The Outcast Dead

by Graham McNeill

  That such a well-equipped laboratory existed on Terra was not surprising, but that it was to be found in the heart of the Petitioner’s City was nothing short of miraculous. It was akin finding a fully functioning starship buried in the ruins of Earth’s prehistory.

  Babu Dhakal tended to a silver incubation cylinder in which a chemical soup of elements bubbled with life. The clan lord’s armour had dulled with condensation, and the dying flesh of his face was limned with hoarfrost. He no longer felt the cold, as he no longer felt pain or heat or pleasure. One by one, the joys that made existence such a gift were dying.

  Just as he was dying.

  Dhakal’s former master had wrought him to be faster, stronger and more powerful than any of the feral barbarian gene-sept warriors that claimed fealty over Humanity’s birthrock, a soldier to drag their world back from the anarchy into which it had fallen. Those had been golden days, when the eagle and lightning banner had marched before unstoppable armies of Thunder Warriors.

  Battles had lasted weeks on end, with body counts in the millions and duels of titanic warlords that sundered mountains and split continents. Those victories were now dismissed as lurid hyperbole, and historians now refused to believe that such clashes of arms could possibly have been fought. Why their worthless hides were not flogged for this dull-witted blindness was beyond him, but in his heart of hearts he knew that this dreary new age could not sustain such legends without scoffing at the sturm und drang of those heady, bloody days.

  Dhakal remembered toppling the Azurite Tower with his bare hands, and wondered what the scuttling little remembrancers that documented this shining bauble of an Imperium would make of the tales he might tell.

  The machine before him chimed and Babu Dhakal turned from reveries of his glory days to the task at hand. The silver steel tube vented coolant gasses and a ribbed tube gurgled as nutrient fluids drained away. The upper half of the cylinder hissed open, revealing a gauzy mesh cushion, upon which lay a glistening organ of raw, fresh-grown meat. A web of artificial capillaries fed the organ hyper-oxygenated blood, but patches of necrotic black veined the organ like a diseased lung.

  ‘Not another one,’ whispered Babu Dhakal, his hands curling into fists. ‘I am trying to correct what cannot be corrected.’

  He closed the incubation cylinder gently, taking deep breaths to calm the rising fury within his chest. He supposed he should be used to such failures, but he was not a man to whom such acceptance came easy. Would he have fought through five battle legions of Grinders had he been such a man? Could he have cast down the Hammer Halo of the Iron Tzar had he been a man to accept failure?

  He gripped the edge of the bench in his thick hands, buckling the metal with his furious disappointment. Babu Dhakal wanted to sweep the equipment from the benches and vent his towering fury on the laboratory that had defied him for so long, and only with the greatest effort did he manage to restrain himself. Like everything else in his body, impulse control was eroding and he was a hair’s breadth from becoming no better than the barbarian people thought him to be. Yes, he had killed men since the bitter day of Unity, yes he had yoked a city’s worth of people beneath his rule, but had he not done that with a greater purpose in mind?

  A flashing red light accompanied the rattling of a decompression shutter behind him. Only one other had permission to enter this place of forgotten wonders and miracles, and Babu Dhakal turned as Ghota entered with a downcast expression on his face. Even his eyes, so red with blood, were hooded with failure.

  ‘You return in defeat,’ said Babu Dhakal, the word ashen and alien on his tongue.

  ‘Yes, my subedar,’ said Ghota, dropping to his knees and lifting his head to expose the cabled veins of his neck. ‘My life is yours to end. My blood is yours to spill.’

  Babu Dhakal stepped down from the platform upon which he had been working and drew a long dagger with a serrated blade from a thigh scabbard. He rested the killing edge on the pulsing artery in Ghota’s neck, and toyed with the idea of driving it home just to feel the warm wetness of the man’s blood.

  ‘Back in the day I would have taken your head without a thought.’

  ‘And I would have welcomed it.’

  Babu Dhakal sheathed his dagger and said, ‘This is a new age, Ghota, and there are few enough of us left alive to continue the old ways,’ he said. ‘For now, I have need of your heart remaining within your chest.

  Ghota stood and balled his fist upon his chest, a salute that had now fallen out of favour, but which still held meaning for warriors born in a forgotten time.

  ‘Subedar,’ said Ghota. ‘Command me.’

  ‘The men you took with you?’

  ‘All dead.’

  ‘No matter,’ replied Babu Dhakal. ‘They were but failed experiments. Tell me of these “Space Marines”. What are they like?’

  Ghota sneered and squared his shoulders, though he had no right to do so. ‘They are not our equal, but they are warriors fit to bear the eagle.’

  ‘And so they should be,’ said Babu Dhakal. ‘They stand on our shoulders to achieve greatness. Without us, they would not exist.’

  ‘They are but pale shadows of what we were,’ said Ghota.

  ‘No, they are the next step in the evolution of the superwarrior, it is we who are pale shadows of what they are. Yes, we are stronger and hardier than them, but our genetic legacy was never meant to last. Old Night may be over, but for us a new night is falling. We were not built to live beyond Unity, did you know that?’

  ‘No, my subedar.’

  ‘Our genes were always flawed but I cannot decide whether that was deliberate or simply ignorance. I hope for the latter, but I suspect the former. This world’s master is careless with his creations, and I wonder if his primarchs know that when their task is done they will be cast aside in favour of the mortals in whose name they fight. Like the angels of old, I fear they will not take the idea of such rejection well.’

  Ghota said nothing, the reference to the ancient text lost on him.

  ‘How many warriors did you face?’ asked Babu Dhakal.

  ‘Seven, but two of them are now dead, my subedar,’ said Ghota. ‘Only five remain.’

  ‘You killed those two yourself?’

  ‘One of them, the other was dying anyway.’

  ‘Then we must find them, Ghota,’ said Babu Dhakal, lifting a metal device from a nearby bench and affixing it to the upper face of his gauntlet. A whirring series of needles, blades and surgical tools snapped from the mountings with a hiss of cryo-cooled air, and Babu Dhakal smiled.

  ‘We are dying every day, but with their genetic material I may yet find a way to reverse the slow decay of our bodies. You understand the significance of this?’

  ‘I do, my subedar,’ said Ghota.

  Babu Dhakal nodded, and asked, ‘Where are these five warriors now?’

  Ghota said, ‘In the east. I have men watching them. Word will be sent.’

  ‘Good,’ said Babu Dhakal. ‘We will do this ourselves, my jamadar. You and I. We will rip the bleeding progenoids from their living flesh and we will have that which the Emperor has denied us.’

  ‘Life,’ said Ghota, savouring the feel of the word.

  MOONLIGHT POOLS IN the open square, bleaching it of colour, but no light from the night sky can dull the vivid redness of the blood splashed around its haphazard mix of cobbles, flagstones and bare earth. Nagasena scans the rooflines for any lingering threat, though he does not expect meet any real resistance here. At least not from their prey. Ironwork crows festoon the eaves and ridges of the buildings, and refuse piles at the edges of the square.

  Debris from a daytime market, he thinks.

  Tossed in with the rest of the day’s refuse are a host of dead bodies, at least twenty-five, maybe more. Each one has been killed without mercy, shot or eviscerated with guns, blades and bare hands.

  ‘This is Space Marine killing,’ he says, and Saturnalia nods in agreement.

  Hiriko and Athena stare
in open-mouthed horror at the damage wrought upon these men, amazed how disastrously a human body could be broken into pieces. They are not used to physical violence, and to see the sheer visceral capabilities of the Legiones Astartes has shocked them to their core.

  ‘It is hard to see is it not?’ asks Nagasena, not unkindly.

  Adept Hiriko looks up, her face pale and her lips dry.

  She nods and says, ‘I know what the Space Marines are, but to see just how thoroughly they can dismantle another man’s body is…’

  ‘Terrible,’ finishes Athena Diyos. ‘But is what they were created to do.’

  ‘That and so much more,’ says Nagasena.

  Hiriko looks at him in puzzlement, but says nothing.

  Athena Diyos has led them to this square, following the fading, intangible thread of Kai Zulane’s agony, and though it is hard for her to aid his hunters, her loyalty is first and foremost to the Imperium. She trusts Nagasena’s vow of honesty, though he is having a harder time in justifying this hunt to himself.

  He already knows the Choirmaster’s explanation of why Kai Zulane needed to be found was a lie, but that does not offer him any comfort. Especially in light of what Nagasena heard Atharva tell his fellow escapees through the optic feed. Saturnalia and Golovko dismiss the words of traitors, but Nagasena knows that just because a man is labelled a traitor does not make him a liar.

  If Kai Zulane does know the truth, has Nagasena any right to suppress it?

  He rebuilt his life on the basis of truth being the rock upon which all things stood, and he had vowed on the ashes of his old ways never to hide from the truth or allow others to obscure it. Nagasena wonders how that will go at the end of this hunt…

  ‘The bodies are still warm,’ notes Saturnalia. ‘We are close.’

  ‘Who do you think they were?’ asks Athena, grimacing in distaste as Kartono eases past her, making sure he does not touch her. Nagasena’s bondsman pulls a dismembered arm from the wet pile of torn meat and wipes blood from a bicep that still twitches with residual electrical activity. A tattoo of crossed lightning bolts has been added to with an artful representation of a bull’s head. Nagasena knows that bovine animals were once sacred to the people that lived in this region, but his knowledge of the symbol’s significance ends there.

  ‘This is Babu Dhakal’s clan marking,’ says Kartono.

  ‘Is that supposed to mean something to us?’ snaps Hiriko. Her hostility is borne of nothing Kartono has done, but simply of his very nature. He has long grown used to the unreasoning hatred of telepaths, and lets her anger wash over him.

  ‘He is a criminal,’ says Kartono. ‘The clan master of a gang that runs most of the Petitioner’s City. Whores, food, drugs, weapons, you name it, none of it moves without the Babu’s say so.’

  ‘So how did these men fall foul of our prey?’ wonders Nagasena.

  ‘Who cares?’ states Maxim Golovko. ‘They’re traitors to the Imperium and if they want to kill some crime lord’s men then so much the better.’

  ‘Look at these men, Maxim,’ Nagasena urges him. ‘These are not normal men.’

  ‘They’re dead men,’ says Golovko, as though that is the end to the matter.

  Saturnalia takes Golovko by the arm and holds him fast. The master of the Black Sentinels is a position of great respect, but even he must bow to the power of the Legio Custodes. The Custodian dwarfs Golovko, and his gold armour lends weight to his authority.

  ‘Listen to what Yasu Nagasena has to say,’ suggests Saturnalia.

  Golovko nods and shrugs off his hand. ‘So what’s so special about them?’ he asks.

  ‘Look at their size,’ says Saturnalia.

  ‘They’re big, so what?’

  ‘I know it is hard to tell, but I would estimate that most of these men were as tall as the men we are hunting,’ says Nagasena, imagining these body parts reassembled into human form. ‘And that crossed lightning bolt tattoo was once the symbol of the Thunder Warriors who fought at the side of the Emperor in the earliest wars of Unity.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asks Athena Diyos. ‘That these are those same warriors?’

  Nagasena shakes his head. ‘No, they are long dead, but I believe someone has replicated at least part of the process involved in transforming a mortal man into such a warrior.’

  ‘Impossible,’ says Saturnalia. ‘Such technology is the domain of the Emperor alone.’

  ‘Clearly not,’ replies Nagasena. ‘And the question we now face is how these men came to run afoul of our prey? I do not believe it to be simple happenstance. I believe they were seeking them out. And that means that whoever engineered these men is clearly aware of the nature of the men we hunt.’

  He looks down at the bodies and adds, ‘If not their capabilities.’

  ‘In other words, we are not alone in our quest,’ says Saturnalia, reaching the logical conclusion of Nagasena’s thought.

  Golovko shakes his head and says, ‘Then we’re wasting time,’ before leading the Black Sentinels into the square. They move like the professional soldiers they are, and Nagasena follows them out, knowing immediately where he needs to go as his eyes alight on the smouldering remains of a lean-to structure that has been shredded by heavy calibre gunfire.

  ‘That’s bolter damage,’ says Saturnalia, levelling his spear and squaring his shoulders.

  Nagasena nods, unlimbering his long rifle and unsnapping the safety as he moves towards the ruined structure. He sees a host of battle indicators strewn on the ground, broken blades, torn cloth and brass shell casings that are large enough to have been ejected from a bolter, which makes them far older models than are used today.

  Blood splashes and footprints show signs of a furious battle, but the scavengers who picked this place clean have obscured any tracks or clues to their prey’s route. He moves to the edge of the ruins, detecting a fragrant smell he recognises as burning qash. For the briefest moment, Nagasena remembers losing himself in a qash haze, sprawled in the silken dragon houses of Nihon with a gun in one hand and an urge to turn it on himself.

  He shakes the moment loose and raises his rifle as he sees a thin-boned man seated on a tall stool, the only piece of furniture to have escaped the furious barrage that tore his home apart. He smokes a thin-stemmed pipe amid a storm of broken glass and splintered wood. Fragrant smoke drifts from the pipe’s wide bowl, inviting and redolent with forbidden pleasures.

  ‘You are a chirurgeon,’ says Nagasena.

  ‘I am Antioch,’ says the man, his manner distracted and his voice slurred. ‘I am having a smoke. Would you like to join me?’

  ‘No,’ says Nagasena.

  ‘Come on,’ laughs Antioch. ‘I see the way you’re looking at the pipe. You are a lover of the resin, I can always tell.’

  ‘Once maybe,’ admits Nagasena.

  ‘Always,’ sniggers Antioch as Saturnalia and Golovko pick their way through the rubble.

  ‘They were here, weren’t they?’ says Nagasena.

  ‘Who?’

  Golovko backhands the man from his stool, and he crashes down into the shattered pieces of a toppled cabinet. Glass pricks his skin, but Antioch seems not to care. He spits blood and does not protest when Golovko hauls him to his feet by his soiled nightshirt.

  ‘The traitor Space Marines,’ snarls Golovko. ‘They were here, we know they were here.’

  ‘Then why did he ask?’ replies Antioch.

  Golovko hits the man again, and Nagasena says, ‘Enough. The man is smoking the Migou resin, he will not care or feel it if you beat him.’

  Golovko seems unconvinced, but leaves the man alone for now. Saturnalia lifts an overturned table that is sticky with glossy blood. He bends to sniff the table’s surface and nods.

  ‘Space Marine blood,’ he says.

  ‘They came to you for help,’ says Nagasena. ‘What did you do for them?’

  Antioch shrugs and bends to retrieve his fallen pipe. He gently blows on the bowl, and it glows a warm, inviting or
ange. He takes a draw and exhales a number of perfect smoke rings.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘they were here, but what do I know about their anatomy? I couldn’t do anything for the big man. He was dying before I even touched him.’

  ‘One of them is dead?’ says Saturnalia. ‘Who?’

  Antioch nods dreamily. ‘I think they called him Gythua.’

  ‘Death Guard,’ says Golovko with a nod. ‘Good.’

  ‘What about Kai Zulane?’ asks Saturnalia. ‘They had an astropath with them too.’

  ‘Is that what he was?’ replies Antioch. ‘Fella had no eyes, right enough. Never thought he was an astropath. I thought they all lived up in the City of Sight?’

  ‘Not this one,’ says Nagasena. ‘He was badly hurt. Does he still live?’

  Antioch smiles and shrugs, as though the matter is no longer of concern to him. ‘I patched him up, sure. Cleaned up his eyes and packed the wound with sterile gauze. For all the good it’ll do him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that he’s dying,’ snapped Antioch. ‘Too much trauma, too much pain. I’ve seen it before in the Army, some boys just give up when they can’t take any more hurt.’

  ‘But he is still alive?’ presses Nagasena.

  ‘Last I saw of him, yes.’

  ‘What happened here?’ asks Saturnalia. ‘Why did those men outside come here?’

  ‘The Babu’s men? I don’t know, but they wanted them to come out and surrender.’

  Nagasena nods, his suspicion that Babu Dhakal’s men knew the Space Marines were here and what they were now confirmed. In a place like this it would be hard to keep anything secret, but what could make a man like that actively seek to engage Space Marines in combat? Surely such a man would know how deadly these warriors would be? Why risk confrontation unless they had something he needed enough to risk the lives of so many men.

  ‘But they didn’t surrender,’ says Antioch, shuddering at the memory, even through the bliss of a narcotic haze. ‘Never seen anything like it in my life, and hope I never do again. I watched them take the Babu’s men apart like they were simpletons. Six men against thirty and they killed them is if it was nothing at all. Only Ghota walked away alive.’