Deathwatch

by Steve Parker

2

  At the edge of the plasteel walkway by which the Adonai had settled, Captain Orlesi and Karras gripped wrists. The smaller man’s eyes shone with a level of emotion that surprised the Death Spectre.

  ‘Fight well and hard, my lord,’ Orlesi said emphatically. ‘Don’t have the old girl and I ferry you back to Occludus in an onyx box, will you? I ask that with all my heart.’

  Like Brother Stephanus, thought Karras. I must not forget. I must not be complacent. Stephanus was mighty among us. And yet, he did not survive all the Deathwatch demanded of him.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw Athio Cordatus glaring at him, demanding he serve with honour and survive to return home.

  Watch over me, khadit. If even Stephanus was not equal to the tasks set him, how can I hope to be?

  Karras offered the captain a wan smile. ‘May the Emperor light your way, captain,’ he said, ‘and may the winds favour you.’ It was an archaic phrase Karras had heard spoken before among parting Naval officers. He could see that it surprised Orlesi to hear it now, but the look of surprise was soon replaced by one of appreciative pleasure. Karras released the man’s wrist and turned. Followed by a train of baggage servitors from the ship, he strode out to meet in body the Deathwatch Librarian who had already welcomed him in mind.

  Marnus Lochaine of the Storm Wardens Chapter was not just any Librarian, as Karras soon learned. He was Chief Librarian of Watch Fortress Damaroth, a member of the Watch Council and the supreme authority governing the Librarians sent to train here. It was Lochaine who would oversee the special training each psychic Space Marine would undertake above and beyond the standard xenos hunter programme. It was Lochaine’s assessment that would alter the fate of each, at least in the short term. But these were details Karras discovered only later. At the moment of their meeting, Lochaine was one more unknown in a day filled with them.

  Behind the Storm Warden, a row of twelve smartly attired male serfs appeared, standing to sharp attention. These were members of the Rothi – the order of menials that served the brothers of the Watch. Each wore a smooth mask of white porcelain, the Deathwatch icon emblazoned in silver at the outer corner of the left eyehole. As Lochaine briefly introduced himself to the new arrival, the Rothi stood in silence, shoulders back, eyes front, chests out. They were dressed in crisp, black two-piece uniforms and boots, military in appearance, with a broad grey belt. In this and in their austere military bearing, they were all identical, but their similarities to each other went beyond that. They were indistinguishable from each other in both height and build. Masked as they were, they could not be told apart. Karras let his mind reach out a psychic tendril and sent it flickering over their auras.

  Clones, he thought. Can it be? They’re prohibited throughout the Imperium. Does the Watch have a special dispensation?

  It was hardly the time to ask. Lochaine was looking at him expectantly. Karras made his formal introduction and passed the other Librarian an official scroll of secondment bearing the seal of his Chapter. Lochaine nodded as he read it, then rolled it up and handed it to one of the Rothi with instructions to deliver it to the Watch Commander. With formal introductions over, Lochaine directed six of the Rothi to take Karras’s effects to his new quarters. These quarters, Karras was told, were located far above the docking bay in a chapel-barracks on the inner surface of the great ring. The remaining six Rothi he instructed to attend Captain Orlesi, who stood waiting patiently at the ramp to his ship, quietly observing the proceedings from afar.

  As Karras watched the Rothi silently obey, his eyes caught movement on the far right. Dark, power-armoured figures were boarding a sleek, black Sword-class frigate some distance away.

  Lochaine followed the Death Spectre’s gaze.

  ‘Scorpion Squad,’ he said simply. ‘Still at full strength, by Terra’s blessing.’

  ‘Where are they going?’ asked Karras.

  ‘Deployment details are classified as standard. Only the Watch Council and the squad itself have access to that information.’

  Karras cursed. What was he thinking? This wasn’t Logopol.

  ‘You’ll get used to all the cloak-and-dagger soon enough,’ said Lochaine. ‘I once stood in your place. Can’t say I liked it much either – all the silence, the blank stares, the evasion and the half-truths. Reasons enough for it, as you’ll come to see, but it takes a little faith at first. Come, brother. There are matters to settle before you can see your quarters.’

  He turned and led Karras away from the South Dock. Behind them, the Sword-class Frigate carrying Scorpion Squad began its departure, engines roaring with a noise like unrelenting thunder. As Karras and Lochaine moved into a corridor, a thick bulkhead door rolled shut behind them and the noise of the departing craft died to a low rumble.

  While they walked, Karras cast his mind back, searching for what he knew of the First Librarian’s parent Chapter. It was not much. He had heard very little of the Storm Wardens. Prior to this moment he had never met one, nor could he recall mention of them in Imperial archives or oral legends. His thoughts lingered on that a moment. The glories of most Chapters quickly became tales of legend, often wildly embellished, that spread like wildfire among the Imperium’s civilian populations. Who had not heard, for example, of the great Battle for Macragge, or the legendary First and Second Wars of Armageddon? Of the Gildar Rift and the Purge of Kadillus? What child did not grow up dreaming of life as a warrior of the Adeptus Astartes? Ironic, then, that the arrival of Space Marines heralded bloodshed and death on a scale of which few mortals could conceive even in nightmare. Not many civilian witnesses lived through that reality.

  Space Marines went where needed, where the cancers that ailed the Imperium were most malignant. The trillions who eagerly devoured tales of the legendary warriors were the lucky ones, living safe lives, spared the truth, content to worship their heroes in blissful ignorance. Their simplistic view was something the lords of the Imperium gladly encouraged, for such tales – even the vast number of fictional ones – were a beacon of hope in these darkest of times. The absence of any such tales about a given Chapter usually spoke of deliberate suppression and secrecy. What, if anything, did the Storm Wardens hide?

  Nothing like the Shariax, I’ll wager.

  Secretive or not, as they walked and talked, Karras found it easy to like the First Librarian. In the Storm Warden’s eyes, he found little sign of judgement. If Lochaine bore any prejudices, he hid them well enough. It was not always so. Other Chapters, most especially those formed from the much-lauded Ultramarines gene-seed, tended to look askance at those bearing the mark of genetic mutation. The bone-white skin and hair and the all-red eyes of the Death Spectres marked them at once as having a flawed melanchromic organ[9]. Less outwardly obvious was the absence of a functioning mucranoid[10] and Betcher’s gland[11]. His own lack of these advantages bothered Karras not at all, for he had never known them. If it bothered anyone else, let them stand apart as they pleased.

  Lochaine was pale-skinned himself, but he was no albino. He had a thick, heavy brow and dark, deep set eyes above tattooed cheeks and a jaw covered with short, dark stubble. He looked rough and unruly to Karras, far from the noble and austere image projected by Athio Cordatus. But Karras could sense his power, that fierce, bright aura betraying an immense force held in supremely well-exercised control. Lochaine’s power was equal to his own at least. Perhaps even a degree greater.

  Having taken a sequence of turns, the two Librarians now marched along a gloomy stone tunnel. It was broad and high-ceilinged, the walls cold and wet, and the stonework was unadorned by any decoration. It was a dank place, lit every five metres or so by lumes in the ceiling that cast pools of milky white light in the damp air. ‘We’re in the mid-levels,’ Lochaine told him. ‘There are coolant pipes in the walls. Moisture tends to gather.’

  ‘How many levels are there?’

  Having asked, he suddenly wondered how far questions would be tolerated. Was it anathema to seek knowledge here? Operating in sha
dow outside the walls of the Watch fortress was one thing, but how much curiosity would be tolerated within? Plausible deniability was critical to an organisation like the Inquisition’s Ordo Xenos, with whom the Deathwatch worked so closely. The Ordo often sanctioned actions about which the greater part of humanity must never know. The most terrible and controversial of these was Exterminatus – the absolute eradication of all life on a given world. Open knowledge of this recourse, and of just how regularly it was deemed necessary, could split the Imperium like an axe. Fear would turn to panic, which might cause outright revolt. From there, it was a small step to galactic civil war and to bloodshed the likes of which had not been seen since the horrors of the mad Ecclesiarch Goge Vandire. No. The less that was known, the better. But it was more than simple deniability. The alien enemies of the Imperium were legion, and among them were cruel and ancient intellects to rival mankind’s best. Any information about the Deathwatch could conceivably be seized upon and utilised for strategic gain.

  Karras well understood the necessity for need to know. He just had to find the boundaries.

  Lochaine laid some of them out for him.

  ‘There are three hundred and twelve levels in total, the uppermost being the first. It’s the first that we Space Marines mostly keep to. Everything we need is there, save the hangars and docking bays. Do not be hesitant to ask questions, brother, so long as they are the right questions. The Deathwatch operates entirely unlike any other Chapter in the Imperium. Make it easier on yourself. Abandon your preconceptions. Empty your cup so that it might be filled anew.’

  ‘The brothers who returned to Occludus alive would tell me nothing,’ said Karras.

  Lochaine nodded. ‘I’m sure they wanted to, but everyone who dons the black, as we say, becomes honour-bound, sworn by oath to say nothing of their time among us. That’s not to mention the hypno-induction, too, of course.’

  ‘And not just for the Space Marines,’ said Karras, thinking now of Captain Orlesi.

  Lochaine picked up on the direction of his thoughts. ‘The captain is a good man. He knows well the limits of his business. But you’re right. We don’t gamble on honour and loyalty. He has undergone hypno-induction, though it’s a far more dangerous and unpleasant experience for a normal man.’

  The dank tunnel through which they walked soon terminated in a wide archway. Beyond it, they entered a chamber with a ceiling twice as high as that of the corridor. Each of the walls to left and right boasted an entrance to a wide elevator, though neither were currently waiting at this level. In the far wall, the archways to two other corridors led deeper into the complex. Two large ventilator fans turned lazily behind their grilles in the ceiling, the lumes behind them throwing the shadows of the rotating blades down onto the stone floor below. Everything was stained dark by age and moisture. Lochaine strode forwards, stopping at a wall-embedded servo-skull by the elevator on the left. ‘Summon,’ he barked at the age-browned skull. In the skull’s left socket, a light winked from red to green, acknowledging the command. In a small screen below the skull, numerical runes began counting upwards from six.

  As they waited, Lochaine turned serious.

  ‘You’ll forgive the necessity, brother, but I must now give you the same warning I give all who are selected for the honour of serving. You see, Damaroth is not like any fortress-monastery you’d care to name. Tensions run high here. Rivalry is common and old grudges between Chapters often bear out. Unworthy infighting is all too common. Only the truly exceptional are seconded to the Deathwatch, and that makes for a lot of egos, a lot of pride. Don’t mistake me. You seem well grounded. But there are plenty of others who insist on making things more difficult than they ought to be. I ask you not to rise to provocation. These others… Their minds will be tempered in time, but hunger for glory and honour is rife. To be certain, it has its time and its place, but that is not here at Damaroth. Focus only on what matters. Do your Chapter proud. Unlock your potential. There is so much for you to learn. Put your trust in us, do as ordered, and you shall see.’

  ‘I came here to honour my Chapter,’ Karras told him, rankled somewhat at the tone and nature of the warning, despite its worthy intention. ‘To honour my Chapter and to serve the Imperium. I intend to do both to the limits of my ability. I did not come here for self-glorification or personal satisfaction. Let your mind rest easy on that.’

  Lochaine noted the suppressed anger in Karras’s voice. ‘Do not be offended, brother. As I say, it is a speech I make to all who come, regardless of integrity and origin.’

  There was a chime and a toneless voice emanated from the elevator servo-skull.

  ‘Level sixty. Stand clear.’

  ‘Forgive me for what happens next,’ said Lochaine.

  ‘What?’

  Suddenly, Karras felt a tremendous force suppressing his psychic power and locking his muscles tight. At once, he fought back, but he had been caught off guard. Though he strained, grunting with effort, he could not move. He glared at Lochaine and saw the Chief Librarian’s eyes burning with white flame. This was balefire, also known as witchfire, the ethereal flame that ignited whenever a Librarian exercised his true strength.

  ‘Damn you,’ Karras barely managed through clenched teeth. ‘What–’

  The elevator doors drew open and a single Space Marine stepped out, dressed in the black armour of the Deathwatch with the winged-helix icon of the Apothecarion on his right knee-guard.

  He looked Karras up and down. ‘So this is the Death Spectre,’ he said; his voice was somewhat nasal. ‘Fearsome looking, isn’t he? Mark those red eyes.’

  ‘Get it over with, Asphodal,’ said Lochaine.

  The Apothecary marched to Karras’s side and raised a pistol-like device to his neck. Karras felt several needles pierce the skin below his left ear.

  ‘Put your faith in us, brother,’ said Asphodal. ‘We mean no harm, no offence. All arrivals must endure this. A little undignified, perhaps, but you will understand the need for it soon enough.’

  Karras was hardly listening. His blood roared in his ears. He was here to serve with honour. This was a grave insult, an outrage he would not forget nor soon forgive. Had he been able, he would have smashed his forehead into the face of the Apothecary and blasted Lochaine with balefire of his own.

  He was a Death Spectre, damn it!

  The Apothecary pulled a trigger. There was a sharp hiss and a strange sensation of simultaneous freezing and burning that spread from Karras’s neck throughout his entire body. Darkness fell over him. How could this be? He was a Space Marine. His body had been engineered to overcome any known paralytic drug.

  Dimly, he felt his centre of balance shift. Strong hands caught him.

  Before darkness descended fully, he heard two voices speaking close to him one more time.

  ‘Throne curse that we have to do this. He’ll hate us for it.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Because I did.’

  3

  No one should have been here. This was an old section of the Underworks known as the Arraphel mine. Rich in its day, it had been abandoned over three hundred years ago, its thick, branching veins of precious ore utterly stripped. Silent and dark it had lain since then, frost riming the long-unwalked tunnels, but it was not silent and dark now. Ordimas rode in the last of three autocarts that trundled noisily along the dusty tunnel floors. The unconscious forms of the H-6 miners lay before him on the deck of the cart, ringed by the men who had assaulted them. The victims lay heaped together, wrists and ankles bound, mouths gagged. Looking down at the slumped forms, Ordimas’s thoughts returned unbidden to Mira. He searched his feelings for guilt, and was glad to find none. He knew the type well enough. She’d only have found herself another abuser… and she would have talked. Eventually, people always did. Granting her a quick, painless death, that had been a mercy. Or was he merely justifying his actions? How many had he killed in his lifetime? Close to a hundred now, he guessed, and each so that he might ge
t the job done. His Lordship cared not about deaths in such trivial numbers. His game, after all, was played out on a much grander scale.

  He turned his eyes from the victims on the autocart floor to the men seated across from him. He still couldn’t work it out: the silent almost drone-like behavior of the rest of Mykal’s crew, making it almost too easy to pass for Mykal among them; the stun-cudgel assault on the other mining party; this grim, silent convoy into a long-ignored part of the mine.

  What in the blasted warp are we doing here? What’s going on?

  An entire work-crew, kidnapped, loaded up, and driven down here to these mined-out branches! Ordimas scrabbled to make sense of it. He knew he was in great danger. Raised adrenaline levels would have told him as much, even if the prickling of his neck hairs and the goose-bumps on his skin hadn’t. The dour, uncommunicative behaviour of his fellows was a blessing, now as before. No probing questions, no awkward conversations that could have tripped him up. But the strange silence still made him feel deeply uneasy, and the men trussed up at his feet, like pigs bound for the cook-fire… that was more unsettling still.

  He caught one of the I-8 crew, Nendes, looking at him. They locked gazes for a second. Ordimas nodded in silent acknowledgement. Nendes nodded back and raised his hand to his chest in the three-pronged salute. Ordimas copied it as before. What did it mean? Not so much as a flicker of human emotion showed on Nendes’s face, but his gaze moved on, and Ordimas breathed a shallow sigh of relief.

  Whatever happens, he told himself, whatever you see, don’t give yourself away. Be steady. Maintain the mask. Maintain the mask.

  Despite years in the service of His Lordship, who wielded almost holy authority in the Emperor’s name, Ordimas didn’t really believe in the Emperor of Mankind. Most people, he suspected, didn’t really believe. Hope and belief were often mistaken for each other. In the cold light of day, all he could rely on were his wits and his skills. It was these that had gotten him through all those times he’d been sure he would die. It was these that he turned to now, knowing he had to be ready for whatever lay ahead.