The Primarchs
Page 36
‘Those crews’ll need an airlock, of course,’ Isidor joined in, chuckling. ‘To facilitate the movement of workers between the base and the excavation, as it were.’
‘Of course,’ Auguramus nodded.
Omegon allowed himself a smile. Focusing past the hololithic representation of the asteroid and onto the base itself, he zeroed in on the foundations of a tall, square structure around which the many floors of the installation were constructed.
Like a stake thrust through the heart of the base, the Pylon Array dominated the schemata.
‘What’s this here?’ the primarch asked, indicating a section just above the foundations.
‘The generatorum,’ Auguramus replied. ‘Power for basic operations: light, heat, life support and artificial gravity.’
‘What about the Pylon Array?’ asked Vermes.
‘It uses an alternative source of energy,’ the Artisan Empyr told the legionnaire. ‘The generatorum will mostly be my people: enginseers, servitors and the like. Do with them as you will. There are, of course, Imperial Army sentry posts and pict-surveillance.’
‘The sentries and enginseers, leave to us,’ Omegon said, ‘but we’ll need you to knock out surveillance and the gun positions though. Not a problem for one of the Mechanicum, I presume.’
‘Of course not, my lord,’ Auguramus said. ‘But won’t shutting down the pict feeds alert the sentries in the security nexus?’
‘They won’t be in the security nexus,’ Omegon told him. Auguramus looked relieved.
‘And why not?’
‘Because, artisan,’ the primarch replied, ‘you will be in the security nexus, monitoring our progress through the base and advising us of incoming threats.’
‘But the sentries...’
‘Time to get your hands dirty,’ Setebos said, slapping him on the back.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not expecting you to personally tangle with a pair of officers from the Geno Seven-Sixty Spartocid,’ Omegon said.
‘Poison,’ Braxus suggested. ‘Or electrocution.’
‘Be creative,’ Omegon finished.
Auguramus nodded slowly, wobbling his chins.
‘Sir,’ Isidor said, turning to Omegon. ‘The Geno troops aside, sooner or later we are going to have to exchange fire with our Alpha Legion brothers. They outnumber us five to one.’
‘Just because we are facing our own kind,’ Omegon replied, ‘doesn’t mean that we should abandon the principles of the Hydra – they have served our Legion well, and will continue to do so in future.’
‘So, we need to hit Janic and his garrison from all sides,’ Setebos agreed.
‘They won’t fall apart like the Night Lords did at Ceti-Quorum,’ Charmian warned.
‘Or the Angels at the Thunderhead,’ Braxus added.
‘Which in itself is predictable,’ Omegon said. ‘When we deal with our own we deal in the known unknowns. We need distractions for our brother legionnaires. Equalisers to level the field.’
‘Your plan, my lord?’ Setebos asked.
The primarch leaned in on the hololithic display. He considered their options.
‘The Artisan Empyr’s own skitarii forces could be brought into play,’ Omegon said, nodding at Auguramus. He then pointed out a secured block on the schemata. ‘The psi-penitorium offers possibilities too. Also, our route of entry could be wired with detonators, so as to rattle our xenos neighbours into action at an appropriate time.’
Krait nodded in appreciation.
‘What about Master Echion?’ Auguramus put to the primarch. ‘He’s formerly of your Librarius–’
‘What do you know of such matters?’ Omegon shot back.
The Artisan Empyr put up a hand defensively. ‘My lord, he has an intimate understanding of the immaterium. An obvious choice for this installation’s purpose. Is he the leak?’
‘It’s possible,’ Omegon nodded.
‘Is he... powerful?’
‘Why? Do you yearn to bleed him on your unholy edifice?’
‘My point is that he’s going to be more than a match for your young lady here,’ Auguramus replied, nodding towards Xalmagundi. She was almost asleep at the table, the collar lulling her into a blissful slumber.
‘Don’t underestimate our guest,’ the primarch told him. ‘She has a crucial role to play. A conflict avoided is a conflict won without loss.’
Through the slits of her eyes, Xalmagundi looked at Omegon and then back into the deep, reflective darkness of the table.
Operatus Five-Hydra: Elapsed Time Ω2/004.21//TENTenebrae Installation
The optics on Omegon’s helmet compensated for the searing flash of the melta bombs. The rock around the flash glowed before starting to bubble and spit, and dribbling away in slurps of magma before cooling into spirals of blackened rock. As it sloughed away, shafts of light began to stream through from the cavern beyond, illuminated by construction lamps. Led by Sergeant Setebos, one by one the squad crawled through the rapidly cooling opening.
They were now within the peripheral influence of the installation’s artificial gravity – their plate no longer drifted across open spaces, and the weight of the ceramite brought them down to the floor and kept their feet firmly rooted there. Omegon enjoyed the reassuring crunch of grit under his armoured boots.
Their movements became swift and certain. No longer hampered by the asteroid’s internal disorientation, Squad Sigma fell into a long-practiced and familiar two-by-two stealth pattern. One of the advantages of being a beast with ten heads was having twenty eyes, constantly alert for potential ambushes and the chance of discovery. Moving up through the silent drilling equipment and unspent demolitions, the Space Marines moved between dangling cables and toppled construction lamps. Using every crag and outcrop for cover and tracking their partners as they went, the column of legionnaires swept up the freshly-bored tunnel.
Omegon fell into place opposite the lumbering Braxus – the primarch required no special treatment. He was not a dignitary to be escorted, or an officer leading the way.
He was one of many, who in turn were legion.
As Setebos reached a recently installed airlock at the end of the tunnel, the squad scattered into the nooks and crevices along the roughly excavated walls. The sergeant held up three fingers to Volion, prompting the legionnaire to back up beside the bulkhead.
Two fingers. One.
The sergeant cranked the lock and opened the thick door. Volion’s bolter immediately pushed its way into the widening gap, with the legionnaire’s shoulder close behind it. With his optic sighting down the length of the weapon, Volion went in, scanning the pressurisation chamber for threats.
Clear.
Squad Sigma fell in swiftly behind him. Tarquiss pulled the heavy door closed, and Isidor fell to working the lock controls, repressurising the chamber with a breathable atmosphere.
The inner portal opened, and Volion’s bolter thrust out once more. His weapon sight darted from a low bench, to another bench, to an empty void-suit, to a battered tool locker.
Setebos’s voice seemed deafeningly loud over the vox, after what had seemed like hours of enforced silence. ‘Let’s move.’
Dropping down onto the mesh flooring, the legionnaire led the way with Setebos close behind. Filing down the narrow locker berth in pairs, their weapons tracking the pair in front in synchronised sweeps, Squad Sigma stalked through the storage area.
At a corner, Volion fell to a crouch and held up his closed fist.
The squad froze. They could hear voices.
Resting the curve of his pauldron against the wall, Volion rounded the corner – his bolter found two transmechanics changing out of their robes and into void-suits. As the first saw Volion’s weapon on him, he dropped his bulbous helmet in surprise. Sergeant Setebos and Charmian moved up past Volion and strode towards them.
Holding his bolter under the breech, Charmian enveloped the Mechanicum underling’s entire face in his gauntlet. The little man’s hands clawed at the ceramite as Charmian crushed his skull, and his companion’s protest died on his lips.
With a sudden glint, Setebos’s gauntlet came up. The sergeant’s combat blade slashed across the other transmechanic’s throat, and he crashed to the floor.
Volion padded forward between the bodies, leading the way once again with his bolter, and with Setebos and Charmian falling back into position behind him.
Changing vox frequencies and checking his belt chronometer, Omegon hissed.
‘Auguramus, you miserable sack of bolts – where are you?’
A few moments later, the artisan’s voice chirped across the connection.
‘A thousand apologies, my lord. I had a few problems with the Geno officers in the security nexus. There’s blood... There’s a lot of blood... on the... uhh...’
‘Volkern, I need you to focus,’ Omegon said, calmly. ‘We’re about to enter the generatorum. Monitor the vox-channels and pict feeds for security patrols.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Squad Sigma left the rough chambers of the base foundations and moved up through a set of maintenance stairwells. Before them stood a pressure-sealed bulkhead.
‘Auguramus,’ Omegon called. ‘We’re at M72c.’
The locking mechanism clunked, and with a gust of air the bulkhead chugged aside.
The generatorum was swathed in dirty steam. Thick cabling covered the decking like a carpet of serpents, and draped from ports in the ceiling. Thermo-crystal magnareactors boomed their supercharged energy output and occasional arcs of lightning seared between them, roasting the air. The silhouettes of grimy servitors stood obediently at their posts, while enginseers prowled the machinery, monitoring and administering sacred oils.
One such hooded priest was shocked from his catechism by the sudden appearance of the legionnaires. Volion pressed on impassively with his bolter up. Before the enginseer could quiz the legionnaires about their presence in the generatorum, Setebos stepped out from behind a heat exchanger, placed the muzzle of his silenced bolt pistol to the priest’s plated temple, and pushed his hood against the burning metal of the reactor vent as the squad moved silently past. The priest went to gabble his apologies but Setebos put a muffled bolt-round through his skull. Prodding the fallen body with the toe of his boot, the sergeant rejoined the rear of the column.
Moving like phantoms through the swirling clouds of oily steam and coolant, Squad Sigma ended all who had observed their entrance. Under the stagnant gaze of their servitors, seven more enginseers and the three lex-mechanics manning the generatorum runebanks died with economic efficiency. Building a murderous momentum through the rows of reactor vents, it didn’t take the Alpha Legionnaires long to work up to the sentry post at the engineering section blast door.
Five soldiers of the Geno Seven-Sixty Spartocid stood at their post, beneath the surveillance pict-mounted barrel of a multi-laser sentry gun that hung silently on its ceiling rail.
The Spartocid were muscular but humourless warriors. Their helmets covered their faces – bar two grim slits for their eyes – and each sported a miserable crest, the length of which being some indicator of rank. Threadbare cloaks hung from the carapace of their shoulders, their armour being a collection of mismatched plates patched with inferior metals. They carried stubby broad-burn lascarbines with fat barrels and chunky powerpacks.
The Seven-Sixty had an illustrious history but the Great Crusade had eventually run the Geno regiment into the ground. A long forgotten and inglorious war with the abhumans on Dycenae plunged the proud warriors into obscurity. Cut off, poorly supplied and never reinforced – the Alpha Legion had found them surprisingly easy converts, promising greater glories in the war to come.
‘Auguramus,’ Omegon hissed down the vox-link.
‘I’m tracking your progress through the generatorum, lord,’ the artisan replied.
‘Jam vox-communications on the engineering level,’ Omegon told him. ‘Then take control of the generatorum sentry gun and run it down to the reactors.’
At the sudden awakening of the sentry gun, the Spartocid warriors stared up at the ceiling. They heard the whir of the multi-laser’s movement, but more importantly the charging whine of the weapon’s bulky power pack. As the weapon left them and trundled along its rail towards the steam-swathed heat exchangers, the soldiers broke into two groups – three of the warriors marched under the itinerant gun, their own carbines snug at their shoulders, while two remained on the door.
Within the oily clouds of steam, amongst the crackling reactors, Squad Sigma waited. As one of the Spartocid passed a copse of dangling cables, his helmet came in line with the silenced muzzle of Sergeant Setebos’s pistol. A muffled bark sent him sprawling into his blood-splattered comrades, and they turned and brought their carbines to bear on the nest of pipes and powerlines. Arkan and Braxus stepped from the shadows and grabbed the distracted soldiers from behind, slipping plated arms around their necks and twisting their heads clean off.
As the sentry gun returned to the blast door, without the accompanying soldiers, the remaining Spartocid watched it with nervous anticipation. The post officer went for the wall-mounted vox-bank, in the hope of making contact with his missing sentries, and neither he nor his comrade noticed the wall of shadow appear and intensify in the steam bank.
The shadow became a silhouette, and the silhouette resolved into a transhuman nightmare.
Taking long, unstoppable strides, Omegon approached the blast door. He was halfway towards the Spartocid by the time they understood what was happening.
‘Identify yourself,’ the officer called out in his thick accent.
Omegon did not answer.
‘Legionnaire!’ the Geno officer insisted. ‘Observe security protocols.’
As the broad muzzle of the soldier’s carbine met the primarch’s chestplate, Omegon snatched the barrel away in a flash and grabbed the Geno officer’s throat with his other hand. As the Spartocid officer swatted uselessly at the ceramite of the primarch’s forearm, Omegon slowly crushed the bones in his neck.
The soldier went for a ceremonial blade, but Omegon backhanded it from his grasp and launched him upwards, smashing his helmet into the bulky frame of the sentry gun. Something snagged, and the dead man hung suspended from it like a marionette.
Stepping over the officer, Omegon activated the blast door. As the thick bulkhead slid aside, Squad Sigma emerged from the shadows of the generatorum. With the sentry gun and its grim puppet humming along the rail ahead of them, the legionnaires moved on.
‘Across the antechamber,’ Auguramus advised them over the vox-link, ‘you’ll find the auxiliary stairwell leading to the upper levels of the installation.’
‘Auxiliary?’ Omegon questioned.
‘Most of the tech-adepts and sentries use the lifters,’ the artisan explained. ‘The stairwell less so. It winds around the base of the Pylon Array. Some of the Imperial Army garrison are uncomfortable around the artefact.’
Passing the doors of the bulk lifter, Volion led the squad across an antechamber towards the stairwell access. Without warning, the doors of the lifter began to part, and Zantine and Tarquiss parted and slammed their backs into the wall either side of the bulk elevator. The rest of the squad moved towards the wall and out of sight.
Within, the legionnaires could hear a pair of enginseers moving heavy equipment. The mesh gate rose, and Zantine and Tarquiss were suddenly there in front of them, the butts of their bolters aimed at the priests’ hooded faces. With an awful crack of bone and spray of blood, Zantine’s went down immediately. The second was thicker set and had
a metallic mask of a face, and so the impact from Tarquiss’s bolter stunned but failed to drop him. Stumbling back against a load-lift servitor, he barely had time to recover before a Space Marine combat blade was plunged into his chest.
Grabbing the legs of the bodies, the legionnaires dragged them across the gateway, preventing the lifter from closing and bringing anyone else down from the upper levels.
‘Auguramus,’ Omegon called out. ‘Lock off all accessways to the stairwell.’
‘Affirmative, my lord. The psi-penitorium is two floors up from you,’ the Artisan Empyr told him. ‘I have already authorised the prisoner transfer under my coding, as you requested. My skitarii will be expecting you, although there are twenty more stationed on the same level for emergencies.’
‘Like the one we are about to create?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Send a personal vox-message to Master Echion, informing him you have a situation in the penitoria and require his immediate assistance,’ Omegon said.
‘But–’
‘Do it now, then lock off the vox-channels on the whole level.’
The legionnaires bounded up the stairwell, tightly hugging the wall as they rounded each successive corner with their bolters always trained up the next flight of stairs.
Beyond them lay the breadth of the Pylon Array.
Through the mesh of the inside wall, the Alpha Legionnaires could see the glossy black stone of the constructed xenos artefact, and feel the low hum of aethereal energies. The stone Pylon thrust up through the base’s superstructure, with entire installation floors and sections built around it.
Sidling along the mesh-covered stone, Volion signalled. Footsteps.
‘Auguramus?’ Omegon growled.
‘Only a tech-priest, lord,’ he replied. ‘Ahh, it’s my assistant and her bodyguard.’
Squad Sigma held their positions, each legionnaire silent and ready. Volion slid along the wall on his pauldron and held there on a small landing. An aged female Mechanicum priest appeared around the corner – around her head, keeping sparse lengths of straggled grey hair in check, was a metal band. A third cybernetic eye was set in the band, and the tech-priest was using it to read a data-slate, while carrying several others in her free arm.