by Various
Chapter Two
‘There is no enemy so mighty in body that he cannot be defeated by the addling of his mind.’
– Codex Astartes
Down among the lowest levels of the Chrono-Wrights’ District, among the foundation piles of the workshops and hab-blocks, were the tombs. The Imperial founders had built Port Memnor on the site of one of Briseis’s only permanent settlements, a necropolis whose inhabitants were a cursed and unclean tribe who made their homes among burial places of past kings. The tombs here had not been used for millennia, and in the unclean pits of bone and crumbling slate the meeting occurred by guttering torchlight.
The humans wore industrial rebreathers, the same kind that kept the worst of the metallic pollutants out of their lungs as they laboured in the workshops. Half a dozen of them guarded the elder, a bent and greying woman who seemed weighed down by the mask around her mouth. She walked with a staff that might have been a badge of office or might have been a simple necessity given the unsteadiness of her step as the guards led her across the uneven ground. The robes of her station, the deep green of the Thundercliff tribe, were mostly hidden beneath protective coveralls. Only the braids in her hair and the black ash markings on her face were obvious indicators of her exalted status among the old tribes of Briseis.
The aliens were waiting. Like the elder, the emissary had come here guarded, a trio of fire caste warriors standing alongside him. Their faces were hidden in their featureless helms, painted a dark orange-brown to go with the desert fatigues they wore. Each was armed with a rifle of alien design, shaped like nothing that had ever come from an Imperial weaponsmith. The emissary was taller and more spindly than his guards, for his caste did not do the ugly, base work of fighting. His own vestments were orange and black, shimmering and lustrous, and he jangled with the lengths of segmented metals forming a code to describe his rank and deeds.
‘To look upon you,’ said the elder of the Thundercliff, ‘I wonder not why the Imperium fears you so.’
‘It is natural for humans to recoil from the sight of the alien,’ replied the emissary. His Low Gothic was perfect, even weaving in the dialect and accent of Briseis’s old tribes. ‘The small-minded allow such things to rule their thoughts, but the wise examine them and rise above them.’
‘I do not recoil,’ said the elder. ‘The Thundercliff have seen worse.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ said the emissary. ‘I have requested your presence here because we have detected Imperial forces landing near the city. The resistance against the Imperium must be stepped up. Fortunately we have foreseen this and with your assistance, the Imperial yoke shall be cast off and the independence of Briseis assured.’
‘That reminds me,’ said the elder. She clapped her hands and one of the tribesmen stepped forwards, handing the tau emissary a bundle wrapped in stained cloth. The emissary nodded a bow in appreciation and unwrapped the bundle.
If he was surprised to see a battered human head in his hand, he did not show it. The skin was pale grey, the hair matted black with blood, and from the smell of it putrefaction had been going on for a few days.
‘The information about the Imperial spies in the city came from this man,’ the elder said. ‘Such knowledge being drained from him, he was executed. I trust you are not so different from us that you do not exalt in the severed heads of your enemies?’
‘Quite so,’ said the emissary, handing the head to one of his guards. ‘The Imperium’s agents may believe they have infiltrated us, but they know nothing of the true scale of our resistance. They know no more of our plans than it suits us to tell them.’
‘There was a time,’ said the elder, ‘when a spy among us would have been cast off the cliffs into the beast pits. He would have been devoured from the feet up, and begged us to kill him. We would have stared down at him as he died, and drunk deep of the anguish on his face as we gave him only silence. Now, we just cut off his head. We have become soft. I would go back to those days, emissary.’
‘You will,’ said the alien. ‘I promise you that. For the Greater Good.’
‘For our good,’ replied the elder.
‘The enemy will be at our gates in a matter of hours,’ said the emissary, his tone unchanged despite the challenge. ‘We will contact you with what must be done. You will need this.’ One of the fire caste warriors stepped forward holding a roll of hide. The emissary took it from him and let a length of it unravel to the tomb floor. It was gnarled and scaly, scarred all over as if by massive claws and pocked with clusters of barnacles. It smelled of the deep sea and rot.
‘What is this?’ asked the elder, not hiding the distaste on her face.
‘A standard,’ said the emissary. ‘Of great power and import. I ask that you trust us, as you have so graciously thus far, when we instruct you as to its use.’
The tribesmen took the banner between them – it was too heavy for one man to carry. Trickles of stinking water spattered onto the floor of the tombs.
‘You instruct us often,’ said the elder. ‘You do not call them orders, but we are no fools. The Imperium is a common enemy to us, but you are still an alien and this is still our world. Take care not to forget that, or our greater good may prove not to coincide with your own.’
‘Our people are philosophers,’ said the emissary. ‘We have dedicated the life of our species to understanding what truly is good in life, and how best to spread that truth to those deserving of it. You deserve the Greater Good, people of Briseis. Trust us.’
The elder did not reply. She gestured to her guards and left with the banner, leaving the emissary and his fire caste warriors in the darkness beneath Port Memnor.
The operation did not have an auspicious start, for it began down among the filth of Port Memnor, the industrial run-off from a thousand workshops and the city’s enormous generatorium. Through the brown-black slurry the Ultramarines forged, the deep blue of their armour stained with abrasive chemicals, the rebreathers built into their helmets keeping their lungs intact against the corrosive fumes. Captain Devynius’s helmet was topped with a transverse crest to mark him out in the chaos of battle – it dragged along the top of the sewer and was now a clotted black nest of rat’s tails. At least he had not worn the cloak which bore the markings of his rank and achievements.
‘It’s right above us,’ voxed Brother Silen, taking point and reading the squad’s location from his auspex scanner. Devynius checked the maps loaded onto his own auspex and saw Silen was correct.
‘Merovos!’ ordered Devynius. ‘Knock on the door!’
Brother Merovos hauled his plasma gun up out of the sludge. Its power coils warmed up and acidic vapour rose off the weapon as he aimed it at the ceiling of the tunnel, a seam between two long sections. The rest of the squad backed off as the power coils whined, warming up to full power.
The gun filled the sewer with the glare of its plasma bolt, and the upper section of the sewer vanished. A cloud of vaporised steel rushed down the sewer in both directions, and Devynius was forced back a step by the sudden burst of pressure.
‘Go!’ voxed Devynius. ‘Onward!’
Brother Silen was the first out, hauling himself up through the hole. At that point in the sewer the pipe came within a few centimetres of the floor above, forming a hidden breaching point. It wasn’t hidden any more, as Silen burst up with bolter in hand.
‘Citizens!’ yelled Silen, ‘Do not resist! We are the Emperor’s hand! We are the Angels of Death!’
It took a few seconds for the screaming to begin. In that time half the squad had made it through the breach, Devynius vaulting up onto the floor.
Through the roil of scalding vapour, the columns of the parliament building soared up to a vault painted with vengeful angels and celestial choirs. The throne of the Emperor, depicted as a great gilded chair with the occupant obscured by a glare of light, formed a centrepiece of a grand central pane
l.
Below, the marble-tiled floor was scattered with knots of dignitaries in the lavish garb of Briseis’s ruling class. The city’s industry was precision mechanics and the wealthy and powerful wore constructions of clockwork – tall periwigs adorned with automata of battling knights or ships at sea, mantles which placed cherubs with flapping wings on the wearer’s shoulder, spinning cogs and pistoning gears everywhere. The men and women looked with shock at the Ultramarines emerging from the evil-smelling cloud of industrial chemicals. Some of them were screaming at the sight of them.
The Angels of Death. The vengeful fist of the Emperor, the defenders of humanity and the scourge of the unrighteous. Every Imperial citizen knew of the Space Marines, the icon of Imperial might, of the divine right of humanity to rule the stars and the vengeance that would fall upon every heretic and alien. And now they were here, in Briseis’s parliament building, and terror struck everyone who saw them.
The shock of the first few seconds died down, and they ran. Devynius saw aged matriarchs, young rakes and grey-templed noblemen sprinting at the sight of the Ultramarines, scattering wigs and swagger-sticks in their wake.
‘No resistance,’ voxed Devynius. ‘Make all speed, brothers. To the council chamber!’
Briseis fell under the auspices of Agrellan’s Lord Governor but Port Memnor had its own government, an aristocratic oligarchy based on the world’s most powerful families and representatives from its old tribes. That aristocracy, all the intelligence suggested, had been infiltrated first. They had to be taken down.
Grand stairs swept towards the upper floor, where a dozen entrances led to the upper galleries of the council chamber. Devynius ran his squad up them, bolters held ready.
Dignitaries were running everywhere, tumbling down the steps and falling over one another to get out of the way. Devynius ignored them. An Ultramarine held his focus, even when hell was breaking out around him.
The doors at the top of the stairway were closed. The assault’s timing had worked out – the Ultramarines had caught the council in session. The doorway opposite was formed by the wings of a great carved wooden eagle, its harsh jet eyes glaring down at anyone who dared approach the city’s seat of government.
Devynius ran to the doors and kicked one off its hinges, the wood splintering and the carved eagle’s head collapsing to the floor behind him.
More than five hundred nobles and plutocrats made up Port Memnor’s government council. Most of them were there for that session in the grand circular chamber, with its speaker’s throne on one side and the councilmen’s benches radiating out from the heap of sacred books and scrolls in the centre. Almost half that number again were made up by functionaries, manservants, observers and recorders in the galleries. All turned to look as the doors ripped inwards and Devynius stomped into the chamber.
‘Councilmen of Briseis,’ shouted Devynius. ‘The infiltration of the xenos and his lackey into your ranks has rendered you unfit to rule. You are relieved of government and are henceforth the Emperor’s to do with as He wills. The innocent have nothing to fear and the guilty will be rooted out. Until then, you are under arrest. Place yourselves…’
One of the councillors jumped to his feet. He was younger than most, handsome and dashing, the image of an Imperial nobleman. He wore the uniform of his family’s household guard, heavy with gilt, and the Port Memnor fashion for decorative clockwork saw the campaign medals and honorifics on his chest dazzle as they spun.
‘As the emissaries said,’ he cried out, ‘they have come to kill us! Fight back, sons of Briseis! To arms! Here it begins!’
He ripped up the seat of the bench on which he had been sitting and took from it a rifle – not a las-weapon, standard armament of the Imperial Guard, nor a nobleman’s hunting rifle. Its long barrel was rectangular in cross-section, painted in the dark ochres of desert camouflage, and in the nobleman’s hands it looked awkward and uncomfortable as if it hadn’t been made for human dimensions.
The rest of the squad were charging in behind Devynius as the nobleman levelled the rifle at the Ultramarines captain.
Devynius dropped to one knee and rolled as the weapon fired. A bolt of blue energy speared through the wall behind him, shearing off some of the wooden feathers that remained of the carved eagle.
More of the councillors were breaking out weapons, many of them the long alien rifles, others shorter-barrelled guns that fired rapid bursts of blue-white energy. The dense wood of the benches and partitions were shredded even as the Ultramarines ducked down for cover.
People were dying already. Nobles and functionaries caught in the crossfire had huge holes punched through them, flesh cauterised and bone turned to ash as the energy bolts discharged and ripped them apart. The council chamber rang with screaming and the high shriek of the alien gunfire. Men and women were clambering over one another and being trampled underfoot as most made for the exits. Those who stood and fought were rallying to the first noble’s command, leaping into firing position and crying slogans of freedom and defiance.
‘Thaxos, take the throne!’ ordered Devynius as another burst of gunfire streaked over his head. ‘Fire-team, to me!’
Devynius’s squad operated as one in most circumstances but when required it split into two fire-teams, one led by Devynius and the other by the veteran Thaxos. Brother Merovos, part of Devynius’s team, slid into cover beside the captain as Thaxos broke cover and sprinted from one bank of wooden seating to the next.
Devynius heard Brother Silen yell and the Ultramarine fell to the floor beside him a moment later, clutching one arm to his chest. ‘Got my shoulder,’ gasped Silen. ‘Damn thing went through my armour. Alien tech. Xenophile filth.’
Devynius, Silen and Merovos were joined by Timesus and Vesuvio. The faceplate of Vesuvio’s helmet was scored through and glowing from a glancing hit – he tore the helmet from his head and cast it aside, revealing a crimson strip of burned skin across his face. ‘Too close, by Calth,’ he spat. ‘Too close for these gun-whelps to get.’
‘Return fire!’ ordered Devynius. He levelled his own bolt pistol over the cover and snapped off a handful of shots at the enemy – well over fifty enemies faced him across the chamber, rapidly forming up behind cover to lay down withering fire at the Space Marines. A knot of them, led by the uniformed noble, had set up by the heaps of books and scrolls at the centre of the room. The burning pages of Briseis’s ancient law-tomes fluttered down around them, ignited by the bursts of energy fire.
Devynius caught the uniformed noble in the upper chest, the bolt pistol’s shell blasting one arm and shoulder away, leaving the head tottering on a shattered spine. The body flopped out of view. Vesuvio stood proud of cover and rattled off a thundering volley of bolter fire, blasting the cover of the books away and throwing another corpse against the front row of benches, blown almost clean in half through the abdomen.
The back of the bench in front of Devynius was coming apart, the wood splintering and charred from the energy fire. ‘Those are pulse rifles,’ he voxed. ‘They’ll go right through our cover. Close, brothers, close and kill!’
Merovos stood and sprayed a fusillade of bolts from his plasma gun, the power coils flaring as the fist-sized bolts of liquid power spattered across the hall. The heretics dived for cover as the fire rained down around them and Devynius led the charge into the break in return fire. He vaulted the bench and crunched through the burning wreckage around him, kicking through the furnishings until he reached the table of burning books. His fire-team were right behind him, firing as they ran.
Devynius drew his power sword from its scabbard at his waist. The enemy had the firepower – the pulse rifles were xenos weapons, tau weapons, and they used technology of a level the Imperium could not replicate. But the enemy were still just men, and as far as Devynius knew the tau had not yet developed any weapon the equal of an angry Space Marine fought face-to-face.
Devynius heard a high whine over the gunfire, the sound of something very powerful warming up. He glanced over the burning books and saw one of the nobles, a woman, throwing off the bulky hoop-skirted dress she wore to reveal off-white armour plates banded around her body. The elaborate clockwork automata perched on her shoulders had concealed twin pulse weapons mounted on the back of her armoured bodysuit, and they tracked to follow her eyes as she tried to pick out a target among the flames and bedlam of the chamber.
Devynius had gone through the intelligence the Inquisition’s spies had submitted about Port Memnor’s parliament. Several of the councillors were considered particularly influential among the populace, and one of them was the woman that Devynius now saw clad in tau-made combat armour firing volleys of pulse fire at his battle-brothers. He recognised the sharp, hard features and ice blue eyes of Lady Solheindal-Thess, representative of one of the city’s oldest and most respected families. The intel had made it very clear that she was a devout Imperial loyalist, and that she was one of the councillors whose survival was important to provide the city with loyal leaders during Imperial occupation.
The supposed loyalist blasted another volley at Brother Timesus, who rolled to the ground before the chain of fire took his head off.
Devynius leapt up onto the table, scattering burning books. Lady Solheindal-Thess was a couple of strides away and she turned her icy eyes towards Devynius as he broke cover. Twin scouring blasts of flame shot down from thruster units mounted over her shoulder blades and cast her into the air, firing a burning arc down at Devynius as she soared over him.
Devynius did not run. He trusted in his armour, artificer-crafted plate from the forges of Ultramar, to deflect the first couple of shots that thudded against his shoulder guard. He leapt at Lady Solheindal-Thess as she came down to land, letting his bolt pistol fall from his hand and clamp by its mag-lock to his forearm. He grabbed the xenophile’s ankle and dragged her down, slamming her into the floor.
The xenophile’s armour covered everything except her head in flexible plating, with the joints enhanced with pistons and servos to lend her greater strength and freedom of movement. The forearm armour reformed into a thin glowing blade that extended from the back of her hand.