Deliverance Lost

by Gav Thorpe

  Omegon had little interest in the freeing of Kiavahr from the Emperor’s clutches, except insomuch as it would inconvenience his enemies and prove to be the downfall of Corax. Though the Kiavahrans measured themselves amongst the highest in terms of technical accomplishment, they were in truth of only average ability and output in comparison to many of the Mechanicum’s forge-worlds. The primarch was ever quick to further inflate the bloated self-esteem of the tech-guilders though, and with promises and veiled assertions he had led them to believe that once they had thrown off the yoke of Imperial tyranny – he had used that phrase so often of late – the Kiavahrans would be the equal of Mars.

  Sitting beneath a scalding hot pipe, nestled between a reactor feed core and a colossal drive shaft, Omegon opened up a tripod on the bare floor in front of him and set upon it a small communications device about the size of his fist.

  He keyed in a sequence of frequency ciphers from memory – cracking the security protocols of the Mechanicum’s on-world communications network had taken him five whole days of calculations – and began to set up the signal. He routed the transmission through fifteen different sub-stations, bounced the carrier wave from two orbiting stations, established three dead-end backtrace locations, including one on Deliverance for his own amusement, and finally entered his personal command code check.

  As Omegon worked, he felt a measure of contentment. While he had no preference regarding the existence or extinction of Corax and his Legion in themselves, their removal, and the securing of the Terran tech which the Cabal had assured they would come in possession of, would be a step closer towards achieving the aim of the twin primarchs. If Horus were to be given the greatest chance of success, the Emperor had to be isolated. In their death, the Raven Guard would provide further means for that to be accomplished.

  Satisfied that only the most diligent search would indicate he was hijacking the constant datastream that criss-crossed the Mechanicum’s new estate, Omegon finally punched in the frequency address of Iyadine Nethri, his contact within the White Iron guild.

  The communicator crackled for a while and then an affirmative beep told the primarch that the connection had been established. His eyes went to the small schematic readout on the front of the communicator, assuring himself that the transmission was free from monitoring. He pressed the acceptance key.

  ‘Councillor Effrit, I was expecting contact earlier.’ Nethri’s voice was muffled from the many layers of compression and encryption through which the transmission was being squeezed. ‘I hope that nothing is amiss.’

  ‘All is well,’ replied Omegon. His voice as it would emerge at the other end of the line would be nothing like his own, modulated and warped several times over to eradicate any trace of his identity. ‘I had to confirm certain orders and agreements.’

  Omegon had not had to do any such thing, but was masquerading as an intermediary rather than the orchestrator of this particular coup-in-waiting.

  ‘We are ready to make our report to the revolutionary council,’ said Nethri.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Omegon, smiling. He had created three different cells, one for each of the guilds already sworn to his cause, and while he waited, intelligence from the Alpha Legionnaires hidden in the Raven Guard had sent them on all manner of inconsequential missions and information-gathering expeditions. It was good to keep them occupied and distracted, and also necessary to test their competence and security procedures. So far his operatives had done well, and the Kiavahran authorities had no reason to suspect anything was wrong with their world.

  ‘The storage bays at Pharsalika have been emptied of their usual promethium consignments. We are investigating to what purpose. Coldron Diaminex has been promoted to Vice-Regent of the Augmetical Society. He was one of the most vocal political opponents of the Imperium before compliance.’

  Omegon continued to listen as more pointless trivia was rambled out to him by Nethri, until one particular piece of information piqued his curiosity.

  ‘Please repeat that last section,’ he said.

  ‘Output from manufactorum thirty-eight has been re-routed to manufactorum twenty-six, councillor,’ Nethri said again.

  ‘Confirmed,’ said Omegon. Manufactorum thirty-eight had been employed since the coming of the Raven Guard in the construction of power armour energy conduits. That the factory had ceased production was intriguing, and ran counter to Omegon’s expectation. He would have thought that all elements of armour production would have increased since the massacre, but the opposite was proving true. For the last eighteen days, production was being scaled down.

  ‘Any reason given as to why this has happened?’ he asked.

  ‘We are not sure, councillor. There has been an increase in astrotelepathic traffic through the Cortex Spire, and I have heard gossip that a new armour design is being awaited.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Omegon. He checked the passive interference monitor again. There was still no sign the transmission had been detected. The primarch could not bring himself to listen to the rest of the agent’s interminable report and so asked for the only piece of information he considered pertinent. ‘What news of the Raven Guard? Is there any sign of Corax?’

  ‘There is no news concerning the usurper, councillor,’ replied Nethri. ‘Current reports show only those ships and personnel previously communicated to you. We have not heard of anything that would suggest when, or if, he intends or is able to return.’

  ‘Very well. Please submit the rest of your report by standard data packet. Ending transmission.’

  He cut the link and set about dismantling the maze of communications loops and checks he had erected. While he did this, he used his Legion transmitter to contact Verson. The operative answered within moments.

  ‘We need an operative inside manufactorum thirty-eight,’ he said.

  ‘Understood,’ replied Verson. ‘I’ll have someone in place by moonfall.’

  There was no need to say anything further and the communicator buzzed and fell silent.

  Having completed his shut-down, Omegon dismantled the communicator and stowed it in a hip-sack that he slung onto his belt as he stood. He wore the red robes of a Mechanicum acolyte, and put on a silver and pearl mask to conceal his face before pulling up the gold-trimmed hood. Amongst a populace that contained vat-grown slaves, half-machine servitors and the augmetically-enchanced, Omegon’s size would not be worthy of remark. Even so, when forced to move openly, he travelled only during the ’tween-shift hours and through the areas of least traffic. It was better to be certain than sorry.

  It was time to quit his uncomfortable environs and move on to the next safe area. Two days was long enough to be staying in one place. He already had his next location in mind.

  SEVEN

  Servant of Terra

  To the Mountain

  Hold Fire

  MARCUS VALERIUS BLINKED hard, his thoughts clouded with a vision of a golden panorama and the echoes of a resonant voice whose words he could not quite understand. His temples throbbed painfully and his eyes ached for some reason he could not fathom. The voice in the praefector’s head changed, becoming more mundane and insistent, close at hand.

  ‘Are you all right, praefector?’

  Blinking again, Valerius focused on the man in front of him. It was Pelon. After-images of golden eyes faded from memory, replaced by the manservant’s plain features.

  ‘Yes, I am fine,’ said Marcus, rubbing his brow with his knuckles. He turned and looked out of the metres-thick plasglass at the ship tethered alongside the viewing gallery.

  His strange daydream becoming more unreal with each passing second, Marcus felt a moment of pride as he looked at the Servant of Terra III, lit by the dock lights against the shadowed orb of Terra. His new command, it was nothing more than a messenger cutter, smaller than a destroyer, but still large enough to boast a warp-capable engine. His requisition had been fast-tracked through the station’s official channels, countersigned by Corax himself, and
the refitted cutter had been found to take him back to Therion.

  ‘The shuttle will be here in five minutes, praefector,’ said Pelon.

  Valerius turned his head and saw his manservant being followed by a motorised trolley, steered by the half-form of a servitor. Several chests and bags were piled on the bed of the trolley.

  ‘Is all of that mine?’ said Valerius, startled by the amount of luggage. ‘We have a cutter, not a bulk hauler!’

  ‘Most of it is supplies I have managed to acquire whilst on the station, praefector,’ confessed Pelon. The trolley whined to a stop beside Valerius. ‘I spoke with one of the crew of the Namedian Star, which arrived this morning. The warp storms have been continuing. I thought it better to prepare for a long journey. Even before the storms, it would have taken us forty days or more to reach Therion.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Marcus. His sigh made a lie of the words.

  ‘What is wrong, praefector?’ Pelon shot an accusing glance at the baggage. ‘Have I forgotten something?’

  ‘Not at all, Pelon. Your attention to your duties, as ever, is nothing less than absolute.’ Valerius glanced up and down the gallery and saw they were alone. He felt an odd sensation of anti-climax. His visit to Terra had been short and uneventful, his time taken up with administrative work concerning the loss of his regiment. ‘I must admit to mixed feelings about our return to Therion. My command has been destroyed and I return in ignominy.’

  ‘Far from it, praefector,’ replied Pelon. He rummaged through the bags and produced a small silver flask and cup. The manservant poured a measure of dark red liquid from the flask and handed it to Valerius. ‘If not for you, the Raven Guard would have been wiped out.’

  ‘But nobody can know that, or at least my part it in,’ said Valerius, keeping his voice hushed. ‘Branne was right, the dreams that led to our rescue attempt will be viewed with suspicion.’

  ‘Then it is with admirable humility that you must bear the secret, praefector,’ said Pelon. ‘It was not to further your own fame that you went to Isstvan.’

  ‘They’ll strip me of my praefecture, Pelon,’ said Valerius, with another deep sigh. ‘I would not blame them. I have proven myself a less than competent commander.’

  ‘Again, I think your modesty does you injustice, praefector. The sacrifice of your command was a terrible but necessary thing to do. Had Commander Branne not insisted on your staying on the Avenger, I am sure you would have proudly led the diversionary attack in person. To preserve life when its sacrifice is required is worthy, praefector, but wrong. You showed your merits in making that difficult decision.’

  ‘That is true.’ Valerius was heartened a little by his servant’s assurance, though doubts lingered still. Past his reflection in the window, he saw a glimmer of light from a shuttle’s engines emerging from the hull of his new ship. He turned to Pelon. ‘You have the air of a philosopher about you, Pelon. Where did you learn such a thing?’

  ‘A life below and between the decks of a warship, praefector,’ Pelon said with a sly smile. ‘There’s enough personalities and merchantry going on there to give any man a sound understanding of politics and trade. Though I wouldn’t be expecting an Imperial governorship any time soon.’

  ‘Where is this shuttle picking us up?’

  ‘Bay fourteen, praefector,’ said Pelon. He said something to the driver-servitor and the trolley wheeled around on its thickly tyred wheels. ‘Follow me.’

  Valerius took another look at the starship, and wondered if it would be the last thing he ever commanded. He took a deep breath, straightened the blood-red sash across his body and stepped out after his servant, determined to make a good first impression on his new crew. It might be his last command, but that was no excuse to make it a bad one.

  IN A SECLUDED valley a few kilometres from the mountain keep where Corax had met with Malcador and Dorn, three ornithopters and two bulk-lifters waited on the main apron of the terminus. Sleeting rain drenched their metal hulls and formed small lakes on the wide circle of black asphalt. Distant thunder rumbled, adding to the noise of idling engines and the tramp and splash of booted feet.

  The wind whipped Corax’s hair across his face and drove the icy rain hard against his skin, but he did not flinch from the elements. Being raised in the claustrophobic confines of Lycaeus, he relished the outdoors, whether sun or snow, night or day. To breathe air under an open sky – even air as tainted as that of Terra –was a luxury the primarch had only dreamed of during his early years.

  His Raven Guard filed quickly onto the transports, accompanied by long lines of servitors carrying weapons and equipment for the expedition. The Emperor had not been more forthcoming about the defences that protected the ancient gene-tech and so Corax had prepared for all eventualities.

  Alongside the black armour of his legionaries strode twenty figures of gold: Legio Custodes led by Arcatus. Malcador had said they were assigned by the Emperor, but Corax wondered if they were not present to keep an eye on the legionaries rather than aid them. Corax had detected a degree of animosity between his Raven Guard and the Custodians, brought about by his legionaries’ forced internment for the last few days. It mattered little to Corax, he was glad of any extra aid that could be offered, and if the Custodian Guard turned out to be a hindrance he could demand that Malcador recall them from the expedition, though whether that demand would be met was less certain.

  A splash of red came into sight: Nexin Orlandriaz. He wore the robes of the Mechanicum, and with him came an entourage of half-machine orderlies and brain-scrubbed servitors. Malcador had assured Corax that the genetor majoris was loyal to Terra, and considered the foremost expert in genetics currently able to assist. The primarch could not process all of the information and memories implanted by the Emperor – it came to him in flashes and starts, nightmarish and fragmented – and was sure the knowledge of Nexin would prove a useful guide in unravelling the secrets of the gene-tech.

  A hydraulic hiss followed by the whine of armour caused Corax to turn towards the door leading from the control tower’s interior. Dorn stepped up to the parapet, now fully armoured in gold and yellow inlaid with obsidian and malachite, his gauntlets ornamented with rubies and black gemstones. Lines of concern furrowed Dorn’s heavy brow.

  ‘You have everything you need?’ asked the Imperial Fists primarch.

  ‘If not, it is too late to worry about it,’ replied Corax. ‘We will adapt.’

  Dorn did not meet Corax’s gaze, but stared out into the distance to where sheets of rain fell on the steel-girdered gantries and black-tiled roof of a half-built gun tower.

  ‘I know that the Emperor has given his permission for this venture, but I cannot allow you to leave without asking you one more time,’ he said. ‘Will you not bring the Legion to Terra?’

  ‘My mind is set,’ said Corax. ‘The Emperor has shown me a way to bring the Raven Guard back into the war, in a way that suits us all.’

  ‘I don’t know what it is you are after and, unlike you, I know better than to ask,’ said Dorn. ‘I trust the Emperor to know best.’

  ‘That implies that you do not necessarily trust that I do.’

  ‘If the Emperor wills it, I am agreed. I do not have doubts about you, brother. We must forever hold the Emperor’s judgement as the highest there is, or we must wonder if we are nothing more than creations of vanity. He is the Master of Mankind, and he will steer us to Enlightenment.’

  ‘He made us what we are, but I cannot divine his purpose any more,’ said Corax. ‘Do you think we have failed?’

  ‘We conquered the galaxy in his name, brother. We brought humanity into the light from the darkness of Old Night. He created us for that purpose and no other.’

  ‘The Emperor also created Horus and made him Warmaster,’ countered Corax, unsettled by Dorn’s words. ‘He brought the likes of the Night Haunter into his plans.’

  ‘What else could he have done?’ said Dorn. ‘Curze is one of us, though perhaps a victim of circumst
ances none of us can even imagine. I know better than anyone exactly what he is capable of.’

  Corax nodded grimly. ‘The likes of Curze and Angron were broken from the start. You know the ultimate sanction open to the Emperor. He could have–’

  Dorn raised a hand before he could finish. ‘I find your doubts disturbing, brother.’ The wrinkles on his forehead deepened further in annoyance as he gazed across the shuttle port, his fists clenched by his sides. ‘It is still the Emperor’s will that mankind become the masters of the galaxy.’

  ‘And we shall ensure it,’ said Corax. He took hold of Dorn’s arm and guided the Imperial Fist to look at him. ‘I will do nothing to endanger the Imperium, brother. I just have to do this. You have not seen your Legion crushed, not heard the dying cries of thousands of your sons in a few minutes. Understand, brother, that I will do anything to destroy Horus.’

  ‘I can tell that the Emperor showed you something of what I have also glimpsed. This war is greater than Horus. There are eternal powers out in the universe that crave dominion over mankind, that lust to turn humanity into their servants and playthings. Horus is just a figurehead. He must be destroyed, but not at a cost of losing the wider war. There can be no room for pity.’

  ‘I have no pity for the traitors,’ snapped Corax.

  ‘No, it is self-pity that I warn you against,’ Dorn replied calmly. ‘Whether yourself or for others, your pity will be turned against you, and become a weapon of the enemy. You are a primarch, harden yourself to loss and woe. We were born to greatness, but we must endure tragedy.’

  Corax stayed silent. He saw nothing but earnest concern in the face of Dorn, and he nodded, accepting his brother’s wisdom.

  ‘Whatever it is you are looking for, it is not worth risking your life,’ said the Imperial Fist.

  ‘Is that concern I detect?’ said Corax with half a smile. ‘You are becoming sentimental, Rogal.’

  ‘Not at all,’ came the other primarch’s gruff reply. ‘I have few enough allies as it is. To lose another would be inconvenient. You intend to leave as soon as you have retrieved your prize?’