Deathwatch (16 page)

Damned impractical
, thought Karras, staring at all that long, shining hair.
What vanity! And look at that face. Not a single scar. Surely this one has never been tested. Surely he is too young and inexperienced to be here.

It was a remarkable face for more than just its lack of scars, and for more than the rare friendliness apparent in its expression, too. The unblemished face stared back at Karras with an apparent openness the Death Spectre had seen nowhere else since his arrival.

Something familiar
, Karras thought.
Like Ithoric’
s
White Champion
. Or Gorlon Xie’
s
Olympiarch
.

Karras was no stranger to the works of the Great Sculptors. For ten thousand years, the worlds of the Imperium had produced a few men each generation in whose hands simple stone became works of such beauty and perfection that they inspired the populations of whole segmenta. Most of these men were eventually commissioned to produce inspirational military works for the Adeptus Munitorum, as much to boost morale as to immortalise the noteworthy. The glorious diorama of Macharius and Sejanus on Ultima Macharia – the famous
End of the Long March
– was one such example, much imitated in the years following its unveiling, but never bettered.

The face of the Space Marine sitting opposite Karras now was more suited to such a sculpture than to a trained killer or living war-machine. Silky black hair framed a forehead of respectable height, a noble brow, a sharp slender nose and a mouth neither too wide nor too small. The planes of the cheekbones were smooth and superbly proportioned. Such symmetry there. Were it not for the all-black eyes, Karras could almost have believed this brother a masterpiece of statuary come to life.

The stranger noted Karras studying him and laughed.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘Too good-looking for the Deathwatch. But don’t let that fool you.’

Karras raised an eyebrow.

‘Don’t mistake this perfection for a badge of inexperience. You were thinking that very thing. Not so?’

‘You have the Gift yourself, then,’ said Karras with some humour, ‘to read others so well.’

‘I’m gifted all right, but not in the way you mean. I’ll leave sorcery to the likes of you, witchkin.’ Karras stiffened at the word, but detected no malice in the tone. ‘I’m just used to dealing with false assumptions,’ the stranger went on.

‘The only Space Marines I’ve seen without a scar on their faces are neophytes,’ countered Karras. ‘It doesn’t last long.’

‘That should tell you something,’ said the battle-brother.

‘It would tell me that you’re a neophyte,’ said Karras, ‘but the Deathwatch does not recruit neophytes.’

The black-haired battle-brother shovelled a spoonful of thick, sludgy gruel into his mouth.

‘You’d think they could add some flavour to the damned stuff,’ he groaned. Then, after another swallow, added, ‘We share blood, you and I.’

Karras nodded. The colourless skin was the giveaway. Gene-seed mutation. Another reason certain others kept their distance. ‘It would seem so. Raptors, perhaps? Revilers?’

The other tutted. ‘Now why would you think that? Raven Guard, I’ll have you know.’

Karras cursed. Given the stranger’s breezy manner, how could he possibly have guessed it? He dropped his spoon in his bowl and stood. Dutifully, and in accordance with ancient tradition, he raised right hand to left pectoral, bowed his head, and intoned gravely, ‘We look to Corax and pray for his return. We of the Death Spectres honour the seed that made us.’

The Raven Guard’s smile weakened for a moment. He gestured for Karras to sit. A few others in the Refectorum looked over.

‘We honour the brothers born of our roots,’ he replied. ‘May Corax take pride in them and all they do.’ It was appropriate in response but not so much in the way it was said. ‘Relax, brother. I don’t stand much on formality. You’ve obeyed the forms. Let us put them aside where they belong. How old are you, by the way?’

He spooned another mouthful of gruel into his mouth.

Karras sat stunned. What manner of Raven Guard was this?

‘Why did you approach me?’ he asked, ignoring the other’s question.

‘Why not? You were eating alone. Not being shunned, are you?’ He looked around almost theatrically, pretending to fear that anyone might see them together. ‘Actually, I just wanted to meet the Space Marine who overloaded his implant and bloodied Prophet’s nose. He had it coming. If not from you…’

‘You keep calling him Prophet,’ said Karras. ‘I don’t understand.’

The Raven Guard snorted. ‘He makes more predictions than a back-alley palm-reader.
You’re making an error. This strategy will fail. I told you so. Exactly as I foresaw. If you had listened to me…

‘Ah,’ said Karras. ‘I’m sure he is delighted with the name.’

‘Revels in it,’ said the Raven Guard with obvious pleasure.

‘And do I have a nickname?’ asked Karras.

The Raven Guard indicated the weathered old volume Karras had lain aside while they talked. ‘I’ve taken to calling you Scholar,’ he said. ‘A little obvious, I admit.’

‘Perhaps, but at least I won’t take offence.’

‘I should have tried harder,’ said the Raven Guard, flashing perfect teeth.

He half turned and pointed out a number of others in the Refectorum, quoting their nicknames to Karras. Some were obscure and needed explanation, just as Prophet’s had, but others were simple, some bordering on the openly offensive, others given in respect of a particular talent or skill. Of these latter, the last that Karras learned was the nickname of a squat, bulky battle-brother of the Imperial Fists. He was sitting in the far corner with a Black Templar.

‘Omni,’ said the Raven Guard.

‘Why that?’

‘You haven’t trained with him yet? About the only thing he
can’t
do is fit into narrow spaces.’ At this, he laughed. ‘Heavy weapons, explosives, communications, vehicles, repairs, encryption. I guess he’s making up for being so damned short. It looks like his body grew outwards rather than upwards, doesn’t it?’

‘There’s one name you haven’t told me,’ said Karras, leaning forwards, eyebrow raised.

The Raven Guard made a short bow from his seat.

‘My name is Zeed, brother. Siefer Zeed.’

Karras extended his hand and they briefly gripped wrists.

‘Well met, Brother Zeed, but don’t pretend you haven’t earned a nickname yourself. Or are you somehow excluded?’

Zeed had apparently decided he was finished with his gruel. He rose from the stone bench and stepped backwards over it, still facing Karras. He left his bowl on the table.

‘They call me Ghost,’ he said.

It was Karras’s turn to laugh. ‘And why do they call you that I wonder? As well to call me the same, given the skin colour we share.’

‘It’s not that, Scholar,’ said Zeed, strangely serious all of a sudden. ‘Not at all.’

He turned to leave, but paused a moment and spoke over his shoulder.

‘Watch for me in the combat pits if you have the chance. See me fight. You’ll see why they call me Ghost… and why this face bears no scars.’

With that, he strode off, leaving Karras to wonder at the strange encounter. Zeed stopped at a few other tables on his way out, greeting battle-brothers from various Chapters, always with a quip or remark. Some shared his good humour. A White Scar by the name of Brother Khaigur particularly enjoyed whatever it was that Zeed said to him, laughing uproariously and pounding the table with big calloused hands. Others merely glared until Zeed moved away. Of those who showed little patience with him, surliest of all was the Ultramarine, Ignacio Solarion.
Prophet.
Karras hadn’t noticed him enter the Refectorum. It must have been within the last few minutes. He was seated at a far table beside a small group of Space Marines from progenitor Chapters. Karras saw warriors from the Novamarines and the Sons of Orar among them.

Whatever it was that Zeed said to Solarion, it was clearly far from politic. Solarion snarled aggressively and made to rise, but the Novamarine seated next to him said something back and the Raven Guard shrugged and moved off. Solarion then turned his glare towards Karras, a look that was difficult to read.

If not for this damned implant…

Karras opted not to return the look. Would that he could undo the whole mess.

We should reserve our hate for the xenos
, he thought.
Not for each other. Among those who share a sacred duty to mankind, it should never be so.

He left the Refectorum with half an hour to spare before the beginning of the next cycle. He would sleep for fifteen minutes, he decided. Even so short a rest would allow him to begin the next cycle rejuvenated and ready, his fatigue falling away, minor tissue damage naturally mending. Such was the enhanced constitution of a Space Marine.

But he didn’t sleep. Not even for a minute. He settled only into a dissatisfying attempt which was thwarted as his mind turned over all the complications he had encountered thus far. All his notions, all his preconceptions…

Perhaps things would change after the taking of Second Oath. Perhaps after he officially donned the black and was assigned to a kill-team proper… Maybe then everything would change.

Time, of course, would teach him the folly of that belief.

Varlan heard the plasteel door click shut behind her as she stepped into the close air and the dim orange glow. All around her, pipes, ducts and snaking wires traced a complex dance on the walls and ceilings, twisting and flowing together like a nest of mating snakes frozen solid mid-coitus. Before her, in the centre of the floor, a metal stair with twin handrails led down into the space port’s service tunnels. Like the interior of the concrete hut itself, the tunnel section below was lit by work-lumes – lambent spheres set in the ceiling, recessed, spaced every few metres.

As her boot heels rang on the fourth metal stair, a freight train must have arrived at the space port. She could feel the vibration of the massive vehicle through the handrails as it came to a stop. Good. Her cargo of industrial supplies would be on its way to a city warehouse within the hour. All part of her cover.

At the bottom of the metal steps, she set foot on the stone floor of the underground tunnel. Cautiously, but without actual stealth, she pressed on. She wore no weapons on hip or thigh, not while playing the role of Lady Fara, but then Shianna Varlan was herself a weapon, trained and conditioned on her birth world to superb ability by the finest Darguu
[16]
master, T’shon Elisur. The Ordo appreciated that, and had built on it with advanced training of their own. If her close-quarters combat abilities were inadequate to neutralise the dangers she faced, the micro-weapons concealed in the rings on either index finger ought to equalise things a little.

She doubted she would need such weapons here. Oroga had assured her that Asset 16’s codes were still listed as uncompromised. Unless the asset had been broadcasting under duress, the information exchange ought to be a simple matter of protocol.

As if summoned by that very thought, a shadowy shape moved into view at the tunnel junction up ahead. Varlan’s heartbeat sped just a fraction. The figure moved into a pool of weak lume-light and stopped. There it stood, awaiting her, back hunched, waist bent, its lopsided shoulders sitting a little too far forwards on its torso. A twisted, impure shape. Varlan felt a wave of revulsion pass through her. From infancy, one was taught to hate the mutant, the heretic, the psyker. The latter, she had come to believe, could be noble and great; His Lordship’s astropaths and Navigators, for example, wielded their strange powers only for the good of mankind. The mutant and the heretic, however, were cancers rooted in the very bones of the human race.

And this one is a mutant! A twist!

As she neared him, her revulsion grew.

She stopped two metres from him, noting that he held a compact autopistol levelled at her heart. At this range, depending on the type of rounds he was using, even one shot might lethally pierce the armour mesh woven into her clothes. At least he was cautious, a professional. Both had doubts that needed assuaging before they could proceed.

Without raising her hands from her side, Varlan made a series of gestures with her fingers. The last two represented her callsign for this operation:

White Phoenix.

The little hunchback nodded and, without lowering his weapon, gave a brief finger-sequence of his own with his free hand.

Varlan indicated her satisfaction with a nod and breached the silence between them. ‘You’ll not need the weapon with me, Sixteen. Let us conclude our business quickly. Ready your opticom for transfer.’

The little man hesitantly tucked his pistol in his waistband, lifted a hand to one eye, and removed the flexible layer of artificial pupil, iris and white that hid the cybernetic augmentation beneath. Lifting her right hand, Shianna Varlan did the same. There they stood for a moment, two very different human beings dedicated to service in the same cause. Varlan towered over Asset 16. She was a living expression of good genetics, of beauty, health and great physical aptitude. He was a bent wretch, barely able to look her in the eye without twisting his ugly head sideways. But His Lordship had use for both, and that was reason enough for Varlan to put aside pride. She took a knee so that their eyes drew level, the better to facilitate a quick, steady transfer without errors.

‘Are you ready?’ she asked.

In answer, Asset 16 leaned towards her until their opticoms were aligned. A bridge of red laser light appeared between them, lens-to-lens, and the transfer began.

Varlan absorbed it all. She could not consciously process everything as it entered her brain – there was far too much data travelling at speed into the area of her memory assigned to such work – a storage partition, as she thought of it – but, turning a part of her attention to the dataflow, she managed to catch a significant amount.

The transfer lasted eight seconds, the longest she’d ever experienced, and she hadn’t been prepared for the nature of the content. The things that Sixteen had seen, had done… As the red bridge blinked out of existence, she fell backwards on her rump, her composure broken. She was breathing in gasps.

‘You… I saw… I…’

Asset 16 – Ordimas Arujo, as she now knew him to be – shrugged his misshapen shoulders. He seemed suddenly weary, almost on the verge of collapse, wracked with all he had endured. And rightly so, Varlan judged.

‘What would you have done, interrogator?’ There was bitterness, even loathing in his voice, but directed at himself, not at her. His actions sickened him. Yet what choice had there been? ‘Had I refused, they would have known me for an infiltrator and slain me. And you would come here blind, groping in the frozen dark for the intelligence I have just provided. Would you have acted any different?’

As Varlan pushed herself to her feet, he looked her up and down, taking in her lines, but without any of the animal hunger so obvious in the eyes of men like Captain Dozois. ‘As a woman, you would have fared much worse than I under the circumstances.’

She wasn’t about to deceive herself. She knew exactly what he meant and shivered in acknowledgment. If the Ordo had sent a female infiltrator…

‘I understand what you did,’ she told him, ‘but it sickens my soul.’

‘Do you think it sickens mine any less? Or do you think I enjoyed it? A twisted body reflects a twisted mind – is that not what the Ecclesiarchy tells us?’

‘I see your value well enough.’

‘You see the value of the mutation, not the man. I risk my life for those that hate me, but a curse on all mutants will come no slower to your lips, I’ll wager.’

‘Don’t presume to know me,’ she thundered, angry at his accusation, uncomfortable with the truth in it. ‘You will be well rewarded for your success, I’m sure. I came here only for the information you were carrying. Now I have it.’

Though I wish, in the name of all the saints, that I did not.

She found herself struggling with the more dreadful images now stored in her mind. Flashes of his terrible experience kept forcing themselves to the forefront of her awareness, insisting on her attention.

‘You were joined with one of them,’ she murmured. ‘One of the women, the Infected. In front of that foul congregation, you…’

Ordimas’s face twisted.

‘Don’t tell me what I did,’ he hissed at Varlan through clenched teeth. ‘I know it, and I know
why
I did it too, may the Emperor wash the stain from my soul. I was under His Lordship’s direct orders, as you are now. Would you have had me disobey?’

He guesses my thoughts, my inner struggle. He reminds me of my own duty so I will not kill him.

Her mind spun. She was an interrogator. It was one of her sworn duties to kill those who partook in such sinister rites. They were heretics and traitors. Any tribunal in the Imperium would have condemned such a man to torture and death. But this Ordimas was an Ordo asset. He belonged to His Lordship. He lived and died by His Lordship’s command. One did not overstep the boundaries of that authority and expect to live.

She could see it all as if the memories were her own: the kidnapping of the other work-crew deep down in the mines; the cart journey into abandoned Arraphel; the strange congregation kneeling in the darkness and the freezing cold.

The sensory data from Ordimas’s opticom showed her all this and the rest. She saw the massive cloaked men haul their prisoners off into the dark tunnel. She saw women move to stand on the platform. She saw the tall, strange man – their high-priest or equivalent – moving among his flock, selecting from among them with a touch on the cheek. She saw the chosen leave the throng and moved to stand on the platform, each beside one of the women.

Then the tall man stopped in front of Asset 16.

Ordimas had looked into the face of the cult leader.

The strange priest’s irises were a vivid, shimmering gold, the black pupils not round, but shaped like the fluted glass vessel of an hourglass. They were striking: so icy, so composed; so absolutely lacking in doubt or weakness. There were no eyelashes, no eyebrows. The tall man was utterly hairless.

It was no man,
thought Varlan.
It was something else. Unnatural. Inhuman.

She had already begun to suspect what.

‘The Master calls upon you, Mykal Durst,’ the cult leader had said softly to Ordimas. His gaze flicked briefly to the fake tattoo on Ordimas’s neck. She felt the memory of Ordimas’s panic. Had the ink smudged? Did the strange priest see through his ruse? ‘Stand with one of your sisters. Give, now, in the service of He who raised you up from misery and ignorance. Swell our ranks so that we might know His paradise all the sooner.’

Varlan knew the asset’s abject terror as she lived through his memories. Every fibre of him screamed out in fear and horror. His body had wanted to turn and flee, but his mind held on, if only by the thinnest of threads.

Incredible that he retained control!

Knowing that the only other option was discovery and death, Ordimas had taken his place on the stone platform, sick with self-loathing, shivering in the chill air. Varlan saw what followed, saw it through the asset’s eyes while he, in turn, saw it through the gene-copied eyes of a dead miner.

What passed on the platform made her gut clench like a vice. All those others, watching in unholy rapture as the ritual proceeded. She knew Ordimas’s struggle, knew how close his mind had come to being torn apart.

She thought of the strange children his opticom had recorded in the market square, and knew many such children would follow. From that alone, she knew also the nature of the threat on Chiaro. Asset 16 did not quite see the full picture. He saw the presence of a threat, but not the extent of it. All to the good. Better for this one if he lived the rest of his days in ignorance. As it was, she guessed he would not live long. Whatever substance or activity he turned to seeking distraction from the horror – be it alcohol, drugs or adrenaline – it would eventually kill him.

The truly haunted rarely escape their ghosts.

She forced her mind back to the present and found him staring at her, open concern written on his lumpy face. How long had she been submerged in his past? Long enough by half. It was time to go. The little mutant’s weariness had settled over her like a fog.

‘Your work in Cholixe is done,’ she told him. ‘I commend you for your sacrifice. His Lordship chose well, as always.’

The hunchback snorted. ‘I wish he’d chosen someone else.’

‘If you have personal affairs here, deal with them swiftly and make ready to depart. The ship on which I arrived, the
Macedon
, ought to be leaving within the week. Negotiate passage to the nearest commercial hub. The captain is a greedy man. He will accept your business despite any prejudices, providing the fee is substantial enough. I’m sure His Lordship will call on you before long.’

‘Will you be on that ship?’ Ordimas asked, voice not quite flat enough to hide the fact that he asked out of concern for her.

Varlan’s expression hardened. ‘Do not pity me and do not fear for me. There is dangerous work here, but it is work I was trained for.’

How she wished she felt such confidence. In the face of what nested here, what bred here, she could not. ‘Do you have adequate funds?’

‘A transfer was made yesterday. I have all I need for now.’

‘Then our business is concluded. Emperor light your way.’

She was about to turn from him, set to return the way she had come, when a strong, long-fingered hand on her arm stopped her. She recoiled a little by reflex from the mutant’s touch, but only briefly.

Ordimas was looking up at her, head tilted awkwardly so he could meet her eyes. She noticed that his opticom was covered once again with its false layer, reminding her to do likewise.

Ordimas licked his lips anxiously. ‘You are proud and strong, interrogator. You embody all the finest qualities of the Inquisition. I can see that. But heed my words for your own sake, I beg you. If you must go down into the mines, go down in force. His Lordship has potent military assets at his disposal. You know of whom I speak. Call them here if you can. This corruption, this infection… It goes far beyond what I have seen. I’ve barely scratched the surface, and yet my part has been played to its end. Yours is just beginning. Guard your life, my lady. It would sadden me to know such beauty had succumbed to such ugliness.’

Both stood silent for a moment, a grim tableau in orange and black, the asset’s hand still on Varlan’s arm, his words hanging in the cold air between them. Somewhere deeper along the tunnels, generators thrummed, seeming louder now than before. Another freight train rumbled by on the surface. Varlan moved, lowering her arm so that Ordimas’s hand slid away. She thought she knew what had moved him to speak. It wasn’t just her death. Everyone died sometime, and there was no sorrow to be found in giving one’s life in the service of the Emperor. No, not that. The hunchback was referring to a fate far darker, the most vile and unholy of exploitations. Against that, death was a blessing.