‘There is more, of course. I expect to have three times this amount before I am done.’
‘Emperor’s teeth!’ snapped Godric. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on? Every inch of this hive is crawling with heretic scum. Even if they don’t find us down here, we have to get past them to find an extraction point. There has to be another way.’
‘Negative, sergeant. You have seen my servitors – they will form a guard of honour for our labours. In three days’ time we will take our work to the abandoned factory outside the walls of the hive, where my servitors will secure a perimeter and we can await extraction. Given the nature of the cargo, I am sure no effort will be spared.’
The magos’s logic was sound, if a little hopeful – Godric had no faith in the servitors’ ability to hold off a determined foe for long.
‘Any vox-cast we send to the fleet will be intercepted, so we only get one shot. That means three days is too long, magos. If we wait that long, the war will be over and the fleet will have abandoned us to our fate. We may be the best, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t expendable.’
The magos’s working audibly whirred and clicked as he considered this.
‘Then you will take what you can, and we will hold off the enemy until you return. There are Adeptus Astartes present, yes? They will surely suffice…’ He trailed off, distracted by the arrival of the two gun servitors that had been left in the control room.
‘You were not summoned. Return to your posts.’
The emergency lumens flickered and went out, and the room was lit by the muzzle flash from the servitors’ heavy bolters. The storm troopers scattered, flicking down their visors to activate the night-fighting settings, and returning fire before Godric could even give the order. The servitors proved difficult to take down with their armoured bodies, but a salvo from Ishmael’s plasma gun ended the fracas. Alarms sounded and blood-red lights flickered to life.
Godric quickly surveyed the scene. One of Tarvin’s soldiers was dead. The magos was injured, but was already heaving himself to his feet. Kraster had taken a glancing hit as a heavy round had exploded near to his head, and his visor was smashed apart. He indicated that he was all right – a few more scars wouldn’t hurt that face. Most importantly of all, some of the template material had been damaged. At least one thick ledger burned, and the contents of the crates were scattered across the floor. The servo-scribes lay lifeless, as if deactivated.
‘What’s going on? Is this what your “army” can do?’ roared Godric.
‘Negative. We are under attack. I must reach the control room. You must protect the STC!’
Godric barked an order to his men to join Vilkas at the complex entrance, and helped the magos back to the control room. In the half-light the magos worked to bring one of the ancient consoles to life. No sooner had he done so, than a scream of amplified feedback echoed through the corridors, as defunct communication devices seemed to activate of their own accord. The screech was replaced by a static hiss, followed by a sinister, booming voice that everyone in the complex could here.
‘Worms. Insects. Lapdogs of the False Emperor. Did you think you were safe? Did you think we would not find you? I see you. I see your doom!’
Something in the voice set Godric’s teeth on edge. Never had he heard such malice. It made him angry. If anyone was going to make threats, it would be him.
‘Magos, where’s that signal coming from?’
‘Unclear. But whatever it is, it also has control of my servitors. My devices are not responding. My blessed machines are corrupted and… No!’ If the magos’s mechanical voice was capable of sounding afraid, it would have done at that moment. Godric saw the dials and screens that the magos had been working on flickering and oscillating uncontrollably.
‘The enemy is activating the STC through my equipment. No, no, no! Omnissiah, preserve us!’
‘Magos, take hold of yourself. Use your skill and fight back. I’ll get my men to take every hard copy we have and get to the extraction point. Seal this place behind us and hold out until we return.’
‘Negative. This malign interference… It is too powerful. There is only once course of action, though I may be cursed forevermore.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘There is evil here. An ancient evil, that seeks to corrupt the STC to its own ends. I must activate the power core and destroy the complex. Logic dictates that there is no other recourse.’
Godric was at a loss. To be party to the destruction of an STC system, even one as damaged and infirm as this, was tantamount to heresy. But on the other hand, to let such a system fall into enemy hands would be worse. He knew what he had to do.
In minutes he had gathered his men together, and had them stowing every hard copy they could lay their hands on into packs and pouches. They would have to discard valuable ammunition to make room for data-crystals and loose parchments, but each of those objects had the potential to be worth their lives a hundred times over.
As they made for the exit of the chamber that had provided safe haven for such a short time, Godric turned back to Magos Korech once more. The tech-priest worked furiously, the mechadendrites that had once made him look like a hunchback now free and whipping around him, turning dials and interfacing with a machine of unfathomable complexity. The magos did not acknowledge Godric – his course of action was set, and he would see the complex destroyed.
Outside the complex, the Hell’s Rejects had expected enemy forces to be waiting for them, but instead they were met by ominous silence and pitch darkness. They manned the lumens once more – the dormant servitors still stood around the cavern, waiting for an order from their master that would never come. But with the threat of outside manipulation of these mechanical workers looming, the storm troopers were edgy.
‘How proud you must be to have served your Emperor so well.’ The voice came suddenly; it reverberated around the cavern, deep and ominous. The storm troopers shone lights around them, but could see no signs of movement.
‘Show yourself!’ Godric barked.
‘Gladly,’ said the voice. ‘But first, Sergeant Godric, why don’t you and your men lower your weapons? I am alone, after all. I only want the opportunity to parley.’
‘If you know me, then you must have access to restricted information. I must assume you are an enemy until proven otherwise. Show yourself.’ How did the enemy know his name?
‘You leave me little choice, it seems.’
No sooner had the voice fallen silent than the clanking of heavy machinery and the whirring of gyros filled the air. The cacophony was sudden and violent, and the storm troopers recoiled, weapons at the ready. Then, from the shadows, the black shapes of the servitors began to slope and shuffle forwards, as though the darkness itself had come alive. Glowing red eyes flickered into life, fixing the Guardsmen with impassive gazes.
The servitors advanced, mechanical arms grasping for the nearest storm troopers. As the first gun-servitor levelled a heavy stubber at the squad, Trooper Joachim opened fire. The reactionary shot sparked a fire-frenzy. The storm troopers unleashed volley after volley. Some broke through the Guardsmen’s defensive line and were met by Valdimar, who set about three servitors with a metal bar almost as tall as himself, knocking them backwards with great sweeping blows. Tarek and Kraster cleared a path for Siegfried, who levelled his flamer and washed a swathe of servitors with cleansing fire, melting flesh from metal skeletons. Despite these efforts, a servitor with a huge grasping claw took hold of McLeod, yanking him backwards towards the shadows. Godric stepped forward this time, lopping off its metal claw at the elbow with his power sword. He pulled McLeod behind cover.
‘Regroup!’ he yelled. ‘We have what we came for – fighting withdrawal!’
The storm troopers formed a loose line, edging back towards the higher ground from where they had entered, firing at the servitors with well-placed shots. Just as soon as they reached the edge of the excavation pit, the servitors stopped their advan
ce. Joachim was the last to fire a shot, and looked apologetically at his sergeant.
‘Keep going, stop for nothing!’ roared Godric.
‘Why the hurry?’ The voice again; and accompanying it, the thrum of a generator signalled the activation of low-level emergency lighting. The servitors stood outlined in the dull orange light. There were more of them than the storm troopers had first thought – at least thirty now stood in and around the pit, a dozen lying prone or destroyed in the cold earth, and scores more standing behind, sluggishly awakening, ready to join the fight. As one, the storm troopers turned, realising that the voice had come from behind them.
Godric’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. The stranger stood between them and the exit ramp. He was a towering figure, clad in archaic power armour. A ragged cowl was pulled over his face, but could not disguise the glint of metal beneath and the bionic eye that glowed like a hot coal. He brandished a massive chainsword in his right hand, and a bolt pistol was holstered at his hip. His deep blue armour was battered and worn, covered in studs, grime and gruesome trophies – yet the insignia emblazoned on his shoulder pad was plain to see – a many-headed snake in bright green.
‘It is sad, is it not, when one’s best-laid plans do not bear fruit?’ said the Space Marine. ‘If this world is to be lost, I will at least take the STC. The damnation of this planet and the capture of such a prize will be some small consolation to me. Hand them over, and I may yet grant you an easy death.’
For a moment, no one spoke, and no one moved. But defiance swelled from the pit of Godric’s stomach. His faith in the Emperor overwhelmed his fear, and his indignation at the presence of such a blasphemy fuelled his rage.
‘Traitor Space Marine!’ he cried. ‘Hell’s Rejects – take him down!’
The hail of las-fire lit the cavern like sheets of lightning, and yet the enemy advanced, shielding his face with a power-armoured gauntlet and powering up his chainsword. As he stepped forward, so too did the growing crowd of servitors – the storm troopers were trapped.
‘Siegfried, Valdimar, hold those servitors off. Everyone else, kill the traitor! Protect the STC!’
The two troopers peeled off from the line and turned on the servitors. Great gouts of flame issued from Siegfried’s flamer, while Valdimar laid down relentless salvos of las-fire. The others focused on the Chaos Space Marine, but their desperation grew as their weapons barely slowed their hulking adversary. Even when a round seemed to pierce his power armour, he kept coming like a juggernaut of destruction. Suddenly he was amidst the storm troopers, hacking with his massive chainsword. Joachim was the first to fall. As viscera sprayed the earth, the Hell’s Rejects scattered. Kraster tried to level his lasgun at the back of the Space Marine’s head at point-blank range, but the foe had preternatural instincts and the trooper was decapitated by a backwards swing of the chainsword before he could pull the trigger. The bolt pistol was in the Space Marine’s other hand now, and even as Thyrus shouted a string of obscenities at the enemy, an explosive round buried itself into his chest and opened his ribcage.
With desperation verging on madness, Godric took up his power sword and launched himself at the foe. His powerful strike was met by an even more powerful riposte. The energy of Godric’s weapon could not best the Astartes-pattern chainsword, and the force of the blow jarred Godric’s arm. As seasoned a veteran as he was, the sergeant knew he could not win this fight. Even as he contemplated defeat, the Space Marine’s right foot slammed into his chest, knocking him to the ground and driving the breath out of him. Godric looked around, his bionic eye overcoming his blurred vision and shattered visor. The Space Marine was already over him, ignoring the attentions of the remaining Hell’s Rejects, and raising his chainsword for the killing blow. The weapon arced through the air towards him – to Godric it seemed to be in slow motion. Then salvation came.
Sorokin had drawn his own blades, and his adamantine sword interjected the arc of the Space Marine’s chainsword, diverting the blow harmlessly to the ground beside Godric. The traitor Space Marine thought for an instant of ignoring this new annoyance, but Sorokin’s shorter blade followed through with a strike that found a weak spot in the Space Marine’s armour where a hot-shot blast had struck home. The Chaos Space Marine roared with pain and fury as the blade pierced his side, and spun around to swipe at his assailant, but Sorokin darted aside, and held up his swords in salute. This was the moment he had been born for. This son of Vostroya had waited his whole life to live up to his late father’s legacy.
‘Go,’ he shouted to Godric. ‘Go now.’ Then he turned to the traitor, and screamed at the top of his lungs, ‘For the Emperor!’
‘My sentiments exactly,’ replied the traitor, his booming voice thick with irony.
The traitor took the bait. And yet even Sorokin, with his immense skill at arms, could not hope to withstand the power of a Space Marine. Godric was pulled to his feet by Ishmael and McLeod, and in that instant Sorokin was already flagging. The speed of the giant was inconceivable, and Sorokin dared not trade blows with his adversary directly for fear of his prodigious strength.
‘Come on, sir, we have to go!’ cried McLeod.
Ishmael shouted for Valdimar and Siegfried to follow. Tarvin and his men were nowhere to be seen. Godric could not blame them for running from the Traitor Space Marine. He knew that he should have done the same.
Siegfried heeded the call to retreat. His flamer was out of promethium and had been discarded – he now fired his laspistol at anything that moved, and clubbed at nearby servitors with its grip when they came to close. Valdimar also came running. The big man was wounded, but alive. As Godric’s orders died in the din of the fighting, Valdimar made for the exit, but as he did so he was caught in the grip of a gyro-strengthened arm. A servitor had him in its grasp, and even as Valdimar struggled to shake free, others came. Soon Valdimar was buried beneath four servitors, then five, then six. For a moment it looked as though his lauded strength would see him break loose, as he staggered to his feet, knocking two of the servitors aside; but before any of the remaining Hell’s Rejects could reach him, he was brought low again by more of the mindless cyborgs, and didn’t rise again.
Godric ordered McLeod to make for the exit, with Ishmael in support. He chanced one last look back at Sorokin, who had fought valiantly against a foe that was beyond him, and was now paying the price.
Sorokin had been clipped by the whirring blades of the traitor’s chainsword, and in a split second his arm was cleaved from his body. Sorokin went down on his knees with a cry of pain. Godric was consumed by rage, but was powerless in the face of the foe. The sergeant knew Sorokin was lost, but his bionic eye showed him the hidden facts – the grenades on Sorokin’s belt were primed and ready to detonate. Godric saw the tide of blood-soaked servitors scrabbling towards him, and duty to the Imperium had to come first. With a heavy heart he bundled Siegfried, McLeod and Ishmael through the exit. They raced through the cramped engineering tunnels once more. Servitors awoke from their long slumber and grasped at them from the walls, whilst the tunnels reverberated to the sounds of Sorokin’s final screams, followed by the deafening report of three krak grenades exploding.
The four Hell’s Rejects crashed through the exit, and were back on the surface. The bombs still dropped, albeit closer now. The bulkhead behind them reverberated to the sound of hammer-blows from thwarted servitors.
‘McLeod, I want a vox-cast now! Locate us an extraction point.’
‘Godric…’ came another voice nearby. Godric looked around for a new enemy, and saw only Tarvin and one of his men, shot to pieces. Tarvin still lived, just barely.
‘What happened?’ asked Godric, stooping down to speak to the dying soldier.
‘A-Ambush,’ he said, coughing on his own blood. ‘Private Vilkas… he went with them. He went with the renegades. We… we refused to betray the Emperor.’
Godric shook his head. He had been so confident of victory, and now all around him was death
and treachery.
‘You have done your duty, captain. Be strong.’
‘No… No, sir. I have kept something from you. I must repent…’ said Tarvin, almost whispering now. ‘We knew something was wrong. We… we suspected Marchinus was… was in contact with an unknown enemy. The men… they began to talk of defection. Some went into… into the wastes. The corruption runs deep, sergeant. I let my duty to my lord cloud my judgement.’
‘You should have told me, Tarvin.’
‘The Alpha Legion told us that it would come to this; that the Imperium would reject us and destroy our world. But even though… my hive lies… sundered, my family dead, I will not believe that they are right. But by my inaction, I… I failed the Emperor.’
‘The enemy’s words are twisted,’ said Godric.
‘I-I am sorry.’ With that, the life left Tarvin’s body.
‘Come on sir, the vox-cast is sent,’ said McLeod. ‘The enemy will have heard it too – we have to get out of here.’
The ramp to landing pad was only yards away. The sound of the explosions from the orbital bombardment was deafening.
Godric, Ishmael, Siegfried and McLeod had made it to the extraction point, harried all the way by hive cultists. They were two miles from the hive now, amidst a vast field of towering processing units. Kovos Rising still dominated the skyline behind them, but now it was aflame. Thick smoke obscured the sky above them, creating a ceiling of black, undulating coils that blotted the sun. The remaining Hell’s Rejects had climbed to the cargo pad, and were now on the final sky-gantry between them and salvation. The vox-cast sent by McLeod had ended with one simple message: Data recovered. Evidence of heretical influence overwhelming. Corruption of officials impossible to rule out. Extraction requested. Recommend purge of Kovos Rising.
Hammer and Bolter: Issue Twenty-Six Page 3
