[Grey Knights 02] - Dark Adeptus

by Ben Counter - (ebook by Undead)

  “For now,” said Alaric and led the way out of the wreckage.

  The collective mind of Chaeroneia was in uproar. Outwardly, of course, it was silent. The veiny growths, in which the tech-priests were suspended in amniotic fluid, barely quivered. The dense, murky air of the command spire was undisturbed. But the thoughts that flickered through the connected minds were frenetic.

  Some of the oldest tech-priests on Chaeroneia, who had been elderly Magi when Scraecos’s excavations had first unearthed the Castigator beneath the desert, were little more than brains connected to their neighbours with heavy ribbed nerve-impulse cables. But they were the most vocal in the debate. They had seen it all, the gradual growth of Manufactorium Noctis and the forge cities all over Chaeroneia, the perfection of biomechanical technology and Chaeroneia’s self-sufficiency, and so they felt most keenly the damage the current disturbances could do to the delicate balance of creation and consumption.

  Even the facts were disputed. Archmagos Veneratus Scraecos had gone rogue and failed to return to the collective mind, instead retaining his discrete personality in spite of Chaeroneia’s will. Many thoughts suggested that Scraecos, who had been the very first of them to look upon the face of the Castigator, had become convinced of his own superiority over the other tech-priests and was disregarding their authority. Others said that Scraecos must be dead. A few even thought the truth was a combination of the two.

  The fate of the recent intruders was also in doubt. Energy traces similar to small arms fire had been pinpointed to the titan works and there were three maniples of death servitors unaccounted for from the command spire’s garrison—but some of the tech-priests originated the thought that the intruders, even if they were Space Marines, could not possibly have penetrated that close to the command spire. Reports from the hunter-programs in the moat conflicted about whether the intruders were in the titan works at all.

  Orbital sensors were even suggesting multiple spacecraft descending into the middle atmosphere and heading for the titan works. The whole situation was a confused mess and confusion was anathema to the collective of tech-priests which was accustomed to knowing everything that happened on the planet.

  The only fact not in dispute was that a few minutes ago, the Castigator had risen from its vault and was now on the surface of the titan works, among the Titans. It could even be seen from the clouded windows in the command spire itself, striding slowly between the other Titans, the burning green fire of its eyes tingeing everything around it. The Castigator had, as far as the collective memory knew, never seen the sky of Chaeroneia, since its vault, like its body, had been built around the tomb that Scraecos had found. And it had never moved of its own accord. The tech-priests had not even known that the Castigator’s vault was capable of raising it to the surface, but then most of the construction of the body and the vault had been overseen by Scraecos.

  The avatar of the Omnissiah, the mouthpiece of their god, was walking among them and it had not deigned to speak with them and explain why. To suggest that such a thing might ever happen would have been heresy for any of Chaeroneia’s subjects. But now it was happening and the collective could not decide why.

  Several thoughts were shuttled through the assembled brains. Chaeroneia had fallen short of its devotions to the Omnissiah, said one, and the Castigator had risen to punish them since it was the instrument of the Omnissiah’s vengeance as well as His teachings. Another said that a threat had arisen to Chaeroneia, perhaps the approaching spacecraft, which only the Castigator’s physical shell could fend off. One even maintained that the Castigator’s body was being controlled by an outside agency—the originator of this thought, the mind of a lesser tech-priest only recently ascended to the collective, was promptly snuffed out for daring to think such heresy.

  The engines of the Warhound thundered deep inside its torso as Antigonus forced the Scout Titan back into action, the corrupted war machine fighting his every move, rebelling against the foreign consciousness controlling it.

  Alaric clung on tight to the railing at the edge of the Warhound’s carapace. From his vantage point just above the Warhound’s shoulder mount he could see through the forest of Titans that were ranged across the titan works—Reaver and Warlord Titans, more Warhounds and a few marks Alaric couldn’t recognize. Many of the Titans were corrupted beyond belief, with hydraulics replaced with bundles of wet glistening muscle or exoskeletons of gristle and bone. Many were covered in weeping sores or sported spines of bone stabbing out through rents in their armour. Alaric had never seen so much destructive power gathered in one place, let alone such corruption.

  But the STC Titan dwarfed them all. It was fully twice the height of the Warhound, bigger even than the Imperator-class Titans that the Adeptus Mechanicus sometimes fielded. It was walking slowly through the titan works, its eyes scanning the ground as if searching for something.

  The Titan’s form was more elegant than the brutal designs of the Adeptus Mechanicus—its head rose above its shoulders instead of jutting from its chest as most Titans did and was protected by a high curved collar of armour. The collar swept out to form shoulder guards. Its face was featureless save for the eyes, but those were more than enough, burning with an intense green flame that licked up into the air above it. The plates covering its torso and limbs were a strange pearlescent grey-white and they wept rivulets of moisture, giving the Titan a sickly biological sheen.

  Instead of hydraulics and complicated joints, the Titan’s moving parts were connected by dense bundles of black fibres that contracted and expanded like muscles. It moved with a stately grace, every motion calculated and efficient.

  It was as if every other Titan was a crude imitation of this one, replacing its alien-looking technology with crude mechanics. Alaric couldn’t imagine any forge world being capable of building such a thing. Even the most advances xenos species, like the eldar or the creatures of the Tau Empire, couldn’t have fashioned a war machine so obviously superior to Imperial technology.

  The Titan turned its massive head at the sound of the Warhound’s engines. The green fire bathed the Warhound in light and Alaric felt the weight of an immense intelligence scrutinizing him from behind those burning eyes.

  “Antigonus! Get us moving!” voxed Alaric as the Titan’s torso began to turn towards the Warhound.

  “I’m on it,” came the reply. “Hold on.”

  “Grab something!” shouted Alaric to Haulvarn and Dvorn. With Lykkos and Archis dead and Cardios too wounded to come with them, the two Grey Knights were all that remained of Alaric’s squad. They had both been with him on Volcanis Ultor and, if he had been forced to choose two Grey Knights to remain, he would probably have chosen them.

  The Warhound lurched drunkenly as it strode uncertainly forward, straight towards the STC Titan. The Titan raised its gun arm and Alaric heard the loud whirr of its massive servos as the gun barrels began to cycle.

  “It’s firing!” voxed Alaric.

  “Then I won’t have time for conversation. Best of luck, justicar.” Antigonus’s voice was suddenly drowned out as the Titan’s main gun opened up.

  The muzzle flash edged the titan works in burning orange. Shots slashed through the air above the carapace and shrieked a few metres away from Alaric—not explosive shells or las-blasts but captive daemons, screaming in agony as they were flung burning through the air. Alaric could feel their screams against his soul, feel their pain as they exploded in bursts of warp-spawned flame. Shots thudded into the side of the Warhound, knocking the war machine sideways. The carapace tipped and Alaric grabbed onto the railing to keep himself from slipping. He heard explosions racking the Warhound’s torso as the daemons exploded deep inside its body.

  The carapace tilted almost vertical and Alaric was sure the Warhound would fall. His feet kicked against the pitted armour as he tried to gain a foothold. Another shot from the STC Titan’s cannon smacked into the carapace beside Alaric and stuck there, the writhing serpentine form of the daemon whip
ping around in pain as it burned up. Flaming coils reached out to grab Alaric and immolate him as the daemon died—Alaric lashed out with his halberd and cut the daemon in two, feeling its body disintegrate and its corrupt spirit flit back to the warp. The heat from its death melted the armour around it and the railing came apart in Alaric’s hand, sending him skidding down the carapace.

  Alaric tumbled down the slope, knowing there would be nothing for him to grab onto and certain he wouldn’t survive the fall. He tried to dig his halberd into the ceramite and brake himself but the blade glanced off in a shower of sparks.

  The edge of the carapace zoomed closer and the drop yawned. Suddenly he was stopped and Alaric felt a hand around his, pulling him back from the edge.

  Brother Dvorn looked back at him, the faceplate of his helmet scorched by a close encounter with the Titan’s fire.

  “Not so quick, justicar,” said Dvorn grimly.

  Alaric didn’t have time to thank him. Another volley thundered into the Warhound, this time point blank into its head and upper torso. Alaric heard the daemons shrieking out through the Warhound’s back as the shots punched right through and he wondered if even Antigonus could find somewhere to hide inside the Warhound’s systems that was not being shattered and burned by the onslaught.

  The STC Titan was close now. Its head rose directly above Alaric, the beam of its eyes like a spotlight dancing across the scorched carapace.

  “We go now!” shouted Alaric above the din. He spotted Haulvarn close by, crouched down at the front railing, trying to make himself a small target against the rogue shots sending daemons shrieking in all directions. “This thing’s about to fall apart!”

  Dvorn and Alaric scrambled up to the front edge, where the carapace formed a lip protecting the Warhound’s head below. Alaric glanced down and was not surprised to see the Warhound’s dog-like head was half gone, the metallic face blasted apart and spilling fragments of data-medium.

  The gap was still too big. None of them could have got across. But it was the only chance they had. Possibilities buzzed through Alaric’s head—if they stayed they would be killed when the Warhound fell, which would happen in a few seconds. If they jumped they would fall and they would still die.

  Twin bright white beams of energy lanced up from the Warhound and bored deep into the armour of the STC Titan’s chest. The Titan reeled and its shots went wide, spitting burning daemons into the surrounding Titans. The Warhound’s twin plasma blastguns played their beams around the Titan, scoring deep furrows across its armour. Clear fluid flooded out like blood from a wound, flashing into clouds of steam where it touched the superheated plasma beams.

  Antigonus had got the Warhound’s weapons working. It meant he was still alive, at least.

  The STC Titan let out a sound like a thousand wounded animals bellowing at once. The massive power fist reached up, fingers spread to grab chunks of the Warhound and pull it apart.

  “The magos made it angry!” shouted Dvorn with relish. “It wants to finish this up close!”

  The Titan’s fist grabbed the edge of the Warhound’s carapace, the fingers sinking deep into the ceramite and boring through the plasma reactor housing inside the Warhound’s upper torso. Deep cracks spread across the carapace and Haulvarn had to roll to the side to avoid being swallowed up. White-hot plasma bubbled up from inside, spitting upwards in burning plumes as the pressure was suddenly released. With the plasma reactor breached the Warhound’s power levels would be dropping fast, the war engine’s lifeblood pouring out of the ruptured reactor housing.

  The Warhound tipped forward as the STC Titan closed its fist and pulled, trying to rip an enormous chunk out of the Warhound. The Titan’s featureless face loomed closer, illuminated by the curtain of sparks streaking up from the dying Warhound. The Titan bowed down over the Warhound, trying to get more leverage in its attempt to pull its enemy apart.

  Brother Haulvarn jumped first, taking two steps and then propelling himself across the gap between the two Titans. A Grey Knight in power armour was extremely heavy but a Space Marine’s enhanced muscles meant he could still leap further than most unarmoured men. Haulvarn slammed into the armour covering the Titan’s shoulder, near the base of its high collar. Dvorn went second and, being the strongest Grey Knight Alaric had ever known, he flew further, almost skidding off the back edge of the Titan’s shoulder armour.

  Alaric was last. As he jumped, almost half the Warhound’s carapace came free, sending a mighty gout of liquid plasma bursting upwards like a volcanic eruption. Liquid fire showered everywhere and the Warhound rocked backwards. Alaric saw the Titan veering away from him and he reached out for the front edge of the Titan’s shoulder armour—he could see Haulvarn trying to reach for him, to grab his hand and haul him to safety again. But they were too far apart.

  Alaric fell, tumbling past the graceful, fluted armour of the Titan’s torso. Beneath him there was just the rockcrete of the titan works, split and cratered by the Titan’s feet.

  The Titan’s multi-barrelled gun swung into view beneath Alaric. Its barrels were still cycling and in that moment Alaric realised it was aiming at the Warhound again, ready to administer the killing blow.

  Alaric twisted in the air, reached out and slammed into the top of the gun as it swung below him. He hit the gun’s housing hard, the cycling barrels just a handspan away from his head. He held on tight, ignoring the searing heat that had built up around them. He dug his feet and fingers in and pushed himself backwards towards the Titan’s elbow joint, away from the gun barrels.

  The Warhound toppled slowly, like a giant felled tree. Its knees buckled under it and, trailing an arc of spitting plasma, it crashed to the ground, kicking up a cloud of flame and pulverized rockcrete. A moment later the Warhound’s plasma reactor imploded and it was engulfed by an expanding ball of multi-coloured flame that flowed across the ground and up the legs of the STC Titan, around the gun arm and Alaric. He held on grimly against the blast of superheated air that nearly dislodged him and buried his face beneath his arm as the white-hot light flowed over him.

  It only lasted a second, but it was almost a second too long. The flame subsided and Alaric dared to draw a breath again, feeling the skin on one side of his face scorched and tight. He pulled himself up so he could see better and he saw the surface of the armour on the Titan’s torso and legs was covered in blisters, like burned skin. As he watched, the blisters sank back down and the burned armour shimmered, the ugly burns replaced with the weeping pearlescent white again.

  The Titan had the capacity to repair itself, with a scale and subtlety that even the war engines of the eldar could not match. Where had this machine come from? Who had made it?

  Alaric turned around to see if there was anywhere for him to go. In the Titan’s torso, just below the shoulder joint, were several vents large enough for even a Space Marine to crawl through. They were too far away to jump, though. It was more likely that Alaric could find a way into the Titan’s body by clambering up the arm and into the shoulder joint, hoping there was a space somewhere beneath the armour that he could fit through. It was a risk—the climb was long and difficult and he knew the Titan contained scores of lesser daemons because it had used them as ammunition—but it was less of a risk than waiting on the gun barrel to be found.

  Alaric dragged himself on his front towards the rear of the gun housing. He felt the screaming of daemons below him as they were forced into the firing chambers. The Warhound was dead but the Titan wasn’t going to take any chances—it was lining up for a final volley to remove any possibility that Antigonus might still be alive somewhere in the wreckage.

  The gun tipped down to aim at the Warhound and opened fire. A blast of burning air slammed into Alaric as the daemons shrieked down into the Warhound, stitching explosions through the wreckage. Alaric lost his grip on the gun housing and knew he couldn’t make it to the shoulder joint.

  He didn’t let himself die. He planted a foot on the edge of the gun housing as he
was thrown off the gun and kicked off. He jumped towards the Titan’s torso, thrown further by the Shockwave of the gunfire. He hit the torso armour hard and reached out for something to grab onto. His gauntlet found the edge of one of the vents cut into the Titan’s side, where an acrid chemical exhaust was howling out from somewhere deep inside.

  Alaric pulled his whole weight up on his one hand and hauled himself into the vent. The gunfire was now an echoing roar from outside, complemented by the deep throb of the Titan’s inner workings, sounding like the beating of an enormous alien heart. Alaric’s eyes instantly adjusted to the darkness and he saw he was surrounded by the cramped entrails of the Titan—they were metal rather than biological, but they were somehow flexible, bowing and pulsing like something alive. The interior stank of chemicals, hot and painful to breathe. Pipes and ducts were knotted all around Alaric and there was barely enough space for him to move. Alaric had never seen technology like it—it was the work of neither the Dark Mechanicus nor the Adeptus.

  Hawkespur had been right. This was older, cleaner technology, from a time when humankind created technology instead of replicating it and so opened up the way for the Age of Strife.

  Alaric could feel daemonic presences elsewhere in the Titan but they felt small and distant. They were servants to the machine, like the daemonic ammunition that fed its gun. The machine itself was not dominated by daemons—its crew, if it had any, were human, or at least some creature whose presence did not activate the anti-sorcery wards built into Alaric’s armour or the psychic shield around his spirit.

  Alaric was in some mundane part of the Titan, probably in the coolant systems around its central reactor. Even his massive strength probably couldn’t penetrate the reactor shield of a machine like this. He had to reach a part of the Titan that he could damage—the ammunition stores perhaps, or the place where the Titan was controlled from. Either way, it meant heading upwards.

  “Haulvarn? Dvorn?” Alaric tried to raise his squad-mates on the vox, not holding out much hope he could get through to them. He tried Hawkespur and Archis, too and Antigonus, but they were either dead or out of contact. Either way, Alaric was on his own. He had been forced to fight unsupported against the daemon Ghargatuloth when Inquisitor Ligeia had been lost, but he had at least had his fellow Grey Knights to fight alongside him. Now he really was on his own, one man against this war machine.