‘The rite of blood given, and the rite of blood taken.’
‘…to defer your rightful fate, those like you will continue to follow Holos in his trek up the mountain. They will fight, and they will struggle, and they will come to me.’
‘Many may say “no”.’
‘It matters not. Only one need say “yes”. And one will.’
‘We have seen it. It has already happened,’ the voices spoke as one. ‘Your Chapter will fall, as your brothers fell before you. Now,’ they said, ‘fall!’
Caedis lunged at the light, hands outstretched, aiming to break the neck on the right. He brushed against something that felt like feathers and flesh, but which made his skin shiver with revulsion. A stench of old carrion, the dry scent of birds, the astringency of electricity, and then he was past it. The light winked out, taking the being with it.
He twisted, his feet catching on the end of the rock spur. His arms windmilled as he sought balance. He caught a glimpse of Holos, head bowed at the rock, deep in his own conversation two thousand years ago, and he wondered at what price the hero had bought the temporary salvation of his Chapter.
The daemon’s prophecy came true. He fell into the volcano-smogged air of San Guisiga, and plummeted towards a field of fanged granite far below.
He hit with bone-jarring force. His legs broke. His fused ribs caved in, crushed by a point of stone. His skull shattered.
The vision ended.
Caedis coughed. He was fully himself. The Thirst had abated for now, taking his strange visions with it. But it writhed in the pit of his gut, making him nauseous and hungry at the same time. He thought of the daemon’s words. It would return redoubled, and soon. He had to get out of the hulk and tell the others what he had learned. He had to put a stop to the rite before it was too late. He thanked the Emperor that he, as Chapter Master, had the power to do that, to undo the evil that Holos had wrought.
He rolled onto his side, hands pawing at smooth metal. He was so damned weak!
A long tendril of something wrapped itself around his ankles. Two more grabbed his wrists. His arms were pulled apart, and he was lifted into the air. He had no strength to resist.
‘Well, well, well,’ said a silken voice that came from everywhere and nowhere. ‘What have we here?’
Caedis opened his mouth to address the voice, but no sound came.
He was trapped.
Chapter 21
The power of the ancients
The doorway led to a sloping corridor several metres long that joined an arterial way wide enough for four Terminators to walk abreast. The ship’s interior was eerily untouched. Its artificial gravity was functional, the curved ceiling glowed softly. There was little dust, and no corrosion. The air was far purer than that aboard the Novum in Honourum, an atmospheric mix of rare quality. The design of the ship was superior in virtually every way to those on which Galt had been. Like the exterior it lacked the heavy embellishment so beloved in the Imperium. Even so, it was as beautiful in its way. Sinuous lines defined its architecture, the parts of it seemingly all of one piece. Only close inspection showed that this was not so.
The mage priests chittered to one another in their screeching code as Plosk called a halt by something that might have been a sculpture. If it was, Galt could make no sense of it; it was a series of abstract curves and intersecting planes of quicksilver-bright metal.
‘I have located a data portal,’ said Plosk.
‘I detect nothing,’ said Eskerio. The contempt in his voice was growing every time he spoke. He no longer used the tech-priests’ honorifics.
‘These technologies are beyond our own, but not beyond understanding,’ said Samin. ‘Allow my master peace so that he might commune with the vessel’s spirit.’
Plosk and Nuministon stood close, their helmets almost touching, and fell silent. If they spoke with the ship it was not apparent.
‘I have never seen a ship such as this, Brother Clastrin,’ said Galt over a private channel.
‘Do not be seduced by its simple beauties, brother,’ said Clastrin. ‘This ship dates from a time when technology was given freely by the Omnissiah, but was used ignorantly and left unhallowed. For that, he turned his back upon mankind.’
‘Is there threat here?’
‘There may well be. At the least there will be a test – the Omnissiah will not return to the unworthy that which he took from the unworthy.’
Plosk and Nuministon stood apart. Plosk undid his helmet clasps and pulled it free. He breathed the air deeply and smiled.
‘I have accessed the machine’s datacores. What we seek is located on the bridge.’
Galt spoke publicly. ‘How long do we have, Magos Nuministon?’
‘The warp fields that gather themselves about the hulk will push the agglomeration into the empyrean in one hour, forty-two minutes and seven seconds, lord captain.’
‘The reactor?’ asked Galt.
‘It is to the aft, five decks down. Repair is necessary if we are to teleport free. Samin is ready, are you not, Adept Samin?’
Samin looked anything but ready.
‘To split our forces could be folly,’ said Sandamael. ‘But I see little choice in the matter.’
‘I will lead the party,’ said Voldo. ‘Lord captain?’
Galt hesitated. This was the time, he knew it in his bones. This was the real message of the Shadow Novum, the death of his mentor, and it was upon him. He looked at Voldo. From behind his helmet lenses, Voldo looked back.
‘Now is the moment of peril for you,’ said Galt to him privately.
‘If it is ordained, so be it,’ said Voldo. ‘It is the mark of a leader that he send his brothers willingly to their deaths, should mission parameters make demand of such sacrifice. Now is one of those times. I will go, and you should not stop me, lord captain.’
Galt was quiet. ‘I… I should not. The Emperor protect you, Brother Voldo.’
‘Do not despair, Mantillio. We shall meet once again in the Shadow Novum, and fight the war to end all wars side by side with the Emperor himself. It has been my honour and pleasure to watch you grow from boy to man, and my pride to serve under you.’
Galt opened up his comms once more. ‘Sergeant Voldo will go.’
‘And I,’ said Astomar, stepping forward. ‘He will have need of this.’ He brandished his heavy flamer.
‘I will accompany my brothers,’ said Militor.
‘Let it not be said the Blood Drinkers stay their hands when brothers demand aid,’ said Sandamael.
‘Aye, brother, I shall aid our cousins.’ Brother Curzon stepped forward. ‘It would be best if both groups contained auspexes.’ He had taken the late Azmael’s role as operations specialist.
Plosk nodded with satisfaction. ‘You see, Samin, with such heroes of the Imperium, you have nothing to fear.’
With reluctance, Samin separated himself from his master’s side and joined Voldo’s group. Reclusiarch Mazrael, Sergeant Sandamael, Brother Tarael and Ancient Metrion of the Blood Drinkers remained with Galt and Forgemaster Clastrin, as did Brother Eskerio and Brother Gallio of Squad Wisdom of Lucretius.
With the characteristic ponderousness of Terminator plate, Voldo swung himself around and led the others away.
‘Lord captain, we are not alone,’ said Brother Eskerio. He highlighted signs of movement.
‘We see them too,’ said Voldo, his voice breaking with pulsed static. ‘May the Emperor bring them to us, so that we may end their lives.’
‘You need not worry, brother-sergeant. Lord captain, Lord Reclusiarch, they head for your position,’ said Curzon.
‘We had best hurry, before they decide to come for us too,’ said Voldo. ‘We will proc…’ His voice grew increasingly broken, and then cut out.
‘I cannot regain the signal to the other group, lord captain,’ said Eskerio. ‘It cannot be the reactor. We are being jammed.’
Galt was unsurprised. ‘The unexpected is to be expected, brother, in th
is ship of ghosts. Concentrate on the more immediate threat. Proceed with caution.’
Before Curzon’s auspex feed broke, the two devices corroborated each other’s data, and fed an idealised data set into the sensoriums of the Space Marines. The erratic secondary reactor of the ship interfered somewhat with both the vox and the auspexes, so they could not entirely trust what they saw, indeed, the map they had of the Spirit of Eternity was still incomplete, although Vardoman Plosk had shared the floor plans of the vessel that he had downloaded from the datacore.
The auspexes gave them enough so that they might prepare.
Red dots massed, rushing from another major way they had passed a couple of minutes before.
‘I estimate forty,’ said Eskerio.
‘Prepare for contact,’ said Sandamael. ‘Brothers Tarael and Curzon, stand aside, let our Novamarines cousins do their work. Be ready to aid them once the enemy is within striking range.’
‘Yes, brother-sergeant,’ they said. They could not hide their excitement. Galt still found it strange. He enjoyed battle, he was a warrior, and war is the wish of all warriors. But the avidity with which the Blood Drinkers anticipated combat bordered on madness.
‘Here they come!’ shouted Eskerio. Alarms chimed in their helmets, their threat indicators creeping from the upper amber scale into the red.
The genestealers came at them, screeching their hatred of all life, alien faces disfigured by their loathing.
Galt dropped one with a well placed volley of fire from his weapon. A second burst like an overripe fruit, gunned down by Brother Gallio. The Space Marines walked backwards in step with one another. They were slow but implacable. The genestealers were far swifter, but died before their speed could carry them into close combat. Their viscera spattered the strange metal of the ancient spacecraft, but was absorbed by it, leaving the walls clean. Where rounds went astray, they exploded as they went into the walls, but the ship’s metal skin reformed to leave them unmarked.
Surely, the Space Marines gained ground, plodding one backwards step at a time towards the bridge. The tech-priests were well clear, on their way into the bridge, their cyborg servants lumbering after them.
And then a second group of genestealers were among the Space Marines, falling from a fluted duct above their heads. Three of them. They landed lightly on their claws and feet, then leapt with dazzling speed at the adepts.
One landed athwart Clastrin’s chest. It knocked the Forgemaster’s gun from his hand, its razored claws hammering at his helmet. Another punched its way through Eskerio’s greave; this one died quickly as Eskerio bellowed and responded, riddling its back and head with bolts. Dull reports sounded from inside the xenos as the mass reactive missiles detonated. Its guts sprayed across the floor, and Eskerio, bleeding heavily, sank to one knee, his injured leg unable to hold him.
The third genestealer ran screaming up the corridor, away from the Space Marines and towards the tech-priests. Galt turned from those coming up the corridor, and raised his gun, trying for a shot at the genestealer charging the magi, but Clastrin stumbled into his way, his servo-harness’s arms grappling with the genestealer pushing him backwards. He shouted in pain as a claw snicked through his armour. Mazrael fired his bolt pistol but missed, the bolt exploded in the wall leaving a scorch mark that rapidly faded. The genestealer was not to be distracted, with a swift motion it jammed its fingers under the shoulder pad of the Forgemaster and ripped it away, flinging it to the side with a clatter.
Heavy bolter fire raked the corridor from Plosk’s servitors, threatening the Space Marines. It stopped as the genestealer got in among the Mechanicus contingent. Plosk was shouting. Someone screamed. The air roared and boomed as a multi-melta fired.
The Forgemaster’s servo-harness saved him. Clastrin was able to hold the genestealer back with his own hands as his harness worked. One heavy arm raked along the curved wall until it found purchase, steadying him. Another, tipped in a massive gripper, caught the genestealer about the neck and pulled. Servos whined as the maniples squeezed. There was the roar of the plasma cutter between the pincer’s grips, and oily smoke filled the corridor.
The genestealer’s head rolled free, neck cauterised. Its eyes stared hate as it bounced upon the floor.
By then it was too late; the genestealers coming up the corridor were at them. The weapons of the Blood Drinkers sparked as they duelled with the aliens, metal claws against those of black chitin. Tarael and Metrion stood side by side. Sandamael blasted a genestealer apart with his storm bolter, and cut another one in two with his power sword.
‘They are too many!’ said the Blood Drinkers Ancient. Savage joy was in his voice.
‘We will hold them, you go on!’ said Sandamael.
‘No!’ shouted Galt.
‘We go together,’ said Mazrael. He swung his crozius down hard, black armoured arm blurring. A genestealer’s shoulder exploded with a crack as it connected.
‘Captain,’ Nuministon spoke. ‘Come to us quickly, we have a sanctuary!’
‘Fall back!’ shouted Galt. ‘Fall back!’
They moved as quickly as they could, those with storm bolters providing covering fire when opportunity presented itself. They disentangled themselves from the genestealers. The aliens pursued, snapping at them like dogs. They were shot down, only for more to advance. Threat indicators rang loudly in the helmets of the Terminators. Their visor maps were crowded with red telltales.
‘Quickly! Quickly!’ said Nuministon.
Galt half dragged the wounded Eskerio. He left a trail of blood as he limped. Dead and dying genestealers lay sprawled all the way up the corridor. The captain fell behind, the unburdened Blood Drinkers and Novamarines outpacing him.
They came to the magi. Metrion blew apart a genestealer that leapt over the corpses of its fellows, showering Galt and Eskerio with black gore. Tarael cut a genestealer’s arms off as it reached for Galt. Bolts whistled past the captain, exploding as they buried themselves in the flesh of the aliens as Mazrael expertly covered his retreat. The roar of the servitors’ multi-meltas and the profound bass chatter of heavy bolters joined them. Galt made it into the ranks of his fellows. There was an electric crack and Eskerio was yanked from his hand. Freed of his weight, Galt lumbered forward, off balance. He turned to see a sheet of glimmering energy across the corridor. Eskerio was on the other side. A genestealer had hold of his boot. The Terminator was hammering on the field. There was no reaction from it, no energy discharge, no sound, it was as solid as adamantium.
‘Brother Eskerio!’ called Sandamael over the vox. ‘Look out!’
There was no reply. The field had isolated the Novamarine.
‘Shut it down!’ shouted Galt. ‘Shut it down!’
‘Do it now, magos,’ growled Mazrael menacingly.
‘I cannot, lords,’ said Nuministon. ‘I did not activate it. When I spoke of sanctuary, I referred to this blast door.’
Galt did not look to see the door. He was transfixed by the battle’s final throes on the other side of the field. The energy barrier was slightly yellow, colouring the scene and making it appear like a bad pict-feed. Eskerio was dying only centimetres away.
Realising he could not get through, Eskerio turned as best as he could on his damaged leg. He raised his bolter and slew two genestealers, before his gun was grasped by a claw and crushed into a sparking mess. Eskerio ended the life of one genestealer with a blow from his power fist, then another. Genestealers swarmed all over him, pulling the crackling gauntlet down, biting and tearing at its power cables. The disruption feed went out. Eskerio jerked as a pair of claws punched into his stomach. Alien hands dragged out his viscera.
Mercifully he was dead when they tore him apart.
Galt rounded on the magi. ‘Explain to me why I have lost one of my brothers, magos.’
Nuministon stood his ground. ‘It is the ship, part of an automated defence network. There will be weapons also, but perhaps there is no power available for those? No doubt thi
s power field is linked to others, isolating the bridge in case of an enemy boarding action. I was urging you to make for the door, lord.’ Galt could now see the aperture, a reinforced rib that extended a third of a metre into the corridor right round the floor, ceiling and walls. ‘It will extrude in the same manner as the hull repairs itself, the metal is a semi-liquid under the influence of complex magnetic fields and is backed up by a more mundane doorway should those fail. I–’
‘I do not care for your explanations,’ said Galt coldly. He pushed past the magos. Plosk was sat on the floor. A trio of weapon-servitors wrecked beside him, bleeding oils. The tech-priests had only seven of their dozen mind-wiped servants remaining: two armed with multi-meltas, three with heavy bolters, and two of their data-savants. The remains of a genestealer which had killed a servitor lay next to it, the top half of it vaporised by a multi-melta. The wall behind it was scarred by the weapon’s energy discharge, and this did not return to its prior condition.
So the ship can be damaged, thought Galt.
Plosk glanced up. He had pulled his hood up, but it could not hide the ruin of his face. The genestealer had come very close to ending his life. His flesh was ragged where clawed fingers had caressed him. The flesh did not bleed. Underneath was the oily glint of metal.
Galt snarled at him. ‘Even your form is a lie.’
Plosk got to his feet. His upper teeth were visible through his ragged cheeks. ‘You cannot blame me, my lord, for this small deception. Interaction with others is an important component of my role. Not all the cultures I come across find the strong machine forms we adepts evolve into pleasing.’ He tutted. ‘But there is no need for it now, I suppose.’
He slipped his hand inside his hood and worked his fingers. His face, a mask, came away with a sucking noise. Underneath his skull was bare of flesh. His lower jaw was missing, a thick tube taking its place, sharp catches attached it to polished bone incised with machine runes. His lidless eyes gave him a look of surprise, or outrage.
‘You see? Some of the less developed human cultures are offended by my face.’ His voice had not changed, although it was obvious now that it was artificially generated. ‘They do not recognise the gifts of the Omnissiah for the blessings that they are, for they are unaware of how weak their flesh is, lord. But guile and subtlety bring my plans more quickly to fruition.’ Thin tubes on the side of his face squirted water into his eyes, irrigating them. His false face continued to squirm in his hands, forming a succession of idiot expressions.
Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1 Page 275
