Rafen shrugged off the gloomy thought, momentarily cursing the Doom Eagle as if Tarikus’ morose mien had somehow crossed over to him. The burning pain of the parasite had fallen to a dull background ache now, the throbbing of the maggot-thing’s heartbeat a rattle against the cage of his ribs. He vowed that he would tear it from his own flesh with knife, laser or flamer if that was what it took.
The shaft of moonlight faded away as the cold ebbed from the metal walls and the first weak glow of dawn began to appear. With care, Rafen took himself through the series of mental cues and disciplines that lulled the catalepsean node back into its dormant state, and retuned his brain activity to normal. At its full function, the node implant allowed an Astartes to eschew normal sleep; the organ could partition a human brain in quadrants, resting some elements of the grey matter while others remained active. He felt his body return from the torpor of the not-quite-sleep; the sensation was like rising up through water to the surface, and he gave an involuntary grimace as he recalled his ordeal in the ocean.
Rafen got to his feet and crossed to the centre of the cell. He paused there, breathing silently, listening.
After he had been thrown into this cage and sealed within, the Blood Angel had spent several hours scouring every fraction of its surface; it had been a good way to occupy his mind and ignore the pain of the parasite. Rafen examined every shadowed corner, each weld and rivet joint, each patch of rust and corroded bolt-head, learning the exact dimensions of his confinement and probing it for weaknesses. But the outward appearance of the construction belied a deeper truth. The cells here in the pit were built from cargo pods that were space-hardened, canisters designed to be able to survive the destruction of any carrier vessel, and the extremes of heat and cold in the deep void. The oxide-red slashes of corrosion were only surface blemishes, enough to fool the eye at first glance, perhaps even lull the hasty into false hopes. Rafen wondered if such a thing were deliberately engineered on the part of Fabius Bile. Had he chosen to make these cells seem ramshackle and ill-fit for purpose, just to make the brothers incarcerated inside waste their energy and effort on fruitless escape attempts? The Blood Angel imagined the prison complex like some vast game board and the prisoners within it pieces in play for Bile’s twisted amusement.
He heard movement. Iron feet, thudding along the stone ramp. Pausing. The hiss of pressure and fluid gurgles. Rafen smiled to himself and moved towards the hatchway.
Set into the metallic wall at waist height was a short length of iron pipe. A crust of stale matter caked the open end, and below it there was a discoloured patch on the floor. It was a feed channel, little different from those used to introduce nutrient gruel into stables for grox or equines. Rafen remembered Tarikus’ warning about the drag-laced victuals provided by the splices; but he didn’t intend to partake.
During his rest in the cradle of node-sleep, Rafen had also set another of his bio-implants working. The Betcher glands in his mouth were slightly swollen with venom; like the poison sacs of some reptiles, the glands could secrete a toxic fluid that would work like acid. The process of the glands was not a swift one, but in the right circumstances the acid could be spat into the face of an enemy at close quarters or disgorged on to restraints to burn through metal. The implant’s use was not common in his Chapter—there was a perception among his battle-brothers that to deploy it in single combat was somehow beneath them—but it had its uses in the right circumstances.
Rafen knew he had to use the glands now; his body’s reserves would quickly be spent trying to reject the parasite maggot, and he would not be able to fill them again. The toxin would not be effective upon the locking mechanism of the hatch or the armourglass—but it could loosen the fitting of the pipe through the wall. The Blood Angel retched and spat upon the welded joint, and was rewarded by a sizzle of melting metal.
The clanking steps were coming closer. He estimated that it was a single servitor unit toting a heavy drum of gruel, with three splices guarding it. Wisps of acrid smoke rose from the pipe joint and Rafen tested it. The tube rattled and shifted; this would work.
Shadows passed in front of the hatch, and there was the hiss of a pressure hose connecting to the other end of the feed tube outside the cell. Immediately, thick coils of a grey and stale-smelling paste oozed out, spattering on the floor. The implication was that the prisoner should debase themselves and eat like an animal, denied even the most simple dignity.
Rafen gripped the tube with both hands and gave it a savage jerk, twisting it towards him. The pipe resisted, then gave. Outside he heard a clatter of confusion and guttural howls. The Blood Angel tensed, and shoved the pipe hard, forcing the length of it back through the weld-joint. It slowed as it punctured something doughy, and he twisted it again. The flow of paste coughed and choked, quickly replaced by spurts of blood and machine oil. Satisfied. Rafen dragged on the tube and pulled it back into the cell, this time all the way. The last half-metre of the pipe was livid with gore where it had punched into meat and bone.
The hatch was unlocking. Rafen spun the tube around like a fighting staff and stamped the far end flat, forcing the tip into a makeshift blade edge. The doorway rotated up and away, and through the entrance came three splices; a canine, a horned minotal and an ape-like simian. Each had a crackling electro-scythe, and they raised them in attack.
Rafen gave them no time to take the offensive. Holding the far end of the pipe, he spun it up from the ground and used the sharpened end to slash a deep wound across the face of the simian. The splice shrieked as it lost an eye, clapping hands to its face as blood gouted.
The bull-like minotal bellowed and came at him at a rush, lowering its head to present a set of gnarled horns. He was actually disappointed; such a tactic was an obvious one, and hardly a challenge for the Space Marine. Ducking low, he swept the pipe about and slammed it into the second splice’s gut. The tube buckled and broke with the force of the impact, throwing the minotal off its feet and into a crumpled, panting heap.
Rafen discarded what was left of his improvised weapon, dodged a humming scythe-swipe from his periphery and lurched forward, stamping on the bull-man’s throat with his heel so it would not rise again. He contemplated falling into a drop in order to gather up the minotal’s weapon, but he felt strange, light-headed. The parasite was putting him off his stride, trying to slow him by injecting fatigue poisons into his bloodstream. He shook it off and met the last of the three, the canine, as it barked and snapped at him. The dog-thing was almost as big as an Astartes, and it had a wolfs jaws filled with dagger teeth. It roared and connected with its weapon.
The Blood Angel snarled in pain as a massive surge of voltage rippled through his torso, and he felt the parasite keen in response. The canine opened its mouth wide, coming in to bite out a hank of flesh from his shoulder. Rafen pivoted, thrusting out his hands, and his fingertips caught the beast’s jaws, holding them open. Using the splice’s own momentum against it, he pivoted and ripped the creature’s head open. Flesh parted with a jagged tearing sound, blood fountaining.
By the time the simian had recovered enough to try an attack, Rafen had an electro-weapon in each hand. He parried high and closed the distance, shoving the ape-man back out through the cell door and on to the stone pathway outside. Nearby lay the cooling corpse of a servitor, in a puddle of blood and paste.
No sooner were the two combatants out than laser fire sparked around them, lancing down from overhead. Rafen was aware of one of the bat-like sentinels circling, and with a hard flick of his wrist he threw one of the curved scythe blades, striking it in the chest. Without losing a second, he spun on the simian and punched it to death with flurry of brutal blows to the head.
The creature dropped to the dirt and Rafen stood there, wet with gore and winded. He was unusually short of breath; the parasite again. He would have to compensate for the drag it was placing on his performance—against common thugs like the splices he would still have the advantage even if he fo
ught blindfold, but there were larger threats here. Rafen looked around and got his bearings; the whole complex seemed oddly silent. There were no sirens, no cries of alarm. Only the steady moan of the winds.
He sought and found the top of the tower, the place Tarikus had seemed so fearful of, just visible over the lip of the crater. He nodded to himself. That was his target. The Blood Angel broke into a sprint, weaving through shadows as he went.
A real foe stood waiting for him at the rise of the slope, just in front of a heavy iron portcullis guarding a tunnel into the hillside. The figure shrugged off a robe of dun-coloured material and kicked it away. Beneath, there was nothing that could be considered clothing as such; instead, the enemy was wrapped in what appeared to be a single long strip of black leather that looped around and around sinuous limbs and a lithe, wiry torso that seemed almost eldar in form. Belts of chain mail and pins made from red steel held the costume together. Webbing hung with small pistols and razor-edged fans dangled across the figure’s chest.
“Cheyne.” Rafen slowed and approached carefully. “Your prison cannot hold me.”
The androgynous warrior laughed. “Your kind are so predictable, Astartes. You all say the same things, and come to regret them. Tell me, is there a special schola during your training that teaches you how to parse such utterances?” The sexless figure cocked its head. “Do your mentors teach you all the ways to sound pompous and portentous?”
“It’s a gift,” Rafen replied, with a sneer. “And it seems I have tired of your voice as quickly as you tire of mine.”
“Oh, good,” said Cheyne. “Less talk, then. More fight.” The androgyne spun in a pirouette and discarded the weapons vest, presenting Rafen with the palms of its hands. It nodded at him. “No weapons. Just for the sport of it.”
The Blood Angel’s eyes narrowed. In the centre of Cheyne’s hands there were vertical slits like some strange stigmata. He was still processing this when the wounds abruptly opened and disgorged long, wet daggers of grey bone. Cheyne attacked with slashing, downward swoops and Rafen dodged, hearing the bony awls whistle through the air. He threw out a sweeping kick that Cheyne easily escaped, and the androgyne gave a little gasp of pleasure. It seemed to think this was some sort of game.
“Enjoy this while you can, freak,” Rafen spat.
Cheyne pantomimed a hurt expression. “Such harsh words. You cut me deeply.”
“I intend to.” Rafen stabbed out with his remaining electro-scythe and missed by the slightest of margins. The shock-nimbus creased Cheyne’s shoulder and the warrior wriggled as the charge passed through it. The voltage was high, but the androgyne took it with a hiss.
“You think you’re a cut above,” Cheyne said, dancing about him, careful to keep beyond close combat range. “But the truth is, your kind is old, Space Marine. I am the new, dear Rafen. I am a New Man.”
“Man?” echoed the Blood Angel. “That’s open to debate.”
“I thought your Chapter understood beauty. Don’t abhor me because I am so exquisite,” it retorted, with a cackle. “It cheapens everything.”
Cheyne attacked again and Rafen managed to avoid taking cuts across his torso and arms; but the hafts of the extruded bone blades still slammed into his head, and the impact almost dazed him. The maggot turned in Rafen’s chest, and he resisted the urge to strike at it. The parasite seemed to sense the Chaos champion’s proximity.
“Your design is outmoded,” Cheyne goaded. “In ten thousand years, the pattern of the Adeptus Astartes has not been improved upon. I, on the other hand, am the product of genius. Not just the next generation, much more than that.” It gasped again as it threw a strike at Rafen’s legs, the tip of a blade slashing skin. “A step up. Astartes Novus Superior. New and improved.”
“So you say,” Rafen replied, catching one of the bone-blades in his hand. He punched it with the pommel of the scythe weapon and the bony matter snapped along the midline, eliciting a chug of pain from the androgyne. “Not so improved, by my lights.” He eyed the portcullis; Cheyne was keeping him from it, holding him off. He guessed there were more of these New Men on the way, and realised that this fight had to be finished quickly so he could proceed.
Cheyne’s porcelain-white face was studded with beads of sweat. The broken blade retreated into the palm and the androgyne spun, presenting the other bone-weapon in a duellist’s approach. “You are strong,” it told him, “but you’re weak inside.” It tapped its head, eyes wide and wild. “In here. Hollow. You follow empty dogma and the worthless mythos thrown up around a corpse on a throne, because you have nothing left.” Cheyne tittered. “Your world is static, Blood Angel. Derelict and decaying. But mine? Mine looks forward, it grows and evolves. This is the gift of the Master Fabius! He has seen the past and now he builds the future.”
Rafen’s battle rage churned inside him at the affront of this creature. “Still you prattle, despite your earlier words. Is that all you can do?” A prickling fire was building in his chest, spreading from the infection site.
“Do I anger you?” Cheyne retorted. “It would appear so! If only you could be like me, and fight with a smile upon your lips—”
Ignoring the dull pain, Rafen feinted right and then at the last moment, reversed. He stepped inside Cheyne’s guard and struck. The androgyne reacted, swiftly enough to stop the Blood Angel’s killing blow from reaching its conclusion; but still it was a palpable hit, and the tip of the scythe blade ripped across the New Man’s cheek, opening it wide.
“You are right,” Rafen retorted, over Cheyne’s howl of pain. “I could never smile so broadly as you do.” Taking the moment, he advanced and struck at his opponent, slamming it to the ground.
The Blood Angel bent and grabbed a length of the leather wrapping, dragging Cheyne up. They were close to the edge of the ramp, and there was a good distance to the bottom. At the very least, throwing the androgyne off would break many bones, even if it were as hardy as an Astartes. Cheyne tried to stab him, and he caught the other blade, holding it away. Blood flowed where his fingers held on tightly.
Then Cheyne’s cries shifted and became something else. Laughter.
Rafen’s ire returned at the sound of the creature’s mocking tones. “You are amused? Make it last, freak! Your future ends here!”
“Oh,” gasped Cheyne, “I think not.” When Bile’s warrior spoke again, it was a sound so unholy that Rafen felt sickened to his core. It was, if such a word could be used to describe so abhorrent a noise, a prayer of sorts. A summoning, an entreaty, a litany; but not one to the vile gods that this creature worshipped.
The mantra was for the parasite. At the sound, the maggot erupted into violent life, and suddenly Rafen’s blood turned to fire. Every nerve ending in his body screamed at once, plunging him into the embrace of an agony that shredded all will. He released his grip on Cheyne, everything else forgotten. There was so much pain, such a galaxy of it within him, that Rafen could do nothing but stand in the core of it and try to endure.
He heard howling, and knew that he was the first in the chorus.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The hulking new Men dragged the Blood Angel into the tiered room through a heavy airlock door, and threw him hard to the floor. The hatch slammed closed behind them with a hissing whine and the Space Marine gasped in a breath as his eyes focused. The first thing he saw were the eldritch symbols etched into the grey tiles that spread out all around him, the curse-glyphs, warding runes and eight-point stars. He recoiled from them reflexively, disgust welling up in him, and the New Men laughed to see it.
Rafen tried to moderate his breathing, but it was difficult. The action of the maggot in his chest was turning his enhanced Astartes physiology against him; the functions of the implants in his body warred with his base human biology. He fought to hold off the shaking in his hands caused by cell imbalances in his blood chemistry, blinked and tried to keep himself steady even as his normally perfect equilibrium was disrupted. The thing was
pumping poison into him with every heartbeat. He glared at Cheyne, who returned the look with malice, the Chaos champion twitching with pain as the servitor trailing at its heels used bio-wire to stitch the cut sections of its face back together.
Cheyne had done this to him, called the parasite to full potency with that strange mnemonic it had spoken. The pain ebbed and flowed, but only in small increments. Rafen now understood fully the insidious purpose of the implanted larva; it made chains and fetters obsolete. Any prisoner so tainted with one of these things was on an invisible leash; only a word need be spoken, and untold agony was let loose.
“You wanted to come here, didn’t you?” slurred the New Man, flecks of blood and spittle issuing from the androgyne’s ruined mouth. “Do you like what you see?”
Rafen glanced around, uncertain of why he had been brought into the tower after Cheyne had seemingly done so much to prevent his entry. He was immediately struck by the similarity between this room and the co-opted hospital his squad had found aboard the tau asteroid; there was more light in here, though, and on some level Rafen wished it was otherwise.
Benches and worktables were arranged in neat rows, surrounded on all sides by circular tanks of murky fluids. Objects moved inside the tanks, and Rafen hesitated to peer too closely at them. Where the place of cruelty inside the tau colony had seemed abandoned and disordered, this laboratory was regimented and careful in aspect. A pair of servitors, their faces blank and sealed things with only eyes still open, moved around the edges of the room, performing tasks that Rafen could only guess at.
Blood Angels - The Complete Rafen Omnibus - James Swallow Page 103
