by David Guymer
‘Then, as to the present situation.’ Ares’ power fist reversed direction and altered speed. The exact mechanism by which he commanded the cartolith to shift its focus onto Thennos was sufficiently abstruse for it to appear to be machine-will alone. The tiny globe welled up and then dissolved like a snowflake that landed on the Dreadnought’s power fist, reforming into the inscrutable perfection of a golden masque.
The material was unusual, the aesthetic subtly alien. It took Stronos a moment to recognise the face as that of a skitarii princeps.
The masque rendered in light via the cartolith was one of pronounced human perfection rather than functional augmentation. The jaw was high. The brow was smooth. His eyes appeared to be multiply-lensed, possessed of several overlapping filter sets that could be flicked across the optics or back into the surrounding mechanisms dependent on the situation. The present combination conferred a deep-hued multivariate shimmer on his gaze. His features were both imperious and uncannily beautiful. Stronos sought to compare the capture to his inload files of the Thennosian macroclades, but found no match. It was possible that the manifold’s conscription registers were incomplete, but it was possible also that the princeps had altered his appearance since the last reliable exload from Port Amadeus.
The skitarius was looking directly out of the hololith, as though zeroing in on the servo-picter that had captured his image even as the data file was being exloaded. Stronos’ bionic zoomed and refocused.
‘The traitor general,’ said Ares. ‘Name and battle roll unfiled.’
‘I had expected his appearance to be more overtly deviant,’ said Raan.
‘He is a skitarius,’ Draevark added. ‘How can one tell?’
‘It is difficult to believe that a skitarii princeps could turn,’ said Stronos. ‘A magos, perhaps, but a skitarius?’ Feeling the optics of all on him, Stronos’ occuli twitched. ‘I mean to say that the skitarii are warriors, not unlike the Iron Hands. No Chapter bearing Ferrus Manus’ seed has ever fallen.’
Verrox emitted a mechanised growl and thumped his agreement on the ironglass.
‘Within the narrow delineation with which you employ your terms, perhaps not,’ said Quoros. ‘Dare we omit the Sons of Medusa from our meme-files? No. Warriors of the Iron Hands and their successors were turned from the Omnissiah’s true path by the false prophecies of the Moirae tech-priests to forge a splinter Chapter of their own, but were subsequently proven loyal in the Great Cull. As it was judged then, there is nothing here more malign than a rogue princeps with a corrupted control tether and some heretical ideas that have been permitted to disseminate through the hierarchy.’
‘Such as?’
Quoros’ blank plate regarded him emptily. ‘That is hardly relevant for you to know. Such curiosity is unbecoming of a warrior of Clan Garrsak.’
Stronos raised a fist to remonstrate.
‘Agreed,’ said Draevark. ‘The sergeant will be censured.’
‘Another question then,’ spat Verrox, with a condescending look at the iron captain. ‘How did such degradation in a neural-slave pass unnoticed? Perhaps the Dominus’ own tether requires investigation.’ When neither priest offered a ready explanation, Verrox bared metal teeth in a sneer. ‘Thennos is one of three worlds in the segmentum with dispensation to handle xenos technology. It receives shipments from a thousand warzones almost daily. A dozen have already been turned back since my barge joined Clan Garrsak’s blockade. The potential for corruption is endless.’
‘This world tests xenotech?’ asked Stronos, surprised. But it explained the Devilfish in one-nine/seven-two/eta.
‘Irrelevant,’ spoke Ares, and his word was final.
The princeps’ hololith dispersed as though struck by Ares’ power fist, and reformed into a cartolith. This time it was not the Medusa system, but a top-down tactical grid of the Thennosian surface. The new fortress that stood by the crater that had been Port Amadeus was displayed with a black rune, as was the Rule of One, both of them surrounded by data clusters representing troop dispositions and spirit-guided weapon placements. Stronos noted a number of gaps in the defensive perimeter, but waited for Ares or Draevark to explain. Across the pseudo mountainous terrain of the crater wastes from the Iron Hands’ beachhead were several data-harvesting facilities identified by query marks. Ares caused the marks to fade and a bracket to close over just one of the outposts.
‘Locis Primus. Any or all of these other facilities may contain rogue elements, but this is the most likely base. It is an apocalypse-class weapons test facility. The Tenth’s orbital superiority is absolute, but battle calculi indicate that bombardment alone will prove insufficient. Ground assault is the only option.’ No one corrected the Ancient’s use of archaic Legion terminology. Again, Ares altered the image, calling up pict-shots of weapons turrets, walls and suspected defending units. The images spun through blocks of informational screed, too quickly for the mortal eye to process. The ability to dispatch reconnaissance skulls without losing their signals in the wastes had been greatly improved since the Rule of One’s arrival planetside, but Stronos suspected this was archive data. ‘Locis Primus incorporates an extensive subterranean bunker network adequate to house the entire population of Thennos. Resistance will be formidable but futile. All will be exterminated.’
‘What is this…?’ Draevark raised a claw to indicate one floating image. It was gigantic, armoured turrets and cathedral spires rising from its crenellated tiers, a veritable fortress on two mighty legs. ‘Imperator. We have nothing to go up against that kind of firepower.’
‘The Titans are wrecks,’ said Velt, rousing himself to speak. ‘They were brought to Thennos decades ago to test shield and armour configurations against xenos weaponry.’
‘Titans,’ said Draevark, with full emphasis on the plural, ‘implies more than one.’
‘What does Sergeant Stronos say?’
The Ancient’s question caught Stronos off guard. His half-metal face showed none of his surprise. ‘We need more Scouts. Vox and augur remains short to medium range only. The blast wastes will be a haven for ambushers, and every subsidiary outpost on our approach will need to be purged. Clan Dorrvok does not bring enough men.’
‘We will soon have more,’ said Raan. ‘The Iron Moon rises.’
‘I suggest advance into this area.’ Stronos swept his bionic hand through the map over a grid region fifty kilometres north of Port Amadeus. Spread over a small area it contained a cluster of survey bunkers and data harvest facilities. ‘With a small force we could clear these structures, then commandeer more Mechanicus units to construct a road for the Rule of One to follow behind us. From there, the signal boost should extend coverage almost to Locis Primus.’
‘It would be slow,’ said Verrox.
‘Necessary. Until Clan Dorrvok receives reinforcement from Medusa.’
Drath nodded his agreement with Stronos’ contention, then Quoros clacked one leg on the table for attention. ‘Denied. Incursion into grid epsilon-three is prohibited by interdiction order Magenta-one-one-nine. You must find an alternative route.’
‘Unacceptable,’ said Stronos, expecting his brothers to argue likewise, troubled to find that they did not. Even Verrox, belligerence made manifest, accepted the interdiction. Alone, he turned back to the technologian. ‘We cannot wage war under such restrictions.’
‘The magos calculi has altered the necessary variables. The constants remain constant. Clan Garrsak was tasked to this uprising, sergeant, not because of their proximity but because of their reputation for obedience. Artisan Adept Sabeq Rawl informs me that you lack certain protocols.’
‘Ancillary rites only. We were in haste.’
‘Having reviewed all logs from the purge of Port Amadeus, I understand that you are in the habit of exceeding the remit of your judgement, Sergeant Stronos.’
‘He presently awaits censure,’ said Draevark, and Velt
nodded in appreciation.
‘You will submit your battleplate for the proper anointing and codescribing that it lacks,’ said Quoros, his voice gathering venom with every word. ‘Its deficiency offends the spirit of His august machine. Your record states that you have previous infractions in this regard.’
Stronos said nothing.
The technologian was about to continue when the unmistakeable patter of bolter-fire, far away, made it through the Rule of One’s adamantine skin. It was a sound that the ears of the Iron Hands were well attuned to, and a millisecond later all present turned in the general direction of the new Amadeus firebase. What followed was the dense silence of five Iron Hands and an ancient Dreadnought ignoring each other’s physical proximity to submit their demands for information to the manifold.
‘What is happening?’ said Velt, nervous, lacking the instantaneous interlink capability of his Lords Adeptus Astartes.
Stronos was still challenging the manifold’s codewalls when Ares, his ancient codes more forceful, returned in mind.
‘We are under attack.’
VII
The attack was not what he had been expecting.
Stronos jumped from the back of the Land Raider Anvilarum while the tank was still drawing in alongside the fortress wall, boots grinding the yellow-brown dust that the wind was already beginning to drive up against the leeward side of the newly erected Amadeus firebase. Static continued to foul his display, but the signal-boost from the Rule of One had cleared it up considerably. The rune-blips of his clave were sharp, their battle-readiness infecting his sub-systems by increment, de-cluttering his display, boosting interlink access and stressing his power plant to increase its output.
Behind him the enormous armoured carrier ploughed to a full stop, and a swarm of crimson-robed and environment-garbed enginseers clambered out.
The Anvilarum was an open-topped variant of the standard Land Raider, an uplink-modified armoured transport large enough to ferry an Iron Father Dreadnought to war. Its design was reminiscent of the chariots of ancient Aegypt or the Roma, with the addition of quad-lascannon under the direct neural control of its principle passenger. The enginseers moved skittishly, like rats, hyper-conscious of the pop and crack of gunfire.
But Stronos could see that the attack, such as it was, had ended almost as soon as it had begun.
He waded through the dust pile to the slagged breach in the fortress wall. Holding it like a barricade of black iron was Jalenghaal and half of Clave Stronos.
‘Report,’ Stronos demanded.
‘A small force of fast attack vehicles, rad-modified quad bikes and half-tracks. They assaulted the wall under storm cover, engaged with the auto-defences for seven minutes and thirteen seconds, executing a withdrawal just as we deployed to the breach.’
‘Testing our strength,’ Stronos surmised. ‘Clearly they had calculated your likely response times.’ Jalenghaal responded to the absence of question with an absence of answer, and Stronos turned towards the murmur of weapons’ fire.
With his bionic eye he could pick out the distinctive, bouncing judder of an Achlys dune rover, and the muted flares of beam weaponry that silhouetted the retreat of the crab-like Onager walkers. The fire discipline of the Iron Hands meant that return fire was limited to the pair of servitor-controlled missile platforms covering this side of the fort.
‘Was the approach not defended?’
‘Inadequately.’
Acknowledgement of the lapse was as close as Jalenghaal would get to an overt criticism of his superiors. It was enough for Stronos, and he suspected his brother knew that. ‘We should assemble the clan’s bike and Land Speeder claves to give chase.’
‘They withdraw into a proscribed zone,’ said Jalenghaal, flatly.
‘I suspect they are aware of that as well.’
Jalenghaal brooded a moment, affecting subservience to the greater will of the clan through surly non-compliance. The Iron Hands warrior was several inches taller than Stronos and his machined lenses were directed at a point correspondingly several inches above Stronos’ own. Eye contact was an organic ritual from which Jalenghaal pointedly recused himself.
‘Perhaps it was otherwise in Clan Vurgaan,’ he muttered sourly, ‘but in Clan Garrsak we adhere to the commands of our superiors.’
‘I am Clan Garrsak,’ said Stronos, and then, when Jalenghaal did not reply, said, ‘How can we call ourselves strong when we allow others to rule us unchallenged?’
‘I disagreed with your judgement on entering one-nine/seven-two/eta. I challenged you. But did I disobey?’
‘No.’
‘Then that is your answer.’
‘But you did challenge me,’ Stronos said, frustration causing his fist to clench and rise towards Jalenghaal’s faceplate. ‘Is that not the point?’
‘I performed my function. As you perform yours through challenging Draevark, and he his through challenging Ares and the other Iron Fathers. But “Garrsak” in old Reket means unity. We obey. The will of the clan is my will. It is absolute.’
‘And yet the battle calculus was in error. It failed to predict a skitarii raid on this position, or that the enemy were in possession of fast attack vehicles at all. What if the skitarii are familiar with the formulae? Who challenges the magos calculi?’ Stronos vented his body’s frustration and turned back to the transports with a grunt.
Standard template Rhinos and Land Raiders bearing Verrox, Raan, Draevark, Drath and their honour guards had ground in around the heavier Anvilarum variant and disgorged their troops. Iron Father Verrox and Captain Draevark stomped towards the hole in the wall.
‘And assemble the bike and Land Speeder claves to give chase,’ added Verrox, with a look at Stronos and Jalenghaal. ‘Any who mean to countermand that can do so to me.’
‘Compliance,’ Draevark responded, and duly paused to relay the command.
‘Better to ask a servitor to speak in verse than a man of Clan Garrsak to think for himself,’ Verrox said, approaching Stronos alone. ‘The Iron Council has itself in such knots over the conclave that it can no longer function. I would have countermanded the Voice of Mars’ prohibition order had I been present, and a majority would have fallen in line had I been. Do you concur, Iron Father?’ That last he addressed to Ares, who had just joined them at the foot of the wall.
The ancient had needed to back out of the Land Raider as a dozen adepts unplugged him, splashed his armour with oils, waved gem-encrusted wands over data hard-tethers and muttered invocations of plurality in plea-coded binharic to the two machines’ spirits. Successfully extricated and purified, oil droplets glittering where they clung to his sarcophagus, the Iron Father turned to zoom his focus towards the retreating skitarii vehicle squadron.
‘Garrsak concurs,’ he said. ‘The Iron Council does appear errant, but with good reason does the individual defer to the logic of the collective.’ Clave Stronos clenched iron hands to their chests in memory of the Father’s fall.
‘Why do you not persuade the council of its error?’ said Stronos. He looked at Ares and Verrox both. ‘Many of the Iron Fathers will have returned for the Iron Moon.’
Verrox grunted.
‘An option we had not considered,’ said Ares. ‘Strange.’ The ancient’s speakers clicked off as his perceptions turned inward. His sarcophagus hummed. ‘Garrsak accepts his brother’s logic. It will take two days at least to complete construction of the fortification and to ready the new arrivals for the second phase of the compliance. Sufficient time to observe the Iron Moon, address the Iron Council on this matter, and then return. We demand that Stronos accompany us to Medusa.’
Stronos felt his next heartbeat as though it were his first. He bowed his head, as low as the
stiffness in his still-new spinal augmetic allowed. ‘It would be an honour.’
‘Honour you have had enough of for one campaign,’ said Draevark. ‘Stronos is a child, barely yet of the clan. Indeed, he has rites still to complete and a penance as yet unspecified.’ His lightning claw twitched. ‘Even I have never been admitted to the Eye of Medusa.’
‘One must oversee the deployment and the completion of the firebase and command here for the duration of our absence. The Avernii, for all his years, is but a sergeant, and the Mechanicus are not to be trusted.’ Stronos had expected Ares to add with command, but the ancient did not elaborate. Draevark lowered his claws in a signal of compliance.
Stronos caught Jalenghaal’s look, eye contact, arresting by the power of its rarity.
I challenged you, it said. But did I disobey?
Chapter Six
‘The mass of a human brain is greater than that of his lungs – headshots will give more consistent mass-reactive detonation.’
– Techmarine Yorrvik
I
‘Eyes open, neophyte.’
As though bidden by a hypnoseer, Rauth obeyed. He winced, pained by the brightness before his enhanced biology adapted. He was seated in a chair, a light shone in his face, in the middle of a spartan chamber of slowly deteriorating metal. His right arm was secured at the wrist, likewise his legs by the ankles. His left arm was free, though he doubted the acid-cauterised stump stoked the same expressionless choler in the Iron Hands brother that leaned over him as it did in Rauth himself.
The unhelmed man was pale as chalk. Some veteran Iron Hands did away with the melanchromic organ as a redundancy – what could variable skin pigmentation protect a Space Marine against that encasement within ten centimetres of bonded ceramite could not? – but this one did not look that far gone. His eyes stared deep into Rauth’s, soul-deep, the flicker of a pupil prompting some odd feeling or forgotten phobia to swell.
The last thing I remember is being roused by Tartrak.
