‘Oh,’ said Cawl, sounding almost disappointed. ‘Well, I shall tell you – optimistic, avuncular and sharp. Three defining characteristics are enough for today, I think.’
‘Another of your favourite combinations.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Cawl. ‘We are going to see young Decimus, after all.’
Chapter Four
Zar Quaesitor
Circa 7,000 years ago
Felix was strapped to a wheeled bier being pushed down freezing corridors. The ship knew no end. He imagined it going on for ever and ever, a vast, deadly place of ice and pain. Silence lay on everything, thick as the methalon fogs swirling across the deck. Cold gripped his limbs and his organs, penetrating his body to an extent that he knew, instinctively, should have killed him.
He could not see the stretcher bearers who pushed him. They were men-machines of great strength, but though terrible, they would not hurt him.
They left that to the monster.
Once, he had escaped from an examination room and roamed the ship. His brief hours of freedom ended when he had spoken with the creature. It had been kind then. The torments it inflicted in the years afterwards made Felix hate it. The monster promised that, one day, the pain would be over, and every time they spoke it reiterated its promise that he, Decimus Androdinus Felix, would rise to be a great servant of the Emperor.
Every time he woke he hoped the promise would be fulfilled. Each period of sleep gave way to more lies, more torment. He would never be done. He would be trapped for all time.
And yet, there was nothing he could do. If he moved overly much, he would be drugged. He preferred to remain awake so he remained still. The periods between the procedures were eternities of cold where time crept by like a thief, stealing away his existence in tiny, agonising morsels that were yet centuries in size. He wanted to see all he could before hibernation was forced on him again.
He came awake quickly. That was commented on and, he thought, commended by the monster as a sign of strength. He was perfectly conscious long before they left the great suspension holds. Every time he was awoken he watched the stasis caskets roll by him in near infinite number. The hold was an oblate sphere, every surface covered by the caskets. They were clear, blue and luminous, the boys inside embedded in gels so thick only their silhouettes were visible against the machinery’s glow, no features discernible but the aspect of their rest, some contorted in fear, others slumbering peacefully, each one of them plugged into the life-support devices by a thick umbilicus that plunged into their guts.
Lanes radiated out from central points on ceiling and floor. Floor and ceiling were purely relative terms. False gravity enabled efficient use of space aboard the giant ship. Biers the same as Felix’s were being pushed along above him – not many, each isolated from the others by many hundreds of ranks of the pods. Their passengers were the same as he, more boys going to more rooms for more pain.
He knew where he was going, he knew it would hurt, but he was not afraid, not even then.
He counted the pods as he always did. His position never changed. He was 9,863 rows in. There was something comforting about that.
If his situation never differed, physically he was changing. Every time he came out of the pod he was bigger. He felt great strength in his limbs. His mind ran quicker. The drugs wore off faster.
The monster chuckled at all this indulgently, pleased with his progress, before hurting him again.
‘I am making you strong. I am making you a fitting servant for the Omnissiah. One day you will thank me for this, Decimus,’ the monster always said. ‘Not now, I know, and I am sorry, but you will, and perhaps one day, you and I might be friends.’
The monster’s apologies didn’t stop it from inflicting pain.
The last rows of glass capsules were passing by. At the edges of the hold the tips of the caskets on the ceiling and floor were only a few yards apart. He stared at the shadows of the sleeping boys. From the hold it was a ninety-seven second journey to the examination rooms, where the pain began.
There the monster would be waiting for him with a smile and hand made of agony.
Its name was Belisarius Cawl.
Now
Felix came awake with a pained groan. He rarely bothered with full sleep – there was simply too much to do – but once his inspection of the Aegida had been concluded, the wait for the arrival of the archmagos dominus stretched on, and he found himself indulging in human habits he usually neglected. Catalepsian sleep was supposed to be a stopgap replacement, after all, and not a substitute for natural slumber entirely.
It had been even longer since he had dreamed.
‘Nightmare,’ he corrected himself. ‘No more sleep,’ he said grimly.
He swung his legs over the edge of the cot and leaned heavily on the edge. Massive transhuman hands gripped metal. The sides of the bed were an inch thick, but he could bend it easily.
Cawl had not lied to him about making him strong.
He was not sure if he was thankful for that or not.
He put the dream down to a combination of unusual factors. The waiting, the emotional effect of the dead world, Thracian’s melancholy, the pressures of his role. He was a Space Marine, but he was still a man, as he told himself often.
With a grunt he shoved himself upright, padded over the freezing deckplates and poured himself a glass of water. The chamber had been some sort of stateroom before the fall of Sotha, and though large it made for an uncomfortable berth. It was too big, too ornate. His bed had to be huge to accommodate him and there was no space where it fit neatly. There were precious few operational chambers aboard the Aegida. Far more comfortable quarters were available on the Lord of Vespator, but Felix insisted on staying on the orbital. He wished to keep an eye on the Scythes of the Emperor. Cadmus’ misgivings seemed justified. There was something not right about them. Even so, they were of secondary concern as of the moment, for it was Cawl’s servants he deemed more needful of watching.
He gulped the water down. It was so cold it stung his throat, and it tasted of harsh chemicals.
Guilliman had commanded him personally to follow Cawl. The archmagos dominus had been infuriatingly elusive these last years. Guilliman’s calls that Cawl return to his side had been rebuffed or ignored. Now a meeting with Felix’s old tormentor was at hand. Guilliman wanted answers, and Felix had been charged with getting them.
Felix was not sure how he felt about that either.
His wargear was held in a makeshift armoury Daelus had set up at one side of the room. He left his armour on its stand and dressed himself in a loose tunic and trousers, pulled on his boots, and belted his bolt pistol around his waist. It was freezing in the station, but he didn’t feel it, and besides, nowhere was as cold as those millennia on board Cawl’s vessel. It was good to be out of his armour for a while. He had a loathing of confinement.
Cawl’s servants had begun their work at the centre of the station and so all the functioning parts of the Aegida were around the hub, between the command centre and the middle ring corridor. For the moment, the outer areas remained open to the void, but work proceeded at surprising pace. He passed numerous machines and servitors as he walked the middle ring. Plasma torches burned brightly as glassy-eyed dead men welded plates into place – temporary repairs, but each crude replacement further extended the portion of the station that could hold an atmosphere. Semi-autonomous drones wriggled in and out of crawl spaces under the deck. Felix grimaced as a disgusting example scurried past his feet. In form it resembled a many-legged arachnid, but it was human, for on its back in a scratched armourglass tank a brain bobbed in nutrient medium.
Mechanicus technology repulsed him. His own wargear, and indeed his own enhanced physique, were aesthetically pleasing – examples of the best of human artistry – and yet the devices the Adeptus Mechanicus made for their own use were uniformly ugly,
without adornment or often even casings to hide their inner mechanisms. He supposed this preference came from their desire to see their machines at work. Perhaps that should have made him trust them more. There was an honesty to naked cogs and wires. But he could not. He was a child of the old Imperium, born thousands of years ago as the Emperor’s own dreams began their slow descent into nightmare, and the stranglehold the Martian Cult held over technology now disturbed him.
Despite their bizarre ways, the priests were effective. A fortnight had passed since his arrival at the Aegida. Where before he had been obliged to walk in void-sealed battle armour, now he could go simply clad. He turned right onto the command deck axial way, into a construction zone of even greater activity. There, the technological prowess on display was undeniable.
The principal doors to the command deck were free of the temporary airlock, a new one having been installed at the far end of the corridor. This would also be removed later, but for now it enabled proper repairs to be made to the approach. Makeshift fixes were being swapped out for permanent replacements. The old blast doors had been removed and had already been replaced with freshly cast adamantium portals. Heavy bolters swivelled meaningfully in new gimbal turrets. All along the corridor dozens of servitors were at work in clanking unison, directed by Qvo-87’s tech-priests. Felix’s genhanced senses were forced to compensate for the glare of sparks and piercing whine of power tools.
Entry to the command deck was quick and smooth. A new machine voice welcomed him from a shrine panel to the left. The doors opened soundlessly. It was a glimpse of how the station should be, but it was gone as soon as the doors rolled away, for the command deck was still a mess. Even so, the activity within was intense as Qvo-87 pushed his minions to return the Aegida to life.
Felix wasn’t surprised to see Troncus and Daelus at work in the chamber. They were as bored as the rest of his Chosen and had skills Qvo-87 was pleased to exploit. The presence of an armoured Thracian was, however, unexpected. He was deep in discussion with Qvo-87. He seemed to have shed some of his sombre mood and was enthusiastically describing how he saw the strategic instrumentation of the deck laid out.
Felix stepped around a juddering, wheeled servitor and joined the Chapter Master and the tech-priest.
‘I was ready to condemn this platform, magos,’ said Felix. ‘I did not think it could be made good for use.’
‘All things may be repaired, my lord tetrarch,’ said Qvo somewhat smugly. ‘One should be cautious before abandoning resources.’
‘Noted. I will remember,’ said Felix.
‘In the same way as the battered Imperium can and will be returned to glory, this station shall rise from decrepitude,’ Qvo-87 said. ‘All praise He who is three-in-one.’
‘I would not have believed it myself,’ said Thracian wonderingly.
‘It is good that it pleases you,’ said Felix. ‘Your Chapter has suffered.’
Thracian nodded. ‘We would maintain a watch here if we could. Sotha will likely never be whole enough to dwell upon, but it was our charge for millennia. I do not wish to abandon the duty of ages.’
Likely never, thought Felix. A strange of choice words to use for a dead world. ‘Likely never’ betokened uncertainty about its situation. Uncertainty suggested Thracian had hope. Theoretical, he postulated. Does Thracian believe Sotha can be reborn?
For his practical, Felix’s mind went instantly to Cawl. It puzzled him a little how eagerly the Scythes of the Emperor had allowed Cawl access to Sotha. Granted, he thought, the Scythes hold the archmagos in high esteem for returning their Chapter to full strength, but the speed, the lack of ceremony, the desperation in Thracian’s manner…
He could only wonder: what had the archmagos dominus promised Thracian?
‘You appear distracted, tetrarch. Is all well with you?’ Thracian asked.
Felix realised he was staring at the other Space Marine. He shook his concerns off with a smile. ‘I dreamed. Its meaning eludes me.’
‘You are human. All humans dream. Few humans can find meaning in them.’
‘I do not sleep frequently and when I do I rarely dream,’ said Felix. ‘When I do dream, it is generally related to the events of the day.’
‘But not now?’
‘Today I dreamed of long ago,’ he said, and left it at that. ‘I desire a report on the reconstruction of the orbital,’ he said to Qvo-87.
‘I will provide an oral submission,’ Qvo-87 said, and his voice took on the droning delivery of a non-sentient device. ‘I have stabilised the secondary power cores. Repairs to the primary are almost complete, and once a suitable supply of initiator fuel is available, I will commence resanctification prior to reignition. I have concentrated my efforts on the hub of the station. It is the oldest part, holier than the periphery, with machine-spirits of rare sorts. Power and life support are now available in all ten sections of the hub. Soon I will commence with the installation of new instrumentation on the command deck. Thereafter, I shall shift my servants’ attentions to–’
Qvo-87 stopped speaking. His head cocked on his banded augmetic neck. ‘Report interrupt. Forgive me. Wait…’ he said. His voice took on a more human tone.
From the partially restored desks of machinery, an alarm set up.
Daelus sauntered over to a console and glanced at a display. ‘Etheric monitor. Something’s coming in, something big.’ He looked more closely. ‘Throne of Terra, something extremely big!’
Micro tremors shook the station. A spanner crawled across a work bench. It skittered across the surface and dropped with a clang to the floor.
Felix stared at the rattling tool. His face betrayed his irritation.
‘Stand ready,’ said Felix. He grasped a railing and set his feet wide.
‘He’s not going to do it, is he?’ Daelus asked Troncus.
Troncus shrugged.
‘Lord Felix?’ Daelus said.
‘He will do it,’ said Felix.
‘Honoured tetrarch, would you expect anything less from the archmagos dominus?’ said Qvo-87.
‘Rash as always,’ said Felix. ‘Cawl may style himself the saviour of the Imperium, but his grandstanding puts us all at risk.’
‘The archmagos dominus?’ said Thracian. ‘He is coming?’
All over the command deck loose items bounced across the metal.
‘Brace yourselves, all of you,’ ordered Felix.
‘What is happening?’ Thracian demanded.
‘The archmagos approaches,’ said Qvo-87 with an apologetic smile.
‘Cawl is attempting an in-system real space translation,’ said Felix. ‘Here. By the station.’
‘That’s insane,’ said Thracian.
‘Many and glorious are the technologies of the Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl. All will be well, you shall see,’ said Qvo-87 with a zealot’s fervour.
The alarms shrieked. Servitors all around the bridge went into emergency shutdown. Purple sparks leapt over the exposed metal deck, and a throbbing roar built throughout the station’s fabric.
‘Throne!’ shouted Thracian. ‘He is coming in right by us!’
‘All will be well!’ repeated Qvo-87.
Gravity ceased to obey natural law. Tools floated upwards. Through the field-sealed rent in the hull, Felix watched the sky fill with the curdled oil colours of imminent warp breach.
The void tore. Wicked lights scorched his eyes. He tasted bitterness, exultation and the distillation of regret. A torrent of pleading voices flooded his mind.
With a great, flat flash of lightning, a gargantuan ship appeared by the Aegida. Black fire flickered around its outline. Corposant streamed off its every angle. Then the warp breach collapsed in on itself. Tools clattered down. The hideous babbling ceased. All returned to normal. A lone alarm pinged over and over again. Felix relaxed his white-knuckle grip.
Qvo’s augmetics flashed, setting the servitors back into motion. The men-machines continued exactly where they had left off, as if nothing had happened.
A vast red craft occupied the space between the Aegidan platform and the surface of ravaged Sotha. It was a vessel like no other, one of the rare Ark Mechanicus explorator vessels, and even among those behemoths it was reckoned large for its kind, a vast city in space, bristling with weapons, and containing manufacturing and research laboratoria beneath its adamantium skin to rival a forge world.
Felix knew it only too well, having spent the best part of ten millennia imprisoned inside its holds.
A legend emblazoned in lingua-technis hierofont proudly proclaimed its name.
Zar Quaesitor.
The ship, home and research facility of Belisarius Cawl.
Chapter Five
The Three Ursine Hypothesis
Felix stood by the forward left access ramp of the Overlord. The hangar was cramped with Space Marines, servitors and tech-priests all attempting to get their equipment aboard his ship. Felix insisted on a low-key initial insertion, not wishing to awaken tyranid rearguard organisms or trip the fortress-monastery’s auto-defences, should any remain operational. The Overlord was a large drop ship, more than capable of taking Qvo’s cadre of tech-priests and Thracian’s men. Getting them aboard in an orderly manner was taxing his Chosen.
He watched the Zar Quaesitor through the small portion of the hangar aperture visible past the Overlord. Cawl’s acolytes were still streaming across from the ark in lines of shuttlecraft. They flooded the Aegidan orbital, greatly adding to those already working under Qvo-87. The derelict orbital rang to the sounds of industry from all quarters. On the other side of the partition dividing the hangar, the Adeptus Mechanicus were hard at work, and vibrations from their efforts shook the deckplates. Past the Overlord’s stubby wings, Felix saw a hull section prefabricated in the holds of the Zar Quaesitor emerging from foundry gates. Bathed in the glaring light of the ark’s forge decks, the section drifted forwards unpowered until small fleets of servitor craft fell in around it, snared it with cabling, and commenced dragging it towards the platform.
Belisarius Cawl- the Great Work - Guy Haley Page 5