PART FOUR
It took six hours for the crew of the Saint Carthen to die. In that time, the desperate heretics launched fourteen counter-attacks on the bridge in an attempt to recapture the control chamber and reactivate the environmental systems. Each assault was met with controlled, deadly salvoes of bolter fire. The chances of the bridge falling would have been slim in the best of situations – as implacable as they were on the advance, the Dark Angels excelled at ruthless defence, stubbornly refusing to give a centimetre of ground to wave after wave of wild-eyed crewmen. With their atmosphere leeching out of opened airlocks and deactivated vents, and contending with the lack of gravity, their assaults failed miserably and over two hundred corpses floated in the vacuum as a testament to their increasingly reckless attacks.
Only when the ship’s internal scanners register zero life signs outside the bridge did Boreas consider their position secure. Even then, there was much work to do. For over an hour, the Space Marines swept through the corpse-littered corridors and chambers searching for survivors, or evidence of the Fallen, but they returned empty-handed to the bridge. When they had mustered again, it was Nestor who raised the point that had been nagging at Boreas ever since they had stormed the bridge.
‘If this ship belongs to the Fallen, where are they?’ the Apothecary asked, turning from a view screen to look at Boreas. ‘What makes this ship different from any number of other pirate ships in the sector? Perhaps your information was incorrect, perhaps this slaughter was unnecessary?’
Boreas did not answer immediately. He paced heavily across the bridge to the command chair, the black leather now spattered with blood and shredded with shrapnel and bullet holes. He gazed over the sparking consoles, looked at the floating corpses and globules of blood rising and falling in the thin atmosphere left in the ship. Was Nestor right? Did the presence of the Saint Carthen mean the Fallen were in Piscina after all, or had he over-reacted?
‘This ship was once captained by one of the Fallen,’ Boreas told the others. ‘For nearly a century he waged war against the Imperium from this bridge.’
‘But he is not here now,’ Nestor said, pushing aside a body and stepping towards the Interrogator-Chaplain. He pointed at the uniform of one of the officers. ‘Look at this one. He does not look like a traitor to me. Look at their clothes, the badges and insignia. Imperial badges, Imperial merchant insignia.’
‘Of course they have civilian insignia,’ interrupted Damas. ‘They docked with the orbital station, they sent a shuttle down to Piscina IV. They were hardly likely to be bearing placards proclaiming their traitorous ways.’
‘Questions will be asked,’ Nestor said solemnly. ‘Doubts will be raised.’
‘Let them be asked!’ growled Zaul from where he was standing next to the breach in the wall, a cloud of bolter casings suspended in the air around him. ‘You speak as if we acted wrongly.’
‘We fired on an Imperial vessel,’ Nestor pointed out. ‘We boarded and wiped out the crew of another ship, with no evidence to support our claim.’
‘Evidence is inconsequential,’ Boreas said, turning from the tattered chair.
‘The Inquisition will hear of this, Commodore Kayle will make sure of that,’ Nestor sighed.
‘No!’ snapped Boreas. ‘It is their claim against ours. We swore to keep the secret of the Fallen, nobody must learn of it. Nobody! It matters not if we can prove it, because to do so will only declare our shame to the galaxy. We will be crushed, hunted down as heretics, and the Chapter will be destroyed.’
‘They were here,’ Hephaestus said quietly. He had been busying himself at one of the data consoles for some time. The rest of the command squad turned and looked at him.
‘You have found something?’ Damas asked, crossing the bridge and looking past the Techmarine at the flickering screens.
‘Yes, brother-sergeant, I have,’ replied Hephaestus. ‘I have found their navigational records. They have been in the system for several months, and have made frequent journeys to Piscina II. One of its moons, to be more precise.’
‘Aside from planets three and four, the system is uninhabited,’ Thumiel said. ‘A secret outpost of some kind?’
‘That would be my conclusion,’ Hephaestus agreed, looking directly at Boreas. ‘I have also found data pertaining to a particular type of power plant, of which they picked up several before coming to Piscina.’
‘And what does that mean?’ Damas asked.
‘Aside from the fact that nearly all of the ship’s power requirements are provided for by its plasma reactor, the pattern of energy cell they brought on board is the same as that used in our own backpacks,’ the Techmarine explained. ‘An inventory of the ship’s armoury and other equipment includes nothing that would require similar power cells. A suit of power armour is the only reasonable explanation.’
‘So the Fallen have been aboard,’ concluded Boreas.
‘At least one, probably several,’ Hephaestus added.
‘Anything else?’ Boreas asked.
‘Most of the data storage was erased or destroyed when we took the bridge,’ the Techmarine replied with a shake of his head.
‘What are your orders?’ Nestor asked, shouldering aside a corpse that had drifted into him.
‘Damas, contact Sen Neziel, tell him to despatch a Thunderhawk to retrieve us,’ Boreas said, straightening up, full of purpose again. ‘Order him to load torpedoes for full spread and prepare to target this vessel. Hephaestus, transmit the navigational directions to the Blade of Caliban’s bridge crew and have them lay in the most direct course to Piscina II.’
‘Do you think destroying the ship will stop any enquiry?’ Nestor said with a shake of his head.
‘No, but it will destroy any evidence of the Fallen,’ Boreas countered. ‘We will locate and destroy their base as well, and claim to have rooted out a cadre of renegades.’
‘A lie?’ Nestor asked.
‘A half-truth,’ Boreas replied. ‘We will leave sufficient evidence that Traitor Marines had been operating in this system. No one will ask which Legion they came from.’
‘Do you think that will allay suspicion?’ Damas asked.
‘We have hunted the Fallen for ten millennia and concealed the true purpose of our quest,’ Boreas explained carefully. ‘The Inquisition will see what we want them to see. They may have their doubts, but there will be insufficient cause for them to act or inquire further.’
‘This makes me uncomfortable,’ Thumiel admitted, turning his head to look at each of the others. ‘I feel this deception dishonours us.’
‘The dishonour is already ours!’ rasped Zaul. ‘Did you not hear the Brother-Chaplain’s words? Did you not consider the oaths of secrecy we swore? Our past already damns us in the eyes of the Emperor, and we shall never be able to atone for that sin if that shame were discovered. Boreas is right, we would be hunted down as traitors, ten thousand years of service and loyalty tarnished by a moment’s weakness. Do you wish the Dark Angels to be remembered in history as heroes, or alongside the likes of the World Eaters and Alpha Legion?’
‘Enough of this!’ barked Boreas. ‘Hephaestus, lead the way to the docking bay, we shall talk of these matters later. First, we must destroy this tainted ship and dispense with Captain Stehr and the Thor Fifteen. Then we will track the fiends to their lair and eliminate them. That is our only concern for the present.’
‘As you command,’ the others chorused.
Boreas stood on the bridge of the Blade of Caliban and watched the slowly expanding cloud of gas, plasma and debris that used to be the Saint Carthen. He felt relief as he watched the glittering mass dissipating across the backdrop of stars. The feeling went deeper than the elimination of a possible threat did, right to the core of his soul. Since he had first heard the ship’s name again after the riot, it had been like a thorn in his mind, a reminder of Astelan. Though he was almost physically incapable of fear, the ship had come to represent something dreadful in the Interrogator-Chaplain’s mind. Seeing its destruction exorcised that anxiety, banished the lingering doubts and worries that had plagued him recently.
‘Lord Boreas?’ the comms officer interrupted his thoughts. ‘We are being hailed by Captain Stehr.’
‘Very well,’ Boreas said with a nod, striding to the communications panel. He activated the speaker. ‘Your presence is no longer required, captain, I wish you a speedy and uneventful journey back to orbital dock.’
‘This is intolerable!’ Stehr’s voice ranted back over the link. ‘That vessel was a prize of the Imperial Navy, you had no right to destroy it.’
‘I not only had the right, but the authority and a duty to do so,’ Boreas answered sternly. ‘I deemed the continued existence of the traitor vessel to be a threat and have acted accordingly. I do not understand your misgivings.’
‘That ship was a legitimate salvage by right of capture,’ Stehr protested. ‘My crew would have been paid handsomely for recovering her.’
‘Service to the Emperor is its own reward,’ Boreas replied bluntly. ‘Your financial status is not my concern.’
‘I shall inform Commodore Kayle of this unprovoked action,’ Stehr continued. ‘Not only have you fired upon a vessel of the Imperial Navy, you wiped out an entire ship’s crew and destroyed a prize ship.’
‘I trust you will give Commodore Kayle a full and detailed report of the action,’ Boreas said. ‘Be sure that you include mention of your disregard for my orders not to board the Saint Carthen. You should also take pains to tell him how your dis-respectful behaviour has angered me.’
‘You launched torpedoes at us!’ Stehr’s voice was almost a shriek.
‘I launched torpedoes close to your vessel to prevent you coming to further harm,’ Boreas corrected the naval officer. ‘However, I demand that you leave this area immediately and do not attempt further contact with the Blade of Caliban otherwise my next torpedo salvo will not be aimed to miss. I will tolerate this insubordination no longer.’
‘I shall see charges brought against you for this,’ Stehr replied. ‘Even if it means I’m brought before a court martial for disobeying orders. I will go to the highest authorities if I have to.’
‘Your threats mean nothing to me, Captain Stehr,’ Boreas replied. ‘We are not of the Imperial Navy, neither Commodore Kayle, nor your admirals or even the Lord Admiral of the segmentum has any authority over us. Even Imperial Commander Sousan does not have authority over us, we answer only to the Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels and the Emperor himself. We fight alongside you because we share a common foe, but it is wholly at our discretion how we choose to fight the enemies of the Emperor. And now you are here only at my sufferance, and your continuing prattling threats begin to wear my patience. Your presence here also presents a threat to the security of my vessel and my battle-brothers, and if I do not see you leaving within the next fifteen minutes I shall take action myself.’
Boreas slammed his hand down on the comms rune to cut the link, cracking the wooden panel around it.
‘Power to starboard broadsides, target the Thor Fifteen,’ he commanded, and this time the crew acted without hesitation. Several minutes passed before one of the monitoring officers reported the Thor Fifteen powering up her plasma engines and picking up speed. Boreas ordered the gun deck crews to stand down and swept out of the chamber, his mood foul.
It would take the Blade of Caliban six days to achieve orbit over Piscina II. Boreas felt the time passing slowly. Though the destruction of the Saint Carthen had been a deserved victory, they had yet to root out the Fallen themselves. Boreas was hopeful that whatever diabolic plan they had been trying to enact had been undone with the destruction of their ship. There was no way to be sure though, and the only course of action available to him was to follow the little evidence they had in the hope of finding the Fallen stranded in their base on Piscina II.
But there was another matter he had to address. On the day after the boarding of the Saint Carthen, he called his command together again in the briefing chamber.
‘You are about to face a foe unlike any you have fought before,’ the Interrogator-Chaplain began. ‘You have all battled renegades in the past, but to fight the Fallen is to fight against a dark reflection of yourself. Some are utterly depraved, as physically corrupted as a Berzerker or Plague Marine, but others appear no different from you or I. They wear the livery of the Dark Angels Legion, they carry the same symbol upon their shoulder as us. But remember that they are not like us. They are traitors and heretics who turned upon the Lion and the Emperor.’
‘This is nothing new to us,’ Thumiel said, leaning forward. ‘We are ready for them, as we were ready for them before.’
‘You may think you are prepared, but you must steel yourselves for the reality,’ Boreas warned. ‘They will try to talk to you, to appeal to you as brother Space Marines. They will twist the teachings of the Lion, to sow doubt and weaken your resolve. Do not heed their words! Harden yourself to their lies, their falsehoods and warped philosophies.’
‘I will hear nothing over the roar of my bolter!’ exclaimed Zaul with a snarl. ‘Let their corpses try to corrupt us!’
‘And therein lies the danger,’ Boreas said slowly. ‘For the Fallen are not a foe we can execute out of hand.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Hephaestus. ‘The punishment for treachery such as theirs is death and damnation.’
‘But the quest, this crusade, is not just to erase the evidence of our dishonourable past,’ Boreas said, his gaze directed over their heads, as if he could see through the wall to the chapel beyond. ‘It is to expunge the sins of the past. It is not enough that we simply kill the Fallen, for the stain on our souls still remains. Yes, they are deserving of death, and we shall be the ones to bring it upon them. But first it is our duty to allow them to repent their sins. Only by offering them salvation for their souls can we hope to achieve forgiveness for ourselves.’
‘Salvation?’ Zaul almost spat the word out and Boreas looked at him sharply. ‘It is they who brought this curse down upon us, what hope is there of salvation for them? Kill them swiftly and rid the galaxy of their harmful presence and we shall have atoned enough.’
‘It is not for us to judge the wisdom of ten thousand years,’ Nestor cut in before Boreas could reply.
Zaul looked at Boreas, his expression full of consternation.
‘Kill the mutant, the witch, the heretic, the alien,’ the battle-brother said stubbornly. ‘That is what we were taught.’
‘And you have learnt well,’ Boreas replied with a faint smile before his expression hardened. ‘But now you must learn a new lesson, and learn it quickly. If we encounter the Fallen, they are to be captured alive. We will hold them until the Tower of Angels arrives, and then they will be passed into the hands of my Brother-Chaplains.’
‘And then?’ Zaul demanded. ‘And then they die?’
‘Yes, but not before we have laid bare the full extent of their crimes,’ Boreas said. ‘Not before they have the chance to save their souls by admitting their treachery.’
The others said nothing, guessing rightly what the Chaplain’s words implied. The quiet of the briefing chamber was only broken by the background noise of humming power lines, the throb of the engines through the hull and the distant clank of machinery. Boreas looked at Zaul, staring deep into his eyes.
‘If it is your will, Brother-Chaplain, that we take the Fallen alive, then it shall be so,’ Zaul said eventually, dropping his gaze to the deck.
‘It is my will,’ Boreas replied.
The display screen of the briefing room flickered and shimmered with an image of the moon’s surface. At the centre of a superimposed white grid sprawled the Fallen’s base of operations in grainy red monochrome. Unsure what defences protected the renegades’ station, Boreas had ordered the Blade of Caliban to approach cautiously, edging into orbit a few kilometres at a time, ready to pull back from any fire from the surface. No strike came, and now the rapid strike vessel hung just two kilometres above the moon’s thin atmosphere, its augurs and surveyors directed towards the cratered surface.
At the heart of the base, Boreas could make out the blocky, square-nosed shape of a landing craft, some three hundred metres in length and fifty metres wide. The rest of the buildings expanded outwards from the landing craft like a ferrocrete spider web of enclosed walkways and bunkers half buried in flows of dust and grit. Thin shafts of light spilled from windows and ports.
The others were standing next to the Interrogator-Chaplain examining the image, pointing out features that looked like power generators, comms arrays and surveyor dishes.
‘They have no weaponry capable of orbital attack,’ Hephaestus said, confirming what Boreas already suspected. ‘However, with the scanning equipment of the central ship, boosted by the relays to the sub-stations, I think we must assume they are now aware of our presence, even if they are unable to act.’
‘These look like weapons turrets,’ Damas said, pointing at three separate emplacements, one on the ship itself and two others in towers a few hundred metres away to form a triangular defence. He traced his finger across the large screen to indicate their converging fields of fire. ‘They’re positioned well, no easy attack route. Wherever we strike from, they will have us targeted by at least two turrets.’
‘They look like energy weapons, am I right?’ said Boreas, glancing at Hephaestus. The Techmarine nodded.
‘Yes, you can see the armoured power conduits running from relays built into the lander’s central engines,’ he said. ‘Las-cannons, I would say, by their appearance. Given their elevation and the low defraction of the atmosphere they would have an effective range of four or five kilometres, able to hit us as soon as we entered the upper atmosphere.’
‘Perhaps an orbital strike to knock out their generators,’ suggested Thumiel. ‘The target is quite large, I am sure the gunners could hit them from orbit.’
‘That would be too risky,’ argued Boreas. ‘A stray hit could destroy the main structure, burying our prey. Even if the target were struck, there’s no way we can tell if a chain reaction wouldn’t have equally catastrophic consequences.’
‘And they would know for sure what we intended and be ready for us,’ added Damas. ‘We assume they are aware of us, but we may still hold an element of surprise which would be lost the instant we opened fire.’
‘The atmosphere down there is barely breathable by humans, and here on the dark side the temperature will be considerably below freezing,’ Nestor observed. ‘Perhaps an initial strike to pierce the structure in several places to kill off the majority of any non-Space Marine soldiers will weight the odds in our favour.
‘That will not guarantee our success,’ Hephaestus said with a shake of his head. ‘By its construction, the whole base looks compartmentalised, and each junction is probably sealed. We would have to crack open every part of it first. Also, it is unlikely that the Fallen themselves constructed this on their own, and so their minions would have to be equipped with environment suits to operate outside the controlled interior. We might kill some of them inside, but we could not strike quickly enough to eliminate them in significant numbers before they suited up.’
‘We managed to overpower the crew of a starship,’ Zaul pointed out. ‘These headquarters are not large enough to accommodate even half the number of men aboard the Saint Carthen.’
‘We had surprise and a clearly obtainable objective then,’ Boreas sighed, turning away from the screen. ‘If only this ship were equipped with drop pod bays, we might have been able to launch a shock assault, dropping empty pods as decoys for the turrets. As it is, we will have to go in with a Thunderhawk assault, and we cannot even risk orbital fire support to cover our approach.’
‘Perhaps if we land over the horizon and attack on foot?’ suggested Nestor. ‘The environmental reports indicated about two-thirds Terran gravity. We could cover five kilometres in under ten minutes.’
‘If we are detected, the lascannons will be able to pick us off in short order,’ Hephaestus warned. ‘It will take several hits to disable a Thunderhawk, giving us some measure of additional protection against those batteries. If we had known we were going to be involved in more than a boarding action, we could have brought a Rhino with us. An armoured assault would have allowed us access to the base in relative safety.’
Boreas sat down on the front bench of the auditorium, the wood of the seat creaking under the weight of his armour. He glanced at the screen again and shook his head. The others gathered around him as he pensively stroked his chin.
‘There will be no easy way for us to end this quickly and conclusively,’ he told them, leaning back. ‘However, just like a boarding action, the narrow confines of the corridors and chambers will prevent the enemy being able to use numbers against us. We will strike as hard and fast as we can, gain entry and cleanse the base room by room, passage by passage. Zaul, you will carry a flamer, it will prove invaluable in the close confines. Everybody should take as much ammunition and as many grenades as you can carry. Ready your equipment then I shall conduct the pre-battle prayers in the chapel. Hephaestus, have the crew prepare a Thunderhawk for launch, fully armed.’
‘I shall bless the missiles myself,’ Hephaestus said with a nod, taking a step towards the door before turning back. ‘I think we will need the Emperor, the Machine God and the Lion all to watch over us this time.’
‘Their eyes are upon us, and we shall not fail,’ Zaul said, touching a hand to the Dark Angels’ symbol on his chest. ‘Praise the Lion!’
Boreas stood in the cockpit of the Thunderhawk and looked over Hephaestus’s shoulder through the armoured canopy. The Blade of Caliban had moved to the permanent dayside of the moon before they had launched, and the external environment indicators showed that the interior of the gunship was growing hotter and hotter, though the Space Marines’ armour easily protected them from such extreme temperatures. Their plan was to enter orbit out of sight of the enemy base and approach at nearly ground level. They would perform a rapid attack run before turning and landing on the opposite side of the installation, coming to ground as close as possible to the complex.
The bright white of the moon’s pockmarked surface almost filled the view from the cockpit, and the gunship began to shudder slightly as the atmosphere thickened. Hephaestus pushed forward on the control column to plunge the nose of the Thunderhawk down, heading at speed towards the surface. Only a few hundred metres from impact, he levelled their flight path and the gunship roared over craters and savage trenches, climbing over the odd low peak and diving into the wide rifts that cracked open the moon’s surface.
‘Time to attack run, eighteen minutes,’ Damas announced from the gunner’s position next to the Techmarine.
‘Primary targets are those gun towers,’ Boreas told the veteran sergeant. ‘Secondary targets at your discretion.’
‘Understood, Brother-Chaplain,’ Damas replied with a firm nod, his gaze not moving from the tactical screen casting its green light onto the face of his helmet.
Boreas walked into the main compartment where the others sat silently on the benches, their weapons check finished. Zaul had his combat knife in his hand and was etching something into the casing of the flamer. Despite the bumping and rolling of the Thunderhawk, his movements were controlled and precise.
‘What are you writing?’ Boreas asked, sitting next to the battle-brother. Zaul lifted up the flamer for Boreas to see. Carved in neat script were the words, ‘Cleanse the Unclean.’ Boreas knew the rest of the verse, it was part of a dedication to the Machine God – Chastise the Unholy with the Sacred Bolt, Cleanse the Unclean with the Fire of Purity, Cleave the Impure with the Blade of Hatred.
‘Armour your Soul with the Shield of Righteousness,’ Boreas said, starting the next verse.
‘Guard your Heart with the Ward of Honour,’ Thumiel continued.
‘Strengthen your Arm with the Steel of Revulsion,’ Nestor finished the prayer.
Smiling to himself, Boreas took his crozius from the weapons locker beneath the bench. It felt good in his hands, his badge of office as well as a deadly weapon. Fifteen Interrogator-Chaplains before him had carried this crozius; he had learnt their names when he had been presented with it. He wondered for a moment what they had been like, what it had been like to live during the Age of Apostasy and taken part in the crusades that had followed the Conclave of Gathalamor. He felt that such times were coming again. His instincts told him that the rumours, the hearsay, the omens and portents were more than just idle superstition. The very presence of the Fallen so close to a Dark Angels’ world could not be mere coincidence. Forces were stirring, in this reality and in the warp, and he could only guess at what part he might play in events yet to come.
Lost in his musings, the time passed quickly and it was a slight surprise when Boreas heard Damas declare they were only a minute from firing range.
‘We are detecting some form of scanning field,’ Hephaestus announced as the Thunderhawk’s instruments scrolled data across half a dozen different screens.
A few seconds passed and then three blinding flashes of white shot out of the darkness ahead, passing below the gunship. Another volley of high-energy las-fire zipped past from a slightly different angle, crossing the path of the Thunderhawk over a hundred metres ahead.
‘Let us hope their aim does not improve dramatically,’ laughed Damas as he took up the weapons controls. ‘Our missiles’ machine spirits are becoming aware of the targets,’ he added, his voice solemn again.
Another salvo of fire flashed towards them, only a little closer than the first shots had been. Hephaestus steered the gunship even lower until it was barely thirty metres above ground level. The approach was fairly smooth, a slight incline up towards the wide brow of the hill on which the base was built.
‘Firing missiles,’ Damas announced as he pressed the launch stud. Twin streaks of fire soared away either side of the Thunder-hawk, splitting apart as the tiny metriculator in each warhead guided itself to the designated target. A few seconds later, explosions blossomed to the left and right.
‘One target confirmed destroyed,’ Damas announced. ‘Unsure of the other, definite damage inflicted.’
His answer came only a moment later as two bolts of white energy smashed into the nose of the Thunderhawk, causing the windshield to shatter into a thousand shards and the cockpit consoles to explode with multi-coloured sparks. The gunship lurched to starboard as Hephaestus wrestled with the suddenly unresponsive controls. Boreas and the others were slammed into the side of the hull. The wing dipped alarmingly and Boreas could feel them rapidly losing altitude.
‘Brace for crash!’ Hephaestus warned, letting go of the controls and seizing hold of the grab rails set into the hull over the pilot’s chair.
The starboard wing clipped an outcrop of rock first, causing the gunship to yaw violently amidst the shrieking of torn metal and roar of exploding engines. Spinning fast, the Thunderhawk smashed into the lip of a crater and flipped, sending the Space Marines inside tumbling over and over as the hull buckled and flames erupted from the severed fuel line where the wings had sheared off. Four times the gunship rolled before skidding to a stop, its nose buried under tonnes of gouged rock. The Space Marines were left in a pile on the floor, Thumiel lying across Boreas’s chest, Zaul and Nestor entangled with each other just outside the cockpit.
Ignoring the flickering flames, barely hot enough to start peeling the paint on his armour, Boreas pushed Thumiel away and clambered to his feet. He checked on the others and they reported no serious injuries, just minor damage to their armour and a few bruises.
Boreas forced his way through the tangle of buckled spars and crumpled bulkheads to the exit ramp. The hydraulics were a mangled mess spewing fluid over the decking, and he detonated the explosive bolts that held the ramp closed, giving silent thanks to the Machine God that the emergency mechanism had not been broken in the crash. The ramp cartwheeled away from the gunship before coming to a halt in the score marks carved into the rock by the gunship’s crash.
The aft of the Thunderhawk was several metres above the ground, and Boreas had to jump down, his boots throwing up plumes of dust as he landed. He reckoned that they had crashed about a kilometre short of the base’s outskirts, but pulled his bolt pistol free all the same and conducted a sweep of the crater’s perimeter while the others clambered free of the wreckage. They took up defensive positions around the shattered gunship as Boreas considered what to do next.
‘Can you confirm our position?’ he asked, looking back at Hephaestus.
‘Just under a kilometre in that direction,’ the Techmarine answered, pointing towards a part of the crater’s rim that was shallower than the rest. ‘I have notified the Blade of Caliban of the situation and they stand ready for your orders, Brother-Chaplain.’
‘We continue with the attacks, advance by pairs,’ Boreas said. ‘Hephaestus and myself, Zaul and Nestor, Thumiel and Damas. Fifty-metre intervals, Zaul and Nestor cover the right flank, Thumiel and Damas the left. We must endeavour to gain entry to the closest part of the enemy headquarters, and attack them from within.’
‘Understood, Brother Boreas,’ Damas acknowledged, tapping Thumiel on the arm and pointing to the left. The sergeant nodded in reply and they set off with long bounding leaps. Boreas led Hephaestus ahead while the other two covered the ground quickly to the right.
In a few moments, they were at the lip of the crater. Boreas looked cautiously over the top and could plainly see the lights of the Fallen’s lair against the dark sky. He could also see the silhouettes of dozens of figures advancing across the ground towards their position.
‘Attack! Attack!’ Boreas bellowed, rising from his position and raising his crozius above his head. The opportunity for subtle plans and complex strategies had been taken from them the moment the Thunderhawk had crashed; now all that they could rely on was their superior weapons and superhuman abilities. ‘In honour of the Lion, attack!’
Muzzle flashes sparkled in the darkness as the traitors opened fire, but half a kilometre away their opening shots were wide of the mark. Boreas threw himself forward, covering the ground in five metre strides, preferring to close the range rather than fire. To his left, Thumiel paused and fired several rounds from his bolter, and Damas added his covering fire as well. Fifty metres on, Boreas skidded to a halt and levelled his bolt pistol as Zaul and Nestor advanced to his right. Thumbing the fire selector to semi-automatic, he emptied the magazine in five short bursts, the explosive bolts tearing through a knot of enemy about three hundred metres in front of him.
The Interrogator-Chaplain could see the foe much more clearly now. They wore an assortment of heavy enclosing suits, visors and breather masks, their bulky protective clothing slowing their movements, making them clumsy. They carried a mix of autoguns and light machine guns, spewing tracer bullets out of the night. Having reached their next position to Boreas’s right, Zaul and Nestor halted and opened fire, the flickering trails of their rocket-propelled bolts bright in the darkness. Boreas pulled the empty clip from his bolt pistol and tossed it aside, grabbing another from his belt and slamming it home. Glancing to his left he saw Hephaestus on one knee taking aim with his plasma pistol. A searing ball of blue energy erupted from the muzzle, casting flickering shadows as it sped into the chest of a traitor, ripping through his suit and punching out of his back before its energy dissipated.
Bolt shots from ahead and to the left indicated that Zaul and Damas had advanced to their next firing position, and Boreas sprinted forward again, this time snapping off single rounds as he ran. The display imposed over his vision swam with targets, some of them running in his direction, others hunkering down behind boulders and in shallow hollows. Every time the crosshairs glowed red, Boreas squeezed the trigger and another enemy was toppled to the ground a second or two later.
For six hundred metres they advanced in formation, four providing covering fire as the other pair ran forward. Slowly the traitors were driven back before their relentless onslaught. Boreas’s audio sensors relayed the crackle of enemy gunfire, and as the range closed, the shots began to strike home, chipping off slivers of ablative ceramite, burying into the plasteel shell beneath. Discarding his fourth empty magazine, Boreas spared himself a second to assess the battle.
Forty to fifty bodies littered the ground between the Space Marines and the nearest outcropping of the traitor base. A few still moved fitfully as those who had survived their wounds suffered oxygen starvation and froze to death because of their ruptured suits. There were still over twenty enemies, more secure in places of cover, firing sporadic salvoes at the advancing Space Marines. More shapes came piling out of the nearby doors, many cut down instantly by a lethal crossfire from Zaul and Thumiel.
‘Press on to the buildings,’ Boreas ordered, setting off once more, his targeter tracking a traitor as he ran awkwardly around a corner. He snapped off a shot that shattered the man’s thigh and spun him to the ground, his gun spilling slowly from his grasp. ‘Secure entry immediately. We will eliminate any survivors once we have cleansed the interior.’
Damas headed forward, and the enemy concentrated their fire on him, bullets screaming past the sergeant and ricocheting off his armour. He made it to an entry point a hundred metres ahead to Boreas’s left. Pulling a grenade from his belt, he tossed it into the opening and a moment later the explosion billowed out, flinging the ragged corpse of a man at the veteran’s feet. Damas disappeared inside, and a few seconds later, his voice crackled over the comm.
‘Light resistance encountered,’ he reported, the dull crack of his bolter punctuating his words. ‘Entry point secured.’
Boreas waved Hephaestus and Zaul ahead, and turned to give covering fire for Nestor and Thumiel as they ran across in front of him. A bullet struck his helmet, cracking through the lens of his helmet’s right eye and driving into the bionics behind. A sudden surge of pain flooded Boreas’s face and he stumbled backwards and lost his footing. He just managed to balance himself before he fell completely, but went down on one knee. His head throbbed and his vision swam as he tried to steady himself. The augmetic eye sparked again, burning at him from the inside and he gritted his teeth against the pain. He saw vague shapes running towards him and raised his pistol to open fire.
‘Cease fire, Brother-Chaplain!’ he heard Nestor tell him and he relaxed his finger on the trigger. His vision still blurred, he saw the pale outline of the Apothecary’s armour as he loomed close, one arm outstretched to help Boreas to his feet. Pushing himself upright, he leant on Nestor for a moment while his dizzied senses settled. The pain in his face had gone. He could feel the soothing combat drugs injected into his blood by his armour. His thick blood was already clotting on the wound, but he could feel air leaking out of his helmet. He stumbled a few steps and then regained his balance. He could now make out the doorway where the others were holding position, and broke into a loping run, Nestor beside him.
The interior of the building was narrow, only wide enough for them to advance one at a time. Damas held the far end of the corridor, bolt pistol in his hand. Hephaestus stood a little way behind him, astride a pile of suited bodies.
‘Zaul and Thumiel are holding junctions ahead,’ Damas reported. ‘Still encountering only light resistance.’
‘It’s almost deserted,’ Thumiel added. ‘The rooms we have swept were bare.’
‘You think they have evacuated and left behind a rearguard?’ Boreas asked, an uneasy feeling growing in his subconscious.
‘Not just deserted, Brother-Chaplain,’ Thumiel replied. ‘Bare. Completely empty, as if there was nothing in them in the first place.’
‘That makes no sense,’ Nestor said. ‘A facility of this size could house several hundred men.’
‘Perhaps this is a new addition to the complex,’ suggested Hephaestus. ‘Not yet finished. It is at the outer reaches of the station after all.’
‘Hold position,’ Boreas told them, giving himself time to think.
His mind was still reeling from the gunshot to his head and it took him a few moments to collect his thoughts. Pulling the auspex from his belt, he set the scan to maximum range. At full power, it would not provide detailed information but it would confirm or deny his growing suspicions. It took several seconds for the power pack to warm up, and the screen hazed into life. There were a few vague patches of brightness to indicate life forms, but it was a very low signal. The silence from outside attracted his attention and he looked back through the door. Looking left and right, he could see nothing except rapidly cooling bodies. The twenty or so rebels who they had pushed through were nowhere to be seen.
‘The base is all but deserted,’ Boreas announced, shutting down the auspex and hanging it back on his belt. ‘It matters not whether it is because it has been evacuated or because it has yet to become fully operational. We must get to the control chamber as quickly as possible. With the Lion’s blessing we will find answers there.’
‘What of the cleanse?’ asked Damas.
‘There is next to nothing to cleanse!’ snapped Boreas, exasperated by this unlikely turn of events. ‘Make all speed to the central craft, sweep aside any resistance and press through.’
‘Affirmative, Brother-Chaplain,’ Damas replied. ‘Thumiel, Zaul, lead the way.’
As they advanced, Boreas saw just how accurate Thumiel’s brief report had been. There was nothing at all in the corridors they ran through, or the chambers they passed, just bare grey ferrocrete. There were no stains, no litter, no furnishings or anything else to indicate that this place had been lived in. Only the dim glow-globes overhead betrayed the fact that the area they were passing through was even wired in to the main power generators. Sporadic bolter fire from ahead occasionally broke the quiet, and as he continued, Boreas passed the odd vacuum-suited body missing a limb, head or chest. Glancing down the side passages they passed, Boreas realised that many were barely finished: the whole base looked as if it had been flung together in a short space of time and then left.
It was only when the drab grey walls turned to tarnished metal that Boreas realised they had passed into the body of the landing craft at the centre of the web of corridors and rooms. Crude paintings and mottos had been daubed onto the walls. Stopping to examine them, Boreas felt his stomach tighten as he realised that they were poor imitations of the great murals of the central chapel in the Tower of Angels. Poorly rendered black figures striding through gaudy yellow flames looked like the painting of the Cleansing of Aris.
‘This is a mockery!’ declared Zaul, as they gathered in a circular chamber. The ceiling was layered with flaking paint, the peeled picture a clumsy reproduction of the Salvation of the Lion, depicting the Dark Angels primarch in the dark woods of Caliban, surrounded by knights. A figure of pure white was holding out his hand to the half-feral man. Boreas snorted in disgust when he recognised the figure as Luther, made out to be an angelic saviour.
‘This borders on the worst kind of desecration,’ Zaul rasped, raising his bolter and firing into the mural. Splinters of metal and sprays of dust cascaded down onto him, covering his bone-coloured armour in a fine layer of speckled colours. ‘Such barbarity cannot be tolerated!’
‘The Fallen did not paint these,’ Boreas said, gazing up at the scarred scene above. Like the first, it was not simply crude in its technique, but in composition and proportion. Only their actual content bore a vague resemblance to the paintings they imitated. ‘Any one of us, though not artists, could replicate the great chapel more accurately. These were crafted by those who have never seen the originals. They were painted by the Lutherites’ servants, based on descriptions and their masters’ memories.’
‘Why?’ Zaul demanded, swinging around to face Boreas, smoke still drifting from the muzzle of his bolter.
‘As worship,’ snarled Boreas. ‘They idolise the Fallen, they have been corrupted by them and now worship not only them, but the twisted ideals they represent.’
‘We should not tarry here,’ Damas interrupted. ‘You said to proceed to the control centre.’
‘It should be that way,’ Hephaestus said, pointing ahead and to the left. ‘There should be a direct route from the central passages, just turn left when we reach a main corridor.’
‘Proceed with more caution,’ Boreas ordered, remembering the scattered concentrations of life signals the auspex has detected. ‘The Lutherites could still be here.’
With one last glance at the heretical paintings, Zaul set off, Thumiel close behind him.
About a hundred metres further in, they came across a wide junction, with passages leading off in eight directions. One was obviously the route to the landing craft’s control centre, its walls daubed with all manner of graffiti deifying Luther and extolling the feats of the Fallen. The armoured doors at the far end were open, and Boreas caught glimpses of movement inside.
Thumiel had already seen it and moved forward quickly, bringing up the muzzle of the flamer. Two quick strides took him to the doorway and he opened fire, a sheet of flame engulfing the inside of the control room. High-pitched screams mingled with the crackling of the flames and a burning figure flailed into view. Damas’s bolt pistol roared once and the flaming man’s head exploded, hurling his carcass back into the room.
‘We need a prisoner for information!’ Boreas yelled as the rest of the squad launched themselves forward, weapons ready. ‘Take one alive.’
As he burst into the chamber, Boreas saw that it was high and narrow, filled with banks of scorched, dead consoles, pools of burning flamer fuel scattered across the floors and walls. Charred and smoking bodies were scattered across the floor, crouched behind panels and chairs where the traitors had tried to take cover. Several still writhed around on the ground, howling in agony or their faces wracked with noiseless screams.
A few had survived and opened fire, shotgun shells and bullets smashing into Thumiel, the first who had entered. Zaul returned fire from behind his battle-brother, his fusillade smashing apart display panels, gouging through banks of dials and readouts and ripping through the bodies of three of the Fallen’s servants.
There were two others alive, and Boreas quickly took them down with shots to their legs. Like the others, they were dressed in drab environment suits, their eyes wild behind the tinted visors of their face masks. One tried to raise his autogun to fire again, but before his finger closed on the trigger, Nestor had pulled out his combat knife and hurled it into the man’s shoulder, causing the weapon to tumble from his grasp.
Boreas holstered his pistol and strode towards them. They tried to crawl away, and backed up against a workstation topped with a cracked and sparking comms unit. Boreas grabbed the nearest by the pipe of his breather and dragged him up so that he was dangling off the ground. The other started inching away until Boreas stood on his injured leg, pulverising the bone and ripping a muffled scream from the man.
‘External address. Where are they?’ demanded Boreas, the skull visage of his helm a hand’s breadth from the man’s face.
He shook his head dumbly, his eyes casting to the left and right, but there was no avenue of escape, only five more vengeful Space Marines.
‘Answer me!’ Boreas yelled, the speakers in his helmet amplifying his words to a deafening bellow that caused the man to shake in the Chaplain’s grip. ‘What is your name?’
The prisoner glanced down at the other survivor, who shook his head vehemently.
‘Don’t say anything!’ the man on the ground gasped through his breather. ‘Remember our oaths!’
Boreas put the man down and pushed him back so that he was sprawled over the comms unit. Holding him there with one hand, he turned to the other rebel. He reached down and grabbed the man’s shattered ankle and lifted him up like a child.
‘Your friend will die quickly,’ Boreas said, swinging his arm back and then forward, dashing the man’s head against the bottom of the workstation, his neck snapping violently. Tossing the corpse aside, the Interrogator-Chaplain placed his hand around the throat of the lone survivor, crushing the air pipe of the breathing mask. ‘You will die slowly.’
‘Es… Escobar Venez!’ the traitor shrieked. He fought lamely against the implacable strength of the Space Marine’s grip for several seconds before giving up and flopping backwards again.
‘I am Interrogator-Chaplain Boreas of the Dark Angels Chapter,’ Boreas told him. ‘I have the skill to cause a Space Marine to writhe in agony and tell me his deepest secrets, his darkest fears. It will take me mere moments to make you talk. There is no point resisting.’
‘I don’t want to die,’ Venez said.
‘It is too late for that,’ Boreas told him. ‘All that remains to be determined now is whether you die slowly and painfully, or you tell me everything I want to know and your torment will be ended quickly.’
‘If I talk, it will be quick?’ the traitor asked. Boreas nodded once.
Tears began to gather in Venez’s face mask, welling up in the eye plates. He looked at Boreas, and then at the others, and then back at Boreas. With a sob, he gave a shallow nod. Boreas released him and stepped back. Glancing back, he saw Damas and Thumiel at the door, ready for attack. Zaul stood close by, intent on the prisoner, his bolter aimed at the man’s midriff. Hephaestus and Nestor stood a little further away.
‘Where are your masters?’ Boreas asked again.
‘They left, a long time ago,’ Venez told him. ‘Twenty, maybe twenty-five days ago.’
‘Where are they now?’ Boreas said, leaning forward again, resting against the broken panel, towering over the rebel.
‘I don’t know for sure,’ Venez replied. Boreas leaned closer, and Venez shrunk back. ‘Piscina IV! They were heading to Piscina IV on the ship.’
‘Which ship?’ Zaul snapped from behind Boreas.
‘The Saint Carthen,’ said Venez, his stare not moving from the death-faced Chaplain.
‘What are they doing on Piscina IV?’ Boreas asked, trying to keep calm. Inside, he was furious and full of trepidation. As he had feared all along, his actions had taken him further and further from his prey, not closer.
‘I don’t know the details,’ confessed Venez. ‘But I overhead the masters talking about some sort of code – a failsafe code.’
‘A failsafe code for what?’ Boreas demanded. ‘What did they need the code for?’
‘I don’t know!’ screamed Venez, looking away and scrunching his eyes closed. ‘Something to do with your keep, that’s all I know.’
‘Tell me everything!’ Boreas hissed.
‘I don’t know what they planned, I swear!’ the prisoner begged. ‘The Saint Carthen took them to Piscina, and they knew you would chase it and not stop them.’
‘What else?’ Boreas asked, his skull-masked face a few centimetres from Venez’s.
‘They were going to wait for you to leave and go to your keep, that’s all I know,’ Venez sobbed. ‘We were to delay you as long as possible. This whole outpost is just a ruse, to fool you and lure you further from them.’
‘Who are they, what are their names?’ Boreas demanded, Venez flinching at every word.
‘Two groups… They came in two groups,’ Venez babbled. ‘We followed Lord Cypher, but we met others who came with the Saint Carthen. Sometimes they argued with each other, I think they had different plans. We didn’t see them very often, they never spoke much when we were around. I don’t think Lord Cypher knows about the failsafe plan, I think he is after something else in your keep. That’s all I know, that’s everything!’
Boreas’s hand moved fast, his fingers driving through Venez’s ribcage and rupturing his heart. Blood bubbled up his face as he slid to the ground. He thrashed around for a few seconds before his movements became more feeble, his accusing eyes locked on the Chaplain.
‘Promises to traitors have no validity,’ Boreas snarled before turning away. ‘Die in pain.’ Venez’s fingers flapped ineffectually at the Interrogator-Chaplain’s boot before he slid sideways and sprawled across the metal floor.
‘We must leave now,’ Hephaestus said heavily, stepping close to Boreas.
‘Did you understand what he was talking about?’ Boreas asked. Hephaestus looked away, saying nothing. ‘Tell me!’
The Techmarine took a few paces away and then turned back to face them. They were all looking at him, even the two Space Marines at the door,
‘The failsafe is a device built into the vaults of the keep,’ the Techmarine explained, looking at his battle-brothers. ‘It’s called the annihilus. After the fighting over the basilica with the orks, it was decided when the new keep was constructed that it should never be allowed to fall into enemy hands. Since the only way the keep would fall were if the rest of the Piscina IV was also subjugated, it was also intended to deny the planet to any invader.’
‘What do you mean?’ Boreas asked, full of foreboding. ‘How does this failsafe device deny a whole planet to the enemy?’
‘It’s a virus weapon,’ Hephaestus answered flatly, staring directly at Boreas. His expressionless helmet told Boreas nothing, but the tone of the Techmarine’s voice spoke volumes of the fear he was feeling now.
Boreas was stunned. He was about to say something and then stopped, the words meaningless. He tried to encapsulate his feelings, communicate the dread and the anger that was welling up inside him, but there was no way to express them.
‘The keep under my command, our outpost on that world, contains a device designed to wipe out every living thing on the planet,’ Boreas said flatly. He felt fatigued and numb. ‘And I was not told of this?’
‘You were not supposed to know of its existence unless it was absolutely necessary,’ Hephaestus replied. ‘The Grand Masters were quite specific with their orders.’
‘And yet the Fallen, the worst of our enemies, came by this knowledge!’ Boreas roared, striding towards the Techmarine. He yanked his crozius from his belt and thumbed the stud, its head blazing with cold blue light. Nestor’s hand closed around his wrist as he swung his arm back for the strike.
‘This will solve nothing,’ the Apothecary said quietly. ‘Inquiry, and if necessary justice, can wait until we have averted this disaster.’
Boreas stood there for a moment, Nestor’s words seeping through the rage that boiled within his mind. Relaxing, the Chaplain nodded and the Apothecary released his grip. Boreas looked at the crozius, at the winged sword of its head. With a wordless snarl, he let it drop to the floor.
‘Signal the Blade of Caliban to send a Thunderhawk, Brother-Techmarine,’ he snarled and stalked towards the door, leaving the crozius on the floor next to the dying Venez.