The Plagues of Orath

by Various

  ‘To protect him from what?’ Sedeca, another of their number, had muttered, not wanting to attract the sergeant’s attention.

  ‘Boredom probably,’ Ritan had answered. ‘That’s all this place will bring.’

  Only if we have to listen to your whinging, Meleki had thought, but kept his mouth shut. No use in making enemies in his own squad.

  The murmured devotions mixed with a chorus of clicks and beeps as Meleki approached the Listening Chamber. Here the data from the auguries was gathered and processed. The listening posts on Orath monitored communication channels, the servitors slaved to the cogitators in the Chamber searching for key phrases and suspicious patterns.

  They weren’t alone. Techmarine Jerius was also in the Chamber, hard at work at one of the many consoles that lined the room. Glyphs from the displays reflected against the Techmarine’s dark red helm. Meleki had never seen Jerius’s face. No one had, save maybe Kerna and Sergeant Artorius. As always there were stories – that the Thunderhawk crash that had taken both the Techmarine’s legs had also ravaged his countenance so badly that Jerius chose to hide it beneath the helm. Meleki gave the rumour little credence. Such affectation smacked of vanity, which was not part of the Techmarine’s make-up. Jerius was as black and white as they came, living his life to the letter of the codex; no deviation, no compromise. It was more likely that the Techmarine didn’t remove his helm because he considered it a waste of time and energy. Why remove something you might need at a moment’s notice, even here in a half-deserted bastion?

  ‘Brother Jerius,’ Meleki began, barely even noticing the lines of servitors silently toiling away over their consoles, ‘it is time for our training session.’

  Jerius didn’t acknowledge Meleki’s presence. There was no malice in the act; the Techmarine simply hadn’t finished the task at hand. From what little Meleki knew about the augury systems, the Techmarine was running a diagnosis check on the main mast. He had manually realigned the surveyors before morning firing rites and was ensuring that the cogitators were receiving the correct data streams.

  Finally, when satisfied, Jerius turned to his younger battle-brother.

  ‘You are early,’ he stated, his flat delivery neither suggesting that this was desirable nor an inconvenience.

  ‘I could return later,’ Meleki replied.

  ‘No,’ Jerius simply said, rising to his feet, servo-arms folding automatically behind him. ‘It is time.’

  Meleki’s gaze fell across the servitors. ‘Has there been any unusual activity?’

  ‘Negative,’ Jerius said, double-checking the display he had been using. ‘Interplanetary traffic within acceptable parameters.’

  His work in the chamber done, Jerius started for the entrance, the motors in his mechanical legs whirring softly with every step. Legend had it that Jerius had designed his replacement limbs himself. Meleki could well believe it. The Techmarine was forever upgrading his augmetics, making adjustments, replacing components. The Techmarine’s work was never done. He could always find something to improve, which was exactly why Meleki had been pleased when Jerius agreed to walk him through the workings of the Stormtalons. He couldn’t ask for a better teacher.

  Meleki started after the Techmarine. ‘Today we examine the targeting array?’

  ‘One of the primary systems on any gunship,’ Jerius replied. ‘A pilot cannot rely on automated auspex alone. If a fault developed–’

  Jerius was cut off as a black-cloaked serf appeared around the corner of the corridor and barrelled straight into the Techmarine.

  ‘A t-thousand apologies, my lord,’ the serf stammered, wincing in anticipation of a blow that never came.

  ‘Look where you are going,’ Jerius snapped, no doubt glowering behind his helm.

  The serf bowed low. ‘I will, sir. You have my word.’

  ‘I would rather a clear path,’ Jerius barked and the serf, realising he was still stupidly standing in the Techmarine’s way, nearly tripped on his cloak as he scampered to the side.

  ‘I am sorry, my lord.’

  Jerius didn’t respond, but marched off, pistons hissing with typical efficiency.

  Meleki stopped to regard the serf. ‘What is your name?’

  A look of panic flashed across the serf’s sallow features.

  ‘F-falk, my lord,’ he stuttered.

  ‘Be more careful in future, Falk,’ Meleki advised. ‘There are those who are not as gracious as Jerius.’

  The serf bowed once more, shaking visibly. He drew his cloak closer to him, one arm hidden beneath its sombre folds. ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘Now, be on your way,’ said Meleki, finally giving the serf leave.

  Gabbling thanks, Falk rushed on. Meleki watched him go. The serf had been lucky he had not barged into Ritan. No wonder the man was shaking.

  Falk didn’t dare breathe until he was sure that the Space Marines had continued on their way. He stood, hand clamped across his chest until the heavy footsteps of the Doom Eagles faded away.

  Falk let out a relieved breath and collapsed against a nearby column.

  That had been close. Too close. The way the Space Marine had looked at him. Like he knew something was wrong.

  Nothing is wrong.

  Of course. Nothing was wrong. Everything was as it should be. Except for the arm hidden beneath his cloak, of course. His flesh was itching uncontrollably. It was all he could do not to tear at it with his fingernails, to claw the irritation away – but at least the pain had stopped, for now. He had hardly slept the previous night, cramp set deep within his muscles, no, deeper even than that. In his bones.

  Don’t be stupid. Bones can’t cramp.

  No, that was right. Of course it was. Bone couldn’t cramp. What was he thinking? Falk was just tired, his reserves exhausted. Too many early mornings and late nights.

  Not that they would ever thank you for working yourself ragged. They hardly even notice you are there.

  Falk shook his head. He didn’t serve to receive praise or gratitude. He served because it was the Emperor’s will.

  Perhaps the pain is the Emperor’s will. All part of the divine plan.

  Falk gasped in sudden agony, immediately clasping his good hand over his mouth to stifle another outburst. Someone would hear.

  No one is listening.

  The convulsions began again, his arm jumping uncontrollably beneath the heavy cloak. This couldn’t go on. He needed to head back to the serfs’ quarters, to seek out Hareen, their medicae. Hareen would know what was happening, what to do, before it got any worse. A chill struck Falk. What if there was something wrong with his bones? What if there was an infection of the marrow? He’d seen it before. There was only one way to stop the disease spreading. Lose the limb.

  But how would he be able to serve then? His masters wouldn’t waste bionic implants on the likes of a serf.

  They’ll make you a servitor. A mindless drone.

  Falk couldn’t let this happen. Hareen would help him. Hareen always helped him.

  But what if he tells the Librarian?

  The thought was too much to bear. Falk could see the Librarian’s face twisting in disgust. In horror. See him drawing his sword.

  In his delirium, Falk cried out, his shrill voice echoing along the cloisters. ‘Emperor save me.’

  Yes, He can save you.

  That was it. Falk suddenly knew what he had to do. He wouldn’t trouble Hareen. The medicae had duties. Distracting him would be a sin.

  ‘No, I will go to the serf’s chapel, pray to the Golden Throne. If it is His will, the Emperor will cleanse me. Make me new.’

  You are the Emperor’s loyal servant. He will not forsake you.

  His mind made up, Falk hurried down the high corridors, keeping the pain at bay by humming the hymn that had been running through his mind for days now.

 
A gift from the Throne itself, the voice in his head told him, comfort in your darkest hour.

  Yes, thought Falk, true comfort. Praise the Emperor.

  Three

  ‘Looks like the fire’s gone out,’ Dain Bridgeman said, staring through the fire-trucks’ windscreen. ‘At the least the rain is good for something.’

  Barett Halfen kept his speed up, the heavy vehicle’s tracks powering along the road that ran between the sprawling fields. ‘We still need to check. See what damage there is.’

  They’d noticed the smoke half an hour ago, black plumes rising against the grey sky. Dain was right. The flames had probably been extinguished, but Mattias wouldn’t thank them if they left it to chance. A crop fire was the last thing the plantation needed. They had tried to raise Mattias as soon as they’d left the village, but there’d been no answer. They hadn’t been able to raise Ithell either.

  Dain fidgeted in the seat beside him, tapping his fingers on the armrest. ‘It has to be the chemical store.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘That much smoke. It’s the only possible answer.’

  ‘You know as much as me, Dain. We’ll see when we get…’ Something in the sorghum caught Barett’s eye.

  He slammed his foot down, the truck’s brakes immediately locking. ‘Hold on.’

  Dain cried out, grabbing onto his harness to stop being thrown forward. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘There’s someone in the corn.’

  ‘Out there in this? They mad?’

  Barett didn’t answer as the truck slid to a halt.

  ‘Where were they?’ Dain asked, but Barett had pulled open the door and jumped from the cab.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called out, pulling the hood of his rain-protector over his head ‘You all right?’

  ‘What do you mean, are they all right?’ Dain appeared beside him. ‘Why wouldn’t they be all right?’

  Barett stepped forward, peering into the crop. Dain could hear them now, crashing around in the stalks, getting nearer.

  ‘Didn’t you see the way they were staggering all over the place?’ Barett asked.

  Dain took a step back. ‘I was too busy trying to stop myself smashing through the… whoa!’

  A man tore out of the sorghum, stumbling right towards Barett. He wore no rain-protector, his clothes plastered against its skin.

  ‘Roj?’ Barett asked, amazed to see the plantation owner in such a state. Ithell ran into him, hand clawing at Barett’s slick protector. ‘Slow down there. What’s happened?’

  ‘Throne. Look at his face!’

  Roj Ithell’s knees buckled and he collapsed to the wet ground, Barett trying to support his boss as he fell. Roj let out a keening moan, staring up at his employee, eyes flashing with panic. Dain gagged. Roj’s face was a mass of seeping blisters, his lips swollen beyond recognition. One of his nostrils had completely closed over, the other flaring wildly.

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with his face?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? Help me get him on the barge.’

  ‘I ain’t touching him. He’s diseased.’

  ‘He needs our help!’ Barett snapped back. ‘He can hardly breathe.’

  ‘This ain’t right,’ Dain moaned, finally giving in and grabbing Roj’s kicking legs. ‘We ain’t paid enough for this.’

  ‘Quit complaining and get hold of his feet,’ Barett hissed before turning his attention back to Roj. ‘We’re going to get you on the barge now. Try to hold still.’

  They tried to haul him up, but Ithell just screamed, his body twisting out of Barett’s grip. He thudded back to the mud, howling all the time.

  Dain dropped Roj’s feet, rubbing his palms against his protector as if trying to brush off infection. ‘He’s too sick to move. We could be doing more damage than good.’

  For once Barett agreed. ‘Fine, I’ll stay with him. You head back to the settlement. Get Ligart out here.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Of course I am. Give me your protector.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘Give it.’

  Grumbling, Dain struggled out of the overcoat and threw it to Barett, before clambering up into the truck. He didn’t even look back as the bulky cab swung around on the track-base to face the way they’d come. He flicked a lever, switching the tracks into reverse, and opened the throttle.

  Better off out of it, he thought.

  On the ground, Barett draped the protector over Roj’s convulsing body.

  ‘Hang on in there, Roj,’ Barett shouted over the roar of the engines. ‘Dain will be as quick as he can.’

  Roj seemed to calm as the barge screamed away.

  ‘That’s it. Not long now.’

  The man’s breathing was shallow, the whites of his eyes stained red with ruptured blood vessels. He made a weak grab for Barett’s arm, the farm worker trying not to flinch at the touch. The back of the plantation owner’s hand was smothered in pulsing abscesses. As gently as he could, Barett guided the hand back onto Roj’s heaving chest. The man responded by starting to hack uncontrollably, bile gargling thickly in his throat.

  Barett glanced over in the direction of the village, willing Dain to hurry. He didn’t notice what was trying to push itself out of Roj’s mouth. Roj coughed once again, his swollen lips parting wide enough for the large fly to escape. It buzzed angrily in the rain, as another appeared on Ithell’s lips.

  The settlement’s streets were deserted as Dain slammed on the fire-barge’s airbrakes. Not that he could blame his neighbours for staying inside. What kind of idiot headed out in a storm without a rain-protector?

  Roj Ithell, that’s who.

  Dain came in too fast, bumpers scraping against the dirt road, causing the tethered bovids sheltering in a nearby paddock to bellow at the sudden noise. Dain was out of the craft before the fans even started to wind down.

  He charged across the central square, booted feet splashing through muddy puddles, heading towards Augustus Ligart’s surgery. He’d get the Physician out to Roj as promised and then put as much distance between himself and the sick man as possible. Barett had been an idiot to stay with him. Loyalty is one thing, but risking catching whatever had got Ithell was another.

  ‘Eta, I need your pa,’ Dain demanded as he threw open the door to the surgery, expecting to find Ligart’s plain daughter in her customary place beside the fire. Eta was nowhere to be seen. The chairs, usually occupied by Ligart’s patients, were empty; the softly-lit room eerily quiet.

  ‘Hello?’

  Dain trod mud onto the floor as he crossed the room, heading towards the Physician’s inner sanctum, but Ligart’s office was as deserted as the front room, books left open on the large, wooden desk.

  The ceiling creaked above Dain’s head.

  ‘Ligart, is that you?’ Dain called out, yanking open the door that led to the rickety stairs at the back. ‘We’ve got an emergency. Ithell’s sick. Real sick.’

  No response. Where was the old goat? Dain took the steps two at a time, calling the Physician’s name as he turned onto the upper landing before skidding to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Emperor, no,’ Dain said, clasping a thin hand over his mouth. Ligart was on the floor, his red beard matted with bile. The doctor wheezed, a blackened tongue jutting over purple lips, and stretched out an imploring hand, but Dain wasn’t waiting around. He rushed down the stairs so fast he almost ended up in a heap at the bottom, turning his ankle painfully on the last step.

  Cursing, he limped across the front room, bursting out onto the porch where he proceeded to throw up on the wooden slats. First Ithell and then Ligart. What was happening?

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Dain looked up at the building next door. Ma Serlon’s place. Wincing, he hobbled down the surgery’s steps and hurried to the neighbouring hab. The rain h
ad finally stopped, but he hardly noticed as he tried the door. It opened a crack, something blocking it from the other side. Dain should have stopped then, should’ve headed straight for home. His neighbours would have put good money on him running, but this time curiosity won out over cowardice. Dain had to be sure. Had to know.

  Taking a step back, he put his shoulder to the door, feeling whatever was on the other side give way, but not enough to get through. He tried again, something cracking under the impact, but at least now the gap was wide enough to squeeze through.

  Grunting with effort, Dain shoved against the door and pushed his way in. A stench hit him immediately, making him retch. Another sign that he should have abandoned his search.

  ‘Ma,’ he called out as he barged his way into the candlelit room. ‘Are you there? Something bad’s happening.’

  He had known Ma Serlon since he was a boy, growing up just two habs down the street. Everyone knew the Serlons. Pa Serlon had worked the plantation longer than anyone could remember. Still did, whenever possible. Ma Serlon had baked his mother pies twice a week, a treat for the boys, she said. Succulent berries wrapped in thick, buttered pastry. Dain had always loved pie day, the sweet tang of stewed fruits drifting out of Ma Serlon’s open windows.

  The house smelt sweet today too, but the wrong kind of sweet. Saccharine. Like meat gone bad.

  Dain turned, immediately stumbling against the wall, sobbing at the sight that greeted him.

  ‘Oh, Pa. Not you too.’

  The old man was slumped in his chair, a blanket thrown over his knees. His face was almost unrecognisable, now familiar cankers obscuring his features, calloused hands hanging down lifelessly.

  Dain heard a rattle somewhere to his side, down low, on the floor. Dain didn’t have to look to know what had been blocking the door.

  Ma Serlon must have collapsed when she had been heading out for help. She was still alive, croaking his name as he pushed himself back out onto the porch.

  ‘This can’t be happening,’ he muttered wildly, as he gasped for breath, leaning on the railings. He looked frantically at the houses that lined the central square, wondering if the same sight would greet him if he explored each one, his friends and neighbours struck down by whatever plague had been unleashed.