Nearly five thousand genestealers had been slaughtered, a kill ratio of fifty-three to one. More would die soon. Already kill-teams closed in on the roosts where additional genestealers slumbered in vacuum. These would prove no trouble in their extermination. Doubtless further brothers would fall in pursuance of these objectives, but the real battle was over. An impressive result, yet still Galt agonised over every one of his dead brothers. ‘They will be buried with all honour,’ he said to himself, ‘interred in the tombs of Fortress Novum.’
Shrines would be raised to their memory. Their glories would be recorded. New brothers would take their place. Such was the way of the Chapter, and it had been so for eight thousand years.
Fortress Novum. He thought of the damage to Corvo’s Hammer, and the losses his force had sustained these last years. The surviving novitiates with them were ready for their final elevation to full brotherhood; many of his squads were under strength. He needed to restock, resupply and take new orders from his own master.
It was time to go home.
First there was the matter of the space hulk’s archeotech.
A hand fell upon his shoulder. Galt opened his eyes. Sergeant Voldo stood over him.
‘Lord captain,’ he said.
‘Brother-sergeant,’ said Galt. He got to his feet and genuflected to the statue of Corvo.
‘Asking for guidance?’ said Voldo.
‘Giving thanks for a victory delivered, and for those of our brothers who were not.’
Voldo nodded. ‘I am told you are to go into the heart of the hulk.’
‘Yes, brother. Already teams of tech-priests scour the vessels in the hulk deemed clear. Our ally Plosk is planning an expedition to its centre. It is there that he believes the STC data to be.’
‘And you do not trust him,’ said Voldo.
Galt shook his head. ‘He has omitted important details more than once. Wherever Plosk goes, I will go.’
‘You are right to be wary. Why will these tech-priests not tell us what they know? We all have the same goals after all.’
‘Forgemaster Clastrin says their organisation is as plagued by factionalism and division as any other. It may not be us he is keeping this information from. Will you walk with me? I find the chapel calming.’
Voldo fell in beside Galt. They went together slowly along the edge of the cathedral. The walls were heavy black marble, niches in the stone filled with skulls of ancient worthies who had aided the Chapter in some way. Servitor-worshippers sang songs of distant Honourum. Serfs muttered prayers as they cleaned the huge space.
‘You have not assigned me any duty, my lord.’
Galt smiled a little tightly. So, here it came. ‘You have done enough, brother.’
‘Not one brother has ever done enough, not ever,’ said Voldo harshly. ‘To rest one second is to allow the enemies of our lord time to act.’
‘So says Guilliman’s Codex,’ said Galt.
‘I quote with purpose. Let me come with you.’
‘No, I have made my decision.’
Voldo swore. ‘Mantillio, do you think me too old? Is that it? I am still in my prime, I am not ready yet for some sinecure position on Honourum counting soup rations for the neophytes.’
‘Only you can speak thusly to me, Voldo.’
‘Something I have earned, Mantillio. For long decades I have been here for you and you repay me with this dishonour.’
‘You have fought long and hard here already, and earned another fine addition to the tally of your skin. Rest, let another take your place. There will be combat aplenty for you to partake in another day,’ said Galt.
Voldo grabbed the man he had trained by the shoulder and span him around to face him. His eyes narrowed as he looked into his face.
‘What is it, lord captain? I have known you since you were a boy. You are hiding something from me.’
Galt looked to one side, then back to the sergeant. ‘My voice betrays me.’
Voldo smiled. ‘It always did. You are a fine strategician, but you have much to learn of diplomacy before you are ready for the Chapter Master’s throne.’
Galt nodded. He hesitated before he spoke again. ‘If I hold you back here, it is not to dishonour you, but to keep you safe, my mentor.’
Voldo gave him a quizzical look. He tightened his hand. ‘Go on.’
‘When I received my last flesh art, I travelled into the Shadow Novum. There I was greeted by one of the spirits of the dead.’
‘As it should be. What wisdom did he show you, did it concern me?’
Galt considered lying then, but untruthfulness was not part of the Novamarines’ creed. To do so would have been a betrayal. ‘No, brother.’
‘Well then.’ Voldo’s hand dropped.
‘It was you.’
Voldo folded his arms and looked to the floor. ‘I understand.’
‘Chaplain Odon told me that it is not uncommon to see the spirits of those who live, for it is a timeless place, and all who served or will serve our Chapter are to be found within.’
‘I know, boy, I know. I know what it means. So you would seek to deny fate?’ Voldo’s face was hard. ‘Such arrogance is not fitting for one of your office.’
‘I wanted only to protect you.’
‘What? By defying the will of the Emperor himself? Foolishness.’ He pointed a finger at the left of Galt’s chest, where his birth-heart beat. ‘To make decisions based upon this is dangerous. That way lies temptation. Have I not told you this many times?’
‘Yes, Brother Voldo.’
‘Here,’ he pointed at Galt’s forehead. ‘Here is where your true voice is. Tell me, what does it say?’
‘It says that you are the most experienced veteran in the entire Chapter in the matter of cleansing space hulks. That to leave you behind would be rash, and an insult to your pride and to the oath we all swore.’ Galt smiled. ‘It also tells me you should have been a captain long ago.’
Voldo laughed. ‘Ha! I serve better where I am, Mantillio. If I were a captain, when would I have the time to set you to rights? So, I ask you, when do we leave?’
Galt changed his orders. Then he sat in the pews of the cathedral with the man who he saw as his father, and prayed with him for the last time.
Blessed be the Machine-God and all his works, thought Plosk as another shuttle, laden with technological treasures, took off from the hulk and flew towards Excommentum Incursus. Plosk turned back to the data-slate set into the cogitation nexus of the control landau. He scrutinised it, half fearful that he had been mistaken. But then a spike in the graph playing in the upper quadrant of the screen brought a rush of exultation to his breast. There, the signature.
He smiled. ‘Magos Nuministon, it is there. Oh, by the Omnissiah, it is there!’
Nuministon peered at the screen. Above them, the energy shield protecting the control landau flared once, then again, as micro-meteors hit, debris from the Adeptus Astartes’ bombardment being pulled back into the greater body of the hulk. Nuministon wore a cable from the back of his head that plugged into the landau’s cogitation engines. He communed with the thing’s machine-spirits a moment. He would be running the data himself, checking the information.
‘The signals are faint, but inescapable. You are correct. Well done, Lord Magos Explorator.’
Plosk’s fleshy face split in a wide, self-satisfied grin. Around the landau the hulk’s surface glowed ferocious blue-white in the glare of Jorso. A detachment of troops from his ship’s skitarii formed a cordon around the landau. He had not wanted to deploy them; they were too valuable a resource to him. Why should he waste his own men when he had four hundred Space Marines to use in battle? But the genestealer attack on the surface had rattled him, and so he had called on his own resources. He was miserly with information and resources both, but he was not a fool.
‘Do the adepts of the stars know?’
‘Not yet. Of course, they will in short order. But there is no need for them to know yet. Who knows wha
t spies and tattle-tales they have among their ranks? All it takes is for one of their Techmarines to have the ear of a rival temple, or for one of their oh-so-incorruptible serfs to be anything but, and my claim will immediately be disputed.’
‘You found it, lord.’ Nuministon did not think these suppositions likely – all Space Marine Techmarines were trained together, and their loyalties invariably lay first and foremost with their Chapter. They were not on Mars long enough, nor inducted deeply enough into the inner mysteries, to become politicised along Mechanicus faction lines. He did not voice this. Plosk was inclined to a caution that bordered on paranoia, but it generally served him well.
‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Plosk flapped a hand in front of his face. ‘But that’s not the point, is it? Something of this magnitude will bring Machine Adepts from all over the galaxy swarming like flies. If so, I will lose my advantage. Half of them will want to destroy the vessel once they learn what is aboard it. No, this prize must be conveyed directly to Mars under my command, only then will I benefit from its finding. If I were to lose exclusive first rights, then what would I tell my patrons? One does not wish to anger a High Lord, Nuministon.’
‘Garm is dead.’
‘The dead ones are the most dangerous, my dear fellow.’
‘When will you tell their leader of the threat?’
‘When the time is right, if at all. I seriously doubt he has the wit to understand what we have found. He is awed by the talk of the STC data we might recover. Let him be, and let him remain unaware of any difficulty accompanying that. For all we know the ship is harmless. Captain Galt does not need to be told that it might be otherwise. This is machine business, let it be undertaken by those who understand it fully. Now the Space Marines have cleared the majority of genestealers from the hulk, we may deal with whatever guards the STC core, if indeed anything does,’ he said breezily. ‘But first we have to retrieve it, and if these data readings are correct, then the vessel is readying itself to depart. Troublesome indeed.’ He tapped his fingers on the data-slate screen. ‘Well, it is not to be helped. We have triumphed over greater odds for lesser prizes.’
‘They are coming,’ said Nuministon. A star in the sky grew in brightness and size, revealing itself as a Thunderhawk of the Novamarines Chapter.
Plosk pursed his lips in annoyance. ‘The captain of the Novamarines, Galt, he insists on coming, of course. Let us hope he is not much of a hindrance.’
The Thunderhawk flew once around the Adeptus Mechanicus in a flagrant demonstration of power, then swept down to land in a blast of dust.
The craft’s assault ramp slammed down. As Plosk expected, Captain Galt came out first. His heart fell a little when Reclusiarch Mazrael of the Blood Drinkers stepped onto the surface of the hulk behind him, but he had more than half-expected to see him. Both were clad in Terminator armour. A full squad in the bone-and-blue of the Novamarines followed them, then four Terminators in the red of the Blood Drinkers. With a casual contempt, Plosk data-linked to their suit’s cogitation engines. The histories of the armour unspooled in this mind, accompanied by flashes of pict footage and combat data.
The names of those who wore them now came last: Voldo, Astomar, Militor, Eskerio and Gallio for the Novamarines; Tarael, Sandamael, Metrion and Curzon of the Blood Drinkers. Tarael wielded lightning claws, Astomar a heavy flame unit, the sergeants and Galt had power swords and storm bolters, the rest power fists and storm bolters. Their armament did not concern him so much as the auspexes Curzon and Militor bore, but Plosk was a calculating man, and he gambled that by the time the Space Marines’ sensoriums revealed the nature of the prize, it would be too late.
The data came to him easily, the Terminators unaware he had linked to and examined each and every one of them to the finest degree of minutiae. He pulled a face when a twelfth figure stepped out off the ramp. The Master of the Forge of the Novamarines, Clastrin. He had recovered then, and that genuinely was poor luck for Plosk. He refrained from attempting a link to him. Clastrin was only a glorified Techmarine, one of the lowest ranks of tech-priest – barely worthy of the name, in fact – and would not be able to stop Plosk’s data probe, but he would notice it, and Plosk would rather he remained unaware he was systematically spying on each and every one of his brothers for information.
‘Lord Captain Galt, Lord Reclusiarch Mazrael, I greet you.’ Plosk made a bow. Doubtless its irony was lost on the Adeptus Astartes. Plosk hated all these formalities, he was of the mind that while he bore the seal of the High Lords all should simply do as they were told, but the lords of the Space Marines were as touchy as they were ignorant.
Galt rudely forwent formal preamble. ‘We are accompanying you into the centre of the hulk, Magos Plosk. You will be unsafe without proper protection.’
‘Ah, but your men have done so fine a job of clearing the hulk, lord captain.’
‘Many genestealers remain. As such, your expedition is a combat operation, and we agreed, did we not, that the Adeptus Astartes would have authority in these matters. I am coming with you, magos, whether you like it or not.’
Plosk pulled a sour face. He was glad the captain could not see it. Had he had more time, he could have led the captain on a merry dance around the hulk, saving the discovery of the true prize until the Novamarine grew bored and left. But he did not have more time. ‘As you wish, my lord.’
‘As I command, Magos Plosk.’
‘I thank you for your concern, my lord, but I have many servitors to protect me, your presence really is not required.’
‘I was told they are susceptible to the radioactivity in the hulk, and where you intend to go is among the most radioactive areas of all,’ said Galt.
‘Do you not trust me, my lord? We are after all on the same side.’
‘I do not trust your ambition, lord magos,’ said Galt. ‘I believe that you think you operate in the best interests of the Imperium, but I have seen politics cloud men’s judgement as surely as lust or rage. And you have lied to me already.’
Plosk held up his space-suited hands that may or may not have been a gesture of apology. ‘An honest mistake. I suppose you of the Novamarines believe you are above the pettiness of politics?’
‘In the main we are, Lord Magos. We serve, that is all.’
Plosk sighed. ‘Nobody is above politics, lord.’ He spoke next to Mazrael. ‘And the Lord Reclusiarch? I take it you intend to accompany us as well?’
‘I do. The last segment of Lord Caedis’s telemetry recorded in Sergeant Sandamael’s sensorium show him heading to the hulk’s centre,’ said Mazrael. ‘I would recover his body and his armour and grant both the proper rites.’
‘Of course, all honour must be made to him and his battlegear,’ said Plosk. ‘We must be away soon, the hulk could begin translation at any time.’
‘I am well aware of this,’ said Galt, ‘and have instructed the fleet to destroy this agglomeration should any sign of an imminent warp tear manifest itself, whether or not we are still aboard.’
This was altogether too much for Plosk. ‘Idiocy!’ snapped the magos. ‘You do not know what you destroy.’
‘Why do you not enlighten us, magos?’
Plosk calmed himself. ‘I have already told you of the great archeotech trove that could be within. You will not achieve the destruction of the Death of Integrity on your own.’
‘In light of Lord Caedis’s disappearance, I have been given direct command of the two Chapters here,’ replied Galt.
Oh, how insufferable he was! Plosk loathed dealing with the Adeptus Astartes. They were so dogged in their devotion, so caught up in their holy missions and crusades and petty prejudices that they could never see the bigger schematic. The intentions of the Omnissiah-Emperor were beyond their ability to understand. They were made to fight; anything else was beyond their comprehension. He pitied them for that.
‘Very well. It is what we agreed,’ he said, though it rankled him to remain reasonable. ‘We will be ready to depart in ten minutes,
lords.’ He bowed, and beckoned to Nuministon to follow him.
‘The Reclusiarch is lying, he is hiding something.’ Plosk, who had often to resort to diplomacy and brokerage while about his duties, had numerous means of proving the veracity of others’ words, and those of the Adeptus Astartes had been duly tested.
‘I have heard rumours regarding this family of Chapters, those descended of Sanguinius,’ ground out Nuministon’s uninflected voice. ‘Perhaps Mazrael’s omittance relates to this secret.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Plosk. He brightened. ‘It would be most useful to learn the details. A fine piece of leverage. One never knows when one will require influence.’
‘Indeed,’ said Nuministon.
‘Now, I require Samin’s aid. Where is he?’ said Plosk.
The expedition into the heart of the hulk began as a procession. Dozens of tech-priests and over one hundred servitors went into the perfectly square hole and down the road into the dark. They sang as they went, a low droning song broadcast on every frequency, and so unavoidable. The majority of the words to this dirge were impenetrable to the Space Marines, save Forgemaster Clastrin, to whom the cant of wheel, cog and sub-quantum relay switching was as familiar as bolter drill. He refrained from joining them, although he knew the songs, instead he voiced the fourteenth canticle of battle along with his brothers and the brothers of the Blood Drinkers.
All down the road, new doors had been cut and old ones wrenched open. An artery of thick black cables ran along one wall, held in place by welded staples. Into each opening some of these cables wormed to re-emerge depleted in number, and the swags of them hanging from the wall grew thinner the lower they went. Everywhere was a bustle. Servitors tramped up and down in endless lines, carrying pieces of machines or crates, or were hard-linked to grav-sleds and tracked litters bearing larger artefacts. Arc lights blazed from openings. Plasma cutters burned. The tech-priests were working fast to strip the hulk. Galt was somewhat taken aback. Excommentum Incursus was a giant vessel, but he had miscalculated how many tech-priests it carried.
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