My fallen brother’s submission to the witch troubles me more than the tempter herself. Doubtless she prised open a fault line in his soul, yet the swiftness and extremity of his corruption makes a mockery of the Trial of Thorns. Is our testing flawed or are the judges themselves blind? To ask such things is forbidden, yet I must, for Veland’s outrage pales beside the quiet treachery of Salvatore Jacinto.
The Crown of Thorns is watchful for recidivists who cling to the blasphemies of art in secret. Thirty-one pariahs have been uncovered since the Great Excruciation, but not one among the Thornguard. Until now. If a devout warrior like Salvatore has betrayed the faith how can we be certain of anyone? How many more are there? Writing, composing, carving, painting, perhaps even sculpting in the shadows!
And therein lies my dilemma, brother, for Athanazius’ mirror could uncover the traitors among us. It revealed Veland’s corruption with damning clarity, as it did Laurent’s purity. I did not see Salvatore’s reflection while he lived, and though I dragged his corpse before the glass nothing of his soul remained to tell its tale.
But I saw Anselm Giordano’s truth.
It was more than a day before the last of my battle-brothers returned to me. At his shouted greeting I turned from the mirror and watched Anselm approach. His helmet was gone and he walked with a limp that hadn’t been there before. As he drew closer I saw his armour was battered and scarred with deep scratches.
He stopped below the dais where I waited and his eyes fell on our dead brothers. ‘Then we are the last,’ he said sadly.
‘Explain yourself, Brother-Redactor,’ I demanded. ‘You have been gone almost twenty-eight hours.’
‘My chronolog records it as fifty-five, Master Castigant,’ Anselm replied, meeting my gaze. ‘Time is as treacherous as everything else here.’ He shook his head. ‘I cannot explain any of it. When Veland fired on us I jumped and fell… elsewhere.’
‘Elsewhere?’
‘Another level, hidden below the cellars, though I cannot say how I came to be there.’ His expression darkened. ‘It was not empty. The witch had other servants – mutants, but not like any I have seen before. Her blasphemies are without end, master.’
‘Has she spoken to you, Brother Anselm?’
‘No.’ He appeared surprised by the question. ‘And the degenerates I slew had no wit for words. I fought my way to the surface, but it had changed… become a labyrinth. In time I stumbled upon the entrance hall, but the way out was gone. And beyond the windows… nothing.’ He opened his hands, palms upwards as if beseeching answers. ‘I believe the witch was toying with me, master. This building is her plaything – perhaps even a body of sorts.’
‘Perhaps,’ I agreed. His theory was sound, but irrelevant to my dilemma. ‘Come Brother-Redactor, I require your assistance.’
‘By your command, master.’
I turned to face the mirror, watching for his reflection as he ascended the steps to the dais. Sentiment vied with duty in my hearts as I waited, but the glass was merciless.
‘What do you require of me, master?’ Anselm asked, stopping a few paces behind me.
‘Only the truth,’ I said, addressing his reflection.
‘Always.’ The finely chiselled face in the mirror was free of the seams and blemishes I had grown accustomed to, and the hair framing it was a lustrous black. But the changes ran far deeper, extending to Anselm Giordano’s very soul. There was a vitality about him I hadn’t seen among our brotherhood since the Great Excoriation. This was not the face of a Penitent, but a Resplendent.
‘Did you relapse, Anselm?’ I asked softly. ‘Or did you never forfeit the old heresies?’
‘I do not understand, Master Castigant.’
‘Do you still play the laserwire harp? No… It must be something smaller… easier to conceal.’
‘Forgive me, but you are mistaken, master. I have been true to the Testament of Thorns.’ He frowned. ‘It is her. She seeks to deceive and divide us.’
‘It is not the witch’s deceits that concern me now, false brother.’
‘Don’t listen to her, my friend!’ Anselm stepped forward, his hands raised. ‘We must destroy the mirror before–’
‘Traitor!’ I thundered, swinging round. My crozius crackled with energy as I whirled it in a wide arc that scoured away the top of his skull. Anselm froze, staring at me as blood stained his white hair. His lips moved, but no words came. With a final exhalation, he crashed to his knees, his dead eyes locked on me. His face was once again as I remembered it.
‘The Emperor condemns,’ I whispered. As I turned my back on the traitor I heard the witch’s laughter.
And so we are the last, mirror-brother. We stand together in this gallery of iniquities, facing each other through a blasphemy. Much time has passed since we executed our respective Anselms. Like you, I have spent them in prayer, searching for an answer. Sometimes I have wondered why no others have followed us from the Severance of Glory, for our mission was expected to be brief, but it is better this way. They would be a distraction at best and a peril at worst. Nobody can be trusted. We must make this choice alone.
The witch has fallen silent, but I sense her watching me. Her eyes are everywhere and nowhere at once. Has she finally accepted that I am beyond corruption? Or is she scheming some fresh atrocity to tempt me? She will not succeed, for the redaction is almost complete. Only the final blow remains to be made, yet still I waver, for the fell truth cannot be denied. Our Chapter is rife with apostates whose cunning has surpassed our most vigilant scrutiny. I fear the rot may even extend to the Crown of Thorns itself. With the mirror’s wisdom I could find them all. I cannot destroy it… Yet how can I not?
I do not even comprehend its logic. Veland’s corruption extended to the flesh of his face, while Anselm’s existed only in reflection. Is the artefact fickle in its judgement? False even? Or is my understanding at fault? My purity?
Yes, brother, I understand what I must do to learn the answers. It is a grave sin, yet also the lesser of many evils. I am beset by secrets and lies, but the most malign are the misgivings in my own soul. If Anselm and Salvatore were impure how can I be certain of anyone?
I must know myself.
I must see you.
I feel the witch’s excitement as I grasp my iron mask in both hands. Its rivets are old and buried deep in my skull so there is pain when I tug it free, but I welcome that. Nothing matters except the truth. And yet I hesitate, holding the mask before me like a shield. What if…
What if you are still yourself, Resplendent? Urzelka Esseker completes my thought. What if you still dream of beauty, false Penitent?
‘I do not.’
Then look upon yourself and learn, Bjargo Rathana!
And finally, I do.
THE DEVASTATION OF BAAL
by Guy Haley
Baal is besieged! The alien horror of Hive Fleet Leviathan has reached the Blood Angels home world, and their entire existence is under threat. As the sons of Sanguinius gather, the battle for the fate of their bloodline begins…
Find this title, and many others, on blacklibrary.com
SPIRITUS IN MACHINA
Thomas Parrott
American author Thomas Parrott begins his writing journey with Black Library upon a crippled ship deep within a galaxy in flames.
When the Skitarius Alpha Primus 7-Cyclae awakes from stasis, his memory data is damaged and his knowledge fragmented. All he has to guide him is a servo-skull directed by the Magos Explorator, who seems determined to resurrect their dying ship. But as they descend into the destruction, Cyclae must confront the realisation that nothing is as he remembers.
There is an old saying that war is diplomacy by other means. The Adeptus Mechanicus might say instead that war is data collection by other means. It is merely another aspect of the great Quest for Knowledge, and a skitarius is in many ways a sens
or before they are a soldier. The flow of information is constant and omnidirectional. Data on foes, on weapons, on environments and efficacy. To be skitarii is to be the eyes and ears and hands of something more, a node in a great network.
Thus, when 7-Cyclae awoke to a void, it spoke to a grim fate indeed.
There should have been a flood of stimuli. Light, sound and, most importantly, the flow of data pouring in from dozens of noospheric connections. Briefings for the upcoming deployment, status reports on his troops and more. Instead there was only numb, silent darkness. He had fought a thousand nightmare foes, but this state was unprecedented.
His first concern was whether he was damaged. Cyclae immediately began a full diagnostic sweep. His chassis shivered and twitched as systems activated, augmetic limbs rotating and curling. Interfacing directly with his mind, checklists and analysis projected into his vision. Life support flashed a green rune of nominal status. It was the only spark of optimal news. Yellows and reds flared from extremities, secondary systems and cortical implants alike.
The latter was the most troubling. It raised the spectre of damage to the diagnosticator itself. He started spot checks to verify damage reports. His internal chronometer showed only nonsense data. Memory searches produced corrupted files and scrambled linkages.
‘Alpha, beta, gamma. One, two, three.’ His voice was slurred. He had not been in this state when he entered suspended animation. Something had gone wrong.
A chill voice cut through the darkness. ‘Your vital signs have become erratic. Assert control of yourself, skitarius. The spirit of your stasis pod rebels. You will be freed shortly.’ The phylactic communication carried ident-tags denoting the highest level of authority. It rang as familiar, but his scattered memory banks provided no answers.
His limbs reported energy fluctuations. A moment to centre himself, and 7-Cyclae did as commanded. He walked his mind through the Litany of Clear Thought, visualising each sigil in perfect sequence.
‘Omnissiah, envelop me.
‘Guide my cogitations to your truth.
‘Shape my thoughts and calm my flesh.
‘Guard me against emotion,
‘That it will not overcome clarity.
‘Sustain my systems
‘with visions of efficiency
‘and the Quest for Knowledge.’
The litany was no mere words; engrams burned directly into his brain activated. They flooded his remaining flesh with alchemical concoctions that eroded the tyranny of base emotion and left only purpose.
The fluctuations grew and a grey luminescence clawed at his eyes. Then with a crackling hiss the void dropped away and he tumbled to a hard floor. The room was blurry and temperature sensors reported it was well below freezing. A baseline human would have died from short-term exposure. He redirected power to ensure his organic components kept warm, as he pushed himself up on the tireless strength of his augmetic arms. The same voice as before demanded, ‘Designation?’
His vision began to clear, a swath of grey blurs resolving into lights amid a dark expanse. ‘Alpha Primus Seven-Cyclae of the First Maniple, Surface Retrieval Cohort, Explorator Fleet Nine-V-Sigma.’ His voice was clearing as systems compensated for damage.
‘The Alpha Primus. How fortunate.’
Cyclae was not listening. His optics had cleared sufficiently to tell him the deck was a catastrophe. This was where his maniple had been stored between missions. Now dead stasis pods were strewn haphazardly about, a few flickering screens showing only null life signs. He felt an echo of regret: his warriors had died helpless, not in battle as they deserved. Then it was filed away. Icy patches marred ceilings and floors that had rusted and collapsed in places. The hatch into the chamber was open, showing a pile of bodies in the corridor beyond. Rotted crimson robes, life ripped from them by the telltale marks of eradication rays and phosphor burns.
He turned to the source of the voice, only to find a servo-skull drifting out from the cables behind his stasis pod. A remote operator, then. ‘What happened to us?’ The litany kept his words calm.
‘Main power is down. The ship has been on emergency power for an extended period, and reserves have run low. The anti-entropic field in your pods collapsed as demand exceeded supply. You were the priority, but even then your non-vital systems had to be sacrificed.’
He looked down at his articulated gauntlets. The once shining metal was age-pitted and dull. ‘I cannot hear the ship. No vox traffic, no noospheric connection.’ The full-spectrum silence was an aberration.
‘What do you remember last?’
Cyclae shook his head. The memory data remained garbled and in severe need of re-indexing. All he could access was scattered impressions. ‘A mission. A dead world. Stones. Metal.’
Momentary silence. ‘War happened. Civil war. Ingrates thought to wrest this vessel from her rightful master. They disconnected the cogitator core. If I cannot set things right before emergency power dies completely, much will be lost.’ There was another pause. ‘I am Magos Explorator Aionios, master of the fleet, and I have pulled you from oblivion for a purpose. Gather your equipment and steel yourself, skitarius. I will have need of you if I am to save this Ark.’
The skull was the voice of the magos, therefore the voice of the Machine-God. Disobedience was unthinkable.
The armoury was adjacent. It had been a shrine to the destructive power of the Omnissiah’s gifts, its contents organised for maximum efficiency in dispersal. Now they were scattered like refuse. His optical overlays highlighted weapons, evaluated them, dismissed them. Finally he found a phosphor pistol and a taser goad in acceptable condition. A black cloak embossed with the white heraldry of Stygies VIII was the last touch, laid over crimson armour plates.
Properly arrayed, Cyclae strode from the ravaged chamber into the corridor beyond, stepping carefully among the broken bodies. One had dragged themselves to the wall, scrawling a single message in old blood: Cave spiritus in machina. Cyclae scanned the text and fed it into translator processes. ‘“Beware the spirit in the machine.” Curious.’
‘Mere moribund delusions.’ The servo-skull drifted ahead to take the lead. ‘There were those who feared where the loyalties of the skitarii might lie in the conflict, and who sealed you away. Others sought to free you. They died in failure. Even after the fighting ended, it took me quite a while to unseal the bay.’ It was a toneless recitation of fact.
‘There should be no question as to our loyalties. They are to the Omnissiah, the Forge and the Fleet, in that order.’ There was no response. As they continued on, it became clear the rest of the ship was in worse condition than the stasis bay. They were in the outer decks of the Ark, a web of corridors and bays that ran the six-mile length of the vessel. He remembered flashes of how it used to be: swarms of menials and servitors with the occasional robe-clad priest going about their business, producing a constant hum of activity. All of that was gone.
Some massive water reservoir must have ruptured and flooded this whole section. The radiation shielding for the ammunition stores, perhaps. Icicles hung from rusted corridor ceilings, and patches of frost crunched under his heavy tread. Lighting had failed in most corridors. The universal chill made thermal imaging useless, and with central cogitation deactivated there was no navigation data stream. He activated the stablight on his helmet, only for an amber rune to immediately spark on his optical overlays. The light flickered constantly. He tapped it several times before the rune went green and the beam stabilised.
The servo-skull floated ahead with surety, though the path seemed winding. Shining his light down the avoided tunnels soon revealed why: all of them were impassable in some way. Some had been the sites of vicious battles; weapons fire scarred their length, and his rad-censer chimed even as they passed by. Others had simply caved in, succumbing to corrosion and the weight of ice.
The path ended a moment later, however. Th
e corridor terminated in a sealed hatch marked by a glowing red sigil indicating partial atmosphere loss. The skull stopped and rotated to face him. ‘It is necessary to pass this way. The hull was penetrated by fire from a rebel vessel, but the damage is contained. The true threat is areas of damaged grav-plating. Display caution, skitarius. The crushing force of the malfunctioning fields would exceed your tolerances.’
Cyclae inclined his head. ‘As you command, magos.’ By habit, he tried to stream an override command, but the relays were dead. Direct interface was required. He removed the access panel with great care, murmuring a prayer of apology to the machine-spirit.
‘Forgive me, O Spirit, for this trespass. I intervene in your blessed functions only to fulfil my own. Together may we serve the Omnissiah in His great design.’ The fingers on his left hand folded back and his palm flowered open, revealing mechanical tendrils which slithered into ports. The door ground open complainingly, lost atmosphere howling past him and setting his cloak to whipping.
The open door revealed a scene of absolute devastation. A beam of unthinkable firepower had got past the ship’s void shields and carved a deep rent. The cold stars were visible through the gap overhead. This bay had been a storage place for mighty war machines. Questor Mechanicus, he thought. It was hard to be certain with their frames demolished.
‘Freeblade Knights,’ confirmed the streamed words of the magos amidst the silence of the void. Glimmers of memory slipped through Cyclae’s circuits. He had marched to war in the shadow of the great Knights. They had seemed invincible. ‘Just a glimpse of what the machinations of the rebels have already destroyed. Just a fragment of what will be lost should I fail.’
Inferno Volume 2 - Guy Haley Page 6
