'Sergeant,' Chaplain Palmarius said by way of greeting, the firelight glinting off his silver death's-head mask.
'Any luck?' Aramus said, indicating the youths gathered a short distance off, who regarded the Blood Ravens with expressions comingling awe and terror.
'None,' Librarian Niven said, sounding annoyed.
'I find in each of them,' Chaplain Palmarius explained, 'certain impurities of belief incompatible with further instruction in the Imperial faith.'
'Impurities?' Aramus prompted for more. 'Are we dealing with cultists, then?' He glanced across the open space to the place where the headman was huddled with a group of his followers.
'I find no evidence of allegiance with the Ruinous Powers,' Palmarius said, 'but a full examination of the village entire by the Inquisition would be necessary to prove that there is none whatsoever. But still the responses of each of the candidates thus far suggests a lack of fidelity to the essential tenets upon which Imperial faith is built. Instruction can build a foundation of faith in the heart of an aspirant, but not if the soil upon which it would be based is treacherous and shifting.'
'Never mind their hearts,' Librarian Niven put in, 'it is their minds which concern me, and they are, each and every one of them, weak and easily led.'
Aramus glanced over at the boys and young men who remained to be examined. If the previous examinations had produced no suitable candidates, he harboured little hope that the remainder would, either. But even the hope of a bare few aspirants to the Chapter was enough to justify that the evaluations be completed. Though none of these boys looked capable of surviving the Blood Trials, much less the torment of initiation that would follow, they would not stop looking until they had exhausted all the possibilities close at hand.
'Continue your search,' Aramus finished, gesturing towards the remaining boys. 'I go to join the others in the field, and if fortune is with us we shall soon have the biotoxin sample we need and will be able to leave this world behind.'
'The sooner,' Chaplain Palmarius said, glancing around at the village surrounding them, distaste clearly readable even behind his inscrutable mask, 'the better.'
'On that,' Librarian Niven answered, turning back to the next boy, who stood quavering on the hard-packed earth, 'we are agreed.'
SERGEANT AVITUS AND his team had continued crashing through the jungle for several minutes after hearing Sergeant Thaddeus's report of tyranid contact, making even more of a clamour than before.
Avitus had hoped to lure the tyranids out by making as much noise with their passage as possible, presenting easy targets that might prove irresistible to the tyranid mind. But after a few minutes of tromping through the underbrush failed to draw any enemy elements out of the wood, Avitus had to admit that it was impossible truly to understand the mind of the tyranid, or to understand what motivated such a creature.
'Perhaps we should head to the west,' Brother Barabbas suggested, 'towards the position where the other tyranids were sighted.'
'Perhaps,' Avitus acknowledged.
'And leave all this excitement behind?' Philetus replied, his grin audible in his tone.
Again Philetus displayed such unwarranted and inappropriate levity on the battlefield, and even after being chastened after they'd returned from Calderis to the Armageddon.
'The Blood Raven does not seek excitement,' Avitus said, his voice even, 'but instead seeks after knowledge, and does the duty that is set before him.' Avitus paused, and then added, 'There are times when I wonder if there is anything of the Blood Raven in you at all, Brother Philetus.'
Philetus's eyes flashed behind his helmet, as he stiffened. Avitus knew that Philetus would view the sergeant's words as a grave insult, but didn't care. In Avitus's eyes, there was little of the Blood Ravens Chapter to be found in either Philetus's words or his actions, and it was his duty as a squad leader to voice his concerns.
'I….' Philetus began, his gauntleted hands tightening into fists at his sides. For the briefest moment, Avitus thought that his battle-brother might actually attempt to strike him, but the moment passed and the tension bled from Philetus's arms as his fists loosened at his sides. 'I am sorry, sergeant,' Philetus finally answered, chastened. 'I will endeavour in future to—'
Just what it was that Philetus would endeavour to do in future would remain a mystery, tragically, for it was at that moment that a hormagaunt brood erupted from the undergrowth around them, and immediately swarmed all over the nearest Blood Raven, flesh hooks snaring and talons scything.
Philetus went down under the swarm of hormagaunts, and he never got up again.
Avitus didn't bother issuing orders, trusting his squad to know their duty. He opened fire with his heavy bolter, hellfire shells ripping into the carapaces of the gaunts in the line of fire, bursting the toxin sacs which clung to their torsos like popped balloons.
SERGEANT TARKUS AND First Squad continued through the swampy lowlands. They had yet to make enemy contact, but had made another discovery, almost as unsettling.
'What do you make of it, sergeant?' Battle-Brother Nord asked, nudging with the tip of his boot the small form that twitched on the squelching ground before them.
It was a bird. Or rather, it had been a bird. With bright plumage and an oversized beak, it was typical of the tropical varieties that flourished everywhere on Typhon Primaris, cawing from the treetops and flashing like varicoloured dancers as they swooped through the open spaces.
But the bright, rainbow hues of this particular bird had become muted, sullied, and though its extended wings twitched spasmodically from moment to moment, there was no other sign of life to it. The beak was opened wide, black tongue lolling from within, and it seemed that the creature was gasping for air.
Tarkus prodded the wretched bird with the point of his combat knife, and then stood up, his expression thoughtful.
'Ever seen anything like that before, Nord?' Tarkus asked the battle-brother, seeing in this a teachable moment.
Nord was young for a Space Marine, barely at the beginning of his third decade of life. It had been only ten years or so since he'd been an aspirant like the trembling boys that they had lifted off Calderis, or whom the Librarian and Chaplain now examined in the village centre. He had the makings of a fine Blood Raven, but Tarkus had quickly surmised that Sergeant Aramus had been correct, and that Nord was not quite ready for a command of his own.
Nord wore a thoughtful expression for a moment before answering. 'On Prosperon,' he answered at last. 'The animals there were poisoned in just such a manner.'
Tarkus nodded, sheathing his combat knife. 'Mycetic poisoning,' he replied.
Mycetic spores, and their effects on living creatures, were perhaps one of the most insidious aspects of a tyranid invasion. Typically released into the atmosphere in the middle stages of the invasion, mycetic spores grew rapidly on contact with any organic material. Reproducing at an alarming rate, they would send rhizomes burrowing deep into the host's organic tissue, releasing enzymes that began to break down the organic matter itself, rendering it gradually into raw biomass. In essence, the affected plants and animals were digested alive within their own skins, long before their bodies were ever consumed. All that remained was for a tyranid ripper swarm to come along and consume the resultant biomass, which would be eventually converted into yet more tyranids.
'It's the lungs,' Tarkus went on, stepping past the doomed bird, his eyes scanning the lowlands before them. 'Aerobic creatures develop mycetic infestations in the lungs after exposure to high concentrations of airborne spores.'
Nord followed Tarkus, with the rest of the squad falling in behind him. 'But that only happens after exposure to high concentrations.'
Tarkus nodded. 'And death occurs within twenty-four hours. So the bird can't have travelled far.'
The sergeant raised his bolter, his enhanced senses straining to pierce the midnight gloom before them.
'One thing's for certain,' he said, darkly. 'We're not looking at the early sta
ges of an invasion here.'
* * *
BATTLE-BROTHER VOIRE AND the rest of Third Squad were making their way steadily south-west, heading ever deeper into the shadow-laced forest, when they finally made enemy contact. They had reached a wide clearing, able for the first time in what seemed hours to see the sky unobstructed above them.
'I'm picking up movement,' Brother Cirrac voxed, studying his auspex.
'Which direction?' Voire replied, his bolter raised and ready.
Cirrac pointed into the shadows of a stand of trees ahead and to the left of their current path, the boundary of the clearing in which they stood.
'Human?' Voire asked.
Cirrac shook his head. 'Too small, too many of them.'
Voire was thoughtful. 'Could be native fauna.'
Cirrac nodded. 'Possibly. With the high amount of plant matter in between us and them it's hard to say.'
Voire motioned the rest of the squad forward. 'We need to check it out. Cirrac, I think the honour should be yours, as spotter.'
'Should I thank you?' Cirrac jibed, slipping away his auspex and drawing his bolter. 'Somehow it doesn't feel like I should.'
As Brother Cirrac ghosted forward towards the stand of trees, hardly making a sound, Voire instructed the rest of the squad to fan out in an arc facing the treeline. If Cirrac did manage to flush something out, they would need to be in a position to deal with whichever path it took.
The blood-red of Cirrac's power armour looked almost black in the low light, even with the Astartes' enhanced vision augmented by their helmets' visors, a shadow merging with shadows as he slipped through the trees and into the darkness beyond.
The Blood Ravens of Third Squad waited in silence for any response from him.
In the next moment, the thunderous sound of bolter fire cracked the silence, and Cirrac crashed backwards through the trees, firing into the darkness as he withdrew as quickly as possible.
'No,' Cirrac said through gritted teeth, 'definitely not native fauna.'
Even over the sound of Cirrac's bolter fire a chittering sound could now be heard, starting softly and growing ever louder, sounding like bone clicking against bone, like countless teeth gnashing again and again.
'Report!' Voire voxed, aiming his bolter at the trees. 'What did you find?'
'Trouble,' Cirrac answered cryptically.
Before Voire or the others could respond, the trees ahead of them shattered like kindling. Out of the ruined foliage burst a swarm of rippers, exploding into the clearing, hundreds upon hundreds of them, their razor-sharp jaws and claws clacking as they raced towards the Blood Ravens.
SERGEANT ARAMUS RAN through the darkness to join his squad, with little concern for stealth or secrecy. The Blood Ravens were engaging multiple targets already, in an ever-broadening range of positions, and there was considerable evidence now that they were not dealing with an initial tyranid outbreak or an isolated infestation, but that the tyranid invasion was much farther along than any of them had anticipated. Aramus's place was on the front line, engaging the enemy, not back in the village in relative safety, however temporary that safety might be.
The runes on his helmet's visors indicated that at least two of the Blood Ravens had fallen, Battle-Brother Philetus of the Ninth Squad, and Battle-Brother Loew of the Seventh. They had anticipated only a minor outbreak of tyranids on Typhon Primaris, at best, and Aramus had not expected that they might take any significant casualties. So confident had Aramus been that this would be little more than a search and retrieval mission that Apothecary Gordian had been allowed to remain on board the strike cruiser Armageddon tending to the injured Captain Thule.
Were the gene-seeds of Philetus and Loew already lost, or might it be possible that their bodies could be taken back to the Armageddon in time for Gordian's reductor to do its work, before the progenoid glands corrupted beyond use? And was it worth the risk to have Sergeants Avitus and Thaddeus task their squads with retrieving their fallen brothers from the battlefield, if doing so served to increase the risk that even more of them might fall to the enemy in the attempt?
As he tracked through the darkness, racing to the position where his own Third Squad was already engaged with a tyranid swarm, Aramus found himself wondering what Captain Thule would have done in this situation. Was the life of the captain worth the risk of so many others? Aramus believed that Thule was worth the risk, but at the same time he wasn't sure how much his estimation was motivated by a desire to surrender authority for the squads back to a revived and healed Captain Thule, freeing him to be responsible once more only for himself and the Space Marines of Third Squad.
Now was not the time for such self-examination, though. Blood Ravens prized knowledge and its pursuit, and considered self-knowledge as worthy of study as any other, but on the battlefield there were more pressing concerns, like the safety of the Space Marines under his command. He would have to save any questioning about his own motivations and assumptions until the battle was won or lost.
Up ahead he could already hear the sound of Third Squad's bolters firing continuously, and the counterpoint of the ripper swarm's maddening chittering. Pushing aside any lingering questions or doubts, Aramus racked his own bolter and poured on more speed.
SERGEANT AVITUS REACHED the end of his heavy bolter's magazine, the firing mechanism clicking on empty. He had expended an entire high-capacity box magazine on the hormagaunt brood, and still they kept coming.
'Barabbas!' Avitus shouted as he yanked the magazine from his heavy bolter and reached for one of the full magazines clipped to his waist. 'Cover me!'
Battle-Brother Barabbas didn't waste breath in replying, but swung the barrel of his meltagun around to spray its heat on the gaunts nearest the sergeant. But even the heat of the melta wasn't enough to destroy the hormagaunts with a single blast, and Barabbas was forced to chase the quickly moving terrors with his aim to do any real damage at all.
There had been perhaps a dozen of the gaunts when they'd first attacked and taken Philetus down beneath their flesh hooks and scything talons. Now, there were no more than a half-dozen of the monsters left. But reducing the brood's number by half had cost the Ninth Squad, and dearly. Philetus was down, never to stand again. Brother Gagan still lived, but the hormagaunts had managed to damage one of his legs quite badly and he was moving now only with difficulty, though he was still able to fire his plasma gun all the same. And Brother Safir had very nearly expended all of his hellfire rounds, and was now forced to employ the far less effective bolter rounds.
Avitus slammed the new magazine home just in time to open fire on a gaunt who had ducked under Barabbas's melta fire and raced right at the sergeant. The tyranid leapt in the air just as Avitus opened fire, and though the hellfire shells ripped into its abdomen, the hormagaunt's momentum carried it forward, talons scything out as toxins dripped from the monster's open maw.
The impact of the hormagaunt knocked Avitus from his feet, and as he toppled backwards, his heavy bolter still firing, the tyranid fell on top of him. The hormagaunt lashed out, knocking the bolter from Avitus's gauntleted hand, and with the mutagenic acid boring through its insides, the tyranid clamped its talons around Avitus's neck, taking him in a dying embrace.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IN THE CLEARING at the centre of the village, as Chaplain Palmarius put a question to one of the last potential aspirants, Librarian Niven was distracted, his attention roving to the dark shadows pressing around the circle of light in which they stood. It was hours before dawn, but none of the villagers had gone to sleep, and many of them were beginning to show clear signs of fatigue and sleep deprivation. Astartes could go for days without sleep, thanks to their catalepsean nodes, and as this was one of the implants already bestowed upon the Blood Raven Scouts, they too were able to continue to function without experiencing any ill effects from their long wakefulness. But the headman and the other villagers shared no such strength, and seemed now to be buoyed only by fear, the terror that had r
ippled through them on the first report of tyranid contact continuing to rebound among them like the echoing rings of a thrown stone's passage on the surface of a very small pond.
But it wasn't the cold fear of the villagers which brushed Librarian Niven's mind, despite the fact that he'd been forced to block out the terrified thoughts of the headman's people in the hours since Sergeant Aramus first put the village on alert. It was instead the pinprick needling of some entirely alien consciousness, expressing emotions and appetites which could not be readily translated into the language of men.
Niven was hearing the inhuman thoughts of the tyranid hive mind.
But that mind was nowhere near, Niven realized. Though there might be tendrils of it reaching out to grasp Typhon Primaris, though the mycetic spores of a tyranid host might have fallen upon the jungle world and begun the process of infestation, the collective mind which drove the subservient offspring of the Great Devourer was not to be found in those dark jungles, or in orbit above them. It was somewhere else, somewhere relatively close but still beyond his ability to locate with his mind, directing the thoughtless, instinctual movements of the invading tyranids just as a human mind directed the movements of the various parts of the body, large and small. A tyranid hive was, in many ways, only a single organism, a single mind and body incarnate in a multitude of forms. And even if the Blood Ravens were by some miracle able to expunge each of those discrete forms from the midnight jungles around them, the hive itself would remain, the directing mind somewhere out in the dark void of space, seeking the opportunity to reach out and grasp a world yet again.
The cold brush of the tyranid's thoughts against the Librarian's mind was familiar, but only now did he recognize from where. It was the same dark foreboding sensation that Niven had felt all this time, since first arriving in the Aurelia sub-sector, and which had only been intensified when he was revived from his extended hibernation. But the Calderis system was light years from here.
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