[Grey Knights 01] - Grey Knights

by Ben Counter - (ebook by Undead)

  “Where is Valinov, Ligeia? What is he planning? Is he still in contact with you?”

  Ligeia said nothing.

  “You will tell us. You know that. You know that we will break you eventually and you will answer all the questions I have just put to you. You might say that you have already broken down, it’s just a matter of time. Isn’t that how the universe works, Ligeia?”

  “Her heart rate’s going up, sir,” said Hawkespur.

  Panic always accompanied doubt. Doubt was an inquisitor’s weapon.

  “It will happen, Ligeia,” continued Nyxos. “We broke Valinov. Do you really think you will hold out when he could not?”

  “We don’t choose,” said Ligeia quietly, as if to herself. “We only serve.”

  “Where is Valinov? What will he do? How will we stop him? You have to tell us, but you do not have to suffer. You can see that, can’t you? You know how all this will end.”

  “We only serve!” said Ligeia again, loudly this time. “We serve the Change and the Change is our fate! Hear its words! Kneel in the darkness and obey the light!”

  “Heart rate rising. Anomalous brainwaves.” Hawkespur’s face was lit sickly green by the monitor screens. “Much more and we may have to revive her.”

  “Fate has already broken you, Ligeia!” shouted Nyxos as Ligeia began to whimper pathetically. “Fate wanted us to arrest you and bring you here. It wanted you tried and executed, and it wanted you to tell us everything you know. Otherwise, why are you here? Fate brought you to this cell so I could give you the chance to talk before the explicators started working on you. What else could fate want, if not for you to talk?”

  “She’s going,” said Hawkespur as the cogitator interpreting her lifesigns suddenly started beeping alarmingly. “Her heart’s stopped.”

  Ligeia spasmed again and suddenly sat bolt upright.

  “Tras’kleya’thallgryaa!” she screeched, in a hideous atonal voice that seemed to break through the walls of the cell and straight to the inside of Nyxos’s head. “Iak-the’landra’klaa…”

  Nyxos smashed a fist down on the emergency shutter controls and a steel curtain fell down in front of the observation window. Ligeia’s voice was cut off. Nyxos had felt something monstrous in the words, something old and terrible. Ligeia was speaking in tongues, and it was one of the worst signs—her head was so full of forbidden knowledge that it was flooding out of her. Emperor only knew what damage her words could do to an unprotected mind.

  “She’s gone,” said Hawkespur. Ligeia’s vital signs were flat green lines running across the cogitator screens.

  “Bring her back,” said Nyxos. “We have to give the explicators something to work with.”

  Hawkespur pulled a medicae pack from beside the door, punched in the code, and hurried into the cell, where Ligeia lay sprawled on the tiled floor, twitching.

  Nyxos watched Hawkespur take out a narthecium unit and pump Ligeia full of chemicals to get her blood flowing. Both Hawkespur and Nyxos would have to undergo a thorough mind-cleansing to ensure that Ligeia had left no trace on them of whatever was in her head. Ligeia would be quarantined even more completely—interrogation would be performed by remote control, with only pain-servitors allowed to go near the prisoner.

  Ligeia coughed once and drew a long, sputtering breath.

  “Leave her, Hawkespur,” said Nyxos, and rose from his chair. “She was lost to us a long time ago.”

  There was nothing left now but to lock Ligeia’s cell, call a servitor-medic to stabilize her, and head back to Enceladus. The woman Nyxos had known was gone, her personality swallowed up by a mind full of blasphemies.

  She would suffer much. But that was Mimas’s problem now.

  The Rubicon made good speed back to Trepytos, carrying Squad Genhain and the sword of Mandulis. It docked above the Trepytos fortress just as the last of Inquisitor Klaes’s few small ships left to keep a closer eye on the Trail. Klaes had a handful of interrogators, mostly drawn from the Trail’s Arbites and the brighter of the fortress personnel, and now they were all but immersed in the slow madness engulfing the Trail of St. Evisser. Alaric had impressed on Klaes the importance of high-quality information about the cult activity rising everywhere, and so all the men Klaes had at his disposal were scattered throughout the Trail. Klaes himself left on the last ship, heading for Magnos Omicron where civil unrest was threatening to tear the forge world’s great cities apart. Klaes’s priority had to be the citizens of the Trail—the Grey Knights on the other hand were no use on the front lines, where their small numbers would ultimately mean nothing. Alaric had to concentrate on Ghargatuloth, and hope the authorities on the Trail of St. Evisser could keep the systems in check long enough for the Grey Knights to make a difference.

  Genhain found Alaric still in the archives, surrounded by spilling heaps of books and papers. Alaric had removed his armour and worked by candlelight—it was night on Trepytos and the lumoglobes high in the ceiling did nothing but tint the darkness yellow.

  Alaric was absorbed in his work. Several data-slates lay on the table in front of him, amongst scores of open books and sheafs of loose papers. Numerous plates and empty cups were piled up, too—Alaric was spending so much time in the library he had ordered the remaining fortress staff to bring his food to him there. He was scribbling notes with an autoquill, the candlelight glinting in his eyes. A Space Marine could stay awake for more than a hundred hours without negative effects, but even so it looked like Alaric had gone without sleep for some time. It had taken more than three weeks for the Rubicon to make the return journey to Saturn, and it seemed to Genhain that Alaric had been awake almost the whole time.

  “Brother-Captain,” said Genhain carefully.

  Alaric paused a moment, then looked up. “Justicar. It is good to see you.”

  Genhain held up the sword of Mandulis. Its heavy, razor-sharp blade felt as if it were alive. The bright blade seemed to make the whole room slightly brighter, reflecting and magnifying the dim light. “Durendin said Mandulis would have wanted you to wield this.”

  “I won’t wield it, not if I can help it. Tancred is better with a sword than I am.” Alaric put down his quill and sat back in his chair. “Forgive me, justicar. You have done well. There was no guarantee the Chapter would grant us this, thank you.”

  Genhain walked up to Alaric and laid the sword on the table. “Brother Krae was lain out.”

  “Good. I will let Tancred know. I only wish we could have brought Brother Caanos back with us.”

  The Grey Knights had left Brother Caanos behind on Sophano Secundus, burying him after harvesting his gene-seed.

  Genhain looked around at the piles of books surrounding Alaric. “Are we any closer?”

  “Maybe,” said Alaric wearily. “Ghargatuloth uses his cultists to hide his true intentions. All this is misinformation.” He waved a hand over the piles of reports, each one detailing some new atrocity. Persons unknown had sabotaged the geothermal heatsinks on Magnos Omicron, destroying several layers of the forge world’s capital hive. A group calling themselves the Nascent Fate had taken control of the media transmitters on an orbital station and filled the airwaves for several systems around with non-stop broadcasts of blasphemous sermons. “Ghargatuloth is talking to his followers, and they are doing everything they can to raise hell on the Trail so those who are doing his true work will go unnoticed.”

  “Can we be sure what the Prince is doing?”

  Alaric looked up at Genhain. “Right now Ghargatuloth is weak, and he has to fight to survive. Ultimately, everyone fights the same. You hide your strengths, move them into position, and strike. Ghargatuloth might herald the Lord of Change but for the moment he’s scrapping for survival just like all of us.”

  Genhain leafed through a couple more of the reports. “There was a rash of mutated births on Volcanis Ultor, and shipping throughout the Trail was reporting crewman driven suddenly insane for no reason. There is so much here. Ghargatuloth could be doing anything.
That’s why Ghargatuloth drove Ligeia mad—he knew she could sort through it all and find what really counted.”

  Alaric sighed. For the first time, Genhain saw Alaric somewhere close to defeat. “Mimas transmitted her interrogation logs. She’s insane. Speaking in tongues. Klaes is helping, but it’s all his staff can do to keep bringing the information in. I had wanted to leave as soon as you brought the Rubicon back but until we make some sense of this there is nowhere for us to go.” Alaric stood suddenly, and took hold of Mandulis’s sword. Like every Space Marine, Alaric was a huge man, but even so the sword’s long, broad blade made him look small. Emperor only knew what Mandulis must have looked like, wielding it in battle. Alaric held the blade, turned it in his hand, looked at his face staring back at him. The reflection picked out the hollows around his eyes, the lines in his face. The sword reflected more than just light—it was so pure that it saw the truth. After a thousand years buried on Titan, it was still as sacred as the day it had been forged.

  “Inquisitor Klaes has given us the run of the fortress,” said Alaric with sudden determination. “Levels seven through twelve are derelict—Tancred is running urban combat drills there with his squad. Have your men join him, I need them battle-fit. My men will join you later.”

  “Yes, brother-captain. Where will you be?”

  “Praying,” replied Alaric. “I need to think without all this… this noise.” He indicated the piles of books and papers. “Ghargatuloth does not have to corrupt us directly to fuddle our minds.”

  “Durendin told me some truths I believe he would rather you heard directly,” said Genhain. “It is not my place to repeat them, but… brother-captain, I feel Ligeia was right to choose you.”

  “That remains to be seen, justicar. Now attend to your men, I hope I shall be able to call on them soon.”

  “Yes, brother-captain.” Genhain turned to leave. “Emperor guide you.”

  “I hope he does, justicar,” replied Alaric. “Without Him we are lost.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HIVE SUPERIOR

  Cardinal Recoba’s offices were alive with activity. The liaison officer from the Adeptus Arbites had taken over a side chapel and was yelling impassioned orders into a vox-relay as he moved Arbites units to support local law enforcement all over Volcanis Ultor. The three adepts who made up the chief Departmento Munitorum presence sat surrounded by reams of printouts and requisition forms, dozens of lesser adepts running messages to and from them as they tried to organize supply lines for the forces still arriving at the hive world. Representatives from various noble houses, including that of Volcanis Ultor’s Imperial Governor, wandered the lower corridors and the anterooms trying to get someone to listen to them.

  Cardinal Francendo Recoba had seen the crisis growing and had ensured that he would be in charge. Governor Livrianis was under effective house arrest, to prevent his potential corruption. He was a slow and cowardly man at heart—it took Recoba to manage a potential catastrophe like this. Volcanis Ultor was the primary hive world on the Trail, its population accounting for a good proportion of all the citizens of the Trail, and it had to be held against the hidden tide of heresy at all costs. Recoba was the only man with the respect and natural authority to lock the planet down, and organise a military defence for when the crisis truly broke and the legions of the Enemy rose from amongst them.

  Recoba had long preached to his fellow clergy that the Ecclesiarchy could only enforce the true meaning of the Imperial cult if it had temporal as well as spiritual authority. Here was his proof—the Trail of St. Evisser needed faith now more than anything, and its chief hive world had chosen Cardinal Recoba to lead its defence. This would be a battle for the spiritual survival of Volcanis Ultor and of the whole Trail, even more than it would be a physical conflict, and Recoba was determined to be in control.

  Recoba’s offices occupied several layers of Hive Superior, the capital hive of Volcanis Ultor. It was located in the secondary spire—the primary spire, where the governor’s family and sub-families lived, was locked down completely with the troops of the hive’s Municipal Order Regiment guarding every entrance. Recoba’s private chambers occupied three layers, which he maintained as his personal realm where only trusted advisors and invited representatives could tread. The rest were divided into grand areas for receiving dignitaries and private, chapels where Recoba normally ministered to the spiritual needs of Volcanis Ultor’s elite, and it was in these layers that leaders from all the authorities active in Volcanis Ultor’s defence had set up headquarters. Recoba had just received the canoness of the Order of the Bloody Rose, whose Battle Sisters were now reinforcing the defensive lines around Lake Rapax just outside Hive Superior. Several Imperial Guard officers were also trying to get a foothold in Recoba’s realm, to coordinate the Guard regiments now policing the planet’s hotspots and forming defensive positions.

  At that moment, the crisis seemed some distance away. Recoba sat in his state room, reviewing some of the field reports coming in. The state room was furnished as a lavish bedchamber, though Recoba never slept here, only received his most trusted advisors. It did him good, he knew, to retire to his state rooms when everything around him was at its most hectic. He, above all, had to keep a clear head. It would be too easy to get drawn into the details—a hundred lives here, a hundred lives there. He took a sip of imported Dravian wine—a good vintage, something he had been saving for a crisis—and went back to reviewing the overall state of Volcanis Ultor.

  Recoba saw that almost half the levels in Hive Tertius were still out of contact, having been overrun by factory workers under the influence of some kind of popular messianic movement. Recoba shook his head and tutted. He had hoped the sealing of the main exit routes would be the end of the troubles in the hive, but now it looked like the survivors were in danger of losing their minds to the tide of heresy. He would have to send the scout platoons of the Methalor 12th Regiment into the hive to keep the madness from spreading.

  The next report he picked up from his writing desk was a communiqué from the colonel of the Salthenian 7th Infantry Regiment. He regretted that he was unable to commit his regiment to the defence of Volcanis Ultor, citing garrison duties on Salthen itself. Recoba sighed. He would have to call in a few favours from the clergy on Salthen, and show the colonel how a few well-chosen words from the regimental preachers could make his commission look very shaky indeed.

  There was a knock on the chamber’s hardwood door. Recoba looked up in annoyance. “Enter,” he said sharply.

  A valet servitor opened the door with a polished chrome hand. Deacon Oionias walked in, a young but eager man who Recoba trusted as a messenger and aide. “Your blessedness,” said Oionias. “There is someone who most urgently needs to speak with you.”

  “Remind this someone that my office has protocols. My time is valuable. Have him go through Abbot Thorello if it’s important.”

  “That’s just the thing, your blessedness,” said Oionias. His plump face was slightly red. “He says he has the authority to address you directly.”

  “I do not have the time to…”

  “You have the time for me, cardinal,” said a resonant voice from behind Oionias. A man walked in, breezing past the young deacon—he was tall and well-built, with a sharp, noble face and intelligent eyes. He wore a splendid traveller’s cloak of flakweave trimmed in ermine over a dark green officer’s uniform with several sheathed knives worn across the breast. His synth-leather boots shone like glass.

  “Forgive my intrusion, your blessedness,” he began graciously with slight bow, “but we are better served by dealing with one another directly. I bring news critical to the defence of Volcanis Ultor, and to the survival of the whole Trail.”

  Recoba felt slightly less aggrieved. “What authority do you represent?”

  “I am honoured to bring the tidings of the Holy Orders of the Emperor’s Inquisition,” said the visitor, taking a small Inquisitorial rosette from inside his cloak. “I am Inquisi
tor Gholic Ren-Sar Valinov, and I fear our Enemy may be even more dangerous that you suppose.”

  The battlements of the Trepytos fortress were bleak and cold. The dark granite blocks of the fortress formed grim, blunt teeth along the edge of the battlements and the dismal half-decrepit city around the fortress spread out towards a barren grey-brown plain. Trepytos used to be beautiful. Now, it was drained and dying. The fortress was still formidable, with sheer unscaleable walls and a massive set of gates protected by watch towers and scores of gun emplacements—but the emplacements had rusted solid and the garrison that once permanently manned the walls was long gone. The fortress had been there since before the Ordo Hereticus chose it as the Inquisition headquarters for the Trail, but it was difficult to imagine anything for it now but slow, grim decay.

  Alaric stood on the battlements, his augmented eyesight picking out the faint glimmer of the planet’s weak sun on the edge of the ocean some distance away. The Rubicon was a sliver of silver in the sky directly overhead, and there were lights scattered throughout the inhabited parts of the city. The winds sheared across the battlements and most men would be chilled to the bone. Alaric barely noticed it.

  He was so close. He knew it. He had an advantage Ghargatuloth had not expected the Grey Knights to get—he had faced one of Ghargatuloth’s chosen champions on Sophano Secundus, someone he was not supposed to find. That meant that the place that had led the Grey Knights there—the cult temple in the Administratum building on Victrix Sonora—was important, too.

  “Brother-Captain!” called Justicar Tancred over the driving wind. He was walking towards Alaric in full armour, and he was taller even than the megalithic teeth of the battlements. “The staff found what you needed.” There was a data-slate in Tancred’s gauntlet.