Fallen Angels

by Mike Lee

  Nemiel was busier than he’d ever been. When he wasn’t managing repair and resupply schedules or fielding requests from the captains of the battle group he was shuttling down to the planet’s surface to help supervise the construction of defensive positions throughout the grey zone and implementing Jonson’s organisational changes to the planetary defence force. He ate little and slept even less, devoting his full energy and attention to every task that was put in front of him. The officers of the fleet and members of Kulik’s staff commented on his dedication and zeal, and held him up as an inspiration to the men under their command. Nemiel would wave away their praise. He was merely setting a proper example, he would say, as any Chaplain ought.

  In truth, he consumed himself with work because it kept his growing doubts at bay. He couldn’t help but think about his conversation with Jonson, and his evasive replies. The primarch wasn’t a brigand, Nemiel knew; he hadn’t come all the way to Diamat to sack its forges, as Horus’s men had done. Yet he couldn’t shake the notion that Jonson wasn’t telling him the entire truth, and that went against everything Nemiel thought that the Legion stood for.

  More than once, he found himself wishing that Luther and Zahariel were still with them. He found himself sorely missing his cousin’s unwavering idealism.

  It was late in the day when the primarch summoned Nemiel to his sanctum. He found Jonson seated at his favourite spot, beneath the towering viewports along the port side of the chamber. Red light shone along the side of Jonson’s face as he bent over a series of aerial images spread atop a low, wooden table. He glanced up at the Redemptor’s approach.

  ‘There you are, Nemiel,’ he said tersely, gathering the images together into a small stack. ‘You’ve been keeping yourself scarce of late.’ ‘Not by design, my lord,’ Nemiel replied guardedly. ‘There’s a great deal to be done before the rebels return.’

  Jonson grunted in agreement. ‘True enough.’ He looked up at Nemiel again and smiled. ‘Wipe that guilty look off your face, Nemiel. I wasn’t accusing you of anything.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘What’s the current status of the battle group?’

  Nemiel relaxed a bit, glad to be back on familiar terrain. ‘Our scout force has nearly completed resupply and will be ready for operations within five hours,’ he reported from memory. ‘The strike cruisers Amadis and Adzikel have finished their most critical repairs and have begun re-loading their stores of ammunition and ordnance. Replacement Stormbirds have arrived from the surface to replace those lost in combat. The heavy cruisers Flamberge and Lord Dante report all repairs complete, and they expect to finish resupply within the hour.’ He paused. ‘Iron Duke reports that all of her weapon batteries are back in action, but damage to her hull is so extensive she’ll need to be dry-docked to effect any meaningful repairs. The crew of Duchess Arbellatris has been working day and night, and Captain Rashid insists that she can be returned to action within a few weeks, but the tech-adepts assigned to her believe that the ship is a lost cause.’

  ‘Inform Captain Rashid that he has forty-eight hours to do what he can; if the ship isn’t capable of standing in the battle line by then, she will have to be abandoned and her crew reassigned to the other ships in the group,’ Jonson said. ‘That’s all the time we can afford.’

  ‘Have there been any new developments?’ Nemiel said, suddenly alert.

  The primarch shook his head. ‘Not yet. But based on the distance between systems and the minimum amount of time I estimate Horus would need to assemble another fleet and send it on its way, the rebels could arrive in the system imminently. The Warmaster must attack again as soon as possible, or he won’t have enough time to strip the forge of its resources and put them to use back on Isstvan.’

  Jonson held up the small stack of images. ‘Which brings us to this.’

  He held the images out to Nemiel. The Redemptor took them and began looking them over. ‘These look like aerial images of the forge complex,’ he said with a scowl.

  ‘Specifically the warehouse and depot facilities along the southern edge of the forge, closest to the gateway,’ Jonson confirmed. ‘You’ll note that a number of the buildings have been highlighted for ease of reference.’

  Nemiel’s scowl deepened. ‘I’m not sure I understand, my lord,’ he said, feeling suddenly uneasy.

  Jonson studied Nemiel in silence for a moment. ‘Magos Archoi hasn’t complied with my request for a full inventory of his stores,’ he said carefully. ‘Time is running out. Since he won’t give me the information I need, I’ll have to gather it another way.’

  ‘But… that’s not correct,’ Nemiel protested. ‘Archoi has provided detailed reports of the materiel he has on hand. I’ve seen them myself.’ The primarch’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘I have reason to believe that those reports are incomplete.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Nemiel pressed. His unease swelled until it threatened to become something akin to despair. ‘Why are we here, my lord? You claim that we’re here to stop Horus, but the logic of the situation and your own actions belie this. What else is there that has drawn you here?’

  Jonson straightened fractionally in his chair. His face was calm, but there was a steely edge in his green eyes. ‘Are you calling me a liar, Brother-Redemptor Nemiel?’ he asked.

  Nemiel’s breath caught in his throat. Suddenly he sensed the deadly precipice that now figuratively yawned at his feet. Yet he would be damned if he allowed himself to be intimidated into silence and compromise his sacred oaths – not even by the primarch himself. ‘Do you deny that you have a hidden motive for bringing us here?’ he said.

  The Redemptor boldly met the primarch’s imposing stare, ready to accept the consequences. Jonson glared at Nemiel a moment more, his expression calculating, before slowly nodding his head.

  ‘That was well done,’ Jonson allowed. ‘You have the makings of a good interrogator, I think.’ He spread his hands. ‘Diamat is important to the Warmaster for reasons other than ammunition and building materials,’ he said. ‘I judged that it was best to keep those reasons a secret, for purposes of operational security. Restriction of information isn’t the same thing as deception, Nemiel.’

  ‘I never said you’d lied to us, my lord,’ Nemiel pointed out. ‘But what possible good does it do to withhold vital information from your own warriors and allies?’

  Jonson frowned. ‘As a knight of the Order, I should think that would be obvious,’ he said. ‘Every facet of your training on Caliban was governed by custom, order and ritual. An aspirant could not become a novice until he’d passed certain tests to prove his knowledge, character and worthiness. Likewise, a novice could not rise to the ranks of knighthood without progressing through many ranks of knowledge and skill. Even upon reaching the coveted rank of knight, there were still degrees of initiation and rank that opened each warrior to new levels of knowledge and expertise, all the way to the lofty rank of Grand Master itself. Why was that so? Why didn’t the Masters begin inducting the novices straightaway into the Higher Mysteries?’

  ‘Because a novice wouldn’t know what to do with the training,’ Nemiel answered at once. ‘Not before mastering a great many basic skills first. Trying to employ those advanced tactics without the proper foundation would just get them killed.’

  The primarch smiled. ‘Precisely. Knowledge is power, Nemiel. Never forget that. And power, in the wrong hands, can inflict terrible harm.’

  Nemiel considered this. ‘I understand, my lord,’ he said at length. ‘Is there anything in particular I should be looking for?’

  Jonson studied him a moment longer, then nodded to himself. ‘Vehicles,’ he said. ‘Approximately six to eight of them; the references I saw were unclear on the exact number. They were reportedly built over a hundred and fifty years ago, and would likely have been placed into storage somewhere in the complex.’

  ‘What kind of vehicles?’ Nemiel asked.

  ‘War machines,’ Jonson replied. ‘Like nothing either of us have ever seen before.’


  Nemiel frowned. ‘But if the Mechanicum has these machines at their disposal, why aren’t they using them?’

  Jonson shrugged. ‘It’s possible that Archoi doesn’t know they’re here. Or the Mechanicum has decided to withhold them for their own use, much as they did with their skitarii.’ He raised a warning finger. ‘What’s important is that the Warmaster needs them, and we have to keep them out of his hands.’

  ‘How does the Horus know about these war machines?’ Nemiel asked.

  ‘How else?’ the primarch said. ‘He’s the one who commissioned them in the first place.’

  IT WAS A long and circuitous drive from the Xanthus star port to the southern entrance to the forge complex. Nemiel’s Rhino – fresh from the assembly lines at Diamat and still showing its black coat of manufactory primer – had to first head north, past a series of fortified checkpoints, then eastward through a literal maze of narrow streets. The tramway was no longer passable; over the last two weeks the entire length of the road had been sowed with mines, cut by permacrete tank barriers and festooned with kilometres of molly-wire. Heavy vehicles trying to force their way northeastward towards the forge would have to fight their way through one obstacle after another, all the while coming under fire from concealed bunkers on both the north and south sides of the tramway. The ash wastes to the south of the tramway were passable by infantry but not vehicles, and were covered by the Dragoons’ remaining artillery batteries. The only alternative was to press north and east, just as Nemiel’s Rhino had done, but the rebels would be forced to break through each set of checkpoints and then find a safe path through streets that had been riddled with mines, tank traps and more ambush points. Neither route was completely impassable, as the defenders knew, but breaching them would take a great deal of time – something the enemy had in short supply.

  The southern gateway had also seen heavy reinforcement since Nemiel had last been there. Work parties had expanded the walls on both sides of the tramway and refitted the destroyed weapon emplacements with new heavy guns taken from the forge. Archoi’s adepts had also installed remote sentry guns at strategic points along the walls, and a cadre of hulking skitarii stood watch over the battlements alongside Kulik’s Dragoons. Magos Archoi had proposed embedding skitarii units with the governor’s men and the Dark Angels alike to enhance their combat power, and the primarch saw the wisdom of the idea. Most of the skitarii were assigned to the under-strength Dragoons, who were given the responsibility of defending the tramway and the grey zone. The Dark Angels were to be held back in a mobile reserve, to reinforce key areas or deal with unexpected enemy attacks. The Dragoons spent their days labouring over their fortifications and then sleeping in them, while the Astartes had been assigned temporary quarters in a number of empty warehouses inside the forge complex, close to the gateway. A trio of skitarii Praetorians had been assigned to each squad for added reinforcement.

  Nemiel’s Rhino drew up to the gateway and ground to a halt in a billowing cloud of dust. Civilian workers wiped sweat from their eyes and peered through the haze as the Redemptor disembarked and worked his way through the reinforced permacrete barriers that had been laid in an alternating pattern between the towering bastions. Dragoons and skitarii alike watched Nemiel from the battlements; his gaze searched among them, looking for the helmeted heads of his squad.

  ‘Over here, brother!’ Kohl shouted, waving his arm from the top of the southern bastion. Nemiel waved in reply and headed up to join him. He found Kohl and Techmarine Askelon at the topmost level, supervising the installation of advanced ballistic calculators that would help the Dragoons call down effective artillery fire on the attacking rebels. A trio of fearsome-looking skitarii stood nearby, observing the proceedings with almost mechanical detachment.

  ‘Come to check up on us, brother?’ Kohl growled good-naturedly.

  Nemiel looked over the crew of Dragoons and fretful tech-adepts installing the sensitive machinery and managed a grin. ‘It’s been too quiet lately. The primarch believes you’re up to something.’

  Kohl grunted. ‘Always,’ he said, completely deadpan. ‘Tell him I’m touched by his concern.’

  The Redemptor glanced over at the skitarii. ‘How are the new squadmates?’ he asked.

  Kohl grimaced. ‘Not much for conversation, other than that strange hash that Askelon insists is speech,’ he said. ‘Mostly they just stand around and stare at everything.’

  ‘Has Magos Archoi got them billeted with you?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Kohl replied. His tone was mild, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes of his unhappiness about the situation. ‘Second Company is spread out among three adjoining warehouses, about half a kilometre from here.’

  Nemiel nodded thoughtfully. That was going to complicate things a little. ‘Where’s the rest of the squad right now?’ ‘Over at the north bastion,’ Kohl replied, ‘helping teach some new recruits how to work the heavy weapons. Why?’

  ‘I’ll be taking five of you back up into orbit with me in a few hours,’ Nemiel replied, and raised a forestalling hand. ‘Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. The primarch has a job for us.’

  ‘Well, that can’t be good,’ Kohl said with typical fatalism. He glanced over at the work party. ‘We’ll be done here a bit after nightfall. Is that soon enough?’

  Nemiel glanced west, where the sun was already low over the distant ruins of Xanthus. ‘Nightfall sounds just about right,’ he said with a nod.

  THREE HOURS LATER, the Astartes climbed up the rear ramp of Nemiel’s idling Rhino and found their seats along the narrow benches that lined both sides of the troop compartment. As the ramp clanged shut the armoured personnel carrier revved its petrochem engines and lurched into motion.

  Brother-Sergeant Kohl had Techmarine Askelon, plus Marthes, Vardus and Ephrial. No sooner had the APC started moving than the squad leader turned to Nemiel and said, ‘Now what’s this nonsense about the primarch sending for us personally?’

  Nemiel grimaced. ‘I had to think of something halfway plausible to pull you out of there without the skitarii making anything of it,’ he said. ‘The primarch wants us to perform a reconnaissance mission inside the forge complex itself.’

  As the Rhino worked its way slowly back down the access road towards the gateway, Nemiel produced the images that Jonson had given him and laid out the details of the mission. At the mention of the secret war machines, the attitude of the squad turned very serious indeed. ‘We’ve got a lot of ground to cover in just a few hours,’ Nemiel said at the conclusion of the briefing. ‘Brother Askelon, what sort of threats are we likely to encounter?’

  ‘There will be an array of electronic sensors covering each of the storage sites,’ he replied, ‘plus skitarii patrols with a full-spectrum auspex arrays. If these war machines are as valuable as the primarch believes them to be, they may be covered by additional security as well.’ Nemiel nodded. ‘We can avoid the patrols,’ he said confidently. ‘Can you get us past the sensors?’

  Brother Askelon considered the problem for several seconds before nodding. ‘I can at least get us close enough to determine the contents of each building,’ he said.

  ‘All right,’ Nemiel said with a nod. ‘As soon as we’re out of the Rhino, we go vox-silent; only verbal signals or hand signs. We can’t risk having our transmissions detected. Questions?’

  There were none. Nemiel rose from his bench with a curt nod and opened the Rhino’s portside door. With a quick check up and down the dark access road, he jumped lightly from the vehicle. The five other Astartes followed suit, reflexively fanning out into a standard tactical formation as they moved quickly into the deeper shadows between two large warehouses.

  Nemiel drew his bolt pistol, leaving his crozius aquilum attached to his belt. ‘Let’s try not to get into another fight with our allies,’ he said quietly. Quiet chuckles rose from the darkness. ‘Askelon, you’ve got point; I know it’s not your usual position, but you’ll spot the forge’s security systems well before
the rest of us. Brother Vardus, you’re covering our back-trail. Everyone clear? Then let’s get to work.’

  THEY WORKED THEIR way through the vast forge complex for hours, as Diamat’s moon rose in a thin crescent and passed through a hazy, ochre sky. Now and again they would come upon a patrol of skitarii. These Tech-Guard weren’t the massive, bionically enhanced killing machines of the Praetorians, but were simple soldiers akin to the Tanagran Dragoons, albeit in fine carapace armour and wielding high-power lasguns. Compact auspex units were mounted to the front of their helmets and flipped down over their faces like strange, insectoid masks. They moved with speed and skill, constantly alert and watchful, but the Astartes’ enhanced senses allowed them to detect the patrols and find cover long before the skitarii were in a position to see them. Aside from the occasional patrols, the Astartes encountered no other signs of life.

  There were hundreds of warehouses and storage depots located in the southern sector of the forge complex. Most were single-storey structures, but others were tall, cavernous buildings with massive, rolling doors that could hold entire companies of heavy battle tanks. Without the locations provided by Jonson there would have been no way that they could have completed their search in a single night; as it was, Nemiel had begun to fear that they would be working right up until dawn.

  At each of the structures highlighted on Nemiel’s images, the squad would take up a defensive position and let Brother Askelon go ahead to inspect the building’s contents. Each time the Techmarine would emerge, shaking his head, and the squad would move on to the next building down the line.