The World Engine

by Ben Counter

  The Overlord of Borsis celebrated decay as much as he broadcast the grandeur of his rule. Half the palace was magnificent, half a rusted shell. Zahiros could not begin to understand the alien minds of these tech-constructs, who embraced corrosion and glory at the same time.

  ‘Brothers, if you can hear me,’ said Zahiros over the command vox-channel. There was no reply but static, but perhaps one of the Astral Knights was receiving him somewhere on Borsis. ‘They were waiting for us. The necrons have mind-wiped agents among the slaves. We fight on, brothers, but if we do not prevail, do not trust the slaves. Do not trust the slaves!’

  The Judicator stepped through the hole in the wall. The sounds of battle followed it – the Astral Knights were still fighting. The Judicator’s twin blades glimmered in the faint light.

  ‘Extinction?’ said the Judicator. Its voice was smooth and synthesised, absurdly calm with the gunfire and melee behind it. ‘We were driving species to extinction before your ancestors crawled out of the oceans. While the dynasties slumbered, the praetorians watched as your kind rose and fell. You are not the first we will exterminate. You will not be the last. We killed our gods. Humanity can hold no fear for us.’ Its Imperial Gothic was perfect but formal, as if it was pronouncing a judgement or reading a new law.

  The Judicator had echoed the words Zahiros had spoken to the lychguard he had killed. It had been listening in, somehow. Perhaps it had been watching the Astral Knights from the moment they reached the palace.

  ‘A fool seeks to know the alien,’ spat Zahiros. ‘A wise man seeks only how to destroy it.’

  ‘Then you are even blinder than most,’ said the Judicator. ‘I would have you understand what we are, human. Perhaps you will understand the grandeur of the necrontyr. Whole species have bowed to us as gods of death and eternity. Humanity could live on in service. You need not die.’

  ‘Better dead than a slave to the alien,’ retorted Zahiros. He was circling slowly, watching for any suggestion of a weakness or foible in the Judicator’s fighting methods. But the necron was giving nothing away. The nicks and scratches on its armour spoke of countless battles, and the gleam of its blades was almost hypnotic in the gloom.

  ‘Truth be told,’ said the Judicator, its voice still cold and level, ‘I had hoped you would say that.’

  The necron ran at Zahiros. Zahiros was ready. He parried the three rapid blows that rained against him, forcing his body into the old forms of combat he had trained in before he had taken up the sword-and-shield style. He would rather have a longer and heavier blade, one which he could use two-handed with maximum impact, but his power sword had never failed him and it deserved to have his faith now.

  Each blow was too fast to see. It was impossible to react, only to anticipate. The Judicator was as fast as any Space Marine, with the blend of brutality and elegance of the finest duellists on Obsidia.

  But in his day Zahiros had fought and beaten those duellists. Before he had been selected as an Astral Knight, he had been a master of the blade. He had never been defeated. He would not be beaten now.

  He met every blow with a parry and a counter-stroke of his own. He forced the Judicator back a step, and capitalised with a shoulder barge that threw the necron against the chamber wall. Rust rained down. Zahiros rammed a knee into the midriff of the necron and cracked the pommel against the side of its head. A living creature would have been killed – the Judicator reeled but no more, and trapped one of Zahiros’s arms in its own.

  The alien threw Zahiros against the wall. Zahiros took the impact, ducked one blow and spun out of the arc of the next. He hacked down with his sword to slice through shoulder and chest. The Judicator intercepted the blade with its own and Zahiros had to roll away to avoid the follow-up thrust with the second blade.

  ‘I have fought and killed for sixty million of your years,’ said the Judicator. ‘I will not deny your skill. But your brothers are dying. Your war is over. If you will not serve, die quickly. We are merciful gods. Continue to defy us, and our wrath will not be sated with your deaths.’

  ‘We have seen your mercy!’ snarled Zahiros. He ached all over. Bones were broken. His armour dispensed painkillers and the numbness shivered through his body. But he could fight on. ‘Slaves turned into bone and meat. No Space Marine will bow to that. You will have to kill us all.’

  ‘And we will,’ said the Judicator. ‘We have already started.’

  Zahiros reversed the grip on his sword and dived at the necron, yelling in anger. His power sword arrowed downwards to spear the necron through the chest. It was a savage, reckless attack, one a crude barbarian might attempt to win through raw strength and fury.

  That was what it looked like, at least. The necron raised both blades to trap Zahiros’s sword, wrench it from his hand and throw him to the floor disarmed. Instead Zahiros dropped to the side, pulled his sword out of the Judicator’s reach and drove an elbow into the Judicator’s face. The impact was a satisfying crunch and the Judicator fell back, one eye shattered.

  The Judicator had thousands of years of experience in war and showed it in every feint and blade-thrust. But Zahiros had the pure strength of a Space Marine, and he knew well how to use it.

  Zahiros stabbed with the sword, aiming for a point just beneath the arm. It was a killing blow, aimed for heart, lungs and spine. The tech-construct’s armoured torso suggested it had components in there that it needed to function, components that would be ripped apart by the sword’s power field.

  The Judicator’s sword moved faster than Zahiros could think. It knocked Zahiros’s sword aside, so that it merely scored a deep channel along the side of the necron’s breastplate. The second blade slashed at Zahiros and caught him square in the chest.

  The necron blade had its own power field. It burst in a flare of purple light and Zahiros was hurled across the chamber. He hit the edge of an archway leading away from the chamber and throne room. He gasped down a breath and felt ragged heat spreading through his chest, turning into pain. He grabbed the edge of the archway and pulled himself through.

  He was hurt. Hurt badly. The sword had cut through the ceramite deep into his chest. The pink, filmy surface of his lung was visible through the torn plate of his fused ribs. Blood foamed as it welled up.

  Zahiros took stock of his new location. This chamber was bright and well-maintained. A moat of mercury ran around a central platform with a staff of black metal supporting an engraved cube the size of a man’s head. A faint hum vibrated through the silver plates of the floor.

  Blood spattered across the silver. A strange feeling ran through Zahiros, spreading from the back of his mind right through him. It was an emotion he had never felt before, and it brought with it a terrible question.

  Am I ready to die?

  Was this fear? Was this what lesser men felt when they faced death? The concept was appalling. A Space Marine did not feel fear. The Emperor had created the first Space Marine Legions precisely because he needed soldiers without fear. They knew what fear was but they could smother and dismiss it, and Zahiros had brushed aside that glimmer of weakness a million times. But what if the spark of fear was permitted to catch light? Was the result what was running through Zahiros’s veins now, threatening to seize up his limbs and paralyse his mind?

  The Judicator ran in. It could have just speared Zahiros through the back – it would be a strike with a high percentage chance of ending the fight right there. But instead the necron splashed through the mercury and positioned itself between Zahiros and the cube.

  The Judicator cared about the cube. Whatever it was, even if Heqiroth was beyond his reach, Zahiros could still hurt the lord of Borsis. He had a chance to turn the battle even now.

  But am I ready to die?

  Zahiros limped forwards. More gore tumbled out in clotted, fleshy lumps onto the floor. He held his sword out in front of him as if it was holding him up.

 
The Judicator raised its guard. There was no way through the twin blades now, not with Zahiros weakened and slowed down.

  He wanted very much to turn around and run. It was an obscene thought, a blasphemy. It grabbed hold of him and threatened to control his body like a puppeteer. He had to overcome it. This was the only chance he would have. If it really was fear he felt, and it took hold of him, it would not matter if he died here or not.

  Zahiros ran at the Judicator. The Judicator trapped his blade again but Zahiros kept going, throwing his full weight into the necron. A Space Marine at full run was too great a force for even the necron to stop dead and the Judicator fell against the staff, knocking the cube to the floor.

  The patterns inscribed into its surface formed a labyrinth. For a moment Zahiros could not look away from the cube as his eyes were forced to follow the endless paths, seeking a way out. But the heat of the pain blurred his vision and the spell was broken.

  The Judicator slashed down with its blades. Zahiros’s left arm was caught between them and they scissored closed just above his elbow. The sharpness of the pain met the awful blunt horror as his arm fell away, severed so neatly it was a second before the first blood spurted.

  Zahiros reached forwards with his right hand, dropping his sword to do so. He and the necron were locked in a death grip now and the blade could not be brought to bear. His fingers just reached the engraved surface of the cube and he snatched it up from the floor.

  Zahiros rolled over. The necron’s sword was about to plunge down through his throat. Zahiros lashed out with the cube and smashed it against the side of the Judicator’s head.

  The cube shattered. Fragments of it fell like a rain of tiny silver blades.

  Fingers of black energy played across the Judicator, earthing into the floor. Where the bodies of Zahiros and the Judicator lay in the shallow moat of mercury, they formed a bridge and the energy flickered across them to escape through the archway.

  The Judicator seemed frozen. The blade was still held over Zahiros, who, disarmed, wounded and one-handed, was barely able to fight back.

  A terrible wordless cry rose up from the direction of the throne room. It sounded like a hundred metallic voices raised at once. The whole palace seemed to shake with it, and Zahiros fancied he could hear it echo out between the spires of Borsis. He imagined in that moment the cry running all the way around the planet like the waves of an earthquake, bathing Borsis in its misery.

  And it felt good. It had been worth it, to have taught these aliens the meaning of despair. It was a worthy deed, a victory, and Zahiros was ready to die.

  The Judicator grabbed Zahiros by his remaining wrist and dragged him out of the cube chamber, back through the archway and the breach leading to the throne room. Zahiros was numb and his eyes fought to focus. The sounds of the battle, he realised, had died down.

  The Judicator hauled Zahiros up so he could see the whole throne room. Squads Daharna and Ehranth lay butchered in the centre of the room where the melee had been fiercest. Ehranth looked to have been the last to die, and around him were the remains of half a dozen broken lychguard. As Zahiros watched some of the fallen necrons clambered to their feet as sundered components knitted back together.

  One of the praetorians walked among the bodies. One of the fallen stirred, a battle-brother of Squad Daharna. The praetorian aimed its staff at the Astral Knight’s head and fired a blast of energy, obliterating everything above the collar.

  Slaves lay dead, too. Zahiros saw Percicel and Mala among their number. Only two still stood and they had the rolled-back eyes and blank expressions of the mind-wiped traitors.

  Overlord Heqiroth directed the end of the massacre. He waved a hand and the praetorian executed the two loyalist slaves with a pair of quick energy blasts through the chest. They had served their purpose, and were to be disposed of accordingly.

  Heqiroth turned to Zahiros. The Overlord of Borsis was completely unharmed by chainsword or bolter fire.

  ‘Extinction,’ he said.

  ‘Your trinket is broken,’ said Zahiros. Each word was accompanied by a dribble of blood down his chin. ‘What we did here, my brothers will use to destroy you. And we keep our promises.’

  Heqiroth nodded at the Judicator. The last thing Zahiros felt was the tip of the Judicator’s blade piercing the back of his neck.

  And he was ready to die.

  Orbital Supply Station Madrigal 12

  High Polar Orbit, Safehold

  Varv System

  Encryption Code Penance

  Inquisitorial Eyes Only. Ref. Lord Inquisitor Quilven Rhaye

  Scrivened: Medicae Obscurum Kalliam Helvetar

  Following the spiritually corrective rituals made necessary by the previous extended contact, this functionary reported to the orbital station command centre where the station crew informed me of the arrival of a Naval salvage crew. This crew was received into the station’s docking bay, observing moral hygiene procedures. Servitors received from the crew an intact one-man saviour pod which was identified as the type ejected by a Thunderblaze-class fighter-bomber. Markings indicated its origin as the carrier platform Merciless. The life sign readings indicated the occupant still lived. The saviour pod was taken to the orbital station’s sick bay, to which a complement of medicae servitors was seconded.

  The occupant was a fighter pilot of the Varv Deliverance Fleet. Her life signs indicated a comatose state. She was removed from the saviour pod and found to be unresponsive.

  During preparations for the next contact attempt, the crewman awoke. By this time she had been identified from dogtag electoos as Astronavigator Third Class Asphala Krae. She responded to the presence of this functionary with extreme fear and agitation, and was halted in attempted violence by the restraints that had been put in place as a precaution. Krae was then sedated by the medicae servitors assigned to her.

  This functionary heard her shout the name ‘Yggra’nya’. The name was by now familiar to this functionary, as it had comprised part of the contiguous sensory relays previously experienced.

  A subsequent period of wakefulness was characterised by fractured and semi-lucid utterances. Krae expressed the belief that she was in a throne room or palace structure that existed inside a star, and was the subject of a godlike being who was draining her life force or soul. These claims were accompanied by fluctuating life signs including heart rate, brainwave activity and body temperature. Attempts of violence and threats of the same continued. Further questioning elicited the belief that this functionary was a member of the godlike being’s court, and moreover possessed a body of metal.

  Medical examination revealed a severe fracture of the skull with accompanying bleeding on the brain. Anaesthesia permitted surgery to be performed via medicae servitor.

  Preparations were completed for the next sequence of contact. The psychological and physical stress of the previous contact had been mitigated by increased somatic stabiliser dosage and periods of prayer and mental exercise. The first stages of contact involved severe mental stress which was overcome with emotional dampening techniques. The fragmented sensory relay was duly logged by the cogitator.

  Parents weep with a combination of sorrow and pride. My father hands me a wooden sword, the same with which I trained in a time I can no longer remember. I shake my head and give it back to him. I cannot bring it with me. I cannot bring anything with me. Obsidia will remember the man I was, but I will be a different man from now on.

  The steel city bleeds out around me as if this world was once a natural planet now haemorrhaging metallic blood. In the distance the sound of marching feet rings out, steel on steel. As we move through the hidden passageways of this alien city a single voice booms as if from the sky. A single word, blared out so loud the whole world must hear it. Obey.

  I am cutting the gene-seed from the throat and chest of my battle-brother. These organs are the seat of our primarch�
�s genetic template, which governs the augmentations of a Space Marine’s body. Though my brother’s hearts have stopped beating he will not truly die, for these organs will be implanted in a new recruit to carry on his legacy. Then I recall that we may never leave this world and a great sadness washes over me.

  A formation of crescent-shaped raptors shrieks across the sky. Green fire drops from their bellies. I can taste the death before it happens. I can feel the agony before it is inflicted. The threads wind inevitably towards the ending of life.

  Fluctuating cardiac readings caused the cessation of the contact attempt at this point. During the preparations for resumption it was reported that Astronavigator Third Class Krae had died from massive internal and cranial bleeding, caused by great physical agitation. Krae’s behaviour before her death was reported to include utterances to the effect that the god-like being she imagined was removing her physical form and replacing it with one of metal.

  This functionary’s conclusion is that the great release of exotic energies and the resultant fluctuation in the corresponding region of the warp affected the mind of the comatose Astronavigator Third Class Krae. This was subsequent to the loss of her craft and internment in the saviour pod during the fighter battles at the commencement of the Battle of Safehold.

  Following moral and physical hygiene procedures to secure and dispose of the corpse of Astronavigator Third Class Krae, this functionary continued attempted contact, which this time proved successful.

  FIVE

  Codicier Valqash

  Borsis, it turned out, had weather. Even if the planet was entirely artificial, it was still prey to the vagaries of its atmosphere, and the rain that fell from the sky was so heavy with rust it was the colour of old blood.

  The Ninth Company and the remnants of the Sixth had made their way to the edge of a vast canyon that cut deep through the cityscape of Borsis. Far below a river of liquid metal raged over silvery rapids. The canyon walls were riddled with passageways and cave systems, the streets and palaces of previous ages. The officers of the makeshift strikeforce had gathered among the columns of a half-collapsed pavilion overlooking the black steel canyon.