Vaults of Terra- The Hollow Mountain - Chris Wraight

by Warhammer 40K

  She started to laugh. She clambered over one of her cogitator-banks, hoisting her ragged skirts to clear a bulbous screed-entry maw. She had a few shots left, and it would be good to end a few more of them before they got close enough to defile the data-coils.

  It was as she did so that she heard it. A normal mortal might not have done, for the noise of combat in that echoing vault was significant, but then Huk had always been gifted in many perceptive and hard-to-quantify ways.

  A hiss, like a long outlet of breath. Then another, overlapping and growing in strength, until it was a solid gush.

  ‘No,’ she murmured, staring up at the distant ceiling, now part-obscured by snags of smoke. ‘No, not that.’

  More las-beams criss-crossed the space overhead, sizzling into the ranks of leather-spined books and kindling more bonfires.

  She got angry. She had not been angry, properly angry, since she had woken up and found herself here, tied down and locked away, her mind half-functional and her limbs bound up with iron.

  ‘Who ordered this?’ she shouted, flinging her arms around, whirling amid the crossfire as if she could pinpoint where and how and why. ‘Who ordered this?’

  The servitors were toppling now, and not from incoming shots. She saw one of the grey-armoured invaders stumble, gagging, vomit bursting from the narrow slit at his neck. Her vision began to blur, like grease spread over a lens.

  She fell to her knees, buoyed only by her remaining synapse cables.

  ‘I wanted to talk to him again,’ she mumbled, thrashing amid the wreck of her kingdom, trying to stay upright. Now all she could hear was the whooshing of the vents. ‘He said he’d be back, and we’d talk again.’

  She wanted to shout that out, but wasn’t going to be able to do that now. She knew a terrifying amount about what would happen to her next, and how agonising it would be.

  She toppled over. As she did so, she watched one of her servitors expire, its face as blank and expressionless as ever.

  Her iron fingers clawed at the floor. The flames fanned higher, making the parchment scraps crackle and fly.

  ‘Who ordered this?’ she croaked, before her tongue stopped moving.

  Spinoza kept her hand on the plunger the whole time, as if by maintaining a physical link with it, she could somehow appreciate what was happening down below.

  She had kept her eyes open, staring at the cylinder of steel as it had slid smoothly into its sheath. The skulls arranged around the summit were a theatrical touch, and she hadn’t been able to decide whether they were entirely crass or eminently suitable. An Inquisitorial fortress was stuffed with skulls. They were the badge of the organisation. They were virtually the badge of the Imperium. So strange, to twist a symbol of abject mortality into one, supposedly, of institutional strength. What did that say about them, as a species? When had they stopped noticing the irony of it?

  But now she sounded like Crowl, whose lack of fortitude was so troubling. That would not do at all – one of them at least had to remain resolute, focused on the larger picture and not obsessed with the minutiae of this singular quest for answers of doubtful value.

  The conversation she had undertaken with Revus before taking action remained stained on her mind, playing through it as if on auto-loop. They were all still clustered around her – Revus, Khazad, the storm trooper officers, Erunion. The arguments had been run through now, exhausted, and she had made her decision, just as she had been trained to do.

  ‘The Corvus Ring is not primarily a physical barrier,’ Revus had told her. ‘It can hold an assault for a matter of hours, but its principal purpose is to maintain a molecular seal across the citadel at the point where its diameter and functional arrangement makes such an arrangement practical.’

  She had instantly understood the implications of that. There would be no point in creating such a seal unless the counterpart facility were also in place – the means to flood the levels below with chemical agents. She had not fully grasped the purpose of Revus’ preparations before that – they had seemed strangely ordered and unnecessary. Now she realised what he had been doing, among all his other duties – ensuring that the vents were in good working order, just in case.

  ‘The invaders have decent armour protection,’ Revus had gone on, his voice almost a monotone. ‘But it is not fully chem-sealed. Counter-measures will be effective.’

  As they had spoken, the grinding thrum of assault from below had grown. The enemy had brought up metal-boring machines, and the chamber’s remote oculus-feeds had filled with the blaze of turbo-drills.

  Spinoza had looked away from those pictures. ‘How many of our people are still below the limiter?’

  Revus had looked her directly in the eye. ‘We pulled as many back as we could,’ he had said. ‘That was the purpose of my strategy, once it became clear what we were up against.’

  ‘I did not ask you that. I asked you how many are still below the limiter.’

  ‘A third of the citadel’s complement. Mostly lower-grade menial staff, but significant numbers of mid-grade adepts. Some of my detachment. Prisoners, cell guards. The archivists.’

  The thrum had grown louder. She had heard shouted orders from the chamber next door, as the stationed troops had prepared to defend it from attack.

  ‘There would also be significant collateral damage,’ Revus had intoned, sounding more and more like he was delivering a funeral oration. ‘Delivering the volume of nerve agent necessary to cleanse the citadel will result in leakage to the surrounding areas. Casualties there will be significant.’

  She had nodded. He had been commendably thorough. Perhaps unworthily, she had reflected then on what would have happened if she and Hegain had not rendezvoused with him when they had done. Would he have contemplated this still, knowing that she was on the wrong side of the barrier?

  Khazad had interjected then, her eyes live with indignation. ‘You cannot be making this!’ she had blurted, looking to her for support. ‘We can fight, here.’

  Revus hadn’t looked at her. He had looked at Spinoza the whole time, as if trying to assuage some sense of guilt that the order would now be given by her, rather than him.

  At that point, the noise of the drills below had picked up. She remembered wondering if they were already too late, and whether the bulkheads had been pierced. Still, she had not been able to press the plunger. She had resisted even putting her hand on it, knowing that once she did that, there would be no way back.

  A final question.

  ‘Any word from the Lord Crowl?’ she had asked.

  Revus had shaken his head.

  Now she stood, her hand still pressed on the metal. It had taken far less time than she might have imagined. The tubes must have threaded down through the inhabited levels like veins, chamber after chamber, protruding just a little from the crannies and the corners, almost unnoticeable. Such a system would have been hard to retrofit, surely. Courvain must always have had it, she guessed, baked into its atrophying structure by its long-dead designers, a product of an age of paranoia and insecurity. Perhaps it had been used many times over the centuries. Perhaps this was the first time. Perhaps there had been souls who had deployed it and felt nothing. Perhaps others had been haunted by their decision forever.

  She remembered her last conversation with Huk.

  This place is disordered. You were a savant. You should fix it.

  Slowly, she withdrew her gauntlet. Khazad was glaring at her. Hegain, seemingly, could not meet her gaze.

  The chamber’s picter lenses showed the devastation below. The assault on the bastion had halted. Two tracked drill-machines lay immobile, their crew slumped around them. Other lenses were cycling through images from further down – silent halls, crammed with bodies; empty corridors strewn with wreckage; automatic machinery ticking over in the shadows as if nothing had ever happened to threaten it. The tactical displays, w
hich had been filled with signals, were now black and empty.

  ‘How long before we can get back down there?’ she asked, her voice sounding hollow in her ears.

  ‘Volumes are already dissipating,’ Revus reported, going over to an augur terminal to monitor levels. ‘A few hours, suitably protected.’

  She felt cold, as if carved from the stone of the walls around her. ‘Enemy aircraft still active?’

  ‘Some. I have given orders for the turret gunners to target them.’

  ‘Good.’ She withdrew from the control column, once more feeling the weight of her unfamiliar armour on her shoulders. ‘I will return to my chambers now. Do not disturb me unless necessary.’ She paused at the doorway, resting her gauntlet against the fluted granite. She felt nauseous, and the feeling would only grow. ‘But notify me as soon as the Lord Crowl returns. He will wish to be briefed on what has taken place, I am sure, in person.’

  Revus watched her go.

  He had not yet had a chance to tell her what had caused the security breach. That would have to be done some time soon – all would have to be disclosed. For now, though, he was still needed. He had orders to give, arrangements to make, timetables to establish. Every indication was that the chemicals had done their work, and that the citadel was now secured.

  A third of the citadel’s complement.

  As he had spoken those words, he had felt the guilt stab at him like knives. He had served Crowl for a long time, and knew many of those stranded, by sight at least. Some of his own troops hadn’t made it, and their deaths were added to the tally of those his mistake had condemned.

  He pushed such thoughts out of his mind, striding out of the command chamber and back into the hall where most of those remaining under his command had been gathered. The portal leading to the levels below was still tightly shut, its shimmer of shielding still in place. A team of adepts in biohazard suits was making its way down the central aisle towards the control mechanism, poised to be the first through the gap once the all-clear was given. For now, though, the warning panels were still pulsing red, forbidding passage beyond the Corvus Ring.

  He went through his remaining tasks methodically, placing them in order of priority, not moving on until each was completed. He travelled to the control chambers for the exterior gun emplacements, and watched as the last of the enemy’s lingering attack craft were either brought down or driven off. He briefed the reclamation teams on their priorities, once transit beyond the Ring could be established – flush all confined spaces, install test devices at all intersections, set up anti-tox stations wherever readings remained high and summon the biohazard teams. Once access had been restored, it would be essential to clear the corpses quickly and get them incinerated, lest infection spread through the air filtration network. Counterseptic programmes would have to be rigorous and rapid. The adepts, even those used to working in the scriptoria and the signals units, would have to get involved. The hangars and main ground-level portals would have to be reclaimed and sealed, to prevent ingress while they were so weak. Some kind of guard would have to be set up. The list of tasks was almost endless.

  A third of the citadel’s complement.

  He didn’t so much as catch an idle breath for the next few hours. The painful process of establishing control absorbed him completely. When fatigue crept up – a reminder that he had been on his feet and fighting for a very long time – he treated it as just admonishment for his failings, and redoubled his efforts.

  His duties only took him to the medicae bay once. Erunion had already made his way up there, and was busy preparing his own teams for reinsertion below. His slabs were fully occupied – enemy corpses, most betraying catastrophic battle wounds, a couple showing evidence of selective excruciation. Clearly, some effort to counter the mind-wipe had been undertaken. The few survivors were corralled in a secure unit. They were looking shell-shocked, sitting under the glare of white lumens, saying nothing.

  ‘You have what you need?’ Revus asked him.

  Erunion nodded. ‘Captain, I–’ he started, looking thoroughly miserable.

  ‘It was my order, chirurgeon,’ Revus said, heavily. ‘My order. I’ll tell Crowl.’ He rolled his shoulders, trying to fend the exhaustion off a little longer. ‘Keep a few alive for interrogation. And accelerate the clean up – I want teams back across the boundary within the hour.’

  Erunion hesitated, looking as if he wanted to say something more. Perhaps it was guilt with him, too. Or maybe just fear. ‘By your will,’ was all he offered, eventually, before shambling back to his bloody slabs.

  After that Revus found himself alone again, heading back towards his private cell. His comm-feed was still jammed with incoming messages. Nothing had come in yet from Crowl. As soon as they were back on their feet, something would have to be done about that. A squad sent out, perhaps. Then again, the entire world seemed to be in almost open revolt – it might not be possible to arrange anything before the hangars were cleared.

  He reached the corridor leading to his cell. The lights were out, making the already dark stone look like the void itself.

  A figure was waiting for him. As soon as he recognised Khazad, he felt just a fraction better.

  ‘Assassin,’ he said, walking up to her. ‘You should be resting.’

  She darted a quick look at him, though it was hard to make out her expression in the dark. ‘Cannot rest.’

  ‘You should try, though. We have only won a temporary reprieve.’

  She smiled. ‘Will be back. I told you this.’

  ‘I know.’ He was close to her now. ‘I should say… You fought well.’

  Her face clarified a little in the glow of his armour lumens. He saw then that her smile was not mirthful, but bitter. ‘Fight well,’ she said sourly. ‘I ask it – how can you live with yourself?’

  That took him aback. ‘What do you–’

  ‘Too quick, captain. Too quick to retreat.’

  He stiffened. ‘It was an army. We would have lost the citadel.’

  ‘Not honourable.’

  ‘It was war.’

  ‘War? Who against, really? See who has died now.’

  And then she turned away, limping back down the narrow corridor. Revus watched her go, half wanting to follow, half too surprised to move.

  Then he turned, slowly, and took the access wafer from his belt. He slotted it into the door mechanism, and it slid open to reveal his bare chamber beyond.

  Treading heavily, he made it to his hard cot and collapsed on to it. He looked up at the whitewashed ceiling, where mould speckles clustered around the ventilation housing.

  His comm-bead pulsed. It pulsed again.

  A third of the citadel’s complement.

  Silently, wearily, he closed his eyes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They came in through tortured skies.

  Close to Salvator’s edge, an entire hab-tower was on fire. It glowed internally, red as fresh-cut entrails, bleeding into the night. The flames lapped up, higher and higher, sheets of energy that made the air shake. The smoke from its burning rose up in a massive pillar, black against black, overarching and stolid.

  Crowl watched it in silence. It took them a while to pass it, such was its bulk and heat-wash. A big tower like that would house thousands. Maybe tens of thousands. Take in its catacombs, no doubt now cooking or collapsing, and the numbers would only rise. Dimly, half-perceptible in the thick smog, he saw figures streaming away from the furnace across every intact span and transitway. Most were fleeing in panic. A few were rushing the other way, tearing headlong into the inferno.

  ‘Insanus insanus insanus,’ Gorgias mumbled, too shocked to be truly outraged.

  Lightning shot down between the remaining towers. It did not leap like natural lightning, but plummeted like falling lead ingots, punching into the suffering world below. The clouds above raced
and churned, stirred into turmoil by superheated winds.

  For the first time he could remember, the airspace was freeing up. Those shuttles still aloft were beating for home now, hammering their path through the tumbling ash like gulls before a squall. They were being replaced, in part, by far bigger military craft. He saw a convoy of Imperial Navy transports grinding north, towards the Palace regions, surrounded by escorts of atmospheric fighters. Then, further away, he saw a big orbital lander coming down, wallowing in re-entry flame and tilting badly. Throne only knew where it was hoping to come down – there were no suitable landing stages for kilometres around.

  ‘Anything from the citadel yet?’ he asked, for the third time since leaving the Nexus.

  ‘Just static,’ said Aneela. Then, as an afterthought, ‘It may be the storm. I’m getting nothing from anywhere else, either.’

  They flew on. Aneela was as good a pilot as Crowl had ever known, but she struggled to keep them on an even keel. Violent updraughts buffeted them, nearly tipping them over more than once. The lightning strikes grew ever more frequent, lancing down and cracking into the febrile hypercity below.

  ‘I saw some troubling things in the Nexus,’ Crowl said eventually, needing to break the silence. ‘While you were there, with Bajan, did anything notable cross his desk?’

  ‘Not much,’ Aneela said, never taking her eyes off the path ahead. ‘But they were all getting worried. An anomaly, they said, affecting the galactic north.’

  ‘Yes, that was what they were tracking. A long way away, you’d think.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Too far away, to be responsible for this.’

  ‘Surely.’

  He sunk into silence again. It felt too convenient, as if the entire thing had been arranged to divert the world’s attention from the true threat at its base, the hidden one, worming its way under the towers and the battlements. Perhaps that was what had kept Navradaran quiet for so long. The ways of the Custodians were strange. From his brief encounter with them, he had seen a court dyed in aspic, frozen amid rites ten thousand years old. It was hard to imagine them taking the initiative on anything much – the dust had been gathering on their fine armour for too long, steadily thickening with each long generation. Perhaps Spinoza was right about them. Perhaps they could not see the world as it was anymore, only how it had been.