Architect of Fate

by Edited by Christian Dunn

  Evander’s earlier urge to grab the inquisitor by the throat and squeeze the life out of the man’s body had subsided, but he still felt a gnawing hate in his gut whenever his eyes fell on Remigius.

  You could snap his windpipe with no difficulty at all. The repercussions of murdering Remigius will be far less severe than what waits for you behind this door, Brother-Sergeant Evander.

  He knew doubt then. Perhaps they should…

  The melta charges detonated with an echoing boom, distracting his attention and splintering his thoughts of retreat into a million shards.

  Korydon had no time to avoid the bolter shell as it thundered into the ceramite of his armour. The unexpected attack knocked him from his feet, sending him flying several metres backwards. In its already weakened state, it would not take much more to render his battle-gear entirely useless and it was this thought, more than any other that got him back to his feet again.

  His breath came in a ragged, wet rasp now; the damage he had sustained to his ribcage was considerable and he intuitively knew that he had a punctured lung. His enhanced physiology was compensating, but it was at a cost to the rest of his strength. Still it wasn’t enough to stop him from hurling himself with full force into his attacker.

  He passed right through it, crashing into the wall. As he did so, he was sure that he heard the sound of a hollow laugh of derision.

  You cannot fight what is not there, Korydon.

  Had that been a voice, or his own thoughts? He no longer knew – or cared – which it was. The black shadow flickered and wavered in front of his eyes, like a poorly-crafted hololithic image. He got back to his feet again, but it was not there. The shot to his torso had been quite real. He had felt the pain of impact quite solidly and the copper taste of blood in his mouth was no illusion.

  You cannot fight what is not there, Korydon.

  Had his own mind been so warped and twisted by this vessel that he was now even imagining his own pain? Was it possible for him to imagine his own death? A distant memory, long forgotten, resurfaced in his skull. It was of himself as a child, before he had been given over to the recruiting sergeants of the Star Dragons. Speaking to his mother, asking her a question that she had never been able to answer.

  ‘If I die in my dreams, does that mean I will never wake up?’

  It was the type of philosophical question that his mother, a menial worker, had neither the inclination nor the education necessary to discuss. She had ruffled his hair and smiled indulgently at him. ‘When you are one of the Emperor’s angels,’ she had said to him, ‘you will find all the answers you seek.’

  That had been a lie. There were still many things that Korydon questioned, and the memory of this question was now the thing that would save his life.

  ‘Awaken, Korydon,’ he said, and taking his combat blade he drove it into his own chest.

  His world exploded.

  I see you.

  He is in some kind of trance, some sort of dream state that he cannot possibly hope to comprehend. He is at one and the same time dead, dying and alive. It is a non-state. Everything feels heavy, oppressive and stifling. His own power armour threatens to overwhelm him with its impossible weight. The agonising pain in his chest flares like fire spreading across dry grassland.

  His eyes roam desperately, seeking, searching, hunting for something that will tell him what is going on, and they lock with those of another Space Marine. A matrix of exquisite crystal reaches from the gorget of his armour. A psyker.

  But we brought no psykers.

  His livery, whilst the blue of all witch-kin, is not the rich cobalt of the Star Dragons. It is softer, paler, more indigo than blue.

  I do not know you.

  He reaches out a hand as if to touch the psyker, but his gauntlet passes straight through. Another ghost. Another daemon. Not to be trusted. And yet…

  You do not know me.

  Are you my past? Present? Future?

  Despite his misgivings, Korydon takes a step closer.

  Time is irrelevant. Past, present, future… All these things are the same and yet different.

  A typical psyker response. Half riddle, half philosophy and devoid of any sense at all. Korydon’s fists curl in impotent fury.

  Though he cannot see it, he knows that the other figure is smiling. He does not know how he knows, but he does. Perhaps it is in the stance, in the way that the shoulders shift position, or in the way that the helmeted head twists slightly. The voice, when it returns, is filled with an emotion he does not recognise and understands even less. It is pity.

  For you, they are all the same, brother.

  With a shudder, with a jolt of awareness, Korydon wakes. He is lying on the floor of the corridor in which he fought Arion. His brother’s armour is still there; he is still naught but dust. But there is no sign of the rest of his squad.

  Every movement brings fresh pain. Every shred and fibre of his being screams as he moves, but he moves anyway. What else can he do?

  In the distance, there is the faintly resonating boom of an explosion. He is enough of a veteran to know the sound. It is the echo of melta charges. His brothers. His twin hearts gladdening at the thought, he hurries, as much as his battered body will allow, towards the sound.

  It is then that he knows, with absolute clarity, what it is that they face behind the final door. His desperate dash to rejoin them becomes a race against time, a race that he has no hope of ever winning.

  If only he realised the futility of it he would never push himself harder than he has ever pushed himself before. But then, if he knew the truth of it he would not try at all. Giving up is not in Korydon’s nature. It would not end well.

  Time has him in its clutches and will never willingly release him. He understands. He can grasp the concept of time immaterial without really knowing how the knowledge comes to him. This is where he has always been. This is where he will always be.

  He belongs to the Accursed Eternity.

  V

  This deep into the heart of the ship, lights were flickering; fizzing and popping as though something was racing across the circuit and causing it to fail. As the Star Dragons, once more surrounding the inquisitor, passed by, the lights flared momentarily into blinding brilliance, causing the Space Marines to turn their heads away, before they faded once again to a dull and slightly pulsating ebb. The sensors in the helmets of the Star Dragons took several moments to balance the light levels out again.

  Evander, still plagued by occasional whispers that suggested many glorious ends to the inquisitor’s life, had fallen into a sullen silence; it was palpable, a dark mood that was now seeping through the Star Dragons like a slow poison. Evander’s fingers occasionally clenched into a fist and then slowly unclenched again as he battled against the words in his mind.

  ‘You should stay here, brother.’

  The voice startled him and he looked up into the skull mask of the Chaplain. Shaking his head, Evander did not speak his reply, but in the cant of his head and the set of his shoulders, his refusal was evident.

  ‘You are not yourself. We can all feel it. You are becoming an increasing danger to the rest of the squad, not to mention yourself. Your faith, brother. Where is your faith? Did you leave it behind in the corridor? If you are going to continue to lead this mission, then you must pull yourself together.’ Iakodos struck where he knew the sergeant would hurt the most and was rewarded by the other Adeptus Astartes physically recoiling from him.

  ‘He will bring our doom upon us, Chaplain.’ The words were spoken so softly that Iakodos wondered if he had imagined them. He leaned a little closer and tapped his helmet, indicating that the sergeant should switch to a private vox-channel.

  ‘Who will, Evander?’

  ‘Remigius. He leads us to a fate worse than death. We should abort the mission.’

  ‘We cannot do that, brother. We swore an oath to serve the Ordo Malleus…’

  ‘Damn them!’ Evander raised his voice. ‘I have no i
dea what we owe them, but we do not owe them the lives of so many good men from two Chapters!’

  ‘We are almost at the enginarium. Whatever waits for us there will soon be brought to an end. The inquisitor has the means and he has the tenacity. As to the reasons why we agreed to take this mission…’ The Chaplain’s hand closed around his crozius and his skull mask turned towards Remigius. ‘There are some debts that cannot be ignored. In time, brother-sergeant, you will learn. For now, focus on the mission. The moment he strikes, we will withdraw. On that, you have my word.’

  Evander shook his head grimly. ‘It will be too late by then, Chaplain. Far too late.’ He spoke the words with a grim finality and clicked off the vox-channel leaving Iakodos wondering just how prophetic the sergeant’s words actually were. The next vox exchange that occurred did little to settle the uncertainty roiling in his gut.

  ‘Evander, this is Ardashir.’

  ‘Report.’

  ‘The enemy are quiescent once again,’ replied the Blood Sword. ‘No more are attacking.’ He sounded uncertain that this was actually the case and Iakodos did not blame him. There was so little they understood about this entire situation that it was next to impossible to predict what would happen next.

  ‘Casualties?’

  The pause stung and Iakodos dreaded the answer. Already they had lost one of Ardashir’s squad. For a Chapter that were already dwindling, further deaths would be a harsh blow.

  ‘One dead, three injured, but nothing that we cannot manage.’

  ‘Hold your position there. Third Scale, begin making your way back to the corridor and head towards the enginarium. We are going to need all the back-up we can muster.’

  ‘Message received. Understood.’

  The exchange, grim though its content had been, seemed to have bolstered Evander’s resolve and the sergeant’s back straightened noticeably. Iakodos laid a hand briefly on his battle-brother’s shoulder and nodded once.

  The door to the main deck loomed before them and Remigius pushed his way through the warriors to stand before them. He raised his head up and down, then moved to place his hand on the door. He nodded vigorously.

  ‘Yes. This is where we need to be,’ said the inquisitor, speaking for the first time in a while. He retrieved the sword from Iakodos and the dormant runes that ran along its length burned ferociously. ‘The daemon is waiting for us. Let’s not disappoint it.’

  The door opened easily. There was no need for melta charges or violent ingress of any sort. It simply shuddered and slid slowly apart, old hydraulics and machinery grating as though they had forgotten how to operate. Iakodos and Evander stepped up to take point, shrouding the inquisitor and his sword from view. For once, the inquisitor didn’t complain. All his bluster and bravado seemed to be turned inwards. There was no sign of fear on his face, only the kind of distracted expression that suggested he was concentrating hard on the task ahead.

  ‘Move on,’ said Evander softly, and as a unit the Star Dragons crossed the threshold of the enginarium. Almost immediately, every bolter and every blade came to bear as movement caught their attention.

  Ghostly figures drifted in front of their eyes, colourless things without true shape or form but with the size and build of Adeptus Astartes. They moved as though in a trance, seemingly without direction or purpose. On second, closer study, that was incorrect. There was definitely a purpose to the way they interacted. They stopped, they spoke soundlessly to one another and they continued as though uninterrupted. No markings of any kind could be made out on their largely transparent armour. And there were others, barely visible shapes that were far smaller. Servitors. Humans. They all moved around the busy deck.

  Iakodos did not believe in ghosts. They had featured heavily in the tales of his childhood – a distant memory now – but his time in service to the Golden Throne had taught him that spirits and ghosts were not real. Daemons and creatures from the warp, they were tangible things that could be put down with bolter and chainsword or, at the very least, the right words from those trained to deal with them. But ghosts?

  And yet here they were, right in front of his eyes. They were translucent, silvery grey and wispy things that moved endlessly around the enginarium. Not one of them took any notice of the Star Dragons and the inquisitor; they seemed intent on their task. All around him, Iakodos could hear the sounds of muttered litanies as his battle-brothers sought to reassert their faith, which had been shaken to the core so many times already during the course of this mission.

  Apart from the spectres, or whatever they were, the enginarium was as deserted and forgotten as the rest of the Accursed Eternity had been. Taking a few steps forwards to the top of a flight of stairs that descended to the main hub, Iakodos raised a gauntlet. It passed through the misty form of one of the ghostly Adeptus Astartes. He met no resistance as his hand scythed through. The shape simply shimmered, wavering briefly before reforming and continuing about its business as though nothing had happened.

  There was no clear sign of aggression but all those present maintained a close eye on the moving figures and a tight grip on their weapons. As they descended into the central area of the enginarium, it became evident that there were still more of the ghosts, seated at stations. Here a servitor slaved to the communications terminal. There a Space Marine surveying an occulus that showed nothing at all.

  ‘What are they?’ Evander’s words gave voice to the question that was on every set of lips. Before Iakodos could respond, Remigius spoke.

  ‘Echoes of the past,’ he said, and to Iakodos’s surprise and consternation there was an audible tremble in his voice. ‘We are seeing the last living moments of this ship. The Chapter who once called this vessel theirs, before it became the Accursed Eternity…’

  ‘To which Chapter do they belong?’ Iakodos looked more closely. There were symbols etched into the instruments but they were old, corroding and faded, and entirely illegible. The Chaplain took a few more paces and leaned forwards in an effort to make out the symbol he saw ingrained in the surface of the cogitator. He could not make it out at all.

  ‘We have never been fully certain,’ responded the inquisitor, that same tremor in his tone betraying his fear and anxiety. ‘We are sure that they were loyal to the Golden Throne, however; that a series of complicated events overtook them, and that ultimately they succumbed to the warp.’

  ‘Succumbed? Or perhaps chose to succumb. Consider that possibility, inquisitor.’

  It was a new voice and it was filled with venomous loathing and endless hatred. A voice so sharp it could slice through metal. Its timbre was a sonorous rumble and it was pitched at a peculiar frequency. The inquisitor shook his head as blood began to run slowly from his ears. Iakodos suspected that had he and his men not had their helmets on, they would also be suffering similarly.

  Even as he watched, the walls of the enginarium began to buckle and distort, ripples passing across their unblemished surfaces as though someone had dropped a rock into a calm lake. Everything shimmered and took on a wavering unreality. The inquisitor, reaching up to wipe the blood from his ears, bellowed through the re-breather mask as loudly as it would allow. Any nervousness was gone, and despite his inherent dislike and distrust of the man, Iakodos found himself deeply impressed by the depth of conviction in the words.

  ‘I am Shadrach Remigius, inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus by the grace of the God-Emperor, and I demand that you show yourself and meet your end at my hands.’

  ‘In such a rush to die, inquisitor?’ There was an insatiable, slavering hunger in the voice. Iakodos could not say how he knew the thing, whatever it was, thirsted for blood, but he sensed it nonetheless.

  Remigius continued, seemingly undaunted. ‘You are an abomination and you are cursed. I am sworn to end your existence and I will do so.’

  ‘I will snuff you out in a heartbeat.’ The amusement was gone and the daemonic voice had changed pitch. There was now an underlying growl to it that accentuated its hunger. ‘You have nothi
ng that can defeat me. Soon, the only sounds you will hear will be your own bones crunching in my grasp and the sound of your blood as it drips down to feed my master’s unslakable thirst.’

  The inquisitor inclined his head, then raised it again, and Iakodos could see the passion in his eyes.

  ‘I do have something, creature. I have your name.’

  VI

  The pain had stopped long ago but the memory of it still lingered. As Korydon made his way through the ship, he became aware that he was still over-compensating for the pain in his leg, despite his awareness that it was healing even as he moved. He had no other option but to continue. Despite the increasing knowledge that his efforts would get him no further, it was simply not in his nature to give up.

  Occasionally, he made a concerted attempt to raise his brothers on the vox but received nothing but static for his efforts. Once, he thought he heard a voice and had answered it gladly, but he had been forced to conclude that his own mind was beginning to play tricks on him. The idea had occurred to him that this entire situation was nothing more than an elaborate hallucination, in which case there was nothing he could do but ride it to its conclusion.

  Whatever that conclusion might ultimately be.

  He pressed forwards. The enginarium could not be far now; but then he had been thinking that for a while. Hours, perhaps. Or it could only have been minutes. Time ceased to have any meaning when you never seemed to get any further forwards.

  His movement seemed slightly impaired now and he tried to coax himself past the memory of his injuries and into a better mental space. It was then that he noticed the first signs of corrosion on his blue armour.

  Pausing in his determined stride, Korydon glanced more closely at one of his thigh plates. Sure enough, there was a hint of degradation there, as though it were old and uncared for. It was something that only happened to a warrior who neglected his armour, or to those who died in battle and whose bodies were never recovered.