Vainglorious, p.7
Vainglorious, page 7
The elevator doors opened again, to reveal a familiar bustling concourse, across which he led the way. Tech-priests and artisans were scurrying about their business as though nothing untoward had even happened.
‘Most appreciated,’ I replied, digesting this unexpected development. If Vorspung did have something to hide, he’d be extremely unlikely to hand me the ability to go poking around wherever I pleased on a whim. On the other hand, the vehicle would be just as tied in to the sea of data immersing the world as everything else around here, so it could just be a subtle way of keeping tabs on whatever I was up to. Then another thought struck me. ‘I trust breather masks are available today?’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Vorspung said, in a manner he clearly imagined to be reassuring, although his synthesised voice remained as devoid of inflection as ever. ‘The vehicle in question is parked in a pressurised hangar, for your continued wellbeing and convenience.’
‘Besides which, the main surface pad is required for something a great deal larger today,’ a new voice cut in, and I turned, surprised, to find another Mechanicus acolyte approaching. Like all of them she was more metal than flesh, red robes swirling around her as she strode confidently forward on augmetic legs, but the thickness of her ferrous carapace and the barely concealed offensive systems incorporated within it made it abundantly obvious that she was a high-ranking skitarius rather than an ordinary tech-priest. To my surprise, she proffered a hand to shake as she came within arm’s reach of me. ‘Kyrus Norgard, praetor[39] of the skitarii.’ She smiled, as much as was possible given the limited amount of flesh remaining on her face, and, to my vague surprise, carried on speaking in normal colloquial Gothic instead of the stilted manner most acolytes of the Omnissiah affected. ‘My apologies for failing to meet you last night with the magos. I had a small riot in the protein reclamation plant to deal with.’
‘Duty before pleasure,’ I agreed, shaking the proffered hand, and finding, as I’d expected, unyielding metal beneath the covering glove. ‘Besides, I wasn’t really feeling well enough to be sociable.’
‘So I heard,’ Norgard said, falling into place beside me. Either she still retained some idea of sociability from before her extensive upgrades, or she’d absorbed the briefing far more effectively than Vorspung. ‘We’ll try to do better in future.’
I pretended not to hear Jurgen’s sceptical sniff.
‘Thank you for making the time now,’ I said, determined to be diplomatic.
Norgard inclined her head, in a fair simulation of polite interest. ‘I’ve been eager to make your acquaintance,’ she said. ‘Your reputation precedes you.’
By this point we’d begun to traverse another of the enclosed bridges, the vast majority of the installation laid out below us, smoke, steam and particulates in an interesting variety of colours seeping from the manufactory sections. The only points I could see higher than our current position were the section we’d just left, and an even higher outcrop of masonry into which the other side of the walkway disappeared, its shadow rippling away across the rooftops at an oblique angle from where we were standing.
‘I wouldn’t believe much of it,’ I said, truthfully enough, although it was the sort of thing people expected me to say, and, in my experience, generally made them even more credulous.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Norgard said, ‘except that I’ve accessed your service records.’ Some of them, anyway – my avocation as an occasional, and invariably reluctant, agent of the Inquisition was known to very few, and some of my other exploits were so highly classified even I wasn’t allowed to read them.[40] ‘I look forward to hearing your personal account of the pursuit of the Spawn of Damnation. If you feel inclined to revisit it, of course.’
‘I’m flattered by your interest,’ I said diplomatically, although ‘staggered’ would probably be a more accurate description. Of all the experiences I’ve had in my long and discreditable career, tagging along with the Reclaimers Space Marine Chapter[41] in their obsessive attempt to follow a space hulk through the warp, not to mention the nearly suicidal attempt to board and loot it once they’d found the damn thing, was one of those I’d be least inclined to relive given the choice. I wondered fleetingly why this particular incident had caught her attention, before remembering the Chapter’s unusually close ties to the Adeptus Mechanicus; no doubt they’d passed the story on while handing over some of the archeotech Drummon and his battle-brothers had recovered from the wreck. ‘Although as it’s been so long, you’ll have to forgive me if I seem a bit hazy on some of the details.’
‘Of course.’ Norgard looked out across the artificial landscape and the mountains beyond, her augmetic eyes emitting a barely audible whirring sound as they focused on the airborne shuttle, which was now aiming straight for the complex, skimming over the surrounding peaks on an unmistakable approach trajectory. I squinted, trying to make out more detail, but at that distance all I could discern was a fast-moving dot, rendered indistinct by a nimbus of reflected sunlight. She picked up her pace a little, the rest of us unconsciously lengthening our stride to keep up. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have only three minutes and seventeen seconds to reach the pad before our other guests arrive.’
‘Other guests?’ I asked, but by this point she’d accelerated to a pace I couldn’t match without exerting myself more than would appear seemly under the circumstances, so I let her go and turned back to Vorspung. ‘Another delegation from Coronus?’ It seemed the most likely explanation, as the last envoy from the shrine there had apparently evaporated shortly after his arrival, and the Adeptus Mechanicus could generally be relied on to react to a problem by trying the same thing a few more times in the vague hope that the result would be different.[42]
‘Not this time,’ Vorspung said, without elaborating further. ‘But since our destination is directly below the landing pad, an introduction may be effected if you so wish.’
‘If it’s not too inconvenient,’ I said. I’ve often observed that the more you know, the better prepared you are for the worst, so I was understandably keen to find out what lay behind this unexpected development – but I’d played enough tarot to know when not to reveal my hand, so I kept my tone casual, as if my interest in whoever else might be about to join us was merely a matter of etiquette.
‘Not at all,’ Vorspung assured me. ‘The hangar is only three levels below the rooftop, so we can easily divert to the portal there with minimal loss of time.’
‘Excellent,’ I said, my attention once again caught by the approaching spacecraft. It seemed to be heading for the section of the complex on the other side of the bridge, where, according to my usually reliable sense of direction, the pad we’d so memorably disembarked at the previous evening would be somewhere on the roof. It was a great deal closer now, the shape of it more distinct, the blocky silhouette somehow familiar, a faint rumble from its engines becoming audible even through the attenuated atmosphere and the intervening armourcrys.
‘That’s a Thunderhawk,’ Jurgen said, an instant before I recognised it myself, the huge dorsal cannon and the racks of wing-mounted missiles unmistakable even from this distance.
‘From the Reclaimers,’ I added, its yellow-and-white livery sparking uncomfortable memories of having flown in a couple of identical vessels during my eventful secondment to the Chapter early on in my career. They’d been quite spectacularly uncomfortable as I recalled, not least because Space Marines tend to keep their helmets on when en route to potential trouble, so soundproofing wasn’t exactly a priority for their passenger compartments.
‘Quite so,’ Vorspung said. ‘We have a great deal to discuss with them, but I can assure you that your presence here will not go unforgotten or neglected.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ I said, sifting his mechanical monotone for any hint as to whether that was meant as a veiled threat, or merely another attempt at politeness. Since I couldn’t tell one way or the other, I let my paranoia urge caution, concealing my unease behind the inflection of a reflexive pleasantry.
By this time we’d reached the end of the bridge, and followed our host into a broad concourse as crowded with cogboys, servitors and scuttling CATs as the rest of the complex. He made straight for a bank of lifts on the far side, and only as Jurgen and I joined him and the doors rattled closed behind us did I realise that, by accident or design, we’d given his entourage the slip. Definitely the latter, judging by his next words, almost muffled by a faint squealing of ungreased metal as the elevator cage jerked into motion.
‘Should you discover Magos Clode’s whereabouts in the course of your inspection, I would earnestly recommend discretion in disseminating that data,’ Vorspung said.
‘You would?’ I enquired, trying, and probably failing, to conceal my surprise.
‘Emphatically,’ Vorspung replied, in what would probably have been melodramatic tones if his voxcoder had been capable of much in the way of inflection. ‘In his last interaction with me, he expressed doubts that the production delays were entirely systemic in origin.’
Jurgen’s brow furrowed as he tried to disentangle the syntax of that, and I responded hastily, hoping to head off a typically blunt remark about people who couldn’t just come out with things in plain Gothic.
‘He suspected deliberate interference,’ I said, noting my aide’s sudden comprehension out of the corner of my eye, while keeping the bulk of my attention on the tech-priest, mentally cursing the inscrutability a mostly metal face conferred on him.
‘He did,’ Vorspung said. ‘A conclusion I dismissed at the time, but in the light of recent developments feel compelled to reconsider.’
‘What developments?’ Jurgen asked, forthright as ever.
‘His disappearance, of course,’ I said, before returning my attention fully to Vorspung. ‘You suspect foul play?’
‘It would be logical not to rule it out,’ Vorspung admitted, ‘just as rational analysis would indicate that human activity is more probably responsible for the production delays than…’ Here he hesitated, before vocalising a thought close to heresy for most in his vocation, ‘…some kind of mechanical failure.’
I nodded agreement, to his evident relief. ‘Have you shared this suspicion with anyone else?’ I asked, my innate paranoia immediately jumping to the more pressing question of how big a target he might have painted on his back by doing so, and, by implication, that of anyone else he might have confided in. Which now included me.
‘Not as yet,’ the tech-priest assured me. ‘If I have indeed drawn the correct inference, then doing so would hardly be prudent, given that such interference could only be perpetrated by a heretical group within the Cult Mechanicus itself. Such things are rumoured to exist, although until recently I had dismissed them as wildly improbable.’
‘Then I appreciate your decision to confide in us,’ I said, though I was far from happy about it. Cogboys were hard enough to deal with at the best of times, let alone when they had something to hide, and if Vorspung was right about a heretical conspiracy on Eucopia they’d no doubt be willing to take direct action against anyone they suspected might be on to them. I had no time to quiz him further about his suspicions, or what kind of heresy might be found in the murkier corners of the Machine-God’s realm,[43] however, because at that point the lift shuddered to a halt and the doors wheezed open, admitting a draught of freezing air and a murmur of conversation.
EIGHT
The voices grew louder as I followed our host round a couple of turns in the by-now-familiar tangle of identical-looking corridors, until I found myself in one I most definitely recognised – just next to the airlock by which I’d entered the complex the night before. Which I supposed explained the chill still lingering in the air, as the local environmental systems laboured to bring the temperature up to the ambient one of the rest of the complex.
Not that anyone else seemed to be bothered by the freshness of the air; Jurgen was an ice-worlder, the tech-priests were mostly metal anyway, and the only other people present were Space Marines, still enclosed within their suits of power armour, which seemed to me to be in imminent danger of dislodging the luminators from the ceiling with the crests of their helmets. Even if I hadn’t been so recently and unexpectedly reunited with my old comrades in arms,[44] I would have recognised the yellow gauntlets and faceplates of the Reclaimers at once. Norgard was conversing with their leader, a veteran sergeant if I was reading the heraldry on his pauldron correctly.[45]
‘Commissar Cain.’ The Space Marine broke off the conversation at once, the beak of his helmet[46] tilting down to look at me as we approached the group. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to finding the effect somewhat intimidating, even though I was pretty sure he meant me no harm, but then I’d defy anyone being loomed over by a superhuman giant in power armour not to feel a faint stirring in the bowels as the full effect of the spectacle kicked in. ‘Your association with our Chapter honours us both.’
‘Me rather more than you, I suspect, brother-sergeant,’ I said, accurately enough, though I knew he’d simply take it as an expression of modesty. To my relief he reached up to remove his helmet, which came away with a faint hiss of equalising pressure as the seals broke, revealing a face which seemed to consist mainly of scar tissue, but which I could at least read. To my complete lack of surprise I didn’t recognise him, but since I’d only been personally acquainted with a relative handful of his fellows in the Chapter, that was only to be expected.[47]
‘And I suspect otherwise.’ To my genuine surprise he smiled, an expression I’d rarely seen on the faces of his comrades, apart from my old friend Drummon on occasion, and held out a yellow-gauntleted hand which could have enclosed and crushed my entire head should he have felt so inclined. ‘So perhaps we’d better agree that the honours are even, in the interests of amity.’
‘I’m all for amity,’ I said, extending my own for a predictably awkward handshake, given that I could barely have grasped one of his ceramite-encased fingers in earnest. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Norgard looking gratifyingly impressed, and Vorspung as astonished as it was possible to with a face composed almost entirely of metal. Retrieving my hand before it could be entirely engulfed, I used it to gesture towards my companions. ‘Magos Vorspung I’m sure you know, and this is my aide, Gunner Jurgen.’
‘Sir.’ Jurgen nodded a formal greeting, apparently remembering that Space Marines weren’t much given to saluting, although, since being assigned as my aide and therefore technically attached to the Commissariat, he’d tended to regard that kind of thing as more or less optional in any case.[48]
‘Of course.’ The towering Space Marine echoed the gesture, to Jurgen’s unconcealed satisfaction, and Norgard’s barely concealed astonishment; if the skitarius’ jaw hadn’t been soldered in place it would probably have dropped halfway to her knees. ‘Your name is also known to the Chapter. I’m gratified to find you still serving the Emperor.’
‘What else would I do?’ Jurgen asked, in genuine surprise.
‘What indeed?’ He seemed to have said the right thing anyway, though more by luck than judgement if I knew Jurgen, as the half a dozen or so Astartes accompanying the sergeant nodded formally too, the beaked helmets most of them wore making them look like a flock of birds suddenly spotting a fresh spillage of seeds.
I found myself a little taken aback at this – for someone so distinctive, Jurgen tended to be overlooked more often than not, and it seemed a little surprising that the Reclaimers still remembered his presence more than half a century after we’d parted company with them.[49]
‘Yours isn’t to us, though,’ Jurgen said, in his typically forthright manner. I wasn’t sure any of the cogboys were physically capable of inhaling sharply, but I could have sworn I heard a faint, shocked susurrus in any case.
To my astonished relief the towering sergeant unleashed a bellow of laughter which rattled my fillings, and reverberated through the confined space of the corridor like a grenade going off.
‘Of course.’ He inclined his head again, towards me this time, in accordance with protocol. ‘Toba Morie, of the Eighth Company.’
‘Sergeant Morie.’ I inclined my head again too, partly for the look of the thing, but mainly because I was beginning to develop a crick in my neck from trying to keep his face in my eyeline. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
‘A pleasure I trust you’ll prolong by accompanying us?’ Morie said, to Vorspung’s evident discomfiture. The magos took a couple of paces forward, not quite edging between us, but clearly intent on reminding everyone who was supposed to be in charge here.
‘If you’re certain such a contravention of protocol is warranted,’ he said. ‘Our discussions were supposed to be confidential.’
‘And will remain equally so with Commissar Cain present,’ Morie said, in tones which brooked no argument. (Which, to be fair, was true of pretty much anything a Space Marine said.)
‘A reasonable inference,’ Vorspung conceded. Accepting defeat, he turned to Norgard and initiated a short conversation in the chirruping argot of the tech-priests.[50] At its conclusion, the skitarius turned to Morie’s companions and gestured for them to follow her.
‘Our facilities are entirely at your disposal,’ she said, leading the rest of the squad away in the rough direction of the living quarters Jurgen and I were currently occupying, the cyclopean scale of their furnishings suddenly making a great deal more sense.
‘As are the manufactoria,’ Vorspung added, taking a couple of steps in the opposite direction, clearly expecting the rest of us to fall into place behind him. His head turned in my direction. ‘Though I’m afraid our visit to the nearest will have to wait a while.’
