Legends of the dark ange.., p.85
Legends Of The Dark Angels, page 85
Certain that who – or what – he was looking for was beneath him, Ezekiel located a set of stairs and climbed down them into the basement. At the foot of the steps, a young Mordian stood guard in front of a thick plasteel door, bars at its windows. Upon seeing Ezekiel he fumbled for the set of keys at his belt, almost dropping them in the process. With shaking hands, he found the correct key and attempted to put it in the lock, bashing it against the metal of the door as he did so and losing his grip on the entire bunch. He quickly stooped forwards to scoop them up, only to find them floating of their own accord towards the keyhole. Finding their mark, they slipped home and twisted sharply, the lock opening noisily and the door swinging open without any hand to aid it. The Mordian stepped back into the cell block to allow the Space Marine, pauldrons flecked with a rime of ice from the expending of psychic force, to pass through.
A nervous whisper rippled through the prison as Ezekiel made his way past the barred rooms, the arms of thieves, rapists, murderers and deserters reaching through bars to wake sleeping inmates. Coming to the end of the cells, Ezekiel turned to find what he was looking for was already standing at the bars, as if the man had been expecting him all along. He wore the uniform of a Vostroyan, albeit filthy from his confinement, the insignia on his epaulets marking him as a captain. His face bore at least a week’s worth of beard and he stank from where he hadn’t washed in all that time. What would normally be most striking about the man was the augmetic eye that covered the entire left side of his head, inexpertly fitted, oversized and ancient enough to be in a museum. To Ezekiel, though, what was most noteworthy was that he possessed psychic abilities.
Had he been placed into custody to await the Black Ships? Ezekiel wondered. It mattered not; the Black Ships would not be coming to Honoria anytime soon, and with war on the horizon, an untrained, unsanctioned psyker – latent or otherwise – was a liability. The war against the orks could be won only for the battle against a host of daemons to be lost, the Vostroyan used as a conduit to bring an army through the warp and ambush the forces of the Imperium while they were at their weakest. Ezekiel had seen it happen too many times before, even among his own brothers, and would not brook it again.
Reaching to his waist, he drew his bolt pistol and slipped it through a gap in the cell bars, placing the cold muzzle against the Vostroyan’s sweat-slicked forehead.
There was something different about this man, not the low-level psychic ability, not the ridiculous artificial eye, something else. Like everybody else in the cell block, he was emanating fear, but whereas the other inmates’ sense of dread mingled with malice and a resignation to their fate, the captain gave off an aura of honour and injustice, as if he shouldn’t be here, as if he had higher purpose. The Guardsman closed his eyes.
A feeling gripped Ezekiel, like the merest glimmer of his powers of divination returning. This was not right. He did not know why, could not see the skeins of destiny weaving together to form the future, but he could practically taste the wrongness of what he was about to do.
Mag-locking the bolt pistol back to his thigh, Ezekiel turned and left the cell block.
Ladbon had awoken not certain if his vision had been caused by his ability or was merely a dream. When he heard the keys turning in the lock, just as they had done in his premonition, he knew it was the former. Quite why a Space Marine had come to execute him, he did not know, but he was already resigned to his fate and decided to face it with dignity. He got up from the cold floor and moved to the front of the cell, grasping the same bars he had done when Allix and Dmitri had visited him a week earlier.
Though he had seen the Space Marine in his mind’s eye only seconds before, to bear witness to him in the flesh was no less disconcerting. Just as he had done in the vision, the Space Marine drew his pistol and pushed it through the bars. The coldness of it on Ladbon’s hot brow caused him to shudder involuntarily. Even though this was where his vision ended, him standing helpless with a gun to his head, Ladbon knew that the very next thing that would happen was that the Space Marine would pull the trigger and he would never see Marita again, never meet the son or daughter they had created together. Every Guardsman in every regiment of the Astra Militarum knew that if a Space Marine drew his weapon, he was bound under millennia-old oaths to the Emperor not to replace it until it had claimed a life. Ladbon’s death was a foregone conclusion.
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, the Space Marine was ascending the stairs, the confused and excited whispers of the prisoners ushering him out. Something had happened to prevent him pulling the trigger but Ladbon did not know what, just that he had felt some kind of connection between them for the briefest instant.
What he did know was that he needed to get out of this cell and find Marita and their unborn child.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The moment Serpicus and Diezen were out of the considerable earshot of the rest of the Dark Angels command squad, the tech-priest’s personality underwent a startling change. It was as if a switch had been activated inside him, turning off the befuddled old tinkerer persona and allowing his true self to come to the fore instead.
‘Where do your loyalties lie, Dark Angel?’ Diezen’s voice had changed, harsher, more metallic.
Serpicus grinned and shook his head. ‘Finally decided to drop the act, have we? I knew the mind of the great Hieronymous Diezen would not have atrophied to the point where it rendered him an imbecile.’
‘Answer the question, Serpicus. Where do your loyalties lie?’ Diezen stopped, the mechadendrites on his back poised menacingly.
‘Where they always have,’ Serpicus replied, his servo-arms coming to life, grasping at thin air to demonstrate their potential to destroy as well as to create. ‘Split between my debt of duty to Mars and my sworn oaths as a son of the Lion.’
Diezen snorted, a grating sound that resulted in feedback. ‘And this loyalty to your “brothers”, is it reciprocated?’
‘There is not a single Dark Angel who would not lay down his life for me, and I for them,’ Serpicus replied defiantly.
‘But they don’t trust you, do they, Serpicus?’ Diezen said, his tone sympathetic. ‘The brother who spent years away from the Chapter studying on Mars. Do they keep you at arm’s length? Are you constantly made to feel as if you’re an outsider, as if they are keeping secrets from you?’
Serpicus remained silent. In all Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes – with the possible exception of the Iron Hands and their successors – Techmarines stood as a breed apart. Whereas many Space Marines underwent augmentation treatment as a result of battlefield injury, limbs and eyes replaced thanks to the actions of the enemy, Techmarines actively sought to improve their bodies regardless of necessity. Those who had spent time being tutored on Mars also spent most of their time among the vehicles, Dreadnoughts and servitors of their respective Chapters, further alienating them from their battle-brothers.
In a Chapter such as the Dark Angels, this effect was magnified tenfold. Though it was true that any of Serpicus’ brothers would lay down their life for him, it was also true that he was kept in the dark about many Chapter matters, even those that directly impacted him. Serpicus had long ago lost count of the number of times the Ravenwing had taken to battle, their bikes and speeders unblessed, as no Techmarine had accompanied them on their mission, or the numerous occasions elements of the Deathwing had disappeared for months on end taking vast amounts of Chapter assets with them. What made matters worse for Serpicus and his ilk was when the First and Second Company returned from their unplanned secret missions with their vehicles and kit damaged, or worse. If only the Techmarines were allowed to perform their duties to the fullest then perhaps the unnecessary losses of the Omnissiah’s gifts could be avoided.
‘Allow me to show you something, Dark Angel,’ Diezen said, shattering the silence with his artificial grate. He produced a small data-slate from within his robes, activated it with a mechadendrite and passed it to Serpicus.
‘What am I looking at here?’ Serpicus asked.
‘I was hoping you could tell me,’ Diezen replied, his grin suggesting that he already knew the answer.
The flickering screen of the data-slate showed a colour vid taken on a battlefield. Atanix Triumvirae skitarii were engaged in fierce battle with technocultists of the Dark Mechanicus, dozens of wrecked vehicles and hundreds of corpses strewn across the desert wastes of the unnamed planet. Something caught the Techmarine’s keen eye and he pinched a pair of mechadendrites together to zoom in close on one particular section of the vid.
‘When was this taken?’ Serpicus asked.
‘Four years, seven months, nine days, three hours and fourteen minutes ago, Terran standard,’ Diezen said without pause or hesitation.
Serpicus’ brow furrowed. He could tell that what he was seeing was the truth, that the vid was undoctored, but what it was showing him was impossible. An unhelmeted figure, clad in black Mark III power armour adorned with the livery of the Dark Angels stood in the midst of the battle. His face, like the armour he wore, was ancient and unfamiliar to Serpicus. If it was one of the brothers of the Ravenwing then it was one that the Techmarine had never encountered, and he had certainly never tended to that magnificent suit of battleplate. What was most disturbing about the vid, though, was not who it showed but what it showed him doing; his unknown brother was fighting alongside the technocultists.
‘Quite illuminating, isn’t it, Dark Angel?’ Diezen said, the artifice of his voice doing nothing to mask the relish with which he said it. He took the data-slate from the Techmarine and slipped it back into his robes.
‘Come, Serpicus. I have something else to show you.’
The steaming cup of weak recaff felt good in Allix’s hands, returning feeling to frozen fingers and colour to pallid flesh. The rest of the squad drank from their mugs, wincing at the taste – something akin to chemically tainted boiled water – while a local medic finished checking Grigori over. After shining a light in the Vostroyan’s eyes, he turned to the translator and said something in Honorian.
‘He says you are all very fortunate,’ the dark-haired girl said. Her uniform was identical to that of the medic – light grey overalls with a single red stripe running the length of each sleeve and trouser leg – but hers had no markings at the shoulder to denote rank or position. ‘To have walked away without a scratch from a crash that destroyed your flyer and killed the pilot.’
‘We’re just naturally lucky, I guess,’ said Dmitri, caressing the warm metal mug in his hands like a long-lost lover. The girl translated what he had said, causing the medic to eye the Vostroyans sceptically. He said something back to her.
‘He is declaring you all fit for duty,’ she said. ‘Finish your drinks, gather your kit and report to Colonel Oosthousen of the Mordian Seventeenth. He will make arrangements to return you to your own regiment.’
‘We’ve already got that taken care of,’ Grigori muttered under his breath.
‘Please thank the medic for all that he has done,’ Allix said, pre-empting the translator asking Grigori to repeat himself.
The girl said something in Honorian and the medic smiled and nodded to the Vostroyans before taking his leave. The translator was just about to follow him out of the small medicae facility when Allix spoke again.
‘Excuse me, miss. What is your name?’
‘My name is Ishobel. Why do you ask?’
‘Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Ishobel,’ Allix said, warmly. ‘I don’t suppose you know a translator by the name of Marita, do you? We’re here to take her back to the capital.’
Ishobel’s eyes grew wide. ‘I share a dorm with Marita! She said you’d come for her. Which one of you is Ladbon? I’ve heard so much about you.’
The Vostroyans looked at each other uneasily. ‘Ladbon couldn’t come with us,’ Allix said.
‘Yeah,’ Dmitri added. ‘He was unavoidably detained.’ The albino grinned at his own cleverness. The rest of the squad simply glared at him.
‘Come with me,’ Ishobel said, practically bouncing out of the room in her excitement. ‘I’ll take you to her.’
The wind swirled and eddied around the high battlements of Aurelianum, bringing with it fresh deposits of snow to add to the half metre that had already settled. Neither of the man-machines noticed the inclement weather, both of them focused intently on the massive weapons turret before them.
‘The construction is immaculate,’ Serpicus breathed. ‘Not a single rivet out of place, the welds airtight.’
‘The men and women who built and maintained these turrets dedicated their lives to their work in the same way as the Adeptus Mechanicus devote their lives to the veneration of the Omnissiah. For ten thousand years they remained hidden away not realising that they were doing the Machine-God’s great work.’
‘And where are they now, those men and women?’ Serpicus asked, unable to take his eyes from the perfect lines and curves of the turret and the huge guns it housed.
‘On Atanix Triumvirae – most of them, at least. Their leaders are on Mars already sharing their secrets. The turrets themselves will be shipped there once the ork forces have been dealt with.’
Serpicus turned to face the arch magos. ‘So that is why you invoked the Pact. We’re not here to save the planet, we’re here to protect the technology.’
Diezen laughed a harsh, rasping laugh. ‘Of course that’s why you’re here! Did you think I would have called upon the Dark Angels for any other reason?’
‘There are billions of lives at stake here, Diezen. Do you really expect my brothers to allow Imperial citizens to die so you can rob a world of its treasures?’
‘What your brothers choose to do is irrelevant, Dark Angel. I expect you to keep the turrets safe for the duration of the war against the orks.’
Serpicus was just about to protest, to point out to Diezen that by the tech-priest’s own calculations it was a war that could not be won, when the turret spun into action, the enormous lascannon at its heart arcing skywards.
‘Excellent!’ Diezen said. ‘Now you will see exactly why these weapons systems require preservation and greater study.’
Serpicus looked at where the eighteen-metre-long barrel of the weapon was pointing and saw fire in the sky from where an ork rok had entered the atmosphere. Belying its sheer size, the turret reacted to every little movement of the out-of-control craft, instantaneously correcting the position of the lascannon to keep it firmly locked on to its target.
‘I’d stand back if I were you,’ Diezen called. He had retreated further back along the battlements. Serpicus moved to join him as the weapon charged up with an excruciating hum, loud enough to damage the hearing of an unaugmented human.
Reaching its crescendo, the barrel unleashed a bolt of searing energy, for the briefest of moments burning as bright and as hot as a star. Serpicus felt the exposed parts of him that were still flesh burning and his augmented optics shut down altogether to protect his vision. When his eyes came back online they revealed the bloom of an explosion in the sky, millions of tiny rok fragments raining down onto the planet’s surface.
But the turret wasn’t done yet.
At the very edge of the trench system that Diezen and the Dark Angels had navigated to reach the capital, orks stirred, seemingly using the destruction of the rok as cover to approach the city walls. With impossible swiftness, the lascannon adjusted once again, its long barrel pointed at the hundred or so greenskins charging in the distance.
‘Wait!’ Serpicus cried out. ‘If that thing fires it’ll destroy the entire–’
Unheralded, the mighty weapon fired. Serpicus threw his arm across his face as a reaction but was surprised that this blast generated neither the heat nor the brightness of the previous shot. It was quieter too, his Larraman’s ear having to compensate less. When he looked to where the orks had been, not a single one remained, while the trench system was remarkably intact – not even telltale black scorch marks to show where the lascannon had hit.
‘I don’t understand,’ Serpicus said. ‘An anti-aircraft weapon of this magnitude should have torn the planet asunder, at the very least ripped a hole in its surface deep enough to reach the core.’
‘But it’s not an anti-aircraft weapon,’ Diezen said, eyes suddenly wide with enthusiasm. ‘It’s whatever it needs to be. As you’ve just witnessed, it can be the perfect anti-personnel weapon, killing any living thing it strikes but leaving buildings and weapons intact. Had that been a Gargant or Titan instead of greenskins down there then it would have adjusted accordingly, likewise if it had been tanks or flyers. Though I have yet to see it for myself, the elders who maintain these weapons claim that they are powerful enough to bring down a craft in orbit around Honoria.’
‘Incredible,’ Serpicus said, marvelling at the smoothness with which the barrel traversed back into its dormant position.
‘Isn’t it just?’ Diezen said reverently. ‘And there are hundreds of these all over the planet, each one subtly different in some way.’
‘But the speed at which it moves, at which the gun switches between modes. The amount of servitors and calculus logi needed to operate it must be staggering.’
Diezen laughed again, not cruelly but devoid of warmth nonetheless. ‘Come. Follow me.’
The tech-priest scurried back along the battlements towards the base of the turret. He put his hand against the smooth wall and revealed a control panel identical to the one that had granted them access to the city walls. Muttering a control phrase in flawless binary, a section of the wall slid away to reveal the workings within. Diezen slipped into the darkness, Serpicus followed.
‘Sweet Omnissiah…’ Serpicus gasped, his artificial eyes irising wide in the near-perfect dark. Where he had expected to see scores of servitors and other slaves of the Machine-God stood at control lecterns, there were none. Instead, tons of cogs and gears and kilometres of pipes and wiring filled the vast dome of the turret. ‘It’s automated.’
