The Eye of Ezekiel

by C Z Dunn

  ‘This man is an idiot,’ Puriel muttered under his breath, just loud enough that his brothers could register what he was saying with their keen hearing. ‘He has replaced and upgraded every element of his being but his brain is addled.’

  Serpicus cast the Chaplain a harsh glance. Puriel returned it.

  ‘Arch Magos Diezen? Is everything all right?’ Serpicus asked. ‘You summoned us here. The Adeptus Mechanicus requires our aid.’

  The end of the Techmarine’s sentence was drowned out by the whirr of a mechanical ratchet as Diezen replaced the bolt with the one he had fished out from his clothing. He stepped back to admire his work, grinning through that were a mish-mash of metal and circuitry.

  ‘Oh!’ he exclaimed unexpectedly. ‘You’re the Dark Angels! That’s why I’m here. I need to take you to the governor. You’re in command now so there has to be a proper transfer of power. Follow me. Follow me.’

  The Dark Angels started in the direction of the Triaros, but Diezen stumbled uneasily past them, ascending the ramp into Perfidy’s End before taking one of the oversized seats built to accommodate an armoured Space Marine.

  ‘What are you doing, magos?’ Zadakiel asked. ‘I thought you were taking us to the governor?’ He pointed at Diezen’s Triaros, its engine purring quietly as it ticked over.

  ‘Oh, we can’t go in my vehicle. Too many secrets in there.’ He put his hand to the side of his mouth as he spoke, theatrically obscuring his metal lips. ‘Better to go in your vehicle. No secrets here.’

  Shaking their heads, the Dark Angels followed Diezen aboard the Land Raider.

  ‘So let me get this straight,’ Kas said, his huge frame crammed into the bottom bunk he shared with Dmitri. ‘We’re going to steal a Valkyrie, fly it the best part of a hundred kilometres to the next fortress over, knock on the door, ask politely if we can be let in, rescue the girl and make it back here before nightfall, before anybody notices we’re missing?’

  The rest of the squad laughed. Mute put his hand to his stomach and pretended to chortle.

  ‘Where in the Emperor’s name did you get that idea from?’ Allix snorted. ‘When I said we’d need a Valkyrie to get over there, I meant we’d get ourselves onto one of the dawn patrols and head over to the Braeval Gate instead.’

  Kas joined in the laughter. ‘Oh. That makes much more sense. Just for the record, I would have been fine doing it the other way.’ He stopped laughing abruptly. ‘Wait a minute. How do we get ourselves onto one of the dawn patrols? Hunting for orks from high in the air behind centimetres of plasteel armour is an easy gig – relatively speaking, of course – and in case you haven’t noticed, we’re considered pariahs among this regiment. There’s no way we could pull that duty.’

  ‘We’re not going to even try to pull that duty,’ Allix said. ‘We’re going to march into the hangar before first light and act like we should be there. If the pilot or anybody else asks, it’s a bureaucratic error. We got our orders but they obviously didn’t receive the paperwork. Nobody’s going to think to question it, just like when we’ve been roaming around the city.’

  ‘But what about–’ Grigori, who up until now had still been laughing at Kas, began.

  ‘The pilot?’ Allix said. ‘Dmitri’s got that taken care of.’

  The pale Vostroyan reached under the thin mattress of his bunk and pulled out several packs of lho-sticks and freeze-dried recaff, along with two pieces of grox jerky.

  ‘All contributions gratefully received,’ Dmitri said, throwing the packets and the tough strips of meat onto the floor between the bunks. The rest of the squad did likewise, quickly doubling the bribe.

  ‘I’ll give you this, Allix,’ Gaspar said, dropping a half-smoked pack of lho-sticks onto the pile. ‘You’ve got some balls.’

  Allix simply smiled and jumped up onto the bunk above Mute. ‘Now shut up and get some sleep. We’ve got an early start in the morning.’

  ‘How long have you been here, magos?’ Zadakiel asked. They had been travelling for the better part of an hour, during which time all Diezen had done was remove panels to inspect the circuitry and machinery that made up the guts of the Land Raider. Having satisfied his curiosity, the tech-priest had sat back down, furiously scribbling onto a data-slate.

  ‘I am six hundred and sixteen years old,’ he said, looking up briefly from his note taking.

  ‘That isn’t what the company master asked,’ Ezekiel said. ‘How long have you been here on Honoria?’

  ‘Honoria?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what this world is called,’ Rephial said.

  ‘Honoria? Honoria…? Oh, Honoria!’ A light seemed to go on in Diezen’s head, lucidity coming over him for the first time since he had met the Dark Angels. ‘We were the first ones here after the warp storm. Two years, one month and nineteen days ago, Terran standard.’

  ‘What about the orks? How long have they been threatening the world from orbit?’ Zadakiel asked.

  ‘Two months, possibly three,’ Diezen replied. ‘The first of them made planetfall two months ago but the Navy have been engaging them in the void for longer.’

  ‘And in that time they haven’t launched a full-scale invasion?’ Puriel scoffed. ‘That runs counter to everything we know about ork tactics. They don’t wait for the right time to strike, they just strike.’

  The Land Raider came to an abrupt halt. Moments later, the driver’s voice fizzed over the vox. ‘That’s as far as we can go, Master Zadakiel.’

  ‘Come, Dark Angels,’ Diezen said, getting to his feet and operating the lever controlling Perfidy’s End’s rear hatch. ‘Let me show you something.’

  The hololithic map they had studied earlier had not done justice to Honoria’s intricate tapestry of defences.

  The Land Raider had been forced to stop at the very edge of the steppes, where snowbound plains gave way to narrow man-made trenches, barely wide enough to get a bike through to let alone a Space Marine transport. Quite literally thousands of the die-straight trenches began about ten kilometres out from the city walls, gradually narrowing until every couple of hundred metres two merged into one, the pattern repeating along their entire length, funnelling any aggressor into tight channels around the city, where they became sitting targets for the guns on the walls.

  ‘And every city on the planet is the same?’ Serpicus asked, running his hand along the smooth rockcrete wall of the trench, admiring the quality of its construction.

  ‘Yes, but with subtle differences,’ Diezen said. ‘Each city is in reality an armoured manufactory, their very purpose to sustain their own existence. Everything that goes into the construction of each fortress and its defences, right down to the weapons the troops on its walls wield, is created within its own walls. They are entirely self-sufficient thanks to the sealed water wells deep underground, which cannot be poisoned by besieging forces, and the livestock and vegetation that thrives in low-light and cold conditions.

  ‘Naturally, some variance will creep in and though every fortress-city follows the same basic pattern, some deviate from the norm more than others. Higher walls, deeper trenches, sometimes even different weapon loadouts in the turrets. Think of them like forge worlds on a micro scale. Just as one forge world might construct a Land Raider based on one particular STC…’ Diezen, stood on the lip of the trench above the Dark Angels, tapped a metallic hand against the hull of Perfidy’s End. ‘Anvilus Nine, Techmarine Solidus?’

  ‘Jerulas,’ Serpicus replied.

  ‘Close,’ Diezen said. ‘Another may build theirs to a slightly different pattern, barely perceptible to even the trained eye.’

  ‘So each city is its own self-contained environment, an eco-system designed to create the perfect conditions to repel any aggressor,’ Rephial said.

  ‘That’s the theory,’ Diezen said.

  ‘The theory?’ queried Ezekiel. ‘You mean these defences have neve
r been put to the test?’

  ‘Honoria wasn’t just cut off from the Imperium at the end of the Great Schism, it was isolated from everywhere. For ten thousand years they continued to build up their fortresses and their trenches, and not so much as an eldar pirate ever laid a foot here.’

  ‘That still doesn’t explain why you invoked the Pact of Kulgotha and summoned us here, arch magos,’ said Zadakiel.

  ‘Numbers,’ Diezen replied.

  ‘Numbers?’ asked Puriel.

  ‘Yes, Dark Angel. The calculus logi have been running calculations non-stop since Honoria was rediscovered, and I have determined that the chances of the defences holding out are ninety-nine point nine nine nine per cent, with a margin of error of nought point nought nought one per cent.’

  ‘So the defences are to all intents and purposes unbreachable,’ Rephial said.

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘What do you mean “almost”?’ asked Ezekiel. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Numbers.’

  ‘There’s that word again,’ Puriel said. ‘What’s the problem with the numbers?’

  ‘We’ve run all of our simulations and projections with varying numbers of aggressors and, below a certain point, the chances of the defences holding are one hundred per cent, with a zero per cent margin for error.’

  Ezekiel looked to Zadakiel and the other Dark Angels, realisation creeping onto all of their faces.

  ‘And what is that number of aggressors?’ asked Zadakiel.

  ‘Eleven million, three hundred and one thousand, seven hundred and forty-two, with a margin of error–’

  The Dark Angels never did find out what the margin of error was. ‘And how many aggressors are we likely to face in the forthcoming battle?’ Puriel was the first to ask, though the question was on the lips of every Space Marine.

  Diezen checked a chron hanging from a heavy brass chain around his neck. ‘Assuming that the orks have been massing in space for two thousand three hundred and fifty-seven hours, and allowing for a rate of attrition of–’

  ‘We couldn’t care less about your rate of attrition, just tell us the Lion-forsaken number!’ Puriel’s frustration boiled over into anger.

  ‘Twenty-nine million, eight hundred and ninety-five thousand three hundred and ninety-three.’ Fortunately for Diezen, he stopped short of telling the Dark Angels the margin of error. Belying his earlier fragility, the tech-priest jumped down into the trench and began walking in the direction of the gargantuan structure that lay at its end.

  ‘Come, Dark Angels,’ Diezen said. ‘We have a long road ahead of us.’

  ‘Hey! You there. Where do you think you’re going?’

  Kas, Dmitri, Mute, Grigori and Gaspar continued to board the Valkyrie. Allix addressed the Vostroyan corporal, who was clinging to his data-slate as though it were a sceptre of office.

  ‘Reporting for dawn patrol like we were ordered to,’ Allix said, as if the question was ridiculous.

  The corporal hurriedly looked down at his data-slate. ‘No, no, no. This is all wrong. You’re not supposed to be here. Who issued the order?’

  ‘I don’t know where the order originated from but our captain told us to report here before first light and mount up,’ Allix improvised. ‘Perhaps there’s been a delay in informing you. You know what it’s like around here.’

  The corporal eyed Allix suspiciously. ‘And what’s your captain’s name?’

  ‘Look, do you really think we’d be doing this if we didn’t have to do it? We’d much rather stay here behind these nice thick walls like you than head out there where we could be ambushed and shot down by the greenskins.’

  The corporal looked at his data-slate, then back at Allix, then at the five faces staring at him from the gloom of the idling Valkyrie’s rear compartment. Mute shrugged and raised his palms, his gesture designed to reinforce Allix’s words.

  Anxious seconds passed before the corporal spoke. ‘Very well then. May the Emperor protect you and bless you with an uneventful patrol.’ He handed over the data-slate for Allix to sign, then made the sign of the aquila. Allix returned the data-slate, then the salute.

  ‘Okay, pilot, let’s get out of here,’ Allix said, banging the flyer’s hull to signal they were ready for take off and leaping into the troop hold as the rear door began to close.

  Captain Kowalski and his squad entered the hangar just in time to see the flyer they had been assigned disappearing out into the snowy wastes. Bemused, he sought out the corporal in charge of the patrol rotas, looking for answers.

  ‘Hey, Stoichkov. Who took our Valkyrie out?’ Kowalski said.

  Stoichkov consulted the data-slate. ‘Trooper Allix Ketnemu. I knew there was something up because you were still listed to take the patrol. Do you want to report it or shall I?’

  Kowalski was thoughtful for a moment. ‘My mistake. Ketnemu’s squad were reassigned the duty. Perhaps there has been a delay in informing you. You know what it’s like around here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Stoichkov said sceptically.

  ‘Completely. Why, do you doubt my words, corporal?’

  ‘No, Captain Kowalski. If you say that is what has happened then that is what has happened,’ Corporal Stoichkov said deferentially. ‘I’ll just go and adjust the rosters accordingly.’ He scurried off, hastily tapping away at the data-slate.

  ‘Why are you letting them get away with it, captain?’ said one of Kowalski’s troopers from behind a moustache so well developed it stuck out on either side of his face like a pair of wings.

  ‘I’m not,’ Kowalski said, surveying the hangar. Finding what he was looking for he called out to a Vostroyan lieutenant who was loading his squad aboard an idling Valkyrie. ‘Hey, Bolakov, stand down. We’ll take your patrol today.’

  Chapter Seven

  The ten-kilometre walk towards the capital took the biologically enhanced Space Marines, and mechanically augmented tech-priest, less than ten minutes. Many things happened during that time.

  Zadakiel, now fully appraised of what they were up against, issued new orders to Shipmaster Selenaz: disengage from the orks in the void and withdraw all Navy forces. More greenskins were arriving in-system by the minute, and though the odds were already heavily stacked against the forces of the Imperium on Honoria, if the orks were given free rein to launch their invasion now they would face fewer xenos than if they continued to blockade the planet.

  Despite the ceremonial transfer of power having not yet taken place, Zadakiel had, under Imperial decree, taken command of the campaign the instant the Sword of Caliban translated in-system. As well as having the whole of the subsector’s Navy patrol fleet at his disposal, all Astra Militarum troops on the ground were his to control and he, along with his brother Dark Angels, began to vox orders and issue new deployments to the Mordian and Vostroyan forces. Each city was to be garrisoned by several thousand Guardsmen with a single Space Marine given direct command over them and the fortress defences. The remainder of the Imperial forces, including the Dark Angels armour, flyers and Dreadnoughts, were ordered to the capital to remain in reserve and act as a rapid deployment force to be despatched where and when needed. The Lion willing, the troop movements would be completed before orks started raining from the sky.

  Arch Magos Diezen, who for a brief period had crawled out from under the blanket of confusion and detachment he was swaddled in, reverted to type, allowing himself to become distracted by some piece of the Space Marines’ wargear or some miniscule variation in the slope of the trench walls. He misunderstood, or at times flat-out ignored, Zadakiel and the others’ questions, only giving a clear answer when the company master requested that elements of the skitarii be moved to strategically important fortress cities.

  ‘Oh no, I don’t think so,’ Diezen said, fussing at one of the servo-arms attached to Serpicus’ back. ‘They will be staying right where they are,
thank you.’

  Zadakiel could not push the matter. Though he was the Imperial commander for the Honoria campaign, the Adeptus Mechanicus were an allied detachment and did not fall under his direct influence. In war, as in all matters, Mars retained its autonomy from the Imperium of Man.

  The journey itself was far from straightforward. Orks had been making planetfall for weeks, some breaking through the Navy lines by sheer luck, others shot down, others still simply losing control of their vessels. Tens, possibly even hundreds of thousands of greenskins were already on Honoria, and though the Vostroyans and Mordians had done an admirable job of controlling their numbers, the Dark Angels encountered several wandering alone and confused along the artificial gullies. Even alone and confused, an ork was a formidable foe and the close confines of the trenches hampered the Space Marines as much as the xenos, forcing them to move along it in single file. Puriel, his power fist crackling with violent potential, dealt with any that dared attack from the front; Ezekiel, his force sword alive with psychic energy, any that they encountered from the rear. By the time they reached the gate to the city, close to three dozen greenskin corpses marked their route.

  Bigger even than the cities they had studied on the hololith, the walls of the capital thrust over a hundred metres into the sky, smooth and devoid of features to prevent any attacker from scaling them. The gate itself was taller still, rising another eight feet proud of the battlements, the vast weapons array sat atop it adding the same again to its total height. As Ezekiel looked up at the looming edifice he was overcome by an unexpected sense of unease.

  ‘And this is one of the least impressive gates,’ Diezen chuckled. ‘There are another seventeen surrounding the city, all larger and better armed.’

  As the magos spoke, Ezekiel could hear other words, the words Turmiel had spoken to him before they had embarked for Honoria.