Dark Adeptus

by Ben Counter

  'Come with me.' it said through the vox-caster set into its shrunken skull-like face.

  Alaric brought his storm bolter up level with the servitor's face. It made no sense - the servitor was in a perfect position to rake Alaric's squad with auto­cannon fire.

  'Why?' he asked.

  'Because I can help you.' replied the servitor.

  'Lies.'

  'Then kill me.'

  Alaric put a burst of storm bolter fire through the servitor's head. Its brain, through which its motor functions were routed, was destroyed and it shut down instantly, slumping against the wall of the tun­nel.

  Something else moved, this time far smaller - a tiny scuttling creature like a large flat beetle. It had glinting mechanical mandibles and dozens of intri­cate jointed legs. It scrabbled up the crystal outcrop that Alaric was crouched behind.

  'Kill us all.' it said, in a tinny voice barely loud enough for Alaric to hear. 'But we can help you.'

  'How?' Alaric tried to work out what the creature was - it was probably either an example of Chaeroneia's biomechanical fauna, or some artificial thing that cleaned or maintained the fortress. Either way, it shouldn't have been talking to him.

  'As I did once before. In the factory spire. Did you believe it was the grace of the Emperor that saved you?'

  Alaric thought wildly. It could be a trick, perhaps by the commanding tech-priest, perhaps by the data-daemons. But even if it was, it was unlikely in the extreme that the Grey Knights could fend off another Mechanicus attack, especially after the mauling by the data-daemons. In situations like this leadership consisted of the capacity to make quick decisions and carry them through and in that moment Alaric decided it was better to walk into a trap than let the Mechanicus kill them where they hid.

  'What should I do?' he asked.

  'Keep them busy.'

  Alaric turned to where Saphentis was ducking down in cover, flanked by the tech-guard. 'Say something, Saphentis.'

  The archmagos turned his segmented eyes on Alaric, managing to look unimpressed even with such an abnormal face. 'What should I say, jus-ticar?'

  'Offer him a deal.'

  'You are, as you say, in command.' Saphentis tilted his head back and transmitted a jarring, ugly chorus of machine-code. There was a pause while the sporadic gunfire died down and then a reply came, the staccato zeroes and ones echoing from somewhere far through the crystal labyrinth.

  'What did you say?' asked Alaric.

  'I told them we would come quietly if they accepted us into their tech-priesthood and intro­duced us to their own version of the Cult Mechanicus.'

  'What was the reply?'

  'They mocked us.'

  The battle-servitors stomped forwards, the crash­ing sound of their footsteps synchronized. Alaric risked a glance around out of cover and saw there were at least five of them, massive heavy weapons variants, with a mass of menials following behind them, ready to swamp the Grey Knights as they were driven out of cover. The crystal had reformed into a long, low gallery with plenty of space for the servitors and menials to draw up lines of fire.

  In the gloom at the back of the cavern was the tech-priest in command. His upper body was cov­ered in slabs of black crystal data medium, like plates in a suit of armour or scales on an obsidian reptile. His lower half was a mass of writhing mechanical tendrils. There was a faint shimmering aura around him - an energy field, which meant that even if the Grey Knights or tech-guard could get a shot at him it would probably bounce off.

  'Grey Knights, each take a servitor,' said Alaric qui­etly over the vox. 'Left to right, Haulvarn, Dvorn, Archis, Lykkos, then me. Cardios, hang back and flame the menials. Understood?'

  Acknowledgement runes flickered. It wasn't much of a plan, but it would buy them the seconds Alaric had promised.

  The nearest servitor's arm-mounted missile launcher levelled at Alaric. It would shatter the crystal, leave him exposed and probably cause massive wounds.

  The servitor turned suddenly and fired, the missile streaking into the menials behind it.

  The explosion sent out clouds of razor-sharp spin­ning crystal shards and shredded the bodies of the gaggle of menials following the servitor. Another servitor followed suit, spraying autocannon fire at the back of the cavern, stitching bloody ruin through half-glimpsed menial bodies. The tech-priest screamed machine code and fire was streaking back and forth between the Mechanicus force, las-bolts from the menials and heavy weapons from the servitors.

  'Stay down!' shouted Alaric as the din of gunfire echoed and re-echoed through the cavern. An explosion threw the massive form of a servitor into the Grey Knights' position, its armoured torso charred and battered, smoke spurting from its track units.

  It turned a scorched head towards Alaric. 'Fol­low.' it said. The crystal floor below it descended, the substance of the data-fortress altering around it, forming a bowl-shaped depression with a tunnel leading from one side.

  'Move!' voxed Alaric and followed the servitor down. Some of the menials managed to redirect their fire through the confusion and las-fire smacked into Alaric's shoulder pad. The other Grey Knights scrambled down beside him - one of the tech-guard screamed, the first hint of emotion he had shown for most of his life, as a las-bolt punched through his gut and he pitched face-first into the floor. Hawkespur and Saphentis followed, Tharkk and the one remaining tech-guard covering the archmagos.

  The servitor, belching smoke, dragged itself into the tunnel and Alaric followed. The tunnel was being created as the servitor went, corkscrewing down into the foundations of the data-fortress. The Grey Knights were on his heels and Brother Archis dragged Saphentis behind him as the fire fell more heavily.

  Tharkk was the last man into the tunnel, sniping at the menials who were firing from the back of the cavern. Alaric glanced round in time to see the data-fortress's tech-priest descend behind him, a grav-unit evidently hidden by the coils of mechadendrites that made up his lower half. The tech-priest spat a machine-code curse and held out his arms. Plates of crystal medium lifted from his limbs, revealing black, putrescent skin beneath. The plates span around the tech-priest in a wider orbit, deflecting the las-blasts from Tharkk's gun as he sprayed fire at the Enemy.

  The armour plates surrounded Tharkk and cut him into scores of horizontal slices.

  The tunnel entrance closed before the sorry chunks of Tharkk's body hit the floor. The sound of gunfire was suddenly distant, the machine-code howls of rage from the tech-priest dim.

  The servitor continued down. The datacrystal walls were dull and greyish, as if the crystal was drained or dead. Alaric looked to see who had made it out - his squad, Saphentis, Hawkespur and the one surviving tech-guard. He hurried up to the servitor, which was trundling down the tunnel apparently uninterested in Tharkk's death.

  'What are you?' asked Alaric.

  'All in time.' replied the servitor, its voice garbled as its vox unit failed.

  Hawkespur caught up with Alaric. Her gun was in her hand. 'Justicar, what happened up there?'

  'I think we have an ally.' replied Alaric.

  'Who? A servitor?'

  'I don't believe it's that simple. But we'll find out soon.'

  Alaric led the force further down into the guts of Chaeroneia and as they went the tunnel knitted itself closed behind them. Step by step the planet was swallowing them, and either there would be safety beneath Manufactorium Noctis or Alaric was leading his squad into a far worse trap than the one they had just escaped.

  Chapter Eleven

  'When Grand Master Ganelon heard the words of the daemon, there was no need to listen. For the words of the Enemy are lies; even those that are true are spoken only in ultimate deceit!

  - The Parable of Ganelon' as related by Chaplain Greacris in the Index Beati.

  'OLD FRIENDS.' SAID Urkrathos, walking onto the command deck of the Hellforger.

  The daemons who controlled the Hellforger looked at him with hatred so pure it dripped from their eyes, black burnin
g droplets of loathing. There were forty-eight daemons welded into the command architecture of Grand Cruiser Hellforger, every one slaved into a different aspect of the ship and bound by rites older than mankind to obey Urkrathos's every whim.

  The command deck was long, low and infernally hot and it stank like a torture chamber. The walls and floor were pitted, rotting iron that sweated blood and the feeble light came from the tactical holo-display that Urkrathos used in place of a bridge viewscreen. Tangles of obscure machinery and electronics welled from the walls, floor and ceiling like mechanical tumours, hissing steam and spitting sparks as ancient clockwork cogitators maintained the malevolent, spiteful machine-spirit of the Hellforger. The dae­mons melded with the various command helms were massively muscular but helpless, their fangs and talons useless as long as Urkrathos held fealty over them. Some had massive shearing crab-like pincers, others had dozens of arachnid legs tipped with tiny gnashing mouths, or nests of writhing entrails that could strangle like tentacles, or stranger and deadlier things besides. But not one of them could attack Urkrathos or disobey his orders, as much as every single one of them longed to do so.

  Urkrathos strode down the command deck. The holo-display projected the image of Chaeroneia into the middle, about a metre above the floor and several metres across. It was a fine planet, dark and sickly, so stained with the warp he could tell how corrupt it had become just by looking at it. The asteroids around the world danced according to a complex but identifiable pattern, with a spell wrought into their movements to prevent any cogitator from guessing where they would turn next. The asteroid field meant that the interloper ships now clustered in medium orbit around Chaeroneia could not hope to land a meaningful force on the planet, which in turn meant that whatever the Imperial ships did, the tribute would remain on Chaeroneia for Urkrathos to col­lect.

  And what a magnificent tribute it was.

  'Show me our positions.' ordered Urkrathos. The daemon projecting the holo-display, a foul squat thing with dozens of eyes, gibbered as it wove the image into the air. Urkrathos's fleet appeared on the holo some distance from the world. Urkrathos com­manded the Hellforger itself, the cruiser Desikratis which bristled with guns, the fighter platform Cadaver which was the base of the Vulture Flight attack craft, and the three Idolator-class escorts that formed Scapula Wing.

  The Desikratis was commanded by a titanic dae­mon who functioned as the ship's sole crew member, its nerve-tipped tentacles reaching into every corner of the bloated, gun-heavy ship. The Desikratis in turn commanded the three Idolators of Scapula Wing, towards which it seemed to have a rather paternal attitude. The fighter platform Cadaver was com­manded by Kreathak the Thrice-Maimed, one of the finest fighter craft pilots of the last two centuries, who also led the elite Vulture Wing.

  It was more than enough ships to collect the trib­ute and escort it back to Lord Abaddon at the Eye of Terror. But Warmaster Abaddon himself had com­manded Urkrathos to make certain that the tribute was delivered intact and so Urkrathos had taken everything he could muster to Chaeroneia to make good his duty to the Despoiler.

  'Contact the Cadaver,' said Urkrathos. 'Tell Com­mander Kreathak to get all craft ready to scramble. I'll leave him to break up those escorts.' Urkrathos looked closer at the composition of the Imperial fleet. It was pathetic - one cruiser protected by the escorts, another ship of uncertain designation that was a little smaller than a cruiser and a handful of troop ships and assorted transports. 'Leave the enemy flagship to me.'

  The daemon charged with communications was a whale-sized monster half-melted into the rusting ceiling, its bloated body mostly taken up with the brain matter that processed Urkrathos's words into encrypted ship-to-ship comms. Like all the forty-eight daemons, it had been conquered by Urkrathos in personal combat during the Black Legions' battles to carve out an empire for themselves in the Eye of Terror, or given to him in recognition for some great victory in the eyes of the gods. By the decree of the Chaos powers, the daemons so defeated or possessed by Urkrathos were owned by him in a state of slavery, forbidden by the will of the gods to disobey him in anything. He had made them the crew of his ship, because it pleased him to have such powerful crea­tures in such obvious fortitude, held where he could witness their suffering and see the hatred they had for him in their eyes.

  It was the only thing worth fighting for, the only thing worth anything - the sensation of owning another intelligent thing completely. The knowledge that he could compel it to obey any and every thought he directed at it. It was what the Despoiler promised - a universe enslaved, where the ignorant were crushed by the feet of those blessed by Chaos. And if any of the Imperial scum orbiting Chaeroneia survived, Urkrathos would make slaves of them, too - because he could.

  Once, a long time ago, Urkrathos had fought for the good of mankind and the will of the Emperor. He had been a slave to the Emperor. Horus had taught them that they were slaves of no one and now Abad­don was the one who would prove that to the rest of the galaxy.

  'Weapons!' shouted Urkrathos. A lean, muscular creature crucified against one wall snarled back at him. 'I want ordnance ready for firing. Full spread, long fuses.'

  'So it shall be.' growled the creature. Its burning red eyes rolled back in their sockets as he willed the com­mand into the minds of the ordnance crew deep within the ship - soon the Hellforger would be ready to pump scores of torpedoes into the Imperial flag­ship and reduce it to a cloud of burning debris.

  'It's almost a pity.' thought Urkrathos aloud. 'I was hoping I would have to board them. Maybe I still will, if they survive that long. Make ready the board­ing parties.'

  The communications-daemon convulsed as it relayed the order to the boarding troops barracked throughout the Hellforger. They were the scum of the galaxy, the worst of the worst, deformed and degen­erate creatures that had once been men but had over the generations been bred into brutal killing machines. Urkrathos had no Black Legion squads, Space Marine units that had been elite ship-to-ship combatants even before the Heresy and the flight to the Eye of Terror, but nonetheless he seriously doubted if there was anything in the Imperial fleet that could stand up to a boarding assault from the Hellforger.

  Yes, he would have preferred a proper battle. It was in the fires of conflict that Chaos was praised the highest. But it was enough that the Despoiler would receive his tribute and the Black Crusade fighting from the Eye would be strengthened beyond measure by Urkrathos's victory.

  He left the daemons to brood as he walked off the deck and down towards the ship's lower decks where the complement of slaves were kept in the crowded pens. Easy or not, the coming victory had to be sealed with the blessing of the Chaos Gods and to ensure that happened Urkrathos had a great many innocents to sacrifice before battle was joined.

  INQUISITOR NYXOS SHUFFLED down the shuttle's boarding ramp like the old man he purported to be. He even walked with a cane and looked ancient and frail compared to the strapping Naval armsmen who accompanied him.

  Fleet Commissar Leung was there to meet the inquisitor. Leung was a fine product of the Schola Progenium, an orphan of some interminable con­flict who had been brought up in starched Commissariat uniforms and instilled with the sense that only the thin line of cowardice separated any one man from irredeemable corruption. He saluted sharply at the inquisitor's approach, small hard eyes glinting beneath the peak of his officer's cap, black greatcoat around his shoulders in spite of the sti­fling heat on the docking deck of the Exemplar.

  There was no one else with Leung. Even a petty officer travelling between ships might expect a com­plement of armsmen to welcome him onboard, an extension of the protocols one captain was expected to extend to another.

  'Greetings, commissar.' said Nyxos. 'I see our hosts do not stand on ceremony.'

  Leung removed his cap and tucked it neatly under one arm, parade ground sharp. 'The magos does not recognise the authority of the Imperial Navy or its officer core. She accepts my presence only grudg­ingly.' Leung's voice
was as taut as the rest of him, fast and clipped.

  'Well, they do revel in their independence, the Mechanicus.' said Nyxos, pausing to nod his thanks to the armsman who helped him down the step at the end of the boarding ramp. 'Are they prepared to accept me?

  'I believe so.' replied Leung. 'Although I had to arrange quarters for you myself.'

  'Good man. Lead me there, if you please.'

  'Of course.'

  The interior of the Exemplar was fundamentally dif­ferent from the Tribunicia. It was as if the two craft had been built by two different species, or in two dif­ferent eras of history. The brutally elegant gothic lines of the Tribunicia were replaced by the blocky functionality preferred by the Adeptus Mechanicus. Cog-toothed designs trimmed everything, even the massive blocks that made up the walls and floor of the docking deck. Several other craft and highly advanced shuttles were also docked, being serviced by heavy servitors and the occasional hooded Mechanicus crewman. The stifling, cloying smell of scented machine-oil was heavy in the air and most unusually there was little noise from the crew. Nyxos knew places like docking decks for the clamour of crewmen yelling at one another, often in rapid crew-cant that an outsider couldn't understand. The Mechanicus did its business in grim silence, human voices replaced by the hissing of hydraulics and the dim clanging of pistons beneath the deck.

  'What are your impressions of the magos?' asked Nyxos as he walked.

  'Few.' replied Leung. 'She has little respect for Impe­rial authorities save the senior ranks of the Mechanicus. Even my own office seems to mean lit­tle to her.'

  'Let us hope she does not show the same attitude towards the Inquisition.' said Nyxos. 'Does it seem she will obey the orders of the Rear Admiral?'

  'Probably.' said Leung. Nyxos noticed he didn't so much walk as march alongside him. 'But she consid­ers herself to be acting independently. Her orders evidently concern Chaeroneia itself, not the fleet sent to investigate it.'