• THE VAMPIRE GENEVIEVE •
by Kim Newman
BOOK 1: DRACHENFELS
THE WICKED AND THE DAMNED
A portmanteau novel by Josh Reynolds, Phil Kelly and David Annandale
MALEDICTIONS
An anthology by various authors
PERDITION’S FLAME
An audio drama by Alec Worley
Contents
Cover
Backlist
Title Page
Warhammer Horror
NEPENTHE
THE WIDOW TIDE
NO GOOD DEED
CRIMSON SNOW
LAST OF THE BLOOD
PREDATION OF THE EAGLE
THE LAST ASCENSION OF DOMINIC SEROFF
TRIGGERS
A DARKSOME PLACE
THE MARAUDER LIVES
THE NOTHINGS
About the Authors
An Extract from ‘The Wicked and the Damned’
A Black Library Publication Imprint
eBook license
A dark bell tolls in the abyss.
It echoes across cold and unforgiving worlds, mourning the fate of humanity. Terror has been unleashed, and every foul creature of the night haunts the shadows. There is naught but evil here. Alien monstrosities drift in tomblike vessels. Watching. Waiting. Ravenous. Baleful magicks whisper in gloom-shrouded forests, spectres scuttle across disquiet minds. From the depths of the void to the blood-soaked earth, diabolic horrors stalk the endless night to feast upon unworthy souls.
Abandon hope. Do not trust to faith. Sacrifices burn on pyres of madness, rotting corpses stir in unquiet graves. Daemonic abominations leer with rictus grins and stare into the eyes of the accursed. And the Ruinous Gods, with indifference, look on.
This is a time of reckoning, where every mortal soul is at the mercy of the things that lurk in the dark. This is the night eternal, the province of monsters and daemons. This is Warhammer Horror. None shall escape damnation.
And so, the bell tolls on.
In the warp, only the dead may dream.
‘Not your best work.’ Marcus glances at his brother, gaze lidded, tertiary optics cataracted with new overlays. They still give him a headache, this honeycombed perception of the universe, high-resolution imagery parallaxed with an eternity of mathematics scrolling into storage.
Data. Always more data. Always, always. To be passed onto the next generation and the generation after that, preserved in alphanumeric hieroglyphs and computational hymns. But their receptacles? Their shepherds? Nothing but interchangeable circuitry, anonymised and anonymous, no more important than their functions they fulfil. And oh, how Marcus despises the fact.
‘The knife fits the ritual,’ comes Cornelius’ warbling tenor, a boy’s voice, snapping Marcus from his melancholy.
Marcus shrugs, watches as his brother pares the skin from his face, documenting the neatness of it all. Of the two of them, Cornelius has always had the defter touch, the steadier hands.
‘I don’t understand why this is even necessary.’ Marcus exhales. ‘Skin’s porous. Microfilament technology exists. I – it’s just so inefficient, Cornelius.’
‘Ritual, Marcus.’ The Omnissiah would break before his brother’s composure. ‘It’s about the ritual.’
‘A waste of time. We should be preparing for the Nepenthe…’ He shivers as the name unknots along his tongue. The things they’d said of the ship, of what had transpired in its gut, what they’d done inside it, what they’d done to it. ‘… the Nepenthe’s arrival. We should be researching. We should be doing something useful.’
‘We’ve done everything we need to do. We are here, are we not? If we had failed, Veles wouldn’t have permitted us this indulgence. We’d still be in the bowels of the ship, slaving over pointless minutiae.’
That hasn’t yet changed, Marcus thinks sourly. They’re still rotting in the belly of their vessel, still consigned to the smallest laboratory, still forgotten. He flexes his hands, takes note of the fluids clotting in his wrists and, not for the first time, Marcus feels like the old man he’s become.
They’d lied. They said there was forever to be found in the machine but there was nothing, nothing but rust and rot and ruin. But the Nepenthe could change all of that.
‘I wonder if she’s as beautiful in real life.’ Cornelius sighs, cheeks ruddy from the heat. The laboratory is kept repugnantly humid for the benefit of his studies, his speciality being the study of microfauna, complementing Marcus’ own area of expertise, his fascination with the monolithic.
‘If she was truly created in the Dark Age of Technology, I doubt it. Mankind was still so new to the idea of everything. They wouldn’t have had time to make her beautiful.’ Marcus rises, suddenly belligerent. Something about his brother’s romanticism chafes. He rolls his shoulders, one at a time, then flexes the matrix of prosthetics cresting his lumbar region. A threat display, he supposes. ‘And you presume too much of what is likely a dead abomination.’
‘You’ve no poetry in your heart.’ A long-practised sigh, pitched to irritate.
‘I have several hearts,’ Marcus retorts. ‘I’m sure there’s poetry in some.’
His brother doesn’t reply, only cocks a grin before he fits a rebreather over his denuded skull.
‘You are aware that if the Magos finds out, we’ll be branded as traitors, hereteks. There’s no coming back from this,’ Cornelius whispers, voice slurred. Under the mask, Marcus imagines that a metamorphosis is beginning: larynx and somatic nerves, sinuses and visual system, auditory function, every one of them examined and edited in turn, unstitched and revised where required, a library of heuristic algorithms optimising future output to the brain.
‘We are just fulfilling our duties. We’ve identified a possible threat. We’re moving to dispose of it.’ A familiar minuet: argument and counterpoint, reiterated so many times that ritual has become reflex. ‘That we wanted to wait until we were sure of the legitimacy of our claim, I’m certain no one can fault us for.’
His brother says nothing.
‘And if we are right, would you leave her alone in the darkness for another thousand years? She called to us. She begged for us. After all this time, after we’ve gotten so close, you’d turn tail and abandon her?’ Six long strides take him across the laboratory to his brother Cornelius, younger and much taller, marionette limbs and a thorax conjoining steepled torsos, one organic, one entirely synthetic. He claps a hand around his brother’s shoulder.
‘We might find nothing. It’s true.’ Marcus’ voice quiets to a whisper. ‘But it is also possible that we might find her alive in that ship, waiting, our very own madonna of meat and machinery. And can you imagine, brother, the secrets we could gouge out of her bones?’
Magos Veles Corvinus’ immense shadow drags behind him like the hems of his claret cape. His subordinates watch, their machinery in symphony, an arrhythmic clack-clack-clack of moving parts, telemetric devices logging the Magos’ moods. Over the years, they’ve learned to be cautious of his emotional states.
‘There’s nothing here.’ His voice is a hiss, refracted by his respirator into something monstrous, pupils aperturing as his attention fixes itself onto Cornelius’ face.
Or so Cornelius’ picters report, at least. He isn’t certain. This new reality, while transcendental, is dizzying, limbic system still unconvinced of the profit of his recent mutilation. His neural circuitry mutinies against this darkness, the negative space where chemoreceptors once held court in the antechamber of the neocortex, describing the world in electrical staccato. Now, they’ve been bought out, made redunda
nt by technology, and the brain, for all that it might be folds of shrivelled tissue, is unhappy.
‘These are our best estimates. Temporal continuity is hardly a rule in the immaterium. Furthermore, the ship–’
‘Enough.’
Cornelius lapses into silence.
‘Accounting for errors, what is your current prediction?’
‘The Nepenthe, according to records, has been in transit.’ Cornelius pulls up his records, visions saturated with data tables. Mathematical theorems pirouette through possibilities, while Cornelius consults star-maps, black box transcripts in sodium hieroglyphs. Behind all of it, diffused, her song calling him. ‘Since the Dark Age of Technology.’
‘Might it not be a wiser idea to call the Adeptus Astartes’ attention to this? An Ultramarine company is on a hive world only a solar system away. It wouldn’t take them long.’ A voice interjects, low and deferential, but only an idiot like Veles might mistake its sycophantic cadences as sincerity.
That damned enginseer again, Cornelius thinks, jolting from his calculations. They’d missed their last window of opportunity because of him. And the one before that. Ten years, and Lupus Agelastus fought them at every juncture, weaponising protocol and legislation; the common sense of the coward. If it weren’t for Veles’ own greed, this mission would have been butchered at its inception.
Even so…
‘We don’t have the time.’ Cornelius modulates his response, runs a macro to regulate cortisol production. He isn’t angry, yet, but precautions are necessary. The lizard brain is faithless, accountable only to its own agenda and it wouldn’t take much, not after all these years, for it to snap. Such a slip-up would be more damaging to the brothers’ machinations than anything that Lupus could author. So, Cornelius breathes in. Breathes out. Saves the interval to a loop that he then tethers respiratory function to. ‘According to the Lexmechanics, we have sixteen hours, if that. Less, if we factor in the intrinsic instability of the warp. Magos, I beg you. Consider the logic. Ignore Agelastus’ interjection. If we wait for the Adeptus Astartes, we risk losing the ship–’
‘Space hulk. Genetor, I wish you’d cease ignoring the fact that this is a derelict husk that has been floating in the warp for centuries. There is a term for it. It is called a space hulk and precedent shows that–’
‘The vessel is completely functional.’
‘As are many space hulks, judging from reports.’
‘And what would you have us do, Agelastus?’ Cornelius turns on his adversary, teeth clenched. The best laid plans of men, indeed. Meat always finds its way. ‘We won’t have this opportunity again. The parabola of the Nepenthe’s trajectory makes it clear. If we do not take our chance now, we will not see the vessel in our lifetimes. It will be another millennia before it enters realspace again and by that time, we’ll be nothing but scrap.’
The enginseer’s regard is placid. ‘You will be, at least.’
How Cornelius loathes him. Squat, perpetually swaddled in red robes too long for his frame, his mechadendrites sloppily architectured, devoid of any sense of aesthetics. No ambition. Nothing but the bare formalities of biological function. Lupus is a waste of resources, unfulfilled potential. A mere cog. But a blood clot can asphyxiate the most brilliant mind. And here, here was a nodule of useless mass, waiting to be a cause of death.
‘Magos, this is entirely up to you.’ Cornelius cocks his head towards Veles. ‘If you insist that we stand down–’
‘No.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ Lupus snarls. ‘Be reasonable, Magos. I understand that you wish for our Explorator fleet to be recognised. But surely, you understand the absurdity of the situation. What Cornelius is suggesting – you cannot seriously be considering this debacle.’
‘Your objections will be taken into consideration, Enginseer Agelastus. If you’d like to place a formal complaint, I invite you to follow the appropriate procedure.’ The timbre of Veles’ voice disguises nothing of its disdain, and it is all Cornelius can do to not laugh. ‘This is not your jurisdiction, enginseer. If you wish to circumvent the possible consequences of your doomsaying, perhaps you should take the next few hours to evaluate the condition of our equipment.’
‘Magos–’
Cornelius’ fingers bifurcate, steeple, a prism of wires and attenuated silicone.
‘Magos,’ he echoes, tone adjusted for a luxuriant pitch. Conciliatory, even compassionate towards his nemesis. Survival, he’d learned, necessitates a mastery of politics, however distasteful its flavour. ‘I believe–’
He is not permitted to finish.
‘Both of you. Quiet.’ Veles traps the bridge of his nose between gloved fingers.
‘Magos,’ Cornelius hisses.
‘Magos,’ Lupus echoes.
Veles evidences no immediate awareness of their acknowledgement. Along the edge of Cornelius’ perception, he sees the bridge being evacuated. No one wants to be collateral damage. It is only when the space is bereft of conversation, no sound save for the hum of navigational cogitators, that Veles straightens, hand collapsing to his side. ‘The purpose of the Explorators has always been to make sense of the unknown. Where others falter, we strive forward. We cannot surrender this opportunity. It is antithetical to who we are.’
‘Magos, I understand that. But it would not take long for the Ultramarines–’
‘They’d raze it to the ground,’ Cornelius cuts in, unable to help himself, his horror raw. ‘It wouldn’t matter if the vessel was free of hostiles, or even if it contained a – a crew of living tech-priests, preserved by the hand of the Omnissiah. They’d destroy it.’
And her, he thinks, for a sliver of a moment.
‘A regrettable possibility,’ Lupus ripostes, stepping forward. ‘But the reverse will put this entire ship at risk.’
‘And isn’t that the damned point?’ Cornelius barks in counterpoint. ‘The entire purpose of the Cult Mechanicus? To recover and preserve knowledge? Here, we have the opportunity to examine something – something no one has touched in hundreds of years. We cannot be afraid. The flesh is merely vehicular. If we must die for the cause, so be it.’
‘Your passions…’ Veles steers his bulk to an adjacent panel, fingers deft despite their size. Monitors come alive in a cosmos of computations and Cornelius’ voice hitches at the vision, pleasure serrating his thoughts. He recognises them, the visualisations fractalising across the screens. Veles had been listening. More vitally still, they had him. ‘…Have always caused you and your brother trouble, haven’t they?’
‘It was necessary, Magos.’ A subtle tilt of his head. ‘We were raised on a forge world. Our parents were worthless but we always knew we were meant to be more than cattle in the abattoir. We worked tirelessly to be recognised and the Adeptus Mechanicus rewarded our diligence with its attention.’
Not entirely true. Not entirely inaccurate either.
Cornelius recites the story with the practice of a pastor, muscle memory flattening the tale into a perfect truth. Lupus exhales, mid-way, a loud noise, intended to bring pause.
‘We’ve heard this all before. No need to get into this again. Is there a point to this, Magos? Or do you intend that we listen to this blowhard repeat his history all over again?’
Veles dismisses the complaint with a motion. ‘I hadn’t asked for an interruption. And you, Cornelius. He’s right, you know? There is no point to your rhetorics. Not everything is an excuse to expound on your history. A shorter answer would have sufficed. Whatever the case, I’ve made a decision. A boarding party will be dispatched to the Nepenthe when it reenters real-space. You, Agelastus, and your brother shall lead it.’
Cornelius tilts a look at Lupus, picters keyed to the microcosm of his expressions. But if the proclamation angers the enginseer, if it upsets him in any way, his face admits to none of it.
‘Whatever pleases you, Magos,’ Ag
elastus declares.
‘Good.’ Veles cuts at nothing with the flat of his hand. ‘I imagine you’ll need four maniples of combat servitors, at least. Take whatever you need.’
Klaxon notifications, repeated in a claret glow. Against expectations, the Nepenthe arrives early, spilling into the world like a portent, a warning of what is to come.
‘If it isn’t a space hulk,’ Cornelius confides to his brother, ‘it might as well be.’
Marcus says nothing, unnerved by the unease frissoning down his spine. The dimensions of the vessel exceeded their initial estimates, nearer in proportions to a battle barge than a mere cruiser. He’d thought they’d mapped the ship completely, but there is so much space unaccounted for, bulwarks and bays that had resisted imaging. How could they have been so mistaken?
What if it wasn’t their fault? What if something, something alive and sapient, had occluded their investigations? Edited the structural report? For one moment, the tech-priest is seized by the impulse to terminate the mission, reveal that the operation has been compromised, but there is no question. It’d mean lobotomy, indentured servitude until their muscles gave out from rot.
He glances over at the servitors they’d been assigned, their bodies inert, slack in the harnesses descending from the ceiling of the shuttle. Like so much meat, Marcus thinks. Carcasses rocking from a butcher’s hooks.
‘Have you…’ Marcus begins, each word slow and thick, ‘ever considered what it might be like to be one of them?’
‘The leucotomisation process is painless these days. In the past, physicians would drive an orbitoclast through the bone at the summit of the eye socket and cut.’ Cornelius taps his mask, where the alloyed carapace contorts into a subtly anguished brow. ‘Now, it is a strategic overstimulation of the interface-meshing, at least in the case of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Very humane.’
‘That hardly answers my question.’
Cornelius sags. ‘No. But the theory fascinates. In all honesty, I think it might feel like a bit of a respite. Consciousness is terror, after all. With self-awareness comes the knowledge of one’s eventual demise, the understanding that cessation is inevitable. Our entire biology is servant to that existential dread. Everything we do, everything that we are, revolves around the impulse to arrest that eventuality. It is really quite inefficient. Look at the genus Tyranidae. They’ve committed the burden of autonomy to their Hive Minds. Look at what they’ve accomplished.’
Maledictions Page 1
