‘Trouble?’ Fabius asked as Fetzer and Zella led him and the others to a waiting grav-shunt. The vehicle was reinforced to bear the weight of fully armoured Space Marines, but even so it groaned as the three Apothecaries stepped aboard. It set off with a hum, following a tensile line to palatial atria above.
‘The usual foolishness,’ Fetzer said. ‘The Old Families dislike any autocracy that doesn’t include their input. They’ve started testing our defences in a sort of half-hearted way. A bit sad, really. They lack the fire of previous generations.’
‘They’ve been bled white,’ Fabius said. ‘And that is the way it should be. The old gives way to the new. Soon, you will have this world to yourselves.’
‘We already do. Our kindred have insinuated themselves into every executive clan and Administratum caste on this world, as you commanded. And we have begun secondary eugenic alteration of the general populace ahead of schedule.’ Zella beamed proudly at Fabius. ‘Wait until you see what we’ve come up with, Benefactor. We think we’ve managed to crack the pheromone issue…’
‘Intriguing,’ Fabius said kindly. ‘Unfortunately, child, that is not why we are here.’
Fetzer looked at his wife. ‘I told you. The only reason he’d come early is if there’s trouble.’
Zella sighed and mock-applauded. ‘Well done, husband.’
‘This world will soon come under attack,’ Fabius said, before Fetzer could reply. ‘A xenos raid of substantial proportions. You will prepare accordingly.’
Fetzer and Zella traded glances. ‘When?’ Fetzer asked.
Fabius glanced at the chronometer built into his vambrace. ‘I estimate sixteen standard hours. Your sensor-net should be picking them up sometime in the next ten.’
‘I’ll alert planetary command,’ Zella said. ‘We’ll convene the defence council.’
Fetzer looked at Fabius. ‘Have you come to aid us, Benefactor?’ he asked.
‘In a sense. Consider it a test.’ Fabius clasped the New Man by the shoulder in a paternal fashion. ‘For now, escort me to the cache. I have preparations to make before our guests arrive.’
Spar crouched on a smooth escarpment, high above the webway portal. Pallid slopes of psychoplastic fell away from her in every direction – an artificial mountain range, stretching past the limits of her vision. It reminded her of a rucked cloth, carelessly discarded.
She let her autogun rest across her knees as she rubbed her hands together, warming them. It was cold in the webway. But not a natural cold – rather it was the cold of the void, seeping through the substance of the sub-dimension. The Space Marines did not notice, of course, but the Gland-hounds did.
There were twenty of them here – two packs’ worth, under the command of Eldest Mayshana. They were spread out, acting as scouts on behalf of the Emperor’s Children and the beastkin scattered through this section of the webway. Spar’s gaze flicked upwards to where Mayshana crouched, watching for any sign of the prey. The Eldest was lean and brown and covered in more scars than Spar had years. She wore the same fatigues and armour they all wore, and her head was shaved to the quick. She had fought beside the Benefactor for decades, since long before he’d gone to Commorragh. Now she commanded the loyal packs. When the Hound-Queen had turned from the Benefactor’s light, the Eldest had fought her, had tried to keep the faithless packs from abandoning their duties. She’d failed, and nearly paid for that failure with her life. But she’d survived, and grown stronger for her defeat.
Now she ruled. Not like a queen, but close enough.
Spar had never given such matters much thought. Gland-hounds were not encouraged to think. At least, not about things like that. She peered down towards the gate. It was a makeshift bastion, built from rubble scavenged from the aeldari outposts that dotted this portion of the webway. Repurposed combat-servitors of all makes and models prowled its length. The creatures were formidable enough, but no match for an organised enemy. She blew into her cupped hands and rubbed them briskly.
‘Why are you rubbing your hands together?’ Glaive asked from behind her.
‘I do not like this place,’ she said as she looked around. The webway was too big to comprehend. Too convoluted. It bent back on itself in ways that defied the senses. In some places it was large enough for a ship like the Vesalius to fly through. In others, it was barely wide enough for a single person.
Glaive laughed. ‘You sound like the daemon-lover.’
Spar slugged him, knocking him onto his backside. ‘Take that back,’ she growled. The Word Bearer was a figure of hatred among the packs. He was a vile thing, a worshiper of idols and a purveyor of falsehood. He had tried for centuries, without success, to convert the packs to the worship of the Dark Gods.
Glaive scrambled to his feet, combat knife in hand. Spar drew her own and bared her teeth in challenge.
‘Stop it,’ Bellephus said. He crouched nearby, his own knife in hand, not looking at them. It was a curved, crude thing, reminiscent of a butcher’s hook. He was using it to carve verses onto the wraithbone.
She and Glaive looked at one another, and then at him. Bellephus matched their gaze with equanimity. Of all the Emperor’s Children, he was the one least bothered by their company. They, in turn, tolerated him. Sometimes he even read them poems.
‘The enemy will be here soon enough, children. Save your fire for the aeldari.’ He flourished his blade, and Spar could see old stains marring the finish. Daemonic ichor did not wash off. The poem on the ground was half-finished.
Nearby Gland-hounds were watching the interaction carefully. Fond as they were of the gutter-poet, they would happily butcher him if he threatened the twins. They relaxed as the Eldest dropped down from her perch above.
‘He’s right,’ she said. ‘Calm yourselves. We are not beasts, to snap at one another.’
‘That is debatable,’ one of Bellephus’ warriors said. He was a scar-faced creature, almost handsome beneath a mask of keloid tissue and suture marks. Amplification studs marked his jawline, and stimm-jacks stuck out from his corded neck. He wore a necklace of finger bones, carved in the shape of dancing daemonesses. Several nearby Emperor’s Children laughed gutturally at his comment.
They fell silent when Bellephus halted his work and turned to study them. ‘Did I give you leave to laugh, Varex?’ he asked mildly.
‘Are you in command then, Bellephus? I thought you were too busy mooning over that wretched creature the Clonelord installed over us.’ Varex chuckled. ‘What do you see in that abomination anyway? Hardly a fitting muse, if you want my opinion…’
Bellephus buried the hooked blade in Varex’s skull before he could finish. He jerked the twitching warrior towards himself and caught him in a comradely embrace. He gave the blade a twist, and Varex twitched uncontrollably.
‘I did not give you leave to laugh, or to speak, Varex. You are interrupting my composition. And Lady Savona is to be respected even when she is not present, my brother.’
He twisted the knife again, and Varex’s eyes rolled wildly in their sockets.
Bellephus looked at the others. ‘Do we understand each other?’
Varex gurgled. Bellephus extracted his blade and shoved the injured warrior into the arms of one of his fellows.
‘Take him to one of the Apothecaries.’ He paused. ‘Not Khorag,’ he amended. He watched as Varex stumbled in his companion’s wake like a child taking its first steps and then turned back to Spar and the others. He bowed shallowly to the Eldest. ‘My apologies, Mayshana.’
‘He seemed quite troublesome,’ the Eldest said. ‘Would you like us to kill him?’
‘I think he has learned his lesson. At least for the moment.’
‘I should hope so,’ Khorag called out, as he lumbered towards them. The hulking Apothecary was surrounded by a miasmatic cloud, and Spar hastily donned her rebreather. Glaive and the others followed her example. ‘In
my experience, a blade to the skull often has a calmative effect. Isn’t that right, brother?’
‘I find it to be an effective – if permanent – solution to a variety of ailments,’ Duco growled. He made a show of checking the charge on his plasma pistol as he approached. He holstered the weapon and nodded respectfully to Bellephus. ‘I trust your warriors are ready, gutter-poet.’
‘I trust they are as well. Else I’ll be planting my blade in a few more skulls before the day is out. Speaking of which…’
Duco gave a hollow laugh. ‘I saw him. He’ll live. Won’t be able to talk until the language centres reknit, though.’ He looked at Mayshana. ‘The scouts?’
‘Nothing yet,’ Mayshana said.
Duco nodded. ‘Maybe they smelled a trap.’
‘Or maybe they haven’t arrived yet.’
Duco shrugged. ‘Either way.’ He looked around. ‘I hate this place. Unnatural. It smells of old death.’
Spar looked pointedly at Glaive, who ignored her.
‘Death is but a transition, Duco,’ Khorag said cheerfully. ‘And Grandfather would not pluck a flower before its time. Even one so crooked as you.’ He clapped the Night Lord on the pauldron, and Duco grimaced. He sprayed an antibacterial solution on the spot, filling the air with an acrid odour.
‘Your homilies aren’t as comforting as you imagine, Khorag.’
A sharp whistle echoed down from somewhere above. Spar tensed. ‘Eldest?’ she asked.
Mayshana nodded. ‘You and the rest with me.’ She gestured. ‘Start climbing. I’ll join you in a moment.’
‘What is it?’ Duco asked.
‘I’d guess they’ve spotted the enemy,’ Bellephus said. He sheathed his knife and sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to finish this poem later.’
Saqqara slumped sullenly in the command throne, chin resting on his fist. He stared at the observation screen without seeing it. Around him, the bridge was full of activity, but he paid attention to none of it.
He had begun to wonder about a great many things of late. Arrian’s words had bitten deeper than he cared to admit. It was not the first time he had questioned his purpose. While his faith had never wavered, his certainty had. A man could never take the words of the gods at face value. All things were the will of the gods, but they often did not bother to explain themselves. It could be frustrating. Frustration was a test. Fabius Bile was a test.
But he was beginning to wonder if he’d failed it.
‘You haven’t. Not yet.’
‘I expected you before now,’ he said softly. He did not ask how the newcomer had read his thoughts. To the Neverborn, a mortal’s mind was as an open book. He tapped a flask, soothing the daemon within. They did not care for his visitor. A trait she shared with her father. He glanced around. As ever, no one else noticed her presence. Like many Neverborn, she slipped between the moments with ease. This communion was for him alone.
‘What is before? There is only now,’ Melusine said, trailing her claws along the ridges of his armour. ‘An eternal moment, stretching into untold infinities.’
‘Enough homilies.’ Saqqara rose to his feet and turned.
She was as beautiful as he recalled, all fire and spice. A perfect equanimity between the mortal and the divine. Hooves fetched in gold, and skin the colour of blushed marble. Curved horns, etched with the names of Slaanesh, and chains of silver draped across her shoulders and chest.
‘Speak truth to me, if only this once. What is my purpose here? Is it to guide? To teach? Or to be taught?’
‘You are angry.’
‘No. I am tired. I am tired of being his slave. Tired of serving his whims. Tired of this useless device pressing against the base of my skull.’
Melusine smiled. ‘You disarmed it.’
‘Of course I did,’ Saqqara spat. ‘He has not altered it in years. Not since before he left for Commorragh. I do not think he cares any more.’ He paused. ‘Once, I fancied myself the whetstone to his blade – my faith against his logic. But of late, he has not come to me. He is no longer interested in arguing with me.’
‘And that… saddens you?’
‘No,’ Saqqara said, more sharply than he intended. ‘No. But what it represents disturbs me. He is… winding down. Do you understand?’
‘The game is coming to an end,’ Melusine said. She circled the command throne, reaching for him. He stepped back, hands raised. Her scent was like crushed flowers and burning sugar – sickly-sweet and all too enticing. ‘For good or ill, his time of choosing approaches.’
‘He cannot go forwards or backwards,’ Saqqara said, repeating her own words to her. Words he’d heard her speak often enough. ‘The gods have chosen his path for him.’
‘And you will help him walk it,’ she said. She caught his hands, and he did not resist her as she pulled him close. ‘We both will.’ Slowly, awkwardly, he allowed her to lead him into a slow, courtly dance. ‘The moment that I have sacrificed for is here. The moment we have sacrificed for is here.’
Saqqara looked down at her. ‘What will he become?’ He hesitated. ‘A god? I have often taunted him with that, but of late I have begun to see it taking seed. Did the Dark Gods send me to him not to kill him, or convince him – but to venerate him?’
Melusine laughed. ‘He would hate that. As would you.’ She shook her head. ‘I do not know. I am but a piece of a greater whole. As are you. As is he, whether he admits it or not. And we all have our parts to play in the drama unfolding about us.’
‘And what is my part?’
‘In the now? You will do as he asks,’ she said.
‘So the same as ever, then?’
‘The gods will it.’
‘The gods… or you?’
‘I am but their servant.’ She looked at the observation screen. ‘Sometimes, it happens here. Sometimes elsewhere. This is not the moment the knife goes in. It is the moment he realises that he is not the one holding it. It is the moment he understands that he cannot win.’
‘You… want us – want him – to lose?’ Saqqara said, nonplussed.
Melusine stroked his tattooed cheek. ‘He has already lost. He just doesn’t know it yet.’
She leaned close and kissed him. His flesh blistered where her lips touched, and he jerked back with a hiss of pain. She let him go, and turned to draw a claw across the air, sundering the veil between reality and the warp.
‘But as with him, the moment of your choosing approaches. You will have a decision to make… Will you be the one with the knife, or the one on the stone?’
A moment later, she was gone. Alarms were sounding throughout the bridge. Saqqara shook his head, trying to clear it of her musk.
‘What is going on?’ he growled.
‘The Vesalius scents prey,’ Wolver said from behind him.
Saqqara turned. On the observation screen, there was a flash of light. He sat back down and watched the ship – all sharp curves and predatory angles – emerge from a rupture in reality. He stared at it for a moment, considering. Then, with a sigh, he activated the vox.
‘They’re here.’
Chapter Nine
Assault
‘They’re here,’ Fabius said in satisfaction. ‘Even as I predicted. Like flies to carrion.’ He stood at the heart of the cache’s strategium antechamber, holo-displays swarming about him like a flock of brightly coloured birds. He observed the enemy’s arrival through a slave-feed from the Vesalius’ sensors.
Hull-mounted picter units recorded the eruption of the drukhari vessel into realspace, timing the translation and comparing the physical characteristics of the vessel to those in the databanks. In theory, identifying the vessel by type would make the task of disabling it easier. But that wasn’t his concern. Saqqara was an adequate void-commander, and the Vesalius was more than capable of defending itself.
‘Should w
e warn your pets?’ Gorel asked.
Fabius dismissed the void-feed and looked at the other Apothecary. ‘By now, their own sensors will have alerted them.’ Fetzer and Zella were more than competent, and he’d given them enough warning to at least begin preparations. They would already be mobilising the planetary defences to repel the invaders. He turned to one of the nearby tech-thralls. ‘Lock down the cache.’ The creature bowed low.
‘Ave, Pater Mutatis,’ it gurgled.
Most of the thralls resembled humans, if somewhat unfinished ones. They were born from the same communal flesh-vats that gave birth to his war-mutants and other experimental life forms. They were pallid, hairless things, tattooed with batch numbers and ident-codes. They could be programmed for a variety of tasks, mostly rudimentary. Not quite clones, and not quite a new species, they were something in-between.
Others were of superior stock, augmented both cybernetically and physiologically for more complex tasks. Unlike their lesser kin, who wore cast-off rags and utilitarian garments, the tech-thralls wore a uniform of sorts – tunics and trousers of purple, with black piping and gilded buttons. The uniforms had been their idea, as had the primitive caste system they’d developed. Seeing the benefits of such internal societal controls, he had allowed it. It made things easier all around when his creations governed themselves.
‘I have a hard time believing they can even find this place, hidden as it is,’ Gorel said. The cache was nestled deep in the heart of the Cluster. It occupied a blind spot in the city’s internal sensor-net, and fed off the local power grid through an ingenious series of dummy relays. It resembled nothing so much as a fortified tumour perched atop a secondary support column. Invisible to anyone who wasn’t already aware of its presence, and reachable only by an equally hidden transit shaft that travelled the length of the support column.
‘The other caches were equally well hidden. I suspect they have some source of information we are not privy to. Regardless, I do not intend to make this easy for them.’ Fabius gestured sharply to a group of nearby mutants. ‘What are you waiting for? You heard me – lock it down.’
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