by Mike Lee
‘Very well,’ the Astartes said coldly. ‘Let’s go.’
‘First things first,’ the pipe-wielder said. He reached into a pocket of his coveralls and drew out a small auspex unit. Placing the pipe back in his mouth, he activated the unit and adjusted its settings, then swept it over Zahariel from head to toe.
Zahariel felt his choler rise as the rebel performed his scan. ‘The agreement was that I not come armed or armoured,’ he said, biting off each word.
The rebel was unperturbed. ‘That’s as may be. I still have my orders.’ Finished with the scan, he checked the unit’s readout, then nodded to his companion. ‘He’s clear.’
The second rebel nodded, then put away his penknife and started off towards the mouth of a dimly-lit corridor on the far side of the generator room.
‘Follow him,’ the pipe-wielder said. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’
Biting back his anger, Zahariel fell into step behind the lead rebel.
They walked for more than an hour, following a long, torturous route through the maintenance spaces that would have completely disorientated a normal man. As it was, Zahariel had only a vague notion of where in the arcology they were. He was certain that they had descended through another two sub-levels, making them at least a hundred metres below ground.
At the end of the trek Zahariel found himself walking down a long, dark corridor that seemed to go on for at least a kilometre. After several minutes he began to see a faint, grey luminescence up ahead. He smelled brackish water and wet stone, and a low, hissing sound filled his ears. Soon the grey light resolved itself into a doorway that opened onto a clattering metal catwalk suspended over a man-made waterfall. To the right of the catwalk, close enough to touch, was a wall of plunging water that churned into foam just two metres below Zahariel’s feet before passing under the catwalk and through a metal grate off to his left. They had reached one of the arcology’s many wastewater purification plants, Zahariel realised. At the far end of the catwalk, about fifty metres away, a small, permacrete blockhouse jutted from the chamber wall. Two armed rebels stood outside the blockhouse door, their hands nervously gripping their stolen lasguns. The guards halted them at the end of the catwalk and conferred with Zahariel’s guides in low, urgent tones; he tried to listen in on what was being said, but the white noise of the waterfall made it impossible. After a brief exchange, the guards nodded and stepped to one side. The pipe-wielding rebel turned back to Zahariel and gestured to the door with a nod of his head. ‘They’re waiting for you inside,’ he said. At once, Zahariel’s anger began to rise. Without a word, he rushed past the four men, pushing open the door with the flat of his hand and storming inside. He found himself in a small room, perhaps five metres to a side, which was lined with banks of controls and flickering data-plates. Four rebel soldiers stood in a tight knot on the opposite side of the room, close to a featureless metal door. To his left, Zahariel saw Lord Thuriel and Lord Malchial sitting in a pair of the control room’s utilitarian chairs. Malchial was clearly agitated, leaning forward in the chair with his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were white as chalk. Thuriel, on the other hand, was at ease, peering at the Librarian over steepled fingers. His dark eyes held nothing but contempt.
‘So you chose to come after all,’ Thuriel sneered. ‘I’d half given up on you.’
‘Had you been at the agreed-upon place you wouldn’t have had to wait,’ Zahariel shot back. ‘We haven’t the time for games, Lord Thuriel. Where are Lady Alera and Sar Daviel?’
‘That’s none of your concern,’ Thuriel said. He turned slightly and nodded to the men at the door. As one, the four rebels turned to face Zahariel, raising their weapons. Two of the men were armed with heavy, blunt-nosed plasma guns. For a moment Zahariel could only stare at the rebels. The idea of violating the time-honoured tradition of parley shocked him more profoundly than any warp-spawned horror could.
‘Upon further consideration, we’ve decided to make you our guest,’ Thuriel said with a cruel smile. ‘I think a high-value hostage will persuade Luther to take our demands seriously.’
Zahariel, however, wasn’t the least bit cowed. He folded his arms and glared at the rebels. ‘I’m going to give you just one chance to put those guns away,’ he said in a quiet voice.
Thuriel chuckled. ‘Or what?’ he shot back. ‘I’ve heard stories about the legendary toughness of the Astartes, but I rather doubt even you would survive a point-blank shot from a plasma gun.’
‘None of us would survive, you idiot,’ Zahariel said scornfully. ‘In a small room like this the thermal effects would incinerate us all. Now, I’m going to say this one last time. Put your weapons away, or this parley is finished.’
‘Parley?’ Thuriel said incredulously. ‘Have you not heard anything I’ve said? Unless you’re here to accede to our terms, we have nothing to discuss.’
Before Zahariel could reply, the door behind the rebel soldiers banged open. Sar Daviel appeared, shoving his way roughly past the startled gunmen. Behind him came Lady Alera, her face pale and her expression fierce. She, in turn, was followed by a third figure, stoop-shouldered and lean and clad in a plain white surplice identical to Zahariel’s own. The Librarian looked into the figure’s seamed face and felt a shock like a thunderbolt course up his spine. It was Master Remiel.
‘THURIEL, YOU DAMNED fool,’ snarled Sar Daviel. ‘You’ve got no idea what you’re playing at here. Tell your men to put away their guns right now, or I’ll do it for them.’ The old knight’s scarred hands clenched into fists. He looked entirely ready to make good his threat.
Daviel’s scornful tone brought Lord Thuriel out of his chair. ‘Mind your tongue when you’re speaking to your betters, you old dog,’ he warned. ‘Or you’ll wind up sharing the same cell as this hyper-muscled monstrosity here.’
‘Listen to me,’ Sar Daviel said, his voice low and insistent. ‘Zahariel is here under the terms of parley. Do you understand what that means?’
‘Parley?’ Thuriel said with a harsh laugh. ‘I’ve had quite enough of your romantic notions of warfare, Daviel. Do you imagine that Luther has suddenly had a change of heart, and wants to negotiate with us? Use your head, man!’ He pointed an accusing finger at Zahariel. ‘For all we know, he called this parley to draw us into the open so he could kill us!’
‘Shut up, Thuriel,’ Lord Remiel snapped. The old master’s voice was roughened with age, but still bore the same lash of authority he’d wielded at Aldurukh.
‘Have your men put away their weapons before Zahariel decides that the parley is void and turns your paranoid suspicions into reality.’ The noble recoiled from the command as though he’d been slapped. The rebel gunmen wavered, casting uncertain glances between the rebel leaders as if unsure who to follow. When Thuriel didn’t respond at once, Lady Alera wormed her way between the gunmen and pushed the muzzles of the plasma guns downward.
‘Enough of this madness,’ she declared. Then, to Zahariel, she said, ‘I regret this misunderstanding has occurred, Sar Zahariel. Lord Thuriel and Lord Malchial acted rashly, and without the sanction of the rest of our leadership. In fact,’ she continued, shooting an angry glance at the two noblemen, ‘they conspired to delay the rest of us so that we couldn’t interfere with their treachery.’
‘Now, look here,’ Malchial said, rising nervously from his chair. ‘I never wanted any part of this. Lord Thuriel said—’
‘We’ve heard more than enough of what Lord Thuriel has to say,’ Remiel snapped. ‘I advise the both of you to hold your tongue from this point forward. At the moment I’m of the opinion you’re a bigger threat to our cause than Luther and his minions, and nothing in the terms of parley prevents me from having the both of you shot.’
Remiel’s threat ended the confrontation at a stroke. The gunmen withdrew to stand by the doorway behind the rebel leaders, their weapons held at port arms. Malchial went pale and his mouth snapped shut at once. Thuriel held his tongue as well, though his body trembled with barely-cont
ained rage.
Zahariel observed the entire exchange with outward calm, though inwardly his mind reeled at the implications of the scene playing out before him. It had been obvious from the start that the insurgents were very well-informed about Imperial strategy and tactics, but Luther and General Morten had assumed that deserters from the Jaeger regiments were the cause. The truth, Zahariel now realised, was far worse – and called into question many of their assumptions about the rebels and their motives.
‘It was you all along,’ Zahariel said, his heart sinking with the realization. ‘How many years did you pretend to be our brother while you were laying the groundwork for this rebellion? When did you forsake your oaths to the primarch, master? Did it happen the day that Luther returned from the Crusade – or when Jonson passed you over and chose another to become Lord Cypher?’
‘It was Jonson’s treachery that brought us all to this,’ Remiel said. The old master’s voice was sharp as drawn steel. ‘An oath born from deceit is no oath at all! His lies—’
‘Save your breath, my lord,’ Sar Daviel said, resting a hand on Remiel’s arm. ‘It won’t do you any good.’ The maimed knight let go of the old master and took a step towards Zahariel, his expression stern and unforgiving. ‘You called for a parley, and in honour of the old ways we obliged you. What is it you want?’
With an effort, Zahariel tore his gaze away from Remiel and collected his thoughts. He’d rehearsed this conversation in his head a hundred times on the way to the arcology.
‘I’m here because of what you said to Luther, just before you got on the shuttle back at Aldurukh.’
Sar Daviel’s one good eye narrowed thoughtfully. He gave Zahriel a searching look, and then sudden comprehension dawned across his scarred face. ‘You’ve seen something, haven’t you?’
‘What’s happened?’ Remiel said, a note of concern creeping into his voice.
Zahariel hesitated, knowing that he had reached the point of no return. Luther had forbidden him to discuss the matter with anyone, but if he didn’t, Caliban was doomed. Slowly at first, then with gathering speed and determination, he told the rebel leaders what he’d found at Sigma Five-One-Seven.
When he was done, Zahariel studied the faces of each rebel leader in turn. Daviel and Master Remiel cast sidelong glances at one another, their expressions grim. Lady Alera and Lord Malchial were pale with shock, while Lord Thuriel’s jaw tightened with building outrage. ‘What is he talking about?’ Thuriel demanded. ‘What’s this… this taint he keeps referring to?’ He took a step towards the two older knights, his hands clenching into fists. ‘How long have you been keeping this from us?’
Daviel glared forbiddingly at the angry noble. ‘It’s none of your concern, Thuriel,’ he growled. ‘Believe me. The less you know about this, the better.’
‘And now you presume to tell me what I have a right to know? You’re no better than the damned Imperials!’ Thuriel turned to Lady Alera. ‘I told you we couldn’t trust them!’ he snarled, pointing an accusing finger at the old knights. ‘Who knows what other secrets they’re hiding? For all we know, they might have been working with Luther all along!’
‘Thuriel, will you please just shut up,’ Lady Alera said, her voice trembling faintly. She pressed a hand to her forehead, and Zahariel could see that she was struggling to come to grips with what she’d been told. ‘Can’t you see what’s at stake here?’
‘Of course I can,’ Thuriel snarled. ‘In fact, I see things a great deal more clearly than you, Alera. I see that the Terrans aren’t content with raping our world; now they’re feeding our people to monsters. And these two old fools knew it, but kept it to themselves.’
‘We knew nothing of the kind, you arrogant, self-centred dolt,’ Daviel shot back. ‘Master Remiel and I were protecting our people from monsters long before you were born, and don’t you forget it.’ He jabbed a gnarled finger at the ruined side of his face. ‘You want to talk about monsters, boy, you show me the scars you earned fighting them. Otherwise, shut your damned mouth!’
‘So that’s it, eh? Just shut up and trust you? Like we trusted Luther, and Jonson, and all those vultures from the Administratum?’ Thuriel shouted back. His right hand fell to the pistol holstered at his hip. ‘Never again, Daviel! You hear me? Never again!’
The nobleman glared at Daviel for a long moment. The knight regarded Thuriel coldly, pointedly folding his arms in the face of the other man’s threat. The rebel gunmen at the back of the room fingered their weapons nervously. Before the situation could escalate further, however, Lord Malchial leapt from his chair and gripped Thuriel’s left arm.
‘Leave it, cousin,’ Malchial hissed fearfully. ‘Nothing good can come of this.’
Thuriel gritted his teeth in consternation, weighing his options. Finally, he drew his hand away from his weapon.
‘For once, Malchial, you may be right,’ the nobleman said. Thuriel swept a haughty gaze over the knights, Lady Alera and Zahariel. ‘We’re finished, do you hear? You’ll not get another coin from me to finance your little games of deception. I’ll find another way to set our people free from the likes of Jonson and his ilk. See if I won’t.’ He turned and stormed from the room, with a nervous Malchial close behind. ‘Damn that Malchial,’ Sar Daviel said as the door slammed shut behind them. ‘Another moment more and Thuriel would have done something foolish. Then we could have been rid of the both of them.’
Zahariel frowned. ‘Was it wise to let them go?’ he asked.
‘You’d rather he were here, using up good air?’ Alera said disgustedly. She waved her hand in dismissal. ‘Thuriel provides us with money and outrage, and not much else. He doesn’t have any real support inside the movement. Let him go. We’ve got much more important things to worry about.’
Sar Daviel looked to Remiel. ‘Things are far worse than we feared,’ he said gravely.
Remiel nodded, but he continued to stare searchingly at Zahariel. ‘Why have you told us this?’ he asked his old pupil.
‘Because we’re running out of time,’ Zahariel replied. ‘We’ve got to stop the Terrans before they unleash their master ritual, but if we send in a major force of Astartes to search for them we risk drawing the attention of the Administratum.’
‘Who wouldn’t hesitate to condemn the planet – and its people – if they learned the truth,’ Remiel concluded.
‘Condemn?’ Alera said. ‘What does that mean?’
‘The Imperium views warp taint as… a cancer, if you will. A tumour on the human soul,’ Remiel said. ‘Not without reason, of course. No sane person wants to see a return of Old Night. But the problem here is that Caliban’s taint runs deeper than just a handful of debased individuals; it permeates the very bedrock of the world.’
‘Then how does one go about curing it?’ she said, her voice rising with exasperation.
The old master sighed. ‘With fire. What else?’ He eyed Zahariel coldly. ‘The Imperium would relocate the Legion and as many of its loyal servants as it could. Perhaps a few hundred thousand could be saved. The rest…’
‘That’s why this must be kept secret,’ Zahariel said calmly. His eyes never left Remiel’s.
The old master’s eyebrows rose. ‘That sounds like something very close to rebellion, young Zahariel.’
The Librarian shook his head. ‘Luther and I swore an oath to protect the people of Caliban, long before the coming of the Emperor,’ he replied. ‘As did you.’
Sar Daviel nodded slowly. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘What do you want from us?’
‘A truce,’ Zahariel said simply. ‘Help us find the Terrans quickly and quietly, and we’ll send in a kill-team to eliminate them.’ Alera shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Leave these sorcerers to us. We can take care of them.’
‘Would that were so, Lady Alera,’ Remiel said heavily. ‘But Zahariel is right. Our people are no match for these creatures. This is a task for the Astartes.’
‘But we don’t even know for certain t
hat these sorcerers are here,’ Alera protested. ‘A truce at this point benefits the Imperials, not us! Their control of the arcology is balanced on a knife edge; if we give them time to catch their breath, bring in more reinforcements…’ the noblewoman’s voice trailed away as she watched a wordless exchange pass between Remiel and Sar Daviel.
‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ she asked.
Daviel nodded. ‘We didn’t tell you before for reasons of security,’ he said gravely. ‘But we’ve lost contact with a number of our sub-level cells over the last two weeks.’
‘How many cells?’ Alera demanded.
‘Fourteen,’ Remiel answered. ‘Possibly as many as sixteen. Two others missed their last scheduled report this morning, but that could be the result of equipment failure.’
The news sent a jolt down Zahariel’s spine. ‘How many cells do you have in the sub-levels?’
Daviel shifted uncomfortably. ‘A significant number,’ he said. ‘The Jaegers don’t have the manpower to penetrate much beyond sub-level two, so we keep our combat teams on the lowest sub-levels between raids.’
‘How many men have you lost so far?’ Zahariel pressed. ‘Tell me!’
‘One hundred and thirty-two,’ the maimed knight answered. ‘All of them well-trained and well-equipped, and all of them lost without so much as a single vox transmission. Frankly, we were starting to suspect that you’d sent Astartes teams into the sub-levels to root us out.’ Zahariel shook his head. ‘It’s begun,’ he said. ‘They’re gathering bodies, just like they did at Sigma Five-One-Seven.’
Alera’s face twisted in a bitter grimace. ‘As though the Terrans would have a hard time finding corpses in that charnel house.’ ‘Charnel house?’ Zahariel echoed. ‘What do you mean?’
Lady Alera stared open-mouthed at the Astartes. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know,’ she said, her eyes blazing angrily. Zahariel held up a hand. ‘On my honour, lady, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’