It was a foolish, discourteous instinct, and he knew it. For all that, it was hard not to stare.
‘Thank you for coming to see me, magos,’ he said, settling into his stiff-backed chair.
Magos Ys inclined her head slightly, and the crimson cowl obscuring her face slipped a little lower. The chamber around them, located high up in the Guard’s Helat base of operations, was roughly circular and offered a wide view of the plains below through a set of curved windows. Troop movements were visible in almost every direction – columns of armoured vehicles, Sentinel formations, squadrons of flyers taking off for the front. Over in the far north-west horizon, the burning outlines of Shardenus Prime could just be made out.
‘A pleasure, Lord General,’ she replied. ‘I could hardly expect you to meet me in orbit with matters balanced so delicately.’
Nethata gestured to the table beside her. Bolofe, his Master of Protocol, had covered it in things he thought a servant of the Mechanicus would expect to find – fruit, mostly, beside a decanter of Martian emreva.
‘We’re all right conducting this in Gothic? I can ask for servitor mediation if you wish.’
It was impossible to read Ys’s mood with her face covered, but Nethata thought he caught a flicker of a metal smile somewhere in the shadows.
‘That is kind, but I am perfectly happy to speak in Gothic.’
Nethata bowed to acknowledge the courtesy.
‘I received word from Princeps Lopi that his Titans are available for deployment,’ he said. ‘I repeat our thanks. With the perimeter breached, we will have need of their heavy weapons soon.’
‘I am glad,’ said Ys. ‘And you are to be congratulated – my adepts inform me the assault on the hives goes well.’
Nethata suppressed a sour expression.
‘The walls have been compromised west of the Rovax Gate,’ he said. ‘The main assault along the eastern walls, the one led by my regiments, was withdrawn after taking heavy losses. No Warhawks were recovered. Two days later, we’re still patching things up. I’m not sure that counts as “going well”.’
‘But the breakthrough was made. Surely that is the important thing.’
Nethata found the magos’s smooth, subtle voice disconcerting. No hint of machine filtering discoloured it. It was human; almost too human, if such a thing were possible. He knew that Ys was almost entirely machine, just like the senior Iron Hands, though at least in their case one couldn’t miss the ostentatious display of mechanical alteration.
‘Let me be candid, magos,’ he said. ‘I trust this meeting is in full confidence?’
‘Always, Lord General.’
‘So,’ said Nethata, drawing a breath. ‘There have been differences of emphasis between me and Clan Commander Rauth over the assault. I’m sure you’re aware of that, but now that your assets are coming under his purview, I thought we should discuss it.’
As he spoke, he tried to gauge something of Ys’s reception, but it was futile; like talking to a mute servitor.
‘I am concerned about the way this war is being fought,’ he said. ‘We lost thousands of men establishing a temporary breach in the walls, in my view with no justifiable cause. Guard losses are one thing – I’m capable of arguing the case for my own men – but your battle-formation… well, that is something else. I can’t speak for you.’
‘We would not expect you to,’ said Ys.
She folded her legs. The movement was as supple and fluid as a normal human’s, though Nethata noticed the glint of dark metal under the hem of her robes before they settled.
‘They didn’t tell us anything,’ said Nethata. ‘We launched our assault knowing nothing of their positions, of their intentions. They used my men to concentrate defenders along the eastern wall sections while they came in from the west. Even now they commandeer units under my direct command, driving them alongside their own advance, wasting them in their haste to press on towards the Capitolis.’
He shot Ys a frustrated look.
‘They are – forgive me – impossible.’
The magos reached for her glass and raised it to her cowl, taking a sip before replacing it.
‘I appreciate your candour, lord general,’ she said. ‘And I understand your situation, since we have fought alongside the Iron Hands for millennia. Perhaps you know of our close association, perhaps not. In either case, given those ties, I am surprised that you have sought to take me into your confidence over this.’
Nethata pressed his fingers together, fully aware of the need to go carefully. He knew how close the Mechanicus was to the Iron Hands. That didn’t make his approach to Ys pointless, just dangerous; in any case, he had precious few other allies to turn to.
‘This is not a question of insubordination,’ he said. ‘I serve the Imperial cause, as I know Princeps Lopi will, but I have tried to reason with Clan Commander Rauth on many occasions and have got precisely nowhere. He is blind to considerations of caution, of bloodshed, of waste. All he cares about is speed – the need to break the spires as soon as possible. If he has a sound tactical reason for that, then he hasn’t chosen to share it with me.’
Nethata unclasped his hands and placed them in his lap, resisting the temptation to look down at them. Ys’s empty cowl was hard to stare into for long.
‘I am not a weak man, magos,’ he said. ‘I have led men into battle for over a hundred years, and have taken many hard decisions. But this is…’
He trailed off, remembering the sacrifice of the Harakoni Warhawks, all to expedite the Iron Hands’ own hidden advance.
‘…inhuman.’
Ys said nothing for a moment. She sat easily in her chair, not touching the fruit and liquor at her side, watching him.
‘Let me tell you something about the Iron Hands,’ she said eventually. ‘You may think that you know what to expect of them, but I assure you that you do not.’
She leaned forwards a little.
‘Since we are speaking in confidence, I can make you privy to things many in the Imperium have long forgotten – it will help you to understand. The Iron Hands are human, lord general. Perhaps they do not like to think of themselves in quite that way any more, but they are, and they share in the full range of blessings and curses of that exalted state. One condition in particular is theirs: an ancient condition which even now, with all the techno-chirurgical advances available in our glorious Imperium, resists any attempts at a cure.’
Nethata listened carefully, lulled a little by Ys’s smooth, cultivated voice. He had not expected a discourse.
‘Psychological states exist in which a healthy subject comes to harm himself,’ she said. ‘He lets himself waste away through neglect, or cuts his own flesh, or desires to have limbs amputated where no wound has been inflicted. The image he has of his body is distorted, and it is difficult for others to understand such an impulse, since they can have no insight into what he sees when he stands before a mirror.’
Ys spoke in a measured, confident manner, as if her speech had been long prepared.
‘The body of a Space Marine is the most perfect human form ever created,’ she said. ‘Even our skitarii, given every augmetic aid known to us, do not compare to it in power and facility. You can imagine what degree of mental trauma would be required for a human to give up such a gift, to mutilate himself and replace his priceless gene-forged heritage with mechanical parts.’
‘Forgive me, magos,’ said Nethata, ‘but your own kind are not exactly immune to that.’
Ys nodded, and Nethata had the same impression again – the impression that under her cowl she had just smiled.
‘We take ordinary bodies and make them better,’ she admitted. ‘We do so because we desire to improve on what we were born with. The Iron Hands cannot make their bodies better, since they are already perfect. Nevertheless, still they amputate their limbs in favour of metal parts and aspire to the state of machine-hood. Why? Because they fear their flesh, lord general. They look at it in the mirror of their minds and t
hey see something loathsome. It is difficult to understand such an impulse, since, as I said, we can have no insight into what they see when they stand before the mirror.’
Nethata pursed his lips, considering what he was being told.
‘So the augmetics,’ he said. ‘It’s because… they can’t help themselves?’
‘Something like that.’
‘All of them? They all feel that way?’
‘The condition gets worse the longer they serve. Some of them recognise it, others do not. Eventually, yes, it claims them all.’
Ys turned away from him. She looked out through the windows, over to the horizon where the spires burned.
‘There is a myth, a rumour, still repeated on Mars, that their Lord Primarch knew of this weakness and wished to purge it. I have seen scrolls, purported to be written in the hand of Manus, that state the matter clearly. Who knows if such things are genuine? Even if he intended it, he died long before he could accomplish it. And so we have the present situation: the Iron Hands no longer place trust in their gene-wrought perfection.’
Once again, the irony of being told such things by a mostly-metal adept of the Mechanicus impressed itself on Nethata.
‘Why are you telling me this, magos?’ he asked.
‘To help you understand them. They do not see the universe in the way that you do. When you advocate courses of action that seem prudent – to slow the pace of the attack, to conserve strength, to protect your exposed flanks – they see only weakness. It reminds of them of their own weakness, and so they recoil from it.’
‘When they risk the lives of my men, I must speak.’
‘Quite so. But choose your words and your tactics carefully.’
Ys turned away from the view of the battle and looked at him from under the shadow of her cowl.
‘They only respect strength,’ she said. ‘Do not argue from the need to preserve life; argue from the need to destroy it. Appeal to mercy, and they will disregard you. Appeal to reason, and they will disregard you. Appeal to the weakness of your men, and they will disregard you. They understand sacrifice, duty and resolve. Nothing else.’
Nethata stared at his own hands. For the first time, he thought they looked old, despite all the rejuve he’d invested in over the years. He flexed his fingers, watching the way the muscles moved.
‘Your words give me little comfort,’ he said. ‘I had hoped that, with your support, those instincts might be controlled.’
Ys shook her head. It was a perfect idiomatic human gesture, though Nethata suspected that she only adopted such mannerisms because he was there.
‘You cannot control the Iron Hands,’ she said. ‘It is dangerous to try. The best you can hope for is manage them; even we of Mars have had to learn how to do that. They need us for the augmetic devices we make for them, but we are not foolish enough to believe that our relationship is one of master and servant.’
Ys rose from her seat in a single, lissom movement. Nethata got to his feet more clumsily. The audience, so it seemed, was at an end.
‘You were right to speak to me, lord general,’ she said. ‘I will reflect on your situation and see whether anything can be done. Princeps Lopi is an experienced commander; I shall instruct him to remain in close contact with you.’
‘I’m grateful, magos,’ said Nethata. ‘And I hope you don’t think–’
Ys raised a hand, and for the first time Nethata had a clear view of her metal-encased claw slipping clear of her sleeve.
‘It does not matter what I think,’ she said. ‘Your devotion to your men commends you.’
Ys leaned closer, and a faint aroma of ceremonial incense rose from her robes.
‘If you remember only one thing I have told you, lord general, remember this,’ she said. ‘They only respect strength. Forget that, and it will kill you.’
Valien crept forwards slowly, hugging the wall, taking extreme care not to lose his footing. The shaft below yawned away from him, hundreds of metres down. He saw a light blinking on and off in the depths, and wondered what kind of machinery existed so far down, and how anyone ever managed to get close enough to it to service it.
He cleared his mind. Losing concentration would kill him.
Valien edged around the side of the shaft, clinging on the narrow ledge and shuffling slowly. He’d removed the last disguise he’d been wearing in favour of a black bodyglove woven with lightweight armour panels. His bulbous head was enclosed in a sheer layer of sensor-repelling synthskin, and his eyes were protected by an environment-reactive visor. Various weapons, mostly small and esoteric in design, clustered around his belt.
If he encountered spire guards now they wouldn’t hesitate before shooting him. That was fine; the time when adopting disguises was likely to help him had gone.
He reached the far side of the shaft and stepped lightly into the tunnel on the far side. For a moment, a brief, thrilling moment, he felt his centre of gravity hang over the void, teetering on the lip of oblivion.
Then he was over, crouching down on the floor, his heart beating harder than usual.
Vertigo. With all the neurosurgery I’ve had, you’d have thought they could have fixed that one thing.
Ahead of him was a long, twisting corridor, barely high enough for him to walk down without stooping. The walls were black and caked with accumulated filth. Old mechanical workings, mostly broken and filmed with rust, covered sheets of metal panelling. The place smelled fungal and claustrophobic.
He didn’t know how far in he’d come. Even with the use of retinal-mounted chronos and locators it was all too easy to lose one’s sense of where one was. Everything was dark, wet and echoing – kilometre upon kilometre of meandering service tunnels and access tubes and maintenance shafts and drive pits and utility gantries, all of it full of stinking air and distant, echoing clangs.
Most of the ways he went were deserted, long forgotten by the inhabitants of Shardenus Prime. He crept through old generatoria, still humming with power, abandoned sewage ducts and mechanised tunnels used only by sightless servitor-piloted drones.
When he saw living men, he killed them. He crept up on them in the dark, keeping even his breathing silent, unleashing his needles into their soft, unwary flesh. When the killing was done he’d drink their blood, feeling hot pleasure wash into his system as he gulped it down.
Then Valien would bless the name of the Emperor, the Master of Mankind, the living god who gave him his powers over life and death. He would speak reverently in the hidden tongues of the Talica death cult, remembering the spare beauty of the temple on Ghanreta Tertius where he’d been trained. He’d remember the way the light had come through the stained glass of the inner chapel, casting a halo on to the stone floor in the shape of a human heart.
At times, the memory of that place would make his eyes prick with tears.
From up ahead, somewhere in the maze of tunnels and access shafts, he heard a noise. It was faint, very faint, like the brush of leaves in foliage.
Valien crept forwards, dropping almost to all fours and letting his fingers drift against the floor in front of him. He picked up speed, sweeping soundlessly along the silent, shadowy routes through the heart of the hive.
The noise grew as he drew closer to it. It was nebulous, diffuse, muffled by the effects of the labyrinth.
He reached the end of the tunnel. The ceiling gradually lowered to meet the floor, causing him to sink onto his belly and snake forwards. He felt the press of metal above and below him, and tried not to think too closely about how many thousands upon thousands of tonnes of spire structure stretched away above his tiny, burrowing body.
The tunnel ended abruptly at a sheer cliff-edge. Ahead of him, a vast cavern lined with soaring pillars carved its way into the heart of the spire foundations. Looking right and left, he couldn’t see where it began or where it ended – each extremity was lost in a haze of smog and shadow. Looking straight ahead, he could just make out the other side: a sheer face of soot-black iron
, banded with gothic ornamentation and studded with mechanical workings. Faint lights blinked in the gloom like lost sentinels adrift on a huge, black ocean.
The noise came from far below, over a hundred metres down. Valien perched on the lip of his precarious vantage, and absorbed the information.
Men were marching. They were organised into platoons, and the platoons into companies, and the companies into battalions. They went slowly, almost mechanically, arranged in close, grey-clad ranks. The noise of their massed boots striking the ground swirled and echoed up in the cathedral-like space, drumming and booming in the cavern above them.
Valien extended his face a little further out, carefully checking his balance. He narrowed his right eye, and felt the auto-enhancement filters in his cornea do their work. His view zoomed in, overlaying cartographic data sequestered alongside his mission orders.
The men were heading south-west, out of the central hives and towards Melamar Primus where the fighting was. They were well-equipped, with thick plated armour and what looked like non-standard-issue lasguns. He saw grenades hanging from their belts, and savage blades. They wore full-face masks with rebreathers attached, obscuring their faces entirely. Only the officers, marching ahead of their troops in command squads, had any exposed flesh on them.
Valien swept his gaze over to them, recording the pict-sequence in his earlobe-mounted buffer for transmission into the grid. He concentrated on one man, a bulky figure at the front of a large contingent with a swaggering, rolling gait. His skin was entirely grey, like dregs of ration-gruel. Even by the standards of a sun-starved hive like Shardenus, that colour was unnatural.
Valien zoomed in closer. The man’s eyes were white-less, like the black orbs of an animal. Faint pink lesions throbbed at his collar, pulsing with a life of their own. A tattoo had been gouged into his forehead, though Valien couldn’t make out much of its shape.
Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1 Page 222