Hellforged, p.11
Hellforged, page 11
‘Help us,’ said a quiet voice. An unagumented human ear would have missed it entirely. Lygris strained to hear.
‘Help us. You must…’
It was there again, almost hidden by the humming of the cogitators. Lygris worked the control panel of the closest cogitator.
The ship’s vox-net was clear, so the voice hadn’t come from one of the Soul Drinkers. In any case, the voice had sounded female. Lygris searched through the external comms channels, the spectrum of frequencies across which a signal might be sent to the ship from elsewhere.
He found it. It was weak, only just strong enough to stir the cogitator’s vocabulator unit. Lygris amplified it and tried to gauge its origin.
‘Help us,’ the voice said again. It was accented, but spoke recognisable Low Gothic. ‘You must come to our aid. This is Raevenia, last world of the Selaacan Empire, and we are beset by the stars themselves.’
On the bridge a few minutes later, Sarpedon listened again to the whole transmission. It was on a loop, broadcasting constantly, but, with each iteration, the bridge cogitators were closing in on its origin.
‘The stars themselves?’ he mused. ‘What can that mean?’
‘Some stellar disaster?’ suggested Lygris. Sarpedon and the Techmarine were on the bridge along with Chaplain Iktinos and Librarian Tyrendian.
‘Or our xenos friends,’ said Tyrendian distastefully.
‘We need help urgently,’ continued the signal. ‘Weaponry and men, to defend our world. Anyone who hears this, join us in our fight, for more worlds, more empires than ours face extinction. Pass us by, and perhaps this doom will fall upon you next. The choice is yours.’
‘Is there any indication that the senders of this message still live?’ asked Iktinos. ‘There’s no telling how long it’s been looping.
‘And where are they?’ asked Sarpedon.
‘A short jump away.’ Lygris examined the screen of the navigation cogitator. ‘Still within the nebula.’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Tyrendian. ‘We know where their capital is. We’re more likely to find survivors there.’
‘Assuming,’ said Iktinos, ‘that this shadow from the stars did not start with the capital and work its way outwards. The message from Raevenia said they were the last survivors.’
‘The bodies at the palace had not been dead that long,’ said Sarpedon. ‘Whatever happened to this empire happened recently. I believe that we must head for Raevenia.’
‘Why?’ asked Tyrendian.
Sarpedon threw his fellow Librarian a stern look.
‘Because they asked for help,’ he said. ‘Lygris, can we make it?’
‘There and no further. The Brokenback will be dead in the void after another jump.’
‘Then set coordinates and do it. If we can help these people we can ask for fuel and be on our way.’
‘And if we cannot?’ asked Tyrendian.
Sarpedon did not answer him. Lygris keyed Raevenia’s coordinates into the bridge cogitator. The reactors juddered alarmingly as they warmed up to throw the space hulk through the warp a final time.
‘We lost good brothers at the palace and the white city,’ said Tyrendian. ‘How many more will this jaunt cost us?’
‘Do you have a better idea, brother?’ snapped Sarpedon.
‘The commander is correct,’ said Iktinos levelly, stepping between the two Librarians. ‘Brother Tyrendian, this is our best chance of saving ourselves. Our pursuers are still out there, and are no doubt closing on us. To do nothing is not an option, and the right choice has been made.’
‘I feel their deaths as much as you do, brother,’ said Sarpedon, ‘but this is not a kind galaxy. Sometimes we must die for our brothers, and no one can say who will die and who will survive.’
For a moment, it looked like Tyrendian would argue. Then his face softened almost imperceptibly.
‘You are my Chapter Master and I bow to you,’ he said. ‘Scamander and I must make preparations for the warp.’
‘You have my leave,’ said Sarpedon. Psykers were more at risk from the occasional influence of the warp during travel. Sarpedon, being unable to receive telepathy, did not suffer much, but Tyrendian’s mind was a little more sensitive, and Scamander, of course, was still learning to control his talents.
Tyrendian left the bridge, and Sarpedon turned back to Lygris. ‘If we do find an inhabited world, what are our chances?’
‘Assuming they are a space-faring people… reasonable, I would guess. That depends on their being friendly.’
‘Then we are assuming much,’ said Iktinos.
‘We always do,’ said Sarpedon. ‘Any sign of the Mechanicus fleet?’
‘I would tell you if there was,’ said Lygris. ‘The nebula makes it difficult to know either way. We could have lost them or they could be right on our tail.’
‘Then they could follow us to Raevenia,’ said Sarpedon. ‘We need to move quickly.’
‘Very well.’ Lygris began to key the coordinates into the bridge cogitator.
‘What are your thoughts, Chaplain?’ asked Sarpedon, turning to Iktinos.
Iktinos wore, as he almost always did, his full regalia of power armour and skull-faced helm. It was the face he showed to his Chapter, so he did not look like one of them but an impassive judge of their souls. ‘I believe that we are on the best course.’
‘How will the battle-brothers see it?’
‘I will see to it that they understand. We are not answering a distress signal, but searching for civilisation to refuel our ship. This is a mission of survival.’
‘They all are,’ said Sarpedon. ‘You have my leave, Chaplain. The Chapter will need to pray for peace in the warp.’
‘As shall we both.’
‘Say a word for me, too,’ said Lygris as he finished punching in the coordinates for Raevenia.
Archmagos Voar had turned his section of the bridge library into a war-room. He had ordered the tech-priests to clear it and bring him everything he needed to appreciate the fleet and its situation: holo-projectors for tactical readouts, a heavy wooden map table with star charts spread out on it still awaiting the first landmarks of the Veiled Region, heaps of books on naval battle-lore, and histories of conflicts with space hulks and alien fleets.
He looked up at the heavy pneumatic footfalls approaching through the library. Magos Vionel emerged into the amber light of the glow-globes.
‘Magos,’ said Voar, ‘I see you have endured close contact with the enemy.’
‘Forgive me, archmagos,’ said Vionel. Voar was correct. Vionel was effectively naked, although it mattered little given that his body was completely contained within his industrial chassis, with only his half-augmetic face showing. One shoulder was stripped down to the pistons and servos, as if the layers of armour had been peeled away one by one. He was covered in cuts and gouges. He smelled of hot machine oil and torn iron. ‘I have come fresh from battle.’
‘How badly are you damaged?’
‘I require replacement parts. My core functions are largely unaffected.’
‘Then what have you to show me so urgently?’
Vionel stomped up to Voar’s desk. Voar saw that he had a chunk of wreckage in one fist. Vionel heaved it onto the desk in front of Voar.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘One of them.’
The wreckage was of a robotic humanoid, its limbs hopelessly mangled and its metal skull punched through, robbing it of eyes to go with its lipless mouth.
‘A necron?’ asked Voar.
‘One of their warriors. The basic combat unit.’
Voar stood up and turned over the necron warrior’s shattered head.
‘There had only been a single exemplar recovered,’ said Voar, ‘and that was not as complete as this. How did you prevent it from phasing out?’
‘I assume it was the damage I caused to it.’
‘You were fortunate.’
‘The Ferrous died under my stewardship. I can see no good fortune in its fate. I hope only that knowledge will flow from my actions.’
‘Did the machine-spirit… say anything? Did it have any message before it fell?’
‘It could not speak. I believe that destruction was the fate the Omnissiah would grant it. That was all.’
Archmagos Voar knew that sorrow was something that he should feel. He felt its echo. He had grieved before, been sad that some colleague had died, or that he had lost… a friend? He tried to remember the concept of an individual whose importance stemmed from something other than standing within the Mechanicus. It was there, a trace of grief, and he let himself feel that shadow of bereavement for the Ferrous. It did not last long.
‘I will take this to my laboratory,’ said Voar. ‘There may be something I can learn from it.’
‘What will you have me do?’ asked Vionel.
‘Take a shuttle to the Defence. Crystavayne will repair you.’
‘Yes, my archmagos.’
‘And Vionel?’
‘Yes?’
Voar looked up from the wrecked necron. ‘Can we fight them?’
‘In numbers? No, archmagos, we cannot.’
‘That will be all, magos.’
Vionel bowed, awkward on his squat chassis, and stomped back off the bridge. He limped as he went, one motivator unit in his hip spitting sparks.
Even with most of its face destroyed, the alien machine seemed to leer up at Voar. It was a gangling ruin, studded with rivets from Vionel’s gun and mangled by the machining unit, but the malice it contained was undiminished for all that.
‘What are you?’ asked Voar quietly. ‘Where did you come from?’ He picked up the head. The plain black circuit boards in its skull glinted through the wound in its face. ‘And if you truly are a machine, who built you?’
Voar paused and took the mask from his robes, the mask that Baradrin Thaal had so foolishly bought as a plaything, and which had led the Mechanicus to the Veiled Region in the first place. He held it up to the ruined warrior’s face.
It was the same metal, the same dimensions. The mask was not a part of the same machine; it aped a human face, while the necron warrior’s head resembled a human skull in only the most stylised coincidental way. It was, however, a relic of the same empire.
‘What news is there of the Soul Drinkers?’ voxed Voar to the ship’s tactical helm.
‘We’re still tracking them,’ replied one of the many tech-priests who were now taking shifts in monitoring the space surrounding the fleet. ‘Their last warp jump was off-course from our calculations.’
‘Where are they heading?’
‘A system towards the nebula centre.’
‘Inhabited?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Follow them.’
‘Yes, archmagos.’
Voar sat down at the desk and shut off the vox-links to give him some peace to think.
‘What bargain have you made, Astartes?’ he said to himself, turning the xenos mask over in his hands. ‘What have they offered you? What will you pay?’
Outside the Antithesis, the other ships of the Mechanicus fleet were gathering into formation to enter the warp, both to stay ahead of the necron aggressors and close in on the Soul Drinkers.
Whether it cost him his fleet, or even his life, Archmagos Voar would find his answers soon.
Through the dozens of sensors on the Brokenback, the planet identified as Raevenia was blue-green, glittering and beautiful. Planets like that got rarer every year in the Imperium, as more were settled by billions of pilgrims and refugees, polluted, stripped bare, or turned into smouldering warzones. Raevenia had rings of stellar ice and dust, and several moons, half-formed captive asteroids, orbiting it.
‘The source of the signal,’ said Lygris, ‘is here.’
The planet was shown on the holo-unit that Lygris had set up on the bridge of the Brokenback. The Techmarine indicated a point near the equator, on a large continent that fragmented into dozens of islands along its southern edge. ‘It looks like there is a city there. Some pollutants and plenty of structures.’ Lygris pointed to a pale spot beside the potential city. ‘Given that this civilisation is space-faring, this could be a space port.’
‘Is the signal stronger?’ asked Sarpedon.
‘It was. It cut out about three hours ago.’
‘Cut out?’
‘Just after we broke warp. I’ve been trying to raise a response on the same frequency, but there’s nothing.’
Sarpedon looked more closely at the holo. ‘Is there any sign of conflict down there?
‘None yet,’ said Lygris. ‘That doesn’t mean it isn’t there. More likely, it’s another ghost world and the xenos have seen us coming.’
The two Soul Drinkers were alone on the bridge. Much of the Chapter was preparing to depart for the surface of Raevenia, and the rest were positioned throughout the Brokenback, manning the sensorium helms and keeping an uneasy watch over the remaining reactors.
‘What do you think of it?’ asked Sarpedon.
‘This planet? It’s definitely inhabited, or at least it was.’
‘More than that.’
Lygris thought for a long moment. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘No?’
‘It’s this whole place, the Veiled Region. It feels like it was… waiting for us. It’s drawing us further in so it can kill us off bit by bit, as if it is alive and we are a virus to be killed off. Does that sound sane?’
‘Stranger things have been proven to exist in this galaxy,’ said Sarpedon, ‘but as you say, we aren’t going anywhere else. It is Raevenia or nothing.’
‘I agree. This is our best chance. I only wish that we had some more appetising choices.’
Sarpedon studied the image of Raevenia some more. Here and there, the forests and plains were stained with dark areas that could be cities, or grey veins that might be roads. North of the possible city was a range of mountains crowned with snow, like white stitches in the planet’s surface.
‘Whoever is down there,’ said Lygris, ‘we may have to fight them to take the fuel we need.’
‘Then we will fight them,’ replied Sarpedon sharply. ‘We have done more distasteful things. This is survival.’
‘Let us say we do survive. We find a safe berth in the galaxy where we are not hunted. What then?’
‘Then,’ said Sarpedon, ‘we will rule ourselves. That is worth fighting for.’
‘Do you think it is possible?’
‘Lygris, would I have led you here, would I have led you at all, if it was not? To live free in the Imperium is a fight that might take until the end of time to win, but it is worth fighting. If I believe anything, then I believe that.’
‘Freedom?’ said Lygris. ‘From the Imperium? No one has lived free in this galaxy since the Age of Strife. For my battle-brothers to see it… that is something I would risk my life for.’
‘Well said, techmarine,’ said Sarpedon. ‘It is the Emperor’s work. Had he not been betrayed by the tyrants that followed him then we might not have to fight for it like this. Of course, we won’t be fighting for anything if we’re stranded here.’
‘Very well, commander,’ said Lygris. ‘I will see to it that the gunships are ready for launch.’
Lygris left Sarpedon to contemplate the unspoilt globe of Raevenia. It seemed too beautiful to harbour anything deadly, too natural and pure to threaten corruption.
A Space Marine never let appearances drop his guard, however. If the fates so willed it, there would be plenty of killing on that planet.
The necron fleet tore the heart out of a star.
It was an old star, fat and red, a lumbering giant that stood as a relic of a time before the clouds of the Veiled Region had gathered. The star darkened, and then collapsed, throwing off outer layers in ripples of radiation millions of miles across. Its remaining substance compacted and heated up, and, for a few final hours, it burned as bright as it had in its youth, spitting violent solar flares and atomic storms in its death throes. Then that energy, too, was sucked out into the void, and the star shrank into a smouldering clump of ashes, burning away the last vestiges of its power.
The star’s power fuelled the fleet’s alien technologies. The ships hurtled at impossible interstellar speeds, space-time folding through fields of exotic energy, showers of particles that physics determined could not exist streaking across the Veiled Region.
The last echoes of the star’s power rippled out as the fleet arrived at its destination. The cold radioactive dust was thrown aside as the necron necropolis ship tore through it, power crackling off its talons. The rest of the fleet shifted into place beside it, the star’s stolen power arcing between them and the necropolis ship. Time and space seemed to complain at the violation that had brought the necrons there, shimmering ripples washing out at the speed of light, echoing off the barren worlds around the dead star.
Tombs, sealed before mankind had evolved, split open, and the lords of the host emerged, hot coils of power burning the patina of millennia from their bodies. They raised their staves, and unliving eyes turned on them. Scarabs swarmed everywhere, fixing the systems that time had undone. Information flickered between the command nodes of the host, between the lords and their master, down to the individual warriors. War machines awoke, too, enormous vehicles like hovering monuments to death, fighter craft folded up in their vertical launch decks like colonies of bats.
To the ships of the sentinel fleet would now be added the armies of necron warriors that had already conquered most of the human empire. Neither the defenders of Raevenia, already whittled down by vanguard units, nor the new interlopers would face any point but elimination.
Archmagos Voar had kept the laboratory solely for his own use. Not even the other magi of the fleet had access to this part of the Antithesis. Sometimes, solitude was as essential to a tech-priest’s studies as his knowledge of the Machine. Sometimes, the things he studied were best kept to his mind, the strongest and best trained, alone.
