“What?” thought back Urkrathos angrily. He didn’t like the daemons touching his mind. “If this is not an emergency, you will suffer.”
“Our allies show their hand on the planet,” replied the grinding, bestial voice of the daemon. “The sky opens for us.”
“Show me,” thought Urkrathos.
An image unfolded. Chaeroneia’s atmosphere was a filthy dark grey mantle of pollution, specked with the bright spots that were its attendant asteroids. Urkrathos had guessed the Imperial fleet had been trying to find a way through the asteroids when Urkrathos’s own fleet had arrived. Getting onto the planet would be a headache Urkrathos was going to have to face when he had destroyed the Imperials.
The image projected from the communications daemon was shifting. Like ripples in water, shock-waves were echoing out from a point on the uppermost level of the atmosphere, directly above the source of the signal that had promised tribute.
The asteroids were moving. Like a shoal of silver fish, the points of light were spiralling around the epicentre, rearranging themselves. It was powerful magic. More powerful than any sanctioned Imperial psyker could manage.
“What is it?” thought Urkrathos impatiently. “Who is doing this?”
“This being knows not,” replied the daemon.
A path was being cleared through the field. A way in, large enough for the Hellforger.
Of course. Whoever had promised the tribute to Abaddon must also have been monitoring the situation in orbit. Now the Imperial fleet was destroyed, crippled or scattered, there was no danger of Imperial Guard landing on the world. Urkrathos had succeeded and now the mysterious benefactor of Chaos was welcoming the Hellforger in with open arms.
“Urkrathos to all crew,” voxed Urkrathos, knowing his voice would be transmitted all over the Hellforger and into the communicators of the less disposable boarding crew. “All boarders disengage. Prepare to cut free.” Urkrathos switched channels. “Kreathak?”
Kreathak replied from the cockpit of his Helltalon fighter, his voice distorted by the scream of the macro-jet engines and the stutter of lascannon. “My lord?”
“Disengage and get back to the Cadaver. We’re heading down.”
“The Enemy is in full flight. Confirm action abort?”
“Yes, confirm. And be quick about it. Don’t waste your time killing them, I want your fighters in close defence patrols.”
“Of course, my lord.” Kreathak switched off his vox-link—if he managed to choke down his bloodlust he would be flying back to the fighter platform Cadaver, ready to defend the gap in the asteroid field while Urkrathos’s ship loaded the tribute.
Urkrathos switched to another channel. “Come in Desikratis.”
“Lord,” came the titanic, rumbling voice of the Desikratis.
“Pull back.”
“But lord. The prey, it bleeds so.”
“I said pull back. You can toy with it when we are done. I need you to keep enemy fighters away while we head down to the planet. Understood?”
“Desikratis loves its fun. Loves to make them bleed.”
“And you will. Just not yet. Do not make me punish you, Desikratis. I have room for more servants on my bridge and you are not so great as to defy the will of the Chosen.”
“Forgiveness,” whimpered the Desikratis. “I leave the prey. It cannot run. It will still be here.”
“That’s right, it will. Now pull back and stay close to the Hellforger. Cover it when I breach the atmosphere. Urkrathos out.”
Urkrathos willed the link closed and felt the communications daemon’s mind recoiling from him.
He glanced down at the rear admiral’s body. The tiny mouths along the edge of his sword were drinking the blood hungrily. Urkrathos pulled the blade out—it was good to keep the blade slightly hungry, so it would not lose its will to thirst. Urkrathos kicked the corpse across the bridge, spitting in contempt, then turned and stomped back out of the bridge. The boarding troops cowered and whimpered before him as he walked back down to the Dreadclaw boarding craft lodged in the hull of the Imperial ship, which would take him back to the Hellforger.
With most of the defenders of the Imperial ship dead, the boarding troops had only Urkrathos to fear. And that was Urkrathos’s favourite kind of slavery—ruling through nothing but fear. There were no shackles on the bestial, devolved things that slavered their devotion to him as he passed. There were no cages on the Hellforger to keep them in line. But they did as they were told solely because they feared what would happen if they did not. There was no more powerful demonstration that the champions of Chaos owned the souls of those lesser creatures—just as they owned by right the souls of every sentient thing in the galaxy.
Yes, Urkrathos would rule and above him Abaddon, united in enslaving the galaxy. But for now, there was work to be done. The Hellforger would have to be prepared for a full atmospheric landing, the troops regrouped and reorganized into landing parties and space cleared for the tribute itself. But these were all details. The end was now in sight. Urkrathos had won.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“When it was over, when the blood had dried and the fires had died down, then we found we were the same as we had always been—small and terrified human beings, with only the light of the Emperor to see by in this dark galaxy of sin!”
—Saint Praxides of Ophelia VII, “Notes on Martyrdom”
“What would you have me do?”
It was a long time since Archmagos Veneratus Scraecos had spoken physical words through his vocabulator unit. It was still a strange feeling, heavy and primitive, but he knew it was the right way to conduct himself when speaking with the concentrated knowledge-construct that was the avatar of the Omnissiah Himself.
There was no reply. Scraecos stared intently at the brushed ferrocrete floor of the hangar. He felt the intense scrutiny beating down on him like the rays of a sun. He was being judged. The Omnissiah was judging him with every moment, of course, but now it was so palpable he felt as if he were being taken apart piece by piece, bionic by bionic and inspected.
If there were any faults in him, if Scraecos failed the silent interrogation, then there could only be one result. He would be destroyed completely, the essence of the machine stripped away from both his bionic and biological parts until he was just a collection of meaningless junk. He had seen it happen before. The tech-priests he had led down to this place a thousand years ago had not been as strong-willed or comprehending as Scraecos himself and they had been seared away from their bodies and annihilated. It was an awesome demonstration of the Omnissiah’s power. Just as He could comprehend the universe, so He could choose not to comprehend you and in doing so would make you cease to exist. That was true power. The Omnissiah decided what was real or not and that was why He was the rightful ruler of the universe.
“Look upon me.”
The voice of the Omnissiah was pure knowledge beamed right into Scraecos’s head. Scraecos was almost blinded by its magnitude. To simply replicate that voice through base mechanical means would be impossible. The very voice of the Omnissiah spoke of infinity.
Scraecos looked up. The face of the Castigator looked down upon him. Scraecos had been awestruck the first time he had seen it and that feeling was not gone now. The massive burning eyes were the only features, but they welled with knowledge so ancient that the human race itself was just a footnote to the last chapter. Their gaze pinned Scraecos to the floor, stripped him of all his rank and experience so he was like a child before the Castigator.
The Castigator was the avatar of the Omnissiah. Through the Castigator, the Omnissiah spoke directly to His servants. It was a measure of how corrupt and ignorant the Adeptus Mechanicus had become that the Omnissiah had to stoop so low as to give itself physical form. It was so He could instruct the tech-priests of Chaeroneia without the self-serving Archmagi of the Imperium to twist His teachings. Similarly, He had required Chaeroneia to be removed from the Imperium so His teachings would remain pure. It mean
t that bringing Chaeroneia back into real space was a great risk, because the Imperium still had the chance to corrupt the ways of the True Mechanicus before the Omnissiah’s face could be revealed to the rest of the galaxy.
“You ask me what I would have you do. Have you learned so little?”
Scraecos reeled with the intensity of the Omnissiah’s disapproval. “I have… I have been apart from myself for so long. I have not been one, but many. I fear my own self has been weakened.”
“No. It is stronger. You now understand why I chose you first. And why I choose you again now. Is it not so?”
“Yes! Yes, my lord, it is so! Because I am a killer!”
“You are a killer.” The word was like a mark of approval. Scraecos shuddered—no one tech-priest had ever been given praise by the Castigator before. “Though you have long been a builder of my edifice of knowledge, yet you have never truly been an archmagos. You have always been a murderer. When you slaved for the corrupt Mechanicus, you killed for rank and favour. Is this not true?”
“It is true.” Scraecos had indeed killed. Infighting between the Magi of the Adeptus Mechanicus was sometimes far more intense than the outside Imperium had ever realized. Research accidents, natural disasters, spacecraft wrecks and outright assassinations could all be arranged and Scraecos had done so several times in reaching the rank of archmagos veneratus. He had killed to ensure it was he who was sent to Chaeroneia in the first place, to follow up rumours of pre-imperial technology beneath the toxic deserts. He had never, ever imagined he would find something like the Castigator—but it was ultimately killing that had brought him before the avatar at that moment.
“And you are a killer still. This is why even the other magi of Chaeroneia singled you out and gave you your self again. Dull-minded as they are, they could not mistake the killer inside you. Even when your mind merged with theirs, the spark was there still.”
Scraecos was taken aback. “Do they not serve you well?”
“Of course. Every living thing on this world must. But though I understand their failings and use them, they are failings still. They do as they are instructed and nothing else, but do I not command you to seek innovation always? Yet their thinking is not innovative. As it is with the machine, so it must be with the mind, so that machine and flesh and soul can become part of the machine that is the universe. You, Archmagos Veneratus Scraecos, you are not so. You do not just kill because it is required of you by superiors or circumstance. You kill because you enjoy it. That was the part of you that the Mechanicus could not erase. It was the part that sought me out and led you here. That was the free part of your mind that would listen to my creed. It was why you were the first and why you are here now.”
“Then you really did call me here.”
“Of course. Nothing that happens on this world happens without my willing it. You already know what you must do.”
“Yes.” Scraecos’s voice was trembling. He was filled with a strange emotion, something that had left its echo on him from an early life he did not remember. It was cold and gripping—it robbed his mind of its thoughts leaving only itself behind. He searched through his datacores and realised that it was fear. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Scraecos was afraid. He was being called forth to do the work of the Omnissiah and he was afraid of failure. “You want me to kill.”
“The outer moat of this facility has been breached. The hunter-programs failed to catch their prey. The intruders are within the titan works. You are to take the works garrison, confront the intruders and kill them. They include unbelievers who have evaded the grasp of the tech-priests since Chaeroneia left real space. Others amongst them are interlopers from the Imperium, come to steal what is rightly the dominion of the Omnissiah. They will be annihilated. Other visitors from real space will soon arrive, believers in our cause who will help us spread the true creed of the Omnissiah. The intruders must be destroyed before our allies arrive. I leave this task in your hands, Archmagos Veneratus Scraecos. You have proven yourself above the other tech-priests in the depth of your lust for destruction. Hold it in check no longer. In doing this you will prove yourself worthy of becoming my first prophet. Your success is a mathematical certainty. Go now and do the work of your Omnissiah.”
Scraecos was filled with rapture. He was the prophet. It was already done—only the inevitable victory remained to be played out. Yes, he was a killer. Yes, he enjoyed it. And yes, it was the will of the Omnissiah, spoken through the Castigator itself, that Scraecos kill for his god. The fear was chased away by the joy. “I shall not fail, my lord!” cried Scraecos, switching his vocabulator up to its maximum, exultant volume. “I am the finality of the equation, for death is my logic!”
The Castigator’s gaze turned away from Scraecos again. Scraecos was no longer pinned in place by the awesome weight of the Omnissiah’s scrutiny. He was free and his task was clear. The titan works maintained a formidable garrison of troops, since it was a site that deserved far better than the gaggles of menials the tech-priests had used to intercept the intruders. Ever since the Castigator had demanded the rebuilding of the titan works and the dedication of Manufactorium Noctis to the production of the war machines, it had also stipulated that military forces of the highest order should be ready to protect the works at all costs. Now the Omnissiah’s wisdom was again revealed, as those troops confirmed the absolute certainty of Scraecos’s victory.
Scraecos bowed before the Castigator. Then he turned away from the avatar and walked back towards the elevator that would take him up to ground level, to the garrison where he would reactivate the army.
So would the equation be ended. And so would death be confirmed as the ultimate logic.
Archmagos Saphentis looked up from the cogitator unit that dominated one wall of the bunker. The cogitator was a biomechanical monstrosity, wrought from bone and iron with internal clockwork-like workings resembling the pulsing of organs inside a giant metal ribcage.
“The configuration is unorthodox,” he said, “but it can be worked with.”
“Make it quick,” said Alaric.
The strike force had found the bunker a short distance inside the watchtower perimeter. It was blistered up from the rockcrete, the stony surface disfigured by vein-like growths and it looked abandoned although the cogitator was working. The bunker stank of rotting biological matter and the air was almost unbreathable for an unaugmented human. Antigonus and his tech-priests were gathered just outside, keeping watch with the rest of Alaric’s squad. The titan works were large enough that isolated corners of it like this could exist away from the eyes of the tech-priests—but there was no doubt it was only a matter of time before the Dark Mechanicus forces found them, especially if they were aware of Saphentis accessing the cogitator.
“We need a plan.” Interrogator Hawkespur was saying. “We’re blind here.”
“I agree,” said Alaric. “My squad can fight no matter what, but we’ll only have a chance of hurting the Dark Mechanicus if we know what we’re doing.”
“Priority one is the Standard Template Constructs. If it’s here, we need evidence of it and we need to destroy it if we can. I don’t think there’s much chance of us recovering it. And if it did this to Chaeroneia, I don’t think we’d want to.”
“And priority two?”
“Cause as much destruction as we can.”
“I think that will take care of itself.” Alaric looked back at Saphentis. “Can you find anything?”
“The terminal has relatively comprehensive access,” said Saphentis. “I should be able to acquire physical schematics.”
“Will they know you’re in?” asked Hawkespur.
“Almost certainly.” Saphentis extended a pair of dataprobes into the cogitator, puncturing a large, veiny stomach-like organ filled with liquid data-medium. “Ah. Yes. The titan works requires enormous amounts of power because of the metalworks and foundries that take up most of the space below the surface. It absorbs the majority of
the remaining mineral output of the planet. Another major power drain is the central spire. It appears this is also the nexus for communications and information systems planet-wide. The schematics are incomplete and fragmented, perhaps due to the bio-organic nature of much of the construction. I am downloading what I can.”
“Haulvarn? Anything yet?” voxed Alaric.
“Not yet,” voxed Brother Haulvarn from outside. “A few flying contacts, probably animals.”
“Don’t assume anything,” said Alaric.
“There is a third power drain,” continued Saphentis as he inserted dataprobes into various interfaces and orifices in the cogitator’s innards. “Some way below the surface. The schematics suggest a void in the underground constructions large enough for a Titan refitting or refuelling hangar.” Saphentis paused and suddenly withdrew his dataprobes, recoiling from the cogitator. “They are aware of my intrusion. Countermeasures are imminent.”
“Do they know where we are?” asked Alaric.
“Possibly.”
“Then what do you have?”
Saphentis’s dataprobes folded back into his bionic hands and he took out his dataslate. The slate’s screen was covered in sketchy schematics. Alaric looked closer.
The titan works were huge. The blasted, blistered rockcrete expanse of the Titan yard was just the uppermost level of a massive industrial complex that punched down through into the planet’s crust below the ash deserts. The physical schematics were overlaid with the power usages of the various sections and the forges where Titan parts were being produced were marked out with vivid colours to show how much power they were draining from Manufactorium Noctis. The void Saphentis had noticed was just below the surface, a chamber bored into solid rock the size of a spacecraft hangar. It was using up enormous amounts of energy.
“Close in on the surface,” said Alaric. “We need somewhere we can defend.”
[Grey Knights 02] - Dark Adeptus Page 23
