by Mark Clapham
Mikal was within metres of the control centre. Just through that door and, even if they shot him down before realising he wasn’t an enemy, Mikal could pass on his message, get the word out–
Rotaka, still in a crouch, swung his bolter up and fired once. The shot went low but true, missing the obvious target of the runner’s torso but hitting him in the leg, the bolt’s detonation blasting that leg off at the knee and bringing him down.
Consumed by agony as one leg disappeared beneath him, Mikal didn’t even raise his hands to stop his fall as he collapsed, and his face hit the floor beneath him, hard.
Mikal convulsed in agony, rolling onto his back. His cheek was cut and crushed, blood rolling down his face like tears, but he was in too deep shock from the pain in his leg to even notice.
Rotaka swung his bolter left and right, checking there were no other targets in range. The corridor Rotaka and his prey were in was featureless and rounded. There were no side exits, and no sign of anyone coming through the door the runner had been heading towards.
For now, he walked over to inspect his kill. Rotaka didn’t want to admit to himself how lost he had been in the moment of pursuit, that he had succumbed to bloodlust in a manner that Verbin or Malinko would approve of.
He had made a strategic judgement that the runner was important, a messenger or spy. Cutting off the enemy’s supply of information was always worth the risk.
The mortal he looked down on was barely more than a youth. His blue eyes were glassy, staring through Rotaka to some other world altogether, and he was babbling. Rotaka leaned in to hear what the dying man was saying.
‘Traitor Marines,’ he mumbled, slurring. ‘There are Traitor Marines.’
Rotaka scoffed. Was that the urgent message? The simple fact of the Red Corsairs presence?
‘I will take your message from here,’ Rotaka said, fully aware that his words wouldn’t be heard or understood in the man’s delirium. ‘Your system will know of us all, soon enough.’
Rotaka stepped around the dying man, whose breath was becoming more rapid and ragged. His death would come naturally, soon enough.
‘And do not call me traitor, mortal,’ sneered Rotaka. ‘I have known loyalty greater than a terrified whelp like you could ever imagine.’
Rotaka snapped out a brief, exasperated bark of rage, and bunched his fist ready to slam the wall, only to see the door ahead of him opening.
‘Traitors!’
The woman shouted the word in the seconds before Rotaka’s bolt shell exploded in her torso. As her body dropped Rotaka was already stepping over it into the room behind the door.
The room was a control centre with banks of cogitators and consoles, watery light from high windows breaking up the gloom of ranked servitors and adepts. Mortals opened fire on Rotaka, and he returned fire, hardly bothering to aim. Beneath the roar of gunfire, he could hear chanting, a countdown.
‘Cease fire,’ said a modulated voice, old but deep, somehow audible over everything else. ‘Let the traitor enter.’
When the las-fire died down, all that Rotaka could hear was chanting. He emerged into the room, bolter raised, ready to defend himself. No attack came. The uniformed mortals who had attacked him had gone, leaving only servitors and chanting adepts.
At the centre of the room was a control throne, turned away from Rotaka. He walked towards it, passing close to hooded adepts who visibly recoiled at his presence, and servitors that didn’t react at all.
‘Yes, closer, please,’ said the voice. ‘I am Commissioner Krayk, in command of this facility.’
Rotaka rounded the throne to find exactly what he expected: an old man in a grandiose uniform wired into a control throne. Just another old soldier with hundreds at his command, another relic of the corrupt Imperium.
‘Revolting,’ said Krayk, his eyes filled with hate. ‘I wanted to look upon a traitor before I died, and you are as vile as I would expect.’ There was a tremor in the old man’s voice as he spoke, a faltering confidence.
‘If this is an attempt to beg for your life,’ said Rotaka. ‘It is an interesting tactic.’
‘I know I am dead,’ said Krayk. ‘We’ve all been dead, ever since Sergeant Gavril – that was the woman you gunned down, Gavril – said the word traitor. I just wanted to see what such a hateful creature looks like before I died.’
Rotaka raised his bolter and indicated the adepts with the barrel.
‘What are they counting down to?’ asked Rotaka, pointing the gun back at Krayk.
‘The end,’ said Krayk. ‘A last defence against invasion – I activated it the moment I knew there were traitors in the Inner Dock. This whole island is about to explode, burying the entrance to the Pit and all of us with it.’
Rotaka swore and began to fire upon the adepts, stilling their chanting lips.
‘The chant is just ritual,’ spat Krayk, leaning forwards in his throne. ‘There is nothing and no one you can destroy to stop this now.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Rotaka, raising his bolter at Krayk once more, his finger pressing down on the trigger. ‘But it’s worth a–’
Before Rotaka could fire or complete his sentence a great roaring overcame his senses and the world turned blinding white, then dark.
The explosion tore through the Inner Dock, buildings collapsing as further explosions followed, fuel tanks igniting and power cores overloading. The cumulative explosion stretched to the very shore of the island on which the dock had been constructed.
The causeway that stretched from the island to the mainland, and which was the main transport link from the dock to the rest of Laghast, was caught by the edge of the explosion. Lastrati were still trying to escape via the causeway, either on foot or by grabbing on to the train that had partially departed the station, and those nearest the island were consumed by flame.
The intense heat and aftershocks from the explosion created cracks in the causeway, and the structure began to crumble, falling down from where the station lay in ruins, the damage spreading out to sea as the causeway’s superstructure was undermined.
The collapse did not spread very far, but far enough to catch the end of that last train, the rails beneath the final carriage falling into the sea as the causeway disappeared beneath it, burning rubble sinking beneath the waves. The unsupported rails buckled and bent, and the train tried to move away, to pull its final carriage up to safety.
There was a moment of teetering, then the end carriage fell into the sea, dragging the rest of the train behind it. Hundreds of Lastrati had packed into the carriages and cargo holds of the train, and as it slowly slid off the causeway they tried to escape via windows and doors. Few managed – to allow the high speeds required to quickly travel to the mainland, the train environmentally sealed itself on departure.
Being airtight, the vehicle was also soundproof, and no screams could be heard as the train sank to the bottom of the ocean, nearly a thousand souls of the Imperium on board.
The area Rotaka had been in when the explosion tore through the Inner Dock had only partially been destroyed in the blast, and it was simple enough to push aside the rubble and dig himself out. He climbed out to a scene of carnage, an island strewn with blazing rubble, half-broken walls emerging from the debris like jagged teeth.
If the Lastrati had thought destroying the dock in such a way would kill the Red Corsairs, then they obviously knew nothing about Space Marines. As he looked around, Rotaka could see many others climbing out of the wreckage. The blast had been low impact, and mainly incendiary – it had wrecked the infrastructure, but barely scratched power armour.
Rotaka could see a towering figure standing on the burning shore, looking out to sea.
Issuing an order to his squad to dig themselves out and put themselves in order, Rotaka left them to it and walked towards his lord.
As he approached Huron Blackheart, Rotaka
looked out at the inverted world, the curved sea. Behind the artificial sun, the other side of the world was in night-time, a constellation of lights indicating the inhabited areas against a dark blue.
‘My lord,’ Rotaka said as he approached Huron, whose claw was reflexively opening and closing as he stared out to sea. Behind him he could hear shouts and crashes as the other Red Corsairs dragged themselves from the wreckage, but Rotaka paid them no mind. Blackheart’s presence, that aura of malevolent command, drew him forwards.
‘Look at it, Rotaka,’ said Huron Blackheart, holding out the Tyrant’s Claw, palm open. The deathly grey of his remaining skin looked incongruous in this environment, the restless sea and the harsh light from the artificial sun. ‘The first Hollow World, mine for the taking. And soon the rest.’
‘And then, my lord?’ asked Rotaka.
‘And then,’ said Huron, lifting the claw up so that it blocked his view of the sun, then clenching it shut as if squeezing the life out of the sun itself. ‘Then, we make a hell of these worlds.’
Seven
The base of operations Colonel Ruthger had earmarked for retaking the city was Eridano’s central Jandarmerie, a squat, heavily fortified garrison in the very centre of the city. It fulfilled Pranix’s requirements as a defensible position to occupy when it became clear the enemies who were tearing the city apart, covered in bloody symbols and driven insane by the bugs in their heads, were never going to give up.
‘And still they come,’ said Pranix.
He and Kretschman were standing on top of the Jandarmerie, looking down. Around the edge of the roof, mounted guns pointed down at street level, manned by two-man crews, barrels blazing as they fired into the crowd below.
Night was falling, but as the light faded the other side of the world could still be seen, a vast ocean with a mass of light at its centre. Not the distinctive glow of city lights, but a fierce orange-and-red light speckled with black smoke that trailed out across the ocean.
It was an island aflame, an inferno big enough to be seen at the other side of the world. Looking up was enough to have Kretschman silently reciting his mantra to keep calm, and the sight of a major landmass on fire made the ground lurch beneath his feet. He had never seen destruction on such a scale, from such a distance.
He pointed to the burning island. He intended to ask a nearby Lastrati what the land mass was, but his mouth was dry and the question didn’t come.
‘It’s the Inner Dock,’ said Pranix without being asked, the inquisitor’s eyes locked on the distant fires. ‘You can see the causeway leading to the main continent, though it seems to have been partially destroyed.’
The inquisitor’s voice was eerily calm considering the scale of what they were witnessing.
‘The causeway,’ repeated Pranix. ‘Don’t you remember the briefings from when your regiment arrived here?’
‘No, my lord,’ said Kretschman. It sounded like the sort of thing he should remember, but he couldn’t.
Pranix looked sideways at Kretschman. ‘Well, sergeant,’ said the inquisitor. ‘The Hellward Gate is the Maelstrom-facing entrance to the Hollow Worlds. And while it could have been sabotaged from within, I suspect it is far more likely that it has been invaded from without.’
‘Invaded?’ said Kretschman. He was dimly aware that he shouldn’t be trying to interrogate an inquisitor, but his head was fuzzy. ‘Who by?’
Pranix looked at him sharply. ‘That’s exactly what I intend to find out,’ he replied.
The corvid flew over the crimson forests of Ressial, stopping neither for food nor for rest. It did not need such things: its stomach and digestive systems had been replaced with a tiny generator that removed the need for any other sustenance. The purplish-black feathers of the bird were augmented by a brass skullcap, streamlined so as not to slow its flight.
The birds of the Hollow Worlds were the only things that could fly within the system, some natural instinct preventing them from flying too high and falling into the sun. Instead they travelled the highest air currents, just below the level of gravitational shift.
They were a natural wonder, although in the instance of this corvid and many like it, nature had been adapted to the needs of the Imperium of Man.
The corvid flew lower as it went over the glittering rooftops of the Onyx Palace and the lush excess of its many gardens. It swooped around the statuary of the Gatehouse, towards a cathedra just outside the grounds. The corvid squawked recognition at the spires of the cathedra and looped down, towards the flat central roof area between the spires and other gothic ornamentation of the Ecclesiarchy.
At one end of the roof there were coops and perches, and the corvid landed on one such perch, cawing for attention.
A robed figure, weighed heavy with penitential chains, shuffled across the rooftop and attached two loose copper wires to the corvid’s chest. As the bird recharged, a sliver of vellum emerged from a narrow slot on its chest.
‘Another message for Lord Cheng,’ said the hooded figure and rang for a servant to take the message to its recipient.
Lord Dumas Cheng, system governor of the Hollow Worlds, had been unaware of the existence of the corvids until an hour earlier. The High Priest of the Ecclesiarchy within the Hollow Worlds, having been informed of the deepening crisis, had revealed that the Ecclesiarchy had – and had always had – a secret form of communication, for the purposes of their own internal machinations.
For once, Cheng had reason to be grateful for the duplicity of the Ecclesiarchy. Only a few hours since losing comms, Cheng had been able to send a message out to the other worlds, bypassing the corrupted systems altogether. It was far slower than standard channels, but it worked.
He awaited a reply irritably, sitting on the throne in his control room in the Gatehouse.
‘My lord,’ said a heavily augmented, red-robed figure, approaching Cheng’s throne slowly.
‘Chief Adept,’ Cheng replied. ‘You honour us with your presence. Do you bring good news?’
The Chief Adept, most senior of the Adeptus Mechanicus in the system, made a fluttering noise with the brass gills in his neck, his equivalent of a ‘hmmm’.
‘We believe the communication failure is system wide,’ said the Chief Adept. ‘We have also identified its source.’
Cheng waited expectantly for more information.
‘Heresy,’ said the Chief Adept. ‘Foulest heresy, infecting the sacred code. It corrupted several of the adepts who looked upon it, and I had to have them executed to prevent it spreading further.’
Cheng slumped back in his throne. Heresy on the Hollow Worlds? It was unthinkable.
He had barely begun to process this news when a monk of the Ecclesiarchy ran into the throne room, breathless. He stopped and gave a hasty bow to Cheng, then another to the Chief Adept, who tilted his head quizzically.
‘If the message is urgent, it is urgent,’ said Cheng. ‘Stand on no further ceremony.’
‘It is from Laghast, my lord,’ said the monk, then read from a tiny piece of vellum: ‘Hellward incursion astropathic tower fallen inner dock destroyed.’
Eight words. That was the whole message.
Dumas Cheng dismissed the monk and begged leave of the Chief Adept. Surrounded only by servitors and underlings, he concentrated on what he knew.
If this incursion was connected to the unrest and the loss of communications – and Cheng would have to be a fool to hope otherwise – then the invaders would have an easy route through Laghast, and from there to Kerresh.
Then from Kerresh to the rest of the system.
Laghast was a world of millions of souls, the gateway to the Hollow Worlds. At least one regiment of Lastrati Guard, along with a Cadian regiment, were stationed there.
Two Imperial Guard regiments were a strong counter to most threats. Supported by the Jandarme, with reinforcements from the inner wo
rlds, they should be able to drive out any invasion.
And yet… the Hellward Gate faced out towards the Maelstrom, where resided some of the most terrifying enemies not just of man and the Emperor of humanity, but of all life. Whoever was attacking had sown dissent through the Hollow Worlds, taken down their communications, and already broken through powerful orbital defences and the forces within the docks. Then there was the Chief Adept’s use of the dreaded word: heresy.
Dumas Cheng was not an ordinary subject of the Emperor, living in ignorance of heretical threats. This was an attack by the forces of Chaos. Emperor knew what monstrosities were flowing into Laghast already.
No, he could not risk the fall of the Hollow Worlds. The safest course was to isolate the infection. He would allow as much time as he could for evacuation, and to gather further intelligence… but he needed to cut off Laghast as soon as possible, to allow the other worlds time to prepare defences.
‘Send the order,’ he told a messenger. ‘If an enemy gets within sight of the Laghast Archway, destroy the gateway before they set foot on Kerreshian soil.’
The messenger ran off. Dumas Cheng stared into space. He might have condemned a whole world to a terrifying fate.
As the great girder was lifted away, the man crushed beneath it spluttered and took in ragged breaths. In the two days since the explosion had torn through the Inner Dock, this mortal had been trapped in a narrow space within the ruins, limbs crushed but with enough room to breathe. After so long in darkness he stared blindly up at the towering figures looking down on him, muttering thanks to his saviours through parched lips.
‘It is miraculous this one has survived,’ said Hulpin.
‘Not the word I would have used,’ said Rotaka, looking down at the broken mortal. He took no satisfaction in suffering, even of lesser creatures such as these. ‘Verbin?’