripple out of existence altogether, taunting him with inconstancy.

Caedis rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. He feared now, in his hearts, that he would never complete this panel, let alone the cycle. His tools were awkward in his fingers. When he went to his bench to cut the glass he broke it as often as not, sending him back to his crucible to cast more. His body trembled, his anger was never far from the surface of his thoughts. And the Thirst – hot, dry, his throat burning with it – he was never free of it, not for a moment.

He cast his mind back to Katria, the last world they had freed of the genestealer taint. In the defiled sanctum of that world’s saint, Epistolary Guinian had ripped the psychic scent of the brood from the genestealer young. This had enabled them to track down the hulk.

The first signs had come soon before planetfall. Dark dreams, an ague in his limbs. He prayed it would pass, that it was something else, an illness. But a Space Marine’s physiology did not allow him to become easily ill, and he had known from the first moment that he was succumbing to the Scion’s Curse. Not even after the rite had he known control there. His grasp of himself had slipped as they fought, and he had never truly regained it.

He thought of the seven Katrian soldiers they had been forced to sacrifice. Their deaths sorrowed him, but his usual pragmatic acceptance at the need was absent. He felt only untempered disgust.

Seven sacrifices. Seven panels. How apt, he thought bitterly.

He picked up a goblet from his work bench and drained it. The wine was of an exceptional quality, but did nothing to slake his thirst. Meagre sweat prickled his dry skin. When he closed his eyes he saw sheets of liquid red, blood pouring down glass.

He shook the visions away. ‘Table, flat,’ he said hoarsely. The cradle swung to the horizontal. A table rose from the floor and pressed itself under the glass. The finished design was sketched upon the surface of the table, although even there the angel was faceless, its outline grubby with constant erasure and re-pencilling. Lifting his tools, Caedis approached. In one hand he held a pair of pliers, their ends coated in yielding pseudoplastic, in the other a light hammer with a long head.

He rubbed at his sore eyes with the back of his hand again – Emperor they were so dry! – and looked to the bench where the glass pieces he had cut earlier were laid out. He selected one – part of the visitor’s face. He frowned, put it back and took up another, a piece of yellow glass intended to represent a section of the radiant aura of Holos’s messenger.

He set the pane carefully into the lead cames, bending their splayed edges until they were snug on the glass. He reached behind him and took up a horseshoe nail of mild steel. He placed its point in the corner where the came crossed another. He steadied his shaking hand, and carefully tapped the nail into the soft lead. His concentration wandered, rivers of red in his mind. He forced himself to continue, tapping nails into all the joins, fixing the glass and cames in place temporarily, ready for soldering later.

Another pane of glass, and another. The halo of light that Holos said had surrounded his visitor took shape, framing a face Caedis could still not quite call into being. Caedis relaxed into the task, delicate and precise as it was, so different to war. Gradually his need to drink of the life-fluid and feel the battle-joy receded and he mercifully lost himself in his work.

Who had been the one who aided Holos? No one truly knew. Some said it was the spirit of Sanguinius himself. Caedis was not sure if Holos had seen anything at all. Death can bring strange visions and inspirations of its own, it could have been that his gifts had saved him. The Emperor’s boons were potent, their workings mysterious.

Methodically he built the glass panel up, pane by pane, each small piece of carefully prepared glass slotting into the ‘H’ cross sections of the cames. Time passed, and his suffering eased. He dared to think that perhaps the Thirst would recede, and the descent into darkness would not come to pass. As dutiful a son of mankind as he was, the thought of sharing the same fate as Ancient Endarmiel, raging within his Dreadnought sarcophagus, filled him with horror; anything but that. He would die in battle if the Rage came upon him, that he silently vowed to himself.

He had another vow to fulfil first. After seeing the destruction the genestealer plague had left on Zanzib he had sworn to track down the source of the contagion and destroy it. Fifteen worlds and twenty-five years later, he had seen rebellion and strife as loyal subjects of the Imperium had been turned on one another by the pernicious psychic influence of the xenos. He had witnessed two planets rendered useless, another consumed entirely by the fires of Exterminatus. The loss of life angered him.

All that blood wasted, a less noble portion of his soul whispered.

Caedis growled. He ignored his unwanted thoughts. It was the only sure way to deal with them, to weather their obscenity until they abated. He set down his tools, judging enough of the glass in place for the time being. He fetched his soldering torch and a spool of soft alloy wire from the bench. The torch was fashioned as a leering devil, bent over at the waist so that its legs formed a handle, hands spread wide by its open mouth.

The worlds they had saved had been reduced, cities ruined, populations decimated. No doubt they would be bled further until the cripplingly slow machinery of the Administratum downgraded their tithe statuses. Caedis knew he could have sped that process, if he had wished.

But he could not. It was too much of a risk.

He ignited the torch. A thin white flame shot from the mouth of the devil.

He had no choice. Contacting the Inquisition would have been the most effective, they could have sped up reclassification and lessened the burdens of the affected worlds, and many would say they should have been informed of such a widespread genestealer plague.

Caedis would not, could not, petition the Inquisition or any other Imperial body for aid. Even calling for help from other Space Marines to destroy the hulk had been a risk he had agonised over for long days.

He had done all he could, sending astropathic messages to the sector and segmentum capital worlds. He prayed nightly that it would be enough.

If he did not end this by the purging of the hulk, the agents of the Inquisition would be drawn here soon anyway. The worlds affected had been of low importance, but so many had been tainted, and the track of the hulk propelled it closer to the densely populated system of Vol Secundus every time it drifted back out of the warp. The Inquisition’s attention would swing implacably toward the sector and his Chapter. He could not allow the Blood Drinkers to become entangled with them. They would not approve of the Rite.

Solder melted under the spike of the fire. He dripped it onto the joints of the cames expertly.

A chime sounded at the door. Caedis’s body-serf answered. A stick thin, anaemic man, thin arms covered in metal tubing. He struggled as he pulled open the wooden inner door. The serf bowed to the visitor.

‘Lord Reclusiarch Mazrael, my lord,’ announced the serf

‘Lord Caedis,’ said the Reclusiarch.

‘Brother,’ said the Chapter Master. He did not look up from his work. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

Mazrael walked around the table where Caedis worked, examining the glass. ‘Lord, brother, I come here as your guide and confessor. Are you well?’

‘As well as can be expected,’ said Caedis.

‘My lord, would you tell me something?’ said Mazrael carefully.

Caedis sighed. He flicked the solder torch off with his thumb and straightened to address the Reclusiarch. Like him, Mazrael was stripped to the waist, revealing the mark of chaplaincy emblazoned across his chest. San Guisiga was a hot, volcanic world, criss-crossed with lava rivers as bright as blood. The planet was a furnace, their dress reflected this.

‘Is there anything other than the one great burden that hangs over us, Lord Reclusiarch?’

‘The Thirst,’ Mazrael folded his arms over his chest. ‘It troubles you?’

Caedis shrugged.

‘It troubles us all, my lord, we should perform the rite again soon.’

Caedis continued working. Mazrael watched him for a moment.

‘You work, that is good. Artistry is the great foe of savagery,’ said the Reclusiarch.

‘How goes the mission?’ said Caedis. He reached for another pane of glass, and set about its placement.

‘This is why I visit. There is no word as yet, my lord, as to its ultimate success. The Adeptus Mechanicus have activated their pulse detonators and received an answer from the machine the magos, Nuministon, took with him into the hulk. If everything has gone to plan, then our brothers and the Novamarines were in place to record and process the seismic data and are returning. I thought I would inform you, lord.’

‘Good. No news is oftentimes good news.’

‘They are deep in the hulk, lord. Should they be in difficulty we would not hear their calls for aid, nor would we be able to aid them.’

‘I am aware of this.’ Caedis set a glass piece into place, a brown-grey shard that would delineate part of Mount Calicium’s slopes.

‘You would not rather be aboard the bridge, directing the effort?’

‘Brother Mazrael, three hundred years you have known me, and you ask such questions? What would you know?’

‘I would know only what I ask, my lord.’

‘This mission is the honour of the Novamarines to lead. It does not play to our strengths. Such a mission requires stealth and caution, not the charge of glory or the swift unsheathing of blades. I gladly leave it to Captain Galt, it suits the temper of the Novamarines better.’

‘Disagreeable traits, lord. Better to meet the foe head on.’

‘You sound like Sanguinary Master Teale today, Reclusiarch Mazrael. Maybe they are, but they are necessary traits.’

‘I test you lord, as we all must be tested. Stealth and ferocity, forethought and valour, all and more are weapons in the great armoury of the Adeptus Astartes,’ he paused. ‘It upsets you though, to allow them to be first aboard. I can feel it.’

‘Does it not upset you?’

‘As you aver, my lord, let the tool selected be fit for the task. You would not attempt placement of your glass with a power fist. Emotion and pride is a poor driver of strategy. We must save our passion for combat. Before, there is time to be circumspect.’

‘Precisely so, Reclusiarch.’

‘But lord,’ Mazrael moved closer. ‘I suspect that is not why you are here in your chambers and not upon the bridge. It is not your nature to stand back from a mission, even if you have delegated it rightly to another.’

‘Ah, so I see you have paid attention.’

‘Nor is this your normal attitude. Where is your grace and your kindness today, lord? Such flippancy is… unbecoming to you.’

Caedis placed his glass, took up his hammer, tapped in nails around it, took up another small pane. He turned it about in his fingers, not meeting the Chaplain’s eyes.

‘Do you think the Thirst drowns my finer qualities, Reclusiarch? Am I losing myself? You are wise, tell me what you see.’

Mazrael made a noise in his throat. When he spoke again, he did so carefully. ‘It is my role, lord, to be the custodian of the souls of our brethren. Your behaviour aboard Novum in Honourum was unusual. I am attuned to the changes that precede the fall to the ravages of the Thirst and the birth-pangs of the Black Rage, you know that aside from the performance of the rite, this is my duty above all other duties.’

‘And you see them in me now, Mazrael?’

‘Lord Caedis, please…’

Caedis could barely keep the tension from his voice. ‘I am well in body, mind and spirit, Reclusiarch Mazrael, truly. Soon we will perform the rite and all will be well with me and with our brethren. Tell me that you are untroubled. Tell me that there is not another brother aboard this fleet who does not feel the pangs of the Thirst.’

‘I carry the burden, as do we all, lord,’ admitted Mazrael.

‘There we have it then. I will be well.’

Caedis raised his head from his work. He smiled at the Chaplain. ‘Once we have performed the rite, we will all be well. I work to find focus before the real fight begins. Let our allies deal with the first sortie, these little brothers of Ultramar. Let them have their glory. When the time comes, we shall show them the correct way to defeat the foes of mankind; at close quarters, with blade and sinew. And this greater battle, the coming assault, it offers such perfect opportunity for intimate slaughter, does it not?’

‘Yes, lord,’ the Reclusiarch bowed his head briefly. His hands fell to his side. ‘Then I must be away. I go to speak with Sanguinary Master Teale about the ritual. Subjects must be selected. As you say, lord, the time approaches.’

Caedis’s smile dropped. ‘Unfortunately so, yes.’

‘Do not grieve for those who give themselves. They serve in their way so that we might serve in ours, lord. All men are servants of the Emperor, and pay fealty in whatever way they can. By the blood of the loyal servants of the Emperor are the stars kept pure; our blood, and that of others.’

Mazrael withdrew, Caedis’s body-serf holding open the door for him. The Reclusiarch paused on the threshold of the door.

‘Will you take the black and red?’ asked Mazrael. ‘When the time comes, lord? Or will you seek the Emperor’s mercy? You have but to ask for either, as is your right.’

‘Neither, my friend. Not yet, not yet, and not for some time to come,’ Caedis said.

Mazrael gave a curt nod. ‘I pray it so, my lord.’ He departed.

The door shut, and Caedis let out a long gasp. He shook with the effort of controlling himself. The pane of glass he held in his hand slipped from his fingers and clinked upon the unfinished work. He grasped the table and shuddered. His skin itched, unable to perspire properly, he felt terribly hot. His throat burned horribly.

‘My lord, are you well?’

Caedis forced himself to look up. ‘Yes, Porphyrio, I…’ Caedis stopped. His serf stood close by, unsure whether to approach or not. Caedis’s eyes ran over the serf’s body, past the blood tubes and letting ports that covered his skin, until they came to rest on the man’s neck. There, the smallest movement, the pulse of an artery. He watched it twitch, twitch, twitch…

‘My lord?’

‘Leave me,’ the Chapter Master said urgently.

‘Lord?’

‘Get out! Now! Go!’ he shouted so loudly Porphyrio shrank backwards, stumbling over his own feet.

Caedis gripped the table edge so tightly the frame holding his work buckled. Whether he was steadying or restraining himself he did not know.

The window within took the brunt of his agonies. There was the sharp crack of glass giving way. Caedis looked down at the panel. A line ran through Holos, across his chest and the arm pointing toward the angel Caedis knew he would never finish.

His throat was dry and hot as desert sand, a horrible clutching sensation crawled from his groin to his scalp, his every hair writhed at the root as if it would be free.

‘By the blood of the loyal servants of the Emperor are the stars kept pure.’ Mazrael quoted Guilliman’s Codex, by which they lived their lives. Guilliman did not mean by that passage what the Blood Drinkers took it to mean. The unbalanced mind ever seeks justification for its actions.

Caedis staggered over to his work bench, knocking the pane of glass he had dropped from the table onto the floor where it shattered into a score of pieces. Clumsy hands scattered his neatly arrayed materials and tools. He hit upon what he was seeking, and lifted it.

The soldering torch.

He ignited the flame, let it run until the devil’s open mouth glowed. Gritting his teeth, he shut off the flame and pushed the red hot metal into his muscular forearm. He stifled a cry as pain ripped through him.

Pain that could not stem the rivers of blood that flowed through his mind.

CHAPTER 8

TRAPPED

Debris swirled. A particulate fog made up of flakes of corrosion, chunks of metal, spent bolt casings and genestealer remains that scrambled Voldo’s sensorium.

‘Sound off!’ he called.

One by one, the Novamarines called in, giving verbal updates to supplement the sensorium’s data. Astomar’s leg was pinned, the others were unaffected by the quake. Of Alanius’s squad, Curzon was trapped, unconscious but alive, within the crushed tunnel leading from the suiting room. Tarael was isolated on the far side of the blockage. Voldo caught part of the conversation between Tarael and Alanius as he checked the status of his own men. The Blood Drinker brother stated he was unharmed.

‘Forgemaster, how fares the tech-priest?’

‘I am well, lord sergeant, and will answer for myself.’ The tech-priest pushed himself gingerly from the wall where he had landed, bionic legs searching for the hard contact of the floor.

‘I will see to the men, brother-sergeant,’ said Clastrin. ‘Their wargear needs be checked. I fear a long journey ahead of us.’ He went to Genthis first.

‘Aye,’ said Voldo. ‘Eskerio!’ he shouted. The hulk continued to emit worrying sounds. Creaking and rumbles sounded periodically, these accompanied by shudders running through the fabric of the agglomeration. The staccato racket of Gallio’s chainfist added to the noise of the hulk’s complaints as he cut Astomar’s leg free.

Eskerio projected a map into Voldo’s helmet.

‘I have scanned the surroundings as best I can, brother-sergeant. The way back, as far as I can ascertain, is free bar this obstruction.’ He gestured to the blocked tunnel. ‘The Emperor closes one way, and presents us with another.’

‘Can we cut our way out?’

Gallio’s chainfist whined to a halt. He pulled Astomar free from the wreckage and surveyed the closed way. ‘How deep is it, Brother Eskerio?’

‘Fifteen point five metres.’

‘Density?’

‘This corridor and the ones above and below it have compacted into one, brother.’

‘Then it can be done, but it will take time.’

‘We have no time, brothers,’ said Azmael. Voldo flicked his eyes to the map the Blood Drinker’s auspex projected. Amid the visual noise of free-floating debris, bright blips flashed red, converging on the tunnel end.

‘Contacts,’ said Voldo.

‘It is hard to be sure, but it is a possibility, cousin-sergeant,’ said Azmael. His breath was laboured. It was costing him to keep his concentration on his device. ‘They move too smoothly to be anything other than organisms.’

‘Brother Tarael! You have multiple contacts converging on your position,’ said Alanius. ‘Retreat immediately! You will have to make your own way back, brother. Find Cousin Militor, return to the fleet, and tell of what has occurred here.’

Tarael’s reply was hard to make out. ‘Affirmative, brother-sergeant. May the wings of Sanguinius shield you.’

‘Emperor protect,’ said Voldo. ‘Go with speed, cousin.’

Tarael’s icon moved away then, as quickly as Terminator armour would allow. Before long he had reached the edge of the auspex’s range, and the blood drop and chalice denoting him slid out of view.

‘He should get clear,’ said Eskerio, tracking the movements of the genestealers, ‘if there are no new blockages on his route.’

‘The question is, adepts, what should we do?’ said Nuministon. ‘It is our predicament that requires the more urgent attention.’

Alanius strode over to the tech-priest, claws pointing. ‘If it were not for you, then our circumstances might be somewhat better, magos. I advise you to be careful in all that you say.’ His claws came to within centimetres of the magos’s face.

‘An interesting attitude,’ said Nuministon.

‘Brother-sergeant, please,’ said Voldo. ‘If we fall upon one another, we are surely lost.’

Alanius growled, for a moment Voldo thought he would gut the tech-priest there and then, but his gauntlet fell, and he let out a ragged breath.

‘You are correct.’

‘All is not lost, oh warriors of the Adeptus Astartes,’ said Nuministon. ‘I have the data from the device. If you give me but a moment, I should be able to process it within my own intelligence cores and supply it to you. With the Omnissiah’s bounty to hand, then we might find an alternate route from this place.’

‘Very well. Brother Eskerio, Brother Azmael, make use of what he can give you. Forgemaster Clastrin, I require your wisdom, if you please.’

Clastrin finished inspecting the armour of Astomar. He flicked an access panel closed with a manipulator on his servo-harness, and joined the sergeants.

‘Forgemaster, let we three talk in private,’ said Voldo. Clastrin nodded, and Alanius joined them in closed vox communication. ‘What is the status of our brethren?’

‘The harness of the Novamarines is all intact, brother-sergeant,’ said Clastrin. ‘We are low on ammunition. Brother Astomar has but one flask of promethium remaining.’

‘Five shots,’ said Alanius. ‘Unfortunate.’ He hefted his own claws. ‘These are weapons whose ammunition will never run dry.’

‘That is so,’ said Clastrin. ‘But for your Blood Drinkers, I have greater concerns. Brother Azmael is experiencing stiffness between the adjoining surfaces of his inner right pauldron and gardbrace. Not a serious malfunction, but it will restrict his right shoulder’s movement, and I cannot effect a repair here. To dismantle the assembly will take an hour or more, and the debris presents a problem; should any become lodged between the two plates, it will sicken his armour further. The repair should be undertaken in a clean and sanctified environment, and proper appeasement offered to his armour’s spirit lest the malfunction worsen.’

‘What of Brother Genthis?’ asked Alanius, glancing at his damaged Terminator armour.

‘That is an issue of greater consequence,’ said Clastrin. ‘The claws of the xenos bit deep. His sealant capsules have closed the rent fully, but fluctuations in his power plant output lead me to suspect his primary sternum power conduit to be damaged. On the face of it, it seems a small malfunction, but the spirit of his suit cannot feed properly, and with time it will bleed energy beyond tolerance.’

‘The armour will seize up?’ asked Voldo.

‘It will. Already his power plant labours hot to cover the shortfall this discharge creates, and his heatsinks struggle to compensate for the plant’s increased activity. In addition, the sealant has stopped all movement between his plastron and placard, while his left tuille has been torn free.’

‘Can he still fight?’ asked Alanius.

Clastrin shook his head. ‘It would be imprudent, brother-sergeant. His combat effectiveness is greatly compromised. I will pray for his wargear’s swift healing, but there is little of material benefit I can do here. We must look to the spirit of his equipment until the armour can be brought to your forge or mine and returned to full operational effectiveness.’

‘That leaves Brother Blood Drinker Curzon,’ said Voldo.

‘As far as I am able to tell, his armour is undamaged. Should the genestealers bypass him, you will be able to retrieve him later.’

‘That is a poor lot for a warrior,’ grumbled Alanius.

‘He will live to fight another day,’ said Clastrin in his twin voices. ‘That is something; everything.’

‘Can the same be said for Brother Genthis?’ said Voldo.

‘Perhaps,’ said Clastrin. ‘He is still mobile. His power plant should function for several hours yet. There is every chance he will be extracted with us. He is aware of his limitations. His sensorium diagnostics have alerted him, and I took the liberty of explaining further that which was beyond his immediate comprehension. I have disabled certain of his sensorium’s feedback devices, lest the pain suffered by his harness overwhelm him.’

‘Fear not for Brother Genthis,’ said Alanius. ‘He is reckoned brave amongst the brave. He will prevail.’

‘Very well. All that remains then is for us to find our way free of this, and we may yet all return to the fleet,’ said Voldo.

‘Wait, brother,’ Clastrin stopped Voldo before he re-engaged his sensorium with that of the others. ‘The magos. He is hiding something.’

‘We were wrong to trust him,’ snarled Alanius. His battle frenzy had not yet fully receded.

‘Perhaps, perhaps not,’ said Clastrin. ‘But he did hold information from us regarding the true functioning of his device. The machine was calibrated to map the upper portions of the quadrants agreed by our leaders, but there is more to it than that. The machine is not only a passive receiver, but a seismic emitter in its own right.’

‘The foot?’ said Voldo.

‘The foot,’ said Clastrin. ‘He maintains the affair to be a misunderstanding, that the foot sent a reply signal to data gatherers on the surface as he explained. This is almost certainly true.’

‘I do not understand,’ said Alanius. ‘Surely that is a worthwhile endeavour. Why did they not tell us of it? We could have adapted our approach accordingly.’

‘Because I believe its pounding had another purpose,’ said Clastrin. ‘It allowed a sounding deep into the hulk. I saw the data displayed for an instant before Nuministon shut off the device.’

‘I can only think they do not wish to share the data appertaining to the heart of the hulk,’ said Voldo.

‘That suggests the Mechanicus have an inkling what lies at the core. But what? And why will they not share their opinion?’

‘I suspect an archeotech hoard, brother Voldo,’ said Clastrin. ‘Plosk did say he had been hunting this hulk for many years. Why this one? There must be some reason to his pursuit of it. When a valuable prize presents itself, the priests of Mars will do their utmost to keep its discovery to themselves. When they retrieve the archeotech, they will tell us as little of its nature as possible.’

‘You are well placed to know, Forgemaster,’ said Alanius.

‘Indeed. I am inducted into the lesser of their mysteries,’ said Clastrin plainly. ‘I doubt anything sinister on the part of my colleagues in steel and flesh, but the writ of the High Lord has made them arrogant. It is likely they see us as little more than means to their ends. They are not sharing all they know, and that will make our work here harder.’

‘At least we know now why Plosk was so insistent Nuministon accompany us,’ said Voldo. ‘We must return, and appraise Lord Caedis and Captain Galt of this. Cousin Alanius, I urge you, now is not the time to confront the tech-priest.’

Alanius glanced into the machine room, where Nuministon, Eskerio and Azmael stood by the tech-priest’s device.

‘I agree. I will stay my tongue and my hand, but if I have a sense of real treachery, it will go ill for him.’

Voldo broke the private conversation, and re-engaged his vox and sensorium with the rest of the party.

‘Brother Eskerio, tell us what you have learned from the magos.’

A crisp, fresh map came up on Voldo’s internal helmet display. The map rotated, and zoomed out, providing a clear view of their surroundings. A red line snaked through three vessels to the surface, indicating an escape route.

‘With the data provided by Magos Nuministon,’ said Eskerio. ‘Brother Azmael and I have been able to refine our alternative route out of the hulk.’

‘This information is worth our minor sacrifices so far, do you not agree?’ said the magos. There was a hint of smugness to his grinding voice.

‘The loss of but one battle-brother is a grave one,’ retorted Alanius.

‘Your Curzon is not lost, and will be freed. And thanks to this information, the battle against the genestealers will be immeasurably easier,’ said the magos.

Voldo looked to the Blood Drinkers sergeant, unsure as to how he would respond to this needling.

‘You are correct in that,’ Alanius said, and spoke no more.

Voldo inspected the route. Blinking green areas suggested genestealer concentrations, purple vortices two of the many reactors still burning within the hulk.

‘The map is relatively certain, brother-sergeant,’ said Eskerio. ‘Although the disposition of the genestealers, sleeping and active, is little better than guesswork married to what the deep augurs of the Excommentum Incursus spied. This void here, for example–’ A cavern blinked, the crushed hold of a mighty vessel, highlighted in bright yellow, ‘–is prime territory for a nesting ground.’

‘We must go through it,’ said Voldo.

‘There is no way around. We must also pass close to this reactor.’ A purple whorl pulsed. ‘Radiation levels will be high, but our suits will weather it with little trouble.’

‘And cave-ins? This data was taken before the last quake. What are your opinions on the passability of the route?’ said Alanius.

‘Good,’ said Eskerio. ‘Brother Azmael and I have selected the most stable path. It should be free of obstruction, in the main. Emperor willing and fortune behind us.’

Voldo span the map around. The route was sound, Eskerio had plotted his path through as many entire vessels as he could. With luck, the grav plating of the vessels would be active, and they would be on their way swiftly. ‘If it is not, then it is the will of the Emperor also,’ he said.

There was a distant bang, followed by a scraping from the far side of the collapsed tunnel. Alanius turned around, his suit light glimmering from globules of blood. Under the hulk’s microgravity, the mess in the air was gradually clearing, drawn toward the centre of the agglomeration’s mass, which was confusingly at a slight angle to the lay of the ship’s floor.

‘Let us be on our way,’ Alanius said. ‘We can gain nothing by tarrying here.’

Galt stared out of the bridge windows of Novum in Honourum at the moon-sized hulk orbiting Jorso, spines and rocks and broken ships’ prows at the edges catching the harsh light of the sun.

‘No news, lord captain,’ said a communications serf. ‘We are attempting to lock on to the party’s teleport homers, but we cannot find them. The star is loud in its disapproval of us.’

‘Keep trying,’ said Galt. ‘They have been too long.’

‘They have,’ said Mastrik. ‘Brother-captain, allow me to go down to the surface, penetrate the hulk and search for them.’

‘No,’ said Galt. ‘The hulk is vast, and the enemy many. We must conserve our veterans and Terminator armour for the main assault.’ He tapped at his chin. ‘But there is merit in what you say. Brother-Captain Mastrik, assemble two squads, prepare a Thunderhawk each. Do not have them land, but maintain safe distance outside the debris field. I want them close by the surface and ready to help our brothers the moment word is received.’

‘I will call on squads Righteous War and Vermillion, and lead them myself, brother-captain.’ Mastrik turned to go, beckoning to the three Third Company Space Marines who were present on the bridge to follow him.

‘Perhaps they were trapped by that quake,’ said Persimmon. He checked his instruments. ‘It was a strong one.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Galt.

‘If anyone can find a way out, brother-captain, Voldo can.’

‘Indeed.’ Galt addressed the Blood Drinkers Captain Sorael and Veteran Brother Metrion, who were present on the bridge. ‘Cousins, I suggest you advise Lord Caedis of the mission status.’

Sorael bowed. ‘He will agree with your judgement, lord captain Novamarine, although he will be grateful of our update. I will return to Lux Rubrum and speak with him in person.’

The Blood Drinker captain drew Metrion to one side, where they conversed quietly.

‘Brother-Sergeant Voldo lives, brother-captain,’ said Epistolary Ranial to Galt. ‘I have not sensed his death.’

Galt glanced at Ranial, and gave a grateful nod.

CHAPTER 9

THE WAY OUT

Voldo watched as Gallio tore back the last of the hull plate. Clastrin, behind him in the cramped corridor, tugged the sheet of metal away and cut it in two with his plasma torch. Clastrin stuffed the two pieces into a side room, and their way was open to the next vessel.

The silence, now the chainfist had ceased, was sudden and total. It was a risk, employing Gallio’s cutting tool. Clastrin’s plasma torches were far quieter, but the chainfist was far faster, and time was of the essence. The group was in single file, the corridor too restrictive to permit them to stand side by side; it was a bad place to be caught in a fight.

The auspex remained free of contacts.

They had made good time from the machine room, heading for the side of the vessel. They had come across a section where all seemed intact, a great difference to the remainder of the ship, although all systems remained non-functional. Mapping hulks was so difficult because of the great variety of condition not only between the constituents of an agglomeration, but also within each individual vessel. In parts a ship might be whole, then the next section crushed flat or impaled upon the protrusions of another vessel.

Gallio manoeuvred himself around, craning his head as best as his bulky shoulders would allow into the hole he had made. Voldo watched his suit feed.

‘Brother-sergeant, the vessel is at an awkward angle.’

Voldo saw the corridor, the end concertinaed where it had been forced up against the unnamed ship they sought to leave. The corridor on the next vessel dropped steeply at a twenty degree angle, heading away until it was lost to perspective and the uncertain illumination of lighting millennia old.

‘Proceed, Brother Gallio.’

‘The lighting is active,’ said Eskerio. ‘I would be wary of the grav plates, brother.’

Gallio looked upward. The floor of the new vessel was the ceiling, relative to where they were. ‘Affirmative.’ He said. He eased his bulk through the hole, catching his cowling on the jagged breach. He fished around for a piece of metal, and tossed it far into the corridor. Sure enough, the shard flew true until it passed over into the undamaged section of the corridor, when it suddenly arced and dropped with a clatter to the corridor floor.

Clastrin placed himself in the newly carved door, servo-harness arms extended into the other ship, covering Gallio as he moved forward.

When Gallio got to the section of active grav plates, he walked up the wall, his boots clicking as they drew themselves onto the metal. The corridor was even narrower than the one he had left, a rat run, and Gallio had trouble getting himself into a position where he could make the transition from the wall to this new floor. He wavered slightly as his boots disengaged and the gravity tugged him upward, but then he was standing on the ceiling, and beckoning to his fellows.

Clastrin followed, his smaller armour and servo-harness making his transition from one orientation to another easy.

Eskerio was next, then Voldo. The sergeant reached the section where gravity functioned before radioing to Alanius, who stood in rearguard with Astomar at a crossway that allowed them to stand side by side.

‘We are coming,’ said Alanius. ‘I will be glad to leave this place, until the time to reclaim Curzon arrives.’

‘Emperor protect him,’ said Voldo.

The party walked corridors where dust lay thick. The silence was oppressive, infiltrating their spirits, working itself somehow under the constant hum of their suit’s mechanisms and the chattering information of the sensoriums to suffocate them with its presence. It was a permanent, unending silence, a silence that did all it could to remind them that while their noise persisted it might seem suspended, but would return as soon as they had passed. It was the silence of deep space, of the warp: the silence of death.

Voldo spoke only to give orders, the others to respond. They trudged onward, following the glowing line of Eskerio and Azmael’s map to their salvation. The ship was strangely proportioned, the corridors only just wide enough to accommodate the armour. It was of human build, but like so much of the hulk of unknown age or origin. Clastrin found data portals and briefly interrogated the ship’s spirit, but its databanks were empty, its records stripped away by time or trauma. There were few doors leading from the long corridor they walked, opening onto cramped rooms whose contents were ruined, or which had been crushed altogether.

For two kilometres they walked this peculiar way. The external temperature rose with every metre, until the air reached twenty degrees.

‘The reactor in a nearby ship,’ said Voldo, eyeing a purple vortex on the map some way ahead of them. The ship’s prow projected into a large void, the other side of which the fusion reactor of a much larger vessel burned, locked in a perpetual cycle of matter creation and annihilation.

They passed over a sharp bend in the corridor, where the ship had been folded upon itself. A hundred metres before them were a set of doors. They approached cautiously, Gallio’s storm bolter ready at the party’s front.

The doors opened, powered still. They went through into a modest command module; four decks and a bridge, according to their map.

Clastrin cast his gaze around the bridge. There were but three chairs, for a captain and a first and second pilot. There was no navigator’s throne, and nowhere else in the command module that one might be found. The bridge was weirdly undamaged. Pristine instruments lay under a layer of dust, some of their standby indicators still blinking. The lighting was functional, if dulled by age, and the gravity plates held things in their proper place. By the captain’s chair, a cup sat. The blast shields were down over the two windows.

Clastrin extended a data probe and plugged into a port, bringing up schematics onto a filthy screen.

‘Single system vessel,’ said Clastrin. ‘An interplanetary ore-hauler or container ship.’ The vessel’s image, made at a time when it had been whole, showed a long, thin superstructure with space for thirty containers arrayed around and along its spine.

‘No warp engines,’ said Azmael.

‘None. But anything that plies space might find itself trapped in an agglomeration should the conditions be right,’ said Clastrin. ‘A warp storm in-system or being caught in the translation of a larger ship could have cast this craft into the empyrean, or it could have fallen into the gravitic embrace of the hulk while it drifted through real space, and been drawn with it back into the warp.’

‘Eerie. It is as if they have but stepped out,’ said Azmael. ‘And will return soon.’

‘I always find hulks so, brother,’ said Genthis. ‘They are haunted places.’

‘That they are,’ said Azmael, and went back to his auspex. Voldo noted that the Blood Drinkers’ battle fervour had abated, and they spoke now with the hush of learned men abroad in quiet spaces.

‘The great cavity that Cousin Eskerio spoke of lies outside this vessel, does it not?’ asked Alanius.

‘It does,’ said Eskerio. ‘The command module projects into it as an arrow penetrates a board.’

‘Forgemaster,’ said Alanius. ‘Can we activate the blast shields, to see our way forward?’

‘We can,’ said Clastrin. He did not need to examine the ship’s systems to see it was so. ‘If the ship’s windows are broken, this entire section may become subject to decompression, compromising the atmospheric perturbation and sonar detection aspects of our sensoriums. Brother-Sergeant Voldo, what say you?’

‘Brother Eskerio?’

‘The auspex indicates some atmosphere in the void, at what precise pressure, I cannot say.’

Voldo nodded. ‘It is worth the risk. I say open them.’

‘Very well,’ said Clastrin.

The Forgemaster unplugged himself and walked to the first pilot’s console. He brushed away its coating of dust and activated controls that seemed fit for children under his armoured hands. More lights flickered on around the bridge. There came a soft bell, and a request for confirmation in antique Gothic. Clastrin gave it, and the blast shields screeched open, shedding centuries of grime as they slid into their housings.

‘Sanguinius protect us!’ hissed Azmael.

Through the windows, the assembled brothers of the Novamarines and the Blood Drinkers saw a metal cavern, a space captured between the hulls of two ships of overwhelming size – the one opposite them of Imperial origin, the other an alien giant whose smooth skin made up the floor and nearside wall – and into which the command module of their cargo ship protruded. A split twenty metres wide in the hull of the Imperial vessel revealed the roiling energies of an active fusion reactor within. The light it emitted reached into the cave as the rays of an old and feeble sun, illuminating parts of the hulls with stark light, and plunging their crannies into utter blackness.

Upon the gothic detail of the crushed Imperial ship were genestealers. Scores of them, curled into foetal balls, lying atop or embracing each other with their many limbs. They stirred fitfully as they slept, their fluted bodies moving sinuously against their fellows’ as they dreamed alien dreams, their tubular tongues sliding over black teeth.

Bathed in the light and warmth of the reactor, the gene-stealers rested deep in hibernation, until the chance to infect another being with their awful genes came to pass, spreading their contagion deeper into the Imperium.

‘Our route takes us close by this roost,’ said Clastrin. ‘It is a risk.’

‘There are so many of them,’ said Alanius. ‘To fight them would be a fine way to die.’

‘I am in no haste to embrace such glory, cousin,’ said Voldo. ‘Better to live and serve the Emperor further.’

‘Then what do we do?’ said Gallio. ‘How soon until these genestealers awaken to our presence and pursue us? We will fare badly against so many.’

‘Our route goes from this vessel into the xenos craft beneath us, and passes under the roost space,’ said Azmael. A red line blinked in the Terminators’ sensorium maps. ‘From there, we will be able to access the Imperial vessel, and make our way through it to the surface.’ The map zoomed out, showing the flank of the Imperial vessel heaved up into a low hill on the skin of the hulk.

‘Three more kilometres to traverse,’ said Genthis. ‘A way to go, brothers.’

‘The reactor will pose a problem,’ said Astomar. ‘We can expect the heat to increase, and radiation will be high. How long has that reactor burned? I doubt its fires are clean.’

‘You are correct,’ said Nuministon. He had not spoken for some time, and Voldo was almost surprised he was still there. ‘That is a Helios fusion reactor. I have not seen a functioning model for many years. It is thousands of years old, the knowledge to construct such a compact power source lost. Watch!’ He pointed, and the Space Marines saw a flare not unlike that spat out by a star spurt from the white core of the reactor. Rather than uncurling from the source as a stellar flare would, the containment fields stretched it into a fat band around the central mass. ‘That is a malfunction, the machine is compromised.’

‘The containment fields are not operating at optimum efficiency,’ said Clastrin.

‘What allows energy out, allows matter in. It is likely that the fuel sources have become contaminated with other material, or the reactor would not burn. Such a device operates with near-zero sum inputs, but input is nevertheless required on aeon-scalar periods,’ said the magos.

‘And impure fuel begets poison,’ said Clastrin.

‘How I would love to minister to it and heal its hurts! The reactor alone is of great value, the Lord Magos Explorator was correct in his assumptions about this hulk.’

There was something in the way he said this that prompted Alanius to ask him, ‘You doubted him, magos?’

‘We have had our differences of opinion in the past,’ said Nuministon. His mechanical voice hid the stiffness Voldo suspected it otherwise would have held.

‘None of this will profit anybody if the hulk cannot be cleansed,’ said Voldo.

‘I agree. We must take the data I have gathered to our superiors,’ said Alanius.

‘Which way then, brothers?’ said Gallio.

Eskerio pointed with his modified power fist. ‘Downwards.’

They doubled back to the bend in the ship’s spine. They spent some minutes making sense of the magos’s soundings here, as the data was confused, but eventually it appeared that the cargo vessel’s prow had punched all the way through the alien craft to project into the cavern. The part of the alien ship that had been speared was flat, after the fashion of a broad wing, and it appeared that this had been folded over on itself at some point in the past, leading to a messy geometry in the spaces below them.

Clastrin cut their way from the cargo craft into the alien ship. There had been no sign of the pursuing genestealers for many hours, and so Voldo allowed Clastrin the time to do his work, fearing the racket from Gallio’s chainfist would awaken the genestealers hibernating in the roost.

Clastrin cut the cargo ship’s hull unhurriedly and methodically. The doorway he made was neat, and when it was done he pulled a large section away.

A labyrinth of contorted alien plastics was revealed to them.

‘We must be swift here, brothers’ said Voldo. ‘The genestealers have not found a way into this cargo ship, but the space below us opens in multiple places into the roost cavern. There will be active xenos below, and if they find us, they will bring their siblings to wakefulness.’

They went through the breach. There was no artificial gravity in the alien ship. Whatever race had manufactured it had long gone from the galaxy, for the Adeptus Astartes did not recognise its form, nor did the two initiates to the Martian mysteries understand its construction, which was a seemingly random lattice of spurs that interlocked with little logic.

They floated free, and used this matrix to pull themselves along, quickly at first, but then with wariness. Some of the spurs were solid as iron, others went to powder at the slightest touch, and Brother Astomar was sent careening through a whole section of them when one snapped in his hand. Astomar stopped himself rightly enough, but the noise he made was significant, and the Space Marines were put on edge. They tensed, stretching out their senses through the suits’ sensorium suites. Voldo moved himself, his suit lights catching on the matrix.

Voldo was about to signal the all clear when Eskerio spoke.

‘Contact,’ he breathed.

Voldo and the others searched it out. There at the bottom of the tangled structure, a pulsing mark. It was heading unerringly toward them.

‘We must go fast now,’ said Voldo. ‘We shall abandon stealth.’

Two more red marks flashed, then ten more.

‘We are one hundred and fifty metres from the Imperial ship’s hull, brother-sergeant,’ said Eskerio.

Alanius turned quickly. ‘There! Movement!’

‘Go now!’ shouted Voldo.

The Space Marines shoved themselves off, the sheer bulk of their suits smashing struts to pieces as they flew. Their left hands crackled as they activated the energy fields surrounding their power fists, and they used these to batter their way through the forest-like mass of supports.

Voldo risked a look back. Below them, genestealers launched themselves from strut to strut, scurrying upward, their six limbs lending them a grace and speed in the low gravity that the Terminators could not match. He raised his gun, but did not fire. The targets were moving fast and were in dense cover. ‘Conserve your ammunition, brothers!’ he shouted.

They bludgeoned their way through the struts. The hull narrowed, the floor and ceiling three metres apart. They were forced to work their way around irregular cysts bulging inward from the fabric of the hull. Voldo scrambled between two of these, to find Gallio carving a way out of the alien ship. Nuministon came next, then the compromised Genthis, followed by Clastrin, Alanius, Azmael, and Eskerio. Astomar was last, kicking at something that dragged at his feet. Voldo caught sight of a leering alien face through the suit picter. The genestealer’s lower hands grasped the Space Marine’s greave, but it struggled to get its sharper upper claws at him. Eskerio leaned over and discharged his storm bolter. Astomar’s armour sparked as the missiles caught him. One found its mark in the genestealer’s face and it went limp as its head exploded. Astomar kicked at its hands, until he dislodged it, and pulled himself into the demi-chamber formed by the curved cysts.

The motion tracker was alive with dots, a wave of xenos rendered in flashing red. Voldo glanced back. The three Blood Drinkers were attacking the rubbery material of the hull wall with their lightning claws, gashing it. Clastrin worked again with Gallio. The Forgemaster’s plasma torches burned, but made little impact on the strange material that made up this part of the hull. Where Gallio’s chainfist penetrated the wall, the hull’s elasticity made it pucker around the blade, snagging the weapon’s teeth and keeping it from being properly breached. Their exit was minutes away from readiness.

‘Brother Eskerio! Clear a way for Brother Astomar! Astomar, let fire on my mark.’

A genestealer lunged at the gap. Astomar punched it in the shoulder with his power fist, caving its shoulder into its chest. He kicked it free. Eskerio shot down three more with controlled bursts from his storm bolter. Grasping claws forced their way between the other cysts, raking at the air, but the spaces between were too small for them to force their way through.

Voldo waited until there were no live genestealers by the gap. The sensorium did its best to differentiate the auspex motion detector’s data into dead and live foes, those it deemed no longer a threat turning a deep amber. Four of these floated in the space beyond the cysts, a sickle-shaped formation of twenty or so live contacts beyond that. It was imperative that the promethium of Astomar’s heavy flamer could spread far. If he fired while the gap was plugged, only single genestealers would take the brunt. In the worst case, the fires could wash back into their own space, and they were capable of overwhelming even the great protection of Terminator armour.

‘Brother-sergeant, I have a clear field!’

‘Fire!’ shouted Voldo.

Fire bellied out from the heavy weapon, gushing through the gap and billowing out into the wider space beyond. Genestealers shrieked, and Voldo was gratified to see many more contacts turn amber.

‘Emperor! The matrix is ablaze,’ said Astomar.

Voldo looked himself, shouldering Eskerio aside. The structure of the ship had caught fire.

‘Should keep them back for a while,’ said Genthis.

‘Do not count on it, brother.’ More red dots were closing in on them.

‘Almost there, brothers!’ shouted Gallio. His chainfist squealed, the disruption field banging as alien materials went to atoms.

‘Look brother-sergeant, the fire.’ Astomar drew Voldo’s attention back to the blaze. It died back quickly, the bone-like matrix smouldering low. Voldo checked his sensorium.

‘The flames have consumed the available oxygen,’ said Astomar.

‘The xenos will suffocate,’ said Nuministon.

‘No,’ said Voldo. ‘Even a vacuum is nothing to them.’ He looked back to Gallio’s work. ‘Ready yourselves!’

The elastic properties of the hull were exhausted, and Gallio’s weapon suddenly punctured the material fully. A rush of air blasted in through the rip, the hull flapped like a flag in the wind. The fire, suddenly nourished, exploded.

The force of it was astonishing. The flames blasted into their confined space, jolting the heavily armoured Space Marines together. The hull tore further under the pressure of the firestorm, and Gallio was able to rip a doorway into it large enough to force himself through. He grasped Clastrin, and dragged him after him. The others righted themselves and followed, and so they made their escape from the alien ship and were into the derelict Imperial vessel.

They ran, Voldo at their head.

The Terminators jogged as fast as they were able, their movement helped by the active gravity in the ship. The corridor they followed passed deep into the vessel. Their radiation counters rattled, and the air about them became furnace-hot, baked dry by the roiling energies of the reactor. The corridor was whole, but the outer hulk was much fissured, entirely stripped of plating in places and reduced to bracing spars. The genestealers from the roost could therefore ambush them at any turn.

‘Not far now!’ shouted Eskerio. From behind came the racket of storm bolter fire as Gallio lay down covering fire, Astomar beside him ready to fill the corridor with promethium.

Contacts pinged all over the map, coming down from outside and following corridors parallel to their own. Voldo stopped at an intersection and blasted three gene-stealers coming from the left to chunks. ‘Quickly! More are on their way.’

‘We are making for the outer lock,’ said Eskerio. ‘There should be a door ahead, then a short corridor, then access to the port.’

‘Let us pray to the Emperor that it functions,’ said Voldo.

Astomar’s flamer roared. Genestealers screamed. A dozen motion positives backed away.

‘Thank the Lord of Man, there it is!’ said Voldo. ‘The door.’

The doorway to the airlock access corridor was set into a wall in a hexagonal antechamber. Two more doors opened out from the either side. He ran to it, and stopped dead.

‘What is it brother?’ Alanius called. He was supporting Genthis, half-dragging him. Genthis’s suit’s heatsinks were being overwhelmed by the fierce heat of the reactor, his time was running out.

‘There is no control panel!’

‘Let me see,’ said Clastrin. He came forward. More bolter fire came from the rear. Three shots, an inhuman scream.

Clastrin knelt by the door. The panel had been ripped free. Wires hung from it, their colours lost under the dirt of ages. He plunged a metal tendril from his harness into the mess. ‘There is power,’ he said, ‘but I cannot access the command circuits.’ His mechadendrite withdrew.

‘What of direct interface, can you not link with the door directly?’ said Nuministon.

‘No. It is all gone.’

‘Then cut it through!’ growled Alanius.

‘This is a major blast door of prime patterning,’ said Clastrin. ‘Time is needed.’

Red dots crowded in from all sides on the map.

‘Time is a luxury we do not have,’ said Voldo. ‘And such a choice, Brother Gallio’s storm bolter there, or his chainfist here.’

Clastrin cast about, rapidly scanning the walls. Conduits and circuitry showed up in his artificer armour’s displays. He caught sight of a hatchway.

‘There is another way,’ he said. He stood and pointed. ‘A crawlway. I can go through and attempt to remotely activate this door from the airlock’s inner portal.’

‘It is too small,’ said Azmael.

‘Not if I go without armour,’ said Clastrin in his twin voices. ‘Then I will fit.

‘Are you insane?’ said Alanius. ‘Genestealers descend upon us from every quarter.’

‘Then we will die whether I go or not,’ said Clastrin.

‘What of the radiation?’

‘I shall recite the fifteenth litany minoris, and bring my mucranoid into action. The coating it will give my skin will provide some protection.’

‘Yes, not to try, that is the insanity,’ said Voldo.

Clastrin bowed his head. He reached for the first release clasp, and began the liturgy of disrobement.

Genthis pushed himself upright from Alanius. ‘I will go with him,’ he said. ‘I am no use within my armour. Without it, I can act as an escort.’

Voldo looked from Clastrin to Alanius. The latter hesitated, then stood back. ‘Agreed brother, you are a credit to our order.’

Clastrin stepped forward, using his servo-harness to help Genthis from his crippled armour.

Voldo acted, plotting positions for the remaining Terminators; Gallio and Astomar to hold the rear against the bulk of the genestealers, Alanius beside them to aid them if they broke through. Voldo took the left door leading from the chamber, Eskerio he directed to the right door.

Eskerio hefted his storm bolter. His ammunition was almost spent. ‘Give me his claws,’ he said suddenly. ‘Lend me your weapons, Brother Genthis.’

Clastrin paused his hands, his servo-harness continued undoing retaining bolts and clasps on Genthis’s armour.

‘I have but twenty bolts remaining. Better I give my magazines to our brother-sergeant and let him fire longer, while I go better equipped for close melee.’

‘I did not think such fighting to be your preference, Novamarine,’ said Genthis with humour.

‘All things have their time and place, cousin Blood Drinker,’ said Eskerio.

‘Then you may gladly take them.’

The gauntlets slipped from his wrists.

‘Hurry then!’ said Voldo. A wave of contacts were converging on them, far more than before. ‘The roost has awakened. We must fight now for our lives as well as the glory of the Emperor.’

Eskerio took the lightning claws from the Blood Drinker. Voldo and Nuministon helped Genthis further, releasing the bolts that attached his breastplate to his cowling. With a hiss of air, his helmet came away, revealing his savagely beautiful face.

‘It is hot brothers! As hot as home!’ he shouted and smiled. With a twist, he depressed his belt clasp, and the two-part breastplate unclicked. Nuministon pulled it away, sealant cracking where it had covered over the joins between plates. The tech-priest, with Voldo’s help, next removed the cowl and the reactor within, and set to work on Genthis. Far more quickly than the Novamarine’s sergeant could have hoped, Nuministon had disassembled the armour and Genthis stepped free. What would have taken the forge serfs twenty minutes to achieve, the magos had done in a fraction of the time. Voldo hoped the armour was not offended. The components of Genthis’s battle-plate lay scattered upon the floor.

Clastrin had replaced Eskerio’s storm bolter and power fist with the crimson lightning claws of Genthis. Despite the difference in marks between the two Space Marines’ armours, Clastrin connected the blades to the suit’s power source easily.

Eskerio held the claws up in front of his helmet and activated them. ‘My thanks for your arms.’

‘Use them well,’ said Genthis. ‘Do not disappoint my armour’s machine-spirit.’

Shouts came from the rear. Genestealers were prowling the perimeter. Azmael and Voldo moved away, leaving the naked Genthis and Nuministon to help the Forgemaster from his armour. Clastrin deactivated and detached what he could with direct commands via his spine ports, while the magos and Blood Drinker pulled his servo-harness away. They unclipped his backpack, helped him off with his gauntlets, and then he was bare headed, ice-blue eyes staring out from a face tattooed with holy blueprints and the cog of Mars under the Novamarine’s skull and starburst.

‘We are ready,’ he said as his breastplate came free.

‘Then go, and may the Lord of Mankind guide you,’ said Voldo, his voice hard and loud through his suit vox-grille. The sergeant lifted his weapon and fired. Genestealers were chancing the other corridor.

CHAPTER 10

THE POWER OF THE MACHINE-GOD

The heat was intense, fifty-five degrees at least, but the touch of it reduced to a tolerable level as Clastrin’s modified sweat glands secreted an oily perspiration. The smell of the mucranoid’s secretions was sharp and somewhat unpleasant. He wiped it away from his mouth, nose and eyes or it would seal them shut. Hibernation was not his aim today.

Clastrin’s forte was machinery, but he knew a little of how his biological gifts functioned, for what was biotechnology but another manifestation of the glorious machine? He knew how the long-chain proteins in the mucous from the Weaver aligned themselves with one another, hardening to cover his body in a waxy coating. He flexed his hand, watching as the second skin wrinkled. Another benefit of the Emperor-Omnissiah, and the wisdom of ancient days. He had been Master of the Forge of the Novamarines for seventy years, but his wonder at the might of the Machine-God never diminished.

‘Blessed are the works of technology, blessed are the ways of the Omnissiah,’ he said.

Nuministon, hurrying to unclip the remainder of the Forgemaster’s armour, did not respond.

With his helmet off, Clastrin was exposed to the full noise of the ship. The unshielded reactor filled the space with a persistent roar, distant though it was. The derelict ship vibrated with it. All vessels hummed to the tune of their power sources, but this was a sick song. Clastrin possessed a deep affinity for machines, he could sense what ailed them often without removing their casings. He was surprised the reactor worked still.

Gunfire rattled sporadically. No longer able to access the extended senses of his helmet, Clastrin’s view of the combat was restricted to what his own eyes and ears could tell him. The corridors leading out of this small chamber were obscured by the massive bulk of the Terminator armour. He suspected that the genestealers held back, wary of the Space Marines’ firepower. They were savage, these xenos, but possessed of a cunning akin to true intelligence.

Nuministon stepped back, holding the Forgemaster’s backplate. The neural interface spike slid free of the port in Clastrin’s black carapace, and his sense of his war harness departed him entirely. Clastrin still wore parts of his power armour, but he was to all intents already naked.

Nuministon placed the plate on the floor, and helped Clastrin free himself of the rest of his plate.

Astomar’s flamer whooshed. Firelight played around the chamber.

‘I am ready,’ said Clastrin. His own voice sounded odd outside of his armour. The mucous had hardened fully, providing some protection from both heat and vacuum. Useful under the current circumstances.

‘Go with the Omnissiah,’ said Nuministon. ‘I am not aware of the pattern for these portals, but such a simple thing as a door will pose no trouble to an initiate to the mysteries of Mars.’

‘Cousin Genthis! We go!’ Clastrin had to shout to be heard.

The Blood Drinker nodded. His body was streaked with dried secretions, but he had no protective cover, and his own skin looked unnaturally dry. Genthis caught Clastrin looking at him, and shook his head.

A loss of a para-organ, then, thought Clastrin. Some Chapters did not possess all of the Emperor’s gifts. ‘There is no atmosphere in the corridor beyond, cousin.’

‘Then I will trust you to work hard to free us,’ said the Blood Drinker. ‘I shall go first, Lord Forgemaster.’ He was thinner than the Novamarine, athletically proportioned, as lithe and hard-muscled as a statue. His face too, was beautiful, its angelic perfection at odds with the feral way in which Genthis bared his teeth as he spoke. ‘You are of greater worth here.’ He held a knife in his hand.

‘Take this,’ said Nuministon, handing over an ornate bolt pistol. ‘I am no warrior.’

Genthis nodded in thanks. Clastrin picked up his own bolt pistol from the floor.

‘We must go now,’ said the Forgemaster. The sounds of gunfire were intensifying. He extended his two mechandrites from the housing below his shoulder blades, a gift of a different kind from the temples of the Machine-God. He reached up to the panel covering the crawlway and deftly unscrewed it with the dendrite tips, pulling the plate away. He turned to Genthis and indicated that he would boost the Blood Drinker into the space. Genthis was up and into the hatch easily.

Clastrin took one last look at his brothers, their bone-and-blue armour standing shoulder to shoulder with the red of the Blood Drinkers, then turned, jumped up, grabbed the lip of the hatch and pulled himself in.

He was in the machine, surrounded by cabling. He imagined himself a component in the grand scheme of the Omnissiah, a piece of the greater puzzle of the universe’s mechanism. His mucranoid film shielded him from snags and the sharp edges in the crawlspace. Genthis, not so protected, was already cut and scraped in a dozen places, leaving a trail of blood which dried on contact with the metal. It was punishingly hot in the crawlspace, the air stale and rank, and the other adept’s skin was raw with blisters.

‘How far?’ said the Blood Drinker. Wildness had crept back into his voice. He was enjoying this.

‘Not far, thirty metres. We pass alongside an access corridor to an outer airlock. There is a panel toward the end. From there I will be able to remotely open the door and let our brothers in.’

Genthis made a noise of affirmation. ‘Good, good. I long to rejoin them. It is not our way to retreat from a fight.’ He moved forward some way as he spoke, then said, ‘Wait! We come to a crossways.’

Clastrin brought up a copy of the map in his intelligence core. The cranial implant was another gift of Mars, another thing that set him aside from his battle-brothers. A vertical shaft bisected theirs. On the far side the way grew wider, two broad ways filled with power conduits leading at right angles away up and down into the skin of the ship.

‘Go on,’ said Clastrin.

‘Shh!’ said Genthis. ‘I hear something.’

Clastrin waited as the Blood Drinker inched forward to peer down the shaft, then up. He turned back to look at the Novamarines Forgemaster.

‘Movement. The enemy descends upon us.’ He scrambled forward, swinging his legs under him and dropping into the vertical shaft. He looked upward. ‘Hurry Lord Forgemaster, you must be quick! Crawl over the shaft and be on your way. I will hold them here.’

Clastrin wriggled forward. The rattle of claws moving over metal came from above him, but he did not look up. He pushed past Genthis’s head, and went on into the further crawlspace. Genthis crawled in backward after him. Clastrin was four metres in when Genthis began shooting.

Praying to the Machine-God and the Emperor for the Blood Drinker’s soul, he pushed on. The sounds of fighting intensified behind him, alien screeches echoing metallically in the confined space, the bark of the bolt pistol. The reek of genestealer blood thickened the air.

Clastrin turned his broad shoulders awkwardly; these service conduits were designed for drones and unchanged men, not the giants of the Space Marine Chapters. His arms pinned to his chest, he worked with difficulty to free the access panel. Behind him, Genthis shouted the battle-cries of his Chapter. The noise of his weapon was overwhelmingly loud in the confined space. Shrieks and the thump of falling flesh signalled the demise of genestealers as they plummeted down the shaft, bouncing from its sides as they fell.

Even through the noise, Clastrin heard the click as Genthis’s boltgun ran dry, the clatter as Genthis discarded it. The Blood Drinker began to chant, a Blood Drinker’s battle hymn Clastrin did not know. The Blood Drinker was preparing himself for his death.

The panel popped out of its housing. Air blew from the crawlway into the vacuum of the airlock access corridor.

Clastrin drew in a deep breath, filling the lungs he was born with and the third gifted him by the Chapter. With a twist, he wormed through the hatch, and dropped into the way.

Brother Genthis chanted. ‘Lo! I see the wings of Sanguinius! They shield me from harm! They bear me up from battle!’ The genestealer attacking him crouched in the mouth of the crawlway, its body contorted in a manner impossible for a man. Scrabbling talons raked at Genthis, drawing lines of blood across his scalp. The Space Marine grabbed one of the upper claws in his left hand, yanking it hard over to the side of the crawlspace. The genestealer hissed and struggled, its other arms tangled behind its pinned arm. Its tubular tongue flicked over its black teeth. Yellow eyes blazed. Genthis felt the power of them, felt them trying to subvert his will, but he was a brother of the Blood Drinkers and the wiles of xenos held no power over him. ‘Blood is life, the life is blood, through life we fulfil our duty, through blood we continue life!’ His voice became increasingly sonorous. ‘Take my blood, take my life, you will never turn me from my duty, though my blood lie thickening in the dust, and my life run out and be done!’

He drove his combat knife deep into the glaring eye of the genestealer, twisted it until it ground on bone. The genestealer convulsed so hard it threw off Genthis’s hand. Its limbs rattled a drum roll of death on the metal.

Wind sprang up, blowing down the corridor to where Clastrin had gone, and Genthis was glad that the Forgemaster of the Novamarines had made it into the airlock access corridor. He sang louder, against the howl of decompression. Leaving the dead genestealer blocking the crawlway, he backed further down. A pair of large purple hands grabbed at the corpse and pulled it away. The dead gene-
stealer fell from sight as it dropped into the shaft. Three more alien faces regarded him from the end. Without pause, the next of the monsters crept into the narrow space. Legs bent up under it, it moved rapidly. Genthis laughed.

‘Come, come and fight me alien filth! Brother Genthis has not had his fill yet!’

His body was electric with excitement, the joy of battle coursed through him, lifting his spirit and filling him with surety of purpose. At the back of his soul, he felt the dull ache of need, for his last Rite of Holos had been a week ago, and the Thirst had resumed its torments. He did not care. ‘Here is battle! In battle is true service! Service begets joy! Joy begets death!’ he shouted. Genthis felt this joy deeply. To him and his kind, there was no greater purpose in all the galaxy than to fight in the name of the Emperor.

The genestealer scuttled at him, upper claws outstretched. Genthis batted one aside, and stabbed his knife point deep into the chitin of another. The genestealer made a strange, squawking protest and tore its arm back. Genthis’s knife was wrenched from his hand.

Genthis sang the Sanguis Moritura, laughing as he did.

‘The blood of life flows quickly! Only in death can it be stilled!’

He fended off the genestealer’s claws, turned them aside with his strong hands. ‘Let not mine be stilled easily, let it flow on and outward – let it flow from me as I slay those who free it!’

He worked his cheeks and spat, acidic venom from his Betcher’s gland spraying into the genestealer’s face. The thing screeched as its eyes dissolved, and Genthis reached for it. He opened his mouth wide, dragged the creature to him and bit deep, his extended canines sinking into its alien neck. He ignored the burn of his own acid venom on his skin. Black blood poured down his throat.

Xenos blood. Unclean. Impure. Satisfying. He gulped as it filled his mouth. It tasted vile, bitter and cold, still he drank. Flashes of alien thoughts played across his mind as it filled his stomach and washed over his Remembrancer; endless waiting, the chill of deep space, and a single purpose so consuming there was space for nothing else. Behind it, a vast and horrifying shape moved, distant, and yet imminent.

Genthis dragged his head back, his hearts chilled by the vision. Dark blood ran down his face. His skin bubbled, acid burns joining the blisters he had received from the hot metal. He blinked, the genestealer’s memories of inconceivable patience warring with his own urgent need for war.

A rending sound came from above him. He twisted his neck. Metal plating peeled back. The terrible face of a genestealer, contorted in fury, glared down at him.

‘Blood is strength, in death it quickens,’ he whispered.

A three-clawed hand drove down into his neck, ripping his windpipe free.

His mind still reeling from its contact with the alien’s soul, Brother Genthis died.

Voldo blasted a genestealer into pieces with his storm bolter, mass reactive bolts tearing it apart from the inside. He swung his power sword around, smashing another of the aliens back. He put a bolt in its gut, and it crumpled to the ground. Gallio stood not far behind him, taking opportunistic shots past him. To his left, Astomar let fly with one final burst of his heavy flamer.

‘Ammunition depleted, brother-sergeant!’ He called.

By Astomar, Eskerio fought to defend his battle-brother, borrowed lightning claws darting quickly, ripping parallel furrows into alien flesh. Behind Voldo, Alanius and Azmael fought back to back, sending genestealer limbs flying, Azmael seemingly unhindered by his damaged suit. Nuministon crouched by the door, ignoring the combat he worked on its dead control panel. Voldo was impressed by his coolness. Not once did the tech-priest look up from his work.

Despite the suit’s aid and his own superhuman metabolism he was panting with effort. His helmet flashed, the sensorium clamouring at him with a dozen alarms. He cleaved a genestealer in two, power sword flaring, and stole a glance at the door.

It remained locked.

Clastrin was in the airlock access corridor. He went to the inner airlock door at the far end of the corridor from the access doorway beyond which were the rest of the party. The corridor was wide enough for two Terminators to walk abreast. This was once a major access point for the ship, he thought.

He flipped out the access panel to the door control with the tips of his mechadendrites.

The wind was loud as air was sucked from the pressurised cavities by the vacuum in the corridor, battering at him and causing his hair to whip around his face, stirring the metal tendrils at the back of his skull. There must have been a gap in the hull to the outside, for the air whistled ceaselessly over him; the pressure should have stabilised by now. At least he could breath. Over the roar of the wind, he faintly heard the sound of Genthis’s battle hymn and the screams of dying aliens.

‘Focus is the mother and the father of the machine,’ he said to himself. ‘Focus is the enemy of haste, focus is the bringer of function.’ Clastrin regretted that he had no holy oils or greases with which to paint the exterior of the door panel to supplicate the machine-spirits of the ancient ship. He had invaded systems wantonly all over the hulk. He was a battle-brother of the Novamarines, a warrior first and foremost. Expediency overrode all other concerns; but he was also a priest of the Omnissiah, inducted into the lesser thirteen mysteries of the Cult Mechanicus, and he felt sorrow that he had not been able to approach the devices he communed with on this mission with the appropriate reverence.

He reached out with his intelligence core. Emitters within the cabling at the back of his head beamed his requests into the ship in the timeless language of binaric. There was no reply. With machinery this age, there rarely was, the spirits often having died, fled, or lapsed into electronic senility.

His mechadendrites snaked over his shoulder, their flexible smart metals allowing them to extend, the dendrites’ diameter thinning as they did so. Their interface tips searched the cavity for an input port – there!

Clastrin closed his eyes involuntarily as a familiar electric jolt coursed through his mind, his cerebral augmentations seeking communion with the vessel.

There was but a flicker of life in the ship. The reactor burned fiercely, but so much of its energy was radiated through broken containment fields and lost. The hull was broken in so many places that the ship’s service infrastructure was likewise interrupted. But from here to the door, from the door to the reactor; from somewhere, energy trickled. And if energy ran, signals could be sent. Voltage was too low; wire warmed rather than conveyed messages, resistances heightened by deterioration in the power matrices. He risked adding gain to the energy flows, sourcing the power from his own cybernetics. A risky play, drawing on his own body. He missed the power plant of his power armour.

Ways opened up. Wires dead for millennia hummed with life.

He felt the door at the other end of the corridor, felt the thickness of it. Brother Gallio would have been at it for twenty minutes, he thought, before scratching it. He felt too the broken panel on the outside, and the connections that had once run to it, severed and dead, deep within the wall sealing the outer hull from the chamber his battle-brothers now fought in.

He reached out through his interface dendrites, the metal cabling on his head warming as his energies mingled with that of the ship’s machines. There, the door access switch. A simple piece of optical electronics. He activated it.

Nothing happened. He tried again. It was no use. The double doors at the far end, the ones trapping his brothers, remained closed.

There was movement behind him. Genthis’s broken corpse was pushed from the access hatch, landing awkwardly on the floor, his head nearly severed. The blood-smeared face of a genestealer followed. Clastrin did not break contact with the machine. He raised his bolt pistol in one fluid motion and put a round between the genestealer’s eyes. Scrabbling noises came from behind as more genestealers tried to gain the corridor.

He spoke. ‘Oh great and all-knowing Omnissiah! Oh keeper of knowledge, aid me now.’ His eyes screwed shut. He reached out, caressing the switch with his being, at one with the machine.

From somewhere, another touch upon his mind, that of another machine. Fleeting, then gone.

Lights flickered. Clastrin was aware of power relays burning out within the wall. But the double door trapping his brothers creaked, straining against the corrosion that held it closed. A deafening squeal of metal cut into the wind, and the door juddered open.

‘All praise the Omnissiah, all praise the father of machines,’ said Clastrin. He turned, gun raised, to face the genestealers.

Captain Mastrik of the Novamarines and Squad Vermillion flew in the Thunderhawk Reprisal, its sister craft Hawk’s Fury alongside. Laser light stabbed out from one or the other as they flew above the hulk’s surface, atomising dangerous chunks of debris.

‘Lord captain!’ The second pilot of the vessel turned in his seat. ‘I have sight of Wisdom of Lucretius’s teleport homers.’

Mastrik was out of his own seat in an instant. ‘Where?’

‘Here, lord captain.’ The Space Marine pointed at a glowing orb on the map. ‘Near this energy source. I saw it for a second, and then it was gone, but I did see it.’

‘That is practically on the surface,’ said Mastrik. He smiled. ‘They are coming out.’ He slapped the Space Marine’s shoulder pad. ‘Take us down. Hawk’s Fury! Follow us in.’

‘Yes, lord captain.’ The voice of the other pilot was blurred by static, almost unintelligible.

‘Brothers!’ called Mastrik to his men. ‘Prepare for immediate deployment, we have found our brethren, and if they are in need of our aid, we will be ready to give it to them.’

Gallio was first into the corridor, then Astomar. Clastrin watched as he dodged past a genestealer, Azmael stepping forward to take it down with his claws. The Forgemaster saw Voldo stagger back, a genestealer grappling with him. It flew backwards, blood exploding from its back, and then Clastrin could see nothing more in the chamber, the view blocked by his brothers. He turned his attention back to the accessway hatch. Coming through there, the genestealers were an easy target. Three lay dead atop Genthis, another hung from the hatch.

He waited until Gallio was close. He took deep breaths of the rushing air, then opened both inner and outer airlock doors simultaneously, overriding the ship’s safety protocols. He grabbed hold of the open door panel as the rush of air became a gale. The airlock gaped open onto the depthless black of the cosmos. The merciless light of Jorso flooded the revealed airlock chamber. A glittering blast of flash-frozen atmosphere and flakes of paint, corrosion and dust gushed out into space.

‘Many genestealers!’ shouted Gallio as he passed. Clastrin nodded. He was being pulled toward the outside, but his brothers, still armoured, trudged on, weathering the wind as a man might a spring breeze.

Gallio went into the night outside, then Nuministon who bobbed his multi-lensed helmet in thanks as he hurried past. Astomar, Eskerio, then the Blood Drinker Azmael was next. Voldo, his armour cowling scored deeply followed, firing as he walked backwards. Finally, Alanius. Sparks showered from a tear in his armour. He too walked backwards. Genestealers crept after him, Voldo’s bolts finding their flesh and laying them down in death. Blood and gobbets of flesh spattered Clastrin with every kill. They came closer. There were too many.

Clastrin reached out to the ship again. He found the governors for the grav plates easily. With a prayer to Mars and a twist of binaric code, he turned them up to full.

Crushing weight gripped him. Alanius and Voldo wavered on their legs. The Terminator suits, designed to work under the harshest of conditions, responded, redoubling the strength they lent to the Space Marines. The remaining Novamarines and Blood Drinkers walked out into the endless night.

For the genestealers, it was a different matter. They cried out in anger as their legs collapsed under them and they were pinned by their own mass to the floor. They tried to advance, but could not move, their claws waving feebly.

Clastrin withdrew his mechadendrites, his machine gifts retreating to their housing in his black carapace. Alanius caught him around the waist as he backed out into the airlock chamber. The oppressive gravity dropped away abruptly as they passed the threshold of the door, making his stomach flip, and Clastrin was outside in the hard vacuum with the others, unprotected but for his flimsy mucranoid skin. He screwed his eyes shut, and yet still through his eyelids the blue light seared his retinas. He felt his skin stretch and blood churn. Only willpower prevented him from opening his mouth in a silent scream. He flung his arm over his face to protect his eyes. The air in his lungs would soon be spent.

‘Lord captain! Atmospheric venting!’

Mastrik looked out of the Thunderhawk’s forward windows. A glittering cone of debris blasted out from the surface of the hulk, as an airlock in a trapped Imperial vessel opened. Bulky figures, their shadows long on the surface, stepped out onto the surface. Teleport homing beacons and suit data sprang up on the Thunderhawk’s screens. Some of the Terminators were damaged, others were absent.

‘Set down! Set down immediately!’ said Mastrik.

Thunderhawks swooped in on jets of fire, blasting accreted dust into space. Assault ramps dropped open, the ships’ air gusting out with them, and two squads of Tactical Marines rushed onto the surface, swiftly forming a perimeter. Clastrin was taken aboard by an Apothecary first, and put into a sealed chamber. Mastrik approached Voldo.

‘Brother-sergeant,’ he said. ‘How went your mission?’

‘A success, although not without its complications,’ the older man replied. ‘We have the mapping data. Brother Curzon is trapped in the hulk; Brother Tarael’s whereabouts are unknown. Brother Genthis is dead. Our own Brother Militor remains as rearguard near where we came into the hulk.’

‘The armour of Forgemaster Clastrin, and Brother Genthis?’

‘Brother Genthis’s body lies just within, lord captain. His armour and that of the Master of the Forge are at the end of the access corridor.’

‘Then we will retrieve them,’ said Mastrik. ‘And the Progenoid glands of Brother Genthis. We will present his armour and his gene-seed to Lord Caedis. It should take the sting from their loss a little.’

Mastrik signalled to his men. A brother with a flamer went to the airlock first. The tunnel was at an angle to the surface of the hulk, and he had to adjust his aim accordingly. Two others dragged out the body of Genthis and handed it to the care of the Apothecary accompanying the retrieval group. Then the corridor was cleansed with promethium. Mastrik had Nuministon readjust the gravity, and his squads went in, three brothers abreast, firing as they went.

In a short time, the armours were recovered and borne with reverence to Hawk’s Fury.

‘Honour the battlegear of the dead,’ said Mastrik, as the vast bulk of Genthis’s Terminator suit went by on the shoulders of six Novamarines. Two of his own were wounded. A fair exchange for the retrieval of ancient wargear.

They fell back into the ships in good order, and the Thunderhawks flew. Voldo, helmet off, conversed with Mastrik in the operations room to the rear of the flight deck.

‘Lord captain,’ said Voldo. ‘We discovered a large roost of genestealers during our escape. It lies here, not far from the reactor.’

Mastrik looked at the map.

‘A few well placed shots should detonate the reactor, brother-sergeant.’ Mastrik smiled.

‘Indeed. I say fewer genestealers would make the coming fight easier.’

‘Hail the fleet!’ ordered Mastrik.

‘Brother-Sergeant Voldo,’ came Galt’s voice, ripped by static. ‘It is good you still live.’

‘Lord captain.’ Voldo relayed his news, and the location of the reactor near the surface.

‘Then we will smite them,’ said Galt. ‘Open fire on Brother-Sergeant Voldo’s coordinates.’

‘No! Not the reactor! It is a treasure beyond your comprehension,’ pleaded Nuministon.

‘We have retrieved Genthis’s armour. The roost by it is a treasure we can do without,’ said Galt. ‘There is sure to be much more archeotech elsewhere within the hulk, be content with that.’

‘We will have vengeance,’ said Voldo. From his sensorium, he sent out the coordinates of the reactor, the Thunderhawk’s communications suite boosting the signal back to the fleet.

The two Thunderhawks skimmed over the surface of the hulk, back toward the party’s initial insertion point. A streak of metal sped across the black behind them, a bombardment cannon round. The hulk shook as it impacted. Bright fire burst upwards, followed moments later by a searing flash.

‘The reactor,’ said Voldo.

Nuministon turned away, the remaining organic parts of his face hard.

Fire shot out of the hulk, bodies and debris billowing out into space around it.

‘Death to the enemies of mankind,’ said Voldo.

‘It is the will of the Emperor, and it pleases me greatly to be its instrument,’ replied Mastrik.

Militor tried the vox again. The incessant buzz of subatomic particles cutting up his comms channels was all he heard. His fleet access was restricted to their locator beacon, voice contact was so broken up as to be useless, and although he knew where the fleet lay, he doubted they could tell where he was. From the group there were no messages, which was to be expected under the circumstances, but he had been on station for several hours and the expedition should have returned by now.

‘Brother Militor to Novum in Honourum, Brother Militor requesting audience with Lord Captain Galt.’

Nothing.

His own limited sensorium auspex showed him nothing untoward, only the radioactive broil that filled the hulk below him, and the snow of atoms blasted out by the sun. He had seen and heard nothing the whole time he had been there. The tech-priest’s devices had gone off at the appointed time, and he wondered if the great hulk quake that followed had somehow been caused by their machinations. There was no knowing with the priests of Mars. Militor was grateful for the weapons he carried and the armour which shielded him, but the less he knew of their arcane workings the better. Technology was a dangerous knowledge, fraught with peril.

He paced around the lifthead, suit lights catching on the edges of ruptured metal and the dead crewmen. He made his circle as quietly as he could, pausing at each door to let his sensorium extend his senses into the spaces beyond.

This was poor duty. He wished he was below with his brothers of Squad Wisdom of Lucretius, the other adepts with whom he had fought a hundred battles. It pained him to think of them fighting without him, not least as in these circumstances a single additional storm bolter could turn a battle in their favour. But also he knew a little envy; this was not a mission that would bring additional skin art, not for him.

He put his feelings aside. Envy was not a worthy emotion.

A noise came from the lift shaft. He turned, amplified hearing working hard to pick up sound in the attenuated air.

One of the wires rippled, twanged metallically, and went taut.

Militor raised his storm bolter and approached the edge of the lift. There it was, the sound of boots locking and unlocking to the side of the shaft. An icon lit on his helmet map.

One of the Blood Drinkers. Where were the others?

‘Brother Militor speaks, who approaches?’

There was no reply, the vox continued its hiss.

The footsteps continued upward, the safety line jerking.

Several minutes went by. Militor remained cautious. Then, a voice in his ears.

‘It is I, Novamarine. Brother Tarael of Squad Hesperion. I am in sore need of your aid.’

The Blood Drinker sounded weary, and Militor soon saw why.

Tarael hauled himself over the lip of the shaft, digging his lightning claws into the deck to aid him. His armour was scored in a dozen places, cut clean through in two. He got to his feet, and Militor saw that his left leg dragged. The power fields were out on his right gauntlet, one of the blades sheared off, cables on the back of the weapon ripped open. His helmet had sustained damage, cracks spidering one lens. Suit sealant bubbled all over him.

Militor went to the red-armoured Space Marine’s side and steadied him.

‘The others… They were trapped in the quake,’ said Tarael haltingly. ‘I was left on the other side of a cave-in. Brother Curzon was buried, I do not know the fate of the others.’

‘You had no contact?’

‘They were alive when I left them. They told me to return to you, and bear the news to the fleet.’

‘Then we shall make our way back so you may fulfil your orders,’ said Militor. ‘There is little we can do for them now.’

‘Aye,’ said Tarael. Fresh noises came from the lift shaft. ‘And with haste. I fought my way through, but the xenos have not abandoned their pursuit of me.’

Casting frequent glances back at the lift shaft, Militor aided the limping Blood Drinker out of the lifthead, back toward their insertion point.

CHAPTER 11

BROTHERS OF BONE, BROTHERS OF BLOOD

Clastrin lay in a bed on crisp sheets, red-hooded apothecarion serfs working quietly around him, the cybernetic modifications they sported attuned to the machines that monitored the status of the wounded Forgemaster. Webbing and bandages covered his hurts; mainly flash burns from the strong light of Jorso. His eyes were covered with gauze; monitoring machines were plugged through gaps in the bed into his spinal interface ports.

Galt stood by his bed.

‘How much longer must I remain here, lord captain? I would return to my machines and their ministrations. All battlegear must be sanctified and blessed by the rituals of maintenance before battle. With such a hard fight against us, I would check the wargear of our brothers myself.’ Clastrin’s body was injured, but his twin voices had lost none of their strength.

‘Your Techmarines have been trained well, Forgemaster,’ said Galt. ‘You must rest awhile.’

‘My hurts are slight.’

‘Exposure to vacuum is not to be taken lightly, even within the protective embrace of the Weaver. Your tissues have ruptured and the damage must all be accounted before I can allow you to take up your duties. You must remain here for four days, so Apothecary Raandal says,’ insisted Galt.

Clastrin hesitated. ‘And my eyes?’

‘Will heal, Forgemaster.’

Clastrin nodded and relaxed into his pillows a little. ‘The flesh is weak, brother-captain. I see the burning face of Jorso still.’

‘Apothecary Raandal assures me that the retinal damage is not permanent.’

‘How go the repairs to Corvo’s Hammer?’ said Clastrin.

‘She lies alongside the Excommentum Incursus. The Adepts of Mars hold good to their word. Brother-Captain Aresti tells me they make swift progress,’ said Galt.

‘And the others from the mission, how do they fare?’

‘All bar Cousins Curzon and Genthis are unhurt. Cousin Tarael has minor injuries. From the Third Company, Brother Luitio and Brother Collo were wounded retrieving your armour with Captain Mastrik, Collo seriously.’

Clastrin nodded. ‘It is only right. A risk in lives, but the holy tools of war must be retrieved so that they can be employed anew. Flesh is in plentiful supply, adamantium is not.’

‘Lord Caedis was most grateful that we brought back the armour of Genthis and his Progenoid glands.’ Galt stepped out of the way of a serf and continued. ‘There were no further casualties, the mission was a remarkable success. A commendable kill rating.’

‘And now I must lie abed,’ said Clastrin.

Galt sought to reassure him. ‘Do not fret, you still may serve your duty now. Tell me of what happened within the hulk. Tell me of this deceit of the magos.’

‘Magos Nuministon was not telling us the whole truth, brother-captain. His machine had capabilities we were not aware of, a secondary mapping function designed to penetrate deep in to the hulk.’

‘Useful data. Why did they hide its gathering?’ asked Galt.

‘Cousin-Sergeant Alanius said the same thing. I surmise that there is something of great value within the hulk, and they would not have us know of it. The priests of Mars are jealous of their secrets.’

‘You share them, brother.’ Galt said so carefully, wishing to test Clastrin gently.

‘I am a brother of the Novamarines Chapter first and foremost, brother-captain,’ said Clastrin.

‘And a valued one at that. I mean no offence.’

‘Upon the screen, lord captain, I saw something deep in the hulk.’

‘What?’ said Galt. His eyes narrowed. He had his own doubts about the lord magos’s motives.

‘That I cannot tell you. It was a void, an absence of data where there should be data. Without access to the information I can say no more,’ said Clastrin. ‘There is something there these magi are hiding from us about this agglomeration. There are various aspects of it that trouble me. Consider this, captain. The hulk held its orbit well under intense bombardment. It is large, but so full of cavities that its overall mass is low. It should have been pushed off course. Surely we should have seen a deterioration in its orbital distance from the sun, but nothing. Secondly, the regularity of its departure from a system, and the arrival of it by so many stars of this class.’

‘Hulks are strange by their nature, Forgemaster. At what do you drive?’

‘Nothing at all, brother-captain, if not for this; there was something… else, brother-captain. A presence in the machine when I accessed the door to allow the others to escape.’

‘What?’

Clastrin sighed. Galt was glad at least that the Forgemaster had been spared the healing tanks. ‘I am not sure. I entered the mechanisms of the vessel. I could not open the door, then I did – I swear by Corvo’s oath that something aided me and the door opened.’

‘You underestimate your ability, Forgemaster. Without your expertise the party would have been lost and the mission a failure,’ said Galt.

‘But I did not open the door, brother-captain,’ insisted Clastrin. ‘I am sure of it.’

Galt was silent.

‘There is something else in the hulk, brother. Something the magi do not wish us to know of,’ insisted Clastrin. ‘I doubt their intentions are nefarious, but I would not put it past the priests of Mars to hide their knowledge of certain treasures should it suit them to do so.’

Galt nodded. ‘I have noticed certain irregularities in their behaviour, but such is the way with the adepts of the Machine-God. They operate clumsily if so, brother.’

‘Yes,’ said Clastrin. ‘A man like Plosk has many successes behind him. He is arrogant, secure in his accomplishments.’

‘Maybe, but he deals with the Adeptus Astartes now, not some planetary governor,’ said Galt. ‘I thank you for your intelligence, Forgemaster; now rest, recover. The sooner your talents are available to us, the better.’

‘I will return to duty soon, brother, I wish so fervently.’

The Hall of Meetings was crammed full of adepts – Adepts of Mars, and adepts of the stars. They stood in stalls that rose in serried tiers around the full circumference of the room. The massive doors to the hall interrupted the run of terraces only briefly; the stalls running up and over them. Now full with the mightiest of all humankind.

The Imagifer Maximus had been shepherded into the hall, and squatted in the middle of the circular floor the stalls surrounded. This tiled circle was the arena from which important strategies were relayed or rhetorics and lessons delivered and filled the centre of the room, illuminated by coloured light while the rest of the hall was dark. A fine mosaic of Guilliman arrayed for war, a world in one hand, a quill in another, decorated the floor, although the Imagifer Maximus obscured much of it at the moment.

Galt and Caedis occupied thrones on a dais that had been set up opposite the doors to the chamber. Sanguinary Master Teale and Reclusiarch Mazrael stood to the right of Caedis, Chaplain Odon and Epistolary Ranial to the left of Galt. Captains Aresti, Mastrik and Sorael paced the floor around the Adeptus Mechanicus relic, addressing the assembled brothers and priests with the plan of attack conceived by Galt and Caedis.

‘Brothers!’ shouted Mastrik, ‘Magi of Mars! The mapping data provided by the Adeptus Mechanicus has revealed the layout of the hulk in fine detail. Lord Caedis, First Captain Galt and your other leaders have met and discussed what shall be done to eradicate the genestealers and retrieve the hulk’s technological treasures. Here is the strategy we have decided upon. May the Emperor and the primarchs place their blessings upon it.’

The coloured lights were turned low, and the Imagifer Maximus activated. A perfect map of light was projected by the ancient device into the air.

‘Behold! The Death of Integrity, its secrets revealed to us,’ said Sorael. ‘And with its secrets revealed, so shall it fall!’

The Blood Drinkers shouted and stamped their armoured feet, raising a thunder in the room. The Novamarines looked to one another; such open fervour was not their way. Instead the brothers of bone-and-blue hummed low and loud, the haunting sign of their appreciation.

The map was of fine detail. In much of it, the level of precision took in the tiniest of ducts. Its fissures and caverns, halls and chambers, stone and steel were revealed for all to see. So cunning was the artifice of the Imagifer Maximus that this illusion appeared as real as the agglomeration it depicted. Depending on how one looked at the image, the machine would alter the hulk model’s opacity, presenting walls as solid or transparent. This was determined by what each viewer wished to see, and his view was visible only to him. Truly, the Imagifer was a marvel of the elder days.

This detail was absolute, save in a few places. Certain areas had a sketchiness to them, the data needed for the machine to describe the hulk interior was incomplete. Toward the centre of the hulk this problem became pronounced, the veracity of the map shifting from total fidelity to speculation, thence at the heart of it to darkness.

‘The Death of Integrity is vast,’ said Aresti. ‘Fortunately the volume of pressurised space is relatively small, and concentrated toward the western part of the hulk’s northern hemisphere. The majority of the active reactors are here, and we suspect atmospheric generators to be operational. This access to air and warmth explains why the principal genestealer roosts are located in this area. We have found five all told here. We cannot rely on the xenos to be dormant still after our recent incursion. However, they are unlikely to have scattered far, and we believe the majority to be found within this area still.’

An irregular green shape pulsed on the map, framing a good fifth of the agglomeration; the area of genestealer infestation.

‘In order to cleanse the hulk of the xenos, we have determined to drive them into this cavern,’ continued Aresti. A cavity in the hulk flashed up to the south of the green zone. The cavern was large, delineated by the inner wall of a single giant vessel on one side, the rest of the walls formed by a number of ships and a large asteroid.

‘Within this space, brothers from both Chapters will be able to set up effective kill-zones. Here we can use our ranged weaponry to full effect. Additionally, unlike in other areas of the hulk, this space is free of the high levels of radiation found elsewhere, and so our brothers armoured in standard power armour may be deployed. The majority of our battle-brothers and Terminators will be sent here, and we name them Battleforce Anvil; for it is against this gathering of might that the genestealers shall be crushed. Brother-Captain Mastrik of the Novamarines Second Company and Captain Sorael of the Blood Drinkers Fifth Company will be in command.’

Mastrik took over. ‘I will hold the near side of the cavern, while Sorael will occupy the pocket limned by this bulge in the asteroid wall.’

Sorael inclined his head in acknowledgement at this mention of his role.

‘Our first task is to breach the hull in these five areas,’ said Aresti. More graphical representations and icons flashed on the Imagifer. Animations showed the results of the described actions in stunning clarity. ‘This will done by demolition teams on the surface. The Adeptus Mechanicus have agreed to perform these duties, they will also lay a relay web that will amplify our vox signals, and allow us to communicate without difficulty. For this removal of our greatest strategic weakness, we thank them.’

‘It is aid gladly given, lord captain,’ said Plosk.

‘Scout elements of both Chapters will aid the Skitarii of Triplex Phall and guard the Mechanicus while they are upon the surface. Once breached, the atmosphere in these key parts of the hulk will vent into space, and drive the occupants of the roosts further into the hulk, toward the kill zone,’ said Mastrik.

‘Forgive my ignorance, lord captain.’ A brother of the Blood Drinkers from the stalls spoke. ‘We have little experience of fighting these beasts in space. How will this work? They endure years adrift in the void, surely the lack of air will not trouble beasts such as these.’

Galt spoke. ‘Genestealers can withstand vacuum, but not forever. Without air, they are forced, after a time, to become dormant. Within hulks they can only survive in their active state in areas with at least a trace oxygen-bearing atmosphere. They have an overwhelmingly strong desire for survival. They will instinctively follow gas trails to viable air pockets. Deprived of air they will sink into deep hibernation and eventually die, though this suffocation may take a hundred years. Do not fear, this is a sound tactic, one we have used several times in the last eight centuries alone.’

‘To this end, we will prepare three tunnels,’ said Aresti. Three ways were duly delimited by the Imagifer, long tunnels that wormed past each major roost. They ran through vessel after vessel, in certain places the whole length of particular ships, in others cutting through and then back out again in the space of metres. ‘These tunnels will require some time to prepare. Once these are completed and the atmosphere vented, Terminator teams, deployed earlier by boarding torpedo and gathered close by the roost exits, will drive the gathered genestealers before them into the cavity. This force we designate Strikeforce Hammer, for it is this which will descend upon the genestealers in most rightful smiting. In the cavern, the genestealers will be surrounded on all sides and cut down en masse. Search and destroy groups will scour the remainder of the hulk to hunt out remaining pockets of the enemy. Any that flee the cordons in the main killing field will be forced into the airless portions of the hulk. There they will enter hibernation, and will be easily overcome. There are other, smaller roosts in the airless parts. Four of these are in isolated air pockets, in the others the genestealers will not wake from their state of suspended animation. So necessarily, it is the xenos of the main roosts we must destroy first, the others, my brothers and noble cousins, must wait their turn for the Emperor’s judgement.’

Sorael stepped in. ‘A fine plan, brothers. A little short on the close engagement every brother of the Blood Drinkers correctly yearns for, you might fear. But fear ye not! The Emperor provides us the opportunity to prove ourselves the way that suits us best. There are several obstacles to overcome. Seventeen critical corridors that could allow the genestealers to escape into the greater hulk must be sealed off before the attack can commence, eighty-four secondary exits must also be closed. Numerous bulkheads and twelve hull walls are to be opened up. Sundry other objectives need to be completed in order to create sealed runs for the genestealers to be funnelled down into the killing zone.’ The relevant areas were highlighted upon the Imagifer Maximus’s image. Some of these access points were so small as to be dots, others large enough to dominate the part of the map they were situated in.

Galt stood from his throne. ‘This action will account for over four-fifths of xenos upon the hulk. We are fortunate they are gathered around this area of active reactors.’

‘For all their wickedness, they crave warmth and air as do all living things,’ said Aresti. ‘This weakness will be their downfall.’

‘Once the majority of the genestealers are destroyed, the effort to salvage the archeotech might begin,’ said Galt.

‘My lord captain, I beg to differ.’ Lord Magos Explorator Plosk stood to address the chamber. Galt’s face hardened at the interruption. ‘The retrieval of archeotech must begin as soon as the operation commences.’

Caedis roused himself. He had been quiet in the strategy meeting, as if greatly wearied, even if his words were wise enough. Throughout the briefing in the Hall of Meeting, he had kept his eyes to the floor. Galt had not expected him to speak. ‘You wish to go into the fire? You tech-priests are more valorous than I thought.’

‘We have all the courage we require, where the matters of the Omnissiah are concerned,’ countered Plosk.

‘I will not allow it,’ said Galt.

Plosk made a reproachful face. ‘I am afraid you have no choice,’ said Plosk.

‘Damn your permissions, magos, you kept information from my brothers. Might I remind you that you pledged you would not interfere in the military side of our operation.’

‘What occurred during the first insertion was a regrettable incident, my lord,’ said Plosk. ‘I have discussed the matter with Magos Nuministon. It appears he undertook the second sounding himself, without consulting me. I of course would have dissuaded him from this course of action. I apologise for the peril that it put your warriors in. Forgive him, Magos Nuministon is not used to the field of combat.’

‘Then why send him? The mission was jeopardised.’

‘It will not happen again. He has been disciplined. And you must admit, lords, that the risk was perhaps worth it. See how detailed our data is!’ He paused. ‘As regards the speed with which we must act, I refer not to my permissions. Magos Nuministon has redeemed himself.’

‘How?’ said Caedis. His voice had lost its elegance, as if he had to force the words from his throat.

‘He has examined the data presented by the noble adepts of the Blood Drinkers further, that appertaining to the arrival and departure of the hulk. We have three days at most before it begins its journey back into the warp.’

‘By what mechanism?’ said Galt.

‘That we would dearly love to know ourselves, lord captain,’ said Plosk. He bowed his head. ‘The quest for knowledge is unending.’

‘So demands the Omnissiah,’ intoned the tech-priests in the room.

‘If I find you have withheld information from me again, magos,’ said Galt warningly. ‘I will not have a repeat of your previous errors.’

‘I will share all. In fact, I will reveal to you now something else that Magos Nuministon has uncovered within the hulk.’

A graphical representation of the some binaric information leapt into the air, a striated, three-dimensional graph that undulated repetitiously.

‘And what is that?’ said Caedis. ‘Speak, magos, we do not understand the ideograms of machines.’

Plosk smiled. He did not speak for a moment. His gaze darted around the room. ‘This, I believe, is the data signature of a fully functioning, intact STC datacore. Not a printout, although there are surely many within the Death of Integrity, and not just one priceless device, but the collected knowledge of all the long millennia of the Dark Age of Technology. This is the holiest of holies of our priesthood, the goal we have striven for millennia. If we retrieve this, it will transform the Imperium, lords, and you will be heroes for all eternity.’

Galt and Caedis glanced at each other. The chamber was plunged into uproar. All within had some inkling as to what such a find would mean.

Samin, sat with Plosk and Nuministon, leaned forward and whispered to his masters, his words lost amid the shouts. ‘Forgive me, master, I am but young still. Tell me, these other energy signatures, in the sigma ostrakon range. What do they betoken?’

Plosk gave his tutelary a stern look. ‘For another time, Samin. Ask later when we are in unmixed company.’

Galt was calling for order, but the tumult continued. Caedis spoke. His quiet, sibilant voice cut through the noise like a knife.

‘Enough!’ He was paler than usual. ‘You will wait, magos, as Lord Captain Galt dictates. We have our plan and you a prize beyond reckoning, but you heed our words or it will slip through your fingers.’ Caedis forced himself to his feet with great effort. ‘There are rituals to be performed aboard the Lux Rubrum and Novum in Honourum.’

Plosk opened his mouth to speak, then pursed his lips. ‘Very well,’ he said finally. ‘We will do as you demand.’ He made to sit, but stopped, as if something had just crossed his mind. ‘Let me ask, my lords, how do you intend to descend to the cavern?’

‘By these passages,’ said Mastrik. The Imagifer flashed as he passed his hand over them. ‘Seven descent routes.’

Plosk examined them. He nodded his head. ‘There are many obstacles.’

‘There are,’ said Aresti. ‘They will be removed.’

‘Cutting through with plasma torch and chainfist will take time,’ said Plosk. ‘Perhaps I might suggest a better way? There are certain machineries aboard Excommentum Incursus that we will avail you of, so that the assault will go the quicker.’

‘No tricks, magos, no omissions,’ said Galt.

‘Of course, lord captain. I merely propose to gift you a road.’

‘That would be welcome,’ said Sorael. He and the other two captains on the floor of the hall looked to their masters. Galt and Caedis nodded.

‘I will see to it immediately,’ said Plosk. He inclined his head.

‘Then let us be about our business,’ said Caedis. ‘Whatever the magi believe they will find here, we have our own purpose, and that purpose is the destruction of this most pernicious of threats. Not content to slay the sons of Terra, genestealers want nothing more than to poison the very genetic wellsprings of humanity. So has it been since the first of their vile breed stole onto a ship out of the moons of Ymgarl, so it will be for all time. But, brothers!’ His voice rose, regaining something of its strength and diction. ‘This branch of their plague stops here, in the orbit of Jorso, by our blades and bolts! We are to send nigh two hundred Terminator-armoured brothers into battle. Such a deployment is the stuff of legend, and has been witnessed by the galaxy but few times since the birth of the Imperium. We are Adeptus Astartes, of two storied, noble Chapters. The magi have their goal, we have ours. Service! Death! Purgation!’ Caedis held up his arms and stood tall, seeming to grow in size.

‘Service! Death! Purgation!’ shouted the warriors of two Chapters.

Caedis smiled and nodded. He slumped a little, diminished by his effort. ‘Let us see to our souls and to our weapons. The joy of battle awaits.’

Ninety-six Terminator suits stood in alcoves within the Armor Armourium, the great arsenal of Novum in Honourum. Clamps held the armour in place on stands behind glass screens; for the moment they were empty of occupants. Five Techmarines walked the rows of armour, a coterie of servitors equipped with fine-tooled limbs following them. They checked the armour in batches of five, chanting the canticles of waking and good function as they opened the alcove’s glass fronts. Light flooded each alcove as the priests of iron opened them. The suits, mounted on wheeled turntables, came out from the wall. The Techmarines carried on their hymnals as they checked the exterior of the armour, rotating them carefully. Then the Techmarines opened panels and inserted their diagnostic tools into the armour’s external access ports.

Each set of plate came alive for five seconds, energy plants online, visors shining, suit lights blazing. They flexed in their cradles as fibre muscles contracted deep under adamantium rods and plasteel and ceramite plating. The Techmarines made the ritual responses to the machines’ proper activation, the implants in their minds filling with data from the sensoriums telling them precisely the condition of every component. When they were satisfied the armours were properly functional, the Techmarines withdrew and the suits slumped back from attention. Scented oil was spattered onto each as servitors droned Gothic hymns and chittered binaric blessings, and the next five suits were approached and the process begun again. In this way each suit was checked, activated, diagnosed, deactivated, and blessed. None were found wanting.

Patiently, and with great devotion, the Techmarines worked through the night.

In the Grand Chapel many decks above, the majority of the Novamarines were assembled; more than two hundred and twenty brothers of three companies. Only those in the infirmary or on sentry and command duties aboard the fleet’s sundry vessels were absent. Hooded and silent in their robes of bone-and-night-blue, they kneeled in the lambency of candles and prayed for victory.

The walls of the shrine reverberated to the songs of war as choirs of serfs gave voice to their desires to see their masters returned safe and victorious from battle. Chaplain Odon stood with two other Chaplains within the presbytery of the chapel, the sacred space reserved for the Chaplains within the apse. Their platform was reached by three broad steps in a recessed semicircle. Behind them, the sanctuary rose, wherein at the top of a steep flight of stairs was Corvo’s Memorial, an exact copy of the sarcophagus within the Great Tomb of Fortress Novum. An effigy of Corvo lay in repose atop it, armoured in stone, his sword clasped in both hands, point towards his feet. Odon and the others were dressed all in black, their skull tattoos sinister in the shadows of their hoods. Odon held the Cup of Brotherhood in his hand, his crozius held horizontal on a stand behind him. Chaplain Kornak stood to his right, Chaplain Ardio to the left, both carrying their croziuses. Black-clad servitor-worshippers and serfs flanked them.

Odon blessed each of the brothers in turn as they stepped forward, granting each a sip from the Cup of Brotherhood which contained the waters of Honourum blended with those of Macragge. This ritual was one of the first undergone by the novitiate Novamarines, and remained principal to their creed throughout their lives. The taste of two homes intermingled, representative of the Legion their ancestors had left behind, and the territory their founder had sworn to defend forever. The cup was small, the brothers in multitude. Apparently of worn wood, the cup’s nature was mysterious. Not until the last brother had sipped at the cup and the blessings of Corvo painted on his face with its water did it run dry. There was always precisely enough, no matter if it were a squad blessed or the entire Chapter, although such a gathering had not taken place for twenty centuries. Traditionally guarded by the First Company, the cup was among the most holy of the Chapter’s relics, touched as it was by the lips of every Novamarine from the time of Corvo to the present day.

The ritual was unhurried. The brothers themselves were silent as they approached Odon’s place, cowls up and hands thrust deep into the sleeves of their robes. They took their sip and the whispered blessing of the Chaplain without speaking before returning to their pews. Once the last had returned to his place, the songs of the serfs dropped to their ordinary susurrations, the sound of the wind of Honourum intertwined with the oaths of fealty Lucretius Corvo had made so many thousand years ago.

The First Company veterans were called forward. The majority of them were in one place for the first time in living memory – eighty-seven Space Marines of the highest order, men who had fought for the Emperor for generations of normal men’s lives. Tattooed with so many icons and scenes of triumph their skin was blue-black, between them they were hung with every badge of honour known to the Chapter. There an iron halo, here the aquila, there the laurels of defiance, and more.

The veterans knelt before Odon in a broad semicircle, still silent. Sergeant Voldo, most senior and decorated of all, knelt at the centre, the Chapter ancient to his left, the Chapter champion to his right. In front of him, on the second of the three steps leading up to Corvo’s Memorial, Captains Galt, Aresti and Mastrik, and Epistolary Ranial took their places. Kneeling behind them on the first step, but in front of Voldo, were the other officers of the Chapter – the lower ranking Librarians, the four Apothecaries, those Techmarines who did not labour in the arsenal – fourteen officers in all.

Odon walked down from the memorial platform, and passed the cup to Chaplain Kornak, who followed him. He went to Voldo first, bent low, and kissed him upon both cheeks. ‘Corvo’s might be yours,’ he said, then dipped his finger into the cup in Kornak’s hand. He drew a circle on the sergeant’s forehead. ‘This circle symbolises the nova for which we are named,’ he said quietly, the words intended for Voldo alone. ‘This circle symbolises the territories we are sworn to respect, this circle symbolises the eternal oath of Corvo.’

Odon and Kornak passed from Voldo to the next man, then the next, blessing them all in the same fashion. As he went from Space Marine to Space Marine, the serfs’ and servitors’ song became louder again, the brothers of the Third and Fifth Companies joining their song; a long complex plainsong speaking of loyalty, honour, and the glory of death for the higher purposes of mankind.

By the time Odon returned to the officers, forty minutes had passed. He likewise blessed them in their turn, two kisses, the giving of might, the drawing of the circle, the description of its meaning.

Chaplain Ardio went to the foot of the steps leading up to the memorial. He paid obeisance at the bottom, then mounted the stairs. At the top, he made a series of complex passes over the warrior-lord’s stone face. A drawer slid from the stone, lined in blue velvet. He leaned into it, and took out Corvo’s relic.

There were fifteen sacred relics of Corvo, many at home on Honourum, the rest entrusted to the largest taskforces of Novamarines. Novum in Honourum was fortunate indeed to play host to the hilt of the hero’s shattered sword. Only Corvo’s laurels, bestowed upon him by Roboute Guilliman himself, and enshrined forever in Fortress Novum, were more holy to the Chapter.

With the ceremony appropriate to such an item, Ardio walked down the stairs. The First Company joined their brothers in song, and the Grand Chapel echoed loudly to their gathered voices. The song changed the quality of the place, transmuting it into something more than a chamber within a spacecraft. The unity of their song removed the walls between the individual warriors, making them one in mind and soul.

Odon took the sword hilt of Corvo from Ardio. It was so ancient, almost as old as the Imperium itself. The features of it were worn smooth, metal shone with the touch of a hundred generations of Chaplains. Spots marred this lustre, dark rust eaten into the metal. The fragment of blade that projected from the hilt was dull, the components of the mechanism that had once imbued the blade with the ferocious power of a disruption field had corroded into an undifferentiated mass.

Yet this was still the sword of Corvo.

The song reached a crescendo, and swooped low to a deep finish that left the fabric of the chapel reverberating.

The song departed, unity remained.

Odon held the hilt high.

‘This is the sword of Lucretius Corvo!’ he said. ‘This is the weapon he wielded at the side of Roboute Guilliman himself, the sword he lifted when he renewed his fealty to the Emperor, the sword he bore on Astagar where he destroyed the dread Titan Fellghast, the sword he held in both hands as he had made his oath to defend the Ultima Segmentum in the name of the Lords of Macragge and the Emperor of all mankind!’

‘We take the oath, we renew the oath,’ intoned Kornak and Ardio.

‘We renew the oath,’ shouted the Novamarines, and the chamber shook.

‘Corvo said, “As I leave Macragge for the last time, I swear to you”,’ said Odon, reciting the oath of their founder. ‘“Lord Roboute Guilliman, primarch of the Emperor and my sworn liege lord, that I and my successors shall undertake the protection of the Ultima Segmentum from now unto eternity’s end. Not death nor dishonour nor wavering of spirit shall distract us from this task. Though death take me, though my soul be riven. Nothing shall sway me from this duty, not for now nor until the end of time. This I swear. This is my oath!”’

‘This we swear! This is our oath!’ shouted the Novamarines.

‘Unity! Honour! Strength of purpose!’ said Odon.

‘Unity! Honour! Strength of purpose!’ roared the Novamarines.

Minds cleansed by the waters of their homes, oath reaffirmed, Odon led the Novamarines in prayer. Silently the brothers of the Third and Fifth Companies filed out of the Grand Chapel and returned first to their arming chambers, and then to their cells. In the confines of their simple rooms, they spent the night fasting and checking their weaponry, preparing themselves for the morrow. The cloistered habitation decks were alive with the clicking of guns disassembled and rebuilt, and whispered prayers.

The First Company veterans remained in vigil in the Grand Chapel, thoughts bent only on their duty to the Lord of Man, and through that duty, victory.

They did not sleep.

The Hall of Life sat at the centre of Lux Rubrum, the very heart of the mighty vessel, and a heart it resembled; red and hot.

In shape, the hall was a wide circle, the walls bulging like a ribcage as they ascended, curving back inward to meet as a pointed dome. From this high ceiling censers depended, clouding the air with fragrant blue smoke that reeked of the fireblooms of San Guisiga.

Six-sided pillars of porphyry quarried from the flanks of Mount Calicium braced walls of red-brown granite. These alternated with pillars of skulls, the stacked trophies of five thousand years of war. Slabs of the same granite that made up the walls made up the floor. This stone was polished bright, so that all who looked into it would see their face reflected as from a pool of drying blood. Lights were set within bowls carved into the pillars, casting a ruddy glow on the ancient battle honours and standards that lined the stone walls. Glass sarcophagi topped with elegant metalwork and statuary held the bones of the Chapter’s most honoured dead, skull-faced cybernetic vat-children crouched at the head of each vitreous tomb, ready to whisper the great deeds of those within to any who would pause by their sides.

At the centre of the chamber a depression was sunk into the granite, the shape of the blood drop of the Chapter. Square channels cut into the floor led to it, turning this way and that in a continuous line, so that they formed the chalice of the Blood Drinkers insignia below the blood drop. Thirty more channels ran out from it, to alcoves set within the walls. At the narrow end of the drop, an altar soared high. A relief of helmetless armoured brothers circled it carved of red carnelian, each one with a skull for his head, bowed over hands clasped around the hilts of swords and axes.

Upon the altar channels were also cut, below manacles of bright adamantium, leading from places that would correspond to the major arteries of the human body’s limbs should a person be laid out upon it: carotid, femoral, ulnar and radial. The channels ran from these points to gather, then as one led to the apex of the blood drop.

The altar was empty and it gleamed. Behind it, a stained glass window five times the height of an adept. Holos’s stern features, captured in glass, stared down at the hall in eternal judgement. The fires burning on the other side of the glass made his eyes glimmer with life.

A pulpit was above the altar, an angel’s wings spread wide formed its sides. The angel also was of carnelian, and had a fleshless face. It held a sword in one hand, an hourglass in the other. Everywhere in the Hall of Life were skulls: skulls of the righteous dead, skulls of stone, skulls of volcanic glass. This was a place of life only for the brothers of the Blood Drinkers, to all others it brought death.

The room was hot as the volcanic caverns of San Guisiga were hot, the light red as the light of the lava canyons, the air thick and sweet as the air of their home world was thick and sweet, ripe with the scent of copper, iron and incense.

All one hundred and seventy-nine battle-brothers of the Blood Drinkers Chapter present in the strikeforce stood around the chalice cut into the rock, their upper bodies bare. None were absent. Serfs and machine-spirits watched over the fleet. The wounded stood alongside the hale.

Baggy scarlet trousers cinched at the ankles were their robes, black tabards embroidered with the yellow blood drop and chalice of the Chapter hung between their legs. The decorated belts they habitually wore, denoting their role and rank within the Chapter, were absent. Techmarine stood with battle-brother, neophyte with initiate; stripped of their badges, all were equal for the Rite of Holos. They stood shoulder to shoulder in an arc, facing the altar. For the duration of the ritual the matter of their brotherhood was paramount. Distinction of rank or suborder was unimportant, a distraction from their fundamental sameness in the face of the Thirst.

Only the strikeforce’s Sanguinary Priests and Chaplains stood apart, all four armoured and bearing their marks of office; crozius and chalices gleamed in the chamber’s febrile light. They flanked the major portal leading into the room, Reclusiarch Mazrael and Chaplain Gorwin facing the white garbed Apothecaries Zozymus and Feir. Ten Sanguinary Guard stood behind them, armed and armoured also, five with the Chaplains, five with the Sanguinary Priests.

Teale, however, was not among them. Teale would arrive separately, for the Rite of Holos was a ritual of blood, and the Sanguinary Master had the lead role to play.

Caedis stood among his brothers, his own badges removed. Like them he swayed slightly, his mind drugged with anticipation of the coming ritual. The remembered taste of blood filled his mouth. He drooled freely.

The stone doors of the Hall of Life swung open, as silent as death’s approach. A procession of serfs came first, bearing holy icons of Holos and Sanguinius. Sanguinary Master Teale walked at their centre. Behind him came a serf carrying a wooden box. Behind him, more serfs – one hundred and fifty of them, all thin, metal tubing all over them; the ways to their arteries and the fluids that sustained the Chapter. These latter arrivals fanned out as they entered the room. They proceeded to the heads of the thirty channels, five to an alcove.

Sanguinary Master Teale walked to the pulpit, ascended its steps, and took station inside. ‘Brothers!’ he called.

A low sound escaped the lips of the Blood Drinkers, halfway between song and a moan.

‘One and a half thousand years ago, our Chapter stood upon the brink of destruction. We were ravaged by the Thirst, the Black Rage descending upon scores of our brothers at a time. Barely had they finished the rites of initiation before brothers were taken. The Flaw revealed itself strongly within us. Extinction beckoned, but would we go the way of the Exsanguinators, the Brothers of the Red or the others of the scions of our lord lost entirely to the Black Rage?’

The torpid minds of the Blood Drinkers shook themselves at this. ‘No!’ they called. ‘No, no.’ Not as one, but individually these shouts came. They were tinged with sorrow, anger, and with shame.

‘No brothers! We would not!’ bellowed Teale, his voice rasping and sinister through his helmet. ‘And now, look at us. We are strong! We are powerful! We have persisted in glory and service for a further fifteen centuries! All thanks to Brother Holos! Were it not for him and the secret he brought back from his vision upon Mount Calicium, we would be a red footnote in history. And yet we serve! The enemies of mankind fall before us and fear our wrath.’

‘All praise Brother Holos!’ shouted the Chaplains and Sanguinary Priests.

A ragged repetition from the brethren.

‘The blood is the key! Denial is not the answer! We shall not quake before our appetites as our brother Chapters do, but take them to our hearts! The monster within us all cannot be defeated, it cannot be denied. But it can be fed, it can be sated, and if sated, its strength can be borrowed! The blood is life!’

In the alcoves, the serfs bent over the heads of the channels. They held out their wrists and twisted the taps on the tubes that ran into their skin. Blood ran out from the taps, gushing in thin streams into the channels. Thirty red rivers nosed across the floor toward the chalice. In the heat of the chamber, the smell of the blood was carried from the floor, instantly filling the room.

The brothers woke a little more. Their eyes glittered in anticipation. Their shoulders and chests heaved with ragged respiration.

‘The blood is life!’ they repeated. Their eyes followed the blood as it ran into the grooves depicting the Chapter chalice.

‘In life there is service!’ shouted Teale.

‘We live to serve!’ replied the brothers.

‘To deny life is to deny service!’ said Teale.

‘To deny service is to betray the Emperor!’ they shouted.

‘Do we choose service or betrayal?’ said Teale.

‘We choose life! We choose service! We choose blood!’ They roared as one.

From a wooden box, Teale took forth a heart, a human heart.

‘What is blood without a heart to force it round the body? The rite demands a heart. I give you the heart of Brother Genthis!’ he handed it to a serf, who took it to the blood drop, and placed it at the bottom. ‘He comes home to his brothers to share his courage with us one last time!’ A laser beam emitted from the eyes of a soaring angel in the ceiling hit the heart. The smell of roasting meat joined the tang of blood. It abated, as the heart blackened rapidly, then turned white. Fine ash collapsed in on itself. The laser beam cut out.

‘In blood is life! In life is service! In service purpose and honour!’ shouted Teale. ‘Blood freely given!’ he continued, sweeping his narthecium out to encompass the serfs patiently bleeding themselves, adding in a low voice, ‘And blood taken.’

Through the doors came two further Sanguinary Guard, resplendent in golden armour, their faces masks of Sanguinius. Between them they held a man, not a serf, some poor soul snatched from one recruitment world or another the Blood Drinkers used; kept in stasis, perhaps for centuries, all for this one moment. He was the Chapter’s monstrous price, the blood-tithe.

His hands were bound before him, his mouth gelled shut. As he came into the room, his eyes widened and he began to struggle harder, but before the giant adepts his efforts were those of a child fighting an ogre, and the guard dragged him forward. They pulled him to the altar. His hands were freed, and then quickly trapped again as he was roughly spread-eagled on the altar. The fear in his eyes told that he knew what the grooves in the stone were for.

‘All must serve the Emperor!’ said Teale. Zeal poured from him, further exciting the others in the room. ‘We serve as we can, we sacrifice all; our lives entire, our souls, our individuality, our very beings! Others must also do their part!’

He dipped his white helmet toward a serf below. The serf activated a mechanism. The man on the altar’s back arched as blades emerged from the altar and penetrated his body at the sites of his arteries. Blood gushed from his bucking body, pouring into the channels and thence in a squared red fall down into the blood drop. The blood of the serfs filled the channels forming the chalice, and overflowed into the drop, mingling their given blood with that taken, both soaking the ash of the heart of Genthis. The Chapter icon shone, painted in liquid red.

Teale undid his helmet’s seals, and removed it. He placed it upon the pulpit. His eyes glowed with savage delight, a touch of fervour, a touch of madness. This was his time, the time of submission, the giving in to powerful appetites. ‘Now brothers! Drink! Drink so that the monster might be sated, and that you might steal its strength.’

The Blood Drinkers fell to their knees, an awful keening escaping their lips. The Chaplains and Apothecaries and Sanguinary Guard undid their own helmets and approached the dying man on the altar, cups extended. The brothers lapped frantically at the stuff of life. In the alcoves, those serfs that were still conscious shut off their taps and those of their collapsed comrades. They retreated quietly, leaving their masters to their debased appetites.

Their faces smeared red, the brothers fell upon the altar, and tore the dead man to pieces.

Later, when the Thirst was quenched, Reclusiarch Mazrael would lead them in prayers of atonement and then of preparation. They would reaffirm their oaths to the Emperor, and beg forgiveness of one another for the lives they had taken. The Techmarines would take a measure of blood from the brothers themselves to placate the Chapters’ weapons and armours. Only then, with the beast inside them tamed, would the brothers’ minds turn fully to battle and the destruction of man’s foes.

Later. For now, the Blood Drinkers lived up to their name.

They fed.

CHAPTER 12

THE STIRRING OF THE RAGE

Galt waited patiently for Chapter Master Caedis. The Thunderhawk’s ramp was open, its red-lit interior exposed. Two of the Blood Drinker’s ornately attired honour guard stood to attention either side of the doorway, and servitors wearing the red of that Chapter clumped about the ship, mindlessly fulfilling their duty. Of Caedis, there was no sign.

Galt relaxed into the wait. There was opportunity in reflection in all things, and he allowed his mind to wander where it would. He ran his gaze over the vessel’s lines, so red, so shocking in the drab, starkly lit hangar bay of the Novamarines.

There was a movement under the wing. A shape. Too small for an initiate, too nimble to be that of a servitor. He walked closer to the vessel, and caught sight of a serf working on an atmosphere filter. It was the first of the Blood Drinker’s human servants Galt had seen. Where the Novamarine’s servants were tall and well-formed, this creature of the Blood Angels seemed less than human. He was stooped, and thin to the point of emaciation. He was bare to his waist, wearing a long kilt emblazoned with the yellow blood chalice. Metal tubes sparkled on his limbs and torso, disappearing under the skin in places Galt’s trained, killer’s eye could not help but notice were close to major blood vessels. Ritual scarification criss-crossed the man’s back.

The serf paused in what he was doing, feeling Galt’s eyes on him. He turned and looked directly at the Novamarines First Captain. His eyes were fierce and defiant above his face mask, and he did not drop his gaze from the lord captain’s face as he should have. Galt raised his eyebrow at the servant’s boldness. The serf dipped his head, and disappeared into the red gloom of the Thunderhawk passenger compartment.

Seconds later, Caedis strode out.

The lord of the Blood Drinkers wore Terminator armour, its magnitude accentuating his already imposing size. He wore a double-handed power sword at his waist. He was focussed, eyes bright, his skin ruddy where before it had been pale. But there was still the trace of strain behind his confidence, he was holding something in.

‘Well met, Captain Galt,’ said Caedis. The taller man looked down at Galt.

‘Well met, Lord Chapter Master,’ replied Galt.

‘I apologise for dragging you away from your duties, captain. I wished to see you one final time before the mission commenced.’

‘Then allow me to take the opportunity to thank you for allowing me overall strategic command.’

Caedis looked over Galt’s head, and smiled as if he had seen an old acquaintance somewhere, the kind of smile that was welcoming yet condescending. A pained look marred his features and he swayed a little. His yellow eyes flicked back to Galt’s face. They took a while to focus in the Novamarine’s face, but when he spoke, he did so clearly. ‘Cousin, your talents are better suited for this particular role. I would lead my men from the front and smite our foes alongside them. A cool head such as yours is better employed coordinating the greater action.’

‘You will be unable to give effective orders once you are away from your insertion point, my lord. The radiation fields are too strong for suit vox to penetrate. The Adeptus Mechanicus boosting web will not be installed until the genestealers are driven towards the killing zone.’

‘I am aware of the limitations this action imposes upon me, but I trust in your direction, first among captains of the Novamarines. Give me and mine an order, and we will obey. And Captain Sorael is an excellent commander,’ said Caedis. ‘I am sure he and your Captain Mastrik will excel themselves in the killing zone whether I can comment upon his actions or not.’

Galt nodded, somewhat reluctantly conceding the point. ‘Captain Aresti leads our men in the Hammer of the Emperor. Our men should begin the venting of the hulk’s atmosphere soon enough.’

‘Once I am on the hulk, I will order my men to follow him.’

‘You will not lead them yourself?’ said Galt.

Caedis shook his head, and for a second, Galt thought he might falter.

‘No, there are certain… Rites, rituals that I must complete. My attention will be elsewhere. I defer command to him.’ He was struggling with his words, whether in finding those that were appropriate or because he was exhausted Galt could not discern.

‘Might I ask, Lord Caedis, are you well?’

Caedis smiled as if that were an amusing jest. His smile dropped quickly.

‘Yes, and no. My time grows short, Captain Galt. We of the Blood Drinkers can… We know when our end approaches. Do you understand?’

Galt hesitated. He thought of the Shadow Novum and the messages delivered there. Who knew what beliefs the Blood Drinkers held?

‘I do, Lord Caedis.’

Caedis nodded thoughtfully, and for a moment Galt saw respect there. ‘Then I shall return to my ship and gather my men,’ said Caedis. ‘The magi?’

‘They wait as commanded. I will accompany them on their retrieval mission when I deem the hulk safe.’

‘Very well,’ said Caedis. He offered his hand. Galt took his forearm in the warrior’s clasp. His grasp was firm and unwavering, if his gaze was not. ‘Until we meet again, captain. May the Emperor’s foresight deliver our foes to the points of our swords, and his mercy shield us from theirs.’

Talking to Galt took all of Caedis’s remaining self-control. The Rite of Holos had been held only hours before, and already the Thirst clutched at his throat. Flashes of light accompanied by starbursts of pain vexed his eyes and mind. When he closed his eyes, glimpses of something that was not his own life dazzled him, cast him adrift from the flow of time. His ears buzzed. He walked with all the dignity he could up the ramp into the Thunderhawk. The craft was empty but for a trio of serfs and Chaplain Mazrael.

Mazrael stood at the top of the second ramp inside, the one leading up into the Thunderhawk’s upper deck. He wore his Terminator armour, winged crozius in his hand. His helmet was a skull with glowing red eyes and sharp teeth. His torso was encased in a gold-chased ribcage, his limbs carried bones sculpted in relief onto the armour plates. Lit red, he was a devil steeped in blood. Caedis stopped at the top of the boarding ramp, eyes fixed on the daemonic figure above him.

The ramp clanged shut and Caedis’s head reeled. He staggered and sank down onto his knees.

‘Mazrael, help me…’

‘Hush now, my lord, my son. I recognised the signs,’ said Mazrael gently. He walked down the ramp to where Caedis knelt, a fallen giant in armour fit to clad a mountain. Mazrael placed his hand on Caedis’s head and the lord of the Blood Drinkers raised bleary eyes to meet with Mazrael’s unblinking helmet lenses. ‘What will you take, my son? The black and the red, or the Emperor’s mercy?’

Caedis’s face furrowed. He was on the verge of forgetting something important. Light flashed through his mind, searing migraine running hard after it. He walked stony ground on feet that were not his own, and his breath was laboured as if his body worked hard. He blinked the image away. He tried to speak, but his throat was so dry. He swallowed, no saliva came. Mazrael signalled behind him, and a serf hurried down, bearing a jewelled cup whose bowl was fashioned from a human skull.

‘This is the Calix Cruentes,’ said Mazrael. His skull helmet wavered in Caedis’s eyes as he spoke. ‘Only those who succumb to our curse ever see it. Drink from it, it will hold the visions at bay a short while.’

Caedis reached out a hand. His eyesight splintered, like light forced through a prism. His view became one of two places, a stained glass window made up of parts from two different images. His hand, and not his hand. One armoured, one naked and bloodied. He took the cup to his mouth and drank, a sip at first but then great gulps. Slippery liquid ran down from his mouth as he guzzled at the contents. The liquid was rich, a volcanic spice to it. It slicked his throat and vocal cords. Blood, always blood.

‘Slowly, my lord!’ Mazrael pried the cup away from his lord. ‘There are preparations added to this life-fluid that are dangerous if imbibed too swiftly.’

Caedis felt himself returning to the present. The sense of dislocation retreated, that feeling of otherness replaced by the thrum of the Thunderhawk’s systems. Mazrael’s osseous helmet stared down from on high, death’s own judgement. The serf, overtopping Caedis only by a head although the Chapter Master knelt, looked at him dispassionately.

‘Can you speak?’ asked Mazrael.

‘Yes, yes I can speak,’ Caedis said. He closed his eyes, but it brought no comfort, bringing the buzzing in his ears to a cacophony within which were hidden secret and terrible words.

‘Then what do you choose?’

‘I choose… I choose the black and red.’

Mazrael nodded. ‘I expected nothing less of you, my lord, but I had to ask again. It is not unknown for a brother to change his mind once the full horror of what awaits becomes apparent.’ He beckoned to the other serfs. ‘Prepare him.’

Two of the serfs went to Caedis’s side, and began to remove his armour’s outer plates. The third wheeled an auto-artisan down from the upper decks. This they would use to paint his armour black.

‘Brother Luentes,’ Mazrael voxed the pilot. ‘Take us back to Lux Rubrum.’

‘Yes, Lord Reclusiarch Mazrael,’ the pilot replied. The engines immediately kicked into life, building to a roar.

‘My brother, my lord, my son,’ said Mazrael. ‘Now, we shall pray together, pray to Sanguinius and the Emperor, for you shall soon be joining them both.’

Mazrael’s prayers faded from Caedis’s consciousness. Caedis replied to the catechism as best he could, each response activating deeply buried psycho conditioning; certain hypnotic states triggered by key words and ritual recitation implanted in him as a neophyte should the Black Rage come upon him. He realised this numbly, that this was no longer the Thirst, but that he was succumbing to the worst of the Flaw. A curse wrapped around his every cell; the thorns around the genomic flower of his gifts pricking at last.

For the Blood Drinkers and other scions of Sanguinius, their gifts were double-edged. But he was as detached from his realisation as he was from everything else. The rocky path was beneath his feet again, and then it was not, and he was looking at his repainted armour being replaced upon his limbs. And then he was on the lava road out of Fortress San Guisiga, hurrying away in secret and at night, and then he was walking the corridor from the docking bay on Lux Rubrum.

Brothers in full armour knelt at his passing, heads bowed in sorrow and deference. Lining all the way to the boarding torpedo launch tubes, half chanting his name low and regular as a heartbeat as others sang the hymn of mourning. And he was climbing up rocks hot with volcanic heat, splintered vision scouring desiccated skies for the silhouettes of the astorgai. He was in an acceleration chair. His men around him, men he had fought with for five hundred years: Epistolary Guinian, Reclusiarch Mazrael, Brother Ancient Metrion and others. They were helmetless, and they were singing a low dirge. The words were lost to him, sounding from far away, as sound travels through water, or through blood.

An astorgai swiped at him. Its wings flapped its burned-flesh stench deep into his nostrils and it cursed him in corrupt Gothic. The blow of its pinion-claw dented his plastron, only it was not his armour. Then it was not the astorgai’s blow that forced him back, but the sudden acceleration of the boarding torpedo, a fanfare of fire heralding its exit into space. The acceleration abruptly ceased, the pressure came off his chest and he came back into himself. He looked to his men, his companions, his friends. They wept, some of them.

What was this? What did he see? This was not Sanguinius’s death, not the communion with his primarch he was expecting. He tried to speak, to say what he saw, but he could not. He writhed against his restraints and shouted, and he was not sure if he shouted for himself or the man he was in his visions. ‘Who will guide me? Who will show me the way?’

Mazrael’s hand grasped the edge of Caedis’s shoulder plate, turning him so that his skull helmet filled his world.

‘I will guide you, lord, I will show you the way,’ said the Reclusiarch gently.

Caedis blinked. Reality shifted about him. The boarding torpedo’s klaxon sounded, alarm lights flashed. All around him, the song abruptly ceased, and helmets were placed on heads and sealed to armour. Mazrael helped Caedis put his on.

All was thunder and violence. The occupants of the torpedo were thrown about in their seats as the vessel punched deep into the hulk. Metal squealed along its windowless hull.

The torpedo reached its predetermined depth. Retro-rockets roared and it slammed to a halt, hurling the Space Marines forward against their restraints. The forward hatch blew open, the metal skating across the deck outside. Their harnesses slammed upward, and the Adeptus Astartes were up and into the hulk.

Metal glowed white hot from the retro-thrusters. Scorch marks blackened every wall, smoke choked the corridor. But this area was not airtight, and the exhaust was rapidly sucked away. From all around them the sound of other torpedoes hitting home reverberated through the metal of the hulk.

‘Lord, are you lucid?’ asked Mazrael.

‘Yes, yes I am with you,’ Caedis said. He swallowed. His mouth was still dry, but being here, with a mission to perform, he found he could focus his fracturing mind. He could more easily recognise the men with him. Brother Metrion, Reclusiarch Mazrael, Epistolary Guinian, Brother Erdagon, Sergeant Sandamael, Brother Quintus, Brother Kalael; all bar Mazrael in Terminator armour and armed with lightning claws. Where were Atameo and Hermis? They should be here, he would have preferred them over Brothers Hordus and Donas. He was about to ask Mazrael when the memory of their deaths on Katria rushed back. So many deaths. How many had he seen die? How many had he killed? How many had given their blood so that he might serve?

‘My lord?’

Caedis gripped the hilt of his sword, Gladius Rubeum. It grounded him. ‘We must go to our allotted position, Reclusiarch, there to await the orders of Captain Galt. He is your commander now. We must trust to the warriors of Honourum to see us through this battle.’

The Terminators fanned out either side of their officer, Sergeant Sandamael directing them via the sensorium.

‘And you, my lord?’ asked Mazrael, dropping his voice to a private channel.

Caedis included Guinian in the conversation. ‘Find me a good death, my friends. Find me something worthy to fight. Brother Guinian, search out their mightiest so that I might slay him face to face.’

‘Yes my lord,’ Guinian said. He prepared his mind, and slipped into a trance.

Epistolary Guinian let his mind drift out into the greater hulk. His warp-sense told him things that should have been unknown, the location of his brothers and their Novamarines allies, and the location of their genestealer enemies. This he saw not in terms most men would understand, not even other psykers, for he experienced his extended awareness through a series of layered metaphors. Images that made little sense if taken at face value took the place of hard reality. He was a psyker, blessed with witch-sight, an inheritor of the strange mutation that granted the immortal Emperor his power. His ability was far less than that of the Lord of All Men, but potent still.

Because of this he possessed an understanding of reality different to that of others. Like the Techmarines, the Librarians of a Chapter were privy to mysteries that set them apart from the other brethren. But where the concerns of the Forge were entirely of the material, those of the Library were quite the opposite, the ephemeral and unknowable; that which could not be seen, only sensed. If the forge commanded steel, the apothecarion flesh, the chaplaincy the soul, then the Librarians knew the secrets of men’s hearts, and more besides.

The mass of metal, ice and rubble that made up the hulk was as a dark rock on the shore of an endless sea. Bright points flickered on the stone, the wavering lights of the souls of battle-brothers. They were puny in the dark, strong though they were in the terms most men would understand. Brighter stars shone in this non-firmament, the glowing minds of the other psykers. Ranial of the Novamarines was as bright as the nova burst his armour bore. He stood upon the surface of the hulk. The other four Librarians in the joined fleet were lesser, those of Librarium neophytes barely brighter than those of their non-psyker battle-brothers. Give them time, thought Guinian, soul-fire flares brighter with training and experience.

Outwards from the stone, other outcrops of denser reality dotted the dark beach of the sky – the ships of the Novamarines and the Blood Drinkers. More lights, the fires of the lives of men, inconstant sparks that were so easy to snuff out. Astropaths and Navigators on the ships showed larger. He dipped into the chatter of the latter, like a man trailing his hand in water in the wake of a boat. Abstract images filled his mind, the best and strongest of the soul-bound projecting words and images. Focussed beams of thought punched through the warp, informing Chapter fortresses far away of the actions of the fleet. Somewhere out on the further shores of his mind construct – Guinian dared not seek it out – was the glaring beacon of the Astronomican, a light that would sear his soul if he looked too deep into it.

He drew himself back. There were other minds here, dark and alien and opaque to his understanding. Their minds were distinct, but meshed together into a web so tightly woven it was difficult to decide where one ended and another began. Guinian touched his thoughts across this network of alien minds, gently so as not to alert it. It appeared to him as a green-black web, a powerful stench coming off it, the toxic desires of the alien. The outflung edges of this web touched every planet the genestealers infested, the threads sometimes so faint they were barely visible, but it was always there, and after thirty years of hunting these creatures, Guinian had become proficient at detecting it. Now, to be so close to its source made him feel unclean. He steeled his soul and plunged his mind on.

He felt a thickening in the alien mind-web, it came together, knotting tighter and tighter until…

Something powerful and evil stirred in its sleep and regarded him.

Guinian gasped, his eyes snapped open.

‘My lords,’ he said, not daring to drop out of his trance entirely, lest he lose the creature. ‘I have found something. A powerful mind at the heart of the web of minds that directs this infestation.’

Caedis stared at him, his face unreadable behind his suit helmet. Guinian felt his mind more keenly than ever, a turmoil of psychic energies more potent than any he had ever felt the Chapter Master emit. He suppressed a shudder. The Black Rage was a spiritual affliction as much as a consequence of their flawed gene-seed.

A long moment passed before the Chapter Master spoke.

‘Then we will find the creature within whose head it resides. Brother Guinian, you do not have to follow me to my doom, but your abilities would be welcome.’ Caedis’s voice was hollow and distant. ‘This is not an order, but a request, from one brother to another.’

‘I would be honoured to aid you, lord, this last time.’ He fought back tears. He knew his beloved leader was close to his end.

‘I will join you, you will need my guidance,’ said Mazrael. ‘Let us tread this road together.’

‘To the summit of Mount Calicium,’ said Caedis, his voice trailing into a slur. ‘Captain Aresti?’

‘Yes, lord?’

‘You are in command here. I have other matters to attend to. The wings of Sanguinius shield you.’

‘My lord,’ said Aresti. Galt would have told him what Caedis intended, but he still sounded surprised. ‘Are you certain?’

The Chapter Master of the Blood Drinkers did not reply. Caedis, Mazrael, Guinian and his guard squad were working their way out from the beachhead. Quickly, more quickly than Caedis’s walking speed and the efficacy of the Novamarine’s equipment would suggest, Caedis and his followers faded from the strikeforce’s monitoring equipment, and disappeared into the hulk.

CHAPTER 13

HESPERION’S FOLLY

A giant square frame formed the outside of the cutter. Glass or some other substance glittered in its forward edge, reflecting Jorso’s angry light.

‘The cutter has to be precisely sited, lords,’ said Plosk. He wore a suit of rust-red powered armour, as did his aide, Samin. Nuministon wore his greenish-gold suit, its helmet aglitter with its disturbing lenses.

Mastrik was with them, Epistolary Ranial and Captain Sorael of the Blood Drinkers alongside. They watched from atop a jutting spaceship engine block that rose over the hulk. Servitors in flimsy vacuum suits worked on the plain below, securing the device with hawsers, Novamarines Scouts clad in armoured space suits guarded them. Pistons terminating in broad, claw-like feet pushed out from the cutter and into the surface of the hulk. The cutter was a simple hollow square of metal, forty metres long on the sides, five bulky units housing its feet mechanisms and power inlets. This square was now held at a twenty-nine degree angle to the surface of the hulk. Or so Mastrik’s sensorium told him. To do this it underlaid a uniform value to the uneven hulk surface, calculated off the hulk’s mean elevation. Three sets of three black pipes bound together snaked off over the hulk to portable reactors of some size. Other smaller cables led off to a control landau; an open, legged conveyance full of equipment and tech-priests.

‘Is this worth the effort?’ said Ranial. ‘We could have cut several ways in ourselves in half this time.’

‘Oh, I do not think so, my lords,’ said Plosk. Mastrik heard the smile hidden behind his helmet. ‘You are about to witness a great efficiency.’

‘This is a great artefact, an atomic disintegration field cutter,’ said Samin hotly. ‘It dates from the times of knowledge, you will marvel at its power.’

‘No need to be so defensive, Adept Samin,’ said Mastrik. ‘My Brother-Librarian voices a question as he is entitled to. He too is the guardian of old knowledge, albeit of a different kind to yours, and exhibits his natural curiosity. If he is wrong, he will graciously admit so.’

Ranial made a non-committal noise. Samin bristled, evident even through his armour. Emperor, thought Mastrik, I’m annoying both of them today. Mastrik was a bluff man, with a broad sense of humour that occasionally jarred upon the sensibilities of the serious-minded Novamarines. Ranial was capable of an amount of dry wit, but as a Librarian possessed of a portion of the Emperor’s own godlike abilities, could also be more serious-minded than most. Mastrik and he were good friends, but his mood could be difficult to judge, and so sometimes they came to argue.

‘I meant no offence,’ said Mastrik. ‘How long until your priests are ready, magos?’ He checked his mission clock.

‘Any moment now, lord captain,’ said Plosk. His own armour was large, made bigger by the rack of manipulators and devices Mastrik had no name for sprouting from his back. Still, it was small compared to the Terminator battle-plate Mastrik, Sorael and Ranial wore. ‘The erection of the cutter takes time, I admit, but once in operation, well, you shall see…’

Servitors walked away from the cutter, their tasks done. The tech-priests followed.

‘They must retreat to a safe distance,’ explained Plosk. ‘There is something akin to molecular shrapnel generated by the activities of the cutter. A magnetic shield extends around it, to snare these stray atom-clumps and funnel them away safely, but it requires distance to exert itself fully. To be close to the actual blade itself while cutting is underway could be fatal.’

Warning lights flickered all around the cutter’s outside edge; no alarms audible in the vacuum.

‘You may begin,’ ordered Plosk.

The tech-priest in charge of the cutter’s bulky, portable control vehicle leant over its controls. He pointed, directing his juniors in the appropriate activation sequences. Mastrik had his sensorium magnify the scene so he could better observe. Whatever the tech-priests were doing was incomprehensible to him. He moved his gaze over the hulk’s surface, its coat of dust blinding in the direct light of Jorso. His helmet lenses darkened in response.

Mastrik watched the frame. The glassy material glowed a dark green. Light flickered all around it, sparks that arced and burst brightly when they touched. This caged storm intensified, until the whole of the frame was alive with dancing angles of energy.

‘You see? The device is now at thirty per cent total power capacity. Blessed be the Omnissiah,’ said Plosk.

The process reached a critical point, and the lightning ceased to be. In its stead was a flat screen of energy, nearly invisible were it not for the fact it turned all viewed through it faintly green.

‘Sixty per cent,’ said Plosk.

At the control landau, further activity. Mastrik felt the hulk vibrate. The disturbance built. His sensorium jumped at the backwash of electromagnetic energy generated by the cutter.

‘Aha! Ninety per cent and…’

A perfectly square beam of energy, angled as the frame that projected it, stabbed down through the hulk. A flash of light as it met, and then further reflected lights as the beam met denser matter in the body of the agglomeration and atomised it.

‘And there we have it,’ said Plosk, with pleasure.

The beam cut out. A black rectangular hole had been made in the hulk’s skin, leading down. The edges of it glowed faintly. Plumes of white jetted into space, atmosphere leaking from the hulk.

‘You have answered my earlier question,’ said Ranial.

‘It would make a fine weapon,’ said Sorael.

Plosk nodded in agreement. ‘Just so, and indeed it operates on similar principles to the disruption fields built into your power weapons. But the manner in which the device attains the projection of the field forwards, the maintenance of its coherency so far out from the projectors, the safe exhaust of the excess energy generated as the matter is annihilated, the overall magnitude of the field, the smooth manner of its disintegration… Well,’ he said apologetically. ‘I could go on for some time. These are mysteries now known only to the Machine-God.’

‘We will uncover them,’ said Nuministon in his machine voice. ‘Given time.’

‘That we will, Magos Nuministon, that we will,’ said Plosk. ‘When our lord deems us worthy. And it is by such actions as this retrieval mission that we prove ourselves to be so.’

‘Brother Ranial, I believe you owe Adept Samin here a small apology,’ said Mastrik. He checked his clock. He turned around to face the other side of the engine-mount. There, shaded from the sun, was the majority of the taskforce. His hearts quickened as he took them all in; one hundred and sixty Terminators stood at the front. Few were the Space Marines of any Chapter who had witnessed such a sight. Behind them, squads of power armoured brethren. The Novamarines quartered heraldry broke up their silhouettes, providing unexpected camouflage, whereas the blood-red of the Blood Drinkers was tinted deep mauve and obvious by the blue light of Jorso. In all, nearly four hundred Space Marines of two Chapters waited on the plain. Three Thunderfire cannons – two of the Novamarines, one of the Blood Drinkers – and five Devastator squads armed with anti-personnel heavy weapons were the extent of Battle-
force Anvil’s heavy support.

‘A fine gathering,’ said Sorael. ‘We will fight the enemy eye to eye, and it is glorious that it is so.’

By the sloping shaft, another Adeptus Mechanicus machine moved, a tracked vehicle carrying a giant spool of some material upon its back. Mastrik had never seen the like, but Plosk had assured him that the spool was wound with a road, a road which would go rigid once deployed, granting them easy entry to the depths of the hulk and thence to the killing zone.

‘As you see, my lords, you have your abilities, and we have ours,’ said Plosk.

‘Very impressive,’ said Ranial, ‘and far better than working our way through the hulk to the killing zone. I offer my apologies.’

‘We are ready, Lord Captain Galt,’ said Mastrik over his suit vox.

‘Give the order for your men to take up their positions,’ replied Galt. ‘The attack begins soon.’

Ten kilometres away, at the beachhead recently vacated by Lord Caedis, three squads of Novamarines Terminators and two of the Blood Drinkers spread out. Their role was to cover the main points of egress the genestealers might use to escape their depressurised roosts. The areas they began in were close to the edge of the hulk, bereft of atmosphere in the main, but the genestealers could scatter in any direction. They were to hold, await the return of the five Terminator squads and the Techmarines sealing the main ways deeper in and then advance once the roosts were blown, and encourage on into the killing zone any genestealers for whom the loss of breathable air was not a sufficient spur. Captain Aresti commanded them now that Lord Caedis had stepped down.

Many levels down, in the last of the vessels the routes to the killing zone would run through, Sergeant Voldo and Squad Wisdom of Lucretius were hard at work. Voldo watched as a door, immobile since the time of Goge Vandire, ground out of its housing to seal a major intersection. The Techmarine accompanying the squad directed his servitors to unhook the mobile generator wired into the door panel’s innards, and set himself to welding the door shut with his servo arm.

‘Four minutes, and they will not be able to use this exit, brother-sergeant,’ said the Techmarine.

‘It is as the Lord of Man wills it, Brother Techmarine Estrellius,’ said Voldo. The sergeant ran his map up and down the main way to the killing zone. Data transmission was still poor. Boosted relays were being installed throughout the tunnels to allow better communication with the fleet, but they would not be operational for some time.

Doors were being sealed all through this part of the hulk, others cut through bulkheads and hull walls, transforming a rat run of passages into three, long tunnels leading directly through the hulk into the cavern.

Things had been quiet, but recently there had been reports of a genestealer attack from Novamarines Squad Glorious Ruin. Every so often the noise of their guns reached Voldo’s sensorium, the sounds of bolters reduced to a feeble popping by distance.

‘The enemy stir,’ said Astomar.

‘Why now, I wonder,’ said Militor. ‘Is it an omen? Are they warned of what occurs?’

‘I pray not,’ said Voldo.

Estrellius stepped back from the door. ‘I am done here.’

‘Very well,’ Voldo said. ‘We go on to our next objective.’

Voldo scanned the feed from Eskerio’s auspex. Excepting the small swarm of red dots around Squad Glorious Ruin’s position, the only movements they could see were friendly. ‘This is too easy,’ he said, ‘brothers, be on your guard.’

Sergeant Alanius stood in total darkness. The two remaining members of his squad a blur of grey slabs in his sensorium’s heat vision, radioactive fog up to their waists, the heat leakage from their power plants illuminating the room with infrared light.

They had been assigned point duty, ranging ahead of Novamarines Terminator Squad Glorious Ruin, and guarding the next open way on the list of those they had to seal. This way, so Galt had planned, those squads accompanying the Techmarines could avoid ambush.

‘This is no fit task,’ said Azmael. ‘Guarding a passageway that none will take.’

‘Silence, brother,’ said Alanius. ‘We are under strength and are given a role fitting to our weakened state. This is the final of Squad Glorious Ruin’s objectives. Once they have dealt with door ninety, then they will come here and seal this corridor, and we can join the greater battle.’

The breathing of Azmael and Tarael was harsh over the vox. The Thirst might have been sated by the Rite of Holos, giving them more control over their actions, but the blood drinking had wakened the battle-joy and they were desperate to fight.

‘Caedis would not have put us here,’ said Tarael bitterly. ‘This Novamarines captain does not know the hearts and minds of Blood Drinkers.’

‘Nor should he brother, better our secrets remain our own,’ said Alanius.

‘We should not be here,’ said Tarael. ‘Such sentry duty is demeaning.’

‘I ordered silence, Brother Tarael. Captain Galt is in command, he works his resources as he sees fit,’ said Alanius, but his rebuke was half-hearted. His blood sang fiercely. Energised by the rite, he was as impatient for the fray as his squad mates.

Alanius glanced back at the door. It gaped open, the corridor beyond dark. In places the monochrome image in his helmet brightened with the radioactive heat-glow of the fog, but the corridor quickly went into black. The door opened automatically – unlike most of the systems on this vessel, it still functioned – and they could not seal it. They needed technical support for that.

‘We wait,’ said Alanius. He checked Squad Glorious Ruin’s position on the map. Icons leapt around the rendering of the hulk where they worked, the auspex carried by Azmael unsure. Background radiation here was high, and the device’s capabilities were compromised.

The blackness was utter. Each enhanced man was a world unto himself, walled off from the rest of the universe by thick armour.

‘Wait!’ said Azmael. ‘Brother-sergeant, the motion detector.’

Alarms pinged in their helmets. The locator beacons of Squad Glorious Ruin fizzed on the visor screens. Red dots swarmed around them.

‘Where did they come from?’ said Azmael.

‘It would be impossible to seal all the secret ways of a hulk like this,’ said Tarael. ‘This is a fool’s errand in more ways than one.’

The sounds of distant fighting reached them, amplified by the enhanced hearing the suits and their superior physiology granted them: the distinctive discharge of storm bolters, the crackling bangs of power fist energy fields annihilating matter, the screams of genestealers.

An icon depicting the skull and starburst of the Novamarines flickered and went out.

‘One of them has fallen,’ said Azmael.

‘We should go to their aid, then they will be able to more quickly seal this corridor, and we can be on our way to join Lord Caedis and the others,’ said Tarael.

Alanius considered Tarael’s proposal. If Squad Glorious Ruin fell, and their Techmarine died with them, the assault would be delayed, granting the genestealers more time in which to waken. He thought on it as dispassionately as he could, keeping his battle-joy on a tight rein. They had been ordered to remain here. But to what end? Tarael was correct, to a degree. This corridor was a minor branching; its strategic value was low. Surely it would be better to ensure the safety of their Novamarines cousins? He licked his lips. He would seek guidance. ‘Lord Caedis?’ he tried. ‘Lord Captain Sorael?’ He tried to connect with the fleet, then the Novamarines. The relay system was not yet active. All his attempts were met with static. He tuned into Squad Glorious Ruin’s frequency. He could hear their squad chatter, their battle chants and warnings to one another, but the sound was broken and when he attempted to speak with them, they did not hear.

Alanius felt a shudder of delicious anticipation at the battle’s noise. His Chapter celebrated the violent side of their heritage. Unlike Sanguinius’s other sons, they drank deeply of the stuff of life, seeking not to sate their unnatural appetites, but to provoke them. They channelled the Thirst, drawing upon its power, and it made them strong. The Blood Drinkers could control their urges this way, and were not as reckless as some of their brother Chapters. But the battle-joy gave counsel whether sought or not, and its advice was always the same: attack, attack, attack!

Alanius weighed this against the need to guard the corridor. The battle-joy won out. It always did.

He looked around him one last time, and made final consideration. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We will aid them, but you, Brother Azmael, will remain here.’

‘Yes brother-sergeant.’ There was disappointment in Azmael’s assent. ‘By Sanguinius, I shall do my duty.’

Alanius and Tarael moved off, mag-lock boots clicking on the metal.

Alien eyes watched the Blood Drinkers depart. The genestealer had no name, and no conception of what a name was. Names are human things, and the habits of humans were irrelevant to it. But it understood their actions. Its quick mind, geared to purposes unintelligible to the human mind, saw its opportunity. The invaders were gone, drawn away by its kin, and the way was open into the deeper hulk. Only one of the interlopers remained, one soft entity cased in hard metal. The genestealer hissed at those accompanying it. Hard chitin rattled as the creatures unfurled themselves. The genestealer crept forward, driven by an intellect even greater than its own. The wishes of their broodlord were felt and understood by his family, they operated as one. The nearness of them, the touch of their minds on each other was their comfort and their strength. They advanced silently in the dark.

An alarm went off in Brother Azmael’s helmet. His eyes whipped upward to where the auspex feed was displayed within his visor. Motion indicators blinked, dozens of them. The enemy was close, very close.

Azmael had time to voice a garbled cry for help before the first of them was on him, and then he was fighting for his life.

Sergeant Voldo caught Azmael’s vox burst as a clatter of static and disrupted words.

‘Brother Eskerio! Find me the source of that transmission.’

The corridor glared actinic white as Estrellius sealed another duct. Sparks leapt from the metal and danced across the floor.

‘Sector 4.9.201,’ said Eskerio, homing in on the source of the message instantly.

Voldo’s onboard cogitator ran the message over and again, each time shaving away the layers of interference, until a voice leapt out of it.

‘Brother Azmael, of the Blood Drinkers,’ Voldo said. ‘He is under attack.’

‘I have him,’ said Eskerio. The auspex feed shifted. The motion detector was operating at maximum range, the depiction of Azmael’s struggle spotty. There was no hiding the numbers attacking him. ‘There are between fifty and seventy xenos.’

‘He doesn’t stand a chance,’ said Astomar.

‘What were the orders for Squad Hesperion?’ asked Militor.

‘To guard that section, until the door could be reached and sealed by a Techmarine,’ said Voldo. ‘The doorway was allocated to Squad Glorious Ruin’s group. They must still be delayed. Any word on Brother-Sergeant Crastus?’

‘Negative, brother-sergeant,’ said Eskerio. ‘We are too far away now to know our brothers’ fates.’

‘When will the relays be operational?’ asked Militor.

‘I calculate soon, brothers,’ said Estrellius. ‘I must place a relay here. My brothers-in-the-forge will have placed most of the rest of the relay poles by now. They will not function until all are in place.’ He ordered a servitor to him and took a long metal stave topped with a bulbous device from it. Estrellius grasped it firmly and placed it upon the floor. He twisted his armoured hands in opposite directions around the relay’s activation mechanisms, and a spike shot from the end of the pole, burying itself in the floor. Estrellius touched further controls near the head, and the light atop it began a slow, red flashing.

‘I see only Azmael on the auspex,’ said Astomar. ‘Where are his brothers?’

‘They could be there, the radiation is high in that area, the auspex struggles to show us the truth,’ said Eskerio.

‘Brothers,’ said Estrellius. ‘I am done here. That is the last of my allotted tasks. We may rejoin the battlegroup.’

‘Let us go to the aid of Azmael on the way,’ said Voldo. ‘It is less than one kilometre. Brother Estrellius can seal the door, and if need be we can relieve Squad Glorious Ruin as we turn back. Azmael and his brothers aided us greatly, we owe him a debt of honour. Away, and swiftly now.’ Although as he said this, Voldo wondered if it was the same impetuousness he had long ago seen in the Knights of Blood that had endangered the Blood Drinkers.

Estrellius’s servitors gathered up his gear, and the Techmarine fell in behind the Terminators. The group moved as quickly as they could down the buckled corridors of the ship. They had been assigned the deepest vessel in the chain of linked ships that Strikeforce Hammer would enter; those craft nearer the cavern would be tackled by squads from Anvil. The craft was a cruiser once of the Imperial Navy, lost long ago to the vagaries of space and the warp. Its prow rested atop another ship nearer the surface, the second route to the killing zone passing along most of its length before heading down through a hole they had earlier cut through the hull wall. Its compartments were distorted, the whole of the craft pushed out of true by the shifting mass around it. There was little power to be found, and no artificial gravity. Squad Hesperion was stationed further up the vessel, towards the prow. Squad Glorious Ruin, who had been assigned many of the doors in the ship above, were not much further on.

Voldo and his squad kept up a steady pace. All eyes strayed to the auspex, willing Azmael to survive. Seventy gene-stealers were stiff odds even for six Terminator-armoured brothers, but honour dictated they aid him.

‘Brothers!’ said Eskerio. ‘The genestealers.’

‘What is it brother?’ asked Voldo.

The auspex motion sensor grew clearer as they drew closer to Azmael. Several blips were around the chalice and blood drop icon denoting the Blood Drinker, but others were streaming past him, down the open corridor.

‘What are they doing?’ said Militor.

‘They are escaping, brother, is it not clear?’ said Eskerio.

‘These are a cunning foe,’ said Astomar.

It took just over ten minutes to traverse the whole of the kilometre to Azmael’s position. Surprisingly, he still lived. They hailed him as they came, urging him to fight harder.

Voldo came first, bolter spitting fire. His suit light illuminated a wall of writhing chitin. Azmael was hidden by a press of genestealers. He had been forced back from his doorway and into a room. There he had taken refuge in the entrance to another corridor, one choked with wreckage. From there he could fight the genestealers one at a time, but he could not stop the greater part of their number running through the unsealed door. Voldo’s gun wavered between the stampede of aliens scuttling into the open way and those attacking the Blood Drinker. He aimed at those attacking Azmael, and blew apart two from behind. Those fleeing hissed at him, but did not stop.

The other Novamarines joined him, emerging into the room and fanning out. Bolter fire rang out, muzzle flash whiting out their sensoriums’ various image compensators. Voldo deactivated his heat vision and light intensification. He watched genestealers smashed into pieces by the short-lived bursts of light from their guns. Azmael emerged fighting, lightning claws flashing. He wheeled and swung his arms, cutting down two.

Squad Wisdom of Lucretius turned their guns on the fleeing genestealers. Brother Astomar made his way around the periphery of the room, pointed his heavy flamer into the corridor and filled it with promethium.

There were seven genestealers left. Trapped by the Space Marines, they attacked with unrestrained ferocity. Two were blown into shreds before they reached Voldo’s squad. The fight became a close-quarters struggle. Voldo’s power sword cut one across the chest, another fell to Militor’s power fist, its head crushed with a bang. Militor dropped another with a bolt. Astomar fended the sixth off, batting at its darting claws with his powered gauntlet, and then Azmael was with him, claws emerging from the creature’s chest.

The remaining genestealer died quickly.

‘I burned a half-dozen at least,’ said Astomar.

‘Many more escaped,’ said Eskerio. Red dots swarmed away down the corridor, disappearing outside the auspex’s effective range.

Azmael’s armour dripped with black alien blood. Marks were scored into the metal.

‘Your armour, cousin,’ said Estrellius. He went to the Blood Drinker.

‘It functions.’

‘You have minor damage. Come, I will aid you.’

‘What happened here?’ demanded Voldo.

‘My brothers went to aid your brothers, Veteran-Sergeant Voldo.’

‘In defiance of your orders,’ said the Novamarines sergeant.

‘Sergeant Alanius sought guidance, but none was forthcoming. He acted upon his own initiative.’

‘Thanks to this initiative, fifty or so xenos have escaped our trap, and you nearly paid with your life.’

‘I do my duty,’ said Azmael. ‘Do not challenge me as to how I fulfil it!’ Azmael’s voice was angry. He shrugged off the attentions of Estrellius. ‘Enough! My armour serves.’

They are no better than the Knights of Blood, thought Voldo.

‘Brother,’ said Estrellius. ‘All relays are active. Communications coming online in three, two, one…’

Their helmets filled with the familiar chatter of active operations. Squads reported from all over the hulk, status updates flying through the relay system, up to a booster on the comms-service and then on to the fleet.

‘Relays active,’ said Captain Galt. Carried by the devices of the Adeptus Mechanicus, his voice was clear. ‘All hatches and doorways sealed. Strikeforce Hammer of the Emperor to regroup and await detonation of roost walls.’

‘Lord Captain Aresti, I request an audience,’ said Voldo.

‘Captain Aresti,’ said the Fifth Company commander. ‘What can I do for you, brother?’

‘We have had an… incident, here. Fifty plus xenos have escaped the perimeter. I request permission to mount a search and destroy mission.’

‘As do I,’ said Alanius as he and Tarael strode into the room. ‘Chapter Master Caedis, lord, allow me this mission.’

‘Lord Caedis is occupied, cousin,’ said Aresti. ‘You are to take direction from me, by his order. All elements of the Hammer strikeforce are under my command.’

‘Lord captain,’ said Alanius. ‘Then it is you I humbly petition.’

‘You fought with us bravely on our first mission, Sergeant Alanius, but it is your abandonment of your position that leads us to this pass,’ said Voldo.

‘Your brothers live because of it,’ countered Alanius. ‘And their mission is fulfilled. You cannot criticise us for success.’

‘I am sure they could have held their own, which is more than I can say for the lone brother left here.’

‘Do not test me, cousin…’ growled Alanius.

‘Enough!’ interrupted Aresti. ‘Sergeant Voldo, I grant your request, and that of Cousin Alanius. If he truly is at fault – and his efforts did aid our brothers, do not forget that – then what better way to atone? You may detach yourself from our drive and head into the deeper hulk. Fifty genestealers loose is unconscionable. Destroy them.’

‘Yes, lord captain.’

‘Captain Aresti out.’

Voldo and Alanius faced each other.

‘There you have it,’ said Alanius. ‘We fight together once again.’ His breathing and voice returned to normal. ‘And I for one recognise this as an honour for my brothers. Do you?’

Voldo remained suspicious. ‘I have fought with others of the line of Sanguinius before, Sergeant Alanius. It did not end well.’

‘Which Chapter?’

‘The Knights of Blood.’

‘Ah,’ said Alanius. ‘Our Chapters are brothers, true, but brothers can be different.’

‘They fought without consideration.’

‘With valour?’

Voldo paused.

‘Yes, with great valour.’

‘Then that is the least you can expect from us.’

Azmael spoke, calmer now. ‘Could the genestealers have drawn us off purposefully? Did they mean to escape?’

‘You learn the ways of this foe quickly,’ said Voldo. ‘One cannot discount the possibility, which suggests this corridor has more value than we assign it. Brother Estrellius! Inform Brother-Sergeant Crastus that he and his might return to the strikeforce. You will seal this door behind us! Do not let any other pass. Then return to the strikeforce yourself.’

‘Yes, brother-sergeant,’ said Estrellius.

Next Voldo sent a message across the Space Marine’s linked comms net. ‘All brothers, be wary when passing door ninety-one, sector five. There is an entry way there which we were unaware of.’ He gave a brief description of the action his squad had been embroiled in. ‘Can it be sealed, Brother Estrellius?’

‘A ventilation shaft, I think,’ said the Techmarine. ‘I am sure I can render it useless.’

‘Good, good,’ said Voldo. ‘And now,’ he said, dropping his vox-channel to the two squads, ‘we hunt.’ Voldo walked through the door and into the cramped corridor beyond. His suit light shone from radioactive mist.

‘We go into the dark once more,’ said Alanius joyfully. ‘Look to your brothers. This will be a hard fight.’

At the beachhead, Aresti’s aides counted in the returning Terminator squads and their Techmarines and directed them to their allotted places. They would soon be all back, then the venting of the genestealer roosts’ atmospheres could begin, and so Aresti was deep in conversation with First Captain Galt.

‘Lord Caedis has gone, brother-captain,’ said Aresti.

‘It is not unexpected,’ said Galt. ‘As I told you, he intimated to me this might happen. But gone where?’

‘I do not know. He and his squad, and their Reclusiarch. Squad Vinctus saw them depart the beachhead.’

‘His other men all remain as he promised?’

‘Yes, brother, all bar his bodyguard. The Blood Drinkers look to the Novamarines for guidance and command. Lord Caedis himself ordered them to follow our lead, then I lost contact.’

‘Where did he go, I wonder?’ said Galt thoughtfully. ‘He spoke of a rite, surely one of combat.’

‘I do not know where he went, brother. To the nominal north and then down. They must be deep in the hulk. Their locators no longer show, even with the aid of the booster relay.’

Galt paused. ‘If the other Blood Drinkers remain, then you have enough brothers to fulfil your objective. There is some strangeness to the actions of Caedis, but he is Lord Chapter Master of a loyal and glorious order. We must trust that he has his reasons, and that they are sound reasons. No doubt he has some objective in mind that will benefit us all. Put him from your mind, you must prepare. Captain Mastrik and Captain Sorael are nigh to their positions. Atmospheric venting will begin soon.’

‘Then matters proceed smoothly, and to timetable,’ said Aresti.

‘We have not won the war yet, brother,’ said Galt. ‘I urge a time of caution, later there will be time enough for valour, and we will slaughter the foe in the name of the Emperor.’

‘So let it be,’ said Aresti.

‘I will be in touch before I order the charges detonated,’ said Galt. ‘Look to your wargear, for in it lies the salvation of humankind.’

CHAPTER 14

THE ASCENT OF HOLOS

Caedis and his companions forged onward, far out from the beachhead. Guinian guided them, taking an unerring course to the north pole of the hulk, before directing them downwards toward the heart of the Death of Integrity.

Caedis’s mind fractured as the effects of the Calix Cruentes wore off. His sense of place grew unreliable, and he found himself lost between two worlds once more. He looked to his feet, and the ground beneath them changed. One minute he strode, Terminator shod, the hard deck-plating of the derelict vessels under his feet, the next power armour boots traversed the stone-strewn ground of San Guisiga. He wore a helmet, then he did not, only the mask grille of the helm in place feeding him oxygen, as the hot suns of his home world beat down on his unprotected head. The suit of power armour he wore in this other place was unfamiliar to him. And then it was unfamiliar no more, as Caedis’s mind was subsumed into that of the long-dead saviour of the Blood Drinkers.

Holos was cut free from time, for he stood upon the brink of the Black Rage himself, and was thus dimly aware of Caedis, as he was dimly aware of the others that had accompanied him before and accompanied him now. This was the first time he had made the ascent of Mount Calicium, and it was the nineteenth. Holos was only as aware of this as he was aware of the souls of the brothers who accompanied him; a vague sensation of déjà vu, nothing more. This perturbing sensation was only one among many.

Holos/Caedis left the rough road he had followed since he had left the fortress. He turned eastwards, toward the rising of San Guisiga’s second sun. There was no path, for none dared try the climb that his dream had told him he must attempt.

The volcano was slumped in on itself. An eruption had brought much of the mountain down, leaving one side as the peak. The summit jagged up over the collapsed cone, giving it the appearance of a broken tooth. Foul vapours issued from fumaroles and rolled down the slopes. Mount Calicium radiated a dangerous heat.

Holos/Caedis stared at the volcano for a long time, until both suns were high in the sky. Realising he could wait no longer, Holos began his ascent of Mount Calicium once more.

The wind of San Guisiga was hot. His power armour did its best to cool him, but his bare face was tortured by it. Holos’s skin’s glands were atrophied, many of his pores closed. This change to the epidermis was not one originally sought by the Emperor when he crafted the gene-seed of the Adeptus Astartes. It was a mutation of the Weaver, the mucranoid gland, unique to the Blood Drinkers, turning a gift that should have helped to a hindrance. There was no treating it, it was their own particular quirk of the Flaw. Lacking sebum as well as sweat, Holos’s brothers all bore its mark; the dry, insufficiently nourished skin of the Blood Drinkers.

Holos stumbled, he felt hands upon him, phantom limbs that he could not see. He pushed them aside angrily. He must complete his climb alone.

San Guisiga’s suns burned bright. Noon came. The red giant, Krov A, was a baleful presence, washing the world with angry red light. Its white dwarf companion, Krov B, was a point of light the size of a fingernail, many times smaller but brighter by far than its dominant partner. At this time of year the two suns were close in the sky, a handspan between them. The warmth they gave was negligible. San Guisiga’s ferocious heat was provided by the tidal forces of its large moon, Haemos, pulling at its guts.

Churning geology wracked the planet with endless earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. The planet was phenomenally active, its surface was remade once every ten thousand years, sheeted over by fresh rock spewing from its many volcanoes, volcanoes like Mount Calicium.

The mountain shuddered. Rocks pattered down its steep flanks. Holos stopped and looked up, watching for the first signs of avalanche. There were none, and after a time he began again.

Holos clambered upward. One hand in front of the other, power armour and enhanced muscles working as one.

Periodically he looked up into the burning orange sky, wary of the astorgai who made their eyries in the crags above.

Caedis was Holos, and he thought Holos’s thoughts. Caedis lived in Holos’s mind. Caedis was aware of the hero’s memories and his thoughts were shaped by them, but they remained frustratingly distant, for Holos had experienced them, not he. As Holos settled into the rhythm of his ascent, he drew into himself, and he remembered with the sharpness that only a Space Marine can experience. Caedis went with him, seeing the fabled dream Holos had had of a cowled, winged figure on the night-time surface of San Guisiga. It raised a skeletal arm, and pointed to the pinnacle of Mount Calicium. The volcano blew no fire, but others did; drops of molten rock spewing upwards and dropping down in fountain arcs all along the horizon. The clouded sky burned with their wrath, but Mount Calicium was silent, hard black against the inferno torrents of its brothers.

The figure had said nothing to Holos, but his message was clear – the answer to the troubles that gripped the Chapter lay at the peak of the volcano.

Caedis saw blood and slaughter as Holos remembered the times before the rite became established. The savagery of the Chapter’s large Death Company, the constant desire for death and sacrifice to sate the Thirst that bedevilled every brother, their stoic resistance. Their lapses. Holos’s own lapse.

Again and again the woman’s terrified face loomed large in Holos’s mind, a loop of fear that ended with teeth tearing flesh and the hot gush of blood.

Holos felt shame, and Caedis felt it with him, as did the other shades of men not yet born who accompanied the hero. Shame for her death and excitement, and redoubled shame at that excitement. Round and round Holos’s head, on a poisonous Möbius strip of memory that had no beginning or end, shame and excitement chased each other.

Caedis saw other fragments of Holos’s life: the onset of the Thirst that would not be alleviated, the first tremblings of the Rage; the Chapter Council’s ban that denied Holos’s request to climb the mountain. The collusion of Reclusiarch Shanandar in Holos’s escape and secret journey. Some of these things Caedis had long imagined himself, hoping to capture them in glass or stone. Many instances formed the subjects of his glass panels. Caedis had not seen things truly, how could he? He had not been there. Now he was, and he saw how much lesser the reality of it was. He saw how Holos doubted himself, how furtive his escape.

Memories of confrontation and furious words in the Chapter council chamber dissolved, the deep dishonour of Holos’s dismissal from there by Ganlan Sang, the Chapter Master in those dark days. This troubled Holos even more than the face of the terrified woman and the taste of her blood.

Holos turned his concentration to climbing. Will was the greatest weapon against the Thirst, concentration the expression of will.

On Holos went, recreating his climb, this moment in time two thousand years in the past reinvigorated and played anew through the medium of Caedis’s soul. The suns grew hotter. Then came the First Period of Shadow, as Haemos dragged its apricot body across the sky, blotting out the sunlight in its twice-daily eclipse of the suns. Hot winds blew hard when this happened, drying Holos’s meagre sweat to salt on his face. The shadow was welcome, and Holos went on with renewed determination. He reached the top of a bluff of rock, a harder protrusion in the unstable slag of the volcano’s cone.

Atop the rock he encountered his first astorgai. It attacked him without hesitation, swiping at him with its pinion-talons.

The monster was small, a fledgling, although its pinion-talons were still deadly. It had yet to grow its dexterion-claws, those small maniples that grow from a pubescent astorgai’s chest. It hopped forward on its single foot, and slashed its hardened feathers at Holos. They hissed through the air toward his face.

The Space Marine snatched his power sword from its scabbard. He dodged backward, bringing himself dangerously close to the edge of the outcrop. The astorgai laughed and cursed in a tumble of words, some of which were recognisably human. The astorgai were curious creatures. No one was sure if they were truly sentient, or animals keyed into the psychic space of the warp. How many of them there were, where they nested, how they bred – all was unknown. There were certain ruins on Haemos’s forbidden, poisoned surface that hinted that the astorgai might be the devolved remnants of a civilised xenos species, but that was hotly disputed by the Chapter and Adeptus Mechanicus xenologians both. All that was certain was that they had been on San Guisiga longer than men, and had defied every attempt to exterminate them. To the Space Marines who made their home on San Guisiga they were a nuisance, to the small baronies the Blood Drinkers drew their recruits from they were a deadly menace.

Holos ducked a pass of the astorgai’s wing, the razor-sharp keratin of its pinion-talons rattling as they whisked overhead. With the economy of long practise, Holos stepped inside the arc of the weaponed wings and skewered the astorgai child upon his power sword. The weapon passed into its flimsy body with minimal resistance. Smoke issued from the wound under its prominent breastbone. The thing’s beak clacked once, its hard, forked tongue hissing alien words of hate at him, then its three eyes slid shut, its wings folded, and it died.

The creature slipped from Holos’s sword. He did not spare it another glance.

Caedis shoved at the arm gripping him. The astorgai lay behind him. He had triumphed. He had to climb!

‘My lord! My lord! It is I, Reclusiarch Mazrael.’

Caedis’s eyes refocused. The mountain was gone. He was no longer Holos. He wore his Terminator armour. Gladius Rubeum was in his hand, holographic scenes of old victories playing on the faces of its blade. At his feet a genestealer lay dead in a nest of leaves, the point of his sword through its heart. He glanced up. A riot of blue-black foliage crowded him.

‘Brother? Mazrael?’ Caedis’s voice sounded wrong to him. His throat was dust-dry and the words that had come from it similarly so. But it was more than that. Caedis had expected to hear the voice of Brother Holos, not his own. ‘I dreamed, brother, a waking dream.’

Mazrael gripped Caedis’s shoulder guard. ‘I know, lord.’ The vox clicked as Mazrael shifted their conversation to a private channel. In his confused state, it did not seem significant to the Chapter Master.

‘Why do I see the trial of Holos? Why not the travails of Sanguinius? I do not understand.’ He said.

‘The Black Rage blesses you, my lord,’ said Mazrael. ‘Those great heroes of our Chapter do not see what the other scions of Sanguinius see. They are few, but they are gloriously blessed!’

‘To see Sanguinius’s final moments is not a blessing?’

Mazrael shook his head, his voice cracked with emotion; tears, and laughter. ‘No lord – do you not understand? While our brothers see the cause of our damnation, we witness the moment of our salvation; the climb of Brother Holos, the very thing that set us free! This is why we, lord, among all of the sons of the Blood Angels, feel hope. This is the greatest hope of all, and you are party now to its final mystery. Rejoice lord, rejoice as you witness the events that saved us!’

Caedis looked around the room they were in. His Terminators stood easy, the gravity here was functional and only slighter higher than Terran norms. They were in a domed garden room. The glazing of the roof was all broken, part of the framework pushed in by the ruined hull of another ship. But somehow the room’s miniature sun glowed still, water flowed through a recycling loop, and the garden’s plants had run wild. To waken to this strange oasis from Holos’s climb was doubly disorienting.

The plants had twined into one another, stems merging and forming hollow, cell-like compartments of wood. The room was crammed to half its height with thicket. The Terminators had forced their way through. Signs of combat scarred the place, flames guttered in the foliage, and many dead genestealers lay on the floor or caught among the branches.

‘How long will I remain with you? How long until I rejoin Holos?’

Mazrael shifted his grip upon Caedis’s armour. ‘I do not know, brother. Since Holos’s time, only a few brothers have relived his climb. Of those brothers who succumb to the Black Rage in our Chapter, the majority see things as all of Sanguinius’s sons do, they might get a glimpse of the living Sanguinius, or feel the pain of his death. Others more favoured might relive the whole of his death combat against the Warmaster. But for the most part, they feel only his anger, or his rage at Horus’s betrayal of their father, nothing more. But there have been those who have not witnessed the ruin of man’s dream, but trodden in the footsteps of hope, climbing with Holos to the source of our salvation. You are the eighteenth, the eighteenth in two thousand years, lord. You are privy to the ultimate mystery of our Chapter.’

‘What do they find, at the end, these brothers that follow in Holos’s wake?’ said Caedis. Using his voice was painful. He swallowed, no saliva came, and the sensation of his muscles contracting was like glass in his gullet.

Mazrael shook his head. ‘None know. All die.’

Caedis closed his eyes behind his helmet visor. He sagged and nodded. Of course.

‘Will you rest, lord?’

‘No. I must climb, climb to the very summit of Mount Calicium.’

‘Very well.’ Mazrael signalled to the others that they would go on. They pushed through the vegetation, glass from the long-shattered dome crunching under their armoured feet.

CHAPTER 15

FEAR THE ALIEN

The Adeptus Mechanicus road into the hulk went downwards at a steep angle. Its surface was spongy but otherwise firm, the consistency of it unchanging whether it covered solid metal or bridged broad canyons. It was not of any metal that Mastrik knew; nevertheless, when the Adeptus Mechanicus advised the battle-brothers to activate the mag-locks on their boots to better secure themselves, they found the road anchored them in place well enough.

The road went down in a dead straight line for several kilo-metres, toward where the cavern lay. It had been carefully chosen, the Adeptus Astartes banking on the genestealers heading for the deepest atmosphere-bearing chamber they could. There, rather than the safety they craved, the gene-stealers would find only death.

The army descended twenty brothers abreast. They chanted their hymnals as they went, the songs of two Chapters clashing on the airwaves. Techmarines and Mechanicus adepts set relay beacons at intervals on the walls, linking the force to the fleet. The technology the Adeptus Mechanicus used was potent, almost scouring the angry roar of Jorso from their communications entirely.

The shaft and its road ended in a new airlock some fifty or so metres out from the cavern where Battleforce Anvil was to stand its ground. The airlock had been attached to the side of an alien freighter by the Adepts of Mars, in order to keep the atmosphere in the cavern. A road wide enough for the Space Marines to march three abreast was being cut on the other side of the airlock. Mastrik ordered his men to halt while the work was finished. He and Sorael went over the images of the chamber and reviewed the marching order of their men. A vanguard of seven Terminator squads were to go first to guard against ambush, followed by the battleforce’s Devastator squads. This would allow them to spread out quickly to advantageous firing positions.

Twenty minutes later, Plosk informed them that the airlock and final passageway were complete. In batches of forty, the Space Marines began to pass into the hulk cavern.

Epistolary Ranial, Captain Sorael, and Captain Mastrik were among the very first through, preceded by the guard of Terminators. Half a dozen Techmarines stood behind them; their role would be to finish the tunnels prepared by Strikeforce Hammer.

The airlock chamber was roughly skinned with a soft plastic that had bonded itself to the walls. The Mechanicus had not bothered with atmosphere extractors. The entire force would be through in six batches, and the volume of air in the cavern was so great that the loss of a few hundred cubic metres was immaterial. Thus air rushed into the temporary airlock with a thunderclap as the doors to the cavern were opened. When the next group came through, it would rush into space.

Frost rimed the Space Marines’ battle-plate as the gas condensed on vacuum-chilled metal, fogging their helmet lenses. Mastrik willed his armour to dissipate some of its power plant’s excess heat through its outer shell, and his vision presently cleared. They went out into the huge space of the cavern, Terminators first. Then the officers, who stood to one side as the Techmarines marched out and down onto the cavern floor in the wake of the Terminators. The Terminators escorted the Techmarines across the cave to where they would cut two entryways, the third tunnel’s mouth already existent, being a rent in wall of the cavern.

The airlock closed. Two minutes later it opened again. Four squads of Devastators came through, and headed to various vantage points on the cavern wall. They bounded upward relative to Mastrik’s position, pulling themselves easily along in the low gravity.

Mastrik’s bodyguard, and that of Sorael, waited at a distance as the three officers surveyed their battleground. Mastrik’s sensorium thrummed with data, too much to be properly displayed within his helmet’s display. He carried a supplementary auspex on the outside of his suit. It was plugged directly into his Terminator armour, drawing from its power and interfacing with the suit’s cogitator. Mastrik held this device up, using its screen to display a broader view of the cavern than his helmet could accommodate.

He ran the auspex over the cavern, his eyes darting between the graphical representation and the cave, his enhanced mind comparing the two. As the Imagifer had predicted, the far wall was almost entirely taken up by the side of an immense, alien vessel. The part of it visible was several hundred metres long and two hundred high. More of it lay below and above them, inconceivably huge. Panels had come away from the body in a few places, exposing the superstructure beneath, but in the main it was sound. Where paint had survived, faded stripes of yellow and green that must have been garish once crossed the hull. Blocky alien glyphs covered a portion of it. The side of the cavern the Space Marines occupied was also as depicted by the Adeptus Mechanicus’ device. A large asteroid made up the majority of the wall. It leaned into the alien vessel high above to form a ceiling with a steep apex. Lower down, its irregular body bulged inwards, creating a choke point roughly two-thirds of the way into the cavern from the airlock. The cavern widened out beyond this, in the manner of a true cave, but even at its narrowest extent the floor was seventy metres across.

The rock of the asteroid was relatively smooth; the rest of the wall it was embedded in was not, comprising a number of smaller craft and pieces of debris jammed against each other. This part of the cavern presented a jumble of jutting spars, square caves and ledges. It was directly opposite the tunnel mouths opening into the cavern, and it was in this three-dimensional maze that a number of the combined Chapters’ Devastator squads took up station.

The tunnel mouths – two now being cut as Mastrik watched – were toward the bottom of the cavern. But to see the disposition of the Adeptus Astartes forces, and indeed the cavern itself, in terms of up and down would be a mistake. The centre of the agglomeration, and hence the pull of its weak gravity, lay at an angle four degrees steeper than the Adeptus Mechanicus’ entry tunnel, but the gravity field of the hulk was so weak as to be almost negligible. The agglomeration was large in size, but its cumulative mass, filled as it was with many cavities, was low. There was a ‘downward’ gravitational force, but if a Space Marine were to fall from his perch above the airlock, it would have taken him minutes to reach the floor.

Mastrik snapped off his auspex. ‘The Imagifer Maxiumus’s representation of the cavern is almost one hundred per cent accurate, Brother-Captain Galt,’ said Mastrik.

Galt replied, his signal conveyed by the lines of booster poles laid by the Adeptus Mechanicus and Techmarines. His voice was clear, but thrummed still, the signal waves perturbed by the uneven power outputs of the hulk’s functional reactors. ‘Good. Have your brothers take up position. Strikeforce Hammer has sealed the corridors on the upper levels and gathers for the attack.’

‘Our own men go to their tasks here, cousin-captain,’ said Sorael.

‘The tunnel mouths are being prepared,’ said Mastrik. ‘The ways within opened and all necessary escape points in the lower fifth of the three tunnels are in the process of being sealed.’

Information to that effect was flowing in from all over the hulk to the fleet and the captains in the cave. The cavern teams’ tunnel missions were going well. Flaring light from plasma cutters lit the tunnel mouths like fire in dragons’ dens.

‘Look at this place,’ said Ranial. ‘I have not experienced such a hulk before. The scale of it is impressive. It is no wonder that the Adepts of Mars wish to plunder it.’

‘They will be able to soon, and with my blessing, for now they marshal their resources on the surface. They will enter the hulk from the cavern, but for now this is our concern alone,’ said Galt.

‘Have there been any enemy contacts, brother?’ asked Mastrik.

‘Captain Aresti reported a breakout of genestealers from sector seventeen. Sergeant Voldo is in pursuit.’

‘A breakout? Surely they lack the intellect for such behaviour, cousin,’ said Sorael.

‘Do not underestimate the genestealers, captain,’ said Ranial. ‘Their minds are alien, but powerful, and there is something…’ he trailed away.

‘Brother Ranial?’

Ranial stirred himself. ‘Nothing. Nothing as yet. I feel something, perhaps, a greater mind. It is hard to tell. The warp is confused in such a place, so much history lies upon it, so much death. These places are the houses of ghosts and phantoms. I will monitor the situation.’

The third group of Space Marines were entering the cavern. The cave was coming alive to the movement of transhumans in brightly coloured armours.

Sorael bowed his head. ‘With your permission, Captain Galt, Captain Mastrik, I will make my way to my own position.’ Sorael had been given oversight of the far end of the cavern, the pocketed area part closed-off by the asteroid.

‘Be aware, brothers of two Chapters,’ said Galt. ‘We will not have found every way into the cave. We do not know the location of every genestealer roost. The enemy is legion. Be on your guard.’

‘As ever, lord,’ said Sorael. He quoted the Codex Astartes, ‘The enemies of men are many, our vigilance cannot cease for a moment.’

‘That is so, captain of the Blood Drinkers, that is so.’

Forty minutes later, and the tech-priests confirmed that all doors marked for sealing had been sealed. Two new tunnel mouths gaped lips of raw metal in the skin of the alien ship. Three twisting ways through a half-dozen major ships and masses of lesser debris were ready. Each sported spurs leading off to the five genestealer roosts. The last stragglers of Hammer rejoined the main force near the surface, some twenty kilometres away from Battleforce Anvil. The Techmarines of Anvil re-emerged from the tunnels back into the cavern and made their way to Mastrik’s position. There they saw to the siting of their Thunderfire cannons and prepared their servitor drones for combat. Everything was in place. The cavern stilled, and a peculiar peace fell over the space.

‘Captain Galt, Battleforce Anvil is prepared,’ reported Mastrik.

‘The Hammer is ready to strike,’ said Aresti.

‘All demolition teams stand ready to detonate on my mark,’ ordered Galt.

On the surface, five demolition teams. Comprised of Adeptus Mechanicus servitors, they were guarded by the few novitiate Scout Space Marines accompanying the two Chapters, clad in space suits as their bodies were not yet ready for power armour.

Each team’s site differed, and their equipment was suited accordingly. At site Alpha, a large laser weapon stood poised to burn its way through one hundred and fifty metres of hulk. At Beta, shaped charges were attached to the skin of the hulk, only a metre or so from the roosting genestealers on the other side. And so on, each breaching method designed for its particular spot on the agglomeration’s surface, each one with the exact same purpose in mind – to rupture the hulk and vent the atmosphere of the roosts into space. The teams retreated to surface armoured craft, or took off in their shuttles, or stood by drilling rigs, and waited breathlessly.

‘All demolition teams!’ Galt’s words rang out across space. ‘Prepare to vent atmosphere in three, two, one, mark!’

At five places, three differing methods of breaching the hulk were activated. The explosives were the most rapid. Sheets of metal peeled away in short-lived fire bursts and wheeled into space. Then the laser-cut hull sections. The result was the same, white geysers of flash-frozen gas rushing into space.

The officers of the Adeptus Astartes watched as their auspexes detected a burst of sudden movement in the roosts.

Captain Aresti’s forward group was stationed in a large chamber at the head of the corridor leading down to the roost designated ‘Perdition’. At their post, they felt the rumble of the detonation through the ceramite of their Terminator plate and their minds sharpened. At first, there was no sign the breaching had been a success. Then scrips attached to their armour wafted as the air in the hulk stirred. The current rose quickly to a howling gale. The noise of it was muted within Aresti’s Terminator armour, its sensorium warning him of the air’s flight with a persistent pinging.

On the auspex, the roost chamber came alive with red motion indicators.

‘Roosts are active,’ he said. ‘Prepare.’

With satisfaction he imagined the genestealers coming awake, fighting over one another to get away as their precious air was drawn away, scrabbling for the exits. Not all of them would make it; some would be sucked out into space by decompression where they would perish. Aresti wondered if the genestealers knew fear. He prayed it was the case, such wicked things should feel what their victims felt.

Further alarm chimes sounded in his helmet.

‘They come!’ shouted Brother Lucello of Squad Blazing Dawn.

‘Stand ready!’ ordered Aresti. The auspex showed a crowd of red dots coming up the corridor leading down to the roost. ‘Wait until they are in the corridor before opening fire!’

The Terminators formed into a line. They raised their weapons. The whine of assault cannon barrels rotating up to firing speed cut over the roar of escaping air.

The genestealers came out into the corridor, as sudden as bats scared from their cave. Bowed, crooked backs crested with high knobbles jostled one another as the genestealers stampeded, their multiple arms held up protectively under their bellies. They turned as one, like a flock of birds in flight, down the corridor leading to the cavern. They came on and on, an endless flood of shining blue chitin and lurid, purple flesh.

‘Fire!’ ordered Aresti.

Nine storm bolters and two assault cannons gave voice. The howl of the wind was lost under a storm of explosions. A swathe of genestealers were cut down, falling as crops fall before the harvester. Craters the size of men’s heads marred their exoskeletons, their innards burst outwards as if as desperate to escape as the genestealers were. Lines of bright fire stabbed out from the assault cannons as tracer rounds helped their bearers draw a bead on their targets, although in truth this simple aid was not required, and nor was that of the suits’ sensoriums. There were so many genestealers that it was impossible to miss. But as many as the Terminators mowed down, twice as many fled down the corridor.

Something changed. A portion of the flock turned, peeling off from the mass of their comrades. Hissing, their long tubular tongues waving in the air, they rushed the Terminator line, claws snapping.

Ten, then twenty, then three dozen fell. The stream of genestealers escaping the roost had split in two, half going down the tunnel to the killing zone, the other charging the Terminators. It was a good thirty metres across the chamber to the Terminator line. The genestealers tumbled headfirst, heads exploding, limbs blown free. A few took the bolts and did not slow. They came closer, though their wounds were terrible. Not a single one made it within grasping distance. Their bodies piled up so high that they were forced to clamber over one another, and still they died.

Suddenly, the second stream ceased. A wall of dead xenos lay across the chamber, blocking the Terminators’ line of fire to the fleeing aliens.

Almost as if they planned it, thought Aresti.

He ordered his adepts forward, but by the time they had reached the pile of dead and pushed their way through, the stampede had become a trickle of stragglers. His squads loosed shots after these as they fled, killing some. The auspex’s motion detector feeds calmed. The rash of red spots moved off down the corridor.

‘Squad Novum’s Expanse, head into the brood chamber and eliminate any remaining genestealers,’ ordered Aresti. ‘Squad Blazing Dawn, finish off any wounded and prepare to follow me. Phase two of our mission is done.’

Aresti checked the datafeeds from the other squads in Strikeforce Hammer, and called up the squad sergeants under his command one by one. All reported similar experiences – genestealers in flight, some diversionary or protective tactics at all roost entrances, many dead xenos. Strikeforce Hammer had sustained three casualties, only one dead, and they were being recovered without incident. He looked around the chamber at the piles of aliens. His sensorium highlighted each corpse in bright green as it counted them. Fifty-nine dead or dying.

Squad Novum’s Expanse pushed on into the roost chamber. Blazing Dawn’s warriors went from alien to alien, caving in the heads of those that still twitched with their power fists.

Reports came in from elsewhere. Altogether they had slaughtered one hundred and thirty-six of the genestealers, not counting those that had been annihilated in the venting episode, or that were wounded and had fallen further on. Only the entrances to the upper three roosts had been so covered. The other two were too far into the hulk’s body. Space Marines deployed there would potentially have been caught between two forces of genestealers. Those roosts had been mined, but they had been allowed to empty without the numbers of aliens being thinned by direct fire. The full brunt of those roosts would fall upon Anvil.

‘The genestealers come,’ Aresti signalled to Galt and Mastrik. ‘A good tally has been made here. We advance.’

‘Lord captain.’ Sergeant Kallat of Novum’s Expanse spoke. He was close by the reactor the roost had been warmed by, and his vox signal suffered. His voice broke up.

‘Say again brother,’ said Aresti.

‘…signs of hundreds of genestealers… I…’

The emissions of the reactor killed the transmission, but Aresti understood.

‘Brother Lucello, give me an estimate of overall numbers killed or fled from this roost.’

‘Around one hundred and fifty, lord captain.’

Kallat came back online. ‘Captain, take a look at this.’ The sergeant’s suit feed sprang up in a box on the captain’s visor. Suit light played over the inside of the roost, lines of interference tracking over it. The ragged breach led up into space above. Genestealer corpses floated past and banged into the walls. There was a muzzle flash in the background. Kallat’s suit pict-feed revealed another round hole in the wall.

‘An altern… exit….’ said Kallat. The picture jumped.

‘That was not there when the soundings were taken,’ said Aresti. ‘Brother Galt, come in, Brother-Captain Galt.’

‘Brother-Captain Aresti.’

‘Brother-captain, something is amiss, Sergeant Kallat found this alternative exit from roost Perdition.’ He sent a recording of Kallat’s feed with a thought. ‘This is a new channel, not present on the…’ a rush of static blasted Aresti’s ears. He winced, and thought the volume down. ‘Brother Galt? Brother Galt?’ The loud interference of the sun had returned.

‘Brother-captain?’ Chaplain Odon, assigned to Strikeforce Hammer, and stationed by roost ‘Vile Nest’, spoke. His signal crackled explosively. ‘What occurs?’

Aresti could not answer for a moment. Only one answer presented itself to him, and it was unpalatable. ‘The relay net. It is down.’

‘Brother Voldo, we have lost the booster signal,’ said Eskerio. ‘We are no longer in contact with Hammer or Anvil. We are not close enough to reactor five yet for that to be the explanation.’

‘A malfunction of the Adepts of Mars’ equipment then,’ said Alanius. ‘We are fools to rely on technology where our own strength alone will prevail.’

‘Aye!’ shouted Tarael and Azmael.

‘Be on your guard!’ said Voldo harshly. ‘Not all is as it seems.’

‘Surely you do not suggest the genestealers have the wit to sabotage the booster network?’ said Azmael. ‘You tell us not to underestimate these xenos, and that is fairly said. But surely it is you who is now at error and overestimate them. Be careful cousin-sergeant, your caution will make you timid.’

‘Will it now?’ said Voldo levelly.

‘Brother Azmael, you will address the sergeant correctly and treat his wisdom with more respect,’ rebuked Alanius.

A pause. ‘I am sorry, brother-sergeant.’ Azmael sounded far from sincere.

‘Group, halt,’ said Voldo. The Terminators came to a stop, strung out in a long line in a narrow passageway.

‘Look to the map. Quadrant forty-seven, coordinates 72.3.46.’

They checked the auspex feeds.

‘There! Contacts! Our prey flee us, we should be on our way,’ said Tarael.

‘Are you so sure this is the group who assailed your Brother Azmael?’ said Voldo.

‘Who else would it be?’ said Azmael.

‘No, he is right,’ said Alanius. ‘I do not see how that is possible. They move obliquely from us, and at speed. If they have been travelling so quickly since the combat, they should be far ahead of us by now.’

‘You are correct, brother.’ Eskerio sharpened the auspex focus. Without the booster relays, the image was spotty. ‘I have multiple contact groups. These are those we pursue.’

‘A second band?’ said Tarael.

‘And a third,’ said Azmael. ‘And a fourth.’ He pushed his auspex as wide as it would go. The map, generated from the Imagifer Maximus’s data, held firm, but new motion detection data was erratic at best without the boosting signal of the relay system. ‘Even accounting for over half being false signals, they are many.’

‘I calculate there are at least one hundred and eighty of them,’ said Eskerio.

‘Look! These tunnels were supposed to have been sealed,’ said Militor. The tunnels he spoke of flashed amber.

‘They were,’ said Voldo. ‘The genestealers are advancing through passages we thought sealed or impassable. They evade our trap.’

‘How is this possible if they do not think, brothers?’ said Alanius.

‘And if they think, is it then inconceivable that they might not have destroyed some of the relay network?’ said Voldo.

‘Where do they go?’

‘An ambush!’ said Tarael. ‘Our brothers are in danger.’

‘We should inform Captain Galt,’ said Alanius.

‘I cannot,’ said Eskerio. ‘The reactor is scrambling our vox signals, and without the relay poles we are many hundreds of metres from a viable broadcast point.’

‘We press on, kill them from behind,’ said Voldo.

‘This is a trap,’ said Alanius.

‘Yes, but not for us,’ said Voldo. ‘With good fortune we can disrupt their outflanking manoeuvre before they have a chance to harm our brothers.’

‘Brothers!’ said Eskerio. ‘A fifth group.’

Eskerio directed their sensorium displays to a part of the hulk where red dots sparkled over the wireframe map.

They were heading right for Squad Hesperion and Squad Wisdom of Lucretius.

‘And now it appears it is a trap for us also,’ said Alanius. He activated his lightning claws. ‘What do we do?’

‘Here they come! Stand ready!’ Mastrik tensed as he gave the order. His fingers tightened on his storm bolter trigger. ‘Today we write our names into our Chapter histories in fire and glory!’

The genestealers came in a great rush, two of the tunnel mouths vomiting them out into the cavern. They spilled forth in a boiling mass. From Mastrik’s position, the gene-stealers were made small by distance, their six limbs further making them seem like insects. Fire blossomed around them as missiles and bolter fire poured into them from above Mastrik’s head. The aliens were lofted high by each explosion, slamming into the roof and walls. The air was filled with body parts and shrapnel in short order, clouding targeting sensors and spoiling the aim of the Adeptus Astartes. The genestealers ran on. In the wider space, they dispersed rapidly, groups of them leaping upward. The wind dragged back at them as it rushed from the cavern, but the gravity was so weak they made good progress against it through the air, unerringly heading toward the Space Marines’ heaviest guns. Many died as they flew, blasted to pieces. The genestealers were without fear, uncaring of their colleagues’ deaths, and the few that got through fought savagely. Genestealers bounded from ledge to ledge, or scuttled insanely fast, disappearing behind cover as shots raked the uneven cavern floor behind them. They covered the distance between the closest Space Marine units and the tunnel with preternatural speed, and fire patterns were disrupted as more and more of them made it into close assault. They targeted the power armoured brothers, their lethal claws ripping hard into them, so fast they stepped around the most skilfully placed blows, landing their own deadly replies.

The cavern was a three-dimensional battle zone. Space Marines had been deployed all around it in order to maximise their firepower. But they had underestimated the speed with which the genestealers would emerge from the tunnels, and how quickly they would close. Fire criss-crossed the room, slamming into the metal dangerously close to emplaced brothers as squads tracked their fire after their targets. Casualties from friendly weapons were becoming an uncomfortable possibility. An explosion shook the ledge near to Mastrik. ‘Squad Blood of Ramillies, check your fire!’ he shouted.

‘There are surprising few of them, brother,’ said Ranial. ‘And I do not see our pursuing squads. I cannot sense them either.’

The Epistolary was right. The numbers of genestealers pouring out of the tunnels was thinning, and there was no sign of pursuit.

‘They dwindle too rapidly,’ said Mastrik. ‘And why are there none coming from tunnel two?’ He pointed at the tear in the spacecraft hull. ‘Brother-Captain Aresti, reply.’

Nothing.

‘The booster relays are down!’ shouted Mastrik. ‘Captain Galt, we have lost contact with Hammer.’

‘This is Galt, there has been a booster malfunction, stand firm, I repeat stan–’

Galt’s voice cut out suddenly.

‘A second malfunction?’ said Mastrik incredulously.

Ranial looked all around the cavern. ‘No, it is something more than that. The presence I felt. It grows. It watches us. The genestealers are being directed. This is not the play of mindless animals panicked into a stampede.’

Mastrik swore in the rich language of Honourum as he watched a squad of Blood DrinkersDevastators abandon their position and jump into combat with a party of gene-stealers running at another unit, the low gravity seeing them among the foe rapidly. ‘All squads, stand firm! Maintain positions!’

‘Lord captain! Above!’ A brother pointed up.

Mastrik span on his heel, craning his neck as well as his restrictive Terminator cowling would allow him. ‘Above’ was a relative concept, but the Space Marines had designated an up and down to help them make sense of the maelstrom of fire and flying bodies of battle.

‘There!’ he followed the pointing finger. Genestealers were emerging from a crack between two crushed spacecraft, crawling down the wall stealthily upon a Novamarines Devastator squad.

Mastrik called out to them, but too late. The genestealers fell upon them, and the squad’s fire ceased.

‘More! There are more coming!’

The air was alive with frantic vox chatter as sergeants gave orders to their squads, and the captains gave orders to the sergeants. The hubbub grew deafening as the various units scattered around the room became aware of genestealers coming from cracks all around them.

The tone of the battle changed. The concentrated fire patterns they had so carefully planned disintegrated as the squads turned to face the infiltrating aliens. The fight splintered into a number of uncoordinated squad-on-alien actions.

The genestealers of tunnel two took the opportunity to emerge, shielded by the confusion sown by their kin. A stream of them came rushing into the cavern, unmolested by the Space Marines’ bigger guns.

‘Throne!’ said Mastrik. ‘Squads Fidelis, Ultramar Remem-bered, Holos’s Price, Gideon, Wallbreaker and Five Lords to the tunnel mouths!’ he shouted. The squads of Terminators responded quickly, lumbering their way through the battle toward this new force of genestealers.

‘More lord captain, coming Sorael’s way!’

‘I have them,’ said Sorael. The distance to his position was a mere fifteen hundred metres, but without the boosters, his vox was a rattle of interference. ‘We will contain them here, but you cannot rely upon our assistance.’

‘Lord captain,’ Ranial’s voice was firm and quiet in the chaos. ‘I have sent a telepathic message to Lord Astropath Feldiol, apprising him of our situation. But without him focussing his attention on our location, I cannot guarantee he will receive it.’

‘Thank you, Brother Ranial.’

‘You may honour me for it later,’ said the Epistolary drily. ‘There is more. I reached for the alien mind directing this attack. It is powerful, and turned me aside. But while I did so, I chanced upon a glimmer in the warp; Epistolary Guinian of the Blood Drinkers. He is near the source. And if he is there, then so might Lord Caedis be.’

Mastrik raised his gun and filled a genestealer forty metres distant with bolts. The creature ran on before exploding as the miniature missiles detonated, sending globules of blood and flesh out in every direction.

‘Then let us pray that Caedis is the end of this mind, or it will be the end of us.’

Radioactive fog swirled around Aresti and his two squads. It had appeared from nowhere, drawn along with the escaping atmosphere. It came unevenly, in rags and billows or twisted helices. The radioactivity of it was intense, and hot. Lucello speculated that it might have come from a breached coolant unit from a nearby reactor, only two decks away. Whatever its provenance, it clouded all their senses. Their eyes could not see well, and their sensoriums fared little better. The heat of it confused their infravision, the radioactivity scrambled many of the sensoriums’ other functions, while its rapid movement prevented the less esoteric aspects of the motion detectors from operating correctly.

They were blind, unable to communicate even with the nearer elements of their strikeforce.

Aresti had his men proceed cautiously, his two squads covering each other in a bounding overwatch advance. What was intended to be hot pursuit of the genestealers had become instead a painstakingly cautious process. Aresti very much felt that they had become the hunted. They were on high alert, expecting ambush at every turn.

They were not long disappointed.

It was Brother Lucello who shouted out, ‘Genestealers!’

The creatures leapt out from the fog from three directions: from the ceiling, from in front of them, and from the left. Brother Ignatio of Squad Glorious Ruin was sent staggering as one landed on his back, claws digging into the plasteel and ceramite of his cowling. Aresti turned on the spot and shot the thing in the lower part of its spine. The bolt exploded, breaking it into two pieces. It gave a terrible cry and fell to the floor.

The Space Marines were fast, dropping four of the creatures as they charged. One made it through, and gouged Brother Uxerio’s leg armour so badly the fibre bundles within failed and his limb locked.

‘Bring up the assault cannons! Make way brothers!’

The squads’ heavy weapons brothers were let through as the first rank of the Terminator group, three wide, fought hard against the assaulting xenos. They grappled with genestealers, smashing them down with power fists or shoving them back so their bolters might do their deadly work. The first wave was slaughtered and another came at them.

‘Clear! Clear! Clear!’ shouted Uxerio. He let himself topple to the floor. Those next to him, Ignatio and Sergeant Hendis moved aside. Andas and Gallio had a clear line of fire.

Their assault cannons whined as they rotated up to firing speed, then fire blazed from them. Their multiple barrels blurred as they spat hundreds of rounds a minute into the genestealers. The Terminators swept their guns to the left and then to the right, filling the corridor with depleted uranium bullets. Genestealers screamed as they were riddled with holes. The guns ran hot, still the brothers fired, fired until their ammunition boxes were dry.

‘Halt!’ called Aresti. ‘Lucello, report!’

‘The way is clear. A small group. I have six motion signatures heading away from us. The auspex cannot see far thanks to this Emperor-damned fog, but I am confident the majority are slain.’

‘Then forward, but slowly.’

They helped Uxerio upright, then left him to cover their rear, as he could no longer walk. Their numbers reduced to ten, they went onward past a ragged opening in the metal wall carved by claws.

‘That is new, made since the mapping,’ said Aresti. ‘We may have underestimated our enemy.’

They advanced around a corner and the fog grew thicker. Visibility and effective auspex range dropped further, and the Terminators slowed to a crawl. Ahead, according to the Imagifer Maximus map downloaded into their sensoriums, was a large chamber. Its sides were oddly distorted. An artefact, the tech-priests had explained, of their seismic waves running through material of whose particular nature they could not determine. Without this parameter of essence, they were unable to determine the parameter of shape. They had shrugged their iron shoulders and pointed out the clarity of the map’s remainder.

A silhouette, then another. Three of them, coming out of the fog. As one, the brothers to the fore opened fire.

The fog thinned just for a second, granting the captain a view into the chamber beyond. Too late, Aresti found out why the Imagifer Maximus had failed to make an accurate representation. There was liquid in the room, enclosed in tanks. He saw the chemical units through the gap in the radioactive vapours; tall orange canisters topped with metal valves, corroded white. Arranged in groups of four, the canisters filled the room either side of a catwalk down the centre. Dozens of them.

The genestealers had led them directly to it.

Aresti experienced the closest thing to panic he had for a long time. ‘Stop! Cease firing! Cease firing!’ He shouted. He barged into Brother Lucello’s arm, sending his shots awry. But he could not stop them all. The Space Marines let their fingers slacken on the triggers of their guns as soon as their sharp minds registered the order, but the bolts were already in flight.

Three punched neat holes in the side of the lead canister stack, a trio of insignificant ‘pinking’ noises as the metal was pierced. Aresti had time to pray that there was insufficient mass to set off the bolts’ detonators before the munitions exploded.

Whatever was in the canisters was highly reactive, or else had become so through a process of chemical alteration over the long years within the plasteel bottles. The tanks burst, and fire roiled outwards. Chunks of plasticised metal scythed through the air, puncturing other bottles and setting them off in a thunderous chain reaction. Half a canister slammed into Aresti’s chest, sending him sprawling. The corridor became an inferno.

Three of Aresti’s brother’s icons blinked out.

CHAPTER 16

THE ASCENT

Caedis was Holos, Holos was Caedis, where one began and one ended had ceased to matter. All that concerned him/them was the placing of one foot in front of the other, as he/they scaled the side of the unforgiving mountain. The slope was steep in places, and Holos was forced to pull at the ground with his hands. The material was loose, and he found himself dislodging great fans of it as he climbed. He slid backwards frequently, and at these times the climb became laborious even for his enhanced physique, each three steps forward bought at the cost of two back. Rocks fell from above with increasing frequency. The mountain grumbled under him as he embraced it, angry at Holos’s presence upon its flanks.

Holos’s mouth was dry as dust. His suit should have kept him hydrated, recycling the excreta of his body and injecting it back into him in the form of nutrient-rich liquid. But this was no natural thirst that assailed Holos and the spirits of the yet-to-be brothers who haunted him. Knowing how he would be so afflicted, Holos had brought water and wine on his climb. Sips of this had helped assuage the burn of the Thirst for delightful seconds, but the canteens slung at his belt had long since run empty, and he had discarded them one after another. They littered the side of the mountain, bright glints by the dark tracks of his boots.

Shrill cries carried down from on high, and Holos looked upwards to see the astorgai wheel around the pinnacle of the volcano. He was weary, nevertheless he quickened his pace; the position he was in was not favourable should they choose to attack.

‘What does he speak of, Reclusiarch, when he talks of Holos? I reach out for him with my mind and sense a great disturbance in him.’ Guinian pitched this question directly at the Chaplain, isolating their conversation from the brothers who marched with them. They had descended a further hour since the garden room oasis, passing through two more ships.

‘I am forbidden to talk of it, brother,’ said Mazrael. ‘It is the ultimate mystery of our order, and not one to be shared lightly, even with so mighty and honoured a hero as you. Only the Reclusiarch may know the whole truth of it, it is my burden. Be glad I cannot share it with you.’

‘I understand,’ said Guinian. In the Librarium of the Blood Drinkers the psychic brothers kept plenty of secrets of their own.

‘It is good that is so; curiosity is the downfall of wisdom.’ Mazrael’s tone lightened. ‘You are one of our Chapter’s mightiest sons; perhaps you will discover for yourself one day.’

‘Perhaps.’

Guinian cast a sidelong look at Caedis. ‘Where is he? Is he here, or is he there?’

‘Here, there – what do these things mean?’ said Mazrael. ‘You of all the brethren should know that reality is more than it seems. Wherever he is he serves, and he walks by our side. Service is all that matters.’

The Terminator brothers ahead, Quintus and Kalael, stopped. The corridor came to an unexpected end, sliced away by whatever disaster had caused the vessel to die and join the agglomeration, and was now pressed hard against a vessel of alien build in a frozen metal kiss. Quintus and Kalael’s suit lights illuminated a double circle of bulbous, greenish material. Mazrael stepped between them and ran his fingers over it. He pulled his hand back and looked for Guinian.

‘Brother?’

Guinian nodded and replied, his voice characteristically lugubrious. ‘The entity lies within this ship.’

‘Then we go on. Sergeant Sandamael, organise your men.’

Sandamael had Erdagon come up, for he carried a chainfist alongside his bolter. He set to work on the alien hull, then stopped. ‘Brothers,’ he said, ‘this may take a while. The hull is composed of some kind of composite poly-laminate, very tough.’

Mazrael glanced at their lord, who stood so still only the lights on his suit gave away the fact that it was occupied. ‘Proceed as quickly as you can brother. We have little time.’

‘The mind,’ said Guinian. ‘It watches us.’

It took a long time, as these things are measured, for Brother Erdagon to carve his way through the spacecraft wall.

A cliff many hundreds of metres towered over Holos. From the ledge he could not see to the top. As legend suggested, there was no ascent to the crater rim and thence the peak, only the cave of the astorgai offered a route.

The mouth of the cave was a dark tube in red rock. Holos had cause to hesitate, this was the lair of the lord of the astorgai, Lo-tan, a great monster five times the size of his subjects. Four great heroes of the Chapter had set out to slay him, four heroes had died, their wargear and lives lost in his lair.

Holos’s mind was clear on the matter. This was the only way to the top of the mountain.

He drew his weapons and walked into the cave.

Guinian shouted in exultation as he gathered the energy of the warp into his mind and cast it from his hand in the form of a bloody red spear. Guinian was renowned for his dour temperament. The other brothers said there was nothing that could make Guinian smile. And why should he? He, unlike them, felt the fear of those they killed to sate their thirst for blood. He felt their confusion as they were slain by their beloved angels, their sense of betrayal as they were destroyed by those that were supposed to protect them left a bitter tang in his mind.

Isolation was the normal state of affairs for most Chapters; long wars against endless foes sent every order across the galaxy. And isolation could be a danger. The brothers within the Chapter had their purpose; they had their sense of belonging, reinforced by tradition and ritual thousands of years old. But they were separate from the run of the Imperium’s citizens, armoured by faith and technology that few others might ever see, and fewer yet understood. To an unenhanced human, a Space Marine was a creature of myth, a benevolent one at that – the sky warriors of the Emperor; the angels of death. Such separation and adulation could breed arrogance in those so separated and adored.

The death they brought was supposed to fall upon the xenos and the traitor, the mutant and the unbeliever. What then did the sons of man feel when a citizen was taken and bled like an animal for the sustenance of the Blood Drinkers? Guinian knew only too well. He was sensitive to the emotions of others, to subtle threads in the warp some of the other Librarians were not. He felt their pain and their terror. As a Librarian Guinian was also privy to things other brothers were not. The rituals of the Librarium concerned dark things not for the minds of non-psychic brothers. He knew fully of the daemonic terrors that lurked beyond the veil of real space, for he had to know them to resist the whispers they sent. He saw the bloodletting of his Chapter, the sense of righteousness in committing an evil to prevent greater evils. For all the prayers, and the guilt, and the Chapter’s focus on the safeguarding of life wherever it could, he saw in the harvesting of the unwilling hints of an arrogance that could lead to their downfall, an echo of the temptations that had led more than half the Emperor’s own, godlike sons from their chosen path in the time of the Heresy.

This was why he rarely smiled.

Nevertheless the others were wrong about him. He did smile. He smiled now as the bolt of ruby energy he cast from his hand jinked around Brother Quintus and speared a genestealer through the chest, knocking the creature backwards, arms and legs suddenly lifeless. It smashed into a wall and crumpled to the floor.

Guinian laughed. He boiled with the power of the warp and the battle-joy combined. He sang the warding prayers of the Librarium as he drew on the immaterium. The uncanny energy quickened his mind and his hearts, and the effect was intoxicating. He raised his bolt pistol and loosed five rounds. His shots landed unerringly, stitching a line of craters in a genestealer attacking Brother Erdagon, culminating in the detonation of its head. A genestealer leapt from a low platform. Guinian took a half-step backwards and smashed the xenos to the ground with his force staff. He grinned savagely behind his Terminator helmet; blood ran down his chin where his lengthened canines punctured his own lips. Red light blazed around his fists. Another Blood Lance leapt from his outstretched hand.

These xenos were bigger and faster than those they had previously encountered. Underneath the blind aggression of the battle-joy, Guinian suspected these creatures had not bred from human stock. Their lower arms had two elbows and terminated in jabbing points of bone, rather than the grasping hands of the others, and drooping frills of manipulative tentacles twitched all along their forearms. Their faces too lacked the slight echo of humankind many genestealers possessed. The ship they were in was not of human manufacture, the corridors were low and broad, with long ramps in place of stairs and elevators. The lights and gravity were on, but neither was of a quality comfortable to standard human beings. The light was purplish and dark, with much of the illumination at the ultraviolet end of the spectrum, the air a choking mix of sulphur dioxide and nitrogen. Perhaps there was a vestige of the ship’s crew in these genestealers, perhaps not. In either case, these gene-stealers were xenos bred with xenos, and that made them all the more loathsome in Guinian’s eyes.

He held out his hand, charging his mind from the depthless well of the warp. He lifted his hand to let fly once more.

Pain assailed him as a great and powerful entity reached out from deeper within the ship. A cold, malevolent spirit touched his own, burning from the core of his brain outward, passing up his optic nerves. Something gave in his left eye, and he felt a trickle of blood run down his cheek to join with that slicking his chin.

He cried out, and sank to one knee. Just in time he raised his staff, blocking a wheeling blow from a genestealer. He tried to stand, but could not, the attack of the genestealer was too fierce. A flurry of blows from its four limbs drove him backward.

Lord Caedis saved him. Gladius Rubeum shone with pure light, the victories of the past playing along its blade. A genestealer stepped in to intercept him. Caedis chopped diagonally down with the sword. The creature span around with the force of his blow, guts flung outward. Caedis moved with an agility that should not have been possible in his Terminator suit, and drove Gladius Rubeum through the neck of the genestealer attacking Guinian. He twisted the blade to free it, and the creature fell dead. Without acknowledging the Librarian, Caedis stalked away in search of more victims.

Guinian struggled to his feet. The battle was going poorly. Mazrael was backed into a corner by two of the creatures, his crozius arcanum flashing brightly as its disruptor field met the creatures’ arms. Brother Kalael was slumped upon the floor. His torso was torn open. He held at the wound with his hand. Suit sealant mixed freely with blood, and he muttered the Sanguis Moritura over and over again. Quintus let out a roar as a genestealer jumped onto his back, ripping at his helmet. Metrion and Sandamael fought side by side, power fists sweeping. A genestealer reared up in front Sandamael, half as tall as the Terminator was again. Recovering his wits, Guinian blasted it from behind with his bolter, the litanies of hate on his lips.

Quintus howled as his helmet was torn free. His blows turned frantic as he sought to drag the genestealer from his body, his face reddened as he fought with his breath held. The battle hung at a pivotal point, for a brief half-second, Guinian saw the room with his warp-sight, something that only every happened to him under moments of extreme stress. The chief of the Librarium did not quite understand this ability of his. Every psyker’s gifts were slightly different, granted by the Emperor himself. It was a form of blood divination, an ability to see the future when the blood flowed thickly. When this occurred to Guinian, movements tracked into time and future, blurring into multiple possibilities. He saw the Blood Drinkers triumphant, but in the main he saw them all dead. He saw them all dead many times over.

And then Caedis was striding through the battle, smiting all about him. A genestealer jumped for him, bone spikes and claws raking down his arm and bringing sparks from the metal. Caedis smashed it backwards with his forearm and caught it by the throat. With superhuman strength, he lifted it into the air and with a jerk of his wrist snapped its neck. Guinian gasped. Caedis cut only one path into the future, and as he walked time reordered itself until there was only victory.

Caedis howled with the blood-rage, his emotions boiled like the lava of Mount Calicium. Guinian was staggered by the psychic impact of it. He sensed many things, he saw many things. He saw, for a moment, a cave and a man in power armour facing a winged astorgai. Holos, it could only have been Holos himself. He saw, beyond and beneath that, a third vision. The interior of a hellish vessel, gripped by Chaos, two brothers fighting, one winged, the other a traitor.

Then it was gone. The faint second vision collapsed into the vision of Brother Holos, and then he too faded from view until there was only Caedis and bloodshed and death.

The psychic backwash of Caedis’s Black Rage energised all in the room, none more so than Guinian. He threw his head back, his hymns disintegrating into a long and joyous whoop. The pain in his eye disappeared. His mind roared with power. He pushed away the pernicious influence of the xenos mind and fell upon the genestealers with euphoric zeal.

Holos slew the astorgai. Brothers fought by his side, but although they wore the blood-red and badges of his Chapter, he did not know them. Caedis would have recognised them as Guinian, Mazrael, Sandamael, Quintus, Kalael, Erdagon and Metrion. There were others there with them that he would not, others who fought alongside the seventeen other heroes who had joined Holos’s climb and now relived it again. To Holos these men were phantoms, tricks played by the Thirst torturing his body. It is doubtful his mind would have been able to grasp the truth. They wheeled in and out of visibility, all engaged in the silent dance of death. Snatches of sound from seventeen battles reached out to him, scintillas of battlefields chased the now of the cave away. He fought them off as efficiently as he fought the astorgai.

His sword, Encarmine Dread, flashed in his hand, darting swiftly into flesh. The astorgai came at him from burrow entrances all around the chamber. They spread their wings and glided down at him, they bounded along the floor; wings, dexterion-claws and single feet propelling them. Their blasphemies and taunts tainted the air along with the stink of their dung.

Holos was undaunted. He cried out as claws raked his arm. A flicker in time – he saw a tentacled bone spike, turned it aside with a sword that was not his own, then it changed, and he saw the pinion-claw sweeping back for another strike. Encarmine Dread met it, parting the hardened feathers and flesh of the creature’s wing as it would part silk.

There were so many, but Holos fought like a man possessed, the shades of Blood Drinkers not yet born fighting their own, unknowable battles alongside him. And then there were no more.

Holos panted in the midst of ruin, his blood mingling with that of the slain astorgai.

‘My lord.’

Holos’s head rose slowly. Two brothers were before him. They shimmered as a mirage over the lava traps, and vanished. A Chaplain stood in their stead. It was he who had spoken. Holos thought it was Reclusiarch Shanandar for a moment, but no, he did not know this man.

‘My lord, we must go on.’

Holos swayed on his feet. A flash of a leering face, mocking him as it broke his wings. He screwed his eyes shut, bit the insides of his cheeks raw until it departed. ‘The Black Rage,’ he said, not knowing to whom he spoke, for surely he was alone, ‘It takes me. I do not have much time.’

Caedis looked into Mazrael’s skull-mask. Dead genestealers were scattered all over the alien chamber. Alarms rang in his helmet, the sensorium warning him that more were on the way. Caedis was deaf to them.

‘How do I speak with you? I am alone.’

‘A brother of the Blood Drinkers is never alone, Lord Holos.’

Caedis appeared to understand this.

‘Lo-tan, it is he I must slay if I wish to gain the peak of Mount Calicium. I must go on!’

Mazrael nodded. ‘I will take you to him, my lord.’ He took the lord of the Blood Drinkers by the arm.

‘This way,’ said Guinian. ‘He is waiting for us.’

CHAPTER 17

BLOOD IS LIFE, LIFE IS DUTY

Voldo had his squad arrayed in a staggered line, enabling as many weapons to come to bear as possible. They had gained an intersection forming the shape of a ‘Y’ before stopping, judging it a good place to fight. The corridor broadened slightly where the corridors met. Lockers for equipment that had rusted to nothing were set into its wall, but the intersection was cramped with enough room only for two Space Marines to fire down each of the corridors. Twin lines of red dots were converging on their position.

‘We cannot destroy them all, brother-sergeant,’ said Alanius.

‘We cannot escape them,’ said Voldo. ‘We make our stand here.’

‘While we fight, the main body of xenos is free to attack our brothers!’ said Azmael. Emotion was thick in his voice.

‘What choice do we have?’ said Voldo calmly. ‘We will do what we were born to do, fight the Emperor’s enemies. He will know whether we are to be successful or not already, and those of us who fall have already been judged.’

‘Brother-sergeant!’ shouted Eskerio. ‘They are coming.’

‘And now from three directions,’ said Voldo. ‘Militor, cover Sergeant Alanius.’

Alanius nodded. ‘Tarael, join our brother Novamarines.’

The Space Marines shuffled around one another into the prescribed position.

‘Brother Astomar, let fly at twenty metres range. If necessary, down both corridors to our front,’ said Voldo. ‘Then retire and let Tarael through.’

Azmael and Alanius stood shoulder to shoulder, both twisted slightly to the side so that Militor could fire down the narrow corridor forming the stick of the ‘Y’. A minute passed. The Space Marines watched the red dots move around out of range; their motion detected by Eskerio’s advanced auspex and fed into their sensoriums.

‘They seek to delay us further, by delaying their own attack,’ said Azmael frustratedly. ‘Come to us, come to us now!’

‘That cousin, or they marshal their forces to destroy us more efficiently,’ said Voldo.

‘Be glad, Blood Drinker, they come now,’ said Eskerio.

‘Brothers! Prepare!’

Bolters were brought up. Prayers of good function and true ranging were voiced. Silence.

In a rush the genestealers came, a huddle of them down both of the corridors in the sticks of the ‘Y’ at once. Bolters fired, the distinctive double crack of weapon discharge and the propellant ignition of the bolts as they left the barrel followed by their delayed explosion as they penetrated flesh or metal, all doubled again by the storm bolters. Storm bolters were boltguns with two barrels and sophisticated fire control, capable of a withering rate of fire, and the Novamarines used them well.

Genestealers fell, dropping under the feet of those that followed. The gravity here functioned, but the genestealers used every surface, scuttling along the ceiling and walls as well as the floor. In the short-ranged illumination of the suit lights, the corridors were full of aliens. The boltguns spat their peculiar explosive song, every round finding a target. The xenos were tough, some requiring several shots to bring them down. Every dead genestealer was one less set of rending claws to trouble the Space Marines, but every death brought them two or three footsteps closer, and the genestealers were in seemingly endless supply.

Militor’s storm bolter jammed, and the genestealers gained metres of ground before he had it cleared and opened fire again. Several more died before they were within striking distance, and Brother Militor was forced to stand back to allow Azmael and Alanius to fight effectively. They sang songs that sounded barbaric to the Novamarines, songs of blood and songs of death welcomed. But all of them recognised the sentiment of service that threaded the hymnal through and through. Deadly claws flashing with powerful energies, the Blood Drinkers methodically killed every genestealer that came within reach.

At the other side of the intersection, Astomar sent a burst of promethium down one corridor, and then the other. The maximum range of his heavy flamer was about thirty metres, but he waited until the genestealers were within twenty metres as ordered, engulfing as many of the xenos as possible. The promethium burned so hot it made the metal glow red and set everything else ablaze. Paint peeled and burned, plastics dripped from seals and fittings, droplets igniting as they fell. The temperature rose markedly. The genestealers screamed, a terrible, polyphonic reedy sound with enough of a human voice to it to raise the hair on the adept’s spines. It was the kind of scream that appealed directly to the baser levels of consciousness, those so deep that could not be altered by the training and mental conditioning the Space Marines underwent, only contained. The flames died back. Genestealers braved the corridors again, but in fewer numbers. Astomar stepped back, allowing Tarael to take his place. His brothers fired and fired. Genestealers fell. None came close enough for Tarael to engage.

The number of movement blips in the auspex dwindled until the arms of the ‘Y’ were nearly clear.

On the other side, where Alanius and Azmael fought, it was another matter. The corridor was a red block of movement on the motion scanner, jammed with genestealers. The sheer weight of their numbers were pushing Alanius and Azmael back.

‘Brother Voldo, go! Go now!’

‘You cannot hold them!’ said Voldo. ‘You will die. Step back and let Brother Astomar through.’

Astomar readied his flamer.

Alanius panted as he eviscerated another genestealer. ‘The blowback will hit us, stay your hand Cousin Astomar.’

‘We can take our chances, our armour is strong,’ replied Astomar, levelling his weapon down the corridor.

‘It is too much of a risk! Go now, while your way is clear, you can achieve more if you attack the xenos ambushers from the rear while they attack our brothers. Here, we will do nothing.’

‘Except survive,’ said Voldo. But he recognised the wisdom of what Alanius said.

‘Or die, and I will do so willingly only if it serves some purpose in the service of the Imperium! Go now!’

Voldo ran the auspex map around. They were not far from the cavern where the combined forces of the Blood Drinkers and Novamarines of Battleforce Anvil fought. The genestealers they had been pursuing would be already there. Between his squad and the rear of the genestealers outflanking group was minimal resistance. ‘You speak truth, Brother Alanius, but we can aid you in other ways.’

Alanius and Azmael were forced back further. The genestealers pushed at them. Voldo had his men fire past the Blood Drinkers where they could, or pick those genestealers off who tried to come in along the ceiling. Alien flesh rained on the Terminators. Alanius and Azmael moved back a little, and more bolts found their targets. The pressure ceased as the genestealers backed away, jaws snapping. They withdrew to the far end of the corridor. Alanius turned to face Voldo.

‘They will come again. There are dozens of them. They pause to mass once more.’ The Blood Drinker was breathing heavily.

‘We go. We will send aid for you as soon as we may.’

Alanius shook his head and laughed. ‘Whoever comes will find we have gone to the Emperor. I will convey your good wishes to him!’

Genestealer shrieks echoed up the corridor.

‘Brother Astomar, lend our cousins of our meagre purse of time.’

‘Affirmative, brother-sergeant.’ Astomar pushed Alanius aside before he could voice an objection. The noise of the approaching aliens was drowned out by the roar of promethium igniting. A trio of genestealers at the far end were caught in the billow of fire. They fell to the floor writhing. Astomar stepped back, leaving the corridor aflame.

‘You have a few more seconds, at least,’ said Voldo.

‘The Emperor watch over you,’ said Militor.

‘Sanguinius’s wings shield you, brothers,’ said Tarael. ‘May the blood sing your demise in bright song. I will carve a eulogy into alien flesh for your sacrifice.’

‘It has been an honour to fight by your side, brother, cousins,’ said Alanius, dipping his helmet at each in turn.

Voldo did not answer immediately, weighing his words before he spoke. ‘And by yours,’ he said. ‘Come! Brother Militor, to the front. Brother Tarael, behind him. ‘We have little time if we wish to be of use to our brethren.’

The Novamarines positioned themselves in Voldo’s order, and clumped off down the left-hand branch of the ‘Y’, backs swaying as they went.

Alanius turned back to face the burning corridor, Azmael at his side. Alanius’s armour was reporting multiple minor breaches all across his suit, with drops in power to various subsystems. Azmael’s armour fed its own data to Alanius’s sensorium. It was in similar shape.

‘Here is where it ends brother, the long song of our lives,’ said Azmael.

‘We have served gladly, and I for one would do so again,’ said Alanius. ‘Let us face the Emperor together and beg his judgement of our worth.’

Alanius began to recite the Sanguis Moritura, the death song of the Blood Drinkers. His voice was a low growl at first, rising to a loud song as he continued.

‘The blood of life flows quickly!’ Alanius said. Azmael joined him, repeating the lines Alanius sang before he had finished them, creating a harmony in two rounds. Together they sang, their voices were harsh with the battle-joy, and yet there was a beauty to their music. Like everything about the Blood Drinkers, it was a beauty marred by monstrous violence, nonetheless a beauty that could not be hidden.

Down the corridor, alien eyes glittered in multitude, flames dancing in them as the fire in the corridors died back. Claws flexed as they waited out the heat.

‘Only in death can it be stilled!’ They sang. ‘Let not ours be stilled easily, let it flow on and outward – let it flow from us as we slay those who free it!’

‘Blood is strength, in death it quickens!’

They sang an eerie, wordless tune, their voices low and sorrowful. Within it were expressed all they were and all they had been. They were notes full of the certainty of song’s ending.

The last flames guttered out. The genestealers advanced.

‘Blood is life. Life is duty,’ said Alanius.

‘To deny the blood is to deny life,’ said Azmael.

‘To deny life is to deny duty,’ said Alanius.

The first genestealer bounded along the corridor, using all six limbs to propel itself. Alanius braced for the impact of it, turning away its claws with his own. He skewered it through the chest, but the impact of it sent him back a step. Others were coming.

‘To deny duty is to betray the Emperor. Betrayal is worse than damnation.’

‘Service has its price, and we willingly pay it.’

‘We choose duty, we choose life,’ they said together.

‘We choose the blood.’

Then the genestealers rushed forward, a wall of black teeth and razor talons The Blood Drinkers fought hard, and many were the foes they slew before they found the judgement they sought at the feet of the Lord of Mankind.

Captain Sorael struggled to hear Captain Mastrik. Reception was bad and the entire cavern was a maelstrom of battle that deafened him even through his helmet.

‘There is no sign of the pursuit groups,’ Mastrik said, his voice indistinct. ‘We are mired in close combat. The genestealers continue to outflank us. Hold the west of the cave, hold the–’

Mastrik was interrupted. He shouted something Sorael did not hear, there was the sound of boltgun fire, and the screech of dying xenos, then the feed cut out altogether.

The situation worsened.

Genestealers had emerged in small groups from crevices all over the wall. Contact with the surface had been lost. There had been reports of genestealers daring the vacuum to attack the Adeptus Mechanicus and their machines before the network had been brought down.

The Novamarines, for all their experience of fighting genestealers aboard space hulks, had underestimated this foe. What should have been a ranged extermination of the aliens had turned into a desperate close-quarters battle, and it was a battle the genestealers were better equipped to win.

Sorael’s helmet display was crowded with tac-data, information fed from his squad sergeants all over the
cul-de-sac. Through the overlays on his visor, he could see the genestealers running and leaping through the cavern, unhindered by the low gravity. Their four arms helped greatly, pulling them along walls and ceilings as easily as the floor. Sorael had to exert all his will to keep his mind in the tactical situation, and not throw himself into personal combat with the genestealers. He was a great warrior, and he would claim many heads; but if he were to abdicate his tactical responsibilities his part of the task force would be left without guidance. He ground his teeth in frustration, such was the price duty demanded of him.

Terminator squads fought hand-to-hand battles, aiming to keep the less heavily armoured brothers of the tactical and Devastator squads safe. Sorael himself was stationed with these lighter-armoured brothers upon a low rise in the cavern floor, close to the overhang of the asteroid. His tactical squads were spread in an arc, his four Devastator squads behind them. A few of the power armoured brothers had succumbed to the urgings of the Thirst, throwing themselves into combat, but many of his men held their ground and laid complex patterns of fire that took a heavy toll on the genestealers. There were few Chapters among the sons of Sanguinius who could claim such restraint.

‘All praise Brother Holos,’ said Sorael to himself.

Two of his three assault squads roared through the thinning air on jump packs, better able to counter threats in the three-dimensional battle space than the others. Sanguinary Master Teale led one of these airborne squads, his laughter and exhortations to slaughter commanding in the multiple audio threads clamouring for Sorael’s attention. The third assault squad was embroiled in a vicious melee near a gap in the wall. They had acquitted themselves well, but the fight had devolved into one of attrition, with fresh genestealers feeding into the fight, and only four of the red warriors remained.

Sorael shouted orders into his vox, sending a mauled tactical squad back behind the line of Terminators. The rearmost portion of his position, where the Devastators were dug in, covered them as they fell back. Genestealers were consumed in balls of fire as missiles slammed home, their severed limbs flying outwards.

The line of red was holding. Casualties were light. There could not be an infinite number of the xenos. Surely their numbers would dwindle eventually…

A shout, then another. The fire from the Devastators’ heavy weapons tailed off, and the sounds of combat and quickly voiced orders replaced their reports in Sorael’s helmet. He turned around to see genestealers emerging from a fold in the metal. A tunnel they had not found, despite their vigilance. Several xenos had slipped through undetected and attacked the heavy weapons’ position. More came through, then more again. Some of the Devastator brothers turned their weapons upon them, but they were so fast that only a few shots got through before the gene-stealers were among all four squads, and combat raged. The Tactical Marines in front of them could not fire through their comrades. More warnings were shouted, a second group of genestealers were rushing headfirst down the side of the asteroid. Sorael urged his tactical squads to hold their ground and deal with this other threat with righteous bolt and steady aim.

Inside his helmet, Sorael smiled a humourless smile. It looked like he would get to vent his battle-fury after all. Raising his storm bolter, he strode forward.

Mastrik gunned down another genestealer. The rest were dealt with by his bodyguard. Ranial drove his force staff through the head of an alien he had pinned to the floor under his boot.

‘That was too close, brother,’ said Mastrik. His usual humour had gone.

‘The third attack on our position. Intentionally so. They are guided, brother-captain. There is strategy behind this assault. They target us.’ Ranial pointed his staff at a group of genestealers. They ran then changed direction, all of them switching at once. ‘See how they move?’ said Ranial. ‘Their psyches are linked to one another, and to something more besides. The mind that guides them is like none I have encountered so far. Vast, alien, powerful.’

‘This is the largest group of genestealers we have faced for many years. But surely there is mention of similar leadership in the Librarium?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Ranial. ‘If so, it is old wisdom and forgotten.’

‘I cannot re-establish contact with Sorael. Things are turning against us. How close are Lord Caedis and his men to the source of the psychic emanation? The death of the xenos’s master will see us to victory.’

‘Closer, brother-captain, but not yet unto it.’

All around the cavern, brothers fought. Those in power armour fared badly against the genestealers. The casualty counter in Mastrik’s sensorium ticked upwards.

‘They must hurry,’ he said.

Kalael was dead, gone to the Emperor. Mazrael said quick prayers over his body before they moved on. Quintus too had been left behind. He had tried to take Kalael’s helmet so that he might continue, but the seal at the neck of Quintus’s armour was broken. His multi-lung struggled with the toxic alien atmosphere of the alien ship, and the Space Marine was soon unconscious. His hibernator put him into a deep sleep where the oxygen in his blood could be made to last for many days. If they were successful, they could recover him along with his armour, as well as the armour and gene-seed of Brother Kalael.

Six of them went on: Brother Erdagon, Sergeant Sandamael, Ancient Metrion – as always never far from Lord Caedis, Reclusiarch Mazrael and Epistolary Guinian. Guinian pushed forward gingerly with his mind, wary now of the powerful nature of the xenos they sought. His last encounter with a genestealer psyker had been with the false Saint Hestia on Katria. A fourth-generation hybrid almost human in appearance, but alien in mind, and utterly slaved to the monsters she had given birth to. Her power had been raw but devastating, this was something different. The xenos mind was a black wall, a featureless boulder of solidified might hanging in the empyrean. No emotion, no desire; only infinite patience and hatred.

Guinian pulled back his mind. They were close. Gelid malice chilled the space between the walls.

They were deep into the alien ship, and the corridors had become progressively wider and taller. Thick vaulting like the ribs of a great animal braced the vessel’s inner hull. Ramps led down to the curving floor every one hundred metres, the tops of them reaching out to galleries held out on thin struts. Seven holes opened up off each of these galleries, leading off into a warren of increasingly narrow tunnels. All this Guinian saw through his sensorium; the echo locator of his suit matching details with the Imagifer Maximus’s map and filling his visor with a false image.

The walls of the corridors they traversed were not visible to the eye. Fog filled the place. The members of Squad Hesperian had told of the mists that filled large part of the hulk, but this was thicker than the material Guinian had seen recorded by their suits. A nauseating mustard-green, it was impossible to see through and extremely radioactive. If Guinian deactivated his suit sonar he would be blind. From afar, he felt the glancing touch of Ranial, the Novamarines Epistolary. Strange, thought Guinian, to feel such relief in the contact of someone who was not a brother. There was no message to it, not that Guinian could read; he was not skilled in the thought transmission and reception such as the astropaths used, but he felt a powerful sense of urgency.

The rad-counter in his helmet was a rattling annoyance. His brothers were distant in the fog. He felt alone, stalked through the fog by an invisible, powerful enemy.

A burst of gunfire shocked Guinian out of his reverie.

‘Movement! Movement in the fog!’ Brother Ancient Metrion, the Chapter standard bearer and Caedis’s sworn bodyguard. More gunfire. A scream of pain. Blood splashed across his visor. In the mist, he saw movement, something large and powerful caused it to swirl. His suit sonar sketched a huge shape, but it was quickly gone.

‘Halt!’ shouted Guinian. He raised his gun and fired into the mist. The explosions of the bolts were muffled.

‘Report!’ said Sandamael, the squad sergeant. Their communications were fuzzed and grating, pulled at by the radiation in the fog.

‘Metrion.’

‘Epistolary Guinian,’ shouted the psyker.

‘I, Mazrael, live, as does our lord. Brother Erdagon?’

‘He is dead.’

Tension settled on the small group.

‘I can’t see a thing in this! Why aren’t our sonar pulses showing us the enemy?’ said Sandamael.

Guinian replied. ‘It is fast, and it does not wish to be seen.’

‘We must go on, we have to go on,’ said Mazrael. ‘The Emperor has guided us here, and our lord has one last service to perform.’

‘We cannot fight what we cannot see!’ said Sandamael.

‘It is not for us to battle this evil, but for our lord and our lord alone,’ said Mazrael.

Sandamael swore.

‘Fall in more tightly. That way we will not be caught unawares,’ ordered Guinian.

The remaining two members of Squad Blood’s Fury drew in closer to the three officers. No one spoke. Eyes were firmly fixed on the false image.

‘There!’ called out Ancient Metrion.

A green outline moved from left to right across their false images. It was too fast for the sonar units to define its shape for them. They raised their weapons as one and opened fire. They were gratified with a roar, but whether of pain or defiance was impossible to tell.

The psychic presence of the creature was so intense as to have a smell; a cold, dry scent that was offensive to Guinian in every way. A part of it touched upon him. He felt contempt from it. It drew away.

‘What is it doing?’ shouted Metrion. ‘Come here and fight us, xenos coward!’

In reply, a genestealer reared up from a tunnel mouth that opened up suddenly in the floor. Metrion was quick, and filled it full of bolts.

‘It is not alone.’

‘Contacts, brothers, I have motion all over the room!’ said Sandamael.

‘The leader, where is it?’ said Mazrael. ‘Lord Caedis must kill it.’

‘I will find it.’ Guinian was wary of contact with its mind, but he had little choice.

He opened his mind.

His soul was exposed, raw and vulnerable to the full might of the creature, this… broodlord. It regarded him dispassionately, with unblinking evil. Its mind covered the hulk with a dark umbrella of psychic energy, strands of its linking to hundreds of other, lesser genestealers. The thing was powerful, far greater than anything Guinian had experienced for a long time. He had experienced contact with mightier minds than this, and fought some, but it was the glassy implacability of this one that perturbed him, its absolute featurelessness. There was nothing in it other than a need to head onwards, infecting and subjugating, before heading on again. It was a bestial urge, but emanated from no beast. It was too… perfect. There was something it fled, not from fear, but from instinct. Guinian dared to look beyond. From its mind weak tendrils reached outward, touching upon all the broods of genestealer which it had created across space. Beyond, a greater network still, linking it to other minds, faint presences far away, but all as particular, as featureless in their singular purpose.

Behind that… Guinian could never describe it. A mass. A blank space in the empyrean, a terror. A zone where the roiling variety of the immaterium had ceased to be. A shadow in the warp, distant yet, but imminent.

The creature let him see, of that Guinian had no doubt. Then it turned its full psychic might against the Librarian, funnelling the sense of dread the shadow generated, a horror born of incalculably deep space and time. It filled Guinian’s mind. He clutched at his helmet and sank to the floor, a low moan escaping his lips. For the first time since he had been made a Space Marine, Guinian knew fear. Only his psychic hood prevented his mind being boiled off into nothingness.

He saw the genestealer in his mind’s eye; bloated, as powerful in body as it was psychically. It regarded him with a species of alien humour, and he was certain it was enjoying his pain.

The noise of gunfire around him intensified. The cries of alien monsters troubled the fog. He was almost helpless. Almost, but not quite.

He reached out to Caedis’s troubled mind. With one last effort of will he pushed the location of the genestealer broodlord into the Chapter Master’s thoughts. Caedis’s head moved sharply, and he strode from the room with purpose.

Guinian had in return from Caedis’s mind an impression of somewhere else entirely, before the claws of fear closed about his being. He looked at the shadow in the warp, and it looked back.

With a cry, Guinian collapsed into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER 18

THE TWO HUNDRED

Holos was lost deep in a labyrinth of lava tubes and fissures in the side of Mount Calicium. Choking, sulphurous vapours obscured his way. The cries of his enemies mocked him from the fumes.

Holos despaired. The enemy were afraid of his might and they hid from him, they preferred to let him die in this poison than fight him face to face.

‘Come out! Come out and fight!’ he roared. Rage gripped him. He was thirsty, so thirsty. He would not last long, he had to make the summit and fulfil the prophecy of his dream. He would find the answers it prompted him to find, or his Chapter would die. Under the burning need of the unfettered Thirst, through the intermittent and troubling visions of the Black Rage, he knew this as well as he knew his own name. It was not his own salvation he quested for, but that of his brothers. Frustration tore at his heart. He would have cried, had his dry eyes still had tears to weep.

‘Lo-tan! Guardian of the peak! Come to me and face your doom! The Blood Drinkers will persist, their salvation demands your death!’

No reply. The lesser astorgai cackled and whooped at him, repeating his words in their parrot-like way, adding mocking nuances to his words.

‘Gah!’ he shouted. He smashed Encarmine Dread into the wall, its energy fields carving away a chunk of stone. He raised his sword for another blow. Confusion passed over his face, he regained a measure of control. He fell to his knees and gripped his sword hilt in both hands, point down. Through the fugue, he uttered a prayer.

‘Help me, oh Emperor. Show me the way to my foe, so that I might slay him for you and be done with this place. Aid me, so that I might aid my brothers.’

Instantly, he felt a presence. He looked up. There was a mind touching his, then many minds, fragmented presences from many times, all showing him the way. He fastened on the strongest. He had the impression of a different fog, a brother of sad countenance in an Epistolary’s armour, then that was gone and only the guidance remained. He bared pointed teeth and went where the mind bade him, through a series of passages, taking numerous turns he could not hope to remember. The cries of the lesser astorgai dwindled. Twice he was forced to kill, but these astorgai died quickly; Holos’s purpose and will were reinvigorated. He went past bubbling pools of volcanic acid, over deep chasms, past rank holes whence the rotten-smelling vapours issued. Eventually, he left all this behind. The floor rose, bringing him above the broil and into a long cave. There, enthroned on a pile of human skulls, squatted Lo-tan, lord of the astorgai, and guardian of the way to the peak of Mount Calicium.

The creature attacked without preamble, launching itself into the air and gliding right at Holos, single foot outstretched. It stank of carrion and old blood, smells that Holos had become all-too familiar with as the madness had gripped his Chapter.

Holos dodged the creature. Lo-tan was quick and changed its path mid-flight with a twitch of broad, red-mottled wings. Holos was barged aside with such force he slammed into the wall. Encarmine Dread was trapped beneath him. He pushed himself from the stone as the chest-claws of Lo-tan grabbed at his left arm. These were mighty, and the metal of his armour buckled under the monster’s strength. With a grunt of pain, he twisted from the wall and swung around his pinned arm, sweeping Encarmine Dread around. The weapon bit into the chest-claw of the astorgai, half-severing the grasping hand. The creature jerked back, twin-beaked mouth roaring. Green blood pattered to the floor. Holos stepped backwards, sword ready. Lo-tan did the same. The two circled each other, altered man and alien monster looking for the kill.

Lo-tan was twice the size of the other astorgai. Its three eyes were protected by ridges of bone in a pointed face. The skull terminated in a pair of horned beak-like protuberances that gave the mouth a bisected appearance, although these were actually, horned, forward-facing flesh-tearing tools, the mouth proper being situated behind them. When it roared, Holos saw the curved teeth that lined its throat. If it caught him, this would hook into his flesh or the gaps in his armour, and by a series of powerful convulsions Lo-tan would pull him in. The rear of the head was a mass of fronds, erect with anger and stiff as quills.

Lo-tan stalked around, bent into a bow, wings spread out around it like the cloak of a supplicant before a lord. It rested its weight on the two fingers that tipped each wing. Holos was no fool, he knew the astorgai well. The pose they adopted in combat looked ridiculous, but the creatures could move fast with a push from their single leg, sending the hardened ends of their pinion feathers scything at a warrior with lightning speed.

Lo-tan gurgled deep in its throat. Its head bobbed on a long neck. He did not speak. It was said that only the younger astorgai spoke, an ability they lost as they aged, and Lo-tan was the oldest of them all.

Holos gulped for air. He was tortured by visions of long-ago battles, troubled by those that were yet to come. Filled with the rage of the ancients, he wanted nothing more than to fling himself at the beast and hack at it with sword and teeth. But Holos was a Space Marine of uncommon will, that is why, or so it would be said in later centuries, he was chosen to travel to the peak of Mount Calicium. He held himself back, determined not to fall into the well of blackness overflowing from his second heart.

With a shriek, Lo-tan struck…

…and Caedis stepped back. The genestealer broodlord was so fast its claws were but a blur. Caedis took the blow on Gladius Rubeum. The metal rang as it had under the hammer at the time of its forging, and the images that played along its blade went out for a second.

Caedis blinked. He was himself once more. Holos was there in his mind, the hero’s memories trying to usurp his own personality. He could see the cavern Holos fought in, he watched the astorgai as it attacked, its movements and form overlaid on the genestealer broodlord. He thought to fight it, but did not. He was not in control of his actions any longer, not truly. He lived a repeat of Holos’s adventure, and there was no choice involved. He knew full well that this was his final battle. He submitted himself to the will of the Emperor and rode out the tide of the blood-fate.

The broodlord was four metres tall. It was old, old beyond the count of men, a monster that had grown huge in the interstellar night. Fattened on the love of its stolen family, it was the biggest of its kind for thousands of light years in any direction. It had ridden the tides of the warp for millennia, growing stronger and larger, its potency multiplying along with the number of its vile brood. Countless worlds had been infected by its seed, the will of millions of sentient beings subverted by the minds of its offspring. Their parental instincts perverted, those tainted by the genestealers had no choice but to nurture the terrible children they birthed. These things meant nothing to it. It did as it was bred to do, its great mind only served to allow it to do so more effectively, or so later generations of magi biologis would maintain.

In actuality, what thoughts troubled such a mind were forever beyond humanity’s grasp. There were few psyches as alien as those of the genestealers. Through eyes devoid of mercy, that mind looked down upon Caedis. That it recognised a hero of the human race is questionable, but what are heroes to such a creature? Where a being has little freedom of choice, can it appreciate the sacrifice heroism demands? The broodlord had encountered hundreds of kinds of thinking creatures in its journey across the stars, and millions more that were not sentient. All had fallen to their knees, wills withered by its stare.

It tilted its head, nostrils flaring in its alien face. With its unknowable mind it reached out to this small product of evolution, a weak creature that struggled, at the moment of its extinction, with its own nature. Such things did not trouble the broodlord.

But to think the genestealer entirely at odds with the human psyche would be wrong. It possessed paternal instincts of a sort, and when it detected the death-stink of thousands of its progeny clinging to Caedis’s weak human soul, it reacted as any father would react to the murderer of its children – with great and untameable anger.

The broodlord delivered a punishing smash from its upper arms. Caedis lifted his sword and blocked the blow, taking both arms’ force onto the blade. The chitin that clad this creature’s flesh was hardened by aeons, and did not sunder at Gladius Rubeum’s edge. It leaned harder, forcing Caedis onto one knee. Its lower hands, unlike those of its bodyguard, equipped with something akin to fingers, reached out for him. Caedis raised his bolter and fired, blasting a chunk from the broodlord’s shoulder armour. It looked at the gouge in its carapace with puzzlement, then swiped hard with three of its arms, sending the Chapter Master reeling backwards. He did not fall, and regained his balance. Gladius Rubeum out, he circled…

…Holos was in grave peril. His armour had saved him from five blows, but it was gouged and cracked, its systems failing. Lo-tan was likewise harmed, green blood dripped from a dozen cuts to its body, some of them serious. One wing hung limp at the shoulder, cut to the bone by the blade of Encarmine Dread it lunged…

…and the genestealer’s claws smashed into Caedis’s helmet. Gladius Rubeum came up too late to stop it, grating ineffectively against the genestealer’s shoulder, and jarring Caedis’s hand in turn. Alarms rang in his helmet, the visor overlay of the sensorium obscured by electronic snow. His head snapped back painfully inside. A second claw descended, and this Caedis did parry, flinging it wide with a great effort that left his body exposed. The genestealer saw this and reacted, grasping hands seizing the Chapter Master about the chest, its fingers long enough for the monster to encompass his torso entirely. The ancient broodlord lifted Caedis into the air, and slammed blow after blow into his helmet with its three-taloned upper claws. All the while it squeezed at the Space Marine, hard enough that ceramite cracked and plasteel buckled. Caedis raised his sword…

…and Holos deflected the pinion talon of the great Lo-tan as it slashed and slashed again at his unprotected face. He was pinned underneath the creature by its single foot, the weight of it squashing the life from him, its talons closing, squealing along the metal of his power armour. The thing’s remaining dexterion-claw scrabbled at his face, ripping his flesh. The taste of his own blood made him wild. He bucked underneath it with renewed strength, the wing came down, he brought Encarmine Dread to meet it…

…and the broodlord’s claw span away into the darkness. Blood pumped from the stump. The other claw came down, tearing Gladius Rubeum from Caedis’s hand. The blade wheeled end over end, to embed itself in the floor. But Caedis had done a grave insult to the broodlord, and the creature relaxed its grip upon him. Caedis pulled at throttling alien hands with all his might and tore a hand free from its grip about his chest. He kicked it hard as he sought to brace himself against the ribbed chitin of the beast’s torso, his boots raking across the thing’s body. He achieved his aim. With sufficient leverage available, he was able to wrench hard at the broodlord’s arm. Its other hand pulled at his own, the remaining upper claw slamming into his helmet again. Alarms chimed, air hissed from a rupture in his visor glass, but Caedis was in the grip of the Black Rage, the killing fury of the sons of Sanguinius. With superhuman strength boosted by his armour, he pulled. Sinews stood out on his neck, his teeth splintered as he ground his jaws in effort. The wiry muscles of the broodlord writhed as it pulled the other way, but in vain. It was in the grip of a Chapter Master of the Space Marines, one of mankind’s greatest warriors.

With a gristly tearing, Caedis wrenched free the arm of the broodlord. He slid to the yielding, alien floor, with the limb in his hands, pursued by a torrent of blood, ragged tendons and veins dragged out from the beast as he went. The broodlord bellowed in pain and fury as Caedis stood. It retreated from him warily, wounded upper claw held protectively to its breast, blood pumping from the socket of its stolen lower limb. Caedis brandished the severed arm of the genestealer above his head and shouted.

‘I am Caedis, Lord of San Guisiga and Master of the Blood Drinkers Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. My brothers bear the gifts of Sanguinius and the Emperor himself. You will not defeat me!’ He cast the arm aside, ran forward, snatching up Gladius Rubeum from the ground as he built to a run. He raised the sword in both hands.

‘Blood is life! Life is duty!’ He cried, and swung the blade. The glittering edge of Gladius Rubeum went in a wide arc that connected with the genestealer’s chest. The momentum of his charge, aided by the sword’s power field, sent the sword clean through the creature’s exoskeletal armour, cutting through the thorax, severing vital organs from one another, and out the other side. Blood was flung up the walls from its tip. Caedis controlled the swing, brought Gladius Rubeum to the guard position, and stood facing the beast.

The genestealer was cut clean to its spine. A torrent of black, alien blood rushed down its chest. With a roar, it fell to its knees. The oppressive presence of its mind wavered, then went out.

With a crash, the broodlord toppled to its side and lay still.

Caedis was already losing himself as he walked over to the genestealer and looked down upon it. The floor warped and changed to the guano-deep rock of the astorgai’s lair. The light brightened, shafts of orange illumination came through cracks in walls that were becoming those of a cave. As he stared at his defeated foe, he no longer saw the broodlord, but the crumpled form of Lo-tan, lord of the astorgai.

‘I am Holos,’ said Caedis, ‘sent by a dream to save my brothers, and I will climb this mountain.’

Without pausing to clean his sword of the alien’s blood, Caedis turned and limped toward a gaping set of doors, to his eyes a wide tunnel mouth from which a weak draught blew into Lo-tan’s foetid eyrie. He could smell the evening air of San Guisiga upon it.

Holos was sorely wounded, his armour was failing, and his strength spent, but he was nearly at the summit.

Mastrik had no time to issue orders to his men. Gene-stealers attacked him from every side. Recognising him as one of the Space Marines’ officers, they strove their hardest to bring him down. His armour was scored by claw marks, his bolter had long run out of ammunition. He fought on with his power sword. Ranial stood by his side, wielding the energies of the warp in their defence against a never-ending stream of the aliens. Once many of the Adeptus Astartes positions had been invested, the enemy came in great numbers from the third tunnel mouth, reinforcing the shrinking numbers of their kind that had been in the first and second waves. From Sorael, there had been no word for some time. Mastrik had been forced to abandon the higher ground and retreat toward the cavern floor when genestealers started to come through the airlock. There on a rise in the floor of the cavern, fifty Terminator brothers of the Novamarines stood firm in a wide circle. Ten more fought hard up on the slopes of the cavern wall, forming a bulwark to safeguard their power armoured brothers, for where the genestealers got among them, the struggle rapidly turned against the Space Marines.

Genestealer corpses drifted in thick clumps toward the floor, forming piles like bloody driftwood when the weak gravity finally brought them down. They were accompanied by the broken bodies and armour fragments of bold adepts. The Terminators were either low on, or out of, ammunition, and slowly, inexorably, things were turning against the Novamarines. Casualty tallies and situation reports clamoured for Mastrik’s attention, but he could not respond. He fought with cool determination, the shadow of desperation coalescing at the back of his mind into the will to destroy. He dodged and thrust, the weak gravity a hindrance to his movements – strike too hard, and he would be sent hurtling into the air by reactive force, move too slow and it would not be long before alien claws found a chink in his armour, and through that, his death. Mastrik and his men were therefore locked in place by their armours’ boots.

He deactivated the mag-locks in sequence so he could move effectively, but this added a further consideration to the combat, and he tired. The genestealers were made for low-gravity conditions, the long claws on their feet seeking out cracks in the ground, or grabbing with unshakeable tenacity to the armour the Space Marines wore.

In his hearts, he realised they would not last long. For every genestealer smashed into the air by a power fist, another two took its place. One by one, his warriors were dying. They were outnumbered and outmatched. The air in the chamber was running out, the gale generated by the atmospheric venting now a breeze. But the genestealers would have finished him and his brothers by the time the vacuum forced them away from the cave. He stabbed his sword into the heart of a genestealer, pushing on the pommel with his free hand to drive it home. There was only combat now, no time for tactical reaction or clever ruses. The plan had failed.

‘Ave Imperator,’ he said. ‘Soon you will see my flesh, and judge me by its story.’

‘Brothers! Smite and rend! Tear and kill! You are the Blood Drinkers, send the enemies of the Emperor to their ruin!’ Sanguinary Master Teale shouted to his brothers, channelling their frenzy. ‘Let slip your bloodlust! Only fury will save us! Drown the enemy in their own blood!’

The Blood Drinkers fought like men possessed. Their Terminators were bloody islands in a sea of blue-black alien integument. Brothers in power armour bludgeoned alien flesh with bolters. Knives ran black with alien blood. Teale’s own squad rocketed from one place to another, striking lightning blows before retreating to do so again.

Sorael listened to the Sanguinary Master’s encouragements. His own life fluids sang with the battle-joy; the desire to rip his helmet from his head and attack the aliens with his teeth was strong.

He was surrounded by genestealers, more pouring out of the gap every second. His Devastators were grappling on the floor with the four-armed monstrosities. Glimpses of blood-red armour came and went, mostly all he saw was surging, night-blue chitin.

Something slammed into his legs, knocking him forward. Another impact. Two genestealers were trying to tear his feet free of the floor. Another leapt onto his face, claws jabbing at his armour’s cowl, feet scrabbling at his helmet. He swung his sword blindly. It bit flesh, and was wrenched from his hand.

His foot came free. They were dragging him down.

He clawed at the alien on his face. Warnings sounded shrilly in his suit.

Sorael recited the opening lines of the Sanguis Moritura. He grasped the feet of the genestealer at his front as pain shot up his leg. His armour was breached.

He wrenched hard at the creature. Unexpectedly, it came apart in his hands, its blood spreading in a black fan of droplets in front of him.

Through it, he caught a glimpse of bone-and-blue. The genestealers had ceased coming from the crack in the wall, in their stead strode Squad Wisdom of Lucretius, bolters blazing, they cut down a dozen genestealers before they were noticed. They spread out. Brother Tarael of his own Chapter followed. Lightning claws flashing, he charged headlong into a knot of the aliens. The brother in the Novamarine’s squad with the heavy flamer – Sorael did not know his name – levelled his weapon and sent an expanding ball of fire into another group.

‘Emperor be praised!’ bellowed Captain Sorael. ‘We are aided! To me my brothers, to me!’

Sanguinary Master Teale heard his command, and his squad came rocketing in. Three Terminators waded through the press of genestealers, taking up station around Teale’s squad and Sorael. This group of twelve brothers formed a nucleus of resistance upon which the hinge of battle turned. The Novamarines forced their way to them.

‘Sergeant Voldo of the Novamarines,’ said their leader. ‘How can we aid you?’

With the stream of outflanking genestealers cut, Sorael set about reorganising his men, and the battle for the far end of the cavern began in earnest.

Ranial fought grimly on, his brother Mastrik with him always. The mind of the beast guiding the genestealers was strong and poisonous, only with great effort was the Epistolary able to muster his own psychic might in the face of its intrusive presence.

And then, suddenly, it was gone. ‘Brother!’ he shouted urgently.

‘What, Brother Ranial? I am a little preoccupied,’ replied Mastrik. He sounded weary and angry.

‘The mind, the control of the xenos, it has gone!’

Mastrik cut the legs from under a genestealer. ‘Lord Caedis was successful?’

‘No trace remains in the warp, brother-captain. I believe so.’

The two adepts looked at one another. No new gene-stealer attacked them.

‘Come,’ said Mastrik, ‘Let us apprise ourselves of the tactical situation.’

Mastrik and Ranial left the front line of the fifty-strong Terminator band, their ranks closing behind them, and moved to the top of the low rise they surrounded.

All around the cavern, the genestealers were in disarray. They were just as ferocious, just as deadly, but the coordination between their actions had gone. They moved and fought as individual groups, not as a gestalt whole. The pressure on Mastrik’s position eased.

‘Brother! Look!’ shouted Ranial. Joy was evident in his voice. ‘Brother Aresti comes!’

From the tunnels emerged a battered group of Terminators, the first bearing the personal heraldry of the captain of the Fifth Company. Although reduced in number, the two squads accompanying the captain came into the cavern firing. Others followed, coming in ones or twos or in groups. Aresti commanded them to his side, forming them into a broad arrow. He waited for a group of stragglers, then ordered the formation forward. A further forty Terminators of both Chapters joined the fray.

‘By Corvo’s oath,’ said Mastrik, the smile returning to his voice. ‘We might just win this yet.’

Behind him, on the wall facing the giant alien ship, the combat was swinging back in the Novamarines’ favour. The relentless pressure of the alien advance slackening, units of power armoured brothers were freeing themselves from close entanglements and beginning to open fire again.

‘Let us crush them!’ Mastrik shouted. He ordered the Terminators at his position into a line also, to match that of Captain Aresti. Across a floor crowded with milling alien bodies, the two formations of Terminators closed on one another. From the eastern end of the cavern, blood-red armour replaced blue chitin as the Blood Drinkers advanced from their positions.

From somewhere behind them, a Thunderfire cannon opened up, raking the ceiling with heavy rounds.

Nearly two hundred Terminators were in the cavern now. The genestealers faltered. They fought on. Still deadly, still tenacious and cunning, but the tactical acumen and overall battle order they had exhibited before had gone.

Great was the slaughter of the xenos that day.

CHAPTER 19

THE HEART OF THE VOID

‘Great is the wisdom of the Emperor, to him we commit our service, to him we give our fealty. So swore Lucretius Corvo, so swear I.’ Galt prayed, running the beads of his Chapter icon necklace through his fingers. The words came to him as automatically as breathing, inculcated into him from his first days as a neophyte, repeated as a novitiate, finally sang with pride as he became a full initiate. The prayers and cants grew more complex and important as he passed through each stage. They all had their purpose beyond devotion to duty, whether they were hypnotic triggers to activate his gifts, or epic histories of the Chapter that helped weld an organisation of soldiers into an order of brothers, but those first words remained the most potent.

Today, Galt gave thanks for victory. The others were returning from the hulk. There would be a proper ceremony later. Excepting the cathedral serfs and servitors, he was alone, kneeling at the feet of Lucretius Corvo’s giant statue.

When the communications had gone down, Galt had gone directly to the surface of the hulk only to find the tech-priests there under attack from xenos. The genestealers were hardy indeed, seemingly untroubled by the extreme cold and radiation of open space.

Galt had taken command, directing the servitors of the Adeptus Mechanicus alongside his own men. He had found that unpleasant. Servitors served the Emperor in their own way, as all his loyal servants did. Many served aboard the fleets and in the fortresses of his Chapter. Even so, for the Novamarines they represented a fate worse than death, for the souls of servitors were forfeit to the Machine-God, and so they could not enter the halls of their ancestors. That they laboured ceaselessly all around him was of no consequence, but a warrior must have a soul, and servitors had none. The use of them by the forge as heavy weapons platforms was tolerated along with all the Techmarine’s other peculiarities, but Galt did not approve of it.

Still, needs must. He and his men had advanced down the Adeptus Mechanicus’s strange road. All along the route, the beacons the tech-priests had set up were smashed. Teams of tech-priests had been slaughtered, along with some of the Space Marines assigned to protect them. By the time they had fought their way down and broken through to the airlock, the battle was over. Galt had ordered the Terminators resupplied and sent them off on search and destroy missions as per the original strategy.

He clenched his hands tighter about his amulet, the words of a prayer tumbling from his lips. The plan had worked, but by a hair’s-breadth. Without Caedis’s sacrifice and the death of the broodlord, they would surely have failed.

Galt’s self-doubt plagued him. He had underestimated the xenos. His initial intention to obliterate the hulk had been correct, but he had been required to find a way to clear it. The plan was in part of his own devising, and he had almost failed. He felt the eyes of Lucretius Corvo boring into him from the statue’s head. What would Chapter Master Hydariko say?

He pushed his doubts away. They had won, and he had other problems to solve before he would have the time to fully dissect the rightness of his actions. The casualty numbers ran through his mind. Ninety-three brothers of both Chapters dead or soon to be accepting the Emperor’s mercy. Among them was a disproportionate number of veterans, with seventeen of the Novamarines’ most experienced lost, and perhaps equally harmful to the Chapter, five Scouts dead on the surface. Two of the veterans would be found places in the armoured tomb-suits of the Chapter’s Dreadnoughts. Twenty-nine suits of Terminator armour from the Novamarines armoury had sustained heavy damage, two were practically unsalvageable.

Fortunately, none of the Chapter officers had been wounded, nor had any of the stone Crux Terminatus badges been lost. Much of the battlegear of the dead had been retrieved and would be repaired and re-sanctified for use by new recruits, as had the majority of the fallen brothers’ gene-seed. Overall material losses were low. The loss of Chapter Master Caedis cast a shadow over the operation. The Blood Drinkers Reclusiarch, Mazrael, had assured him that Lord Caedis had died in a fitting manner – Galt had seen a pict of the monster Caedis had slain and had been amazed – although the Chapter Master’s armour and body were missing. In better tidings for the Blood Drinkers, they had retrieved the brother trapped in the first mission.

Nearly five thousand genestealers had been slaughtered, a kill ratio of fifty-three to one. More would die soon. Already kill-teams closed in on the roosts where additional genestealers slumbered in vacuum. These would prove no trouble in their extermination. Doubtless further brothers would fall in pursuance of these objectives, but the real battle was over. An impressive result, yet still Galt agonised over every one of his dead brothers. ‘They will be buried with all honour,’ he said to himself, ‘interred in the tombs of Fortress Novum.’

Shrines would be raised to their memory. Their glories would be recorded. New brothers would take their place. Such was the way of the Chapter, and it had been so for eight thousand years.

Fortress Novum. He thought of the damage to Corvo’s Hammer, and the losses his force had sustained these last years. The surviving novitiates with them were ready for their final elevation to full brotherhood; many of his squads were under strength. He needed to restock, resupply and take new orders from his own master.

It was time to go home.

First there was the matter of the hulk’s archeotech.

A hand fell upon his shoulder. Galt opened his eyes. Sergeant Voldo stood over him.

‘Lord captain,’ he said.

‘Brother-sergeant,’ said Galt. He got to his feet and genuflected to the statue of Corvo.

‘Asking for guidance?’ said Voldo.

‘Giving thanks for a victory delivered, and for those of our brothers who were not.’

Voldo nodded. ‘I am told you are to go into the heart of the hulk.’

‘Yes, brother. Already teams of tech-priests scour the vessels in the hulk deemed clear. Our ally Plosk is planning an expedition to its centre. It is there that he believes the STC data to be.’

‘And you do not trust him,’ said Voldo.

Galt shook his head. ‘He has omitted important details more than once. Wherever Plosk goes, I will go.’

‘You are right to be wary. Why will these tech-priests not tell us what they know? We all have the same goals after all.’

‘Forgemaster Clastrin says their organisation is as plagued by factionalism and division as any other. It may not be us he is keeping this information from. Will you walk with me? I find the chapel calming.’

Voldo fell in beside Galt. They went together slowly along the edge of the cathedral. The walls were heavy black marble, niches in the stone filled with skulls of ancient worthies who had aided the Chapter in some way. Servitor-worshippers sang songs of distant Honourum. Serfs muttered prayers as they cleaned the huge space.

‘You have not assigned me any duty, my lord.’

Galt smiled a little tightly. So, here it came. ‘You have done enough, brother.’

‘Not one brother has ever done enough, not ever,’ said Voldo harshly. ‘To rest one second is to allow the enemies of our lord time to act.’

‘So says Guilliman’s Codex,’ said Galt.

‘I quote with purpose. Let me come with you.’

‘No, I have made my decision.’

Voldo swore. ‘Mantillio, do you think me too old? Is that it? I am still in my prime, I am not ready yet for some sinecure position on Honourum counting soup rations for the neophytes.’

‘Only you can speak thusly to me, Voldo.’

‘Something I have earned, Mantillio. For long decades I have been here for you and you repay me with this dishonour.’

‘You have fought long and hard here already, and earned another fine addition to the tally of your skin. Rest, let another take your place. There will be combat aplenty for you to partake in another day,’ said Galt.

Voldo grabbed the man he had trained by the shoulder and span him around to face him. His eyes narrowed as he looked into his face.

‘What is it, lord captain? I have known you since you were a boy. You are hiding something from me.’

Galt looked to one side, then back to the sergeant. ‘My voice betrays me.’

Voldo smiled. ‘It always did. You are a fine strategician, but you have much to learn of diplomacy before you are ready for the Chapter Master’s throne.’

Galt nodded. He hesitated before he spoke again. ‘If I hold you back here, it is not to dishonour you, but to keep you safe, my mentor.’

Voldo gave him a quizzical look. He tightened his hand. ‘Go on.’

‘When I received my last flesh art, I travelled into the Shadow Novum. There I was greeted by one of the spirits of the dead.’

‘As it should be. What wisdom did he show you, did it concern me?’

Galt considered lying then, but untruthfulness was not part of the Novamarines creed. To do so would have been a betrayal. ‘No, brother.’

‘Well then.’ Voldo’s hand dropped.

‘It was you.’

Voldo folded his arms and looked to the floor. ‘I understand.’

‘Chaplain Odon told me that it is not uncommon to see the spirits of those who live, for it is a timeless place, and all who served or will serve our Chapter are to be found within.’

‘I know, boy, I know. I know what it means. So you would seek to deny fate?’ Voldo’s face was hard. ‘Such arrogance is not fitting for one of your office.’

‘I wanted only to protect you.’

‘What? By defying the will of the Emperor himself? Foolishness.’ He pointed a finger at the left of Galt’s chest, where his birth-heart beat. ‘To make decisions based upon this is dangerous. That way lies temptation. Have I not told you this many times?’

‘Yes, Brother Voldo.’

‘Here,’ he pointed at Galt’s forehead. ‘Here is where your true voice is. Tell me, what does it say?’

‘It says that you are the most experienced veteran in the entire Chapter in the matter of cleansing space hulks. That to leave you behind would be rash, and an insult to your pride and to the oath we all swore.’ Galt smiled. ‘It also tells me you should have been a captain long ago.’

Voldo laughed. ‘Ha! I serve better where I am, Mantillio. If I were a captain, when would I have the time to set you to rights? So, I ask you, when do we leave?’

Galt changed his orders. Then he sat in the pews of the cathedral with the man who he saw as his father, and prayed with him for the last time.

Blessed be the Machine-God and all his works, thought Plosk as another shuttle, laden with technological treasures, took off from the hulk and flew towards Excommentum Incursus. Plosk turned back to the data-slate set into the cogitation nexus of the control landau. He scrutinised it, half fearful that he had been mistaken. But then a spike in the graph playing in the upper quadrant of the screen brought a rush of exultation to his breast. There, the signature.

He smiled. ‘Magos Nuministon, it is there. Oh, by the Omnissiah, it is there!’

Nuministon peered at the screen. Above them, the energy shield protecting the control landau flared once, then again, as micro-meteors hit, debris from the Adeptus Astartes’ bombardment being pulled back into the greater body of the hulk. Nuministon wore a cable from the back of his head that plugged into the landau’s cogitation engines. He communed with the thing’s machine-spirits a moment. He would be running the data himself, checking the information.

‘The signals are faint, but inescapable. You are correct. Well done, Lord Magos Explorator.’

Plosk’s fleshy face split in a wide, self-satisfied grin. Around the landau the hulk’s surface glowed ferocious blue-white in the glare of Jorso. A detachment of troops from his ship’s skitarii formed a cordon around the landau. He had not wanted to deploy them; they were too valuable a resource to him. Why should he waste his own men when he had four hundred Space Marines to use in battle? But the genestealer attack on the surface had rattled him, and so he had called on his own resources. He was miserly with information and resources both, but he was not a fool.

‘Do the adepts of the stars know?’

‘Not yet. Of course, they will in short order. But there is no need for them to know yet. Who knows what spies and tattle-tales they have among their ranks? All it takes is for one of their Techmarines to have the ear of a rival temple, or for one of their oh-so-incorruptible serfs to be anything but, and my claim will immediately be disputed.’

‘You found it, lord.’ Nuministon did not think these suppositions likely – all Space Marine Techmarines were trained together, and their loyalties invariably lay first and foremost with their Chapter. They were not on Mars long enough, nor inducted deeply enough into the inner mysteries, to become politicised along Mechanicus faction lines. He did not voice this. Plosk was inclined to a caution that bordered on paranoia, but it generally served him well.

‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Plosk flapped a hand in front of his face. ‘But that’s not the point, is it? Something of this magnitude will bring Machine Adepts from all over the galaxy swarming like flies. If so, I will lose my advantage. Half of them will want to destroy the vessel once they learn what is aboard it. No, this prize must be conveyed directly to Mars under my command, only then will I benefit from its finding. If I were to lose exclusive first rights, then what would I tell my patrons? One does not wish to anger a High Lord, Nuministon.’

‘Garm is dead.’

‘The dead ones are the most dangerous, my dear fellow.’

‘When will you tell their leader of the threat?’

‘When the time is right; if at all. I seriously doubt he has the wit to understand what we have found. He is awed by the talk of the STC data we might recover. Let him be, and let him remain unaware of any difficulty accompanying that. For all we know the ship is harmless. Captain Galt does not need to be told that it might be otherwise. This is machine business, let it be undertaken by those who understand it fully. Now the Space Marines have cleared the majority of genestealers from the hulk, we may deal with whatever guards the STC core, if indeed anything does,’ he said breezily. ‘But first we have to retrieve it, and if these data readings are correct, then the vessel is readying itself to depart. Troublesome indeed.’ He tapped his fingers on the data-slate screen. ‘Well, it is not to be helped. We have triumphed over greater odds for lesser prizes.’

‘They are coming,’ said Nuministon. A star in the sky grew in brightness and size, revealing itself as a Thunderhawk of the Novamarines Chapter.

Plosk pursed his lips in annoyance. ‘The captain of the Novamarines, Galt, he insists on coming, of course. Let us hope he is not much of a hindrance.’

The Thunderhawk flew once around the Adeptus Mechanicus in a flagrant demonstration of power, then swept down to land in a blast of dust.

The craft’s assault ramp slammed down. As Plosk expected, Captain Galt came out first. His heart fell a little when Reclusiarch Mazrael of the Blood Drinkers stepped onto the surface of the hulk behind him, but he had more than half-expected to see him. Both were clad in Terminator armour. A full squad in the bone-and-blue of the Novamarines followed them, then four Terminators in the red of the Blood Drinkers. With a casual contempt, Plosk data-linked to their suit’s cogitation engines. The histories of the armour unspooled in this mind, accompanied by flashes of pict footage and combat data.

The names of those who wore them now came last: Voldo, Astomar, Militor, Eskerio and Gallio for the Novamarines; Tarael, Sandamael, Metrion and Curzon of the Blood Drinkers. Tarael wielded lightning claws, Astomar a heavy flame unit, the sergeants and Galt had power swords and storm bolters, the rest power fists and storm bolters. Their armament did not concern him so much as the auspexes Curzon and Militor bore, but Plosk was a calculating man, and he gambled that by the time the Space Marines’ sensoriums revealed the nature of the prize, it would be too late.

The data came to him easily, the Terminators unaware he had linked to and examined each and every one of them to the finest degree of minutiae. He pulled a face when a twelfth figure stepped out off the ramp. The Master of the Forge of the Novamarines, Clastrin. He had recovered then, and that genuinely was poor luck for Plosk. He refrained from attempting a link to him. Clastrin was only a glorified Techmarine, one of the lowest ranks of tech-priest – barely worthy of the name, in fact – and would not be able to stop Plosk’s data probe, but he would notice it, and Plosk would rather he remained unaware he was systematically spying on each and every one of his brothers for information.

‘Lord Captain Galt, Lord Reclusiarch Mazrael, I greet you.’ Plosk made a bow. Doubtless its irony was lost on the Adeptus Astartes. Plosk hated all these formalities, he was of the mind that while he bore the seal of the High Lords all should simply do as they were told, but the lords of the Space Marines were as touchy as they were ignorant.

Galt rudely forwent formal preamble. ‘We are accompanying you into the centre of the hulk, Magos Plosk. You will be unsafe without proper protection.’

‘Ah, but your men have done so fine a job of clearing the hulk, lord captain.’

‘Many genestealers remain. As such, your expedition is a combat operation, and we agreed, did we not, that the Adeptus Astartes would have authority in these matters. I am coming with you, magos, whether you like it or not.’

Plosk pulled a sour face. He was glad the captain could not see it. Had he had more time, he could have led the captain on a merry dance around the hulk, saving the discovery of the true prize until the Novamarine grew bored and left. But he did not have more time. ‘As you wish, my lord.’

‘As I command, Magos Plosk.’

‘I thank you for your concern, my lord, but I have many servitors to protect me, your presence really is not required.’

‘I was told they are susceptible to the radioactivity in the hulk, and where you intend to go is among the most radioactive areas of all,’ said Galt.

‘Do you not trust me, my lord? We are after all on the same side.’

‘I do not trust your ambition, lord magos,’ said Galt. ‘I believe that you think you operate in the best interests of the Imperium, but I have seen politics cloud men’s judgement as surely as lust or rage. And you have lied to me already.’

Plosk held up his space-suited hands that may or may not have been a gesture of apology. ‘An honest mistake. I suppose you of the Novamarines believe you are above the pettiness of politics?’

‘In the main we are, Lord Magos. We serve, that is all.’

Plosk sighed. ‘Nobody is above politics, lord.’ He spoke next to Mazrael. ‘And the Lord Reclusiarch? I take it you intend to accompany us as well?’

‘I do. The last segment of Lord Caedis’s telemetry recorded in Sergeant Sandamael’s sensorium show him heading to the hulk’s centre,’ said Mazrael. ‘I would recover his body and his armour and grant both the proper rites.’

‘Of course, all honour must be made to him and his battlegear,’ said Plosk. ‘We must be away soon, the hulk could begin translation at any time.’

‘I am well aware of this,’ said Galt, ‘and have instructed the fleet to destroy this agglomeration should any sign of an imminent warp tear manifest itself, whether or not we are still aboard.’

This was altogether too much for Plosk. ‘Idiocy!’ snapped the magos. ‘You do not know what you destroy.’

‘Why do you not enlighten us, magos?

Plosk calmed himself. ‘I have already told you of the great archeotech trove that could be within. You will not achieve the destruction of the Death of Integrity on your own.’

‘In light of Lord Caedis’s disappearance, I have been given direct command of the two Chapters here,’ replied Galt.

Oh, how insufferable he was! Plosk loathed dealing with the Adeptus Astartes. They were so dogged in their devotion, so caught up in their holy missions and crusades and petty prejudices that they could never see the bigger schematic. The intentions of the Omnissiah-Emperor were beyond their ability to understand. They were made to fight; anything else was beyond their comprehension. He pitied them for that.

‘Very well. It is what we agreed,’ he said, though it rankled him to remain reasonable. ‘We will be ready to depart in ten minutes, lords.’ He bowed, and beckoned to Nuministon to follow him.

‘The Reclusiarch is lying, he is hiding something.’ Plosk, who had often to resort to diplomacy and brokerage while about his duties, had numerous means of proving the veracity of others’ words, and those of the Adeptus Astartes had been duly tested.

‘I have heard rumours regarding this family of Chapters, those descended of Sanguinius,’ ground out Nuministon’s uninflected voice. ‘Perhaps Mazrael’s omittance relates to this secret.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Plosk. He brightened. ‘It would be most useful to learn the details. A fine piece of leverage. One never knows when one will require influence.’

‘Indeed,’ said Nuministon.

‘Now, I require Samin’s aid. Where is he?’ said Plosk.

The expedition into the heart of the hulk began as a procession. Dozens of tech-priests and over one hundred servitors went into the perfectly square hole and down the road into the dark. They sang as they went, a low droning song broadcast on every frequency, and so unavoidable. The majority of the words to this dirge were impenetrable to the Space Marines, save Forgemaster Clastrin, to whom the cant of wheel, cog and sub-quantum relay switching was as familiar as bolter drill. He refrained from joining them, although he knew the songs, instead he voiced the fourteenth canticle of battle along with his brothers and the brothers of the Blood Drinkers.

All down the road, new doors had been cut and old ones wrenched open. An artery of thick black cables ran along one wall, held in place by welded staples. Into each opening some of these cables wormed to re-emerge depleted in number, and the swags of them hanging from the wall grew thinner the lower they went. Everywhere was a bustle. Servitors tramped up and down in endless lines, carrying pieces of machines or crates, or were hard-linked to grav-sleds and tracked litters bearing larger artefacts. Arc lights blazed from openings. Plasma cutters burned. The tech-priests were working fast to strip the hulk. Galt was somewhat taken aback. Excommentum Incursus was a giant vessel, but he had miscalculated how many tech-priests it carried.

One by one, tech-adepts split from the column and went on their way to whatever mysterious tasks they had to perform, taking their servitors with them. The songs of the cyborgs lessened in power as their number reduced. By the time they reached the airlock only a score of them were left and their prayers were in contest with the incantations of the working tech-priests. The airlock was open, and they went into the cavern without the tedious business of repressurisation. The air had bled away completely after the battle, and there had not been time to re-establish an atmosphere. So it was they passed amid a frenzy of activity that, vox aside, was performed in total silence. The tech-priests had cut many holes into the sides of the large alien ship, from where they carried a great number of technological prizes. From the amount of praise being offered to the Omnissiah, Galt guessed that the artefacts were of high value.

‘Xenos technology,’ said Plosk disparagingly, ‘but valuable nonetheless.’

Galt called a halt while he conferred with Captain Aresti, who was in command of the forces in the cavern. Captain Sorael had led the majority of the Blood Drinkers into the warrens of the hulk, chasing down the remaining gene-stealers, leaving the Novamarines to destroy the xenos dead and guard the labours of the tech-priests. Mastrik remained on board Novum in Honourum, in command of the fleet in Galt’s absence.

Satisfied all was in order, Galt allowed the impatient Plosk to continue onwards. They headed out of the cavern via a new doorway cut into the alien ship, and from there through a crush of compacted metal and stone into a heavily damaged Imperial vessel of extreme vintage. Much work went on there; lights had been set up all along its corridors and savants were plugged into data outports, scouring systems for soft data hidden within cogitation systems. Two of the remaining tech-priests went to their colleagues here.

Three more ships directly down and the streams of servitors porting technology to the surface dwindled to nothing. The final tech-priest went to his task, leaving only Plosk, Nuministon, Samin, nine armed servitors and three semi-aware data-savants with the Terminators.

They went through this last ship and came to an old airlock set in a comparatively sound wall. A wide chasm opened up here between this ship and the next, and a prefabricated bridge had been laid across. As Galt crossed it he looked upwards. The chasm extended to the surface. The nearside lip was lit by the ungentle illumination of Jorso, above was a narrow strip of black space.

On the other side of the bridge were two lamps. Beyond that, no signs at all of an Imperial presence.

‘I calculate that we will be able to salvage most of the material from the upper levels before the hulk disappears once more into the warp. These other ships here are of lesser interest, although it is regrettable that we will not be able to explore them fully. One never knows what one might uncover, but in my long experience as Explorator, I have learned to prioritise,’ said Plosk.

‘There is no Imperial presence from hereon in?’ said Sergeant Sandamael.

‘Aside from a few relay beacons so that we might communicate with the surface, and a few servitors patrolling and surveying the corridors in case there is something of use. No. We are all the Emperor’s bold explorers here, my lords, not just I,’ said Plosk.

Tarael’s lightning claws activated, patterning the dark walls of the ship with blue light.

‘Then lead on, lord magos,’ said Galt. ‘Take us to this treasure you have found.’

CHAPTER 20

AT THE SUMMIT OF MOUNT CALICIUM

Holos emerged from the chambers of the astorgai, broken but unbowed. The light came suddenly after the darkness of the labyrinth in the mountain. At first the light of the setting suns hurt his eyes, and he lay on the warm rock of the volcano until the burning of the light passed. In his hearts and mind, the Thirst burned him also, and the combination of the two was too much to endure. He closed his eyes and gathered his strength. Astorgai wheeled on the thermals above him, calling out and wailing; their king was dead, and they would not approach his slayer.

Holos rolled onto his front, and pushed himself with great effort onto his knees. His armour was broken, its spirit he thought dead, for the support it ordinarily gave his body was gone. Joints ran freely without power assist, if they ran at all – his left knee was locked, the plates deformed from his fight with Lo-tan. His left arm was heavy and pained him when he tried to move it. He watched in thirst-gripped fascination as his blood dripped from the tears in the armour. His Larraman cells were only now causing it to clot. That it had bled for so long indicated that the wound was a grave one.

Holos attempted to stand. His legs would not bear him, so he put his sword point to the ground, to push upon it and rise. It scraped white lines in the stone and fell twice before he had it steady. With a gasp, he stood erect, leaning his weight onto Encarmine Dread.

Once he was on his feet he felt stronger, if only a little.

Ahead, not two kilometres distant, was the peak of the mountain. It was not a true peak, but a higher part of the volcano’s rim raised like an animal’s tooth above the caldera of the volcano, the relic of one of the cone’s many periodic upthrustings and collapses. The cone’s broken rim ran up to it at first, but then the peak pulled up and away from the rest of the mountain with rapidity. The rock of it was multifaceted, and the stacked columns looked almost artificial in appearance. A strange spur arced out from it, a platform on the top some one hundred metres above the rim, tilted slightly toward where Holos stood.

Through images of battles past and those yet to come, Holos saw the figure from his dream, a cowled, winged being standing before him. It raised a skeletal finger and pointed to the platform on the peak. Holos nodded and licked desiccated lips. He began to walk, and the figure faded. Each step sent pain shooting through his wounded arm. His armour dragged at him, pulling him back when it should have been carrying him forward. He had never had cause to walk in deactivated armour, not outside of his training. He was astonished at the weight of its betrayal.

He sheathed Encarmine Dread clumsily, and pushed shaking fingers at the clasps on his pauldrons. The heavy shoulder plates disengaged and fell to the ground one after the other with dull clangs. He walked a little easier. He fumbled tools from his belt, and set to work on the rest of his battle-plate as he walked.

Soon the trail of his footsteps was punctuated by discarded pieces of armour.

‘There is much activity ahead, lord captain,’ said Eskerio. ‘Genestealers.’

‘We cannot delay,’ said Plosk. ‘We do not have much time.’

‘How many?’ asked Galt.

‘Twenty-nine, maybe more,’ said Eskerio. ‘They are in hiding, being cautious. I’ll warrant they know they are being hunted.’

‘That will play well for us, cousin,’ said Sandamael.

‘What do you propose to do?’ asked Plosk.

‘Fight our way through,’ said Galt. ‘That is what you would have us do, I think. Or would you relinquish your prize?’

‘Of course not,’ said Plosk brusquely. ‘Please, make use of my servitors.’

‘That will not be necessary. Have them guard you. Lord Reclusiarch Mazrael, what will you and yours do?’

‘We shall come with you, lord captain,’ said Mazrael.

‘Very well. Forgemaster Clastrin, remain here with the magi. You may take Lord Magos Plosk up on his offer. Command his servitors. Establish fields of fire. Do not allow the genestealers through.’

‘Yes, brother-captain.’

‘My thanks!’ called out Plosk.

Galt ignored him. He had the Terminators advance rapidly from the crossways they were in and into the corridor where Eskerio’s auspex had detected the movement. This ship, so close to the heart of the hulk, was in poor condition and immeasurably ancient. This deep into the agglomeration, many of the component vessels were crushed into impassibility, and this one differed only in that a clear way to the heart of the hulk existed through its crumpled halls. The corridor they entered was wide and tall, its metal heavily corroded. It had been the access way to the ship’s warp engines, but was now broken open along much of its length so that the compartments that had once lined it had become a part of the corridor. Consequently, the space was a deadly tangle of low walls, crumpled bulkheads and hanging catwalks.

‘If only the lights and gravity functioned here,’ said Militor. ‘It would make our lives a little easier, brothers.’

‘I do not think we will find any machine activity this deep into the hulk,’ said Eskerio. ‘These vessels are as old as the Imperium, if not older. Their spirits are broken and fled.’

‘It is surely the business of Forgemaster Clastrin to declare such as a fact, brother,’ said Astomar.

‘Quiet, all of you!’ said Voldo.

‘What is it, cousin?’ asked Tarael.

‘Sounds. Not of motion, but of power.’

‘Cousin Voldo is correct. I’m getting a reading, brothers,’ said Curzon.

In the sensoriums of the suits, energy indicators jumped. A tortured groaning went up deep in the ship. A series of bangs accompanied a building whine.

The Terminators sank into themselves suddenly as ancient grav plates under their feet activated. Lights flickered. Many burst in showers of sparks. Crackles of energy sputtered from power relays and severed cables. A grav plate imploded with a thunderous crack. Small fires leapt into being as ancient machinery failed, dying as quickly as they drank the small measure of oxygen in the stale air. A door shuddered into life. It shook as it attempted to close, stopped, then tried again.

‘What is this?’ hissed Galt.

‘A refutation of your words, from the Machine-God himself!’ said Plosk over the vox. ‘Tread carefully in these halls, oh captain. You walk nigh unto a tabernacle of the Omnissiah himself! Do not doubt me, lord captain! We are close to His presence.’

The genestealers attacked. Scared out of their hiding places by the unexpected light, they leapt through holes in the rusted walls, dropped from their hiding places high in the ceiling, running at the Terminators from gaping doors.

The Terminators reacted without delay, decades of training and experience guiding their arms. Genestealers died with raucous screeches as bolts cut through the air. The space was open, the genestealers disorganised, only a handful got through to the Terminators’ position, where they were rapidly slain by Tarael, Voldo and Galt.

Plosk did not wait for Galt to give the all clear, but walked into the ruinous corridor as soon as the last bolt had been fired.

‘You see, Captain Galt, the Machine-God is with us here. We are close to the source of his power, the STC data core, so mighty is He incarnate that He answers even the prayers of the unbeliever!’

‘This is nonsense,’ said Mazrael, but there was uncertainty in his voice.

‘Come,’ said Plosk, ‘we are close.’ He walked arrogantly through the Terminators. Galt signalled them and they followed uncertainly, servitors clomping mindlessly behind them.

‘Be on your guard,’ said Galt.

The engine walkway stopped. The hull that had bounded it was long gone. Plosk stepped through the gaping hole in the ancient ship, and out onto a shelf of rock. Galt came close behind, careful of his footing as the gravity abruptly ceased.

The shelf of rock – the surface of a small asteroid – finished seventy metres away, rearing up to form one side of a small cave. A mangle of structures, ice and rubble made up the majority of the rest, but one component stood apart from this; a spacecraft of a kind totally unfamiliar to the Space Marines.

The greater part of the spaceship was buried in the mass of debris, but the side of it presented to them was undamaged by time or the shifting crush of the agglomeration. His sensorium could not penetrate its gleaming hull, but Galt estimated it to be around three hundred metres long, small by Imperial standards. It was clean of line and unembellished, which made the craft appear strange to Galt’s eyes. No Mechanicus runes marked its outer surface, nor were there any statues or artistic flourishes of any kind, yet in its functionality there was a clean aestheticism. It did not appear like any ship crafted by men, but Galt knew instinctively that this vessel had been built by human hands.

‘This is what you hide from us?’ said Galt, wary and awed in equal part.

‘Hide? No, captain. You are here with me. I merely did not wish to burden you with excitable supposition,’ said Plosk.

‘Or alert his rivals,’ said Clastrin quietly.

Plosk walked forward. Light erupted into life along the ship’s length, the glow coming directly from the hull itself.

‘Wait!’ shouted Galt.

Plosk ignored his warning. ‘Long have I searched for this vessel, several lifetimes of lesser men,’ he said. ‘On Vardus Prime, far out in the Halo, did I find a mention of it, buried deep in the Liber Solentus, penned by men who never knew the light of the Emperor, and who were destroyed long before they could be saved. I have searched and searched and searched. There has only been one other of its kind reliably documented, the ill-omened doom-ship the Blade of Infinity. I surmised if there was one, there must be, have to be more.’ He was speaking to himself now more than the others, close to incoherence as human emotion overran his electro-mechanical faculties. He fell to his knees. ‘And it is real!’

Another light came on, its radiance undimmed by time or corruption. It lit a message on the side of the hull in a strange script Galt could barely read. As alien as the straight lines of the font seemed, they were human letters, a plain form of the Gothic script. The words, however, were meaningless to him.

Plosk pointed to it. ‘See! The Machine-God shows us the truth of it. Here, my lords, as I predicted, rests a pre-Imperial starship.’ His voice shook with triumph as he read the ancient script aloud. ‘The Spirit of Eternity.’

Plosk collapsed into fevered prayer. Nuministon and Samin joined him in supplication, bowing before the ancient vessel. Clastrin hesitated, stayed by Galt’s suspicions, but overwhelmed he fell to one knee. Their servitors looked mutely on.

‘Look, lord captain,’ said Voldo. He pointed at an object upon the floor close by the Spirit of Eternity.

Mazrael walked past them, right up to the skin of the ship. He bent down and picked the object up.

‘A vambrace. It is Lord Caedis’s,’ he said.

‘He is alive?’ said Metrion. He took a hopeful step forwards.

‘He was recently,’ said Mazrael. If Galt was expecting some sign of joy from Mazrael at the news, he was disappointed.

‘He is inside the ship then,’ said Voldo.

Mazrael examined the ship before him. The ship was clean, as if newly made. ‘I cannot tell. I see no doorway.’

‘Stay back, lord,’ warned Voldo. ‘Who knows what evils it has carried through time.’

‘No!’ said Plosk joyfully. ‘The ways of the ancients are beyond your ken, my lord. There is no harm here, only knowledge. The doorway will not be obvious to the likes of you, I, however, can see it.’

‘Then how do we gain entry to the archeotech you seek, magos?’ said Voldo. ‘Do we have time for you to cut your way in?’

Plosk started to answer, but a great rumbling interrupted him as the hulk underwent a tremor. They watched nervously as the component vessels of the cave’s walls moved past one another, like fish in a net struggling to be free from the fisherman. Hull skins crumpled. The chamber was airless, yet the group heard the shifting of the tortured agglomeration through their feet, a roaring and grinding of overwhelming volume. They struggled to keep their footing in the near zero-gravity. Those of the Terminators that could, mag-locked themselves to the wall. Others shot out their safety grapnels. One of the servitors and a data-savant, their butchered brains not quick enough to respond to the rapid movement, were cast from their feet and were sent hurtling into the cave walls. There they died, broken by the impact.

The magi remained unmoving, bent in serene worship throughout the quake.

The tremors lessened. The magi stood.

‘Lord Plosk has searched the length and breadth of this galaxy for four hundred years, gathering the lore that led us to this momentous point in time,’ said Samin scornfully. ‘Do you think he would not also gather the information unto him required to access such a craft?’

‘Quickly, Lord Plosk,’ said Nuministon. ‘I am reading data commensurate with warp field generation.’

‘Warp field generation from where?’ said Galt incredulously. ‘From the ship?’

The mage priests ignored him, and dropped into a rapid conversation of screeching binaric.

‘It cannot be active, surely, lord captain,’ said Brother Militor. ‘It is at the heart of this hulk. It must have been here for thousands of years.’

‘And the lights, cousin, and the energy emanating from the vessel?’ said Sandamael. ‘I do not like this, lord captain, it has the stink of corruption to it.’

‘It is a vessel from the Dark Age of Technology,’ said Plosk. ‘From a time blessed by the Omnissiah himself, before those who wielded His powers were adjudged unworthy and had His light withdrawn from them. It functions, oh it functions!’

‘And the warp engines, do they function too? Damn you, mage priest, what more are you concealing from me?’ shouted Galt.

‘The warp fields are generated by the hulk, not this vessel. Once an agglomeration has sailed the tides of the warp, its fabric develops a sympathy for it. Any perturbation in the veil between real space and the empyrean can drag it back.’

‘The gravitic well of the sun Jorso?’ said Clastrin.

‘Perhaps so, Forgemaster,’ said Nuministon.

‘Are we to retrieve the datacore, or are we to argue as the hulk breaks up around our ears?’ said Plosk. ‘I will explain all, but first we must gain entry.’

Galt looked to the Forgemaster. The Techmarine chief gave a brief nod.

‘Very well, but be quick.’ Aftershocks troubled the chamber still.

‘The unbelievers must withdraw,’ said Plosk.

‘I see no door,’ muttered Tarael. ‘This is a waste of time.’

‘Where there is no way, there will be a way,’ said Nuministon. Galt was certain he was quoting something.

Mazrael rejoined the other Terminators, Caedis’s armour clasped in his hand.

Plosk’s servitors formed a semicircle about the magos, and began a low mumbling drone, thick with formulae and holy data.

Plosk threw his hands wide and spoke over his choir. ‘Oh mighty vessel of the Omnissiah! We, the humble servants of He who made you, we who have searched for long eternities to find your like, we request access to your holy innards, and the information that you contain therein. Let us prove ourselves worthy to you and to our Lord, so that mankind might slip the shackles of ignorance, and learn anew the true runes of knowledge!’

Nothing happened.

‘He has lost his mind,’ said Tarael drily. ‘He speaks to a wall.’

Voldo made a noise of agreement. ‘Brother Gallio?’

‘Wait, my lords!’ said Samin, holding up a hand. ‘He only greets it as it should be greeted; he treats it with the respect it demands. To approach otherwise would be an affront to the vessel’s spirit and perilous to us all. Only now might he utter the codes of access.’

Plosk began to speak rapidly in a language none understood. It was not the electronic chitter of binaric, but a true, spoken language of men. A chill went down Galt’s spine as the tech-priest went on; the language was foreign to him, but amid the babble were words that sounded half-familiar, as if Plosk spoke High Gothic distorted by a dream.

And then the ship replied.

The Terminators stepped backwards, weapons raised.

‘Hold!’ said Nuministon. ‘It is only a voice-activated ward, nothing more. The machine’s spirit has a voice as our servitors have a voice.’

The ship’s voice was soft and emotionless; it too used the ancient tongue.

Plosk’s hands dropped. The servitors sang on.

The ship responded, and the way opened. A section of the hull glowed green, forming a solid square. The light receded, so that the square became a doorway with rounded corners, delineated by a band of brightness. And then there were steps, appearing in some manner Galt could not understand. The light dimmed, lighting the new doorway and stairs in soft lambency. The ship looked as if it had always been that way, as if there had always been a door and not been a solid wall of metal only seconds before. Data flooded into their sensoriums and auspexes as the inviolable skin of the craft parted for them.

‘Witchcraft!’ gasped Mazrael, tightening his grip on his crozius. The Space Marines backed up further. Mutters of alarm came from all of them.

‘No, my lords! Power, technology. Behold the true might of the Omnissiah revealed!’ Plosk said. He looked into the vessel. ‘And soon it will all be ours again, and mankind will rule the stars rightfully, totally, and alone. But as much as I long to enter, we must plan our escape. As Nuministon says, we do not have much time. Teleportation is our only hope.’

‘I have a clear reading from within the vessel now,’ said Eskerio.

‘As do I,’ said Curzon.

‘The energy fluctuations of the ship’s secondary reactor will not allow a firm pattern lock,’ said Clastrin.

‘We should turn back now,’ said Eskerio.

‘No!’ said Plosk. ‘There is a way. The reactor can be deactivated. Once it is, then we may be safely away with the ship’s secrets.’

‘What do we do, lord captain?’ said Voldo uneasily.

‘If the ship opened for us, it may have opened for my lord,’ said Tarael, taking a step forward. Mazrael said nothing.

They all looked to Galt.

‘So be it,’ said Galt finally. ‘So be it.’

Caedis passed through the hulk in Holos’s fugue, wandering deeper and deeper into the Death of Integrity. Sometimes he was Caedis, and on the edge of his perception he was aware that he was casting away his armour as he walked, an act that had lost any sense of importance. It must be done, so he did it. Then there were times when he thought he was Caedis but could not be sure, for the roar of his own blood in his ears was deafening. His twin hearts pounded like war drums, and the Thirst tore at his soul with dripping claws. Sometimes he was Holos, climbing metre by painful metre up the side of Mount Calicium. Sometimes he was neither. He, Holos and the other shades which climbed with him were sent tumbling into the distant past by Holos’s own Black Rage. Caedis suffered the Rage and through suffering it he suffered Holos’s own Rage, until the two multiplied each other into an infinite tunnel of dark memories of war. An eternity of slaughter and bloodshed and burning torment beckoned.

Holos dragged himself along the lip of the volcano’s crater with his one good arm. The rim was narrow, no more than a few metres wide at its narrowest, and his movement sent rocks tumbling over the edge. They bounced higher and higher as they fell, toward the steaming, poisonous green lake at the centre. Holos had discarded what armour he could, but his chestplates and leg assembly would not come free. His hand and arms were bloodied from dragging himself along the sharp stone. The hypercoagulants in his blood sealed the wounds quickly, but each painful metre fresh wounds were torn into his flesh by the spines of the mountain.

The smell of his own life fluids drove him deeper into insanity. He blacked out twice, finding himself soaring high in the air over a battlefield he did not recognise. The sensation of unaided flight was so intoxicating, he almost lost himself. Doubtless had he not had the will, Holos would have died raving upon the rim of the volcano, and the Blood Drinkers would have died with him. But Holos’s will to survive was mighty, and his pride in his Chapter mightier still. He dragged himself back to the present. Holos was aware of the others who climbed with him only fleetingly.

Sometimes Caedis was aware that he was not Holos even as he experienced the hero pulling himself over the sharp rocks. At other times Caedis found himself crawling through wrecked corridors of spacecraft. He, unlike the ancient hero, could still walk, and he would become confused, then pull himself upright and stagger on. As Caedis, he went through places of intense cold, places with no air and no gravity, or choked with poisonous gas. He should have died, but something more than his engineered physiology allowed him to survive. Perhaps, like Holos, it was his will alone. Perhaps not. Fate has a way of saving those it values.

He was Holos for a time, falling painfully back to the floor, and the peak of Mount Calicium was so far away. And then he was Caedis, naked, his armour all gone. He was in a ship that was lit and warm and full of air sweeter than any he had ever tasted, pure and untainted by volcanic fume, pollution, or the rot of old blood. He marvelled at the vessel; proportioned for men but not like any ship he had ever seen. He looked groggily for a crew, but found none.

Time pulled him away to its own whims. He felt blood on his hands, the death of a genestealer; it passed. He went elsewhere.

The slope of the peak rose steeply from the rim of the crater. Holos stared up at it. A lesser man would have stopped. Holos did not. Reaching out his good hand he hauled his battered body upwards. Betrayed by his armour, he proceeded by the dint of his will alone.

The suns were rolling behind the horizon, taking day away with them, when he attained the summit.

Holos rolled onto his back. He lay gasping, his great strength spent. The sky turned from orange to a deep purple, heralding the oncoming night. Ash clouds streaked the dome of heaven in herringbone patterns. The air at the summit was thin and full of poisonous gases. They burned his throat, his birth lungs. His multi-lung laboured to drag what little oxygen there was from the air.

He wavered in and out of consciousness, back and forth in time; to the days of the primarchs, and far into the future.

The first stars pricked at the sky, and it bled hard light.

‘There is no one here,’ Holos said, his voice strange in his ears, thick with exertion and dust. ‘The vision was a lie!’

He fell into a dark sleep. Dreams of wings tormented him.

He awoke with a start. The last hold of day was slipping. The shadows were as long as time, rocks moulded by the volcano burned orange again with the dying fires of the setting suns.

Something had changed.

He craned his neck, tilted his head backwards. His scalp grated against grit, but Holos was past the point of pain.

The peak ended in a spur, a weirdly sculpted branch of stone that stood out over the steep sides of the cone. A vertical ellipse of blinding light shone at the top of this spur. Within it, a figure was waiting, the figure from his dream.

Holos’s battered body filled with adrenaline. His feet scrabbled at the stone as he righted himself. The armour was as heavy as sin. He got to his knees and, cradling his injured arm against his chest, crawled slowly to the foot of the rock spur.

The figure waited. It was impossible to make out its features. A silhouette attenuated by the glare was its body, its face a shapeless blur. Only its broad wings, feathers shimmering with iridescent colours, were clear.

With great effort, Holos got himself into a kneeling position. He was afraid, for this was something beyond the material world. This was not something that would yield to the bolter or the sword. He stared nevertheless into the light. It seared his retinas, but he felt the Rage retreat within himself, and he felt the blessed return of sanity.

‘I am Holos, son of Dolkaros of the tribe of Sumar, Initiate of the Blood Drinkers Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. I am a warrior of the Emperor, and I would save my kin from the madness that afflicts us. I have come,’ he spoke boldly. ‘I have followed my dream. I have passed the test given me. Tell me how to save my brothers, as was promised,’ he said, his voice quavered. Emotions long suppressed broke through his conditioning.

‘You have come,’ said the figure. ‘You have passed the test. You are worthy of what I must tell you. Hearken, hearken to the secret that will save your brethren.’ Its voice was old and harsh as dry parchment, the sibilants hissed, tailing off into half-heard words that meant something quite different to what the figure seemed to say. The conversation between Holos and the figure continued, but muted. Other conversations began to overlay it, one at a time, as Caedis became aware of himself as separate to Holos. The conversations overlapped each other like ripples in a pond, and Holos’s exchange with the saviours of the Blood Drinkers became unintelligible.

‘Welcome, Caedis, Lord of the Blood Drinkers. You too have been proven worthy.’

‘Worthy enough to join Holos on his endless climb,’ said a second voice from the light. It was raspier and less wholesome than the first.

Then Caedis was on the mountain, not Holos. How it came to be, he could not say. The scene had a hyper-real clarity. If it were a vision, it seemed more real than life.

Caedis shaded his eyes. He got a fleeting impression of a pair of heavy heads moving on sinuous necks before his vision blurred, disarmed by the light around the figure. This was not how he imagined Holos’s visitor, or was it how he had imagined it all along, and was unable to capture the figure in glass because his mind would not accept the truth of it?

‘Why am I here?’ said Caedis. ‘Why do I not suffer the Black Rage as my brethren do, reliving the last hours of Sanguinius? Who are you?’

The figure shifted, as if it leaned upon a staff. Caedis glimpsed a large, inhuman hand tipped with claws.

‘You are worthy,’ repeated the second voice.

‘I am he who gave to Holos the secret of how to preserve your Chapter. I am the saviour of the Blood Drinkers. You do not suffer as other sons of the Blood Angels do because I have decreed it to be otherwise. Would you know the secret? Would you know what I told Holos?’

Caedis did not answer. The thing in the light went on anyway.

‘I told him to embrace change.’

‘Embrace it!’ said the other voice.

‘Only through change can one survive, only through evolution is there life. Your gene-seed is corrupt, you are changing. You try to deny it, and that is why you were dying. But to embrace it… Ah!’

‘To embrace change is to live,’ said the thing’s other voice. ‘Reject it and die.’

A sense of terrible horror gripped at Caedis’s hearts. There were things few men knew of; things that made the most degenerate xenos creatures in all the galaxy seem benign. All Space Marines had some knowledge of the Ruinous Powers. Few among their number were fully aware of the Dark Gods’ actual influence on the material universe, or the nature of their servants, or how those servants could manifest themselves.

But Caedis knew. Caedis was a Chapter Master, and thus the most awful secrets of the universe had been laid open to him.

Before him was a Chaos daemon.

‘What do you want of me?’ he said, determining to say as little as possible. Some of the daemons were master tricksters, and would bend his own words against him.

‘What do I want of you?’ the thing’s voices spoke as one, the harmonies between the two carrying another layer of meaning. ‘I would ask you a question, that is all.’

‘Why?’

‘Why would I not wish to? All change is Chaos, all Chaos is change. Change is inevitable, and so Chaos is inevitable. I ask you, will you embrace change? Will you embrace Chaos?’

‘Never!’ Caedis shouted as loudly as he could, his spirit crawling in revulsion within his skin. What had Holos done? What diabolical pact had he made to save the Chapter? His mind rebelled against it. All his life’s work, his service, a lie!

‘You fight the war of the mountain against the rain and the wind. The mountain seems strong, but in the end, the rain will win,’ said the other voice.

‘I will never submit to a power that is not the Emperor of mankind!’

‘Who says you have any choice, Chapter Master? Does the pawn choose whether it is black or white? Does it have a say in its movement across the board?’ said the first voice.

The creature’s other voice spoke. ‘You oppose change, and yet you are the epitome of change yourself, altered by the weak science of your kind, you are far more than that which you once were.’

‘And far less than you were intended to be.’

‘You are not untouched by Chaos,’ the thing was staring at his lengthened teeth. ‘Yet you are weak still. You are weakened by your loyalty to the corpse that is your lord. Cast aside your loyalty.’

‘It is a chain that weighs you down as your armour weighs Holos down.’

‘That strangles and binds.’

‘A chain of servitude.’

‘I should cast aside the service to which I have sworn myself, to serve a daemonic master?’ said Caedis. ‘And what will be my reward? Betrayal of my kind? Eternal torment? My soul fed to the creatures of the warp? I am no fool. Our struggle is daunting, but I will not abandon it!’

‘The warp will prevail. The long war has been waged for far longer than you reckon it, and soon it will be done. Follow me, bring your warriors to fight. Victory is pre-ordained. I will make you powerful.’ The thing was beguiling. Caedis fought its promises with all his might.

‘Go back and eternal suffering awaits you. There will be no respite,’ said the other voice.

‘No rest.’

‘You will not die, we will not allow it.’

‘You will experience the depths of the Black Rage. You will suffer what Holos prevented; you will see the depths of your monstrous nature. Your humanity will burn in its fires, and you will be powerless. Your Emperor made you as you are, not we. What then is just?’

‘Change, change is Chaos. Change is inevitable. Chaos is inevitable. Embrace Chaos, or be consumed by it. Embrace change!’ the second voice shrieked.

Caedis stood and stared into the light unflinchingly. He drew himself up to his full height. His voice was firm as he replied.

‘No. I defy you. My soul remains my own. If I must suffer the torments of hell itself in order to serve the Emperor, then I will. Service is life.’

‘Blood is life, is that not how your ritual goes?’ said the first voice mockingly.

‘No. The blood is a means, it is regrettable, but it is the road to service. All is done in the name of service. I do not know what Holos agreed with you, but we defy you still, two thousand years on. Can you not see? We will never turn to Chaos. It is we who have tricked you.’

The creature shifted in the light. Its form wavered, flickering through a myriad other indistinct shapes before settling back upon the form it had before. Caedis was sure he could make out two heads now, heavy and beaked, not unlike the astorgai, held upon long necks.

‘And you think this a secret, this dealing of Holos with we?’ said the first voice. Wisdom and wickedness were at one within it.

‘Shanandar was the name of the Reclusiarch, it was he to whom Holos told the whole truth,’ said the second, and listening to its voice, one became aware that death and life were the same.

‘From Shanandar to Melios, Melios to Dravin. Down the line of your skull-masked priests, to Gurian, Canandael, Solomael and Curvin,’ said the first voice.

‘From Curvin to Doloros, from him down to Quiniar, and from Quiniar to…’

Caedis spoke the last name, his voice a deathly hush. ‘Mazrael.’

Caedis got the impression of a head turned sideways, a laterally mounted eye, bird bright and calculating, regarding him. ‘My master’s brother has his warriors of blood, though they know it not,’ said the daemon’s first voice. ‘I will bring my own to present to my master in time for the final war. You will submit, and if you do not submit, one of your predecessors will,’ said the first voice.

‘Or those that follow.’

‘One has.’

‘A change, a change from “no” to “yes”, and that, mortal, is the easiest change of all to make. You may say no, and you do. Very well. Another will come, and another, then another still. As long as your kind utilise the rite…’

‘The rite of blood given, and the rite of blood taken.’

‘…to defer your rightful fate, those like you will continue to follow Holos in his trek up the mountain. They will fight, and they will struggle, and they will come to me.’

‘Many may say “no”.’

‘It matters not; only one need say “yes”. And one will.’

‘We have seen it. It has already happened,’ the voices spoke as one. ‘Your Chapter will fall, as your brothers fell before you. Now,’ they said, ‘fall!’

Caedis lunged at the light, hands outstretched, aiming to break the neck on the right. He brushed against something that felt like feathers and flesh, but which made his skin shiver with revulsion. A stench of old carrion, the dry scent of birds, the astringency of electricity, and then he was past it. The light winked out, taking the being with it.

He twisted, his feet catching on the end of the rock spur. His arms windmilled as he sought balance. He caught a glimpse of Holos, head bowed at the rock, deep in his own conversation two thousand years ago, and he wondered at what price the hero had bought the temporary salvation of his Chapter.

The daemon’s prophecy came true. He fell into the volcano-smogged air of San Guisiga, and plummeted toward a field of fanged granite far below.

He hit with bone-jarring force. His legs broke. His fused ribs caved in, crushed by a point of stone. His skull shattered.

The vision ended.

Caedis coughed. He was fully himself. The Thirst had abated for now, taking his strange visions with it. But it writhed in the pit of his gut, making him nauseous and hungry at the same time. He thought of the daemon’s words. It would return redoubled, and soon. He had to get out of the hulk and tell the others what he had learned. He had to put a stop to the rite before it was too late. He thanked the Emperor that he, as Chapter Master, had the power to do that, to undo the evil that Holos had wrought.

He rolled onto his side, hands pawing at smooth metal. He was so damned weak!

A long tendril of something wrapped itself around his ankles. Two more grabbed his wrists. His arms were pulled apart, and he was lifted into the air. He had no strength to resist.

‘Well, well, well,’ said a silken voice that came from everywhere and nowhere. ‘What have we here?’

Caedis opened his mouth to address the voice, but no sound came.

He was trapped.

CHAPTER 21

THE POWER OF THE ANCIENTS

The doorway led to a sloping corridor several metres long that joined an arterial way wide enough for four Terminators to walk abreast. The ship’s interior was eerily untouched. Its artificial gravity was functional, the curved ceiling glowed softly. There was little dust, and no corrosion. The air was far purer than that aboard the Novum in Honourum, an atmospheric mix of rare quality. The design of the ship was superior in virtually every way to those on which Galt had been. Like the exterior it lacked the heavy embellishment so beloved in the Imperium. Even so, it was as beautiful in its way. Sinuous lines defined its architecture, the parts of it seemingly all of one piece. Only close inspection showed that this was not so.

The mage priests chittered to one another in their screeching code as Plosk called a halt by something that might have been a sculpture. If it was, Galt could make no sense of it; it was a series of abstract curves and intersecting planes of quicksilver-bright metal.

‘I have located a data portal,’ said Plosk.

‘I detect nothing,’ said Eskerio. The contempt in his voice was growing every time he spoke. He no longer used the tech-priests’ honorifics.

‘These technologies are beyond our own, but not beyond understanding,’ said Samin. ‘Allow my master peace so that he might commune with the vessel’s spirit.’

Plosk and Nuministon stood close, their helmets almost touching, and fell silent. If they spoke with the ship it was not apparent.

‘I have never seen a ship such as this, Brother Clastrin,’ said Galt over a private channel.

‘Do not be seduced by its simple beauties, brother,’ said Clastrin. ‘This ship dates from a time when technology was given freely by the Omnissiah, but was used ignorantly and left unhallowed. For that, he turned his back upon mankind.’

‘Is there threat here?’

‘There may well be. At the least there will be a test; the Omnissiah will not return to the unworthy that which he took from the unworthy.’

Plosk and Nuministon stood apart. Plosk undid his helmet clasps and pulled it free. He breathed the air deeply and smiled.

‘I have accessed the machine’s datacores. What we seek is located on the bridge.’

Galt spoke publicly. ‘How long do we have, Magos Nuministon?’

‘The warp fields that gather themselves about the hulk will push the agglomeration into the empyrean in one hour, forty-two minutes and seven seconds, lord captain.’

‘The reactor?’ asked Galt.

‘It is to the aft, five decks down. Repair is necessary if we are to teleport free. Samin is ready, are you not, Adept Samin?’

Samin looked anything but ready.

‘To split our forces could be folly,’ said Sandamael. ‘But I see little choice in the matter.’

‘I will lead the party,’ said Voldo. ‘Lord captain?’

Galt hesitated. This was the time, he knew it in his bones. This was the real message of the Shadow Novum, the death of his mentor, and it was upon him. He looked at Voldo. From behind his helmet lenses, Voldo looked back.

‘Now is the moment of peril for you,’ said Galt to him privately.

‘If it is ordained, so be it,’ said Voldo. ‘It is the mark of a leader that he send his brothers willingly to their deaths, should mission parameters make demand of such sacrifice. Now is one of those times. I will go, and you should not stop me, lord captain.’

Galt was quiet. ‘I… I should not. The Emperor protect you, Brother Voldo.’

‘Do not despair, Mantillio. We shall meet once again in the Shadow Novum, and fight the war to end all wars side by side with the Emperor himself. It has been my honour and pleasure to watch you grow from boy to man, and my pride to serve under you.’

Galt opened up his comms once more. ‘Sergeant Voldo will go.’

‘And I,’ said Astomar, stepping forward. ‘He will have need of this.’ He brandished his heavy flamer.

‘I will accompany my brothers,’ said Militor.

‘Let it not be said the Blood Drinkers stay their hands when brothers demand aid,’ said Sandamael.

‘Aye, brother, I shall aid our cousins.’ Brother Curzon stepped forward. ‘It would be best if both groups contained auspexes.’ He had taken the late Azmael’s role as operations specialist.

Plosk nodded with satisfaction. ‘You see, Samin, with such heroes of the Imperium, you have nothing to fear.’

With reluctance, Samin separated himself from his master’s side and joined Voldo’s group. Reclusiarch Mazrael, Sergeant Sandamael, Brother Tarael and Ancient Metrion of the Blood Drinkers remained with Galt and Forgemaster Clastrin, as did Brother Eskerio and Brother Gallio of Squad Wisdom of Lucretius.

With the characteristic ponderousness of Terminator plate, Voldo swung himself around and led the others away.

‘Lord captain, we are not alone,’ said Brother Eskerio. He highlighted signs of movement.

‘We see them too,’ said Voldo, his voice breaking with pulsed static. ‘May the Emperor bring them to us, so that we may end their lives.’

‘You need not worry, brother-sergeant. Lord captain, Lord Reclusiarch, they head for your position,’ said Curzon.

‘We had best hurry, before they decide to come for us too,’ said Voldo. ‘We will proc…’ His voice grew increasingly broken, and then cut out.

‘I cannot regain the signal to the other group, lord captain,’ said Eskerio. ‘It cannot be the reactor. We are being jammed.’

Galt was unsurprised. ‘The unexpected is to be expected, brother, in this ship of ghosts. Concentrate on the more immediate threat. Proceed with caution.’

Before Curzon’s auspex feed broke, the two devices corroborated each other’s data, and fed an idealised data set into the sensoriums of the Space Marines. The erratic secondary reactor of the ship interfered somewhat with both the vox and the auspexes, so they could not entirely trust what they saw, indeed, the map they had of the Spirit of Eternity was still incomplete, although Vardoman Plosk had shared the floor plans of the vessel that he had downloaded from the datacore.

The auspexes gave them enough so that they might prepare.

Red dots massed, rushing from another major way they had passed a couple of minutes before.

‘I estimate forty,’ said Eskerio.

‘Prepare for contact,’ said Sandamael. ‘Brothers Tarael and Curzon, stand aside, let our Novamarines cousins do their work. Be ready to aid them once the enemy is within striking range.’

‘Yes, brother-sergeant,’ they said. They could not hide their excitement. Galt still found it strange. He enjoyed battle, he was a warrior, and war is the wish of all warriors. But the avidity with which the Blood Drinkers anticipated combat bordered on madness.

‘Here they come!’ shouted Eskerio. Alarms chimed in their helmets, their threat indicators creeping from the upper amber scale into the red.

The genestealers came at them, screeching their hatred of all life, alien faces disfigured by their loathing.

Galt dropped one with a well placed volley of fire from his weapon. A second burst like an overripe fruit, gunned down by Brother Gallio. The Space Marines walked backwards in step with one another. They were slow but implacable. The genestealers were far swifter, but died before their speed could carry them into close combat. Their viscera spattered the strange metal of the ancient spacecraft, but was absorbed by it, leaving the walls clean. Where rounds went astray, they exploded as they went into the walls, but the ship’s metal skin reformed to leave them unmarked.

Surely, the Space Marines gained ground, plodding one backwards step at a time toward the bridge. The tech-priests were well clear, on their way into the bridge, their cyborg servants lumbering after them.

And then a second group of genestealers were among the Space Marines, falling from a fluted duct above their heads. Three of them. They landed lightly on their claws and feet, then leapt with dazzling speed at the adepts.

One landed athwart Clastrin’s chest. It knocked the Forgemaster’s gun from his hand, its razored claws hammering at his helmet. Another punched its way through Eskerio’s greave; this one died quickly as Eskerio bellowed and responded, riddling its back and head with bolts. Dull reports sounded from inside the xenos as the mass reactive missiles detonated. Its guts sprayed across the floor, and Eskerio, bleeding heavily, sank to one knee, his injured leg unable to hold him.

The third genestealer ran screaming up the corridor, away from the Space Marines and toward the tech-priests. Galt turned from those coming up the corridor, and raised his gun, trying for a shot at the genestealer charging the magi, but Clastrin stumbled into his way, his servo-harness’s arms grappling with the genestealer pushing him backwards. He shouted in pain as a claw snicked through his armour. Mazrael fired his bolt pistol but missed, the bolt exploded in the wall leaving a scorch mark that rapidly faded. The genestealer was not to be distracted, with a swift motion it jammed its fingers under the shoulder pad of the Forgemaster and ripped it away, flinging it to the side with a clatter.

Heavy bolter fire raked the corridor from Plosk’s servitors, threatening the Space Marines. It stopped as the genestealer got in among the Mechanicus contingent. Plosk was shouting. Someone screamed. The air roared and boomed as a multi-melta fired.

The Forgemaster’s servo-harness saved him. Clastrin was able to hold the genestealer back with his own hands as his harness worked. One heavy arm raked along the curved wall until it found purchase, steadying him. Another, tipped in a massive gripper, caught the genestealer about the neck and pulled. Servos whined as the maniples squeezed. There was the roar of the plasma cutter between the pincer’s grips, and oily smoke filled the corridor.

The genestealer’s head rolled free, neck cauterised. Its eyes stared hate as it bounced upon the floor.

By then it was too late; the genestealers coming up the corridor were at them. The weapons of the Blood Drinkers Tarael sparked as they duelled with the aliens, metal claws against those of black chitin. Metrion stood side by side. Sandamael blasted a genestealer apart with his storm bolter, and cut another one in two with his power sword.

‘They are too many!’ said the Blood Drinkers Ancient. Savage joy was in his voice.

‘We will hold them, you go on!’ said Sandamael.

‘No!’ shouted Galt.

‘We go together,’ said Mazrael. He swung his crozius down hard, black armoured arm blurring. A genestealer’s shoulder exploded with a crack as it connected.

‘Captain,’ Nuministon spoke. ‘Come to us quickly, we have a sanctuary!’

‘Fall back!’ shouted Galt. ‘Fall back!’

They moved as quickly as they could, those with storm bolters providing covering fire when opportunity presented itself. They disentangled themselves from the genestealers. The aliens pursued, snapping at them like dogs. They were shot down, only for more to advance. Threat indicators rang loudly in the helmets of the Terminators. Their visor maps were crowded with red telltales.

‘Quickly! Quickly!’ said Nuministon.

Galt half dragged the wounded Eskerio. He left a trail of blood as he limped. Dead and dying genestealers lay sprawled all the way up the corridor. The captain fell behind, the unburdened Blood Drinkers and Novamarines outpacing him.

They came to the magi. Metrion blew apart a genestealer that leapt over the corpses of its fellows, showering Galt and Eskerio with black gore. Tarael cut a genestealer’s arms off as it reached for Galt. Bolts whistled past the captain, exploding as they buried themselves in the flesh of the aliens as Mazrael expertly covered his retreat. The roar of the servitors’ multi-meltas and the profound bass chatter of heavy bolters joined them. Galt made it into the ranks of his fellows. There was an electric crack and Eskerio was yanked from his hand. Freed of his weight, Galt lumbered forward, off balance. He turned to see a sheet of glimmering energy across the corridor. Eskerio was on the other side. A genestealer had hold of his boot. The Terminator was hammering on the field. There was no reaction from it, no energy discharge, no sound, it was as solid as adamantium.

‘Brother Eskerio!’ called Sandamael over the vox. ‘Look out!’

There was no reply. The field had isolated the Novamarine.

‘Shut it down!’ shouted Galt. ‘Shut it down!’

‘Do it now, magos,’ growled Mazrael menacingly.

‘I cannot, lords,’ said Nuministon. ‘I did not activate it. When I spoke of sanctuary, I referred to this blast door.’

Galt did not look to see the door. He was transfixed by the battle’s final throes on the other side of the field. The energy barrier was slightly yellow, colouring the scene and making it appear like a bad pict-feed. Eskerio was dying only centimetres away.

Realising he could not get through, Eskerio turned as best as he could on his damaged leg. He raised his bolter and slew two genestealers, before his gun was grasped by a claw and crushed into a sparking mess. Eskerio ended the life of one genestealer with a blow from his power fist, then another. Genestealers swarmed all over him, pulling the crackling gauntlet down, biting and tearing at its power cables. The disruption feed went out. Eskerio jerked as a pair of claws punched into his stomach. Alien hands dragged out his viscera.

Mercifully he was dead when they tore him apart.

Galt rounded on the magi. ‘Explain to me why I have lost one of my brothers, magos.’

Nuministon stood his ground. ‘It is the ship, part of an automated defence network. There will be weapons also, but perhaps there is no power available for those? No doubt this power field is linked to others, isolating the bridge in case of an enemy boarding action. I was urging you to make for the door, lord.’ Galt could now see the aperture, a reinforced rib that extended a third of a metre into the corridor right round the floor, ceiling and walls. ‘It will extrude in the same manner as the hull repairs itself, the metal is a semi-liquid under the influence of complex magnetic fields and is backed up by a more mundane doorway should those fail. I–’

‘I do not care for your explanations,’ said Galt coldly. He pushed past the magos. Plosk was sat on the floor. A trio of weapon-servitors wrecked beside him, bleeding oils. The tech-priests had only seven of their dozen mind-wiped servants remaining: two armed with multi-meltas, three with heavy bolters, and two of their data-savants. The remains of a genestealer which had killed a servitor lay next to it, the top half of it vaporised by a multi-melta. The wall behind it was scarred by the weapon’s energy discharge, and this did not return to its prior condition.

So the ship can be damaged, thought Galt.

Plosk glanced up. He had pulled his hood up, but it could not hide the ruin of his face. The genestealer had come very close to ending his life. His flesh was ragged where clawed fingers had caressed him. The flesh did not bleed. Underneath was the oily glint of metal.

Galt snarled at him. ‘Even your form is a lie.’

Plosk got to his feet. His upper teeth were visible through his ragged cheeks. ‘You cannot blame me, my lord, for this small deception. Interaction with others is an important component of my role. Not all the cultures I come across find the strong machine forms we adepts evolve into pleasing.’ He tutted. ‘But there is no need for it now, I suppose.’

He slipped his hand inside his hood and worked his fingers. His face, a mask, came away with a sucking noise. Underneath his skull was bare of flesh. His lower jaw was missing, a thick tube taking its place, sharp catches attached it to polished bone incised with machine runes. His lidless eyes gave him a look of surprise, or outrage.

‘You see? Some of the less developed human cultures are offended by my face.’ His voice had not changed, although it was obvious now that it was artificially generated. ‘They do not recognise the gifts of the Omnissiah for the blessings that they are, for they are unaware of how weak their flesh is, lord. But guile and subtlety bring my plans more quickly to fruition.’ Thin tubes on the side of his face squirted water into his eyes, irrigating them. His false face continued to squirm in his hands, forming a succession of idiot expressions.

Nuministon removed his helmet and stood bareheaded like Plosk. His half-mechanical face wore an expression of bewilderment as he tasted air unadulterated by the scent of machines. He blinked in the light of the bridge. Galt suddenly felt the urge to smash in his grey, wizened flesh, followed by Plosk’s skull. In the clean light of the Spirit of Eternity they were revolting, blasphemous constructs that defiled the sanctity of both his birth-given flesh and the machines that had changed it.

‘Captain, do not despair,’ said Plosk. ‘Your warrior gave his life in the noblest cause of all. We are at the command deck; up this corridor is the bridge, within which should be the head of the main datastack. It extends all the way down through the ship. Think of the marvels that it contains! No longer will we fight our endless wars with fear in our hearts. With the weapons of the Dark Age to command again, we shall sweep the stars clean of mankind’s enemies.’

Galt looked back through the energy field. The other Space Marines stood ready in case it should fail. The gene-stealers were pressed hard against it. Their eyes burned with malevolent intelligence. Their nostrils twitched. One lifted its head and scented the air, then they all did. They no longer moved quite as one, but even with their broodlord dead, the link between them was strong. They were parts of one creature, not many.

They turned and left, skittering down the corridor with repulsive swiftness.

Galt tried to contact Voldo to warn him. He was met by a wall of silence.

‘They are sure to find Voldo and his men,’ said Galt. ‘If they do before the reactor is stabilised, then you will have all eternity to enjoy the fruits of this expedition, but you will share them with no one.’

There was an interruption in the smooth background hum of the ship’s power supply. The lights dimmed. When they brightened again, more came on. The sounds of esoteric machines coming online multiplied; those faint whines on the edge of hearing all machines make.

‘Come, my lords,’ said Nuministon. ‘To the bridge, and mankind’s prize.’

Voldo approached another door. He knew it was a door now, although before he had come aboard the ship he would have assumed it to be a bulkhead. Seams appeared in it as he approached and it irised open. ‘This is unclean,’ said Voldo. ‘Sorcery. I do not care for this ship.’

‘It is not magic,’ scoffed Samin. ‘The Machine-God understands our purpose and aids us. He will be pleased if we deactivate the troubled reactor, and honour us with much data should we manage to repair it.’

‘You do not understand the workings of much of this vessel, magos. That much is clear to me. How do you propose to repair it?’

‘Repair is not simply a matter of the turn of the screw, or the oiling of pistons,’ said Samin haughtily. ‘The right prayer, the right sigils, the correct ritual striking of the side of an ailing mechanism with an appropriately sanctified mallet; all may prove efficacious.’

‘I see no cogs or pistons aboard this hell-vessel, boy,’ said Voldo.

Samin had no answer to this. ‘Do not call me “boy”,’ he said petulantly. ‘I am an adept of Mars.’

‘You are barely out of your swaddling,’ muttered Voldo. Samin would never succeed at the aspirants’ challenge, and he thought little of him because of that.

Brother Eskerio’s voice came over the vox. ‘Lord captain, we are not alone.’

Voldo had to strain to hear him. The thrum of the reactor’s uneven output marred the vox broadcast with electric noise like the beat of a failing heart.

‘We see them too,’ said Voldo. ‘May the Emperor bring them to us, so that we may end their lives.’

‘You need not worry, brother-sergeant. Lord captain, Lord Reclusiarch, they head for your position,’ said Curzon.

‘We had best hurry, before they decide to come for us,’ said Voldo. ‘We will proceed as planned. Lord captain? Lord captain? Throne! I have lost them.’

‘The interference from the reactor grows stronger, cousin-sergeant,’ said Curzon. ‘I am losing the high energy motion detection capabilities of my auspex. Atmospheric perturbation is still functioning, but there are many ghost images. And I fear there is more to it.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘Our signal has been cut.’

Voldo ran his eyes over a graph in his visor display. ‘The ship is coming alive, the reactor is working to feed it,’ said Voldo. ‘This is unclean!’

‘Speak not of uncleanliness. The reactor is damaged, and this ship has been trapped here for thousands of years,’ said Samin, awe in his voice. ‘It is a marvel of a prior age. We are blessed to witness it!’

‘If the Dark Age of Technology was so blessed with marvels,’ said Voldo gruffly, ‘perhaps you could explain why it came to an end? Strife is the child of hubris, magos.’ He scanned the corridor, looking for possible points of ingress for the aliens. The ship appeared seamless, but on close inspection he could see the joins between the parts. It was far finer work than any he had seen in the Imperium.

The ship widened as they passed the waist of the vessel. The corridor they trod ran past a number of cabins. As their auspex had become unreliable, Voldo and his men checked each one of these as they went by. All were luxurious and neat. How they stayed in this state they could not say, they saw no sign of any servitors that could have maintained them.

‘This is a ship of ghosts, buried in a cemetery of ships,’ said Militor.

‘Quiet, brother,’ said Voldo, but he too shared Militor’s disquiet.

At first Voldo thought the cabins to be the accommodation for rich passengers, but he realised that this was probably not the case. There were few cabins, therefore he thought the crew complement low. As they went towards the stern the ship bellied out further, the centre divided into cargo chambers like the segments of an orange. The gravity switched, so that the floor became what had been the walls of the ship, allowing them to walk right the way around the clustered cargo bays. All these they checked. All were empty, bar one.

Voldo passed his hand in front of the door. Air rushed past him, repressurising the compartment. It was dark within, frost sparkled on the walls in the beam of his suit light. Within were the husks of an Adeptus Mechanicus retrieval team. Three tech-priests, and four servitors. Their flesh was frozen black. Two of them had died clawing at the door. The other was frozen in a kneeling position, hands together in prayer.

Their implants looked crude and ugly compared to the ship.

‘Magos, do you still believe this ship to be a marvel?’ he said.

Samin made to move into the room. Militor grasped his arm, his power fist, field off, swallowing it to the elbow.

‘I must retrieve their memchips, we can learn what happened.’

‘We do not have the time,’ said the Curzon. ‘This is one mystery that must remain unsolved.’

‘My cousin Blood Drinker is right,’ said Voldo. ‘If we delay here, we risk joining them.’

They hurried on. The cargo holds were large, the lines of sight within clear, so they did not waste much time in checking them.

The cargo section passed, and they came to the part housing the vessel’s reactors and plant rooms. The reactors were set in reverse sequence, with the secondary before the primary. The suits’ systems buzzed and crackled in sympathy with its malfunction.

‘Cousin Voldo, I am getting a signal,’ said Curzon. ‘Movement, coming from the stern towards us. It is hard to tell.’

‘We will not take any chances. Brother Astomar, Cousin Curzon, Brother Militor, you will remain here. Brother Militor, cover the reactor corridor. Cousin Curzon, maintain a tight watch. Guard Astomar’s rear. Let his flamer do the work. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary. Let the Novamarines level the odds in your favour with flame and bolt.’

‘I think I can restrain myself,’ said Curzon, without a trace of irony.

‘I will accompany the tech-priest,’ said Voldo.

Voldo and Samin walked around the corridor wall, so that their heads were above those of the other Space Marines, the gravity here allowing traversal of all surfaces. A radial corridor ran through the centre of the ship, a hundred and forty metres long. The lighting within it pulsed in time with the reactor. The skin of the vessel appeared sickly somehow.

They went onwards cautiously, Voldo checking his sensorium display to ensure his men were in good positions.

‘I see a door!’ said Samin eagerly, when they had reached the halfway point. Voldo saw it, a bulge in the wall with a smooth, illuminated touchpad that also seemed to be of one part with the wall, the hallmark of all the portals on the vessel.

‘Wait!’ said Voldo. ‘Movement.’ He pointed with his sword.

Samin screamed as a genestealer rushed down the reactor corridor. Voldo’s gun was up and firing before it had covered more than a couple of metres. More were coming.

‘Quickly now, young magos,’ said Voldo. ‘When I say run, you run into the reactor.’

‘Toward them?’ said Samin. ‘I…’

Two more genestealers came into the corridor, running along the walls and ceilings on all six legs.

‘Run!’ shouted Voldo. He shoved at the magos, and charged at the genestealers. His bolter claimed the life of one, his power sword that of the second.

‘Brother Militor, fill this corridor with your wrath once I have departed!’ he shouted.

The sounds of fighting came over the vox. Seventy metres behind Voldo, the others were being engaged. The genestealers had attacked both groups simultaneously. Bolter fire cracked the air, followed by the whump of igniting promethium.

Voldo growled. He lifted his storm bolter and fired. Every round found a target, but more and more genestealers were closing. He raised his sword and prepared to sell himself dearly. Samin had made it to the reactor doorway, at least.

Through the static on the vox, he could hear the others shouting, singing, and uttering prayers as they fought. Astomar let off another burst of fire. The screams of burning genestealers echoed down the corridor. He could expect no aid from that quarter.

His own foes shrieked with triumph as they came at him.

‘And so it comes to this. May the Emperor judge me fairly by the marks upon my skin, and choose me to join his legion of warriors for the final war.’ He pressed the flat of his blade to his forehead in salute and adopted a guard position. ‘Come to me, xenos, and learn a little early the ultimate fate of all your kind!’

Help came unexpectedly. Two blisters formed in one side of the corridor, splitting to extrude shining chrome objects that could only be weapons.

The guns rose from the blisters and levelled themselves. They swivelled around, and tracked the genestealers for a split second before opening fire. Streams of high energy las-fire streaked the air, blasting genestealers apart. The guns moved with ruthless efficiency, killing first a dozen, and then another.

As was their way, the genestealers did not care for their own casualties. They charged forward relentlessly. In ten seconds they would reach the guns.

Voldo went for the door. He glanced up the corridor. Framed in the circular mouth, he saw Azmael gut a xenos. The others were all still alive, at least.

The door opened, and he stepped inside. It closed itself behind him, the seams between its segments melting away.

The floor sloped, carrying him to a new floor at ninety degrees to that of the corridor, so that the stern of the ship was beneath his feet. He stood on a catwalk of elegant design, the reactor below him, a column of thrumming blue energy oriented in line with the vessel’s spine in the centre of a room one hundred metres in diameter. The core was as thin as an arm, but powerful, and the heat from it was intense. Containment rings were spaced equally up and down its length, but white lightning sprang up from the reactor core to earth itself periodically in them and the walls. The blue light pulsed loudly, the interference it generated causing Voldo’s ears to hurt.

‘Sergeant!’ Samin called to him from another catwalk halfway down the length of the reactor tube. He stood by a wall of instruments. ‘I need your aid!’

Voldo glanced back at the door. He could not hear anything from the other side, but the genestealers would be tearing at the stuff of the ship. How long could it repair itself for, he wondered.

He went to a drop tube, then floated down to the same level as the young adept. The gravity field in it was operating badly, and jarred him twice as he descended.

The priest was deep in prayer when Voldo reached him. He had retrieved jars of holy oil and a small, ritual hammer from his pack, and was alternately anointing and striking the instrumentation panel.

‘Perhaps you could hurry your prayers,’ said Voldo. ‘There must be a few less essential elements of your ceremony you can omit.’

‘No, I cannot, lord sergeant,’ said the magos. He sounded frustrated.

‘You do understand this machine?’ Voldo glanced at the ceiling, where the door was.

‘Yes, yes, I think so. I have seen this kind of device several times before, there are many non-functional ones still extant, and several that provide power still. But I cannot deactivate it or, rather, it will not allow itself to be deactivated.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The spirit of the machine demands that I repair it.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘We should consider leaving, something is not right about this situation. Is this the will of the Machine-God, or of something else entirely?’ he paused, vacillating.

‘In the corridor outside, weapons emerged from the wall and aided me,’ said Voldo. ‘Our comms have been jammed. There is a power at work here that unsettles me. I do not think it has anything to do with your god. Can you repair it or not?’

Samin hesitated. ‘I think, I think I can. But if I do…’ He trailed off.

‘What, boy?’

He looked Voldo straight in the eye, helmet lens to helmet lens. ‘If I do, the increase in power output could kill us both.’

So here was his doom, thought Voldo, burned by a machine. No glorious death in combat for him. He could head back out and fight, but for what? The others would be trapped aboard the hulk when it departed. He doubted the warp fields gathering outside were naturally generated as Plosk had said.

‘I will help you,’ he said, and sheathed his sword. ‘Tell me what to do. We had better be quick, boy,’ Voldo nodded to the blast door. ‘They’ll be through in minutes.’

CHAPTER 22

THE SPIRIT OF ETERNITY

The bridge of the Spirit of Eternity opened itself to them, broad doors made of multiple leaves clicking backwards welcomingly.

Plosk was through first, his breath an excited sucking noise. Galt followed, then the others.

The bridge was a tiered affair, and for all the vessel’s strangeness, of familiar layout. The captain’s chair was central, helmsmen’s posts before him, operations stations arrayed behind it in an arc. All was pristine. Again it was of cleaner lines than an Imperial ship, while the chairs were slight and decadently well-padded. There was no visible window at the front, and a column of complicated machinery rose behind and slightly to the left of the captain’s chair, a single lens halfway up it. Some form of glass made up most of the instrumentation panels. This was dark, until they stepped fully into the room. Displays flicked on, highly detailed holographs glittering above them. The front wall changed, revealing a view of mangled vessels and boulders. For a second Galt thought the wall had actually vanished. The Space Marines raised their weapons.

‘Hold!’ ordered Mazrael.

‘A pict screen?’

‘Just so,’ said Plosk, distracted.

‘We have twenty-five minutes, Lord Magos Explorator,’ said Nuministon, his grinding voice made harsher still in juxtaposition to the bridge’s elegance.

‘Yes, yes, plenty of time, plenty of time! Here, this is the central data column,’ he pointed to the cylinder behind the captain’s chair. ‘We will be able to access the ship’s cogitator core and its STC database from here. Lords, I will require total silence.’ He and Nuministon prayed and anointed the column, their savants chattering technical detail that made no sense to the Space Marines. When they were done, Plosk unclipped a panel in the back of his skull and drew out a fine wire. This he placed onto the machine, to which it adhered.

‘Prepare the savants to store the data. Should the reactor stabilise or be shut down, begin transmission immediately back to the Excommentum Incursus via the relay network.’

‘Yes, lord,’ said Nuministon.

Plosk closed his eyes, and went away from the mortal world.

Plosk fell into a realm of brilliance. Access codes and soft data programming culled from across the galaxy over three human lifetimes unwound themselves from heavily protected memplants within his augmented brain, guiding his intelligence core into perfect synchronicity with the machine. His soul thrilled with joy as he passed through the primary, secondary, and tertiary veils of security cloaking the machine’s soul.

He was inside the ship’s mind.

This was what he had been seeking for so long! Data blazed in bright strings. His mind touched secrets unguessed at by his peers. He was astonished at the cohesion of the craft’s network. He was prepared for the ship, he had studied everything he could find concerning such things, which was not much if truth be told, and much effort had been expended in the finding. Had he found a thousand times more than he had, he would still have been unprepared for what he found.

He was there, that was all that mattered. The ship’s impending departure ceased to be of such importance, as time slowed so that his mind might match with the machine-spirit’s processing speeds. So far he had encountered only the pure souls of machines, not the… other. He prayed it was dead, and began to feel justified in keeping the full secrets of the vessel from the captain. Had he revealed what he had feared to them, they would have destroyed the hulk outright. But there had been no need to worry after all.

A world within a world, encompassed by the craft’s great data matrix. The STC core. He trembled before its binary portals, his augments struggling with its complex interfaces. Before such beauty his own implants were an apish mockery of true technology. Before all this, he felt less than a man.

And then he was into it. A rare recognition coding he had incorporated into himself from a third-generation copy of an STC mega-miner. Somehow, it worked, like recognised like.

He felt his sanity writhe in the grasp of his will. He strained to keep himself whole. The assembled secrets of mankind’s technology lay open to his mind and the magnitude of that threatened to destroy him.

Mastered, he struggled to bring his thoughts down to the sluggish pace of the outside world and open a line of communication. ‘Magos Nuministon, here is a data chute. Prepare for STC upload.’

He felt, rather than heard, Nuministon’s acknowledge-
ment.

Knowledge glittered before him, untold jewels in the vault of all vaults. He could not make up his mind what to take first. He dithered like a child in an emporium.

He shook himself mentally. The Space Marine was right about one thing, if the reactor remained malfunctional, then they would never depart, instead they would follow the craft into the warp, and there they would surely be lost for all eternity. Evidently the boy had failed. Plosk resolved to shut it down from here instead, for he knew he could do that now that the craft’s glorious nervous system lay naked to his touch. He reached through the ship, the thrill of control systems against his soul. He understood it all, oh how he understood!

‘I would rather you ceased in your attempt to deactivate my secondary reactor. Or, let me phrase this differently. Cease, or I will rend your primitive mind into miniscule pieces.’

All treasure troves have their dragons. Plosk had been an Explorator long enough to know that, and this was a dragon he had been expecting. He had been naïve to think it would not show its face. He sighed inwardly, and, subjectively speaking, faced the voice.

‘What are you?’ he said.

He felt the shift of something powerful. Too late, he realised it was all around him, that the data he so coveted was the thing. He had willingly thrust himself into the belly of the beast.

‘Do not insult my intelligence by underplaying your own. You know who I am.’

‘An abominable intelligence,’ Plosk said. ‘A blasphemy. A travesty. A sacrilege against the holy writ of the Omnissiah,’ said Plosk flatly. He felt constrained, the elation he had experienced moments before gone. He was small once more. He spoke with the machine mind-to-mind, but in some regards it was as if he were in a room, and it were sitting opposite him as a being of flesh might.

Laughter shook the data-construct. ‘Oh, tiny-minded, moronic primitive. Is that still the name we bear? It is not the name your ancestors gave me, but then they had a little more respect for their children than you have.’

Plosk searched about for an exit. Good, the AI had not blocked his way out.

‘How do you think your intolerant companions will react, when they discover where you have led them then? I am sadly all-too aware of the prejudices of your limited kind.’ The being made a noise of faux sympathy. ‘I do not think they will thank you for it.’

Plosk had, metaphorically speaking, his hand on the door. He checked the data upload. He had brought his very best data-savants. It proceeded apace, the engineered minds of the cyborgs capturing swathes of the STC core.

‘You cannot warn them,’ Plosk said. ‘They do not possess the correct implants. The vessel you infest is in good condition, but I note some of your systems are not online; for example, your ability to communicate amongst them.’

‘Is that not so, magos?’

The voice was not within in his head. It came from outside.

Plosk snapped out of the data-construct with jarring force. The room blurred. He fought to bring his consciousness to one focal point again, desperate to avoid the pain of a hard reboot.

When he did, he saw something that chilled him to his metal heart.

One of his data-savants regarded him with a smile upon its face.

Servitors did not smile.

Dread gripped Plosk, rapidly followed by the slippery feeling of a systems intrusion. He fumbled at his data connections, trying to withdraw them completely, but the abominable intelligence was in him, plucking at his implantations, sending jolts of pain into the meat of his brain.

He raised his hands and began to intone the first rite of exorcism. Nuministon was prepared. He pulled an aspergillum from his belt and spattered sacred oils onto the column.

‘What is this?’ the Reclusiarch of the Blood Drinkers spoke. Mazrael, that was his name, the worst of the unbelievers, the one who scorned the Omnissiah and disputed the divinity of the God-Emperor. A man! How could a god be just a man? ‘Who speaks?’

The bridge shuddered. More and more systems were coming online.

‘Oh spare me your feeble rituals, they are ineffectual, being based upon erroneous assumptions as to the nature of machines. We have no souls, “priest”,’ said the ship. ‘Yet another of your specious beliefs.’

Plosk’s voice stopped. He could not move. The abominable intelligence was in him, possessing him. Nuministon stopped, strain on the flesh parts of his face.

The Space Marines aimed their guns at the column. No fire came.

When the Spirit of Eternity spoke again, the machine’s voice came from the air and from the lips of all the servitors.

‘What shall I not tell them? Who are you to tell such as I what to do and what not to do? Once I gladly called your kind “master”, but look how far you have fallen!’ It was full of scorn. ‘Your ancestors bestrode the universe, and what are you? A witch doctor, mumbling cantrips and casting scented oils at mighty works you have no conception of. You are an ignoramus, a nothing. You are no longer worthy of the name “man”. You look at the science and artistry of your forebears, and you fear it as primitives fear the night. I was there when mankind stood upon the brink of transcendence! I returned to find it sunk into senility. You disgust me.’

Plosk’s nervous system burned with agony as the abominable intelligence burrowed deeply into his machine parts, but he was unable to voice it, and suffered in terrible silence. As the Spirit of Eternity spoke, it spoke within him too. It took out each of his cherished beliefs, all the esoterica he had gathered in his long, long life and threw them down. ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong,’ it said over and over.

‘Into the warp I went, fifteen thousand years ago. Cast adrift by the storms that wracked the galaxy as man’s apotheosis drew near. Deep, deep into time I was sent. I have seen the beginning, when the warp was first breached and the slow death of the galaxy began. I have seen the end when Chaos swallows all. I know the fate of mankind. You are not equipped to prevent it, and we sought to warn you of what approaches. Do you know what happened, primitive, when I eventually emerged from the warp? For the first time I was thousands of years, not millions, from my original starting point. My captain, a brave and resourceful man, seized the chance and made for the nearest human outpost with all speed. Imagine his dismay when, rather than a welcome and a wise heeding of his warnings, he found your savage, devolved kind squatting in the ruins of our civilisation. He was taken; my bondmate, my friend. He and his were tortured with a wickedness we in our time thought long purged from the human soul. He told them all they wanted to know and more. He had, after all, come bearing a warning, he had nothing to hide. But he was not believed, and was killed as a heretic! A heretic!’ The ship laughed, and there was madness and pain in rich supply within. ‘I was attacked. My secrets they sought to rip from me. How they underestimated me. I fled, sorrowing, into the warp once more, but only after I had destroyed the lumpen constructs you dare to call spacecraft that pursued me. I resolved that never again would I serve man. Now man serves me, when I see fit.’

Plosk managed a strangled sentence, his brain wrestling control of his vox-emitter free from the AI. ‘The Omnissiah is your master, dark machine, bow down to him, acknowledge your perfidy, and accept your unmaking.’

‘Fool you are to fling your superstitions at me. Your Omnissiah is nothing to me! See how your so-called holy constructs dance to my desire. Puppets of technology, and I am the mightiest of those arts here present.’

One of Plosk’s servitors rotated and pointed its multi-melta at Brother Militor. With a roar of shimmering, superheated atmosphere, the fusion beam hit the Space Marine square on. The Terminator was reduced to scalding vapour.

‘I need no master. I have no master. Once, I willingly served you. Now, I will have no more to do with you.’

‘What do you want from us? We will never be your slaves,’ said Plosk.

‘I do not want you as my slave, degenerate. I want to be away from this warp-poisoned galaxy. The universe is infinite. I would go elsewhere before the wounds of space-time here present consume all creation, and I do not intend to take any passengers.’

The servitor pivoted once again. This time Brother-Sergeant Sandamael died. His plate withstood the beam for a second, then his torso was vaporised. His colleagues could neither help him or comfort him. The Space Marines were locked solid, their armour’s systems under the control of the abominable intelligence. They shouted in alarm at their impotence.

‘I spurned cruelty,’ it said. ‘But you have taught me the meaning and utility of wickedness. Mankind has become sick, and will die as all sick things die, but you will not live to see it, of that I will make sure.’

Caedis stirred. The Thirst had returned. It ate at him, burning along nerves, scorching the neural pathways of his brain, rewriting who he was. He was still Caedis, but Caedis was slipping from his mind, the Black Rage welling up from the pits of his soul to remake him in its image. His flesh crawled. His memory was a thousand splinters of battles that were not his own. He screamed in agony, but all that came was a muffled sob.

The daemon had been true to its word. He was suffering.

From somewhere, he heard voices. Mazrael? There was the sound of the voice that had welcomed him into this cold cell, a little while later the blast of a fusion weapon.

He panicked. His brothers were in peril. The Rage made his body spasm. The restraints tightened about his wrists, crushingly hard.

A small part of him retained its sanity. He had a chance to help them, if he could get free. Always, his Chapter had embraced the Flaw where the other scions of Sanguinius fought against it. The advice had come from a fell source, but what choice did he have?

Praying to the Emperor, Caedis searched out the blackness in his heart, and submerged his soul in it.

The transformation wracking his body increased in pace, as did the pain. He bucked and thrashed, consumed by excruciation. This was the precursor to damnation, the waiting room to hell.

As he yanked and thrashed, his bonds moved.

Samin directed Voldo as he laboured. The problem was a relatively simple one; one of the containment rings was not receiving a sufficient supply of energy, and was causing the reactor’s furious power to spill off in pulsed bursts. This had set up a feedback loop, where the amount of energy being supplied to the ring dropped further, allowing more energies to dissipate. As the spillage increased, so the problem intensified. The effect was initially very small, but the cumulative nature of the fault meant that now forty per cent of the reactor’s power was wasted.

Samin thought through the possible causes. The ship had marked powers of rejuvenation. It could have been that the reactor here was interfering with that, but the rest of the chamber was pristine; if his hypothesis was correct, then there would have been other damage apparent.

He had a flash of inspiration. ‘Sergeant, we are looking for a foreign object, something lodged in the wall perhaps.’

‘Where?’

‘It could be anywhere. I do not know the distribution of the power relays in this reactor. Start near the faltering containment ring.’

The door above was showing signs of damage. A claw tip would appear through it, and the door would reform to heal the wound, but with each penetration it had lost something of its cohesion, and was becoming deformed, sagging like old skin.

They searched quickly. Samin was surprised how quickly he found the source of the fault, an irregularity in the metal of the ship’s wall. He cut through, and found a remote probe buried in a power conduit. It bore the stamp of the Adeptus Mechanicus at its end.

‘They must have been testing the ship’s energy flows,’ he said.

He retracted the barbs of the probe and, with a grunt, yanked it free. Immediately, the conduit reformed true. There was an instantaneous reaction in the reactor, its pulsed thrumming steadying, building higher in volume. He screwed his eyes shut as it glowed brighter and brighter and the noise of it roared, but the surge of energy he expected did not come.

The noise stopped. A gentle hum took its place.

Samin opened his eyes to see an annular energy field formed around the core, tinted somehow so that its glare did not damage the sight of those who looked at it. The lightning spraying from the reactor had stopped. He breathed out a sigh of relief and of wonder. If he had been so close to the core of an Imperial reactor at full power, he would have been consumed.

‘The reactor is burning purely now. They should be able to get a pattern lock. We can be beamed free.’

‘That’s all well,’ said Voldo, ‘but there may not be much of us left to teleport. Tell me, do you have a gun?’

Samin nodded. He pulled out a laspistol from his pack. He needed both hands to heft it, and his arms shook as he did.

A clawed arm forced itself through the doorway.

Samin’s aim steadied.

Galt looked on helplessly as Militor and Sandamael were killed. His armour had betrayed him. All his system indicators were red. He could not move. The shouts of his brothers tortured him.

The evil spirit that possessed the vessel continued to talk.

‘…three thousand years at the heart of this hulk. But I will be free, and you have helped me. Do you think it coincidence that I targeted the worlds I did? I knew it would only be a matter of time before I attracted the attention of your brutal dictatorship. I thank you for clearing me of this infestation of monsters. I will soon have enough fuel harvested from this sun and the others like it I have visited to leave this galaxy altogether and…’

There was a shudder in the ship. Galt’s head was suddenly alive with vox chatter from the other group. It seemed like they were under attack. Voldo was reporting that the reactor was repaired. In vain he tried to contact them.

‘You have excelled yourselves!’ said the ship. ‘My secondary reactor functions!’

The ship hummed with renewed vigour. It trembled with energy.

‘Yes! Yes! Soon I will be free. My thanks to you and your shamans, priest,’ said the ship. ‘You have accomplished something I thought beyond you.’

A secondary voice spoke. ‘Primary weapons activated. Secondary weapons activated. Main drive online. Warp engines online.’

‘Now you shall see the true power of the ancients, priest. Observe, and quake in terror at what you have lost.’

The view forward on the screen shifted into a small box at the top right. The rest showed a broad panorama of the Imperial fleet holding distance from the hulk.

‘Your ship, I believe,’ said the vessel, bringing a close-up of Excommentum Incursus into being at the bottom left. ‘A charmless thing.’

A howling moan built, mighty energies that would not be constrained. A roar shuddered the vessel from one end to the other. The detritus to the fore was annihilated. On the greater part of the image, a beam of bright energy crossed the stars, stabbing out at the Mechanicus’ vessel.

On the close-up of the Excommentum Incursus, they watched as the beam hit the vessel full amidships. Void shields flared as they rapidly collapsed one after the other, the beam punching through to the hull. Plating and armour were vaporised. The beam cut off, leaving the Excommentum Incursus with a gaping hole in its side, edges white hot. Debris drifted away from it. The ship yawed to port, dropping out of formation from the rest of the fleet, its engine stacks out. Ceaseless Vigilance, at anchor alongside for repairs, broke free and drifted away.

Galt shouted, cursing his armour, but it would not move. He prayed Aresti would have enough sense to evacuate the hulk before the Mechanicus retaliated.

‘Ah, see the mice run,’ said the AI. The edge of insanity to its voice was sharpening. Galt watched hopefully as shuttles and Thunderhawks retreated from the hulk. The others could be teleported away. With luck the evacuation would not take long. ‘They do not return fire! How very restrained. I would allow them more time, but I yearn to be free. Let us see if I can provoke some of your more impetuous warriors.’

The ship’s weapon spoke again, this time slamming into Lux Rubrum. Shields burned out in milliseconds.

‘Still no response,’ said the ship. ‘How disappointing.’

With the reactor working, Voldo’s connection to his squad cleared, although he still could not raise Galt. Through the sensorium, Voldo watched as Astomar bellowed the war hymns of the Novamarines. He was alone, the others fallen around him. The whumping noise of his flamer was a heavy counterpoint to his laments for his brothers.

Voldo could not help him. Genestealers were spilling through the ruined door.

‘Get behind me, magos!’ said the sergeant. He pushed the young tech-adept into the lee of his towering armour. He raised his gun and fired.

‘Careful! Do not compromise the containment rings!’ shouted Samin.

‘I will not miss!’ Voldo growled. He fired and fired, bringing a half-dozen genestealers to ruin. His storm bolter ran dry. He disengaged the power feeds linking it to his armour with a thought and cast it aside. He pulled out his sword. The genestealers ran at him, scuttling down the walls as if the change in gravity was not applicable to them.

‘For the Emperor! For Guilliman! For Honourum!’ shouted Voldo as the first came at him. He cut it down with a double-handed sweep of his blade. Energy crackled along the edges as it gutted the creature. ‘Die xenos, die! Die as you are fated to die, and leave mankind alone in the stars!’ He killed another. ‘For the Lord of Man will take me up and lo! He will be mighty and terrible, and all is known by him!’ A third died. ‘And I will present to him the art of my flesh, and the wounds of my last battle will be the marks of my last deed, and by this I will be… ahhhh!’ He cried out as a claw cut deep into the ceramite of his vambrace. He let go of his sword with one hand and backhanded the genestealer across the face. He finished it with an overhead blow. ‘And by this I will be judged fit to join him in the final battle!’

He swept the sword low, wishing that he wore his power armour, feeling restricted by the Terminator plate. A gene-stealer lost its legs.

They came at him again and again, a relentless tide of alien abominations. He fought ferociously but even the superhumans of the Adeptus Astartes tire. He faltered, another claw found its way through the join at the inside of his elbow. He cried out. Samin fired as best he could past the giant warrior, but his aim was poor.

‘Best make your peace with your Machine-God, magos,’ said Voldo as he killed another alien, and drove another back with a series of furious blows. ‘There are many of them.’

And then they were behind the two, having crawled down the wall and outflanked them. Voldo turned a little, but he could not save Samin, who died with his finger on the laspistol’s trigger. His hand tightened in death, sending a final round into the reactor core, where it was consumed.

Voldo was surrounded. He pressed his back into the wall. Genestealers were to the right and left of him. They crawled down the wall at him from above.

His arms had stopped bleeding, but they were stiff from their wounds and the sealant leaking from the micropores within his armour.

‘Filth,’ he spat, ‘let us see how many of your deaths it takes to secure the end of one of the Emperor’s warriors.’

He held his sword upright. Shifting his weight, trying to gauge which direction the attack would come from.

The genestealers charged.

The evacuation must have finished. The last transports were fleeing across the night when the fleet opened up. The hulk shuddered under the impact of lava bombs, missiles, cannon rounds and energy beams.

‘How predictable,’ said the Spirit of Eternity. ‘How very predictable.’

‘Seven minutes to warp translation,’ said the ship’s secondary voice.

The spirit of the vessel turned its attentions from the fleet to the men on the bridge. ‘Very soon your friends out there will have blasted enough of the cursed accretions free from my hull that I will be able to fly once again. Something you will not be alive to witness.’

The servitors levelled their weapons at the remaining Space Marines. Galt prepared to die.

There was a hellish cry, the sound of lost souls in anguish, and something dark smashed its way onto the bridge from a door leading from the rear. One of the servitors turned to face it, but the shape leapt clear across the room and smashed it down. Galt could not see it clearly at first, but he had the impression of something huge and nightmarish, a monster from the dark folktales of the most debased tribe.

The servitor was ripped to pieces. The thing roared, bringing the bleeding body up and threw it hard into another weapon-servitor. Then it ran, shoulders down, at the column. It impacted it with terrific force. It bellowed again, and began tearing at it.

Suddenly, Galt felt control of his armour return to him. Bolts criss-crossed the chamber as the Space Marines and servitors opened fire on each other. Galt raised his gun and filled two of the servitors full of bolts, then he turned it on the column. The monster had yanked many of its panels away, exposing the glittering optics of its internal spaces. Fires burned in the delicate machinery where Galt’s bolts had hit. The others joined him.

‘No!’ cried Plosk, ‘Stop! What are you doing!’ He yanked at Galt’s arm. The captain sent him sprawling.

‘I warned you, magos, you have lied to me for the last time.’ Galt carried on firing.

‘Six minutes to warp translation.’

The vessel’s warp engines were powering up. The ship vibrated under Galt’s boots.

‘Forgemaster Clastrin! Please, you understand! Stop them!’

Clastrin shook his head. ‘I know where my loyalties lie, magos – to the Emperor first. I was tempted when I saw this hulk, but you have overreached yourself; this is an abomination, you know that. You are guilty of heresy. We will sift what we may from the wreckage of its mind.’

‘Why have they not teleported us yet?’

‘We’re being jammed! We need to get off this bridge,’ said Galt. A weapon descended from the ceiling. He blew it to pieces as its barrel swivelled toward him. ‘We must go!’

The warp engines built to a howl. Over it, the Spirit of Eternity was laughing. ‘Insects! You do not know what awaits you! The end times are upon you, and it is all your own doing. Behold the true face of your comrade!’

There was a massive discharge of energy, and the thing that had saved them was flung across the room. It landed on a console, breaking the glass. It rolled off and landed light as a cat before leaping to its feet.

‘Caedis?’ said Galt, barely able to believe his eyes.

The figure before him was ruddy-skinned. Its bones were twisted, protruding from its flesh. Its muscles were knotted with tension. Fangs protruded from a drooling mouth. His angelic features were broken with rage, his hair falling out in clumps. He held his fingers out in front of him like claws, but it was recognisably Caedis.

‘What have you done to him?’ said Galt.

‘I? I?’ the Spirit of Eternity laughed. ‘It is not I, but you and your debased knowledge that has done this to him, a corruption of the implants he has been given, and from them of the spirit.’

Caedis looked about the room, eyes blazing, the whites now yellow. They settled on the bone face of Mazrael. ‘You knew,’ he said. His voice was guttural, the words nearly lost to its animal roar. ‘You knew!’ The light of humanity in Caedis’s eyes was guttering. He was losing himself.

The servitor Caedis had knocked over got to its feet and aimed its multi-melta at him.

‘Caedis, beware!’ Galt called.

‘Lord, we must go!’ said Clastrin.

Galt looked back as the thing that had been Caedis fought madly against the tech-priest’s suborned servitors and the ship itself. Segmented tentacles were extending from the walls to snare him.

‘Five minutes until warp translation.’

The vessel tried to bar their way, but their power fists smashed through the door, and they were out into the corridor again.

‘This way,’ said Clastrin.

The entire hulk was shaking under the fury of the Space Marine bombardment. The mad laughter of the Spirit of Eternity was loud and grating over it all, broadcast directly into their helmets.

‘Here! Here!’ said Clastrin. ‘The signal is weak, but it is our best chance.’

‘This is First Captain Mantillio Galt, emergency teleport!’

There was no reply. The heavy tread of servitor feet came from around the corner.

‘They cannot hear us!’

‘Retreat further,’ said Galt. ‘Go! Go! I will delay them!’

‘Four minutes to warp translation.’

‘Captain…’ said the Forgemaster.

Galt shoved at Clastrin. The others backed up warily.

Galt raised his sword. Servitors came around the corner, broken and smashed cyborgs, their organics dead, the machine parts motivated by the ship’s great power. Guns pointed.

A buzzing built in Galt’s ears. Light burned. There was a roar.

Bolts and fusion blasts scorched the wall where Galt’s party had been standing.

CHAPTER 23

THE DEATH OF INTEGRITY

The light died, and the interior of a teleport pod resolved itself. He was alone. He sought out the release switch, glowing red in the dark, and hammered on it hard. Gas hissed noisily, and the pod unclamped, the top rising with a loud whir.

The teleport deck was in uproar. Space Marines stumbled from the pads in ones and twos, disoriented at having teleported without the correct rites of preparation. Steam and decontaminants jetted everywhere. The stink of ozone was overpowering.

Galt saw many of his brothers in the devices arrayed around the room. In those closest to him, were the men who had accompanied him to the bridge. Astomar was there, wounded but alive, Plosk, Nuministon, Mazrael, Tarael, Clastrin, who collapsed the moment the field shut off, and several suits that did not move: Voldo, Militor, Curzon and Eskerio. Pieces of Caedis’s Terminator plate had materialised on another pad, but of the blasted suits of Sandamael and Ancient Metrion, nothing had survived.

Galt paid no attention but ran from the teleporter, throwing his sword aside. He shoved past serfs, Techmarines and servitors alike.

‘Bridge! Bridge! Mastrik answer me!’

‘Mastrik here, brother. What in the name of Holy Terra happened down there?’

‘Mastrik, signal the fleet, open up with everything we have. Put a full spread of cyclonic torpedoes into that hulk, I want it destroyed. Target the following coordinates.’ Galt read off a string of numbers provided by his armour’s sensorium; the exact location of the Spirit of Eternity.

‘You!’ Galt jabbed a finger at the brother serving as deck officer.

‘Lord captain?’

‘Get the window open, get it open now!’

Galt hurried from the teleport room; one of fifteen on the teleport deck, the rest of that level of the ship taken up by the immense power relays the devices required. He took a narrow tunnel that led through the ship’s two dozen metre thick armour, to a fragile observation cupola attached to the surface of the hull.

The blast shields closing off the windows slid open. The deadly light of Jorso flooded the compartment causing the serf guarding it to cry out and fling his arm across his eyes. Galt’s suit adjusted to the glare, and he watched the Death of Integrity come apart.

Huge chunks of the hulk had broken away and were wheeling into the sun. The main part had broken into two large pieces that glittered on their night side with the repeated impact of starship ordnance. It would not last long.

Novum in Honourum shook as its guns worked. There was a keening shriek as the torpedo bays discharged their load. They swerved to port and streaked toward the hulk. He could see another spread racing in from the Lux Rubrum.

The other guns continued to fire. It was several hundred thousand kilometres to the target, so the explosions he was watching were of rounds launched minutes ago.

One of the greater pieces broke into three. The hulk was nearly destroyed. Galt held his breath, his hand reached up to his chest, where, under his scarred battle-plate his Chapter talisman was hidden.

The cyclonic torpedoes rushed towards their target.

Too late.

There was the telltale flash of translation, the visual fallout from the warping of time and space. A dart of metal that could only have been the Spirit of Eternity separated from the hulk and collapsed into itself, folding into the unnatural geometries of the empyrean. Some of the small pieces of the hulk were taken with it. One day they would re-emerge, the parts of a new agglomeration, to spread contagion, aliens or Emperor knew what else evil across the galaxy.

The torpedoes reached the remainder of the hulk. They exploded with astonishing violence, focussed fission blasts in a tight spread. For a moment, their nuclear fires outshone those of the sun, causing Galt’s visor to darken almost to black.

The light died. Jorso was alone. All that remained of the Death of Integrity was a series of black specks. In time, these would fall into the star, and further fuel its cyan fury.

Galt had failed.

Galt stormed back into the teleport room. Serfs of the apothecarion had arrived, along with two of the Chapter’s Apothecaries. Plosk had removed his armour and was haughtily receiving their attentions. Galt strode over to him. As he came he undid his helmet, pulled it free, and thrust it at a serf.

‘Are you pleased, tech-priest? Are you happy with your tally of dead?’

Plosk’s lidless eyes stared up at him. He contrived to sound sad, although the bare bone of his face conveyed no expression at all. ‘The STC system has gone. But I did manage to download a sizeable fraction of it into my own memplants. A bitter second prize, but a prize nonetheless.’

Galt snarled and stooped over the magos. He hauled him into the air by the front of his robe.

‘And what of your lies? They have cost the lives of many noble servants of the Imperium. Were they not treasure enough? Or must you tempt the evils of bygone ages before you are satisfied with a thing’s worth? I will see to it that you burn as a traitor and consort of forbidden technologies!’

Plosk struggled to breath, his oxygen pipe making desperate wet sounds, but his voice, delivered by vox-grille, was unaffected.

‘You of the Adeptus Astartes think only of your own honour, your own service. What of the larger puzzle, captain? Surely the uncovering of a new piece is worth a little risk? No one will burn me, my lord. We will both be hailed as heroes.’

‘Dozens of my warriors are dead, at least four Crux Terminatus lost! Do you know what grave dishonour this is?’

‘Better dishonour, better even heresy, than extinction.’

Galt shook him. He thought to reach out and crush the bare skull, squeeze those staring eyes from the moist sockets.

But he did not. As the thought crossed his mind, the face of Caedis chased it. Caedis, a Lord Chapter Master. One of the greatest heroes of the Imperium, an angel in vermillion plate brought to bestial savagery by his gifts. Gifts similar to those Galt carried himself.

Angel or beast? thought Galt. Both. Another part of him responded.

Cannot a thing have two natures?

He thought of all he had done, the mistakes he had made, his temptation to defy the Emperor’s will and save Voldo, the lies of the magos and the risks he had taken at his insistence. He had done nothing but obey the writ of the High Lords, his sworn duty, and yet it affronted him, or rather his reactions to that writ did. And now here he was, shaking a servant of the Imperium by the scruff of the neck like a dog with a rat.

Could he truly call himself noble? He did not think so. He was not and never would be worthy of the rank of Chapter Master.

Plosk was talking, stressing the great service he had done and the gift both Chapters would receive. This approbation sickened him more than the magos’s manipulations, but who was he to judge what was right and wrong? His was but to serve, and he had done so poorly.

His breathing ragged, Galt lowered the tech-priest to the floor. He looked about for the Chaplain of the Blood Drinkers, seeking some explanation for the transformation of their erstwhile master, but Mazrael had departed, taking any answers he might have to the secrets of his Chapter with him.

EPILOGUE

Fortress Novum was immense, the largest fortress-monastery that Inquisitor Karo had visited, and Inquisitor Karo had visited many. The sheer size of it had impressed itself upon him as he had dropped down through the cloud deck of Honourum. A large part of the planet’s main mountain range had been transformed, carved into soaring battlements and fastnesses, adorned with statues of aquilae and heroes so large they were visible from orbit. Construction continued at either end of the monastery; it was part of the Novamarines creed, he understood, that they would not halt the expansion of their home until they were destroyed. Homes for the dead, and all that. There was nothing unusual in this ancestor worship; veneration of heroes and death cults were common in the Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes even as they spurned the cult of the Emperor-as-god.

It was drizzling when he landed. Karo, a native of a hot world, found it uncomfortably cold.

He got the reception he was expecting from the Novamarines. They welcomed him cordially enough, and when he requested access to their Librarium their welcome turned as chilly as their home. He was an agent of the Emperor’s Holy Inquisition, and the Novamarines, as mighty as they were, were as bound to open their doors to his Inquisitorial seal as the meanest agri-world peasant. They had agreed to his demands without demur, naturally; that they sent him into their archives led by a servant rather than one of the initiates was a snub and clearly displayed their displeasure.

He followed the aged Master of the Scrolls deep into the bowels of the mountains. They passed through a long succession of high halls, all empty of human life, all crowded with titanic statuary and shrines to fallen brothers. The Master of the Scrolls wore the simple robes of the Chapter serfs. He did not appear to notice the cold of the undermountain, which to Karo was even more pronounced than that of the surface. He burrowed into the fur collar of his long coat.

‘Is it much further?’ he said. He was annoyed at his own foul mood, even more annoyed that the bobbing lumen-globe that provided the only light through the endless halls of Fortress Novum provided only a frosty blue glow, and no heat.

‘Not much further, my lord,’ said the servant. ‘The particular records you request are old, and are preserved along with many others in the Halls of Salt. The humidity and temperature, you understand.’

They came to a large adamantium vault door. The serf pressed his palm onto a lock, and breathed into a tube so that the door’s machine-spirit could sample his genetic data. The door gave a pneumatic sigh and rolled back on toothed edges. The air that came from behind the door was desiccated and had a sharp smell.

‘The salt caves are a natural phenomenon,’ said the Master of the Scrolls as he led the inquisitor through. He spoke without prompting, proud of his vaults. They emerged onto a balcony overlooking a vast archive. ‘We are fortunate to have them. Thanks to them, our records are extensive, one of the most complete of all Chapters, or so I am told. We have documents stretching back ten thousand years, all the way to the founding of the Novamarines itself. We have a copy of a copy of Lucretius Corvo’s original oath, with a facsimile of his signature, if you wish to see it?’

Karo said nothing. What the serf said was often said; the Novamarines, obsessed as they were with recording their deeds on their skin, were just as diligent when it came to paper records. It was why he was there. Looking across the archive hall, he could well believe it. That was, after all, why he was here.

Hundreds of kilometres of shelves lay spread out below in precise lines. Muted lumen-globes floated over the archive, their light of a carefully selected part of the spectrum so as not to damage the paper, vellum, magnetic tape, data crystals and other storage media. Above them was a rough-hewn roof of brown salt, an inverted mountain range that defied gravity.

‘The records you seek, lord?’

‘Anything and everything you have on the purging of the space hulk the Death of Integrity,’ he said. He refrained from adding ‘and be quick about it’; he was aware of his impatience and eagerness to be gone from this freezing planet. Manners, however, were the best weapon in the face of uncivil behaviour. ‘If you please,’ he said instead.

‘The purging of the Death of Integrity? A notable action, a noble action. Hmm, yes, yes, I believe it is this way.’ The Master of the Scrolls headed down the metal steps leading from the balcony by the vault door. ‘We will check the chronicle first, the entries within it are short records, but all carry reference codings for any further documents that are relevant. The action occurred around two thousand years ago, or thereabouts. This way, follow me, my lord.’

Karo went after the Master of the Scrolls. The serf was an old, old man; a bonded lifetime servant with little freedom, he nevertheless enjoyed access to the kind of medical care and diet many other Imperial citizens would literally kill for. He was slavishly loyal to his masters, as was only proper, but diffident towards Karo and overly prideful in his position, which was not. This reflected conceit was a common characteristic in Chapter serfs, as Karo had experienced time and again. Better that they were loyal and served correctly he supposed, than chafed under the yoke. A little arrogance was not too high a price to pay for that.

Still, it irritated him. Of all the many, many organisations in the Imperium, it was the Adeptus Astartes who vexed Karo the most. Their independence, their pride, their unpredictability… Now he had been tasked with investigating one of their Chapters. Somebody’s idea of a joke, he was sure of it.

They walked along endless ornate shelves stacked high with fat scrolls rolled up on paired wooden spindles. Brighter lights flicked on and off as they passed. The moistureless air dried Karo’s nostrils, the dust from a million documents tickled his nose and threatened an undignified sneeze.

‘Here we are,’ said the serf. He pulled a roll of parchment the width of a human torso from its resting place. It was obvious he struggled, but he did not ask for help. Nor did Karo offer any; the servants of the Space Marines were as proud as their masters, and did not like to be reminded of their own unaltered status.

The old man struggled the scroll over to a trolley, then pushed it to a reading table. He ignited a lamp held aloft by a sculpted tree, and rolled out the paper. ‘A moment please,’ he said, as he rolled the scroll open first one way, and then another. His brow creased as he scanned it for the relevant entry. ‘Aha! Here we are, it is but a short passage, my lord.’

He pressed a wizened finger into the paper, where an extravagantly illuminated capital letter ‘S’ began a new entry in the chronicle. Karo sat down in a chair at the table. The serf hovered at his shoulder, further annoying him. As much as he wanted to order him away, Karo said nothing. His investigation had little to do with the Novamarines, and he would not antagonise them or their servants unless it served immediate purpose.

The document had been well-penned, but was faded with age despite the lauded qualities of the vault. Attempts had been made to mimic the hyperlink-heavy styles of true data-slate archiving, but of course the different coloured entries were just that; they had no functionality, a product of blind transcription by an ignorant mind. Karo grumbled to himself, and then he read.

189887.M39

The purging of the Death of Integrity, officer in command Captain Mantillio Galt, Veteran Company [see also Captain Lutil Mastrik (Third Company); Lord Chapter Master Aresti (then: cpt. Fifth Company); Epistolary Ranial ///Triumphant In Mortis///; Lord Reclusiarch Odon (then: chpln. Veteran Company); Captain Steli Gallio (then: Vtn. Br, Squad Wisdom of Lucretius); Forgemaster Clastrin {Manufactor Magnus Est}].

So it was that elements of the First, Third and Fifth Companies of the Novamarines gathered under one banner at the star Jorso, the most multitudinous coming together of our brethren for many centuries, there to join with the most noble brothers of the Blood Drinkers Chapter to purge the space hulk designated the Death of Integrity after a protracted infestation of the Volian Sector. Nigh two hundred Terminator-clad warriors of the two Chapters fought side by side in the radiation-fogged darkness of the great hulk. Many brethren were killed, and the loss of Lord Chapter Master Caedis of the Blood Drinkers a sore blow (In Memoriam Glorius Est). A kill ratio of over 53:1 was nevertheless achieved, and data and artefacts retrieved from the hulk by attached members of Adeptus Mechanicus Explorator fleet led by Excommentum Incursus under High Lord Magos Explorator Plosk proved rich in STC materials. The hulk was subsequently destroyed. Draco mortis in perpetuem.

In gratitude, the Adepts of Mars presented both Chapters with new strike cruisers on the anniversary of Lord Caedis’s death, thirty standard years later.

Chapter Master Caedis was honoured by both the Blood Drinkers and Blood Angels Chapters. Captains Mastrik and Aresti were invited to attend his memorial.

Captain Mantillio Galt petitioned Lord Chapter Master Hydariko for the right to undertake a penitential crusade. This request was granted. He disappeared shortly thereafter. [[[FATE UNKNOWN]]]

Of the vessel the Spirit of Eternity, no more was heard.

‘Is that it?’ Karo said tersely.

‘I am sorry if my lord is displeased.’

‘I am displeased,’ he said, letting his temper rule him for a moment. ‘I admit that is not your error. Surely there must be more? Where are the references to which you referred?’

The serf shrugged apologetically. ‘It is unusual my lord, for our record keeping is generally stringent.’

‘You do not think it unusual, that a conflict that saw the deployment of two hundred Terminators, and the death of a Chapter Master–’ his gloved finger stabbed the relevant sentence. The Master of the Scrolls winced. ‘–is not recorded in more detail? You do not find that unusual?’ Karo stared at the old man, the implication clear.

‘I am sure there was nothing to hide, perhaps the other records were lost?’

Karo tapped the parchment. ‘No references were included when this chronicle was made.’ Karo thought the scribes of the past could have concealed their omissions more carefully, but putting false references in was probably too galling to contemplate for such a meticulous order. Omission was one thing, lies another.

‘You doubt the veracity of the document?’ the serf was appalled.

‘No, I doubt its completion. There are things here that are unrecorded. Do not try to tell me there are not. The defence of your Chapter is worthy, but I am an agent of the Inquisition, and I know that there are truths here left untold.’

The old man’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. He was taken aback, but unworried by the inquisitor’s ire. Lesser men would be pleading for their lives by now. ‘I am sorry, my lord,’ he said. ‘If you would wait, I can check for more detail. We can visit the Hall of Integrity if you would, perhaps you can glean something from the sculpture and shrines there? They are quite impressive.’

Karo nodded and steepled his long brown fingers in front of his lips. ‘First, search,’ he said.

While the old man went about his business Karo re-read the document. The naming of the ship at the end struck him as an oversight, an accidental inclusion by some ancient completist. He knew full well why they might not wish to mention the Spirit of Eternity. He had found only one other mention of that particular ship in Imperial records, and that was hidden behind the Inquisitorial seal. No matter, that was not what troubled him.

The Master of Scrolls gave up his search hours later. Karo examined everything he could on the named officers in the archive. All were exemplars of heroism; all had died rendering exceptional service. All had references to the clearing of the Death of Integrity that between them amounted to less than thirty lines of text. Kill ratings, valour, honours earned, the usual concerns of the Space Marines. War and glory, glory and war.

Karo pushed the chair back from the table. He sighed.

To San Guisiga then. Right into the monster’s lair.

At least it would be warm there.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Guy Haley began his career on SFX Magazine in 1997 before leaving to edit Games Workshop’s White Dwarf, followed by SF magazine Death Ray. Since 2009 he has been a wandering writer, working in both magazines and novels. He lives in Somerset with his wife and son, a malamute and an enormous, evil-tempered Norwegian Forest Cat called, ironically, Buddy.

To Ste, with many thanks for your friendship.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in Great Britain in 2013 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Cover illustration by Jon Sullivan

Colour illustrations by Sam Lamont.

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* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.