God machines, p.133
God-Machines, page 133
‘Notes in a book? That’s all you have?’
‘Detailed notes,’ said Cordelia. ‘Including all the things I asked her and Malcolm to talk about openly. After your visit to my chambers, I realised you could probably hear and see everything that went on in Vondrak Prime. I just gave you what you wanted to hear. I made sure we never spoke openly and only communicated through Cassia’s journal.’
Nemonix rounded on Malcolm.
‘I heard you lay claim to Baron Roland’s position,’ he said. ‘I know you want to lead Cadmus. It burns you every day that Roland keeps beating you in the Cull. It could all have been yours, Sir Malcolm, all you had to do was let me help.’
‘You really don’t understand us, do you, you stupid arse?’ said Malcolm. ‘A Knight has honour and duty hardwired into him from the moment of his Rite of Becoming. You really thought I’d betray Roland? I don’t like him, I never have. I’m convinced I’d be a better leader for Cadmus, but if I have to take command without honour, then what’s the point? I’ll win the Cull soon enough, but I’ll do it without any damn help from you.’
Nemonix turned on his heel and stood before Arch Magos Kyrano. His fury was obvious, and Cordelia tried not to let her satisfaction show.
‘Lady Cordelia thinks she has the upper hand, but shall I show her how mistaken she is?’
‘What do you mean?’ said Kyrano.
‘I mean that I will fulfil my obligation to you,’ said Nemonix. ‘Cadmus will either return to the Mechanicus or it will be destroyed. Show them.’
This last comment was directed towards his hologram, which held out a hand that stretched and grew into the outline of a shimmering pict capture.
Cordelia let out a sigh of relief as she saw a grainy image of Roland’s Knight and a host of others emerging from a vast tunnel. They crossed an enormous turn-plate upon which sat a damaged hauler-engine.
The largest vehicle Cordelia had ever seen followed them, a towering leviathan of a thing. Every one of the Knights looked damaged, but at least they were alive.
‘Right now, I have control of a dozen of Colonel Harun Rukanah’s artillery pieces,’ said Nemonix. ‘Heavy guns all. Basilisks, Bombards and Manticores. And every one of them is currently targeted upon that turn-plate.’
Cordelia felt her skin grow clammy, but she had once last ace to play.
‘How long do you think those other knightly houses under Mechanicus control will remain so when they learn what you did here?’
‘They won’t learn of it, that’s the point,’ said Nemonix. ‘It’s what I do.’
‘I assure you they will,’ said Cordelia. ‘You might be able to manipulate machines and data, but you can’t change what people remember, and I’ve made sure that every member of House Cadmus has read what Cassia wrote in her journal. They’ve made their own copies too. Every word she wrote of what you’ve tried to do here is part of their very organic brains.’
‘And you think that matters?’
Cordelia knew she would never change Nemonix’s mind, and turned to the one man who could.
‘Of course it does,’ said Cordelia to Arch Magos Kyrano. ‘Don’t let him do this. Look at that pict feed. Roland has done what you asked. He’s brought the Binary Apostle back to Vondrak Prime. If you let him kill him, you’re a traitor to your own kind, a murderer and a violator of human minds, no better than the beasts beyond the walls.’
Kyrano stared at the image the hologram was holding.
‘Adept Nemonix, is the Binary Apostle aboard that Capitol Imperialis?’ he said.
Nemonix cocked his head to the side, as though receiving a fresh data stream.
‘He is,’ confirmed Nemonix. ‘Contained within a Manifold engine of dubious provenance and limited lifespan. But do not let that concern you. I can bombard that turn-plate to kill those Knights without leaving so much as a scratch on the transport.’
Kyrano nodded, and looked hard at Cordelia and the book she carried. She could see him weighing up the potential outcomes, the return of the Binary Apostle set against the loss of a knightly house and the knowledge of what he had done here spreading to the others.
‘The only proof Cadmus has is ink scratched on paper,’ said Nemonix. ‘Irrelevant and inadmissible to the Mechanicus.’
‘But just the kind of very human thing the minds of the knightly houses will trust more than any binaric record that says otherwise.’
Cordelia saw him make his decision in those words.
‘Lady Cordelia, I have no memory of setting this adept to this task,’ said Kyrano, ‘but I accept that I did. That Baron Roland has undoubtedly done the Mechanicus a great service is beyond question.’
‘Then call him off,’ demanded Cordelia.
‘Adept Nemonix,’ said Arch Magos Kyrano. ‘Any orders I have given you in relation to House Cadmus, I now rescind. I hereby sever any and all connections between us, and order you to vacate my forge-temple immediately.’
Nemonix nodded. ‘Very well, if that is your desire.’
‘It is,’ said Cordelia. ‘Now get out.’
Nemonix ignored her and said, ‘I accept your rescinding order, but I assure you, arch magos, this will set a precedent impossible to resist in future. You should prepare yourself for more of the knightly houses to follow the example you have allowed Cadmus to set.’
Kyrano watched the images of the Knights return, escorting the Capitol Imperialis through the outskirts of the city. Battered, bloodied, but unbowed.
The arch magos stepped aside, leaving a path for Nemonix to make his way from his forge-temple.
‘You may be right, Nemonix,’ he said, ‘But perhaps such a heroic example will be no bad thing.’
We return to Vondrak Prime through the very same gate we left. As Magna Preceptor, it is my right to enter the city first, but I order Aktis Bardolf and Tellurus to march at my side.
‘This victory belongs to us all,’ I tell them.
A deputation of the Mechanicus awaits us, three full companies of skitarii led by Arch Magos Kyrano. Malcolm’s Knights and a deputation of Sacristans form up in an honour guard, together with a host of nobility.
I see Cordelia and our consorts, bearing the house banners, and smile as I see her holding my personal heraldry.
The transfer of protection is made with almost unseemly haste, and Arch Magos Kyrano’s skitarii escort the lumbering, battle-scarred Capitol Imperialis towards his forge-temple.
House Hawkshroud follow it through the city, unwilling to abandon their duty of care until the final transfer of the Binary Apostle’s Manifold engine is complete.
Their devotion to duty is exemplary.
Despite my reservations on the durability of Sir Tellurus, he has survived the flight from Vikara. His armour is smoking and marches with painful steps, quite literally on its last legs. Whatever Sacristans he has will have their work cut out for them in making him battle-ready again.
Escorted by Malcolm’s Knights, we make our way through the streets to Verdus Ferrox. None of us speak, for it is obvious to those who have come to greet us that not all of those who set out have returned.
When we reach Verdus Ferrox, I am shocked at the damage I see. The tyranid hosts have not yet infested the city, but I see evidence of a terrible battle.
‘What happened here?’ I ask, as I walk my armour backwards into a repair berth. Sacristans swarm over it, disconnecting feed lines, locking it in the berth and preparing me for disconnection.
‘Just a wee skirmish,’ says Malcolm. ‘Some tyranid beasts thought they’d get a head start on their invasion. We had other ideas.’
I nod, wincing as the spinal plugs withdraw from my neck.
Stiff from so long in my armour, I clamber over the curved lip of my cowl, taking a moment to pull a bony hook left by the lictor free. I close my fist over it, thinking that it might make an interesting little trophy.
I climb down the rungs inset in the body of my armour and drop to the ground. My legs are unsteady, and my inner ear has not yet fully restored my sense of balance in a human frame.
Cordelia is there to support me. Her arm goes around my shoulder and she plants a kiss on my lips. She grimaces, perhaps tasting the last residue of the lictor’s blood.
‘You need a bath,’ she says. ‘You stink.’
I am about to answer her when I hear a crash of metal on stone. The sound sends adrenaline jolting through me, and I roll my shoulders before remembering I am no longer in my armour.
House Cadmus Sacristans rush to Sir Tellurus. His armour has finally given out under the strain. His mount lies on its side, sparking and convulsing like a man in the throes of a grand mal seizure.
With Cordelia still supporting me, I run to the fallen Knight. What the armour feels, the pilot feels, and the pain of such bio-feedback will be agonising.
‘Get him out of there!’ I shout. ‘Now!’
The Sacristans get to work on the shuddering Knight, and as I watch their efforts, I cannot help but think that Tellurus is resisting their efforts in some way.
Almost as though he does not want their help.
Then the canopy of the armour opens, and I see why Tellurus never speaks unless clad in armour. I understand in that moment something of what has driven Tellurus to become a Freeblade.
Sir Tellurus is not a sir at all.
Tellurus is a woman.
House Cadmus will not fight for Vondrak.
We answered a petition for aid, and have rendered unto the Mechanicus that which was asked of us. The Imperium will fight Hive Fleet Hydra, but it will fight it without House Cadmus. I do not make such a decision lightly, but after Cordelia informed me of the events taking place in my absence, I had no choice but to withdraw Cadmus from the conflict.
The warrior in me wants to kill Arch Magos Kyrano for what he has done, the lives he has cost my house, but, as ever, Cordelia is the cooling wind to my raging fire. I see that no good can come of such a confrontation, but from the ashes of Kyrano’s plotting, we have at least secured our independence from Mars forever.
I will carve the names of the fallen on the arch within the Vault Transcendent. To the dead of House Cadmus and House Hawkshroud, I will add the names of as many of the drill abbots and progena as I can discover. Without them, we would not have triumphed, and this honour is the least I can do them.
What has become of Adept Nemonix, I do not know. I doubt anyone on Vondrak knows. That he and his kind are considered necessary by the Mechanicus makes me doubly glad to be free of their interference.
Any organisation that relies on dishonourable means of enforcing its will is not worthy of my service. It will take a great deal of rebuilding before House Cadmus will answer another summons from the Mechanicus.
The Knights of House Hawkshroud have elected to remain on Vondrak. Aktis Bardolf and I have sworn binding oaths of brotherhood to unite our houses. When last I saw the Knights of Hawkshroud march, I was proud to see a Cadmus sigil borne upon their sword arms.
At Cordelia’s recommendation, I have not told Bardolf of Arch Magos Kyrano’s plot or how close we all came to annihilation at the hands of Nemonix.
Some things are better off unspoken.
And that is not all that will go unspoken.
In the wake of revelations concerning the true identity of Sir Tellurus, I sealed Verdus Ferrox and immediately ordered the Cadmus Sacristans to repair the Knight’s armour.
The last of her line, Tellia, as is her true name, sat upon her dead father’s Throne Mechanicus as Hive Fleet Hydra destroyed her home world and slaughtered the rest of her family. Rather than accepting her fate and letting death claim her, she fought back and escaped in a suit of Knight armour that resisted her control at every step.
It speaks volumes to her courage and character that she was able to pilot a suit of Knight armour without years of training, or going mad with pain at a connection without the correct input sockets drilled in her spine.
That a woman should be a pilot of a Knight goes against every tenet of knighthood and tradition. I should strip her of her armour and have her castigated for defiling millennia of tradition.
But I will not.
I owe Tellia my life, and I am bound by the same knightly code that should see her punished to honour my debt to her.
More than that, I admire her. I should not, but I do.
Cordelia has exacted a promise that I will never speak of Tellia, only of Tellurus. A hard promise to make, as deception is something every Knight of virtue abhors.
But in all my years of marriage to Cordelia, I have learned that when she sets her mind to something, it is best not to get in her way.
Sir Tellurus has also elected to remain on Vondrak, hoping to find and slay the tervigon beast that wiped out her line.
An honourable quest, but one I fear can only end badly.
House Cadmus is leaving Vondrak.
But there are always other enemies to fight, fresh wars in which to earn glory and renown.
I feel the call of my armour.
The Knights of Cadmus will march again.
HUNTING GROUND
IAN ST. MARTIN
Asander stood at the foot of a goddess.
A snarling, wolfish face peered out ahead of her hunched shoulders, leering out across the plain in her tireless hunger for prey. Her claws were colossal weapons, implements of destruction that had reaped quarry from a thousand worlds. The curving, sculpted plates of her carapace were lacquered in a deep tourmaline red, so dark it was nearly black.
A name, shining in brilliant silver, was etched into her armoured greaves, just below the bladed lioness icon of the legio at the ankles of the goddess’ splayed feet. The artisans had placed the name there for a reason. All those who had deemed to raise arms against her, from mortal men to towering engines that could scour cities of life, had ended at her feet. All would spend their final moments learning the name of the one that had cast them into the waiting dark.
Her name was Ruber Captrix.
Asander’s heart raced. She was always the most beautiful in the first quiet moments after a hunt. Even at her feet, he felt their distance as if it were the space between stars. The pain of separation was worsening as the years passed, and even moments after disconnection, he yearned to return to her, to join his frail flesh with her divine spirit and sanctified machinery. Where she ran, he ran. When she hunted, he hunted. Turning his gaze from the Warhound’s countenance to the field around him, Asander smiled.
They had hunted well this day.
Everywhere the weak light of the planet’s star touched, fighting to pierce the caustic veil of burning smoke that swallowed the sky, the corpses of the Great Devourer lay. Mounds of twisted alien bodies were heaped beyond counting, an ocean of pale, bleeding flesh with its rolling tides frozen in place. Shattered chitin and jagged chips of horn glittered upon the ground, like bits of shell covering a beach. The field of tyranid dead stretched unbroken to the horizon, broken and destroyed by Asander to reach the true prey that slumped in death at its centre.
Bio-Titan. The memory sent a ripple of warmth over the princeps. Feeling the lesser Tyranid bioforms pop and rupture beneath the tread of Ruber Captrix, as surely as if it had been his own boots. The speed of circling the monstrosity’s flanks, tearing its legs from its worm-like form. Waiting until the moment was perfect, the goddess and her sister striking the killing blow as one.
A piercing war-horn cut through the silence, jarring Asander from his reverie. He looked beside his engine as her sister goddess, Domina Mortis, roared again, her carapace just as charred and slathered in ichor after their run through the battlefield.
No, Asander thought as he crouched down, scooping up a handful of the soil. Not a battlefield.
He allowed the dirt to slip from his grasp, as he had done across all the worlds he had walked upon in the Omnissiah’s name. This was a hunting ground, and Asander gave silent thanks for it. A sentimental ritual, perhaps, but Asander had seen enough engine deaths to understand each successful hunt was to be cherished.
There may come a day when Ruber Captrix would fall, when she would no longer be able to run and hunt. But it was not this day. For Asander, as the last grains slipped from his fingers, that was enough.
The Adeptus Mechanicus ark transport Baiulus crouched at low anchor above the slowly turning sphere of Tophet VI, perched in the silence of the void. The crust of the world below was webbed with iron and machine cities, vast foundries and hive manufactories dedicated to fashioning the tools of Forge World Agripinaa. Raw materials were smelted, blessed machines were forged, and millions of men and women were reborn into the skitarii legions indentured to Agripinaa as the skies were lit with the flames of industry.
Now, its surface was lit by fire of a different kind. War had come to Tophet VI, and the cry of its destruction, screamed out across the stars by its astropathic choirs, had been answered by the Baiulus and the engines of the Legio Debellator she carried. She came to rest beside a slim needle of vivid emerald. It was known as the Asuncion, frigate of the Subjugators Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. The Space Marines had come both to honour their oath to protect the Tophet system, and for the pleasure of confronting an enemy older than the history of their Chapter.
Twisted fragments of shorn hull plating danced around the vessels. It glittered with the silver of bare metal, chased in hazard striping of gold and jet. Each jagged shard was older than the Imperium itself, forged in a time when the ship they had belonged to took to the stars to build the interstellar empire its commanders now fought to destroy.
The ship itself was wounded, but far from dead. After it had loosed its storm of death down onto Tophet VI, it had entertained the Asuncion for a moment before slipping from range, lost in the dark corners of the system. The Subjugators had taken to the surface, and now, so would the Legio Debellator.
