by Danie Ware
‘Can’t see a damned thing.’ The curse was Rufus. ‘Could be anything moving in all this!’
Augusta barked, ‘Suit-lights!’
Six beams of light glimmered through the billowing dirt as the squad followed, weapons in hands.
Atop the Repressor, the storm bolter was tracking, covering them, but there was nothing to see.
Augusta said, ‘Sister Rhea?’
Her long form like a bloodied smear, Rhea returned, ‘Nothing, Sister Superior. No motion.’
‘Keep scanning,’ Augusta said.
Six Sisters and two soldiers moved swiftly – five paces, and kneel, five paces, and kneel. Dependent completely upon Rhea and her auspex, they moved towards the left-hand side of the building, their suit-lights picking out the glimmers of mica and obsidian, buried in the rock, the twin gleam of the servohauler rails.
‘Still nothing,’ Rhea said.
The building loomed high, identical in shape to the previous factorum, the one in which they’d caught Scafidis Zale. This time, however, it lacked the attaching metal walkways, and its left-hand side was butted up hard against the rock. The area provided a lee of shelter, and as they came closer, their vision cleared and they could make out the door that Augusta had meant. It bore a line of binary numerals and a cog-and-skull symbol that they’d seen before.
‘Incaladion,’ Akemi said. The word seemed heavy, its syllables like rocks, rolling onwards through the dust.
‘Rayos’ home forge world,’ Augusta commented.
‘She must have known all this was here,’ Melia said. ‘Why else did she come to this planet?’
‘Aye,’ Augusta responded. ‘Many of these machine-parts must be centuries old.’ They moved onwards, and saw that the servohauler tracks ended at a huge and echoing depot, empty and dug backwards into the cold rock wall. ‘She must have worked hard, to rebuild this army.’
‘We estimate that Rayos has been here for maybe two decades,’ Akemi said. ‘I do not clearly understand the ways of machine-spirits, but she must have worked hard indeed to build this many machines in that short a time.’
The air in the depot was still; there were no engines, nothing. The lines of tracks gleamed in mockery and an odd chill went down the Sister Superior’s spine.
This many machines…
It was a glint of suspicion like the tip of a blade, caught in a poorly healed wound…
That short a time.
But the depot offered no answers. At Augusta’s order, Viola and Rhea reached the door to the factorum, and stopped.
Unlike the various heavy double doors that allowed the machines themselves into and out of the building, this one was normal size – for servitors, helots and tech-priests.
‘Still nothing,’ Rhea said. ‘If the Kyrus’ scans are correct, this factorum was emptied more than two weeks ago.’
Sister Alcina muttered in the vox, ‘I dislike this, Sister.’
‘I hear you,’ Augusta agreed. Then, ‘Quietly if you can, Sisters. The Emperor rewards caution.’
Carefully, Rhea reached out. The door didn’t move. She tried again, then stepped back, and, with little effort, struck it with one red boot. It sprang open, slamming backwards, and Viola was already through it, her heavy bolter and suit-light covering the space inside.
But there was nothing there. Nothing moved. Nothing opened fire. No lights glared, no sirens wailed…
‘Of course,’ Augusta commented, straight-faced, ‘He also rewards audacity.’
Muttering the words of the Litany, she gave the order to advance.
The factorum was empty.
The space was huge, covered in the dust of centuries. And yet that dust had been tracked with recent movements and shifted into patterns – there had been something here, and not very long ago.
The squad spread out in twos, taking Rufus with them. Augusta kept Mors at her shoulder – the young ex-corporal had more experience of this planet than any of the Sisters, and he may offer insight where they could not.
Confronted with the deserted expanse of the factorum floor, however, he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Sister,’ he said. ‘I can only offer what we already know. Rayos has removed her force from this location.’ He paused, then added, ‘Permission to speak freely?’
‘Of course.’
‘Sister, her force is fully assembled. I fear… I feel that we are wasting our time. We should strive to reach our target before Rayos’ force can be moved off-world.’
‘Aye.’ Augusta nodded, thinking. ‘But the Kyrus will warn us if anything else enters orbit above the platform.’
Mors did not argue. ‘Yes, Sister.’
They went back to pacing the vast and empty space, trying to piece together the movements from the marks in the dust – but it was almost impossible. The exploring Sisters answered their roll calls, one pair after another.
They, too, were finding nothing.
At last, Augusta and Mors came to a stop before the one point in the factorum that had really caught their interest.
A shrine.
A Mechanicus shrine, clearly the factorum’s main place of worship – to Augusta it looked more like a miniature workshop, a place of pict-screens and pipes and furnaces and maintenance. Binary prayers were embossed in its metal walls and, under them, there were other marks that were clearly machine dialect, something that she could not read.
She called for Akemi, and continued to look.
The area was clean, clear of the ever-present metallic dust; it had recent oil stains where machines had been assembled or repaired. It also bore a cog-and-skull, one that they were starting to find familiar.
‘Incaladion,’ Augusta said. ‘Again.’ She stood looking at it, and then realised something else. ‘This one is more recent than the mark on the door.’
‘By some considerable time.’ Mors ventured an agreement, his hands gripped round his lasrifle, the weapon tucked hard into his shoulder. He was watching the empty factorum, as if convinced that they’d missed something.
‘Am I correct in recalling, Mors,’ Augusta said, ‘that Rayos had scarred over the mark of her home world?’
‘Yes, Sister,’ he said. ‘I recall the same thing.’
‘She is a heretek. She has abandoned her world, denied it. So why would she make its mark in her workshop?’
He blinked. ‘I do not know.’
Augusta said nothing, and continued to examine the shrine. There was little else to see – a small stacked data-bank, a forgotten cogitator, a hanging line of basic tools and attachments, all of them clean and recently used.
Akemi arrived at a run, Rufus with her. The young medicae had caught a shrapnel-cut across the side of his face, and the field-dressing seeped with red.
‘Sister Superior?’
Augusta pointed a red-armoured finger. ‘The machine dialect, Sister Akemi, what does it say?’
Akemi had almost taken her Oath of Ordination to the Order of the Quill, and her linguistic skills were formidable. Machine dialect, however, was a difficult task for a human, no matter how good their education. She said, ‘I fear I can read very little of it, Sister–’
‘Try.’ Augusta’s word was an order.
Akemi turned her suit-light on the text, and frowned. After a moment, she said, ‘Toll the great bell… Sing praise… the God of all… It’s a prayer for maintenance, for the reconstruction and accession of broken machine-spirits…’ She paused, then said, ‘No – not reconstruction. Creation.’ She started to explain the difference in phraseology, but Augusta stopped her with a raised hand, and she finished, ‘This is a birth-prayer.’
‘A birth-prayer?’
‘Yes, Sister,’ Akemi said. ‘This shrine was not created by this world’s original tech-priests. It’s a place for remaking, for joining parts of a spirit to make a new whole.’ She pa
used. ‘I do not know if this is heresy.’
‘That surely depends on the parts,’ Augusta said, her tone bleak – though she, too, did not understand enough of the ways of the Omnissiah, nor of the heretek.
Akemi had confirmed her suspicion, however, acknowledged that blade-spike of aggravation that was biting into her thoughts…
‘There is something else here,’ she said. ‘And I am beginning to suspect that it, too, once came from Incaladion.’
Chapter Six
With the factorum declared secure, the canoness called muster.
Leaving two of the Exorcists to watch the road, the company moved to take advantage of the empty depot. The vehicles turned around, the manoeuvre smooth and practised, and then halted, their engines still running.
Sister Nikaya and the Seraphim paused to refuel, and then moved from squad to squad, assessing their damage and speaking to each Sister Superior in turn. And, as they did so, Ianthe addressed them all from the top of her Immolator, the stone roof making the vox-coder echo like thunder.
‘My Sisters! This road is bleak and long, but with His blessing, we have come far! The God-Emperor strides at our side, and the corrupted machines cannot stop us! We bring wrath, and fire! We bring the light of Holy Terra to the darkness that is Lycheate! Stand fast, my Sisters, and walk tall!’ She paused, looking round at the waiting tanks. ‘The heretek Rayos has tested our mettle, and she will test us again. We may face another ambush, or mines along the roadway. And if, by the Emperor’s grace, we reach the citadel without mishap, then we will still face a considerable assembled force. Captain Mulier, aboard the Kyrus, is watching the roadway with orbital eyes, and we will be ready for any eventuality!’ She paused, and Caia looked out at the red ranks of vehicles – two now missing where the Ironstriders had struck, many more showing the char-marks and buckled plates of the autocannons’ impacts.
The canoness went on, ‘Thanks to the wisdom of Sister Superior Augusta, we also now believe that Rayos is not working alone – she is likely to be working for, or with, an older power, possibly another Incaladion heretek.’ Another pause, but the only response was engine noise – vehicles snarling with the eagerness to be off. ‘We will identify and execute both Rayos and her collaborator.
‘Show courage, my Sisters! Unfurl your faith like a banner and carry it high in the wind!’ Ianthe spread her arms and turned to take in all of them, as if she led and offered courage to each Sister, to each vehicle, individually. ‘We carry the heart and the torch of the Order of the Bloody Rose! We carry the courage of Mina herself. We carry the faith and fury of the Adepta Sororitas. We carry His name, and His glory, and we know no fear! Ave Imperator!’
In response, the Sisters gave a single, thundered, ‘Ave Imperator!’
Echoing the salute, Sister Nikaya gave the Repressor a stern nod as she passed – her personal check of each squad had been completed.
The information, Caia guessed, would be communicated over a tight-beam link to the canoness alone.
Vox-coder trumpets blared, and Ianthe blazed, ‘Forward!’
The engines rumbled their anger, and the company rolled onwards once more.
Caia stood in the cupola, her auspex in her hand.
Leaving the junction and the empty factorum behind them, the ranks of the Order, still in formation, drove out along the curving black road. The enemy knew that they were coming, and the Sisters raged their defiance.
They broadcast the Dies Irae like a dare.
Quantus tremor est futurus!
The vehicles kept a strong but steady speed, the lead vehicle’s auspex constantly scanning the roadway ahead. There were fewer islands now, just a scattering of upthrust rocks, and the road itself hung over the limitless foul waters like some vast and endless bridge, a long line of industry and achievement that led onwards to the distant horizon. The Seraphim returned to their jump-pattern, and the hard chant of the hymn was a known thing – it rang out with wrath, solid and reassuring.
To Caia, it felt powerful, lifting her chin and her heart and reminding her that, no matter how huge the acid sea, His presence travelled with them, in word, in deed, and in weapon.
Their enemy awaited them, and they would not fail.
As they rolled onwards, however, they began to encounter a new difficulty.
Following another of its impulsive mood swings, the planet’s weather was deteriorating. The fat Lycheate sun had struggled its way to past mid-morning, and now the roiling brown cloud was rolling back in to smother its light. Corrosive, glutinous rain was beginning to scatter across tank and roadway alike.
And where it struck, it hissed.
Defended by their armour, both the canoness and Sister Caia remained standing in the back of the Immolator, the banner behind them now hanging in soggy tatters. Steadily, the rainwater ate at the fabric.
Below them, in the belly of the vehicle, the injured Sister was sitting up and away from the hatch – and stridently declaring her fitness.
‘I can sit unassisted, thank you, Sister Hospitaller. Where is my weapon?’
Caia could hear Rhene grumbling, ‘You young women, never think to duck. What do they teach you in the schola? The Emperor is all-seeing, Sister Abril, but even He won’t stop an autocannon if it hits you square in the chest. How does that Treatise of yours go?’ The muttering continued, and Caia, startled by the old Hospitaller’s near-blasphemy, was even more surprised to see Ianthe turn and almost smile.
Catching Caia’s expression, the canoness elegantly smoothed her own. She said, without apology, ‘Rhene deserves your respect, Sister. There are few, even within our own Order, who have seen the wars, and the deaths, and the horrors, witnessed by Sister Rhene. She may bear no armour, but she is fully combat-trained – and her bolter has slain many a slavering foe, even as she has saved the lives of the Sisters in her charge. Trust in her faith, and her knowledge, and her sanguinator.’
‘Yes, milady.’ Caia said nothing further. For any Sister to have reached the age of the grumbling Hospitaller, and still be in the field of combat rather than teaching at the schola… it deserved veneration.
And Rhene, Caia was learning, saw a great deal more than she voiced.
Briefly, she thought about asking the old Hospitaller if she knew more about Caia’s own situation – what the canoness had planned for her.
She considered the option, then, reluctantly, dismissed it. Much as Caia suspected an old friendship between the two women, her inquiry would be improper. Frustrated, she looked back out across the endless rain-spattered water, and continued to pray.
Slowly, the hour climbed towards midday. They had covered over two-thirds of the waiting roadway, almost a hundred and fifty miles from their original muster-point…
Yet still, nothing had been laid in their path.
As the noontide chimes began, and the canoness broadcast the prayer for the Hour, Caia found herself becoming increasingly suspicious. She, and the others in the Immolator, recited their responses, and yet she kept one eye on the auspex, compelled and wary – almost as if Rayos could reach out to corrupt its spirit, and it would feed them false information.
But the Hour’s prayers were completed without mishap, and the rain grew heavier still, limiting their visibility to barely five yards in front of the still-moving vehicles.
The crumbled parts of the roadway were beginning to flood, now, and the tanks were forced to slow, navigating the puddles carefully, and washing up a great wall of water to either side.
After another hour, Caia began to realise that the horizon was changing. Somewhere, out through the rain, she could make out a shadow – a wide and rising blur, like the base of some vast and jagged cone.
‘Witness the citadel,’ the canoness told her. ‘Our target – and our enemy – lie ahead. We must take extreme care, in this poor visibility. If we can see them…’
Caia, reflexively, recited one of the schola’s earliest combat lessons, ‘…then they can also see us.’
‘Just so.’ Ianthe, her words thoughtful, made no further comment. She began to pray, not the familiar rhythm of the day’s Hours, or the bugled wrath of the Dies Irae, but something darker, low and soft, a rumble like a bared threat. It was the words of the Reflections ex Testamento Eius, one of the Order’s oldest and most sacred texts, and it felt like the sliding strop of a whetstone. Listening to it made the hairs on Caia’s arms stand on end, as if He stood close, right over her, watching her every breath, her every movement.
Caia found herself anticipating the coming battle with a shudder that felt like eagerness.
She was a warrior born, and she would not have this taken away, not for all the wealth in the world. And certainly not for a long robe, and a set of false and affected manners…
Spare me, she prayed. Let me serve You with fist and bolter, as I have always done.
They rolled on. The glutinous rain grew heavier still, driving sideways across a rising wind. It lashed at the waters at the edge of the endlessly long road, driving them to froth and anger. It covered the tanks in spray, and occasionally in things less pleasant. The clouds grew thicker, and lower, and soon, the island was lost.
But they still knew it lay ahead of them.
Waiting, in the gloom.
The first tank-tread triggered the detonation. There was no warning; the air filled with force and noise and smoke and the whistle of flying fragments. Startled, Caia bit back a curse.
The noise was followed by a heart-stopping silence, and then a huge ferrocrete rumble. A cry of prayer sounded across the vox. There was creaking, metal twisting and groaning; there was the rumble of desperate engines.
There was a single, massive splash.
A wave of water sloshed back along the roadway.
‘Reverse!’ Ianthe was barking the order even as Caia heard the grind of the vehicle’s gears. It backed up so rapidly that it threw them both against the front of the hatch.
