by Marc
He opened his mouth and yelled, a guttural howl of triumph – and he felt a sudden flash of memory illuminate his mind. He straggled to hold on to it, but it slipped away like a sump-eel, slithering away from his conscious will, leaving him none the wiser. But for a second, he had seen in his mind’s eye the image of stars burning behind a huge glass window, heard the sound of feet rustling on polished stone, and a smell like… like something he couldn’t put his finger on. Then it was gone and the moment passed.
He sensed movement to his left and wheeled around, snatching up his dead assailant’s chain-axe. A soldier had vaulted the parapet, a knife gripped between broken teeth as he used one hand to pull himself up and over the concrete wall. In the other he waved a battered bolt pistol. The man was covered in scars, and his hair stuck up in tufts all over his head. They looked at each other for less than a heartbeat… then Vero clenched the lever on the weapon’s handle, and the chain-axe snarled into life. He lunged, and there was a deafening scream as his opponent fell gasping into the mud, arm severed at the shoulder.
Suddenly, as if at a signal, the walls before them were being scaled by tens of warriors, swarming over the parapet. Shocked, Vero jumped back, and looked around for his companions. He saw Whelan laying down a withering blanket of las fire, as Creid and Oban lobbed frag grenades that Commander Bartok was tossing over to them from the bottom of the wall, forming a human chain of destruction.
And then Vero was fighting for his life, swamped by attackers, carried along by the press of enemy bodies. He lost sight of his comrades for a few moments as he swung his stolen chain-axe in a whirling figure of eight before hurling it at the closest foe, cleaving his skull in two. He picked up a laspistol from a fallen Guardsman, quickly checking the power cell, and cleared himself some breathing space. Grabbing Whelan’s shoulder, he shouted above the din.
‘Where’s Bartok?’
‘Gone!’ came the answer in a growl.
‘Dead?’
‘No chance. Run off!’ Whelan looked pale, obviously sure that his sixth tour was turning into his last.
Vero assessed the situation. ‘Fall back!’ he shouted at the others. They looked at him suddenly, and he was momentarily confused, unsure where the sudden note of command in his voice had come from. They began to retreat, using the rained walls as cover. Enemy artillery shells sailed over their heads in the direction of the city, the eerie whistle making the men shudder. Vero grabbed Creid by the shoulder, as he lobbed his final grenades.
‘Come on!’ he shouted, pulling the man away, ‘fall back, follow me.’
They did so, suddenly surrounded by fleeing Guardsmen, making for the cover of the buildings, fiery laser shots stabbing the darkness behind them. Vero lost sight of Creid in the confusion, swept away in the general rout, and he prayed silently that he would escape with his life.
There was a roaring noise next to them and Oban stumbled, his legs seeming to give way under him.
‘Whelan, help me!’ Vero shouted, slipping on the blood-slick ground. The larger man grabbed Oban’s arms and helped Vero drag him towards a ruined building nearby. They may all be dead men, with no one to bury them after this debacle was over, but Oban was a comrade-in-arms; besides, he had the comms-unit, and there was no way any of them were going to get out of this mess alive if they lost all contact with command.
They made it through a burnt doorway that led into some sort of warehouse. Molten plastic fell from the ceiling in droplets of lethal rain. Whelan and Vero put Oban down and leant against the wall, panting from both fear and exhaustion.
Vero ran one hand through his hair as Whelan knelt to examine Oban. When Whelan stood up again there was blood on his hands, and a look of concern on his bearded face.
‘What’s the score?’ Vero asked warily.
‘Still hanging in there, but I don’t think he’s gonna last much longer. Both legs are shattered, and he’s losing blood faster than I could hope to stop it. I’m surprised he’s got this far.’ Whelan looked around, eyes full of panic. ‘What the hell are we going to do now?’
Vero shook his head. He hefted up Oban’s comm-unit, but the cheaply mass-produced unit was broken, the casing cracked and scored by the explosion. He threw it down in disgust and sat down wearily on a slab of rabble. The sound of shellfire was still in his ears. He rubbed his sore eyes, feeling the sting as acrid smoke was rubbed into them from his face. A water bottle lay half-hidden by rubble, no doubt dropped by a fleeing soldier. Vero sniffed the contents cautiously and then swigged at the brackish water inside. He tried to remember the thought that had entered his head as he killed the enemy soldier, but it was gone for good. He cursed. His memory was clear since coming to this planet, but as for what had gone before – nothing. He closed his eyes and tried to retrace his steps since arriving, searching for some clue as to who he was and what he was doing.
In his mind’s eye, he saw movement: a tracked vehicle making its way towards them. Could it be safety, or the enemy? He couldn’t tell, the image was unclear. He felt as if something was happening just beyond his reach.
‘What is it?’ Whelan asked him, looking concerned. ‘Can you hear something? What’s happening?’
In the corner of the room, Oban moaned, and blood ran in streams from his mouth and nose, but Vero hardly noticed. He could hear the sound of a raven cawing. He saw a face swimming in front of his eyes.
Grizzled grey hair, arrogant, aristocratic eyes, some sort of uniform, medals. He remembered how his strength had returned so quickly after landing on the planet, despite his weakness on the ship. He remembered how he had mastered the weapons, his instinctive fighting when attacked at the wall. He remembered the hardening of the tendons in his hands and his fingers twitched. And then, nothing. His mind went blank, and all he could see was the ruined building they were hiding in, and Whelan kneeling next to Oban.
‘Whelan.’ he said in a thick, pleading voice. ‘Something’s happening to me.’
‘MY LORD GOVERNOR, the situation is getting too dangerous. For a second I almost saw something, but now I can see no outcome for our strategy except destruction. We must escape, and soon.’
‘But the rebels are so close, how can we fail? Everything is proceeding exactly as we planned it. What can go wrong?’
‘My lord, even in a psychic darkness, I can usually see something, some glimmer of intent, of the future. Here I can see nothing.’ Rosarius’s voice was cracked with strain. ‘It is true that my powers cannot see danger ahead of us, but that is why I have cause for worry. I have never had my second sight so blinded. There are futures hovering on the edge of my vision, but there is a cloud, like ink in water, confusing, blocking everything. If I could foresee our doom, that at least, would allow me to plot a course away from that outcome. But there is nothing.’
‘Then we will leave for the bunker. It will be safer there. Perhaps I was foolish returning to the city, but I wanted to be there to watch as the city fell.’
Rosarius shook his head at his master’s egocentricity. Pressing a button on the governor’s barren desk, he spoke into the comm-link.
‘Sergeant, prepare the governor’s personal transport. We’ll be there in a few minutes.’ As the two of them turned to leave, Rosarius reflected, not for the first time, on the limits of his own psychic powers in not forewarning him of the ill-luck of his appointment as personal advisor to Torlin.
Leaving the ornate double doors standing open, they clattered down the grand staircase, not trusting the lift. Lights flickered as the generator straggled to cope with the demands of the power shields protecting the governor’s official residence.
Under the palace, the governor’s personal liveried Leman Russ armoured personnel carrier was belching black smoke, causing Rosarius to wheeze. Torlin prayed that the inefficiencies of his governorship hadn’t extended as far as his own personal transport, and that the mechanics had added the extra side armour as he had demanded. His bodyguard, thirty hand-picked soldiers of impeccable loya
lties, snapped to attention as he appeared. He nodded at them curtly and waved a vague salute. While the governor and Rosarius climbed into the Russ, strapping themselves into the seats, the bodyguard piled into two Rhinos. The driver sealed the hatch behind them. To Rosarius it sounded like the closing of a coffin.
The driver gunned the engine, and they lurched forward, nearly jolting Governor Torlin’s head from his shoulders. ‘For pity’s sake.’ he growled at the driver, ‘be more careful. I want to get out of here alive.’
The Russ, with its escort of Rhinos, drove slowly through the burning city, slowing often to manoeuvre around ruined buildings and shell-pocked roads. The light outside was made eerie by the many magnesium flares sent up by the spotters, but the sound of small arms fire had faded. The governor didn’t know whether this was a good sign or not. Even through the vehicle’s filters, he could smell the smoke from the burning buildings, the stench of corrosive chemicals, burning plastic, and, faintly, the odour of charred flesh as the victorious rebels lit their celebration pyres. His city was deserted, its citizens long fled. Torlin listened with half an ear to the sound coming from the comm-link with their escort, and chewed his nails thoughtfully. Rosarius was slumped against his seat, seemingly lost inside his robes.
‘Fury One, we have snipers point two zero zero. Over.’
‘Fury Two, I see them.’
They could hear the ricochet of shells bouncing around the armoured hide of the APC, and then the returning rattle of bolter fire.
‘Snipers neutralised.’
‘Fury Base, we are on our way, ETA thirteen minutes and counting. Over.’
‘Receiving, we are awaiting your arrival. Keep us updated. Over and out.’
Suddenly, Rosarius sprang bolt upright, his eyes crazy with fear. ‘My lord!’ he exclaimed. ‘I see fire, fire from the sky!’
The comm-link from the lead Rhino screamed: ‘Incoming, incom—’
The explosion drowned out the rest of the voice.
THE BLAST ROCKED the ruined building where the two survivors were holed up, dislodging great chunks of plaster and rubble from the ceiling. Vero crept towards the ruined window, keeping his head back for fear of sniper fire. Peering across the wrecked boulevard he saw the smoking ruin of a tracked armoured vehicle, fire raging from its engine. Across from it, another similar vehicle had been completely buried in rubble from a building hit by the missiles. Between the two was a battle tank, lying on its side, the upper track still revolving, the tread shattered. The tank’s massive lascannon drooped, useless, its barrel bent beyond repair. Sparks flickered across the undercarriage and oily black liquid leaked from the cracked carapace.
The liquid slowly crept its way towards the sparking underside and Vero knew whoever was inside had only moments before the vehicle went up in flames.
‘Cover me.’ he found himself shouting at a startled Whelan. Vaulting from the window, Vero ran across the open ground, lasgun fire from snipers in the rooftops in the next block following him, spitting up shards of rock behind his feet, and the returning fire from Whelan flickering around his ears.
He leapt onto the moving track, using its motion to propel himself over the stricken tank and into cover. Bracing his boots against the wet earth, he unsheathed his knife, wedging the point of the blade into the crack between the top of the vehicle and the access hatch. He leaned on the blade, praying it wouldn’t break, but the adamantine tip held strong. With a groan of metal, the hatch opened, belching a cloud of hot smoke into the night air. Blinking against the fumes, he peered into the shattered interior.
Slumped against the control was the driver, but he could see immediately that he was beyond help: a supporting strut from the chassis had driven deep into his chest. The gunner was moaning gently, but the blood bubbling from his mouth was arterial red, bright oxygenated blood; he would not last more than a few minutes.
In the darkness beyond he saw a figure, pinned to the floor by a broken stanchion of metal from the armoured walls of the vehicle. He looked closely. Grey hair, aristocratic eyes, the medals on his chest. He’d seen this man before.
Suddenly memory exploded inside his head like the heart of a star collapsing under its own weight.
HE WAS SITTING at the end of a low bier in a hall of highly polished marble. In front of him, a man dressed in dark robes was reading from a large, leather-bound book. Around them both were banks of humming machinery, dim green screens which flickered with images. He could hear the soft whisper of leather slippers on polished stone. Tech-priests moved gently through the aisles between the rows of ancient machines, adjusting, taking readings, reciting prayers.
The humming became louder. Gentle hands were placed upon his shoulders, easing him back so that he was lying flat on a warm, padded bench. Above him was a large monitor, and on it he could see the face of a robed man. His face was aged but unlined. The man spoke and his voice, calm and measured, seemed to bypass his ears and speak directly into his brain.
‘Averius, Callidus assassin, relax. Be still and relax.’
The procedure was carefully explained to him. ‘It’s quite simple, I assure you. A man’s mind is made up of two parts. The first part includes memory, your personality, thoughts that are unique to you. Then there is the part which controls your day to day functions, your knowledge of weapons, infiltration, poisons, everything that enables you to function as an assassin, as well as your animal instincts, the fight or flight, your powerful instinct for survival. All we are going to do is to temporarily erase the first part, allowing you to get past the normal psychic screening with which the ever-paranoid Governor Torlin surrounds himself. You will have no recollection of who you are, or what your mission is, so his sanctioned psyker will have no forewarning of you until it’s too late. You are Averius, and so this mission has the code-name Vero.’
A helmet, humming with power, moved down over his head, covering his eyes. He saw faces, scenes of battle, carnage, the rage of guns, and then a face framed by grey hair, eyes full of ambition and a palpable thirst for power. His quarry: Governor Torlin. Images from his own life, past terminations, death throes, passed before his eyes, spooling backwards, and then there was only darkness.
THE VERY NEXT thing he knew he was in a metal comet, falling to earth, his arms bound tightly behind him. Now everything was clear. He was Averius, Callidus assassin – and he had found his quarry.
Next to the governor, a terrified-looking elderly man dressed in dark robes looked at him. He muttered softly to himself. Averius leaned over to hear him better.
‘You… you are the raven?’ the psyker croaked. ‘Why did I not see you? Why could I not read your mind? Why could I not predict your coming?’
Blood trickled from his nose, his breath coming in gasps. The assassin raised his fist.
‘Be silent, psyker,’ he spat, and his hands cut off the old man’s questions.
Averius pulled roughly at Torlin, ignoring the man’s moans as the broken metal pinning him to the Russ tore through his flesh. He pulled him out of the vehicle, and dragged him to the building. He felt a wave of heat, as the leaking fuel flooded one of the sparking circuits, and the tank exploded in a ball of molten metal and plastic.
Whelan was waiting for him back in the ruined building, covering his return from the shelter of the shattered window.
‘Vero, who is it?’ he asked as the assassin stalked back into their crude shelter and flung his prize roughly onto the ground. When there was no answer, Whelan grabbed his upper arm and swung Averius round to face him.
‘Vero, what is it?’ he asked, but the assassin looked at him blankly. All previous thoughts of comradeship were erased from the assassin’s mind by the full knowledge of his mission.
‘You are in my way,’ he stated simply. He swung his hand out almost lazily and Whelan was sent flying, knocked unconscious by the force of the blow. The assassin gazed dispassionately at the prone body of his comrade, a look of surprise etched onto the man’s unconscious face.
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br /> The assassin’s fingers began to twitch and shake painfully. He looked down in alarm at the fingertips. He was suddenly wracked with pain, his whole body seeming to lift up and shake itself from deep inside. Averius could feel the polymorphine flowing through his system, and his body contorted as if it was trying to throw off its skin. He felt himself grow taller, broadening out, and from his fingertips he felt a pricking as finely honed steel needles slid out from under his fingernails, razor-sharp and slick with toxic fluids. At last he was complete: the tools of his trade, his raven’s claw, hidden to prevent discovery of his mission until he had found his prey.
The governor croaked from behind him as he came to. The assassin picked up the water bottle from where it had been lying amidst the rubble on the floor, holding the man’s head up to allow him to take a sip of water. Averius wanted his quarry to be able to answer his accuser.
‘My lord,’ the assassin began, as he always did. ‘I come at the express order of the Officio Assassinorum.’
The governor started into full awareness: his eyes focused, then opened wide with panic. ‘The raven,’ he croaked. His voice was wild, delirious.
Averius slapped him, lightly, on one ash-grey cheek.
‘Wake up. Concentrate. I come to give you the Emperor’s absolution.’
‘What do you mean? I have done nothing, I have no need of absolution.’ Torlin blustered.
The assassin ignored him. ‘I have come to bring justice to this planet. You have been watched. Do you think your lapdog telepath could protect you from justice? He knew your thoughts, and his knowledge shone like a beacon to the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. Did you think treachery like yours could be hidden away?’
The governor was beginning to lose himself to utter panic. The assassin could see sweat starting to bead on the man’s ashen forehead. He knew he was a dead man. But confession could at least bring a clean death. Absolution would be swift. The assassin pressed his fingers to the governor’s temples and concentrated his thoughts.
