Dark Adeptus

by Ben Counter

  Rear Admiral Horstgeld, for all his experience and commendations, couldn't tear a handful of good ships away from the Eye for the mission to Borosis, even with the authority of Inquisitor Nyxos and the Ordo Malleus. His own ship, the veteran cruiser Tribunicia, was the only ship in the small investigative fleet that he considered ready for a battle. The escort squadron Ptolemy, under Captain Vanu, was brand new from the orbital docks of Hydraphur and consisted of three Python-class ships of a completely untested configura­tion.

  Nyxos had requisitioned an Imperial Guard regi­ment, the tough deathworld veterans of the Mortressan Highlanders, along with the transport Calydon to carry them. The Calydon was a corpulent and inefficient ship with barely enough guns to defend itself and Hortsgeld knew it would do nothing in a battle apart from get in the way.

  Along with a handful of supply ships and shuttles, these craft comprised the fleet that exited the warp over the course of a few hours just outside the orbit of

  Borosis Septiam. Shortly afterwards another craft was detected in the warp which broke through into real space a short distance away, all its weapons powered down in a display of alliance. It was a large ship, easily the size of a cruiser, but of an ugly, blocky design painted a drab rust-red, covered in ornate cog-toothed battlements and training long flexible sensor-spines like the stingers of a sea creature.

  The ship immediately hailed the Tribunicia. It identi­fied itself as the Adeptus Mechanicus armed explorator ship Exemplar under the command of Archmagos Saphentis, who demanded complete jurisdiction over the entire Borosis system.

  'I DON'T LIKE it.' said Alaric, looking at the landing craft. 'It's too fragile. This couldn't take half the pun­ishment a Thunderhawk gunship could.'

  The ship was being bombed-up and refuelled in the loading bay of the Tribunicia, a grimy, functional deck where the vaulted ceiling was stained black with oily fumes. The landing craft was bulbous and sim­ple, with twin flaring engines and a thick black carapace over its nose to protect it from re-entry. It could probably seat thirty passengers plus crew.

  'It's the best we have.' replied Hawkespur. She wore a heavy black spacer's voidsuit, ready for take off - she looked very different without her starched naval uniform. A marksman's autopistol was holstered at her waist. 'We're fortunate the Tribunicia has an armoured lander at all.'

  'Then we have no choice.' said Alaric. He turned to the Marines of his squad. 'We take off in half an hour. Check your wargear and pray.'

  A Grey Knights squad ideally consisted of between eight and ten Marines. Squad Alaric consisted of six Marines, having never recovered the losses it suffered during the battle against Ghargatuloth on Volcanis Ultor over a year before. Brother Dvorn was by far the biggest Marine, packed with muscle. He carried a rare mark of Nemesis weapon, a hammer, which was all but unheard of now among the Chapter artificers but which was brutal and unsubtle enough to suit Dvorn perfectly. No one doubted that Dvorn would soon be trained in the use of Tactical Dreadnought Armour and join the ranks of the Grey Knights Terminator squads, the heaviest shock troops in the Chapter.

  Brother Haulvarn and Brother Lykkos were the other two survivors of Volcanis Ultor. Lykkos carried the squad's psycannon, which fired ensorcelled bolter shells to tear through the bodies of daemonic or psychically active targets.

  Brother Archis and Brother Cardios, who carried the squad's two Incinerators, had both heard the story of how Alaric, as acting brother-captain, had led the mission to the Trail of St Evisser to locate the daemon Ghargatuloth and help Imperial forces destroy it on Volcanis Ultor. But they had not been there. They had not seen it.

  'Justicar,' said Dvorn as the other Grey Knights checked the storm bolters and armour seals accord­ing to the ancient Rites of Preparedness. 'Do we have any more news on what is down there?'

  'I wish we did, Dvorn.' he said. 'But the squad knows as much as anyone in the fleet.'

  'But they need us, don't they? Whatever is down there, it's corrupt. Can you feel it?'

  'Yes, Dvorn, I can feel it. Anyone sensitive could. And they will need us down there, of that I am cer­tain.'

  Dvorn looked at the lander craft. There was a look of disdain on his battered face - Dvorn was not a gnarled old veteran but he was well on the way to looking the part. 'I wouldn't trust that thing to dust crops, let alone land thirty men on a hostile world.'

  'I know, but it's the best the fleet has.'

  'The main armament is twin lascannon. I could carry more firepower than that and still have a hand free.'

  'You probably could, Dvorn, but the Emperor does not make us strong by making our duties easy. We will make do.'

  'Justicar.' came Nyxos's voice over Alaric's vox-unit. 'Problem.'

  'The stormtroopers?'

  'Worse.'

  A warning klaxon sounded and the docking doors of the adjacent landing bay slid open. Alaric could see a slice of the dirty purple disk of Borosis Septiam beyond it and space scattered with stars. The rest of the landing deck was protected from the void by a force field so Alaric couldn't hear the engines of the shuttle that slid into the Tribunicia. It was clad in heavy, ugly slabs of armaplas and its prow was a massive flat disk ringed with turbolasers. The cog-toothed symbol of the Adeptus Mechanicus was emblazoned on its side. The deck crew had evidently had no notice of its arrival but it didn't need the help of any deck hands or docking servitors as it settled onto the deck. The bay doors slid shut and the void-seal field boomed off.

  A deck-officer strode towards the interloper craft, hand on his dress sword. 'You!' He yelled up at the ship. 'I don't see this damn thing on the docking manifests! Explain yourself!'

  A dozen turbo-lasers trained themselves on the officer's head. He stopped in mid-flow and took a step backwards.

  'I think this is our problem.' said Alaric. 'Follow me.'

  As Alaric and his Marines walked towards the shut­tle a ramp unfolded from its side. Thick, purplish incense billowed out, followed by a detail of twenty tech-guard, their faces hidden behind the reflective visors of their helmets. Alaric recognised the tech-guard uniforms and distinctive pattern lasguns - they were the standing army of the Adeptus Mechanicus, their regiments raised to defend the Mechanicus's forge worlds. Two tech-priests followed behind the soldiers - they were holding the censer-poles which were the source of the incense. The tech-priests seemed mostly human, suggesting they were lower-ranked members of the clergy. The priest behind them was clearly something totally different.

  The delegation was led by a creature that could only be called human with a great deal of charity. He moved as if he wasn't walking at all but gliding, as if his long Mechnicus robes hid some strange motive attachment instead of legs. He had four arms, two with what looked like silvered and intricately engraved bionic hands and two ending in bunches of data-spines and interface units. His head was the most bizarre of all - he had large multi-faceted insectoid eyes and his mouth was hidden by a heavy metal collar with a series of slits cut into it through which he presumably spoke. There was not one scrap of biological flesh visible on him.

  The tech-guard fanned out into a semicircle to let their master through. The lead tech-priest looked around for a moment and his inhuman eyes settled quickly on Alaric and his squad.

  'Excellent,' said a clearly artificial voice. 'You are a representative of Inquisitor Nyxos?'

  'I represent the Adeptus Astartes Chapter of the Grey Knights.'

  'I see. By your heraldry I surmise you possess the rank of justicar.' The voice was programmed with a slightly aristocratic, supercilious accent. 'It is unlikely you are in command of Imperial forces here. Please direct me to someone who is.'

  'I should like to know who you are, first.'

  'Forgive my manners, I was unable to bring my protocol-servitor with me. I am Archmagos Saphentis of the Adeptus Mechanicus, commander of the Exemplar and senior tech-priest of the Librarium Primaris on Rhyza, appointed by the office of the Fabricator General to lead this reclamation mission.'

&nb
sp; 'Reclamation?' said Interrogator Hawkespur, look­ing almost ridiculously small next to the fully-armoured Alaric. She didn't seem in the least bit fazed by Saphentis's bizarre appearance. This is an Ordo Malleus investigation. The Holy Orders of The Emperor's Inquisition have authority over this planet and everything pertaining to it.'

  'You misunderstand me.' Saphentis held out one of his more humanoid hands and an attendant tech-priest handed him a dataslate. The slate's screen glowed purplish with an image of Borosis Septiam. 'You are Interrogator Hawkespur, I believe. You your­self sent the specifications of this planet to the sector librarium requesting identification. That request has been fulfilled. The world you have inaccurately named Borosis Septiam is a forge world, a possession of the Adeptus Mechanicus according to the Treaty of Mars. I am therefore here to lead the mission reclaiming it according to the orders of the Fabricator General.'

  'The Inquisitorial Mandate supersedes all other authority, including the Treaty of Mars,' said Hawke­spur crossly.

  'You may well be correct. While you debate the legalities, my men will be conducting an examina­tion of the planet.'

  'Forgetting the rules,' interrupted Alaric, 'anyone who goes down there may not come back. We're looking at a moral threat on that planet. The Mechanicus can't deal with something like that on its own.'

  'Your concern is appreciated,' said Saphentis. 'But there is little a fully armed Explorator mission cannot cope with. Now, if you will excuse me, I had hoped to extend Inquisitor Nyxos the courtesy of explaining the authority under which I operate, but if that cour­tesy is not going to be reciprocated then I shall return to my ship.'

  Hawkespur glared at the deck officer, who was still being tracked by all the craft's turbo-lasers.

  'Not... not without deck clearance, sir,' he said. 'And I'm afraid I can't give it to you. So you'll have to explain yourself to the captain.'

  'This craft and this planet belongs to the Adeptus Mechanicus.' said Saphentis sharply 'If you cannot comprehend this then I certainly hope your captain will be less obtuse. You will take me to him and hope that he extends me the respect for my authority that is due.'

  'This is ridiculous.' said Hawkespur as Saphentis drifted away escorted by his tech-guard retinue. 'Men have been executed for questioning Inquisitorial authority. We should launch as soon as the stormtroopers arrive.'

  'It would be better to wait, interrogator.' said Alaric.

  'Why? There is no point in being tangled up in a debate while we could be learning what is on that planet.'

  'I know.' Alaric pointed at the Mechanicus shuttle. 'But if we're going down there, I'd far rather do it in a ship like this.'

  THE COMMS CENTRE of the escort ship Ptolemy Gamma was, like the rest of the ship, brand new. It was well known within the Imperial Navy that the old ships were the best - construction techniques were lost faster than they were rediscovered, so newer ships were often thought of as flimsy copies of far superior veterans. The communications of the escort squadron had been characteristically petulant, the frequencies fluctuating, the machine-spirits of the comms cogitators sulking and bickering like children. Many libations of machine-oil and tech-rituals of adjustment were needed just to get the Ptolemy Gamma talking to the Alpha and Beta, the other two ships in the squadron. But there were no full tech-priests stationed with the squadron and the tech-rituals did not always work.

  'Anything?' asked Communications Officer Tsallen. The comms centre was cramped and sti­fling, crammed into the heart of the ship between the gun-decks and engineering where it was sup­posed to be safest. Tsallen had been trying to get the Gamma speaking to Squadron Captain Vanu for three hours now and her heavy starched Naval uni­form was not endearing her to the heat down here. 'Cogitator three isn't responding.' replied the rat­ing in front of her. Stripped to the waist, he had levered the panel off the front of the massive cogi­tator and was trying to make sense of the half-clockwork machinery inside.

  'There must be something.' said Tsallen. 'The squadron is supposed to be in tight formation pro­tecting the Tribunicia and right now we can't even tell her where we are.'

  'If it's broke it's broke.' said the rating. Tsallen sighed. She was supposed to command her own ship one day and this wasn't the way to go moving up the ladder. 'You!' she said, pointing at another rating. 'Are we receiving yet?'

  The second rating was a skinny man sweating heavily as he sat at a large receiver station shaped like a church organ. He was listening intently to the static streaming through his headset. 'Maybe.'

  'Maybe?'

  'It's not letting me isolate frequencies. I keep get­ting snatches of things.'

  'Let me.' Tsallen pushed the rating away from the receiver station and bent over the hundreds of blinking lights and readouts. Most of them hadn't even been labelled yet. She pushed a couple of buttons and pulled a few levers experimentally.

  The station shuddered. Its cogitator stacks, shaped like organ pipes, thrummed as they went into over­drive. A bewildering shimmer of indicator lights flowed over the console.

  'Did it work?' she asked.

  'Looks like it's cycling through all the frequencies, ma'am. Depends on whether it finds anything.'

  Tsallen heard a horrible grinding sound and smoke spurted from beneath the console. At least if she'd broken the damn thing it wouldn't be her fault, she thought. That was what the ratings were for.

  The rating screamed. His head was jerking, neck spasming and his eyes were rolled back and white. He was clawing at the headset - Tsallen grabbed it and tried to pry it off his head but it was red-hot, burning itself into the man's skull.

  'Oh frag! Oh frag, we've lost the whole bloody lot!' shouted someone, probably the rating working on cogitator three. The rest of the comms crew, about thirty men and women crammed into the hot, dark space, started shouting for attention as the whole comms centre started overloading itself.

  Tsallen pushed away the rating, who had by now stopped screaming and was exhaling stinking, oily smoke instead. 'Stay calm!' she yelled, drawing her laspistol. 'What is it?'

  'Some signal's coming in.' shouted someone in reply. 'Something strong! It's overloading every­thing!'

  'Where's it coming from?'

  There was a moment of frantic commotion. Sparks flew as one of the cogitators blew, spraying shattered components everywhere.

  'Point of origin is Borosis Septiam!'

  'Isolate us from the rest of the ship.' ordered Tsallen.

  'Primary controls are offline!'

  'Then grab a bloody fire axe and cut the cables!'

  There was an ear-splitting scream as all the cogitator circuits blew at once. All the lights went out.

  Silence drowned the comms centre.

  'Anyone hurt?' asked Tsallen carefully

  The sound that came from the main receiver con­sole might have been described as a voice, but it spoke a language so horrible to hear that Tsallen froze. It was painful to listen to, so many dark, gut­tural sounds overlaid that it sounded like a million onlookers spitting curses at her.

  'Moral threat...' said Tsallen weakly, hoping her own vox to the bridge still worked. 'We have a moral threat in comms. Isolate us and get a message to Horstgeld...'

  A dark purple glow rippled up from the console, stippling the walls with deep swirling colour. The voice continued. And though Tsallen could not understand the language it spoke the meaning was impossibly clear - malice, anger, hatred, dripping from every syllable. Tsallen forced herself to look at the console readouts - the signal was massively powerful, streaming from somewhere on the surface of the mystery planet below, using a frequency that could barely be received but strong enough to tear through the filtration circuits and bleed, pure and evil, into the Ptolemy Gamma.

  After a few more moments the physical structure failed and the whole comms centre imploded.

  'I PROPOSE A compromise.' said Inquisitor Nyxos. Rear Admiral Horstgeld's personal quarters took up several rooms of cold, dressed stone, piously furn
ished with solid hardwood and adorned with icons of the Imper­ial Creed. Nyxos had called the meeting in Horstgeld's private chapel, well away from any of the crew. He had Hawkespur by his side, along with Hortsgeld and Alaric. Archmagos Saphentis and Tech-Priest Thalassa, a relatively unaugmented female tech-priest who attended him, represented the Adeptus Mechanicus.

  If Nyxos was unnerved by seeing his hundredfold reflection in Saphentis's insectoid eyes, he did not show it. 'Arguing will get us nowhere.'

  'Unusual words for an inquisitor.' said Saphentis. 'And in the circumstances probably the wisest.'

  'I am glad we got off to a good start, then.' said Nyxos. 'But first, I need to know what you found at the sector librarium.'

  'Am I to understand you are asking as an inquisitor and not as a curious individual?'

  'You are.'

  'Very well.' Saphentis, Alaric guessed, was well aware that refusing to answer an Inquisitorial interrogation could be met with whatever punishment the inquisitor could devise. 'The planet in question is named Chaeroneia. It disappeared a little over a century ago following an investigation into the potential of tech-heresy among the lower ranks of its tech-priests.'

  'You are certain?'

  'We are. Chaeroneia is a forge world according to the principles of the Treaty of Mars and is owned in its entirety by the Adeptus Mechanicus, hence our insistence that we are to conduct any investigations.'

  'The Treaty of Mars is nowhere accepted as super­seding Inquisitorial authority.' snapped Hawkespur.

  'Perhaps this is true.' replied Saphentis, whose voice seemed programmed to sound condescending. 'But the time taken to ascertain this for certain is time none of us have.'

  'Hence my proposal.' said Nyxos. 'A joint mission.'

  'Under my command, of course.' said Saphentis.

  'Unacceptable. Interrogator Hawkespur will repre­sent me on the ground. Justicar Alaric will be in operational command.'