Old Earth

by Nick Kyme

  ‘You will not be dissuaded?’

  ‘I will not.’

  ‘Then what choice have I but to do as ordered?’

  ‘None.’

  Meduson cut the feed.

  Last aboard the insertion craft, he never gave the Iron Heart a second glance as he climbed into a grav-harness. His only thought was of reaching the Lupercal Pursuivant and a reckoning with Tybalt Marr.

  The engines fired, hot and roaring.

  Aug listened to the dead feed for a moments, before returning to his duties.

  He brought the Iron Heart close, weathering a severe amount of punishment.

  The launch sigil on the ship’s helm display turned from red to green as they reached minimum range.

  ‘All vessels away,’ he intoned and the Iron Heart sent forth her payload into the darkness.

  Numerous boarding craft struck out for the Lupercal Pursuivant, several of them decoys bearing false heat signatures to fool the ­enemy’s missiles.

  Aug watched them keenly via the tactical hololith.

  Three failed to reach the target, shot down or driven off course. The rest reached the ship. A further two exploded to the diligent fire of automated deck guns before they could breach. The rest cut through the hull and made swift ingress.

  Meduson was amongst them.

  ‘Thank the Gorgon,’ he muttered. No one heard him, his words lost amidst the clamour of battle. Nor did they hear him hail Kuleg Rawt and the other Iron Fathers.

  A heavy firefight had seized the arterial corridor to the armoury.

  Meduson and Mechosa had made steady progress towards the bridge, their boarding torpedo hitting high above the vessel’s midline and only a few decks below command. A fierce battle had seen them overwhelm an under-strength barracks, but they ran foul of automated defences and barricades en route to the armoury.

  A ferocious barrage of weapons fire had them pinned behind their boarding shields, an ever-diminishing ring of iron.

  ‘Aug,’ Meduson bellowed down the vox. ‘Send reinforcements. Every reserve we’ve got. Concentrate on this position. And where are Jakkus and Borgus’ squads, damn it?’

  Aug gave no response.

  Meduson tried again, but still got the same result. Static. Dead air.

  He exchanged a grim look with Mechosa, their eyes just visible behind the glow of retinal lenses.

  ‘We are on our own,’ said Meduson.

  ‘What of Jakkus and Borgus?’

  ‘Have you heard from either of them or their promised boarding squads since we first breached the hull?’

  Mechosa shook his head.

  ‘Either they are dead,’ said Meduson, ‘or they aren’t coming.’

  ‘Then we have to break out ourselves.’ Mechosa drew a power maul, a weapon of the Meridius pattern, and sent a crackle of energy across its flanged head. ‘I’ll lead the sortie. You follow, Warleader.’

  ‘I’ll lead, Mechosa.’

  Mechosa shook his head. ‘With respect, I cannot allow that. You have to reach Marr and kill him.’

  Knowing better than to resist, Meduson nodded.

  Mechosa led the charge. He took several hits, his armour split and broken. He had to limp the last few metres but the automatic guns fell silent, spiked by krak grenades.

  Smoke and the acerbic stench of fyceline hung heavy in the recycled atmosphere. As it slowly dissipated, it revealed two dead Iron Hands.

  Meduson murmured their names, committing their sacrifice to memory.

  ‘Mechosa,’ he said upon reaching the Clan Sorrgol captain. ‘Can you walk?’

  Mechosa had bled profusely but his body had already begun to seal its wounds. ‘I’ll need a bionic when this is over,’ he said, gesturing to his ruined leg. ‘I can walk. I’ll bloody fight too.’

  Meduson clapped him on the shoulder. ‘By the Gorgon, you will.’

  He paused to review the schematic extracted from one of the ship’s cogitators. Daenalok had died to retrieve that information. He had been amongst the first to fall when they had breached the ship. Meduson swore then he would not waste his brother’s sacrifice.

  A labyrinthine nest of corridors lay ahead, followed by a large atrium Meduson did not like the look of. A much narrower sword hall ran underneath it, almost parallel. Cross it, fight their way up one deck and they would be standing before the bridge. Meduson marked the route on his retinal display and sent it to the rest of the boarding party.

  The last few sections of the ship had been manned by automated defences.

  ‘Marr is running out of men. He must have spent a lot of lives trying to kill us, but I’m still not risking that atrium. It’s too wide. Too large.’

  ‘The sword hall has alcoves, protruding buttresses. Solid cover,’ said Mechosa.

  It was decided.

  They quickly reached the sword hall, despite Mechosa’s injury.

  A narrow chamber stretched before them, lit by burning lumen staves ensconced into the walls. Old banners hung in alcoves that described numerous campaigns and wars of conquest.

  Meduson’s bile rose when he saw a standard dedicated to the massacre at Isstvan V. He slashed it corner to corner with his Albian steel sword and the pieces fell to the floor. He spat on it, and the acid in his saliva burned the fabric.

  A tall arch, limned with a faint gloaming light, awaited them at the end of the hall.

  ‘A little foreboding,’ remarked Mechosa.

  ‘This entire ship is foreboding,’ replied Meduson. ‘It feels… wrong.’

  A few warriors from the other boarding party nodded.

  ‘Another route?’ asked Mechosa.

  They had already tried several, internal bulkheads shutting them out before they had progressed far.

  The vox crackled, a moment of intemperate static.

  ‘Meduson,’ came a voice, broken but with the telltale metallic harshness of the Tenth.

  ‘Brother! Your interruption is most welcome.’

  ‘Hurry… Meduson…’

  The voice sounded urgent, as if the speaker had been injured.

  ‘Where are you, brother?’

  ‘Hurry… We are… dying…’

  Mechosa made to advance, until Meduson stopped him.

  ‘We should not delay, Warleader,’ he said.

  ‘Something is wrong.’

  ‘Hurry… We will not last much longer…’

  ‘I hear Iron Hands in trouble,’ said Mechosa. ‘It must be the squads Jakkus sent, or Borgus.’

  ‘Tell me, Mechosa,’ said Meduson, glancing to the darkness now in their wake and measuring it against the wan light ahead. ‘Do you recognise his voice?’

  The plea for aid repeated, similar to before but always with the imperative towards urgency.

  Mechosa listened. His demeanour hardened, and he grew circumspect.

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Hurry… Please… or we are already dead…’

  Meduson turned to the others.

  ‘We go back, find another way.’

  He had been about to consult the schematic map when the image corrupted. Even his eidetic memory seemed unable to recall the layout, as if something were impeding it.

  ‘Hurry… We stand alone by the Gorgon’s side… Hurry… for he has fallen…’

  Mechosa’s voice grew cold, and the air seemed to freeze with it.

  ‘That’s Isstvan… How?’

  ‘Hurry… Meduson… Don’t let us die…’

  ‘That’s not Isstvan,’ said Meduson. ‘I don’t know what that is, but it’s not Isstvan and it’s not our brothers. We go back. Now.’

  A bulkhead slammed down, cutting off the route back.

  Mechosa turned to Meduson. ‘We could cut through it.’

  Meduson thought about it but then shook
his head. ‘It would take too long, and we have no way of knowing how thick it is.’

  ‘Why does it feel like we are being herded?’

  Meduson eyed the gloaming light ahead.

  ‘Because we are.’

  He gave the order to advance.

  ‘Move! To the light, to the light. Swiftly now, brothers.’

  The Iron Hands hurried towards the arch, urgent, aggressive…

  …until a bulkhead slammed down across it, smothering the light. Another slammed down at the other end of the hall, even further in, preventing escape.

  ‘Two bulkheads behind, one ahead,’ said Mechosa.

  Meduson nodded. ‘Shields up!’

  The Iron Hands came together, shields facing out. Auto-defence turrets sprang from concealed compartments above, hidden in the vaults and the shadows.

  Flamers bathed the shield wall, their intensity eventually breaking it apart before heavy bolters took advantage of the breach. The single cohort of Iron Hands broke into several smaller groupings, shooting up at the defensive weapons but finding them protected by shields with firing slits.

  ‘Smash the heavy guns. Release smoke to foul their aim,’ snapped Meduson. ‘Stand together. Take it. We can break out of this.’

  As the false walls behind the alcoves turned, becoming archways themselves and admitting Marr’s warriors into the fray, Meduson realised they couldn’t break out. He had been lured here to his death. He had been betrayed by those he considered his allies. Again.

  A warrior cried out, ‘Iron Tenth!’ but was quickly silenced.

  Others took up the cry and a brief fight ensued, but Meduson’s men were soon killed or suppressed.

  As the last sounds of battle died away, Meduson found himself on his knees facing Mechosa with the last of his men. All had been bound by the wrist with heavy manacles. Each had a chainblade or power sword resting against the back of his neck. Several lay on the ground, unmoving. Blood scent pricked his nostrils at the rough removal of his war-helm. A dark pool reached across the floor of the sword hall to touch his knee plates. His ragged face, glowering with impotent rage reflected back at him. He looked older than he remembered. Beaten.

  ‘You bast–’ Mechosa began, before a heavy blow silenced him and he slumped in his chains.

  The others in the Tenth glared, stoic, defiant.

  ‘Where is your leader?’ Meduson hissed, slammed back down heavily as he tried to rise from his knees.

  ‘All in good time,’ a grating voice replied.

  Meduson managed to turn his head a little and saw the edge of a mortuary sword, its basket hilt fashioned from some poor warrior’s death mask. The weapon could easily cut his neck in two in a single blow, but he suspected it wasn’t for this warrior to claim that honour.

  ‘Do you recognise him?’ asked the hulking champion who had Meduson at his mercy, gesturing to the death mask. ‘One of yours… formerly.’

  Meduson stared ahead, refusing to be goaded further.

  A phalanx of Sons of Horus stood before him. The bulkheads had since been raised, and the light cast from the archway at the end of the hall just edged the upper parts of their armour.

  Footsteps resounded, slow and deliberate.

  In the background, the sounds of ship-to-ship combat steadily diminished.

  The phalanx parted and a warrior stepped into the light, a captain judging by his rank markings. He had the look of a pugilist, bald and pugnacious.

  ‘Oh,’ said Tybalt Marr, ‘how I have waited for this.’ The captain cut a brutal and battle-hardened figure in his scarred war-plate. His face and shaven head were a cartograph of suffering and conflict. His cold eyes looked eager for more. He smiled, then struck Meduson hard across the left temple.

  The sword hall faded, turning to black. Darkness reigned.

  Gorgonson headed with all haste for the Iron Heart’s launch bays. Borgus and Jakkus had not responded to his personal hails, the feed jammed. He had armoured himself, and his bolter hung by his side on a leather strap. A chainsword sat in a sheath across his back. A bandoleer of grenades was slung over his right shoulder and he clutched his helm in his left hand as he walked.

  He had arranged for Dakkus, Belgred, Mymidos and Kellor to meet him at the gunships. In turn, they would each bring four ­others. Few warriors remained on the Iron Heart but Gorgonson was determined to gather as many as he could. Other battle-captains had pledged warriors too. Those he could reach.

  He had not sought the aid of the Iron Fathers nor the veteran sergeant who served under Gaeln Krenn. A schism had torn apart the Iron Tenth. He had seen it first take root at Lliax but had failed to properly acknowledge the uncomfortable truth.

  He trooped down the corridor, possessed of such urgency that he almost failed to see the two Immortals barring his path.

  ‘Stand aside,’ he growled, pulling up sharply.

  Both Immortals held bolters at ease across their chests. Neither carried a breacher shield. One proffered the orb of a hololithic projector and Gorgonson scowled as he realised what must be coming next.

  Aug’s image came to life before him.

  ‘What are you doing, Goran?’ he asked. ‘You are this ship’s Apothecary, and are therefore needed here.’

  ‘I am leading a rescue attempt, Hand Elect. Warleader Meduson has been taken.’ The last contact from the Iron Hands aboard the Lupercal Pursuivant had suggested as much. ‘Borgus and Jakkus are unreachable. I don’t believe their warriors made it to the enemy flagship.’

  ‘I cannot sanction that. The fleet is in full retreat.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We are leaving, Goran.’

  ‘You will condemn him to death.’

  ‘Then he will have died bravely.’

  ‘You cannot mean this, Aug.’

  ‘It is better this way. Shadrak would have brought us to the edge of extinction.’

  ‘He forged us into a Legion, and gave us hope.’

  ‘I am sorry, Goran.’

  ‘You don’t get to call me that. I do not recognise your friendship or fraternity.’ He spat onto the deck, the globule slowly sizzling as it ate away the metal. ‘I should’ve ended it on Lliax. You changed.’

  ‘I did. I became stronger. The flesh is weak.’

  ‘So are you, Frater,’ snapped Gorgonson, mustering as much bile as he could into the words.

  ‘I am truly sorry. But the Legion must survive.’

  Gorgonson never even got a hand to his bolter before the Immortals cut him down.

  A host of incorporeal figures surrounded Aug on the bridge.

  Borgus and Jakkus had taken exception to the sudden withdrawal. Both raged at the Iron Heart’s Frater. A freak malfunction in their launch bays had prevented their troops joining Meduson’s aboard the Lupercal Pursuivant, and they demanded answers. Aug gave them none, nor did the apparitions of the Iron Fathers also summoned to the impromptu council.

  Aug merely watched as one by one the hololithic feeds of any belligerent battle-captains flickered out, their signals overridden by the Iron Fathers.

  Borgus would not submit without a fight, and turned to face some unknown opponent before his image crackled and disappeared. But Jakkus might yet relent, Aug considered, when he realised his situation had become untenable. The other officers fell into line quickly, or were placed under guard. Aug would convince them of the necessity for extreme measures later. He would convince them it was done for the right reasons, for logical reasons. The Legion must survive.

  If only Meduson had realised that and what it meant, instead of pursuing his vengeful and ultimately self-destructive vendetta against Tybalt Marr.

  ‘It is done?’ asked Rawt, speaking for the newly arrayed Iron Council.

  Aug nodded.

  ‘We shall endure, Iron Fathers. It is the will of the Gorgon.’
/>
  Meduson came around in a dank cell in the bowels of the Lupercal Pursuivant. Mechosa glanced across at him from the other side of their confinement. He had a blade to his neck, angled down towards the heart, and two renegades held him fast.

  He saw no sign of the other warriors who had survived the ambush in the sword hall.

  ‘Let him go,’ Meduson demanded, the pain in his skull where Marr had struck him a dull ache. He had minders too, and felt the pressure of augmented strength against his shoulders. The champion again.

  ‘No,’ said a voice from the shadows and Tybalt Marr stepped forwards. He gestured to Mechosa and then to his warriors. ‘Kill him.’

  Meduson roared, but they slew Mechosa without hesitation. The gladius came out of his neck slick and heady with transhuman blood. Meduson strained against his keepers, the veins in his neck bulging with effort, but was held fast.

  ‘A little oil in there, perhaps?’ said Marr.

  ‘Bastard! What have you done with the rest of my men? Answer me!’

  Marr drew close, gesturing casually to Mechosa. ‘They share his fate.’

  ‘I’ll kill you for this. I’ll bloody well kill you.’ He struggled again, and felt the sword tips draw blood.

  Marr merely looked his prey in the eye.

  Meduson snarled through gritted teeth. ‘My warriors are coming. I will be avenged.’

  ‘You will kill me or your warriors will kill me? Which is it?’

  ‘Either way, you’ll be dead.’

  Marr nodded, then motioned to the guards.

  ‘Get him on his feet.’

  Meduson felt the pain of his injuries flare in anger as he was hauled up.

  Marr took another step. Their noses almost touched.

  ‘Taller than I expected,’ he said. ‘It is really you, isn’t it? I wanted to be sure. I had to be sure. But it’s you this time.’

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ Meduson seethed.