Soul Drinker

by Ben Counter

  Space Marines. Chloure had spent decades in service to the Imperium and yet he had never seen one, confined as he was in the drudgery and isolation of the Administratum. Grown men talked of them like children talk of heroes - they could tear men apart with their bare hands, see in the dark, take las-blasts to the chest without flinching, wore armour that bullets bounced off. They were three metres tall. They never failed. And yet Consul Senioris Chloure, in charge of the mis­sion to cleanse and seize the Van Skorvold star fort, had managed to engineer their presence here and let them do the job for him. Chloure had a three-cruiser battlefleet supported by one Adeptus Mechanicus ship, and if he played this right, he wouldn't have to use them until it came to cleaning up.

  There was a moment of gloom as the screens and lights on the bridge dipped to acknowledge the figure arriving on the bridge. Chloure looked down from the observation pulpit to see Khobotov, archmagos of the Adeptus Mechanicus, enter flanked by an honour guard of shield-servitors, another gold-plated microservitor scurrying in front paying out a long sea-green strip of carpet for the magos to walk on. Three or four of those damned sensor-technomats droned in the air on hummingbird wings, trailing wires like cranefly legs - Chloure hated them, their chubby infant bodies and glazed cherubic faces. They were sinister in the extreme and he felt sure Khobotov affected them to inflict uneasiness on who­ever had to meet him.

  Chloure had spent long enough in the Administratum -that huge and complex institution which tried to smooth the running of the unimaginably vast Imperium - to know the value of politics. The Adeptus Mechanicus had wanted a part in the subduing of the rumoured heretics of the Van Skorvold cartel, and the representative they sent to join the battlefleet was Archmagos Khobotov and his ship, the 674-XU28.

  Chloure had been willing to suffer Khobotov's inclusion in the mission to grease the wheels between the Administratum and the Mechanicus, but he had begun to wish he hadn't. The Mechanicus was essential to the running of the Imperium, constructing and maintaining the arcane machinery that let mankind travel the stars and defend its frontiers, but they were so damn strange that their presence sometimes made Chloure's stomach churn. The 674-XU28 was almost entirely silent, so the first warning crews had that Khobotov was pay­ing them a visit was usually when the archmagos swept onto the bridge.

  Chloure rose from the pulpit seat, smoothing down his black satin greatcoat. He took the salute of Vekk, his flag-captain, as he trotted down the main bridge deck with its swarms of petty officers and lexmechanics. Khobotov him­self was a complete enigma, swathed in deep green robes with ribbed power cables leading out behind him from beneath the hem. Tiny motorized sub-servitors held the cables in silver jaws and whirred around, keeping the cables from snagging on the rivets and consoles jutting from the deck of the Diligent's bridge. This caused the cables to slither like long artificial snakes, which was another thing that struck Chloure as gravely unpleasant.

  He supposed he should be grateful it was the Mechanicus who had insisted on coming along. The puritans of the Ecclesiarchy or inflexible lawhounds of the Adeptus Arbites would have been more hassle and less use.

  Chloure did what the Administratum had taught him to do many years before - grin and bear it, for the good of pol­itics.

  'Archmagos Khobotov.' he said, feigning camaraderie. 'I trust you have heard the good news.' One of the technomats buzzed past his head, a leathered tome clutched in its dead-fleshed hands, and he resisted the urge to swat it away.

  'Indeed.' replied Khobotov, his voxed voice grinding from within his deep green cowl. 'It is of concern to me that nei­ther your crew nor mine detected their approach.'

  'They have fine pilots, as does any Chapter. And I hear this is the Soul Drinkers' speciality, rapid ship-to-ship swash­buckling and all that. I'd wager the Van Skorvolds didn't realise they were coming either.'

  'Hmmm. I take it this indicates your intelligence was accu­rate regarding the artefact's location.'

  'We'll see soon enough. Hopefully by the time they've fin­ished our Guardsmen will only be fulfilling an occupational role. Save us assaulting the place ourselves.' Chloure remem­bered he was still maintaining a big false smile, and hoped the conversation would be over soon.

  'My tech-guard would have been willing to take part in a landing action, consul.' If Khobotov had taken any offence it was impossible to tell. 'My forces are compact and well-armed. But yes, for them to attack would have yielded casualties amongst my resources that could be used prof­itably elsewhere.'

  'Yes. Good.' Chloure wished he could see the archmagos's face - was he smiling or glowering? Then it occurred to him that the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus were notori­ous for the levels of bionic augmentation and replacement they indulged in, and that there was no telling if there even was a face under that cowl. 'I shall... keep you updated.'

  'There is no need. My sensors and tech-oracles are far supe­rior to yours.'

  'Of course. Good.'

  Archmagos Khobotov swept around and led his unliving entourage off the bridge, doubtless towards the command crew shuttle bay where he would return to the 674-XU28. The rust-red Mechanicus craft was designated as an armed research vessel, but it was a damn sight bigger and more dangerous than it sounded. Within the hold was a regiment of tech-guard, although it looked like there was room for a lot more.

  Had it come down to it, it would have been those tech-guards now piling into the Van Skorvold star fort alongside the Imperial Guard units transported by the rest of the fleet. Stationed on the cruiser Hydranye Ко there was a below-strength regiment from Stratix, the 37th, most of them mother-killing gang-scum who joined up for no better reason than that it would get them the hell off Stratix. The second cruiser, the Deacon Byzantine, contained elements of the Diomedes 14th Bonebreakers and, owing to an administra­tive error, a strike force of assault and siege tanks from the Oristia IV Armoured Brigade. The Diligent itself contained a regiment of Rough Riders from the plains of Morisha, deeply unhappy at being separated from their horses who were win­tering several systems away.

  Three cruisers, not of the highest quality but recently refit­ted and with well-drilled crews. It wasn't much compared to the immense battlefleets that scoured the void in times of cru­sade or invasion, but it had been all Chloure could muster through string-pulling and favour-calling in a short period of time. He had to secure the star fort and its lucrative trade before some other Imperial authority came sniffing around. And if it paid off he would be in charge of the star fort for the rest of his life, content and comfortable, as a reward for the seemingly endless drudgery he had undergone, pushing papers and running errands in the Emperor's name.

  And now it seemed the Guardsmen and tech-guard would be more than enough, for his biggest gamble had paid off. The information that the Soulspear was on board the star fort had travelled exactly as he hoped it would, straight to the ears of the Soul Drinkers Chapter. Judging by the displacement of the small Astartes fleet anchored on the far side of Lakonia and the number of corvus assault pods, their number was estimated to be above three hundred.

  Three hundred. Smaller Marine forces had conquered star systems. Of course, officially their presence here was fortu­itous and Chloure didn't have the authority over them that he did over the battlefleet. Space Marines were famous for their autonomy. But the Soul Drinkers were so honour-bound that their reaction to the information on the Soulspear could be predicted exactly. Chloure had known they would ignore his fleet and make their own attack, sweeping through the star fort as they searched for their antique trinket. When they found it they would leave as quickly as they had arrived, leaving the star fort filled with bodies and ripe for occupation by the Guardsmen.

  Warming as these thoughts were, Chloure couldn't stop his skin from crawling as Archmagos Khobotov's technomats droned past. Soon the star fort would be taken in the name of the Administratum, the risk would be over, and his future would be secure. And he wouldn't have to talk to that Mechanicus spectre again.<
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  * * *

  YSER HAD HIDDEN as soon as the first shooting started. At first it had been relayed over the cull-team's communicators -scratchy, distorted screams and dull crumps of bullets spat­tering into flesh. There was confusion and anger, but for a change none of it was directed at Yser or his flock. Something new had appeared, something terrible. Giants, they said. Giants in armour, with guns and swords, swarming without number from the sunward side of the star fort. They were everywhere at once.

  Yser peered between the mouldering packing crates where he had hidden in the corner of the maglev terminus. He had hoped to steal some food from the lumbering supply carts as they hummed down the maglev rail towards the heart of the star fort, but the cull-teams were out and he had been cor­nered. He had felt sure they would take him this time - they were brute-mutants, afflicted with a semi-stable strain of uncleanliness that let their muscles bulge out of control. They stomped across the sheet metal of the maglev deck, beetling eyes peering into the shadows, shotguns and spearcannon clutched in their massive paws. Yser hadn't minded that much - it was a worthy way to die, trying to keep his flock alive, striving to continue the dutiful worship of the Emperor. What else did he have?

  Then the reports came in. Word was that Mirfhor was down, which was in itself impossible - the Van Skorvolds had appointed Mirthor the chief of their close-knit mutant bodyguard solely because it was reckoned absolutely nothing could kill him. He was an immense horned monster, twice the height of the tallest man, and yet they said he was dead, cut to pieces by armoured giants who bled from the shadows and had the spirits of vengeance on their side.

  Impossible. But for Yser to have gone from violent petty thief to a priest ministering to the faith of a flock of escaped slaves was also impossible. Yet Yser had done it, praise to the Architect of Fate. Yser wondered if there was a miracle unfolding in the depths of the star fort - or, indeed, if the Emperor would let him live long enough to see it.

  The brutes began to select fire points as the reports put the attackers closer and closer, and suddenly the crump of gun­fire was real, echoing from the cargo ducts and recycler shafts snaking away from the terminus.

  More arrived. Danvaio's lot, mostly with minor mutations that made them ugly and bitter, and a bunch of unaltered humans from the dock work-gangs in the dark green uniform of the Van Skorvold army. Yser could hear the voices ugly in their throats - they had tooled up with whatever weapons they could find and mustered here, because the attackers were heading this way and they were damned if that bitch Veritas Van Skorvold was going to have their heads because they ran instead of fighting.

  They were still arguing over what to do when an explosion ripped into the side of the great maglev platform.

  Yser reeled in shock and slumped onto his back, ears screaming, a white patch blotting his vision. As it cleared he could see the wash of blood spattered over the platform where Danvaio's mob had caught the worst of it, their incom­plete bodies slumping over the plasticrete rubble.

  And he saw them. Clad in purple trimmed with bone, hold­ing heavy squat guns or whining chainswords almost as long as Yser was tall. He thought there was some trick of the light, but no, these men really were that tall - they topped out as tall as the bigger brutes, and their armour gave them immense bulk. There were a dozen of them perhaps, sprinting across the terminal space to rash the makeshift defences. Someone fired back but the few shots that hit spanged off their armour. Guns opened up in reply and tore through plasticrete and flesh alike, a half-dozen normals shredded in a second.

  He had seen them before, in the waking dreams when the Architect had first come to him and answered his plight. They were His chosen, the warriors of justice, whose unending bat­tle would redeem humanity's sins and lay the foundations for His great plan. Could it be? He had thought it a legend, something that would come to pass long after he had died. Was it happening now? Was the Architect of Fate really send­ing his warriors here, to save Yser's flock?

  More of them were pouring in at a sprint as the first wave slammed into the defenders, mutant and normal alike sliced or riddled with explosive shells. The warriors dived over bar­ricades into the teeth of blades and work-axes. Amongst those now arriving was one without a helmet, shaven-headed with a battered, yet volatile face, around whose skull played a blue-white corona echoed by that around the top of the mighty staff he carried. The chalice symbol on the shoulder pad of every man's armour was echoed on this warrior, but chased in gold. Sparks flew as his feet hit the floor and he raced with his brothers into the fray.

  As Yser cowered he saw more and more mutants pouring from the maglev tunnels. He knew the voice of Veritas Van Skorvold herself would be stinging the ears of those with communicators, demanding they make their lives worth something by giving them to defend her star fort. He saw crews from the hunt gangs, who tracked runaway slaves through the star fort with their stalked eyes or sensitive antennae, running right into the teeth of the warriors' gunfire and being shredded to bloody rags. He watched the bare­headed warrior raise his staff and unleash a storm of power, which coalesced into shadowy shapes that descended on the hordes of arriving mutants and put them to flight.

  Yser had never seen such slaughter. Those of his flock who had been caught by the cull-teams had been surrounded and butchered or killed while they slept, and Yser had seen many of them die - and now it seemed they were being paid back a thousand-fold by the righteous warriors of the Architect of Fate. It was the deliverance of justice as Yser had dared to believe it would be, swift and merciless. The screams of the dying and the stench of blood washed over his hiding place, and when he dared peek out again he could see mountains of mutant corpses piled up against the maglev platform. The warriors, not pausing to gloat over the dead, moved swiftly on into the maglev tunnels, the bare-headed one shouting orders. Yser caught his words - they were to press on, strike fast before the defenders could get properly organized and meet them a third time, find the objective and link up with their brothers.

  Then they were gone, leaving only the dead.

  THE EDUCATED GUESSES had been correct. The maglev line led deep into the star fort, past cavernous generatoria and para­sitic shanty-towns, right onto the doorstep of the shell. Mutant strong points dotted the square-sectioned maglev tun­nel, but the energy weapons to the fore had cracked open gun emplacements and grenades had blown apart huddling bands of mutants. Some had communicators, and the Space

  Marines on point had reported a screeching female voice yelling orders through the headsets.

  The Soul Drinkers had kept moving, posting pickets to guard the route into the heart of the star fort as the Chapter serfs moved in behind the Marine spearhead. With the mutant army scattered and broken, the Soul Drinkers had massed through the increasingly intact command sector of the ancient orbital defence platform, and reached the shell.

  It was thirty-nine minutes since the attack had begun.

  Sarpedon checked the vox-net for Caeon's progress. The larger force of Soul Drinkers had advanced on a broader front, for primary objective one was believed to be located in the Van Skorvolds' lavish private quarters - four floors of gar­ish decadence that were well-defended and had required an assault from many angles. There were injuries, some dis­abling, but no deaths. Caeon had thrown a ring of Marines around the private quarters and was in the process of squeez­ing the defenders - fewer mutants, and more well-armed mercenary guards - to death inside.

  Good, then. Caeon would get the job done - he was an experienced and trustworthy commander. Sarpedon himself, with what was his first true command, could concentrate on his own part of the mission. The part that concerned primary objective two.

  Sarpedon watched the dozen-strong work-serf gang hurry­ing past, one of them carrying a needle-nosed melta-saw. They were some of the thousands of Chapter serfs main­tained by the Soul Drinkers for tasks too menial for the Space Marines themselves. They were stripped to the waist and cov­ered with a sheen of sweat from their work r
apidly shoring up the assault pod breaches, and from the quick march along the trail of destruction the Soul Drinkers had blazed before them.

  The serfs passed into the Marine perimeter - fifty of the Imperium's finest warriors had formed a cordon of steel around the exposed section of the shell. The rest of Sarpedon's hundred-strong command either formed rings of defence further out or were organised into hunting parties to eliminate knots of mutants skulking nearby.

  There had been casualties - the sheer numbers of the opposition had made it inevitable - but every one hurt when each Space Marine was so valuable. Кого and Silvikk would never see another dawn, and Givlor would be fortunate to survive, his throat transfixed by a metre-long speargun bolt. There were scores of minor injuries, fractures and lacerations, but a Space Marine could simply ignore such things until the mission was finished. It had been cold and fast. Chapter Mas­ter Gorgoleon himself would be proud.

  Sarpedon watched as the serf gang prepared to bore a hole in the shell. The exposed section of the shell was surrounded by crudely wired data-consoles, charts and maps, detritus of the Van Skorvold business. Doubtless the Administratum would make much of the information in the scattered files and cogitator banks, but Sarpedon cared nothing for it. Once the Soul Drinkers had secured Objective Ultima they would leave this place and let the Imperial battlefleet outside take it over and do what they willed.

  There was one way into the one-man command module housed within the shell. It was sealed, and Sarpedon knew it would take time to crack the encryption locks. That was why they had brought the serfs.

  One of the work-serfs, his arms replaced with articulated tines to fit the melta-saw, hefted the huge cutting device and let a thin superheated line bore into the smooth metallic sur­face of the shell. Slowly a red tear dripping with molten metal was scored across the metal as an entrance was carved.