by Gav Thorpe
There was quite a lot of nitrogen in the air.
How did he know that? He took another deep breath, and came to the same conclusion. He just knew it to be true, just as he also detected a higher concentration of carbon dioxide. Both of these facts hovered in his thoughts before a connection was made and a conclusion surfaced.
An artificial atmosphere.
It was by no means a definitive conclusion, but seemed a safe assumption given the other environmental factors his body had been steadily assessing since in the few moments since he had awoken in this dark place.
There was definitely a generator close by; he could sense the electromagnetic disturbance emitted from its coils.
The source of the light strobed at a particular frequency that resonated with the generator coils. That was how he knew the light was electrically generated, which was confirmed by his analysis of the spectrum of light falling onto his enhanced retinas.
It was very disturbing.
He had no memory of this place at all. In fact, all he could recollect was soft warmth, some muffled background whirrs and clicks, and a dull light permeating a layer of liquid. Not at all like this cold, dry, black place.
And some voices, disturbing, demented voices that hovered on the edge of memory. He could not recall what they had said, but was left with an uneasy feeling of defiance and distrust.
Air moisture was also quite high. Combined with the low temperature, he was forced to conclude that he was close to ice of some kind. He noticed his breath formed vaporous tendrils against the flickering gleam.
He remembered his ears, surprised that he had not paid attention to them sooner.
There were sounds nearby, sounds that did not seem artificial in origin; sounds that reminded him of occasional visitations while he had been growing and learning. Human sounds.
Voices.
He could understand the concept of language. He knew seven thousand, six hundred and forty-one languages, dialects, argots and cants from across the Old Empire. He was not sure how he knew them, and was trying work out into which of them the words he heard could be categorised. There was something of a Pan-Sannamic lilt to the words, but their expression was harshly pronounced. He could not identify the particular sub-strand of the idiom, but it was not so great that he could not form a cognitive appreciation. In short, he decided what they were speaking and listened in.
‘Near four hundred dead, at least.’
‘Four hundred less mouths to feed,’ said another voice. ‘Least, that’s the way they’ll see it.’
‘These arc-drills are not meant for icework,’ said another. ‘This was bound to happen.’
‘Quit gossiping and start digging!’ This was spat, filled with false authority. He could hear the trembling beneath the vehemence, the edge of fear that lurked in the speaker’s subconscious.
There came a high-pitched whining, and a flickering red light shone through the tiny gap while the rock started to vibrate fractionally more.
He waited, apprehensive but intrigued.
The laser drill crept closer and closer. Rock splintered and light flooded in as the chamber was breached. He took in the scene in an instant. A crowd of humans dressed in shabby blue overalls, seven male and three female, were directing the laser, five of them steering its head, another five on the tracked cart behind. Their age was indeterminate, obliterated by obvious signs of malnourishment and hard labour. Creased, leathery skin, cracked lips and sunken eyes gave them all an aged appearance that was probably beyond their chronological existence.
There was also a child with them. A female infant, clinging to the leg of one of the women riding on the traction cart that propelled the drillhead. She had long blonde hair and a narrow face with large lips and bright blue eyes. She seemed very thin, as fragile as an icicle. She was covered in rock dust like all of the others, but had smeared it away from her forehead with a wipe of her hand, revealing skin that was unhealthily pale.
Every one of them had ceased working and was now staring at him. He swiftly concluded that they had not intended to find him, and he wondered why his presence here was a surprise. It was another vexing question.
‘What’s stopping you?’ Another male, bigger built and better fed than the others, stepped from behind the mining cart. He wore trousers and a jacket of dark blue, covered with a film of dust. His feet were booted, the thick footwear capped with metal at toe and heel. His face was concealed behind the tinted visor of a helmet, and in his hand he carried a whip whose handle was heavy enough to serve as a cudgel. The man stopped in his tracks as he also saw what was in the pocket chamber that had been breached. ‘How the…?’
The adults, the ones in the coveralls with the tools, started jabbering amongst themselves, almost too fast for him to understand. The one with the whip, the one with the false authority in his voice, pushed to the front. The small girl had dropped down from the cart and was walking through the breach into the chamber.
‘Get back,’ said the uniformed man, snatching hold of the girl’s hair to drag her from the gap.
He decided he did not like the man with the whip. The girl’s shriek was full of pain and fear, cutting through his thoughts like a hot knife touching a nerve.
He stood up and walked towards the group. They backed away from him, still whispering and muttering in fear. The man who had hurt the girl stood his ground, pushing the infant aside. The man lunged forwards to grab him, but he moved so slowly it was easy to avoid the outstretching hand. The boy nimbly stepped around the flailing grasp of the guard and grabbed the wrist in both hands. It snapped easily, bringing a howl of pain from the man.
The bullying man reared up as his shattered hand flopped loosely at the end of his arm, bringing back the whip in the other. The barbed tip of the lash cracked forwards, but it was a simple enough matter to elude it and snatch up the end of the whip in his fist. The man laughed, partly in hysteria, and yanked, trying to unbalance him. The boy spread his legs and held firm, jarring the guard’s arm, before pulling back. Rather than release his grip, the guard was hauled from his feet, landing face first in the dust and rocks in front of the others.
Pacing forwards, the boy saw the look of surprise, terror and hope in the eyes of the workers. The little girl smiled at him, even as tears streaked the grime on her face. He wanted to make her happy, to give her something as a sign that everything would be all right.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked. ‘Mine is Nasturi. Nasturi Ephrenia.’
He grabbed the helmeted head of the guard, twisted and gave a pull, ripping it free. He offered it up to the girl, who laughed even as the adults started to cry out in panic. He saw himself reflected in the visor and realised the reason for the alarm he had caused.
He was nude, and clothed in the body of a child no older than Ephrenia. Blood was spattered across his snow-white skin, his crimson-splashed face framed with a shock of coal-black hair. His eyes were utterly black, darker than night.
He searched for an answer to the girl’s question as blood dribbled down his naked arms. Only one reply seemed appropriate, drawn up from the depths of embryonic memory.
‘Nineteen,’ he said. ‘I am number Nineteen.’
‘NOTHING DETECTED, LORD,’ Ephrenia reported. ‘A little background echo on the Therion frequencies, but nothing less than five days old.’
‘Enemy?’ asked Corax, one hand gripping the back of the command throne.
‘Six more frigate-sized vessels detected, lord,’ reported Ephrenia. ‘Two strike cruisers and one battle cruiser. All using Word Bearers protocols as far as we can determine. They are moving out-system.’
‘It’s too dangerous to remain here,’ Agapito said from the gallery. ‘That makes it thirty-eight vessels detected in proximity to Isstvan IV.’
‘The Therions are gone,’ said Solaro.
‘I have to concur.’ Valerius’s voice was quiet, his face pinched with emotion. He darted a sideways glance at Branne and then returned his gaze to t
he primarch. ‘I hope their sacrifice will be remembered. I will provide a list of ranks and names when we have returned to Deliverance.’
‘They will be lauded, have no worry in that regard,’ Corax assured him. The primarch’s dark eyes glittered in the glow of the screens that covered the walls and station panels of the strategium. ‘Their loss will not go unremembered. Nor will it go unavenged.’
‘My thanks, Lord Corax,’ Valerius said with a deep bow.
A dull tone sounded from one of the main speakers.
‘Reactor energy spike, lord,’ said Ephrenia.
‘Reduce scanning array output to navigational,’ the primarch replied quickly. ‘There is nothing more we will find here. Adjust course to shortest route to translation distance, evasion pattern three.’
The black- and white-clad serfs moved to their control stations without word and within a minute the warning tone fell quiet.
‘Augur sweeps being targeted to our vicinity, lord,’ said Ephrenia, her words quick but calm. ‘Three frigates have changed bearing, moving ahead of our position. Monitoring increase in closed communications traffic.’
‘The traitors smell something amiss,’ said Corax. He strode across the strategium to join the controller and looked at the display screens. ‘Keep to plotted course. Reflex shield status?’
Ephrenia consulted a sub-screen before replying.
‘Masking is at ninety-nine point three per cent, lord,’ she told the primarch. ‘Should we slow down?’
Corax performed some quick calculations in his head, factoring the scanner ranges of the enemy vessels and the time required to get away.
‘No change,’ he commanded. ‘A little more speed will serve us better than complete masking. When we are two hundred thousand kilometres from the enemy, increase speed by twenty per cent. We should be at the translation point in seven days.’
The primarch looked again at the displays, seeing in his mind’s eye the dispositions of the enemy fleet. They had quickly thrown up a blockade position around the inner planets, correctly expecting him to have headed in-system rather than directly out of the star’s gravity well. Corax reminded himself that his enemies were commanded by Horus, one of the greatest strategists of the Imperium.
His traitorous brother knew well the capabilities of the Raven Guard, having benefited greatly from their expertise during his campaigns. They would have to be careful and take nothing for granted. The Raven Guard might have been pulled from the trap on Isstvan V, but they were still far from safe.
IN A DARKENED chamber close to the strategium of the Vengeful Spirit, a meeting was being held. The room was large, big enough for several dozen occupants to be seated, the light of the single great lantern hanging from the centre of the ceiling barely reaching the banner-hung walls. A few data stations blinked with ruddy lights on the far wall, beneath an embroidered standard depicting the Eye of Horus in gold on burgundy. The floor was plain plasteel mesh, scuffed to a dull grey by the countless footfalls of booted feet.
As the door closed behind Alpharius, the primarch’s eyes instantly adjusted to the gloom. The space seemed cavernous, occupied by only three others. Alpharius was surprised; he had been expecting several of his brother primarchs to be attending the council. As he stepped forwards he realised that this was not a war council, it was an impromptu interrogation. Perhaps even a trial.
The thought did not sit comfortably with him as he regarded the chambers’ other occupants with what he hoped was an impassive expression. Alpharius knew that he tested the patience of the Warmaster, and here at the heart of his lair there was no telling what he might do.
Horus, Warmaster, Primarch of the Luna Wolves – the Sons of Horus, Alpharius corrected himself – sat on a broad, high-backed throne, robed in heavy black and purple, hands on his knees. His face was heavily shadowed, eyes hooded with darkness with just a glint at their core. Even seated, the Warmaster’s presence dominated the room. Alpharius had spent time with Horus before – when loyal to the Emperor and since – and never before had he felt threatened. This time was different. Horus seemed bigger than ever.
Alpharius was the smallest of the primarchs, but had not allowed this to undermine his confidence. Now that he looked at Horus, tree-trunk-thick arms stretching the fabric of his robes, Alpharius realised that his fellow primarch could crush him, tear him limb from limb, without warning.
Their relationship had changed, that much was clear. The primarchs had once been brothers, equals. When Horus had been made Warmaster he had been treated as the first amongst equals. Looking at Horus now, Alpharius was left with no doubt that Horus considered himself master, a lord to whom fealty was owed. The obedience of his co-conspirators was no longer demanded, it was expected.
There was also no mistaking the Warmaster’s perception of his role in the coming meeting. He was the judge at a trial. His eyes remained fixed on Alpharius as the primarch walked to the centre of the room. The gloomy surrounds, the half-lit shapes at the edge of vision, were a crude trick, Alpharius told himself, only capable of intimidating lesser individuals. For all that, the primarch of the Alpha Legion felt a cold trickle of uncertainty creeping through his gut.
At the Warmaster’s right shoulder stood First Captain Abaddon, fully armoured and with a power sword at his hip. He had a look that matched his reputation: his hard eyes were those of a stone-hearted killer. At the Warmaster’s left was the Word Bearer Erebus, his armour painted a lavish crimson, adorned with golden sigils and hung with fluttering pieces of parchment covered with tiny scrawls of Lorgar’s meandering litanies. The Word Bearer leaned closer and whispered something in Horus’s ear, so quiet even Alpharius’s superhuman hearing could not detect it. The Warmaster looked sharply at the primarch of the Alpha Legion, eyes narrowing.
‘It would be unwise to take my name in vain, Alpharius,’ said Horus, fingers tightening with anger. ‘You claimed my authority and misled Angron and his World Eaters, allowing Corax and his Legion to escape.’
‘Perhaps your conversion to our cause is less than complete,’ added Erebus, before Alpharius could reply.
The Alpha Legion’s primarch held his tongue for the moment, quickly adjusting his demeanour in the face of Horus’s hostility. He stood in front of the Warmaster, helm under one arm, head bowed in obeisance, the picture of the diffident servant.
Abaddon put his hand to the hilt of his sword and growled.
‘Your duplicitous nature is well known,’ said the captain, teeth bared in anger. ‘The Warmaster saw fit to bring you into the light of his plans, I hope you have not made a mockery of his fair judgement.’
‘I seek to place Horus on the throne of Terra, the same as you,’ replied Alpharius, lowering to one knee in deference. It was an instinctive reaction, though such submission grated at the primarch’s pride. ‘If I acted out of turn it is only because circumstance forced me to make a decision quickly.’
‘I have not yet heard an explanation for your actions,’ said Horus.
The Warmaster’s gaze was piercing, as if trying to bore into the primarch’s mind to see his thoughts. Alpharius matched the stare without fear. Horus knew nothing of the Alpha Legion’s true aims. If he had any inkling of the part made out for him by the Cabal, Alpharius would already be dead. ‘I consider it a grave crime to usurp my authority, a crime compounded by the severity of the consequences.’
‘The Raven Guard have not yet been apprehended,’ said Erebus, a sneer twisting his lips. ‘Though but a shadow of their former strength, it was foolish to allow them to escape.’
‘You must trust me,’ said Alpharius, ignoring the two legionaries, his attention focused on his brother primarch. It was the Warmaster’s will, or whim, that needed to be swayed to Alpharius’s cause. ‘The military potential of the Raven Guard has been expended, they are no physical threat. Their survival, Corax’s escape, will play a greater role in this war we have unleashed.’
‘Will it?’ Abaddon spat the words, his scorn etched into the
creases in his brow. ‘What greater role?’
Alpharius kept his gaze on the Warmaster, noting that his displeasure did not seem so deep. It was clear that he did not have Horus’s full trust, but Alpharius did not care for that. His brothers had always been wary of the Alpha Legion, always suspicious of their methods, if not their motives. Horus was no different. He had consistently underestimated the power of subterfuge, eschewing the subtler weapons of espionage and misdirection in favour of overt action. Alpharius had not answered the Warmaster’s summons to excuse his actions, he had come to persuade Horus of their merit. That he could do so without the interference of the other Legion commanders was an advantage.
‘The Alpha Legion have infiltrated the Raven Guard,’ Alpharius said bluntly.
He saw Horus’s eyes widen slightly with surprise, and suppressed an expression of pleasure at the Warmaster’s nonplussed moment. Far from an admission of guilt, it was a declaration of strength; the unveiling of a weapon that the Alpha Legion kept hidden.
Alpharius could see the calculation behind the Warmaster’s eyes. If the Alpha Legion could infiltrate the Raven Guard, they could have done the same to any Legion. The Warmaster cocked his head to one side, momentarily perturbed, his eyes flicking away from Alpharius for the first time since he had entered, glancing at Abaddon.
‘To what purpose?’ asked Horus, recovering his composure, his stare returning to its previous intensity. ‘Had they been destroyed, what would be the point of spying on corpses?’
‘You allowed Corax to get away from the World Eaters to protect your operatives.’ Erebus levelled the accusation with a pointed finger, pushing Alpharius’s patience beyond its limit.
‘I am a primarch, genetor of the Alpha Legion, and you will show me due respect!’ snapped Alpharius, standing up.
He took two steps towards Erebus, eyes glittering. Abaddon moved to intercept him, half-drawing his blade.