by John French
Kord keyed the vox again.
‘You get a sense of what direction it was going?’ The static swallowed his words. Origo’s voice came back a second later.
‘South-east, but that’s just a feeling.’
‘Strength?’
‘Hard to say,’ replied Origo. ‘If it was real, more than one, less than a hundred.’
‘Just a patrol sweep,’ said Zade, across the local vox. The gunner had been listening in.
‘Could be one of ours,’ Sacha added.
‘Could be…’ Zade’s voice shrugged for him, without Kord needing to see him.
‘They don’t normally come through this way,’ said Kord softly. ‘Too far out, no targets.’ This could be it, he thought, one of the strange Iron Warriors patrols he had been mapping for the last months. His mind was ticking through the possibility of taking his machines to investigate the sighting. The least efficient machines in the group had air and fuel to last another sixteen hours of straight running, more if they stripped back the power taken by the tactical system. Command would not like it. No, command would hit the roof. He thought of Fask’s blotched face and the stain from his drink leeching from the lines and notes he had made on the maps.
‘Sir,’ Origo’s voice hissed in his ears again. ‘If we leave it much longer we might not be able to acquire them again. What do you want to do?’
Kord stared at the key of the vox for a second, and then nodded to himself.
‘All units, this is War Anvil, hold formation on my position, heading south-east. Weapons cold, we have enemy in sight, so stay quiet.’
His father came to him in the cavern beneath the earth. Hrend knelt as the Lord of Iron entered the chamber. The shield-bearing automatons of the Iron Circle formed a wall around them, facing outwards. The cavern had once been a muster area of a shelter which was now part of the Sightless Warren. The Mechanicum had filled the space with the devices of their art. The dark reaches of the cavern growled and sparked with the pulse of great machines. Here Hrend, and his Dreadnought brothers, slept and waited to be called to battle. All the tech-priests and adepts had left before Perturabo arrived, so that Hrend and his primarch were alone in a circle of cold light.
‘Lord.’ Hrend’s voice rumbled from his speakers. Perturabo stood in silence for a long moment, his metal-wrapped body seeming to breathe with him.
‘You were Sollos Hrendor,’ said Perturabo. ‘Master of the Seven Hundred and First Armoured Cohort.’
‘That was who I was, my master.’ Hrend felt his ghost limbs twitch.
‘I have need of you,’ said Perturabo, and his armour seemed to buzz in time with the words.
‘I obey.’
The Lord of Iron paused again. In the silence Hrend heard his master’s armour creak, like dry bones. When he spoke again, his voice rolled through the air, as deep and dangerous as an ocean.
‘No, Sollos. No, this time I will not command you. Rise.’
Hrend stood, extending to his full height with a hiss of oiled metal. Perturabo stood shorter than Hrend, though somehow seemed to be greater. The primarch’s exo-augmentation gleamed with oily reflections. Armour plates layered the frame, the machinery below visible through the gaps where the plates parted and overlapped. The primarch had changed since Hrend had last seen him. But then hadn’t they all? They had gone beyond reality and returned. They had been betrayed and offered up to otherworldly powers. Who could not be changed by that?
‘It is not enough for you to obey,’ said Perturabo. ‘You must know what I ask you to do, and why. You must believe.’
The servos in Hrend’s head unit hissed as they tried to interpret the signal to bow his head.
‘How may I serve?’
Argonis stepped into the light of the hangar bay. Sota-Nul and Prophesius followed a step behind him, one gliding as though on polished ice, the other shuffling. His Storm Eagle sat in a pool of stab-lights. Her name was Sickle Blade, and her black and sea-green fuselage made her seem an interloper amongst the brushed iron skins of the Iron Warriors craft. Servitors moved over her. Thick trunks of fuel lines snaked away from her belly into the deck. Human serfs in tan overalls and blank faceplates moved amongst the servitors, performing rote maintenance too complicated for the half-machines. An enginseer in layered red robes stood to the side, utterly still apart from the light of scrolling data glowing in the darkness of its hood. A false wind blew through the hangar bay, stirred by the engines of the larger gunships. Parchment tapers fluttered from the catches on Sickle Blade’s open inspection plates.
‘Master.’ A serf, wearing a breath mask and with a senior rank code tattooed across his scalp, knelt at Argonis’s approach. Argonis did not pause or reply. His eyes were roaming over the gunship, noting the care the Iron Warriors had taken over readying the machine.
Twelve days had passed since they had received the initial signal from the Alpha Legion operative, twelve days in which they had heard nothing more. Argonis had begun to wonder if the asset was real, or just another part of the Alpha Legion’s endless misdirection. That, or perhaps the asset could not reach them. Having an asset embedded in Perturabo’s forces was one thing, getting a clear, open channel signal onto his flagship without him noticing was another. Yet the assets had picked up Sota-Nul’s contact signal, and acknowledged in turn, which meant that they had the means to bypass the Iron Warriors countermeasures.
‘Master,’ the serf spoke again. He was trailing just behind Argonis’s head and shoulders bent, eyes pointing down. ‘I am commanded to tell you that your craft is still being made ready for launch.’
Argonis did not reply. The serf bobbed his head and hurried to keep pace. The human’s words were unnecessary; Argonis could see that both the Sickle Blade and its escort were still several minutes from launch readiness. Once they were ready, the descent to Tallarn would begin. For such a simple flight the tactical planning had been extensive. The Iron Blood would move closer to the planet, as a sub-fleet performed an attack run against the enemy forces in orbit. Argonis and his escort would drop to the surface above a deserted area to one of the Sightless Warren’s landing fortresses. There was a certain risk to the operation, but nothing substantial. On one level that disappointed Argonis.
The last minutes before a launch were amongst the few pleasures he allowed himself now. The smell of fuel and oil, the sound of engines test-firing, the itch of passive anti-grav flickering across his skin. He let it all wash over and through him, sharpening him. It reminded him of the knife fights he had fought before he had become a legionary, the moments just before everything became the flicker of razors, the moment when he felt a knot of doubt in his heart: would he live or was he about to walk down a tunnel that had no end?
He came around the rear of the Sickle Blade and ducked into the open assault hatch. The space within was dark, lit only by the light from the hangar and the glow of instrument panels set into the walls. He stepped inside, eyes checking the position and readiness of every detail. Prophesius and Sota-Nul followed. The sound of a third set of feet on the assault ramp made his head turn. The serf was still following them, head still bowed in respect. Argonis opened his mouth, but the serf was already moving, all semblance of respect gone.
The bolt pistol was free from his thigh and rising as Sota-Nul began to turn. The serf was already at the door controls and the hatch was closing. Argonis’s finger closed on the bolt pistol’s trigger. It froze. Frost was spreading from his trigger finger up his arm. Beside him Prophesius was twitching, masked head shaking.
‘That would be a mistake,’ said the serf as he turned to face Argonis. Beads of sweat formed on the man’s forehead, catching the light as they ran down to the rim of his breath mask. ‘Please relax your trigger finger. I can stop you shooting for a few more moments, but with your masked associate so close it is taking a lot of effort.’
Sota-Nul hissed. Argonis noticed
that an array of exotic weapons on metal tentacles had sprouted from beneath her robes, each one poised like a dozen scorpion stings. Prophesius was still twitching and shaking. The air had become heavy and thick.
‘You are?’ he asked, though he felt he knew the answer.
‘A gift from Lord Alpharius,’ said the man. Argonis nodded, relaxed the tension in his trigger finger, but did not lower the pistol. ‘My thanks,’ said the man, reaching up to unfasten the breath mask covering his lean and hairless face. Green eyes looked up at Argonis without fear. ‘Greetings, Argonis. I offer apologies for the manner of my arrival. This is one of the few places in which it is at least moderately safe for us to meet. I would have organised our meeting sooner, but care had to be taken. You understand.’
‘The proof of who you are,’ said Argonis, the barrel of his weapon still level with the man’s forehead.
A smile twitched on the man’s lips, but the eyes stayed cold and steady.
Reptile eyes, thought Argonis.
‘Of course.’ Patterns began to spiral across the man’s face. The rank code on his forehead vanished, swallowed by green scales and blue feathers. The patterns grew thicker, until the man’s exposed skin was a tangle of crawling serpents and spread birds’ wings. He blinked, and the patterns slid down onto his eyelids. Carefully, he pulled a heavy glove from his left hand. A simple symbol glowed on the centre of the palm: two lines joined to make an open-bottomed triangle. The alpha, the mark of the XX Legion.
‘My name is Jalen,’ said the tattooed man. He let his hand drop. Two heartbeats later Argonis lowered his gun. He glanced at Sota-Nul, but the tech-witch’s weapons had already vanished beneath her robes. ‘How may I serve the Warmaster’s emissary?’
‘Why are the Iron Warriors here?’
Jalen blinked slowly, nodded.
‘We do not know.’
‘You–’
‘There is a reason they are here, of that we are certain, and it is not the reason that they have given you. Most of their own warriors do not know the truth, because they have been told a lie. The same lie told to you. It is a good lie, and like all lies it has been grown from a seed of truth. But it is not truth.’
‘Your breed would know.’
Jalen smiled, white teeth bright in a tangle of colour.
‘Yes, we would.’
‘Why are you present-here?’ asked Sota-Nul. Jalen glanced at her, raised an eyebrow, and the pattern of scales around his eyes rippled. The tech-witch’s eye lenses pulsed as if in imitation. ‘Your Legion-warriors are fighting on Tallarn,’ she continued. ‘If you do not know why the Fourth Legion are present-engaged, then your Legion must have its own reason.’
‘We were here before they came.’ Jalen shook his head. ‘You think that all the worlds that declare for the Warmaster without a fight do so willingly? Tallarn’s use to the Great Crusade had passed, but in this war it could have been useful again. We were… realigning its loyalties.’
‘And now?’ asked Argonis. ‘What are you doing now?’
‘Making the best of the situation.’
Argonis watched Jalen carefully. Every instinct bred and trained into him was screaming that he should turn the operative’s skull into blood mist, or drag a bloody smile across his throat. Jalen’s eyes twitched, as though in response to the thought. Argonis remembered the force holding his trigger finger still, and answered Jalen’s smile with one of his own.
‘You know that they lie,’ Sota-Nul’s voice buzzed into the silence, ‘but you have not found what it masks-hides.’
‘Not for lack of trying, I can assure you,’ replied Jalen. He glanced at Argonis. ‘Since the Iron Warriors have arrived we have done nothing but try and discover why they are fighting this battle.’
‘And tried to bring about a swift victory for our forces, no doubt,’ said Argonis.
‘We have made a contribution, but there are wider concerns at play.’ Jalen cocked his head, his eyes fixed on Argonis. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, emissary. Otherwise you would not have summoned me. Otherwise the Warmaster would not be considering ordering Perturabo to abandon this fight. Is that not right?’
A sudden shudder rolled through the gunship’s hull. Argonis recognised the metallic thump of fuel lines disengaging. They were almost ready to launch. A low rumble filled the gloom as distant machines began to hoist other craft into launch rigs.
Jalen turned away and made for the hatch controls, his hands fastening the breath mask back in place.
‘I cannot give you the answer you want, emissary,’ he said. ‘But I can tell you that you travel in the right direction.’ He keyed the hatch and it folded down. The light of the hangar bay beyond pulsed with amber alert lights. Jalen stepped onto the ramp and looked back, his tattooed face a painted mask. ‘Whatever keeps the Iron Warriors here, it is down there, on Tallarn.’ Argonis held his gaze for a second, and then Jalen stepped down the ramp, and the tattooed patterns drained from his pale skin.
‘How do you wish us to proceed-continue?’ asked Sota-Nul. Argonis did not look at her. He realised that he still had his bolt pistol drawn, his finger still on the trigger.
‘We go down to the dead world,’ he replied.
The girl died quietly, her neck broken and her dead weight caught before it hit the floor. Iaeo was already pulling the corpse into the maintenance niche before the last air had sighed from the girl’s lungs.
Pict images from her net-flies winked at the corner of her sight. A group of three tank crew in overalls turned into the passage, talking in low voices and exhausted glances. She watched them pass the shadowed niche. Once they were past, she began to work fast.
The dead girl’s uniform fitted Iaeo to a reasonable approximation. She pulled it on, feeling the rubberised seal squeeze over her head, noting with a detached interest that it was still warm from body heat. She had studied the girl’s face for hours through the eyes of her net-flies, but she glanced at it again, trying to make sure that her facial features were a rough estimation of the leaden exhaustion written over the dead face. She hoped the uniform would be enough. If someone looked closely they might notice that it did not fit her properly. A guess of size and body shape was all she had been able to manage in the time she had. Even then finding the correct moment to remove the girl had been uncomfortably open to error. She was no Calidus.
Data: 605 seconds to patrol muster. 907 seconds to terminal projection deadline.
She stood and moved into the passage. Behind her the corpse lay hidden in shadow. It would be found, but by that time she would be beyond reach.
She began to walk faster, hurrying towards the blast doors to the muster cavern. The enviro-suit hood swung from her hand.
Messy. Imprecise. She did not like this, not at all.
Behind her the four net-flies watching the passage buzzed after her. They landed on her shoulders and crawled into her hair. The rest were already dormant, their silver bodies gripping her synskin inside the enviro-suit, like hatchlings clinging to a mother queen.
Getting out of the shelter had not been a difficult problem, but it had not been easy either. Getting into a vehicle was a low-grade sub-problem. Getting into a vehicle that she could take control of quickly was another factor, but not a significant one. The number of other machines accompanying a potential machine was more important too many others and she would not be able to break away from them. That shrank the field of selection to a few. Then there was the matter of time. It was a strong assumption that the Alpha Legion might be drawing their snare tighter. The more time she spent in the Crescent Shelter the smaller that snare became. On the other side of the calculation was the fact that she was working quickly, and errors clung to haste like maggots to a corpse. Go too fast, take too many shortcuts and her plan would fail.
The time at which all the risk factors became overwhelming was her terminal projection deadl
ine, and it had drawn closer with every second after she had killed the girl.
Data: 581 seconds to patrol muster. 883 seconds to terminal projection deadline.
She walked into the muster cavern. Rows of vehicles stretched away under the stark light of lumen-strips and stab-lights. The corrosive toxins saturating Tallarn’s air had pulled the colour from their war paint. Exhaust fumes stained the ceiling, and the smell of oil was thick. The air chimed with the sound of metal: metal cases rattling as belts of ammunition snaked into hoppers, tracks clanking over rockcrete, hatches hinging open and closed.
She took it all in with a glance, and extrapolated to a 99 per cent accurate estimation of machines and personnel in the chamber.
675 war machines, 356 operational, 100 in need of fuel/service/rearming, 170 in need of repair, 49 likely to be scrapped and broken for parts, 980 humans, 680 servitors, 64 tech-priests. 23 per cent were tank crew either coming off mission or preparing to go out. Level of activity consistent with standard levels of operation post arrival of…
‘What machine are you on?’ She looked around, blinking fast. A man in a green and grey uniform was looking down at her.
Data: Rank pins – Lieutenant, Fenellion Free Guard, Logistics Rated.
She realised that she had not replied and began to open her mouth.
‘You going out?’ he asked. ‘What machine?’
‘Vanquisher 681, Saraga Armoured Continuity Force Lionus, Fifth Subdivision, Gamma Squadron.’ She took a breath, then thought, and added, ‘Sir.’
The lieutenant let out a sigh, bloodshot eyes focusing under a frown.