Horstgeld watched the image roll by again. It was from a deep-space scan, picked up by the ship’s sensoria in the ultra-orbital space beyond Chaeroneia. The swathe of space rippled, bulging and contracting in a dozen places, before flares of hazy energy indicated that something had broken through. Then, just as fleetingly, the images were gone.
“When was this picked up?” asked Horstgeld.
Stelkhanov consulted the dataslate he carried. The greenish glow of the holo picked out his refined, aquiline face—it was hard to believe the man had once been dragged out of the short-lived engine gangs. “Seventy-nine minutes ago,” he said.
“And what do you think it is?”
“A fleet, captain. Newly arrived from the warp.”
“Quite an audacious conclusion, Stelkhanov. We haven’t got any fellow hunters in this subsector, let alone this close into system space.”
“Then it is not Imperial.”
“Hmm.” Horstgeld stood back, running a hand unconsciously down his beard. “Anything else?”
“It is substantial. And what little data we have suggests it is moving quite slowly, as would befit a large fleet remaining in formation. It is tempting, sir, to connect this with the anomalous signal detected by the Ptolemy Gamma.”
“I need more information before I decide, Stelkhanov. Have Navigation and the sensorium crew make this your second priority. First is still contacting Hawkespur and Alaric on the surface. We don’t even know if they’re alive.”
“Yes, sir. What preparations should the fleet make in case this is a hostile force?”
Horstgeld hadn’t anticipated fighting a space battle here at all. Inquisitor Nyxos had been unable to acquire a fleet that was up to a major battle in any case. “Reinforcements. Locate everything Imperial in space that’s bigger than an orbital yacht and that can get to us within ninety-six hours. Prepare to send a fleet service order if we have to. If we’re going to have a stand-off, then I want the numbers to do it. Understood?”
“Understood, sir. And Magos Korveylan?”
“She doesn’t need to know just yet.”
“She?”
“Until I learn better, yes, “she’. And make sure Commissar Leung knows, too, in case the Exemplar has seen the fleet already. I don’t trust those freaks not to up and run at the first sign of getting their paintwork scratched.”
“Of course, sir.” Stelkhanov turned smartly and left the room.
Horstgeld ran the image through again. Maybe ships, maybe some stellar phenomenon, maybe a shoal of rogue kraken or just yet another sensorium glitch. But if it was another fleet, it was definitely something he didn’t need.
The rain was toxic. It fell in thick, viscous globules, smacking down against the colossal wreckage and forming corrosive rivers of slime that wound through valleys formed by fallen spires. It stripped away dead flesh, so the enormous biological masses were reduced to forests of bleached ribs or banks of ragged gristle.
The rain probably wasn’t rain at all but industrial and biological waste from above, maybe even the same flood that had poured down through the body of the black iron spire a couple of hours before. It fell down into a vast chasm, a wreckage-choked gap between the foundations of two spires, lit by sickly bioluminescence from algae colonies that clung to the pitted metal several storeys up. This was a place far, far below the city of spires, an undercity where anything that survived the fall did not live for very long. It was picked clean of life by time and corrosion, cold and dank and everywhere there was the chemical smell of death. The biomechanical masses that powered the city groaned and shifted far above and below there was the deep, sonorous sound of the rock beneath the city gradually giving way as it was compacted beneath the great weight of the iron spires.
Beneath a huge width of discarded engine cowling, there was shelter from the acid rain. The rain wouldn’t have done anything more than strip some of the paint off the Grey Knights’ armour, but Alaric knew that to the surviving tech-guard, Tech-priest Thalassa and Interrogator Hawkespur, it could have been lethal. So they had taken shelter here.
Somehow, they were still alive. The flood of waste had thrown them down through successive layers of the spire. The lower levels were industrial and Alaric had been sure, from the glimpses he caught of the massive machinery surrounding them, that they would be crushed or boiled at any moment. But sluice gates and purge valves had opened in front of them and they had kept going, finally being spat out into a large pool of festering waste a short distance away.
Chaeroneia hadn’t wanted them dead, not yet, not like that. It wanted to make them suffer, first.
“Haulvarn, Archis, take watch,” said Alaric. The two Grey Knights saluted and went to take the first watch. The force couldn’t stay there for long, but they needed a while to regroup and form a plan. They couldn’t just blunder about hoping they would find something, otherwise they would be spotted and hunted down, and next time the planet wouldn’t give them a stay of execution.
Hawkespur and the remaining tech-guard had started a small fire to keep themselves warm. There were only four of them left—Captain Tharkk and three tech-guard regulars. Their armour was battered and their fatigues were black with filth. As Alaric watched one of the tech-guard took his helmet off. His head was shaved and there were large, deep surgical scars in the back of his skull, where it looked like plate-sized sections had been removed and replaced. There was a barcode on the back of the man’s neck.
Alaric walked over to where Archmagos Saphentis was sitting on a chunk of fallen wreckage, discussing something with Tech-priest Thalassa.
“Your tech-guard,” said Alaric. “Emotional repressive surgery.”
Saphentis looked up at him. Alaric saw his face reflected a hundred times in the multi-faceted eyes. “Quite right. I require it of the men performing retinue duties.”
“It would have been useful to know. Just like it would have been useful to know that your augmentations made you so combat-capable. And I would know what you said to that tech-priest.”
“He did not appreciate our presence,” replied Saphentis simply. “I suggested he surrender to us and he did not accept it.”
Saphentis’s artificial voice made it impossible for Alaric to tell if he was telling the truth or being sarcastic. “I am in command here, archmagos,” said Alaric. “Were you a Grey Knight you would do long months of penance for your reluctance to be led.”
“But I am not, justicar. And perhaps it would be better to discuss where we are and what we might do, rather than argue the point.”
“Do you know where we are?”
Tech-priest Thalassa, who had been viewing this exchange with some trepidation, showed Alaric the screen of her dataslate. “The Mechanicus had detailed information on Chaeroneia before it was lost. The planet has changed much but from what little information we have it is most likely that we are here.” The screen of the dataslate showed a complex blueprint of a massive city, as dense as a hive on a heavily populated world, set among the blasted desert wastes that had covered much of Chaeroneia. The blueprint was labelled “Primus Manufactorium Noctis”.
“Noctis was one of the largest forge cities on the planet,” continued Thalassa. Alaric noticed that her voice was wavering slightly, her eyes were ringed with red and her breathing was slightly ragged. It was easy to forget how frail normal humans were compared to a Space Marine like Alaric—she had ingested and inhaled enough pollutants to kill her given time. “It was mostly dedicated to heavy manufacturing but it had some research and data facilities. Like this.”
The blueprint swung around and zoomed in on one structure, a large, smooth tower like a stack of massive cylinders, rising from the industrial tangle. “The manufactorium’s data-fortress,” explained Thalassa. “For the secure containment of information.”
“If it is still there,” said Saphentis, “it could tell us what we need to know about where Chaeroneia has been and what has happened to it.”
“And you suggest we
should go there?”
“No other course of action readily presents itself.”
“How far?”
“Not very far,” said Thalassa. “Perhaps three days’ march if there are no major obstacles. That is, if the data-fortress is there at all and I am correct about our current location.”
“Could you make it?” asked Alaric.
Thalassa looked at the floor. “I don’t know.”
“Tech-priest Thalassa would be useful at the data-fortress but not essential,” said Saphentis. “I can perform similar functions.”
“I don’t like it. There is too much about what lies ahead of us that we do not know. Nothing has killed more men on the battlefield than ignorance about what they are facing.”
“I do not see any other choice, justicar.”
“Neither do I. But I would be more prepared if I knew everything about the enemy here that you do. There is a reason you came down to this planet yourself. There are a great many tech-priests who are more capable in battle than you.”
“Thalassa,” said Saphentis, “Tell Captain Tharkk we will move out shortly.” Thalassa nodded and hurried over to the fire where Tharkk and his men were tending their wounds. For the moment, Alaric and Saphentis were out of their earshot.
“Go on,” said Alaric.
“They were Mechanicus,” began Saphentis. “After a fashion. They have changed. Some tech-heresy has taken root. The fusion of the biological and the mechanical is permitted by the Cult Mechanicus only so that weak flesh may be replaced or improved, or that the otherwise useless might be made useful in the sight of the Omnissiah, such as is the case with servitors. The large-scale biomechanics we see here are forbidden, for they do not place machine and flesh at the command of tech-priests but create new forms of life entirely and such is not permitted by the tenets of the Priesthood of Mars. Successive Fabricators General have pronounced on this countless times.”
“So the enemy are tech-heretics?” asked Alaric. “The same that were investigated here a hundred years ago?”
“Without doubt. And the heresy must reach to every level of Chaeroneia’s priesthood. More importantly, what we have seen on Chaeroneia represents a pace of innovation considered heretical. The Cult Mechanicus forbids designs and techniques not of the most ancient provenance. Many centuries must pass before quarantined knowledge is allowed beyond our research stations. But here there is innovation and creation. All around us! This world could never be created by the existing tenets of the Mechanicus. The pace of invention here must be astonishing.”
“You sound as if you admire them, archmagos.”
“That is not true, Justicar. Heresy is heresy, as you yourself must know well. I would thank you not to make such suggestions again.”
“An ally who agrees with the enemy becomes that enemy, archmagos. I will be watching you.”
Brother Haulvarn stomped over hurriedly. “Archis can see gun-platforms, justicar. They’re moving like they’re looking for us.”
Alaric looked round at him. The strike force was still in poor cover and vulnerable and they didn’t need a fight right now. “How far?”
“Two kilometres. Five plus platforms, at least two troop carriers. Sweep formation. They’re about five hundred metres up, too.”
“Then they’ll be on us soon. We need to move out.”
“We would be better hidden if we kept to derelict sections of the city,” said Saphentis. “This planet will have fewer eyes on us.”
“That at least I agree on,” said Alaric. “I’ll work out a route with Thalassa. Get your tech-guard ready to move in five minutes. And in case there is any confusion left, you are under my command. As long as we are on this planet, you follow my orders.”
“Understood, justicar.”
“You don’t have to understand. You just have to do it.”
The tech-guard were soon up and armed, their emotional repressive surgery meaning that they would not be affected by the trauma of the fight they had just gone through. Hawkespur was looking closer to exhaustion than she would ever admit and Thalassa was still half-numb with shock, moving like a woman in a dream. But they weren’t the ones Alaric was worried about. The Grey Knights had taught him a great deal and the Chapter believed that one day they could call him a leader—but one lesson he had not learned was how to deal with an enemy that was supposed to be under your own command.
Alaric glanced at the shadows stretching above and saw tiny points of light darting about, the grav-platforms Archis’s keen eyes had spotted. Chaeroneia had a lot of ways to kill intruders and Alaric knew they would discover a few more before they reached Thalassa’s data-fortress. But they had to go there because the data-fortress meant information and once Alaric understood what he was up against on this world then he could finally turn around and fight it.
Once, when the Imperium was young and the Emperor was still a living being walking among His subjects, there had been hope. But that had been a long time ago indeed.
That hope had existed in the form of the Emperor’s own creations—the primarchs, perfect humans each representing a facet of the strength mankind would need to fulfil its manifest destiny of possessing the galaxy. They had been such astonishing beings that even on the eve of their creation, their genetic material was being used to create a generation of superhuman warriors—the Space Marines of the First Founding, twenty immense Legions of them, made in the image of the primarch on which they had been modelled.
The primarchs were scattered across the galaxy. In the Age of Imperium no one knew how or why this had happened—whether agents of Chaos had snatched them away from holy Terra, or whether the Emperor had sent them forth as infants to be strewn around the galaxy and there learn the qualities they could never acquire living in the Emperor’s shadow.
The Emperor, at the head of the Space Marine Legions, conquered the galaxy, gradually retrieving the scattered primarchs, who had grown into mighty leaders on their adopted worlds. In the Great Crusade the primarchs were reunited with their Legions and led them in the greatest military campaign mankind had ever seen, conquering the segmenta of space that would eventually form the backbone of Imperial territory, from the Segmentum Solar to the outlying Halo Zone and Veiled Region.
And the greatest of these primarchs was Horus.
Horus was the primarch of the Luna Wolves, the Legion that represented the most complete military machine in the Imperium. Resolute, valiant and commanded by Horus with a brilliance that rivalled the Emperor Himself, the Legion was such a finely-honed force that it was said that Horus wielded it with the precision of a master swordsman. There was nothing they could not do. When the Emperor acknowledged Horus as the Imperium’s greatest war-master the Luna Wolves became the Sons of Horus, their new designation reflecting the masterful command of their primarch.
But Horus was too brilliant. His star shone too brightly. As the Crusade reeled in more and more of the galaxy he came to see the arrogance and tyranny of the Emperor. The Emperor did not do what He did for mankind—He did it for Himself, to know that the human race lived and died under His dominion. Ultimate power had corrupted Him and no one, not even Horus the Magnificent, the Warmaster himself, could sway His belief that He was the master of mankind.
This was where the seeds of the Heresy were born. Horus, the greatest man who ever lived, came to surpass the Emperor and to understand as the Emperor never could that the true destiny of mankind lay beyond the stars, in the untamed, pure realm of the warp, where the only entities deserving of worship resided. They were the Chaos Gods, the beings who wished to see mankind elevated from corruptible, heavy flesh to pure, enlightened spirits. But the Emperor was filled with hate that Horus should pay fealty to anyone greater than the Emperor Himself. So Horus was forced to entreat the powers of the warp for aid and so became the first and greatest Champion of Chaos.
The Horus Heresy divided the galaxy. In a mere seven years of war Horus led a rebellion that reached Holy Terra and the walls of the
Imperial Palace, marching with fully half of the Space Marine Legions whose primarchs he had convinced of the justice of their cause. The rest sided with the Emperor, cowed into obedience by their fear of the knowledge Horus promised to teach the galaxy.
Among the greatest of the Sons of Horus was Abaddon, Horus’s right hand in battle, a force of destruction who blazed his way across the galaxy at the behest of his primarch, submitting his own life to the wishes of the Warmaster. Abaddon witnessed the final tragedy of the Heresy, when the Emperor and the Primarch Sanguinius ambushed Horus on his flagship. Horus slew them both but not before he was dealt a terrible wound by the Emperor’s sword and with his last breath, entreated Abaddon to keep the Sons of Horus alive and not sacrifice them needlessly on the walls of Terra.
So Abaddon took the Legion and withdrew, masterfully evading the vengeful Legions of the Emperor and taking refuge among the daemon worlds of the Eye of Terror. With Horus dead, the surviving primarchs still loyal to the Emperor conspired to cheat the people of the Imperium into believing the Emperor was still alive, now a living god inhabiting his corpse.
The Sons of Horus renamed themselves the Black Legion in eternal mourning for the greatest man who had ever lived, the man who should have inherited the Imperium and led mankind to an era of enlightenment in the warp. Meanwhile, the Imperium sank beyond redemption, corrupt and worthless, its people slaving to uphold the worship of a traitor long dead, its institutions dedicated only to eradicating truth from the galaxy. There could be no redemption for it now.
Abaddon probed the defences of the Imperium. In twelve Black Crusades he found the gaps in the Imperium’s armour through which the Black Legion and its allies could finally deliver the Imperium’s deathblow. When the board was set and the pieces in place, Abaddon selected the finest of the Black Legion’s heroes to lead their own armies in a grand, all-conquering campaign that would see the inheritors of the Imperium streaming from the Eye of Terror. The campaign would culminate in the destruction of Terra and the end of ten thousand years of resistance to Chaos.
[Grey Knights 02] - Dark Adeptus Page 9
