Fallen Angels

by Mike Lee

  The Techmarine led the squad across the dark floor of the manufactory, slipping between massive stamping machines and automated spot-welding arrays. Askelon traced a winding, deliberate route through the plant, pausing at times and listening for the telltale ultrasonic whine of an auspex transmitter. After several long minutes they reached a short, squat permacrete structure at the centre of the manufactory floor. Askelon located a plasteel door in the side of the structure and quickly disarmed its sensors, then led the squad inside. Within, a cluster of giant, metal-clad conduits rose like fat, silver worms from a circular hole in the middle of the bare permacrete floor and connected to large junction boxes on three of the four walls. Control panels along the wall beside the door monitored the power feed to the manufactory’s systems.

  Askelon stepped to the edge of the hole and located a set of metal rungs that descended into the access tunnel below. Hot, dry air, smelling of ozone and sulphur, wafted up from the depths. ‘We’ll follow the tunnel to the access point underneath the assembly building,’ he said to the squad. ‘Keep your eyes open, brothers. There may be cybernetic sentries in the tunnel as well.’

  ‘What do we do if we see one?’ Kohl asked.

  ‘Shoot it,’ the Techmarine replied with a shrug, ‘and hope that it can’t get a signal off before it’s destroyed.’

  Kohl and Nemiel exchanged grim looks and followed Askelon down into the tunnel.

  The utility tunnel was tall and wide, its circular walls lined with thick, metal conduits stamped with strings of binaric code. The Techmarine headed off down the tunnel in the general direction of the foundry, pausing from time to time to read the stamps on several of the conduits to his left.

  They travelled for more than two kilometres, following the trunk labels through one intersection after another. Finally, Askelon battle-signed for the squad to halt and sank slowly into a crouch.

  Nemiel moved silently forward and knelt down beside the Techmarine. ‘What’s wrong?’ he whispered.

  Askelon raised his chin slightly, like a hound tasting a scent. ‘Faint surveyor pulse, emanating from farther down the tunnel,’ he said. ‘We’re outside its extreme range.’

  The Redemptor raised his bolt pistol. ‘A sentry?’

  ‘Yes,’ Askelon replied. ‘It’s a sigma-sequence pulse, so it’s not one of the small patrol units. Most likely it’s a stationary unit, like a sentry gun.’

  ‘Then it’s probably sitting right at the feet of the ladder leading up to the foundry.’ Nemiel said. ‘Any way to outflank it?’ Askelon shook his head. ‘Unlikely. But there might be a way to temporarily incapacitate it.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  The Techmarine pointed at the conduits lining the walls around them. ‘This is category nine conduit; it’s the most heavily-shielded insulator available,’ he explained. ‘But there’s so much power going through these lines that there’s still significant electromagnetic radiation leaking into the tunnel.’

  ‘And how does that help us, exactly?’

  ‘If I cut into the conduits I can use my armour’s power plant to send a feedback surge down the line towards the sentry unit,’ Askelon said. ‘A powerful enough spike in electromagnetic radiation will overload its auspex receptors and force a reset. That will render it blind and unable to communicate for approximately thirty seconds.’

  ‘Approximately?’ Nemiel said.

  ‘If I could see the type of sentry unit I could tell you down to the millisecond,’ Askelon said. ‘As it is, it could be one of a half-dozen models. Thirty seconds is my worst-case estimate.’

  Nemiel nodded. ‘Get to work.’

  The Redemptor went back to the squad and told them what was happening while Askelon quickly marked out which conduits to tap and went to work. With deft movements he drew out a small, powerful plasma torch and cut open a half-dozen of the steel tubes, then he opened an access panel on the side of his backpack power unit and began attaching a number of heavy-gauge cables to the contacts inside. Several minutes later, the Techmarine was ready. He glanced back at Nemiel, who gave him the nod to proceed. Askelon quickly attached the cables to the power lines inside the conduits. His armour stiffened abruptly. Immediately, Nemiel saw the Techmarine’s status indicators begin flashing urgently on his helmet display. The core temp of his power unit spiked beyond allowable tolerances and continued to climb. Askelon’s physio-monitors began to fluctuate as well, as feedback coursed through the suit’s neuro-interfaces and into his body.

  ‘There’s smoke rising from his power plant,’ Kohl whispered urgently.

  ‘Let him finish!’ Nemiel hissed. ‘It’s the only way.’ Seconds passed. Nemiel watched Askelon’s indicators pulse from green to amber, and then amber to red. Without warning, a fountain of sparks shot from the servo-arm housing between the Techmarine’s shoulders. Askelon spasmed, throwing out his hands and shoving himself away from the power conduits. The Techmarine fell backwards, stiff-legged, and crashed into the far side of the tunnel.

  Nemiel and the rest of the squad rushed to the downed Astartes. The air around Askelon shimmered with heat, radiating from his overloaded power unit. The Techmarine turned his head; squawks of sound crackled from his helmet’s speaker. Nemiel didn’t have to hear the words to know what Askelon was trying to say.

  ‘He’s sent the pulse,’ Nemiel told the squad. ‘Brother Marthes, take point. Sergeant Kohl, help me with Brother Askelon. Let’s move!’

  The Astartes sprang into action, charging down the tunnel behind Marthes, who advanced with his meltagun held ready. Kohl and Nemiel brought up the rear, dragging the limp form of Askelon between them.

  Three hundred metres down the tunnel, the passageway fed into a large, square structure that echoed the permacrete blockhouse they’d entered at the manufactory. The plasteel rungs of another ladder climbed upward, presumably into the foundry’s assembly building. Sitting at its feet, just as Nemiel suspected, crouched a matte-black sentry gun. Armed with a turret-mounted twin-linked lascannon, the automated unit crouched on four stubby legs like a hungry spider waiting for prey. Nemiel could hear the hum of its power unit as they approached. Its twin guns were aimed straight down the tunnel at the approaching Astartes. A single shot would cut through their armour like tissue.

  ‘Up the ladder!’ he ordered the squad. ‘Get up and get out of sight!’

  Marthes stepped around the sentry gun and began climbing at once. Vardus paused at the bottom rungs, his heavy bolter slung at his side. ‘What about Askelon?’ he said.

  ‘We’ll manage,’ the Redemptor shot back. ‘Now hurry, brother!’

  Vardus started his climb, with Ephrial hot on his heels. Nemiel consulted his internal chrono: they had just twelve seconds left. He looked to Kohl as they reached the bottom of the ladder. ‘We need to find a way to shut off the sentry gun,’ he said. ‘There must be an access panel—’

  Askelon shook his head sharply; the ceramite edges of his helmet scraped against his gorget, suggesting he’d sustained damage to his armour’s muscle fibres. ‘No,’ he said, his voice coming through his helmet’s damaged speaker as a tortured croak. ‘Can’t risk it. I… I can climb.’

  ‘All right,’ Nemiel growled. ‘You go first. Kohl, you’re next. Help him as much as you can.’ He would stay until the last moment; if they ran out of time, he would tear open one of the sentry gun’s access panels and try to shut it down.

  Askelon grabbed hold of the metal rungs and started climbing, seeming to gather strength with each lunge of his legs. Kohl was right behind him, ready to provide a judicious shove if the Techmarine faltered. Nemiel counted the seconds and checked the sentry gun for likely access points.

  Vardus and Ephrial leaned over the hole, grabbed Askelon’s folded servo-arm and hauled him bodily up into the chamber above. Kohl raced up behind him. ‘Clear!’ he hissed to Nemiel.

  The Redemptor leapt for the rungs and scrambled upwards as quickly as he could. The timer on his display hit zero when he was halfway up. There was a se
ries of rapid clicks and whirring sounds directly beneath him as the sentry gun sprang back to life.

  Hands reached down and grabbed the edges of his pauldrons. Nemiel felt himself yanked upwards like a sack of grain and deposited roughly on the permacrete of the upper floor.

  The Astartes froze, listening intently. Below them, the sentry gun clattered and whirred a moment more, then resumed its quiet vigil. Nemiel looked over at Askelon’s prone form. ‘Any sign of alarm?’

  The Techmarine reached slowly for his helmet and undid its clasps. Askelon pulled the helm away, revealing a sweat-streaked face stippled with broken blood vessels. A trickle of blood seeped from his nose and the corners of his eyes. ‘No change,’ he said in a husky voice. Blood slicked the Techmarine’s teeth.

  Nemiel rolled over and rose to his knees beside Askelon. ‘How badly are you hurt?’ he asked quietly.

  Askelon chuckled faintly. ‘I’m no Apothecary, brother,’ he replied. ‘The machinery of a living body is too complex even for me.’ He levered himself to a sitting position with a grunt. ‘Armour integrity is at sixty-five per cent. Power levels at forty per cent. Muscle fibre reflex is compromised, and I think I melted the motors on my servo-arm.’

  Nemiel frowned. ‘You didn’t mention that tapping those conduits would likely kill you,’ he growled.

  The Techmarine managed a grin. ‘It didn’t seem relevant at the time.’ He extended his hand. ‘Help me up, please.’

  Kohl and Nemiel hauled Askelon upright. The Redemptor glanced warily at the edge of the hole. ‘Can the gun sense us up here?’ ‘To a limited extent, yes,’ the Techmarine said. ‘But activity overhead won’t trigger a combat response. It’s down there to guard the approaches to the building, and that’s all.’

  ‘All right. Where do we go from here?’

  Askelon looked about the chamber. It was identical to the conduit room at the manufactory, only substantially larger. He nodded to the metal door across the chamber. ‘That leads out into a sub-level beneath the main assembly floor. From there we’ll be able to access almost every pan of the building.’

  Nemiel checked his chrono again. It was little more than an hour until dawn. ‘A building like this is bound to have catwalks along the upper storeys, correct?’

  Askelon nodded. ‘Three levels of them, in this case. You can look out over the entire assembly area from some of them.’ ‘Then that’s where we need to be,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  KOHL TOOK POINT after that, leading the squad through the confines of the sub-level according to whispered directions from Brother Askelon, until they reached a narrow stairwell that climbed upwards into the assembly building proper. Weapons ready, they made their way carefully up the permacrete stairs, listening for the slightest sound of movement. Nemiel could hear the sharp crackle of arc torches and the snarl of power tools reverberating through the walls, the steel-on-steel noise like the sounds of a distant battlefield.

  They climbed up several storeys, past one dimly-lit landing after another, until Nemiel signalled for a halt. ‘This is far enough,’ he said. ‘We don’t need to get all the way to the top; I just want a good view of what’s going on,’ he told them. He turned to Askelon. ‘Is there any risk of sensors at this point?’

  ‘No,’ the Techmarine replied. ‘We’re past their detection perimeter at this point.’

  ‘All right. Marthes, you and Vardus stay here and cover the stairwell. Kohl, Askelon and Ephrial, you’re with me.’

  Nemiel crouched at the plasteel door and cracked it slowly open. Beyond, the gantry-way was lit with red light from below. His autosenses picked up the reek of melted plas, petrochemicals and heated metal. Distantly, he could make out the sharp blurts and squeals of binaric cant, as well as a number of voices speaking in Gothic. The Redemptor concentrated, but he could make out what they were saying over the squalling of the machinery.

  He surveyed the gantry-way carefully for as far as he could see, checking for any signs of movement, then went back and checked again. Satisfied there was no one within the immediate area, he opened the door the rest of the way and crept quietly onto the plasteel catwalk. The assembly building was rectangular in shape, with an open floor plan surrounded by six huge niches that stretched from floor to ceiling. Giant servo arms were set into either side of these niches, able to climb to different heights along trackways set into the permacrete, and huge cranes hung from similar tracks high overhead. The Titans were assembled inside each niche, starting with the skeletal structure of the feet and working upwards to the head.

  Nemiel found himself crouched on a section of third-storey gantry-way at one end of the building. The storeys above him were plunged into darkness, without so much as an emergency lamp burning. Below, red light rose up from the assembly floor like the glow of an actual forge. Gusts of hot air, stirred by industrial grade arc torches blew against his faceplate. A rustle of iron links, musical and cold, chimed from the deep shadows high above the floor.

  Hundreds of chains had been suspended from the assembly building’s ceiling, twisting and clinking together in the restless air. Each chain, more than fifty metres in length, had been strung with dozens of hooks, and on each hook hung a fresh corpse. Nemiel saw the bodies of Tanagran Dragoons, skitarii – even the mangled bodies of dead Praetorians – along with the smaller figures of tech-adepts and half-mechanical magi. Their corpses had been riddled by bullets or torn apart by energy bolts, sliced open by power claws or crushed by mechanical fists, and their fluids leaked from them in a steady, dripping rain onto the hulls of the enormous vehicles below.

  There were six of them, Nemiel saw. Their chassis were so wide that they could only be arrayed in a single file that stretched from one end of the assembly building to the other. Their armoured hulls were supported by dual sets of treads on each of the vehicle’s flanks, with a sloped front that rose like a sheer-sided hillock more than two storeys high. Void shield generators studded the vehicle’s sides, along with automated quad-laser and mega-bolter emplacements, but Nemiel scarcely noticed them. His gaze was drawn to the enormous cannon built into the centreline of the vehicle’s hull. A complicated series of hoists and giant braces surrounding the cannon’s barrel indicated that it was meant to be elevated and fired like a conventional artillery piece. The aft section of each vehicle was segmented like the body of a giant insect, and appeared to be even more heavily armoured than the rest of the hull.

  ‘What in the Emperor’s name are those things?’ Kohl hissed. It was the first time Nemiel had ever heard the sergeant taken aback.

  Techmarine Askelon carefully eased into a crouch beside them. His eyes widened as he saw the machines on the assembly floor. ‘Siege guns,’ he said, his voice tinged with awe, ‘but far larger than any I’ve ever seen before. Those look like macro cannons, fitted to a custom hull.’ He pointed to the nearest vehicle. ‘See those dual treads? Those aren’t part of a contiguous drive train. They are distinct drive units, similar in size and power the ones used on Baneblade super-heavy tanks. There are three to a side, and that’s just to form the foundation for each vehicle.’

  Tech-adepts were crawling like ants over each of the war machines, working feverishly along the armoured hull beneath the rain of gore. Symbols had been scrawled in blood at regular intervals along each machine’s flank, but Nemiel couldn’t make them out at such a distance. The Redemptor noticed that he vehicle closest to them had a large, open hatch on the top deck, to the right of the huge gun. ‘What do you make of that?’ he said, pointing to the two tech-adepts working in the well beneath the hatchway.

  Askelon leaned slightly forward, peering intently at the opening. His eyes widened. ‘It’s an MIU interface chamber,’ he said, ‘A neural interface link, much like we employ on our Titans. It looks like they’re refurbishing the control leads and making it ready for use.’

  ‘So a single operator could control one of these behemoths?’ Nemiel said.

  The Techmarine nodded. ‘Of course. They’re big, but fa
r less demanding than a bipedal Titan,’ he replied. ‘And the MIU makes it nearly impossible for them to be used if captured.’

  Nemiel nodded grimly, his gaze rising to the collection of corpses dangling in the air before them. ‘Now we know what happened to the Dragoons covering the southern approach,’ he said, his voice thick with revulsion. ‘Not to mention a good many of the forge’s own personnel. Magos Archoi is a madman. This whole thing smacks of some obscene, superstitious ritual. How could someone like Horus Lupercal be connected to such debased behaviour?’ Memories of the foul things he’d witnessed at Sarosh rose unbidden in Nemiel’s mind. He forced them aside with an effort of will and a savage shake of his head.

  Kohl tore his gaze away from the repellent sight and caught a glimpse of movement on the assembly floor. ‘Here comes the high priest himself,’ he growled, pointing to the narrow lane at the right of the parked war machines.

  Nemiel straightened, craning his head around to see Magos Archoi walking down the line of vehicles. A pair of tech-adepts followed a discreet distance behind the magos, their hands tucked into their sleeves, while a knot of four uniformed men dogged Archoi’s heels and studied the siege guns critically. One of the men was conferring with the magos, speaking to him in urgent tones. It took a moment for Nemiel to recognise the uniform he wore.

  ‘15th Hesperan Lancers,’ he murmured. ‘Assigned to Horus’s 53rd Expeditionary Fleet. It looks like some of the rebels stayed behind when their ground forces left the planet. They must have been meeting with that traitor Archoi and arranging delivery of the machines when we arrived.’

  ‘And they’ve been biding their time ever since, waiting for the right opportunity,’ Kohl snarled. ‘That damned magos has embedded his warriors into every one of our combat units. We’ve got to warn the primarch or we may well have a massacre on our hands!’

  At just that moment, Brother Vardus leaned out from the stairwell entrance. ‘Movement on the stairs!’ he hissed, ‘coming from above and below.’