[Grey Knights 02] - Dark Adeptus

by Ben Counter - (ebook by Undead)

  “And the Exemplar will be under my command as part of the fleet,” interjected Horstgeld.

  “Very well. My flag-captain, Magos Korveylan, will accommodate you.” Saphentis’s voice was as calm as ever but Alaric guessed that Saphentis realised he was getting about as good a result as he could have hoped—Nyxos was probably being generous letting such a high-ranking tech-priest accompany the mission at all.

  In some ways, Alaric was glad the Mechanicus would be coming along. If Borosis Septiam really was the forge world Chaeroneia, someone knowledgeable in the Cult Mechanicus would be a real asset on the ground. He didn’t like the idea of wrangling for control, though, and Saphentis seemed the kind of man who would refuse to budge once he had decided he was going to be in charge.

  The doors to the chapel opened and a nervous-looking bridge officer entered, the pips on his dark blue uniform denoting him as a member of the comms crew. He hurried up to Captain Horstgeld, unable to help glancing at the bizarre form of Archmagos Saphentis and the no less otherworldly appearance of Alaric himself.

  “Moral threat on the Ptolemy Gamma, sir.”

  “Moral threat? What’s the source?”

  “A broadcast from the planet.”

  “Hell and damnation,” said Horstgeld. “Quarantine the Gamma, physical comms only. Have the fleet purge all communications. And have Fleet Commissar Leung informed.”

  “Can the Exemplar set up a completely secure receiver?” Nyxos asked Saphentis.

  “Indeed we can.”

  “Good. Have Korveylan do so and start studying that broadcast and work out where it’s coming from.” Saphentis didn’t move. “If you please.”

  Saphentis nodded to Thalassa, who hurried off to relay the necessary orders to the Exemplar.

  “It looks like our hand is being forced,” said Alaric.

  “Quite right,” replied Nyxos. “That is the annoying thing about the Enemy, he never gives us time to think. Are you ready to move, Alaric?”

  “My men have observed their wargear rites and can deploy immediately.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. Saphentis?”

  “The tech-guard accompanying me represent our most efficient combat unit. They are ready to go, as is our ship.”

  “Excellent. Gentlemen, you carry the authority of the Emperor’s Holy Orders of the Inquisition with you. Whatever you find down there, it falls under the aegis of the Emperor and must be claimed in His name or made pure according to His laws. His Will be with you.”

  Alaric and Saphentis left the chapel for the launch deck. Alaric knew that once down on the planet, the balance of power would shifty dramatically without Nyxos to back up Hawkespur and Alaric—Alaric only hoped that whatever he found on Chaeroneia, he would only have one enemy to fight.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “The words of the faithful are the mountains. But the deeds of the faithful are the world.”

  —Final words of Ecclesiarch Deads VII

  Asteroids shot by the viewport, streaming trails of dust and gases. The upper layers of Chaeroneia’s atmosphere were dirty wisps of pollution, lit by the feeble glow shining from the star Borosis and reflected off the planet’s surface. Alaric’s first close-up image of Chaeroneia was one of pollution, the filth that wrapped the planet bleeding off into space, infecting everything around it.

  “Heat exchanger activated,” came an artificial voice voxed from the cockpit, probably a pre-recorded sample broadcast by a pilot-servitor. It meant the friction of the atmosphere was heating up the ship’s hull.

  The inside of the ship was cramped and functional. Everything was painted in the dark red of the Adeptus Mechanicus. The cog-and-skull symbol was raised in steel and brass on the low ceiling. Grav-couches lining the passenger compartment held the twenty-strong tech-guard unit, Alaric and his five Grey Knights, Interrogator Hawkespur, Tech-priest Thalassa and Archmagos Saphentis.

  “Our readings from the Exemplar suggest the asteroids may not be entirely natural,” said Tech-priest Thalassa to Hawkespur. Thalassa’s age was difficult to guess owing to the silvered circuitry embedded in her skin, describing complex patterns across her face, but she was evidently of a low rank since her simple dark red habit had few signs of status. “The guns can keep the path clear but there may be resistance.”

  “Resistance?” Hawkespur looked unimpressed. “Orbital weaponry?”

  “We don’t know. But this craft is designed for atmospheric intrusion so we can take a lot of fire.”

  Alaric looked across the passenger compartment to the tech-guard. They wore full-face helmets with polished brass visors and heavy rebreather units and they were armed with what looked like more complex versions of the standard Guard lasgun. Alaric couldn’t see their faces—they seemed more like servitors than soldiers.

  The craft shuddered as the turbulence of the upper atmosphere threw it around. Alaric could see the blackness of space overlaid by a gauze of pollution through the viewport, the ugly lumpen asteroids glowing orange where they plunged in and out of the atmosphere.

  The pallid light of Borosis shone through the crescent of atmosphere that Alaric could see clinging to the side of Chaeroneia’s disc, making it glow a sickly purple-grey.

  Alaric could feel the world beneath him, reflecting off the psychic core that kept his soul safe from corruption. He could feel it churning, pulsing—the heartbeat of a world. Dull, ancient pain throbbed far below, like the agony of something old and captive. The world was tortured.

  “The heresy that Mars investigated here a hundred years ago,” said Alaric, looking at Saphentis. “Were there any details?”

  Saphentis shook his insectoid head. “Very little. Rumours of improper practices. Unauthorised creation of techniques. Attempted instigation of machine-spirits. The investigation was not intended to prosecute any named individuals, just collate data on potential heresies against the Cult Mechanicus.”

  “Do we know if they found anything?”

  “No reports were received.”

  “That’s not the same thing, though, is it? If you know anything about what is down there, archmagos, we need to know it.”

  “I have extensive details on the workings of the forge world prior to its disappearance.”

  “And now?”

  “If much has changed, then we shall learn of it as we must.”

  Something slammed hard into the underside of the ship, sending it bucking like an animal as the directional thrusters forced it back into line.

  “Impact,” came the annoyingly calm voice from the cockpit servitors.

  The ship began to swing, slaloming its way between the asteroids. Alaric saw through the viewport that they were spearing thicker through the atmosphere, congregating on the craft as it plunged towards the surface. Flames rippled across the asteroids’ surfaces as they ripped into the next thicker layer of atmosphere, forcing their way down through the air resistance to meet the ship.

  “Grav-dampeners to maximum,” ordered Saphentis as the ship bucked again, several small impacts thudding against the underside like bullets.

  “I am the Hammer,” said Brother Dvorn. “I am the point of His sword. I am the tip of His spear.”

  “I am the gauntlet about His fist,” said the other Grey Knights, intoning the prayer that had been heard by the Emperor when they had entered the Tomb of St. Evisser to face Ghargatuloth.

  A red glare crept up the edge of the viewport, the force of re-entry superheating the hull. Flames licked off the edges of the hull just visible outside the ship.

  “I am His sword just as He is my armour, I am His wrath just as He is my zeal…” Alaric couldn’t hear his own voice as the impacts rang louder and the howl of the atmosphere outside vibrated through the hull, the whole ship shaking.

  The tech-guard were calm and unmoving no matter how they were shaken around. Saphentis had all four arms splayed against the wall behind him, holding him firm. Thalassa look less comfortable, thrown about in her grav-restraint. Hawkespur was
pulling on the hood of her black voidsuit, always ready for the worst.

  Alaric knew the low thudding sound from the prow was the noise of the forward guns, tracking and blasting apart asteroids that were thrown in the way of the ship. The fragments spattered on the hull like gunfire, streaking past the viewport as tiny burning sparks.

  The view of space was gone, replaced by a purple-black sky streaked with filthy clouds. Strange geometric shapes were flashing in the sky, projected onto the clouds from far below. The lander was heading for the probable origin of the signal—the analyses on the Exemplar had located the transmission source to within seventy kilometres. It was a big margin of error, but it was the best information the Imperial fleet had about where to start looking for answers on the planet’s surface.

  With a horrible sound like a metallic thunderclap something huge struck the ship head-on. The pressure vessel that kept the passenger compartment at Earth-standard pressure was breached and wind howled through the compartment, flinging debris around. The door to the cockpit banged open and Alaric saw only the ground beyond it, a distant dark mass speckled with lights, framed by the remains of the cockpit. The broken metallic limbs straggling in the air were presumably the remains of the servitor-pilot.

  “Autosystems engage!” came Saphentis’s voice, amplified above the din. “Landing pattern beta! Drag compensation maximum!”

  Another impact sheared deep into the side of the vessel, stripping away hull plates. The viewport cracked. Alaric could see gouts of burning exhaust jets streaking down from the craft, trying to slow its descent. It was heading straight down, the massive damage done to its prow destroying any chance of even the ship’s machine-spirit controlling it properly as it fell.

  There was a city below them, like a huge dark spider straddling the scorched black landscape. It was the size of a hive city and the uppermost spires knifed up towards the craft as it fell.

  Another impact flipped the craft over and it was tumbling now, completely out of control, the engines spurting to correct its trajectory.

  “I am the Hammer! He is my Shield!”

  The craft smashed into the first spires of the city and even a Space Marine’s resilience couldn’t keep Alaric conscious as the impact split the ship apart.

  Horstgeld was rapidly losing his patience. Magos Korveylan was supposed to be under his command, but the Mechanicus captain had spun a web of red tape and protocols to prevent Horstgeld from sending any of his officers onto the Exemplar—not even Fleet Commissar Leung.

  Horstgeld was therefore still on the bridge of the Tribunicia, waiting for Korveylan to contact him at the tech-priest’s leisure.

  The obvious moral threat on the planet below – now called Chaeroneia, apparently – was such that the ship’s Confessor Talas was on permanent duty warding the souls of everyone on the bridge. Talas, a hellfire preacher with a scrawny build but undeniable presence, was on the pulpit at that moment uttering an uninterrupted stream of religious fervour.

  The Emperor’s wrath featured strongly, as did the many places in the various hells of the Imperial Cult that sinners could find themselves in if they gave in to the whims of the Enemy. Horstgeld had employed a Confessor on the bridge for many years and to him the constant admonitions were just the music of the spheres—the rest of the bridge crew had to live with it.

  “Transmission from the Exemplar,” said one of the comms officers.

  “About gakking time,” said Horstgeld as the face of Magos Korveylan appeared on the viewscreen. If it could be called a face at all—half of Korveylan’s skull was covered in a featureless cowl of gleaming silver and the other was covered in dead grey flesh.

  “Rear Admiral,” said Korveylan. Rather disconcertingly, the voice that came from Korveylan’s vocal synthesiser was female. “Is there any news of our mission?”

  “We lost vox-contact with them in the upper atmosphere,” replied Horstgeld. “What about you? Have you found anything?”

  “We have.”

  “There was a long pause. And?” asked Horstgeld tetchily.

  “The transmission’s source is the surface of Chaeroneia. It is extremely powerful, well beyond the capabilities of any one spacecraft or standard comms device the Imperium has. The navigational beacons within the Sol system are of comparable intensity.”

  “Very good, captain. What does it actually say?”

  “The signal cannot yet be deciphered.”

  “You mean you don’t know.”

  “The signal cannot be yet deciphered.”

  “Hmph. Anything else?”

  “It is clear the information encoded into the signal has not been created using logic engine techniques known to the Adeptus Mechanicus. It includes patterns and energy types of a clearly non Terrestial origin.”

  Horstgeld leaned forward on the command pew. “Sorcery?”

  “That is a crude but accurate summation, yes.”

  “And do we know who the target is?”

  “Aside from the fact that the signal is being broadcast towards the galactic north-west, no.”

  “Since this is clearly a supernatural threat, I want Fleet Commissar Leung on the Exemplar. I don’t want any of your men losing their minds over this.”

  “Unnecessary. The Magi Psychologis can maintain mental wellbeing among the research crew.”

  “Take Leung on board. That’s an order. Your ship is a part of my fleet and you command it with my authority. Don’t make me use it against you.”

  Korveylan held up a hand—her hand, Horstgeld supposed—as if appealing for calm. “The Adeptus Mechanicus maintains strict protocols regarding…”

  “Frag your protocols,” said Horstgeld. “Do as you’re bloody well told or I’ll haul you over here for a court martial. And I am not known for my lenience. Prepare to receive Leung’s shuttle, Horstgeld out.”

  Horstgeld snapped the viewscreen off and it reverted to an image of the Borosis system, the hateful purple-black stain of Chaeroneia in the foreground. He sat for a moment listening to Talas sermonising.

  “…for is not the Emperor both your light and your fire? The light that guides you and the fire that waits below to burn the unbelievers? I say, yes! Yes He is! For if you believe, faithful citizens, then you are His tool, a tool to break down the edifice of heresy and build His temples in its place…”

  It comforted Horstgeld to know that one inspired by the Emperor was always there, tingeing everything on the bridge with the Emperor’s own authority. And he needed that, because the hell-planet below him, screaming out a signal that only daemonancers and sorcerers could hear, wasn’t very comforting at all.

  The tech-guard was dead. He was lying on his back, the length of his spine opened up wet and red, fresh blood glossy in the faint but hard-edged light.

  Another was hanging, impaled on one of the shards of metal that ringed the huge wound in the side of the lander craft. His lasgun was still gripped tightly to his chest, his hands constricted in death, refusing to let go of the weapon with which he defended the Adeptus Mechanicus.

  Alaric was alive. He tried to move and found he could. Rapidly he worked through the Rite of Wounding, testing each of his muscle groups, searching for tears or broken bones—he was knocked about but there were no injuries he couldn’t ignore. He turned his head and saw the rest of the wrecked ship’s interior. A couple more tech-guard were clearly dead, one totally decapitated, still sitting strapped into his grav-couch. Other tech-guard were stirring.

  Hawkespur was unconscious but breathing—through the faceplate of her voidsuit’s hood he could see there was blood on her face, but it looked superficial. Dvorn, the Grey Knight strapped in next to Alaric, was moving.

  “Dvorn?”

  “Justicar. We made it?”

  “This would make for a strange afterlife, so yes, I’d say we had.”

  The Grey Knights squad was alive and its injuries seemed superficial. Dvorn was first out, hammer in hand as always, helping Alaric out of the crushed grav-r
estraint. Brother Haulvarn checked Hawkespur for injuries then unstrapped her and carried her out through the tear in the hull.

  The air was heavy and thick, like strange-tasting smoke. Warning runes on Alaric’s retinal display flickered on and the implants in his throat began filtering out the pollutants. Alaric clambered out of the wreckage, his enhanced eyes automatically adjusting to the twilight outside.

  The lander had crashed in a valley with sides of twisted metal, layers of crushed buildings lying in hundreds of strata. Far above, the layers became thicker and less compressed until Alaric could just glimpse, at the very top, soaring spires studded with tiny lights, stabbing thin and sharp as syringe needles into the sky. The sky itself was ugly and bruise-coloured, the many layers of pollution tinting the pallid light from Borosis a strange cocktail of splotchy purples and greys. Shapes flickered, some geometric, some strange-shaped symbols like letters in an alien language, presumably projected from somewhere on the surface onto the underside of the cloud layer. The valley was a chasm cutting down through layers and layers of the forge world’s buildings, the strata showing how the city had constantly been built on top of itself for the thousands of years the forge world had been in existence.

  The valley was choked with wreckage that had fallen down from the top of the chasm—wrecked machinery, burned-out engines, and spindly fragments of wrecked servitors. On top of a charred lump of what looked like an engine housing was Archmagos Saphentis, climbing nimbly with the help of his additional arms.

  The surviving tech-guard were emerging from the lander’s wreckage, along with Tech-Priest Thalassa. There were about a dozen of them still alive. One of them flipped up the visor of his helmet—his face was lined with age and experience beneath shaven dark brown hair and one of his eyes was a large but solid bionic.

  “Pollutants fifteen percent air volume!” he said to his men. “Rebreathers at all times! Colsk, take the dead mens’ names and collect their power packs.”

  Alaric recalled the tech-guard captain’s name was Tharkk. He hadn’t spoken to him before—the mission had been assembled and launched in a hurry. They wouldn’t have the luxury of returning to the Tribunicia with the same kind of haste, that much was obvious.