by John French
‘Why wai–’
‘I need to sleep,’ said Kulok, voice hard. Then he shook his head and turned away to pull himself out of the driver’s cradle. ‘I need to sleep.’
He lay down in the crew compartment. The light coming from the armoured view slits was grainy yellow. He rested his head against his hands and closed his eyes. Sleep drifted up into his thoughts, filling his head with memories of clear skies and swift water.
‘Can you hear that?’ asked Gatt.
Kulok sat up, his half formed dreams fading slowly. He glanced at the vox transmitter, but it sat silent. Gatt was sitting up, head tilted to the side. Kulok blinked, opened his mouth… and heard it.
A thin, high wail slid into his ears. On and on it rolled ululating up and down, each note sliding to the next in drawn-out rhythm. For a second he thought it was coming from inside the carrier, but it was coming from every direction, seeping in through the hull and his suit. After a long moment he gave a cold bark of laughter. Gatt twitched his head towards him.
‘It’s the city’s attack alarms,’ said Kulok. ‘The power to them must still be running. They are still sounding the warning.’
Gatt shivered, but said nothing. Kulok settled onto the floor of the crew compartment and closed his eyes again. Around him, the sound of sirens stretched out into the dark behind his eyes, and dreams of the dead city came to claim him.
The adepts and officers turned to look at Lycus as he entered the command chamber. He ignored them, crossing the space with fluid strides. A pillar of machinery thrust from the centre of the floor, hung with cabling and tended by two enginseers. The room smelt of human sweat and ozone.
This was the true heart of the Rachab fortress, and the centre for the war of vengeance against the Iron Warriors. Buried under the mountains to the north of the Crescent City, the Rachab was vast. Its vaults extended down to the root of the mountain range and spread through the rock in a warren of caverns and tunnels. It had been used as the seat of the Great Crusade in this volume of space, but dust and silence had gathered in its halls before the Iron Warriors had come. Now atrocity had given it new purpose.
A few of the officers exchanged glances, a few others just stared at him. Dellasarius stood beside the stack of machinery at the centre of the chamber, his aides and senior officers clustered armour him. He turned to look at Lycus and gave a small nod. Some of the officers around the governor militant hesitated in the middle of saluting. Dellasarius’ greeting – both curt and familiar – confused them. Most of them were unseasoned, and strung out by the demands of the last few weeks. These were the commanders of soldiers left behind by war and history, flotsam generals now called to lead in a war that seemed already lost. Most were already confused by the presence of a transhuman in their midst. Lycus’ nebulous level of authority within the leadership of the loyalists was not helping.
Lycus pointed at where a green transmission light pulsed on the bronze communication dais. ‘When did the transmission come in?’ he asked.
‘We picked it up forty minutes ago,’ said a red-robed adept in a dead machine voice. ‘It could have been transmitting longer. The transmission is poor quality. The probability is that they are using limited range equipment beyond its ordained rating. Transmission ceased ten minutes ago. We have a vox capture of the full duration of the transmission.’
‘Put it on speaker,’ said Lycus. An officer in the crimson uniform of the Tallarn Governance Command glanced at Dellasarius from her place beside the communications dais.
‘Put it on,’ said the governor militant. The voice filled the chamber a second later.
‘This is the Crescent… censorium… respond… Assistance…’ Static wailed and chopped through the voice. Lycus could hear the tiredness in the words – a young male human, twenty years perhaps, wrung out and talking by rote rather than from hope.
‘He just repeats the same message,’ said the officer. She was called Sussabarka, Lycus recalled.
‘You have composited a meaning?’ asked Lycus.
‘They claim to be transmitting on behalf of the Crescent City censorium shelter,’ said Sussabarka. ‘They are asking for assistance and evacuation of a dozen administrative personnel, senior personnel to be precise.’
‘What was the size of the censorium shelter?’ asked Lycus.
‘Small,’ said another officer, eyes darting to Lycus and away. ‘It was a bolt hole built in case of civil unrest. It could house fifty at the most, but it’s not equipped for prolonged use under these… conditions.’
‘Does it have any strategic reserves or capabilities?’
Sussabarka shook her head. ‘None.’
‘It is a burrow built to make the great and the good feel safe,’ said a cold voice.
Every one of the officers turned to look at Dellasarius. The governor turned to Lycus, one grey eyebrow arched above his eyes. ‘It was pointless and is worthless.’
‘Then why summon me?’ asked Lycus.
The recorded voice of the transmission cracked and spat through the silence.
‘…City censorium… please…’
‘Because of the last thing included in the transmission before it went off air,’ said Dellasarius.
‘Survivors include…’
Lycus held Dellasarius’ gaze, and for the first time noticed the glimmer of fire in the pale eyes.
‘…include…’
The governor gave a small nod, and the ghost of a smile brushed across his wasted face.
‘…an astropath…’ said the voice from the static.
Kulok started the carrier’s engine, and the sound of the sirens vanished. Vibration kicked through the machine’s body. He had slept for… He did not know how long he had slept for, and in most ways that mattered, it did not matter at all. Night was beginning to creep across the city. Beyond the view slits, the fog shimmered through decaying colours. That was not good. He ran through the landmarks that would lead them back to the shelter. He hoped that he could still find them in the failing light. Gatt sat beside him, hunched and silent. Lycus paused, the engine rumbling through his bones.
‘Gatt,’ he said. The boy did not move. ‘Try the vox again.’
‘Why?’ asked Gatt.
Because we are going back to die in a stinking hole in the ground, thought Kulok. Because someone else must be out there. They must. He spoke none of his thoughts.
‘One last check,’ he said.
Gatt was still for a long moment then gave a gesture that was half a nod and half a shrug, and pulled himself back over to the vox transmitter.
‘Alright,’ said Gatt.
‘Did you respond?’ asked Lycus.
The officer called Sussabarka shook her head.
‘Not at first,’ she said. ‘The signal was poor quality and in clear. There seemed no point in responding to–’
‘People who were going to be dead soon,’ said Lycus, his voice emotionless.
‘Indeed,’ said Sussabarka.
‘But after that final transmission?’
‘We attempted to establish signal conjunction,’ answered one of the tech priests. ‘But could not locate the transmission. The highest probability is that they ceased transmission.’
‘And that could mean… several things,’ said Dellasarius carefully.
The lights blinked on the communication dais. The recorded voice had unwound into a dull hiss of static. No one said anything. No one needed to say anything. An astropath could mean that a message could be sent to other loyalist forces. Tallarn’s plight, and the presence of the full might of the Iron Warriors, could be a secret no more. It was a slim hope, a strand hanging by a single word spoken by a voice that might now belong to a dead man.
‘This is the Crescent City censorium shelter,’ said Gatt, then paused, breathed slowly and continued. ‘Can anyone hear this?’
&
nbsp; A gust of crackle came over the vox as Gatt released the transmission key.
Kulok waited.
Nothing. Just the hiss of machine silence. After a long moment, he nodded to Gatt.
‘We are moving,’ he said, and engaged the engine. Gears meshed, and the machine lurched. A dark numbness was spreading through him, pulling his thoughts down into a toneless void.
The vox crackled, and Gatt reached for the power switch.
‘…Crescent… shelter…’
The voice reached through the static. Gatt’s hand froze. Kulok twisted in the drive cradle.
‘…hear… respond…’
Gatt did not move, transfixed by the sound coming from the speakers.
‘…confirm…’
‘This is the Crescent City shelter,’ said Gatt at last, and there were tears in the boy’s words.
‘We hear you, Crescent shelter,’ said the comms officer. ‘Your location is confirmed. Prepare for relief force. Short-range communication will be on frequencies daleth-sigma-two-one, redundancy chi-four-seven. Use encryption key listed on magenta code key for all future comms. Confirm and list back, Crescent shelter.’
Lycus listened as the shaking human voice listed back the details. Static bubbled up every few words, and it took several passes to be certain that both sides of the transmission had understood.
‘Wait for us, Crescent shelter,’ said the comms officer at last. ‘We are coming. Out.’
Lycus waited for the signal noise to fade, and then turned to Dellasarius. ‘You had already decided on a course of action?’
The governor militant nodded. The rest of the human officers were watching silently, some busying themselves with minor tasks, others standing with stiff formality as the military ruler of Tallarn and the Marshal of the VII Legion spoke.
‘If they do have an astropath, this one action could change the course of this battle.’
Lycus gave a single nod. ‘I will lead the ground operation.’
‘Thank you, Marshal Lycus,’ said Dellasarius. ‘If you succeed, Tallarn will owe you a great debt twice over.’
Lycus shook his head. ‘Service, loyalty, honour, these are both the debt and the payment.’
Dellasarius bowed his head briefly.
Lycus turned, his thoughts shifting between calculations and threat assessments.
The Crescent City censorium was fifty kilometres from the Rachab’s southern foothill entrance. In clear conditions, with Legion war machines, that distance could be crossed in under an hour. But he did not have the strength of his battle-brothers with him.
‘Four vehicles, your fastest based on balance of ordnance, armour weight and reliability. Two main battle tanks, an assault carrier, and a machine with sky cover capability. A squad in environmental armour, void hardened if available. Your best crews and soldiers, experience and fortitude weighted over rank. All ready to move out within ten minutes.’
Dellasarius flicked his eyes at the officer called Sussabarka.
‘Make it so, brigadier.’
She saluted, but paused, frowning.
‘Is there a problem?’ asked Dellasarius.
‘You have no capacity for evacuation of those in the shelter.’
Lycus looked at her and nodded. ‘That is because we are not going to evacuate them,’ he said.
Sussabarka looked at him, and he saw realisation harden in her eyes.
‘The signal we heard, and those that we exchanged with the Crescent shelter, they were in clear…’ she said.
‘We are not alone,’ said Dellasarius, ‘and if we heard them, there is a chance, a very good chance, that our enemies did too.’
‘And if they did, they will be coming,’ said Lycus. ‘They will be coming to silence this one chance we have to send word to those loyal to the Emperor. Speed and strength, those are the only things that matter now. Our objective, and our only objective, is to reach this astropath. No matter the cost.’
‘They are coming,’ said Gatt, as soon as the inner door on the decontamination lock opened. Sabir and a cluster of the other survivors were waiting for them. Gatt bounded towards them grinning, eyes dancing with exhaustion and adrenaline. ‘They are coming for us, a full relief force.’ Sabir frowned and looked past Gatt at Kulok.
‘It’s true,’ said Kulok as he sealed the hatch. He felt strangely empty. He had not expected to feel like this, but then had he expected to really make contact with anyone? Was it just a drive to survive, so deeply rooted in the meat of his species, that had pushed him on out beyond the edge of hope? Now, with the promise of rescue a reality, he did not know how to feel, and every thought rang hollow in his head.
Gatt was babbling to Sabir and the others, voice loud and echoing off the rockcrete walls. Kulok moved past him and pulled Sabir to the side.
‘How is the seer?’ he asked.
Sabir blinked. ‘The same as before, no change.’
Kulok nodded to himself. There was something itching at the back of his thoughts. Something about the vox exchange on the surface that did not fit or feel right.
‘Why do you ask?’ asked Sabir, as Kulok moved away.
‘They asked,’ he replied. ‘They asked twice what his condition was.’
He turned away before Sabir could reply. His feet carried him through the tunnels to the chamber where they had settled the astropath. The room had been intended as some kind of secure document storage. Metal-framed scroll racks lined the rockcrete walls, and a curation desk was bolted to one wall. The air was warm from the heat that bled through the wall from the main machine chamber. That was why they had chosen it. The astropath had been shivering since he had collapsed just after they got him to the shelter. Skin near blue, teeth chattering, it was as though he was outside in an ice wind rather than several metres below ground. They had wrapped him in blankets and put him in the warmest space they could find, but it had made no difference.
Kulok closed the door and looked down at the old man. The astropath might not be old, of course. Perhaps he was no older than Kulok; he might even have been younger. There was just no way that you could think of him as anything but old, not when you looked at him – snow-white, liver-spotted skin hung in wrinkles from a narrow, hairless skull. Yellow teeth glinted from behind cracked lips. Empty sockets gathered shadows beneath a high brow. Skeletal hands locked in crooked fists beneath his chin. He had a name, according to Sabir; he was called Halakime. Kulok stared at the figure for several minutes before he was certain that the man was still breathing. Satisfied, he turned to pull the door open.
‘…an eye… of… night…’
Kulok whirled at the sound of the voice. The astropath had not moved. Kulok stood, unmoving, the sound of his rising heartbeat the only sound he could hear. Had he imagined the words? Was it the voice of his own exhaustion that had spoken? He took a step forward.
‘…they see…’
This time Kulok saw the old man’s lips move. He bent down. Hairs rose across his skin, and he felt something brush across his face as though he had touched a cobweb.
‘…endless dark…’ whispered the astropath. ‘It’s cold… The stars are cold…’
‘Can you hear me?’ he said, unsure of what else to say. ‘I am here. I am with you.’
The old man grabbed Kulok so fast that he did not have time to move before a skeletal hand was locked around his wrist. Freezing pain poured up Kulok’s arm. He could not move. Blackness surrounded him and he could see stars, but they were moving, swirling like insects, and beyond them something dark and sinuous coiled, clicking and purring as it glided closer and closer.
He wrenched free, gasping, and the chamber was there again. The astropath’s mouth was still moving, the empty eye sockets seeming to stare up at Kulok.
‘Dust…’ hissed the astropath. ‘Can’t you hear the dust blowing on the wind?
So dry. So cold under the dome of night.’ The old man grimaced, and a sound that was half a cry and half a whimper came from his mouth. It was a sound of pain and despair so sharp and pure that it cut through Kulok’s fear and shock.
He took old man’s hand in his. The fingers felt like ice, but this time there was no pain, and the room stayed fixed before his eyes.
‘I am here,’ he said, his voice low and firm. ‘I am with you.’ The astropath’s head twitched, and Kulok felt the withered fingers return his grasp. ‘I am here,’ he said again. ‘We are not alone. Help is coming.’
Lycus rode in the assault carrier, feeling the tracks rumble over the ground, watching the dead land pass through a visual feed link to his helm. The tombstone silhouettes of buildings rose from the yellow murk and sank back out of sight to either side of the highway. They were moving down the main arterial route that crossed the northern districts of the Crescent City on an elevated spit of rockcrete and plasteel. Vehicles dotted the slim slicked surface of the highway, but they were few; there had been no time for panic when the virus bombs fell, no time for people to jam the roads as they fled. There were a few places where vehicles blocked their path, but the four tanks simply rode over them without stopping.
A lascannon-mounted Annihilator rode in the head of the squadron. Behind it came the carrier holding Lycus and a section of troops. Third in line was the flak tank, its sensor dishes rotating and its cannon and missile mount twitching like the head of a hunting dog. Last was a Vanquisher, its long barrel swept behind it as it pushed through the fog. All of them were making best speed, engines roaring at the edge of tolerance as they plunged towards the heart of the city. They were exposed, but Lycus was hoping that the enemy did not know which direction they were coming from, and so would try and reach the censorium shelter before them rather than attempt to intercept. So far, that hope had been rewarded.
Lycus blinked away the pict image from one eyepiece. Eighteen humans filled the compartment around him. Each of them wore bulky sealed armour coated in vulcanised rubber. Domed helmets enclosed their heads and locked into brass collar rings. Most of them carried short-barrelled volkite culverins, but two rested meltaguns on their knees. They were all breathing air from tanks on their backs, and their armour was designed to let them fight in the vacuum of space. On the surface of Tallarn, it might buy them a few minutes of life. Lycus wondered how long his own power armour would last against the corrosive air. Any breaches and the virus would get in. Even he could not survive that.
