The Death of Integrity

by Guy Haley

  Voldo laughed. ‘Ha! I serve better where I am, Mantillio. If I were a captain, when would I have the time to set you to rights? So, I ask you, when do we leave?’

  Galt changed his orders. Then he sat in the pews of the cathedral with the man who he saw as his father, and prayed with him for the last time.

  Blessed be the Machine-God and all his works, thought Plosk as another shuttle, laden with technological treasures, took off from the hulk and flew towards Excommentum Incursus. Plosk turned back to the data-slate set into the cogitation nexus of the control landau. He scrutinised it, half fearful that he had been mistaken. But then a spike in the graph playing in the upper quadrant of the screen brought a rush of exultation to his breast. There, the signature.

  He smiled. ‘Magos Nuministon, it is there. Oh, by the Omnissiah, it is there!’

  Nuministon peered at the screen. Above them, the energy shield protecting the control landau flared once, then again, as micro-meteors hit, debris from the Adeptus Astartes’ bombardment being pulled back into the greater body of the hulk. Nuministon wore a cable from the back of his head that plugged into the landau’s cogitation engines. He communed with the thing’s machine-spirits a moment. He would be running the data himself, checking the information.

  ‘The signals are faint, but inescapable. You are correct. Well done, Lord Magos Explorator.’

  Plosk’s fleshy face split in a wide, self-satisfied grin. Around the landau the hulk’s surface glowed ferocious blue-white in the glare of Jorso. A detachment of troops from his ship’s skitarii formed a cordon around the landau. He had not wanted to deploy them; they were too valuable a resource to him. Why should he waste his own men when he had four hundred Space Marines to use in battle? But the genestealer attack on the surface had rattled him, and so he had called on his own resources. He was miserly with information and resources both, but he was not a fool.

  ‘Do the adepts of the stars know?’

  ‘Not yet. Of course, they will in short order. But there is no need for them to know yet. Who knows what spies and tattle-tales they have among their ranks? All it takes is for one of their Techmarines to have the ear of a rival temple, or for one of their oh-so-incorruptible serfs to be anything but, and my claim will immediately be disputed.’

  ‘You found it, lord.’ Nuministon did not think these suppositions likely – all Space Marine Techmarines were trained together, and their loyalties invariably lay first and foremost with their Chapter. They were not on Mars long enough, nor inducted deeply enough into the inner mysteries, to become politicised along Mechanicus faction lines. He did not voice this. Plosk was inclined to a caution that bordered on paranoia, but it generally served him well.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Plosk flapped a hand in front of his face. ‘But that’s not the point, is it? Something of this magnitude will bring Machine Adepts from all over the galaxy swarming like flies. If so, I will lose my advantage. Half of them will want to destroy the vessel once they learn what is aboard it. No, this prize must be conveyed directly to Mars under my command, only then will I benefit from its finding. If I were to lose exclusive first rights, then what would I tell my patrons? One does not wish to anger a High Lord, Nuministon.’

  ‘Garm is dead.’

  ‘The dead ones are the most dangerous, my dear fellow.’

  ‘When will you tell their leader of the threat?’

  ‘When the time is right; if at all. I seriously doubt he has the wit to understand what we have found. He is awed by the talk of the STC data we might recover. Let him be, and let him remain unaware of any difficulty accompanying that. For all we know the ship is harmless. Captain Galt does not need to be told that it might be otherwise. This is machine business, let it be undertaken by those who understand it fully. Now the Space Marines have cleared the majority of genestealers from the hulk, we may deal with whatever guards the STC core, if indeed anything does,’ he said breezily. ‘But first we have to retrieve it, and if these data readings are correct, then the vessel is readying itself to depart. Troublesome indeed.’ He tapped his fingers on the data-slate screen. ‘Well, it is not to be helped. We have triumphed over greater odds for lesser prizes.’

  ‘They are coming,’ said Nuministon. A star in the sky grew in brightness and size, revealing itself as a Thunderhawk of the Novamarines Chapter.

  Plosk pursed his lips in annoyance. ‘The captain of the Novamarines, Galt, he insists on coming, of course. Let us hope he is not much of a hindrance.’

  The Thunderhawk flew once around the Adeptus Mechanicus in a flagrant demonstration of power, then swept down to land in a blast of dust.

  The craft’s assault ramp slammed down. As Plosk expected, Captain Galt came out first. His heart fell a little when Reclusiarch Mazrael of the Blood Drinkers stepped onto the surface of the hulk behind him, but he had more than half-expected to see him. Both were clad in Terminator armour. A full squad in the bone-and-blue of the Novamarines followed them, then four Terminators in the red of the Blood Drinkers. With a casual contempt, Plosk data-linked to their suit’s cogitation engines. The histories of the armour unspooled in this mind, accompanied by flashes of pict footage and combat data.

  The names of those who wore them now came last: Voldo, Astomar, Militor, Eskerio and Gallio for the Novamarines; Tarael, Sandamael, Metrion and Curzon of the Blood Drinkers. Tarael wielded lightning claws, Astomar a heavy flame unit, the sergeants and Galt had power swords and storm bolters, the rest power fists and storm bolters. Their armament did not concern him so much as the auspexes Curzon and Militor bore, but Plosk was a calculating man, and he gambled that by the time the Space Marines’ sensoriums revealed the nature of the prize, it would be too late.

  The data came to him easily, the Terminators unaware he had linked to and examined each and every one of them to the finest degree of minutiae. He pulled a face when a twelfth figure stepped out off the ramp. The Master of the Forge of the Novamarines, Clastrin. He had recovered then, and that genuinely was poor luck for Plosk. He refrained from attempting a link to him. Clastrin was only a glorified Techmarine, one of the lowest ranks of tech-priest – barely worthy of the name, in fact – and would not be able to stop Plosk’s data probe, but he would notice it, and Plosk would rather he remained unaware he was systematically spying on each and every one of his brothers for information.

  ‘Lord Captain Galt, Lord Reclusiarch Mazrael, I greet you.’ Plosk made a bow. Doubtless its irony was lost on the Adeptus Astartes. Plosk hated all these formalities, he was of the mind that while he bore the seal of the High Lords all should simply do as they were told, but the lords of the Space Marines were as touchy as they were ignorant.

  Galt rudely forwent formal preamble. ‘We are accompanying you into the centre of the hulk, Magos Plosk. You will be unsafe without proper protection.’

  ‘Ah, but your men have done so fine a job of clearing the hulk, lord captain.’

  ‘Many genestealers remain. As such, your expedition is a combat operation, and we agreed, did we not, that the Adeptus Astartes would have authority in these matters. I am coming with you, magos, whether you like it or not.’

  Plosk pulled a sour face. He was glad the captain could not see it. Had he had more time, he could have led the captain on a merry dance around the hulk, saving the discovery of the true prize until the Novamarine grew bored and left. But he did not have more time. ‘As you wish, my lord.’

  ‘As I command, Magos Plosk.’

  ‘I thank you for your concern, my lord, but I have many servitors to protect me, your presence really is not required.’

  ‘I was told they are susceptible to the radioactivity in the hulk, and where you intend to go is among the most radioactive areas of all,’ said Galt.

  ‘Do you not trust me, my lord? We are after all on the same side.’

  ‘I do not trust your ambition, lord magos,’ said Galt. ‘I believe that you think you operate in the best interests of the Imperium, but I have seen politics cloud men’s
judgement as surely as lust or rage. And you have lied to me already.’

  Plosk held up his space-suited hands that may or may not have been a gesture of apology. ‘An honest mistake. I suppose you of the Novamarines believe you are above the pettiness of politics?’

  ‘In the main we are, Lord Magos. We serve, that is all.’

  Plosk sighed. ‘Nobody is above politics, lord.’ He spoke next to Mazrael. ‘And the Lord Reclusiarch? I take it you intend to accompany us as well?’

  ‘I do. The last segment of Lord Caedis’s telemetry recorded in Sergeant Sandamael’s sensorium show him heading to the hulk’s centre,’ said Mazrael. ‘I would recover his body and his armour and grant both the proper rites.’

  ‘Of course, all honour must be made to him and his battlegear,’ said Plosk. ‘We must be away soon, the hulk could begin translation at any time.’

  ‘I am well aware of this,’ said Galt, ‘and have instructed the fleet to destroy this agglomeration should any sign of an imminent warp tear manifest itself, whether or not we are still aboard.’

  This was altogether too much for Plosk. ‘Idiocy!’ snapped the magos. ‘You do not know what you destroy.’

  ‘Why do you not enlighten us, magos?

  Plosk calmed himself. ‘I have already told you of the great archeotech trove that could be within. You will not achieve the destruction of the Death of Integrity on your own.’

  ‘In light of Lord Caedis’s disappearance, I have been given direct command of the two Chapters here,’ replied Galt.

  Oh, how insufferable he was! Plosk loathed dealing with the Adeptus Astartes. They were so dogged in their devotion, so caught up in their holy missions and crusades and petty prejudices that they could never see the bigger schematic. The intentions of the Omnissiah-Emperor were beyond their ability to understand. They were made to fight; anything else was beyond their comprehension. He pitied them for that.

  ‘Very well. It is what we agreed,’ he said, though it rankled him to remain reasonable. ‘We will be ready to depart in ten minutes, lords.’ He bowed, and beckoned to Nuministon to follow him.

  ‘The Reclusiarch is lying, he is hiding something.’ Plosk, who had often to resort to diplomacy and brokerage while about his duties, had numerous means of proving the veracity of others’ words, and those of the Adeptus Astartes had been duly tested.

  ‘I have heard rumours regarding this family of Chapters, those descended of Sanguinius,’ ground out Nuministon’s uninflected voice. ‘Perhaps Mazrael’s omittance relates to this secret.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Plosk. He brightened. ‘It would be most useful to learn the details. A fine piece of leverage. One never knows when one will require influence.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Nuministon.

  ‘Now, I require Samin’s aid. Where is he?’ said Plosk.

  The expedition into the heart of the hulk began as a procession. Dozens of tech-priests and over one hundred servitors went into the perfectly square hole and down the road into the dark. They sang as they went, a low droning song broadcast on every frequency, and so unavoidable. The majority of the words to this dirge were impenetrable to the Space Marines, save Forgemaster Clastrin, to whom the cant of wheel, cog and sub-quantum relay switching was as familiar as bolter drill. He refrained from joining them, although he knew the songs, instead he voiced the fourteenth canticle of battle along with his brothers and the brothers of the Blood Drinkers.

  All down the road, new doors had been cut and old ones wrenched open. An artery of thick black cables ran along one wall, held in place by welded staples. Into each opening some of these cables wormed to re-emerge depleted in number, and the swags of them hanging from the wall grew thinner the lower they went. Everywhere was a bustle. Servitors tramped up and down in endless lines, carrying pieces of machines or crates, or were hard-linked to grav-sleds and tracked litters bearing larger artefacts. Arc lights blazed from openings. Plasma cutters burned. The tech-priests were working fast to strip the hulk. Galt was somewhat taken aback. Excommentum Incursus was a giant vessel, but he had miscalculated how many tech-priests it carried.

  One by one, tech-adepts split from the column and went on their way to whatever mysterious tasks they had to perform, taking their servitors with them. The songs of the cyborgs lessened in power as their number reduced. By the time they reached the airlock only a score of them were left and their prayers were in contest with the incantations of the working tech-priests. The airlock was open, and they went into the cavern without the tedious business of repressurisation. The air had bled away completely after the battle, and there had not been time to re-establish an atmosphere. So it was they passed amid a frenzy of activity that, vox aside, was performed in total silence. The tech-priests had cut many holes into the sides of the large alien ship, from where they carried a great number of technological prizes. From the amount of praise being offered to the Omnissiah, Galt guessed that the artefacts were of high value.

  ‘Xenos technology,’ said Plosk disparagingly, ‘but valuable nonetheless.’

  Galt called a halt while he conferred with Captain Aresti, who was in command of the forces in the cavern. Captain Sorael had led the majority of the Blood Drinkers into the warrens of the hulk, chasing down the remaining gene-stealers, leaving the Novamarines to destroy the xenos dead and guard the labours of the tech-priests. Mastrik remained on board Novum in Honourum, in command of the fleet in Galt’s absence.

  Satisfied all was in order, Galt allowed the impatient Plosk to continue onwards. They headed out of the cavern via a new doorway cut into the alien ship, and from there through a crush of compacted metal and stone into a heavily damaged Imperial vessel of extreme vintage. Much work went on there; lights had been set up all along its corridors and savants were plugged into data outports, scouring systems for soft data hidden within cogitation systems. Two of the remaining tech-priests went to their colleagues here.

  Three more ships directly down and the streams of servitors porting technology to the surface dwindled to nothing. The final tech-priest went to his task, leaving only Plosk, Nuministon, Samin, nine armed servitors and three semi-aware data-savants with the Terminators.

  They went through this last ship and came to an old airlock set in a comparatively sound wall. A wide chasm opened up here between this ship and the next, and a prefabricated bridge had been laid across. As Galt crossed it he looked upwards. The chasm extended to the surface. The nearside lip was lit by the ungentle illumination of Jorso, above was a narrow strip of black space.

  On the other side of the bridge were two lamps. Beyond that, no signs at all of an Imperial presence.

  ‘I calculate that we will be able to salvage most of the material from the upper levels before the hulk disappears once more into the warp. These other ships here are of lesser interest, although it is regrettable that we will not be able to explore them fully. One never knows what one might uncover, but in my long experience as Explorator, I have learned to prioritise,’ said Plosk.

  ‘There is no Imperial presence from hereon in?’ said Sergeant Sandamael.

  ‘Aside from a few relay beacons so that we might communicate with the surface, and a few servitors patrolling and surveying the corridors in case there is something of use. No. We are all the Emperor’s bold explorers here, my lords, not just I,’ said Plosk.

  Tarael’s lightning claws activated, patterning the dark walls of the ship with blue light.

  ‘Then lead on, lord magos,’ said Galt. ‘Take us to this treasure you have found.’

  Chapter 20

  At the Summit of Mount Calicium

  Holos emerged from the chambers of the astorgai, broken but unbowed. The light came suddenly after the darkness of the labyrinth in the mountain. At first the light of the setting suns hurt his eyes, and he lay on the warm rock of the volcano until the burning of the light passed. In his hearts and mind, the Thirst burned him also, and the combination of the two was too much to endure. He closed his eyes and gathered
his strength. Astorgai wheeled on the thermals above him, calling out and wailing; their king was dead, and they would not approach his slayer.

  Holos rolled onto his front, and pushed himself with great effort onto his knees. His armour was broken, its spirit he thought dead, for the support it ordinarily gave his body was gone. Joints ran freely without power assist, if they ran at all – his left knee was locked, the plates deformed from his fight with Lo-tan. His left arm was heavy and pained him when he tried to move it. He watched in thirst-gripped fascination as his blood dripped from the tears in the armour. His Larraman cells were only now causing it to clot. That it had bled for so long indicated that the wound was a grave one.

  Holos attempted to stand. His legs would not bear him, so he put his sword point to the ground, to push upon it and rise. It scraped white lines in the stone and fell twice before he had it steady. With a gasp, he stood erect, leaning his weight onto Encarmine Dread.

  Once he was on his feet he felt stronger, if only a little.

  Ahead, not two kilometres distant, was the peak of the mountain. It was not a true peak, but a higher part of the volcano’s rim raised like an animal’s tooth above the caldera of the volcano, the relic of one of the cone’s many periodic upthrustings and collapses. The cone’s broken rim ran up to it at first, but then the peak pulled up and away from the rest of the mountain with rapidity. The rock of it was multifaceted, and the stacked columns looked almost artificial in appearance. A strange spur arced out from it, a platform on the top some one hundred metres above the rim, tilted slightly toward where Holos stood.

  Through images of battles past and those yet to come, Holos saw the figure from his dream, a cowled, winged being standing before him. It raised a skeletal finger and pointed to the platform on the peak. Holos nodded and licked desiccated lips. He began to walk, and the figure faded. Each step sent pain shooting through his wounded arm. His armour dragged at him, pulling him back when it should have been carrying him forward. He had never had cause to walk in deactivated armour, not outside of his training. He was astonished at the weight of its betrayal.