The Greater Good

TEN

Our descent was uneventful, and as uncomfortable as I’d anticipated. True to form, the Mechanicus had apparently decided that refinements like seat padding were unnecessary, and probably inefficient to boot, so we found ourselves perching on a welded metal bench, above which safety harnesses had been fastened at what seemed to me to be the most inconvenient height rational analysis could have determined.

There was little attempt at conversation from any of us. Our voices would have had to be raised to be heard over the shriek of the engines in any case, soundproofing being another refinement the tech-priests apparently considered redundant[73]. Jurgen had lapsed into his usual airsickness-induced torpor as soon as we hit the atmosphere, while Kildhar maintained a thoughtful silence, her eyes unfocused[74], and I was as preoccupied as ever, wondering if I was doing the right thing. Something about the tech-priest’s words in the hangar bay disturbed me, and I replayed them in my mind obsessively.

‘Since it’s you,’ she’d said. At the time I’d taken that purely as a reference to my reputation, and the toehold in the Mechanicus camp my position as Dysen and Zyven’s go-between had afforded me, but on reflection there had been something about the cadence of her voice which had hinted at something else. And she seemed to have arranged clearance for me to visit this shrine remarkably quickly, given how hidebound the disciples of the Omnissiah generally were by tradition and precedent, and how jealously they guarded their secrets.

‘Where are we going, exactly?’ I asked, as her eyes finally focused again. By this time we were skimming across one of the ash wastes, a patch of blight downwind from the furnaces of the south-western manufactory zone, which seemed to stretch halfway to the horizon. Bilious brown and yellow clouds scudded across its surface, whorled into phantom shapes by the slipstream of our passage: noxious effusions from the heart of the slowly cooling embers of industry, whose toxic touch would suffocate or burn the unwary to death in a matter of moments. Offhand, I could think of few places I’d ever been which looked so singularly uninviting.

‘Regio Quinquaginta Unus,’ she replied. ‘One of our most sacred shrines. Few outside our order are even aware of its existence.’

‘Then I’m honoured to be made an exception,’ I said, in my most diplomatic tone.

‘What’s so special about it?’ Jurgen asked, roused from his silent suffering by the prospect of being back on the ground before long, and cutting directly to the heart of the matter as he so often did.

Kildhar seemed taken aback by the directness of the question, and pondered a moment before making a reply. ‘It’s a repository,’ she said at last. ‘Of knowledge so ancient its origins are lost to us. And a sanctuary, for those dedicated to its recovery and application.’

‘You’re talking about archeotech, aren’t you?’ I said, and the tech-priest nodded. She seemed to be getting better at it, I noted absently, unless it was just that she meant it this time.

‘Recovered from a dozen places across the sector,’ she told me reverently, ‘and brought here for preservation and study.’

‘I can appreciate why you would want to keep that confidential,’ I said, suppressing a shudder. I’d come across a few revenant artefacts myself over the decades, and the consequences had never been good. Memories of dodging genestealers in the bowels of a space hulk jostled with those of the lunatic fervour in Killian’s eyes as he tried to convince me that dragging the galaxy into damnation was the best way to save it, and of the relentless advance of the gleaming metal killers in the labyrinth of tunnels beneath Interitus Prime. ‘That kind of knowledge can attract the wrong kind of attention.’

‘Then we must rely on your discretion,’ she said.

‘I’m honoured that you think you can,’ I said, truthfully enough, already beginning to compose an urgently worded dispatch to Amberley in my head as I spoke[75]. For all I knew the Inquisition was already perfectly aware of this stockpile of primordial junk, but it never hurt to spread the word a little further, especially if one of the inquisitors in the know happened to be a dangerous loon[76], like the late and unlamented Killian.

There was little time for further conversation after that, as the Aquila banked sharply and the shrine itself came into view. A hexagonal block of rockcrete rose up out of the dark grey drifts beneath us, looking not unlike one of the thousands of defensive bunkers I’d observed, cowered in, or tried to avoid assaulting in the course of my long and inglorious career, until the profusion of vox antennae, heat sinks, and substructures encrusting its surface allowed me to get some sense of scale. It was at least two hundred metres high, and twice that across. As we rose above it, the outline of a blessed cogwheel became visible, inlaid into the roof, and encircling the centre of it, running just inside the narrowest portions of the hexagon. In the very centre the motif was repeated, enclosing a raised landing pad, which at the moment appeared to be unoccupied.

‘I can’t see any guards,’ Jurgen said, turning in his seat to get a better view, and almost throttling himself with the misaligned crash webbing.

‘I’m sure there must be some,’ I said, with a quizzical glance at our hostess. ‘Skitarii?’

‘Three contubernia are stationed here at all times,’ she told me, in a faintly evasive manner.

‘Three squads,’ I said thoughtfully, translating the term into its Imperial Guard equivalent[77]. ‘Should be enough for an installation this size.’

‘It’s proved adequate so far,’ Kildhar assured me. The Aquila was on its final approach now, its landing jets flaring, and I felt the sudden surge of acceleration against my spine as it rose a little to position itself above the centre of the pad. Then the engines powered down, and the landing skids ground against the rockcrete. ‘And, of course, we take other precautions.’ There was a hint of a smile hovering round her lips, despite her best efforts to retain the expressionless face expected of a tech-priest; clearly she was expecting me to ask what.

‘I’d expect nothing less,’ I said, as the whine of our engines died away, refusing to play the game. If I did ask, she’d just tell me I didn’t have the right clearance, subtly underlining who was really in charge here, whereas if I affected complete indifference there was every chance she might let something slip in an attempt to needle me into a response. Before she had the chance to try, though, the Aquila lurched again, prompting a questioning look from my aide.

‘We’re not about to take off again, are we?’ he asked, in tones of resigned dread.

I shook my head. ‘The engines have powered down,’ I pointed out, beginning to wonder why the pilot hadn’t dropped the ramp already. But even as I spoke, the whole shuttle shuddered for a second time, and began to descend slowly through the surface of the roof. The thick raft of rockcrete, and the supporting girderwork, rose smoothly past the viewport, and I found myself looking down into a hangar not dissimilar to the one from which we’d so recently departed. Being part of a Mechanicus shrine rather than a warship, however, the metal walls were bright and reflective instead of drab and stained, and the ground crews scurrying towards us wore the red robes of enginseers instead of void suits.

‘I would recommend remaining seated,’ Kildhar said, a trifle smugly, as I half rose to catch a glimpse of a thick roof sliding closed above us. Clearly, since it was showing so openly, she was finding our surprise a source of considerable amusement. The elevator platform stopped moving, with a faint jerk, and I wavered a moment before regaining my balance.

‘A neat trick,’ I allowed, as a small tractor scuttled across the hangar to attach itself to our shuttle’s nose, and began dragging us away into a corner[78] next to a refuelling point.

‘We have plenty more,’ Kildhar assured me, as the Aquila stopped moving at last, and the boarding ramp began to descend.

Jurgen and I walked down the ramp cautiously, getting our first good look at our surroundings as we did so, Kildhar following a pace or two behind. The air in the cavernous hangar was tainted with the sulphurous stench of the outside atmosphere, but it seemed perfectly breathable. Indeed, within a matter of moments I barely noticed the residual smell at all[79]. ‘That was a good deal more comfortable than our first arrival,’ I remarked, with rather less tact than I might have employed, but Kildhar took the intended meaning without offence.

‘Direct exposure to the environment this far from the hive can be severely deleterious, even to the augmented,’ she said. ‘And, of course, many of the artefacts arrive here in an extremely fragile state. It’s far better to offload them where they can be properly protected.’

‘Quite right too,’ I agreed. ‘And from the hangar, they go where?’

‘That depends.’ Kildhar was leading the way towards a wide, high portal, following the marks made on the floor by innumerable trolley wheels. Clearly some of the specimens they dealt with were of a considerable size, judging by the dimensions of the tunnel beyond. ‘We have a wide range of analyticae here, capable of all kinds of measurement and experimentation.’

‘Just so long as they know what they’re doing,’ Jurgen muttered to me, in a voice he fondly imagined was inaudible.

‘We do,’ Kildhar assured us, the breeziness of her manner enough to show that she believed that, even if I didn’t. She led the way deeper into the massive building at a brisk pace, changing direction so often that I was forced to conclude she was deliberately trying to confuse us. My innate affinity for complex tunnel systems was proving as reliable as ever, though, and I was sure I’d be able to find my way back to the hangar if I had to. ‘It’s not much further now.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ I said, with another ostentatious glance at my chronograph. ‘But I’m afraid I’m already late for my meeting with Magos Dysen. Perhaps if you could take us to a vox?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Kildhar said, a trifle smugly. ‘Alternative arrangements have been made.’ She paused, in front of a doorway which seemed rather larger than it needed to be. ‘We don’t have guest quarters as such, but we do have occasional visitors. If you care to wait in here, the Magos Senioris will be with you within the hour.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, completely wrong-footed, and determined not to show it. Kildhar tapped out a complicated access code on a keypad near the door, which obligingly slid open, with a faint squeal of unlubricated runners.

The room beyond was as spartan as I’d come to expect of our hosts’ tastes, containing little beyond an array of data lecterns, a polished steel conference table with devotional icons of machine parts chased in bronze, and an array of those hideously uncomfortable seats. Several of them seemed far larger, and more robust, than the others, and I gave them a curious glance. Come to that, a few of the lecterns seemed set unusually high as well, so much so that I wouldn’t have been able to use the keyboards without standing on tiptoe. That reminded me of something, but, as is always the way when you try to bring an elusive memory into focus, the harder I tried, the further it slipped from my conscious mind.

‘Any idea what this is, sir?’ Jurgen asked, peering at one of the curiously-shaped pieces of metallic detritus scattered around the room on finely-wrought display stands.

‘None whatsoever,’ I shrugged, ambling over to take a look at it. A few corroded wires protruded from the casing, their bright ends showing where power feeds or instrumentation had been clipped to them during the examination process. ‘But if it’s stuck in a case in here, it’s either been wrung dry or written off.’ I glanced at Kildhar, who looked faintly reproving.

‘Neither,’ she said, a little primly. ‘The Omnissiah’s works can never be fully apprehended, nor casually discarded.’ Then her expression softened a little. ‘But you are substantially correct. This artefact has been thoroughly examined, and no lines of enquiry remain open at this time which seem likely to yield further knowledge.’

Intrigued, I leaned a little closer, and began to read the inscription engraved on the miniscule metal plate riveted to the stand, in letters so small I could barely make them out. ‘Atmospheric sampler, M28…’ At which I broke off, impressed in spite of myself by the staggering antiquity of the thing. ‘M28,’ I resumed, trying to ignore Kildhar’s expression, which on a face less threaded with metal I would only have been able to describe as smug, ‘recovered 854935.M41, Serendipita system…’ Then the penny dropped, and I turned back to the tech-priest, reeling with shock. ‘This is from the Spawn of Damnation!’

‘Quite so,’ she agreed, as if that was the most natural thing in the galaxy. ‘Most of the artefacts recovered from the hulk have been brought here for safekeeping.’ Which made a bizarre kind of sense, if you thought about it. Fecundia was the nearest forge world to Serendipita, stuffed to the gills with tech-priests, and with the right facilities to analyse the loot properly.

Which also explained why I’d been granted access to the place. If it hadn’t been for me, setting the orks and genestealers aboard the derelict at one another’s throats, they’d never have got half so much from it before it disappeared back into the warp. Assuming it had, for you never could tell with space hulks, whose movements were as capricious as the warp currents they drifted on. ‘Is it still there?’ I asked, unable to resist the question.

‘No.’ Kildhar sounded truly regretful at this, the first real emotion I’d heard seeping into her voice. ‘It disappeared back into the warp in 948, and hasn’t been sighted since. Efforts were initially made to track it, but were unsuccessful. In recent years, the Reclaimers have had other calls on their attention.’

‘Haven’t we all,’ I said feelingly. Between the tau and the tyranids, the Imperium was coming under greater pressure in the Eastern Arm than it had done in over a millennium, and none of its other foes had been particularly quiet either. I had no doubt that the Space Marine Chapter I’d been foolish enough to board the derelict alongside would find plenty to keep them amused, even without a vast, three-dimensional labyrinth stuffed with lethal creatures to loot.

‘Indeed so.’ Kildhar hovered for a moment on the threshold. ‘And a great deal is currently demanding mine. I trust your consultation with the Magos Senioris will prove productive.’ And with that she withdrew, the door grinding closed behind her.

‘Typical,’ Jurgen said, collapsing onto the nearest chair, and pulling a porno slate from his pocket to help pass the time. ‘Not even the offer of a mug of recaff.’

‘She’s probably already eaten this month,’ I said sourly, strolling along the length of the room. There were about half a dozen other exhibits ranged about it, all but one from the Spawn of Damnation, and all equally incomprehensible to me as to their age and purpose.

Jurgen suspended his perusal of anatomically improbable artistic engravings, and glanced in my direction. ‘Lucky I brought a flask of tanna along, then. If you feel you could do with one.’

‘Most definitely,’ I agreed, accepting the warm drink gratefully. But before I could taste more than a mouthful, a strident alarm began to blare. ‘Emperor’s bowels, now what!’

Abandoning the steaming flask, I hurried towards the door, anticipating the worst, which in my experience is always the way to bet. I tugged at the handle, but it refused to slide open, and I looked at the keypad in consternation. Kildhar had punched in the number so rapidly it would have been impossible to follow the blur of her augmetic fingers, even if I’d been paying attention, which, I’m bound to admit, I hadn’t.

‘Allow me, sir,’ Jurgen said, raising his lasgun and firing a couple of quick rounds into the mechanism before I could stop him. Too late to worry about how our hosts would react to that now, so I simply seized the handle, and tugged again. ‘Oh, nads‘.

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ I agreed, with rather more asperity than I’d intended. With the locking mechanism destroyed, we were trapped, unable even to discover what had so stirred up the tech-priests. I strained my ears, trying to discern anything which might give us a clue, and hoping to the Throne it wasn’t going to be the premonitory rumblings of some titanic explosion that was about to immolate us all. But the walls were thick, lined in metal, and all I could hear was the humming of the circulators. Which sparked another idea. ‘Can you see anything that looks like an air vent?’ With our only exit immovably jammed, I was damned if I was going to just sit around waiting for the bang.

‘Over here, sir,’ Jurgen called, after a moment of searching, his voice raised to be heard over the harsh bleating of the alarm. He pointed helpfully to a grille near the floor, about twenty centimetres by ten.

‘Well done,’ I encouraged him, feeling I owed him that much for my earlier moment of pettishness, ‘but I was hoping for something a bit larger.’

Jurgen shook his head. ‘They’re all the same, I’m afraid, sir.’

‘Then we’ll just have to improvise,’ I said, drawing my chainsword, thumbing the speed selector up to maximum. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d carved my way through a wall or a door with it, although I’d seldom had to use it on anything as robust as the ones here looked. ‘Watch out for sparks.’

But before I could make my first attack, the slab of metal bulged as something struck it hard from the other side, jarring it free of its runners. Jurgen and I exchanged an uneasy glance, and then stepped back, raising our weapons. My free hand fell to the laspistol holstered at my side, but before I could draw it, another blow shivered the door, and a quartet of incredibly sharp talons punctured their way through. As I watched, momentarily paralysed in disbelieving horror, the hand behind them clenched into a fist, ripping a hole the size of my head in the thick steel plate.

Jurgen opened fire at once, directing a burst of las-bolts through the aperture, and the creature beyond recoiled for a moment before pressing its attack. Then a second set of talons punctured the metal as though it were cardboard, slashing down to open a jagged rent, while the first ripped a diagonal tear across to join it. I drew my laspistol as a second pair of hands, tipped with smaller claws and bearing an extra finger apiece, took a firm hold of the ragged barrier, before yanking it free of the runners and tossing it aside.

From the moment the first set of talons had burst through the door I’d had a queasy feeling that I knew what manner of beast was on the other side, and now I knew I was right. I just had the merest fraction of a second to register the fact, before Jurgen’s and my fingers tightened on our triggers, and a purestrain genestealer, its jaws agape, charged straight down the barrels of our guns.