‘Set down! Set down immediately!’ said Mastrik.
Thunderhawks swooped in on jets of fire, blasting accreted dust into space. Assault ramps dropped open, the ships’ air gusting out with them, and two squads of Tactical Marines rushed onto the surface, swiftly forming a perimeter. Clastrin was taken aboard by an Apothecary first, and put into a sealed chamber. Mastrik approached Voldo.
‘Brother-sergeant,’ he said. ‘How went your mission?’
‘A success, although not without its complications,’ the older man replied. ‘We have the mapping data. Brother Curzon is trapped in the hulk, and Brother Tarael’s whereabouts are unknown. Brother Genthis is dead. Our own Brother Militor remains as rearguard near where we came into the hulk.’
‘The armour of Forgemaster Clastrin, and Brother Genthis?’
‘Brother Genthis’s body lies just within, lord captain. His armour and that of the Master of the Forge are at the end of the access corridor.’
‘Then we will retrieve them,’ said Mastrik. ‘And the Progenoid glands of Brother Genthis. We will present his armour and his gene-seed to Lord Caedis. It should take the sting from their loss a little.’
Mastrik signalled to his men. A brother with a flamer went to the airlock first. The tunnel was at an angle to the surface of the hulk, and he had to adjust his aim accordingly. Two others dragged out the body of Genthis and handed it to the care of the Apothecary accompanying the retrieval group. Then the corridor was cleansed with promethium. Mastrik had Nuministon readjust the gravity, and his squads went in, three brothers abreast, firing as they went.
In a short time, the armours were recovered and borne with reverence to Hawk’s Fury.
‘Honour the battlegear of the dead,’ said Mastrik, as the vast bulk of Genthis’s Terminator suit went by on the shoulders of six Novamarines. Two of his own were wounded. A fair exchange for the retrieval of ancient wargear.
They fell back into the ships in good order, and the Thunderhawks flew. Voldo, helmet off, conversed with Mastrik in the operations room to the rear of the flight deck.
‘Lord captain,’ said Voldo. ‘We discovered a large roost of genestealers during our escape. It lies here, not far from the reactor.’
Mastrik looked at the map.
‘A few well placed shots should detonate the reactor, brother-sergeant.’ Mastrik smiled.
‘Indeed. I say fewer genestealers would make the coming fight easier.’
‘Hail the fleet!’ ordered Mastrik.
‘Brother-Sergeant Voldo,’ came Galt’s voice, ripped by static. ‘It is good you still live.’
‘Lord captain.’ Voldo relayed his news, and the location of the reactor near the surface.
‘Then we will smite them,’ said Galt. ‘Open fire on Brother-Sergeant Voldo’s coordinates.’
‘No! Not the reactor! It is a treasure beyond your comprehension,’ pleaded Nuministon.
‘We have retrieved Genthis’s armour. The roost by it is a treasure we can do without,’ said Galt. ‘There is sure to be much more archeotech elsewhere within the hulk, be content with that.’
‘We will have vengeance,’ said Voldo. From his sensorium, he sent out the coordinates of the reactor, the Thunderhawk’s communications suite boosting the signal back to the fleet.
The two Thunderhawks skimmed over the surface of the hulk, back towards the party’s initial insertion point. A streak of metal sped across the black behind them, a bombardment cannon round. The hulk shook as it impacted. Bright fire burst upwards, followed moments later by a searing flash.
‘The reactor,’ said Voldo.
Nuministon turned away, the remaining organic parts of his face hard.
Fire shot out of the hulk, bodies and debris billowing out into space around it.
‘Death to the enemies of mankind,’ said Voldo.
‘It is the will of the Emperor, and it pleases me greatly to be its instrument,’ replied Mastrik.
Militor tried the vox again. The incessant buzz of subatomic particles cutting up his comms channels was all he heard. His fleet access was restricted to their locator beacon, voice contact was so broken up as to be useless, and although he knew where the fleet lay, he doubted they could tell where he was. From the group there were no messages, which was to be expected under the circumstances, but he had been on station for several hours and the expedition should have returned by now.
‘Brother Militor to Novum in Honourum, Brother Militor requesting audience with Lord Captain Galt.’
Nothing.
His own limited sensorium auspex showed him nothing untoward, only the radioactive broil that filled the hulk below him, and the snow of atoms blasted out by the sun. He had seen and heard nothing the whole time he had been there. The tech-priest’s devices had gone off at the appointed time, and he wondered if the great hulk quake that followed had somehow been caused by their machinations. There was no knowing with the priests of Mars. Militor was grateful for the weapons he carried and the armour which shielded him, but the less he knew of their arcane workings the better. Technology was a dangerous knowledge, fraught with peril.
He paced around the lifthead, suit lights catching on the edges of ruptured metal and the dead crewmen. He made his circle as quietly as he could, pausing at each door to let his sensorium extend his senses into the spaces beyond.
This was poor duty. He wished he was below with his brothers of Squad Wisdom of Lucretius, the other adepts with whom he had fought a hundred battles. It pained him to think of them fighting without him, not least as in these circumstances a single additional storm bolter could turn a battle in their favour. But also he knew a little envy; this was not a mission that would bring additional skin art, not for him.
He put his feelings aside. Envy was not a worthy emotion.
A noise came from the lift shaft. He turned, amplified hearing working hard to pick up sound in the attenuated air.
One of the wires rippled, twanged metallically, and went taut.
Militor raised his storm bolter and approached the edge of the lift. There it was, the sound of boots locking and unlocking to the side of the shaft. An icon lit on his helmet map.
One of the Blood Drinkers. Where were the others?
‘Brother Militor speaks, who approaches?’
There was no reply, the vox continued its hiss.
The footsteps continued upward, the safety line jerking.
Several minutes went by. Militor remained cautious. Then, a voice in his ears.
‘It is I, Novamarine. Brother Tarael of Squad Hesperion. I am in sore need of your aid.’
The Blood Drinker sounded weary, and Militor soon saw why.
Tarael hauled himself over the lip of the shaft, digging his lightning claws into the deck to aid him. His armour was scored in a dozen places, cut clean through in two. He got to his feet, and Militor saw that his left leg dragged. The power fields were out on his right gauntlet, one of the blades sheared off, cables on the back of the weapon ripped open. His helmet had sustained damage, cracks spidering one lens. Suit sealant bubbled all over him.
Militor went to the red-armoured Space Marine’s side and steadied him.
‘The others… They were trapped in the quake,’ said Tarael haltingly. ‘I was left on the other side of a cave-in. Brother Curzon was buried, I do not know the fate of the others.’
‘You had no contact?’
‘They were alive when I left them. They told me to return to you, and bear the news to the fleet.’
‘Then we shall make our way back so you may fulfil your orders,’ said Militor. ‘There is little we can do for them now.’
‘Aye,’ said Tarael. Fresh noises came from the lift shaft. ‘And with haste. I fought my way through, but the xenos have not abandoned their pursuit of me.’
Casting frequent glances back at the lift shaft, Militor aided the limping Blood Drinker out of the lifthead, back towards their insertion point.
Chapter 11
Brothers of
Bone, Brothers of Blood
Clastrin lay in a bed on crisp sheets, red-hooded apothecarion serfs working quietly around him, the cybernetic modifications they sported attuned to the machines that monitored the status of the wounded Forgemaster. Webbing and bandages covered his hurts; mainly flash burns from the strong light of Jorso. His eyes were covered with gauze; monitoring machines were plugged through gaps in the bed into his spinal interface ports.
Galt stood by his bed.
‘How much longer must I remain here, lord captain? I would return to my machines and their ministrations. All battlegear must be sanctified and blessed by the rituals of maintenance before battle. With such a hard fight against us, I would check the wargear of our brothers myself.’ Clastrin’s body was injured, but his twin voices had lost none of their strength.
‘Your Techmarines have been trained well, Forgemaster,’ said Galt. ‘You must rest awhile.’
‘My hurts are slight.’
‘Exposure to vacuum is not to be taken lightly, even within the protective embrace of the Weaver. Your tissues have ruptured and the damage must all be accounted before I can allow you to take up your duties. You must remain here for four days, so Apothecary Raandal says,’ insisted Galt.
Clastrin hesitated. ‘And my eyes?’
‘Will heal, Forgemaster.’
Clastrin nodded and relaxed into his pillows a little. ‘The flesh is weak, brother-captain. I see the burning face of Jorso still.’
‘Apothecary Raandal assures me that the retinal damage is not permanent.’
‘How go the repairs to Corvo’s Hammer?’ said Clastrin.
‘She lies alongside the Excommentum Incursus. The Adepts of Mars hold good to their word. Brother-Captain Aresti tells me they make swift progress,’ said Galt.
‘And the others from the mission, how do they fare?’
‘All bar Cousins Curzon and Genthis are unhurt. Cousin Tarael has minor injuries. From the Third Company, Brother Luitio and Brother Collo were wounded retrieving your armour with Captain Mastrik, Collo seriously.’
Clastrin nodded. ‘It is only right. A risk in lives, but the holy tools of war must be retrieved so that they can be employed anew. Flesh is in plentiful supply, adamantium is not.’
‘Lord Caedis was most grateful that we brought back the armour of Genthis and his Progenoid glands.’ Galt stepped out of the way of a serf and continued. ‘There were no further casualties, the mission was a remarkable success. A commendable kill rating.’
‘And now I must lie abed,’ said Clastrin.
Galt sought to reassure him. ‘Do not fret, you still may serve your duty now. Tell me of what happened within the hulk. Tell me of this deceit of the magos.’
‘Magos Nuministon was not telling us the whole truth, brother-captain. His machine had capabilities we were not aware of, a secondary mapping function designed to penetrate deep into the hulk.’
‘Useful data. Why did they hide its gathering?’ asked Galt.
‘Cousin-Sergeant Alanius said the same thing. I surmise that there is something of great value within the hulk, and they would not have us know of it. The priests of Mars are jealous of their secrets.’
‘You share them, brother.’ Galt said so carefully, wishing to test Clastrin gently.
‘I am a brother of the Novamarines Chapter first and foremost, brother-captain,’ said Clastrin.
‘And a valued one at that. I mean no offence.’
‘Upon the screen, lord captain, I saw something deep in the hulk.’
‘What?’ said Galt. His eyes narrowed. He had his own doubts about the lord magos’s motives.
‘That I cannot tell you. It was a void, an absence of data where there should be data. Without access to the information I can say no more,’ said Clastrin. ‘There is something there these magi are hiding from us about this agglomeration. There are various aspects of it that trouble me. Consider this, captain. The hulk held its orbit well under intense bombardment. It is large, but so full of cavities that its overall mass is low. It should have been pushed off course. Surely we should have seen a deterioration in its orbital distance from the sun, but nothing. Secondly, the regularity of its departure from a system, and the arrival of it by so many stars of this class.’
‘Hulks are strange by their nature, Forgemaster. At what do you drive?’
‘Nothing at all, brother-captain, if not for this – there was something… else, brother-captain. A presence in the machine when I accessed the door to allow the others to escape.’
‘What?’
Clastrin sighed. Galt was glad at least that the Forgemaster had been spared the healing tanks. ‘I am not sure. I entered the mechanisms of the vessel. I could not open the door, then I did – I swear by Corvo’s oath that something aided me and the door opened.’
‘You underestimate your ability, Forgemaster. Without your expertise the party would have been lost and the mission a failure,’ said Galt.
‘But I did not open the door, brother-captain,’ insisted Clastrin. ‘I am sure of it.’
Galt was silent.
‘There is something else in the hulk, brother. Something the magi do not wish us to know of,’ insisted Clastrin. ‘I doubt their intentions are nefarious, but I would not put it past the priests of Mars to hide their knowledge of certain treasures should it suit them to do so.’
Galt nodded. ‘I have noticed certain irregularities in their behaviour, but such is the way with the adepts of the Machine-God. They operate clumsily if so, brother.’
‘Yes,’ said Clastrin. ‘A man like Plosk has many successes behind him. He is arrogant, secure in his accomplishments.’
‘Maybe, but he deals with the Adeptus Astartes now, not some planetary governor,’ said Galt. ‘I thank you for your intelligence, Forgemaster. Now rest, recover. The sooner your talents are available to us, the better.’
‘I will return to duty soon, brother, I wish so fervently.’
The Hall of Meetings was crammed full of adepts – Adepts of Mars, and adepts of the stars. They stood in stalls that rose in serried tiers around the full circumference of the room. The massive doors to the hall interrupted the run of terraces only briefly; the stalls running up and over them. Now full with the mightiest of all humankind.
The Imagifer Maximus had been shepherded into the hall, and squatted in the middle of the circular floor the stalls surrounded. This tiled circle was the arena from which important strategies were relayed or rhetorics and lessons delivered and filled the centre of the room, illuminated by coloured light while the rest of the hall was dark. A fine mosaic of Guilliman arrayed for war, a world in one hand, a quill in another, decorated the floor, although the Imagifer Maximus obscured much of it at the moment.
Galt and Caedis occupied thrones on a dais that had been set up opposite the doors to the chamber. Sanguinary Master Teale and Reclusiarch Mazrael stood to the right of Caedis, Chaplain Odon and Epistolary Ranial to the left of Galt. Captains Aresti, Mastrik and Sorael paced the floor around the Adeptus Mechanicus relic, addressing the assembled brothers and priests with the plan of attack conceived by Galt and Caedis.
‘Brothers!’ shouted Mastrik. ‘Magi of Mars! The mapping data provided by the Adeptus Mechanicus has revealed the layout of the hulk in fine detail. Lord Caedis, First Captain Galt and your other leaders have met and discussed what shall be done to eradicate the genestealers and retrieve the hulk’s technological treasures. Here is the strategy we have decided upon. May the Emperor and the primarchs place their blessings upon it.’
The coloured lights were turned low, and the Imagifer Maximus activated. A perfect map of light was projected by the ancient device into the air.
‘Behold! The Death of Integrity, its secrets revealed to us,’ said Sorael. ‘And with its secrets revealed, so shall it fall!’
The Blood Drinkers shouted and stamped their armoured feet, raising a thunder in the room. The Novamarines looked to one another; such open fervour was not their way. Instead th
e brothers of bone-and-blue hummed low and loud, the haunting sign of their appreciation.
The map was of fine detail. In much of it, the level of precision took in the tiniest of ducts. Its fissures and caverns, halls and chambers, stone and steel were revealed for all to see. So cunning was the artifice of the Imagifer Maximus that this illusion appeared as real as the agglomeration it depicted. Depending on how one looked at the image, the machine would alter the hulk model’s opacity, presenting walls as solid or transparent. This was determined by what each viewer wished to see, and his view was visible only to him. Truly, the Imagifer was a marvel of the elder days.
This detail was absolute, save in a few places. Certain areas had a sketchiness to them, the data needed for the machine to describe the hulk interior was incomplete. Towards the centre of the hulk this problem became pronounced, the veracity of the map shifting from total fidelity to speculation, thence at the heart of it to darkness.
‘The Death of Integrity is vast,’ said Aresti. ‘Fortunately the volume of pressurised space is relatively small, and concentrated towards the western part of the hulk’s northern hemisphere. The majority of the active reactors are here, and we suspect atmospheric generators to be operational. This access to air and warmth explains why the principal genestealer roosts are located in this area. We have found five all told here. We cannot rely on the xenos to be dormant still after our recent incursion. However, they are unlikely to have scattered far, and we believe the majority to be found within this area still.’
An irregular green shape pulsed on the map, framing a good fifth of the agglomeration; the area of genestealer infestation.
‘In order to cleanse the hulk of the xenos, we have determined to drive them into this cavern,’ continued Aresti. A cavity in the hulk flashed up to the south of the green zone. The cavern was large, delineated by the inner wall of a single giant vessel on one side, the rest of the walls formed by a number of ships and a large asteroid.
Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1 Page 260