[Grey Knights 02] - Dark Adeptus Read online

  A WARHAMMER 40,000 NOVEL

  DARK ADEPTUS

  Grey Knights - 02

  Ben Counter

  (v1.0)

  It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred

  centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden

  Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the

  will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the

  might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass

  writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of

  Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for

  whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that

  he may never truly die.

  Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues

  his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the

  daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route

  between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican,

  the psychic manifestation of the Emperors will. Vast

  armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds.

  Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes,

  the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their

  comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and

  countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant

  Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus

  Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their

  multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-

  present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants—and worse.

  To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold

  billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody

  regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times.

  Forget the power of technology and science, for so much

  has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the

  promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim

  dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst

  the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and

  the laughter of thirsting gods.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I long for death, not because I seek peace, but because I seek the war eternal.”

  —Cardinal Armandus Helfire, “Reflections on the Long Death”

  The sky of Chaeroneia shuddered with static and changed, displaying a new channel of geometric patterns. Holy hexagons representing the six-fold genius of the Omnissiah merged with the circles representing the totality of knowledge that the tech-priesthood sought. Double helices, fractals born of sacred information-relics, litanies of machine code, all swirled against the sky of the forge world, casting the pale light of knowledge over the valley of datacores. The smokestacks of the titan works were silhouetted against the holy projections, ironwork bridges spanning gigantic factory towers, sky-piercing obelisks where tech-priests watched the heavens, radio masts where they listened for the voice of the Omnissiah in solar radiation. The valley itself, lined with towering cliffs of obsidian datacores, was a long deep slash of shadow.

  Projected onto the thick layer of pollutants in the forge world’s atmosphere, the sacred arcs and angles were a visual representation of that evening’s data-prayers being intoned by thrice-blessed worship-servitors in the Cathedrals of Knowledge. Beneath the titanium plated minarets rows of identical servitors would be standing, their vocal units emitting streams of digital information, singing the praises of the Omnissiah in the binary of pure Lingua Technis.

  Magos Antigonus knew that meant a new solar cycle was starting. The pollutants over Chaeroneia were so thick there was no sun, so it was only the clockwork-regular services of the Cult Mechanicus that gave time any meaning on the forge world. That in turn meant he had been on the run for three Terran standard days. It was a long time to go with no food or sleep.

  The datacore valley was a good place to hide out. Visual sensors were often confused by the pure blackness of the datacores themselves and the impenetrable shadows that flooded between them. The information in the cores was so pure that sensoria were dazzled by the intensity, while even augmented eyes could miss a single man in the darkness. But Antigonus knew he was still far from safe.

  He turned to the servitor next to him. Like all servitors, this device was built around the frame of a once-living human being, the baser levels of its brain computing its functions and its nervous system relaying commands to its augmetic limbs. It was a basic manservant model, programmed to follow its owner and execute simple commands.

  “Epsilon three-twelve,” said Antigonus and the servitor turned its face towards him, large round ocular implants whirring as they focused on the tech-priest. “Journal additional.”

  Epsilon three-twelve’s hands clicked as the long articulated fingers reformed, reaching inside its hollowed chest cavity and bringing out a roll of parchment. A dextrous servo-arm reached out of its mouth, holding a quill.

  “Third standard day,” said Antigonus. The servo-arm dipped the quill into an inkwell concealed in the servitor’s left eye socket and wrote down Antigonus’s words in a stilted, artificial hand. “Investigation halted. The existence of a heretical cell has been confirmed. Primary goal executed.” Antigonus paused. He had thought that finding them would be the worst of it. He had been utterly wrong. Unforgivable.

  “The heretics are between ten and thirty in number,” continued Antigonus, “representing all Adepta of the Mechanicus, including genetors, lexmechanicus, xenobiologis, metallurgus, pecunius, digitalis and others unknown. Also include ranks from menial to archmagos and probably above. No upper limit to penetration of Chaeroneia’s ruling caste.”

  Antigonus stopped suddenly and flicked his ocular attachment upwards. Its large glass orb surveyed the sky above, still swarming with the sacred imagery. He was sure he had heard something. But he had been on the run for three days and had been unable to risk accepting maintenance on Chaeroneia for some time before that, so perhaps his aural receptors were failing him just as his motive and circulator units were wearing out.

  Epsilon three-twelve waited patiently, quill poised over the scroll. Antigonus waited a few moments more, the ocular orb searching up and down the valley. The sheer sides of the chasm were glossy and black, drinking in the pallid light, while the floor was littered with rusting, unrecognizable chunks of machinery. Antigonus was sure he and his servitor were well-hidden behind one such massive slab that looked like the engine from a mass-lifter vehicle. However, he knew better than to think that made them safe—a heretic tech-priest with a powerful auspex scanner set to detect Antigonus’s life signs could sniff them out.

  “The nature of the heresy itself is not fully understood. Secondary objective incomplete.” Antigonus shook his head. The ways of the Machine-God were often argued over by the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus, but he still did not understand how any of them could turn to such base heresy as he had witnessed here. “Sorcery and warpcraft are suspected but not proven beyond doubt. The heretics venerate the Omnissiah, but through an avatar or mouthpiece. The nature of this avatar is not known, but cross-reference previous entries on any pre-Imperial presence on Chaeroneia.”

  A hot, dry wind swept down the valley, throwing a few pieces of rusting sheet metal around. A maintenance servitor drifted overhead on thrumming grav-units, its fat belly full of antioxidant foam to spew over any fire or corrosive spill that might threaten the precious datacores. Far above, the data-sermon was coming to an end, the sacred geometry fading. In its place, work rotas and diagrams of emergency procedures flickered by, ensuring that the f
orge world’s menial population was constantly reminded of its duties to the Mechanicus. So many people lived utterly normal lives in the factories and mineshafts, never knowing the monstrous blasphemies festering in the ruling population of tech-priests.

  “The origins of the heresy and the individuals responsible for its dissemination are unknown. Tertiary objective incomplete. But see note on pre-Imperial presence above.” That was the most frustrating of all. Antigonus’s evidence was compelling but incomplete. He had read the debased datapsalms describing the Omnissiah as a force for destruction instead of knowledge. He had witnessed minor tech-priests, their bodies swollen with forbidden biomechanical augmetics, using base sorcery to escape the tech-guard commanded by Antigonus. He had seen those same tech-guard driven mad by warp magics that any tech-priest would abhor. But he knew so few details. He did not know what the heretics wanted, or who they were. He did not know how all this had started. He did not know how to stop it.

  Now it was just him, fleeing through the underbelly of Chaeroneia with his servitor in tow, augmetics failing through lack of maintenance. They were hunting him down. He was sure of it. The heretics were everywhere on the planet, at every level from the menial barracks to the control towers.

  “Personal note.” Antigonus heard the sounds of the scratching quill change as the servitor dutifully altered its handwriting to something less precise. “The cell is not large but it is well organised, highly motivated and thoroughly ingrained into the society of Chaeroneia. Its existence is suspected only by those who are members or are otherwise under the cell’s control. There is no upper limit to the seniority of its members. I can only hope it does not extend off-world. My primary objective completed, I believe the best course of action is for me to leave this planet at the first opportunity and recommend a full purge of Chaeroneia by the authority of the archmagos ultima. I also recommend that the Fabricator General be appraised of the situation on Chaeroneia given that the nature of the heresy is such that…”

  Antigonus paused again. He was aware of something huge and dark flitting over the valley, blotting out the projections overhead for a moment.

  “There is no logic in fear,” he told himself. The servitor wrote the words down automatically, but Antigonus ignored it.

  Antigonus rose to his feet, mechadendrites snaking from below his grimy rust-red robes. His augmentations were not designed for combat, but he could still handle himself if it came down to it—each mechadendrite could extrude a monomolecular blade and he had enough redundant organs to keep him alive through terrible injuries.

  They were watching him.

  Antigonus whirled around as another shadow passed over him. His left hand—the non-bionic one—reached inside his robes and took out a brass-cased autogun. The weapon was a good, solid Mars-pattern gun, but Antigonus had never fired it in anger. He was a seeker of knowledge, a metallurgist in service to the Priesthood of Mars—he had been sent to Chaeroneia because he had a sharp and inquisitive mind, not because he was a warrior able to face down vengeful heretics by himself. When it came down to it, could he survive?

  Antigonus sighted down the barrel at the shadows between the wreckage that littered the valley.

  “Query,” said the thin, grating voice of Epsilon three-twelve. “Procedure terminate?”

  “Yes, terminate,” said Antigonus, annoyed. The servitor’s limbs folded up as it stashed the scroll back in its chest.

  The light levels changed, flooding the valley with a pale greenish glow. Antigonus searched for the source, knowing it must be the searchlight of a hunter-servitor or armed grav-platform, come to chase him down like an animal. But there was nothing.

  Then Antigonus looked up to the sky.

  Magos Antigonus, read hundred metre-long letters projected onto the clouds.

  Join us.

  The letters hung there for a few moments then disappeared, replaced by a new message.

  You are ignorant and blind. You are like a child, like a menial. Blind to the light.

  The Avatar of the Omnissiah is among us.

  When you see it, you will know it is beautiful and pure. You can take this understanding back to Mars. You can be our prophet.

  Antigonus shook his head, glancing around, panicking. His finger trembled on the trigger. He held out his bionic right arm and grabbed the gun with steel fingers, steadying his aim. “No!” he shouted. “I have seen what you are!”

  We are the future.

  We are the way.

  All else is darkness and death.

  Antigonus began to move, jogging through the hunks of wreckage, trying to find somewhere they couldn’t see him. They must have a grav-platform watching him from somewhere above, perhaps even a vehicle in orbit with sensoria that could cut through the thick pollutant clouds. Epsilon three-twelve waddled after Antigonus on its ill maintained legs, its subhuman mind oblivious to the threats all around them.

  You will never have a greater chance than this, Magos Antigonus. Your life does not have to continue as a statistical irrelevance.

  Antigonus sped up. If they could track him through the valley then he was trapped. At one end of the valley was a massive cogitator housing where the contents of the datacores were searched and filtered. It was staffed mostly by tech-priest information specialists—the heretics would find him there. But the other end led into a tangle of workshops and factory floors, many half ruined. It was populated mostly by menials and roving servitors. Antigonus might be safe there. He broke into a run, servitor in tow, the servos on his withered legs grinding painfully as they took the strain.

  One chance is more than the Adeptus Mechanicus will ever give you. Look upon the face of the Omnissiah, Antigonus, and understand!

  Antigonus ran as fast as he could, the servitor somehow keeping up. He was ill-lubricated and low on power but he re-routed all his non-essential systems to keep him moving. His vision greyed out as his ocular implants switched down to minimal and his digestive system shut down temporarily. The multi-layered factory complex loomed up ahead—its warren-like structure and menial population would mask him from observation. It was his only chance.

  Then it seems you are as small-minded and inflexible as all your kind. You are a disappointment.

  You are obsolete.

  Who could orchestrate the hijacking of the projector units and the kind of surveillance technology needed to follow Antigonus here? The names were few. Scraecos, the archmagos veneratus who masterminded Chaeroneia’s extensive data networks and commanded all the planet’s formidable reserves of information. Archmagos Ultima Vengaur, responsible for liaising with the Imperial authorities about Chaeroneia’s tithes and adherence to Imperial law. Another archmagos veneratus, named Thulharn, whose domain was Chaeroneia’s orbital installations and space traffic. There were very few others with the necessary seniority and ability.

  But could a small heretic cell really sway such men? Men who had risen so far in the hierarchy of the Adeptus Mechanicus that they could barely be called men at all any more?

  Epsilon three-twelve.

  Execute.

  Antigonus turned just in time to see Epsilon three-twelve fold out its augmetic limbs, this time with the articulated tines bent into wicked claws. It lurched forward crazily and crashed into Antigonus, barrelling him to the floor. Antigonus’s head smacked into the grime-slicked rockcrete.

  The servitor’s mechanical parts made it heavy and its rugged construction made it strong. Antigonus was trapped on his back and had to drop his gun to grab the servitor’s wrists and stop it from clawing at him. He was face-to-face with Epsilon three-twelve – the servitor’s eye sockets were polished bone, but the nose and mouth beneath them were grey, expressionless dead flesh.

  Antigonus lashed out a mechadendrite and the tentacle-like appendage wrapped itself around the stock of his autogun. Antigonus whipped the mechadendrite back and clubbed the servitor in the head with the butt of the gun. Sparks spat off its brass-chased skull but the servitor didn’
t move its weight off Antiogonus and the tech-priest felt one of his ribs break in a flare of pain. Painkillers pumped out of his bionic heart and the red mist flowed away. Antigonus used the moment of clarity to wrap one mechadendrite around the servitor’s throat, forcing its head back, fighting the servo motors in its spine. He reeled back another and thrust it forward, its tip tearing through the servitor’s forehead and into the biological brain.

  Epsilon three-twelve convulsed. Its hands broke free of Antigonus’s grip and flailed madly. Its mouth opened and its vocal unit let out a grating, garbled scream. The mechadendrite in its head was ripped free by the strength of the servitor’s spasms, whipping back and forward like a striking snake.

  Antigonus forced a knee up under it and rolled over on top of the servitor, scrambling to grab his gun again. The servitor bucked and threw Antigonus onto the ground, pain rushing up at him again as silvered augmetics crunched against the hard ground.

  The servitor was quickest to its feet, spraying gore from the massive pulsing wound between its hollow eyes. A mechanical hand clamped around Antigonus’s throat and slammed him against the valley side, the black glass of the datacore material splintering into razors that sheared through Antigonus’s thick robes into the pallid skin of his back.

  The servitor’s mouth lolled open and the tiny mechanical arm shot out, stabbing the gold-nibbed quill through Antigonus’s bionic eye.

  A white star burst in front of Antigonus’s vision. White, knife-like pain rifled through his head. His back, his neck, his eye, so much of him was shrieking in pain at once that he couldn’t tell where he was, or what he was doing.

  He only just remembered that he still had the gun. Roaring through the pain, he stabbed the gun into the servitor’s gut and fired. He fired again and again, until its grip went limp. Antigonus slid to the floor and realised he must have blown the servitor’s spine out, severing the connection between its upper and lower body. The servitor stumbled a few steps, its arms and head hanging limp, before the dead weight of its upper half dragged it down to the ground.