Forge of Mars - Graham McNeill Read online

  Her father turned from the Halo Scar and said, ‘What gives you cause for such optimism?’

  Linya hesitated before answering, though she suspected her father already knew what her answer would be. ‘The Valette Manifold station was the last known point of contact with the lost fleet of Magos Telok. It is not unreasonable to presume there is a reason this system was able to receive a Manifold transmission from Telok’s fleet. Perhaps it lies in a corridor where the gravitational fields annul one another. I cannot accept it was an accident that Valette lies precisely on our optimal route to the Halo Scar. I believe the will of the Omnissiah has brought us here, father.’

  ‘Have you considered that you may be as much a victim of confirmation bias as those without augmentation?’

  ‘Yes, but I have dismissed the possibility. The chances of Valette lying on our projected flight path from Joura is infinitesimal given the sheer volume of potential routes, elliptical irregularities in its orbit and the system’s axiomatic volatility.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Vitali. ‘And I must say that I am rather looking forward to inloading the data streams from a Mechanicus Manifold station this close to the Scar. Who knows what information they might have accumulated in the last few hundred years?’

  A shiver of data-light passed along the conduits of the floor as a rotating cog-door opened on the wall behind Linya; bright veils of biographical information, operational status and current inload/exload data burden rose from the floor.

  Tarkis Blaylock swept into the astrogation dome, and his inload burden immediately spiked as he drank in the liquid data that surrounded him. He directed the appropriate code blurts of greeting to both Linya and her father. Perfunctory, but she expected no less. Though the mores and modes of address were utterly removed from unaugmented individuals, many of the same cues existed – albeit on a binary level – to convey the subtlest hints of reproach, approbation or, in this case, carefully masked disdain.

  ‘Magos Blaylock,’ said Vitali, employing a rustic form of binaric protocols that had fallen out of use with the rediscovery of high-function lingua-technis nearly five thousand years ago. ‘A pleasure to see you, as always. What brings you to the astrogation dome?’

  ‘A matter that would be best discussed in private,’ said Blaylock, pointedly ignoring Linya.

  ‘Whatever you would say to me in private, I will only later relay to my daughter,’ said Vitali, scrolling through the system data of the Ketheria system. ‘Therefore, in the interests of brevity and the better employment of our time, I suggest you simply say what it is you have come to say.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Blaylock, moving deeper into the chamber and turning his green-hued optics to its upper segmentae, where the mysterious reaches of far-off galaxies spun like misty spiderwebs. ‘I have come to seek your support.’

  ‘Support for what?’ asked Vitali.

  ‘Support for my claims upon Archmagos Kotov’s Martian forges when they are redistributed.’

  ‘Isn’t that a little premature?’ asked Linya. ‘We haven’t even reached the edge of the galaxy and you speak like this expedition has already failed.’

  ‘The expedition was always statistically unlikely to succeed,’ said Blaylock, turning a full circle and scanning the contents of the pellucid star systems. ‘Nothing has changed. The most likely outcome of this voyage is that the Halo Scar will prove to be impenetrable and Archmagos Kotov will be forced to return to Mars in failure.’

  ‘If you were so sure this expedition would fail why did you come?’

  ‘The Fabricator General himself seconded me to Archmagos Kotov,’ said Blaylock, his lingua-technis making sure they understood the full weight of the authority vested in him. ‘To lose so important a vessel as the Speranza on a fool’s errand into a region of cursed space would be unforgivable. I am to see that this vessel is not needlessly sacrificed on the altar of one man’s desperation to regain his former glory.’

  ‘How very noble of you,’ said Linya, not even bothering to mask her contempt.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Blaylock, ignoring her jibe.

  ‘And when Kotov returns with his tail between his legs, there will be a feeding frenzy to claim his last remaining holdings,’ said Vitali. ‘You think they should go to you?’

  ‘I am the most suited to take control of his Tharsis forges,’ agreed Blaylock.

  ‘A suspicious man might say you have a vested interest in the expedition failing,’ said Vitali.

  ‘A human assumption, but a fallacious one. I will fully support Arch-magos Kotov until such time as I believe that the chance of irredeemable damage to the Speranza outweighs the possibility of any useful recovery of knowledge. Since the latter is the most likely outcome, it is logical for me seek the support of senior magi prior to our return to Mars. You are aware of my high standing in the Priesthood, and I should not forget such support when the time comes to consider requisition requests. There is a great deal of technology on Mars that I could see allocated to Quatria to make it the foremost cartographae gallery in the Imperium.’

  ‘First you attempt to veto my father’s appointment to this expedition and now you try to buy him off with transparent bribes?’ said Linya, resorting to her flesh voice to truly discomfit Blaylock.

  ‘I voted against his inclusion because I believe there are better qualified magos that could have provided cartographae support.’

  ‘None of whom have travelled this way before,’ snapped Linya. ‘My father’s presence here gives the expedition a far better chance of success, and that isn’t in your scavenger’s interests, is it?’

  ‘You presume I am working to fixed notions and human modes of behaviour,’ retorted Blaylock, matching her with his own augmented voice. ‘As the situation changes, so too does my behavioural map; after all, I am not an automaton. The failure of this expedition is a virtual statistical certainty, and it would be foolish of me not to make contingencies.’

  ‘And what if the expedition doesn’t fail?’

  ‘Then the Quest for Knowledge will have been furthered and a sacred duty to the Omnissiah will have been served,’ said Blaylock. ‘Either way, I shall be content to serve the will of Mars.’

  ‘I think you are lying,’ said Linya.

  ‘Mistress Tychon, if you insist on projecting human behavioural patterns that do not apply to my modes of thinking onto my motivations then we will continue in this pointless loop for some time.’

  ‘Perhaps your calculations are in error,’ said Linya.

  Blaylock spread his arms wide and a wealth of daedal statistical algorithms burst into the noospheric air like a flock of avian raptors. Almost too grand in scope to evaluate, Blaylock’s complex lattices of equations were beautiful constructions of impeccable logic. Even a cursory inload told Linya there would be no errors.

  The odds of Kotov’s expedition succeeding were so small as to be negligible.

  Though she knew it was depressingly human, Linya said, ‘The waypoint data at Valette will alter your calculations.’

  ‘You are correct,’ agreed Blaylock. ‘But not enough to make a significant difference.’

  ‘We will see soon enough,’ said Vitali, drawing out the translucent orrery of the Valette system and highlighting the Mechanicus Manifold station. ‘We translate back into real space in ten hours.’

  To see so many arms of the Imperium’s martial strength working together in fluid harmony was pleasing to Magos Dahan. Colonel Anders’s Imperial Guard fought through a vast recreation of a shell-ruined city, every grid-block laced with a fiendish web of integral defences, carefully plotted arcs of fire, triangulated kill-zones and numerous open junctions to cross. It was an attacker’s worst nightmare, but so far the Cadian war-methodology was proving effective.

  Of course, it didn’t hurt that they fought alongside a full repertoire of Adeptus Mechanicus killing machines. Quadrupedal praetori
ans of flesh and steel stalked through areas too dangerous for human soldiers, implanted cannons and energy weapons firing with whooping bangs and crackling whip-cracks of beam discharge. Packs of weaponised servitors scaled the sides of buildings with implanted grappling equipment to rain down death from above with shoulder-mounted rotary launchers and grenade dumpers. Squads of Dahan’s skitarii spearheaded assaults into occupied structures, supported by Cadian Hellhounds that flushed enemy servitor-drones into the open with gouts of blazing promethium. Sentinels smashed down weakened walls to flank enemy units and provide forward reconnaissance data for the following infantry, who in turn marched alongside Leman Russ battle tanks, Chimeras and growling Basilisks.

  Of course there were casualties, a great many casualties, but so far no company or clan had suffered enough to render it combat-ineffective. The number of registered deaths was well within acceptable parameters and would not affect the overall outcome of the conflict.

  And lording over the battle were the gods of war themselves.

  The battle-engines of Legio Sirius strode through the smoking ruins, underlit by the flames of battle, strobing las discharge and the bright plumes of inferno cannon fire. Legio standards and kill banners hung from their waist gimbals and billowed like sails atop their grey, gold and blue carapaces. Hot thermals shrieked in the vortices of tortured air that surrounded them.

  Lupa Capitalina towered over all, its vast guns pouring destructive energies into the mass of the ruined city. Despite its warheads lacking explosive ordnance, the kinetic force of such munitions was wreaking havoc on Dahan’s simulated city. While Amarok darted from ruined shells of hab-blocks to pounce on enemy targets of opportunity before vanishing into the flame-cast shadows, Vilka threaded its way through the city and hid until its larger brethren approached. As Canis Ulfrica or Lupa Capitalina drew near and defending forces rallied to meet them, Vilka would strike from ambush then retreat before any reprisal could be launched against it.

  Dahan ground through the smashed training arena atop his Iron Fist, meshed with its control mechanisms and directing the armoured vehicle with pulses from the MIU cables trailing from the nape of his neck. Though live rounds smacked off stonework and reflected splinters of lasgun fire fizzed through the air, he was in no danger. Inbuilt refractor generators on the vehicle’s hull meant there wasn’t so much as a scratch on the Iron Fist’s paintwork. Everywhere Dahan looked, Imperial forces were advancing with relentless mathematical precision, an orchestration of death of which he was the composer.

  Fire and manoeuvre, building by building, his city of death was proving ineffective in halting the Imperial advance. Where one attacking element was weak, another was strong. The hammer of the Guard and the precise applied force of the Adeptus Mechanicus was working well together.

  Only one element was missing from the fight, but Dahan expected them soon enough.

  As objective after objective fell, the tactical viability of the city was degraded to such an extent that Dahan saw there would be little point in its continuance. He called a halt to the exercise with a pulse of thought, and banks of arc-lights clattered to life on the roof of the vast training deck. Giant extractors drew in breaths of smoke and particulate matter to be ejected into the Speranza’s wake. In moments the vast space was clear of fumes, and the echoes of battle began to fade. Dahan drove the Iron Fist through a junction clogged with rubble and toppled facsimiles of Imperial saints. A number of his servitor drones lay sprawled beneath the debris, their bodies mangled and charred black by the weapons of the Cadians. The servitors’ organic matter would be burned away and the mechanical components recovered before being reconsecrated and grafted to another flesh drone. Dahan’s olfactory senses tasted the refined mix of promethium; detecting extra compounds of fossilised hydrocarbons and a rarified cellulose element that bore chemical hallmarks of northern Cadian pine.

  A squad of Cadians approached his tank, and he recognised the regiment’s colonel. The man’s respiratory rate was highly elevated, significantly more so than those of his soldiers.

  ‘Colonel Anders,’ said Dahan with a curt nod of respect. ‘Once again, your men performed beyond expectations.’

  ‘Your expectations, maybe. They matched mine exactly,’ said Anders, removing his helmet and running a damp cloth over his forehead. ‘So, tell me, how did we do?’

  ‘Admirably,’ said Dahan, descending from the tank’s cupola. ‘Every objective in the city has been captured, with minimal losses.’

  ‘Describe minimal.’

  ‘Average company fatality rates were eighteen point seven five per cent, with a debilitating wound percentage of thirteen point six. I am rounding up, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Anders. ‘That sounds about right for a city this size, maybe slightly under.’

  The colonel planted a booted foot on the blackened body of a downed servitor, rolling it onto its back. The cybernetic’s hands were pulled tight in burn-fused claws, its jaws stretched wide. Anders winced.

  ‘Do they feel pain, do you think?’ he asked.

  Dahan shook his head. ‘No, the parieto-insular cortex that processes pain through the neuromatrix is one of many segments of the brain cauterised during the servitude transmogrification process.’

  ‘Makes them bastards to fight,’ said Anders. ‘An enemy that fears pain is already halfway to beaten.’

  ‘And Cadians don’t feel pain?’ asked Dahan, adding a rhetorical blurt of lingua-technis.

  ‘We live with pain every day,’ said Anders. ‘What other way is there to live with the Great Eye overhead?’

  ‘I have no frame of reference with which to answer that.’

  ‘No, I expect not,’ said Anders, turning back to Dahan. ‘So, eighteen point seven five per cent? We’ll see if we can’t get it down to fifteen by the time we reach the Scar.’

  Dahan gestured to the augmented warriors in black armour forming up in regimented ranks beyond the edges of the captured city. ‘The Adeptus Mechanicus skitarii were a factor in lowering that average, as was the presence of Legio Sirius.’

  Anders laughed. ‘True enough, you can’t beat having a Titan Legion at your back to help keep enemy heads down. Those skitarii are some tough sons of groxes. I’ll be glad to have them at my side if we end up having to fight when we get to where we’re going.’

  ‘Fighting will, I fear, prove inevitable,’ said Magos Dahan. ‘Whatever secrets lie beyond the galaxy will not be surrendered willingly by those who possess them.’

  ‘More than likely,’ agreed Anders, removing a canvas-lined canteen from his webbing and taking a long drink. When he had sated his thirst he emptied the canteen over his head, taking deep breaths to lower his heart rate.

  ‘It is commendable that you fight alongside your Guardsmen,’ said Dahan. ‘Illogical, but brave.’

  ‘No Cadian officer would command any other way,’ said Anders. ‘Not if he wants to keep his rank. It’s always been that way, always will be.’

  ‘I calculate that you are at least fifteen years older than your soldiers,’ said Dahan.

  ‘So?’ said Anders, a note of warning in his tone.

  ‘You are in excellent physical condition for a man of your age, but the risk to the command and control functions of your regiment far outweighs the benefits to the men’s morale at being able to see their commanding officer.’

  ‘Then you don’t know much about Cadians,’ said Anders, shouldering his rifle.

  ‘So people keep reminding me, though such an observation is fundamentally incorrect.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Anders, stepping onto the running boards of the Iron Fist. ‘Have you ever been to Cadia, Magos Dahan? Are you Cadian?’

  ‘No, to both questions.’

  ‘Then no matter how much you think you know about Cadians, you don’t know shit,’ said Anders. ‘The only way to really know a Cadian is to fight him
, and I don’t think you want that.’

  Though the colonel had not raised his voice and his body language was not overtly threatening, Dahan’s threat response sent a jolt of adrenal-boosters into his floodstream. He felt his weapon arms flex, power saturating his energy blades and internal cavity ammo stores shucking shells into breeches. He quelled the response with a thought, shocked at how quickly Ven Anders had switched from affability to a war-stance.

  ‘You are correct, Colonel Anders,’ said Dahan. ‘I do not want that.’

  ‘Not many do, but I think you’re about to get to know someone else better than you might like.’

  ‘Colonel?’

  Anders nodded to something over Dahan’s shoulder and said, ‘Your faith in your methods is about to be tested pretty hard.’

  Dahan swivelled around his central axis and his threat systems kicked in again as he saw Kul Gilad leading his battle squad of Templars towards him.

  The giant Reclusiarch came to a halt before Dahan, a towering slab of ceramite and steel with a face of death.

  ‘We are here for the bout,’ said Kul Gilad.

  Word of the duel spread quickly through the training deck, and soon hundreds of soldiers, skitarii and clean-up crews had formed a giant circle around Magos Dahan and the Black Templars. Servitors were halted in their duties and lifted soldiers high enough to see, and rubble was hastily stacked to provide a better view. Soldiers stood on tanks, on Sentinels or wherever they could find a vantage point to see this once in a lifetime fight.

  Captain Hawkins pushed through the press of bodies, using Lieutenant Rae and his rank as a battering ram to move entrenched soldiers aside. It didn’t take long to reach the front of the circle, where he saw Magos Dahan facing the towering might of Kul Gilad.

  ‘Surely he’s not going to take on the big fella?’ said Rae. ‘He’s a bloody tank.’