“Permission to speak, Marduk, First Acolyte of the Word Bearers Legion of Astartes, genetic descendent of the glorified Primarch Lorgar,” said Darioq.
“Glorified Primarch Lorgar?” asked Marduk with a grin. “You are learning, Enslaved. Permission to speak granted.”
“With the surgical removal of the inhibitor functions of my logic-engines, and the rearrangement of the frontal cortex of three of my brain-units, I find…” began Darioq-Grendh’al.
“Get to the point,” interrupted Marduk.
“Summary: it is not required that the location of Explorator First Class Daenae be obtained from the brain-unit of Guildmaster Polio,” the magos intoned.
“What gibberish does it speak? Who is this Guildmaster Polio?” growled Kol Badar.
“Guildmaster Polio is the flesh unit whose radial and ulna bones of the left arm have been rendered inoperative and non-functioning by Marduk, First Acolyte of the Word Bearers Legion of Astartes, genetic descendent of the glorified Primarch Lorgar,” replied Darioq.
Burias snorted his amusement, though Kol Badar growled and took a step towards the black-robed magos, electricity coursing into life around his power talons. Marduk forestalled his advance with a raised hand, and looked at the magos intently.
“What do you mean, Darioq-Grendh’al? Speak simply,” he said.
“In order to garner the required information about the whereabouts of Explorator Daenae, all that is necessary is to gain access to the cortex hub of this bastion facility.”
Marduk turned to look at Burias. The icon bearer shrugged and Marduk turned back towards Darioq with a sigh.
“What do you need to find the location of the explorator?” asked Marduk, speaking in a slow and measured voice.
“In order to access the cortex hub of this bastion facility, a sub-retinal scan of the commanding officer must be made,” said Darioq.
A hint of a smile touched Marduk’s lips, and he turned towards Burias.
“Fetch me his eyes, icon bearer.”
Burias grinned and flexed his fingers.
“As you wish, my master,” replied the icon bearer.
The heavy crawler doors slid aside with a sound like a mountain shifting, and snow and ice billowed into the cargo hold. The frightened refugees from Antithon Guild were huddled as best they could against the far wall, protecting their faces from the biting wind.
“Let’s do this quickly,” shouted Solon over the wind. At his side, Cholos gave him the thumbs up. Solon looked towards Sergeant Folches, who stood with his soldiers. The soldier nodded.
“Keep her running,” shouted Solon to Cholos. “The last thing we want out here is the engines seizing up.”
Solon pulled his mask and respirator over his face, obscuring his features, and turned around awkwardly in his bulky exposure suit. He grabbed the sides of the ice-encased metal ladder on the exterior of the crawler and began to climb down to the ground.
His breathing sounding heavy in his ears and he felt a momentary stab of claustrophobia. He hated these suits. The pair of circular synth-glass goggle-panes obscured his peripheral vision and the suit made all movement heavy and laboured. Still, they kept the cold out, and without one he wouldn’t last more than an hour in these conditions.
He climbed down the eight metres from the cargo hold to the ground and stepped onto the ice. The wind threatened to knock him down, and he steadied himself with a hand on a massive wheel.
He turned around to look up at the bulk of Markham’s lifeless crawler as the others descended. It reared, black and imposing, like an ancient monolith, dark and dead.
With his mask in place, he had no means to communicate with the others except by hand signals, and he pointed towards the front of the crawler. Sergeant Folches nodded his head and signalled for him and his men to take the lead.
“Be my guest, you bastard,” said Solon, gesturing his ascent.
The soldiers had their weapons in hand as they approached the derelict crawler. It was clear to Solon that its engines had not been running for some time, for there was a thick layer of snow across the crawler, including over its engine stack. Normally, a crawler’s engineer maintained enough heat in the boilers that no snow would settle. Snow was banked up high against one side of the massive crawler, and Solon guessed that it must have been sitting dormant for at least five hours for such an amount of snow to have settled against it.
The white-armoured Skyllan Interdiction soldiers began moving towards the front of the crawler, their guns raised to their shoulders. With swift hand signals, the sergeant sent two men ahead on point, and they covered each other’s blind spots as they moved forward. Solon and Cholos stomped through the snow behind the soldiers.
“Doesn’t look like anyone is home,” Solon said to himself.
One of the crawler’s immense tracks had been ripped loose, and it lay twisted and broken beneath the behemoth. This was no accident; nothing could tear a crawler’s track loose except an immense mining detonation, or concentrated fire by a well-armed enemy.
Solon saw one of the soldiers gesture up at the side of the crawler, and he followed the direction of his hand. A hole had been blasted through the side of the immense transport, roughly the size of a man’s head, scorch marks surrounding the strike.
Solon walked closer to the side of the crawler, peering at a line of smaller marks up the side of one of its wheels. Splinters of barbed metal were embedded in the steel rim off the wheel.
He peered closely at one of the splinters. It was viciously barbed, and he winced at its cruel design. Had it been embedded in a living body, the flesh would be torn to shreds in attempting to pull it free.
Solon jerked as a heavy hand slapped him on the shoulder, and he looked up into the faceless visor of one of the soldiers, who motioned for him to move on. Solon nodded his head, and began slogging through the snow and ice once more.
He stumbled as his foot caught on something, and fell awkwardly onto his front. A soldier helped him back to his feet and he looked to see what he had tripped over.
A hand, blue and frozen, was protruding from the snow.
Solon swore and staggered back, pointing frantically at the frozen hand. The soldier nodded grimly and motioned for him to keep moving.
Tearing his eyes from the grisly display, Solon hurried to catch up with the rest of the group. His breathing was coming in short, sharp gasps, sounding too loud in the enclosed space of his mask.
The group moved around the front of the crawler, and Solon saw that the reflective plasglass of the cabin had been shattered. Several holes had been punched through the front chassis of the crawler, and Solon marvelled at the immense power of the blasts. The front of the crawlers were heavily armoured, allowing them to push through ice, rock and snow if necessary, and he had been led to believe that even a lascannon would be unable to pierce its reinforced layers. Whatever had struck this crawler though had made a mockery of his teaching.
The soldiers moved warily around the side of the crawler, and Solon froze as the sergeant raised his hand.
One of the soldiers dropped to one knee at the corner of the crawler and risked a quick glance around it before giving the all clear and moving on.
They were out of the worst of the wind behind the lee side of the crawler, and Solon breathed a sigh of relief to be out of the relentless gale. The snow was not banked up so heavily here, and with a flurry of hand signals, the sergeant relayed his orders.
One of the cargo bay doors was wide open, and one of the soldiers warily climbed the icy ladder up to the cavernous opening. As he crouched below the lip of the cargo bay, he raised his lasgun and clicked on the powerful light under-slung below the barrel.
Rising up on the ladder, the soldier held his lasgun to his shoulder and swung the beam of his light around within the crawler’s cargo hold. He signalled the all clear, and climbed up into the interior, disappearing from sight. The other soldiers moved towards the ladder, Solon being herded in the centre of th
e group.
Sergeant Folches and one of his men ascended quickly, while the other members of the squad covered them, and then Solon was signalled to climb up.
His bulky exposure suit made the climb difficult and he was breathing hard as he reached the top. Sergeant Folches grabbed him under one arm and hauled him over the edge, his pistol held at the ready in his other hand.
The sergeant held up a hand for Solon to stay put and his soldiers began advancing through the darkened cargo hold, the focused beams of their lights swinging left and right. They were swallowed by the darkness as they penetrated deeper into the stricken crawler, leaving Solon standing alone.
He turned around, the weak lights mounted on either shoulder of his exposure suit illuminating the area around him in their yellow glow. One of the lights flickered and buzzed, and Solon hit it with one hand. The flickering stopped, but then the light gave out all together, and he swore.
Feeling exposed and alone, he moved further into the cargo hold, trying to see the soldiers’ lights. He couldn’t see them, and the sound of his own breathing filled his ears. He also noticed evidence of fighting. Blackened scorch marks marred the sides of ore containers and severed cables hung limp from holes blasted in the walls.
The massive ore containers were loaded on top of each other and tightly packed, forming a maze of narrow corridors within the vast hold. The containers disappeared in the gloom above him, and Solon felt a rivulet of sweat ran down his spine.
Turning a corner, he almost stepped on the corpse. It wore the uniform of a crawler orderly, and Solon recoiled in horror and disgust. The man looked as if he had died in absolute agony, his mouth wide in a scream, his eyes huge and staring, and his body frozen in a contorted death spasm. His hands were twisted like claws, and his legs were bent beneath him. It looked as though he had been writhing in agony as he had died. Solon saw a line of wicked splinters across his chest, embedded in his flesh.
Solon turned away, feeling his stomach heave. He ripped his mask away and vomited the contents of his stomach onto the floor. He pulled his canteen from one of the deep pockets of his exposure suit, and took a swig of the cold water, cleansing his mouth and spitting it out onto the floor.
He didn’t look again at the corpse as he walked away, sucking in the cold air in deep breaths.
It felt like the soldiers had been gone for hours, though it was more likely just minutes, and Solon felt panic begin to rise within him. What had hit the crawler? What enemy was loose in the darkness? And was it still here?
The walls formed by the containers rearing up on either side of him seemed to close in, and Solon’s breath was coming in shorter gasps.
“Stay here, he says. To hell with that,” said Solon, deciding to find Sergeant Folches and his soldiers. He might not like the man, but if there was still an enemy in the crawler, he would feel a lot more comfortable with the armed soldiers.
Thinking he heard a noise behind him, Solon spun around, his heart beating wildly. There was nothing there. The weak illumination given off by his sole functioning shoulder lamp made the shadows jump, and Solon’s eyes darted around in fear.
“There’s nothing here,” he said to himself.
He turned around to continue his search for the sergeant, and his lamp illuminated a pale face less than a metre behind him.
Solon staggered backwards, a strangled cry tearing from his throat and his heart lurching. His sudden movement made the light from his lamp swing wildly, making shadows dance in front of him, though his eyes were locked on the motionless figure.
He heard a shout, and boots pounded across the grilled flooring, coming closer, but still the face stared up at him.
It was a child, no more than ten years old by his reckoning, his face pale and gaunt. Solon stared at the boy in horror, as if the ghosts of his past had risen to haunt him; for a fraction of a second, the child was the spitting image of his son, dead these last eighteen years.
As the soldiers arrived, they shone their lights upon the child, and Solon saw that he was of flesh and blood, not some ethereal phantom come to haunt him, and his resemblance to his dead son faded. The boy’s eyes were deeply ringed by shadow, and he recoiled from the bright lights, shielding his eyes.
The boy looked up in fright as Sergeant Folches and one of his soldiers appeared, their weapons levelled at the boy. In the cold light of the soldier’s lights, his face took on a blue tinge. He must be half-frozen, thought Solon. He let out a long breath, and tried to force his pounding heart-rate to slow.
“Where in the hell did he come from?” barked Folches, sliding the visor of his helmet up.
“No idea,” said Solon, hardly able to take his eyes off the boy.
“You, boy,” said Folches. “Are you the only one here?” His face fearful, the boy merely stared up at the soldier.
“What happened here, boy?” asked Folches again, more forcefully. The boy backed away a step, looking as if he was going to bolt at any second.
“Ease up, sergeant,” said Solon, fumbling at one of his pockets. He pulled out a protein pack, and tore off its foil seal.
“You hungry?” he asked the boy, offering the food.
The boy merely stared back at him, and Solon took a small bite of the protein pack. It was bland and tasteless, but he nodded his head and made a show of enjoying it. He saw the boy lick his lips, and this time when Solon offered it to him he snatched it eagerly.
“You find any survivors?” Solon asked the sergeant in a low voice, though he kept his eyes on the boy.
“No,” said Folches. “We found some… remains, but nowhere near as many as I would have expected.”
“Think they got away? Fled on foot, or something?” asked Solon.
“I don’t think so,” said Folches. “Whatever hit here, it hit hard and fast. I don’t think anyone got away.”
“What then? They just disappeared? There must have been a couple of hundred folks onboard.”
“They were taken,” said the boy suddenly. Solon and Folches exchanged a look.
“Who took them, son?” asked Solon.
“Ghosts,” said the boy, his eyes haunted.
BOOK TWO:
GHOSTS
“Hate the xenos as you hate the infidel, as you hate the non-believer. Feel not mercy for them, for their very existence is profane. What right have they to live, those that are Other?”
—Kor Phaeron, Master of the Faith
CHAPTER SEVEN
The four Land Raiders roared across the ice, passing the burnt-out shells of enemy vehicles. The bodies of men lay strewn around the smoking wrecks, their blood staining the snow beneath them.
“The last known location of the target is here,” said Kol Badar, indicating a position on the schematics that appeared in flickering green lines upon the data-slate. He was seated within the enclosed space of the second Land Raider, his hulking form filling the space around him, making the interior cramped. He had removed his tusked helmet, and the red lights of the interior of the tank gave his broad face a daemonic glow.
A passage from the Book of Lorgar was etched upon the skin of his right cheek, a gift cut from the face of Jarulek, back on the Imperial world of Tanakreg before the Dark Apostle fell.
Marduk too had borne a similar passage on his cheek, though it had been obliterated when the Dark Apostle had shot half his face off. He had removed his skull-faced helmet and stowed it in an arched niche above his head, alongside a pair of lit blood-candles, and the dark outline of the mark of Lorgar was clearly visible on his forehead.
Incense wafted from one of the daemon-headed braziers, filling the air with its cloying stench.
Marduk snatched the data-slate from the Coryphaus, and looked where Kol Badar had indicated.
“What is this structure?” he asked.
“A mining facility, a hundred and fifty kilometres to the east. But there is a problem.”
“Of course there is,” spat Marduk. “Well?”
“The mining
facility is located on the ocean floor. It is over ten thousand metres below the surface of the ice.”
“Lorgar’s blood,” said Burias from the other side of the Land Raider. Blood still caked the icon bearer’s lips and chin, and Marduk glared at him for a moment.
“On the ocean floor,” he said.
“That is correct, First Acolyte,” replied Kol Badar, “if the information the magos extracted can be trusted.”
“It can,” said Marduk. He balled his right hand into a fist and slammed it down onto an armrest carved in the likeness of a spinal column.
He quickly recovered his composure, and quoted from the Epistles of Kor Phaeron, the revered Master of the Faith whom he had served under during the campaign on Calth fighting against the hated sons of Guilliman.
“‘Through our travails we journey further down the blessed spiral,’” he quoted. “‘Through pain and struggle and toil we prove ourselves before the true gods. Each new obstacle should be welcomed as a test of faith, for only the strong and true walk the Eightfold Path of Enlightenment.’”
“Indeed,” said Kol Badar dryly.
“You have formulated a battle order?” asked Marduk. They had been back within the Land Raiders for less than fifteen minutes, but he knew that Kol Badar’s keen strategic mind would have already concocted a dozen plans to ensure victory for the Host, each one more complete than the last.
“There is an access tunnel beneath the ice here,” said the Coryphaus, indicating on the schematic map with one of his massive armoured fingers. “It runs for two hundred kilometres, connecting this habitation base with a starport located to the west. Air recycling hubs connect the tunnel to the surface at intermittent positions,” he said, stabbing his finger into the data-slate at several points along the line of the access tunnel. “This one is twenty-five kilometres from the habitation base. We proceed to that air-recycling hub by Land Raider, across these ice flows here, and here, and approach from the south. The wind will be behind us, and we should be able to approach without detection, or at least neutralise any resistance before a defence can be established.”
[Word Bearers 02] - Dark Disciple Page 11
