Pharos Page 12

  Golden luminescence ran through the cavities of Mount Pharos, seeming languid as water poured from a ewer. Light slopped round corners, ran down curling tubes, flooded the floors of broad chambers and gleamed from the unknowable depths of the deepest pits. It penetrated every centimetre of the endless tunnels. When it lit upon the great machine hall of the quantum-pulse engines, it shone brightly. Re-energised, it sped on to fill the mountain from top to bottom, save in some few places. There were several enormous voids in the mountain. Into these the light did not go. From within them, it appeared not to shine at all. Dantioch could not calculate how this occurred. And the light’s sluggishness was no illusion, it was slower – it ran at less than seventy per cent of its usual speed. Dantioch could not even infer from the characteristics of the phenomena their purpose or cause. Neither could Magos Carantine.

  But where Carantine grew frustrated – if the blurts of angry binaric he emitted were anything to go by – Dantioch saw something beautiful.

  The light rushed into the twin-lobed chamber with an audible sigh.

  To experience the effect in Primary Location Alpha was to witness magnificence; to see two worlds hazed by honeyed light was a privilege. To be deep within the mountain during the light song was a different affair, bringing with it an intimacy with the structure that concerned Dantioch. As he had discovered during his recent explorations, when the light bathed his body in the tunnel the calming effect of Mount Pharos reached its fullest, and for a moment he could forget his pain.

  Feelings of the righteousness of what he was doing suffused the warsmith, a balm to his tortured soul and body. In his mind’s eye he saw himself in Primary Location Alpha, all the mysteries of the Pharos unlocked, and the way open for the Avenging Son to end the war. Horus brought to heel, and the name of Dantioch’s own Legion redeemed by his actions…

  Fantasies. Mountain dreams. All who spent any time around the peak had them. Only some proved true, and Dantioch was under no illusion whether his would be among them.

  He held up his hand before his eyes, shielding them against the glow so that he might examine the effect upon the stone’s fractures. As the golden wash drained through the tunnel into the chamber another illumination flickered around the sharp edges of the cracks: a greenish sparkle emitted by the minerals of the stone.

  The event ceased. The light went out. The green sparkle lasted a moment longer, then faded. Dantioch dropped his hand.

  ‘Light, 992!’ ordered Dantioch.

  The stark light of the lamp snapped back on.

  ‘Do you see?’ he said excitedly, running iron-clad fingers over the cracks.

  Polux peered at the wall. ‘The cracks! They have closed.’

  The network of lines in the rock was noticeably smaller. Once joined into a diamond web, many of the cracks were now isolated. All were narrower. The free-standing fragments were no longer jarring imperfections, but had become only cracks themselves, drawn back into the rock.

  ‘This is what I wanted to test. My hypothesis is correct. The material is self-healing,’ said Dantioch.

  ‘Has this not been noted before?’

  ‘I have only recently observed it. Strangely, it is not apparent around the alterations we have made to the fabric. No anchoring bolts spat forth or gaps closed where we have cut through.’ Dantioch touched the damage. ‘But another sunrise, and this will be as good as new. Is it because it is unintended damage, I wonder? Is it another facet of the Pharos’ empathic functionality? The more time I spend here, the more amazed I become.’

  Polux said nothing. He was more suspicious of the Pharos’ mysteries, and of a character where he would not hide his disquiet. ‘We should have expected this. The artefact is old.’

  ‘We should. Continents move, seas rise. Stone cracks,’ said Dantioch. ‘The exterior of the mountain shows every sign of natural weathering, but there is none within.’ There were a few places on the surface where the stone had eroded, leaving tube mouths slightly proud of the rock, or exposing their perfectly curved exteriors to the sun. But there was not so much as a chip in the black stone.

  ‘If the Pharos is only a million years old, the mountain will have known its share of earthquakes and cataclysm, and I believe it to be immeasurably older than that.’ Dantioch tapped the rock. ‘An oversight on all our parts. I thought it only unnaturally perdurable. The finish of the stone is still beyond us. Apparently it is more than merely lasting,’ said Dantioch. ‘And now we know why. This discovery is important.’

  ‘We can attempt another long-range sounding, if it is self-repairing.’ The note of doubt grew in Polux’s voice. ‘I am concerned by such a capability. What else might it do?’

  ‘Your unease aside, this makes the proposition of incidental damage less of a concern, my friend. But like so much else we have no good idea of the properties of this mechanism. There may be a point it cannot be pushed past. Unit 992, monitor the cracks. Give me interrupt pict-capture, one image every minute. Then we will be able to calculate the speed at which the damage is repaired.’

  ‘Compliance,’ said the servitor. It turned on the spot and stared fixedly at the wall.

  ‘Until then, we had better not do anything rash,’ said Dantioch. ‘Not until we have had the opportunity to communicate with Lord Guilliman. This is something he should know of, and soon.’ He looked up at the wall again. ‘Intriguing.’

  ELEVEN

  Infiltration

  Protect the weak

  Unacceptable terms

  The Legion orbital over Sotha monitored a modest amount of shipping, most of it arriving during a window once every two weeks when the Pharos’ path was diffused to its maximum spread in the direction of Macragge. On those days, envoys, adepts, supplies and other vital items and personnel came down the path of light the Pharos beat through the storm to Sotha, their rush taxing the traffic masters.

  The rest of the time the Sothan orbital kept watch as best it could through the interference patterns of the alien beacon and the hellish noise of the Ruinstorm. Patrol ships were scheduled to come and go, but little else.

  So it was that the unscheduled return of the destroyer Probity to Sotha raised immediate concerns.

  Effective range of the station’s augurs was down to a mere half a million kilometres, but as soon as the Probity crossed the marker line, she was spotted. A solid dot coalesced from the jags and blips of scattered light at the edge of the auspex screen. Three Legion serfs saw her at once, and duly brought notice.

  Shipping command was notified, the schedule consulted. The Probity was not due to return for two weeks.

  During those times that his duties did not take him elsewhere, Captain Adallus remained on the command deck. If there was to be an attack, he wanted to see it first, and react to it immediately. Alert for anything amiss, he picked up on the exchange between his deck officers, and listened to them.

  ‘Distance out?’

  ‘Five hundred thousand kilometres and closing fast.’

  ‘Vox command, any communications?’

  ‘I’m struggling to raise her crew.’

  ‘Keep on trying.’

  Adallus spoke, his deep transhuman voice punching through the chatter of the mortal men and women on the command deck. He looked to his aides, Sergeant Odillio and Company Vexillary Genus. The men joined their captain. Odillio was grey-haired and thoughtful, Genus younger and sterner.

  ‘Gunnery command, bring all weapons online. All hands to battle stations,’ said Adallus. Three siren calls whooped out across the station. ‘Give me all information on the Probity’s status. Constant update.’

  ‘On main hololith now, my lord.’

  ‘Long-range auspex indicates damage to her engines. There’s plasma dumping from the port-side vents. A possible malfunction or battle damage.’

  ‘Can you determine which?’ said Adallus.

  ‘Not
at this range and with the Pharos operating at its current level,’ said the auspex officer.

  ‘Lord Captain Adallus, they are attempting to open communications. Their vox is badly scrambled – their emitter array is damaged,’ added vox command.

  ‘Persist in your efforts until you have raised them.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Minutes passed. The Probity drew nearer, a bright star moving swiftly across the red cloth of the storm. Soon the plough-bladed prow became visible on the hololith, then other details behind it. Adallus ordered the tactical display up to full magnification. Through the digital snow of the storm and Pharos, the damage to the ship was evident.

  ‘My lord! I have something,’ said vox command. ‘Very faint.’

  ‘Put it onto the main vox. Command deck, all quiet,’ commanded Adallus. A hush fell. The noise of machines and cogitators working became the loudest sound.

  ‘There is a five-second distance lag on the communication,’ cautioned the vox-officer. ‘And it is badly distorted.’

  A humming hiss came from the command deck’s voxcasters – ordinary cosmic interference, twisted by the disturbing throb of the storm.

  ‘Sotha? Can you hear me? Sothan orbital, please respond.’ It was a panicked voice, human. Fatigued and full of terror.

  ‘This is Captain Adallus. You are in contact with the orbital. State your name and rank.’

  A waspish buzz sawed through the air. When it passed, the man was babbling.

  ‘…nothing we could do. They’re coming! Oh, by the old gods, they’re coming! We’ve lost everyone. The bridge crew are all dead.’

  ‘What is your name?’ asked Adallus.

  ‘I am sorry, my lord, we are in urgent need of–’

  ‘What is your name?’

  The man fell silent. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. ‘My lord, I… I am… I am Sub-Pilot Maskell.’

  ‘There is a Sub-Pilot Maskell aboard, my lord,’ the dockmaster reported.

  ‘Mute vox. Do we have voice print records?’ said Adallus.

  ‘I’m reading a seventy per cent match, but the interference from the beacon is so bad it is impossible to be certain.’

  Adallus nodded. ‘Vox-mute off. What occurred, Maskell?’

  ‘I… I… I…’ The static seemed encouraged by Maskell’s panic and hissed louder.

  ‘Remember that you are a servant of Ultramar!’ Adallus rebuked him. ‘Remain calm.’

  ‘Night Lords! They were lying in wait for us aboard a derelict. They tried to take the ship. They killed the legionaries. They boarded and slaughtered us. The things they did…’ He broke off into sobs.

  ‘Calm, Maskell! Were there no survivors among the legionary contingent?

  ‘Three. There are three of them. The rest were slain when the wreck exploded. By the Emperor, it was a trap!’

  ‘Lethicus boarded a derelict? That does not sound like him,’ murmured Odillio to Adallus.

  ‘Captain Adallus?’ said Maskell. ‘Please help us. You are a merciful lord, I know it.’

  ‘You know me?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. We have met twice, briefly. You will not remember me.’

  Adallus searched his memory. He vaguely recalled a quiet, apologetic man.

  Maskell continued. ‘I am sorry, but I cannot bring the legionaries to the vox. They are badly wounded. Two of them have fallen into the legionary sleep. Sergeant Lethicus comes and goes out of consciousness. We are doing our best, but we do not have the Apothecaries’ skill.’

  ‘What of the enemy?’ said Adallus.

  ‘There were not many. Survivors from the wreck. My lord Lethicus called it a desperate act, but they nearly succeeded. They nearly succeeded!’

  ‘What is your current situation?’

  ‘We are operating the vessel from the auxiliary command deck. I’ve enough men to bring the Probity in, but all the most experienced officers are dead. They targeted the command deck, killed Shipmaster Gellius, everyone! Such slaughter…’ Maskell tailed away.

  ‘The man’s terrified, Adallus,’ said Odillio. ‘We’re losing him.’

  ‘He is not behaving in a manner befitting a servant of Ultramar,’ said Genus.

  ‘If he has survived a Night Lords terror strike, we are fortunate that he is coherent at all,’ said Adallus to the others. ‘How did you drive them off, Maskell?’

  ‘The legionaries. Six remained with us while my lord Sergeant Lethicus boarded the ship. They fought against the traitors alongside the ship’s armsmen. We lost two hundred, but we prevailed. The Night Lords sabotaged our life support, so many died afterwards. We are confined to the auxiliary command deck.’

  ‘How many were there?’

  ‘Forty. That is all.’

  ‘It’s a plausible story,’ said Odillio.

  ‘Plausibility does not rule out a lie, brother,’ said Genus.

  ‘Time to station?’ said Adallus.

  ‘Fifty minutes, if they brake now. If they don’t, they’ll go right past us,’ said auspex control.

  Maskell heard this. ‘We can pilot the ship in, my lords. It can be done.’

  ‘We could take the survivors off by Thunderhawk,’ said Odillio. ‘Bring the ship in to high anchor away from the station.’

  ‘Give me a theoretical on that option, auspex and shipping,’ said Adallus.

  ‘It is a risk, my lord,’ reported the auspex officer. ‘The vessel is losing power rapidly. Their main core is bleeding out its fuel. We’d have minimal time to bring it into a stable orbit before it takes itself away from us, my lord.’

  ‘We do not have tugs or tenders sufficient to arrest it,’ said the dockmaster.

  ‘The Mechanicum ark?’

  ‘It is too slow, my lord.’

  Adallus rested the knuckle of his gauntlet upon his lip. ‘Order them to bring the vessel in. Prepare medicae and auxiliary crisis teams. Send three squads to meet. Release safety warding on corridor weapons systems, station-wide.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Master of Communications, put the system on high alert. My order, priority alpha. This could be an isolated incursion, but we cannot take anything for granted. Not any more.’

  ‘And the Probity?’

  ‘Allow them to dock, send three squads to meet them. If this is not what it purports to be, we shall be ready.’

  Docking concourse beta of the Sothan orbital buzzed with furious activity. Human fire-fighting teams lined up by the airlock doors, clad in thick pressure suits and armoured, fixed helmets. Tanks of suppression foam were at their sides, hoses in their hands. Medicae staff marshalled on the far side of the bulkhead leading into the main body of the station. Dozens of men waited with power-assisted biers for the wounded legionaries, while more carried stretchers for mortal men.

  Apothecary Taricus stood with his three brothers in white and blue: Caelius, Artus and their Primus Medicae Hespatian awaited the arrival of the Probity in their full power armour. Among their human staff they were immense, gods of healing and war, their battle­plate bulky with narthecium gauntlets and specialised medicae backpack units.

  ‘The Probity approaches!’ shouted Hespatian. His voice boomed out of his vox-amplifier at full volume. ‘She has suffered much damage at the hands of the enemy. Many of our brothers are dead, many of our people are wounded. Stand ready. She comes in fast and hard. We may suffer as she berths. Do not hold fear in your hearts! We have taken a vow, all of us, human and transhuman, a vow that transcends the differences between us and binds us as one culture in service of the Imperium. Prepare yourselves, servants of Ultramar, to do your duty!’

  ‘I am not sure our unenhanced colleagues appreciate such bombast, Brother Hespatian,’ said Taricus quietly.

  Hespatian chuckled. As an Apothecary of the Legion he had a superhuman level
of gallows humour, and a rich, gravelly laugh to express it. ‘How often has one of us got to make a rousing speech recently?’

  ‘You are glorious, brother. Chief of our little band of white warriors,’ said Caelius dryly.

  ‘There’s not much satisfaction in the marshalling of sick-beds out here at Sotha, Caelius, and even less glory. Allow me my moment, it has been too long.’ A vox-chime from the command deck demanded the Primus Medicae’s attention. ‘Hespatian.’

  ‘The Probity will dock in fourteen seconds, Hespatian. Brace yourselves, the ship is coming in outside safety parameters.’

  ‘Understood, Captain Adallus.’ He activated his voxmitter again. ‘Stand ready! Brace for impact!’

  Klaxons blared. Emergency lumens activated as power to the main lights was cut. There was no warning before the impact. A tremendous bang echoed down the concourse as the ship connected. Metal squealed on metal and the whole structure of the docking pier vibrated.

  The lumen strips flickered, tried to come back on and failed. Dim emergency lighting shone through smoke and fire-suppressant gases. A ruptured power feed cracked and buzzed.

  ‘Open up,’ said Hespatian, his attitude changing as surely as if a switch had been flicked. ‘Everyone, stand ready.’

  The docking portal shuddered, but would not open.

  ‘A further complication,’ said Taricus. ‘The impact has buckled the doors.

  ‘What about the Probity’s portal? Is it open?’ asked Hespatian. ‘Crisis team forward.’ Auxiliaries ran to the doors, and began a thorough examination.

  Banging came from the other side of the door, heavy thumps of metal on metal, the rhythms of panic.

  ‘They cannot get out,’ voxed one of the human deck crew.

  ‘Do we have a seal on their hull?’ asked Hespatian.

  The men at the door applied listening devices and data-thieves to the crumpled metal.

  ‘Seal is at ninety-six per cent,’ said the human crisis team leader. ‘There is a small leak. There’s indications of dropping pressure on their side. Looks unregulated.’