Fallen Angels

by Mike Lee

  ‘Then who is responsible for the atrocities committed in your name?’ she said coldly. ‘Five million people, crammed into three levels built to hold a quarter of that number. No power, intermittent supplies of food and water, no functioning sanitation… What did you think was going to happen? People are dying by the hundreds every day. The bodies are tossed down maintenance shafts or piled in lifts and sent to the lower levels, so the survivors don’t have to live among the corpses.’

  The news stunned Zahariel. ‘This wasn’t reported back to us at Aldurukh,’ he said, his voice choked with outrage. ‘Is there any way to know how many have died?’

  Remiel shook his head. ‘Tens of thousands, son. Perhaps more.’

  Zahariel nodded thoughtfully. ‘The Terrans knew. That’s why they returned to the arcology.’ He looked to Remiel. ‘The incident at Sigma Five-One-Seven was a field test,’ he said, like a pupil solving a problem for his tutor. ‘They needed to refine the ritual, test its effects on a smaller scale before unleashing it here.’ An image came to him, of an army of animated bodies shambling and crawling up out of the depths to slaughter the millions penned like sheep in the sub-levels above.

  ‘There’s no time to waste,’ he said. ‘If there’s another outbreak of violence here, the Terrans will have all the psychic energy they need to begin a large-scale ritual. We’ve got to find them before it’s too late.’ Zahariel stepped forward, holding out his empty hand to the rebels. ‘Will you agree to the truce?’

  Alera and Sar Daviel looked to Remiel. The old master stared at Zahariel’s open hand for a long moment, a tormented look on his face. Finally, he straightened and looked his former student in the eye.

  ‘For the pact to be binding, it must be sworn by both leaders,’ he said sternly. ‘If Luther gives me his hand, then I shall take it. Until then, we can have no truce between us.’

  ‘Then come back with me to Aldurukh,’ Zahariel said, his voice taut. ‘We can be back at the fortress in two hours.’ Remiel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you so certain he will agree to this?’

  ‘Of course,’ Zahariel replied, putting more sincerity into his voice than he actually felt. ‘Do you imagine Caliban’s greatest living knight would hold his honour so cheaply?’

  If Remiel sensed the doubt in Zahariel’s heart he did not let it show. ‘Very well,’ he said with a curt nod. ‘Sar Daviel will join us to help coordinate our forces.’ He turned to Lady Alera. ‘Alert our remaining cells and organise a search of the sub-levels at once. If you locate the Terrans, do not attempt to engage them. Do you understand?’

  Alera nodded. On impulse, she reached out and laid her hands on Remiel’s own. ‘Are you sure of this?’ she asked. ‘You swore you’d never return to the fortress. You said they’d betrayed everything you believed in. How can you trust them now?’

  Remiel sighed. ‘This isn’t about trust,’ he said to her. ‘It’s about honour, and a last chance at redemption. I owe it to them, Alera. I owe it to myself.’ He gently pushed her hands away.

  ‘Now go. Zahariel is right. We haven’t much time.’ He smiled. ‘I will return with the knights of Caliban at my back, or I will not return at all.’

  SEVENTEEN

  FIRE FROM THE SKY

  Diamat

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

  LAS-BOLTS HISSED PAST Nemiel as he plunged down onto Magos Archoi and the rebel soldiers. His bolt pistol thundered, and two of the officers collapsed with gaping wounds blown in their chests. Archoi fell back from the Redemptor’s attack, screeching in binaric, and his acolytes rushed forward, drawing high-powered laspistols from their belts.

  Nemiel struck down another of the rebels with a crackling swipe of his crozius. A las-bolt struck the side of his helmet like a hammerblow, causing his visual displays to waver, and a warning icon told him that the helm’s integrity had been compromised. He shot the officer point-blank, blowing him off his feet – and then felt a hail of blows as the acolytes unleashed a volley of pistol shots into his chest.

  The acolytes were blurs of motion, their muscles undoubtedly stoked by combat drugs and adrenal boosters. Nemiel felt a half-dozen bolts pummel his breastplate, then a flash of searing pain over his primary heart. For a moment his vision threatened to grey out as his body fought to stave off the effects of shock, then abruptly the pain vanished and his mind cleared with a cold rush as his suit dumped pain blockers and stimulants into his bloodstream.

  A boltgun let off a rapid burst over Nemiel’s shoulder and one of the acolytes fell in a spray of blood and fluids. The Redemptor shot the remaining acolyte twice, and finished him off with a backhanded blow of his crozius. He was leaping forward before the traitor’s body had hit the floor, racing down the narrow aisle after the fleeing form of Magos Archoi.

  Brother-Sergeant Kohl ran alongside Nemiel from high atop the siege gun’s hull, firing shots from his bolt pistol at every tech-adept who got in his path. Behind Nemiel, Marthes crouched atop the vehicle and fired another blast up at the skitarii who were firing down from the gantry-way they had just vacated. The catwalk blew apart in a storm of molten fragments, plunging the survivors to the permacrete floor two storeys below. Techmarine Askelon landed heavily on the permacrete floor, pushing onward despite his suit’s heavily damaged systems. Vardus and Ephrial brought up the rear, cutting down any soldier or tech-adept who tried to circle behind the squad.

  Nemiel bore down on the magos like a Calibanite Lion, his lips pulling back in a feral snarl. If it was the last thing he did, he was going to make sure the traitor felt the Emperor’s justice. Behind and above him, he heard Kohl shout a warning just as the Praetorians charged at him from the gap between two of the parked siege guns.

  The shout saved his life. Nemiel turned towards the sound and ducked low, barely avoiding a swinging power claw that would have torn his head off. A second Praetorian lunged at him, scoring a deep gouge across his hip with a glowing power knife. Nemiel brought his crozius down on the skitarii’s knife hand, smashing the weapon from the warrior’s grip, and pumped three rounds into the Praetorian’s chest. The warrior staggered as the rounds punched through his armour, but his chemically-charged nervous system kept him upright. There were four of the hulking, gene-modded warriors: the one with the power claw reached for Nemiel’s gun arm, while the second Praetorian brought his weapon systems to bear as he tried to circle around the Redemptor’s flank. The remaining pair of skitarii were stymied by Brother-Sergeant Kohl, who leapt down onto the Praetorians with a furious shout. His power sword slashed down in a glowing arc, slicing through one warrior’s weapon arm with a shower of sparks and spurting fluids.

  The Praetorian circling to Nemiel’s right went down in a blaze of bolt pistol fire from Techmarine Askelon; seeing his opportunity, the Redemptor pivoted on his left heel and smashed his crozius into the other skitarii’s head. The warrior died just as his claw snapped shut on Nemiel’s forearm, leaving three deep, bubbling gouges on the black vambrace before collapsing to the ground.

  Kohl despatched the wounded Praetorian in front of him with a brutal cut that sliced open his armoured torso. The last of the skitarii raised his weapon-arm and took aim at the sergeant, only to die as Nemiel put three bolt pistol rounds into his back at point-blank range.

  Nemiel whirled, looking for the traitor magos, but Archoi was nowhere to be found. The Praetorians had accomplished their goal, buying time for the traitors to escape with their lives. The surviving tech-adepts had fled as well, scattering like vermin down the narrow lanes on the floor of the assembly building. The Redemptor started to pursue them, but Brother-Sergeant Kohl called for him to stop.

  ‘We don’t have time to chase rabbits,’ Kohl said as las-bolts spat down at them from the gangway. ‘We’ve got to get a warning back to our brothers and to the Dragoons.’

  Vardus, Ephrial and Askelon unleashed a blistering volley up at the skitarii, killing several and forcing the rest to withdraw. Nemiel wavered, drawn by the siren song of ve
ngeance, but reason and training ultimately won out over emotion. ‘You’re right, brother,’ he said to the sergeant. ‘We’ve just forced Archoi’s hand; he’ll have to order his forces into action at once. Askelon!’ he called, turning to the Techmarine. ‘What’s the quickest way out of here? We haven’t got a moment to lose!’

  In fact, they were already ten minutes too late.

  ARCHOI’S PLAN HAD been a hasty one, devised on the spur of the moment as he stood over the bullet-riddled body of his former master Vertullus and received word that, at the absolute last moment, an unknown force of Astartes had arrived in orbit to save the beleaguered forge world. His takeover was already well underway, with loyal units of tech-adepts and skitarii murdering Vertullus’s loyal supporters and herding the rest into the old shelters situated deep beneath the manufactories at the base of the great volcano. When the admiral in charge of the Warmaster’s fleet informed him that they would have to withdraw, Archoi promised him that when they returned to Diamat, he and his people would be ready. It was that, or face certain execution once that bastard Kulik caught wind of his crimes. As the last of the rebel ships were pulling out of vox range, the magos fired off a compressed burst of binaric that outlined his scheme. The crucial element that the whole plan hinged on was a certain date and an approximate time, two and a half weeks away. Now that time had arrived, and Archoi had to trust that the Warmaster would not be late.

  Across the southern sector of the forge complex, down to the southern gateway and across the fortified grey zone, each of the skitarii embedded with the defence forces received a coded burst transmission. Sleeping soldiers awoke and quietly gathered up their weapons, while those on sentry duty drew knives or silenced weapons and turned them on their watchmates. Within minutes, gunfire crackled in the darkness as the Tech-Guard ambushed their erstwhile comrades.

  At the warehouse barracks of the Astartes ground force, most of the Dark Angels were still wide awake, tending their weapons and engaging in close-combat drills in preparation for the battles ahead. The Praetorians in their midst stiffened as the signal touched off implanted combat protocols and flooded their bloodstreams with a lethal brew of combat drugs. From one heartbeat to the next, the skitarii were transformed into berserk killing machines; the virulence of the drugs were so great that within fifteen minutes it would begin to erode their muscle tissue – literally eating them alive. Until that point, however, they were immune to all but the most catastrophic injuries. Readying their weapon implants and close-combat attachments, the Praetorians hurled themselves at the unsuspecting Astartes, and the blood began to flow.

  THE FIRST INDICATION of danger in orbit was the sudden storm of vox jamming that effectively isolated each of Jonson’s ships. The resupply operations had ceased for the day, but there were still several hundred tech-adepts and servitors from the forge hard at work on the Iron Duke, the strike cruiser Amadis and the Invincible Reason. Several of the warships, notably the heavy cruisers Flamberge and Duke Infernus, as well as the escort ships of the scout group, all went to battle stations, while the others initially believed that the vox failure was an accident caused by the current repairs.

  As the captains of the battle group tried to sort out the sudden loss of communications and attempted to regain contact with the flagship, they were distracted from the threat that was gliding towards them out of the darkness. A small but powerful fleet, assembled in haste with whatever forces were at hand and quickly despatched to Diamat, was now stalking towards the planet with their engines idling and their surveyors silent.

  The ships of the scout force detected the oncoming enemy ships first. Signalling to one another in basic code using their running lights, the light cruisers and their attendant destroyers flared their thrusters and broke orbit, their surveyors sweeping the void in case the jamming was the precursor to an enemy attack. They detected the eight ships of the enemy force just a few minutes later.

  Signal lights flashed between the Imperial ships: Form line and prepare to launch torpedoes. With remarkable skill and precision the small ships raced forwards, increasing to attack speed. Below decks, servitors and torpedomen struggled to load the tubes, while on the bridge the Ordnance Officer input course and speed into the target solutions for the ship’s weapons.

  Within five minutes the vessels signalled that they were ready to launch. As the scout force entered optimal torpedo range the signal was given: For the Emperor – launch all torpedoes.

  Orders were passed to the torpedo deck. The senior torpedomen checked their firing data and turned their launch keys. Less than half a second later, they were dead.

  As each torpedo received the electronic signal to launch, its plasma reactor overloaded, detonating its warhead inside the tube. The rakish bows of the sleek destroyers vaporised in expanding balls of plasma, transforming them into burning, broken hulks. The light cruisers fared only slightly better, their torpedo decks destroyed and fires burning out of control on their lower decks, the small squadron had no choice but to break off and try to save their ships.

  The explosions signalled to the rebels that their stealthy approach was at an end. Thrusters ignited, surging to full power; void shields crackled into existence, forming shimmering spheres around their vessels like ephemeral soap bubbles before firming up and fading from view. Surveyors blazed to life, painting the surprised Imperial ships with invisible energies and feeding targeting data back to the rebel gunnery officers.

  Eight ships: three cruisers, two heavy cruisers and three grand cruisers – bore down on the battered Imperial ships. Cut off from one another, uncertain if their own ammunition had been rigged to explode by the treacherous forge, the Imperials braced themselves for the rebel onslaught.

  DAWN WAS BREAKING as Nemiel emerged from the Titan assembly building. He heard the distant rattle of gunfire to the south and knew that they had run out of time. All he and his squad could do now was rush to the aid of their fellow Astartes and kill as many of the enemy as they could. ‘Forward!’ he shouted to his squad. ‘Let no one stand in our way!’

  The Astartes raced down the access road towards the southern edge of the foundry sector, their weapons held ready as they searched for threats. The rumble of petrochem engines echoed amongst the buildings to the southeast, but there was no way to tell for certain where the sounds were coming from. It was most likely a mechanised patrol of skitarii, Nemiel thought, and kept part of his attention focused that way in the event they showed themselves.

  High-intensity lasguns barked behind them. Brother Vardus was struck in the back by a powerful las-bolt that caused him to fall onto one knee. Marthes held his meltagun in his left hand and bent down, grabbing Vardus’s upper arm and pulling him to his feet. Brother Ephrial turned and fired a long burst back the way they’d come, eliciting a scream of pain from one of their pursuers.

  Up ahead, the engine sounds roared into angry life. ‘Marthes!’ Nemiel said, beckoning to the meltagunner.

  Just then, a Testudo APC rumbled into the access road from a side lane and lurched to a halt. Its turret autocannon slewed about and spat a stream of high-velocity shells at the running Astartes. The gunner’s aim was poor and he overshot the mark, sending the shells screaming over their heads, but Nemiel could see the barrel dropping as the man adjusted his aim. Skitarii in carapace armour came around the corner as well, dropping to their bellies and opening fire on the Dark Angels.

  Brother Marthes ran ahead of the rest of the squad and took aim with his meltagun. A high-power las-bolt struck him in the left pauldon and left a burn across the thick ceramite. Another shot clipped him in the leg causing sparks to flare from his knee joint. The APC gunner, apparently realising the danger, adjusted his aim again and fired a burst of shells at Marthes just as he hit the meltagun’s trigger. The blast cut into the vehicle’s side like a power knife and detonated its fuel cells, hurling a ball of fire high into the overcast sky.

  Nemiel saw Marthes stagger as two of the autocannon’s explosive shells s
truck him in the chest. There was a double flash, coming so close together that the sound of the blasts merged into a single loud thunderclap. The Astartes staggered forward a few steps more, then fell forward onto his face. His status indicator in Nemiel’s helmet display went abruptly black.

  The skitarii scrambled to their feet, their armour smouldering from the heat of the vehicle’s flames. Nemiel and the others raked them with bolter fire, killing several and forcing the others to retreat. As Kohl reached Marthes, he knelt and took the meltagun from the warrior’s hands and tossed it to Ephrial, then laid a parting hand on the dead warrior’s shoulder before rising to his feet and sprinting after the squad. They put the burning hulk of the APC between themselves and their pursuers, then cut to the left down a side-lane to hopefully throw them off a bit further. As they came around the corner and turned south again, Askelon pointed to the sky. ‘Look!’ he said breathlessly. Nemiel looked skyward to see a shower of blazing meteors plunging through the clouds in the direction of the coast. Many burned out as they fell, carving bright trails of green and orange across the sky, while several larger pieces continued to fall until they disappeared over the horizon. It was an awe-inspiring sight, but one that filled Nemiel with dread. He’d seen such things many times before, at war-torn worlds like Barrakan and Leantris. Those meteors had been pieces of a starship that had been blown up in high orbit. The attack on Diamat had begun.

  Las-bolts snapped and howled through the air from the end of the access road. One hit Kohl in the chest, dispersing harmlessly against his breastplate. The squad returned fire, and a pair of skitarii broke cover and retreated back around the corner of a low-slung building.

  ‘That was an observation team!’ Nemiel warned his squadmates. ‘We’ll be coming up on their outer perimeter in another minute. Ephrial, get ready with that meltagun!’