Vainglorious, page 13
‘That’s right, run away,’ Jurgen muttered, though that was probably the last thing on our assailant’s mind. As his erstwhile mount waddled mindlessly over the cliff edge, joining its fellow in the canyon below in a cacophony of rending metal and a plume of smoke, the renegade skitarius staggered from the depths of the fireball, the lenses of his optical implants glowing a dull, vengeful red (although I suppose that just might have been the reflection of the flames). He plodded determinedly towards us, malfunctioning mechanica embedded in charred and blackened flesh sparking erratically, and I found myself grateful for the breather mask, which blocked the inevitable stench. Throne alone knew what he expected to achieve by taking us on unarmed,[91] but he never got the chance. Jurgen triggered the melta again, reducing most of our would-be assailant to greasy vapour, and staring at the steaming residue with undisguised contempt. ‘Some people just can’t take a hint.’
‘Well, he got it in the end,’ I said, getting cautiously to my feet. A shadow swept over us, and I raised my sidearm again, tracking the target, before relaxing with a loud exhalation of relief. A speeder in the distinctive yellow-and-white livery of the Reclaimers was banking sharply round the plume of smoke rising lazily from the wreckage of the truck, and a moment later grounded nearby in a cloud of dust which mingled with it in an excessively eye-watering fashion. The pilot waved as his boots hit the sand, his bolter at the ready, even though there was no further sign of a threat in our immediate vicinity. ‘Brother-sergeant. This is an unexpected pleasure.’
‘For me as well,’ Morie rejoined. ‘I expected you to be dead by now.’
‘So did he.’ Jurgen lifted his breather just long enough to spit, surprisingly accurately, at the sizzling remains of our would-be murderer.
‘Life’s full of little disappointments,’ I said, turning back to Morie. Another speeder was circling overhead, and a yellow-and-white Rhino rumbling towards us across the bridge, and I felt reasonably safe in relaxing my guard a little now. ‘What the hell was that all about?’
‘Some of the skitarii have mutinied,’ he replied soberly. ‘Why, we have no idea.’
Editorial Note:
Though the reason soon became clear enough, it was not one which the wider galaxy needed to know. Hence the following, which was hastily disseminated among the general populace of Eucopia, in a variety of forms. The binharic files exchanged among the tech-priests will, of course, be incomprehensible to most of my readers, not to mention myself, so I’ve settled on this, fairly typical, iteration, intended for the largely unaugmented manufactory workforce.
From the Eucopian Annual Almanac, printsheet edition, 993.M41.
The Proving Grounds Massacre, 487.992.M41
Tragedy struck on this date, when scheduled training exercises between the Eucopian skitarii and an off-world delegation of the Reclaimers Adeptus Astartes Chapter resulted in several deaths due to the erroneous issuing of live ammunition to the participants. How the wrong information was delivered is still under review, although the mistaken installation of an unconsecrated relay in the data network is believed to have been responsible. Altogether, twenty-seven skitarii perished before the mistake could be rectified, and several Space Marines are reported to have sustained minor cuts and bruising in the unfortunate encounter. Brother-Sergeant Morie, the senior representative of the Reclaimers present, expressed his regret, and reaffirmed the pact of amity between his Chapter and the Adeptus Mechanicus.
Rather more illuminating is this account, from Tysus ap Cathode, a junior tech-priest specialising in rituals of communication, who was on duty in Norgard’s command centre at the time of the incident. Fortunately his testimony was given to the subsequent enquiry in Gothic, as a courtesy to the Reclaimers’ observer, and is therefore comprehensible to the rest of us.
At 487.23.65 I observed an anomalous data pulse in the skitarii command net, notified my task coordinator in accordance with standard procedure, and began routine diagnostic measures in an attempt to isolate the cause. Such incidents are not uncommon, and usually due to misrouted messages or systems failure in redundant relays.
On closer examination the data pulse appeared encrypted, to a level beyond my ability to decipher, so I forwarded my findings to the appropriate authorities and returned to work.
Shortly thereafter Commissar Cain reported his approach, and subsequently came under attack from renegade Ironstriders. At the same time Brother-Sergeant Morie of the Reclaimers was fired upon by a squad of skitarii rangers assigned to perimeter defence. The brother-sergeant repelled the attack, aided by several of his brethren and a second squad of skitarii, who had witnessed this act of treachery and immediately come to his aid.
Unable to determine which of her subordinates could be trusted, Praetor Norgard ordered all skitarii in the proving grounds to stand down at once, placing the entire installation under the jurisdiction of the Reclaimers until the matter could be resolved. This triggered a more widespread mutiny, as other renegade units turned on their clade mates and the visiting Space Marines, who, between them, swiftly neutralised the threat.
I have no idea why the anomalous signal had the effect it did, but thank the Omnissiah that it affected so few of the garrison here. Though it is hardly my place to do so, I would urge great caution in the analysis of its datanomes, as it may continue to exert a baleful influence on those assigned to study it.
THIRTEEN
‘Bit of a mess,’ Jurgen remarked, peering through one of the firing ports as the Rhino rumbled into the command centre of the proving grounds. I nodded, glancing down at him from my perch in the command cupola; an odd place to elect to ride, you may think, if you’ve read much of my previous ramblings, and, truth to tell, the temptation to stay securely behind the protection of the vehicle’s armour plate was very strong. However, as I’d observed before when serving with Space Marines, secure as they were, Astartes Rhinos weren’t exactly comfortable for the genetically unmodified. The solid metal benches were too high for humans of normal stature, which left Jurgen and I sitting with our feet dangling like children on adult-sized seats, and neither soundproofing nor much in the way of suspension seemed to have been high on the list of design priorities. Not to mention the fact that although I’ve never gone looking for trouble, I’ve always felt happier being able to see it coming, which makes it so much easier to hide until it goes away again.
‘It is,’ I agreed, thankful for the reassuring bulk of the gunner next to me, whose armour had acquired a mottled coating of the ubiquitous dust during his vigil, but who’d kept the twin barrels of his storm bolter clean enough to have earned a grudging nod of approval from even the most fastidious of Imperial Guard gunnery sergeants. Evidence of heavy fighting could be seen everywhere, not least the scattered bodies of dead skitarii, whose robes were no longer red entirely from their dye. Living ones were moving around recovering the cadavers, darting quick, suspicious glances at any other squads they encountered, but, so far at least, no one seemed jumpy enough to grab a weapon. Which of these corpses had been traitors and which ones loyal I hadn’t a clue; nor, if I’m honest, did I care. It was the Emperor’s job to sort them out now, and I wished Him joy of it.
The main command bunker stood out clearly from the rest of the buildings, both by its size and solidity and the relative lack of damage it had sustained. It was, of course, bearing the stigmata of heavy weapons fire, pockmarks the size of my head disfiguring the rockcrete facade, and the ubiquitous votive cogwheels plastered on every available surface, but the ’crete was evidently thick and dense enough not to have been breached. The smaller structures surrounding it, barrack blocks, workshops and storage sheds for the most part, had fared less well, looking considerably better ventilated than they had been hitherto. A few had even been reduced to little more than tumbled ruins, and fires still smouldered here and there, sending thick plumes of smoke to mingle with the ubiquitous dust clouds.
To my faint surprise, although I have no idea why that should have been given I was riding in one of their vehicles, I spotted several Space Marines standing sentry watch around the compound, no doubt keeping a close eye on the skitarii still upright in case any more harboured thoughts of sedition – though bearing in mind the firepower the Reclaimers were carrying, it would have been a very foolish traitor indeed who’d have reached for a weapon anywhere within their line of sight. There were even a handful of Terminators plodding about, brandishing storm bolters and power swords, one with an additional pair of shoulder-mounted missile racks which would have made even a Baneblade commander think twice about taking him on.
‘You seem to have everything under control,’ I voxed, as Morie swooped low over the trundling Rhino, and he took a hand off the speeder’s controls for a moment to raise in response.
‘We have successfully secured the compound,’ he replied. ‘Norgard thought it best to cede authority to us. At least until she can be sure which of her own men she can trust.’
‘Damn few of them at the moment I’ll be bound,’ I said, and the Space Marine sergeant laughed, without much humour.
‘I do not envy her,’ he agreed, banking around in a wide spiral, before grounding the speeder in front of a massive door in the side of the bunker, which began to grind open to admit the Rhino. The metal was almost as thick as the length of my forearm, although a determined effort seemed to have been made to crack it, judging by the blast and scorch marks marring its surface. That job would have taken a Titan, though, or at the very least a Demolisher or two; fortunately for all of us, except the mutineers I suppose, they’d lacked that kind of firepower. Which raised the question of what in the warp they thought they’d been playing at.
This was, of course, the main topic of conversation as soon as Morie, Norgard and I found ourselves alone. We were in an extravagantly secure conference room which had been diligently searched for listening devices by three separate teams of tech-priests, then again by a Techmarine from the Reclaimers in case one of the earlier search parties had planted something under the guise of looking for it. As I’d expected, it was as utilitarian as most rooms in an Adeptus Mechanicus facility, but even so I found it a little more comfortable than its counterpart in the Reclaimers’ Chapter holding. The table and chairs were normal height, for one thing, and once Jurgen had obtained a couple of cushions from somewhere to mitigate the hardness of the plain metal seat, tolerable enough to spend as long sitting in as I fully expected our deliberations to take. The floor was carpeted in a plain russet weave, which had probably been chosen to evoke fond memories of their Martian home[92] in the acolytes of the Omnissiah, but which reminded me rather too much of the stained robes of their fallen fellows for comfort, while the inevitable icons of the Machine-God dominated the wall at the head of the room and its reflection in the polished metal table.
On the other hand, the samovar the Reclaimers had provided to ease the process of discussion during our earlier meeting in their holding was noticeable by its absence, a deprivation I resolved to face stoically, once fortified with a mug or two of recaff and a couple of blocks of soylens viridiens.
So, all in all, I was feeling quite positive by the time the thick steel door swung closed with a reassuring thunk!, Jurgen settling into a seat in the corridor outside, his melta across his lap and a ration bar in his hand, flanked by a couple of bolter-toting Space Marines who seemed vaguely bemused at his presence.
It was only then that something occurred to me which has no doubt struck you already, but please bear in mind that I’d recently been shot at, and until a few moments before had been in urgent need of a meal.
‘What about Vorspung?’ I asked. ‘Is he all right?’ The treacherous skitarii had certainly had it in for Morie and I, going to some considerable trouble to fail to kill us, and had clearly been keen to get at Norgard judging by the damage to the bunker I’d noticed on the way in, so it was a reasonable assumption that Vorspung was close to the top of their to-do list as well.
‘On his way to the Chapter holding,’ Morie assured me, ‘in a Rhino with an escort of speeders. Purely as a precaution, of course.’
Norgard nodded. ‘No attempt seems to have been made on his life, but he’ll certainly be safer there than back at the Nexus.’
‘Odd, that,’ I remarked, ‘given that he seems an obvious target.’
Norgard nodded again. ‘Assuming he was one of the intended victims of the aircar and the Kastelan incidents. But seeing as both you and the brother-sergeant were targeted here, perhaps he would only have been collateral damage.’
‘Or perhaps we’re just lucky all the skitarii from the Nexus were moved here,’ Morie demurred. ‘If any had been left behind, a few of them might well have proved equally treacherous.’
‘Indeed.’ Norgard didn’t exactly flinch at the brother-sergeant’s choice of adjective, even the most militant of the Omnissiah’s servants not being much given to displays of emotion, but I had no doubt it would have stung nonetheless. No commander in my experience would have taken such flagrant disloyalty by the troops under their command as anything other than a personal failing, even if exonerated by a subsequent court of enquiry, and there had hardly been time to even begin such a process. She must have been wondering if Morie and I still trusted her, which I’m bound to say I did, insofar as I ever trusted anyone apart from Jurgen;[93] after all, if Norgard had been allied with our unseen antagonists she would hardly have stood down the surviving skitarii and turned over command of the proving grounds to the Reclaimers. On the contrary, there were more than enough of them concentrated here to have put paid to the lot of us if the entire garrison had risen in open rebellion. ‘We should certainly proceed on the assumption that all four of us have been targeted.’
‘I concur,’ Morie said, tactful, or more likely pragmatic, enough to conceal any reservations of his own he might still have been harbouring. ‘The question now is by whom.’
I shrugged, equally at a loss. The obvious assumption we’d been working under, a genestealer cult, had been comprehensively ruled out: all the skitarii rebels had been genescanned and cleared before they arrived here. Which left another possibility I was loath to even think about, let alone voice.
‘The Great Enemy?’ Norgard said, a faint edge of hesitancy entering her voice. ‘There are certain highly classified files…’ She trailed off, in a most un-tech-priestly fashion, glancing uneasily at both of us.
‘The Dark Mechanicum,’ Morie said, looking as though he was fighting the impulse to cleanse his mouth by spitting. ‘We have encountered their abominations more than once.’
‘As have I,’ I said, trying not to recall any in too much detail. ‘But only on the battlefield. They don’t seem to go in much for infiltration and subversion.’
‘That’s true,’ Norgard said. ‘But they have allies who do. Who better to suborn a fledgling forge world and bend it to their foul purposes?’
‘I’ve encountered Chaos cults before,’ I said, immediately trying to suppress another flood of unwelcome memories, ‘and in my experience they’re far more indiscriminate in their methods.’ Morie nodded, encouragingly, so I went on. ‘They wouldn’t have simply subverted a handful of skitarii. They try to spread their influence as widely as they can.’ I turned to Norgard. ‘How much contact would the average skitarius have with the wider civilian population?’
‘Practically none,’ she confirmed.
‘Then it doesn’t make sense,’ I said. ‘Chaos cults lure in as many members as they can, from as many walks of life as possible.’ Which was something of an oversimplification, of course – I’d encountered small, discreet ones as well, but they’d all been embedded among the most influential citizens of a planet, like the court of the governor, or, at the other end of the social scale, gangsters and corrupt arbites,[94] who, in their own way, were equally well placed to gnaw away at the fabric of society. ‘Your mutineers simply don’t fit the pattern.’
‘Could they have been part of a wider network regardless?’ Morie asked, clearly reluctant to discount the possibility entirely.
‘I don’t see how,’ I admitted, after another moment’s thought. ‘For one thing, the Ruinous Powers corrupt their victims by preying on innate human weaknesses, like hedonism, anger and fear. Hardly widespread traits on a planet full of tech-priests, whose reason overrides their passions.’
We both looked at Norgard, who nodded slowly. ‘For the most part,’ she conceded. ‘But if it’s not agents of the tyranids or the Ruinous Powers walking among us, then who?’
An uneasy silence settled across the conference room, which, eventually, I felt compelled to break.
‘In all honesty?’ I said. ‘I haven’t a clue.’
FOURTEEN
Oddly enough, it was Vorspung who was to provide one, and a great deal more rapidly than any of us would have dared to hope.
‘How sure are you about this?’ I asked, my attention still partially on the data-slate he’d presented me with, before belatedly realising what I’d said, and instantly regretting my choice of words.
‘As certain as all the variables allow,’ he replied instantly. ‘Given that the data was readily accessible, uncorrupted in any manner immediately discernible, even after careful examination for signs of’ – his voxcoder stuttered almost imperceptibly over the heretical word – ‘falsification, and my own capacities appear unimpaired, I would say that is so close to one hundred per cent that any statistical variation is too insignificant to be worth factoring in.’
