'Because they are your work and legacy. Destroy them and the galaxy will never see their like again.'
'And would that be such a terrible thing, my son? As weapon maker, I have forged an arsenal that could cause unimaginable death and suffering. That is not a legacy I want.'
Then why fashion them in the first place?'
Vulkan leaned forward so he could place his hand on T'kell's shoulder. The gesture dwarfed the forge master, but was paternal and reassuring.
'Because it was my purpose, the one my father made me perform,
and back then I did not believe any of us were the wrong hands. Through Curze and Horus, I now sadly know different. One maniac in our midst, a tragic error of nurture over nature that I can understand and accept. Horus is rational. Not only that, he is the very best of us. I would freely admit that it terrifies me to think of him wilfully inciting rebellion. He is an enemy I would not wish to fight on any level, not least of which because he is my brother. And should my craft, what lies beyond those vault doors, be taken by Horus...
I cannot be responsible for that, T'kell.'
Vulkan rose to his feet to declare the matter closed, taking up the hammer Dawnbringer as he did so.
'Come. I'll show you what must be done.'
Together they crossed the smoke-thronged forge, their armour reflecting the lambent firelight, until they reached the door of the vault.
It was immense, as was the vault itself, and Vulkan used an icon he had fashioned as part of his armour to unlock it. The small fuller slipped into a recess wrought into the door's ornate surface. It was difficult to see, and T'kell realised he would not have found it without the primarch to show him.
One twist and the cavernous space was filled with the dull clunk of gears, pulleys and chains - the sound of an old mechanism churning to life. After a few seconds the door began to open, slowly but inexorably. It split down the middle, each half opening outwards and into the forge.
When the gap was wide enough, Vulkan stepped through and led T'kell into the vault after him.
As he passed through this slender portal, T'kell marvelled at how thick the doors were, at the sheer incredible artifice of their construction. Despite their ostensible function, they were as beauteous as any of Vulkan's creations. Had Ferrus Manus made these doors they would be cold, ugly things. Impervious, secure, but ultimately bland.
Where the Lord of Iron was a smith, Vulkan was an artisan, or so T'kell believed.
/You are the first and only one of my sons to see this vault,' said Vulkan. 'Held safe within its walls is every artefact I have ever forged.'
Muttering a word of command, Vulkan ignited the braziers around the room. Flickering torchlight cast the contents of the vault in tones of umber and crimson, filling every recess with shadow. Only hints of the wonders that the primarch had fashioned were revealed.
T'kell recognised some, and knew their names.
Obsidian Chariot.
Vermillion Sphere.
Light of Unmaking.
Some were constructed as simple blades; others were larger, more complex mechanisms. All were named.
Names had power, as Vulkan often said. To name a thing was to give it identity, resonance. An enemy does not fear a man who wields a sword, but would give pause to one who held the Fang-blade of Ignarak. Such things mattered to the Lord of Drakes and were a part of his teachings.
'Such wonders...' breathed T'kell, scarcely able to comprehend his primarch's magnificent labours.
Vulkan had set the hammer Dawnbringer down amongst the other treasures and was about to reach for his spear when he stopped, fingers poised to wrap around the haft. Sword and spear were his preferred weapons, Thunderhead having been destroyed earlier during the Great Crusade.
'I hope your indecision represents a change of heart, primarch/ ventured T'kell when he had recovered his composure enough to speak.
'It does not. The artefacts must be destroyed. I am bound for Isstvan so cannot do it myself, which is why you must, T'kell.'
Then what is wrong, primarch?'
Leaving the spear where it stood shackled to the rack, Vulkan took up Dawnbringer.
'I believed I had chosen poorly, although this feels right,' he said. 'Fitting. Perhaps its epithet will see my brother illuminated after all.'
T'kell looked on despairingly at the artefacts, desperate to preserve them and his lord's legacy.
'Primarch, I beseech you,' he uttered, bowing to one knee. 'Please do not ask me to do this. At least save something'.
Vulkan looked down at his forge master, then to the inside of the vault.
There are weapons here that can destroy worlds, my son...'
'Or save them from destruction,' T'kell replied, looking up at his lord, 'in the right hands.'
'Mine?' asked Vulkan, meeting the forge master's pleading gaze.
'Yes! Or Lord Dorn, or Guilliman. Even Russ!'
Vulkan held T’kell's gaze a moment longer before turning away.
'Rise, forge master. I would not have one of my sons beg me on his knees.' There was a snarl in Vulkan’s voice and for an instant T'kell thought he might have overstepped.
'I am driven to it, primarch.'
Very well.'
'My lord?'
Vulkan faced him.
'1 said, very well. Something should remain. If I destroy everything, then I have given up on hope and seeing loyalty and honour endure in my brothers. I won't do that.'
T'kell visibly relaxed, the relief at his primarch's words evident on his face.
'You are to remain here, T'kell. You won't come to the Isstvan System - your place is now on Nocturne and Prometheus.'
'But, primarch-'
'Do not defy me a second time,' Vulkan warned. 'I am not that tolerant.'
T'kell bowed his head in contrition.
'You shall become Forgefather, and keeper of the artefacts in this vault.'
'Forgefather?' asked T'kell, frowning. 'Am I not your forge master, my lord?'
'Of course. A legionary can be more than one thing, T'kell. I am entrusting you with this duty, just as I entrusted you with the vault.'
'What duty, primarch? Name it, and it shall be done.'
To act as custodian. To swear you will protect these artefacts and should anything happen to me, ensure they are well hidden, far from those who would seek to use them poorly.'
T'kell saluted vehemently. 'I swear it, Lord Vulkan.'
'Good. Choose seven to remain, and only seven. One for each of our realms on Nocturne.'
There are thousands in here, primarch. How can I possibly-'
'Indeed there are,' said Vulkan, tying the hammer off around his belt and reaching for his gauntlet. Kesare's drake scale mantle was already hanging around his broad shoulders. 'Seven, Forgefather, that is what your primarch decrees.' Vulkan was leaving, his mind now firmly on a reckoning with Horus.
'I go to join with Ferrus’s fleet,' he called back to T'kell. 'See it is done before I return.'
He walked away bound for the spaceport, leaving T'kell behind.
The Forgefather regarded the contents of the vault, trying to contemplate the impossible task before him.
'Seven...'
Let it be shown that at elapsid/nullus-beta, Dartarion Varix of the First Hort, Third Harrow and strike commander of the Alpha Legion, allowed his hearts once again to beat to the rhythm of war. Operative-unit 55/Phi-silon observes mission subsequence initiations, while maintaining full noospheric and haptic integration.
Gamma, delta, epsilon... commence.
New target: Mechanicum super-heavy ark freighter Omnissiax, registered out of the Heliodyne shipyards with charters for forge worlds on the Dextura shipping lanes. At the time of action-initiation, the Omnissiax is under the command of Arkmaster Manus Cruciam, with Magos Dominus Oronti Praeda assigned to security measures and Collegium-Mandati Jerulian Hax responsible for temple-freight transportation and ritual observance. Deific-cargo inspected at Heliodyne and
logged as Titan Battle Group Astramax of the Legio Perennia, fresh from inception at the Gallileon temple-forge, Bronta-Median.
Worlds sundered in the name of the Machine-God: none.
Battlegroup confirmed kills: none.
Ranking Princeps Majoris Alvar Pallidon of the Warmonger-class Titan Abyssus Edax. Tribute destination recorded at Bronta-Median as the Solar System. Manifests list Ordo Reductor siege machines, two hundred battle tanks and armoured transports of various signification ready for force allocation, as well as five hundred suits of Mark IV Legiones Astartes battleplate, intended for the VII Legion. Newly-appointed Fabricator General Kane to personally receive cargo at Terra. Wayfarage estimated at two solar months.
Transit interrupted twenty-two days into voyage after reception of new orders and subroutines from Gaius Trasq, Fabricator Ancillaris - the Omnissiax and Mechanicum light cruiser escort Dentilicon ordered to break warp at the Gnostica System and report to the garrison world of Callistra Mundi.
I patrol the vaulted cargo-chamber of one of the ark freighter's many sub-holds. My true name is long forgotten, but my designation is 55/Phi-silon. I am sparatoi, a 'sown man' and agent operative of the Alpha Legion. I adjust my disguise: ocular-mask, tattered cloak, battery-pack and las-lock rifle. I present as a Mechanicum tech-thrall, one of thousands throughout the vast ship, assigned to onboard security and the mind numbing patrol of the vessel's holds.
My enhancements are real. My disguise. My sacrifice. My mind, however, is still my own. The Alpha Legion needs agents who can think for themselves. I was thrall to the XX Legion long before I went under the bladesaws of augurnauts and surgeo-cyberseers, volunteering for the adaptive surgeries that would make my disguise complete.
I kneel before the artistry and craftsmanship of Legiones Astartes battleplate. Rows and rows of paintless suits. Their systems await designation and the honour of Legion colours. They are blisteringly new. Spread throughout their number are suits that still sport their tarps from quality-control and sample testing at Bronta-Median. The fabric flaps in the perverse air currents that afflict a vessel of the ark freighter's size.
The army of empty suits is indeed a wonder. A blessed expression of
the Omnissiah's divine will. To an observer, however, such reverence might appear odd or misplaced in a wretched thrall, which is why I phased the auspex and lonely pict-feed lenses monitoring the deck before re-routing the servitors scheduled to inventory the sub-hold.
'Report,' Dartarion Varix orders.
Like the fifty Alpha Legionnaires of his veteran demi-hort, he is hidden. They are all living weapons, concealed and deadly. Like the fang retracted within the serpent's jaws, they are primed with death, ready to be revealed, waiting for the moment to strike.
That moment is now. One of the tarp-draped suits of powered plate moves.
Then another. Then another.
Not all of the suits are empty. Now that their strike commander has broken dissimulatus, the veteran Alpha Legionnaires of the first Hort, Third Harrow can reveal themselves. Auto-suggestion engages. The implanted sus-an membrane of the legionnaires' transhuman physique responds. Their state of suspended animation breaks. Hearts are allowed to beat once more.
Punctuating the ranks of motionless suits, armoured Alpha Legionnaires begin to move. They tear the tarps from their armoured forms to reveal the indigo blue and cerulean blaze of their plate, the serpentine iconography that coils itself about their power-armoured limbs, and the infernal glow of optics burning to life.
'You have been monitoring, my lord?' this unit asks.
'I have.'
Then you know that our warp translation is complete.'
'I felt it.'
A legionnaire approaches, almost indistinguishable from his brothers.
'Strike commander.'
'Prime,' Varix acknowledges him. Your host is ready?'
'Always, my lord. Permission to secure the sub-hold.'
'Authorised.'
The Omnissiax is passing through a debris field of remnant rock and planetesimals approaching the edge of the Gnostica System,' I report through the modulations of my skull-riveted mask. As I do, the Alpha Legionnaires break formation, spreading out across the sub-hold. Umbra-pattern boltguns and sickle-mags of various ammunitions are handed out from cargo crates, while bulkheads and blast doors are secured.
'Is the system contested?'
'Planet-wide mutiny on Callistra Mundi, the primary world of the system,' I continue. 'Imperial auxilia garrison world and fleet anchorage.'
'Who leads the rebellion in the Warmaster's name?'
'You’re not going to like it.'
'My primarch's objectives have been compromised and my mission parameters expanded beyond the remit of the forces at my disposal. What is there to like?'
'Long-range voxmissions and noospherics betray encrypted legionary signatures'
'Alpha Legion,' Varix confirms.
The strike commander takes this revelation in his stride. Even to my cogitator-afflicted brain, this is a surprise. Have the heads of the hydra become tangled?
'Perhaps they too are beyond their mission parameters,' I offer, but Varix has moved on.
'No,' he says. This is something else. Status?'
'It's a mess,' I admit, 'and perhaps as their commander intended. Forces on the ground, in the air and in the void are declaring for the Emperor or the Warmaster.'
The Legion?'
'No sightings or pict captures reported,' I tell him. The Alpha Legion on Callistra Mundi have yet to reveal themselves.'
They will,' Varix assures me. The Omnissiax...'
'Has been re-routed to deploy its god-machines,' I inform the strike
commander. The battle group is to crush the rebellion.'
'Well we can’t have that,' Varix says. His words are laced with a dark humour. 'We have to at least give my brother-commander a chance. He's barely begun.'
'Forgive me, lord,' I venture, 'But I am more concerned with our own disposition. The Omnissiax will be met and intercepted. Both traitors and loyalists will seek to harness its apocalyptic cargo.'
'Well, quite,' the strike commander says. He is already several steps ahead of me. 'Is the Dentilicon still with us?'
'Yes, my lord.'
'Prime,' Varix calls.
The Alpha Legion officer acknowledges his commander: 'Ready, my lord.'
This cargo will never reach the Solar System as planned,' Varix tells us both. 'We shall not arrive at Terra, but need is great out here. The battle group will undoubtedly be sucked into the conflict. I’m authorising secondary objectives and initiating proprietary action pseudaspis from a range of forty-four tactically antiphonus responses.'
'Yes, my lord.'
'I'm enacting these contingent protocols and pursuing secondary objectives under my own recognisance. These supersede my primarch's orders. I don't need your concordance, but for the identic record I want it.'
'Pseudaspis, aye,' the prime agrees.
I nod also. The Omnissiax carries a considerable force escort, my lord. We are not outfitted for this.' Dartarion Varix nods his helm slowly. 'Plus, loyalist forces have a void presence throughout the system. At least nine cruisers and assorted escorts.'
'Duly noted, but that will not stop us. The order is given. The ark freighter is to be taken. Activate our agents. All legionnaires are authorised to enact kill-shot protocols. The Mechanicum is our enemy. We shall explain that fact to them with overwhelming force. In one hour, I want the Dentilicon neutralised and both the Omnissiax and her
payload in the Alpha Legion's hands. No one must ever know we were here. There can be no Mechanicum survivors. Is that understood?'
'Yes, my lord,' I reply.
His lieutenant salutes. 'It will be done.'
Then let us begin.'
There are few who have experienced an Alpha Legion assault and have lived to report it. The XX Legion does not leave witnesses in its wake without good reason. A devastating
combination of imagination, flawless coordination and calculated cruelty are the hallmarks of their particular brand of warfare. They dissemble. They disorientate. Then, with their foe's resources and nerve stretched to breaking, they initiate a final attack so overwhelming in sheer force and tactical relentlessness, that their enemies' efforts to resist collapse like a dying star.
Warfare becomes annihilation. Battle becomes slaughter. Like an algebraic equation that has to be resolved, the Alpha Legion end their opponents to the last man, unless they conceive of some nefarious usefulness for those at their cold mercy.
For the captured, these are often fates worse than a battlefield death.
At elapsid/rho-nu-alpha, for the Arkmaster Manus Cruciam and his Mechanicum forces, the assault begins. By tapping into the ship's noospheric conduits, this unit deduces that sanctioned scribe Quorvon Krish has just completed echo-plasmic transcription of the astropath Herontius Vame's latest message from the Fabricator Ancillaris when he feels the excruciating stab of pain in his jaw. As one of Dartarion Varix's sparatoi agents, Quorvon Krish has suffered an implant in his tooth that receives signals and transmissions in code. Utilising primitive electromagnetic spectrums that have not been employed by the Mechanicum in thousands of years, the transmissions are unlikely to be traced or intercepted. Each jolt of electricity through the bone corresponds to letters of a coded
alphabet, in terms of length and sequence. It is an effective, if agonising, method of coordinating Alpha Legion forces already in situ on board the Omnissiax. This allows for the flexibility required of an Alpha Legion action.
D-R-O-P T-H-E C-U-R-T-A-I-N
Elapsid/sigma-lambda-digamma observes Quorvon Kitrica pull a snub autopistol from his robes, attach a suppressor and riddle Herontius Vame with ragged holes. It must feel good. Kitrica might allow himself that. He is twice the telepath that the truculent Vame was or ever would be. Lady Gandrella - who is little better - is also met with the staccato of thudding shots, as is Tech-Acolyte Hadreon as he returns from work on the visual logs, and sanctioned scribes Ransistron and Ezrail.
B-R-I-N-G T-H-E S-I-L-E-N-C-E
At exactly the same time, Transmechanic Nedicto Orx receives his activation and orders. He strangles his locum with the shaft of a coghammer, and then brains his team of transmat servitors. By elapsid/sigma-pi-epsilon, the ark freighter's long range communications array has been plasma-fused, and the vox-relay is a coghammer-mangled mess.
Sedition's Gate - Nick Kyme & Chris Wraight Page 2