Deliverance Lost

by Gav Thorpe

  As they entered, the ruddy light from outside grew dimmer. Omegon activated his suit lamps, two cones of yellow springing from powerful emitters fixed around his eye lenses. Treading carefully, footfalls muffled by rubber-like overshoes, the three warriors of the Alpha Legion advanced forty metres up the gently sloping pipe, stopping by another barred opening. The barrier was no more obstacle than the first, and within a few seconds, Omegon was stepping through the breach into the room beyond.

  The chamber was hexagonal, the ceiling a little higher than the primarch could reach with his fingertips, the floor coated with a thin layer of chemical effluent fed by inlets on each wall. Looking up, Omegon was pleased to see that Armand Eloqi’s information had been correct: a circular access hatch punctured the centre of the ceiling. The building had once belonged to Eloqi’s guild, now turned into communications relay for the Mechanicum.

  Alias and Rufan lifted Omegon up so that he could reach the rusted turn wheel. After a little initial resistance, it spun easily in the primarch’s hands. A clank signalled the disengagement of the lock. Omegon pushed open the hatch, took hold of the lip and pulled himself up, shoulder pads scraping the side of the hole. At a crouch, Omegon turned around and headed in the direction Eloqi had told him, while the other two dragged themselves up behind.

  ‘Cutter,’ said Omegon, holding out his hand behind him.

  Rufan took the device from his belt and placed it in Omegon’s grip. It looked like a snub-nosed pistol, two gas canisters where the magazine would have been. Thumbing the valve open, Omegon pressed the trigger and a white-hot flame erupted from the muzzle. Reaching above him, the primarch turned on the spot, slicing an almost complete circle in the metal decking above him. When he was done, he turned off the cutter and passed it back to Rufan.

  Shuffling back a few steps to give himself space, Omegon lay on his back and kicked upwards. The rough circle of metal broke free and landed with a clatter on the floor above. With room to stand now, Omegon examined the small alcove he had broken into. A nest of wires criss-crossed each other from dozens of circuits and switches. In a few seconds, he had analysed the layout, creating a schematic in his head. There was not a communications system he could not access and this one was crude by Mechanicum standards.

  Opening up a plate on his right vambrace, Omegon pulled free several wires and plugged them into the required sockets in the switching boards around him. He activated his communications suite, quickly scanning the frequencies around him until he could home in on the signal he was looking for. An insistent beeping became louder in his ear and he turned left and right, rearranging and rewiring a few of the relays to fine-tune the signal. On the roof above, the dishes would be turning on their gimbals, aligning themselves towards Deliverance.

  ‘Effrit code, hydra-seven-omega,’ grated an artificial voice. The primarch smiled as he locked down the receiver, the words he had heard confirmation of what he had hoped for. At least one of his legionnaires had succeeded in infiltrating the Raven Guard.

  ‘Access cryptoduct, theru gaili ta nurun,’ said Omegon. The words were meaningless syllables known only to the twin primarchs. ‘Gaion sackrit kess.’

  There followed a few seconds of static as the connection was established with the tiny stealth-fielded satellite that Omegon had left in orbit over Deliverance. It was no larger than a fist, just a piece of debris, but the cryptoduct device was capable of detecting, decoding and recording any signal within a narrow range of frequencies, frequencies known only to the Alpha Legion. He was also able to implant messages onto the cryptoduct for access by others. It was the perfect go-between, ensuring that both sender and receiver were anonymous and since it could be accessed from anywhere within several hundred thousand miles, their locations would remain unknown.

  ‘Lord Effrit, this is Alpharius,’ said the message. Omegon smiled again. It was a conceit, perhaps, but never failed to amuse him. ‘Infiltration successful. Objective identified as primarch genetic data. Location is Ravendelve. Awaiting instruction.’

  The transmission ended. Omegon had been expecting many things, but not this. Corax had access to the primarch project? The implications were immediately obvious, both the risks and benefits of the current plan. For a moment Omegon considered changing his objective. If the Raven Guard were able to rebuild their Legion with this knowledge, the swift victory of Horus, and the ultimate destruction of the Primordial Annihilator, could be put in jeopardy. The prudent approach would be to destroy the technology before its secrets could be gleaned by Corax.

  Despite that, Omegon could not quite convince himself to follow this course of action. The danger presented was but the weight on one side of the balance. On the other side had to be set the advantages of claiming this technology for the Alpha Legion. Omegon did not doubt that Corax had a good chance of cracking the primarch gene-seed open, certainly a better chance than the Alpha Legion, even with the assistance of the Order of the Dragon.

  For the moment it would be best to allow the Raven Guard to continue their investigations. When they had discovered something of value, the secret could be stolen and the Raven Guard destroyed. If the discovery was of the magnitude Omegon imagined it to be, it would herald a new beginning for the Alpha Legion. To possess the secrets of the primarchs was a prize worth a few risks.

  With everything the Alpha Legion did, there was always some extra agenda that could be forwarded, some additional objective that could be achieved. In the case of the Raven Guard, Omegon and Alpharius had decided that they would first relieve the Legion of the Terran technology that would be imparted to them, and then the Raven Guard would be destroyed, with all news of the event carefully contained from both the Emperor and Horus. Kiavahr would become loyal to Horus and, finally, the Raven Guard would live again, with Alpha Legionnaires masquerading in place of the dead Legion. The scope to cause confusion and mayhem would be vast once Omegon had achieved these three goals and he paused in his work and grinned at the thought of it.

  He adjusted his connection to the relay, switching to a transmission format.

  ‘Effrit code, omega-seven-hydra,’ he said. ‘You are Contact One. Assigned sub-channel alpha-three. Orders will be forthcoming.’

  As he cut the link, Omegon noticed something else he had not expected. He checked his findings, and found his initial instinct had been correct. The signal to the cryptoduct had been made from a triple-secure Raven Guard source.

  That it came from Ravenspire was not a surprise. That it was on the highest-level command channel was.

  ‘I WISH THERE was some soundproofing down here,’ said Sixx, walking between the cages that had been built in the western vestibule. A cacophony of howls, growls, whines and screeches heralded his progress along the corridor. ‘I am worried the recruits can hear all of this racket.’

  ‘I am sure I will be able to obtain some form of sonic dampening field from one of my fellow magi,’ replied Orlandriaz, walking beside the Apothecary.

  ‘Out of the question,’ said Sixx. ‘The primarch was clear in his instruction: no contact with the Kiavahran Mechanicum. Even your presence here suggests something of what we are working on. It must remain undisclosed.’

  ‘A grave mistake, I am sure,’ said the tech-priest. ‘Aside from that technology which we recovered from Terra, the facility here is exceptionally sparse.’

  ‘You think that the resources of the Raven Guard are limited?’ Sixx was incredulous, almost stopping in his stride. ‘You realise that we have been implanting gene-seed into recruits for decades?’

  ‘Yes, and the systems you use have not progressed at all in that time,’ replied Orlandriaz. ‘Even without the primarch data, I am positive I could have increased your productivity by ten, perhaps even fifteen per cent.’

  ‘We are not a manufactorum, Nexin. The creation of legionaries is not a production line process.’

  ‘It will be, when we have completed our task.’

  The Chief Apothecary’s reply was silenced as the d
oor at the far end of the corridor opened, revealing Commander Agapito. His expression was all Sixx needed to know that their latest report to Corax had not been received well.

  The Commander of the Talons stalked along the passageway, boots ringing loudly. Snarls and spitting erupted from the nearby cages.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything, commander,’ said Sixx, as he came up to Agapito. ‘Lord Corax wishes for more encouraging results, yes?’

  ‘I hope you have at least a small success story I can take back to him,’ said Agapito. He glanced into the cage to his left and shook his head with disgust at what he saw within. ‘He is keen… No, that doesn’t really convey his mood. He is adamant that you proceed beyond these pointless trials and begin work on perfecting the formula for the recruits.’

  ‘Pointless?’ Orlandriaz bunched his fists and his lip twitched in irritation. ‘I am sure the primarch would be even more angered if we had turned his first batch of legionaries into these…’

  He waved his hand to encompass the long line of cages. Beyond the bars, mammalian and reptilian things hunkered and paced. Some were unidentifiable, little more than mewling, distorted conglomerations of flesh. Most were warped by over-sized muscles, others had bony growths splitting their scales or fur. Several had extra limbs, additional eyes, overgrown fangs or distended spines.

  A green-furred mouse the size of a dog lunged against the bars of one cage, its claws sheathing and unsheathing spasmodically, tusks protruding from its lower jaw. In another enclosure, a two-headed snake, several metres long, coiled menacingly, its tail tipped with a jagged barb. From every cage, deformed monstrosities glared and snapped, regarding the legionaries and tech-priest with predatory intent.

  ‘Corax thinks it is a mistake to use animal subjects,’ said Agapito. ‘He does not suggest that you introduce the new gene-seed directly to the recruits, and Branne certainly won’t allow it. By the other hand, introducing primarch genetic material to non-human hosts will never be successful.’

  ‘Then we are caught in a bind,’ said Sixx. ‘How are we to ensure the new gene-seed works if we cannot trial it in organic hosts? Our data modelling can only prove so much.’

  ‘That is not my problem, it is yours.’

  ‘We will have to return to base cell analysis,’ said Orlandriaz, eyes fixed on a massively-shouldered lizard with horny growths protruding from its spine. ‘We can certainly eradicate more of the anomalous reactions.’

  ‘But nothing of cerebral impact or behavioural side-effects,’ said Sixx.

  ‘Aggression is not necessarily a bad thing in a legionary,’ said Orlandriaz.

  ‘We’ll leave the mindless ferocity to the World Eaters,’ replied the Apothecary. ‘We need disciplined, efficient warriors.’

  ‘What shall I tell Lord Corax?’ asked Agapito. ‘He will expect me to return with some news of progress and a firm plan for resolving any problems.’

  Sixx and Orlandriaz looked at each other. The Apothecary sighed and nodded.

  ‘I’ll euthanise these abominations and study the cellular breakdown,’ said Sixx. ‘That should give us some new data to incorporate into the models.’

  ‘I will restart the base cell experiments with a modified gene-seed,’ said Orlandriaz.

  ‘How long?’ asked Agapito. ‘I understand that you need to get this right, and I will support you in every way I can, but the primarch is understandably impatient. Every day we spend now is a day closer to Horus being ready to launch an attack on Terra.’

  ‘When we are successful, time will not be an issue,’ said Orlandriaz. He pointed to the creatures in the cages towards the far end of the corridor. ‘Those are the results of our implantation since we compiled the latest report. We introduced the genetic template into infants to record the time required for full maturation of the gene-seed.’

  The animals in the cages were full grown, some of them showing the mutation of the others, but a few seemed to be ordinary specimens, large for their species but otherwise normal. Agapito shook his head in confusion and amazement.

  ‘You only submitted your report forty hours ago,’ said the commander.

  ‘Thirty-seven point three hours, to be exact,’ said Orlandriaz, smiling thinly. ‘Given the longer maturation period of the average human male, I estimate the entire process, once perfected, will take between seventy and eighty Terran hours.’

  Agapito shook his head again, this time with a grin.

  ‘That is remarkable. Eighty hours to turn a boy into a legionary? Well, in body at least.’

  ‘Not just physiologically, commander,’ said Sixx, now becoming more enthusiastic. ‘Our recruits will emerge from the process with mental and physical aptitudes beyond anything we’ve seen before. They’ll be quick learners too. A little bonus of the primarch material. Our new legionaries will be primed and ready from the outset.’

  ‘That is fascinating news,’ said Agapito. ‘To pass on to Corax, of course. Take as much time as you need to complete the gene-seed. There is no reason to proceed with anything less than a perfect sample. I look forward to hearing of your success as soon as possible. If what the primarch says about broadening out the recruitment base is true, there could be a near-limitless supply of legionaries. I’ll inform Lord Corax of your findings.’

  ‘Yes, commander,’ said Orlandriaz. Agapito and Sixx exchanged nods of respect before the commander strode away. Neither Apothecary nor tech-priest said anything until the door at the end of the passage closed behind Agapito.

  ‘I am pleased the commander seems so eager,’ said Orlandriaz. ‘His brother has been much more reticent in his approval of our project.’

  ‘He used to be one of the staunchest Legion traditionalists,’ Sixx said distractedly, still looking at the closed door. ‘He and Branne were hard-headed about their Deliverance heritage, hammered it into me and the rest of the recruits from the first day we were made novitiates. I suppose losing so many warriors on Isstvan has changed his mind about being so selective.’

  ‘I fear he may over-represent our progress to your primarch,’ said Orlandriaz. ‘We should continue our studies with a degree of alacrity.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Sixx. ‘If we cannot produce something tangible soon, Lord Corax may become even more impatient. I’ve never considered him rash, but he is very determined to begin the rebuilding.’

  ‘Adversity often creates desperation,’ said Orlandriaz.

  ‘Not ever!’ snapped Sixx, rounding on the tech-priest, remembering words spoken by his primarch during the long retreat from the dropsite massacre. ‘We are Raven Guard. Deliverance was born out of determination and perseverance. Strife is our sustenance, adversity is our ally. Attack, withdraw and attack again. That is our creed, the lifeblood of the Legion. The Raven Guard do not become desperate when circumstance does not favour us. We become more dangerous.’

  THE SLAP OF bare feet on black-painted ferrocrete brought back memories to Alpharius as he stood watching the recruits running circuits of the main hall. He knew the memories were not his own – they had been removed by the Alpha Legion’s Librarians – but the recollections were exceptionally vivid, coming to him as brief snatches: scenes and tableaux that lasted a few seconds each. His training had taken place in Ravenspire rather than down here on Kiavahr, but he had performed the same drills as the youths around him.

  ‘Ready weapons!’ barked Branne from the stage area at one end of the vaulted chamber. ‘Form up for firing practice.’

  The recruits dashed to the crates at the centre of the hall and took up simple automatic rifles from within. These were training weapons duplicating the weight and bulk of a bolter to a full-fledged legionary; without gene-seed enhancement even a full-grown man could not train with a proper Legiones Astartes bolter. The snap of magazines being slipped into place joined the patter of running feet.

  In groups of five, the recruits lined up in front of Branne’s position. He waved each squad forwards. Panting, red-faced young men lifted their weapons t
o their shoulders, took aim at the ceramite target tiles on the far wall and opened fire. The rattle of shots and tinkle of expended cases filled the room.

  After firing for a few seconds, the first group peeled away and the second squad took up position. One of the recruits was struggling with the magazine on his weapon and approached Alpharius.

  ‘I can’t get it to eject, sergeant,’ said the boy, face screwed up with frustration. He looked up at Alpharius – the novitiate’s eyes were just about level with the bottom of the legionary’s breastplate. ‘It’s stuck solid!’

  ‘Calm down and try again,’ said Alpharius. ‘What is your name, novitiate?’

  ‘Hef, sergeant,’ said the recruit. He struggled again with the release catch, sweaty hands slipping on the smooth metal of the rifle. ‘Navar Hef.’

  ‘Let me see,’ said Alpharius, holding out his hand. He took the rifle, examined it quickly and handed it back to Hef. ‘The last round did not properly clear the chamber. Look.’

  The novitiate examined the rifle, shamefaced. He manually expelled the spent casing and then ejected the magazine.

  ‘Punishment, ten laps,’ said Alpharius. ‘Battle pace. Move!’

  Hef took hold of his rifle properly and set off towards the edge of the hall, perspiration glistening from his shaved scalp. Alpharius could hear him counting out the rhythm of his strides between gasping breaths. There was innocence and dedication there. Hef was a fine recruit.

  It was a shame he would be killed along with the rest of the Raven Guard.

  Alpharius felt uncomfortable at the thought. More than uncomfortable, in fact. He was not sure how he would define the emotion that made his chest a little tight as he watched the novitiates continue their weapon practice. Guilt, perhaps? It certainly was not a sensation he had felt before, and the Alpha Legionnaire did not like it at all. He cleared his throat in agitation and snapped out a reprimand to a pair of recruits who had sagged down to a crouch at the back of the line. They stood up sharp at his words.