by Rob Sanders
As Quoda’s manipulations fell away, revealing the Redacted to all who had not already seen through his sorcery, Grey Knights Terminators spread out to circle them with the psychically attuned blades of their crackling halberds. Brothers in Aegis armour closed in, their optics lined up with their boltguns. Occam could see the glow of ammunition from the ejection ports of the various weapons – no doubt some kind of psychically enhanced bolts used by the Grey Knights to combat witchbreeds and daemons. Towering walkers piloted by Grey Knights pilots loomed overhead, aiming their appendage-mounted heavy weapons at the Redacted.
‘So, serpent,’ Goura Shengk said, his claw holding back one of his possessed Word Bearers who were roaring and spitting at the Grey Knights. ‘How are you going to slither your way out of this?’
‘How indeed,’ Occam said to himself grimly. Then, when the strike master could not conceive that the situation could get any worse, he heard a vox-channel crackle open in his helm. It was the Iota-Æternus.
‘Greetings, Occam,’ a voice said – a voice that made the strike master’s hearts plunge within his chest. A voice he had not heard in some time and never thought to hear again. ‘Have you missed me?’
Impossibly, Quetzel Carthach – Angelbane, Master of Harrows and Arch-Lord of the Alpha Legion, was talking to him from beyond the grave. Worse, from the command deck of the Iota-Æternus.
Occam had buried Carthach on Vitrea Mundi, beneath the demolished ruins of a fortress-monastery and the hellfire of a battle-barge bombardment cannon. How had he managed to survive?
Carthach didn’t wait for the strike master to answer.
‘That was quite a surprise you had in store for me above the Adeptus Astartes home world,’ the Angelbane continued, his hate-strangled voice strained with pain. ‘I didn’t think you had it in you. I know better now. As you can see, brother, I have returned the favour. I leave you at the mercy of your enemies – as you left me at the mercy of mine.’
υ
Poisoned Hearts
It had all happened so fast, even for Mina Perdita. As an Assassin, she was used to situations unfolding quickly and the need for swift action. Her mind was a whirl of lethal immediacy, while her reflexes were honed to a razor’s edge. She had lived among the dread Space Marines of the Adeptus Astartes long enough to know her limitations. They were genetically engineered to be superior. They were beyond human in body and mind. They were created to be stronger. Faster. To survive all that the galaxy could throw at them.
Perdita had, of course, killed members of the Adeptus Astartes. She had killed virtually every sentient thing that had lived and breathed within the borders of the Imperium. Her talents usually gave her the element of surprise. Poison-glazed blades. Weapons secreted in clothing. Death hiding in flesh. This time, however, it was the enemy that benefitted.
Perdita had been up on the bridge with Naga-Khan and Ghesh, the Navigator. Together with the command deck cultists and the Sorcerer Quoda’s astropaths, they had been monitoring the mission. There was a good deal to do. Lord Occam had led the Redacted down to Suspiria Proctor with Goura Shengk to meet the lord cardinal. Freydor Blatch had left with hundreds of Seventh Sons. They were ready to make contact with the Low Serpent and consolidate the infiltration of frater forces aboard the gathered armada of Ecclesiarchy transports. All the while, lighters arranged by the Low Serpent brought supplies back to the Q-ship.
With them they had brought uninvited guests. Space Marines of the Alpha Legion in shattered plate, led by the monstrous Quetzel Carthach. With their missing limbs supplanted with basic bionics and their horrific injuries patched up, the legionnaires – once exemplars of lethal grace and stealth – were in a sorry state. Their legionary colours were soot-smeared and crumpled, while cracked optics died before blinking back to searing life. Despite their terrible injuries, a handful of Alpha Legion survivors had stowed away on the visiting lighters and infiltrated the Iota-Æternus. Killing their way silently through the ship, they had burst forth onto the small bridge – their battered boltguns blasting apart Seventh Son sentries with the cool nerve and expert marksmanship for which the Legion was infamous.
With barrels of boltguns pointed at the command deck cultists and bridge crew, the Alpha Legionnaires ventured forth. Some were battered Space Marines while others were broken altereds in legionary plate. A limping Terminator with a replacement bionic leg moved aside to reveal his master. The Alpha Legion warlord’s broken body had been pinned and braced within his shattered plate. One side of the Angelbane’s skull seemed similarly reconstructed.
Perdita had been on board the Marines Mordant’s battle-barge when it had opened fire upon Carthach’s position down on Vitrea Mundi. The orbital strike had turned the fortress-monastery into a mountain of rubble and Alpha Legion bodies. Nothing could have crawled out of there alive – or so Perdita had thought. She, along with Occam the Untrue, had been wrong. They had underestimated the Archlord of the Alpha Legion and now he stood on the command deck of the strike master’s ship.
The Angelbane carried himself like an armoured puppet with cut strings. While half his face retained a trace of its genic nobility and one eye still gleamed with strategic brilliance, the other half was a mess of staples and stitching pins.
‘Bring him forth,’ the Angelbane hissed through his half-mouth.
Arkan Reznor stumbled forward and crashed to the deck on his armoured knees. His helmet was missing and his plate sparking and battered. Such damage had been sustained resisting Carthach’s legionnaires, Perdita reasoned. His face was bloodied and bruised. When Autolicon Phex appeared behind him, the Assassin wasn’t surprised. It made sense for Carthach to neutralise the remaining members of the Redacted on board the ship. What she did not expect was to see was Phex still carrying his heavy plasma gun and levelling its gaping muzzle at the warpsmith.
‘You traitorous filth,’ Reznor grizzled through broken teeth.
Phex could say nothing in return. Instead, he stepped forth and smashed the warpsmith to the floor with the butt of his weapon.
‘Good, brother,’ Carthach said to Phex with strained appreciation. ‘I couldn’t have said it better myself. Now, who is the captain of this crate?’
When no one answered, Carthach used his remaining hand to draw a bolt pistol from a holster. He aimed the weapon across the bridge, fixing on one deck cultist after another before reaching Perdita. The Assassin froze. It was not the first time such a weapon had been pointed at her or even by a member of the Adeptus Astartes, but she thought it best to act like everyone else who fell under the Angelbane’s sights.
‘I am captain of this vessel,’ Naga-Khan said, finally stepping forward. Carthach turned awkwardly and blasted the shipmaster back across a console.
‘Not any more,’ Carthach said, before issuing an order to one of his broken legionnaires. ‘Round up the Navigator and astropaths. They will be needed.’
As the limping Terminator moved by, Perdita backed out of his path, using it as an excuse to put her back to the bridge runebanks and a line of consoles between her and the Angelbane. Her shoulder brushed up against the brawn of a death cultist nearby. His face was taut with expectation. The Seventh Sons were assassins all and Perdita could feel their desire to kill Carthach.
The Angelbane carried himself with obvious agony over to a cultist at a console and rested the muzzle of his pistol on the top of her shaven skull.
‘Your strike master is off the ship on a mission,’ the Angelbane said. ‘We know this already. Open a vox-channel, please.’
‘Give them nothing,’ Arkan Reznor spat, bringing himself back up off the deck.
‘Phex!’ Carthach ordered, as though issuing a command to a faithful hound. Perdita knew that the Angelbane had tortured Autolicon Phex horribly. She had heard his suffering through the door to his cell. While her strike master had used such treatment to secure Phex’s seeming loyalty for the Redacted, Perdita could see now that the damage had run much deeper. Carthach had destroyed Phex’
s Chapter and had broken his victim both physically and psychologically. He had turned Phex into his personal plaything and still had the Space Marine under his control. Perdita came to the horrific realisation that Phex had been feeding his archlord information. Carthach had known of Occam the Untrue’s plans and his intention to visit Suspiria Proctor.
Phex smashed Arkan Reznor back down to the deck. This time Perdita heard a crunch as the warpsmith’s skull was fractured. As Carthach tapped the muzzle of his pistol on the deck cultist’s head she opened the vox-channel with the Redacted down on the cardinal world.
‘Greetings, Occam,’ Carthach seethed across the channel. ‘Have you missed me?’
Perdita watched the Angelbane uncomfortably pace the deck. His half-face was fixed in a mask of agony and vengeful glee.
‘That was quite a surprise you had in store for me above the Adeptus Astartes home world,’ the Angelbane said. ‘I didn’t think you had it in you. I know better now. As you can see, brother, I have returned the favour. I leave you at the mercy of your enemies – as you left me at the mercy of mine. The Inquisition has been informed of your many crimes – your devastation of Adeptus Astartes home worlds, your attack on their very own installations and the consort you keep with daemon-infested Bearers of the Word.’
‘Carthach,’ the voice of Lord Occam crackled back across the channel. ‘Listen to me–’
‘No,’ the Archlord of the Alpha Legion said. ‘As we speak, your vessel resides under my control. Cultist contacts I have made among the frater armies are currently slaughtering your High Serpent and his infiltrators. Your warpsmith is coughing up pieces of that gifted brain of his on the deck. And you, brother Occam – you are facing eternity in the bowels of some God-Emperor forsaken, high-security Inquisitorial installation. There you will find others to listen to you. The Master of Mankind’s stale agents have, as part of their torturous interrogations, an unending stream of questions for you, brother. You will not eat. You will not sleep. And you will not die. I have ensured it. Occam the Untrue will finally speak the truth. Perhaps we shall all learn something.’
‘Reznor?’ Lord Occam said.
‘Here, strike master,’ the warpsmith managed.
‘Phex?’
‘He’s betrayed us to the enemy,’ Reznor said.
‘Enough of this,’ Quetzel Carthach said, thunking across the deck and bringing up his bolt pistol. The vox went quiet for a moment as though Lord Occam was taking in the betrayal.
‘The shipmaster?’ Occam asked. ‘Perdita?’
‘Perdita is here,’ Arkan Reznor said, lifting his head. Blood from his scalp was raining down his face. ‘The shipmaster is not.’
A single shot from the Angelbane’s weapon blasted the warpsmith’s head from his shoulders.
‘Reznor?’ Lord Occam called.
‘Brother Reznor is dead, strike master,’ Perdita said.
Carthach turned and unleashed another bolt from his battered pistol. It blew the cultist standing next to Perdita in half. While blending in with the other Seventh Sons on the deck, the Assassin had assumed a male voice.
‘Understood,’ the strike master said finally.
‘Keep going,’ Carthach dared Occam. ‘I’ll kill them all.’
‘I’m going to kill you, Carthach,’ Lord Occam snarled back across the crackling channel. The Assassin could hear other voices in the distance: imperious calls for the strike master and the Redacted to surrender.
‘Not from where you are,’ Carthach taunted.
‘Assassin,’ Lord Occam said. ‘Can you complete your mission?’
‘I can’t kill him,’ Perdita said. Carthach killed another deck cultist, and another as the Assassin added: ‘There are too many of them.’
With a haze of gore drifting across the bridge, Mina Perdita found herself standing alone.
Carthach’s ravaged lips formed a half-snarl.
‘Assassin, eh?’ the Angelbane said, bringing up the smoking barrel of his pistol.
‘Then kill the ship,’ Lord Occam said gravely. ‘My final order.’
Perdita ran. Before her was the engineering runebank. She willed herself on, matching her Assassin’s reflexes and morphing musculature to Quetzel Carthach’s aim. One step. Two steps. Three. Skidding down behind a console she allowed the station to absorb the mauling boltfire. She tried to clear her head. The Geller field could not be controlled directly from the bridge but the bank incorporated an override for emergencies. This qualified, the Assassin decided, as bolt rounds roared overhead and punched into the command deck about her.
With a snarl of determination screwing up her face, Perdita threw herself at the runebank. The seconds seemed to slow as she worked dials, hauled at the thick handles of levers and stabbed at studs with a finger. As bolt rounds crashed about her, the Assassin retracted behind a nearby console. The station was ripped apart in a shower of sparks. Perdita rolled across the punctured deck. Kneeling before the runebank she completed the complex sequence, tearing circuit boards out of their slots to slam them home in different ports.
With a clunk, a haptic interface opened in the runebank and Perdita plunged her fist desperately into the enclosure. Like an Iron Maiden for the hand, the biometric lock skewered her palm and the flesh of fingertips with needles. A shudder of pain and shock ran through the Assassin’s body but she was beyond such sensations.
Perdita felt her body torn to one side like a rag doll as bolts from Carthach’s pistol ripped through her body, turning the magnificence of the Assassin’s surgical adaptations into butchered and blasted meat.
She hung there still, the interface emitting a dull ring as it completed its genetic sampling. Her head lolled back on her shoulder.
‘Authorise and execute,’ the Assassin hissed, the words escaping her trembling lips and reaching the runebank’s vox horn. As her face relaxed, the muscles quivered. Somehow her face found its way back to the innocence of the girl who had originally been recruited by the Officio Assassinorum and had been sliced up on the Temple slab.
Mina Perdita smiled. She had shut down the Q-ship’s Geller field, but in reaching the runebank, had ensured that the merciless accuracy of Quetzel Carthach’s bolt round had disabled it. It could not be reinstated from the bridge and the Angelbane had no time to reach the Enginarium before the horrific consequences of her actions took effect.
As the Assassin’s gore formed a fast growing pool on the deck below what remained of her blasted body, she felt a change in the ship. She had experienced this before. Above Ghalmek. She knew what dread she was looking for. The Word Bearers had possessed the Iota-Æternus and allowed the vessel to become host to daemon entities. Some of the superstructure and internal architecture still bore the evidence of the ship’s traumas. Fang-lined doorways solidified in metal. The horror of twisted girders and passageways. The impression of claws and monstrous faces frozen in the hull. Ribbed chambers flesh-crafted to resemble the inside of some infernal beast. Daemons still haunted the dark corridors, while abominate entities waited in the shadows – ready for their chance to infest the ship once more with their madness and manifestation. Only the Geller field – running constantly to maintain a bubble of reality in and around the vessel – kept the daemonic possession at bay.
As Perdita felt the life drain from her a horrible new life took hold of the ship. A thousand daemonic heartbeats thundered through the superstructure, while foul ichor bled up through the decks. The vessel creaked and spasmed its torment as transformations ripped through its workings. Metal, darkness and flesh became one. Unreality swept like a plague through the Iota-Æternus. Entities, formerly denied, sank their claws into the ship and anchored their existence. The ship’s entirety swarmed with the horrid impression of daemon creatures reaching out from the beyond. Pipes ruptured, filling chambers with steam, filth and the ghostly presence of monstrous beings. Runebanks trembled and sparked furiously before tendrils burst from screens and workings to seize the consoles from within.
&nb
sp; Across the command deck, the Assassin heard the crash of boltguns. While deck cultists and astropaths were being eaten alive by daemonic maws opening in the deck and the souls squeezed out of them by barbed tentacles erupting from the walls and ceiling, Quetzel Carthach and his remaining Alpha Legion renegades were answering with firepower. Bolts tore through the infernal workings and metallic hide of the daemon ship. Carthach and his Sons of the Hydra put bolts between the many eyes of monstrosities manifesting upon the command deck. They cut through grotesque appendages reaching out for them and sated the appetites of rancid maws opening in the walls nearby.
Perdita listened to the Archlord of the Alpha Legion call out to the flesh-metal creatures emerging from the intensifying unreality of the ship. In the background his twisted brotherhood were dying. Legionnaires were being impaled on shafts of daemon tusk and horn growing up through the deck. Others were becoming one with the deck as they sank down through the liquefying horror of their surroundings. Retreating legionnaires were sheared in half by fanged bulkheads while Alpha Legion Terminators screamed as steaming ichor vomited at them from infernal orifices to melt thick plate and the flesh within.
Perdita heard Autolicon Phex grunt horribly as he was seized by the appendages of some abominate entity emerging from the wall of the ship nearby. Grabbed by muscular tentacles that snaked their way about plate and limb, Phex’s convulsing fingers sent wild blasts of plasma across the command deck that burned into the daemonhide branching through the metal walls. The heavy plasma gun crashed to the deck as his arms were prised apart by the unearthly strength of the daemonic appendages. A mangled scream erupted from his lips as the tentacles heaved at his arms, legs and head. The horrible sound was short-lived. Moments later, the traitor’s armoured body was in six pieces, each being dragged covetously away.
As the boltfire died away, Quetzel Carthach’s entreaties became louder and more desperate. There were no negotiations to be had or trickery that could be employed with such an enemy. The swarm of daemonic entities that the Assassin had unleashed in shutting down the Geller field were soul-famished and mindless in their savagery. The only interest they had in the Angelbane was to peel plate and flesh from his bones and feast upon his rancid spirit.