The Killing Ground

by Graham McNeill

  Pascal laughed, but the sound was bitter and harsh. 'Fighting for peace with acts of war?'

  'If that's what it takes.'

  'Thinking like that will get us all killed,' promised Pascal.

  THREE FIGURES WERE arranged in a triangular pattern in a cramped chamber of heat-resistant tiles, each facing the centre of the room. The first of the figures was a young man who lay strapped to an upright restraint couch, his limbs bound by silver chains and his head held fast with clamps that prevented it from moving so much as a millimetre.

  Hissing atomisers moistened gaping, empty eye sockets, the lids of which were held permanently open by ocular speculums, and gently swaying pipes fed him nutrients while others disposed of his bodily waste. Behind him, a clicking, whirring bank of machines monitored his vital signs, the rhythmic pulse and bleep the only signs that he lived at all, so shallow was the rise and fall of his chest.

  A meshed vox-capture unit was fitted over his mouth, connected to a series of golden wires that coiled and looped across the floor before arriving at the second occupant of the room.

  This figure was likewise restrained, though there was precious little need for it as every limb save his right arm had been surgically removed. He sat in a mechanical cradle of brass armatures and pulsating cables, and, like his opposite number, matter was delivered and retrieved through gurgling pipes. The golden wires from the room's first occupant ran across the room's floor and up over the back of his skull before dividing and plugging into iron sockets grafted where his ears had once been. His eyes had been sewn together and tiny script had been tattooed over the withered, sunken lids.

  A wooden lectern sat to one side of this individual, upon which rested a sheet of yellowing parchment dispensed from a roll that sat below a glowing pict recorder. The figure's only remaining limb lay unmoving beside the parchment, a long, feathered quill held tightly between the forefinger and thumb of its spindly hand.

  The room's final occupant was also a meld of flesh and machine, but where its fellows were bound to their task through restraints and wards, he was simply obeying orders hardwired into his brain through lobotomy and instruction wafers fed to him by his masters.

  A gun-servitor, he had no mind left to call his own and was simply a living weapon-bearer with no will to perform any task other than that which was ordered. Though more humanoid in form than the other two occupants of the room, his body had been enhanced with bionics, muscle stimulants, balance compensators and targeting hardware to allow him to bear the weight of the enormous incinerator unit that replaced his left arm.

  The weapon alternately tracked between the room's other occupants, the gun-servitor's brain primed for any of the warning signs that would trigger its attack response and fill this chamber with blessed fire and immolate everything in it, including itself.

  The incinerator swung to aim at the figure in the restraint couch as his chest began to heave with effort. The bleeping noises from the machine behind him increased in frequency, becoming shrill and warning.

  A hissing blue flame sparked to life at the mouth of the incinerator's enormous muzzle.

  The first restrained figure, though bound at every portion of his body capable of movement, stiffened, as though an electric current was discharging through him. His jaw worked up and down, although the vox-capture unit prevented any of the sounds from issuing into the air.

  No sooner had this begun, than the quill-bearing figure jerked to life like a machine freshly supplied with power. The quill began scratching across the page, filling it with spidery script, the wiry limb snatching back and forth across the parchment. The glow from the pict reader flickered as the words passed beneath it, carried off to yet another secure room within the facility.

  The incinerator filled the room with the hot hissing of its pilot flame, but the gun-servitor's parameters of action had not been fulfilled, and so it sat immobile as the process went on before it.

  At last the restrained young man with the burned out eye sockets relaxed, the tension flooding from his body and an inaudible, yet wholly felt sigh escaped him. His colleague also relaxed, the withered arm returning to its place beside the now filled section of parchment.

  Silence descended upon the room as the incinerator's blue flame was extinguished and the gun-servitor returned to its monitoring repose.

  A recessed door opened in the wall, invisible from the interior of the room, and a series of robed thurifers entered. Each carried a smoking incense burner and their hooded faces were blind to the room's occupants. They made a number of circuits of the chamber, guided by questing hands on the wall while gently swinging their censers of blessed oils and fragrant smoke.

  Mist like a morning fog filled the room, but this did not trouble the giant, armoured figure that followed the thurifers into the room. Enormous to the point of gigantic, the burnished, blue-steel silver of his armour seemed to fill the room. The smoke would have blinded any normal man, but this warrior made his way to the lectern table without difficulty.

  A huge, gauntleted hand reached down and tore the parchment from the dispenser, holding it up to his helmeted head as he read the words written there.

  He had heard them recited through the mouth of a vat-grown cherub, but he needed to see the words for himself, to know them and feel their truth with his own eyes.

  The signs were unmistakable.

  The Great Eye had opened and the portents of the haruspex were coming to pass.

  He heard heavy footfalls behind him as a figure clad in enormous plate armour, the equal of his own, entered the chamber. He clutched a heavy bladed polearm in one fist.

  'Is it true?' asked the newcomer. 'A power stirs on Salinas once more?'

  'It is true,' confirmed the warrior. 'Begin our deployment, Cheiron.'

  'I already have.'

  The warrior nodded. He had expected no less. 'Projected flight time to Salinas?'

  'The planet's orbit closes with us. Five days at the most.'

  'Good,' said the warrior. 'I want to get there while there is something worth saving.'

  'That may not be possible,' said Cheiron.

  'Then we must make it so,' said the warrior. 'I grow tired of extermination.'

  PART THREE

  NEMESIS

  'On wrongs, swift vengeance waits.'

  ELEVEN

  DUST LAY THICK on hundreds of glass cabinets and the air within the Gallery of Antiquities was ripe with musty neglect and forgotten history. Of all the places he had seen on Salinas, this was the one that truly spoke to Uriel. The legacy of the past and sense of belonging to something bigger was strong and he was reminded of the many halls of ancient banners and honour trophies that filled the Fortress of Hera.

  It was the day after their meeting with the Janiceps and the guilty taste of psychic contact had not yet left Uriel's mind. As dawn had spread its sour light over Salinas, Uriel sent a request to Governor Barbaden, via their ubiquitous shadow, Eversham, that they needed a trained medicae to examine Pasanius.

  No reply was immediately forthcoming, and rather than simply sit and wait for a response, Uriel had decided they would use the time before their battle-brothers made contact to better acquaint themselves with this world.

  The best way to do that, decided Uriel, was to learn of its past.

  Having travelled through the palace corridors to the parade ground once before, the route was embedded in Uriel's memory and they found their way to the outer doors of the palace with ease.

  The bare concrete esplanade and grey tower at its far end were no less depressing than they had been the day before and as he made his way towards the decrepit Gallery of Antiquities, Uriel couldn't help but feel as though he was being drawn to this place, that somehow this journey was necessary.

  'Doesn't look like much,' Pasanius had said, looking at the neglected wing of the palace. Despite feeling that great things awaited in the gallery, Uriel had been forced to agree with him.

  That feared disappointment
was dispelled as soon as they had entered and seen the vast array of cabinets, packing cases and curios that filled the wing. Much of its depths were shrouded in darkness, and who knew what treasures awaited discovery farther in, for a planet's worth of battle honours and history filled the Gallery of Antiquities.

  In charge of imposing order on this haphazardly collected memorabilia was Curator Lukas Urbican, a meticulous and proud man, who Uriel had immediately warmed to upon meeting.

  'Ah,' said Urbican, looking up over his spectacles as they had pushed open the doors to the gallery. 'I was hoping you would feel compelled to visit my humble gallery, although I must apologise in advance for the somewhat... random nature of the exhibits.'

  Urbican was of average height and from his bearing he had once been a soldier. Though he wore the dark robe of an adept instead of a uniform, it was clear that he kept fit and healthy. Uriel guessed he was in his early sixties, his face lined and hard, and what little remained of his hair was shorn close to his skull and as white as powdered snow.

  Urbican beckoned them in and marched over with a liver-spotted hand extended in welcome. Uriel took Urbican's proffered hand, the old man's grip strong and rough textured.

  'Curator Urbican I presume?' said Uriel.

  'None other, my friend, none other,' said Urbican with a disarming smile, 'but call me Lukas. I'm guessing you would be Captain Uriel Ventris, which, if I'm not mistaken, would make your one-armed friend, Sergeant Pasanius.'

  'You're not mistaken,' said Pasanius. 'The arm is a bit of a give-away.'

  'You have heard of us?' asked Uriel.

  'I shouldn't think there are many on Salinas who haven't,' said Urbican. 'News of the arrival of Adeptus Astartes travels fast, though I must confess I was afraid that Leto would keep you all to himself. Our vaunted governor doesn't have much time for me, or the dusty old relics of the past. A waste of time, he'd say.'

  'Actually, Governor Barbaden appears to want little to do with us,' said Uriel, surprised at his candour.

  'Well, he has a lot on his plate, I suppose,' conceded Urbican, 'what with all the trouble the Sons of Salinas are causing.'

  'Exactly,' said Uriel, sensing that he could learn much from Lukas Urbican. 'Thus, we find we have time on our hands.'

  'And you use that time to visit my poor gallery of antiquities? I'm honoured,' said Urbican, beaming. 'I know how rare it is for a soldier such as yourself to have time on his hands, or any man of war for that matter. Of course, it has been some time since I could call myself a soldier of the Emperor.'

  'You served with the Falcatas?' asked Pasanius.

  'For my sins,' said Urbican, smiling, although the smile faltered for the briefest second. He waved a dismissive hand. 'Of course, that was many years ago. I mustered out after Restoration Day, though I think Colonel Kain would have retired me had I not. War is a young man's game, eh?'

  Urbican suddenly paused and raised his hand with his middle finger exposed. 'Of course! Where are my manners? I know what you've come for, how silly of me.'

  Uriel smiled as the aged curator bustled off into a chamber just off the main hallway.

  The interior of this wing of the palace had seen better days. The paint was peeling from the walls and spreading patches of damp rose from the floor and spread across the arched ceiling. Banners hung on the walls, red and gold guidons and rectangular standards emblazoned with a golden warrior with the head of an eagle bearing twin falcatas.

  A long row of glass-topped display tables ran down the centre of the hall and the walls were stacked high with crates. Some of these were open and scrawled with illegible notations, with portions of uniform jackets and assorted pieces of battle dress hanging from them. Cracked glass cabinets stood between the packing crates and lifeless mannequins dressed in what looked like mismatched pieces of uniform and armour carried rusted lasguns that looked about ready to fall apart.

  There appeared to be no order to the collection, and yet Uriel found it incredibly reassuring to know that at least one man of Salinas cared for the memory of those who had served in the regiment and who honoured the people of the planet they had claimed.

  'How many years of service must be gathered here?' Uriel asked Pasanius, peering into a cabinet filled with medals and a variety of bayonets.

  'Decades,' said Pasanius, lifting a falcata with a rusted blade, 'if not centuries.'

  While Urbican rooted around for whatever it was he sought, Uriel wandered along one of the aisles between the display cabinets. The first cabinet he stopped at was filled with battered leather notebooks bound with rotted cord. Most were rotted to illegibility, but one was arranged proudly in the centre of the cabinet.

  The gold leaf on its cover was faded, but Uriel could make out enough of the lettering to know that it was a copy of the Tactica Imperium, the mighty work by which the Imperium's armies made war. The date was worn away, but the edition number appeared to be in the low hundreds, making the book well over a thousand years old.

  'Ah, I see you've found Old Serenity's copy of the Tactica,' said Urbican, his head poking from the doorway. 'Very rare piece, and said to have a personal note from Lord Solar Macharius on its inner cover, but the book's so fragile I don't dare open it.'

  'Who was Old Serenity?' asked Pasanius.

  'The Colonel of the Falcatas before Leto Barbaden,' shouted Urbican, 'a grand old man indeed, a gentleman. Never lost his cool in battle, even when things went awry. When we were set to be overrun at Koreda Gorge he turned to his adjutant and said, ''I shall never sound the retreat, never. Warn the men that if they hear it, it is only a ruse on the part of the enemy''. Stirring stuff, eh?'

  'Is that true?'

  'I have no idea,' said Urbican. 'Old Serenity was killed an hour later, but it sounds good, eh? Ah! Here we are.'

  Urbican emerged from the back room, carrying a long, cloth-wrapped bundle, which he reverently laid on the table before Uriel. Even before Urbican unwrapped it, Uriel knew what it was and felt his pulse quicken as the sheathed sword of Captain Idaeus was revealed.

  'Eversham brought your sword here, Captain Ventris,' said Urbican, 'and I have kept it safe for you.'

  Uriel drew the golden-hilted sword from its scabbard, his fingers naturally slipping around the wire-wound hilt and the quillons fitting neatly against the top of his fist. To hold his blade once more and feel the connection to his heritage as a Space Marine was a sublime sensation, another sign that their exile from the Chapter was almost at an end.

  He turned the blade in his hand, the pale light of the gallery reflecting along its gleaming, unblemished surface. 'Thank you,' he said. 'This blade means a lot to me.'

  'A fine piece,' said Urbican, 'although I feel the blade is perhaps not the original.'

  'You have a good eye, Lukas,' said Uriel. 'The blade was broken on the world of Pavonis. I forged a new one on Macragge.'

  'Ah, that explains it. Still, it is a fine weapon,' said Urbican. 'Perhaps you could tell me of its illustrious history sometime?'

  'I would be proud to,' nodded Uriel, attempting to buckle the sword around his waist, but finding that without the bulk of Astartes plate, the belt was too large. Seeing the difficulty Uriel was having, Pasanius said, 'Is my armour here also, curator?'

  Urbican smiled. 'Indeed it is, sergeant, Mk VII if I'm not mistaken, Aquila pattern?'

  'That it is,' confirmed Pasanius. 'You know Astartes armour?'

  'Only a very little,' admitted Urbican. 'It is a passion of mine to study the battle gear of our most heroic protectors, although I confess I have only ever had the chance to study armour and weapons of a far greater age than yours.'

  'You have studied Space Marine armour?' asked Uriel. 'Where?'

  'Well, here of course,' replied the curator, with an expression of puzzlement, which suddenly turned to one of unalloyed joy.

  'Ah, I see! Oh, you must come with me,' said Urbican, setting off down an aisle leading deeper into the gallery.

  'My friends,' said Urbican,
'you are not the first Astartes to come to Salinas.'

  FOR SOMEONE WHO had faithfully served Leto Barbaden in the Achaman Falcatas, Mesira Bardhyl had fared particularly poorly in the years following Restoration Day, thought Daron Nisato. Many times while the regiment had fought through some tough campaigns, Nisato had seen the shivering form of Mesira next to the colonel, her stooped form lost in the Guard-issue greatcoat, and felt a stab of sympathy for her.

  He'd known it was wrong to feel like that, for, as a company commissar, it could easily have fallen to him to put a bullet through her brain in the event of her psychic powers becoming dangerous.

  For all her apparent frailty, however, Mesira had served the regiment and never once faltered in her duty.

  And this was her reward upon mustering out: a roughly built, brick and timber structure on the outskirts of Junktown; anti-Imperial slogans painted over the walls and crude representations of horned monsters on the door. The street was empty in both directions, but that was no surprise; the arrival of a growling Chimera in the black and steel livery of the Barbadus Enforcers had a way of emptying streets like no other.

  Nisato pulled himself up from the commander's hatch of the vehicle and slid down the armoured glacis to drop to the hard-packed, sandy ground. His armour weighed heavily on him, but it would be foolish to come this close to Junktown without it. He scanned the street again, his eyes flicking from rooftops and windows to recessed doorways where an opportunistic gunman might wait.

  He turned back to the growling vehicle and said, 'I'm going inside.'

  'You want backup?' asked a voice in his helmet: Lieutenant Poulsen.

  'No, wait here, I'll only be a few minutes.'

  'We'll be ready if you need us,' said Poulsen and Nisato heard the man's eagerness. Poulsen had been a junior commissar at the outset of the Salinas campaign and took Nisato's lead in all things, following him into the Enforcers after the muster out after Restoration Day.

  It hadn't offered much in the way of advancement, but at least they were not as hated as the men and women who had chosen to remain with the Falcatas. At least as keepers of the peace and upholders of the law, they could be seen to be doing some good.