Fallen Angels

by Mike Lee

  With his elbows and knees on firm ground the Librarian flexed his augmented muscles and managed to twist onto his right side. His force staff was pinned beneath him, but he was able to aim behind him at the creature’s thrashing body. It took three bolt pistol shots in rapid succession to blow the thing apart, showering him with fragments of chitin and reeking ichor. In the muzzle flashes of his pistol Zahariel could see three more of the monsters rearing up from the walls like snakes, their mandibles clashing as they prepared to strike. Without hesitation, he summoned up the full force of his will and unleashed the psychic fury of the warp.

  He had practised the attack countless times under Israfael’s tutelage, but the sheer intensity of the energy coursing through him took Zahariel by surprise. It roared through him like a torrent, far stronger and easier to grasp than he’d ever experienced before. A nimbus of crackling energy surrounded the Librarian; he felt each and every vein in his body turn to ice, radiating from the cables of the psychic hood at the back of his skull, and the three creatures were engulfed in a torrent of raging fire that coalesced from the very air itself. They burst apart in the intense heat, their carapaces exploding from within.

  Zahariel gave a shout of triumph and surged to his feet. Skeins of crackling lightning played over the surface of his staff, and icy power raged along his limbs. For a dizzying instant his awareness sharpened to a supernatural degree, reaching into dimensions beyond the understanding of ordinary humans. The permacrete and metal of the corridor faded into near-invisibility, while living matter was etched with vibrant clarity. He could see the layers of root and vine blanketing the walls and ceiling, and every one of the thousands of insects living in their midst. He could also see the score of worms surrounding his squad, wrapping about the warriors and biting at their armoured forms.

  Worse, he could see the awful, unnatural taint that pulsed through it all. It stained every living thing in the corridor around the Astartes, corrupting them like a cancer. A cancer that seethed with awful, otherworldly sentience.

  The sight of it stunned Zahariel. It etched itself indelibly into his brain. This was worse by far than the horrors he’d witnessed on Sarosh. There, too, he had been deep beneath the ground, surrounded by death and corruption, but on Sarosh, the vile, jellylike creature they’d faced had been clearly born of the shifting madness of the warp. This taint, this evil that suffused every root and vine, was inextricably part of Caliban itself.

  ELEVEN

  CONVERSATIONS BY STARLIGHT

  Diamat

  In the 200th year of the Emperor’s Great Crusade

  THE ATTACK WAS SO fast that it momentarily took Nemiel off-guard. In the space of a single heartbeat the Praetorians erupted into a blur of deadly motion, bringing their weapons to bear and charging across the last few metres between themselves and the Astartes. Multi-barrel slug throwers pounded at the Dark Angels, the explosive shells bursting in a series of sharp flashes across the ceramite surfaces of their armour. The warriors staggered under the hail of shells, blood spraying from wounds to their arms, torsos and legs. Urgent red telltales flashed on Nemiel’s helmet display; pain flared across his chest, and his arms suddenly felt twice as heavy. A Praetorian shell had likely cut a bundle of synthetic muscle fibres beneath his breastplate.

  Brother-Sergeant Kohl was the first to respond. There was no time for questions or recriminations; the Praetorians were descending on them with the speed of a thunderbolt, brandishing power claws and blazing shock mauls that would make a mockery of their Crusader-pattern armour. The Terran staggered backward under a punishing barrage of explosive shells, roaring a curse in some forgotten tongue and returning fire with his bolt pistol. The shells struck one of the charging skitarii in the chest and head, flattening against the augmented warrior’s armour plates without inflicting serious damage, but the gesture of resistance was enough to shock the rest of the squad back into action.

  Bolters hammered at the charging Praetorians, slowing their advance by sheer weight of fire. Blood and other fluids spurted from minor wounds; spatters of liquid hissed into steam where it struck the Praetorians’ super-charged bionics. Nemiel smelled the acrid reek of adrenal compounds and hormone agitators.

  Off to Nemiel’s right there was a shriek of superheated air as Brother Marthes shot one of the oncoming skitarii point-blank with his meltagun. The anti-tank weapon blew the Praetorian apart in a shower of sparks and charred bits of flesh.

  The Praetorian rushing at Nemiel was a massive brute that seemed more machine than man; a composition of bionic joints, synthetic musculature, adrenal shunts and pitted armour plating. His head was encased in a faceless metal shell, studded with multi-spectrum auspex nodes in place of ears, nose and mouth. His breastplate was decorated – if that was the word – with bar-code emblems and small plaques of glittering, iridescent metal. Perhaps he was a champion of sorts, or the leader of the detachment; Nemiel couldn’t be sure. The Praetorian’s left hand had been replaced by a huge, three-fingered power claw, its curved edges plated with adamantium and sharpened to a mirror-sheen. The warrior lunged at Nemiel with stunning speed, swiping the claw at his face.

  He knew better than to try and parry something so large, the power claw could easily knock his crozius aside – or worse, snap it cleanly in two. Instead, he ducked, allowing the Praetorian’s swing to pass harmlessly over his head, and smashed his staff into the warrior’s elbow. The power field of the crozius struck the bionic joint and fused it with a flash of actinic light, but the Praetorian scarcely seemed to notice. The huge warrior spun on his left heel and brought his right elbow back to smash into Nemiel’s forehead.

  Ceramite cracked loudly in Nemiel’s ears, and the impact hurled him off his feet. He landed squarely on his back, his helmet readouts crackling with washes of static. Without thinking, he fired a quick burst in the Praetorian’s direction, and was rewarded with the sound of shells striking the warrior’s armour plate. The skitarii was just a blurry shape on the helmet’s damaged optical systems, fading in and out of existence like a monstrous ghost. The Praetorian moved closer, his claw arm reaching for Nemiel’s right leg.

  A flash of light and another howl of tortured air swept over Nemiel. Marthes’s shot vaporised the Praetorian’s claw arm at the elbow and blistered the warrior’s armoured shoulders and chest. The skitarii reeled backwards, his auto-senses momentarily overloaded.

  Nemiel dropped his pistol and clawed at his helmet release. He popped the catches with nimble fingers and tore the damaged helm from his head, blinking in the dim, red light of Diamat’s distant sun. A wild melee was raging all around him as his battle brothers fought against the heavily-armed Praetorians. Brother Yung was down, his breastplate torn like paper and stained with blood. Techmarine Askelon had another of the Praetorians by the throat, lifting the brute off the ground with his servo arm and crushing the skitarii’s metal-sheathed spine.

  He quickly turned his focus back to the one-armed Praetorian just a few metres away. The augmented warrior was in a crouch, the air shimmering around his scorched armour, his body eerily still as he reset his auspex nodes. Nemiel snatched up his bolt pistol and took careful aim, preparing to put a round through the Praetorian’s throat.

  Suddenly a strange, trumpeting blurt of binaric code cut like a knife through the sounds of battle, and the Praetorians practically recoiled from the Dark Angels. They retreated a dozen steps and lowered their weapon arms, their chests heaving from exertion and the combat drugs that were boiling in their veins. The Astartes paused, their weapons trained on their adversaries. Kohl looked to Nemiel for instructions.

  But the Redemptor’s attention was focused on a large force of armoured skitarii rushing down the roadway from the northeast. They were led by a tall, hooded figure clad in the crimson robes of the Mechanicum, riding atop a humming suspensor disk.

  Nemiel rose swiftly to his feet as the figure glided closer. ‘What is the meaning of this, magos?’ he snarled, his choler nearly overwhelming him.
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  ‘Error. Improper threat parameters. Misidentification,’ the magos blurted in High Gothic. The voice was harsh and atonal, the words strangely inflected but recognizable. The magos paused, raising a hand that glittered in the rust-coloured sunlight. ‘Apologies,’ he continued, his synthetic voice more carefully modulated now. ‘Grave apologies to you and your squad, noble Astartes. The skitarii were in seek-and-destroy mode, searching for enemy troops that had penetrated the complex. Your appearance on Diamat is… unexpected. I was unable to override the Praetorians’ engagement protocols until it was too late.’

  ‘I see,’ Nemiel said curtly. So it’s our fault for rushing here to protect you, he thought. He glanced over at Brother-Sergeant Kohl and guessed from the Terran’s belligerent pose that he was thinking much the same thing. ‘How is Brother Yung?’

  ‘Comatose,’ Kohl growled. ‘His injuries are grave.’

  ‘Let us conduct him to the forge’s apothecarium,’ the magos said at once. ‘We will repair his body and mend his damaged armour.’

  For some reason, the magos’s offer took Nemiel aback. ‘That won’t be required,’ he said quickly. ‘We will conduct him back to our ship when the battle is done, and let our brothers tend to him.’ He studied the hooded figure warily. ‘I am Brother-Redemptor Nemiel, of the Emperor’s First Legion. Who are you?’

  The magos laid one metal hand atop the other and bowed from the waist. ‘I am Archoi, magos of the Forge and former servant of the Arch-Magos Vertullus,’ he said.

  ‘Former?’ Nemiel inquired.

  Archoi nodded gravely. ‘I regret that the esteemed Arch-Magos was slain, twelve-point-eight hours ago, while coordinating the defence of the forge,’ he said. ‘As the senior surviving member of Vertullus’s staff, I am now the acting Arch-Magos of Diamat.’

  Off to the south, a deep, brassy rumble shook the air. It swelled in volume, the source climbing slowly into the sky. Nemiel turned and saw a pair of ships boosting ponderously into orbit on pillars of cyan light.

  ‘The rebels have had enough,’ Kohl declared. There was a grim note of triumph in his voice. ‘They’re pulling out.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Archoi replied. ‘Your primarch contacted us six-point-three-seven minutes previously, declaring that rebel forces in orbit are in full retreat.’ The magos raised his arms, as if in benediction. ‘Victory is yours, noble Astartes. Diamat is saved.’

  Archoi’s synthesised voice fell silent, giving way to the fading thunder of the fleeing transports and distant rumble of Imperial vehicles. A rattle of small arms fire echoed in the distance. The Praetorians stared mutely at Nemiel and the Dark Angels, their augmented bodies as still as statues. Blood and lubricants leaked slowly from their wounds.

  Nemiel couldn’t help but think that Archoi was being a bit premature.

  ‘NATURALLY, WE’RE VERY grateful that you came when you did,’ Taddeus Kulik said, though the look in the governor’s hooded eyes suggested just the opposite.

  The primarch’s sanctum aboard the Invincible Reason was a single, large chamber that stretched from one side of the warship’s superstructure to the other and subdivided into smaller, more intimate spaces by fluted columns of structural steel. Tall, arched viewports to port and starboard threw long, sharp-edged shadows across the mosaics inlaid onto the deck, and hinted at the angular shapes of furnishings in the surrounding spaces. Fragments of hull plating had gouged the portside viewports in chaotic patterns, refracting the red light of Diamat’s sun like a scattering of polished rubies.

  Jonson typically kept the lighting dim in the sanctum, preferring to work solely by starlight when possible, but out of consideration for his guests he’d lit the lumen-sconces on the pillars surrounding the large, hexagonally-shaped meeting space in the centre of the great chamber. A carved wooden campaign chair had been provided for the governor, who had been hit in the leg by a Iasgun bolt during the Dragoons’ counterattack. A chirurgeon from the Imperial palace and a medicae servitor stood a discreet distance away, ready with painkillers should Kulik require them. The governor, a man in his middle years, still wore the battle-scarred carapace armour he’d fought in just a few hours before. A stained compression bandage was wrapped around his right thigh, and an old power sword hung from a scabbard at his hip. His pale grey eyes were bright with pain and fatigue, and though he made a point to relax into the back of his chair, the set of his shoulders was tense.

  Magos Archoi stood a few paces to the governor’s right, his metal hands folded at his waist. He had changed out of his simple Mechanicum robe for his audience with the primarch, garbing himself in the formal attire of his late predecessor. The heavy robes of office were woven with gold and platinum thread, worked into complicated patterns that resembled nothing so much as integrated circuit paths; the sleeves were wide and terminated just below the elbow, revealing the intricate craftsmanship of Archoi’s bionic arms. The magos had drawn back his hood, exposing the polished metal of his lower skull and neck. Data cables and coolant tubes ran in bundles along either side of his steel throat; auspex nodes and receptor pits were arranged around the vox grill set in the space where his mouth used to be. The magos had augmetic eyes set into the flesh of his upper face, glowing with faint pinpoints of blue light. His bald scalp was pale and dotted with faint scars. Nemiel couldn’t read the magos at all; Archoi’s body betrayed nothing but machine-like inscrutability. A pair of hooded acolytes stood a precise six paces behind him; heads bowed and muttering to one another in muted blurts of binaric cant. Lion El’Jonson studied the two officials over the tips of his steepled fingers. He sat in a high-backed, throne-like chair carved from Calibanite oak that only served to magnify his towering physical presence, his demeanour confident and utterly composed. Looking at him, one would never know that he’d been fighting for his life in a space battle just a short while before.

  ‘Diamat’s troubles are far from over, Governor Kulik,’ Jonson replied gravely. ‘There are resources here that Horus must have in order to prevail in the coming conflict with the Emperor. As soon as the survivors of his raiding fleet return to Isstvan, he’ll immediately start putting together a new force – and this time it won’t be comprised of renegade warships and former Imperial Army troops.’ His gaze drifted to the red-stained viewports to port, his expression thoughtful. ‘I expect we have no more than two and a half weeks, three at most, before they return. We need to make the most of it.’

  Kulik eyed Jonson warily. ‘And what exactly would you have us do, Primarch Jonson?’ he asked.

  The cynical tone in the governor’s voice shocked Nemiel. He was standing to the right of Jonson’s chair, turned so that he could address the primarch or the two officials if required. Upon returning to the flagship he’d seen to the needs of his squad and then spent more than an hour in the Apothecarium having bits of steel removed from his body. His battered wargear had been handed off to the ship’s armourers for repairs, and he’d clad himself in a simple, hooded surplice before reporting to the primarch. His hands clenched reflexively at the near-insolent tone in the governor’s voice.

  Kulik acted as though Jonson was as much of a danger as Horus – and why not, Nemiel thought? Four Legions had already cast off their ties to the Emperor, and the entire Segmentum was coming apart at the seams. Everyone’s motives were suspect. The realisation left him cold.

  Jonson didn’t miss the tone in Kulik’s voice either. He turned back to the governor, his expression an icy mask. ‘I would have you continue to do your duty, sir,’ he said coldly. ‘We must defend this planet at all costs. The future of the Imperium might well depend upon it.’ Governor Kulik grimaced, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He rubbed the bandage on his leg, but Nemiel wondered if that was what truly pained him. ‘My people don’t have much left to give,’ he said gravely. ‘The rebels smashed every city and town from orbit. We don’t even know for sure how many people are still alive. There’s been no time to count all the bodies, much less bury them.’

  ‘What of th
e Dragoons?’ the primarch asked.

  Kulik sighed. ‘We threw everything we had left into the counterattack once we learned that the company covering the forge’s south entrance had been overrun.’ The governor had been a military man in his youth. When the commander of the Dragoons had been killed in an atomic strike early in the rebel attack, and the Imperial palace had been bombed to rubble, he put on a Dragoon’s carapace armour and took charge of the planet’s defence. Kulik was a man who took his duties to the Imperium seriously.

  ‘I’ve got perhaps one full regiment’s worth of troops, cobbled together from half a dozen units, and most of an armoured battalion left,’ he said, then shot a venomous look at Magos Archoi. ‘On the other hand, the Mechanicum’s troops saw little or no action during the attack, so they’re likely to be at full strength.’

  Jonson turned to the magos and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘Is that so?’ he asked. His tone was mild, but Nemiel saw a gleam of anger in the primarch’s eye.

  Magos Archoi bowed his head in regret. ‘It was Arch-Magos Vertullus’s directive that the Tech-Guard be employed only for the purposes of defending our forge complexes across the planet,’ he said. ‘Many of us tried to convince him otherwise, but he said his orders came from Mars itself.’

  ‘Not that it made any difference,’ Kulik spat. ‘The rebels sacked every one of the smaller forges and manufactories.’

  ‘But they failed to seize more than twelve per cent of our primary complex outside Xanthus,’ Magos Archoi pointed out.

  The governor glared at him. ‘And had we not bled to keep them out, I wager that percentage would have been a great deal higher,’ he retorted, his anger rising.

  ‘Now is not the time for recriminations, my friends,’ Jonson declared, holding up a hand to forestall further comment. ‘We have fought hard and won a temporary reprieve, but that is all. Now tell us, Magos Archoi, how many troops can the Mechanicum muster for Diamat’s defence?’