Blood Angels - The Complete Rafen Omnibus - James Swallow

by Warhammer 40K

  “And we are to believe that Fabius Bile resides among that morass of fangs and claws?” Kayne folded his arms across his chest, shaking his head. “It cannot be.”

  “No?” said Rafen. “Explain that, then.” He pointed at a regular cluster of heat signatures on a crescent-shaped atoll in the southern hemisphere. “That pattern is too coherent for an organic form.”

  “Good eye, my lord,” said Beslian. He flipped another lens over the screen and turned it with his servo-arm. “You are quite correct to suspect this locale. Solar albedo returns correlate with manufactured materials down there. Ferrocrete and metal alloys.”

  “A building,” noted Puluo.

  Noxx leaned in. “Enlarge that image. Show us more.”

  Beslian frowned. “Without use of active sensors, I cannot provide the best resolution…” He worked the lenses irritably, expanding on the blurs of colour and reflection. “Ah…”

  Ajir made out the distinctive shapes of bunkers and revetments, wards around an open landing zone and what could have been a keep. “He has himself a fortress, in the middle of a xenos breeding ground.”

  “How is that possible?” said Turcio. The penitent leaned in. “See, the island around the buildings. Every other scrap of land has evidence of tyranid spoil pools, spore chimneys or killing grounds. But not this one. How is Fabius keeping them at bay?”

  “Sorcery,” muttered Sove darkly.

  Puluo studied the image. “Those look like embedded lance batteries, there and there,” he noted. “Heavy gauge. Capable of reaching low orbit, I’d warrant.”

  “Correct. I have determined that those weapons were among the items my former master traded in this quadrant. They are the secondary line of defence,” continued Beslian. “The primary is closer to hand. Look here, Astartes.” The tech-priest beckoned one of his lexmechanics, and the hooded figure released another mobile screen to them. Still images captured from near-orbital space flicked past like pages from a book.

  Rafen recognised them first. “Gunskulls.”

  There were orbs floating in the dark, kilometres up over the surface of Dynikas V, each of them clustered with engine nozzles and arrow-tipped spines. Even in the indistinct imagery taken in passing by the Archeohort’s watch-scopes, the screaming mouths worked into their surfaces were clearly visible, as were the complex strings of text in forbidden tongues carved into the metal. Some of them dragged lines of chain with them, others were dressed with fans of solar panelling. No two were alike, but every one of them had a face. Ajir had once heard that the sculpted iron was modelled upon the aspects of certain champions of the Chaos Gods, as some form of veneration. He could see where superheavy laser cannons and the tips of melta torpedoes protruded from gaping, crack-toothed maws and blank eye sockets. Each one of these killer satellites had at its heart the flesh of a crippled madman, wired in and entombed in a sheath of steel, never sleeping, forever awake and desperate to unleash death upon the enemies of the Ruinous Powers. There were hundreds of them, all with their backs to the planet and cannons aimed outward, hundreds of frozen, howling faces and screaming skulls.

  “I’m no shipmaster,” said Noxx, “but I’d say those things bring poor odds.”

  Mohl nodded. “The satellites are intermediate range weapons, but more than capable of matching the guns of two strike cruisers. Anything less than a passing engagement would go in the favour of the defenders.”

  “What about this hulk?” demanded Kayne.

  Beslian took the insult with a sharp chug of air. “The Archeohort is not a warship! It is not built for sustained military actions.” He looked away peevishly.

  Rafen ignored the outburst. “Fabius has dug himself in deep, that cannot be denied. But we’ve not come this far to be dissuaded at the very gates of our foe’s redoubt.”

  “A frontal attack will be a wasteful endeavour,” Beslian said airily. “At best, you might be able to close to heavy weapons range and release an orbital bombardment upon Bile’s facility. And even then, as the gunskulls swarmed your ships, you would not live to tell of it. Not to mention that it is highly likely that the traitor has hardened his base to well beyond—”

  “Your insights are appreciated,” snapped the sergeant, iron in his tone, “but matters of tactics are not yours to decide.”

  Beslian pressed on, clearly concerned for the fate of the Archeohort now it was his. “I would respectfully suggest you call in reinforcements from your Chapter starfleet, brother-sergeant. A massed force of ships could obliterate Dynikas V with a sustained cyclonic torpedo barrage and suffer only a few losses in return.”

  Sove snorted, his scarred face wrinkling. “It could take weeks to gather more ships.”

  “The cousin is right,” Ajir threw the Flesh Tearer a nod. “And even then, even if we had the time to wait, how can we be sure that Bile will not simply spirit himself away as he did when he fled from Baal?”

  For a moment, Rafen was silent, perhaps recalling the memory of a dim corridor beneath the Vitalis Citadel, and the brimstone stink of a spent warp gate. “The kill must be made close at hand. From high orbit, hiding behind guns… That will not suffice. Our honour demands more.”

  “Logic—” Beslian barely got the word out before Noxx was at his side, a finger pressing on his sunken chest.

  “You heard the Blood Angel,” he said. “This is a matter of retribution, not your precious logic.”

  The logis’ optics whined as they blinked. “As you wish…” He backed away, almost to the edge of the mobile platform. “But… but what other means of attack is there?”

  “Thunderhawks and drop-pods will be obliterated before they even cut atmosphere,” said Ceris. “Teleporters won’t work. There are wards in place to prevent their operation.” He tapped his temple. “I see them.”

  Ajir watched Rafen fold his arms. “So all we have are impossibilities. It seems that every step we have taken along this road brings us more of them.” He glared at the image. “I am done. I no longer care to hear what we cannot do, and how we will not succeed.” The sergeant turned around, his ire burning in his eyes, his gaze raking them all. “We were not given this mission in order to fail it! The Emperor’s hand is at our backs, and we will not disappoint Him! We have been entrusted with the honour of our Chapter…” Rafen caught Ajir’s gaze. “The honour of our primarch! So we will find a way!”

  In the silence that followed, Mohl slowly raised his hand. “If it pleases the brother-sergeant,” said the Techmarine, “I have a suggestion.”

  At first glance, it resembled a bomb, but larger than any Rafen had ever seen, greater even than the huge Atlas-class weapons deployed by the Imperial Navy against hardened ground targets. Suspended on chains from a gantry over the heads of the Space Marines, it projected an air of menace, its black iron flanks curving up and away.

  “It’s a ship?” demanded Noxx.

  “Of a sort,” Mohl replied.

  Eigen bent his neck to take the whole thing in. “I’ve never seen the like before.”

  Rafen spotted hatches along the smoothly rounded prow of the object that lay perfectly flush with the hull metal, and at the opposite end, the strange vessel tapered to a teardrop stern. An X of stubby winglets emerged there, and in the light from the flickering welding torches of servitors, he made out the low mound of a turret on the dorsal surface.

  “My lords, allow me to present to you the Neimos. According to the dedication plaque within, it was built during the Great Crusade for the service of the Imperial Army. Zellik’s relic hunters appropriated it for him several years ago, from a space hulk in the Drache Sector.”

  “The streamlining…” began Turcio. “It’s an atmosphere boat.”

  “No,” said Rafen, understanding coming to him. “This craft is built for oceans, not air.”

  Mohl nodded. “Correct, brother-sergeant. The Neimos is a combat submersible, designed for deployment on ocean worlds. I came across a mention of it in the Magos
’ inventory.”

  Kayne snorted. “And how does this relic help us get to Bile? What do you propose we do, Flesh Tearer? Drop it on him?”

  “The hull of the Neimos is constructed from a spun sentanium-ceramite mix. It is a solid piece, extremely durable and flexible. In addition, there are extra layers of ablative armour sheathing its length. While the craft was built for a crew of common sailors, I believe it can be quickly refitted to operate with a handful of Astartes and a contingent of servitors.”

  “You’re suggesting we sail this thing under the seas of Dynikas V, right up to the front door of Bile’s fortress?” Noxx gave a chuckle that wasn’t reflected in his cold eyes. “Let us ignore the dangers of such a journey for a moment and concentrate on the boy’s question.” He nodded towards Kayne. “Or did you forget Beslian’s little show? I ask you, what possible value is there for a boat in space?”

  “The Neimos is orbit descent-capable, lord,” Mohl replied. “Shunt-field systems and armour will protect it from the trauma of atmospheric interface. Ballute arrays will slow the fall.”

  “I was right,” Kayne said, in disbelief. “You do want to drop it on him.”

  In spite of himself, Rafen found a sudden bark of dry laughter bubbling up inside him. “I confess, Brother Noxx, I am not certain if your Techmarine has lost his reason or gained genius.”

  “I feel the same way,” said the Flesh Tearer, glaring at his warrior. “Is such a thing really possible?”

  Mohl nodded. “Craft of this class have been deployed in combat many times. The survival rate is not exemplary, however.”

  “I’d ask you a number for that rate,” said Rafen, “but I fear I would regret knowing the answer.”

  “I fail to see the point of this,” said Ajir. “If we could close to such range as to launch this… this curiosity… then why not a storm of drop-pods instead?”

  “With the Neimos, we can deploy the craft into the ocean on the far side of Dynikas V from the target atoll, where the fortress’ emplaced guns are over the horizon and unable to reach us. In addition, the coverage of the defence satellites is thinner in that area. Once we dive beneath the surface, the gunskulls will not be able to track us.” Mohl gestured at the submarine. “We will be free to proceed in stealth.”

  “But how do we get it to launch position?” Kayne insisted.

  “It will require sacrifice,” said the Techmarine, after a moment.

  A slow smile formed on Rafen’s lips as Mohl’s meaning became clear to him. “Yes, I think it will.” He paused, musing. “How long to ready the Neitnos for the drop?”

  “I have already begun the preparations, lord. A matter of hours.”

  Rafen nodded to himself, voicing his thoughts. “Two squads of men, infiltrated on to the planet, delivered by this vessel to the enemy’s fortress. We go in under cover of fire and stealth, and hit the target.”

  “We’re doing this, then?” Noxx asked. “Well. As plans go, it has audacity…”

  “Will that count for anything if we die of it?” grated Eigen.

  Rafen glanced around. “Gather your wargear. Prepare yourselves for the coming battle.”

  Kayne’s face was sallow. “And may we take the time to pray? I fear we will need all the blessings we can gather to us.”

  The sergeant nodded. “You’re right. But know this—the God-Emperor is always watching, and He favours the bold.”

  Beslian came up to meet them on his mobile platform, the mechanism clanking up the levels of the command pit. Rafen turned from the relay helot conveying his orders to the internal and external vox-channels, giving the Mechanicus priest the briefest of looks.

  “Brother Rafen!” snapped the logis. “What is going on?” He pointed a spindly servo-arm at Mohl. “The Archeohort’s control code protocols have been changed. This battle-brother did so, without consulting me! What is the meaning of this?”

  Rafen ignored him, concentrating on his task at hand. The helot had plugged itself into the construct’s machine-call web, and now the Blood Angel’s words to it were being broadcast simultaneously to the Astartes upon the bridges of the Gabriel and the Tycho. “Shipmasters,” he was saying. “You know your orders. You have five solar days. If we fail in our mission, or if contact is not made using the correct cipher protocols, execute a maximum strike bombardment of the fortress. By the command of our Chapter Masters, you are to do whatever is required to turn that island into slag… To the forfeiture of your vessels and crews, and beyond. Ave Imperator!” The commanders of the two warships echoed his words and cut the channel.

  “We are ready to begin,” said Mohl.

  “Do so,” Rafen told him, before finally giving his attention to the adept.

  “I believed we had built up a measure of trust!” Beslian grated. “Instead I find my code strings severed, and intruder data impinging on the function of my ship’s systems! This will not stand!”

  “No?” Rafen took a heavy step towards him. “Is it necessary for me to remind you how it is you came to be wearing this icon?” The Blood Angel prodded him in the chest with an armoured finger, pressing the master’s sigil around Beslian’s neck into the folds of his rust-coloured robes. “Know this, my esteemed logis. You command the Archeohort in name only. This vessel belonged to the Sons of Sanguinius the moment we declared it so.”

  “Mohl is a Techmarine!” The priest blurted out the title with mild disgust. “And a Flesh Tearer into the bargain. You understand! He is not fit to take mastery of a fine craft like this, even in your primarch’s name… The Techmarines come to Mars to be trained, but they do not truly excel! They never know the perfection of the machine as a member of the Adeptus Mechanicus does!”

  “And yet, despite my apparent lesser status, I was able to lock you from your own codex-system,” said Mohl, with deceptive mildness.

  Beslian ignored the jibe. “Techmarines are brutish, crude and unsophisticated! And Mohl is all the more so for his Chapter and breeding!”

  The Flesh Tearer’s plain face suddenly twisted in annoyance, but Rafen stepped up before he could move towards the adept. “What do you say to me?” the Blood Angel said coldly. “That you are more loyal to my mission than a battle-brother from a kindred Chapter? Do you take me for a fool?” His fist unclenched and he backhanded the adept to the deck. The blow was as light as he could make it—he did not wish to kill the man—but still Beslian went stumbling down in a clatter of metal. “If I learn that you again speak ill of an Astartes, of any Son of Sanguinius, I’ll have you cut up for servitor spares. You will obey Mohl as you would the word of the God-Emperor of Mankind!”

  Beslian made a wounded, sobbing noise, but his head bobbed and he tried to right himself with whatever scraps of dignity he still possessed. “I… I only wish to know why! What have I done to displease you?”

  Rafen eyed him. “You think yourself superior to us, and you think us so inferior that we would not know it. That is enough.”

  The iris hatch to the command deck rattled open, and Beslian saw the figure framed in the open doorway. Immediately, his words with the Space Marine were forgotten and he threw up his arms, organic and mechanical alike, in a gesture of self-protection. “No!” he cried, his implanted vocoder resonating with static-filled feedback. “Why is he here? No! Take him away!”

  With Brother Sove to his right, a bolter held at his silver skull, and an ever-watchful Brother Ceris to his left, the former Magos Matthun Zellik shambled into the chamber, dripping with restraint cables and detention cuffs. The machine eyes in his scarred metal face were hard with hate as they found Beslian. “Turncoat!” snarled Zellik. Immediately he began a chattering hymnal of harsh binary code, but before he could speak more than a few phrases, Ceris yanked on his tethers, and the magos was choked into silence.

  “What was that noise?” said Rafen.

  “Meme code,” said Mohl, with a grimace. “Clogs the mental functions of those who absorb it.”

  �
�If he does that again, kill him,” the sergeant told the other Flesh Tearer. Sove nodded and as an afterthought, tore a length of cloth from the prisoner’s garb, quickly fashioning a gag from it.

  Beslian followed Rafen, deliberately keeping the Blood Angel between him and his former master. “Why have you brought him here?” he bleated. “He should be on the dungeon decks, or executed!”

  “Zellik will perform a final duty for the Imperium,” said Ceris. “As a lesson for the weak.” He shoved the ex-magos towards the helm podium that overlooked the command pit. A largely ceremonial construction, the podium was used by Mechanicus rune priests to awaken the engines of a vessel at the start of a voyage or before a mission of great import. There, they would appease the machine-spirit of the craft in the Emperor’s name, all the better to see it perform its function. It was the helm in ritual only; in actuality, the steering of the Archeohort was done by mindless servitor drones down in the lower levels of the pit.

  Ceris took Zellik’s tethers and secured him to the podium. The cables keened as they tightened and became rigid. Zellik rebelled against this new indignity, but Sove held him down with no visible effort. The ex-magos roared behind his gag, froth escaping his bound lips to trickle off his tarnished metal chin.

  Rafen studied the prisoner for a long moment. “All those who turn their backs upon the God-Emperor, through the embrace of the alien, the mutant or the traitor… For greed. For their own glory. In ignorance. In fear… All of them must pay for that crime.” He shot a glare at Beslian. “All, adept.”

  “It’s done,” said Sove. “The rest of the squads are boarding the Neimos. We’re ready, Brother-Sergeant.”

  Beslian balked at the mention of the submersible’s name. “What… are you doing with that craft? It’s just a relic! An engineering novelty…”