EIGHT
Needless to say, our spectacular arrival hadn’t exactly made a favourable impression on our hosts. Our reception was decidedly frosty, even by the woeful standard of hospitality usually enjoyed by guests of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
Once we finally got inside the spire, and not before time if my aching lungs were anything to go by, the contrast with the outside world was stark, to say the least. I’d been in enough Mechanicus shrines over the years to find the chill, filtered air, with its pervasive scent of ozone, volatiles, and charring insulation familiar enough, as was the over-abundance of polished steel surfaces and embossed cogwheels. The usual specimens of venerated mech-junk were scattered about the place, protected from the grubby fingers and mechadendrites of the curious onlooker by cases of meticulously-burnished glass, while the overly-bright luminators did their best to make the metal walls shine in an appropriately reverential manner.
Kyper and his skitarii hurried us through the labyrinth of corridors, which differed only in the arrangement of the technotheological knick-knacks littering the walls, as fast as they could, presumably in an attempt to prevent the xenos from seeing very much; although, given the condition of two of them, that wasn’t particularly rapid, and only El’hassai was well enough to sightsee in any case. Not that he seemed the remotest bit interested in doing so, dividing his attention more or less equally between his limping companion, and the one being carried as gently as possible by the most junior pair of Zyvan’s underlings.
‘I’ve seen happier cogboys,’ I muttered to the Lord General, heedless of the augmented hearing the skitarii probably possessed. None of them gave any sign of having heard me, they just went on chirruping agitatedly at one another in their teeth-aching private language, no doubt making sure that whatever blame might be going around for the debacle on the landing pad, it wouldn’t be alighting on them.
‘How could you tell?’ he riposted, with a sour look at our escort. ‘None of the ones I ever met could crack a smile without splitting their heads open.’
‘Wait here,’ Kyper told us, as we reached a pair of bronze doors roughly twice the height they needed to be for a normal man to enter, although I suppose those tended to be in short supply around here. He shoved the left-hand one open, just wide enough to slip through, and slammed it closed behind him with a boom which echoed uncomfortably around us, reminding me all too clearly of our shuttle’s terminal impact among the forges so short a time before.
‘I’ll do no such thing,’ Zyvan declared, his beard bristling, and strode forward to seize the handle. The skitarii moved to block him, and he glared at them, utterly affronted. ‘I’m the Lord-bloody-General of the Rimward Sectors, and I don’t wait for anyone. They wait for me!’
In the silence that followed, I distinctly heard the scuffle and click of sidearms being loosened in their holsters behind us, his aides having no option but to follow the Lord General’s lead. Any exchange of fire with the skitarii would have been suicidal, of course, they were all augmented to the gills, and I had no doubt that the hellguns they carried were the least of the lethal surprises they kept about their persons. Moreover, they were hardwired for combat, and would probably open fire purely by reflex the moment they felt threatened. Of rather more concern to me, however, was the fact that I was standing right between the two factions, in the perfect spot to be riddled by the crossfire. Definitely time to put a stop to this.
‘Perhaps we should simply withdraw,’ I said, stepping forwards to place a restraining hand on Zyvan’s arm, before he could shoulder the door open. I was certain that if he did, trusting in the authority of his position to protect him, the skitarii’s neural programming would interpret the movement as a hostile act, and they’d open fire as surely as heretics were damned. ‘If the Adeptus Mechanicus doesn’t want our help, we can use the resources we brought here in the defence of other systems.’
‘Don’t think I’m not tempted,’ Zyvan snarled, turning to address me directly. No one else could have got away with grabbing his arm like that, but the red sash gives you a lot of leeway[63], and, to my relief, it seemed he was in the mood to listen. ‘It’s still more than likely that the ’nids’ll just sail straight on past this pustule on the arse of the galaxy anyway.’
I tapped the comm-bead in my ear, through which I’d been monitoring our erstwhile pilot’s conversation with flight control aboard the flagship. Under less fraught circumstances, I’d have found it quite entertaining, as they hadn’t reacted entirely happily to the news that our shuttle had become an expensive pile of scrap, and we’d quite like another one as soon as they could manage it. ‘Then I suggest we return to the landing platform,’ I said. ‘A replacement shuttle’s on the way, and if we wait for it there, we can avoid any further unfortunate misunderstandings.’
At which point the door jerked open with quite unnecessary force, confirming my guess that at least one of the skitarii had been relaying our discussion to whoever was waiting inside. Kyper appeared in the gap, almost nose to olfactory sensor plate with Zyvan and myself, looking as agitated as possible with a face composed almost entirely of motionless ironmongery. ‘Lord General,’ he droned, standing aside and gesturing expansively with an arm which would have looked rather more inviting without quite so much serrated metal grafted along the edge of it, ‘you are welcome.’
‘Since when?’ Zyvan muttered to me, but strode into the chamber beyond without further comment, or backward glance at the rest of us. I followed, with the semblance of a courteous nod at the centurion turned commissionaire, Jurgen falling into place at my shoulder as reliably as always. Zyvan’s underlings surged forwards too, only to be checked by Kyper’s upraised hand.
‘The xenos may not set foot in the Sanctum of Ratiocination,’ he insisted firmly. ‘They are to be returned to your ship with all dispatch.’
‘The tau delegation is here at my personal invitation,’ I said, ignoring him, in favour of getting a good look at the chamber I’d just entered. It was high, vaulted in precious metals, and dominated by a huge icon of the Emperor in His aspect of the Machine God. A crescent of seats, each with a data lectern planted firmly in front of it, enclosed a raised dais, on which a venerable tech-priest, so heavily augmented he barely seemed to qualify as human any more, was attended by a gaggle of junior acolytes and a couple of hovering servo-skulls. The surrounding seats were full of other magi, most of them heavily enhanced as well, although one seemed to retain a fair amount of her original flesh: enough, at least, to show some semblance of an expression on her face, although, like a good little tech-priest, she was trying to look impassive, rather than agog at the drama unfolding in front of her. ‘I appreciate that they’re hardly natural allies, but we do have common cause against the tyranids.’
‘That is not the issue,’ the pile of machine parts on the dais grated, as though affronted at having to communicate with us by something as imprecise as Gothic[64]. ‘They defile the domain of the Omnissiah with their unhallowed devices!’ He glared through the door at the armoured fire warriors, the lenses of his optical filters seeming to flare red with wrath, although I suppose it was simply the reflection of his robe. Pretty much everyone in the room was wearing some shade of the colour, apart from a couple in white[65], and I wondered briefly if the subtle variations in hue were signifiers of status in some way. Then again, it could equally well have reflected the number of times the garment had been to the laundry.
‘Then the matter is easily remedied,’ El’hassai said, apparently refusing to take offence, although Throne knows I would have done in his place. He removed something from his ear, then delved into his pockets, and handed the comm-bead and a few other items I didn’t recognise to the limping warrior. ‘All examples of tau technology will be returned to the landing pad forthwith, to await the arrival of the shuttle.’
‘They’d be better destroyed,’ the woman advised, and the presiding magos chirruped and hummed for a moment, apparently communing with his colleagues in the fash
ion of their kind.
‘Removal will suffice,’ he said at last, somewhat grudgingly if I was any judge. ‘On the strict understanding that no xenos device pollutes the sanctity of Fecundia again.’ It was clear that what he really meant was any bearer of such devices, but under the circumstances he could hardly say so in so many words. ‘As it is, we must simply bear the intolerable affront of their presence for a short while longer.’
‘Intolerable affront?’ Zyvan roared, still in no mood for diplomacy himself. ‘You opened fire on us, destroyed our shuttle, and damn near killed Commissar Cain! That’s an affront, you self-righteous bag of bolts!’ He turned on his heel, apparently on the point of marching out of the room. ‘I wish you luck with the tyranids, because unless I hear an apology in the next five seconds, we’re leaving orbit as soon as we dock!’
‘Lord General,’ the woman said, rising to her feet with a glare at her superior which didn’t need the almost inaudible squeal of a binary exchange that accompanied it to transmit the message. Zyvan hesitated; if anyone else had spoken at that point, I truly believe he’d have made good on his threat, or at least given me a hard time arguing him out of it. His temper was not easily roused, but quite formidable when it was, and it hadn’t taken me long to realise why having a commissar around when he was most liable to be irritated was a good idea. But the clear feminine voice had taken him by surprise, cutting though the fog of anger with which he’d surrounded himself. ‘Magos Dysen may have chosen his words a little carelessly. Few of us, I’m afraid, are used to discoursing with those from outside our order.’
‘Quite,’ the magos grated, not happy to have his face saved by an underling (or the front of his head, anyway, since he no longer possessed anything which could fairly be described as facial features). ‘Magos Kildhar is correct. No offence was intended. Had we been aware that the xenos would be accompanying you, the servitor’s cortex would have been amended with appropriate updates to its instruction set.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘It was all a bit dramatic, but no harm done in the end.’ A disturbing thought belatedly crossed my mind. ‘There wasn’t anyone under that shuttle when it went over the edge, was there?’
‘No one of any significance,’ Kildhar assured me.
‘Production of mattocks, trivets and flue dampers will be significantly disrupted, however,’ one of the seated tech-priests put in, sounding distinctly affronted. ‘Extensive repairs to the manufactory will be required.’
‘We have, however, gained significant amounts of refined raw materials,’ another cut in, equally determined to look on the bright side. He glanced at Zyvan. ‘Unless you wish the component parts of the shuttle returned to you? I am assured it is beyond repair.’
‘Help yourself,’ Zyvan said gruffly, his anger beginning to dissipate. Like most tech-priests, these idiots were clearly in a world of their own, into which the real galaxy seldom intruded. Unfortunately, one of its least pleasant facets was about to descend on them in uncountable numbers unless we did something about it, and Zyvan’s pique notwithstanding, we had little option other than doing our best to defend them. Though it still seemed as if the tau border worlds were more likely to be targeted, we couldn’t take that for granted. Losing Fecundia, and the munitions produced there, could cost us half the sector, and as little as that only if we were lucky.
‘Then perhaps we’d better get down to business,’ I suggested, giving them something other than their real or imagined grievances to think about. There were, of course, no chairs for visitors anywhere in the chamber, but it didn’t take long to remedy that deficiency once I’d tactfully pointed it out. Dysen tweedled grumpily at one of his servo-skulls, which scooted out of the chamber, returning a few minutes later at the head of a small comet tail of servitors bearing seats fashioned of bright polished steel, the backs filigreed into a representation of the Holy Cogwheel. Hideously uncomfortable, but the chairs our hosts were sitting in were almost identical so it would have been churlish to complain, although I’ll wager the bloody things were a good deal better suited to their tin arses than to our natural ones. As the meeting wore on, I even began to feel a kind of wistful nostalgia for the tau mushrooms.
‘The good news,’ Zyvan said, taking full advantage of his status as the senior military member of the expedition to remain on his feet while he conducted the briefing, ‘is that the main hive fleet is continuing on its course.’ He gestured to the hololith display, fizzing and wobbling in the air above his head, while a covey of adepts prodded hopefully at the projection equipment. Not for the first time, I had the feeling that most of our audience resented the exchange of information proceeding at what must have seemed like a snail’s pace to them.
‘Then it seems we have little to fear,’ Dysen said, gazing up at the image, which finally steadied. The projected line of the tyranids’ advance passed the Fecundia system altogether and a palpable sense of relief swept across the room as the coin dropped for everyone else.
‘With respect, magos,’ I said, pouncing on the chance to stand up that the intervention offered, and pointing dramatically at the display as I did so, ‘such a conclusion would not only be premature, but potentially fatal.’ The last thing I needed right now was to be dragged back to the main battlefront, which would be all too likely if Zyvan made good on his threat to leave Fecundia to its own devices.
‘How so?’ Dysen asked, clearly out of his depth. At least he was honest enough to admit his own ignorance, instead of blustering it out, and I found my opinion of him rising a little in consequence.
‘Because this is only our best guess at their course, based on the most recent intelligence we have,’ I told him. ‘The Navy and the tau have both sent scout squadrons to verify it, but until they do, we must work on the assumption that the ’nids could diverge from this trajectory at any time. The population of Fecundia is certainly large enough to tempt them here if they become aware of its presence.’
‘And even if the main fleet holds its course,’ Zyvan added, ‘they can still send out scouts of their own in search of prey. We’ve observed that kind of thing many times before.’
‘Then our ground forces should remain alert,’ Kildhar put in, much to my surprise. ‘If they become aware of us, we should expect infiltrating organisms to probe our defences.’
‘We should,’ I agreed. ‘You seem remarkably well informed, magos.‘
‘I am a magos biologis,’ she explained, ‘and the ways of the tyranids are not entirely unknown to me.’
‘Lucky for us,’ I said, blissfully unaware of how wrong I was about that.
‘I stand ready to render any assistance you may require,’ she assured us.
‘Good,’ Zyvan said, evidently somewhat mollified by the display of co-operation. ‘At least someone here’s taking this seriously.’
‘I think you’ll find we all are,’ Dysen droned. ‘Even though our priorities may differ in some respects.’
‘Our priority is to secure this world,’ I said, stepping in quickly to stifle another potential outbreak of discord. ‘On that we all agree.’ I glanced sideways at El’hassai as I spoke, wondering if that was entirely true in his case. After all, if Fecundia fell, the tau would be able to rampage unopposed across half the Gulf, assuming there was anything left of it after the ’nids had finished. His face was impossible to read, however, although his head inclined in a barely perceptible nod.
‘We do,’ Dysen said, to my unspoken relief, ‘and your advice in the matter will be heeded.’
Which was not the same as being accepted, of course, but it was the best we were going to get at the moment, and once we had thirty thousand heavily armed Guardsmen stationed on planet, I was pretty sure our view would prevail.
‘Have you enough vessels to defend the system from invasion?’ Kildhar asked, looking at the hololith with a calculating expression. ‘If I read these icons correctly, only a third of them are warships.’
‘That’s true,’ Zyvan admitted, ‘the majority are troo
p carriers. They’ll be returning to Coronus as soon as the Imperial Guard units have disembarked. But the Navy assures me that we have sufficient firepower among the warships to see off a hive ship or two.’
‘Then let us hope the tyranids don’t send any more than that,’ Dysen said dryly.
Zyvan turned back to the hololith. ‘Battlefleet Damocles is fully aware of the threat, and moving to meet it,’ he said. ‘Three flotillas and a battlegroup are on course to rendezvous at Quadravidia, ready to intercept the main tyranid advance in deep space as soon as its course is reliably determined.’
‘Somewhat reassuring,’ Kildhar said, in a tone which implied it was anything but. ‘If I read the data correctly, however, this rendezvous will not take place until between five and thirty-seven days after the hive fleet’s closest approach to Fecundia, depending on the vagaries of the warp currents.’
‘Then, as Magos Dysen has so succinctly put it,’ I said, shamelessly flattering the venerable tech-priest in the interests of making life easier, ‘let us hope the tyranids are considerate enough to attack in manageable numbers.’
‘The fleet defending Dr’th’nyr is considerably closer,’ El’hassai pointed out, ‘and could relieve this system if required.’
‘I thought I made our position clear,’ Dysen rumbled. ‘Unhallowed technologies will not be tolerated in a system dedicated to the worship of the Machine God.’
Zyvan opened his mouth to say something, his face darkening again, and I stepped in hastily to forestall him.
‘I’m sure that the Omnissiah would never allow sufficient harm to befall so devout a world as to make that necessary,’ I said, entirely untruthfully. Most of the cogboys ranged around the room nodded smugly.
‘Then the matter is unlikely to arise,’ El’hassai agreed, his accent dissipating the sarcasm I was certain was there.
Greater Good Page 9
