Black Tide

by James Swallow

  Kayne’s expression tightened. “Brother, do you suggest that the sergeant would be broken so quickly by Bile and his men? You think he would spill his guts to them?” The Space Marine’s lip curled. “He would die first!”

  “This is Fabius Bile we speak of,” ventured Gast. “The master of a million horrors and a high champion of Chaos. We cannot know what dire methods he has at his fingertips.”

  “Our target may know we are coming,” said Ceris.

  Noxx folded his arms. “Bile defiled a holy relic of all Sons of Sanguinius and fled Baal after killing our kinsmen. Of course he knows we are coming! Such a crime could never go unanswered. But what if he does? What if he drained Rafen dry of all he knows? It does not matter. Our mission does not change. We must find Bile and kill him, to the cost of all our lives if the need is such. Sergeant Rafen gave that order. I still hold to it.”

  “I do not disagree,” said the psyker, “I only question the means. If this planet is bombarded with cyclonic torpedoes, nothing will survive.”

  “Including us,” said Ajir. “So we perish either way. But if we succeed in a ground strike, then the crews of those two ships will not need to follow us to hell.”

  Eigen nodded. “If the Gabriel and the Tycho closed to deliver their lethal payloads, both vessels would be ripped apart by the orbital gunskull flotillas and the multiple remote guns dotted across the other island chains. And if we do not, they will bombard the planet anyway.”

  Ceris looked in his direction. “By then it may be too late. Every moment we delay, we give Bile the chance to prepare an escape. A hidden ship, perhaps, or a warp-gate like the one he used to flee the Vitalis Citadel. We all know the enemy will flee if the chance is given to him. He does not have the stomach for a toe-to-toe fight.”

  Noxx walked to the centre of the bay. “The coward thief who stole the sacred blood must die, he will die. But this cannot be a sanction taken from three hundred kilometres up, with the push of a button from the far end of a torpedo launcher!” He raised his gauntlet and slowly clenched the fingers. “We send in the ships and that will be warning enough for the whoreson. No, the enemy must be seen to be killed by one of us. The vial recovered or denied to the foe. We must do this. Our honour demands no less.” He looked at all of them in turn, his cold eyes boring deep. “If we do not do this, then everything we have gone through, the defeats and the setbacks, the oaths we swore, the brothers we have lost, the warriors crippled and killed along the way… all of it means nothing.”

  “And honour is more important than life.” Ceris pitched his words evenly.

  “Are you making a statement, brother?” asked Turcio. “Or is it a question that you ask us?”

  “The order has been given.” Ceris did not look at him, resignation in his tone. “Does it matter?”

  Noxx turned away, the expression on his face making it clear that the conversation was at an end. He glanced at Kayne. “How far now?”

  “A day, no more,” said the Blood Angel. “Our course through the undersea trenches will bring us out close to the location of the enemy’s island fortress. With the blessing of the Emperor and Sanguinius, we will be able to bring the Neimos in upon them before any perimeter defences are triggered.”

  The Flesh Tearer’s head bobbed. “Then, kinsmen, I suggest we all employ the time remaining to us wisely. Prepare your wargear and yourselves. Look to the rites of battle. Be ready.”

  Gast’s eyes narrowed. “And Sove? You want him able to fight? He still needs to heal, lord.”

  “I know,” said Noxx. “But we are close to the end of this now, and if I allowed him to sleep through it, he would curse me from here to the Eye of Terror. We need every man, every sword and gun.”

  “Ave Imperator,” intoned Puluo. The rest of the squad repeated the words; Ceris was the last to speak.

  The words of Tarikus fresh in his mind, Rafen let the catalepsean node implanted in his brain tissue allow him to skate along the borderline between sleep and wakefulness; the effect was strange, but known to him. Time seemed to pass at accelerated rates, hours compacting into moments. Cast through what seemed to be a bullet hole in the high roof of his cell, a shaft of cold moonlight advanced doggedly across the metal floor of the cramped compartment, and the Blood Angel watched it. Behind the moon that reflected that light, hidden from detection, were the strike cruisers of his Chapter and their Flesh Tearer allies. In less than twenty solar minutes they could move from concealment and attack this place from high orbit. He wondered if that would be his fate now, to hear the whistling screams of falling warheads and be consumed in a fusion inferno.

  Rafen shrugged off the gloomy thought, momentarily cursing the Doom Eagle as if Tarikus’ morose mien had somehow crossed over to him. The burning pain of the parasite had fallen to a dull background ache now, the throbbing of the maggot-thing’s heartbeat a rattle against the cage of his ribs. He vowed that he would tear it from his own flesh with knife, laser or flamer if that was what it took.

  The shaft of moonlight faded away as the cold ebbed from the metal walls and the first weak glow of dawn began to appear. With care, Rafen took himself through the series of mental cues and disciplines that lulled the catalepsean node back into its dormant state, and retuned his brain activity to normal. At its full function, the node implant allowed an Astartes to eschew normal sleep; the organ could partition a human brain in quadrants, resting some elements of the grey matter while others remained active. He felt his body return from the torpor of the not-quite-sleep; the sensation was like rising up through water to the surface, and he gave an involuntary grimace as he recalled his ordeal in the ocean.

  Rafen got to his feet and crossed to the centre of the cell. He paused there, breathing silently, listening.

  After he had been thrown into this cage and sealed within, the Blood Angel had spent several hours scouring every fraction of its surface; it had been a good way to occupy his mind and ignore the pain of the parasite. Rafen examined every shadowed corner, each weld and rivet joint, each patch of rust and corroded bolt-head, learning the exact dimensions of his confinement and probing it for weaknesses. But the outward appearance of the construction belied a deeper truth. The cells here in the pit were built from cargo pods that were space-hardened, canisters designed to be able to survive the destruction of any carrier vessel, and the extremes of heat and cold in the deep void. The oxide-red slashes of corrosion were only surface blemishes, enough to fool the eye at first glance, perhaps even lull the hasty into false hopes. Rafen wondered if such a thing were deliberately engineered on the part of Fabius Bile. Had he chosen to make these cells seem ramshackle and ill-fit for purpose, just to make the brothers incarcerated inside waste their energy and effort on fruitless escape attempts? The Blood Angel imagined the prison complex like some vast game board and the prisoners within it pieces in play for Bile’s twisted amusement.

  He heard movement. Iron feet, thudding along the stone ramp. Pausing. The hiss of pressure and fluid gurgles. Rafen smiled to himself and moved towards the hatchway.

  Set into the metallic wall at waist height was a short length of iron pipe. A crust of stale matter caked the open end, and below it there was a discoloured patch on the floor. It was a feed channel, little different from those used to introduce nutrient gruel into stables for grox or equines. Rafen remembered Tarikus’ warning about the drag-laced victuals provided by the splices; but he didn’t intend to partake.

  During his rest in the cradle of node-sleep, Rafen had also set another of his bio-implants working. The Betcher glands in his mouth were slightly swollen with venom; like the poison sacs of some reptiles, the glands could secrete a toxic fluid that would work like acid. The process of the glands was not a swift one, but in the right circumstances the acid could be spat into the face of an enemy at close quarters or disgorged on to restraints to burn through metal. The implant’s use was not common in his Chapter—there was a perception among his battle-brothers that to deploy it in single com
bat was somehow beneath them—but it had its uses in the right circumstances.

  Rafen knew he had to use the glands now; his body’s reserves would quickly be spent trying to reject the parasite maggot, and he would not be able to fill them again. The toxin would not be effective upon the locking mechanism of the hatch or the armourglass—but it could loosen the fitting of the pipe through the wall. The Blood Angel retched and spat upon the welded joint, and was rewarded by a sizzle of melting metal.

  The clanking steps were coming closer. He estimated that it was a single servitor unit toting a heavy drum of gruel, with three splices guarding it. Wisps of acrid smoke rose from the pipe joint and Rafen tested it. The tube rattled and shifted; this would work.

  Shadows passed in front of the hatch, and there was the hiss of a pressure hose connecting to the other end of the feed tube outside the cell. Immediately, thick coils of a grey and stale-smelling paste oozed out, spattering on the floor. The implication was that the prisoner should debase themselves and eat like an animal, denied even the most simple dignity.

  Rafen gripped the tube with both hands and gave it a savage jerk, twisting it towards him. The pipe resisted, then gave. Outside he heard a clatter of confusion and guttural howls. The Blood Angel tensed, and shoved the pipe hard, forcing the length of it back through the weld-joint. It slowed as it punctured something doughy, and he twisted it again. The flow of paste coughed and choked, quickly replaced by spurts of blood and machine oil. Satisfied. Rafen dragged on the tube and pulled it back into the cell, this time all the way. The last half-metre of the pipe was livid with gore where it had punched into meat and bone.

  The hatch was unlocking. Rafen spun the tube around like a fighting staff and stamped the far end flat, forcing the tip into a makeshift blade edge. The doorway rotated up and away, and through the entrance came three splices; a canine, a horned minotal and an ape-like simian. Each had a crackling electro-scythe, and they raised them in attack.

  Rafen gave them no time to take the offensive. Holding the far end of the pipe, he spun it up from the ground and used the sharpened end to slash a deep wound across the face of the simian. The splice shrieked as it lost an eye, clapping hands to its face as blood gouted.

  The bull-like minotal bellowed and came at him at a rush, lowering its head to present a set of gnarled horns. He was actually disappointed; such a tactic was an obvious one, and hardly a challenge for the Space Marine. Ducking low, he swept the pipe about and slammed it into the second splice’s gut. The tube buckled and broke with the force of the impact, throwing the minotal off its feet and into a crumpled, panting heap.

  Rafen discarded what was left of his improvised weapon, dodged a humming scythe-swipe from his periphery and lurched forward, stamping on the bull-man’s throat with his heel so it would not rise again. He contemplated falling into a drop in order to gather up the minotal’s weapon, but he felt strange, light-headed. The parasite was putting him off his stride, trying to slow him by injecting fatigue poisons into his bloodstream. He shook it off and met the last of the three, the canine, as it barked and snapped at him. The dog-thing was almost as big as an Astartes, and it had a wolfs jaws filled with dagger teeth. It roared and connected with its weapon.

  The Blood Angel snarled in pain as a massive surge of voltage rippled through his torso, and he felt the parasite keen in response. The canine opened its mouth wide, coming in to bite out a hank of flesh from his shoulder. Rafen pivoted, thrusting out his hands, and his fingertips caught the beast’s jaws, holding them open. Using the splice’s own momentum against it, he pivoted and ripped the creature’s head open. Flesh parted with a jagged tearing sound, blood fountaining.

  By the time the simian had recovered enough to try an attack, Rafen had an electro-weapon in each hand. He parried high and closed the distance, shoving the ape-man back out through the cell door and on to the stone pathway outside. Nearby lay the cooling corpse of a servitor, in a puddle of blood and paste.

  No sooner were the two combatants out than laser fire sparked around them, lancing down from overhead. Rafen was aware of one of the bat-like sentinels circling, and with a hard flick of his wrist he threw one of the curved scythe blades, striking it in the chest. Without losing a second, he spun on the simian and punched it to death with flurry of brutal blows to the head.

  The creature dropped to the dirt and Rafen stood there, wet with gore and winded. He was unusually short of breath; the parasite again. He would have to compensate for the drag it was placing on his performance—against common thugs like the splices he would still have the advantage even if he fought blindfold, but there were larger threats here. Rafen looked around and got his bearings; the whole complex seemed oddly silent. There were no sirens, no cries of alarm. Only the steady moan of the winds.

  He sought and found the top of the tower, the place Tarikus had seemed so fearful of, just visible over the lip of the crater. He nodded to himself. That was his target. The Blood Angel broke into a sprint, weaving through shadows as he went.

  A real foe stood waiting for him at the rise of the slope, just in front of a heavy iron portcullis guarding a tunnel into the hillside. The figure shrugged off a robe of dun-coloured material and kicked it away. Beneath, there was nothing that could be considered clothing as such; instead, the enemy was wrapped in what appeared to be a single long strip of black leather that looped around and around sinuous limbs and a lithe, wiry torso that seemed almost eldar in form. Belts of chain mail and pins made from red steel held the costume together. Webbing hung with small pistols and razor-edged fans dangled across the figure’s chest.

  “Cheyne.” Rafen slowed and approached carefully. “Your prison cannot hold me.”

  The androgynous warrior laughed. “Your kind are so predictable, Astartes. You all say the same things, and come to regret them. Tell me, is there a special schola during your training that teaches you how to parse such utterances?” The sexless figure cocked its head. “Do your mentors teach you all the ways to sound pompous and portentous?”

  “It’s a gift,” Rafen replied, with a sneer. “And it seems I have tired of your voice as quickly as you tire of mine.”

  “Oh, good,” said Cheyne. “Less talk, then. More fight.” The androgyne spun in a pirouette and discarded the weapons vest, presenting Rafen with the palms of its hands. It nodded at him. “No weapons. Just for the sport of it.”

  The Blood Angel’s eyes narrowed. In the centre of Cheyne’s hands there were vertical slits like some strange stigmata. He was still processing this when the wounds abruptly opened and disgorged long, wet daggers of grey bone. Cheyne attacked with slashing, downward swoops and Rafen dodged, hearing the bony awls whistle through the air. He threw out a sweeping kick that Cheyne easily escaped, and the androgyne gave a little gasp of pleasure. It seemed to think this was some sort of game.

  “Enjoy this while you can, freak,” Rafen spat.

  Cheyne pantomimed a hurt expression. “Such harsh words. You cut me deeply.”

  “I intend to.” Rafen stabbed out with his remaining electro-scythe and missed by the slightest of margins. The shock-nimbus creased Cheyne’s shoulder and the warrior wriggled as the charge passed through it. The voltage was high, but the androgyne took it with a hiss.

  “You think you’re a cut above,” Cheyne said, dancing about him, careful to keep beyond close combat range. “But the truth is, your kind is old, Space Marine. I am the new, dear Rafen. I am a New Man.”

  “Man?” echoed the Blood Angel. “That’s open to debate.”

  “I thought your Chapter understood beauty. Don’t abhor me because I am so exquisite,” it retorted, with a cackle. “It cheapens everything.”

  Cheyne attacked again and Rafen managed to avoid taking cuts across his torso and arms; but the hafts of the extruded bone blades still slammed into his head, and the impact almost dazed him. The maggot turned in Rafen’s chest, and he resisted the urge to strike at it. The parasite seemed to sense the Chaos champion’s prox
imity.

  “Your design is outmoded,” Cheyne goaded. “In ten thousand years, the pattern of the Adeptus Astartes has not been improved upon. I, on the other hand, am the product of genius. Not just the next generation, much more than that.” It gasped again as it threw a strike at Rafen’s legs, the tip of a blade slashing skin. “A step up. Astartes Novus Superior. New and improved.”

  “So you say,” Rafen replied, catching one of the bone-blades in his hand. He punched it with the pommel of the scythe weapon and the bony matter snapped along the midline, eliciting a chug of pain from the androgyne. “Not so improved, by my lights.” He eyed the portcullis; Cheyne was keeping him from it, holding him off. He guessed there were more of these New Men on the way, and realised that this fight had to be finished quickly so he could proceed.

  Cheyne’s porcelain-white face was studded with beads of sweat. The broken blade retreated into the palm and the androgyne spun, presenting the other bone-weapon in a duellist’s approach. “You are strong,” it told him, “but you’re weak inside.” It tapped its head, eyes wide and wild. “In here. Hollow. You follow empty dogma and the worthless mythos thrown up around a corpse on a throne, because you have nothing left.” Cheyne tittered. “Your world is static, Blood Angel. Derelict and decaying. But mine? Mine looks forward, it grows and evolves. This is the gift of the Master Fabius! He has seen the past and now he builds the future.”

  Rafen’s battle rage churned inside him at the affront of this creature. “Still you prattle, despite your earlier words. Is that all you can do?” A prickling fire was building in his chest, spreading from the infection site.

  “Do I anger you?” Cheyne retorted. “It would appear so! If only you could be like me, and fight with a smile upon your lips—”

  Ignoring the dull pain, Rafen feinted right and then at the last moment, reversed. He stepped inside Cheyne’s guard and struck. The androgyne reacted, swiftly enough to stop the Blood Angel’s killing blow from reaching its conclusion; but still it was a palpable hit, and the tip of the scythe blade ripped across the New Man’s cheek, opening it wide.