by Guy Haley
‘Here we go,’ he said, and twisted. He cringed, eyes shut tight, as the access hatch flapped down into the corridor below, where it swung loudly on squeaking hinges.
Nothing happened.
He opened one eye, then the other; only then did his body uncurl.
Air wafted up from the black; stale, but breathable. He put out his head. There was nothing and no one in the corridor.
Elver dropped down softly after satisfying himself the corridor was empty. It evidently was not. He reached up to pull his sack full of ration tins out of the air conduit. When he looked back down, he found himself staring into the barrel of a pistol.
‘If you want to survive a little while longer,’ said the fourth passenger, ‘I would say absolutely nothing at all.’
Thick pipes gurgled loudly all around them. The corridor was not so much a dedicated space for people to use, but a place that lacked pipes. The pipes resent the void in their middle, Elver thought. They don’t like us being here.
‘What by the Throne of the beloved Emperor is going on?’ he shouted. One of the pipes, thicker through than he was, rumbled, shook, and gave out a tremendous knocking.
‘There were words about being quiet, weren’t there?’ the fourth passenger said, at a volume that suggested he wasn’t too bothered if Elver heard him or not. ‘The question is rhetorical, by the way. I have perfect recall. See it as a friendly hint,’ he looked pointedly over his shoulder at this juncture, ‘to shut up.’
The fourth passenger had… changed. ‘Change’ was exactly what had happened, but so unadorned a word did not capture the magnitude of his transformation, it being both subtle and extreme. The fourth passenger was definitely the same man – his facial features remained as they were – only with all vestiges of age and feebleness stripped away. His brocade robes had been discarded. Now the man wore some sort of close-fitting, all black body armour covered in pouches. He’d probably had it on the whole time, Elver thought, under his clothes.
Whereas before Elver had taken him to be some kind of low ranking adept of advancing years, an archivist, or tutor or something else bookish, the man leading him through the ship was young and hawkish in his mannerisms. He exuded such a high level of threat that Elver’s teeth and bladder ached with his urge to run away. The man the fourth passenger had been before, on the other hand, Elver would not have spared a second glance for. He supposed that was entirely the idea.
‘Who are you exactly?’ Elver demanded.
The man turned round so fast Elver didn’t have time to blink. His hand was around Elver’s throat and one of his strange pistols under Elver’s jaw.
‘Silence, please,’ said the fourth passenger. He had a bland, killer’s voice.
‘At least tell me something!’ said Elver with a courage that surprised him. ‘I’m going to die anyway, what does it matter?’
The fourth passenger scowled. The pistol was removed. Elver found himself gasping for air through a bruised throat, without being sure exactly when he had been released. Throne, the man was as strong as he was fast.
‘I work for an organisation of high responsibilities and higher secrecy,’ he said. ‘My duty is to the Emperor, as is yours. That is all you need to know, and all I am going to tell you. If we are careful, we may achieve something remarkable.’
‘Like survive?’ said Elver hopefully.
‘Not that remarkable,’ said the man, pushing on ahead towards a hall thundering with energetic machines.
‘Oh.’
‘You’ll live a little longer,’ said the man. ‘And when the time comes to die, be thankful for the Emperor’s mercy that I’ll not let you suffer.’
Elver did not find that even slightly comforting.
‘Do you at least have a name?’ said Elver, shouting again as they entered the hall. ‘My name’s Elver,’ he added encouragingly.
The man took in their surroundings. There was nothing wasted in his movements. He wasn’t simply looking around, he was looking for something specific. They were in the enginarium section, at the point where everything was taken up by giant devices cocooned in networks of companionways. Together, the walkways and machinery filled the ship side to side and top to bottom. In the tight space between machines and the hull was a network of pipes way beyond Elver’s understanding. Overton paid scum-grade machine adepts to go over the ship every few years or so. Nobody on board really had an idea how any of the devices worked, trusting to prayer as much as maintenance to keep the Sheldroon going. It was all in a state of disrepair. The companionways swayed to the beat of the ship’s mechanical heart. Sections sagged dangerously. Rust streaked the walls, ate holes in the floor, and whatever colours the machinery had originally been painted, they were now the same, uniform oxide-and-grease brown.
‘You can call me Gun,’ the fourth passenger said.
‘Is that your actual name?’ asked Elver. Gun ducked under twisting shafts blurred with speed. Elver approached them with a degree more trepidation.
‘Of course not,’ said Gun. He tapped one of the pistols slung at his side. ‘But I do have guns,’ he reminded Elver. ‘Are you familiar with these sections? None of this is standard.’
‘The ship’s a couple of thousand years old, so I’ve been told,’ said Elver. ‘I doubt any part of it has been standard for centuries.’
Gun nodded in agreement. ‘You survived longer than any of the others. You must know your way around.’
‘There’s not much else to do here, other than explore,’ he said lamely.
‘I’ll take that as a yes. Is there an external access airlock near here?’
Elver pointed upwards, to the top of a gantry holding a throbbing plasma sink. ‘Up there. A maintenance port. I don’t know if it works.’
‘It’ll do for a start,’ said Gun. ‘I assume you know the fastest way there?’
‘Yes,’ said Elver.
‘Then lead on.’
‘That way,’ said Elver, pointing further ahead. ‘We can’t climb by the sink, it’s too hot.’ It felt good to have a purpose again. ‘That’ll take us up to the first landing, then we can cross there and go–’
‘I said lead on, not prattle on.’ Gun had one of his guns in his hand again. ‘I am giving you orders, by the way, in case either of us is in doubt about the nature of our relationship.’
As they were climbing a rickety ladder, Elver put his hand in something sticky. Oil leaked from a multiplicity of sources in the machine hall, so he only recognised it as blood when he wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand and saw the clotted traces of vitae smeared over his fingers.
‘Blood!’ said Elver, holding up his hand.
‘Keep climbing,’ said Gun.
Elver looked upwards. Now he was aware of it, he saw there were streaks of blood everywhere, colouring the oxidised steel a darker red. The amount grew as they ascended, becoming so prevalent that Elver couldn’t help putting his hands into it no matter how hard he tried. That was upsetting, but nowhere near as upsetting as the source.
He clambered onto a solid platform near the upper hull, and was promptly, violently sick.
Passengers one, two and three were arranged around the central column in gory tableau. Elver had only the most fleeting glimpse, but that was plenty of time for the image to burn itself into his soul forevermore.
The family comprised a minor official, his wife, and their nearly adult daughter. He couldn’t tell which had been which from what was left. Two of them were shackled to the central support by metal bent into place around their wrists and ankles. They were naked of clothes and skin. Their tongueless, disarticulated jaws hung from tormented sinews onto their chests. Bloody sockets stared sightlessly at the third figure crucified opposite them upon twisted spikes of wire. It too, had been skinned. In this case the jaw mandible had been carefully removed, leaving the tongue to hang from its roots onto its neck. All of this, and the sickening smell that clung to Elver’s clothes for days afterwards, was rendered all the mo
re horrifying by one small yet telling detail. The crucified figure’s eyes, peeled lidless with the removal of his face, remained in its skull. Just seeing that told Elver that he, for it must have been the father, had been forced to watch the others die.
Gun was unaffected by the sight, and investigated the scene with grave curiosity.
‘He really is as mad as they say,’ said Gun.
‘Nobody sane would do this,’ agreed Elver.
‘They would,’ said Gun. ‘I have seen the same done, and worse, to further the survival of the Imperium. What is insane is not what was done, but why. This butchery is an indulgence. It serves no purpose. The monstrous can be justifiable, but if it cannot be righteous, then it is merely monstrous.’
‘You’re a monster too, then.’
Gun looked down at the shaking Elver. ‘Not as big as the monster I am hunting. Konrad Curze, eighth primarch, once the Emperor’s favoured weapon of terror.’ Gun seemed to relish the mythical heft of the name, pronouncing it with respect.
‘You’re hunting it?’ Elver said, careful not to look at Gun in case he saw the horror behind him again. ‘Seriously?’
‘He’s hunting us too,’ admitted Gun. ‘And he’ll kill us. Don’t be too concerned. I’ll shoot you once our task is done, and spare you this.’
‘Thanks,’ said Elver in a small voice. ‘Can you kill him?’
‘No,’ said Gun. ‘But there are others that can. First, they have to find him. I’ve been scouring these back lanes through the void for years now, and others like me have too, looking for him in a widening net around his Legion’s old lair at Tsagualsa. There’s a fortress there, never finished. It’s as good a place as any to look for him. Mathematically speaking, the chances are that he would never be found, but the universe doesn’t work quite like that. He’s too big a loose end to remain untied. It is an honour to be the one to sight our quarry. I shall die knowing the Emperor’s judgement is coming for him.’
‘We sighted him,’ said Elver. It sounded peevish, but it needed to be said.
Gun laughed. ‘Really? Only after I had modified this hulk’s sensorium. I led you here.’
‘You’re responsible for this!’ said Elver. He shook harder. He was going to be sick again.
‘I am responsible for your otherwise insignificant life being spent in the furtherance of the highest cause, the survival of our species.’
‘I’m not going to thank you.’
‘I don’t expect you to,’ said Gun. ‘Come on. According to your directions we must pass through this mess here.’ With frightening strength, he hauled Elver up to his feet. ‘They’re all dead, their suffering is over. They can’t help or harm you.’
Elver trembled with a dying man’s palsy as he raised his eyes to the bodies again. Irritation at Gun for treating him with such condescension needled him. He was a chartist, not some superstitious worlder to be scared of corpses.
He wasn’t scared of them, he was scared of what had made them dead.
EIGHT
NIGHT HAUNTER
Gun placed a fifth orb into the maintenance airlock. Rusty and battered like the rest of the hall’s machinery, the airlock was large enough to admit one man in void gear at a tight squeeze. A pane of armourglass made misty by centuries of micrometeor impacts smeared the light of the stars. Elver had a desire to push past Gun and cast himself into the peace outside. That way, he was guaranteed a clean death, on his own terms.
It remained a fantasy. He did not move. While his heart beat, he could not voluntarily end himself. Whether this made him brave or a coward was open to question.
In the shabby closet of the airlock, Gun’s devices looked like something rescued from a higher age: sleek, black orbs bisected with a single silver trench running around the diameter. Each was no bigger than a child’s clenched fist. Gun undid the sixth pouch at his waist. The entire front and top undid, coming down to reveal a final orb nestled in protective foam.
‘Psy beacons,’ he said, taking out the orb. With a sharp twist, he rotated the halves in opposite directions. Something within broke, and a sickening sensation emanated from it, intensifying that already coming from the others.
He placed the orb with the rest, carefully mag-locking it in place so they were in two rows of three on the floor, and came back out of the airlock. A hidden tide pulsed from them, making Elver’s head spin. He groaned, and stepped back.
Gun looked at Elver in a way Elver would really rather he didn’t.
‘Interesting,’ said Gun. ‘Are you a psyker?’ he asked. His hands rested meaningfully on the butts of his pistols.
‘A witch?’ said Elver. ‘No, I’m not!’
‘You’re lying. You are psy-touched, or else the orbs would have no effect on you.’ Gun inclined his head back towards the chamber. Without taking his eyes from Elver, he depressed the door controls, and the airlock slammed shut hard, sending out an iron clang through the thunderous machinery. ‘The orbs contain, in isolated halves, the powdered essence of an astropath, and that of a pariah. When the seal is broken, their ashes mingle, emitting a glow in the warp that burns for weeks, easy to find, provided one is looking for them. My temple will follow it, and send a mistress here to deal with the Emperor’s wayward son. Their emanations are affecting you. What are you? A minor telekine? A pyrokine? Empath machina?’ Somehow, Gun’s pistols had found their way into his hands. ‘Small gifts of telepathy? Foresight?’
Most of those words Elver had rarely heard, and they struck him with fear, for to bear such a designation was a mark of death.
Despite the screening effect of the airlock door, Elver suffered the effects of the growing pulse thrumming from the orbs. His knees weakened. When he backed away from Gun, he half sank to the floor. His legs would not support him. Drool sheeted from his mouth.
‘I dream,’ he said.
‘Everyone dreams,’ said Gun.
‘Yeah, but sometimes, mine come true.’ Elver looked up pleadingly. ‘That’s all, I swear!’ He took another feeble step back.
‘How did you avoid the Black Ships?’
‘I’m a chartist. Voidborn. I never told anyone,’ he said. ‘And nobody ever asked.’
The airlock cycler lumen clicked to green, ready for fans to huff out the air. Gun moved his finger along to the next button, whose light was still red, and depressed it.
A rough machine voice spoke from the wall. ‘Warning. Airlock purge imminent. Depress button second time to confirm.’
Gun pressed the button again.
The outer door opened with a muffled thump.
‘Purge complete.’
The nauseating sensation vanished as the lock contents spilled out into the void. Elver groaned. His secret was out.
‘What will you do with me?’
Gun raised his pistol. ‘I am no witch hunter,’ he said. ‘That is not my role. And remember, I was going to kill you anyway. I am curious, that is all. Curiosity has always been a fault of mine. Prepare to meet the Emperor.’
Elver held up his hands. ‘Please, no! I don’t want to die. Not here, not now, not ever!’
‘Everything dies,’ said Gun. ‘Trust me, if he finds you, you’ll wish you’d never been born.’
An inhuman howl sounded at the machine hall entrance, loud enough to penetrate the rattling of poorly maintained machinery, distracting Gun.
Elver took his chance. He threw himself from the edge of the companionway. His leap carried him dangerously close to a clattering array of pistons. Flailing, he grabbed the rail of another walkway, narrowly avoiding being sucked into the machines as he hauled himself up. The leap had seemed easy enough in principle, but he had never done anything like that before, and the effort wrenched his arms hard.
A second bestial cry resounded around the chamber, turning at the end to a maniacal cackle.
A black flash cracked into the housing of the engine next to Elver, punching a hole edged with hot, cherry red through the metal. Elver yelped and ran around the sides, s
printing he knew not where, provided it was away from Gun.
‘He is here!’ Gun called after Elver. ‘You will regret declining my offer, once he finds you.’
Elver thought he’d deal with that later.
Something huge was coming up into the network of walkways and pipes, setting them all shaking. Elver slowed, and stopped, gripped by a need to see the monster that had slaughtered his crew. Against every instinct screaming in his skull, he turned back.
Konrad Curze stood upon a wide platform suspended in the centre of the hall. The primarch had added untanned manskins torn from Elver’s crewmates to his tattered robe. Blood, some of it dried brown, some of it still crimson fresh, slicked his marble skin. Elver had thought Curze awe inspiring before – now, seeing him out of stasis, Elver’s mind struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. He was the ultimate expression of humanity, taken to the apex of perfection, then cruelly corrupted. His musculature was flawless, sculptured, beautiful. His posture was that of a crone.
Gun dropped down in front of him, landing silently.
‘Hello, your highness,’ he said.
‘You waste yourself,’ Curze said, with a voice like a basket of snakes. ‘My end is not ordained for today.’
Gun bowed. ‘You’ll forgive me for trying, then,’ he said, and went into action.
Curze lunged at Gun. His movements lacked fluidity, being a series of violent jerks that nevertheless granted him immense speed. He held his hands ahead of him like claws. They were the reddest part of him, washed with innocents’ blood. When Gun flipped out of the way and Curze’s hands hit metal, the primarch’s fingernails tore bright wounds through the rusty patina.
Elver could not conceive of fighting such a thing, but Gun tried; more than that, as Elver watched he began to think the operative might conceivably win. He vaulted with smooth precision, using the pipes and beams of the hall as if he were in a gymnasium. He fired as he flipped. Streaks of silent black unlight speared from his twin pistols, strangely flat in appearance, as if painted on the skin of reality rather than inhabiting the normal three dimensions. Curze lunged and raked at Gun with incredible speed, but the operative was so very fast, and evaded every blow. A bolt from his gun speared the primarch’s shoulder, bringing forth a bone-chilling howl from Curze’s ruined mouth.