'A risky endeavour,' Enion commented.
'Agreed.' Sulphuric fumes rose from the depths. Even inside the walls, Ariston could hear the distant, endless rumble of the moon's volcanoes. Dust, shaken loose by the trembling rock, floated down the sides of the shaft. One solid quake would be enough to trigger a collapse.
'It's deep,' said Enion. There were lumen strips at regular intervals as they disappeared deeper into the gloom.
'Whatever is down there, they went to considerable effort and risk to reach it,' said Ariston. He gestured to an elevator whose tracks appeared to descend the full length of the shaft. 'An open invitation.'
'Bait?'
'Of course it is. They didn't refuse ours. I won't refuse theirs.'
'We have a choice.'
'Do we? If we want to finish them off, we have to know where they are. We have to know what they're doing.'
Ariston thought for a moment. 'One squad with me,' he said. 'And I want the fleet ready for emergency embarkation.'
'What could they do against us?'
'I don't know. They think they can do something. I won't give them the chance.'
Ariston, Enion and the eight brothers in the command squad entered the conveyor carriage it was a rapid one, but the descent was long, the shaft going much deeper than Ariston would have guessed. The violent life of the moon followed them down. Profound vibrations thrummed down the walls. They plucked at the conveyor's tracks. The deck of the platform buzzed.
Down. Down. No branching tunnels. No mining. Just down, down and down through the crust.
'What were they looking for?' Enion wondered.
And how did they know it was here? Ariston thought. There was only this base. This one shaft. This was the work of certainty, not exploration.
The temperature was rising. There was a glow coming from below now.
It was red. Molten.
The answer came to Ariston just before he saw what waited in the depths.
'They weren't looking for anything,' he said to Enion. 'They were placing something.'
'What...' Enion began, but then cylindrical shapes resolved in the gloom. They were fastened to the walls of the shaft, waiting for a distant signal to begin their brief but terrible flowering.
Cyclonic torpedoes.
Ariston opened his mouth, but he had no voice. It had been throttled by the noose that had tightened around his fleet.
SUCH WEAPONS COULD crack a planet in half, given the right circumstances. The 85th ClanCompany had removed the element of chance. Rigour, Khalybus thought, as he witnessed the culmination of his work. Precision. That was where the Iron Hands found the sources of perfection.
The torpedoes detonated. Their immense power multiplied the stresses that sought to pull the moon apart. Galeras's death came all at once. The moon exploded. The fire of its ending was dull and ugly, a volcanic fist lashing out at the near orbit. A storm of fiery crust fragments blew outwards through the Emperor's Children's fleet. The Urthona disintegrated, and its blast was bright, as proud as a star. It was surrounded by the smaller pyres of other ships.
Collisions and shockwaves built upon each other. Vessels many thousands of metres long were mere fragments in the holocaust, battered to nothing as the moon's fragments were propelled outwards. Mountains tore through hulls.
There was no time to react. There was no evasion. The only escape came from blind chance.
As the shockwave passed, a few survivors pulled away from the disaster. None were undamaged. Few would have made the jump to the immaterium.
Aboard the Iron Hands frigate Sthenelus, which had lost its captain during its own ordeal over Isstvan, Atticus directed their extermination. His squadron was small. There were no capital ships. But it was more than enough to smash what was left of the enemy. The Emperor's Children had one cruiser remaining the Hypsous and it was already burning when the Sthenelus came for it. A gaping hole ran through the centre of its span. It was barely moving. Its drive was likely about to go critical. Khalybus made sure that it did.
The light from the Hypsous's end washed through the bridge of the Sthenelus. Khalybus watched until there was only void again, then left the bridge. He was heading for his new quarters the chambers of a dead warrior, now occupied by the captain of a dead ship.
Levannas was waiting in the corridor just outside. Khalybus hadn't seen him on the bridge, but that didn't mean the Raven Guard hadn't been there.
'I'm curious to hear your thoughts, captain,' Levannas said.
'I am glad of our victory,' Khalybus said. 'I regret that we suffered a significant loss, too.' The Bane of Asirnoth had no longer been voidworthy when they had reached Delium again. The Iron Hands had abandoned it, leaving only enough servitors aboard the strike cruiser and at the base to make a show of presence by firing the guns.
'The Emperor's Children suffered a much greater blow.'
'Perhaps.' The III Legion had been hurt. Nothing much more than that.
'Do you see what we might be able to accomplish?' Levannas asked, and at that moment, Khalybus heard his carefully suppressed desperation. The Raven Guard needed to continue the war as badly as the Iron Hands did.
'Yes,' Khalybus said quietly. 'Yes, I do see.'
Incorporating the Raven Guard's methods into the Iron Hands' strategy had borne fruit. Shattered, fragmented and wounded though they were, they could still strike at the enemy, and hit hard.
They were still in the war, and they would exact their payment of blood.
And yet...
He had assured the Iron Father that he would keep to the path of the Iron Hands. He believed he had done so.
And yet...
So many shadows. So much subterfuge.
Change had come. Caught by tragedy and necessity, the Iron Hands were becoming something other than what they had been when Ferrus Manus had led them. Khalybus could see the transformation happening before his eyes.
It disturbed him that what he could not see was where it would end.
UNSPOKEN
GUY HALEY
'THIRTY MINUTES TO extraction. I will be entering vox silence, commander. Confirm?'
Captain Sulnar held his breath to hear the voice in his earpiece. The Thunderhawk pilot spoke softly, as though he feared to be overheard.
And well he might be. Their furtive communications were conveyed over clandestine frequencies unique to their clan, but the Warmaster seemed to know everything.
' Confirm. Were close to escaping this death trap, so I'm not taking any chances.'
'Acknowledged. Leave your beacon active or I'll be coming in blind.' A click, small but definite, came over the vox.
'Engaging wide band vox suppression in five... four... three... two... one...'
The vox crackled out. Sulnar set a chronocounter running in his helmet display. The numbers ran down, hundredths of a second tumbling, seemingly frantic to be spent.
Still, too slow.
He searched the sky for some sign of their extraction craft, but nothing moved up there. Somewhere beyond the blank night sky, vessels still loyal to the Imperium orbited the world. How, he had no idea. He decided it best not to question miracles.
There were five of them left, the survivors of the attack at Purgatory. He sat propped up against a rock, his mangled legs projecting in front of him. The others were secreted in the rocks overlooking the beacon they had taken from the gunship.
They operated on a closed voxnet, at the shortest range and narrowest frequency. Their identification markers were deactivated, their armour powered low. They were taking no chances.
Tarkan cursed.
'Report,' Sulnar ordered.
'Movement five hundred metres up.' Tarkan spoke quietly,with minimum exhalation. His battleplate would prevent anydisturbance to his aim, but Tarkan was meticulous.'Four, maybe five
or six. We tagged them on the motion
sensor.'
'And?'
'We lost them. And the sensor.'
Sul
nar breathed out through his teeth. Traitors. They had found their sensor and blinded it. He blinkclicked his longrange vox open again. He did not use his neural interface to activate it. It was working, unlike so many of his armour's systems. He felt so limited without the use of his legs, and blinking the vox on was at least a physical act he could perform. It made him feel like he was doing something, not simply lying out of the way like so much dead meat while others watched over him.
'Spear of Truth, come in.'
Did he warn the pilot? If he were in his position, he would not risk an approach if there were traitors on the way.
The decision was irrelevant. There was no reply. Not even static hiss. The jam held.
He checked the positions of his men. With their markers deactivated, the only thing he had on his visor's tactical display was their last locations.
Slight energy spikes and mild thermal differences told him that they were still there, but had he been unaware of their presence he would not have found them.
Unless he were looking very carefully. He hoped that the traitors were not.
The irony of the current situation was somewhat ridiculous. They had set up the trap for their enemies, only to guide friends to them for one final, desperate rescue attempt. And now, the efficacy of their trap threatened to kill them just as they seemed to have found a way out.
'Vogarr, I can see your energy signature too easily. Power down your motive systems a further twenty per cent.'
'My apologies brother,' said Vogarr. 'I have erratic power delivery. I will see to it when we are safe.'
Yes, thought Sulnar. Like I will repair my bolter, and see to my legs. He longed to be back in the fight.
There was a tension in them all. Rescue had seemed impossible for so long. They had given their all to destruction and to vengeance, and now this... They were on edge, far more than when only death had awaited them.
They waited now in turn.
'How long?' asked E'nesh, the Salamander. The other four of their group were all Iron Hands, all members of Clan Sorrgol. E'nesh was an outsider, but he was their brother. They all had the clock running. Perhaps E'nesh asked because he did not believe it. Sulnar was not certain he believed it himself.
'Nineteen minutes,' he said.
Kortaan, the last of their number spoke. 'I think I see something. Movement, coming down the slope. Can you get a shot, Tarkan?'
'I could, but they'll scatter,' replied Tarkan. 'That's a Scout's grasp of tactics, Kortaan. Keep it together. We open fire as we planned, when they are close and grouped.'
'Yes, brother.'
Information rolled across Sulnar's visor. He patched through to Kortaan's visual feed. Three shapes, still small in the view, picking their way to the ravine floor. They had no identification markers.
'Should we hail them?' asked Tarkan.
'Negative , ' said Sulnar. 'Might be a scouting party. Could have blindhunters waiting, up behind.'
'The slope is too steep for constructs,' said Kortaan.
'No, it is not. If it was, then we'd never survive. Take them by surprise, Tarkan.'
The figures disappeared from sight, enhanced or otherwise. They were coming to the beacon's position now, drawn in by the lure. It was ten minutes at a cautious pace.
When they came, they were dealt with, and Captain Sulnar discovered that Isstvan V had one last horror to inflict upon him.
The Thunderhawk arrived three minutes after that.
I HAVE BEEN sleeping. I have been dreaming of the massacre, and have brought my dreams into the waking world. I am fully awake now, at this moment. The events of Isstvan V are still with me. They do not fade as nightmares will, for they are not nightmares. Oh, how I wish they were.
I cannot speak. I do not know why. The words will not come.
I sit upon the edge of the examination table and await my fate. My wounded arm is hot where the regeneration clasp works upon torn flesh. Already I can move my fingers again.
The warriors of the Iron Hands stand in judgement over me, discussing me as though I were a broken machine.
Like a machine, I can say nothing in my defence, and I do not know why.
The Apothecary gestures to me. 'No, captain, I am not saying there is anything the matter with him. I am saying that there is nothing wrong with him at all.'
Upon the glass overlay are displayed parts of my anatomy. They are naked, revealed to plain sight by the artifice of the medical scanner. Part of me wonders how it works. A little of the hunger for the craft is within me yet, then, but it is an ember, dying under a black, sodden weight of persistent realisation. Realisation should be a transitory state.
What was not known before becomes known, and is processed accordingly.
But the enormity of the knowledge that chokes my soul will not allow its easy resolution. Each moment, I relive that first instant of sickening revelation.
Vulkan is dead.
Every time I think upon this truth, a wave of nausea and... fear? It cannot be. I have forgotten fear.
But I never forgot grief. That I feel keenly, and I know it for what it is.
Our father is slain. Ferrus Manus also. These Iron Hands have suffered the same loss as I have. Those around me speak and operate, performing their duties with the cold efficiency their Legion is known for. It is not obvious that they are damaged, but they are not undamaged. Far from it.
'Do you understand me?' one of their leaders asks. His insignia is that of a commander, I think. Their rank system differs from ours. His armour is battered, his countenance fierce, twisted by pain and fury, like a dragon in a trap. He has a bionic arm the right. It is uncovered by his battleplate, displayed for all to see, as is their custom. This too is damaged. The gleaming metal is torn and blackened around the elbow, heat bloom surrounding the wound to the prosthetic, purple fading through green to yellow. It is an iridescent bruise. When he moves his hand, it clicks. The three lower fingers no longer flex.
I nod without hesitation, but only once. I blink, putting out the forgelight of my eyes for a second, to show deference. What happens over the next few minutes is of the utmost importance.
The captain turns to the Apothecary. The medicae chamber of a strike cruiser is small and cramped, and this one is full of wounded Iron Hands. More wait on gurneys outside.
'He will not answer you, brother.'
'I can see that.' The commander turns again to the Apothecary, impatient. 'I do not care if he can speak or not. What I need to know is whether he can fight, Brother Vraka.'
Vraka glances at me. His eyes have been replaced with augmetics; a medical diagnostic model. They whir as they focus on my face.
'Commander Tayvaar,' says the Apothecary patiently, 'they found him with two others. He would not have made it that far up into the mountains if he could not. I'd say he can fight.'
'The others?' asks the commander.
Vraka shakes his head. The news of what happened to Go'sol and Jo'phor is too shameful to voice.
I cannot speak, but yes, I can fight. I grip the edge of the examination table with my hands. It is strange to be out of my armour after so long. If I could, I would put it back on again.
The captain looks down at me. It takes all my effort of will not to look away. I nod. I so desperately want to fight.
'Very well,' Tayvaar says abruptly. 'When he is rested, send him to me. All who can fight in the Shattered Legions will do so. And send for Brother E'nesh. Get him assigned.'
E'NESH WAS ONE of our ambushers. I follow him down the spinal corridor of the ship. Its unwieldy name is the Voluntas Ex Ferro. Before I left the apothecarion, a wildeyed Iron Hands legionary explained to me that the ship arrived late in the fleet chasing Lord Manus to the system, after the Avernii were all but annihilated and the primarch slain. The Warmaster had his victory and eventually moved on, leaving the dregs behind to finish us off on the surface. And so the Voluntas was one of the few that managed to creep back, months later, looking for survivors. He was cra
zed as he recounted all this, evangelising an unpalatable truth, as if he still could not believe that he had not died alongside his father.
There are one hundred and sixtyseven Space Marines on board. The Voluntas Ex Ferro is designed to support just over half of that, and so it is crowded. There are not enough quarters for all, and many of those on board are wounded.
I suppose I am one of the lucky ones. My body is whole, even if I cannot speak.
This is a Legion ship. There are few human serfs left on board. They are the indentured servants of the Medusans and of a phenotype unfamiliar to me. The Imperial Truth holds that humanity is as one, but one only has to look to see that humanity is many. Seeing the unenhanced suffering the shock of betrayal makes me wonder if we were right ever to try and reunite them. They do not meet my eyes. The Warmaster's actions have affected them more than us, at least superficially.
On a deeper level it may be worse for us in the long term. They are weak, and therefore pliable what is bent can be returned to shape. But the strongest metal does not bend, it shatters. I look into haunted transhuman faces as we walk to the gunship launch deck, and see so much broken iron.
Brother E'nesh leads me to Hangar Two. This is to be my berth.
'The other hangar,' he says, the first words he has uttered since he collected me from the infirmary, 'is full of the wounded.' He smiles, knowing of my affliction. He is trying to put me at ease, but his smile is full of pain and shame.
'They have only two operational Thunderhawks remaining.'
We pass them. They are scored by weapon impacts and reentry wounds, and crowded around by servitors. Three Ironwroughts and an Iron Father minister to them, directing the cyborgs and a dozen of the less technicallygifted Iron Hands to heal the machine. Brilliant blue sparks shower onto the deck as damaged armour is cut free.
I think on ceramite. It is durable and versatile. But it will crack. The heatshielding armour of this Thunderhawk, for example, subjected over and over again to the stresses of reentry, will begin to fail. It may look whole to the naked eye, but the molecular structure will be host to a thousand microfractures. It will serve and serve and then, one day perhaps suffering the smallest impact, and for no obvious reason at all it will shatter.