Throne of light, p.28
Throne Of Light, page 28
The landing zone had no direct access into the mountain, to prevent it being used as an avenue of attack, Areios judged. It was still a weakness. The procession shuffled along only as fast as the clicking legs of Sveen’s spider-chair could carry him, and the Space Marine had plenty of time to survey the site. He found the defences lacking.
Their route was a path only a few yards wide, warded by railings, whose every fourth pole was topped with a flashing, beeping lumen, as if that were necessary to warn people of the precipitous drop. Most of Srinagar was out of sight underground, the rectangles in the surface visible from orbit revealed to be great aperture lights that led from sloped ferrocrete housings into the ceiling of the settlement below. Data inload acquired before departure told him that these were shut at times of high stellar activity. Currently, particle bombardment was in the null-phase, and they were open. To the south-west, the city’s greater edifices and certain machineries poked up into the open air, and further off were the landing fields of the primary space port. Between these buildings the despoliation mankind inflicted upon its worlds was clear to see in tox-scarring, quarrying and piles of unsorted refuse dumped on the surface. But when they rounded the spur of the landing ridge, they could see south to the horizon over an unspoiled wilderness of rolling plains punctuated by crags, where herds of large, dome-backed beasts ambled, unaffected by their proximity to the city.
Areios remembered Messinius’ orders. He turned his attention to the delegation. Fabian was making conversation with the first transliterator.
Engage recording, he instructed his battleplate’s machine-spirit, then tracked through all aural input, scrubbing out everything until Fabian’s words were crystal clear.
‘I understand that Srinagar’s surface is dangerous to humans,’ Fabian was saying. ‘Something to do with the weather?’
‘It is periodically dangerous,’ explained Rumagoi. ‘Although it appears from here we have but one sun, we are a binary system. Our suns, Srin and Gar, are mismatched in size, Gar being the smaller, and in a very tight orbit with Srin. The gravitic effects of Srin on Gar cause perturbations in its solarsphere, which result in bursts of dangerous subatomic particles. So when we speak about the weather, we are referring to these eructations from the secondary star,’ he said. ‘Predicting our solar storms is a complicated art, but we are dependent on it here.’
‘What about these native creatures?’ Fabian asked. ‘How do they survive?’
Areios panned his view out over the plains. Threat indicators in the median range flashed around the beasts when he zoomed his auto-senses in to them. Already he was formulating kill-tactics.
‘It’s very interesting,’ said Rumagoi. Areios noted a change in tone: enthusiasm, he thought. Rumagoi was warming to his subject. ‘The local life is well adapted to the bombardment, but the particle sleet is deadly to the human form, and so when the star spits, we must hide underground. We live as much under the open air as we can, but we must be careful, and there are sometimes mistakes. The local life can stand it, because the species here possesses a very dense gene-code. If I may explain?’
‘Go ahead, don’t worry about patronising me. My knowledge is broad, but shallow. I live to learn,’ said Fabian.
‘The human form houses a double gene strand,’ said Rumagoi. ‘Theirs has twenty-eight. Our genetors established a long time ago that this is an effective defence mechanism against neutron bombardment. If part of their genetic make-up is corrupted, it is deactivated, and another part, identical, takes over. There is multiple redundancy built into their being. We humans don’t have that. They have other adaptations as well, you see their high backs, the thick skin?’
‘I do,’ said Fabian.
‘They have blisters of super-dense liquids throughout, hyper-saline, saturated with iodine. This also keeps them safe. Furthermore, they possess a magnetic sense that helps them predict the storms some hours before the brunt hits. One of the first arts our astrameteomancers learn is observation of our animals. For example, when they sink low, there will be a shower. When they make burrows, they are preparing to wait out a long storm. They can last for a year or more if they have to in a form of hibernation. It is supposed that life must have arisen here long before the stars’ orbits neared, and evolved over time to cope with the particle effusions of Gar. They’re quite fascinating. I have numerous treatises, if you are interested.’
‘We historitors are interested in everything,’ said Fabian. ‘They are close to the city, and there appear to be a lot of them. Are they not exploited?’
This questioning confused Areios. Most of what Fabian was asking was freely available on the ships. He thought at first the historitor had been lax, then he saw the look on Rumagoi’s face: pride at being useful and knowledgeable. He looked to Fabian. The historitor wore an encouraging smile.
Tactical assessment, he said to himself. Hypothesis. Fabian Guelphrain is doing this deliberately. He is putting the other man at his ease.
Areios had a flash of his time as a youth, a memory fragment that came from nowhere. Playing with the little ones, telling them stories, praising their small achievements to fill their hearts with good feelings and encourage them to better efforts. He barely recognised the memory as his own, but was this what Fabian was doing? Areios thought it was.
‘Their biology makes them practically useless for any purpose other than a few esoteric technologies,’ Rumagoi responded. ‘They are all highly toxic, and cannot be eaten. Some are harvested for their salts, but they are fierce, their adaptations to the sun serve equally well as armour against attack, so the risks outweigh the gains. Besides, Srinagar is well blessed with resources that are much easier to gather. We use those to fulfil the exacta, which is low thanks to our special status as a relay hub – we exist here primarily to serve the Adepta. There are few settlements on the world, and therefore no need to kill the beasts. Live and let live, I say.’
‘Any intelligent xenos?’
They crossed the ridge now, and Areios saw the massive stairway that cleaved up from the plain. There was no vehicular traffic on it, only pedestrians and small, legged, personal conveyances, but a great throng of people was moving between the mountain and the city. This was a major weakness in the defences. Areios took a pict-capt and marked it for urgent conveyance to the lord lieutenant, because it appeared an even greater vulnerability when seen close than it had on the mission files. Beneath, after a long drop, there were lesser stairs clinging to the cliffs; entrances to the mountains, more weaknesses. A cordon of Guardsmen in planetary defence and Adeptus Astra Telepathica uniforms kept part of the main stair clear for the dignitaries. Cyber constructs swept back and forth overhead, scanning the crowd for potential assassins. They were taking a risk greeting Fabian’s party so openly.
Politics, Areios thought. A display of power.
‘Ah now, that is interesting,’ said Rumagoi. ‘None extant, but there are archaeological ruins on the southern continent that date back to antiquity. Local legend has it that they were struck down by the Emperor Himself for their deviant ways.’
‘You’re a very knowledgeable man.’
Fabian’s compliment made Rumagoi even prouder, but he waved it away.
‘I only try to read as widely as one can. I believe a man serves the Emperor best when he is best informed, though that is not a popular opinion.’ He looked at Fabian. ‘I assume it is safe to say that to someone like you. It isn’t always wise to admit to curiosity.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ agreed Fabian. ‘But you’re safe with me.’
A promise he cannot keep, thought Areios. But not insincere.
They went down a path that joined the main stairs near the top, where they were broad and flattened out. Areios marked every strength and weakness he could find. The gates to the mountain were as thick and strong as those of any fortress, and they were closed. They looked formidable, but their position meant they would be easily targeted by ground artillery fire. The group went inside via a side gate guarded by yet more security personnel, and he judged this yet another weak point. Once inside, the group broke up. Sveen took his leave of them, and departed with the majority of his dignitaries. Rumagoi told his own servants to show Vallia and Sulymanya to the complex that would house the administrative part of the historitors’ efforts. Areios watched the delicate dance of pleasantry and command, until he was called and directed over to the military officers of the mountain.
The group of Astra Militarum and Adeptus Astra Telepathica personnel lined up and stood to attention as he approached. He deactivated his vid-capture function. Despite the thickness of the main gates and the martial displays outside, this would be a hard place to hold if it were attacked. He would have to tell these people. He would have to heed Messinius’ lessons on tact while he did it.
He tried his best. It didn’t work.
After that, his real work began.
‘I shall show you to our archives,’ Rumagoi said to Fabian. The first transliterator was a little pompous, but his obvious enthusiasm for knowledge made the historitor like him.
Fabian received word that the rest of his people were arriving, and voxed orders that the Logos begin landing their equipment. The day was moving up a gear. There was a lot of work to be done and already it appeared that the relay was preparing for invasion, for there were a great many soldiers within, and he realised many of the people moving up and down the great stair were preparing to evacuate. Inside the mountain, the sense of powerful minds at work was stronger, a psychic background radiation that made Fabian’s soft palate itch.
Rumagoi pointed out various areas of interest as he took Fabian deeper underground, explaining its construction, with the choir housed in a duratanium sphere at the centre of an artificial cavern, and the adepts’ tabularia all around the outside. Power was geothermal for the whole settlement, and he gave troop numbers, defensive batteries, and many other facts and figures. He obviously wanted to impress Fabian, so Fabian obliged with encouraging noises and follow-on questions.
By several long stairs they reached a hall deep beneath the surface, its high ceilings held up by a forest of pillars. Much of it was empty, and dimly lit, but lumens shone at the far end where a run of iron railings between the pillars divided the hall in two.
‘We are directly below the choir here,’ Rumagoi said quietly, as if the astropaths could hear him. ‘This is the most secure part of the complex, so if the enemy do come, you shall be safe.’
‘The archives are better fortified than the choir?’
‘Absolutely. Astropaths are easier to replace than information,’ Rumagoi explained. ‘There is ten thousand years of data kept here. The stories of the xenos may not be true, but this relay does go back to the foundation of the Imperium. I have the proof of that.’ Rumagoi caught the look in Fabian’s eyes. ‘It’s exciting, isn’t it?’
Beyond the bars lay tantalising banks of wooden cabinets and bookshelf stacks forty feet high. An enormous lock held the gate closed. A man in simple green robes sat behind a pulpit within touching distance of the gate. There was nothing on the sloped board before him, no screens or buttons, but around his neck he wore a key of such size and weight that it bent his posture into a permanent bow. A visored helmet was bonded to his skull, and had been there for some time by the looks of it, his skin having grown up into rough ridges around the edges.
‘Archivist!’ Rumagoi called. ‘Open the gate. We have a special visitor.’
The archivist mumbled something under his breath, and came out from behind the desk. His feet had been replaced by a wheeled unit, and he glided to the gate.
‘The vault of knowledge is always open to you, oh vaunted one,’ the archivist said. With some effort, he lifted his giant key, placed it in the lock, and turned.
Latches snapped back all the way up the gate, the archivist gave it a gentle push, and it groaned open.
Rumagoi bowed formally. ‘Historitor Majoris, by the permission of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica, the archives of the Srinagar astrotelepathic relay are open to you, for the glory of the Emperor, and the returned primarch.’
Fabian looked upon the rows of cupboards and shelves, each one brimming with secrets. His heart beat a little quicker. He was very different to the adept plucked from obscurity by Guilliman, but he still coveted information.
‘I shall take a look around, if you would give me a brief tour, so I can consider the best plan of attack,’ said Fabian briskly. ‘We won’t have time to pack all this. You must help us prioritise the physical media you wish to evacuate. Do you have data-looms?’
‘We do. Most of this is recorded upon them, or so it is believed.’ He gestured at the scrolls, books and miscellaneous data storage. ‘The looms are this way. Shall we go there first?’
Fabian nodded. ‘I will summon the others. We shall begin work immediately.’
Chapter Thirty
ROSTOV HUNTS
THE EVER-LIVING EMPEROR
CONGREGATION
Colus was the man’s name.
Rostov had a list on his person, a small, select band of citizens who included the man whose face Lacrante had watched melt, and the assassin who had taken down Tolmun. They called themselves the Church of the Ever-Living Emperor, a legitimate, if fringe cult who had passed the last round of Adeptus Ministorum accordance assessments comfortably.
Rostov was almost certain they were not what they said they were.
The inquisitor and his retinue were heading to root them out of the deep hab-zones of sector aleph-7 when the warning sirens rose up from the mountain.
‘That doesn’t sound good,’ said Cheelche, waddling as fast as she could to keep up with her human comrades. She cradled her favoured weapon in her upper arms, a square-profiled t’au-built plasma carbine, carried stock up, finger covering the trigger guard ready to snap fire. Her lower arms were on show, not hidden as they usually were. She had paired chikanti las-grips wrapped like knuckledusters round her clenched fists. Though they were something of a signature weapon for her species, she didn’t use the grips much. Cheelche preferred a mismatched set of xenos pistols ordinarily, but the grips were a good choice for the warren of hab-blocks, being broad-spread weapons that put out a laser fan big as a shield. More like lascutters than guns, their focal point extended no farther than a few feet, but they would slice an armoured warrior in two should he be foolish enough to stand within that range.
‘There is another storm coming in,’ said Rostov. ‘A big one.’
Lacrante and Antoniato shared an uneasy look.
‘Now?’ asked Lacrante. ‘That’ll make things difficult for the fleet.’
‘The stars do not govern themselves according to human wishes, no matter what the priests have to say,’ said Rostov. ‘Ignore it. Focus on our task.’
They were making for a location four blocks away and three levels down, out of the main caverns. There the character of Srinagar changed. It was darker, dingier, ripe with the smell of leaking sewer pipes from the city above. The corridor-streets were both narrow and low, and the rooms opening off them appeared to have been carved into the rock with little regard for planning, making the sector a kill-zone of angular traps and cover. There were piles of rubbish everywhere. Even in a small city like Srinagar, on a planet blessed with relative wealth, there was always space for deprivation.
All that part of the city was deserted, the majority of its civilians having already been evacuated. They saw no one but a single patrol of enforcers sweeping for stragglers. After a brief challenge, Rostov sent them on their way, though they shot black looks at the chikanti as they moved off.
‘Keep a low profile, go back to the ship,’ Cheelche muttered to herself. ‘Hey, Cheelche, now you’ve been sat in a dark hold for a week, why don’t you just roam about the streets with a big sign saying “I’m a filthy xenos” on your back?’ She kicked a rusted food container out of her path. ‘How is that keeping a low profile?’
‘Hush, Cheelche,’ Rostov said. ‘We are near.’
They slowed. They readied their weapons. There was a heavy clunk and the whine of plasma coils charging. Antoniato had blacked out the glassite with heat-resistant paint, but it was already beginning to burn off, and intense blue light shone through the gaps. Rostov drew his power sword. Lacrante had his lasgun, sword and laspistol, standard Astra Militarum issue. They were quotidian next to the arms his fellows carried, but he liked his old kit.
Rostov gestured with the blade of his hand, sending Lacrante ahead. There was only one approach to the church, and they were forced to move in together. Lacrante’s role was to check the mean, stone-carved hovels lining the way for ambush. If anyone had been there waiting, he would probably have died, but his death would give his comrades a chance to react. He obeyed Rostov’s order without question.
There was no one in any of them. Lacrante made a junction where the ground sloped into the cavern housing the church, where natural cavities had been extended and joined into one large space. The walls housed rock dwellings, the uneven floor a shanty. Though poor, it too had been evacuated, and a ghostly stillness lay on it, only the faint blare of the weather trumpets disturbing its peace.
Lacrante bobbed his head about, trying to hug the cover and remain unseen while scouting the cave for Colus’ friends. The church was slightly off centre on the far wall. It was the largest rock building, though that was not saying much, it being two storeys of oddly placed windows and a single crookedly carved door. He saw nothing, no movement, no signs of life; nevertheless, he suspected he had been seen.
He waved the others forward. Rostov came to stand behind him. He was silent, and so close his breath tickled Lacrante’s neck. Lacrante felt something else, in his mind, as Rostov extended his warp senses into the cavern.
