The cabin was small and stuffy, and the stink of Solon’s ashtray, brimming with lho stubs, was strong. He was jolted back and forth as the crawler continued to make its way through the darkness, but he was well used to that. Rosary beads hung above Cholos, and they swung back and forth wildly as the crawler drove slowly over an embankment.
‘Guilders,’ spat Cholos with a shake of his head, ‘think they are so much better than us. Treat us like shit all these years, but who is it that comes to bail them out? Us. And do we get a word of thanks? Nope. Just complaints. “It’s too cold, it’s too hot, there’s not enough room, the water tastes funny”. You’d think the bastards would be thankful. Makes me sick.’
Solon grunted again.
‘That sergeant, Folches, is the worst of ’em,’ said Cholos. ‘Left those people back there to die. That is one cold son of a bitch.’
‘Nice to hear I made an impression,’ said a voice.
Cholos visibly jumped. Solon sighed and slowly opened his eyes. He dropped his feet from the console dash and spun his chair around towards the door to the cabin, though he remained slouched. He blew out a puff of smoke.
Sergeant Folches stood in the doorway, big and imposing in his black and white Interdiction body plate. He had removed his helmet, and his thick-featured face glared down at Solon.
‘This is a restricted area, sergeant. Rig personnel only,’ said Solon. ‘Be so kind as to get the hell out.’
‘How long till we get to the Phorcys spaceport?’ asked Folches.
‘In this storm? Two and a half days, minimum,’ said Solon.
The sergeant swore.
‘The storm won’t lift before then?’ he asked.
‘You haven’t spent much time on the surface, have you?’ asked Solon, taking another drag on his lho stick.
‘What the hell does that have to do with anything?’
‘Once a storm like this has set in, it might not clear for a month, maybe two,’ said Solon, stubbing out his lho stick.
‘You can’t make this heap of crap go any faster?’
‘No, sergeant, I can’t.’
Folches swore and rubbed a hand across his head.
‘Why don’t you and your boys just settle down and enjoy the ride,’ he said, ‘and try to stop the guilders killing each other. They’re only women and children, right?’
‘Boss,’ said Cholos. Solon felt the crawler begin to slow, but he didn’t take his eyes of the sergeant.
‘You ought to watch your tongue, you whoreson bastard,’ said Folches, putting one hand on the autopistol holstered prominently at his hip.
‘Easy, big fella,’ said Solon. ‘All I’m saying is that we are moving as quick as we can, and you coming up here to throw your weight around ain’t gonna make us go any faster.’
Folches let out a tense breath and took his hand off his gun.
‘What’s the problem, anyway?’ asked Solon. ‘Three days and we’ll be off this moon.’
‘Something hit the access tunnels leading from Antithon guild to the spaceport.’
Solon frowned.
‘Four demi-legions were gone, like that,’ said the sergeant, clicking his fingers. ‘And Emperor knows how many guilders.’
‘Four demi-legions?’
‘Four hundred soldiers. The enemy is not on its way to Perdus Skylla,’ said the sergeant. ‘It is already here.’
Solon bit his lip.
‘Boss,’ said Cholos, breaking the silence.
‘What?’ asked Solon in exasperation, turning to face his second in command.
‘You better take a look at this.’
Solon spun his chair around, turning his back on the sergeant, and peered out of the small, ice-encased cabin window.
The wind was whipping across the landscape at over a hundred kilometres an hour, and virtually nothing could be seen except the glare of the crawler’s spotlight reflected back at them by the snow and ice in the air.
‘I don’t see a damned thing, Cholos.’
Sergeant Folches leant down at Solon’s side, looking out into the storm, and Solon felt his irritation rise.
‘Damn it Cholos, what am I looking at?’
‘Wait for the wind to drop,’ said Cholos.
He slowed the crawler further and the three men looked intently out into the storm. At last the wind fell momentarily and Solon could see a dark, shadowy shape up ahead. It was another crawler, motionless and dark. Then it was hidden as the winds picked up again with a vengeance.
‘That’s Markham’s rig,’ said Solon.
‘Looks like it, boss,’ said Cholos.
‘Hail them,’ said Solon.
‘You recognise it?’ asked Folches as Cholos tried to make voice contact with the stationary crawler with the short-ranged vox-caster built into the dash console.
‘Yeah,’ said Solon. ‘It should be at the starport by now. What the hell is it doing out here?’
‘There’s no response, boss,’ said Cholos. The sound of static was hissing from the vox-caster. ‘Might be the storm’s interference though.’
Solon swore.
‘Right, take us alongside it. If it still doesn’t respond, then it looks like we’ll be getting cold.’
‘My squad will come with you,’ said Folches.
‘That would be appreciated,’ said Solon.
The lift halted its ascent and drew to a shuddering halt.
‘Restricted access. Band XK privilege required,’ croaked the robotic voice of the servitor built into one of the interior walls of the lift.
Marduk sighed in impatience.
A panel on one wall bore the symbol of the Adeptus Mechanicus, and the First Acolyte ripped it clear, his gauntlet wrenching the metal out of shape as if it were paper. Wires and cables spilt behind the panel like intestines, sparking and buzzing.
‘Open it,’ he ordered impatiently.
A mechadendrite tentacle stabbed into the open panel, and Darioq twisted it left and right.
‘Access granted,’ croaked the servitor as the magos retracted his metallic tentacle, and the lift doors hissed open.
Kol Badar stepped out of the lift in front of Marduk, swinging his combi-bolter from side to side. The lift rose a few centimetres as the Coryphaus’s immense weight was removed from the straining winch mechanics.
‘Clear,’ the towering Coryphaus growled, raising his combi-bolter into a vertical position. Kol Badar held the sacred icon of the Host in the power talons of his left hand, the snarling daemon face of the Latros Sacrum in its centre, slamming the butt of the staff into the ground as Marduk stepped from the lift.
The First Acolyte took a moment to get his bearings before marching into the guildmaster’s office.
‘Stay, Darioq-Grendh’al,’ he said over his shoulder, exerting the force of his will into his intonation, forcibly commanding the daemon within the corrupted magos.
Burias was leaning casually against a wall, drinking from a bottle that had had its neck smashed off. His mouth and chin were covered in blood, and a man lay shivering on the floor before him.
The icon bearer drained the fiery liquid from the bottle and smiled at Marduk, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand.
‘Stand to attention when your seniors are present, warrior,’ barked Kol Badar, the vox-amplifiers built into his quad-tusked helmet making his voice even more of an animalistic growl than usual.
Making no attempt to hurry, Burias languidly rose from his slouch and tossed the empty bottle away. It shattered on the floor.
‘Consumption of all but necessary sustenance is a sin that leads to weakness, icon bearer,’ snapped Marduk. ‘You will submit yourself to three months of fasting and flagellation once we return to the Infidus Diabolus.’
‘I am duly castigated, my master,’ said Burias, bowing his head in a show of obeisance and mock remorse. Marduk’s eyes narrowed.
Burias held a hand out to Kol Badar.
‘My icon?’ he said.
The Coryphaus flick
ed the heavy icon at the smaller Astartes warrior with far more force than was needed, but Burias caught it deftly in his hand.
‘Enough,’ said Marduk. ‘This is the commander?’ He motioned with his chin towards the man shivering on the ground.
‘It is, my master,’ said Burias, running his hands lovingly over the spiked length of his icon, as if he had been separated from it for years and was savouring being reunited. ‘Alive, as you wished.’
Marduk knelt down before the man, who stared up at him fearfully, his face waxy and pale.
‘You have something that I want, little man,’ said Marduk, removing his skull-faced helmet and handing it to Burias, ‘and you are going to tell me where it is.’
‘Wha… wha… what is it you want?’ managed the man, gritting his teeth in pain, gingerly cradling his left arm in his hand. He stared up at Marduk, a mixture of fear and defiance in his eyes.
‘A person, if you could call it that,’ said Marduk. ‘Someone who was posted here, at this very facility: an adept of the weakling Machine-God.’
‘What do you want with them?’
Marduk reached out towards the man, his movements slow and almost caring. The guildmaster recoiled from his grasp, but there was nowhere for him to run.
‘You are injured, I see,’ said Marduk, taking the man’s arm carefully in his hands. ‘This must hurt.’
With a slow twisting motion, Marduk turned the man’s hand over, making the shattered bones grind against one another. The man screamed in agony and Marduk twisted it again. Then he stopped.
‘Do not question me again, little man. This was punishment for doing so. Now, tell me, where is… What was its name?’
Marduk turned his head around, looking back towards the adjoining room and the lift.
‘Darioq-Grendh’al,’ he barked. ‘Come.’
Like a hound coming to its master’s call, Magos Darioq entered the room, his steps slow and mechanical. Having been allowed to reconstruct his servo-harness, four massive robotic arms emerged from his back, two coming around his sides, and two over his shoulders, like the stabbing tails of an insect. Black veins pulsed within the servo-arms as the lines between organic, mechanical and daemonic were increasingly blurred, and one of the arms twitched awkwardly as he walked.
The guildmaster’s agonised eyes were locked on the magos, who wore a robe of black in place of his red Mechanicus garb. The red glow of Darioq’s augmented left eye gleamed malignly from within his deep cowl.
‘What is the name of the target?’ Marduk asked.
‘Explorator First Class Daenae,’ said Magos Darioq in his monotone voice, ‘originally of the Konor Adeptus Mechanicus research world of UL01.02, assigned to c14.8.87.i, Perdus Skylla, for recon/salvage of the Dvorak-class interstellar freighter Flames of Perdition, which reappeared within Segmentum Tempestus in 942.M41 and crashed onto the surface of c14.8.87.i, Perdus Skylla, in 944.M41 after being missing presumed lost in warp storm anomaly xi.024.396 in 432.M35.’
Marduk turned back towards the guildmaster with the hint of a smile on his face.
‘How foolish of me to have forgotten its name,’ he said. The smile dropped from his face. ‘Where is this Explorator Daenae? Tell me now, or you shall be further punished. And I promise you, the pain you have already experienced will be but a fraction of what you will come to know should you displease me further.’
‘I don’t know who you mean,’ hissed the man.
Marduk sighed.
‘You are lying to me,’ he said, and gave the man’s arm a further twist. This time he did not relent quickly, and he ground the broken bones of the guildmaster’s arm against each other with vigour.
Behind Marduk, Burias grinned at the man’s pain.
‘The explorator was assigned to this facility,’ said Marduk over the guildmaster’s screams of torment, ‘therefore you know where it is. Tell me now, or your death will not be swift in coming to you.’
The guildmaster’s eyes were shut tightly against the pain, and he passed out suddenly, going limp in Marduk’s arms. The First Acolyte threw the man’s arm down in disgust, the bones of the forearm bent almost at right angles.
‘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 Pollo,’ the magos intoned.
‘What gibberish does it speak? Who is this Guildmaster Pollo?’ growled Kol Badar.
‘Guildmaster Pollo 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.
Word Bearers Page 41
