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  Luther nodded. ‘What about industrial sites?’

  ‘We’ve had much better luck there,’ Morten continued. ‘The larger manufactories and mining outposts have been assigned a small garrison for security, with mobile reaction forces standing by to provide reinforcement in case of an attack. As a result, we’ve managed to defeat a number of major attacks over the course of the last few days.’

  ‘Although it appears that the rebels feel confident enough to start sniping at transports and shuttles coming and going from Aldurukh itself,’ Bosk complained. Not half an hour after Epsilon Three-Niner’s narrow escape, Bosk’s shuttle had been briefly targeted by a rebel autocannon on its approach to the fortress. ‘Who are these criminals, and how have they managed to accomplish so much in so little time?’ Luther took a deep breath, clearly choosing his words carefully. ‘There are indications that the rebels are made up mostly of disaffected nobles and former knights. We believe they’ve been laying the groundwork for this campaign for many years, stockpiling weapons and organising their forces.’

  ‘Their discipline is impressive,’ Morten said grudgingly. ‘And their organisation is highly decentralised. I have no proof, but I strongly suspect that one or more of their senior leaders have received Imperial military training at some point. We haven’t been able to gather any useful intelligence on their command and communications network, much less identify any of their leaders.’

  Zahariel eyed Luther intently, wondering if he would identify Lord Thuriel and the other rebel leaders, but the knight said nothing. ‘What do these criminals want?’ Bosk demanded.

  Luther regarded the magos inscrutably. ‘They want to be relevant once more,’ he said.

  ‘Then they can go to work in a munitions plant,’ Bosk snapped. ‘This planet has obligations – strict obligations – to the Emperor’s forces, and it’s my responsibility to make sure those obligations are met. What’s being done to round up these ringleaders and deal with them?’ Morten sighed. ‘That’s easier said than done, magos. My troops are already stretched to the limit maintaining order and protecting your industrial sites.’

  ‘Which are sitting idle because there aren’t any labourers to man the assembly lines,’ Bosk retorted. ‘They can’t leave their hab units while martial law is in effect.’ Layers of fabric rustled as the magos folded her thin arms and glared at Luther. ‘Where is the Legion in all this, Master Luther? Why haven’t they been unleashed against the rebels?’

  Zahariel straightened. Bosk had cut to the heart of the matter. Now perhaps they would hear the truth.

  Luther leaned forward, resting his forearms on the massive oak desk, and met the administrator’s stare unflinchingly. ‘Administrator, my battle brothers are capable of a great many things, but hunting criminals isn’t one of them. When the time is right and the proper targets present themselves, the Dark Angels will act – but not before.’

  Magos Bosk stiffened at Luther’s reply. ‘That won’t do, Master Luther,’ she said curtly. ‘This unrest must stop immediately. Caliban’s obligations must be fulfilled without delay. If you won’t act, then I’ll be forced to report the situation to Primarch Jonson and to the Adeptus Terra.’

  The air in the chamber was suddenly charged with tension. Luther’s gaze turned hard and cold. Zahariel started to step in and try to defuse the situation when the door to the chamber opened and one of Morten’s aides hurried inside. With an apologetic bow to Luther, the aide turned to the General and whispered urgently into his ear. Morten frowned, then began asking the aide a number of increasingly urgent questions. Magos Bosk watched the exchange with growing alarm.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked, her metal-clad fingers clicking as she gripped the wooden arms of her chair. ‘General Morten? What’s going on?’

  Morten waved his aide away. He looked questioningly at Luther, who gave his permission with a curt wave of his hand. The general took a deep breath, and addressed the magos.

  ‘There’s been… an incident at Sigma Five-One-Seven,’ he said.

  ‘An incident?’ Bosk said, her voice rising. ‘You mean an attack?’

  ‘Possibly,’ the general replied. ‘At this point we don’t know for certain.’

  ‘Well, what exactly do you know?’

  Morten couldn’t entirely suppress a frown of irritation at the administrator’s demanding tone. He related what he knew in a clipped, businesslike manner. ‘Approximately forty-eight minutes ago our headquarters received a garbled transmission from the garrison at Sigma Five-One-Seven. The vox operator confirmed that the signaller was using the garrison’s proper callsign and encryption code, but couldn’t make out what he was trying to say. The transmission lasted thirty-two seconds before being cut off. Nothing has been heard from the garrison since.’

  ‘Jamming?’ Luther inquired.

  Morten shook his head. ‘No sir. The transmission simply stopped. The signaller was cut off in mid-sentence.’

  The Master of Caliban turned his attention back to Magos Bosk. ‘What exactly is Sigma Five-One-Seven?’

  ‘A materials processing plant in the Northwilds,’ she replied. ‘It went online last month, and has yet to become fully operational.’ ‘How many labourers?’

  ‘Four thousand per shift under normal conditions, but as I said, the plant wasn’t operational.’ Bosk pursed her lips as she accessed her cortical data shunts. ‘There were difficulties with the plant’s thermal power core. An engineering team was on site, trying to track down the source of the problem, but that was all.’

  Luther nodded. ‘And the garrison?’

  ‘A platoon of Jaegers and an attached heavy weapons squad,’ Morten answered. ‘Enough to defend the site against anything but a major rebel attack.’

  ‘Well, obviously that’s exactly what happened,’ Bosk snapped. ‘You said you had mobile troops to reinforce the garrisons in the event of attack. Why haven’t you despatched them?’

  The general glowered at Bosk. ‘We did, magos. They landed at the site five minutes ago.’

  ‘Well, what in the Emperor’s name did they find?’ Bosk demanded.

  Morten’s expression turned grim. ‘We don’t know,’ he said reluctantly. ‘We lost all contact with them moments after they touched down.’ Luther sat bolt upright in the Grand Master’s chair. Zahariel felt a wave of unease wash over him; something very strange was going on. From the dark look in Luther’s eyes, it was clear that the Master of Caliban felt much the same.

  ‘How large was the relief force?’ Luther asked.

  ‘A reinforced company,’ Morten replied. ‘Two hundred men, plus heavy weapons and ten Condor airborne assault carriers.’ Zahariel’s unease deepened. ‘A force that size would have been more than enough to deal with any rebel attack. ‘It’s possible that the original transmission was a ruse, and the relief force was lured into an ambush.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Luther said, somewhat dubiously. ‘But why no vox signals? Surely we would have heard something.’ He turned to Morten. ‘Are there any other reaction forces in the area?’

  ‘The closest one is more than two hours away,’ the general replied. ‘I can divert them to the site, but it would leave the Red Hills sector without any reinforcements in the event of another attack.’

  Bosk rose angrily to her feet. ‘This is outrageous,’ she declared. ‘Master Luther, I mean you no disrespect, but I have to report this to Primarch Jonson and my superiors on Terra. The situation is worsening by the moment, and it’s obvious to me that you’re unwilling to commit your Astartes in battle against your own people. Perhaps forces from another Legion can be despatched to put an end to the uprising.’

  Luther’s handsome face paled with anger. General Morten saw the danger and began to stammer a quick reply, but Zahariel cut him off. ‘The defence of Caliban is not a matter for the Adeptus Terra to concern itself with,’ he said in a stern voice. ‘And our primarch has more important matters to occupy his attentions at present. Master Luther explained to you that
he was waiting for the proper time to order our battle brothers into action, and clearly that moment has arrived.’

  Luther turned to Zahariel as the Librarian spoke, and the two warriors locked eyes. The Master of Caliban glared at the Astartes for a moment, his dark eyes glittering with anger. Zahariel met the knight’s gaze steadily.

  After a moment, Luther seemed to master his anger. He nodded slowly, though his expression was still deeply troubled.

  ‘Well said, brother. Assemble a squad of veterans and depart for Sigma Five-One-Seven at once. Eliminate any resistance and secure the site, then report back to me. Understood?’

  Inwardly, Zahariel breathed a sigh of relief. He regretted having forced Luther’s hand, but he was certain that, in time, the Master of Caliban would forgive him. The Librarian bowed to Luther, then nodded respectfully to General Morten and Magos Bosk before striding purposefully from the room.

  His conscience was clear. For the sake of the Emperor and the honour of the Legion, the Dark Angels on Caliban were rousing themselves for war.

  SEVEN

  BROTHERS IN ARMS

  Diamat

  In the 200th year of the Emperor’s Great Crusade

  NEMIEL’S SQUAD RACED down the narrow street towards the location of Echo Four’s downed pod, expecting to encounter more rebel troops at any moment. Sounds of fighting between Astartes squads and enemy forces echoed across the grey zone with increasing intensity as the rebels began to respond to the danger in their midst. Nemiel heard the bark of autocannons and, here and there, the flat boom of a tank’s battle cannon adding to the din.

  ‘Turn south at the next corner,’ he called out to his squad. ‘Echo Four should be another four hundred metres down the cross-street and somewhere to the left.’

  ‘Acknowledged,’ said Brother Yung, one of the two warriors on point. Nemiel watched the Astartes race up to the street corner and put their backs to a burnt-out storefront, their bolters held across their chests. One of the two warriors – Brother Cortus, Nemiel thought – slid to the end of the wall and peered around the corner.

  Nemiel heard the battle cannon fire and watched the corner of the building Coitus was standing at disintegrate in the space of a single heartbeat. The two Astartes disappeared in a blizzard of pulverised stone and fragments of structural steel. A billowing cloud of dust and smoke enveloped the intersection and rolled down the street towards the rest of the squad.

  The squad took cover on reflex, crouching behind rubble piles or pressing close to a building wall. Nemiel checked his helmet display and saw the status icon for Brother Cortus flash from green to amber. He was wounded, perhaps seriously, but still functional. The walls of the building must have shielded the Astartes from the worst of the blast.

  Less than a minute later Brother Yung emerged from the smoke cloud, his black armour caked with brown dust. He was half-carrying, half-dragging Brother Cortus. Nemiel rose from cover and jogged forward as Yung set the wounded warrior down next to the shattered stoop of a hab unit.

  Cortus reached up and fumbled with his helmet. One side of the ceramite helm had been partially crushed, shattering the right ocular and splitting it from crown to nape. Yung lent a hand and helped the wounded Astartes pull the helmet free.

  ‘Status?’ Nemiel asked.

  Brother Cortus sent the smashed helmet bouncing across the street. The skin on the right side of his face had been deeply scored by the impact, peeling away the flesh down to the bone in some places. His right eye was a bloody ruin, but the wound was clotting quickly thanks to Cortus’s enhanced healing ability.

  ‘One battle tank and four APCs, three hundred metres south,’ he said, his voice rough with pain. ‘Approximately a platoon of infantry in hasty defensive positions, maybe more.’

  ‘I was talking about your head, brother.’

  Cortus glanced dazedly at the Redemptor, blinking his one good eye. ‘Oh, that,’ he said dismissively. ‘It’s nothing. Did anyone see what happened to my bolter?’

  ‘Here,’ Yung said laconically, handing over Cortus’s dirt-caked weapon.

  The wounded warrior’s face brightened. ‘Thanks for that, brother,’ he replied. ‘Kohl would have had my skin if I’d lost it.’

  ‘Too right,’ Sergeant Kohl growled as he crouched down beside Nemiel. ‘It sounds like the rebels have beaten us to Echo Four,’ he said to the Redemptor. ‘We might already be too late.’

  ‘Or perhaps we’re just in time,’ Nemiel countered. ‘Three hundred metres is too far away to have a good chance at a kill with the meltagun. We’ll have to get closer.’ He looked back down the way they’d come, searching for an alley they could use to outflank the enemy position, but there was none. ‘We’ll have to cut through the buildings,’ he decided. ‘Sergeant, you and Askelon lead the way.’

  Kohl nodded and beckoned to the Techmarine. Nemiel helped Cortus to his feet, then followed the sergeant through the hab unit’s gaping doorway.

  It took ten minutes for the squad to work its way through the partially-collapsed structure. Kohl and Askelon ploughed through any rubble in their path; in places the Techmarine used his servo arm to reinforce damaged structural supports so that the squad could keep moving without touching off a cave-in. They emerged from the building via a broken out viewport, crossed a narrow, filth-strewn alley, and entered the shell of another structure on the far side.

  The second building had almost completely caved in, forcing the Astartes to scramble over enormous piles of rubble to reach the opposite side. Nemiel could hear the idling rumble of petrochem engines now, and the distant sound of shouted orders.

  They reached the crest of a rubble pile close to the far corner of the building and hunkered down. Nemiel joined Kohl and Askelon, and peered over the top of the pile. By this point, his armour was so caked in dust that it was nearly invisible against the backdrop of debris. He could see the enemy positions through the tall, broken viewport frames at the corner of the ruined structure. The battle tank was parked in the centre of another intersection, its flanks wreathed in exhaust fumes. The four APCs were arrayed behind it in a loose formation; their ramps were down and their troops had deployed into cover on either side of the street. At the opposite corner of the intersection stood a ruined hab unit with a huge, ragged hole high on the side of one of its upper storeys. Flames licked hungrily about the hole.

  ‘We’ve found Echo Four,’ Nemiel announced over the vox. ‘Vardus, set up your shot. Everyone else, get ready to move.’

  Brother Vardus worked his way up the rubble pile and aimed his meltagun through the viewport frame at the tank. The rest of the squad climbed up the slope to either side, their weapons ready.

  The meltagunner glanced at Nemiel and gave a nod.

  ‘Fire!’ Nemiel said.

  The meltagun went off with a hissing shriek of superheated air and struck the tank in the side, right beside the engine. Molten pieces of armour plate and track segments went spinning through the air. Nemiel surged to his feet.

  ‘Loyalty and honour!’ the Redemptor cried. ‘Charge!’

  With a shout, the Dark Angels scrambled down the rubble pile and leapt through the open viewport frames, their boltguns blazing. Rebel troops tumbled to the ground, their light armour no match for the bolters’ powerful rounds, but the survivors immediately returned fire. Lasgun rounds buzzed through the air, detonating against the sides of the blackened buildings with a staccato crackle.

  Nemiel emerged into the street at a run, charging straight towards the parked APCs. The Testudos were already traversing their gun turrets, but the Astartes were already too close for the vehicles to use their guns effectively. Lasgun bolts seared the air around him; he brought up his bolt pistol and snapped off two quick shots, hitting a trooper crouching in the doorway of a building a little further down the street.

  ‘Get across the intersection!’ he ordered over the vox. ‘Make for the building on the opposite side; that’s where Echo Four went down!’ Nemiel said, running past th
e burning tank. Askelon and Kohl dogged his heels, trading fire with the rebel troops. They ran into the midst of the parked APCs, and the sergeant tossed a fragmentation grenade into the troop compartments of the two vehicles he could reach. Vardus took aim and fired on the move, hitting one of the Testudos a bit farther down the street. The bolt struck the APC square on the front glacis and burned easily through the armour plate, touching off a huge explosion.

  Nemiel reached the far side of the intersection in just a few seconds and found himself under fire from three different directions. Another squad had taken cover around the building where Echo Four had gone down, and now they fired point-blank at the onrushing Astartes. A las-bolt struck Nemiel full in the chest; another dug a glowing crater out of his left pauldron, but his ceramite armour withstood the worst of the impacts. Askelon was struck several times as well, but his ornate harness, forged by the master craftsmen on Mars itself, shrugged off the hits with ease.

  To Nemiel’s right, Brother-Sergeant Kohl shot one rebel soldier point-blank with his bolt pistol, then sliced his power sword through another. Nemiel caught sight of an enemy sergeant off to the left, hastily switching power cells on his laspistol. The Redemptor shot the man twice, then rushed in among the rest of the soldiers, slaying every rebel he could reach with savage blows from his crozius. A las-bolt flashed through the building’s open doorway and struck him in the midsection; he felt a searing pain as the bolt found a weak spot in his armour, but the ceramite plating still managed to deflect most of its energy.

  Roaring a challenge, Nemiel pressed forward into the building leaving the survivors of the enemy squad to his brethren. He found himself inside another blasted, fire-scorched shell; the hab unit’s roof and three storeys had collapsed some time ago, leaving only the battered outer walls still standing. In the corner of the building, directly opposite the entrance, sat Echo Four. The drop pod had come down at nearly a forty-five degree angle and had dug itself into a mound of crashed flakboard and masonry. There wasn’t a single ramp that could properly deploy at that angle, leaving the occupant trapped inside.