Tomb World, page 24
‘Necrons,’ says the hooded warrior. ‘They are called necrons. You have done well to hold them at bay thus far, for they are a formidable enemy.’
‘Have you fought them before, my lord?’ asks Hiraku.
Trantor’s expression does not change. ‘We have.’
‘The chief danger is not the enemy, but supply,’ says Sinos. ‘Without relief, Orymous’ armies will be rendered entirely ineffective in a matter of months.’
‘Then we must destroy their command craft, to permit a relief effort to approach.’
‘The lord-militant commands me to propose a plan of attack, watch captain.’ Hikaru takes another dataslate from a waiting aide, and holds it in both hands before his chest.
‘Does he, indeed?’ Sinos’ head jerks towards the Space Wolf, who has spoken with a voice like an avalanche. The warrior has a thick, bristling black beard, through which shine teeth that could more properly be called fangs.
Trantor shows no amusement. ‘Very well. Relay your lord’s plan.’
Sinos is impressed. Despite his earlier hesitation, the secretary speaks concisely and clearly, offering no extraneous detail nor personal commentary.
‘How soon can the weapon be made ready?’
‘We have brought it with us, lord. The most worthy adepts of the Mechanicus say they will require six hours, at most, to properly prepare it.’
Trantor half-turns towards his men. The bearded Wolf still smiles, but now with a predatory edge. ‘Blackstar insertion to plant a vox-beacon, then sweep and exterminate.’
‘Yes, brother-captain.’
As one they turn away, stomping towards the distant rear of the flight deck. Trantor remains, though clearly he intends to follow. ‘Your proposal has merit. The Deathwatch shall see it done.’
‘Is that it?’ Hikaru asks.
‘Delay hastens this world’s demise. I suggest you return to the surface.’
‘Are there more of you?’ He cannot contain the question any longer.
Trantor does not answer, and turns to follow his men.
‘My lord, I have a request,’ calls Sinos. ‘I wish to join you in the attack.’ It is a reckless request, born of a nihilism that Sinos will deny should she ever be asked to explain it.
Trantor stops, though he does not turn around.
‘My men will not be able to protect you.’
‘I require no protection. Death comes for us all. But I would rather face it squarely than cower in a bastion waiting to learn the outcome of this war.’
He hesitates no further.
‘Very well. We have six hours, it seems, until we can act. I suggest you use the time well.’
CHAPTER 7
Sinos is standing at an observation port in the very top of the Blessed Vengeance, looking down over the great expanse of the ship’s prow. It is unlike any Imperial vessel she has been on, with their great spires and crenellated battlements. The strike cruiser is more compact, more pugnacious. More obviously lethal, although that may have been Sinos’ mind dwelling on its occupants.
Beneath the ship’s bulk, looming over its port quarter, Orymous turns. The planet appears unspoilt by the conflict that rages across its face, untouched even by the hands of mankind. But as the Blessed Vengeance flies on, a grey scab appears, nestled against the south-western coastline. Sinos can hold up her hand and cover the entire city with her thumbnail, but the illusion is shattered.
A serf in a heavy sackcloth robe appears at her side, his tread soundless.
He holds out a tight roll of vellum. He is an old man, his eyes filmed with grey and deep lines curving around his mouth. He offers no greeting, no explanation for his appearance, except for the scroll that he bears.
After a moment’s hesitation Sinos takes it. Attend me in my arming chamber is written across its face, in a startlingly beautiful hand.
There is no shipboard time given, nor a location. Sinos assumes that the serf will provide both. ‘Lead on.’
He spins on his heel and sets off, spry for his age. Sinos has to force a quick stride to keep pace with him. He heads to the closest transport shaft, whose platform immediately drops into the heart of the Blessed Vengeance.
They leave the shaft a few minutes later, heading along what Sinos assumes to be one of the main thoroughfares through the ship’s centre. Others, perhaps even Sinos herself at any other time, would have marvelled at the magnificence of the immense hall, its vaulted stone walls curving up to a high, shadowed peak in the manner of Imperial cathedrums. They might have been tempted to pause and examine the statues of Adeptus Astartes and humans that line the thoroughfare, or gaze at the banners that hang heavily from each pillar.
But Sinos does not. It is not the time. Far beneath her feet, a world struggles to save itself from an alien plague that erupted from the ground. The grand austerity of the Adeptus Astartes vessel is far less important than the warriors it has conveyed.
What is inescapably apparent, however, is that the ship’s decks are deserted. Sinos has spent more time than she cares to consider aboard the warships, transports, and cutters of His Imperial Navy, and each of them have fairly teemed with life. She cannot imagine that the arcane workings of an Adeptus Astartes vessel require any less care or devotion, and yet they walk for almost half an hour and Sinos sees fewer than a dozen other figures, all servants of the Deathwatch, robed in the same manner as her guide.
She aches to question the serf, but senses that he possesses a reserve that will not yield to any casual inquiry of hers. He lives, after all, in the shadow of far more formidable beings than her.
He takes her away from the central thoroughfare and into a tangle of narrower channels, though each hatch and doorway is considerably larger than would be necessary for a human.
Almost without warning, the serf halts beside a recessed hatch no different to a hundred others they have passed. They are somewhere in the rear starboard quarter of the ship, if Sinos’ sense of direction has not failed her.
The robed figure reaches out with a liver-spotted hand and depresses a rune.
‘Send her in.’ Trantor’s deep rumble is made tinny by the small vox-grille inset beside the hatch, but even so his voice sparks a sudden burst of nerves in her stomach. She has been entirely calm during her journey from the observation port, her attention on her new surroundings while her unconscious mind turned over a dozen concurrent problems. Now, at the watch captain’s door, she is uncertain why she has been summoned.
The serf releases the rune, and presses another. The doorway slides open with a loud and slightly halting growl of servos.
‘Thank you for coming, marshal,’ says Trantor. He is kneeling, still in his massive suit of scarred battle plate. He is facing her, his head bare, his back to an alcove in which a dozen candles burn on tiers of narrow shelves. The candlelight throws his immense shadow across the metal deck, and makes his face impossible to read.
‘I should say the same, watch captain. Your arrival is the ray of hope the defenders of Orymous require to turn the tide.’
Trantor lifts his head. Butter-yellow light gleams from the brown skin of his shaved head.
‘When you came aboard, the governor locum’s adjunct remarked that I have brought few warriors to this world’s defence.’
‘I will ensure he is heavily sanctioned by his superiors, watch captain,’ she says. ‘I apologise for his impudence.’ Sinos offers the apology because she is nervous. But she is also curious, and not a little angry, to have been called to answer for the ill-considered words of an official who sits outside of her chain of command.
‘That is not why I called you here, marshal.’
Trantor stands, rising with an alarming growl of servos that Sinos hears from the far side of the room. She has to fight her rising heart rate. Even kneeling, Trantor had looked down on Sinos. Standing, in the close confines of his quarters, his sheer physical presence sets off a primal fear-reaction in her core.
‘I wished to offer an explanation.’
‘None is owed, my lord,’ Sinos says, though she does not know what he intends to explain.
‘Nevertheless.’
Trantor extends a hand. There is a single seat in the chamber, shaped quite clearly to human proportions. It is surprisingly ornate, each limb and its tall back formed from curves of dark-brown wood, with coils and knots carved into their surfaces. Sinos, discomfort growing with every moment, sits on the very edge of the chair.
Trantor surprises Sinos once more by sitting as well, settling onto a wide metal stool that she had mistaken for a workbench. His armour wheezes as he shifts position.
‘Are you familiar with the nature of my Chapter, marshal? I assume you have at least some understanding, since you called us to this world.’
Sinos is calmed, slightly, by reaching into her memories. ‘Somewhat, my lord. I was privileged to once meet a veteran of your order.’
‘Who?’ he asks quickly.
‘Brother-Sergeant Dantioch, lord. Of the Sons of Orar.’
If Trantor recognises the name, he gives no sign. ‘What did he tell you of the Deathwatch?’
‘You are an elite formation among the Adeptus Astartes. Pledged to serve the Holy Inquisition, guarding against the pestilence of the xenos.’
Trantor nods, slowly. ‘Did he tell you the manner in which the ranks of the Deathwatch are filled?’ He waits for an answer. After a moment, Sinos gives a slight shake of her head.
‘Warriors from every Chapter in the Imperium once sent their best to us. Forsaking all other loyalties, they pledged themselves to this duty. Our duty, for as long as it was required. It was considered by many to be the greatest honour one could achieve in the Emperor’s service.’
‘Once, my lord?’ Sinos has noticed his qualifier, as she knew she had been meant to.
‘Indeed,’ says Trantor. He does not continue, pausing for so long that Sinos almost fills the silence.
‘There are many threats facing the Imperium, marshal, as you undoubtedly know,’ he says finally. ‘Many trials. It has been my privilege to face them. My hand has ended the alien threat to dozens of Imperial worlds. I speak not in pride, marshal, but in fact. Billions of the Emperor’s subjects owe their lives to the intervention of my kill teams.’
‘“Pride is the birthright of the soldier, earned through blood and service”,’ says Sinos, quoting a favourite maxim of General Oruhan, one of the corps commanders during the Cattelingian Crusade. It draws a fleeting smile to Trantor’s broad face, gone as soon as it appears.
‘But every victory takes its toll. In the past three centuries, fewer than half of those who have taken the black have returned to their Chapters. Fewer still have had their gene-seed repatriated.’
Sinos has never heard the term, and does not ask.
‘I do not blame them. Humanity’s enemies are unremitting. The Chapters must look to their own borders. Their own duties. To spare even a single battle-brother is a profound sacrifice in these times.’ He falls silent again, and it takes Sinos shifting awkwardly in her seat to break it.
‘Secretary Hikaru asked why I bring so few warriors to this war,’ he says, his gaze not wavering from Sinos’ own.
‘You summoned the warriors of Watch Station Orthanik. I have brought them all.’
With a start that sends a shiver of absolute dread running through Sinos’ core, she realises why Trantor has called her here.
He is tired.
Though she has met over a dozen Adeptus Astartes in the course of her long life, she has never wholly shed the image of their kind that she learnt in her early years. They are the God-Emperor’s angels, the sword and shield of the Imperium. Peerless, relentless warriors, superior to any foe in a galaxy full of terrors. It is impossible to imagine them succumbing to such mortal concerns as fatigue or dread.
And yet, Sinos is sitting across from a warrior who is at the very end of his endurance.
She does not know what to say. One of the God-Emperor’s greatest warriors has called her to his chambers to unburden himself. What could possibly be said?
The silence stretches out, broken by the rhythmic clunk of some piece of machinery operating behind a bulkhead. Finally Trantor relents, placing armoured hands on his thighs and pushing himself to his feet. ‘There is another reason I asked you here, marshal.’
Sinos waits. She is not sure she would be able to speak even if Trantor asked it of her.
He walks to the far side of the chamber, coming within a few heavy steps of Sinos. He opens the door of a shallow locker mounted beside the room’s entrance. ‘If you are going to join the Deathwatch in battle, you should be properly armed.’
He offers her a power maul, unlike any Sinos has seen before.
It is no Adeptus Astartes weapon. Examples of their type are mounted all over one wall: the smallest is a gladius the length of Sinos’ leg and as broad as her hand’s span. There is even another maul, sized for an Adeptus Astartes hand. Its flanged head is bigger than Sinos’ helmet, and no doubt many times its weight.
Trantor holds out a weapon fit for human hands, held easily between gauntleted thumb and forefinger. Its haft is a solid bar of steel, its grip wrapped in iridescent blue sharkskin. The power-field emitter mounted below its head is compact, encircling the whole of the haft. Its head is long, formed of four bars studded with shallow spikes along each face.
‘This was the preferred implement of Inquisitor Westeron of the Ordo Xenos. He was an honourable man, so far as his vocation allowed. He died in battle several years ago, betrayed by allies he should have known better than to trust.’ Trantor’s voice remains entirely even, showing no trace of the bitterness implied in his words. ‘However, this weapon never faltered. Its spirit is true, and it will serve you well in our coming battle.’
Sinos stands and attempts to back away. ‘I cannot accept this, lord.’
‘Do not be alarmed, marshal. You see this as a maudlin passing of treasures. I see it simply as ensuring you are appropriately equipped for what is to come.’
He presses the maul into Sinos’ hand. The weight is greater than that of the shock maul that hangs from her waist, but not to the point of being cumbersome. She gives an experimental roll of her wrist, and finds the heft to her liking.
‘My thanks, lord.’ It is a gift of inestimable value, but the cynical core of Sinos’ mind wonders if this is Trantor’s way of recompense. Payment for hearing his confession.
Trantor straightens. ‘Fear not, marshal. I have not yielded to despair. As you said, death comes for us all. But the Imperium shall ever endure.’
‘The Emperor protects, watch captain,’ says Sinos, hoping to draw this strange and unsettling meeting to a close.
‘He does indeed, marshal,’ replies Trantor.
CHAPTER 8
The Blackstar is a new craft to Sinos, compact and heavy-bellied. Its wings are little more than stubs to hold weapon pods, with powerful manoeuvring thrusters on their tips. The pilot’s cabin sits above its passenger bay, with barely more than a slit through which to see their target.
Sinos has learnt that it is a class of transport purpose-built for the Deathwatch, the product of only a handful of Mechanicus forge worlds. Its function is precisely the task they face – undetected insertion into hostile territory.
Sinos sits in a seat built for a far larger frame, as the Deathwatch auxilia have their own designated positions. She has been studiously ignored by the black-clad armsmen, who drill with rigour and precision. Their weapons outclass anything Sinos has seen wielded by Astra Militarum regiments, and yet every soldier is eclipsed in lethal intent by the Space Marines they serve.
She has never been this close to Adeptus Astartes. The intimacy of Trantor’s chamber was one thing, but she is sandwiched between creatures two feet taller than her, armed and armoured for war. The cocktail of smells that surround her are heady. The industrial scents of lapping powder and grease. The martial familiarity of fyceline, and the ozone tang of power weapons. But above them all, rich to the point of intoxicating, is a body-warm odour of sweat and cinnamon.
She shakes her head to clear it. ‘That is the combat stimulants in our blood,’ says the warrior to her right. It is the Space Wolf, whose name she has learnt is Tlomec. His long hair is bound by a series of leather thongs, and threaded through with carved bones. ‘A lingering trace is exuded through our skin.’
Sinos does not have a reply to that.
‘Seal your helmets and rebreathers,’ orders Trantor, the last to embark. He sees Sinos’ quizzical expression. ‘The xenos do not respire. There will be no air aboard their ship.’
The two boarding hatches at the prow of the Blackstar close, and the hold is bathed in crimson light.
A lingering fear, not of death but of a wasted end, leads Sinos to speak as the engines roar into life.
‘Will they not see us coming?’
Tlomec looks down at her. ‘Do not worry, arbitrator. Corallian has never let us down. She will not fail us now.’
The Adeptus Astartes craft is admirably direct in its approach. It throws itself around Qeretesh, driving towards the Hepherentes at its greatest speed. It has loosed some minor cannonades, along with a brace of self-propelled munitions that the harvest ship has slapped aside. Yet it continues to close, presumably holding the last of its strength for a final, futile salvo.
Khemet has transferred to the ship via the eternity gate of the closest monolith, and stands now on the Hepherentes’ command deck with Hekasun and his court. She has felt her temper quicken with the Adeptus Astartes’ arrival. The remembrance of heavily armoured figures thundering through columns of gauss comes to her often, battering aside her phalanxes as their orbital weapons break the earth beneath her feet. But she also recalls their broken bodies, exhausted of their great strength, outflanked and outfought across the breadth of the Lazar System.
