Deathwatch

by Steve Parker

  Karras remembered the look in the eyes of his khadit that day. There was the respect he craved. And beneath it, just for a fleeting second, something like the glimmer of an almost parental pride.

  The third and final time Karras had died during the sacred rites of the Chapter, he was one hundred and nine years-old by the Terran count, and he lay as a corpse for a full Occludian day[5]. It was the greatest test he had faced thus far – a test which, this time, he undertook at his own behest. Success would elevate him within the Librarius, unlocking a path to greater psychic mastery that was, by grim necessity, closed to those of Lexicanium rank. If he survived, he would return to life as a Codicier, proud to stand among the most powerful of his psychic brethren. Only the most darkly blessed ever attempted the Third Ascension. The chances of a successful resurrection were far slimmer than with his previous deaths. His closest battle-brothers, bonded to him through incessant training and live combat, stood wordless and tense, anxious for his success. Some had counselled him against undergoing those rites, but Karras had been determined, sensing a greater destiny might lie along that path, not to mention a significant leap in power. He knew he had the potential to survive it. Thus, he had crossed over once again and felt familiar dark waters flow around him.

  The currents of the Black River bothered him not at all that final time. He had mastered them by mastering himself. But his advanced psychic power was so great a beacon that it drew the attention of something new – a different order of beast from the Other Realm. Something sickening broke through that day, as Karras had known it must. It was a vast, pulsing thing of constantly changing forms, of countless mouths and tendrils, of strange grasping appendages that defied comparison with anything he had known. It was rage and hate and hunger, and it fell upon him with savage glee. The battle was one of wills, of two minds struggling for supremacy with everything they had, and it had seemed to last aeons. In the end, they proved well-matched, the abomination and he. Both spent themselves utterly in the fight. They became locked together in mental exhaustion, and the currents began to drag them both into the mouth of oblivion. But Karras rallied. The prayers and hopes of his battle-brothers penetrated to his consciousness from the distant realm of the living, energising him for one last, desperate push.

  The surge of psychic strength blasted him free, and the beast was dragged away by the Black River, raging and thrashing against its fate until it was swallowed by distance and time and absolute darkness.

  Karras’s cold corpse began to breathe again. Twin hearts kicked back to life.

  He returned from death that day triumphant, a Codicier of the Death Spectres Librarius at last, and the Chapter rejoiced, for such gifted brothers were few.

  In the long years since, Karras had served in that role, rarely setting foot back on Occludus. War had kept him away. He did the Chapter’s work, the Emperor’s work. It was what he had been born to do.

  But, at last, his khadit had called him back.

  There had been a development; an opportunity to earn great honour for himself and the Chapter both.

  It was a rare chance to serve as never before.

  ‘The time is soon,’ his khadit had told him. ‘One must return before the other departs. Until then, go out alone. Be with your thoughts. Think on who and what you are. Sense of self is the pillar that supports us when all else falls. Go. I will send for you when the time comes.’

  So Karras had started walking. Walking and thinking. Remembering.

  He sensed a trio of souls, such strong shining souls, approaching from the east at speed. Fellow Death Spectres; their ethereal signature was unmistakable, as familiar and comforting as the land itself. He turned into the freezing wind to meet their approach just as something vast and dark and angular rolled in over the hills, almost clipping them. It pulled up great skirts of loose snow as it came skimming towards his location. Powerful turbofan engines drummed on the air. It slowed and began a fiery, vertical descent, turning the snow all around it to steam. The craft settled on thick landing stanchions with a sharp hiss of hydraulic pistons. There was a loud clang. Orange light flowed like liquid over the snow as a boarding ramp lowered.

  It was a Thunderhawk gunship from the Chapter’s crypt-city, Logopol, and its arrival was a bittersweet thing to Karras.

  His time out here alone was over. This visit to the Chapter world had been all too brief. What lay ahead, he knew, would make the trials of his past seem a mere game by comparison. He didn’t need witchsight to tell him that.

  Only one in twenty ever returned alive from service in the Deathwatch.

  4

  Evening came, such as it was in Cholixe. The sky never changed over the canyon-city. The slice that was visible between the towering walls of rock was a constant twilight purple pierced by las-bright stars. But, at the tone of the evening bell, more lamps were lit and the streets and alleys became busier. A simulated evening. People seemed to need that cycle of night and day. A hangover from the days of Old Terra, it comforted them, even so poorly approximated as this.

  The men who lived here, stocky Nightsiders for the most part, moved in work-parties, either returning from a long hard shift in the mines, or departing for the start of one. Weary mothers led young children home from Ecclesiarchy-run schola while older children weaved between the flows of human traffic, kicking trash and calling out to each other in voices too coarse for their scant years.

  The air was thick with the smell of grox oil from the streetlamps. It was a salty, burned-meat smell, and it clung to clothes and hair and skin. No bath or shower ever seemed to remove it completely. One came to ignore it in time, but it still bothered Ordimas Arujo. He had only been on Chiaro a year.

  It still struck him, too, the oppressive nature of the place. Hemmed in between the sheer cliffs, which rose four kilometres high on either side, the city blocks were pressed together like people in an overcrowded train. The tallest buildings, precariously top-heavy and shoddily built, loomed like dark, hungry giants over the inhabitants, as if readying to fall upon them and feed. Thick black utility cables hung between them like the strands of some chaotic spider’s web, humming with electrical power and badly digitised voices. Alleyways were often so narrow here that the broad-shouldered men from the mines had to walk sideways down them just to get to their own tenement doors.

  Such was the life of the average Chiarite, at least here in Cholixe. Those of loftier rank mostly lived and worked in structures cut straight into the canyon walls. Their broad diamonite windows, warm with steady golden light, looked out over the city below; not the best view perhaps, but Ordimas suspected the air was a lot cleaner up there. He could imagine how it felt to look down on this grimy, oily pit of a town while one drank fine liquor from a crystal goblet after a hot shower.

  Not this time.

  He had known both the high life and the lowest in his many travels, but man-of-station was not his role here on Chiaro. Here, he was a humble street performer. Here, he was the Puppeteer.

  It was the younger children of Cholixe for whom Ordimas regularly performed. Day after day, at the southern edge of Great Market Square, he set up his benches and the little plastex stage on which his stories played out. The local vendors had no love for him, always scowling and cursing at him, warding themselves against black fate with the sign of the aquila while he and his assistant arranged the stage. But they had no authority to move him on, and he paid them no mind. They didn’t interest him much. The children, however…

  So many more than before. And so strange, this new generation.

  As the modest crowd watched his marionettes dance on the tiny stage, Ordimas peered out from behind the gauzy screen that hid him. Aye. So strange. While half the audience laughed, clapped and gasped at all the proper moments, the others sat as cold and motionless as mantelpiece figurines. Nothing reached them. No words passed between them. No flicker of emotion or interaction at all. There were boys and girls both, and all seemed to share a queer aspect. Their hair was s
omewhat thinner than it ought to be. Their skin had an unhealthy tint to it. And their eyes, those unblinking eyes… He couldn’t be certain, not absolutely, but they seemed to have a strange shining quality, like the eyes of wolves or cats, only to be seen when thick shadow passed over them.

  Most unsettling of all, however, was a fact more related to their mothers than to the children themselves. Ordimas had seen these women before here in the market. He had a good eye for beauty, despite, or perhaps because of, his own wretched form. He often watched the young women pass by. That’s why he was certain, without a shadow of a doubt, that some of their pregnancies had lasted less than three months.

  Three months. It shouldn’t be possible.

  Yet here they were, standing over their tiny charges as his performance came to an end, living their lives as if nothing was amiss. It was absurd.

  His marionettes took a bow signalling the end of the show. Ordimas manipulated one cross-frame so that the puppet of Saint Cirdan, having vanquished the warboss Borgblud in the final act, raised its sword aloft. ‘For the glory of the Emperor!’ Ordimas piped in the character’s reedy voice.

  ‘For the glory of the Emperor!’ echoed half the children with delight.

  Ordimas tapped a pedal with his foot and the curtain fell on the little stage. From the more normal-looking children there came rapturous applause and cries of joy. From the others, only lifeless stares. After a moment, these latter rose to their feet and, wordlessly as always, sought out their mothers at the back of the crowd.

  ‘You’re up,’ said Ordimas, turning to his young assistant.

  The boy, Nedra, nodded with a grin and, taking the cloth cap from his head, he went out among the audience to call for coin. Ordimas heard him thanking those mothers who spared a centim or two. He didn’t need the money, of course. Ordimas was already rich beyond the dreams of most men, though he looked far from it. His Lordship was a generous employer, despite the two having never actually met. Still, what puppeteer performed for free in the Imperium? It was important not to raise undue suspicions while his intelligence was still incomplete. Just a few more days and the report would be ready. Besides, the boy Nedra was earning his keep. He was proud of his job as Ordimas’s assistant. So kind, that boy. He had never once looked on Ordimas with disgust or loathing, though he himself was already showing signs that he would be a handsome young man in a few years if given half a chance.

  Ordimas would be sorry to leave him, but he’d see the boy a’right. He always did. There was always some waif or stray that he picked up on long assignments, especially when sent among the downtrodden. When he left – and he always did – he hoped he left them with a better life than before; better than they would have had, at any rate.

  He had trained Nedra well. There would still be a puppet show in Great Market Square after Ordimas left the planet.

  Packing his marionettes into their case, Ordimas only wondered if, a year from now, there would be any natural children left here to enjoy it.

  5

  The Thunderhawk flight back to Logopol was brief, a little over an hour, and Karras was back in time to witness the arrival of the black drop-shuttle that would, all too soon, carry him up into orbit. The atmosphere in the fortress-monastery’s massive east hangar was solemn, even more so than usual. Karras stood on his khadit’s left, wordless and, despite mentally reciting a mantra against doubt, more than a little anxious. Each cut a tall, powerful figure, but Athio Cordatus, the Mesazar, Master of the Librarius, had a certain heavy solidity that Karras had yet to develop. It was a hard, powerful thickness common to Space Marines who survived the wars of five centuries or more. It made the old warrior seem like a living mountain, even now, out of armour, dressed in his hooded robe of blue and gold. Karras and Cordatus shared a brief look as the black shuttlecraft settled onto its stanchions and powered down its engines.

  Across from the Librarians stood the entire Third Company of the Death Spectres Space Marines, here to witness in sorrow and respect the return to the Chapter of one of their own. Unlike the two psykers, the battle-brothers of Third Company stood in full plate, eschewing only their helms as per the occasion. Each held a polished bolter across his broad armoured chest.

  The shuttle’s ramp rang dully on the hangar floor. A slim figure in a tight black officer’s uniform and stiffened cap descended. He marched three metres from the bottom of the ramp and dropped to one knee, head bowed, waiting.

  Captain Elgrist stepped from his place at the head of Third Company and walked out to meet the officer from the shuttle. Karras watched him. It had been many years, many battles, but Elgrist looked well, resplendent in fact, with his white cloak flaring out behind him as he marched. Still, there was pain written on his face. It was he who had nominated Stephanus for Deathwatch service, and the Chapter had lost one of its finest as a result.

  Though Elgrist and the black-clad officer spoke at normal volume in the vast and windy hangar, the gene-boosted hearing of the Space Marines in attendance picked up every word.

  ‘Rise,’ said Elgrist. ‘I am Rohiam Elgrist, the Megron[6] and the Third Captain.’

  The officer from the shuttle stood as commanded and, straightening to attention, looked up into all-red eyes. The Third Captain stood almost eighty centimetres taller than he. Swallowing in a dry throat, the officer steeled himself and said, ‘I am honoured, lord. My name is Flight Lieutenant Carvael Qree of the Adonai. Address me as you please. I… I’m afraid my duty is not a happy one.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Elgrist, ‘you are welcome here on this hallowed ground, lieutenant. We are aware of the duty that has brought you to Logopol. Would that it were indeed happier.’

  ‘Aye, lord. If it be any comfort to you, I am told he died well, saving the brothers of his kill-team and ending a threat that would have seen many thousands slaughtered by xenos tooth and claw. That, of course, is all I was told. There are protocols–’

  ‘The Deathwatch operates in shadow. We know this. We accept this. Still, your words offer comfort. His brothers shall be glad to know he died well and for good gain.’

  Qree opened a latched leather tube on his belt and withdrew a furled scroll which, in the palms of both hands, he offered up to the Third captain. ‘Watch Commander Jaeger asked that I deliver this with the body. It is encrypted, of course, but I am told your Chapter already possesses the key. I fear that you will find few answers within, but perhaps the contents will further honour the fallen.’

  Elgrist took the scroll in a large gauntleted hand and nodded.

  ‘It shall be passed to the Megir.’ Seeing the lieutenant’s confusion, Elgrist added, ‘To the Chapter Master.’

  That much was a lie, of course. The Megir could not be troubled with such things. His burden was too great by far. But the Imperium at large must never know what lay below Logopol. It was to Athio Cordatus that the scroll would be given. It was the Mesazar who commanded the Chapter while the First Spectre sat suffering in a chamber deep below the city’s catacombs.

  Flight Lieutenant Qree inclined his head. ‘I see. Well, I believe this concludes the first part of my duty, my lord. Shall I signal for the body to be…’

  He almost said unloaded but the word struck him as disrespectful. Silence hung for a moment while Qree grasped for a more appropriate term. After the span of a few seconds, however, Captain Elgrist interceded.

  ‘If you would, lieutenant. Please.’

  ‘At once, m’lord.’

  Qree reached up and pressed a brass stud in his starched black collar. Into this stud, he muttered, ‘Begin the procession.’ A moment later, six figures in black robes of mourning descended the shuttle ramp. They carried censers that trailed wisps of pungent incense as they swung to and fro with each slow, deliberate step. They sang softly and deeply as they descended, a low, humming lament that reached out to the aural senses of all present and held them fast. The quality of sorrow in that soft, hypnotic song was palpable. Normal men would weep to hear it, and Lieutenant
Qree fought hard to keep tears from his eyes, not with complete success. The assembled Space Marines wept not, but their battle-worn faces, all ghostly white with blood-red eyes, betrayed the deep sadness that pulled on their hearts.

  Karras felt it tug at his own hearts as his psychic awareness was pricked by their grief. Stephanus would have made captain one day, but that honour had been taken from him, swapped for another. He had died in battle, which was proper, but he had fallen surrounded not by his Occludian brothers but by strangers from other worlds, other Chapters. Such was the end of a Deathwatch operative. Was it worth it? Was Deathwatch service the greater of the two honours, or the lesser? Putting his prejudice aside, Karras searched himself for an honest answer, knowing full well that he, like Stephanus, might return here on a shuttle crewed by men in robes of mourning.

  But he would reach no real conclusion, he decided, until service was upon him. Time would answer the questions that soul-searching could not.

  Between the six hooded mourners, a long, thick, lidless sarcophagus of black onyx appeared, floating silently on the air, keeping pace perfectly with its escort, upheld and propelled by tiny anti-gravitic motors. The mourners reached the bottom of the ramp and guided the onyx block to Captain Elgrist. There, a few metres in front of him, they dropped to their right knees and bowed their heads. The song stopped.

  Qree threw back his shoulders, chest out, chin raised, took a deep breath, and said in a sonorous voice, ‘To his beloved brothers, to those that forged him, to those that knew him best, we commend the body of the fallen in the name of the Deathwatch. May his sacrifice be honoured until the ending of all things.’

  ‘So shall it be,’ boomed the Third Captain in response.

  ‘So shall it be,’ echoed the assembled brothers, Karras and his master included.

  At a nod from Elgrist, four sergeants moved forwards from the ranks of Third Company and walked towards the floating sarcophagus. The six robed mourners rose from their knees, bowed low to the Third captain, turned, and silently drifted back up the shuttle ramp. The Space Marine sergeants took up position around the sarcophagus, each raising his right hand to his lips then touching his fingers to the cold forehead of their fallen comrade.