‘Our numbers are grown thin,’ Tyberos’ voice rasped, and there was a whir of servos and a scrape of metal against stone as he shifted slightly. ‘Too thin, now, to be replenished by the Red Tithes. Our casualties from the War in the Deeps mount at a rate that cannot be replaced, not without compromising the induction processes or dedicating extra companies to the tithes. Those are companies that we cannot afford to redeploy. Without intervention, we face extinction.’
‘I have failed the Chapter–’ Sharr began.
‘You have not, Reaper Prime,’ Tyberos said before he could continue. ‘The void brotherhood has entered a period of conflict more intense than any in the past five centuries. Our genetic difficulties have ensured that our combat operations have become unsustainable. That, rather than your abilities as master of the Red Tithe, is the primary cause of the danger we now face.’
There was no comfort in the cold words, no condemnation either. Such things did not concern the Red Wake. Sharr remained silent. He had held the role of Third Company captain for a decade – not long in the context of most Primes’ service – and had overseen two Red Tithes, the expeditions mounted by the nomadic Chapter to replenish their stock of both void brethren recruits and serf-slaves. While not outright failures, neither had matched Akamu’s Grey Tithes – conducted to replenish the Chapter’s stocks of materiel – and nor were they enough to replenish ranks flayed by incessant deep-void actions against the hive fleets.
‘You will conduct a new reaping, Bail Sharr,’ Tyberos said. ‘But this one will be unlike the last two you have embarked upon. Korro and a squad from the First Company will accompany you, as will Te Kahurangi and his novice.’
‘As you wish, lord,’ Sharr said, casting a glance at one of the two Red Brethren Terminators – Korro – who flanked the throne. ‘Where would you have the Third Company go?’
‘These times require measures we would not normally countenance,’ Tyberos said. ‘The Chapter’s need for fresh, worthy recruits demands we exploit every resource. You will take your fleet and your company, Reaper Prime, and chart a course for the Ghoul Stars. You will return to the world of Atargatis Prime, and once there you will renew the Carcharodon Astra’s pact with the Ashen Claws.’
+ + Astropathic decryption analysis complete + + +
+ + Date stamp, 2008885.M41 + + +
+ + Opening transcript + + +
Salutations, Brother Nzogwu,
It has been too long since I last sent word of our joint undertaking, and for that I can only apologise. Work in the Kelebari subsector continues apace – the secessionist ‘government’ has still not yielded to Grand Marshal Vokk’s battlegroup, despite his scouring of Clandor.
Even with my resources stretched here I have not forgotten the work we have both dedicated ourselves to, and parts of my retinue continue the search. It gives me great gratification to report that one of my operatives embedded with the Administratum cohort on Damara has come across archival reports detailing what I believe to be evidence of the possible renegades we have been tracking [activate to view sub-file A].
As you will see, the evidence relates to frescos and bas-relief panelling on the cemetery world of Hypasitis [activate to view sector code and astro-cartographae coordinates]. Actual picts of the work are sparse and incomplete, but cross referencing with Hypasitis’ history [activate to view sub-file B] strongly implies the involvement of unidentified Adeptus Astartes during the so-called Ghost War of late M37.
Members of my retinue are in contact with a mortuary-archivist on Hypasitis by the name of Dolorous Sozel. He appears to be the current living expert on the frescos I have enclosed. I have already despatched a liaison operative to make contact with him. If you were to do the same, the pooling of our resources would offer the best chance of picking up the trail once more.
I have attached a data burst containing information on Hypasitis and the histories of the Ghost War [activate to view sub-file C]. I look forward to your response.
May the light of the immortal God-Emperor illuminate the Outer Dark that hides our foes, and bring them to the swift and righteous judgement of the Holy Inquisition.
Yours faithfully,
Legate Inquisitor Augustus Frain + + +
+ + Transcript ends + + +
_________ Chapter II
The nightmare saved her life. Without it she would have been asleep when the killers came for her in the bed granted by the High Karnid’s son. As it was she had already risen, donned a shirt and running shorts, and was dousing her face in the bathroom sink when the window smashed inwards.
She went for her shotgun. The weapon’s blast sent Damar starting from the sheets and flung the first would-be assassin back out of the window he had been clambering through. She wracked the heavy Vox Legi’s slide and turned it on the second masked man as he burst in through the auto-door. A spray of hard rounds from the attacker’s autorifle blew chunks of plaster from the ornate ceiling as he was punched back, blood splattering the plush white vectornid rug underfoot.
‘Up!’ she snapped at Damar, not looking around as she chambered another cartridge. Something moved in the doorway, so she shot it again. Damar had finally located his laspistol and was tugging on his combat fatigues at the same time as he tried to get his vox-earpiece in.
‘Seriously?’ she demanded, before another burst of fire lacerated the window and sent them both ducking beneath the frame. This shooter was packing bulk – the heavy-calibre rounds punched through the external wall facing the street, spraying them both with debris and blasting feather stuffing from the bed in sudden, soft white clouds.
‘Avatar, this is Imperious,’ Damar was shouting into his vox-mic as another salvo shattered the lumen orb on the far wall and riddled an expensive landscape print of the Atavian foothills. ‘We’re under attack, for Throne’s sake. Multiple shooters. Where the hell is Tibalt?’
Whatever the response was, Damar’s partner didn’t hear it. She was moving, taking advantage of the brief seconds between bursts as the shooter reoriented himself. She scrambled through the apartment door, clad in her running gear, shotgun in hand, vaulting the black-masked corpses of the two attackers who had attempted forced entry. Before her was a long, elegant corridor lined with guest apartments. Doors banged and locks clicked as she sprinted past, the accommodation complex’s other residents clearly deciding it was far too early to get caught up in a dawn shootout.
The fire exit at the end of the corridor was open – doubtless it had been the entry point for their attackers. She raced through it and down the narrow stair frame beyond, feet cold on the bare metal. Outside the night was balmy, dawn’s first hints hidden by the buzzing of street lights and neon advertisement boards. She ran through the alleyway below the emergency exit, dodging around spilled rubbish bags, head down, heart racing, skin slicked with cold night sweat. The thudding report of an autocannon echoed along the otherwise silent street, the flash of the weapon’s discharge reflecting back from the silver surfaces of idle tram haulers and storefront windows. The cannon was set up beside a second storey window directly across from the guest complex. It would be a Throne-blessed miracle if Damar wasn’t already riddled with holes.
The ground floor of the shooter’s nest was a patisserie. Its front door was locked. She waited until the next burst of shots, then blew the entrance in with a point-blank shotgun blast. Light from the street illuminated a polished, rustwood counter and shelves of glass containing delicate swirls of confectionery. A door at the back led to a dingy internal stairwell, its wall paint flaking and its sickly yellow lumen flickering. She took the stairs three at a time, panting, the now-muffled sound of the autocannon echoing down to her.
‘Stop!’ The voice brought her up short just before the second landing. A man in brown combat fatigues and the same style of woollen mask worn by the other attackers was staring down at her, autogun in one hand. She didn’t give him a cha
nce to recover from his shock. She jammed the muzzle of her shotgun into the man’s stomach, doubling him up before he could bring his rifle to bear. He grunted, a gloved hand going out to snatch her, but it slipped on her slack shirt. She grabbed hold of his collar before he could right himself and, with a yell, flung him down the stairwell. The autogun flew from the man’s grip as he went down with a series of violent thumps. She didn’t pause to see if he was still conscious when he hit the bottom. The second floor exit above was open. It only took a moment for her to locate the room being used by the shooter in the corridor beyond. She caved the door in with the heavy butt of the Vox Legi.
There were two men in the apartment, masked like their brethren, one feeding a belt into the autocannon being fired by the second from its window tripod. The room’s bed had been hoisted against the wall and the floor was littered with ammunition crates, while a mound of spent shell casings had built up around the shooter’s boots. He had been realigning his sights when she burst in. Both men turned. Neither were fast enough.
‘Surprise,’ Jade Rannik said, and fired.
Inquisitor Nzogwu’s retinue rendezvoused at one of the safehouses established when they had first arrived on Kora. It was a derelict printing warehouse that one of Nzogwu’s bartering associates had bought up when the ordo agent had shifted operations to the agri world, seven months earlier. The state of its main floor, littered with the remains of stripped-down press automatons and less-identifiable litter, as well as its location in the downtown of Kora’s agri-collective capital, had made it an attractive purchase. It had already been used by the team twice.
Damar was sitting on an old printing workbench, still alive. A grazing shot had taken a slice of meat out of the ex-Guardsman’s upper right arm, and his body was lacerated with splinter wounds, but all things considered he had been lucky. The guest apartment had been left in a far worse state.
‘Hold still,’ snapped Janus. Once tipped for the role of high chirurgeon in the upper-spires of Exaltis Prime, now the gaunt, silver-haired surgeon filled the role of retinue medicae. His words had been directed not at Damar, who was docile and bleary-eyed from the suppressant stimms, but at the servo-skull hovering over his shoulder. The light from the stab-lumen built in to its right eye socket kept wavering, the antigravitic impeller implanted into its occipital bone in need of Tech-Adept Ro’s maintenance liturgies. Janus cursed the disembodied cranium as he applied another layer of counterseptic-laced synthskin wrap to Damar’s upper arm.
‘He’ll be out of action at least a week, assuming the synth takes,’ Nzogwu said as he watched Damar’s treatment from across the warehouse’s open floor. The big inquisitor was clad in his well-worn black trench coat and the Imperial Navy trousers he affected, golden Inquisitorial rosette gleaming on his chest. Rannik was with him, dressed in combat fatigues and a white tank top, dragging on a lho-stick. She shrugged.
‘He’s lucky there weren’t a few bigger pieces blown out of him. Tibalt was slow.’
There was a scream, coming from the cellar below, muffled and cut brutally short. Nobody in the derelict warehouse reacted to it. Nzogwu grunted at Rannik’s comment. She had expressed her belief that the retinue’s crusader guardian was past his prime on several occasions.
‘We’re in no position to shuffle the pack just now,’ the inquisitor said after Rannik said nothing more. ‘Especially not when it looks like a shooting war is going to break out any minute. You know as well as I that we’ll need every Throne agent in this collective soon enough.’
‘It’s the others I’m worried about,’ Rannik said, flicking the butt of her lho onto the refuse-littered floor and grinding it out with a boot. ‘What would happen if you lost both me and Damar? That’s the combat half of your retinue gone.’
‘The chances of losing you both would be decreased if you didn’t share the same bed,’ Nzogwu responded.
Rannik looked away, silently cursing the redness she felt stinging her expression. Nzogwu said nothing. He had the power to order the former Arbites and the ex-Guardsmen to end their dalliance whenever it pleased him. Rannik knew the fact that he hadn’t yet was down to the regard he held her in – since joining his retinue a decade earlier she had proven her usefulness on many occasions. Damar played his own part too, the two of them helping ensure the inquisitor’s team maintained good security levels and an effective state of combat readiness. Their contribution had almost ended last night.
‘Tell me more about the attackers,’ Nzogwu said.
‘They were amateur,’ Rannik said, trying to mask how glad she was to change the subject. ‘Very amateur. Poorly equipped as well. No las. One grenade at the start would have finished us.’
There was another scream from below, this one more drawn-out. Damar twitched and Janus swore at the servo-skull again.
‘I don’t think they were meant to kill us,’ Rannik said. ‘At least, I don’t think they were expected to by whoever hired them.’
‘DeVree,’ Nzogwu said. ‘I would wager every Throne gelt in this operation’s reserve fund that it was DeVree.’
‘How do you figure that?’
‘You said it yourself, last night wasn’t a genuine attempt to kill our mission here. If it had been they’d at least have struck at me simultaneously. My lodgings in the High Karnid’s hall are practically public knowledge. No, the attack reads more like a statement. DeVree has been trying to implicate the Ux Cartel since the moment we made planetfall. At the very least he’s attempting to subvert the work of a member of His Holy Ordos by embroiling him in local politics.’
‘And blowing chunks out of his retinue,’ Rannik added, leaning back against a rusting print lathe and glancing at Damar as Janus finished applying the final bandages to his arm. ‘So what are we going to do about it?’
‘We’ll see what Rawlin brings us,’ Nzogwu said as another scream rang out from the cellar, where the inquisitor’s acolyte was applying his developing interrogation skills to the formerly unconscious attacker retrieved from the bottom of the patisserie’s stairwell. Welt, the team’s astropathic chorister, was down there as well, probing the man’s mind as surely as Rawlin was probing his flesh. For an incompetent gun-for-sale it was a grim fate, but such was the price that came with attacking agents of the Throne.
‘He’s just a hired goon,’ Rannik said. ‘I doubt he’ll know anything useful.’
‘You’re right,’ Nzogwu replied. ‘But there are other indicators we can watch for. If DeVree really is behind this then he’ll already know the attack has failed. He’ll be waiting for us to report it, then he’ll immediately blame the Cartel.’
‘That’s true. But stop avoiding my question. What are we going to do about it?’
Nzogwu smiled and shook his head. ‘You really were an arbitrator before I picked you up, weren’t you?’
‘You’re going to authorise a smash raid,’ Rannik said, smiling back. ‘You hate smash raids.’
‘So direct, so visible, so… potentially bloody.’
‘And no faster way to cut to the core of our problems.’
‘For once,’ Nzogwu admitted. ‘We’re going to hit DeVree, pay him back for this. Within the next two cycles, local time. It’ll probably have to be without Damar though. Do you think you’re up to it?’
‘Always,’ Rannik responded. ‘Is it just a strike team, or will everyone be getting in on the fun?’
‘Everyone,’ Nzogwu said. ‘I want to knock DeVree out of the game. He was a distraction, now he’s a liability. At the very worst, he’s a pawn of the darker forces at work across this collective. That can’t be allowed to continue.’
‘I’ll break out the flak plate,’ Rannik said, grinning. ‘Finally.’
Khauri’s body was numb. The water around him was ice-cold, and he had been kneeling in it since the start of the White Maw’s night cycle, feeling the slow pulse of the ship’s warp drive throbbing up th
rough the submerged deck plates beneath.
The chamber around him, the Bay of Silence, was part metal, part jagged, imported basalt, and all of it was currently sheathed in ice. The temperature varied depending on the level of power being routed to the ship’s plasma drives or the state of the energy usage on the bridge and enginarium decks. That led to cycles of meltwater which collected at the chamber’s lowest point, the drainage vents around the stone pedestal that rose at its centre. During the darkest hours, the ice gathered.
The pedestal had been the focus of Khauri’s attention since he had entered the chamber. More accurately, the beings occupying it had been the locus for his meditations. There were three of them, three giants of plasteel and ceramite, towering twelve feet above the basalt they were chained to. Their armoured shells were grey and black, mirrors of the power armour worn by their fellow void brethren. Their helms, sunk low in their thick-set shoulders, stared blankly out above the water lapping at their base. Hoarfrost glittered across great ice-clenched power fists and uncoupled weapons systems. They were the Greats, the Wandering Ancestors, the Third Company’s trio of Contemptor Dreadnoughts, and here they had stood, frozen in their deep slumber in the White Maw’s depths, idle for more years than Khauri had known as a member of the Chapter.
Their chamber was a focus point for members of the company seeking an internal silence worthy of the void they venerated. It was a place second in sanctity only to the White Maw’s devotarium, administered by Chaplain Nikora. Khauri preferred it to Nikora’s domain, though – his status as a Lexicanium, a junior member of the Chapter’s Librarius, rendered him separate from the normal hierarchies of the battle companies. He would not be turned away from his brethren’s regular places of worship, but nor would he be welcomed, at least not until he had earned his place as a stable combat psyker, and a member of the shiver.
Carcharodons: Outer Dark Page 3
