Blackstone Fortress

by Darius Hinks

The shutter clanged open and the light blinded him. His father lunged, the rapier heading for Draik’s face.

  Draik closed the strike, parried and disengaged, stepping back into an en garde position.

  The shutter clanged and he was in darkness again.

  ‘You move like a drunk,’ growled his father.

  The light flashed again and Draik leapt to defend himself, but the training hall was gone. He was back in the ironclad, his pistol’s lumen shimmering over piles of rusted cogitators and twisted armour plating.

  The memory had been so clear, but Draik had not thought of that day for decades. As he edged on down the cooked companionway he recalled how proud he had been. His father was not one for compliments, but Draik had known, at the age of eleven, he was being challenged in a way that his sister, who was fourteen, had never been. His father did not need to praise Draik. He was rushing through every training regime his father could devise, handling them with an ease that astounded his peers. He had mastered disciplines that the other young lordlings had never even heard of.

  The companionway came to an end at a circular bulkhead door. It was dented and scorched, but when Draik punched the controls it whooshed open, and he crawled into the next chamber – a cargo hold. There was a mountain of storage crates heaped against the wall that was now the floor, and several doorways leading off in different directions.

  ‘Which way now?’ muttered Draik. ‘What’s the plan, Janus?’ He recalled something the kroot had said. ‘The Blackstone always has a plan.’ At the time he had dismissed it as exactly the kind of gnomic gibberish spouted by all Blackstone devotees, but now he was starting to doubt things that he had previously been so sure about. He had been as sure of Corval as he was doubtful of Grekh. He had been wrong about Corval; perhaps he was wrong about Grekh too. ‘Do you have a plan?’ he wondered aloud, his voice bouncing round the cavernous chamber. He crossed to the other side of the room. There was a whole section of the wall that was more Blackstone than void ship. The bulkhead had become a fan of tessellating hexes, a honeycomb of the dull, slate-grey substance that made up the rest of the Blackstone.

  ‘I could wander here for years,’ he said, pressing his hand against the cold, angular shapes. ‘And I’m already talking to myself. What if you do have a plan? How would I see it?’

  On a whim, he clicked off the lumen and let the darkness flood over him.

  ‘Honour is everything,’ said his father. The old duke’s gravelly tones came somewhere from Draik’s left, down towards the pile of crates.

  Draik should have felt confused, or even disturbed. His father was on the other side of the galaxy. If he was even still alive. And yet, here on the Blackstone, it seemed almost natural to step from one age to another.

  ‘Honour,’ he replied, drawing his rapier and stepping towards the voice.

  ‘Without your name, you are nothing – just another face in the mob. And without honour, you are not worthy of your name.’

  The dark lantern rattled as the duke flipped the shutter open.

  He attacked, low, aiming for Draik’s side.

  Again, Draik was ready, parrying, disengaging and countering with a graceful overhand slash. This time he kept his position, never slouching or forgetting his stance as the blade came round towards his target. There was a clatter of blades. His father parried but Draik saw surprise in his eyes. He had not anticipated such a fast return.

  ‘Close your mouth, boy. You look like one of the hounds.’

  The eleven year-old Draik felt a rush of pride. His mouth was already closed. He had surprised his father so much that the old duke could not think of a genuine criticism.

  He pressed on into the darkness, following the sound of his father’s breathing. It was heavier now, and less regular.

  Draik triggered the lumen. It flashed across a doorframe and revealed another companionway, wider than the last one. ‘This way?’ he whispered. ‘Is that it? Part of him laughed at the absurdity of thinking the Blackstone could lead him. How could a space station lead him? How could it have a plan? Draik shrugged. He was lost. And alone. He could sit here and wait to die, or try something.

  He clicked off the lumen again.

  His eyes were starting to adjust to the dark now. He could see some of the training hall – duelling cages and sparring servitors, hanging ominously around him like partners in a dance. His father was a few feet away; he could not see him clearly, but he saw enough to step towards him. Though he was only eleven, Draik was almost as tall as his father, and the years of training had clad his body in strong, lean muscle.

  There was a flash of light as the duke uncovered the lantern, but this time he threw a feint. Draik tried to parry a strike that was not there. He barely had time to sidestep the true thrust.

  There was a popping sound as his sparring suit ripped open across the chest. He felt a hot splash of pain. He wanted to cry out: Father, you have cut me! But he held his tongue. An outburst like that would only earn him a deeper wound.

  The shutter clattered down.

  Draik flicked his lumen back on and saw where his memories had led him. He was in a chamber that bore no resemblance at all to the insides of a void ship – a smooth-sided, triangular prism, a few hundred feet long and leading onto a portal that blazed with cold, blue light.

  Draik hesitated, shocked. He looked back the way he had come. Behind him was the ironclad, ahead was the Blackstone. The memory of his training, forgotten until this moment, had led him back into the fortress. He shook his head. He was thinking like a devotee. This might just be a part of the ironclad that the Blackstone had transformed more completely than the others. There was no guarantee he had returned to the heart of the vessel.

  He strode on down the chamber and stepped through the opening at the far end, shielding his face as the light washed over him.

  15

  ‘They’re killing everyone,’ said Almodath, storming across the embarkation deck towards Audus. He was half dressed in his flying gear, oxygen pipes trailing from his baggy envirosuit as he rushed towards her. His face was white and he was visibly shaken, his hands trembling as he tried to fasten his straps.

  The Benedictus was the capital ship of Commander Ortegal’s fleet, and its primary launch bay was vast. It was crowded with gunships, shuttles and landing craft, but Audus and Almodath were the only pilots present. Everyone else who had taken part in the bombing of Sepus Prime had been called to a debriefing. Audus had been about to make her way there when Almodath arrived.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she laughed, unfastening her helmet.

  ‘Ortegal has ballsed everything up,’ gasped Almodath, barging past her. He singled out a shuttle behind the gunship she had just emerged from. The shuttle was fuelled and ready for takeoff and Almodath sprinted towards it.

  She rushed after him, lowering her voice. There were no pilots on the deck, but plenty of servitors and enginseers, refuelling and repairing the aircraft that had just massacred the regiments on Sepus. ‘What are you doing? What do you mean, killing everyone?’

  Almodath clambered up to the shuttle’s access hatch and shoved it open, then paused to look back at her, his eyes wild.

  ‘We killed all those regiments on Sepus Prime for nothing,’ he hissed. ‘All those poor bastards burned while the contagion was happily heading off-world in a cargo hauler. Some psyker got infected and survived the blasts. No one knows where he went.’

  Audus felt sick. None of them had wanted to fly that mission. There had even been a flicker of mutinous talk but she had been one of those who calmed the rabble rousers down. She had reminded her flight crew that the commander was only doing what had to be done; they had to preserve the rest of the subsector from damnation, however great the loss of life.

  ‘They died for nothing,’ she muttered, shaking her head.

  Almodath forgot his urgency and leant back down to stare
at her, his face flushed with rage. ‘It’s worse than that. I heard that Commander Ortegal was secretly backing the governor who went rogue down there. So he’s responsible for the whole mess.’

  ‘Ortegal’s no heretic.’

  ‘As good as. He backed the governor so they could get all the insurrectionists under one banner, but the governor was actually spreading some kind of mutant plague. They say he was involved in a cult.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Heresy.’

  ‘But you said Ortegal’s killing people now. What do you mean? The planet’s dead. We killed it.’

  ‘He’s killing people up here, on the Benedictus. Executions! Anyone who flew the mission. Commissarial death squads. He’s trying to cover his tracks.’

  Audus clutched her head. ‘Those people on Sepus! We killed them all. On his orders.’

  ‘On the orders of a liar!’ hissed Almodath. ‘Come with me, Audus. This shuttle will make it to the Zophirim orbital platform. I can scramble our signal as we fly. They’d never track something this small. The last of the cargo haulers will be leaving Zophirim soon. We can–’

  Almodath paused, a surprised expression on his face. He had noticed something on his breast pocket – a small hole.

  He reached down to touch it, puzzled. Then groaned as blood rushed through his fingers.

  Another hole appeared next to the first. More blood rushed out, lots more, and Almodath fell, hitting the deck plating with a clang, dead.

  Audus looked back across the hangar. Guardsmen were rushing towards her, lasguns raised.

  The ladder she was holding buckled in her grip as more shots landed.

  She bolted up into the shuttle and slammed the hatch, rushing to the control panel and triggering the holo display.

  ‘We’re close,’ said Almodath.

  No, Almodath is dead, she remembered. It was Taddeus she could hear talking.

  She shook her head, cursing. Taddeus! She was not on the Benedictus. That all happened months ago. She was on the Blackstone.

  The name summoned the place. The embarkation deck of the Benedictus fell away, replaced by a dark, angular passageway.

  ‘We’re close,’ said Taddeus, staring at her from the shadows. ‘Nothing else matters. To martyr oneself in service to the God-Emperor is an honour.’ The preacher had not paused since they lost Draik and Corval, forging on down the passageways with even more fervour than before. The air was still thick and cloying, making every step a struggle, but Taddeus marched on with a grin on his face. Every few minutes he would stop to examine his book or adjust the rosarius on his chest, but beyond that he showed no hesitation, wrenching his bulk through leaning apertures and skewed, intersecting landscapes.

  ‘Martyrs?’ said Audus, shaking her head, still trying to escape her thoughts of the Benedictus. That ship haunted her. Whenever she thought she might find a way to escape the past, she saw mushroom clouds rising from the marshes of Sepus Prime and heard the screams of the men she killed, crackling over the vox networks, filling her mind with pain.

  Isola was watching her, frowning, about to speak, but Audus glared back, making it clear she did not want to talk. Draik’s prim little Terran attaché was a symbol of everything she had come to despise – unquestioning loyalty to the Imperium, wrapped up in an immaculate uniform and a haughty pout. She would not explain herself to such a woman. She hurried after Taddeus. She could not quite believe she had ended up in the company of this lunatic again. And now, with Draik gone, there was no one to challenge Taddeus’ tedious assertions that the hand of the God-Emperor was in everything.

  ‘We never saw Draik die,’ she said. Her voice was strange, so muted and distorted by the Blackstone that she could not recognise it. ‘Nor the Navigator. Why talk of martyrs?’

  Taddeus shook his head. ‘Even if they’re alive, they will be utterly lost. The Navigator might be able to protect their minds but…’ Taddeus’ words trailed off and he slowed down. He glanced at Pious Vorne, who was keeping pace with him, her flamer lit and ready to fire. ‘Are you..? How have you felt since we lost Corval?’

  Vorne shook her head. ‘I am still with you, your eminence. It is not as bad as last time. I have been reciting the catechisms we practised.’

  Taddeus nodded and looked back at Audus and Isola. They both shook their heads.

  ‘Your eminence,’ said Isola, her face pale and anguished. ‘We must return and look for Captain Draik. We can’t abandon him in here. How will he find his way back to the Vanguard?’

  Taddeus gave her a concerned look and halted, clasping his hands to his chest. ‘My child, don’t you think I would find him if I could? But where would we look? Which route would we explore?’

  Isola looked around at the dozens of openings and passageways that led away into the darkness. She looked so pained that Audus almost felt sorry for her.

  ‘The priest’s right,’ said Audus. ‘Our only hope of survival is…’ She looked at Taddeus with distaste. ‘Our only hope is to follow the priest to the Ascuris Vault. His visions have shown him the way there and the way back to the Dragon’s Teeth. If we wander off without him we’ll die in this maze.’

  ‘He is the eldest son of House Draik. I cannot simply lose him.’

  ‘You care about him,’ said Audus, ‘I understand, but–’

  Isola raised an eyebrow. ‘You do not understand. It is not a matter of caring. Janus Draik was once heir apparent to the Draik family fortune. Have you any idea what that means? House Draik is an ancient dynasty – family estates, fiefdoms, trading rights, entire fleets of void ships, wealth beyond anything you can–’

  ‘I see,’ laughed Audus. ‘It’s not that you care about him. I get it. He’s a big deal. There’s still nothing we can do.’

  Isola looked at the two remaining members of the Draik household guard. Their uniforms were scorched and blood-splattered but they still had their lasguns and plenty of charges.

  ‘I could return and look for him,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Audus. ‘You saw the same as the rest of us – there’s no way back to him. The fortress rebuilt itself. That chamber has gone. Where would you look?’ Audus was not overly concerned if Isola wanted to blunder off back into the darkness and kill herself, but the two soldiers were a different matter. They were a small group as it was. She did not like the idea of losing any more guns. She needed to keep the group together until they reached the Ascuris Vault. Once she got her hands on the relic Taddeus kept talking about, she could dump the lot of them and get back to the Vanguard. According to Taddeus the Eye was not only a priceless artefact, it would also give her god-like omniscience. She should have no problems returning to the ship. She would tell the crew everyone died but her. Once she sold the Eye of Hermius, she would be so wealthy even the Navy would never find her. She would find a world on the furthest fringes of the sector and forget she had ever heard of the Imperium. But none of that would work if Isola split the group before they could reach the vault.

  ‘Think about it,’ she said, leaning close to Isola. ‘Captain Draik is with Corval. Navigators have all sorts of tricks up their sleeves. Corval’s not like us. He’s warp-breed. One foot in the real world and one in places I don’t want to imagine. When push comes to shove, he’ll find a way to get through. I’ve seen what those freaks can do. Corval didn’t let us see what he’s capable of. He’ll find a way back to the Vanguard and he’ll take Draik with him.’

  Taddeus had been looking frustrated as he watched the exchange, but at this he nodded eagerly. ‘They’re probably already back on the shuttle, waiting for us to return with the Eye of Hermius.’ He waved his mace down another passageway. ‘And we shall not disappoint them. Keep moving, my children, keep moving.’

  With that, the priest forced his way on through the darkness, head down, shoulder first, like he was wading through fire.

  As the rest of the group followed, Au
dus thought of something interesting Isola had just said. ‘Did you say Captain Draik used to be the heir apparent?’

  Isola glared at her, but said nothing, striding after Taddeus.

  Audus smirked. Perhaps she was not the only one who had made mistakes.

  16

  ‘The Terran thinks me a savage,’ said Grekh, looking at the small, leather sack in his claw. He was speaking in his own tongue, now that he was alone, and the clumsiness was gone from his speech, replaced by a fluid, rolling torrent of vowels and clicks. ‘He doesn’t guess that I have my own reasons for seeking the vault.’

  But he did not transport you to the vault. The voice was not audible; it was a resonance in his stomach, pulsing through his organs. So what use was he?

  ‘He brought me to the Blackstone. I could not have convinced Audus to return without him.’ Grekh closed his eyes and pictured the inspirations he had been gifted – so many it was dizzying. His belly was bloated with knowledge. He had consumed a whole army of warrior spirits – not just during this expedition, but on all the previous ones too. He was ablaze with insight. The elders of Akchan-Kur had been right. This place was like nothing he had experienced before. Since reaching Precipice, Grekh had saved hundreds of indwelling souls, cherishing every fragment, every fierce, determined glimpse of the Blackstone’s secrets, preserving them all by adding them to his own. Each soul merged with a previous one, meshing and reforming, linking like the walls of the Blackstone, painting a picture that grew more complex with every bite. He had gradually constructed a mental map of the Blackstone’s regions and movements. Then he had stumbled across the greatest revelation – even the drones had a kind of sentience. For a long time it had eluded him because their shells were inedible. But then, finally, he had tasted a fraction of the Blackstone’s ineffable spirit. It was not the frenzied, hungry mind of an animal, but something deep and glacial, like echoes on a mountainside – fractured and vast, accumulated over millennia. The drones did not possess an individual consciousness, but were pieces of something greater. Were they fragments of the Blackstone? Or fingerprints of the fortress’ divine architect? The aeldari he consumed believed the fortress was the weapon of a god – an immortal being called Vaul. But the drones told him something stranger. Their thoughts were alien and obscure, but even a few stolen glimpses of their memories had revealed more to him than those of every explorer he had devoured.