Wrath of the lost, p.22
Wrath Of The Lost, page 22
‘He demands to be a part of the assault,’ Micah said, directing his remaining warriors into a loose fan around the breaching area. Several had slathered blood across their helms, and the Thirst rose in Dumah, a brief itch in his throat. ‘He wants to kill their leader in single combat.’
Dumah snarled. Impressively, the mortal barely flinched.
‘Inform him this became Flesh Tearers’ work when they attacked our monument,’ the Chaplain growled. ‘He will stand aside now, or I will kill him myself.’
Micah translated. Hakkad’s shoulders slumped. The tribesman nodded and withdrew. Dumah watched the countdown unfurl, anticipation flooding his muscles with hot, adrenal rage. The beast in his blood stirred, its claws caressing his mind with slices of sharp pain. Dumah growled, activating his crozius as the counter hit zero.
The charges detonated, splinters of wood scything through the night air.
Dumah was moving before the smoke had faded, vaulting the shredded stubs of the palisade, his bolt pistol flaring. Bolts carved conical trails through the black smoke, and wet detonations marked their endings. Kill-sign clarions flared on his retinal feed. Muzzles flashed at his side, dull red, Micah and Angelo’s squads spreading out around him. Enemy tribespeople detonated in sprays of meat and bone. Cries of alarm went up, babbling streams of language Dumah could not understand, and his sensorium could not track.
The enemy charged forwards, their spears raised.
He smashed a tribesman aside with his crozius, destroying his ribcage, hammering his fist through the skull of another. A bone club shattered on his plastron, and he drove a kick into the offending tribesman’s torso. His bolt pistol kicked hard, bodies detonating in welters of blood and bone, and served as a bludgeon when the magazine ran dry. His crozius obliterated another tribesman, and he tore the heart from a woman that shouldered her kin aside to charge at him. A third vaulted the corpses of her fellows, her bone club crashing into his skull helm. It veined a tiny crack through his eye-lens. Dumah headbutted her, atomising her skull and shoulders. Gore spattered his armour, secreting itself in the crevices, teasing his Thirst. He roared, the beast in his blood howling for its release. The slaughter lasted only three minutes.
It took longer to steady his pulse and drive the Rage from his veins.
Dumah pulled his skull-topped crozius from the chest of a Cretacian female, holstered his pistol, and moved towards the rear of the encampment. Cages of wood and bone secured with tight loops of cord formed of human hair predominated. Children clustered to the bars, shouting in adulation and alarm. They bore signs of minor privation, but none of external harm, and certainly nothing that could not be reversed with the correct nutritional intakes.
Dumah signed an order to Angelo, tearing the first cage’s door free with the dry snap of breaking bone. The children looked up at him, their terror filling him with something that approached nausea. They edged past him in ones and twos, the groups growing in size when they realised that he meant them no harm. The children babbled in the crude tongue of their clan, pointing at the Flesh Tearers. Dumah felt some minor discomfort at their regard. Even as a boy, he had never much liked the other children. They always unsettled him.
‘They are all female,’ Angelo said, helm grinding across the flock.
Dumah’s scanned the biological markers in each child, the results flickering on his retinal feed. Angelo was correct. Each child was female.
‘Find out where the males are,’ he instructed Micah.
Micah removed his helm slowly and knelt to meet their gaze. They watched him with naked suspicion, the older girls shielding their younger kin. Micah placed his helm and blades on the ground, repeating the question in several dialects. At first, the children were bemused by his accent, but comprehension soon dawned and they answered with enthusiasm. Colour drained from Micah’s face. He repeated the last word in their babble, then looked to Daeron for confirmation when they nodded, his expression one of incomprehension and dread.
‘What do they say?’ Dumah asked. He was rapidly losing patience.
‘That the males were taken,’ Daeron said, stomping through the ruin of the palisade, his mechanised voice thick with horror. Several children blanched at his approach. Some cried out. ‘They were offered as recruits for the “angels”.’
EIGHTEEN
The Overlord nosed through the atmospheric retention field, squeezing its massive frame into the primary hangar. Barachiel surveyed it through the external pict-feeds, a cavernous space lit only by the wing-mounted lumens. A handful of Arvus and Aquila shuttles squatted in launch cradles, crowding its mouth. Corroding pressure hoses trailed from fuel ports to rows of tankers and silos. Plasteel hulls gathered rust. Bright flickers fringed the feed, timed to precise bursts of ionised plasma vapour as the craft steadied itself to land.
A countdown flickered live on Barachiel’s retinal feed, and he felt his pulse quicken in both anger and pleasure. He stood at the head of the assault column, his armour bathed in the blood-red glow of the overhead lumens. His frustration at being left behind on the strike cruiser was only slightly ameliorated by the opportunity to search the star fortress. In the absence of a chance to grasp their salvation with his own hands, he wanted to work towards it.
Once the star fortress was cleared, nothing could keep him from Cretacia.
The Overlord settled into the primus hangar, her engines cycling down and her assault ramps descending before the landing claws touched the deck. Barachiel thundered down the assault ramp, his armour servos absorbing the shock with a sharp squall as he dropped the last five feet. Castiel’s six Hellblasters and the three Eradicators of Squad Azariel dropped behind him. They fanned out into a broad arrowhead formation, weapons trained on every approach. Adariel’s Assault Intercessors swept from the second compartment to join him.
‘This station has not been functional for twenty years, at least,’ Adariel said, indicating the Militarum-issue ration crates stacked to their right. Dates were stamped in off-white paint, and dust formed a thick layer atop them. Scaffolding and sheets of industrial plastek extended along one wall, machine tools and varied lengths of pipe left next to sections of plasteel with scuffed white paint and directional markers. ‘Are we certain of the augur data? The station does not seem under power. It does not even appear that servitors have been active here.’
‘Hariel himself confirmed it,’ Barachiel said, his helm’s cartolith identifying the hatch that led to the command deck. He blink-clicked the rune, the cartolith’s projection shifting to show an overhead view of their route, a gold line between thin blue lines.
At Barachiel’s signal they exited the hangar, helm stablights active and guns panning across every hatch and firing position. Shimmering heat spills curled from their reactor packs. The air was thin, void-cold and sluggish, yet scrubbed clean of contaminants. It was the only life-support function operational in the outer layers of the star fortress. The rest of the critical systems read as minimum, or null, on his retinal feed, the power siphoned away to other areas of the installation. Only the command-deck cogitators could provide more details.
The hairs on Barachiel’s arms prickled in response to the cold, anticipation tightening his abdominal muscles. Torn cables trailed overhead like forest creepers, puddles of frozen coolant and armaglass glittering like gemstones, an eerie grey beneath the star-white stablights. Ochre patches of rust cobwebbed the corners of several bulkhead plates, and hatches to the inner sanctums were sealed shut or jammed open. The lights snapped over the dark walkways, the ruptured piping and strewn crates providing ample ambush points.
They ventured deeper into the star fortress, passing training facilities and gymnasia adjoined to armouries and medicae facilities. Abandonment had its claws in everything, equipment rusting and supplies left to expire. Barachiel glanced into a tertiary mess hall as they passed, mouldy food and brackish water still lying on plates and in mugs as if the crew had merely been interrupted mid-meal. His power armour’s limited auspex function pulsed at measured intervals. He watched their squads’ unit signifiers split and re-form as they cleared chambers for threats. Not that anything here could threaten them.
They reached the end of a corridor that crossed from the outer sanctum to the inner. It was scarcely a few hundred yards from the command deck. A large hexagonal hatch sealed the corridor. Its control panel had been smashed and the interface socket crumpled. Azariel and his squad stepped forwards, towering over the others in their heavy Gravis plate. Their melta rifles roared, thick streams of ionised gas reducing the hatch to a shimmering pile of radioactive sludge, like the spill from a breached reactor. The Eradicators stepped through first, their weapons whining as they charged for a second blast.
‘This is a waste of time,’ Azariel said, as Barachiel joined him. The corridor split in two ahead of them, one fork sloping down to the primary generatorum, while the other curled up to the command deck. ‘The mortals are dead, or else fled to the surface in salvation pods.’
Barachiel led them upwards, stairs creaking beneath his armoured bulk. The staircase connected the star fortress’ lower reaches to its uppermost spires, one of several hundred set at intervals across the gargantuan structure. Armaglass panes were secured to stanchions by skull-stamped rivets, offering a view of the entire fortress. Towers and squat, bunkered fastnesses that should have been illuminated by pinprick lights were instead dark.
‘There is no indication of ejected life-pods, brother,’ Castiel said, indicating the banks of salvation pods visible through an upper pane. ‘And there were no missing gunships.’
Azariel waved his hand dismissively. ‘Does that prevent them being dead?’
‘No,’ Castiel admitted. ‘It simply makes it unlikely, as does the absence of bones.’
Three Hellblasters jogged ahead of Barachiel, taking point from Azariel’s Eradicators, whilst the other three and Adariel’s Intercessors followed close behind. The assault sergeant clung to him like a shadow, his squad like the retinue or honour guard of a feudal monarch. It vexed Barachiel more than he could willingly admit. Such cosseting was unworthy of a Flesh Tearer, though he was perfectly aware of the reason for it. His status as the sole fully trained Flesh Tearers Apothecary in the Fourth Company and Imperium Sanctus made him almost invaluable to his brothers.
‘We should give this up as an exercise in futility,’ Azariel snapped. ‘There are no survivors, and we can learn nothing here. We should be on the surface.’
‘Survivors or not, we must ensure nothing dwells on this station. They could present a threat to any ground forces, or an attempt to retake the fortress,’ Castiel countered.
Barachiel scowled.
‘Your concerns have been noted, Brother Azariel,’ he said. ‘Do not feel the need to keep voicing them, as I tire of telling you to be silent. We continue until I am satisfied, and the events that befell these installations are revealed. The bridge’s cogitator banks may contain critical information that we simply cannot afford to lose. We must know what evil befell these worlds, and see it destroyed.’
Barachiel bit back the inference that they might reveal something of Cretacia’s fate. It was unnecessary. They all knew it, even if they did not share his motivations.
Azariel grumbled but said nothing more.
They reached the landing, the measure of distance to the command bridge set beneath their unit signifiers dropping rapidly. They disposed of the top hatch as they did with the hatch at the bottom. A threat rune squawked on his retinal feed, highlighting the twin heavy bolters set a short distance from the hatch. His auto-senses layered a magnified image across the right corner of his vision. The emplacements’ gimbal and motive units were damaged, their ammunition feeds long starved of shells. He dismissed the rune and continued along the corridor, noting the scattered bolt-shell impacts that cratered the bulkheads.
They passed artificer and maintenance airlocks – external hatches jammed open while the inners were sealed shut. Claw marks carved deep gouges into the metal. Crystallised blood described the telltale patterns of arterial spray, and several interface panels had been ripped away to expose the wiring. The sheaths had been pulled back, the metal filaments twisted together in an effort to spark life in the doors. They drifted lazily in the null gravity, and his pulse quickened slightly, stirrings of sympathy for the unfortunates that died gasping for breath. He shook the sickening feeling off, as Azariel’s squad breached the bridge.
As was the tradition with Imperial construction, gothic architecture and artifice waged a ceaseless war with function for dominance over their shared space. The star fortress’ bridge was a fine example of that war shifting in favour of function. Serried ranks of cogitator units dominated the lower tiers of the bridge, crowned by an observation gallery that ran the length and width of the chamber. Simple stanchions suspended the gallery and the ceiling, the wiring concealed behind simple metal plating rather than the elaborate friezes and mosaics so favoured by the Blood Angels, and aeration ducts were hidden by slatted grates. Barachiel enjoyed its simplicity, finding it in keeping with his own sensibilities.
‘Castiel, trace the source of the power readings. Azariel, access the cogitator logs and determine what happened here. Adariel, your squad will set and hold the perimeter.’
The squads spread out, and relentless tapping once more haunted the chamber.
‘My lord,’ one of Castiel’s Hellblasters called, ‘auxiliary power has been rerouted to weapon carriage theta-four-one.’ He examined the screen before him, its pale blue light darkening the ash of his helm and pauldrons. ‘Life support has been redirected into the area around that section.’ The Space Marine’s voice rose an octave. Barachiel’s stomach dropped at his alarm. ‘Four lance cannons also register as under residual power.’
‘Their configuration indicates alignment towards the surface,’ another warrior shouted from the weapons bank. He checked again and cursed. ‘The inputted firing solution matches coordinates for the fortress-monastery. Maximum range is… sixty-five minutes away.’
‘Estimated time to firing?’ Barachiel barked, his desire to kill like a warm, prickling pressure in his chest. He squeezed his chainblade’s activation bar, the weapon giving voice to the roar caged in his heart. He was too close now. This threat could not be allowed to stand.
‘Approximately one hour. Power levels are insufficient to fire.’
‘Summon Brother Hariel. Brief him on the situation by coded data-burst.’
Barachiel exited the command deck, hearts hammering in his chest, his brothers’ pleas pawing at his ears. He paid them no mind, his focus reserved only for the threat.
Barachiel stalked the corridors alone, the counter on his retinal feed slowly unfurling. Almost forty minutes had elapsed since he had departed the bridge, his orders for the squads to remain in place reluctantly followed. The route revealed its own suite of madness and horrors. As with the bridge approach, the airlocks’ external hatches were locked open, and the inner ones stuck fast. Traces of blade-scarring and small-arms fire marked the metal. Sympathy stirred once more, but Barachiel crushed the irritating emotion. Cretacia was threatened, and the fortress-monastery that held their salvation. His fist curled tight on his chainblade, its teeth chewing the cold, empty air. No threat to salvation would stand while he drew breath.
‘My lord,’ Castiel voxed, his tone edged by vexing urgency, ‘the lances will have sufficient power to fire in less than ten minutes. You must hurry, else our mission here has been for naught.’
More than you know, the Apothecary thought darkly.
‘I am well aware, sergeant,’ he said, scorn cutting into his tone like a chainsword. An abrupt intake of breath answered his retort. Barachiel grinned. ‘Have you attempted to hinder or disrupt the power transference. If not that, then perhaps derail the targeting matrix?’
‘We cannot access the central mainframe, nor any of the subordinate systems. Access is restricted by vermilion-grade protocols. A gene sample, retinal scan and full voice-pattern match is required to access it, and all three are coded to the last commander. If we attempt to breach without the proper access, one-time emetics will purge every shred of data.’
Barachiel cursed long and loud in the Terran dialect of his birth, a guttural stream of invective unbefitting of an angel. ‘What of Hariel? Where is he?’
‘Hariel is soon to arrive from the Justice,’ Castiel said. ‘I have dispatched Adariel and his squad to escort him here, but I do not believe he will be able to deactivate the data-wards before the lances are able to fire. Deactivation at the source remains our best option.’
Barachiel scowled, closing the link without offering a response.
He forced open a rectangular hatch, emerging into a small intersection. Faded white paint marked directions to gun carriages theta-38 through theta-42, and to the barrack-pens used to cage their enslaved crews. The barracks were nearest, the doors to several still open. Barachiel spied row upon row of sheet-metal bunks sized for between three and five mortals. There was a long refectory table at the centre of each barracks, rusty mugs and bloody rags still left on the table. Barachiel pressed on, following signs towards carriage theta-41.
Darkness yielded to flashes of intermittent light from glow-globes and lumen-strips as he passed theta-40. The dry patter of booted feet on metal echoed through the bulkheads, and the air soured, turning bitter to the taste. His rad-counter began to spike, its clicks increasing to a thunderous barrage as it climbed into orange. Words were scratched into the bulkheads in a multitude of languages, some of which he did not recognise, all written in the same hand.
Summoned by Cretacian blood, did the angels bring damnation.
Barachiel did not stop to ponder their meaning, forcing open the hatch to the gunnery control room. The low thrum of energised machinery and inane binharic chatter of cogitator units washed over him. Servo-skulls squatted in their charge-roots, auto-sanctifiers squirting bursts of dry, tasteless air from aspergillums that had long expended their supplies of incense and oils. Squat cylindrical generators wheezed on the deck, venting shimmering trails of radioactive air. Their armaglass containment shells were flushed red by volatile energies, and the cabling that connected them to dusty tactical stations generated an electrical field that made his teeth itch. His rad-counter climbed higher as he advanced into the room.
