As the Seeker turned and strode towards the door he felt the man’s shadow-wracked eyes following him.
‘Review transmission Fai’sahl-359,’ Por’el Adibh commanded.
The data drone embedded in the glassy table before her burbled and its dome erupted with a corona of pixels, illuminating the dimly lit conclave chamber where the embassy’s leaders had gathered at her request. The iridescent particles flickered then resolved into a diminutive figure floating above the drone in a rigid lotus position. The hololithic avatar’s fine features and high-collared robes identified him as a member of the t’au Water caste, like Adibh herself.
‘I bear greetings in the name of the Greater Good,’ the avatar announced in a mellifluous baritone. ‘I am Por’vre Dalyth Fai’sahl, first emissary of the eighth branch of the Whispertide Concordance, entrusted with the enlightenment of the nineteenth parallel of the Damocles Gulf, designated the Yuxa system.
‘Please forgive the excessive interval since my last communication, but my expedition has been beset by grievous travails and many of my associates have passed into the Deep Silence. Yuxa is a troubled region where the dominion of the gue’la Imperium has grown profoundly frayed. Such disorder is fertile soil for anarchy and violence, yet also for opportunity, for as the storm spawns ruin so ruination foreshadows fresh hope. And in hope there is Unity.’
You were never one for succinctness, Fai’sahl, Adibh reflected. Her colleague had always leaned towards the flamboyant, and not only in his rhetoric. It was why she had rejected his many proposals for a pairing, despite his comeliness – and also, she suspected, why she had advanced beyond him in their caste’s hierarchy. Yet despite Fai’sahl’s limitations his disappearance had saddened her. How like him to confound her assumptions and reappear, seemingly alive and well.
‘Know that our sacrifice has not been without purpose,’ Fai’sahl’s image was saying, his nasal slits dilated with pride. ‘Under my auspices, Yuxa’s dominant gue’la faction, the Illumismatic Order of the Ever-Turning Cog, has embraced the Greater Good with formidable conviction! Though I have dedicated my life to the dissemination of the Tau’va among the ignorant, I have never witnessed an ideological metamorphosis to rival the one that blossoms here. Indeed, I believe the key to the spiritual redemption of this vexatious species – perhaps even the unravelling of its barbaric Imperium – may lie here in the Yuxa system!
‘Regrettably, however, this efflorescence of reason is imperilled by recidivist elements and technological impediments beyond my capacity to salve. My gue’la associates have prepared a report of our predicament that I have appended to this transmission for your elucidation. Esteemed colleagues, I urge you to despatch a relief mission to Yuxa without delay. It would be a betrayal of our exalted commission if this promising light were extinguished in its infancy.
‘Spatial coordinates and supporting specifications follow.’
The hololith flickered out and the lights rose, revealing the others seated around the conclave table. Adibh and Fio’vre Daukh, the expedition’s senior engineer, had already seen the recording, but for the pair of Fire Warriors it was the first time. The older one’s weathered face wore its customary disapproval for all non-military matters. Even by the standards of her caste, Shas’vre Bhoral was a dour creature, but doubtless she hadn’t been chosen for her intellect. She was a tightly focussed weapon, nothing more. It was the officer sitting beside her who mattered to Adibh.
‘The recording is genuine?’ Shas’el Akuryo asked.
‘It was encoded with gue’la equipment, but the identity ciphers are correct,’ Adibh replied. ‘Moreover, Por’vre Fai’sahl and I are former colleagues. It is certainly him.’
‘His manner is… singular.’ Akuryo’s brow furrowed slightly to indicate the-irony-that-anticipates-derision. For a Fire Warrior he was unusually expressive, Adibh thought, even handsome in a coarse way. More importantly he was perceptive. His gue’vesa troops, to whom he was nothing less than a hero, had named him Stormlight for his stalwart guidance in both war and peace.
‘How long has this emissary been missing?’ Akuryo asked.
‘Prior to this transmission our last contact with Fai’sahl’s embassy was almost three spatial years ago,’ Adibh said. ‘They were presumed lost and the Yuxa system was designated non-viable.’
‘The matter was not investigated?’
‘As you are aware, the Whispertide Concordance is only an exploratory venture into the Damocles Gulf – a bridgehead to the gue’la. Our resources are limited.’
‘His sudden reappearance troubles me,’ Akuryo said, cutting to the crux of the matter.
‘Naturally. That is why you are here, shas’el.’
‘Then why have I been allowed only Bhoral and two gue’vesa support teams to protect you, por’el?’
‘It was the High Ambassador’s decree.’ Adibh extended her hands, palms upward. ‘We walk the path of the Open Hand. An excessive military presence might be misconstrued and opportunities of the kind Fai’sahl describes cannot be squandered.’
‘Then you believe his story?’
‘That is for our revered Seeker to determine,’ Adibh said. ‘My purpose is to facilitate a fruitful discourse.’
‘As yours is to watch over us, Stormlight,’ a quiet voice said behind her. ‘I have no doubt you will both perform your duties admirably.’
Adibh turned and saw the Seeker standing in the entrance of the conclave chamber, his arms crossed in a posture of tranquil authority. He was attired in plain grey robes cinched at the waist by a black sash. As always, a deep cowl pooled his features in shadow, obscuring his eyes. His honour staff was clipped to a simple harness on his back.
How long has he been there? Adibh wondered as a thrill of devotion surged through her. It was rumoured that Seekers could pass unseen among the other castes and Kyuhai had done nothing to dispel that notion. Formally known as yasu’aun – ‘the-finders-of-the-truth-that-hides’ – Seekers were solitary mystics who wandered the T’au Empire, following paths only the Ethereal caste could comprehend. Sometimes they would attach themselves to an expedition, appearing unexpectedly, but always welcome, for their presence was a great honour. Though Adibh was officially still the mission’s leader the reality of that had changed the moment Kyuhai had joined them, yet she felt no acrimony towards him. In her most introspective moments that equanimity sometimes troubled her, but the unease would never crystallise.
‘We shall not fail you, Seeker,’ Akuryo vowed, clearly as awed by the mystic as Adibh.
‘Nor I you, Stormlight,’ Kyuhai replied. He turned to Adibh. ‘Por’el, when we reach Yuxa you will conduct our negotiations.’
‘Under your auspices of course, Seeker.’
‘You misunderstand, por’el. You will lead the embassy alone. I will observe, unobserved. The unseen eye sees further.’
‘Then you suspect a trap, Seeker?’ Akuryo asked intently.
‘That is my path.’
When the next sleep cycle came round Voyle climbed into a serenity cell. The last thing he saw as the hatch slid shut was Erzul watching him from the cubicle in the opposite wall. Fighting down his nausea, Voyle extinguished the light.
‘It’s nothing,’ he whispered.
But it didn’t feel like nothing. Not at all. His heart was pounding as the memories surged up with almost physical force. Darkness and the stench of stale promethium…
Then he is inside the other coffin again – the empty fuel silo he has crawled into and welded shut with Hoenig’s las-cutter. His ear is pressed against the slick metal, listening for the abominations that have slaughtered the boarding party. Hoenig is slumped against him in the tight space, his breath coming in ragged, bubbling gasps as he bleeds out. The specialist trooper’s left arm has been torn off at the shoulder, along with most of his face, yet oblivion eludes him. His surviving eye roves about, as if seeking answ
ers to questions he can’t understand, let alone ask. Voyle knows he should give his comrade mercy, but then he will be the last of them and he isn’t ready for that yet.
‘I can’t,’ he says.
Hoenig’s questing eye fixes upon him, mutely condemning, then darkens to black.
‘Face your fear or it will consume you.’
Voyle recoils and slips further into the nightmare, back to the moment when it truly begins.
‘Proceed,’ Kyuhai commanded.
‘Subject: Voyle, Ulver. Species: Gue’la, male,’ the data drone answered in its sexless, perfectly modulated voice. ‘Age: thirty-six biological years. Height…’
‘Omit somatic data,’ Kyuhai interrupted. ‘Proceed to biographic.’
‘Yes, Seeker,’ the drone replied. ‘Former Astra Militarum trooper, Eleventh Exordio Void Breachers…’
Alone in the conclave chamber, Kyuhai listened as the drone related Voyle’s history. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he was certain he would recognise it when he found it. In time that recognition would blossom into understanding, but it was an ambiguous process, driven by intuition rather than intellect. A Seeker perceived connections and anomalous elements – be they events, objects or individuals – as an artist of the Water caste perceived the rhythm of colours, words or melodies. Like that artist, Kyuhai’s calling was to create harmony, but his canvass was spiritual rather than aesthetic.
‘Subject Voyle was subsequently promoted to the rank of Breach Sergeant and assigned to patrol duties along the perimeter of the Damocles Gulf,’ the data drone was saying. ‘His first tour…’
His eyes closed and arms folded, Kyuhai let the story wash over him. Thus far nothing in Voyle’s service record had struck the discordant note he was waiting for. The man’s career was competent, but unexceptional. Grey. Yet something had drawn him to Voyle, just as it had drawn him to this mission when so many others had vied for his attention.
Who are you, Ulver Voyle? Kyuhai mused. Why do you matter?
Though Voyle has fallen only minutes further into his nightmare’s past it is enough to resurrect his comrades and the delusion of order. The squad has travelled far in search of the dead ship’s bridge, for if there are any answers to be found they will surely be there. Unexpectedly the derelict is still pressurised, though its atmosphere is stale and none of the troopers have opened their visors. They don’t trust this place enough to taste its air.
‘How much further, Hoenig?’ Voyle hears himself ask.
Whole again, the specialist trooper consults his scanner. The glowing map on its readout is only an approximation of the hulk’s layout derived from similar vessels, but Hoenig has a talent for navigating on the fly.
‘Another deck up, Breach Sergeant,’ he replies. ‘Should be an access ladder three or four junctions ahead.’
But Voyle, both past and present, isn’t listening anymore. Did something move in the intersecting corridor he just passed? He steps back and illuminates the passageway. Its length is choked with a snarl of pipes and corroded machinery that spin strange shadows from his light. That constricted abattoir of junk isn’t somewhere he wants to go, but he has to be certain, so he steps into its maw.
‘Don’t!’ Voyle present yells silently into his past.
With a wet hiss a pile of debris uncoils before him, extending long arms that end in hook-like talons. A moment later a second pair unfurls beneath the first, but these taper into long-fingered hands that look almost delicate. The creature’s gangling form is sheathed in chitinous blue plates that bulge into a carapace of bones over its chest and shoulders. Though its posture is hunched its bestial head is level with Voyle’s own – so close he can see its mauve flesh pulsating.
It was waiting for me, he understands.
Voyle’s meltagun is trained on the thing’s ribcage, but his trigger finger has turned to stone, along with his legs and throat, all held rigid by its gaze. Its eyes are a lustreless black, yet the hunger in them is unmistakable. Unassailable… even beautiful in its purity…
Now one of Voyle’s hands moves, rising to the seal of his visor. He gasps as the derelict’s freezing air hits him, but it is not enough to snap him free of those mesmerising eyes.
‘Breach Sergeant?’ someone calls behind him as the creature’s jaws distend and a rigid tongue extrudes, dripping viscous ichor. The organ is thorn-tipped and pregnant with promise.
‘Burn it!’ Voyle bellows at himself as he raises his head and offers his throat.
Perhaps his warning rends time, space and logic to stir his former self to action. Perhaps it is nothing more than a shock reflex. Either way, when the beast’s tongue pierces his flesh he squeezes the trigger. As cold corruption courses into his bloodstream a blast of purifying heat incinerates the thing’s torso. Its tongue is wrenched free as it falls, but Voyle feels no pain through the numbness in his neck. He snaps his visor shut as gunfire erupts in the corridor behind him.
‘Xenos!’ somebody shouts.
In the pandemonium that follows the first attack Voyle can’t tell how many of the abominations there are, but within seconds his squad is fighting for its life as the things assail it from all sides. Soon three troopers are lost and the fight has become flight. Reaching the sanctuary of the Sable Star is their only hope, but the rout has transformed the corridors into a maze and Hoenig’s scanner has been lost along with the arm that carried it. Voyle wields his heavy gun one-handed as he supports the wounded man. They are both drenched in the blood pumping from the raw stump of Hoenig’s shoulder, yet the specialist is still conscious – still their best chance of finding a way out.
The seven survivors become six then five then only four as claws yank troopers into dark recesses or the pipes above.
‘Sable Star!’ Voyle shouts into his helmet vox, but the only reply is a hiss of static. The squad left a string of comms relays in its wake to maintain contact with the ship, but the rout has carried them far from that path.
‘Take… right,’ Hoenig gasps as they reach another junction.
Abruptly the vox crackles into life: ‘–status, Squad Indigo? I repeat…’
‘Lieutenant!’ Voyle interrupts. ‘We’re under attack. Taking heavy casualties.’
‘Confirmed,’ the acting commander replies. ‘What are you up against, Breach Sergeant?’
‘Unknown xenos… Don’t know how many. We need a support team now!’
There is a long pause: ‘I am disengaging the umbilical.’
‘Wait…’
‘I can’t allow the Sable Star to be compromised.’ Lieutenant Joliffe’s voice is walking a knife-edge of panic now.
‘Listen to me, we’re…’
‘Emperor protect you, Breach Sergeant.’ The vox goes dead.
Voyle curses him as the trooper ahead is pulled through the floor by something unseen. He sends an incinerating blast into the torn ground as he steps past, virtually dragging Hoenig now. Moments later a plangent metallic scraping echoes through the corridor. Every Void Breacher knows that sound.
‘That was the umbilical!’ Thorsten yells from somewhere behind.
We were almost there, Voyle realises bitterly. ‘Keep moving,’ he orders as he staggers on, going nowhere now, but too angry to stop.
Soon Thorsten is also gone and only Voyle and the wounded specialist remain. Hoenig has passed out, but he’s still breathing and Voyle won’t leave him behind even if it makes no difference anymore. As he wanders the labyrinth he senses the black-eyed xenos watching him from the shadows, inexplicably reticent now his comrades are dead. Are they toying with him? No… Voyle is strangely certain that cruelty isn’t in their nature. Stranger still, he can’t bring himself to hate them. Whatever else they are, the creatures are honest in their desires. The beauty he glimpsed in his first encounter wasn’t entirely false. Besides, he has no hatred left to spare for them.<
br />
‘We were so close,’ he rasps, thinking of Joliffe. Dimly he recalls Breacher protocol – even recognises that the lieutenant was right – but rage drowns such reasonable nonsense. ‘So… damn… close.’
The corridors reverberate with a deep, distant pounding and Voyle realises the Sable Star has opened fire on the dead ship. He doubts its depleted weapons can destroy the colossal vessel, but the outer sections will certainly be depressurised. Even if the ship survives he might not.
‘I’m dead anyway,’ Voyle hisses. But his body denies it. And suddenly – fiercely – he realises he wants to keep it that way. His fury demands it. That and something colder.
Shortly afterwards he finds the fuel silos.
‘Five spatial years ago subject Voyle was recovered from an abandoned vessel found in the ninth Damocles parallel,’ the data drone said. ‘The report specifies he had been adrift for three months following an encounter with hostile life forms of an unknown nature. No trace of these aggressors was found, however evidence…’
Kyuhai was listening intently now. According to the report Voyle had displayed remarkable resilience, both physical and mental, in the face of his ordeal.
‘On site examination concluded that…’
‘Hold,’ Kyuhai said sharply. ‘Repeat previous segment.’
Voyle clawed his way out of the nightmare like a panicked corpse from its grave, but the taste of rotten flesh in his mouth wasn’t his own. He had finally remembered the last, worst part of the horror – the part his liberators had supressed during his induction. Only they weren’t liberators at all. Not for him. How could they be when he was knee-deep in damnation?
Gut-deep.
‘It was evident that the subject had sustained himself by cannibalising a dead comrade,’ the drone repeated.
Cannibalism? Kyuhai thought. The practice was not unknown among some species – indeed it was revered by the kroot – but among the gue’la it was regarded as extremely deviant behaviour.
‘The matter was not noted as a cause for concern?’ he asked.
The Greater Evil Page 2
