Deathwatch (9 page)

I
am
worthy. I should not doubt it. I would not have been called otherwise.

He wished he felt as certain of that as he ought to.

To either side of the docking bay, a great statue stood guard. Each was a robed manifestation of death almost a kilometre in height, its grinning skull partly covered by a sculpted hood. Karras marvelled at the detail. Even the texture of the fabric had been worked into the dark stone. In bony fingers, the statue on the left held open a thick book. It stood posed with hollow eye sockets cast down, as if caught frozen in time, reading from stone pages. The statue on the left held the haft of a massive sword in a two-handed grip, blade pointed down, tip planted between skeletal feet. This figure’s hollow gaze was turned outwards into space.

Each of these skeletal giants stood atop a plinth that jutted out from the edge of the hangar’s mouth. On the plinth of the book-reading figure, the inscription read,
With strength of mind, you shall discern their weakness
. On the plinth of the sword-bearing one was inscribed,
With strength of body, you shall exploit that weakness.

Body and mind both; ignore one and you undermined the other. Irrefutable. No warrior worth his steel could afford to forget it.

The
Adonai
shifted a fraction, imperceptibly but for Karras’s heightened senses. Her starboard thrusters flared briefly, compensating further for the ring’s clockwise rotation, after which her approach vector was perfectly matched to the movement of the dock. Karras could make out smaller ships now. The inner dimensions of the docking bay staggered him. He had seen none bigger save the unrivalled facilities at the segmentum’s Naval headquarters, Kar Duniash. He counted over forty ships of varying size, none much smaller than the
Adonai
. Around each craft, maintenance drones weaved a slow, shifting dance as they moved silently to and fro on jets of hot plasma. Some would stop, clamp themselves to the hull of this or that ship, and swing articulated arms into play. The bright glare of oxy-acetylene torches was everywhere. Fountains of sparks rained bright and brief.

Slow, steady and smooth, the
Adonai
passed within the great mouth of the docking bay.

Flying servitor drones swarmed out to meet the craft and assist it in coming to rest.

Orlesi’s voice sounded from small speakers worked cleverly into the room’s chandelier. ‘All personnel brace for docking.’

The ship swung to port, and the view shifted. A mass of metal gantries and loading cranes passed by on the left and right. Cables swung from beams and junction boxes, hanging everywhere like vines in a dense jungle. Clouds of greasy steam hissed from massive wall-vents. Karras could see red-robed tech-priests and servitor slaves scurrying or trundling back and forth along metal walkways and hazard-striped landings. Huge servo-arms reached out to grasp the hull of the
Adonai
. There was a mighty clang. The ship shuddered to a halt. The thrumming of its engines faded and stopped.

It was then that Karras’s eyes were drawn to a figure hovering in the shadow of a dark doorway directly in front of the ship. The silhouette was bulky, its lines describing the unmistakable shape of Space Marine power armour.

Karras was suddenly sharply aware of a fresh presence in the gallery, powerful but not hostile. It was not a physical presence, but it was projected so strongly that he almost turned to greet it, half expecting to see someone behind him.

Now he knew the figure in the dark doorway for what it was.

Like always recognises like
, he thought.

Welcome to Watch Station Damaroth, Death Spectre,
pulsed the presence.

Welcome to the Watch.

‘The scrying of prime futures carries with it a unique set of problems. One of the most fundamental is simply this: the mere act of attempting prophecy may alter the very futures one tries to perceive.’

– Athio Cordatus, 947.M31

The train that carried the miners of I-8 to work was a noisy, juddering locomotive: built of black iron, windowless, twelve cars long. The first and last were engine cars, and the second and eleventh were filled with grim, barrel-chested men setting out for their twenty-hour shift. All the other cars were empty – open-topped freight wagons returning to the active parts of the mine to be refilled with raw ore for the topside refineries.

So far, Ordimas seemed to be doing fine. It helped that Mykal wasn’t known for good conversation. Those others who were not Rockheads had learned not to take liberties with him, and the other Rockheads in the group – five surly, cruel-faced men all bearing the neck tattoo of the gang – had given only nods of greeting. Clearly they didn’t talk about gang business in the presence of others. Ordimas sensed the silence went beyond this somehow, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. There was a strange air in the passenger car, almost meditative, as if each man sat straining to hear a faint voice only he could perceive. That didn’t seem natural. Not for men like these. The carriage should have been filled with rough banter, tall tales, or at least some griping about the long work-shift ahead. There was none of it.

The journey to the assigned work-site was just over two hours long with a stop of ten minutes at halfway for the massive turntable at Maddox Point to rotate them onto the proper track. Eventually, the train pulled into its destination – a grimy steel platform lined with yellow-painted loading cranes – and the side doors were hauled open. Everyone rose and took work-helmets from the overhead storage bays. Ordimas did likewise, exited the train with the rest and followed as they marched off down a gloomy, lantern-lit side tunnel of jagged black rock.

There were none of the great mining machines of the Adeptus Mechanicus here. No massive titanium-jawed monsters, no gargantuan drill-faced juggernauts. These tunnels were small and narrow, a recent excavation searching for untapped veins. The men of I-8 worked at different spots along the tunnel wall, cutting to both left and right, and there was a significant bonus for anyone who found a good score. Still, even with the prospect of a reward, the work was punishing and dangerous, and little allowance was made for accident or injury. Nightsiders died so often in cave-ins and las-cutter accidents that the work-parties had a constant flow of rookies coming in. Ordimas would have been better off choosing a rookie to mimic instead of a
face
like Mykal, but vengeance for Nedra had driven his choice and that was something he couldn’t bring himself to regret.

The shift supervisor – a big, red-faced man named Yunus, whom everyone called simply
chief
– led everyone to their positions at the tunnel wall, checked his chrono, and called out for the official start of the shift. There would be a short break in six hours.

Under cover of adjusting his safety helmet, Ordimas watched the man next to him for a few moments to see what he should be doing. This man was called Seulus and, when he caught Ordimas looking at him, he grinned, put down his las-cutter, and came over.

Ordimas forced himself to relax. So far, scowling and keeping to himself had been enough. He hadn’t aroused any suspicions, but all it might take was one wrong word.

Seulus stopped beside him, leaned in close, and said, ‘Soon, brother. Soon.’

He made the hand-sign the miner’s woman had mentioned back in Cholixe.

Ordimas limited his response to a nod and mirrored the sign, fingers splayed in twos, hand over heart. The other miner seemed satisfied.

‘The chief will be round in an hour for us,’ said Seulus. The other work-party are about twenty minutes from here. Section C. Not far. Just be ready.’

‘I’m always ready,’ Ordimas grunted back. The voice was Mykal’s. He just hoped the words were something Mykal would have said. Evidently they were, because Seulus snorted derisively like he’d heard them a thousand times. Then, he went back to his downed las-cutter, lowered his goggles, hefted it and got to work burning into the rock with its blinding beam.

Having seen enough to at least look like he knew what he was doing, Ordimas hefted his own cutter, lowered his goggles, and followed suit. The cutter soon got hot, and the constant vibration numbed his hands so that he had to take small breaks every five or six minutes to shake feeling back into them. This wasn’t a problem unique to Ordimas. Seulus, he was glad to see, was forced to do the same.

Before long, the chief appeared, marching towards them from the far end of the tunnel with a promethium lantern in his right hand and something dark and indistinct gripped in his left.

He gestured for Ordimas, Seulus and two others from further up the tunnel to gather round. Eyeing each of them intently, he told them, ‘Everything is ready, kindred. We’ll go by autocart. Once we get to Section C, I want you two to block the far end of the tunnel.’ He said this to Ordimas and Seulus. ‘Zonnd and Brinte will block the near end. The others will attack with me. Be ready to take down anyone who tries to break away. Understood?’

Ordimas saw by the lamplight that the black object in the chief’s hand was a stun-cudgel, enforcer issue. What was this man doing with a Civitas-grade weapon? One did not come by such things accidentally. Enforcers were nothing if not careful with their gear. The punishments for any losses were severe.

Each of the men around the chief nodded their understanding. Supervisor Yunus thumbed the activation rune on his cudgel and it hummed softly to life. Having checked the weapon’s charge, he thumbed it off again. ‘Time for the real work to start. Follow Brinte here to the autocarts. I’ll gather the others.’

Brinte turned, and led the way while the chief went off to brief the rest of I-8. Ordimas kept a wary eye on those around him as he followed.

What in the Eye of Terror is going on here?
he asked himself.
Why are we going to attack another work-party?

Whatever the reason, it looked like His Lordship had thrown Ordimas Arujo into deep water once again.

As always, it was up to Ordimas to get himself out of it alive.

At the edge of the plasteel walkway by which the
Adonai
had settled, Captain Orlesi and Karras gripped wrists. The smaller man’s eyes shone with a level of emotion that surprised the Death Spectre.

‘Fight well and hard, my lord,’ Orlesi said emphatically. ‘Don’t have the old girl and I ferry you back to Occludus in an onyx box, will you? I ask that with all my heart.’

Like Brother Stephanus
, thought Karras.
I must not forget. I must not be complacent. Stephanus was mighty among us. And yet, he did not survive all the Deathwatch demanded of him.

In his mind’s eye, he saw Athio Cordatus glaring at him, demanding he serve with honour and survive to return home.

Watch over me, khadit. If even Stephanus was not equal to the tasks set him, how can I hope to be?

Karras offered the captain a wan smile. ‘May the Emperor light your way, captain,’ he said, ‘and may the winds favour you.’ It was an archaic phrase Karras had heard spoken before among parting Naval officers. He could see that it surprised Orlesi to hear it now, but the look of surprise was soon replaced by one of appreciative pleasure. Karras released the man’s wrist and turned. Followed by a train of baggage servitors from the ship, he strode out to meet in body the Deathwatch Librarian who had already welcomed him in mind.

Marnus Lochaine of the Storm Wardens Chapter was not just any Librarian, as Karras soon learned. He was Chief Librarian of Watch Fortress Damaroth, a member of the Watch Council and the supreme authority governing the Librarians sent to train here. It was Lochaine who would oversee the special training each psychic Space Marine would undertake above and beyond the standard xenos hunter programme. It was Lochaine’s assessment that would alter the fate of each, at least in the short term. But these were details Karras discovered only later. At the moment of their meeting, Lochaine was one more unknown in a day filled with them.

Behind the Storm Warden, a row of twelve smartly attired male serfs appeared, standing to sharp attention. These were members of the Rothi – the order of menials that served the brothers of the Watch. Each wore a smooth mask of white porcelain, the Deathwatch icon emblazoned in silver at the outer corner of the left eyehole. As Lochaine briefly introduced himself to the new arrival, the Rothi stood in silence, shoulders back, eyes front, chests out. They were dressed in crisp, black two-piece uniforms and boots, military in appearance, with a broad grey belt. In this and in their austere military bearing, they were all identical, but their similarities to each other went beyond that. They were indistinguishable from each other in both height and build. Masked as they were, they could not be told apart. Karras let his mind reach out a psychic tendril and sent it flickering over their auras.

Clones
, he thought.
Can it be? They’re prohibited throughout the Imperium. Does the Watch have a special dispensation?

It was hardly the time to ask. Lochaine was looking at him expectantly. Karras made his formal introduction and passed the other Librarian an official scroll of secondment bearing the seal of his Chapter. Lochaine nodded as he read it, then rolled it up and handed it to one of the Rothi with instructions to deliver it to the Watch Commander. With formal introductions over, Lochaine directed six of the Rothi to take Karras’s effects to his new quarters. These quarters, Karras was told, were located far above the docking bay in a chapel-barracks on the inner surface of the great ring. The remaining six Rothi he instructed to attend Captain Orlesi, who stood waiting patiently at the ramp to his ship, quietly observing the proceedings from afar.

As Karras watched the Rothi silently obey, his eyes caught movement on the far right. Dark, power-armoured figures were boarding a sleek, black Sword-class frigate some distance away.

Lochaine followed the Death Spectre’s gaze.

‘Scorpion Squad,’ he said simply. ‘Still at full strength, by Terra’s blessing.’

‘Where are they going?’ asked Karras.

‘Deployment details are classified as standard. Only the Watch Council and the squad itself have access to that information.’

Karras cursed. What was he thinking? This wasn’t Logopol.

‘You’ll get used to all the cloak-and-dagger soon enough,’ said Lochaine. ‘I once stood in your place. Can’t say I liked it much either – all the silence, the blank stares, the evasion and the half-truths. Reasons enough for it, as you’ll come to see, but it takes a little faith at first. Come, brother. There are matters to settle before you can see your quarters.’

He turned and led Karras away from the South Dock. Behind them, the Sword-class Frigate carrying Scorpion Squad began its departure, engines roaring with a noise like unrelenting thunder. As Karras and Lochaine moved into a corridor, a thick bulkhead door rolled shut behind them and the noise of the departing craft died to a low rumble.

While they walked, Karras cast his mind back, searching for what he knew of the First Librarian’s parent Chapter. It was not much. He had heard very little of the Storm Wardens. Prior to this moment he had never met one, nor could he recall mention of them in Imperial archives or oral legends. His thoughts lingered on that a moment. The glories of most Chapters quickly became tales of legend, often wildly embellished, that spread like wildfire among the Imperium’s civilian populations. Who had not heard, for example, of the great Battle for Macragge, or the legendary First and Second Wars of Armageddon? Of the Gildar Rift and the Purge of Kadillus? What child did not grow up dreaming of life as a warrior of the Adeptus Astartes? Ironic, then, that the arrival of Space Marines heralded bloodshed and death on a scale of which few mortals could conceive even in nightmare. Not many civilian witnesses lived through that reality.

Space Marines went where needed, where the cancers that ailed the Imperium were most malignant. The trillions who eagerly devoured tales of the legendary warriors were the lucky ones, living safe lives, spared the truth, content to worship their heroes in blissful ignorance. Their simplistic view was something the lords of the Imperium gladly encouraged, for such tales – even the vast number of fictional ones – were a beacon of hope in these darkest of times. The absence of any such tales about a given Chapter usually spoke of deliberate suppression and secrecy. What, if anything, did the Storm Wardens hide?

Nothing like the Shariax, I’ll wager.

Secretive or not, as they walked and talked, Karras found it easy to like the First Librarian. In the Storm Warden’s eyes, he found little sign of judgement. If Lochaine bore any prejudices, he hid them well enough. It was not always so. Other Chapters, most especially those formed from the much-lauded Ultramarines gene-seed, tended to look askance at those bearing the mark of genetic mutation. The bone-white skin and hair and the all-red eyes of the Death Spectres marked them at once as having a flawed melanchromic organ
[9]
. Less outwardly obvious was the absence of a functioning mucranoid
[10]
and Betcher’s gland
[11]
. His own lack of these advantages bothered Karras not at all, for he had never known them. If it bothered anyone else, let them stand apart as they pleased.

Lochaine was pale-skinned himself, but he was no albino. He had a thick, heavy brow and dark, deep set eyes above tattooed cheeks and a jaw covered with short, dark stubble. He looked rough and unruly to Karras, far from the noble and austere image projected by Athio Cordatus. But Karras could sense his power, that fierce, bright aura betraying an immense force held in supremely well-exercised control. Lochaine’s power was equal to his own at least. Perhaps even a degree greater.

Having taken a sequence of turns, the two Librarians now marched along a gloomy stone tunnel. It was broad and high-ceilinged, the walls cold and wet, and the stonework was unadorned by any decoration. It was a dank place, lit every five metres or so by lumes in the ceiling that cast pools of milky white light in the damp air. ‘We’re in the mid-levels,’ Lochaine told him. ‘There are coolant pipes in the walls. Moisture tends to gather.’

‘How many levels are there?’

Having asked, he suddenly wondered how far questions would be tolerated. Was it anathema to seek knowledge here? Operating in shadow outside the walls of the Watch fortress was one thing, but how much curiosity would be tolerated within? Plausible deniability was critical to an organisation like the Inquisition’s Ordo Xenos, with whom the Deathwatch worked so closely. The Ordo often sanctioned actions about which the greater part of humanity must never know. The most terrible and controversial of these was Exterminatus – the absolute eradication of all life on a given world. Open knowledge of this recourse, and of just how regularly it was deemed necessary, could split the Imperium like an axe. Fear would turn to panic, which might cause outright revolt. From there, it was a small step to galactic civil war and to bloodshed the likes of which had not been seen since the horrors of the mad Ecclesiarch Goge Vandire. No. The less that was known, the better. But it was more than simple deniability. The alien enemies of the Imperium were legion, and among them were cruel and ancient intellects to rival mankind’s best. Any information about the Deathwatch could conceivably be seized upon and utilised for strategic gain.

Karras well understood the necessity for
need to know
. He just had to find the boundaries.

Lochaine laid some of them out for him.

‘There are three hundred and twelve levels in total, the uppermost being the first. It’s the first that we Space Marines mostly keep to. Everything we need is there, save the hangars and docking bays. Do not be hesitant to ask questions, brother, so long as they are the right questions. The Deathwatch operates entirely unlike any other Chapter in the Imperium. Make it easier on yourself. Abandon your preconceptions. Empty your cup so that it might be filled anew.’

‘The brothers who returned to Occludus alive would tell me nothing,’ said Karras.

Lochaine nodded. ‘I’m sure they wanted to, but everyone who
dons the black
, as we say, becomes honour-bound, sworn by oath to say nothing of their time among us. That’s not to mention the hypno-induction, too, of course.’

‘And not just for the Space Marines,’ said Karras, thinking now of Captain Orlesi.

Lochaine picked up on the direction of his thoughts. ‘The captain is a good man. He knows well the limits of his business. But you’re right. We don’t gamble on honour and loyalty. He has undergone hypno-induction, though it’s a far more dangerous and unpleasant experience for a normal man.’

The dank tunnel through which they walked soon terminated in a wide archway. Beyond it, they entered a chamber with a ceiling twice as high as that of the corridor. Each of the walls to left and right boasted an entrance to a wide elevator, though neither were currently waiting at this level. In the far wall, the archways to two other corridors led deeper into the complex. Two large ventilator fans turned lazily behind their grilles in the ceiling, the lumes behind them throwing the shadows of the rotating blades down onto the stone floor below. Everything was stained dark by age and moisture. Lochaine strode forwards, stopping at a wall-embedded servo-skull by the elevator on the left. ‘Summon,’ he barked at the age-browned skull. In the skull’s left socket, a light winked from red to green, acknowledging the command. In a small screen below the skull, numerical runes began counting upwards from six.

As they waited, Lochaine turned serious.

‘You’ll forgive the necessity, brother, but I must now give you the same warning I give all who are selected for the honour of serving. You see, Damaroth is not like any fortress-monastery you’d care to name. Tensions run high here. Rivalry is common and old grudges between Chapters often bear out. Unworthy infighting is all too common. Only the truly exceptional are seconded to the Deathwatch, and that makes for a lot of egos, a lot of pride. Don’t mistake me. You seem well grounded. But there are plenty of others who insist on making things more difficult than they ought to be. I ask you not to rise to provocation. These others… Their minds will be tempered in time, but hunger for glory and honour is rife. To be certain, it has its time and its place, but that is not here at Damaroth. Focus only on what matters. Do your Chapter proud. Unlock your potential. There is so much for you to learn. Put your trust in us, do as ordered, and you shall see.’

‘I came here to honour my Chapter,’ Karras told him, rankled somewhat at the tone and nature of the warning, despite its worthy intention. ‘To honour my Chapter and to serve the Imperium. I intend to do both to the limits of my ability. I did not come here for self-glorification or personal satisfaction. Let your mind rest easy on that.’

Lochaine noted the suppressed anger in Karras’s voice. ‘Do not be offended, brother. As I say, it is a speech I make to all who come, regardless of integrity and origin.’

There was a chime and a toneless voice emanated from the elevator servo-skull.

‘Level sixty. Stand clear.’

‘Forgive me for what happens next,’ said Lochaine.

‘What?’

Suddenly, Karras felt a tremendous force suppressing his psychic power and locking his muscles tight. At once, he fought back, but he had been caught off guard. Though he strained, grunting with effort, he could not move. He glared at Lochaine and saw the Chief Librarian’s eyes burning with white flame. This was balefire, also known as witchfire, the ethereal flame that ignited whenever a Librarian exercised his true strength.