Soul Drinker

by Ben Counter

  But that did not mean he had to let it all fall apart. He had dealt with conflict and stubbornness before, for many years. He had spent decades negotiating the Emperor's share. He told himself he would just have to do it one more time.

  'They hold the star fort. But they have nothing else. Their fleet is tiny, probably only a couple of strike cruisers. We have more, and a blockade should be simple. They will be without supplies and support, and they cannot leave the place with­out our permission. If it comes to a blockade they will have to back down eventually.'

  'They are Space Marines, sir. They don't need supplies...' It was Manis, Vekk's Master of the Ordnance, who spoke.

  'We have all heard tales of how they can survive on nothing but thin air and faith, Manis. But the Emperor has chosen not to make men who do not need to eat or breathe - the fort is based on an old-pattern orbital defence platform that requires new recycling filters and liquid oxygen supplies to maintain a survivable atmosphere. If we must we will simply wait until they see sense and ask to be allowed to return to their fleet.'

  'It would be simpler by far, dear consul, if we were merely to return this trinket.' said Kourdya languidly. Kourdya was the captain of the Hydranye Ко and had, allegedly, won his ship with a particularly dazzling hand of five-card raekis.

  'I am assuming that will be the solution we arrive at, Cap­tain Kourdya. But I don't think any of us here can truly guess what these Marines are thinking, and there is no shame in planning for all eventualities.'

  THEY WERE STILL there when a petty officer - the same flustered-looking lad who had woken Chloure several hours before - scurried up to the knot of officers in front of the holo-projector. 'Officer on the bridge, sirs.' he said. 'Archmagos Khobotov.'

  The bridge blast doors opened apparently of their own accord and Khobotov swept in. He was flanked by a dozen tech-guards, in rust-red flak-tabards and toting weapons of exotic design. The drones were drifting above like fat loath­some insects.

  'I trust.' said Chloure, interrupting Khobotov's entrance, 'that you heard all of that.' Chloure gestured at the space where Sarpedon's face had hung an hour before. 'Indeed.' droned Khobotov. Then you are aware we have some questions.' Vekk, seeing the tech-guard, had silently summoned a squad from the Diligent's naval security battalion, who were silently filing onto the bridge. Chloure knew enough about the Imperial Navy to appreciate that captains didn't like any­one lording it on their bridge. Vekk might be insufferable sometimes, but Chloure was glad then he had the man on his side.

  'We monitored the transmission.' said Khobotov. The tech-guards around him were tightening their formation as the black-armoured naval security troopers formed up. 'Com­mander Sarpedon's views have been noted.'

  'Do you plan to do anything about it?'

  'Commander Sarpedon's force is small and ill-supplied. They are not equipped for defence. It is unlikely they can hold out against a concerted assault from the Imperial Guard and Adeptus-'

  'We are not going to attack them, Khobotov.' said Chloure sharply. As ever, he couldn't tell if Khobotov was serious or just stalling. Would he really throw the battlefleet's combat units against Space Marines? They said tech-priests started thinking differently when there was more machine in them that human, but surely Khobotov wouldn't throw away so many lives. 'We're going to give them what they want and then forget all of this. You are still under the command of this battlefleet, archmagos, no matter how you may wish oth­erwise. The next time Sarpedon contacts us I want to tell him where the Soulspear is and how long it will be before we give it back to him, so I ask those questions to you now.'

  Chloure had dealt with awkward customers before. He had negotiated his way through whole planets full of hostiles. But he had never had to gauge the reactions of a man who might not have been a man at all in the physical sense. Chloure had gained a feel for the tone of voice and body language that very few could conceal, but Khobotov betrayed none of those things. He would have to be firm and direct, and hope that Khobotov's view of the situation approximated Chloure's own.

  'Very well.' Khobotov looked right at Chloure, who could just pick out the gleam of a lens deep within the cowl. 'The Soulspear is currently on board a high-speed heavy shuttle within warp route 26-Epsilon-Superior.'

  'Destination?'

  'Koden Tertius.'

  Koden Tertius was a forge world, a planet owned and run by the Adeptus Mechanicus as a centre of manufacture and research. Specifically, Koden Tertius was half a galaxy away and famed for the robustness of the war engines it supplied to the Imperial armies of the Segmentum Obscura. It was also the name stencilled on the side of the 674-XU28 and from which Khobotov's tech-guards were recruited. Archmagos Khobotov was sending the Soulspear to his home world.

  'I see.' said Chloure coldly. 'Would it be pointless of me to demand its return?'

  'It would, consul senioris. Communications are impossible with the vessel in the warp. Once at its destination the con­tents will fall under the jurisdiction of the Archmagi of Koden Tertius, not your battlefleet.'

  'That's why you were here in the first place, isn't it?' said Captain Kourdya from somewhere behind Chloure. 'Sly dog. You only showed up so you could steal your little toy'

  'I had imagined Consul Senioris Chloure would have deduced this for himself and hence would not need inform­ing of the fact.' Somehow the tech-priest sounded mocking even with his monotone voice.

  Chloure couldn't keep the chill out of his blood - the Soul­spear was gone and this situation was dangerously close to being more than he could possibly handle. The truth was that Khobotov could do pretty much anything he liked - Chloure could not monitor his communications or exert direct authority when the 674-ХШ8 possessed unknown but prob­ably superior capabilities.

  It would probably be beyond even Chloure's abilities to magic the Soulspear back from Koden Tertius. But he was here to do a job, to secure Administratum control of the Van Skorvold star fort. He would see it through to the end, no matter how long it took. And then, he told himself, he would truly deserve his reward.

  'I don't think we need to know anything more.' said Chloure. Flag-Captain Vekk gestured and the security troop­ers took a step back as the tech-guards stomped off the bridge. Khobotov was already on his way out, moving decep­tively fast. He didn't walk - he glided, his robes swishing along the floor behind him. The pudgy corpse-drones fol­lowed him, attentive cherubs trailing wires.

  A heavy hand was laid on Chloure's shoulder, and he smelled stale smoke and age.

  Druvillo Trentius, hoary and generally disagreeable captain of the Deacon Byzantine, glared down at him with liquor-shrunk eyes.

  'Complete gak-up this, Chloure.' They were the first words he had spoken on the bridge that day.

  As the fleet's officers gathered their lackeys and headed towards their respective shuttles, Chloure fought off the feel­ing that Trentius was right.

  YSER DIDN'T LOOK like much. The man was on the wrong side of middle age, thinned and harrowed by malnourishment. His hair and beard were matted rats' tails, his nails black­ened. He had evidently made some effort to keep himself clean, but the effect had been merely to highlight the pallor of his skin. He was dressed in rags, almost bare-chested. Yet around his neck was a heavy pendant, doubtless from some decoration scrounged and punched to accept a chain - an Imperial aquila, with an eye drilled through each of its two heads so it stared out in two directions. Forward and back, the past and the future. The icon lent the man an air of holi­ness and purpose that Sarpedon couldn't shake from his head.

  They were standing in what Yser called his church. It was a supply hopper, a massive round-ended cylinder set into the very guts of the star fort, where light was sporadic and breath­able air hung in pockets around recyc-line leaks. The place had once held towering stacks of food and other supplies which would be winched up by means of an enormous cargo crane, but the supplies had long been used up or reduced to a level of detritus that filled the bottom third of the hopper.
The great four-clawed metal hand of the crane, fallen from its mountings, formed the church itself, and cargo containers had been salvaged for pews and side chambers. Tattered banners, frayed wrappings sewn together and daubed with simple symbols like children's drawings, hung from the plasteel girders. The place was strangely serene, lit by the twilight of halogen work-lamps high above them, and with the soft breeze of convection currents tugging at the banners all around.

  'You are Yser?' said Sarpedon. Не stood in the shadow of the makeshift church and towered over the scrawny man, who seemed to show little of the fear that men normally did when confronted by a Space Marine.

  'I am.'

  'A priest, you say?'

  'Yes, ministering to my flock. We are few, but the Architect turns His light upon us all.'

  The Architect of Fate - the Emperor, it seemed. Aspects of the Divine Emperor were worshipped all over the Imperium, where He might be the god of the seasons on a primal agri-world or the Chooser of Warriors in a gang-infested underhive. Such things were tolerated by the Adeptus Ministorium as long as they acknowledged the primacy of the Imperial cult. To Sarpedon, such fragmentation showed the inability of lesser men to comprehend the true majesty of the Emperor and His primarchs. But this man did not seem at all feeble-minded.

  'Our church is not much, I grant you,' continued Yser. 'It is all we could do to survive in the depths of this station, when the cull-teams were sent down. But no longer... you have come and swept them away in turn.'

  Vorts's squad was searching through the church and debris piles. As the squad who had been approached by Yser in the first place, they had been given the church and its immediate area to search and appraise. There were many useful - if derelict - recyc-lines and cargo ducts radiating out from the supply hopper that made it worth fortifying. Most of the other Soul Drinkers were prepping and manning the many macrolaser emplacements and missile clusters that were still operational, and Sarpedon wanted to ensure that routes through the station were open and secure for redeployments.

  It wouldn't come to that, of course. They were up against Administratum pen-pushers and Guardsmen, who would soon back down when they considered the quality of soldier they were daring to cross. But if the star fort was to be made ready for a battle, it was worth doing properly.

  Givrillian's squad were in guard positions covering the many exits to the hopper. They were functioning as Sarpe-don's command squad as he moved from one part of the star fort to the other - over the last few hours he had overseen preparations on the sunward and orbitside firing arcs, and in the maglev terminal where Tellos was in command of a mobile assault company to react to any boarding actions.

  Not that it would come to that. But it was worth being sure.

  'I have long known that He would send His chosen to save us, to complete His plan.' Yser was saying. 'I had never thought I would see it my lifetime - but the things I have wit­nessed in my dreams are coming to pass.'

  'How many of you are there?'

  'Perhaps four dozen. We make our homes in the dark cor­ners of this place, and gather here to worship.'

  'Escaped prisoners?'

  'Mostly. And one or two Van Skorvold men who grew sick­ened by toil in the service of corruption.'

  'Ah, corruption. It is good that you and I see it in the same places here. My men are to fortify this station and we need to know of any defences we may have missed. If you wish to serve your Emperor, you will share your knowledge of the star fort's layout.'

  Yser smiled. 'You are the Architect's chosen, Lord Sarpe­don. I have seen you when He places His visions in my mind. Anything you ask shall be delivered as far as we are able.'

  Visions. Normally talk of visions and prophecy was dan­gerous - Sarpedon had seen the darkness of the psyker-taint when it ran unchecked in the weak-willed and malevolent. He had seen the arcs of green lightning spearing down from the heights of the Hellblade Mountains and heard the gib­bering screams of a hive-city driven mad, and known that renegade witches were responsible. Such men claimed visions and voices from their gods.

  But it seemed Yser was different - thrust into the belly of this dark place, he had responded by clinging to his faith until it granted him visions of holiness. Perhaps the years here had taken too much of a toll, or perhaps he really was blessed by the Emperor's light. For now, Sarpedon was glad only that he seemed to have an ally here at last.

  'I shall consult with my flock. We should be able to divert power back to some of the guidance domes, and uncover some of the servitor emplacements. There may be more - you shall know shortly, Lord Sarpedon.'

  'Good. Sergeant Vorts will send his men with you.'

  Yser nodded and smiled, and hurried away through the debris. It was as if he had been expecting the Soul Drinkers, and was at last able to fulfil some goal now they had arrived. Sarpedon wondered for a moment what would happen to Yser when the Marines had reclaimed the Soulspear and left. He would probably be consigned to the fate he had tried to escape - mind-wiping and incorporation into a biologically-powered servitor. A shame? Perhaps. But he was only one man, and protocol forbade anyone to set foot on a Soul Drinkers' ship who was not a member of, or owned by, the Chapter, so he could not come with them when they left.

  A thought occurred to Sarpedon. 'Yser!' he called out. 'You were a prisoner. What was your crime?'

  'I was a thief.' replied the prisoner-priest.

  'And now?'

  'I am whatever the Architect of Fate makes of me.'

  THE ADEPTUS MECHANICUS ship 674-XU28 was just under one thousand years old. Every hundred years to the day it was refitted in the dockyards of Koden Tertius with the latest rediscovered and re-engineered archeotech and machine-spirit augmentations. A fighting force was maintained on the craft of tech-guard, siege engineers and other, more exotic forces, that needed constant upgrading and replacement of parts if it was to operate at full potential.

  For some time this work had been done under the supervi­sion of Archmagos Khobotov, for he was three hundred years old.

  He believed in the primacy of the machine as the building block of human civilization. Machines were efficient and tire­less, and possessed cold, analytical, unfalteringly loyal personalities of the kind that Khobotov himself was proud to rejoice in. Their dedication to the completion of the Omnissiah's lost masterwork of knowledge was the equal of his, and through their example he would create a microcosm of human perfection.

  Apart from the tech-guard units, the 674-XU28 was crewed entirely by servitors and tech-priests whose industriousness and knowledge-obsession reached Khobotov's exacting stan­dards. Between them the Mechanicus magi that crewed the ship had barely enough flesh on their bodies for a single man - the rest was augmentation and improvement. Khobotov himself had lost track of how much of him was real and how much synthetic, and he was glad, for it was one less distrac­tion from the Omnissiah's work. In the massive crypto-mechanical entrails of the ship, in the corridors of gleaming glass where the ancient machine-spirit dwelt and amongst the forests of rail driver cannon and sensorium tines, the map of human knowledge was rebuilt. Between the magi and the servitors, Khobotov's own rigorously disci­plined personality and the dark throb of the ship's machine spirit itself was built a web of learning that would grow and mature until the Omnissiah saw in it a part of Himself. The critical knowledge mass would be reached, a point where the learning contained in the ship would render it capable of unlocking any secret, fearing nothing, travelling beyond the prison bars of the real universe. One day, one day, when the ship and the crew and the knowledge within it would be as one, mat distant day when all that had been lost in the per­versions of the Dark Age of Technology would be regained...

  The ship was still young. A thousand years was not nearly enough to begin such a task. And he was always busy, so busy. Sometimes it seemed too far off to even contemplate.

  But then, that was just the human in him.

  Khobotov glanced across at the huge muscular piston array that
stood poised to wrench a vast section of hull off the underside of the 674 and cast it bleeding into space. Some­times he was sorrowful for causing such a wound in the craft of which he was an essential component, but he knew it was for the good. The machine-spirit agreed with him, rattling the hydraulic rams and breach-charges in eagerness.

  There were few servitors in the area for the near-vacuum caused their tissues to degrade, and so it was tech-priests and more senior magi who performed the rites required. This was not as delicate an operation as the most holy teleporter's acti­vation had been, but a job was still worth doing well. Some were dark, robed figures, hunched or inhumanly shaped. Others were bright and gleaming, with the bodies of young men and jewelled decorative attachments of glass and chrome.

  Let it not be said that Khobotov was an unfeeling man who had lost contact with his human instincts. He knew well the ways of ordinary men - like children or animals, they were quick to anger and quick seek comfort. They needed encour­agement to commit acts of logic, and in some cases, they needed fear.

  They said the Space Marines knew no fear. But they were still human. Khobotov was a man of such immense knowl­edge that he had no doubt he could read their actions and resolve the situation they had stubbornly created. It was sim­ple. Give them no option but to back down. They believed themselves to be the elite of the Imperium, and so the logical way to determine their path was to give them only one option that would not require them to take up arms against that same Imperium.

  He could let it go. He could return to Koden Tertius to study the Soulspear, and leave Chloure to deal with the Space Marines himself. But that would leave the Adeptus Mechanicus looking like cowards to the Soul Drinkers, and like thoughtless thugs to the Administratum. These things were not important in themselves, but Khobotov understood that they were important to other Imperial authorities. He was not a politician but the ways of humanity were simple enough for him to grasp - if he forced the Space Marines to back down they would respect the Adeptus Mechanicus as brave and powerful. The Administratum would welcome the possibility of future alliances. But these results would be ben­eficial to the Adeptus Mechanicus overall. It was almost childlike the way they acted, but Khobotov had to remind himself that one day, before he had trod the path of the Machine God, he had been motivated by similar concerns of politics and saving face.