[Blood Angels 04] - Black Tide

by James Swallow - (ebook by Undead)

  Mephiston’s eyes narrowed to slits as he peered at the craft, pressing through the commonplace metals and plastics of the hull, reaching for a sense of the passengers inside. He found what he expected; warriors of character, intent and focused on their missions at hand.

  The psyker stood at his Chapter Master’s side, the pair of them joined by a trio of honour guards; aside from the mindless machine-slaves that skittered out to connect up the refuelling conduits and stabilising tethers, the landing pad was empty. Mephiston knew that as a matter of course, scouts armed with modified Zaitsev-pattern long-bolters were ranged in the upper towers bracketing the platform, watching for any signs of trouble; it was one of many additional security measures that he himself had initiated in the wake of Fabius’ infiltration of Baal.

  Presently the drop ramp along the shuttle’s ventral hull fell open and a lone Blood Angel wearing a veteran sergeant’s laurels exited the ship. The warrior came forward and knelt before Dante, removing his helmet and tucking it to his chest. “Master, my lord,” he began. “I bring news.”

  “To your feet, Brother-Sergeant Kale,” said Dante. “Speak plainly.”

  Kale stood up, and Mephiston noted how the man was careful not to allow his gaze to cross that of the psyker. The sergeant was an old hand at the business of war, and not one to take to fear easily; yet, his aura glittered with trepidation at being in the chief Librarian’s presence. Mephiston saw this and accepted it. His fearsome reputation throughout the Chapter had a life of its own, and the Lord of Death saw no reason to do anything to discourage it.

  “The Dario intercepted a small warp-capable craft exiting the immaterium beyond the orbit of the twelfth planet,” Kale explained. His voice had the sharp edges of a Secundus clan accent. “It answered challenge and hove to. Aboard we found a contingent of Astartes from the Flesh Tearers Chapter. They would speak only with you, Master.”

  “Their diktats and signets are in order?” said Mephiston.

  Kale nodded. “Aye, sir. The messenger bears the seal of Lord Seth himself.”

  Dante made a beckoning gesture. “Bring him to me.”

  As Kale returned to the shuttle, Mephiston leaned close to his commander. “No falsehood here,” he reported. “Kale believes what he has been told, and those aboard that ship believe it too.”

  “What does Seth want?” Dante wondered. “We parted on amicable terms after the conclave. Perhaps he wishes to ask a favour of me now we have strengthened the comradeship between our two Chapters.”

  The sergeant returned, and with him came three Flesh Tearers. Their armour deep blood-red and trimmed with night-black, they largely abstained from the displays of honour chains and heraldry common to their parent Chapter. One of them, a veteran sergeant like Kale, sported a shield-roundel attached to his shoulder guard—on it, Mephiston spied the lizard-claw symbol that was Seth’s personal battle emblem. The gold helmet dangling at the Flesh Tearer’s belt confirmed it; this Astartes was one of Seth’s personal guard.

  Kale and the two other Flesh Tearers stood to attention and the messenger followed the pattern as was expected of him, bowing low and announcing himself. “I am Brother Mazon,” he said, “I bring word from your honoured cousin, Seth of the Flesh Tearers.”

  Mazon met Mephiston’s gaze for a moment—a fractional one—and quickly looked away. It was more than enough for the psyker to gain an insight into him. No subterfuge lay in this man’s thoughts. Whatever reason his Master had sent him to Baal for, it was not for ill intent. The psyker thought of the fragmentary vision he had experienced and mused on how it would connect to this unexpected arrival.

  The Space Marine drew a plain box made of red-enamelled iron from his belt and offered it to Dante. “This will open only to you, lord.”

  The commander nodded and accepted the device. The instant his bare flesh touched the surface, Mephiston heard the quiet click of a bloodlock. With an oiled whisper of intricate workings, the box unfolded to become an oval plate crested with spines; atop the spines, a rarity glittered.

  “A hololith diamond,” noted Dante. “A rare device. Great Seth has clearly spared no effort in bringing this message to me in secure order.” The Chapter Master stroked the facets of the fist-sized gemstone, and it shone as it caught an errant ray of sunlight.

  As if from a prism, the diamond’s glow grew, emerging from the stone to become a ghost of shimmering light. The ghost stuttered and flickered, becoming a crude image of Seth, armoured but unkempt, as if he had just stepped from a battle. The Flesh Tearers bowed to the hololith, showing it the same fealty they would have the Master himself. Mephiston watched as the message encoded on the crystalline matrix of the archeotech device began to play out.

  Seth began with a cold, humourless grin. “Cousin, the Emperor’s light find you well. You’ll forgive me the cheap theatre of this message, but it seemed the most expedient means of reaching you. I have something for the Blood Angels.”

  Dante and Mephiston exchanged wary glances. Of all the things the Lord of Death had expected the Master of the Flesh Tearers to say, it was not this.

  “Battle chews up all my time and energy, and if it were not so, if it were not a shirking of my sacred duty to Terra, I would follow this datum myself. But I cannot, so I pass this to you.” Seth’s face clouded briefly with annoyance. “I know what you have been doing, cousin. Don’t trouble yourself by wondering how I know, just accept it.”

  “He’s talking about the hunt for the traitor,” said the psyker. “How—?”

  Dante silenced him with a shake of the head.

  “We have made a discovery. A member of the Adeptus Mechanicus, a tech-priest of some great self-importance by the name of Matthun Zellik, has stepped over the bounds of his oath to Mars and Holy Terra. He has been in contact with a rogue tech-lord of your acquaintance. Haran Serpens.”

  “Fabius…” husked Dante.

  “Granted, this information is old, but the veracity of the source is assured.” Seth gave a wicked, predatory grin that showed his fangs, his right hand straying to scratch at the old scars on his face. “The informant was… shall we say, drained dry of all he had to give.”

  The commander of the Blood Angels glared at the hololith image, as if he could see into it and through to Seth himself. “And now comes the price,” he muttered.

  As if in answer, the figure in the message nodded to himself, becoming dour and serious. “I have said nothing of this to anyone. None of the other successors know of what has been under way, or of what has been stolen. I lay no blame upon you, Dante. I understand the import of this. I would have done the same as you do now, if I stood in your place.” He frowned. “But I want in. The Flesh Tearers will be a part of this. My Chapter will share in the glory of bringing the quarry to his ruin.”

  Dante nodded slowly. “Ah, Seth. You know I cannot refuse you. Not now.”

  The hololith continued. “I have already sent a ship to rendezvous with your lad Rafen and his band. The Gabriel. The warriors aboard know enough.”

  Mephiston’s chest tightened at the mention of the vessel’s name.

  “You need only tell Rafen to accept the help he is offered. And together, we will right this.” Seth bowed. “We both know the risk of standing alone, Dante. Our unity will make us strong.” With a final flicker of colour, the image became mist and dispersed, the glow from within the diamond fading to nothing.

  The Master of the Blood Angels allowed the message box to close and weighed it silently in his hands, considering. Finally, he glanced at Brother Mazon and tossed the device to him. Mazon caught it easily, and said nothing, waiting.

  Dante walked away a few steps, and Mephiston followed him. “The God-Emperor’s ways are sometimes opaque to us,” offered the psyker. “Perhaps we should accept that this turn of events is His hand at work.”

  “Perhaps,” echoed Dante. “I wonder, should I be troubled that my cousin knows so much of our endeavours? This is not the first time the Flesh Tearers have shown
such… insight.”

  “Our search for Fabius cast a wide net, and quickly with it,” noted Mephiston. “These things could have become known to Seth.”

  Dante’s patrician face stiffened. “A matter to be addressed. But first this.” He turned abruptly and crossed back towards Mazon. “Brother-sergeant. Consider your message delivered. You may leave.”

  “Lord,” said the Flesh Tearer, “if you will. An answer will be requested.”

  The commander shook his head, a grim smile playing on his lips. “You are mistaken, Mazon. Your Master knew my answer before he sent you to me.”

  From a distance, both ships appeared almost identical. They shared the bladed prow, the orchard of crenulated minarets along the dorsal lengths of their fuselage, the hammerhead castle rising from their hull. Cannons in brassy, murderous array gave mute defiance to all enemies, engines flaring like captured suns at their backs; these were rapid strike cruisers of the Adeptus Astartes, ships of singular, swift purpose that could turn cities to slag or land armies if the needs of battle demanded it.

  Their colours were all that separated them, that and the bold sigils upon their blade-sails. The Tycho, red as fury chased with brass and gunmetal silver, adorned with a winged droplet of blood shining bright in the void. Alongside, the Gabriel, black as rage, lined with sanguine among the ebon, with a razor-toothed wheel kissed by a tear of dark blood catching the distant solar glows.

  In silhouette, both the same; in light of sun, their characters revealed. The Astartes aboard them did not differ from the ships in which they travelled.

  “Cousin,” said Rafen, “well met.”

  Brother-Sergeant Noxx gave a terse nod. A thin smile threatened to break out across his lips. “I’ll wager you didn’t think we would cross paths so soon again, eh, Blood Angel?”

  Rafen allowed the other man a nod. “Just so, Flesh Tearer. I confess, I was surprised to see your ship out here. Is not your Chapter still engaged in the punishment of Eritaen?”

  Noxx shook his head, making a show of looking around the Tycho’s audience chamber. The veteran and his squad had come aboard, claiming the right granted to any Astartes, to meet and speak in confidence with members of another Chapter. The Gabriel had left the Tycho little choice but to heave to, the Flesh Tearers’ ship venturing so close that its mass shadow would make any attempt to enter warp space a dangerous prospect. “That conflict is ended. But the rest of my kinsmen have been given a new battle to fight, against an ork horde in the Auro Cluster.”

  “Such a fitting foe,” sneered Ajir. “I wonder which side is the more savage?”

  Rafen silenced his man with a look, but Noxx seemed to enjoy the barb. “I only wish I could be there to find out. But sadly, instead I am here to help you where you have failed.”

  “You dare—?” Kayne rocked off his feet, and this time Rafen had to take a step up to block the young Space Marine’s path.

  “Did you learn nothing from what has gone before?” said Rafen. “Stand down, boy. Keep your mouth shut.”

  “Still has some fire in him,” Noxx nodded approvingly “I’m glad to see that’s not been lost.”

  Rafen’s gaze dropped to the data-slate in his hand. The device had been presented to him by the runner from the astropath sanctum mere minutes before the cruiser’s scrying monitors had picked up the approaching vessel. “What do you know of our mission?”

  “I know that an arch-traitor defiled Baal with his presence,” said Noxx. “I know you have not yet been able to find him and take recompense for that transgression.”

  “You think you could do better?” Ajir grated.

  “We could hardly do worse—”

  “Enough!” snarled Rafen. “We are Astartes, Sons of Sanguinius all! We have not forgotten the threat we faced together and destroyed in our unity! I will not have us fall back into old rivalries like bickering children.” He turned and shot a hard glare at his warriors, each in turn, ending with Kayne and Ajir. “Are we so arrogant that we cannot take an offer of help from our kinsmen? I think not.” He was aware of Ceris watching him. Silently, the Codicier gave him a level nod.

  Noxx’s expression shifted. “Every man under my command knows the import of this, Rafen,” he said. “And together, we will take the target we seek.” He nodded in the direction of the Tycho’s bridge. “Even now, the Gabriel’s navigators commune with yours, passing to them the data we have uncovered.”

  “Good,” Rafen replied. “Once we set a course, we’ll convene to devise a plan for a joint sortie.”

  “Brother-sergeant!” Ajir stepped forward and came across, shaking his head. “I cannot stay silent on this, even if you order me so!” He stabbed a finger at Noxx and the other Flesh Tearers. “This is not a matter for others. This mission is ours alone.”

  “You’re wrong,” Rafen told him.

  “Who decides that?” demanded the Space Marine.

  Rafen didn’t answer him; instead, he thrust the slate into Ajir’s hand and let him read it. There, on the display, was the clear and unmistakable cipher of a message from Baal, appended with the highest priority suffixes. Ajir’s eyes widened as he realised that the communication had come directly from the Lord Commander himself.

  “What does it say?” asked Puluo, speaking for the rest of the assembled warriors.

  “Fight together,” said Ajir.

  THREE

  Turcio stood, and he was not at his ease. The two squads faced each other across the tacticarium chamber, and it might have seemed to a passing observer that they had gathered to do battle with one another. Blood Angels ranged to the starboard, the Flesh Tearers to the port, the armoured warriors sized each other up, as was their manner. Recent events on Baal had in some ways built bonds of comradeship between the diverse Chapters that drew lineage from the Primarch Sanguinius; but still the old contentions between the first founding and its successors could not be washed away in a single night.

  And never could there be more polar an opposite to the Blood Angels than the Flesh Tearers. The former proud and noble in bearing, the latter feral and coarse—yet the same blood flowed in all their veins.

  Outward character aside, they were all sons of the Great Angel, and beyond that they were Adeptus Astartes. Brothers in arms if not in true kinship.

  None of the Astartes spoke. Both squads had been ordered to rein in any comments that did not immediately benefit the discussion at hand. Brother-Sergeant Rafen had been blunt about that, and he imagined Noxx had said the same. Rafen had tired quickly of even the smallest hint of divisive behaviour, ordering Ajir and the others in no uncertain terms to direct their energies towards the mission. Our enmity, he had told them, has only one target today.

  That target turned slowly in front of them, suspended in a vapour, conjured by hidden display beams in the base of an ornate, wrought-iron chart table. Rafen circled the table, glaring at the flickering image. Turcio recognised the face of Fabius Bile. It was an artist’s impression of the fiend, dispassionately constructed by some machine-slave fed a diet of security camera footage, faded portraits and research data.

  It depicted a man with the dimensions of a Space Marine, three metres high and another across the shoulders. Pallid of face, his flesh was pulled tight on his skull and around the rim of a cranial cognition accelerator implant. Strings of white hair fell down upon shoulder pauldrons of bloodstained bronze, blurred where the display engine’s self-censorship subroutines masked the eightfold stars etched there. He wore a long coat over his wargear, a patchwork thing made of human skins with screaming faces sewn into the pattern of it. A brass mechanism of limbs and manipulators—a device of mysterious origin known only as “the chirurgeon”—was attached to his back; skull-topped valves and reservoirs of black fluids, oil-thick and sluggish, chugged as they worked. The functions of the chirurgeon could only be guessed at. Several learned scienticians of the Imperium had attempted to divine its capabilities, suggesting it might be some sort of life-support mechanism, or perhap
s even a semi-sentient servitor device. It reminded Turcio of the servo-harnesses worn by the technical adepts of his Chapter, but in a more bloated, grotesque design.

  He was considering this as his gaze found one of Noxx’s warriors, standing slightly askance from the rest of the Flesh Tearer squad. The warrior had a single servo-arm folded discreetly at his back, and upon his shoulder pad the cogwheel trim of a Mars-trained Techmarine. An angled face robbed of one human eye, sporting an augmetic replacement with a sapphire lens, met his look and gave him a respectful nod.

  The fact that Noxx had been allowed to bring a Techmarine with him spoke volumes; the Flesh Tearers, a small Chapter made up of only a handful of companies, had little resources to squander idly—and that included warriors gifted with some fraction of the knowledge and training of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Techmarines were a rare breed among the Adeptus Astartes, inducted into their Chapters in the same fashion as every other initiate, but then trained on Mars to commune with machines… and so some would have it said, never again to be counted as truly trustworthy on their return.

  Turcio had never held to that suspicion. He found it hard to believe that an Astartes would ever find something more divine than the God-Emperor of Mankind inside the cogs and coils of a machine, no matter what spirituality the tech-priests of the Mechanicus claimed.

  He saw Rafen turn to Noxx. “I’m eager to see the gift you’ve brought us, brother-sergeant.” His commander gestured at the viewing table. “If you will?”

  Noxx glanced at the Techmarine. “Mohl,” he said, “show them.”

  Brother Mohl stepped forward and his servo-arm unfolded with a fluid, almost elegant motion, in the manner of a courtly noble offering his hand before a dance. The movement seemed strange coming from a machine-limb that could crush a man’s skull like an egg. The arm presented a mnemonic cylinder to the table and the viewer accepted it with a whine of small motors.