The Beast Arises

‘Scrubbing him seems a waste,’ Urquidex offered. ‘He might have more information than was transmitted.’ Van Auken considered the idea. ‘Gathered between transmission and defeat.’

‘It is undeniably true that such information would be useful,’ Van Auken admitted. ‘Inform the magi physic and artisans cybernetica that this priest is to be stabilised and readied for downstreaming and debriefing,’ he told the servitors, before sending them off to his shuttle.

Van Auken turned, but Urquidex had already started the descent down into the excavated pit. There they found an infirmechanic standing among three waxy cocoons, taking readings. Humanoid in shape, the large cocoons appeared like the mummified ancients of some archaeological find. Instead of being wrapped in cloth, the three figures had secreted a kind of mucus-like residue that formed a thin, protective layer about their bodies. Through the membranous surface, the two priests could see the horror of mangled bodies: butchered torsos, missing limbs and scraps of ceramite plate. A yellow pauldron was visible through the stretched surface of one cocoon. The markings were clear even through the membrane: a black gauntlet, clutched into a defiant fist.

‘They must have been buried in the gravitic upheaval,’ the artisan trajectorae said. ‘With the priest… Magos?’

‘Aye,’ Urquidex agreed, his telescopic eyes whirring in for a closer look. ‘These are Adeptus Astartes genetic adaptations. A form of suspended animation, allowing them to survive all but the most mortal of wounds. The coating is an extreme form of protective secretion, airtight and temperature resistant. It is a wonder of genetic engineering.’

The magos biologis examined the infirmechanic’s readings.

‘Will they survive?’ Van Auken asked him.

‘Possibly.’

‘Fascinating.’

‘Their wounds are grievous and their life signs are practically non-existent.’

‘Like the priest, they have first-hand knowledge of the enemy’s tactical capabilities,’ the artisan-primus said. ‘You said it yourself. Better data than could be gathered by a thousand butchered drones.’

‘Agreed,’ Urquidex said. ‘But I want you to know that if we break their suspension and revive them, we might not be able to save them from their injuries.’

‘Their testimony is too important,’ Van Auken said. ‘It is required for the data packet.’

‘The Adeptus Astartes — a successor Chapter — would have the specialist knowledge to…’

‘We don’t answer to the Adeptus Astartes,’ Van Auken said. ‘We answer to the Fabricator General.’

‘These might be all that is left of the Imperial Fists.’

‘Have them transported with the priest to the laboratorium aboard the Subservius,’ Van Auken ordered. ‘Begin suspension-interruption there.’

‘You will take responsibility?’

‘I will.’

ELEVEN

Terra — the Imperial Palace

The Senatorum Imperialis was in full session. It was an incredible sight. For Drakan Vangorich, it was a sight of byzantine bureaucracy and tedium. He had a thousand different ways to assemble relevant intelligence from such bloated, officious gatherings without actually having to attend them. He thought it unwise to miss too many meetings, however. Some personages were inevitably conspicuous by their absence. When the Grand Master of Assassins fails to make an appearance at such assemblies, the pervading boredom inflicted upon attendees prompts people to wonder where such a lord might be and what he might be doing. Wondering was not to be encouraged in the powerful and mighty. Wondering could get people killed.

No longer, though, was Vangorich a member of the High Twelve. Those dignitaries took their thrones on a central dais that turned almost imperceptibly, commanding a slowly revolving view of the stadium-seats, petitioners and functionaries. Below them, the Great Chamber was bustling with robed minor officials, their aides and advisors. Vangorich was not considered one of these minor officials by any means, but he did have to part a sea of the favour-curriers in order to pass long-deferred water. The path between his own allotted throne at the foot of Dorn’s mighty statue and the ablutorials passed through the dour throngs of prefectii and consularies. Many lords of the Grand Master’s office and station took the upper galleries to avoid such inconvenience. The paths to the private suites of specific influentials and the ablutorials were stalked by adepts, officials and officers waiting for just a moment of a High Lord’s time or the slate-signature it might take to get rid of them swiftly. Some legistrae and ministrators had waited weeks, sometimes months, for a particular lord or significant to pass water. If it wasn’t for the politics and the problems solved by such men over the fonts in the vestablutae antehalls, opportunistic encounters would have been an even rarer occurrence.