Seventh Retribution

by Ben Counter

  Librarian Deiphobus listened to the intricacies of the plan that Tchepikov had drafted. It was thorough and detailed, completely within the dictates of the Tactica Imperium with which all officers of the Imperial military were trained. Opis’s key cities – Makoshaam, Diretz, Rekaba – would be encircled and besieged if necessary; cutting off movement of fuel, supplies and manpower from one another until they collapsed and all the moral threats and Aristeia members inside were hunted down and executed. It would be a long, cruel process, and the people of Opis would suffer much even if they avoided the forced recruitment into the Aristeia forces which was happening across Khezal. But Tchepikov was right – the Imperium would win.

  If Kekrops had not underestimated the number of witches and arch-heretics on Opis. If the enemy was only able to use Opis’s citizens as suicide troops and militia. If killing off the Aristeia would actually make any difference to the true leadership on Opis.

  Deiphobus looked through the files the intelligence staff had collected on the moral threats so far encountered. Deiphobus had already seen the reports from Gorgythion, the Shadowhawk pilot, on the appearance of Antiocha Wyraxx and what she had done to the citizens under her command. He noted that she had been seen before, and committed a string of heresies on worlds along the galactic eastern rim – half a galaxy away from Opis. Karnikhal Six-Finger had last been seen trying to break through Naval cordons around the Eye of Terror. What were any of them doing on Opis? Who, or what, had the power to bring them here? And what was it on Opis that they were trying to achieve, at the expense of being brought to battle by the full might of the Imperial military?

  Answers would be found in the battles to come, as more and more of Opis was prised open to uncover the corruption within. And Deiphobus knew it would be the Imperial Fists who would find themselves in the toughest of the fighting – that the Space Marines would have to cut all those answers from the flesh of the enemy.

  Lysander had set up the Imperial Fists camp on the Battle Plains where the Chapter’s Scout bikers had conducted their interception missions just a few hours before. Bunkers had been dropped from orbit to half-bury themselves in the parched ground. Between them, tanks and aircraft were parked between the structures and sentry guns tracked across the plains. The Imperial Fists force consisted of around a half-company strength, a little more than fifty Space Marines, along with the same number again of unaugmented Chapter maintenance crews and other menials. Many of the Chapter’s crewmen were working on the Sanctifier, repairing the wounds it had suffered at the hands of Wyraxx and her sorcery, and the mobile forge belched smoke as its artificers repaired and adapted weaponry and vehicle parts to suit the battles now being laid out by Commander Tchepikov. Squadron Sthenelus’s Vindicator self-propelled siege weapons were being loaded and fuelled to join the advance into Khezal. From this stronghold, codenamed Sigismund Point, the Imperial Fists readied themselves for the missions sure to be needed in Khezal over the next few days. As moral threats revealed themselves, the Imperial Fists would have to be the ones to intercept them.

  One of Sigismund Point’s bunkers was not a barracks or an armoury, but a mobile prison block with half a dozen cells. A pair of Imperial Fists stood guard outside the windowless block and inside, in the cool, dry recycled air and gloomy half-light, the only prisoner so far locked up inside sat in the corner of her cell.

  Captain Lysander hauled the doorway open. The woman looked up at him, squinting in the relatively bright light from outside the cell. She was dishevelled and dirty, as she had been when Lysander brought her here, but she was alive and healthy.

  ‘You cannot leave,’ said Lysander. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Serrick. ‘Moral quarantine.’

  Lysander motioned to a table outside the cell. On the table was a meal of water and ration blocks. Serrick sat down and began eating with as much speed as dignity would allow. She had not eaten for a long time.

  ‘Lord Commander Tchepikov does not know you exist,’ said Lysander. ‘He would expect us to hand you over to his intelligence staff. But the Adeptus Astartes keeps its own counsel in such matters.’

  ‘And,’ said Serrick between mouthfuls, ‘there is something happening on this planet that goes a damn long way beyond a madman deciding he doesn’t want to cough up his tithes any more. You don’t know who to trust except yourselves. So here I am.’

  ‘We have contacts with Tchepikov’s staff,’ continued Lysander. ‘We know that you are Lukrezzia Mosherham Serrick-Vaas.’

  Serrick laughed a little, snorting water from her glass. ‘Lukrezzia is my given name. It comes from a grandmother on my father’s side who was supposed to have been a very poisonous woman. Mosherham was the manufactorum who owned my father, and Vaas was my mother’s caste. So I just go by Serrick. It was the town where I was born. It seemed the least offensive of all my names.’

  ‘You are a psyker,’ said Lysander.

  ‘On my good days. I am a telekine.’

  ‘And you were part of Kekrops’s mission to Opis.’

  ‘I was there when he died.’

  Lysander sat down opposite Serrick. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was an ambush. Whoever hit us knew where we were going to be and how to hit us. And they were off-worlders, too. Not anyone from Opis.’

  ‘Could they have been mercenaries?’

  ‘They were mind-wiped,’ said Serrick. ‘So no, I don’t think so. They weren’t corrupted, either. Whoever sent them it wasn’t one of the moral threats Kekrops was after. Not without a couple of layers between them and us, at least.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I hid out,’ said Serrick. ‘In Makoshaam. But the Aristeia were after me. I think it was them, anyway. I got out of Makoshaam and made it to Rekaba. There was a safehouse there Kekrops had set up. When I reached it, it was full of Aristeia troops. The next thing I know, I’m in the pyramid. In the coffin. They asked me the same sort of things as you are. I think they wanted to know how much Kekrops had found out.’

  ‘They? Janeak and his cult?’

  ‘Throne of Terra, yes. I saw him. Believe me, seeing him was enough. Something like that, just being in the same room as it… it pollutes your soul. I think they were keeping me intact, for whatever reason. We have… we have exercises they teach us. Mental exercises. I didn’t let myself think of what they were going to do with me. I’ve seen men go mad in places like that. I didn’t let myself become one of them. I think that is the difference between people who can do the kind of things we do, and everyone else. We’re not stronger or smarter or anything like that. It’s not being psychic or three metres tall or whatever we do that counts. We can see the worst of what there is, and we can carry on. That’s the difference. We can be trusted with knowing things that make everyone else go crazy.’

  ‘Who is Legienstrasse?’

  Serrick shrugged. ‘Janeak asked me that, too. I got the impression he knew the answer. Again, he just wanted to know if we knew. And as an agent of the Throne, I swear I do not know. I have never heard the name, or whatever it is, before. But there is something that he didn’t get out of me. Something I knew that he didn’t.’

  Lysander looked at this woman. She was wasted from malnutrition, but her eyes were still bright. The Inquisition had done well in picking an agent who could go through the hell the Holy Ordos required of her. The real question was, whether she could be trusted at all.

  ‘Then tell me,’ said Lysander.

  Serrick shook her head. ‘Get me off this world, back to the Inquisition where I can carry on my work. And do not let me go through Tchepikov’s people. You make this happen yourself.’

  ‘And in return for this great generosity?’

  ‘I’ll give you the location of the thing I hid in Rekaba before I was captured. It’s proof of what you are really dealing with on Opis. You will know what it signifies when you see it.’

  Lysander sat back. ‘I am not one given to negotiations.’

  ‘But I am, ca
ptain. Believe me, I have something you want and you can give me what I want. It is not much I ask.’

  ‘We could tear what you know from your mind,’ said Lysander.

  ‘I know,’ replied Serrick. ‘But that is a resource better used on the enemies here on Opis, is it not? And besides, we are both servants of the same Emperor. We both seek vengeance for the death of Kekrops and the destruction of the heretics on this planet. Such treatment of an ally would hardly become the honour of the Imperial Fists, now, would it?’

  ‘No, it would not,’ conceded Lysander. ‘But you will not go beyond our sight. If you do not deliver, you will be back in our custody. Or handed over to Tchepikov, a situation you seem to fear greatly. Understood?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Serrick.

  ‘Then I shall have a pilot to deliver you to the Wings of Dorn in orbit.’

  Serrick took another mouthful of rations. She paused, and looked up. ‘I have yet to thank you for saving me.’

  ‘As you say,’ replied Lysander, ‘we are on the same side.’

  K-Day +2 Days

  Internment of refugees from Khezal

  Interception and elimination of Aristeia members fleeing Operation Requiem

  Scout-Sergeant Orfos could barely see where the refugee camp ended, the mass of prefabricated hab-blocks and handmade shanties almost merging with the dusty horizon. The Imperial force had brought a great many buildings to construct the camp but they were not nearly enough, and the people fleeing Khezal had done their best to make up the shortfall with whatever material they could scavenge from the Battle Plains. Their shacks were built from rusted armour-plates and tank wheels dug from the dirt.

  Orfos watched the people as the Chimera APC drove through the camp. The top hatches were open and from this vantage point he could see citizens hurrying through the dusty streets and herding their families out of sight, for the Imperial army – especially the Space Marines – were icons of fear. Orfos had brought only Geryius along from his squad, knowing that a full unit of Space Marines would be enough to spark a panic riot.

  ‘Have they named this place yet?’ asked Scout Geryius.

  ‘The Emperor’s Embrace,’ said Orfos. ‘But I doubt many of these people are calling it that.’

  ‘They’re saying we’ll have four hundred thousand here before it’s all done,’ said the Chimera driver, an Imperial Guardsman of the 309th Deucalian Lancers. ‘Good money says every fifth one of ’em will be a heretic.’

  Orfos watched as another Chimera, this one with its passenger compartment replaced with a flatbed, trundled through the cramped alleyways collecting bodies. Many of the people trickling out of Khezal were wounded or diseased, and the dead mounted up in spite of the efforts of the Sisters Hospitaller who had set up a medicae post in one of the hab-blocks. And some people who came in healthy were turning up dead to violence. It was impossible to see what happened below the surface of the Emperor’s Embrace. No one here trusted the forces of the Imperium. The only thing they feared more than the Imperial Guard and the Space Marines were the powers of Khezal from whom they had fled.

  ‘This place could blow up any second,’ said Geryius. ‘All it needs is a few heretics to stir up revolt and Tchepikov will have the whole camp bombed into ash.’

  ‘These are the people for whom we fight,’ said Orfos. ‘We must never forget that.’

  ‘These people would stab us in our beds given the chance,’ said the driver. ‘That’s what I won’t forget.’

  The Chimera pulled up to one of the hab-blocks. Already, the inhabitants had boarded up its windows with armour-plating and a slab of rusting steel stood in front of the doorway. Orfos jumped out. ‘Stay here,’ he said to Geryius.

  Orfos hauled the slab away from the doorway. It was dark inside, and fearful eyes watched him from the shadows. He walked in, letting the slab fall into place behind him.

  The hab-block was a dismal single-storey building, shoddily prefabricated and already home to what looked like dozens of people huddling in the bunks hanging from the walls. At the far end was a makeshift partition of rags. A few citizens, rather bolder than the rest, stood in front of it as if on guard.

  Orfos approached. The men stood aside for Orfos, and he pulled the curtain back.

  A man lay among rag-stuffed cushions, the most comfort the people here had been able to fashion for him. He was in late middle age, Orfos guessed, although it was difficult to tell given the strange greenish-grey tinge of his skin and the way his face hung, as if his bulk had been sucked out of him suddenly leaving him sagging and empty. His hair was greying and the skin of his neck, continuing down under the blankets that covered him, was pocked with raw and seeping wounds, like clusters of tiny bite marks.

  The man looked up at Orfos and smiled.

  ‘You have come,’ he said.

  ‘You let it be known,’ replied Orfos, ‘that you would speak only with a member of the Adeptus Astartes. I am here.’

  ‘I cannot… I can trust no one else,’ said the man. ‘I have seen what happened to Opis. Sometimes it seemed I alone was aware. We were infiltrated slowly, man by man it seemed. Oh, that vengeance has fallen on us! I welcome it. I wish only that I could have done something to bring it about sooner.’

  ‘I must first ask,’ said Orfos, ‘who you are.’

  The man held out a clenched fist. His trembling fingers opened to reveal a badge, such as might be pinned to the lapel of an adept’s uniform to denote his rank. It was in the shape of a skull over a quill. ‘My name is Lhossen,’ he said.

  ‘You are an adept of the Administratum,’ said Orfos.

  ‘I was, once. But no longer. I was… heh… I was rather lax in the upholding of my vows to the Imperium.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I stole rather a lot of money. Or rather, I tried to. I was found out, stripped of my adept status and marooned here, to await the return of the tithing mission and the imposition of my punishment. But the tithing mission did not come. You did, and with you, all the fires of the Emperor’s fury. I still serve the Imperium, Space Marine. I am not a good man, but I am dying. My lungs are scarred with acid from the shells of your artillery. And in my final moments I will serve my Emperor.’

  Orfos knelt by the dying once-adept. ‘Then tell me what you know.’

  ‘There is a legend of these people,’ said Lhossen. ‘Of the King of Crows.’

  ‘I have heard of it,’ said Orfos. ‘It is a folk tale of Opis, one that Imperial intelligence thought might be used in propaganda against us.’

  ‘Yes, it is true. The kindly robber, the master trickster, the fox! But it is true. I kept my ears open, Space Marine, all the time I was in exile here. The folklore of this world is more than folklore. The King of Crows is real, and he is here. I have heard tell that traitors among the refugees here are moving him through the camp to safety.’

  ‘This King of Crows – is he a moral threat?’

  ‘I believe so. Perhaps some demagogue native to Opis. Perhaps just a name adopted by one of the heretics in Khezal. But the name buys him loyalty from the malcontented among the citizens. He merely speaks it, and they seek to aid him. He is here, in the camp. It is death to speak of it to an outsider, but death has me already and I do not care.’ Lhossen sat up, grimacing with the pain of it. ‘Do you hear? I do not care! The King of Crows can take me, I have already given my soul to my Emperor!’

  ‘Where is he?’ said Orfos.

  ‘Somewhere near. He cannot move in the open. Whatever he is, he must…’

  Orfos held up a hand to silence Lhossen.

  The sound he had heard, hidden among the chatter and construction of the camp, was the cocking of a weapon.

  Orfos drew his own bolt pistol, unsheathing his combat knife with his left hand.

  Bullets shredded the curtain of rags, and the air was filled with superheated lead. Lhossen was thrown against the back wall of the hab-block, body torn open, bored through with explosive fire.

  Im
pacts shuddered Orfos’s greaves and breastplate. A Scout’s armour did not have the resilience of a full suit of power armour, but it held.

  The gloom would have hindered anyone else, but Orfos’s enhanced eyes could make out the figures advancing on him. They looked like any other refugees, save for the rags they wore around their faces and the autoguns and stub pistols they held. Six of them had made it into the hab-block, the citizens inside too terrified to even move to stop them.

  In the first second or so, Orfos shot two of them: one in the head, the other through the upper chest. Explosive bolter shots against the unarmoured targets left an appalling mess of blood and shattered bone against the walls and ceiling. The others scattered, save for one who charged at Orfos, stub pistol blazing in his hand. Orfos trusted in his battlegear, felt a round impact against the chestplate of his armour, and rammed the combat knife into the man’s abdomen. He felt the resistance as the blade met the spine.

  Orfos dropped the body on the ground. The enemy were thrown back for the moment. He glanced back – Lhossen was dead, no doubt about that. Orfos left his curse unvoiced.

  Orfos ran to the door of the hab-block, backing up against the doorframe. A body at his feet could have been any of the citizens here, any of the hundreds of thousands fleeing Khezal, or even of the millions on this planet. But this particular citizen had decided to give his life to the powers that ruled Khezal, in the hope of keeping the secrets of the King of Crows from the Imperial Fists.