03 - Hunt for Voldorius

by Andy Hoare - (ebook by Undead)

  Nodding his understanding, the sergeant turned and stalked off into the night. The warriors of his squad would place a weapon they had brought to Quintus for this very purpose.

  “What of the bolter wounds?” another sergeant asked. “Many were cut down by our brothers’ weapons.”

  “Even if the enemy note the nature of the militia’s wounds, sufficient doubt will have been created for our purposes,” he answered.

  “And doubt,” said Captain Kayvaan Shrike of the Raven Guard Chapter, “is the seed of misdirection.”

  “You can kill me now!” spat Malya L’nor. “I will not serve him!”

  Heaving against the restraints at her wrists and ankles, Malya knew it was useless. She had awoken in the dank cell several hours before, her first sight that of the hooded cell-master standing over her. At first she had begged to be released, but as the full extent of her plight had revealed itself she had desired only a swift death.

  “I refuse,” she screamed, her lungs burning. “I would rather die!”

  From beneath his leathern hood, the cell-master had whispered with unadulterated glee of the plans that Voldorius had in store for Malya L’nor. What cruel strand of fate was unravelling before her, she had despaired? Why was it she that had been chosen, seemingly at random, for such a duty?

  “Oh, you shall serve,” came a new voice from behind Malya. Her head restrained by steel braces, all she could see was the corroded ironwork of the ceiling above her and the fleeting shadows cast across it by flickering lumens. Something about this new voice forced her to silence, despite herself, so low and threatening were its sibilant tones.

  “My lord Voldorius has great hopes for you, equerry.”

  Malya bit back a caustic reply as the speaker stepped into her field of vision. Cold terror filled her, the sweat on her body turning instantly as cold as ice. He was huge, his shoulders broad. He wore the blue-green armour that the people of Quintus had come to hate so much. It was the livery of the Alpha Legion, whose leader had laid their world so low.

  “My name is Nullus,” the warrior continued, his vile visage pressing in towards Malya’s. Up close, his face was revealed to Malya as a white globe of solid scar tissue, his black, slit-like eyes gazing down at her. Tears welled in her own eyes under that soulless gaze, yet she refused to yield to her sorrow.

  “You are wilful,” Nullus said. “That will serve you well in your new office.”

  “I—” Malya started.

  “You will,” Nullus interjected, his face lowering still further towards her own until she could see nothing but his black eyes and the scars traced around them in obscene patterns. “Voldorius has need of an… intermediary, one who will keep the people of this miserable rock in line, while he attends to his own concerns. You will serve in this capacity.”

  “No,” Malya said flatly, forcing her voice to remain steady. Despite her denial, she could not meet the other’s eyes for they threatened the destruction of her very soul.

  Nullus’ face was split by a mocking grin, the scars aligning themselves into new patterns as the flesh beneath them shifted. “Henceforth,” Nullus continued, “with each denial that issues from your pretty lips, a hundred of your people shall die. Ten thousand were slain in the grand square, and you alone were spared. Their corpses shall remain as a warning. You can see them if you like. Should you prefer that ten thousand more be slain to make the point, then please, continue with your foolish protest. Do you understand?”

  Now the tears flowed freely from Malya’s eyes, and she screwed them tightly shut.

  “Yes,” she nodded, as much as the restraints would allow. “I understand…”

  “Your report,” said Shrike as he entered the dark cave in which Techmarine Dyloss tended the cipher matrix.

  “Brother-captain,” Techmarine Dyloss nodded a greeting as Shrike came to stand opposite him. He turned back to the softly glowing globe atop the machinery in front of him, reams of zeroes scrolling across its screen. “I cannot raise her, nor any of her associates.”

  Shrike sighed. The Techmarine had only recently established contact with a group of fighters within Mankarra city and several reticent communications had passed between them. The fighters had, of course, been suspicious, sensibly concluding that Shrike’s transmissions might have been those of the enemy, intent upon entrapment.

  “The last contact?” Shrike asked.

  “Twelve hours ago. As per your orders, I communicated your opposition to an attempt upon the vile one’s life until full coordination of action was possible.”

  “And her response?” Shrike enquired.

  “She agreed,” Techmarine Dyloss replied. “But she could not vouch for her compatriots.”

  “Fools,” Shrike cursed. Voldorius had the blood of billions on his hands and countless numbers of humanity’s finest warriors had sacrificed their lives to try and defeat him. Yet, none had succeeded, so what chance had a handful of desperate civilians-turned-resistance fighters?

  “You asked her about the prisoner,” Shrike said. It was not a question.

  “I did,” the Techmarine replied. “She knew nothing.”

  Shrike’s mood darkened and he made to stalk from the cave.

  “Since then, brother-captain,” the Techmarine continued, “I have intercepted a number of other signals.”

  “Go on,” Shrike said, halting at the cave’s mouth.

  “The rudimentary command and control network that the resistance had established has been entirely destroyed. As each node fell, brief and desperate pleas were transmitted. Many mentioned an atrocity in which thousands were slain.”

  “What they reap…” Shrike muttered.

  “Brother-captain?” Dyloss said, unsure of Shrike’s meaning.

  “No matter,” Shrike said, turning his back on the cipher matrix and its Techmarine attendant. “We stand alone, as ever.”

  * * *

  “The blood-rats,” whispered Scout Telluk. “Falling upon the sky-drake’s bones.”

  “Understood,” Scout-Sergeant Kholka replied, moving silently to lie beside the neophyte at the lip of the rock.

  Kholka eased himself forwards cautiously, for the sun had fully risen in the sky overhead. Slowly, he raised his magnoculars to his eyes and examined the scene below.

  The boy was correct, and he had used the proper battle-cant to describe what he had seen. The rocky terrain was cut by a gully and in it a column of armour belonging to the traitor militia had been ambushed. Not just ambushed; taken apart with ruthless efficiency.

  Scanning left, the sergeant caught a glimpse of movement amongst the smoking wreckage of armoured carriers. Figures moved amongst the detritus, picking over the remains of vehicles and corpses alike.

  “Militia? Scout Telluk asked his sergeant.

  Kholka continued to scan the scene for a moment before replying, taking in at least a platoon’s worth of soldiers. “It appears so, neophyte,” he said. “Your impressions?”

  “An ambush,” Telluk said, “that much is clear. Very recently.”

  “When?” Kholka pressed.

  “During the night, sergeant. Perhaps around zero-three-zero.”

  “Explain.”

  “The ambushers must have been well hidden to approach so close to the column. But the moon last night was full. Any attacker would have been illuminated, and spotted.”

  “Unless?”

  “Unless the moon was behind that outcrop.” The Scout nodded towards a tall formation of volcanic rock to the pair’s right. “Only when the column rounded that rock slide would the moon have provided light, at which point, the ambushers attacked.”

  “Good,” Kholka replied. He too had reached that conclusion and had hoped that his testing of the youngster would have yielded such positive results. As he watched the militia soldiers go from one body to the next he heard a shout from off to the left. Panning the magnoculars, he located the source. Amidst some boulders, a soldier was waving with one hand, and holding a lasgun
aloft in the other.

  A few minutes later, an officer was directing a search among the rocks to either side of the gully. Soon several more of the weapons, as well as a far rarer boltgun, had been found.

  “Imperial Guard?” Scout Telluk said.

  “I very much doubt it, boy,” replied the sergeant. “But someone certainly wants them to believe it so.”

  “Brother-captain,” Techmarine Dyloss called out, even as Shrike stalked away from the cave. He turned towards the Space Marine standing in the cave’s mouth.

  “What is it?” Shrike replied. A dark shroud had fallen across his soul when he had learned of the Alpha Legion’s deeds and he was ill-disposed towards conversation right now.

  “Another signal.”

  Shrike turned back towards the cave and ducked beneath its low opening. The Techmarine had returned to his station attending the cipher matrix and was making a series of complex adjustments to its settings. Where ranks of zeroes had scrolled across its globe-shaped screen, now a series of numbers had appeared.

  “What is it?” Shrike asked. The captain was not initiated into the ways of the Machine, and like all Space Marine leaders, relied upon the specialised skills of the Chapter’s Techmarines to attend to such things.

  “It’s a sub-ether carrier wave,” Techmarine Dyloss replied matter-of-factly. Shrike raised his eyebrows.

  “A ranging signal. Right on the edge of what this unit can detect.”

  “Who from?” Shrike pressed. “And who to?”

  “It’s an obscure cipher,” Dyloss continued, his hands moving across the dials in an attempt to lock onto the signal. “Highly encrypted, but not by any means I am familiar with. I cannot say.”

  “A sub-ether carrier,” Shrike said. “A beacon?”

  “It could be. But the diffusion makes tracking both source and destination impossible without the key.”

  “Which we do not have,” Shrike replied. “I want that signal broken. And inform all commands. We will soon have company, of one sort or another.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Planetfall

  “Clearing lambda-point alpha,” reported the pilot, before reaching up to make a series of adjustments to a bank of instruments above his head. “Optimal velocity within five. Silent running at your command, my khan.”

  Kor’sarro scanned his command terminal, one of its many screens displaying a rearward view of space. As the sickly green disc of Quintus’ moon receded, the Thunderhawk gunships of Kor’sarro’s strike force slipped free of its gravitational influence into that of Quintus itself. Within five minutes, the entire force, representing every single deployable unit under Kor’sarro’s command, would assume not only silent running, but complete signals silence. With the Lord of Heavens left far behind in the outer reaches of the Quintus system, the company would soon be very much alone.

  The data scrolling across the terminal screen told Kor’sarro that all of the vessels of his strike force were in formation, their status optimal. But the Master of the Hunt knew better than to trust such things to the spirits of the machine.

  “All Hunters,” Kor’sarro spoke into the vox-net. “Confirm status.”

  One by one, each vessel in the strike force called in. Hunter Three’s repairs were settling in well enough, its commander reported, following the damage the ship had sustained at Cernis IV. Seven Techmarines had administered to the Thunderhawk transporter’s systems, replacing an entire aileron before praying to the vessel’s wounded machine-spirit for three days and three nights. Kor’sarro hoped fervently that their devotions would prove sufficient, for every vessel, and every Space Marine it carried, was vital to the mission ahead. Hunter Nine, the gunship assigned to carry the strike force’s ammunition, was the last to call in, its commander reporting the ship’s status satisfactory.

  Before the strike force had parted company with the Lord of Heavens, Kor’sarro had meditated an entire night on the battle to come. Prior to that, he had spent long hours in counsel with both Chaplain Xia’ghan and the Storm Seer, Qan’karro. The Master of the Hunt had sought to rid himself of the taint of what had occurred on Cernis IV. Xia’ghan had absolved him of both pride and guilt, declaring Kor’sarro pure in the eyes of the Emperor. Qan’karro had cast his augur-bones in the manner of a steppes-shaman, and announced that the mission was true, its conclusion unclear as yet but its objective blessed. Kor’sarro’s mind was now clear and his heart purified. Not since the conclusion of his first ever hunt, on the third moon of the gas giant Mai Nine, had he felt such purpose.

  “All commands,” Kor’sarro hailed his strike force commanders. “We proceed with the blessing of the Emperor and of the primarch, honoured be his name. Our mission is clear and you have your orders. Engage silent running, and good hunting.”

  “Engaging as ordered, my khan,” said the co-pilot, flipping a series of switches before pulling down on a lever mounted at his side. With each control deactivated, one part of the gunship’s machine systems was laid dormant until the time it would be called upon once more. As the Thunderhawk’s mighty thrusters powered down, the command deck became unnervingly quiet. All of a sudden, Kor’sarro could hear the thunder of his blood in his ears, his heart racing as his genetically enhanced body prepared itself for battle, bolstered still further by the complex combat-drug administration systems in his power armour. Mouthing a prayer that he had learned as a boy at the foot of his tribe’s shaman, he forced himself to focus. Several hours of flight lay ahead of the strike force, hours in which he must remain alert and ready for any opposition to the insertion.

  At the last, the command deck was plunged into darkness as all non-essential systems were brought fully offline. Angular shadows were cast across the instrument panels and all was tinted with the pale green of Quintus’ moon. The vessels of the strike force were now being propelled through the void by momentum alone and their course would not be corrected until the very last stage of entry in Quintus’ atmosphere. Even the flight control panels lay dark, only a single screen glowing dimly amongst so much cold metal.

  “The cipher?” Kor’sarro asked. The command deck was so quiet that he instinctively kept his voice down low, even though no enemy could possibly hear. It was force of habit for one born of the steppes of Chogoris, whose people moderated the volume of their speech according to the strength of the ever-present winds.

  “On track, my khan,” the co-pilot replied. “The carrier wave is reading clearly.”

  “Good,” Kor’sarro replied, though in truth he could not help but feel some frustration that he must rely on such methods to guide the strike force in to its target. The wave was being transmitted by the Lord of Heavens, at a sub-etheric wavelength that few in the entire Imperium could possibly detect, and was protected by encryption that even fewer could break. With the necessity for a silent insertion, the individual ships of the strike force had to have some way of remaining coordinated with one another so that they each arrived at the correct interface point at the correct moment in time. Instead of synchronising with each other’s machine systems, each Thunderhawk would follow the nigh undetectable signal transmitted by the Lord of Heavens, riding the wave right onto their target.

  “Dyloss to Shrike,” the transmission came over the captain’s vox-bead. “Do you receive?”

  “Go ahead,” Shrike replied, halting in his patrol of the rock-strewn area north-west of the Raven Guard base.

  “Brother-captain,” the voice came over the vox, the signal clearer now that Shrike’s armour had been afforded time to repair its communication systems. “I have news regarding the cipher.”

  Shrike signalled for the Space Marines nearby to halt, and with a curt gesture ordered them to assume a defensive posture, covering the terrain in all directions. “I’m listening,” he replied. “Have you broken the encryption?”

  “The code itself remains intact,” the Techmarine reported. “But I have cracked something of the signal’s nature, and of its source.”

  It had be
en five days since Techmarine Dyloss had detected the cipher signal, and he had been working upon it without rest or respite, day and night, ever since. In the meantime, the Raven Guard had stepped up their patrols of the region around Mankarra, sowing death and destruction against any and all enemies they had encountered. After each battle, the Raven Guard had planted false evidence of their identity, leaving Imperial Guard-issue weapons and equipment at the ambush sites. After one ambush, they had even dressed the corpse of a traitor militia soldier in an Imperial Guard uniform they had brought along for just such a deception. It was not that Shrike truly aimed to convince the invaders that an Imperial Guard force was active on Quintus, but any amount of confusion he could plant in the minds of their commanders would aid the Space Marines’ cause.

  “The signal is a co-ord beam, the type used for blind navigation,” Dyloss reported.

  “Then someone’s inbound,” said Shrike, as much to himself as to the Techmarine. “Do you have the coordinates?”

  There was a brief pause, during which Shrike could hear the sound of the Techmarine’s hands and servo-arms working upon the cipher matrix, which droned and churned in the background. “I am still filtering the exact location, but I am transmitting the approximate coordinates to you now.”

  Captain Shrike raised his left arm and slid back the cover of a data-screen integrated into his vambrace. A representation of the surrounding region appeared on the screen, a red circle at its centre. “A day’s march,” he said, switching his vox-link to transmit on the command frequency. “All units,” Shrike addressed his squad leaders and specialists. “Converge on my coordinates, tactical state gamma-nine. Confirm.”

  Within moments, each of Shrike’s officers had confirmed their understanding of his orders. Shrike would not allow his mission on Quintus to be compromised by another force entering the war, no matter who they were.

  * * *