Fallen Angels

by Mike Lee

  The magos paused. One of his acolytes raised his hooded head slightly and let out an atonal squawk of code. Archoi burbled a reply in binaric, then said, ‘As Governor Kulik pointed out, all of our lesser forges were seized by the enemy, and their defenders were slain. Fighting around the southern entrance to the primary forge was also very heavy, and our garrison suffered serious losses. At this point we can muster only one thousand, two hundred and twelve skitarii.’

  Nemiel saw Kulik grind his teeth at the offhand assessment, but the governor wisely chose to hold his choler in check.

  ‘Thank you, magos,’ Jonson said, taking control of the conversation again. ‘For my part, I can muster one hundred and eighty-seven veteran Astartes for the planet’s defence. I’m still waiting on damage assessments from my battle group commanders, but it’s clear that all of my surviving vessels have sustained moderate to severe levels of damage, and all of them are low on stocks of fuel, ordnance and ammunition.’

  Magos Archoi bowed to the primarch. ‘The full resources of our forge are at your service, Primarch Jonson,’ he said. ‘We can begin resupplying your ships and effecting repairs immediately.’

  ‘Providing you’re resupplied and the proper repairs are made, can your ships repel the next attack?’ Kulik asked.

  Jonson considered his reply. ‘It’s unlikely,’ he admitted. ‘We’ll hold them off as long as we can, but my ships are in no condition for a protracted battle. Keep in mind, however, that time is not on Horus’s side. He knows that a huge force of Astartes is on the way to attack Isstvan, and could arrive here at any time in the next few weeks. Every day we can hold him off brings us that much closer to victory.’

  ‘If all we have to do is dig in our heels and make the bastards pay for every kilometre, that’s something we’ve had a lot of experience with,’ Kulik said grimly.

  ‘And we’ll be right beside you every step of the way,’ Jonson said with a nod. He turned to Magos Archoi. ‘There is a great deal of planning to discuss,’ he began. ‘May I make a small request, magos?’

  ‘Naturally you may, primarch,’ Archoi replied.

  Jonson smiled. ‘What I require most right now is information,’ he began. ‘Specifically, I need an accounting of the materiel that the rebels succeeded in removing from your forges, as well as an inventory of what remains, and where it is stored.’

  Archoi didn’t reply for several moments. Kulik turned to regard the magos, his expression intent.

  ‘Your request is problematic,’ the magos said at last. ‘The lesser forges were almost completely destroyed, and a great deal of data storage was lost.’

  Jonson raised a placating hand. ‘Of course, magos. I see your point,’ he said. ‘If you could just provide an inventory of the materiel still stored at the primary forge site, that would be sufficient.’

  The magos bowed. ‘Thank you for your understanding, primarch,’ he replied. ‘I will instruct my acolytes to begin compiling the data at once.’

  The primarch smiled, but his eyes were calculating. ‘My thanks, Magos Archoi,’ he said. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to the needs of my brethren. We will meet again tomorrow to begin discussing an integrated defence plan.’

  Magos Archoi bowed deeply to the primarch and withdrew quickly, exchanging a flurry of code with his acolytes as he disappeared into the deep shadows beyond the audience space. Governor Kulik levered himself awkwardly to his feet, waving away the hands of the hovering chirurgeon. He inclined his head respectfully to Jonson, who nodded at the wounded man in return and watched him limp off into the gloom. After the governor had left, the primarch turned to Nemiel.

  ‘What do you make of them?’ he asked.

  The question surprised Nemiel. He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. ‘Governor Kulik seems like a brave and honourable man,’ he replied. ‘How many planetary rulers have we met who cower in their palaces and send better men to die on their behalf?’ ‘Well, his palace was blown to bits,’ Jonson observed.

  Nemiel chuckled. ‘He could have fled to the hills with his people, but he didn’t. He honoured his oaths, and that counts for something.’ Jonson nodded. ‘Do you think we can trust him?’

  The Redemptor frowned. He studied the primarch’s impassive face. Was Jonson making another joke? ‘I… believe so,’ he said after a moment. ‘How could it possibly profit him to betray us now?’

  The primarch gave him a faintly exasperated look. ‘Nemiel, the governor did well enough against Horus’s cannon fodder, I’ll grant you that,’ he said. ‘But the Warmaster won’t just send auxiliaries next time. We’ll almost certainly be facing other Astartes as well. How do you imagine he’ll react then?’

  Nemiel frowned. It was still difficult to imagine the idea of fighting a brother Astartes. The very thought of it filled him with dread. ‘Governor Kulik is no coward,’ he said confidently. ‘He’ll fight, regardless of the odds. It’s in his nature.’

  Jonson nodded to himself, and Nemiel saw that he seemed actually relieved by the observation. Could the primarch actually have a difficult time reading someone as forthright as Kulik? Was this the same individual who united all of Caliban in a crusade against the great beasts?

  But then it hit Nemiel; Jonson hadn’t united Caliban. The plan was his but the person who convinced the knightly orders and the noble families to put aside their ancient traditions and unite under Jonson’s banner was Luther. It had been his oratorial skills, his personal charisma and sense of diplomacy, and above all his keen insight into human nature that had allowed him to forge the grand alliance that had changed the face of Caliban. Jonson, by contrast, had spent his early years alone, living like an animal in the depths of the Northwilds, one of the most forbidding and inaccessible wildernesses on the planet. He didn’t say a word for the first few months at Aldurukh, and was always considered cold and aloof even in later years. He was thought of as an intellectual and a scholar, and Nemiel knew that to be true, but now he also wondered if Lion El’Jonson, the superhuman son of the Emperor himself, could not relate to the people around him. He could predict how they would behave on the battlefield to an uncanny degree, but he couldn’t tell an honourable man from a craven one. Are we all ciphers to him, the Redemptor wondered? If Jonson had so little in common with humanity, what did that make him?

  Nemiel realised abruptly that Jonson was staring at him. He shifted uncomfortably. ‘My apologies, lord,’ he said. ‘Did you say something?’ ‘I asked you for your impression of Magos Archoi,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ Nemiel replied. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what to make of him. How can a man willingly part with his own flesh and replace it with cold, unfeeling metal and plastek? It seems unnatural to me.’

  ‘You mean like Captain Stenius? I think he rather appreciates having a pair of working eyes,’ Jonson said wryly.

  ‘That’s different, my lord. Stenius lost his sight in battle. They were taken from him, not willingly thrown away.’

  Jonson nodded. ‘So you think we can’t trust him?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think about him, lord. That’s what I’m saying,’ He sighed. ‘I confess I might be a little biased as well, after our first encounter.’

  Jonson nodded. ‘Understandable,’ he said. ‘How is Brother Yung?’

  ‘The Apothecaries are tending him now,’ Nemiel replied. ‘He suffered severe internal injuries, and his body went into stasis almost immediately.’ As part of their extensive physical and genetic modifications, all Astartes possessed the ability to survive even the worst physical injuries by entering a kind of voluntary coma that focused the body’s energies on basic survival. ‘The chirurgeon says that he will heal, but there’s no chance he’ll be returning to action in the next few months.’

  ‘And the rest of the squad?’

  Nemiel shrugged. ‘Numerous minor injuries, but that’s to be expected. Brother Ephrial is having his knee mended now, and will be fit for duty again within twelve hours.’ He grinned. ‘Just don’t send
us into battle any time in the next week or so, or half of us will be fighting in our surplices.’

  Jonson returned the grin. ‘I think I can manage that,’ he said, then rose from the chair. ‘Go and get some rest. Give your body some time to recover. We’ll begin planning in earnest on the morrow.’

  Nemiel bowed to the primarch and made to withdraw, but something he recalled from the previous conversation made him pause. ‘My lord?’

  Jonson had already padded silently into the shadows. Nemiel saw him turn, silhouetted against the crimson light streaming through the portside viewports. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Why did you request that inventory from Magos Archoi?’ he said without preamble.

  The primarch stiffened slightly. ‘I should think it obvious,’ he replied. ‘If we’re to devise an effective battle plan against the rebels we will need a full accounting of our supplies and all available assets.’

  Nemiel nodded. ‘Yes, of course, my lord. It’s entirely understandable. Only…’ he paused. ‘The request troubled the magos considerably. In these difficult times, with the Warmaster in open revolt and armies on the march, it’s easy to misunderstand the intent behind such a request.’

  Jonson did not reply at first. He stared at Nemiel from the shadows, his powerful body completely still. ‘I’m not a brigand, Nemiel,’ he said, his voice quiet and cold.

  The Redemptor bowed his head. ‘Of course not, my lord,’ he said, feeling foolish now for bringing the matter up in the first place. ‘I didn’t mean that at all. But Archoi and Governor Kulik have already suffered a great deal at the hands of Horus’s men. No one knows whom to trust anymore.’

  Jonson’s gaze bored into Nemiel. ‘Do you trust me, Nemiel?’ the primarch asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Nemiel replied.

  ‘Then rest,’ Jonson said. ‘And leave Archoi and Kulik to me.’

  The primarch turned away, gliding like a forest cat into the darkness. Nemiel watched him go, a feeling of unease sinking into his stomach.

  TWELVE

  AWFUL TRUTHS

  Caliban

  In the 200th year of the Emperor’s Great Crusade

  HORROR AND REVULSION threatened to overwhelm Zahariel. He cried out in rage at the vision of evil before him – and then his senses shifted yet again.

  Pale light bathed the corridor, swelling from the bodies of his brother Astartes and the twisted monstrosities that they fought. Between one eye-blink and the next, the world had slowed near to a standstill, transforming the desperate battle into a kind of grim tableaux. Zahariel could see through the bodies of friend and foe alike; he saw hearts beating and veins coursing sluggishly with hot blood. He could see the black ichor suffusing the bodies of the terrible worms, and the foul corruption that spread within them. One of the monsters had seized brother Attias, wrapping around his torso and clamping its mandibles about his steel-encased skull. Within the creature’s mouth was a long, needle-pointed spike of bone, sheathed in a powerful bundle of muscle that propelled it forward with the force of a bullet aimed at the back of Attias’s head. A hollow channel within the bony needle pulsed with foul venom.

  Zahariel’s horror was transformed into pure, righteous rage. He summoned the fury of the warp and swept his staff in a wide arc, hurling tendrils of searing white fire towards every creature he could see. Like thunderbolts, they sank through the monsters’ flesh and boiled the liquid within. The Librarian felt his veins freeze and his hearts clench in agony, and the world snapped back into motion once more.

  A dozen of the creatures exploded, showering the squad with shattered chitin and a mist of stinking ichor. Zahariel reeled backwards, stunned by the intensity of his vision. Terrorsight, Israfael called it. He’d only experienced it once before, when he’d fought the Calibanite Lion. For that one instant, he had extended his consciousness partly into the warp. The coils of his psychic hood were so cold they seared his skin. He shuddered to think what might have happened had he exposed himself to the tainted energies inside the passageway without the hood’s protection.

  The darkness within the corridor was lit with muzzle flashes as the squad rallied against the armoured worms’ sudden assault. Chapter Master Astelan was still on his feet, blasting two of the monsters to pieces with well-aimed shots from his pistol and slicing another in half with a swipe of his chainsword. Brother Gideon leapt to his feet, shrugging off the body of the worm he’d killed and chopping apart another that had latched onto a fellow warrior’s back. Attias charged forward to help free another fallen comrade, his fearsome skull-face lit by the hellish flames of pistol fire.

  With a fierce cry, Zahariel hurled himself into the fight. He focused his rage on the force staff in his hands, wreathing it in a crackling aura of psychic power. Every worm he struck was incinerated in a flash of blue fire and a sizzling clap of thunder that hurled their shattered husks into the air. He destroyed a half-dozen of the worms in as many seconds, and then as suddenly as it had begun, the battle was over. The Astartes stood in a rough circle, facing outwards, their armour scarred and dented and their pistols smoking. The blue haze of bolt propellant hung in the thick air around them, and the smashed bodies of more than a score of worms lay about their feet. Several of the Astartes bore minor wounds, but none of them had fallen prey to the worms’ fearsome stingers.

  ‘What are these creatures?’ Zahariel asked, probing one of the corpses with the butt of his staff.

  ‘Reaver worms,’ Astelan said, nudging one of the dead creatures with his boot. ‘We used to hunt them when I was a child, but where I come from they never grow much longer than half a metre.’

  Zahariel had heard of reaver worms, like most Calibanite children, but had never seen one. They were a menace to human settlements all over Caliban, transforming small animals and livestock into living incubators for their eggs. The worms would wrap themselves around their victim’s neck, driving their stinger into the prey’s spine and injecting it with a tremendous amount of neurotoxin. The venom destroyed higher brain functions, leaving the autonomic functions intact and making the victim’s nervous system hyper-conductive. Still attached to the victim, the worm then secreted enzymes into the prey’s spinal chord that gave it rudimentary control of its motor functions. The worm would then literally drive the prey back to its communal nest, where the still-living victim would be injected with eggs by the nest’s queen. Occasionally the worms would find their way into fresh human graves and try to make off with the corpse, much to the horror of the deceased’s relatives. His skin crawled at the thought of the worm that had clamped onto his helmet, and the dagger-like stinger that had tried to punch its way into the back of his skull.

  ‘I think we know what happened to the Jaegers,’ he said grimly. ‘And probably most of the labourers besides.’

  ‘Most of them?’ Astelan said.

  ‘A worm didn’t send the radio transmission to Aldurukh,’ Zahariel said.

  ‘Emperor protect us,’ the chapter master hissed in disgust.

  ‘It’s been done before,’ Attias said. ‘The Knights of Lupus turned their beasts on us, remember?’

  ‘But the Knights of Lupus are no more,’ Astelan said sharply. ‘And the great beasts driven to extinction. So where did these vile things come from?’

  ‘That’s not important right now,’ Zahariel said, eager to change the subject. ‘If the worms carried off the bodies of the Jaegers, it means they’ve got a nest and an egg-laying queen down here.’

  Astelan nodded in agreement. ‘The queens are much larger than the drones,’ he warned.

  ‘Then she must be up ahead, near the thermal core,’ Zahariel declared. He checked the load in his bolt pistol, then holstered it and pulled a frag grenade from his belt. ‘Grenades first, then we charge. I’ll take the lead. Any questions?’

  There were none, of course. The warriors of the squad had their orders. The Astartes returned to their formation and readied their weapons without hesitation. Zahariel took Astelan’s place at th
e head of the group and set off down the corridor at a swift pace. As he did, he summoned his power once more and sent it questing down the passageway ahead. He sensed more worms waiting in ambush at the far end of the corridor and lashed the monsters with a wave of psychic energy. A hideous screeching filled the air, and powerful, armoured bodies burst from the concealing roots, thrashing in their death agonies. Zahariel struck them again, channelling every ounce of his rage into the blast, and the worms became shrieking pyres of purple and indigo flame.

  Zahariel primed the grenade in his hand. ‘For the Emperor!’ he cried, and hurled it down the corridor. Nine more grenades followed an instant later, flashing past his head in flat, precise arcs to detonate just beyond the entrance to the core chamber. More shrieking rent the air as shrapnel scythed through the creatures hiding around the entranceway. Zahariel answered them with a furious shout of his own and broke into a run, his force staff blazing like a firebrand.

  A swarm of reaver worms awaited their charge, ready to defend their nest. The Librarian hurled a torrent of psychic flame into their midst, immolating a score of the creatures and stunning the rest. He and his brothers crashed a moment later, and the battle was joined in earnest. Zahariel swept his force staff in a crackling arc and killed two worms lunging at him from the right. Another monster struck from the left, fixing its mandibles about his ceramite pauldron; in one swift motion he drew his bolt pistol and decapitated the creature with a single, well-aimed shot. Around him, chainswords howled and bolt pistols hammered as the Angels of Death slaughtered their foes.

  The chamber was a huge, man-made cavern that rose to a curved, dome-like ceiling thirty metres above their heads. The huge cylinder of the thermal core itself dominated the centre of the chamber, rising from a bore that had been drilled more than five hundred metres into the bedrock of the planet and disappearing through an opening at the apex of the dome, where it carried geothermal heat to power exchange units that supplied the rest of the plant.