by John French
‘Phocron!’ she shouted into the vox. ‘Silonius!’
Static washed back at her as a bolt-round hit the heap of chains. Broken links showered into the air. She ducked low as another round hit, and then another. An Imperial Fists legionary moved into sight on her left. She fired. The beam hit the Space Marine’s chest. Ceramite flashed to red. She feathered the trigger, raking the beam across his torso. Blackened chunks of armour exploded from the impact.
‘Phocron!’ she shouted, but there was no answer, and part of her already knew there would be none. She had served the Legion for fifteen years, all the way back to the 670th expeditionary fleet. There had been disasters in those years, huge and echoing disasters that she had come through with death breathing down her back. But she had survived, and never doubted that she would. Now she was certain that it would end here, not in a grand failure, but in a simple ambush that they had walked straight into.
Another legionary came into her line of sight, gun up and aimed at her.
She did not see where Phocron came from. One second the Imperial Fist was there, and the next there was just an expanding sphere of plasma. She gasped, clamping her eyes shut as neon bruises swam across her vision. She forced them open in time to see Phocron sprint from an opening in the chamber wall. He threw another grenade as he moved, and another ball of plasma bloomed into being. She could see the shapes of Imperial Fists crumpling within the burning sphere.
‘Do you have the target in sight?’ said Phocron’s voice over the vox. He was firing as he moved, raking bolt shells across the opposite side of the chamber, moving without pause, a blur of armour and gunfire.
Myzmadra glanced around her cover, found that she was clear for another five paces and sprinted to the base of another gantry. She could see Incarnus still struggling with Hyrakro. She raised her weapon sight, finger poised on the trigger.
‘I have him, but Incarnus is in the shot.’
‘Take them,’ said Phocron, ‘both of them.’
She fired without hesitation. The volkite beam hit true. Hyrakro, dowager-son of the Hysen Cartel, came apart in an explosion of embers and sparks. Incarnus dived aside as she pulled the trigger again. The beam caught his left hand, and he hit the floor shrieking as his arm burned into ash. She switched aim, and...
A huge figure in golden-yellow armour stepped across her sight. She had an instant to note the black cloak and the bronzed bionics of his right arm and leg before the warrior levelled his bolter at her.
Silonius did not see the ambush force until it was nearly too late. His senses were ringing with voices from raw memories, eyes blurring with the after-image of Alpharius standing in front of him in the past.
The first Imperial Fist came from a corridor to his right, hacking down with a sword that glowed with lightning as it cut. It was a good cut, back-handed, fluid and fast. It was meant to hit Silonius on the right of his neck and slice down across his chest.
The blow never landed.
Silonius caught the Imperial Fist’s wrist, and turned it with a snap of bone and ceramite. He crushed the fingers into the sword grip, turned the still-active blade inwards and sliced it across the warrior’s neck. Silonius had the sword in his hand as the dead legionary struck the floor.
The passage was narrow, a battleground pressed between two walls. Another Imperial Fist was directly in front of him. The firing pin inside the warrior’s bolter kissed the back of a bolt casing. Silonius cut the bolter in two as the shell ran down the barrel.
It exploded.
The Imperial Fist staggered, blood streaming from torn armour. Silonius stepped in and cannoned his foot into the warrior’s chest. The legionary flew backwards, chest cracked, shards of bone and armour crumpling into his hearts. Silonius had the grenade free and flying through the air as the dying warrior struck his squad brothers in the passage behind. The grenade detonated. Shrapnel and fire ripped through the corridor.
Silonius’ bolter was in his hand, and he was pivoting and firing into the space behind him where more Imperial Fists were already moving. A wall of three overlapping shields faced him, gun-barrels jutting from firing slots. He saw the Imperial Fists brace to fire an instant before the volley hammered up the passage at him. He pivoted against the wall, pulling a plasma grenade and frag grenade from his waist as he moved. He threw the frag grenade high, looping the throw so that the grenade struck the ceiling plates, bounced down and hit the floor just in front of the shield-wall. It detonated. Shrapnel rang against the wall of plasteel. The Imperial Fists did not pause, but surged forwards, firing as they came.
Silonius ran from them, bolter in one hand and the stolen power sword in the other. He felt a bolt hit his side. The shock of the explosion split his armour. The Imperial Fists came on, feet ringing on the deck. None of them noticed the plasma grenade wedged into the corner of the floor.
Star-bright heat filled the corridor with a scream of expanding air and distorting metal. The shield-wall vanished. Silonius felt the wash of heat from the blast, but had made it past the lethal radius with one pace to spare. He strode back into the wreckage. He could feel the heat of the guttering plasma through his armour. The passage walls were glowing. Rivets had popped out of joints between metal plates. The dark material of the artefact’s true substance showed through in places. Air hissed through the glowing tears.
A single Imperial Fist tried to rise from amongst the molten sludge of his comrades. The blast had vaporised the back of his body. Scorched liquid ran from his torso. His legs did not exist beyond the knee. Yet still Silonius saw yellow fingers trying to grip the butt of a bolter. He stopped, looked down at the warrior, aimed and put a bolt shell through the green eyepiece that looked back at him.
He paused for a second and then turned. The light of another battle was rippling down the corridor from the rendezvous chamber.
Memories slammed into him as he began to run.
Alpharius rose from the dark inside his skull. For an instant he could see the primarch’s mouth moving, but could not hear the words. Then they came too, cutting in as though at the press of a switch.
‘Who am I?’
‘You are Alpharius.’
‘Are we not all Alpharius?’
The muzzle of the bolter loomed in Myzmadra’s sight. She felt the instant slow. Every detail of the Imperial Fist aiming at her was sharp. She could see the grey smudges running through the white fur that topped his black cloak. The laurel leaves running around the crown of his helm were green enamel. The word Rennimar was etched into the edge of the left pauldron.
A Huscarl, she thought. One of the companions of Rogal Dorn. She felt her own muscles moving, the nerve grafts and fibre bulk firing fast, but still too slow.
A cluster of bolts hit the Huscarl on the shoulder as he fired. Bolts sprayed across the deck as the bolter kicked wide. Phocron strode into sight, firing as he moved. Myzmadra squeezed the trigger of her volkite. The beam snapped out, but the shot went wide. The Huscarl was not down, not by a long way. He cannoned forwards, right hand tugging a mace free from his waist. Lightning wreathed its head as he swung. Behind him more Imperial Fists were flowing into the room, boarding shields locking together. She could not even see Incarnus any more.
‘Withdraw,’ said Phocron. ‘Get back to the ship. Now!’
She pushed up and ran for the doorway they had entered from. The Huscarl struck Phocron as she took her second stride. The blow was huge, driven by raw power and momentum. It looked simple, the kind of blow that would break whatever it touched, but which would never land. Phocron swayed back, bolter ready to fire into the Huscarl’s face as the blow passed.
The blow did not pass. The Huscarl flicked the mace over as it fell, and swept it up into Phocron’s midriff. It was an impossible blow, a blow designed to deceive and then kill. Phocron lifted from the floor, lightning crawling over the crater in his chest.
Silonius came through the door in time to see Phocron fall. An Imperial Fists Huscarl was standing above the Headhunter Prime, mace still swinging high in his hand. Blood was falling through the air and burning as it passed through the mace’s power field. Stark white light bathed the chamber. Gunfire leapt at Silonius. Bolts burst on his armour. More damage, more blood inside his armour. His eyes flowed across the advancing squads of Imperial Fists, and his mind assessed the situation before he had taken a step. He saw the body of Phocron on the floor, limbs scrabbling in spreading blood.
He ducked back into the mouth of a corridor. Myzmadra was sprinting towards him, a shield-wall of Imperial Fists closing on her from behind. He fired at them. The first bolt struck a warrior whose eyes were a fraction above the shield-line. The bolt smashed through his left lens and turned his skull into a bloody pulp inside his helm. The warrior dropped.
Myzmadra twisted to fire back into the closing enemy.
‘Keep moving!’ he shouted.
His eye found cracks running down the face of one of the Imperial Fists’ shields. Two shells shattered the shield and a third took the warrior in the throat.
A volley of fire lashed across the chamber. Myzmadra dived. Explosions burst amongst the gantries and hanging chains.
Myzmadra was past him and into the passage beyond. He fired a last burst and followed. The passage was thick with smoke and flame from plasma grenade detonations. Five strides from the door, Silonius paused and pulled a last grenade from his belt. It was heavy, and locked to the metal wall with a magnetic thump. A red light flashed on its casing as it armed. Silonius turned and ran after Myzmadra. She was leaping over the molten remains of the dead Imperial Fists.
‘Cut-off unit?’ she shouted over her shoulder.
‘There may be others,’ he said. Behind him the krak grenade exploded, pulling the walls and ceiling of the passage down. The shock wave slammed into Silonius’ back, but he ran on without stumbling.
‘This way,’ he said, as they came to a junction.
‘The lighter...’ said Myzmadra, breathing hard.
‘The sons of Dorn are not fools. The lighter will have become wreckage the second they closed the trap.’
‘Then...?’ she said, as they turned down a passage that led them away from where they had left the lighter.
‘There is a contingency,’ he said.
As he spoke he heard the buzz of activating power armour as a second Imperial Fist cut-off unit stepped from the side of the corridor and locked shields. They had been waiting, five of them immobile in the dark passages, armour shut down and silent. Twenty paces separated them from him. Possible responses and tactics blurred through the edge of his awareness, and became a simple, direct necessity.
He charged.
The Imperial Fists fired. Bolts slammed into him. Armour cracked and blood scattered in his wake. He did not stop. He struck the shield-wall and felt the impact shudder through him. The servos in his armour screeched. Damage alarms rose in his ears. The shield-wall bent backwards, and then his momentum was pushing him into the opening gap. The power sword was in his hand, lightning running down its edge as he rammed its point into the gut of a warrior and ripped it upwards. Ceramite split. Blood and bowel fluid sprayed across him as he pulled the blade free and turned, hacking down into the leg of another warrior. The legionary fell to the floor, firing into the air as his finger pulled the trigger of his boltgun. Silonius kicked out. The warrior’s head snapped back, armour servos and bone breaking. He was side by side with the enemy, armour scraping against theirs as they turned to try and engage him. He did not give them the chance.
His hand snapped out, gripped the top of a shield, yanked it down and sawed his sword across the face of the Imperial Fist behind. The warrior began to fall. Silonius pivoted, still holding onto the shield top, power snapping through him as he threw the dying Imperial Fist into his two remaining comrades. They brought their shields around, fast. A volkite beam speared out of the dark and hit one on the shoulder. The shield dipped, and Silonius rammed the tip of his sword into the warrior’s faceplate, dragging it sideways before the dead weight could pull the blade down. The blade edge burst from the side of the helm and sliced into the last Imperial Fist’s pauldron. The sword’s power field failed.
The Imperial Fist lurched back, blade embedded in the meat and ceramite of his right shoulder. Silonius’ bolter was back in his hands as he stepped close, pressed the barrel against the warrior’s gut and emptied the remainder of the clip. The Imperial Fist staggered back, a bloody crater bored in his stomach. Silonius let the warrior sag down the wall, reloaded and put a final shell into the corpse’s left eye.
It had been only a matter of seconds since the Imperial Fists had appeared. He looked around. Myzmadra advanced towards him, her volkite levelled at him. He could read the hesitation in her stance. She had had time to aim and fire once in the course of the encounter. He looked at her, then turned towards the waiting dark of the passage beyond the fallen Imperial Fists.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘We are close.’
She did not move, or lower her gun. ‘What... What are you?’
He felt images and echoes of thoughts fizz at the edge of his mind.
‘I am a warrior of the Legion,’ he said, looking at her. ‘We must move.’
She lowered the gun after a long moment, and they began to run.
The second lighter was waiting in a dark space on the edge of the artefact, powered down and silent. Ashul looked up as they climbed aboard. He activated controls, and the craft’s frame began to purr with power.
‘Are we waiting?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Silonius. Ashul glanced at Myzmadra who nodded.
The lighter broke free of the artefact and ran into open space at full burn.
In the vibrating dark of the compartment Silonius breathed out and let a cold blackness overwhelm his thoughts.
From across the compartment Myzmadra watched him, eyes dark inside the shell of her visor.
‘There is something I need to say to you,’ she said carefully. ‘I had instructions, for if Phocron was lost.’
He blinked, she reached into a pouch in her void suit and pulled out a small object wrapped in black fabric. She held it out to him.
‘Hades,’ she said.
And the dreams uncoiled through him.
Archamus took in the wreckage choking the passage the Alpha Legion warrior and operative had vanished through – it would take at least twenty minutes to clear with melta-torches and lascutters. Twenty minutes was far, far too long in this situation. The ambush had closed almost perfectly. Twenty of them had waited in the dark for the Alpha Legion. Utterly still, their armour soundless and unmoving, they had become part of the artefact’s silence. When the enemy had reached the rendezvous chamber they had closed the circle. Everything up to that point had proceeded as it should, but now he felt that there was something at work that they had not accounted for.
‘Clear it,’ he said pointing at the blocked door. Three warriors came forwards. Two of them carried lascutters and began to slice into the debris. Archamus turned and strode back across the chamber, his warriors falling into formation around him as he made for the entrance on the other side of the chamber.
‘Their lighter was located and destroyed,’ said Kestros, ‘and the cut-off unit is in place to block them. Either way they are trapped.’
‘Never a wise assumption to make with the Alpha Legion,’ Archamus said, and gave the younger warrior a hard look. He halted beside what remained of Dowager-son Hyrakro. Steaming liquid and ash was seeping from the scraps of the man’s void suit.
Another figure lay nearby, with a Legion Apothecary knelt beside him. The man’s right arm had been blown to ash below the elbow. Archamus’ bionic hand twitched instinctively at the sight of the smoking stump. The human began to convulse as Archamus looked at him, b
lack pupils contracting in white, iris-less eyes.
‘I... I can...’ gasped the figure, limbs thrashing against the floor.
The Apothecary keyed the controls to the narthecium on his wrist. A silver needle snapped out of its casing, and he stabbed it into the human’s chest. The man’s convulsions weakened. His head lolled, eyes unfocused.
‘Will he survive?’ asked Archamus.
‘He will,’ said the Apothecary.
‘I can...’ said the man, the words falling slowly from his lips. ‘I can help you. I know... I know...’
His eyes flickered half shut, and he let out a slow breath as the drugs took hold of him and pulled him down into quiet. Archamus watched as the man’s eyelids slid completely closed.
I know...
‘They broke through the cut-off squad.’ Kestros’ voice cut into his thoughts.
‘Broke through?’
‘Slaughtered them all. Sotaro’s dead. There must have been more than the lone warrior and human we saw. The Unbreakable Truth is coming in fast, but it is saying that a lighter launched into the void and is making for the sunward dust clouds.’
‘They had a contingency,’ snarled Archamus.
‘Always a fair assumption to make with the Alpha Legion,’ said Kestros, and Archamus felt a rebuke rising to his lips, before he bit it off.
‘Bring the ship in,’ he growled. ‘Full speed to cut off the lighter.’
‘They are already moving, but they say that it is unlikely that they will be able to intercept the target. They are detecting engine flare from the edge of the dust cloud the lighter is making for. A ship, small but fast.’
They had needed to withdraw the Unbreakable Truth to a distance where it would be out of range of enemy vessels bringing their quarry to the artefact. That necessity also meant that the vessel was now too far out to run down a fast ship. He had known this was a risk when he had planned the ambush, but there were always risks.
He looked down at the human at his feet, now slumped in a drug-induced coma.
I know...
