by Gav Thorpe
+That is not what we agreed. I insist that you remember our agreement. The device and the Raven Guard will be destroyed. The plan must continue.+
‘I think not,’ said Alpharius. ‘Already my twin brother Omegon is on Kiavahr, the world around which Deliverance orbits. We have allies amongst the people there, old foes of Corax who do not like their new Mechanicum masters and who strive for independence from the Imperium. Rest assured, the Raven Guard will be destroyed, but not before Omegon claims this prize for the Alpha Legion.’
The alien’s words came out as a flutter of untranslatable mechanical shrieks, and its globe bobbed up and down in agitation, the gas roiling within.
‘Settle yourself,’ said Alpharius with a laugh. ‘We wouldn’t want you to break on something, would we?’
+Your dishonesty will be communicated to the Cabal.+
‘When I have the prize in my hands, and Horus is one step closer to overthrowing the Emperor, we shall see if the Cabal disapproves of my actions,’ said Alpharius as he stepped out of the bunk chamber. ‘Until then, you can keep your opinions to yourself.’
He hit the lock switch on the bedroom door, cutting off Athithirtir’s enraged metallic screech.
Everything had been set in motion, and now came the hardest part: waiting. Waiting for his counterpart on Kiavahr, his twin Omegon, to make contact with the anti-Imperial forces on the forge-world; waiting for his operatives within the Raven Guard to make themselves known to Omegon.
Alpharius sat on one of the couches, elbows on knees, fingers steepled at his chin, as his mind went over the plan as it stood. With Horus now set up to play his part, there was nothing to interfere with the smooth enactment of the Alpha Legion’s scheme. Everything would pan out as Alpharius had envisaged.
THREE
A Traitor in the Midst
Blacklight
Corax Makes a Speech
‘PICKET SHIPS DETECTED.’ Ephrenia’s announcement stilled the activity on the strategium.
‘Three destroyers, overlapping sensor sweeps, detecting plasma trails of three more vessels, probably light cruiser class,’ she continued.
The Avenger was only two days from reaching translation point, far enough away from the gravitic pull of Isstvan’s star to make a safe warp jump. For the last three days the net thrown up by the traitor ships had been closing in, but this was the closest they had come, only a few hundred thousand kilometres away.
Corax glanced at a screen in the arm of the command throne, showing the relative positions of the vessels. In a moment he had assessed their trajectories and the coverage of the scanner sweeps.
‘Too close to alter course,’ he declared. ‘We will have to make a dash for the translation point. Shut down all auxiliary systems, impose blacklight protocols, divert power savings to the engines.’
A series of affirmatives chorused from the assembled staff and legionaries. The primarch turned his attention to Commander Branne.
‘I want you and Agapito to make a stern-to-prow inspection. Ensure all support systems are at minimal output. Pass the word to Solaro and Aloni to enforce the blacklight protocols.’ The primarch raised his voice. ‘I want full energy balance in ten minutes, no later.’
‘Aye, lord, I’ll see to it,’ replied Branne.
‘Detecting launch, Lord Corax,’ said Ephrenia. ‘Picket ships are firing torpedoes, wide dispersal.’
‘Direction?’ snapped Corax, returning to his place behind the command throne, eyes fixed to the small data screen.
‘Crossing pattern,’ Ephrenia replied. ‘Even at our increased speed they will pass ahead of us.’
‘Clever bastards,’ muttered Branne from behind the primarch. ‘Hoping to get lucky with blind firing.’
‘Save three per cent of energy output for manoeuvring, just in case,’ said Corax. ‘All personnel to attend to battle stations.’
‘Weapons, Lord Corax?’ asked Ephrenia. Her expression was as calm as ever, but the primarch detected the slightest hint of tension in her voice. ‘Shall we reserve any output for the weapons batteries?’
‘No,’ replied the primarch after a moment’s thought. ‘We won’t be able to fight our way out of this one if we are discovered.’
‘And the void shield transformers, Lord Corax? Shall I have them running on standby?’
‘No,’ Corax said. ‘All power to reflex shields and engines, nothing else. If they hit us, it will be too late anyway.’
Taking the shield transformers offline would add almost four minutes to the time required for the reflex shields to revert to defensive void shields; extra minutes during which untold damage might be incurred by the Avenger. For the first time since he had come aboard, Corax noticed hesitation in the controller. It lasted only a heartbeat before Ephrenia nodded and turned to the task at hand. He heard the doors opening and glanced over his shoulder to see Branne departing on his inspection.
He checked the display again. They were two hundred and fifty thousand kilometres from the Traitor picket. Seven more vessels had been picked up by the low-band sensor screen, creating three layers of defence between the battle-barge and the safe translation point. If there was even a momentary blip in the reflex shields, or one of the torpedoes caught the Avenger in its blast, the primarch’s ship would quickly find itself surrounded by enemies.
He could not outpace his foes and he could not outfight them. Corax’s only option was to hold his nerve and stay focused on evading detection. It was something he had been good at since he was a boy, and he was not going to start making rash decisions now.
BLACKLIGHT PROTOCOLS MEANT the complete shutdown of all non-essential systems. One by one, life support, lighting, heating and other environmental systems powered down to their minimum levels; just enough for the human crew to survive. Even the artificial gravity was lessened to one-half Terran normal, freeing up valuable power for the plasma drives.
In the busy transport compartments in the depths of the hold, nearly fifteen hundred legionaries were packed together as darkness descended. The battle-barge had been designed to carry a fraction of that number.
Space had been made in storage holds, weapon bays, and amongst the gantries and decks of the engine rooms. Squads had found room in maintenance crawlways and in stairwells, and several dozen elevator and conveyor shafts had been decommissioned to provide even more space. Even with such measures, the warriors of the Raven Guard had little freedom of movement. Only the main access corridors had been kept clear, to allow runners easy access between the strategium and other essential stations.
Amongst the throng, Alpharius watched the lights dimming and then going out. Of course, he was not the Alpharius, but by some clever mind-programming and a little psychic intervention by the Legion’s Librarius, he had chosen to forget his real name. To all intents and purposes, he now was Alpharius.
And he was a little concerned. He sat with his adopted squad on a gangway above the plasma reactors, clad in his armour. Environment warning sigils lit up in his display as the air thinned and gravity lessened. Without thought he gave a sub-vocal command to power up the auto-senses of his helmet.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
Alpharius turned his head as Command Aloni’s voice rang along the gantry. He realised the captain was talking to him.
‘You know what blacklight means,’ continued Aloni. ‘Power to minimal. Do you realise what kind of energy signature one and a half thousand power armoured legionaries are going to give off? Everybody pay attention! Everything is to be set to minimum output, lowest cycle. Rebreathing, moisture recycling, locomotion. Everything. No communications, no external address, no movement.’
Nodding his compliance, Alpharius powered down his suit, becoming an immobile statue of ceramite, plasteel and adamantium. His secondary heart began to beat, compensating for the lower temperature outside, and his multi-lung inflated, enabling him to cope with air that had not been properly recycled.
Around him the others were do
ing the same. Here, out by the reactors, all life support was being withdrawn, leaving each legionary cocooned within his own personal environment. Artificial night descended, broken only by the wink of illuminated gauges and monitor lights on the twin reactors fifty metres below the walkway. Moisture began to ice over the armour of the legionaries, thin trails of vapour dribbling from face masks and backpack exhaust vents.
Locked inside his suit, Alpharius realised how precarious his position was. Discovery was not an immediate problem. What with the reorganisation of the Legion, and the general unwillingness of the others to discuss what had happened on Isstvan, it had been simple enough to take up his new role.
His face was still sore from the grafting surgery, particularly where the implanted flesh of his new face met his original skin at the base of his neck and around his throat. The bone beneath had been remoulded and ached, while tendons and muscles that had been shortened or lengthened felt raw beneath his stolen skin.
Alpharius swallowed, remembering where the body had been found, no more than five minutes dead, leg blasted off by a Whirlwind rocket, spine snapped across a ridge of rock. The Apothecaries had acted as quickly as possible. For decades the Alpha Legion had striven to look alike, modelling themselves on their primarch, glorying in their anonymity. To have black hair, to have distinctive features and eyes that were a pale green, was a new sensation for him.
And the memories lurked inside his mind too. He knew a little about the legionary whose persona he had taken. He had taken in the meat of the fallen Raven Guard, allowing his omophagea to dissect and absorb the information about his prey. Bolstered by the abilities of the Librarians – abilities forbidden by the Decree at Nikaea but still widely practised by the Alpha Legion – he had gathered what fragments he could of the dead legionary’s life.
He could feel them, flashes of images, snippets of conversation. More than that, Alpharius could feel how his new persona had felt. He had been proud, a veteran of the Lycaeus uprising, and had earned distinction with the Raven Guard since they had been united with their primarch.
The memories itched as well, jarring inside his thoughts, confusing him occasionally. Over the time he had spent fleeing across Isstvan V with his new comrades, he had learned their names and faces and the way they fought. The most fraught time had been the first few days, when commands had been issued in code-phrases, and formations called out in battle-lingua that he did not know, a language evolved on Deliverance that he had not grown up with. Yet he had been picked for this mission because of his gift with languages, his quick mind and his instinct for adaptation. His deficiencies had been covered by the efficiency and cohesion of the Raven Guard themselves and soon he had managed to blend in during the hit-and-run attacks, avoiding the suspicion of his squad comrades as well as the deadly attention of those pursuing the Raven Guard.
All of that seemed to be poised on the verge of pointlessness now, as he sat immobile over a reactor that would turn into a small star the moment it was breached, aboard a warship ghosting through an enemy fleet protected by nothing more than a few metres of bonded plasteel and adamantium. One lucky hit and he would be incinerated, along with the rest of those aboard the Avenger.
He did not know how many others of the Alpha Legion had been successful in taking their place; he did not know if he was the only one or if there were dozens of them. It did not matter. For the moment he was alone, and had to act accordingly. He had to do all he could to stay alive, remain undetected, observe Corax and get in touch with Omegon once they returned to Deliverance.
As fervently as he had ever hoped for success, he now hoped for his allies to fail. Whoever it was out there chasing the ship – Word Bearers, Alpha Legion, World Eaters, Sons of Horus, Iron Warriors, Imperial Army – Alpharius wished them every disaster that he could imagine: engine failure, outbreaks of disease, weapons malfunction, anything that would stop that one lucky hit from eradicating his existence. He was prepared to give his life for his primarch and his Legion, but not this way, not without a foe to fight and a mission to protect.
It would be such a pointless way to die, he thought, as the sound of a detonation echoed dully through the hull.
‘NOVA CANNON SHELL,’ reported Ephrenia. ‘Six thousand kilometres, starboard bow.’
Corax did not react immediately. Two cruisers had joined the destroyers, the growing enemy flotilla saturating the intervening gulf of space with torpedoes, missiles and plasma blasts in an attempt to catch the Avenger in a blanket of fire. It was not a particularly effective tactic. The volume of void they were trying to cover was vast and they were trying to get very lucky, or frighten Corax into an act that would betray his location.
That the Traitors knew the battle-barge was in their vicinity was beyond doubt, but the question that now concerned Corax was whether they knew any more than that. The nova cannon detonation had not been so close as to convince him it had been deliberately aimed at the Avenger, but neither had the margin of the miss been enough that it was outside the normal margin of error for such a long-ranged shot. Could he afford to wait for a second plasma explosion to prove things one way or the other?
‘Decline by fifty thousand metres, three degrees starboard,’ he snapped to the men at the helm controls.
‘Navigational shields absorbing plasma residuals and debris,’ announced another crewman. ‘Nearing reflex shield tolerance levels.’
Corax gritted his teeth. The low-power navigational shields were usually in place to ward away micro-asteroids and other space-borne debris, but now the nova cannon blast was swamping them with more than they were intended to handle. If he increased power to prevent any of the shockwave reaching the Avenger, the energy spike would reveal their position.
‘Ride it,’ he said, as the ship started shuddering around him. ‘Implement previous order.’
The battle-barge made best use of the space available, using all three dimensions to change course away from the point at which the nova cannon had been targeted. It was not an eventuality Corax had expected – the nova cannon was still considered highly experimental by most Imperial forces, and few commanders would allow one to be mounted on their vessel.
‘Can you calculate the launching vessel?’ he asked Ephrenia.
‘Just detecting a third line-class ship, Lord Corax,’ the strategium controller replied. ‘Probably a grand cruiser. Approaching from almost directly astern, broadcasting Iron Warriors identifiers.’
‘Typical,’ Corax whispered. Give one of Perturabo’s captains the chance to mount a bigger gun and he would snatch your hand off to take it.
‘Detecting another nova cannon launch,’ warned Ephrenia.
In her worry, she had forgotten his title, something the primarch had thought impossible. Corax noticed her face paling and the knuckles of her thin hands whitening, supporting callipers flexing, as she grabbed the edge of the display console, expecting an impact. There was no way a warning could be given to the crew without giving away the battle-barge’s position, and if the nova cannon scored an unlikely direct hit, no amount of bracing and preparation would save lives.
‘Passing to port, fifteen thousand kilometres and increasing, Lord Corax,’ Ephrenia said, smiling slightly and relaxing her grip. ‘Detonation detected. Seventy thousand kilometres away.’
‘It is safe to assume the fire is random. Set in a course for closest translation point.’
Corax had noted the two separate detonation points and filed them away in his memory. It seemed likely the Iron Warriors were using a firing formula to calculate their target points. Three or four more detonations would allow Corax to calculate the formula in retrospect and take appropriate action to decrease the odds of another close call. Other than that, there was nothing else to do except continue to hope for the best.
THE AVENGER CONTINUED on, dipping and rising, zigzagging its way towards the translation point, cutting an elusive path through the net of Traitor ships. At times Corax headed directly towards the enemy
, passing within ten thousand kilometres of battle cruisers and frigates, trusting the reflex shields to mask any emission that would betray their presence.
The cordon tightened, the glimmers on the traitors’ scanner displays drawing in more and more vessels, chasing ghost returns that were little more than fuzzy mirages against the backdrop energy haze of the universe.
Sitting in the darkness of his requisitioned command chamber, Corax felt the change in vibrations that signalled another course alteration. They were less than half a day from the translation point. It was tempting to make the warp jump now and take the risk of gravimetric interference, but he stayed patient.
There had been some close calls: torpedoes unleashing their warheads a few thousand kilometres from the Avenger, last moment changes in direction to avoid enemy scans, nova cannon detonations that had pushed the navigational shields to the limit, random reactor spikes that had brought the battle-barge to a virtual halt to compensate for the energy flare-ups.
The primarch had taken all of this without a moment’s fear. There was no room for error, but there was also no room for uncertainty. His situation was very stark: escape and survive or be detected and destroyed. Such extremes made clarity simple, and drove away other thoughts that might have clouded his judgement.
For the moment they were exploiting a small break in the traitor cordon and had had several hours of unopposed travel. Blacklight protocol was still in full operation, and so Corax sat at the large command console staring at the blank screens and dead displays, his eyes picking out the details of the room in the smallest glow from blinking red standby lights and the gleam from the doorway leading to the strategium.
He was used to waiting.
Over long years, he had learned the lessons of patience, of precise timing. During hundreds of battles he had known the moment to act and the moment to pause, and had known victory every time because of those decisions.
The massacre at the dropsite had caught him off-guard. It troubled the primarch that he had perceived nothing of the traitorous intent of his fellow Legion commanders. Sitting in the dark, alone with his thoughts, he wondered if he had been blinded to their treachery by some weakness in himself. Had he been too trusting? Ignored subtle signs of his brothers’ intent? Been over-confident?