Skell paced towards the dead bodies. One of them still clutched the pick haft, his hand now a shrivelled, blackened claw. Skell stooped and snapped it free. It was sticky with Dolar’s evaporated blood. His broken skull gleamed in the dim light of the flickering lumens. The body twitched. Sparks of electricity leaped and danced up the haft and writhed around Skell’s forearms.
He turned and walked back to Argrim. The smuggler was finally silent, left curled and whimpering in a foetal position.
The white fires in Skell’s eyes had dimmed. He felt dazed, detached. He stood for a moment over Argrim’s cowering form, the broken haft held loosely, energy still snapping and sparking in the air around them.
He shook his head. His nose was bleeding, making it hard to breathe through his respirator. He glanced back at Dolar’s corpse, then down at Argrim. His expression hardened, and he lifted the pick haft.
Cull watched the harvest over the viewscreens of the Centrum Dominus, his jump pack unclamped and laid at his feet. He was seated in the command throne brought down from the bridge of the Last Breath. The pale lighting of the viewscreen banks flickered and broke across his dark armour, gleaming from its metal thorns.
Jarq’s Eighth Claw had driven the escaped convicts back from the surface stairwells. Obeying their primitive mob instincts, the humans had turned en masse for the only other route available to them – instead of going up, they went down, into the Burrow, the warren of hundreds of mines and shafts, which worked outwards from the central sink like a network of earthen capillaries. Most headed to the loco rail lines, hoping to eventually make it through to the works of the sub-precincts and secondary mines that dotted the rest of Zartak’s surface.
They would find no succour there. All the sub-precincts bar one had already fallen to the Fourth, Sixth and Seventh Claws, dispatched to strike the Imperials garrisoning them while the vox-network was still down. The single remaining sub-precinct and mine work held by the arbitrators was only resisting because Cull allowed it to. He had plans for that particular garrison.
His gaze lingered on a viewscreen showing the silent black-and-white bloodshed occurring in a section of the Burrow labelled incline shaft 6. Two gangs of prisoners, each a dozen strong, were setting upon one another with fists and scavenged mining tools. It hadn’t taken long for the mass of escapees to degenerate into murderous rival packs. Cull always found the behaviour of humans fascinating when their social hierarchies were subverted or broken. If Zartak’s convicts had been able to rally around a leader and coordinate a push towards the surface at multiple stair points, they would almost certainly have been able to overrun Jarq’s inexperienced but bloodthirsty Claw and reach the jungles beyond Sink Shaft One’s perimeter.
Instead they acted with no more forethought or ability than base animals. Freed from their shackles, they fled in blind, screaming panic from any threat they perceived greater than their individual ability to overcome. The stronger took revenge or vented their own terror upon the weaker. Old gang groups reasserted themselves. The chaos of freedom made everyone an enemy, and opportunity a snare.
It was in such situations that the strong thrived. When humanity was cut back to its very basics, when it was thrust into an inimical environment and surrounded by fear and threat, it found itself reduced to a purer, more primal state. The weaker gravitated to the protection of the strong, or they were destroyed. The Night Lords had affirmed what Cull had always believed; the only law was the knife’s law, and the only right belonged to those able to take it. Cull had that right now.
He had missed that from his own childhood. Adopted by the ruling nobility, he had gazed from their towers at the slums below, and wondered where his real parents were. Why had they abandoned him? What criminal lives had they led? Were they still alive? He’d never found out, and he never would. The people of his home world had been butchered a century before, both his real and his adoptive parents dying together. The latter had been flayed in their palace, while the virus bomb unleashed by Shadraith had killed the former. When the VIII Legion had come, the hierarchies of privilege and class had meant nothing. That was part of the reason Cull had deactivated the void shield of his false father’s palace. He had known instinctively that these invaders would not spare the old regime that had made his life into a monotonous lie. He could never have imagined just how right he was.
The bloodshed in incline shaft 6 was over. There were four survivors, now busy scavenging whatever they could from the corpses. One of them was injured, limping. As Cull watched, the other three cornered and killed him as well, before carrying on out of sight of the pict monitor.
Cull remembered how they’d killed the weakest of the aspirants when he’d first started his inductions. The Night Lords hadn’t told them to, but they’d done it anyway. Cull had slit the throat of a boy with a sprained ankle one night, in the bowels of the Last Breath. Shadraith had singled him out for praise. He’d always favoured him. That in itself was a test. It had made the other aspirants hate him. Cull had realised that though. He’d moved to kill each of them in turn before they could corner him. Shadraith had approved. Without the sorcerer’s patronage, he knew he wouldn’t have risen to the position he now held.
He resented that fact. Soon he would change it. Shadraith had become too enamoured with his daemon, Bar’ghul. Killing those who were a liability was a vital part of the warband’s survival. Blood’s loyalty, as the Night Lords called it, only went so far. Such Long War sentiments had no place in his warband. He blink-activated his helmet’s vox.
‘Fexrath,’ he said. ‘Is the void shield armoury open yet?’
‘Affirmative, my prince,’ the Third Claw leader replied. ‘The garrison was well stocked. A pity they didn’t get a chance to use any of it.’
‘Well, let’s make sure someone does. I’ve seen enough of this stage. Begin distributing the weaponry.’
‘As you wish, my prince.’
Cull broke the link, satisfied with his decision. Just as things were starting to settle into a steady cycle of killings and low-key gang clashes, the Night Lords would tear it apart and start again.
By the time the harvest was over, only the strongest would remain.
+ + Gene scan complete + + +
+ + Access granted + + +
+ + Beginning mem-bank entry log + + +
+ + Date check, 3636875.M41 + + +
Day 76, warp time variance approximate.
I have pulled what carto-files and historical slates I could concerning the penal colony on Zartak. It wasn’t much. The limited ability to access central data on board the Saint Angelica is hardly ideal, but all the same, there should be more here. It looks as though some older files have been wiped.
When last surveyed, Zartak was a jungle planetoid, formally designated a cross-tithe Death World/Penal Colony by the Adeptus Administratum. It is the single largest supplier of raw adamantium in the entire subsector. The whole rock is riddled with the stuff, or at least it was before the miners hollowed it out. Most of the works are offshoots of the original sink shaft that’s now used to house the prisoners. The primary Adeptus Arbites Precinct Fortress sits above it, defended by a void shield. There are smaller sub-precincts and lesser works scattered across the rest of the surface, all of them connected by a system of sub-surface loco rails and access tunnels. The historical slates are far less comprehensive. They reference a number of prison riots and uprisings, all of them suppressed. There are some references to colonists before the rock was formally designated a penal colony. I will investigate further while we are in transit.
Signed,
Interrogator Augim Nzogwu.
+ + Mem-bank entry log ends + + +
+ + Thought for the Day: The simplest way to destroy the future is to forget the past + + +
Chapter V
The bridge of the White Maw was a sepulchral place. Like an ancient palace lost beneath the tid
es, its carved coral walls and pillars reached towards a high vaulted ceiling that shimmered with the light of the ancient vessel’s energy shields. Silence hung across it like a shroud, disturbed only by the quiet hum of cogitators, the chiming of augurs and the distant throb of its engines. Many of the pale-robed serfs manning the bridge’s data pits had had their vocal cords surgically removed in a zealous effort to imitate those among their masters who had taken the Void Vow of Silence.
The only time that silence was truly broken was during warp re-entry. Earlier the rock-like walls and worn deck plates had resonated with the urgent canting of the transitional choir, and the buzzing of cherubim as they flitted overhead swinging their autocensers. The Space Marines occupying the bridge had joined the chanting, slipping into the High Gothic plainsong with experienced ease. The ship had shuddered and moaned with otherworldly fear as it ripped itself from the coruscating madness of the warp, tearing back into real space like an oceanic predator thundering up from the depths, surrounded by a halo of fading, clawed light.
The augur arrays were still chiming with results as the White Maw probed its new surroundings. The fuzzy, incomplete sea-green display of the Zartak system that beamed up from the holochart in front of the bridge’s command throne was slowly resolving. Either side of the White Maw were six escort ships, clustered like minnows beside a leviathan, scenting the waters for blood. Only the ragged distortion of the system’s great asteroid belt lay between them and its only occupied world – Zartak.
And, to Sharr, home. Or at least, once-home. Only the thinnest slivers of the penal colony remained embedded in his memory. The cold. The darkness. Muscle-ache. Despair. They remained imprinted on his psyche, long after true recollections of his life as a convict had disappeared.
Sharr felt his anger stir. None of that mattered any more. The Angels of Death, the Void Father’s anointed, had come for him. He had a new life now. Whoever that boy had once been, two centuries ago, he was long dead.
‘We’re four hours out from high orbit,’ he said, seeking focus in the familiarity of the tactical briefing. ‘Initial scans indicate there is only a single vessel currently anchored above the planetoid. We’re still running identification, but it would appear there was a recent orbital engagement. We’re reading macrocannon discharges and what may be a wreck caught in the gravitational well.’
Across the display from Sharr the rest of the Third Company’s command structure listened. Chaplain Nikora brooded in his black battleplate, while Te Kahurangi leaned heavily on his bone staff, flanked by the strike leaders of the company’s individual squads. Kahu had deliberately positioned himself away from the others, next to Sharr. The Terminator had donned his helm, its snout painted with the gaping red maw that contrasted so powerfully with the off-white plates of the rest of his Tactical Dreadnought armour.
‘Vox transcripts seem to imply Imperial communications on the planet’s surface have failed,’ Sharr continued, a click of a rune inset into the holo’s control panel highlighting Zartak on the three-dimensional display. ‘Beyond a distress signal beamed from a minor installation in the southern hemisphere, there appears to be no contactable Imperial presence on the surface. There may still be survivors underground.’
‘The Night Lords do their work swiftly,’ Strike Leader Omeca-three-nine-Ari, commander of the company’s Scout attachment muttered.
‘Do we have confirmation that they are the ones responsible for this?’ Chaplain Nikora demanded.
‘Nothing beyond my scrying,’ Te Kahurangi said before Sharr could answer. ‘But I have never seen clearer portents. They are here at the bidding of the Kiri Mate, the Dead Skin, and his daemon master.’
‘If you’ve seen it then that’s enough for me,’ Nikora said, his skull helm nodding.
‘It doesn’t seem that our initial plan needs to be changed,’ Kahu said, voice grating from his vox. ‘Secure a landing zone and hunt the traitors into the mines. If they release the prisoners it will only hamper their efforts to hide.’
‘If the facility sending the distress signal still resists then that will become our base of operations,’ Sharr said. ‘If not, we will retake it and make it so. All of Zartak’s precincts are linked via underground sub-surface lines and foot passages. Holding one will provide us with access to the rest. From there we will work our way into the primary mine and flush out the traitors.’
‘Seize the void shield generator and my Red Brethren can teleport into the main precinct and cut off their head,’ Kahu said. ‘That is surely where their master is hiding.’
‘Or it could be a trap. We know these traitors too well. Shadows and trickery are their way.’
‘And destroying them is not all we need to consider,’ Te Kahurangi added. ‘I request the use of Strike Leader Ari’s initiates to help look for the boy. He is already loose somewhere in the primary mine workings. My visions have shown that the Dead Skin is hunting him.’
There was a whirr of servos as Kahu shifted his stance.
‘We surely cannot afford to lend you our full complement of Scouts, Chief Librarian,’ the Terminator said.
‘But we shall, none the less,’ Sharr said. ‘Even with his abilities, the venerable Chief Librarian cannot be expected to scour the whole mine alone. Better that than sparing fully fledged void brothers to look for the child.’
‘The Tithe–’ Kahu began, but Sharr cut him off.
‘Will be completed,’ he said. ‘And the boy retrieved, for the Chapter. At the moment there is no reason to suspect either of those objectives is beyond our grasp. Once we have made planetfall and initiated contact, I will reassess the situation. Until then, the Scouts are at Te Kahurangi’s disposal. Is that clear?’
The assembled Carcharodons nodded silently, although Kahu only did so after a moment’s pause. Sharr caught Te Kahurangi’s eye, and noted his silent thanks. Kahu might demand obedience to Tyberos and the wider edicts of the Chapter, but Sharr had known the Chief Librarian long enough to trust his judgement.
Whoever the boy was that Te Kahurangi sought, his talents meant he was of vital importance.
Rannik managed to pop the release rune on the restraint harness before she was sick. A flood of bile splattered the cracked inside of the salvation pod’s crystalflex viewing port and drenched the rudimentary control panel.
The arbitrator managed to stumble out of the open rear hatch before a second wave of nausea hit, driving her down onto her knees amidst the furrowed dirt. She stayed crouched for a long time, dry-heaving, watching the contents of her stomach seeping into the scorched trail of earth ploughed by the pod’s landing.
It began to rain, the sound of millions of droplets hitting the canopy around her creating a hissing, pattering susurration. Zartak’s sun was rising above the treetops, leeching colour back into the blackness beneath the boughs of the planetoid’s jungles.
As the rain began to run through the joints in her battered armour she forced herself to rise. The mud underfoot was already a cloying quagmire. Her vision swam, and she held her arms out to steady herself. She drew in a long, slow breath, feeling her stomach finally beginning to settle.
She’d come awake in the middle of re-entry. The salvation pod’s viewing port had been a red blaze of atmospheric flame. She’d been convinced she was going to die, not knowing what to do, trapped in her harness. The fires had faded and the clouds had parted, and the undulating green sea of Zartak’s treetops had rushed up to greet her.
Even with the last-second launch of the dampeners and the restraint harness on full lock, the impact with the surface had nearly snapped her spine and broken her neck. Her body ached, and that wasn’t even counting the injuries she’d sustained on the Imperial Truth. It was a struggle just to stay upright.
She glanced back at the salvation pod. Its black surface was scarred and steaming, half buried in jungle muck. Behind her a trail of shattered bark, shredded leaves and
sap-oozing splinters marked where the pod had made contact with the canopy, dragging itself a hundred yards through the jungle. She wondered how in the God-Emperor’s name she was still alive.
It was thanks, she knew, to the nightmare creatures.
That knowledge made her stomach clench again. Their attempt to seize the Imperial Truth and the ambush which had followed had been entirely planned, that much was obvious. What had turned the former prison ship into a living nightmare wasn’t so clear. Rannik had never encountered anything like the things that had fallen upon them from the shadows of the bridge. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have said they were some sort of dark parody of the tales she’d heard about the god-warriors of the Adeptus Astartes. They were creatures of the Dark Gods though, that much was certain. The whole of Zartak was in grave peril.
A solid click-click made her freeze. She stood in the rain, hair plastered to her scalp, shivering. A voice barked at her.
‘Turn around!’
She did so unsteadily, to find herself staring down the barrel of a trio of Vox Legis. Three arbitrators stood at the edge of the salvation pod’s dirt furrow, the rain glistening from their black helmets and carapace plate.
Rannik tried to speak. Instead she collapsed, slapping into the mud. Her vision spun. She was half aware of the arbitrators approaching, weapons still levelled.
‘Sub-Precinct Twelve,’ she managed to slur. One reached down and grasped the pauldron of her armour with a lock glove. He rolled her onto her back and slapped the mud from her breastplate, revealing her blocky yellow ident tag.
‘Sub-Warden Rannik?’ the man demanded, face unreadable behind his helmet lens. Rannik managed to nod.
‘Welcome back to Zartak, sir,’ the arbitrator said, mag-locking his shotgun to his backplate. He grasped Rannik’s hand. His two comrades took her by the shoulders and hefted her up out of the mud.
Carcharodons: Red Tithe Page 9
