by John French
Signal Relay Station 189-56
Trans-Mercury debris shoal
The last thing Silonius saw before the memory took him was the pulse of the compartment lights from the shuttlecraft. The shapes of the rest of the team blinked in his eye, and then the past yanked him away.
‘Come with me, brother.’
The summons had come as such things always did, without warning. He had been resting, allowing the healing flesh of his body to ache while his mind focused on the movements of stripping his weaponry down to the smallest parts. He sat in the centre of an explosion of components arranged in a series of circles. The deck beneath him was still and quiet, the tremor of the Sigma’s engines absent. The grand cruiser was at anchor in the gas clouds off Shedim. Four hundred warriors of the Legion and five thousand oath-bound mortals were aboard the ship, rearming and waiting for their next call to war. Yet despite those numbers the Sigma was near silent. Silonius had not fought the quiet, but let it settle into him.
And then, just when the quiet was deepest, he had heard the words like a breath on the back of his neck.
His hands had frozen as he heard them. His fingers curled slowly around the firing rod he had been cleaning. With casual unconcern, he had reached beneath a rumpled cloth. His hand and the bolt pistol had come up and around in a single movement... and met the gaze of a green eye slit above the vented faceplate of a Crusade-era helm. A warrior stood above him, a boltgun aimed casually at the deck. The warrior’s armour seemed black, the crocodilian-scaled blue visible only where the light fell fully upon it.
Silonius felt a tingle of admiration and doubt run through his nerves. To approach this close in still air, with active power armour... That was a feat of worrying skill. He knew every legionnaire on the ship well enough to identify them from gesture or posture. The warrior who stood before him was none that he knew.
‘Come with me,’ repeated the warrior.
‘Who are you?’ asked Silonius, not lowering the pistol.
‘You are summoned, brother,’ the warrior said, and half turned towards the distant chamber door.
‘By whose will?’ asked Silonius, though he knew the answer. There could only be one answer to how warriors had come aboard his ship without his knowing.
‘Your primarch’s will.’
Silonius lowered the pistol and rose.
‘Follow me,’ the warrior said.
Silonius blinked and found Incarnus staring at him. The psyker flinched then put his pale stare elsewhere. The memory was still fresh in Silonius’ mind, smudging his perception. He felt fresh understanding and information ache at the edge of his thoughts. The shape of his immediate future altered.
‘Coming up on the relay now, stand ready,’ said Ashul from the pilot’s chair. The doors to the cockpit hung open on rust-jammed hinges. Readings flashed across the controls of the lighter. In the crew compartment, five figures in power armour rose as one.
‘Have they seen us?’ asked Incarnus. The psyker was still seated, gangling limbs hidden by the bulk of his void suit, his head a bubble of silvered glass.
‘Almost certainly,’ replied Ashul from the cockpit, ‘but we have to hope that they see too much debris around us to pay much attention.’
‘Comforting,’ muttered Incarnus.
Hekaron growled across the compartment, and Incarnus flinched. Of the human operatives, only Incarnus and Ashul were needed for this mission, and only Incarnus would be going with the strike team once they reached the signal. The rest remained back on the Wealth of Kings as the scavenger ship drifted through the debris shoal far behind them.
‘Here we go,’ said Ashul. ‘Let’s hope those codes are good.’ A second passed then another, and another. A flat block of pitted metal grew in the view beyond the misted canopy. Signal antennae projected from its upper surface and clustered around a single large dish array. Hangar bay doors opened as they came closer.
‘We are clear to dock,’ said Ashul.
‘Stand ready,’ called Phocron, and a wave of movement passed through the strike team as mag-harnesses released and weapons were armed.
‘What is the garrison strength, again?’ asked Incarnus.
‘Unknown,’ answered Phocron, without pausing in his last weapon checks.
‘And that’s not a problem.’
‘It is a fact,’ said Phocron. ‘Its relevance is limited.’
‘Oh, yes... Of course...’
‘Ten seconds,’ called Ashul. They pivoted towards the hatch.
The compartment light cut out. There was a hiss and then a thump as the lighter settled onto a deck.
A ripple of subtle movement passed through the compartment as the four other Space Marines tensed. Silonius was second in line. Behind his right shoulder, Hekaron activated the charge coils on his culverin. The buzz rang through Silonius’ teeth and into his ears. His bolter sat in his hands, his finger on the trigger. He raised it up, muzzle angled just to the right of Phocron’s right shoulder to his front.
The lighter’s hatch hissed open.
The crewman on the other side looked up. A bolt shell struck him in the throat and blew his head and shoulders into mist. Phocron charged out of the door. Silonius went with him. Target runes lit in his sight. He fired, switched target and fired again, the roar of the shell merging with the boom of impact. They were in a small hangar. Gantries marched up plasteel walls. Beyond the closing blast doors he could see the glare of sunlight and the glint of stars.
There were guards, human shapes with guns and armour. He killed four before he had taken two paces. The rest of the team followed close behind him, fanning out and firing, the roaring hiss of weapons a wall of noise. He pivoted, scanning up. A guard in a dun uniform levelled a laslock. Silonius’ shot hit the guard in the hand, punched through the gun and exploded in the stomach beyond. The guard’s body ripped in two. A pulped tangle of flesh fell to the deck.
And then there was silence. The five Space Marines remained still for a second, weapons and eyes fixed on the edge of the chamber, waiting.
‘Clear,’ called Phocron. Silonius dropped his aim and looked back at the lighter. Its engines were still turning. Incarnus was crouched just inside the door.
‘Out,’ Silonius called, and gestured. The psyker did not move, but glanced around him like a startled dog. Something had happened to him since he got into the shuttle, something that had spooked him. Silonius felt a cold stillness form in his gut and spread out to his skin. Had the psyker seen something in his mind? He cut the thought loose. There was no time. ‘Move, now!’ he snarled, and Incarnus jumped as though whipped.
‘We have seconds before the alarm goes,’ growled Hekaron. ‘Maybe a minute before they send a distress call.’
‘By the time anyone hears it we will be gone,’ said Phocron, flicking a hand signal to Kalix. The melta-armed warrior moved forwards. The gun screamed and the nearest hatchway blasted into a scatter of molten metal. They moved, striding, then running. The alarm began to scream as the last of them cleared the glowing breach. Silonius kept Incarnus in front of him, shoving the human on. Phocron and Orn took the lead, running shoulder to shoulder as the corridor broadened. A pair of guards came through a door in front of them, and were dead before they could raise their weapons.
‘How close is the transmission cluster?’ called Phocron, as he put a burst of bolt shells into a gun mount that folded out of a wall.
‘I don’t know!’ shouted Incarnus, panting, his feet struggling to carry him, as Silonius pushed him on. ‘Somewhere near the core.’
Beside Phocron, Orn’s hand went to the side of his helm.
‘Signal from the Wealth of Kings. There is a monitor craft coming into close signal range.’
‘A patrol?’ asked Phocron, and Silonius could hear the unspoken second half of the question ring in his mind. Or do they know we are here? Are they comin
g for us?
‘Uncertain,’ said Orn.
A squall of fire came down the passage to their rear, shot-cannon rounds ringing off the walls. Hekaron grunted, stumbled and turned, dropping to one knee, aiming his culverin as shots rang off his battleplate. The volkite beam speared down the corridor.
‘Go,’ he called. ‘I have this.’
Silonius was sure he heard a grin in the words.
Phocron nodded, and the squad ran on. Incarnus was whimpering now, and Silonius could feel static crawling up his fingers from where his hand held the psyker’s shoulder. The corridor was curving around to the left, and a set of blast doors loomed above them. Yellow-and-black hazard stripes covered the doors’ metal. Phocron slowed and flicked a sequence of signals out. Orn peeled away, dropping to the side of the passage to cover both directions. Kalix stepped towards the blast door, each movement as unhurried and precise as the movement of an ancient timepiece. The melta lit and stabbed a beam at the door. The metal rippled and began dripping as heat spread from the beam’s focal point. The sound of gunfire from down the corridor beat against the whine of the meltagun.
‘The Wealth of Kings says that the monitor is closing,’ Orn hissed over the vox. ‘It is still out of weapon range, but not for long.’
‘Faster,’ said Phocron. Kalix did not answer, but began to pan the melta beam across the door, gouging a glowing slash in the plasteel. One cut, two cuts, then the beam was gone.
‘Explosives,’ said Orn, detaching a cluster of krak grenades from his waist and throwing them to Phocron, who caught them and clamped them to the door beside the yellow-hot wounds.
‘Detonate,’ he called.
A metallic roar filled the corridor. The half-molten and scored doors blew inwards with a sound like an avalanche of metal. Silonius went through the breach and into the space beyond. Droplets of cooling metal pinged from his armour. Pillars of machinery circled the chamber within. Sparks tracked up and down their sides, and he felt static pull at his skin. A tech-priest with a face of lenses and brass turned from a column of wires, screens and key interfaces. He had a pistol in his hand.
Silonius’ shot ripped the tech-priest’s gun arm off at the shoulder. He shoved Incarnus forwards. The psyker stumbled, caught himself and staggered towards the central column. The tech-priest thrashed on the deck, reaching up for Incarnus with its remaining arm. Incarnus lashed a kick into the priest’s face, then another, shattering the crystal lenses.
‘Attend to your task,’ growled Phocron at Incarnus, unlocking a canister from his waist and tossing it to the psyker. The human caught it, and began to strip the metal casing from the mass of wires and metal blocks within. He turned to the console and began to move around it, tracing clusters of cable with his fingers, muttering as he gulped breaths. His hands began to dance over keys and switches.
‘They got a warning signal out,’ said Incarnus. ‘That monitor craft will know something is wrong, and soon so will everyone else.’
‘Irrelevant,’ said Phocron. ‘Are you ready to transmit?’
‘Ready,’ said Incarnus.
‘Transmit.’
Incarnus’ movements became a spider dance, his breathing hard. The pillars of machinery pulsed. Coils of fresh sparks rolled up their sides. The air crackled.
‘Transmitting,’ said Incarnus.
Phocron turned to Kalix.
‘Join Hekaron. Make sure the route back to the shuttle is clear.’
Kalix went to the wreckage of the door and ducked through. Incarnus had begun connecting cables to the mass of wires and metal blocks. Phocron turned to Silonius and nodded. ‘Set the charges.’
Silonius unfastened a bandolier from his back and began to move around the chamber, clamping charges in place.
‘The monitor craft is approaching weapon range,’ came Orn’s voice across the vox. ‘If we do not get clear within the next three hundred and seventy seconds, we are not getting clear at all.’
Phocron began to reply, as a roar of gunfire rolled from the corridor.
‘We are taking fire from both directions,’ said Orn. ‘This place has a larger garrison than we thought, and they seem to be of above average competence.’
‘Hold,’ said Phocron. ‘We are coming.’ He looked at Incarnus and Silonius.
The human spoke before being asked.
‘Not ready yet. If you want this signal burst to reach its target I need more time.’
‘Three more charges,’ said Silonius, as he moved to the next charge.
‘Twenty seconds,’ said Phocron, moving towards the door, bolter ready.
Silonius paused over the charges he had already set. Incarnus finished connecting the device to the console, and began keying controls and flicking switches. Silonius moved closer, but the human did not seem to notice. The machine columns pulsed, and the central control gave a clatter of cogs. Out on the hull of the station, dishes rotated and aimed at the darkness. Incarnus pressed a last series of controls.
‘It’s loose,’ Incarnus said, and only then seemed to notice Silonius standing above him. He hesitated, a note of uncertainty in his voice. ‘We must...’
‘Swing the array,’ said Silonius. ‘Inner-system transmission, broad focus.’
‘But...’
‘Now!’
Incarnus flinched back and began to work the consoles, swaying with every movement.
Silonius pulled the blade that had been with him since he woke up beneath the Palace. He held it up. The light of the sparks spread over its edge. He saw the symbols, hidden in the patina of the metal, etched into hair-thin scratches: codes, directions, frequencies. He pulled Incarnus aside. The human fell with a cry. Silonius’ hands moved across the controls, faster and faster.
‘What...?’ yelped Incarnus, the words dying on his lips.
Silonius keyed the final command, turned and pulled the human to his feet. The machines sparked and whined as a third signal loosed from the signal array.
‘Move!’
Incarnus shuddered and began to limp forwards.
‘We are withdrawing,’ came Phocron’s voice across the vox.
Silonius grabbed the psyker’s arm, lifted him from his feet and began to run.
Phocron was in the corridor outside, firing bursts into the dark. Explosions burst in the distance and las-fire scattered past them. He glanced at Silonius, fired a last burst, stood and began to run as well.
Silonius triggered the charges after twenty-five paces. There was an instant in which nothing happened, and then a series of rumbles rocked the floor and shivered through the air, drowning the sound of gunfire.
‘Was the second signal sent?’ called Phocron.
‘It was sent,’ said Silonius. Incarnus gave a small whimper.
They ran on, joining with Kalix and Hekaron, and charging back along the route to the hangar.
In the hangar, Ashul had the lighter hovering off the deck, engines pulsing with restrained power. Orn dropped from a gantry. Phocron was the last on board, vaulting onto the ramp as the lighter pivoted about. The engines shrieked, and the lighter punched into the void.
‘The Wealth of Kings is on an interception course to pick us up,’ said Ashul from the cockpit. ‘We should be out of range of the monitor craft, unless it’s a lot faster than it looks.’
‘Did they get close enough to identify the Wealth of Kings?’ asked Phocron.
‘Difficult to know,’ Ashul replied. ‘It’s possible.’
Phocron said nothing more.
From where he lay panting on the compartment floor, Incarnus looked up at Silonius for a second and then looked away. Silonius sat in silence, fresh purpose and secrets turning over in his head.
Two
Imperial Fists frigate Unbreakable Truth,
docked with the Phalanx, Terran orbit
‘He is weak a
nd a coward,’ said Archamus. Before him the pict-feed from within the cell showed Dowager-son Hyrakro lying on the floor, curled into a foetal ball. Behind the screens a speaker hissed with static and the sound of low weeping. The man they had taken from the mountaintop compound had done little but sob since he had gained full consciousness. They had returned to the Unbreakable Truth. The frigate was docked with the Phalanx in high orbit above Terra, like a pilot fish attached to a whale.
‘Yes, he is both a coward and weak,’ said Andromeda, looking up at him from the screen. ‘Why does that worry you?’
Archamus paused, blinking. He had not been aware that his voice had carried any of the doubts that rolled through his mind. The healing skin on his back itched beneath his black robe. The hand of his bionic arm squeezed shut with a hiss and then snapped open.
‘Why would the Alpha Legion use such flawed tools? Why would they trust him with anything of value?’
‘They may not have had a choice. Even the most elaborate and finely balanced plans must sometimes include weak links. The world outside the Legions is not built uniformly.’
‘Even within the Legions it is not,’ said Archamus. Andromeda raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate. He remained silent.
‘They tried to kill him,’ said Andromeda, at last. ‘That suggests that they both knew his weakness and needed to ensure his silence.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Archamus.
Andromeda’s mouth opened and then closed.
‘You don’t want to know what he knows?’ she said, and her voice was cold.
‘Want?’ he asked, and could feel the edge in his voice. He looked at her and saw her flinch. He shook his head, feeling the muscle tense in his jaw. ‘Just get it,’ he said. On the screen Hyrakro twitched, and a moan came from the speaker. ‘All of it.’
He turned away and left the chamber.
Armina Fel was waiting for Archamus as he left the cell observation chamber. Two warriors from Sotaro’s squad stood guard to either side of the door. They had orders to let no one enter, and to ensure that anyone who entered the detention complex was moved on without delay. But one did not question the Praetorian’s personal astropath. That she had boarded the Unbreakable Truth from the Phalanx without asking permission was also unsurprising. There were few other beings under the light of Sol who touched as many secrets as the woman who stood in front of him, leaning on a black-and-silver staff.
