‘Bail Sharr,’ the Carcharodon said, uttering the name-honorific for the first time. ‘Welcome to the Outer Dark.’
Sub-file 6675-112 +
Jurisdiction: Ethika Subsector +
Timestamp: 21151676.M41+
Subject header: Imperial Navy Mars-Class Cruiser Andromidax In-System Report #3+
Clerk Attendant: 3772-Wilhelm +
Naval Report Summary: Zartak mining colony [ref. 228-16b] has been entirely depopulated. There are no traces of life remaining whatsoever. Ordo representatives have been contacted. Pending Inquisitorial quarantine, Subsector Auto-Clerk 21811-Veissmann has recommended redesignation of Zartak as a penal colony. Calculations show this will ensure minimum disruption of the planet’s adamantium tithe quota. The suggestion has been filed for consideration.
Thought of the Day: Oblivion awaits us all +
THE GREATER EVIL
Peter Fehervari
‘Evil grows from within, not without. It is a disharmony of the self, not the shadow of some elusive, predatory other.’
– The Yasu’caor
– THE FIRST CIRCLE –
OUTSIDE
No matter how often Voyle relives it, the end always begins the same way. A deep clang reverberates through the airlock as the Sable Star’s boarding umbilical latches on to the derelict ship. Voyle checks the air tank strapped to the back of the trooper beside him, then turns so his comrade can return the gesture. The routine is mirrored by every member of the squad with practised swiftness. They have run through it twice already, yet nobody hesitates. Nobody complains. A Void Breacher’s life hangs by the integrity of his tank as much as his weapons.
‘Squad Indigo is bloodtight,’ Voyle reports into his helmet vox when the ritual is complete. ‘Repeat, bloodtight.’
‘Bloodtight confirmed, Indigo,’ Lieutenant Joliffe acknowledges from the bridge, unable to hide the tension in his voice. Captain Bester took his own life fourteen days ago. Nobody knows why, but they all sense Joliffe isn’t ready to lead the company – not on this warp-cursed patrol. Voyle has considered seizing command. No one would stand in his way, least of all Joliffe, but then the burden of choice would be his to carry. No, it is better to live or die with clean hands.
‘Commence breach,’ Joliffe orders. ‘Emperor walk with you, Indigo.’
With a hydraulic hiss the external hatch slides into its recess, revealing the metal tube of the umbilical. Most of the strip lumens running its length have failed and those that still work flicker fitfully. The company’s five-month tour of the Damocles perimeter has taken a heavy toll on both supplies and men, including both its enginseers. The Sable Star was just three days out from Kliest when it found the intruder, silent and powerless, yet perfectly intact. Its markings designate it as the Halvorsen, but though the massive derelict is evidently Imperial in origin, they can find no record of it. That is not unusual, for numberless ships ply the vast tracts of the Imperium and countless more have been lost over the millennia. Factoring in the contortions of the warp, the derelict might be decades or even centuries old. It is a cumbersome hulk devoid of guns or advanced sensor arrays – probably a civilian cargo freighter and certainly no match for a warship like the Sable Star, but that is little reassurance for the men tasked with boarding it. With derelicts it is what lies within that matters, for the void crawls with phantoms seeking the solace of metal or flesh.
Let it rot, Voyle wants to say. Better yet, blast it back into the warp!
But instead he says what he always says: ‘Acknowledged, crossing commences.’ And enters the umbilical. He is a Void Breacher. This is what the Astra Militarum has trained him for.
They lied to us! Voyle yells at his former self, but it is a silent cry, for if the ghosts of the past are without eyes, so those of the future are without voice.
The Void Breachers’ magnetised boots clatter on the corrugated decking as they advance along the narrow tunnel one by one, their helmet lights slicing back and forth. The concertinaed tube creaks and shudders around them as it strains to keep the ships conjoined, the living to the dead. Despite their sealed carapace armour and therma-padding, the cold is gnawing at them within seconds and their movements grow sluggish before they are halfway across. The rasping exhalations from their helmets are like steam in the frigid air, forcing them to wipe their visors clean after each respiration, lest breath becomes blinding frost.
Voyle halts as his light finds the derelict’s access hatch. The metal is dark and pitted, contrasting starkly with the gleaming umbilical clamps that encircle it. One glance tells him the locking mechanism is hopelessly corroded.
‘Cut us a door, Hoenig,’ he orders, moving aside as the squad’s specialist steps forward. He watches as the trooper engraves a glowing oval around the hatch with a las-cutter. The tool’s power pack whines and Voyle wills it to fail, knowing it won’t. It never does. The nightmare won’t allow it.
‘Done, breach sergeant,’ Hoenig says, then shoves the hatch. With a screech of harrowed metal it crashes into the darkness beyond. As the reverberations subside, Voyle levels his meltagun and steps through.
His own shriek wrenched him back from the brink.
But I’ve already fallen, Voyle thought wildly as he surged to his feet. There’s no coming back…
The nightmare fractured and fell away in sluggish fragments, revealing a large windowless chamber. Its walls were tessellated with hexagonal panels that glowed softly, washing the space in subdued blue light. Voyle stood at its centre, his bare feet tangled in a silvery blanket. He tore himself free and spun around, trying to make sense of things.
Where–
He froze as he caught sight of something watching him from one of the walls.
Black eyes gleaming with a hunger colder than the void…
The sound that rose in his throat was somewhere between a scream, a snarl and a sigh, born of fear and loathing and… longing? Voyle stifled it as the predator dissolved into a human form. A woman. She was crouched in a recess in the opposite wall where a hexagonal panel had retracted, her eyes glinting in the gloom as she appraised him. Her face was tattooed with concentric rings, the first shearing through her forehead, cheeks and chin, the second encircling her eyes and mouth and the third set directly between her eyes. Voyle knew she bore a fourth and final ring, but its lines were invisible, for it embraced the mind.
‘Unity,’ Voyle breathed, naming the symbol… and remembering. The woman’s tattoos mirrored those on his own face. With that recollection the rest flooded back and he scanned the chamber quickly, but the other serenity cells were still sealed. Only the woman, who always slept with hers open, had been roused by his nightmare and she wouldn’t say anything to the others.
‘Forgive me, sister,’ Voyle said. ‘I was walking old roads.’
Her expression gave nothing away. Sometimes she seemed as inscrutable as their liberators. Though they had been comrades since Voyle’s emancipation from the Imperium almost five ago, they had exchanged few words. Other than her name – Erzul – he knew little about her save her loyalty to the cause and her talents as a pathfinder. But that was fine by Voyle. He wasn’t much inclined to talk about his own past either. Remembering was bad enough. Dreaming even worse…
Why now? he wondered, reluctantly considering the old nightmare. It hadn’t troubled him in years – not since he’d mastered the mantras of self-sublimation during his induction. He’d almost convinced himself it was a false memory, as his instructors had encouraged.
Almost.
Voyle rubbed the old scar under his chin. It was itching furiously, as if inflamed by the sting of the past. He wasn’t going to sleep again this cycle. Maybe the sour-sweet tranquillity wafers the liberators issued their auxiliaries were losing their potency.
I should report it, Voyle brooded, knowing he wouldn’t. He trusted the liberators of course, but his weakness sh
amed him. Void dammit, he should have taken a cell. At least that way he’d have kept his nightmares to himself. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and a head taller than anyone else in his squad, let alone the liberators, but that wasn’t why he shunned the serenity cells. If his commander had demanded it, he would have squeezed into one of the hexagonal coffins, but the Stormlight had not pressed the issue. That wasn’t his way.
‘It is your shadow to burn,’ the xenos had said, identifying his subordinate’s dread with an acuity that would have confounded the Imperial officers Voyle had served under. ‘You alone can light the fire.’
But the ship was already five days into its voyage and that fire remained unlit. Every sleep cycle Voyle had bedded down at the centre of the chamber, ignoring the questioning looks of his squad as they clambered into their cells.
It doesn’t matter, he thought as he pulled his boots on. His loathing of tight spaces was only a whisper of the shadow that stalked him.
‘I’ll be in the Fire Grounds,’ he told Erzul as he stepped towards a wall. It split open at his approach, revealing a brightly lit corridor. Nothing could hide in that crisp, sane light.
Void black eyes.
Why now? Voyle asked again. A new life and purpose hadn’t dispelled the shadow. It had simply lain dormant. Waiting for him to wake up.
The Seeker faced the maelstrom of swirling, prismatic mist with his back straight and his staff extended horizontally before him at eye level. Its lifeless metal was untarnished by the farrago of colours assaulting him so he kept his gaze locked upon it, using its truth to filter out the lies. He had diffused his breathing to a low susurration, each exhalation extending across several minutes, yet encompassing no more than eleven heartbeats. His master had attained seven beats in the ritual of the arhat’karra, but Aun’el Kyuhai knew he would never match such serenity. Nor would he ever ascend beyond his current station in the Ethereal caste’s hierarchy. That knowledge brought neither resentment nor sadness, for he had cast aside all desire save service to the Tau’va. All else was as illusory as the storm that raged around him.
And behind illusions prowled beasts…
They came for him together, springing from the mist in perfect synchronicity, one from behind, the other from his left, which they had identified as his weaker side. Traditionally their kind attacked in a cacophony of squawks and hoots, yet this pair came in silence, denying their prey any warning.
They are learning, Kyuhai approved. He spun to his left, thrusting his staff towards the dark shape flanking him, but it sprang away into the fog like a gangling acrobat. He felt a rush of air at his back as the other assailant’s blade hacked through the space he had occupied a moment earlier. The ferocity of the swing committed the attacker for a second too long, chaining it to the impotent arc as Kyuhai whirled his staff over his shoulder. It was a blind strike, but the displaced air had told him all he needed to know. When he entered the arhat’karra, every moment stretched into many and every whisper shouted.
‘Ka’vash!’ he pronounced as his staff brushed his opponent’s throat. Had the weapon’s blades been extended it would have been a killing blow. Before his foe could offer the ritual response, the second beast lunged from the fog, its cranial quills erect with rage. Beady, deep-set eyes glared at him from either side of a prognathous, serrated beak. The creature was naked save for a leather tabard and its sinewy form was riddled with tribal tattoos and piercings. This time it didn’t attack in silence.
Rukh expects defeat, Kyuhai recognised as he swept his staff around to meet the avian warrior’s scimitar. When Zeljukh falls, Rukh always falls with her.
The creature struck in a whirlwind frenzy that would have overwhelmed a lesser foe, yet none of its blows passed the gliding, almost languid parries of Kyuhai’s staff. To the Seeker the onslaught was akin to an infant’s tantrum, but he allowed it to run its course. Perhaps it would be instructive.
Once again anger blinds Rukh, Kyuhai gauged as he blocked. He was disappointed, but unsurprised, for they had played out this scene many times before.
It was Zeljukh who ended the hopeless duel, bringing her bonded mate to heel with a derisory tirade of hoots and clicks. With a squawk of frustration, Rukh threw his scimitar aside and proffered his neck.
‘Ka’vash,’ Kyuhai said, gently tapping the creature’s throat. ‘End simulation.’
The swirling fog vanished instantly, revealing the ochre coloured expanse of the Fire Grounds. The Whispering Hand’s training bay was divided into six sectors, some housing demi-sentient sparring machines, others devoted to low-tech challenges like climbing frames or ropes. Kyuhai and his opponents stood in the simulation arena, where a large saucer-like machine hovered overhead, its underside bristling with sensors and projectors that tracked their movements. This late in the ship’s sleep cycle the bay was almost empty, yet Kyuhai and his companions were not quite alone. A human was training on the far side of the bay – the big man who led the expedition’s second gue’vesa support team. Their paths had crossed here before while their fellow travellers slept, but they had never spoken.
‘Reflect upon this defeat,’ Kyuhai told the avian warriors. ‘Leave me.’
The pair inscribed the symbol of Unity with their claws then loped towards the climbing arena, where they would continue training until he summoned them. Once they would have berated each other for their defeat, but they were past such foolishness. He had brought them that far at least.
‘Your honour guard is formidable, exalted one,’ the expedition’s ranking Fire Warrior had observed when Kyuhai had come aboard the ship. ‘The kroot are fierce allies.’
‘I am a Seeker, Shas’el Akuryo. I have no honour guard,’ Kyuhai had replied. ‘Rukh and Zeljukh are simply companions on my path.’
Many of Kyuhai’s fellow t’au were repelled by the avian auxiliaries, but he had detected only respect in the Fire Warrior’s voice. Though Akuryo and he were of the same rank within their respective castes, the Ethereals were elevated above all others, creating a gulf of authority between them. Had the Seeker commanded it, Akuryo would have taken his own life without hesitation. Such blind faith had troubled Kyuhai when he had first stepped onto his path, but he had soon learnt that it was not blind at all, for his caste was the living embodiment of the Tau’va.
‘We rule to serve,’ he said, echoing the words of his former master.
The sounds of combat drew him from his reflection. While his mind had wandered, his body had followed its own path, carrying him to the arena where the big gue’la was duelling with a pair of drones. The saucer-like machines buzzed around the man, harassing him with low intensity lasers as he whirled about, blocking their beams with the mirror shields strapped to his wrists. His only method of retaliation was to reflect the lasers back at their source, but only a direct hit on an emitter would disable a drone, while three strikes to his torso would end the bout. Judging by their tenacity the machines had been set to maximum aggression – a challenge even for seasoned Fire Warriors. Though the man moved with a speed that belied his bulk, it was apparent that his ambition exceeded his ability.
Like Rukh, he fights in the expectation of defeat, Kyuhai judged.
He anticipated the gue’la would meet failure with a curse, but when it came he simply said, ‘Start over.’
‘Hold,’ Kyuhai interjected and the drones froze.
The gue’la turned, surprised, then bowed his head. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude…’ He faltered, evidently unsure of the correct form of address. ‘Lord,’ he ventured. He spoke in a hoarse growl, as if his throat was damaged.
‘Seeker,’ Kyuhai corrected. His sharp eyes scanned the identity disc on the man’s tunic. ‘And the intrusion is mine, Gue’vesa’ui Voyle.’
‘I am honoured, Seeker.’
Even by the standards of his species, with their jutting snouts and curled ears, Voyle was ugly. Like all the expedition�
�s gue’vesa, he was shaven-headed and his skin was stained blue to mirror his liberators’ complexion, but such contrivances couldn’t soften the brutish cast of his features. His eyes were set deep in a craggy, scar-crossed wasteland that terminated in a slab-like jaw. It was a strange canvass to bear the concentric rings of Unity, yet also an eloquent one, for if such a damaged being could be redeemed then surely there was hope for the rest of its species. To the Seeker’s mind the gue’la were infinitely more dangerous than honest savages like the kroot, but equally their potential was far greater.
‘They are an ancient race, crooked with the malignancies of age,’ Kyuhai’s master had taught, ‘and yet the aeons have not diminished their passion. In time they will either become our most ardent allies or our most dire foes.’
‘You fought with skill, but chose your battle without wisdom,’ Kyuhai said. ‘To overextend oneself is to welcome defeat.’
‘I stand corrected, Seeker. My thoughts were clouded.’
‘Sleep evades you?’
‘I don’t like what it brings. Or where it takes me.’ The man rubbed at his neck and Kyuhai spotted a pale scar under his jaw. It was circular, almost like another ring of Unity. ‘There are things… things I thought I was done with.’
‘Are you having doubts, gue’vesa’ui?’
‘Doubts?’ Voyle looked up sharply, evidently surprised. ‘No, no doubts… I want to see the Imperium burn, Seeker.’
‘That may not serve the Greater Good. Our mission here in the Damocles Gulf is peaceful. We may yet find common cause with the people of your Imperium.’
‘It’s not my Imperium, Seeker,’ Voyle said, his expression hardening. ‘It never was.’
There it is, Kyuhai saw, the potential for terrible light and darkness.
‘That is why awakened minds like yours must strive to reclaim it for the Greater Good,’ he said.
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