Deathwatch

by Steve Parker

  Shape, shine, shadow and silhouette. The four ‘S’s. All must be eliminated lest one give one’s position away.

  Suddenly, he became aware of a change in the atmosphere around him. He looked up from his bowl. The Refectorum had gone silent. Some of the battle-brothers had turned where they sat, facing the entrance to Karras’s right. There was a tension in the air waiting to break. Karras followed their gaze and saw a tall, broad Space Marine in a tunic of bright red standing in the west archway surveying the room. About his waist was a belt of gold hexagons, each inscribed with hexagrammic glyphs. On forearm and shin, he wore bracers and greaves, also of gold, engraved with richly detailed honour markings. He looked formidable, perhaps a Chapter champion, but of which Chapter?

  It was then that Karras noted the horned skull tattoo on the newcomer’s neck, a sigil he had seen in books and scrolls only. Never in person. But here it was now, marking its bearer as a Space Marine of the Exorcists.

  The warrior finished his survey and marched stiffly into the Refectorum accompanied by Watch Captain Oro, dwarfing everyone present in his armour of Deathwatch black. As they drew level with Karras, who had lowered his spoon and placed it on the table, the Exorcist stopped and turned. He looked down his nose at Karras and stood there, staring silently, assessing for a long moment.

  Karras, discomfited by something other than the stare, rose to his feet and addressed Captain Oro.

  ‘Well met, Watch captain.’

  ‘Lyandro Karras,’ said the captain, ‘This is Darrion Rauth–’

  ‘Of the Exorcists,’ Karras finished for him.

  The Space Marine in red neither smiled, nor extended his hand. He simply stared. Karras had never seen such hollow, lifeless eyes on a living being – small, pale green eyes without any spark, sunk in dark pits under a low brow. His nose was flat and slightly skewed to the right, as if broken and then either badly reset or ignored completely. The most notable thing about that nose, however, was the deep scar across the bridge. It extended out over the right cheek and down to the jaw line. It was far from the only scar on that weathered, craggy face. Service studs told of long decades spent in battle. The Exorcist’s short hair was a dark brownish red streaked with grey, brushed forwards, framing his face.

  His eyes fell to the book on the table in front of Karras.

  ‘Ordell’s Advancement of Imperial Man,’ he said. His voice was low and harsh, like grinding rocks. ‘Extreme hardship is the root of all strength,’ he quoted.

  ‘And self-love is the surest path to one’s destruction,’ Karras finished, recalling the opening lines of chapter fifty-nine.

  Silence hung for a time, broken only when an impatient Captain Oro cleared his throat. The Exorcist paid the captain’s hint little attention. He seemed on the verge of saying something important, but he never quite got to it. Instead, he told Karras simply, ‘Countless are the paths to destruction, Death Spectre. In the end, we all choose one.’

  ‘Or one chooses us,’ Karras returned, but he was thinking, This one knows my Chapter, though I wear no visible sigil. Someone has spoken to him of me. Did Oro bring him through the Refectorum knowing I was here? Why?

  Something about the encounter made him believe it was no random event.

  Rauth spoke once more only. ‘I don’t believe that. One’s doom lies in the choices one makes. There are no excuses.’

  To Karras it sounded accusatory, but that made no sense. How could it? As Darrion Rauth and Watch Captain Oro marched from the hall, followed by the eyes of muttering Space Marines on either side, Karras decided the entire encounter had been bewildering.

  No. More than bewildering. It had been unsettling in the extreme, for what the others had failed to notice about Darrion Rauth, Karras had noted the moment he had laid eyes on him, despite the suppression of his extra senses. He had thought himself mistaken at first. Fatigued, perhaps. Definitely confused.

  But he knew himself better than that.

  The absence of any possible explanation changed nothing.

  The Exorcist appeared to have no soul.

  17

  ‘Contact,’ someone bellowed from an avenue on the right.

  ‘Hostiles! All sides!’ yelled another desperately.

  ‘The rooftops,’ shouted Oroga over the sudden eruption of gunfire all around. He was already moving to put himself in front of Varlan. Myrda, too, had immediately moved to shield the interrogator from fire. From behind, she grabbed her principal by the shoulders and hauled her into the cover of the nearest corner.

  ‘Enemy strength,’ Varlan hissed. ‘Numbers. How many?’

  Oroga shook his head. ‘Difficult to say, ma’am, but at least double our own. They knew we were coming.’

  On the vox-net, enforcers strung out across the domed space were shouting, desperately trying to coordinate some kind of counter-attack. But between the shouts, screams rang out. The attackers poured fire down on them from the rooftops and from the tunnel mouths on the far side of the shift-station.

  Oroga ducked out from behind a metal wall, augs lighting the dark. He saw what the enforcers could not. When he spoke, it was to Varlan.

  ‘Those aren’t Guard-issue lasguns. They’re using modded mining lasers and las-cutters. Most of them look like miners, too. Some are dressed like enforcers. Those have riot-guns. It’s messy, ma’am. Orders?’

  ‘Where the hell is Borges? He has to rally his people now!’ She tried to contact him on the vox. ‘Lieutenant, this is Varlan. Respond!’

  ‘Damn it, interrogator. What in blazes have you gotten us into?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in the avenue just north of you.’

  Oroga poked his head out again. ‘I see him, ma’am. Him and Caradine.’

  A bright beam of las-fire flashed towards him, and the bodyguard pulled his head back just in time. The beam struck the ground, vaporising ice and cutting a deep furrow in the stone below. Both of the twins had drawn hellpistols from their shoulder holsters. Varlan had powered up her plasma pistol. The blue-purple glow of its charged energy coils lit the wall against which the three now huddled.

  ‘We need to get you out of here, ma’am,’ said Myrda. ‘We could break for the tunnel we came through. If we can bottleneck their pursuit, we can do things our way.’

  The cold voice from before spoke again. ‘Do not throw your lives away. Embrace the Master. You need not die, only evolve. Put down your weapons. You will not be harmed. You will be shown the light.’

  It seemed to come from everywhere at once. Varlan shivered, despite sweating inside her thermasuit. Beads rolled down her back, irritating her. She wished she could take the damned thing off. The voice tugged at her, so persuasive, so seductive. Had she not been trained to resist such things, she realised, it would have made her step out into the open. ‘Psyker,’ she spat. ‘Their leader is a psyker. Can you feel it?’

  Oroga and Myrda glanced at each other and nodded. They, too, sensed it. Like Varlan, they too had been trained to resist. But the enforcers…

  ‘We have to get you out, ma’am.’

  More weapons-fire split the dark, strobing so sharp and bright it lit the cavern like a captive thunderstorm. Varlan winced. ‘Borges and Caradine are only about ten metres away, correct?’

  Oroga nodded grimly.

  ‘We regroup with them first. Then we pull back with as many of the enforcers as we can. Let’s move. Oroga, knock out their lights.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  He broke from cover at a run, firing two shots up towards the nearest rooftops from which the thick beams of spotlights knifed through the chill air. Within a second of each other, both lights exploded, showering hot glass on the shadowy figures operating them.

  Varlan and Myrda broke from cover, moving swiftly behind Oroga as he sprinted for the avenue where Borges was pinned down. A figure stepped out from a darkened doorway on Oroga’s right, hefting a heavy mining laser, preparing to fire from the hip. Blindingly fast, Oroga swerved to
wards the figure and launched a blistering right hook. His augmetic arm jolted just before impact, igniting a small propellant charge that made his metal fist jack forwards like a piston. The sound was like a riot-gun discharging. The impact took the shadow’s head clean off its shoulders. The body tumbled to the icy floor, dropping the mining laser. Oroga slid back into cover beside Borges and Caradine. Barely a second later, Varlan and Myrda joined him.

  Borges was furious, face twisted with impotent rage. ‘What the bloody hell is going on here?’ he stormed.

  ‘What does it look like, lieutenant? Get your men back to the entry tunnel right now. Tell them to fall back. Staggered retreat. The enemy knows the terrain. They have the numbers. We can’t win this here.’

  Borges’s eyes were almost bugging out of their sockets.

  ‘Now listen here,’ he rasped, so close to Varlan’s face she could smell the bile on his breath. He was scared, despite the words he spoke next. ‘I’m not about to turn and run from a bunch of bloody miners. This is–’

  He was drowned out by a staccato burst of gunfire from nearby. Someone howled, high and long, the sound filled with raw agony. An instant later, the scream was cut off. A chilling laugh replaced it, filled with cruelty and malice.

  ‘Throne, man, if you think these are just angry labourers…’ hissed Varlan. ‘There are men among them with enforcer uniforms and weapons. Somehow I doubt they’re just playing dress-up. You’ve had traitors in your ranks, lieutenant. Emperor alone knows for how long. Is it any wonder they knew we were coming? We can’t win this here. They have us on the back foot, and their leader is some kind of psyker. Pull your men out now. Give the command while you still have some left to follow it.’

  Scowling, Borges addressed his embattled men over the sound of cracking las-cutter and plasma fire and riot-guns barking in deep reply.

  ‘This is Force Command to all units. Back to the tunnel, all of you. Break contact. We’re getting out of here. That’s an order.’

  ‘Right,’ said Varlan. ‘Now we move.’

  Just then, shadows burst from the alleys on either side of the squat structure behind which they hid. Myrda’s pistol blew a melon-sized hole in the torso of the first before anyone else had even registered it. Varlan herself got the other – the powerful blast of her plasma pistol atomising all but the booted feet of her would-be attacker. Borges and Caradine both winced with pain when the bright flash of Varlan’s weapon damned near blinded them with its discharge glow. The air crackled with skin-prickling residual energy.

  ‘Caradine,’ barked Varlan, taking charge. ‘You’re on point. Oroga and Myrda will cover the retreat. Borges, you move with me. We follow Caradine. Get moving, sergeant!’

  Caradine was up and running a heartbeat later. Varlan and Borges broke into a run just behind him. Then, the twins moved, their low-light vision picking out threats on the roofs and between the boxy structures.

  They ran for what seemed only moments, time compressed by adrenal rush, before Varlan looked past Caradine’s shoulders and saw a tunnel mouth ahead. Caradine had guided them incredibly well, not an instant of doubt or hesitation, despite his lack of augmetics or low-light optical gear.

  Too well.

  The thought slowed her. She put out a hand to stop the others. Something wasn’t right about this.

  ‘Caradine,’ she called to him. ‘How did you–’

  Caradine slowed, stopped and turned. He aimed the barrel of his riot-gun right at her chest and grinned. With his left hand, he reached up and took off his combat helmet. Varlan gasped. In the dark, no longer hidden by a visor, his eyes glowed with a strange, unwholesome light.

  ‘Sergeant,’ snapped Borges, skidding to a halt beside Varlan. ‘What the hell are you doing, man?’

  Caradine adjusted his aim and pulled the trigger. There was a bright muzzle flash and a deafening crack. Borges howled in agony and collapsed to the cold cavern floor. Varlan dropped beside him at once. His left leg, she saw, had been blown off at the knee. The sharp smell of his blood mixed with burned cordite.

  Caradine strode closer to them, chuckling to himself.

  Varlan readied to launch herself at the man as soon as he was within reach of a killing blow. She knew she could disarm and kill him if he would just step into range. Frustratingly, Caradine stopped just beyond it and levelled his gun barrel at her face.

  ‘Now, now,’ he said in a gloating, sing-song voice. ‘Don’t get any ideas, woman.’

  Myrda and Oroga fired another volley of shots back down the avenue and turned to find their principal looking down the muzzle of a riot-gun. They would have surged in front of her, giving their lives for her without hesitation, but both judged the distance they would need to cover in a single glance. There was no way they could get in front of Caradine’s weapon before he could pull that trigger.

  They halted, hissing curses, coiled to spring, but unwilling to take the risk until a better opportunity arose.

  ‘Drop your damned weapons or she dies,’ growled Caradine. ‘Do it!’

  Oroga and Myrda glanced at Varlan. For a second only, the interrogator hesitated. Then she nodded for them to abandon the pistols they held. She knew it would lull Caradine into false confidence. He didn’t know how deadly the twins were even without the pistols.

  Once the weapons were dropped to the ground, Caradine ordered the twins to kick them away, which they did with equal reluctance.

  From the cold cavern floor, Borges spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Why, Draz? We’ve served together for thirteen years. I was there at the birth of your daughter, for Throne’s sake!’

  Caradine didn’t turn his eyes from Varlan as he replied. A tone of almost maniacal zeal had entered his voice. ‘You can’t possibly imagine the glory that has come to Chiaro, lieutenant. None of you can. Not yet. I was chosen before you. For years, I’ve served, and you never had a clue. You will know soon enough, though. The Master will grant you wisdom, power, understanding. You’ll never get sick. Never get old. You’ll be stronger, faster, see in the dark. You’ll see the truth once you accept the Master’s kiss.’

  ‘You’re a bloody madman,’ spat Borges. ‘Come to your senses!’

  ‘Oh, I assure you he’s quite coherent,’ said someone from the shadows on the right. Varlan recognised the chilling voice even before she turned. The figure, impressively tall, completely unhurried in its movements, emerged with regal strides from between two stocky hab-blocks. Varlan’s opticom showed her his features in stark detail. Her stomach clenched. Here was the priest-like figure who had led the strange ceremony, his tall slender form hidden beneath the folds of his robe, his long staff carried upright in his left hand.

  He stopped several metres from Varlan.

  ‘At last we meet face to face,’ he said. ‘Please, do not try to fight your way out, interrogator. It would be utterly futile, and killing you would be a lamentable waste of good material. Besides, this little skirmish is over. My people are gathering the bodies of your enforcers even as we speak. Listen,’ he added, and cocked his head.

  The sounds of the fight were dying off. Few shots could be heard. Even as Varlan registered this, the last riot-gun fell silent.

  ‘They will not be wasted, living or dead,’ said the cult priest. ‘The Master has a role for all of them. They will contribute, one way or another, and the Master’s flock shall grow.’

  He stepped closer to Varlan now, his movements smooth and fast, then raised a hand and gripped her by her slender jaw. It was what she had been waiting for. This was the time to launch an attack. Her mind sent a lethal impulse to her right arm.

  Nothing happened.

  She could not move.

  The strange priest laughed. ‘Something wrong, interrogator?’ He turned her head to left and right, appraising her. Varlan, her muscles refusing to respond to her will, could only study him back. His eyes were larger than they should have been, and of a colour unknown in natural human development. The pupils were abnormal, too, each shaped
like a rounded hourglass. This was the second time she had noted their strangeness, the first having been through the eyes of Asset 16. The cult priest’s teeth were also disturbing, seeming to number more than they should, each the same size and shape, dangerously pointed at the tip with a milky, semi-transparent quality. They made her think of the vicious snagglefish that populated the equatorial rivers of her home world.

  This is no man.

  ‘I know what you are,’ she spat. ‘Xenos hybrid scum.’

  The priest laughed and shook his head. ‘Do you think you offend me? I may not be a pureblood, but I am blessed, while you are cursed. You know nothing of my race. We do not kill our own. We do not waste our energy in wars among ourselves. Our destiny is too grand for that. You cannot begin to conceive of the coming change. Mankind is pathetic. To us, it is you who are the xenos. But we will not waste you. We will utilise you – fuel for our expansion towards the ultimate destiny of all life. You will understand soon. We will not kill you, Shianna Varlan. Your cells boast too fine a poetry. Instead, you shall make a splendid mother to the next generation of kindred. Yes, and what strong children you will have.’

  As the strange priest had spoken, Lieutenant Borges slowly, carefully managed to grip his pistol from beneath his body. He withdrew it and took aim at Sergeant Caradine’s head. He couldn’t line the shot up properly without giving his intention away, so he used best judgement and hoped for the Emperor’s blessing.

  Caradine was distracted by the cult leader’s words, his face betraying his rapture at standing in such close proximity to the eerie religious figure. Borges said a quick prayer in his mind and pulled the trigger of his autopistol. The shot rang out, deafeningly loud. Caradine’s head rocked backwards, a gout of steaming blood leaping into the air to splash on the frozen floor a moment later.

  His lifeless body hit the ground with a thud, the riot-gun clattering as it spun away.

  The hybrid priest turned, scowling, distracted for just an instant, and Varlan struck at once, a knife-hand strike to the cult leader’s throat. It would have killed any normal man. She had used it before to just such effect, stiffened fingers fatally striking a major nerve bundle. But in this instance, her fingers met cold, rigid resistance. They buckled painfully and she hissed at the sharp jolt of agony. One of her fingers broke.