Soul Drinker

by Ben Counter

  So he would not let it go. The Space Marines would relin­quish the star fort and the Administratum would take it over, and Khobotov would help them do it, because that it what would be to the greatest benefit to the Omnissiah's servants.

  His plan was simple. The Soul Drinkers would have no choice but to give up the star fort and return to their fleet under terms of truce. Any other course would require they fight Chloure's battlefleet or Khobotov's forces themselves. They would not choose these options. They would back down.

  It was simple.

  Satisfied that the necessary rites and preparations had been made, Khobotov impulsed his desire to return to the archivum and continue his manifold researches. This prob­lem, having been set up to resolve itself, would require no more of his attention. And he was so busy...

  'SENSOR SWEEP TURNED up something.' said Brother Michairas. 'What do you think that is?'

  Michairas was one of the Soul Drinkers manning the sensoria that studded the surface of the star fort. For the past few hours he had pulled a shift in the tiny transparent bubble looking out onto the star field and great glowing disk of Lakonia. The Administratum and Mechanicus fleet was formed of glinting silver shapes hanging in space. The object of his concern was a bright burst of white against the black.

  Brother Michairas had voxed for the Tech-Marine as soon as he had seen it. A flare, again centred on the Mechanicus ship, but different this time - purely physical, like an explosion.

  'How long?' Tech-Marine Lygris clambered up into the cramped sensor shell, assisted by the clamp-tipped servo-arm reaching up from his backpack.

  'Three minutes.'

  'Hmm.' Lygris tapped the large curved surface of the clear bubble. 'If it is a secondary explosion from attack, it is cata­strophic. But these are deliberately vented gases. Not air. Pneu-retros, or air rams. And a spray of ice crystals, there are hydraulics in there too.'

  'Meaning?'

  Lygris glanced down at the many tarnished instruments and readouts, noting figures that confirmed his suspicions. 'Meaning they are launching something. Something big.'

  CAPTAIN VEKK HAD a habit of yelling at the servitors on the bridge of the Diligent. They didn't answer back, so it didn't matter that the blank-eyed thing was merely delivering the best guesses of bridge logistician corps. 'I need more than that!' he shouted. 'Is the 674 hit?'

  The explosion was bright on the viewscreen above him, the image inset with different views from the fleet's other crafts. The Adeptus Mechanicus ship was spewing a white cloud of vapour from its hull, a huge mass of gas and liquid growing by the second. Then he saw it. First a tiny sliver in the bright­ness, then growing and gaining shape. Something huge and flat - a section of the hull? A huge, intact hull section, just ripped off by an internal blast? Or... ?

  'I want specs on that thing, now! Size, orientation, class!'

  'It looks like wreckage, sir...'

  Vekk glanced at the petty tactical officer who had spoken. A glare was all it took. 'It looks like nothing of the sort. I was at Damocles Nebula, boy, I know what it looks like when you blow a chunk off a ship. I want it scanned and classed, and I want it double-quick. Move!'

  It was growing more defined now. Yes, he was sure. It could be good, it could be bad. It all depended on what that cyber-freak thought he was doing.

  'And somebody wake Chloure!'

  THE GERYON-CLASS orbital artillery piece found brief favour amongst the forge worlds bordering the halo zone, given that the form of warfare there often involved opposing or unknown forces blundering upon one another in the depths of space. In such a situation confusion and disruption are potent weapons with which a withdrawal can be covered, or a potential enemy can be stalled while more information is sought. The Geryon-class was conceived from the start to take advantage of this with the rapid and forceful deployment of electromagnetic and magna-frag weaponry alongside con­ventional munitions.

  It was an ordinatus-level macro-artillery piece, a huge can­non that lobbed disruption shells through the depths of space to detonate in the midst of attacking spacecraft. When mounted on an orbital platform it was the size of a small spacecraft itself. However, the Geryon-class sadly lacked any edge in conventional engagements compared to similarly sized, less specialized pieces. Its use gradually declined with the increased tendency of commanders to simply blast their way out of uncertain situations and concern themselves with niceties only after the enemy was drifting and ablaze.

  It seemed that Archmagos Khobotov, however, had some fondness for the Geryon-class. Because that was what had detached itself from the 674-XU28 and was now descending into geostationary orbit several thousand kilometres from the star fort, riding on a standard artillery platform as big as a medium-sized island.

  Sarpedon speed-read this information from the data-slate handed to him by Tech-Marine Lygris, and brooded. They had been at an impasse - that was bearable, because he knew his Space Marines could hold out for as long as it took. But this changed everything. This meant the Administratum fleet had the upper hand.

  They knew they couldn't take the star fort, not against the Soul Drinkers. So they were going to lob macro-shells into the station until the Soul Drinkers were broken and scattered before ramming hordes of Guardsmen in to take the place. They knew they couldn't face the Emperor's chosen, but they were so petty and preening that they couldn't back down and lose face - they would rather massacre humanity's finest than admit they were wrong.

  'An insult to us is an insult to the Emperor, for we are His chosen and Dorn was His foster-son.' said Sarpedon.

  'Agreed, commander,' replied Lygris.

  'Then these men have insulted the Emperor.'

  'Indeed they have, commander.' Lygris talked in the curt, clipped way of most Tech-Marines, his voice echoing slightly in the maglev terminal which was now cleared of mutant corpses. 'Have you spoken of this with Caeon?'

  'Caeon is dying, Lygris. I cannot trust him to be in full pos­session of his faculties.'

  'A bad death.' Sarpedon snapped the data-slate closed. 'There are too few good ones.'

  But what to do now? Their ships were was on the other side of Lakonia, and would never survive an engagement with the sub-battlefleet and the Ordinatus. Extraction was simply not possible - that, of course, was the plan the Administratum and Mechanicus had doubtless concocted, to trap the Soul Drinkers like rats and butcher them from afar. Curse them, that did such evil in the Emperor's name! The Soul Drinkers were the best men of the Imperium, and yet the Administra­tum and Mechanicus had first stolen from them, then dared to threaten violence to keep their prize. What could they be thinking? Didn't they know what the Soul Drinkers were, what they stood for?

  Was the Imperium truly the instrument of the Emperor's will, when it was peopled by such lesser men? When the bat­tleships and fighting men were wielded in the Emperor's name, to humiliate those who most closely followed the Emperor's plan? Sarpedon had long known there was cor­ruption and indolence in the very fabric of the Imperium, but rarely had he seen it so starkly illustrated, and never had it put his life and those of his battle-brothers at such immedi­ate risk.

  When the Geryon-class ordinatus cannon spoke, the Soul Drinkers could be lost, all so the Administratum and Mechanicus could save face. It couldn't happen. It wouldn't happen. But how would Sarpedon find a way out? They were effectively trapped on the star fort with a massive orbital artillery piece bearing down on them and several thousand Imperial Guard waiting in the bellies of the battlefleet.

  There was little doubt that Consul Senioris Chloure and Archmagos Khobotov intended to do violence to the Soul Drinkers if they did not relinquish the star fort, Soul Drinkers would not back down, not while Sarpedon still breathed.

  Would they have to die, to prove that they would not accept an insult unanswered? Was that as petty as stealing the Soulspear and refusing to return it? That was not the issue here. The Soul Drinkers were the superiors of anyone the bat­tlefleet might boast. They expected to b
e treated like the elite that they were.

  If the Soul Drinkers had to die to show the galaxy how seri­ously they took the martial honour that made them what they were, then so be it.

  Yet there was hope. Not because he had hit upon a plan, but because a Space Marine is a stranger to despair. There would be a way, even if it would only let them face death as warriors. The legends were true - Marines never failed, even in death.

  Givrillian, who was maintaining the terminal perimeter, jogged up to Sarpedon, breaking his thoughts. 'Commander, we have a communication from Squad Vorts.'

  'Routine?' Sarpedon had better things to worry about.

  'No, sir. The priest, Yser, was showing them some of the orbitside workings and... well, he remembered something. Something old. He suggests you and Lygris come immedi­ately and see for yourselves.'

  WHEN SARPEDON ARRIVED he found Tech-Marine Lygris survey­ing what Yser had shown the Soul Drinkers. Given the decadence and ill-maintenance of the star fort it was almost the last thing Sarpedon would have expected to find. It was a fully functional, fully stocked, flight deck.

  Lygris was primarily an artificer, overseeing the mainte­nance of weaponry and armour in the forge-ships stationed with the Chapter fleet. But like every Tech-Marine he had been appraised during novicehood as possessing a certain skill with all manner of technology, and had been thoroughly schooled in myriad branches of combat tech. He therefore knew a thing or two about attack craft.

  'Hammerblade-class,' he was saying, mostly to himself. 'And Scalptakers. Throne of Earth, these should be in a museum...'

  And me place could have served as a museum - a flight deck within the orbital platform architecture, like a thin hor­izontal fissure through several decks of the star fort, low and broad. There was very little air here and Yser had been given a rebreather array by the serf-labourers, while the Marines wore their helmets.

  Where breathable air had seeped in the metal was corroded and treacherous, but most of the flight deck was intact, scorched comfortingly black with blast scars that were still there after centuries. Vivid black and yellow strips marked out complex taxi routes across the gunmetal deck, and islands of refuelling equipment surfaced here and there, hoses coiled, some with tanks still marked full.

  And all around stood the craft. Some were hulks of rust, others had been stripped of anything that could pried off the fuselage. But there were plenty that looked intact - sleek and noble compared to the blunt killing weapons of more recent times, with ribbed superstructures and swept-forward wings tipped with lascannon. The Hammerblade boasted a great underslung plasma blastgun while another variant bristling with close-quarter megabolter turrets was a Scalptaker-class superiority fighter. These marks had been flagged as obsolete more than a thousand years before, when the Soulspear had yet to even be lost, and had been relegated to patrol duty around Lakonia before the platform was acquired by the Van Skorvolds.

  'There was some talk from the Van Skorvolds of using them again.' Yser was saying, his breath misting against the rebreather mask. 'But it would have cost too much, I suppose, and who amongst them could have flown one of these? I and my flock used this place as a shortcut sometimes, when the air was good.'

  There were other variants, too - a bloated nearspace refu­elling craft, a fighter-bomber with a single-shell payload bolted to its back. Great chains of ammunition were racked at intervals across the deck, and the noses of warning-marked missiles poked up from pods below decks. Ships, fuel, ammunition...

  Sarpedon had thought they were trapped, and had been ready to defend every metre of the star fort against attack. But here was another option, and suddenly he saw the possibility of his Soul Drinkers doing what they did best. The philoso­pher-soldier Daenyathos had written that the surest way to defend a place was to attack the enemy until they were inca­pable of attacking what you wanted to defend. On the flight deck was the means to put Daenyathos's words into actions.

  Sarpedon turned to the Tech-Marine, and saw he was think­ing the same thing. 'Lygris? Can you do it?'

  The Tech-Marine gazed at the mechanical playground to which Yser had led them. 'Not on my own. Pull the others off the weapons systems and give me all the serf units, and I'll see about making some of these spaceworthy.'

  'It shall be so. Vox for what you need.'

  'Yes, commander. May I ask what you are planning?'

  'The obvious.'

  As SARPEDON WAS assembling his force and the serf-labour units were breaking backs in the halogen glare of the fighter deck, Commander Caeon died.

  Chaplain Iktinos delivered the death rites all but alone. There were few required to attend when the death had not been a glorious one, and there were preparations elsewhere that had to be made. Michairas was there, and Apothecary Pallas. The rites were simple given that they were on an active battlefield - a recitation of Caeon's condensed chanson in Iktinos's monotone, detailing the moments of Caeon's fine life that had been judged fit to be recorded in the epic that every Marine compiled to record his deeds. The ceremonial taking of Caeon's gene-seed, and the reclamation of his weapons to be sealed and archived in the armoury until it was their time to enter the hands of a novice. The weapon's history would be revealed to this novice when he ascended to the position of full Marine, and would serve to emphasise the gravity of his calling which bore him on his way into Chap­ter history.

  There was nowhere Caeon could be buried, so a cairn of rubble and wreckage was erected, blocking the door to the chapel. There they left him, and returned to their posts.

  LESS THAN TWENTY minutes after Lygris had given his word that the fighter deck would be operational within hours, Tellos and a full hundred Soul Drinkers were assembled around Yser's church in disciplined ranks. There was an air of reflec­tion about them, for every one of them was fully aware of the star fort's situation and the lengths to which they would have to go to protect themselves.

  But the death of Caeon and the loss of their prize had steeled their minds, and he could see the pride in their eyes. Perhaps they felt distaste at raising arms against those they had once fought with - but they were all certain that honour, and in this case their very survival, were paramount. Sarpe­don felt they all hoped, as he did, that once the assault began the Adeptus Mechanicus would realise the gravity of their folly and relinquish their grip on the Soulspear. Then the Soul Drinkers would take their prize and return to the fleet, honour satisfied.

  Sarpedon was grateful for Sergeant Tellos's presence. His exultation in battle was infectious, and he was a talisman for the assault squads who formed the core of this force. Givrillian, too, would accompany Sarpedon, a solid dependable voice at his shoulder in case the madness started. Most of the Tactical Marines would maintain the defences of the star fort - the attacking force, consisting of most of the assault squads and a handful of specialists, was amongst the most swift and deadly Sarpedon had ever seen.

  And it was his force. He was in command. That Caeon had to die was a tragedy, but now he was gone and such things should not be dwelt upon. These were his brothers and he was leading them even if only to provide the threat of force, and he was proud. He had felt the swell of pride when he first joined the ranks of the Soul Drinkers, and to think that such men were now looking up to him as he had looked up to Caeon, and to Chapter Master Gorgoleon himself, was more than he could describe.

  His psychic talents were not tuned to receiving from the minds of others but he could still feel that the men standing before him were eager to put the fear of the Emperor into their opponents. They had all felt the slight of the Soulspear's loss and wished nothing more than to send the Mechanicus crew quailing before them. And if a tech-guard or machine-priest dared resist them, they would use every ounce of force at their disposal to teach them what happens when you raise arms against the Soul Drinkers.

  'Lygris here, commander.' The Tech-Marine's voice crackled in Sarpedon's comm-bead. 'The fighters are old but space-worthy, and there's enough fuel for a one-way trip.
We can take about one hundred and twenty Marines if we strip out most of the weapons systems.'

  'We'll have about a hundred, spread out across the craft, so don't skimp on the firepower. And select pilots if you haven't done so already. How long do you need?'

  'Two hours.'

  In two hours borer shells could be gouging their way through the star fort's hull to explode, or magnacluster bombs could be raining frag torpedoes across its surface. 'You have one.'

  'Yes, commander.'

  'Sergeant Tellos!' barked Sarpedon, turning to the assem­bled Marines. 'I want squads of eight, at least one plasma weapon in each and as many melta bombs as you can get. I leave squad organisation to your discretion. You will be pre­pared within the hour.'

  Tellos saluted and began carving the assembled squads into self-contained fighting formations, each with its leader and many with a Tech-Marine or apothecary. They were fac­ing possible combat in a largely unknown and unpredictable environment where each element had to be able to survive on its own unsupported.

  It would be Sarpedon's first full command, and he knew there was a risk. If the Adeptus Mechanicus fought, there could be terrible bloodshed, and if that happened not all his battle-brothers would return.

  But even if such an unthinkable thing happened, the Soul Drinkers would fight on, acquit themselves with honour, and win back the Soulspear. No matter what, there would always be hope that the insult would be redressed, that the affair would be put behind them and Sarpedon could return to the Soul Drinkers' flagship with the Soulspear in hand.