Exodus - Steve Lyons Read online

  From nowhere, a monster pounced.

  Guardsman Vilhelm heard it at the last possible instant and half-twisted, so its vicious claws raked across his side. His attacker was giant; a hideous bug-like thing with six bristling limbs and a carapace. A pair of clawed, multi-jointed limbs thrust forward from its shoulder blades. Disgusting feeding tentacles hung from the creature’s maw, dripping saliva. A barbed tail twitched behind its back. Ven Mikkelson had seen some horrors in his time, but none like this.

  Was this what a tyranid looked like?

  Its scaly hide was changing from grey to fiery red. ‘It was camouflaged,’ he warned his comrades, ‘hiding in plain sight against the rubble. Don’t take your eyes off it.’

  Vilhelm groaned as he scrambled away from the xenos. The rest of the squad advanced upon it, blasting it with their lasguns. ‘That’s right,’ Ven Mikkelson encouraged them, ‘keep it busy.’

  The creature was torn between pursuing its wounded prey or defending itself. It hissed as it rounded on Ven Mikkelson, and sprang at him with a flex of its powerful hind legs. He tried to leap out of its way, but debris shifted and he crashed to his hands and knees instead.

  He had a fraction of a second to contemplate his certain death – before realising that he hadn’t been the xenos’ target at all. It had darted between him and his surprised comrades and, in the time it took their gazes to follow it, had disappeared again.

  ‘There!’ cried Bullski. ‘It’s over there!’ He pointed the way with a volley of lasbeams, which pulverised stone and chased away shadows. ‘I could have sworn I saw…’ the guardsman muttered, disappointed.

  ‘Form up around Vilhelm,’ Ven Mikkelson ordered. His injured comrade had hauled himself onto his knees, but was too weak to stand. The other four Ice Warriors encircled him protectively, facing outwards.

  Ven Mikkelson thought he heard something – a claw scraping? – from beside the surviving archway. He shot a beam that way and was rewarded by a screech and a flurry of movement. ‘I see it!’ he yelled. He had picked out a pair of beady yellow eyes, and could make out the shape of a head and segmented body around them.

  ‘I see it!’

  The shout came almost simultaneously with the sergeant’s own, from Bullski, directly behind him. At first, he assumed that his comrade was seeing things again. Another lasbeam volley, however, was greeted by a familiar sound, making the skin on Ven Mikkelson’s neck prickle. The screech of the tyranid creature.

  ‘There are two of them!’

  The governor’s flagship was leaving.

  Teilloch had not seen Strawhagen boarding. Presumably, few people had. ‘Some trick they pulled back there,’ Alvado muttered to him, ‘diverting the mob, while their target sneaks away unnoticed.’

  ‘You’d rather the governor had been killed?’

  Alvado shrugged. ‘I’m sure the greater good was served. It just doesn’t seem very… well, honourable. Tell me I’m wrong again.’

  ‘That is not for us to judge,’ said Teilloch stiffly. ‘We still have a job to do.’

  No sooner had the flagship left its pad – its polished hull reflecting the red of the sky until it seemed to be aflame – than a larger, less elegant and far grimier vessel replaced it. As it did so, speakers crackled with the governor’s voice again: ‘The Emperor has blessed us in our time of need, once more. He has sent a merchant fleet to convey many more of us – hundreds of thousands – to safety.’

  More grimy freighters were dropping into the spaceport, filling it with choking smoke. Teilloch felt his spirits lifting at the sight of them. ‘You see?’ he breathed. ‘No one has been abandoned.’ The crowd straining at the gates and fences saw it too, and it only made them more determined to break through.

  Corporal Barnard was only a metre away from Teilloch, but had to switch to vox to be heard. His squad and three others, having fought their way into the port, had been detailed to man a side gate. ‘We’re to start letting people through at once, to board the freighters – just a few hundred to begin with.’

  ‘Which people?’ asked Teilloch. ‘Is there a list–?’

  The corporal shook his head. ‘No time for that. We want people under thirty-five, make an intelligent guess – and as many women as men. Fit, healthy subjects only. The slightest sign of infirmity or disease, anyone overweight or under-height, leave them behind. Most crucially, we need to weed out the heretics and worse. You all know what I mean.’

  Corporal Barnard unbolted the gate and eased it open, while fifteen troopers braced themselves for the ensuing flood. A desperate tide of humanity swelled towards them, their only thought to reach the escape ships beyond them. Teilloch tried to remember the criteria for letting them pass – under thirty-five, fit, healthy – but he had only seconds to assess each person coming at him.

  ‘How do we tell a heretic on sight, anyway?’ Alvado grumbled, beside him. ‘They don’t all have dark sigils tattooed on their faces.’

  ‘Look into their eyes,’ suggested Teilloch. ‘I’ve heard you can tell an infiltrator that way.’ He wasn’t sure how, in fact – but anyone who wouldn’t meet his gaze, he assumed to be guilty of something. He waved a steady stream of hopefuls past him – but the crowd of those held back began to mount. They couldn’t get back out through the gates, so many just pushed forwards again.

  A man of fifty years or so, with the weather-beaten skin of an outdoors labourer, refused to take no for an answer. ‘I have served the Emperor faithfully all my life,’ he yelled in Teilloch’s face. ‘I deserve to be saved.’ Teilloch tried to repel him with reason, then threats, to no avail. In frustration, finally, he clubbed the malcontent with the butt of his weapon.

  The man reeled momentarily. He flew at Teilloch, face twisted in rage, bleeding from a head wound. His callused hands clawed at Teilloch’s throat – until, suddenly, he stiffened. The strength drained out of his body and he collapsed. It took Teilloch a moment to realise that Corporal Barnard had shot his attacker in the back.

  ‘No time to waste on troublemakers,’ Barnard’s voice growled in Teilloch’s ear. He nodded, accepting the admonishment, and willed himself to be stronger. The next person to argue with him – a woman hacking up phlegm, evidently very ill – backed down when he levelled his autogun at her.

  His fellows were holding back the hordes with bayonet and stock, and it wasn’t long before the first bullet was fired, followed swiftly by more. Only Private Alvado hadn’t drawn his weapon. ‘They’re fighting for their lives,’ he lamented. ‘They know if they can’t get aboard one of these ships, they’ll be left here to die.’

  ‘Left here to fight, you mean,’ said Teilloch.

  ‘Then why are they taking men of fighting age?’

  Teilloch thought about that, then wished he hadn’t. ‘It is not for us to question–’

  ‘They’re taking the people they need,’ said Alvado, ‘to start again.’

  The words echoed in Teilloch’s head as he dealt with a fraught-looking young couple, who were clinging to each other. ‘Stand apart,’ he ordered them. As he had suspected, the man was unsteady on his feet.

  ‘He had an accident in the factorum,’ the woman pleaded, ‘but he’s healing. The medicae said he’d be able to walk again in just a few–’

  ‘You can pass,’ said Teilloch tersely. ‘He can’t.’

  ‘I can’t,’ the woman cried. ‘I can’t leave him. You can’t separate us.’

  Teilloch bit his lip in frustration. No time to waste on trouble-makers. ‘Stay with him, then. Your choice,’ he said, turning away.

  ‘No!’ The woman yanked on Teilloch’s tunic, demanding his attention. He rounded on her, irritated, and pumped a bullet into her husband’s stomach. ‘You can pass,’ he repeated, pointing the woman towards the waiting freighters.

  She gaped at him, stunned. Then, to his discomfort, she let out a distraught howl. The wom
an dropped to her knees and wept over her husband as his blood soaked into the ground.

  He would have died anyway, Teilloch insisted to himself. He was in no state to fight the invading force. This way was more merciful. I had no choice. They shouldn’t have pushed me to it. They should have followed orders.

  He felt Alvado’s elbow in his ribs and turned. Following his comrade’s gaze, he caught his breath. A cluster of new arrivals was pushing its way through the open main gates. There were six of them: colossal armoured figures, gleaming blue, white and gold. They marched with a confident, even arrogant, swagger, forcing others to scuttle out of their way or be crushed.

  Space Marines. They had come to Katraxis almost a week ago, to bolster the off-world forces already present. The governor’s bulletins had been full of praise for their strength, their dedication, their achievements – full of renewed hope. Teilloch had prayed each morning to set his unworthy eyes upon them.

  ‘They’ve come to help us,’ he breathed. Even from this distance, he could feel their palpable presence, and it sent a thrill through him.

  Alvado shook his head. ‘No. They’re pulling out.’

  Corporal Barnard was shouting through a hailer: ‘That’s it. That’s all we can take for now.’ Four troopers were struggling to close the gate again.

  ‘There will be more ships.’ Barnard repeated the promise many times, to little avail. He was drowned out by the anguish of people who had almost touched salvation only for it to be snatched from them. They didn’t believe Barnard. They didn’t believe anything they were told any longer. Even Teilloch was beginning to have doubts.

  ‘Even if there are more ships,’ Alvado pointed out, ‘it can never be enough.’ The population of Katraxis numbered in the tens of billions. Against that, ‘hundreds of thousands’ suddenly felt like a very small number.

  ‘Stand your ground,’ Ven Mikkelson ordered his squad.

  They had no choice. If they abandoned the wounded Vilhelm, the xenos would tear him apart. Or they will tear the rest of us apart to get to him, Ven Mikkelson thought.

  He switched his lasgun to full-auto and strafed the ground in front of him. He couldn’t tell if he had hurt his near-invisible target, but at least he was keeping it at bay. Though not for much longer – his power pack was running low.

  The xenos reappeared suddenly, flying at him with a curdling screech. Ven Mikkelson braced himself, praying that the point of his bayonet could find a vital organ. Not before its claws found his throat, he suspected.

  Then a jet-engine roar filled his ears. Something bright and blue flashed before his eyes and struck the ground like a meteorite, somewhere to his left. The debris upon which he stood lurched with the impact, felling two of his comrades, almost bowling him over too – and, thank the Emperor, throwing his attacker off-balance.

  The xenos’ hind claws scrabbled to regain purchase. Ven Mikkelson aimed a shot at its head, only searing its protective carapace. Three more impacts followed, all around him, until even he lost his footing. He fell atop his sprawling comrades, with every attempt to disentangle himself only digging him deeper into the rubble.

  A more triumphant screech, and the xenos loomed over him, twice his height and many times his bulk. Slobber from its feeding tentacles spattered Ven Mikkelson’s cheek. He heard another mechanical roar – a deeper one, throatier – and suddenly the creature had no head. An instant later, its disgusting, segmented body collapsed on top of him.

  He fought his way out from under it, spitting at the stink of its blood.

  He could have hoped to make a more dignified impression on his saviour. The Space Marine, a member of the much-storied Ultramarines chapter, a sergeant by his markings, glowered down at his slighter counterpart. The jump pack on his back was still smouldering. He had stilled his chainsword and was picking chunks of xenos gristle from between its teeth.

  ‘Lictors,’ he grunted. ‘Not the first we have dealt with today.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ven Mikkelson, through gritted teeth. ‘But there were two of them. The other–’

  A fusillade of bolter fire interrupted him. The Ultramarine’s battle-brothers had unearthed the second xenos. Trying to flee, it found itself surrounded. They closed around the creature, hemming it in. It spat and screeched and lashed out with its claws as its body was riddled with explosive bolts – until, finally, there was simply too little of it left to keep on living.

  The four Space Marines regrouped. ‘My auspex is reading no more life signs,’ one of them reported. Two had livid silver scratches across the chest-plates of their power armour. Ven Mikkelson grimaced at the thought of what the lictor’s claws might have done to his less-protected flesh.

  ‘Why are you still here?’ demanded the Ultramarines sergeant. ‘Did you not get the order to pull out?’

  ‘Our extraction point is an airstrip eight kilometres north of here.’

  ‘We are headed for Katraxis Port,’ said the Ultramarine. ‘We have no time to spare. We must be leaving now.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ agreed Ven Mikkelson. So much for the hope that his squad would have an escort for the rest of their journey, he thought. Still, they stopped to save our lives – which is more than we have been doing. We would only have slowed them down, anyway.

  The Space Marines fired their jump packs again. They leapt away over the cathedral’s front half-wall and out of sight. Ven Mikkelson turned back to his fellow Ice Warriors. They were doing what they could for Vilhelm, expending the contents of their medi-kits on his wounds. It didn’t look good, though.

  They had unbuttoned Vilhelm’s greatcoat and removed his fur hat, yet his face was bathed in sweat. His breathing was ragged. His flak armour was shredded and sticky with blood. He saw his sergeant and tried – but failed – to catch up to him.

  ‘Leave me,’ Guardsman Vilhelm pleaded.

  ‘You don’t get out of duty that easy,’ said Ven Mikkelson gruffly. There’s still a chance, he thought, if we could get him to the troopship’s medicae ward.

  ‘Never make it, sergeant,’ Vilhelm insisted, between painful wheezes. ‘Never make it to… extraction point if… me slowing you down, and I… Don’t let me be responsible for…’

  Ven Mikkelson waved the others aside. He crouched in front of Vilhelm. He looked so very young. But then, they always did. Sweat had plastered his straw-coloured hair to his head. Ven Mikkelson looked into Vilhelm’s eyes and saw the light in them already fading. He had been here so many times before. It was still the most difficult of all his duties.

  With a sudden burst of strength, Vilhelm gripped his sergeant’s hand. ‘Do something for me… please. I don’t want to lie here, helpless… for another bug to find me. Rather end it… cleanly.’

  Ven Mikkelson nodded. He had heard such requests before.

  His squad gathered around their fallen comrade, to pray over him. Ven Mikkelson said a prayer to the Emperor too, for the strength to administer His mercy. He changed his power pack and took a deep breath. He levelled his weapon at his loyal comrade’s head.

  The side gate had been reopened.

  They were letting more people through. Some were tearfully grateful for their reprieve, reminding Teilloch of his noble purpose. The number of angry rejects was mounting, however – as was the number intent on making trouble. Couldn’t they see that they were slowing the process down, risking more lives?

  Bodies were piling up on the plascrete flagstones.

  He heard a sudden burst of gunfire.

  A civilian had snatched an autogun and was madly blasting it in all directions. He shot down a trooper who tried to take the weapon off him. As Teilloch started forward, a bullet pinged off his helmet. He couldn’t bring his own weapon to bear through the panicking crowd. Other troopers were closer than he was, anyway. The shooter performed a grotesque dance of agony, as their slugs ripped through his body.

&n
bsp; The incident was over in seconds – long enough for some to see an opportunity and take it. A dozen people, then a dozen more, broke through the cordon and raced for the landing pads, with still more straining to follow their lead. ‘Hold them back!’ yelled Corporal Barnard. ‘Hold them–’ He was choked off as the next wave of desperate humanity swept him off his feet.

  Teilloch shot two of the charging civilians. Law-breakers, he told himself. Even Alvado resorted to deadly force as a fiery-eyed labourer came at him with a makeshift cudgel. In self-defence, he thrust his bayonet through his attacker’s throat. ‘I enlisted to protect these people, not slaughter them,’ he protested loudly, wiping blood off his face with a sleeve. ‘We are doing the xenos’ work for them.’

  Teilloch was tiring of his comrade’s complaints. Most of all, it bothered him that he never knew how to refute them. ‘They were warned,’ he grunted.

  ‘You can’t blame them for being afraid and angry. You can’t blame them for fighting to survive.’ When all this was over, Teilloch decided, he would report Alvado to Corporal Barnard.

  When all this is over…

  It had been an unguarded thought, but it filled him with sickening dread. He swallowed and focused on the present, on his duty. It wasn’t his responsibility to think about the future – the looming, terrifying future.

  A pair of Space Marines had waded into the fray, heading towards the port. Their weapons were more efficient, more deadly, than those of Home Guard issue. They spat out red-hot bolts that burst on impact, punching bloody holes through their luckless targets. Teilloch averted his gaze from the carnage. Disobedience amounts to treason. The crowd was faltering, losing heart, but still he had to stand firm against them. They would seize upon the slightest sign of weakness.

  ‘Why shouldn’t we survive, for that matter?’

  He turned to Alvado. He was sizing up the nearest idling freighter, its embarkation ramp only a few hundred steps away and his eyes were now decisive, determined. He took a deep breath and announced, ‘I’m taking my chance. How about you, Arch? You coming with me? Do you want to live?’