Soul Drinker

by Ben Counter

  'Talaya, mat would take months. Years.'

  'If mat is what it takes, consul. These are renegade Space Marines of a famous and battle-proven Chapter. I am unable to name a more dangerous foe.'

  She was right, of course. Somewhere within the grainy mass of the Cerberian asteroid field were two shipfuls of sol­diers so deadly and dedicated they could hardly be called human any more. Whatever had driven them to stab their allies in the back - had it really been that freak Khobotov and their Soulspear trinket? - he knew enough of what was said about Marines to realise they would not give up on their treachery now, not ever. He could not imagine the Soul Drinkers forgetting their grudges.

  'We'll have to kill them, consul. All of them. There is no other way.'

  He looked at her. The woman's face wore no emotion. 'You understand what you're saying, Talaya. I mean, these are...'

  'You cannot comprehend anything worse, consul. Rene­gades, free to do as they will. Banditry, idolatry, secession. All with the prowess and self-sufficiency of a Space Marine Chap­ter. If it took a century and led to the losses of all the ships of this battlefleet, it would still have to be stopped. We are fully aware of the consequences the extermination of such war­riors will have. But we are also aware of what they will do if we are unable to act with complete ruthlessness.'

  'I know, tactician, I saw what they left of the Geryon. But... in all my life, I never thought it would come to this.'

  'Of course not, consul. And you should not blame yourself for the loss of the star fort and the treachery of the Soul Drinkers. You could not have been expected to cope.'

  Evidently satisfied with her morale-boosting, Tactician Talaya walked neatly up the auditorium steps and back into the arteries of the Diligent, where officials and adepts from a dozen Imperial authorities combined to form the nerve cen­tre of the mission. It even had a name of its own - the attempt to hunt down and capture - or, more likely, kill - the renegade Soul Drinkers was officially labelled the Lakonia Persecution.

  Iocanthos Gullyan Kraevik Chloure wished very much that he was back on a backwater agri-world, pushing pens and drowning in a sea of boredom in the name of the Emperor.

  YSER HAD A strong voice for such a weak-bodied man, and it filled the chapel of the Unendingly Just. The room was entirely carved of stone, from the lectern in front of him to the pews on which his flock sat, and the echoes of his voice were cold. It was a good place for inspiration, and they had needed it.

  'You have all seen what can happen when the Emperor's name is taken in vain.' said Yser. 'When He becomes noth­ing more than an excuse for men to lay down laws which gain them power and riches, or He is used like a monster in a children's tale to frighten the weak into obeying the cor­rupt.'

  'You have seen it, for you have all lost brothers and sisters to such blasphemy, both Marine and the low-born of my flock. Now we are sorely tested - so great are the machineries of corruption and self-service built by such men that even the greatest of warriors, the chosen of the Emperor himself, are driven hard by their aggression.

  'But the Emperor, the Architect of Fate, has seen these things and acted upon them. Has the true abuse of the Imperium been made clear to your eyes? Have the self-serving apostates not shown their hand by tarnishing the name of the Soul Drinkers and moved to do violence upon them? For though we are few and the enemies of the Emperor surround us even now, we know that knowledge of the Architect's true plans are a sounder weapon than the mightiest fleet of starships.'

  'Perhaps these words will be of little comfort to those of you who have lost much, or who are dying yourselves. But to be enlightened, even in death, is a thousandfold greater than to live for centuries in ignorance. We are few, and we are beset on all sides. But we are free.'

  Yser looked across at the gathered flock. There were barely thirty of his original followers left - so many had been wounded or simply misplaced in the fall of the star fort, oth­ers had died of weakness or disease accelerated by the rationing. But alongside those few survivors were new wor­shippers welcomed to the light of the Architect of Fate - Space Marines, Soul Drinkers, over a hundred of them, kneel­ing giants in full armour repaired and gleaming.

  It was daunting to think that such men were hanging upon his words, when he had once been a thief and lower than the low. But he knew he was right. He had heard the Architect calling to him, assuring him he had a part to play in the sacred plan, steering him from the debauched and idolatrous church of the Adeptus Ministorum and the superstitious oppression of its many cults. Now the Soul Drinkers had seen first-hand how the Imperium treated those who truly tried to follow the Emperor's path, they were open to Yser's teach­ings. Every Marine without immediate duties on the Gundog or the Just was here, silent, contemplating, gradually letting Yser's words mingle with the decades of teaching they had undergone. Even their Chaplain, Iktinos, who never removed his skull-faced helmet in their presence, listened to Yser, and found truth in the priest's words.

  Yser could feel the power here. He had seen in his waking dreams the legion of warriors in purple and bone, who would take the plans of the Architect of Fate and make them real at last. That Yser should be there when it happened, that he should help show them the way... it would be pride, if he did not feel the Emperor's own hand guiding his thoughts.

  'Be strong, brothers and sisters. Refuse to fail in His sight. Fill your veins with faith, disdain the foe, and prepare your­selves. For He will be our salvation, whether they take our lives or not.'

  When the sermon was over the flock went about their duties - some to the sick, others to the ship, many of the Marines to their proscribed periods of contemplation when they would reflect upon the principles by which they lived. One approached him - Yser did not have to look up to know his name, for he could feel the power welling up inside him.

  'Yser, I would speak with you.' said Sarpedon, the one the other Marines addressed as commander. 'Some of us are... changing. You have heard of Tellos.'

  'I am ashamed that some rumours have reached my ears. My few followers hold your warriors in awe, Commander Sarpedon. They are curious, and they talk.'

  'We do not know what has happened to him, or quite how he is changing. The details are complex but the chemistry of his body has altered and he refuses to accept his fighting days are over, crippled though he is. And there are others, but more subtle. The bone structure of Sergeant Graevus's hand is changing, and Givrillian says his eyesight is being altered. These are just two of many.'

  'If you wish an explanation from me, commander, I must disappoint you. I can feel the presence of the Architect of Fate and, on occasion, I catch glimpses of what he wishes to tell us. But I know nothing more.'

  Sarpedon turned to leave, but paused. 'Yser, there is some­thing else.'

  'Commander?'

  'We have turned our backs on much that we once learned was sacred. We have seen the threat the Imperium itself pre­sents to the right order of the universe. I think that when we realize just how little we know, and how different now are the reasons we fight... it will be much for us to deal with. I am not certain myself what will become of me. The whole uni­verse will change for us.'

  'Faith, Commander Sarpedon. There need be nothing more. But I think you know this already.'

  'Of course, preacher.'

  After Sarpedon had left, his image was burned onto Yser's vision for many minutes. He had never felt such power. Did Sarpedon himself realise what he could become? Could even the Emperor's own chosen warriors ever be truly prepared to do His will? He had seen, in his visions, what they must do - he had seen the world built from corruption, with a terri­ble intelligence at its heart, which must be cleansed to prove the warriors' worth. Would they be ready? Would anyone?

  All his questions had the same answer. Faith. There need be nothing more.

  * * *

  NO SUNLIGHT STRUGGLED through the purple-grey clouds on the forge world of Koden Tertius, but they were lit from beneath by the fires of the factory
pits. Huge columns of flame, kilometres high, licked out from the exhaust ports bored into the rocky round, scorching the habs and control complexes, roaring with the fury that burned in the forge world's belly below. Most of the planet's habitable structures were set within mountainsides or underground, and the spindly metallic webs that stretched between pylons and mountain peaks were support struts and sensor mounts. A thick gauze of smoke hung in front of everything, making it washed-out and grey, punctuated by the great columns of fire gouting up from the planet's geothermal core.

  Tech-priest Sasia Koraloth looked out on this scene through a porthole in the side of her laboratory annexe. She knew that one day she would not think the darkness and fires of her forge world so ugly - such minor aesthetic distractions would be far beneath her when she was so occupied with the mas­terful logic that was the tool and creation of the Machine God.

  Gradually she would be augmented and improved until there was so little of her original body left that her mind could become detached from the outside world and contem­plate only the mechanics of reality.

  She longed for that day, for this universe was a dark place and only the Omnissiah could make sense of it.

  The stillness of her laboratory stirred and a servitor drifted soundlessly in. It was little more than a suspensor unit and a voice box. 'To Tech-priest Koraloth, the wishes of Archmagos Khobotov are to be known. One: that Tech-priest Koraloth is to commune with him on matters vital on the Route Cobalt. Two: that her laboratory and associated facilities are to be cleared and made ready for an examination temporal. Three: that he expects and will receive complete discretion on mat­ters discussed and discovered. Awaiting reply.'

  'I shall be there.' she said, and the servitor buzzed away. The idea that Archmagos Khobotov himself should have chosen her... her work here must have been noticed after all. The painstaking reverse engineering of trinkets brought by explorator parties took up all her time, as witnessed by the rows of disassembled and polished components on the work benches of her lab. But she had not thought she had discovered anything worthy of note, or that her diligence and dedication had been seen by any of her superiors.

  Perhaps this was it. Perhaps this would mark the beginning of her ascent. Or perhaps it would end in nothing.

  The data-mat set into the skin on the back of her left hand flashed up the location of Route Cobalt. She left her dingy lab and hurried through rock-walled streets populated by servitors of all sizes and functions, their only common link the presence of recycled human tissues to form their nervous and muscular systems. There was the occasional tech-priest too - recent initiates like herself and more venerable magi, some with small crowds of apprentices in tow.

  Already she was beginning to see humans as machines of meat and bone. Already the underlying logic of the universe fascinated her, and she was increasingly repelled by the patina of corrosion that she had to clean off her technoclaves and data-thief probes every day. One day she would sweep through these rock-warrens with her own apprentices, endur­ing their unending questions and not caring about any of them. She would at last understand.

  Route Cobalt was a little-used channel cut through the mountain to reach a shuttle terminus on the surface. A pha­lanx of servitors stood shoulder-to-shoulder across the street, before parting to reveal Khobotov himself, lens-eyes glinting within the shadows of his hood.

  One day, she would be like that.

  'Tech-Priest Koraloth.' said Khobotov in his wonderful metallic drone. 'I give you leave to select your research coven and conduct the Rites of Reverse Engineering as you see fit.'

  Something hummed behind her - a cherub-drone, dead-skinned face locked in a serene smile, arms replaced with dextrous mechadendrites that handed her something with great delicacy.

  It was a scroll-case, simple and plain, rather longer than her forearm. Then she opened it, and saw what she had been summoned to investigate.

  It was a cylinder, the surface of which gleamed with intri­cate golden circuitry, and which had what looked like impossibly miniaturised gene-encoders set into the hand­grip. A small enough thing, but her experience with pre-Imperial technology told her it was something much more than it seemed. She could feel the power of its com­plexity flowing through her hands as she touched it.

  'Archmagos, what... ?'

  'It is known as the Soulspear. There was considerable trou­ble involved in its acquisition. I will expect your preliminary data-sermon within the year.'

  Koraloth couldn't take her eyes off the object, even to acknowledge the archmagos. What was this thing - a weapon, a shield, a transportation device - that by its mere presence could project such certainty in her that it was a mas­terpiece? And could she ever do such a creation justice?

  She forced herself to look at Khobotov. 'Why have you cho­sen me, archmagos?'

  'Your lack of status means few will care for your research, and your veneration of me and the values of the Omnissiah I represent mean you are unlikely to betray me. When much is at stake, it is always prudent to make use of the lowly.'

  Khobotov swept away and his servitor-guard closed around him, striding away down the Route Cobalt and leaving Koraloth holding the Soulspear.

  Lowly? She knew that. But not for long.

  There were things not even Khobotov knew about her. The depth of her determination to do the work of the Omnissiah, the brightness with which her goal burned within her. And more besides.

  Much more. There were others on Koden Tertius with the same devotion as her, and they shared a bond beyond their common calling. They would be her coven, and with the Soulspear they would begin their ascent to the ranks of the magi.

  THE BATTLEMENTS OF Quixian Obscura had burned. The artillery had shelled for a solid week before the assault had begun, and the chemical fires they had lit raged across the crenellated stone of the cyclopean fortress wall.

  Sarpedon had clambered from his drop-pod and saw theirs was one of the last pods to fall. Commander Caeon was already dragging his great armoured body over the lip of the nearest gate house, spraying bolter shells into the alien defenders below as energy bolts melted the stone around him. Squad Kallis, to which Sarpedon had been attached, hunkered down into a defensive position ready to cover the attackers who had landed before them. Fifty-strong, they had to take the gatehouse and force open the vast gates below so the storm units in the vanguard of the Imperial army could put these alien heathens to the sword.

  Fire swept over them, fanned by the shrieking wind, but they had ignored it. Kallis took stock of the situation - hoary and old with a face that looked as if it had been stitched together out of battered leather, it was his calling to lead the newly-initiated into battle, to test what they had learned as novices. They had all taken part in the brutal live training regimes and fleet patrol duties, but few of them had been thrown into action as thick as it was there.

  'I want plasma cover east! Flamer, Librarian, take down that weapons post!' Kallis had pointed towards an emplace­ment built into the stone where once a defensive lascannon or launcher had stood, but which was now being used by a half-dozen slender-faced aliens to fire a monstrous energy weapon into the backs of the Soul Drinkers ahead.

  Vixu had led them in, flamer gouting, Sarpedon behind working up the energy for the Hell. Some within the Chap­ter's librarium could have cracked open the emplacement with telekenesis or psychopyretics, but Sarpedon's way was to crack open the minds of its crew.

  And yet... what had been the point?

  The thought in his head was like an intruder. He remem­bered Quixian Obscura in every detail, as he did every battle in which he had seen action, yet he had never thought any of it pointless. No, he had tried projecting every horror the aliens might fear, and lashed them with gunfire along with the rest of his brother Marines, all the while feeling righteous hatred coursing through him.

  But really, what had been the point? After Quixian Obscura was claimed, what had become of it? It was probably just one more vacuous husk of
a world ran by the greedy and power-mongering, populated by underlings who never knew the futility of their lives. To exterminate the aliens, that was a worthy thing - but when it was done to satisfy the whims of corpulent merchants and lying priests, was there anything truly noble in it?

  The thoughts were new and strange. Suddenly, it was brought home just how much the universe had changed around Sarpedon - the deeds which had made him proud now seemed empty and futile, the heroism that propped up a regime of corruption. He tried to shake it out of his head, but it wouldn't go - the nagging voice at the back of his head stayed, bleating that it was all meaningless, that he had fought at the whims of the same self-serving bureaucrats that had tried to butcher his battle-brothers.

  He tried, as he sometimes did when he needed to look long and hard at himself, to relive the battle and not just watch it played out in his head. He imagined the sharp-edged wind across the battlements and the reeking sulphuric clouds from the shelling below, the low rumble of shouted orders from a million Imperial Guardsmen and the flickering in the air of a hundred shuriken rounds from alien guns shearing towards him.

  Suddenly he was there as the Marines had burst into the emplacement and the energy weapon was a fiery shell, power cells crippled by a krak grenade. From just below the edge of the wall the ambush sprung, aliens with masks and bodysuits carrying glowing power-scimitars, cartwheeling and somer­saulting with unholy speed.

  It was no good. Sarpedon didn't care - gone was the war­rior's rage at the enemy's deceit that had sent him wading into their midst, pumping bolter shells into their unarmoured bodies, cracking necks and splitting open heads within jewel-eyed masks.

  A bolter blast caught the closest in the stomach and almost blew it in two - its grace dissolved instantly as it flopped to the ground. In the time it took the bullet to find its mark two more had come too close to draw aim - he slashed at one and it ducked, the other struck back and the tongue of its blade licked deep into his thigh. He stabbed at the head of the first, let it duck, stamped down on the back of its neck with a ceramite boot, felt it crunch beneath his foot.