‘Turn around.’
Fulgrim turned with a smooth grace. Fabius probed the muscles of his shoulders and back, and took more scans. His thoughts were still in the past. Horus reborn would have only brought new problems. New distractions. But could the same be said of Fulgrim? The true Fulgrim was lost to them. A capricious thing, surrendered to sensation and excess. But this Fulgrim was not yet lost. Might never be lost, if Fabius were careful.
He stepped back. ‘Good. You may return to your studies.’
Fulgrim smiled shyly and nodded. Fabius turned away, studying the clone’s bio-rhythms on the auspex-screen of his vambrace. He tapped at the controls, comparing the readings to those of the original Fulgrim. ‘Acceptable levels of variation, due to immaturity,’ he murmured, trusting his armour’s vox-systems to record his notes. ‘Evidence of selective dermal thickening over sensory nerve clusters.’
He shook his head, almost annoyed by the quality of his work. It was as if, having given the patient up for dead, he had suddenly detected vital signs. Weak ones, to be sure – but there, all the same. The question now was, what to do about it? Something clattered, and he looked up, shaken from his reverie. Fulgrim paced towards him, carrying a wide, bestial skull, dotted with spurs of bone.
‘I found it in one of the other chambers. This is the skull of a Bharghesi,’ Fulgrim said, as if dredging the word up out of some vast reservoir of memory. ‘Why do I know that word?’
‘The Primarchs – the first Primarchs – somehow encoded their memories in their blood and marrow, like a cogitator backing up its data. A process I still do not fully understand, and have not been able to replicate with any success. That is why it was possible to recreate them – you – in full.’ He paused. ‘You know the word, because we – you and I – fought the Bharghesi, millennia ago.’
‘Was this a trophy?’
‘It is raw material,’ Fabius said. ‘A bit of Bharghesi in the mix lends much-needed aggression. Humans do not lack for it, of course, but it is a fire quickly snuffed. The hyper-violence of the Bharghesi, sublimated to the patience of the human mind, makes for a deadly predator.’
‘And is that what they are?’ Fulgrim asked.
‘That is what they must be, in order to survive what is coming,’ Fabius said. ‘All of existence is at war with itself. Time and space shiver apart at the least pressure from those huge, unknowable intelligences that men so casually refer to as gods. As if by naming a thing, they might control it.’ He looked at the clone. ‘But control is an illusion. You can steer a vessel, but not the waters it sails on.’
Fulgrim nodded and set the skull down. ‘I am… a vessel, then?’
‘Yes. A vessel of hope and change.’ Fabius frowned. ‘Or you were. What you are now will be up to you.’
‘You will help me?’
Fabius grunted. ‘I suppose I must. I created you. I bear some responsibility.’
Fulgrim reached out and took his hand. The pale youth smiled. ‘I always liked you, Fabius. I remember that.’
Fabius wrenched his hand away, repulsed by the thought. Fulgrim had used him and abandoned him, the way he had abandoned all of his other favourites. The Phoenician had tossed aside his sons with no more consideration than that of a man for an ant. ‘Congratulations. You have remembered how to lie.’
‘I did not lie,’ Fulgrim said, frowning.
Fabius waved that aside. ‘No matter. All men lie, even when they are not men at all. Falsehood is just another survival instinct.’ He turned back to his data-slates, but could not focus. Not with Fulgrim staring at him. ‘Do you remember how to fight?’
Fulgrim’s frown deepened and he flexed his hands. ‘I… think so.’
‘There is a training cage at the rear of the laboratorium.’ He gestured to a second hatchway, set opposite the first. ‘I installed it to test the progress of my servants. It contains a number of combat drones. Feel free to make use of it while I am otherwise occupied.’ He glanced at the clone, as a thought occurred to him. ‘Do you recall how to use a training cage?’
Fulgrim shook his head. Fabius sighed.
‘Very well. Come along. I will teach you.’
The gunship, Phoenician’s Blade, was a lean craft, all sharp angles, vaguely reminiscent of the avian form. It crouched on the flight deck like a raptor in its nest. The crew were slaved to their control-cradles, their withered, once-human forms nestled in profusions of cabling and fibre bundles, so that only their slack faces were visible. They grunted softly to one another in corrupted binary, or else mentally directed the efforts of the scuttling, arachnid servitors that crawled over the gunship’s amethyst hull, cleaning and prepping the vessel for its next flight.
Inside the crew compartment, Flavius Alkenex stood before a hololithic projection of the Vesalius’ schematics, and waited patiently for his co-conspirator to arrive. He smiled at the thought. There was always one, and he’d come to prefer the hidden blade to the open, in matters such as this.
Eidolon’s instructions had been specific – take the vessel and return the gene-tithe to Harmony, after Fabius had been dealt with. But there was room for interpretation in that command with regard to timing. And there were other considerations – the Spider was more cunning than even Eidolon truly realised. Kill one Fabius, another sprouted half a system away. The Clonelord was named so for a good reason. He had been dispatched almost as often as cursed Lucius, only to return more spiteful than ever.
Eidolon might not care, but Alkenex did. The Third could no longer afford to leave the former Chief Apothecary alive. He needed to be dealt with, and permanently. And that meant waging a war on multiple fronts. The Vesalius was but one.
A cursory inspection had revealed certain truths. The frigate was larger than it ought to have been, with a crew easily in excess of thirty thousand. That was not unexpected – vessels often changed as much as those aboard them in the Eye.
The frigate had also grown multiple bays along its flanks, like barnacles, at some point in the past century. Most of these were under his nominal control and occupied by gunships like this one, but a few were not. Those decks necessary to the function of the ship were running at peak efficiency – everything else had been allowed to slip into disrepair, including many of the bays. They would need to be cleaned out, at some point.
Counting his warriors, there were roughly two hundred and fifty Space Marines aboard the vessel. Of the one hundred and fifty not under his direct command, around seventy-five could be counted as potential threats. The rest would go whichever way the wind turned. Conditions were cramped, but adequate for the time being.
He took a sip from the fragile goblet he held, savouring the warmth of the liquid. An Archaosian vintage, of good quality. He’d taken a store of it in a raid, and come to enjoy its subtleties. It was said, by those who knew such things, that it brought clarity and depth of thought. While many in the Third chose to boost their mental processes by way of various stimulants, Alkenex preferred more traditional methods.
Over the centuries of the Long War, he’d found his taste buds becoming more sensitive. His palate had developed in turn, as he discovered there was more to sensation than could be found on the battlefield. Senses, once honed to a killing edge, had softened and blurred, allowing for deeper impressions. His omophageac implant had matured, and he could devour more than base facts. A taste of flesh allowed him to consume all that its owner had been or ever would be – all of their emotions, their dreams and desires.
In quiet moments, he could hear the tattered ghosts of many a fine meal whimpering in the hollows of his mind. They did not last long, but he enjoyed every moment of their suffering, drawing it out for as long as possible. He looked forward to doing the same to Fabius, in time. He would eat the Spider, bit by bit, savouring his dashed hopes the way he savoured the taste of the wine in his hand.
As he studied the schematics, the cam
paign to come took shape in his mind. Strategies and counter-ploys flowed like quicksilver. He’d always been a quicker study than most. That he did not hold higher rank was an accident of fate, rather than lack of ability.
He had joined the Phoenix Guard not long after the culling of the Legion’s ranks at Isstvan III, and then been promoted to prefect by Fulgrim himself. It had been his task to maintain lines of communication between the scattered Millennials as the war began in earnest. The Third was everywhere in those days. The Emperor’s Children had been Horus’ sword, decapitating the enemy at every turn. Literally, in some instances. Where they fought, only victory bloomed.
And then Eidolon had returned, and it had all started to go wrong. Alkenex emptied his goblet and set it aside. He bore the Lord Commander Primus no grudge. It was not solely Eidolon’s fault, any more than it was Fulgrim’s. They had all lost their way, overcome by the magnitude of what awaited them. Command had broken down, as Horus had likely known it would. Alkenex had realised early on that the Warmaster was using them, bleeding them white so as to spare his own precious sons.
That was a familiar story. The Third Legion had almost been used up in the early days of the Great Crusade. Their dwindling numbers cast into war again and again, until only a few remained. But they had emerged the stronger for such a tempering. As they had at Terra, and would again, when the gene-tithe was theirs once more. ‘We will be magnificent,’ he murmured.
‘Alkenex?’
Merix stood at the bottom of the gunship’s embarkation ramp, as if awaiting permission to board. Alkenex waved the other Space Marine forward. ‘Ah, Merix. Come, look at this.’
Merix joined him in the crew compartment. ‘Why are we meeting here?’
‘It’s the only place I can be certain we won’t be overheard. Fabius is many things – overly trusting isn’t one of them. He has ears everywhere aboard this ship.’ Alkenex manipulated the projector’s controls, shrinking the schematics and calling up a gauzy display map. ‘It has been my task for the past few years to map as much of Eyespace as possible. Which isn’t much, given the instability of this place.’
‘Things move,’ Merix said.
Alkenex nodded. ‘Or vanish. Or change shape. I once saw a world unravel itself like a fruit peel, before tumbling off towards the byssos. But there are fixtures in the firmament. Worlds and stars anchored in place, for whatever reason. Most belong to one of the courts of damnation, or the aristocracy of the lost.’ The Neverborn had their own social order, alien as it was. Courts of influence rotated about those entities and individuals whose influence in Eyespace was on the rise.
‘But some do not,’ Merix mused. He peered at the map. ‘Eidolon seeks to claim them.’ It wasn’t a question.
Alkenex smiled. Merix wasn’t as unobservant as he pretended to be. ‘Some. Those that will make fitting staging posts for later campaigns, or slave-worlds. Most belonged to us, once, before Abaddon so cruelly cast us down. We are simply reclaiming our rightful property, in most cases.’ He manipulated the controls, causing the map to widen and rotate. ‘In others, we seek sites of interest. Tell me – on how many worlds has our host cached copies of himself?’
‘I know of a few, but they are always changing. His creatures move his laboratoriums on a regular basis, to avoid detection. Many aren’t even in Eyespace.’ Merix tapped the point on the system map representing the crone world of Urum. ‘Urum is the largest – it is the centre of his network. His Grand Apothecarium. The information you require will be there, if it’s not in the Vesalius’ databanks.’
‘Then that will be our first stop, once this matter is settled,’ Alkenex said simply. He expanded the Vesalius’ schematics. ‘How many clones of himself does Fabius have aboard this ship?’
‘No more than a handful, that I’m aware of. All hidden away. He has at least three laboratoriums aboard this ship. The main one is in the apothecarium, but there is another somewhere on the gunnery deck. I suspect the third one is in the hydroponics bay.’ Merix studied the flickering schematics. ‘Arrian would know.’
‘The World Eater?’ Alkenex frowned. ‘Can he be suborned?’
Merix gave a wheezing laugh. ‘Not likely.’
‘Then why mention him? What about the other – Skalagrim?’
‘The Cthonian? Perhaps. He bears little love for the Clonelord.’ Merix stepped back, arms crossed. ‘But I doubt he knows where anything is. No, Arrian is the only member of the Consortium who’d know for certain.’
Alkenex nodded. ‘Then we’ll do it the hard way. We’ll kill him and take his knowledge for ourselves, if he won’t be swayed.’ He patted the sword on his hip. ‘I shall do the honours myself. It has been too long since I spilled the blood of one of Angron’s sons.’
‘Confident, then?’
Alkenex looked at him. ‘Confidence is the armour of certainty. This is a thing which must be done for the Third to rise. And it shall be done, by my hand. Eidolon set me this test, so that my worthiness might be judged. I will be made Lord Commander, and rise high in the esteem of the Phoenician. Do not doubt it.’ He pointed at Merix. ‘Do not doubt me.’
Merix bowed his head. ‘I do not.’
Alkenex looked at him for a moment. ‘Why did you agree to help me, Merix?’ he asked. ‘Enlightened self-interest?’
‘No. Treachery is rarely enlightened.’ Merix glanced at him. ‘Is Eidolon truly rebuilding the Legion?’
‘Yes.’
‘That is why I agreed. I… need it.’ Merix flexed his prosthetic hand. ‘I need the iron bars of a Legion about my soul. A chain of command to leash me.’ He sighed. ‘There is something in me, I think. The seed of some darkling flower, seeking the light. I would see it buried forever.’
Alkenex studied the other Space Marine, in the flickering light of the hololithic display. Looking at him now, he could see the faint signs of the fleshchange creeping over him. It happened to them all, to one degree or another. Sometimes the changes were small. Other times, you lost yourself to them completely. It wasn’t just skin and bone that changed in the warp. Minds and souls ran like wax, and were twisted and stretched all out of form.
Merix was a walking wound. He stank of unhealed injuries and sickness. His body was a citadel with every gate and window flung open. It was not surprising that something had crept in. And once they were in, it was all but impossible to cast them out. Chain of command or no, Merix was doomed. Or blessed, depending on your perspective.
‘We will bury it together, brother,’ Alkenex said. ‘You will act as my second, as you did for Hellespon. My good left hand, as Palos Gyr is my right. Together, we will remake the Twelfth Millennial in our image, and it will be all the stronger for it.’
‘And Fabius Bile?’
‘Will be of no concern to anyone. Eidolon has his own fleshcrafters and genomancers – none the Spider’s equal, true, but more biddable by far. And that is what matters in the coming age. The time of gods and monsters has passed. Now is a time of masters and servants. All who are not the one, must be the other.’
Merix nodded slowly, his leathery features relaxing in something that might have been relief. Alkenex clapped him on the shoulder, satisfied that he had marked him right. Merix was a born follower. The rigours of command easily broke his composure. He needed a strong leader, like many in the Legion. A firm hand to guide him into battle and away again. But despite his hesitant nature, he was respected.
It took a certain courage to hold true to old ways, when every day brought new sensations. But that respect was a double-edged blade. It could lead to trouble, if not put to proper use.
Alkenex turned back to the display. ‘If I know the Spider, he will insist on leaving as many of his own people as possible aboard, so as to guard against my influence. Who will he leave to oversee things?’
‘Arrian,’ Merix said simply. ‘Possibly Khorag. But Arrian is the only one he trust
s not to turn on him, other than the Word Bearer. He’ll take Skalagrim with him. And possibly Savona. Diomat as well, if he thinks there’s going to be trouble.’
‘Good. It makes things easier.’ Alkenex rotated the projection, isolating certain bays for closer scrutiny. ‘How many among the company are loyal to him?’
‘None,’ Merix said.
Alkenex frowned again, and rephrased the question. ‘How many might resist, if we sought to dispose of him?’ He already knew the answer, but he wanted to see if Merix was honest enough to give it to him.
‘Some. A third, at least. They’re addicted to the stimulants he provides. Without them, they’ll wither in on themselves.’ Merix flexed his prosthetic idly. ‘I have seen it happen, to those who displeased him somehow. It is not a fitting fate for a warrior.’
‘Winnow these addicts from the rest. They can’t be trusted.’
Merix nodded. ‘Easily done. Most of them follow Savona, anyway.’
Alkenex grunted. The woman was a problem for a later date. He tapped one of the highlighted observation bays on the schematic. ‘What is this? Why is it sealed off from the main access corridor?’
‘That’s the garden. The wraithbone grove.’ Merix twitched slightly.
Alkenex stared at it. He’d had reports of the alterations Fabius had made to his vessel – of strange, bone-white growths, creeping through the conduit nodes and intertwining among the circuitry. Only the Spider was mad enough to graft xenos technology onto existent systems at a whim. There was no telling what it had done to the ship, in the interim. ‘What’s in this garden?’
‘Key,’ Merix said flatly.
Fabius Bile: Clonelord Page 21
