Angels of Darkness

'There is next to nothing to cleanse!' snapped Boreas, exasperated by this unlikely turn of events. 'Make all speed to the central craft, sweep aside any resistance and press through.'

'Affirmative, Brother-Chaplain,' Damas replied. 'Thu­miel, Zaul, lead the way'

As they advanced, Boreas saw just how accurate Thumiel's brief report had been. There was nothing at all in the corridors they ran through, or the chambers they passed, just bare grey ferrocrete. There were no stains, no litter, no furnishings or anything else to indicate that this place had been lived in. Only the dim glow-globes over­head betrayed the fact that the area they were passing through was even wired in to the main power generators. Sporadic bolter fire from ahead occasionally broke the quiet, and as he continued, Boreas passed the odd vac­uum-suited body missing a limb, head or chest. Glancing down the side passages they passed, Boreas realised that many were barely finished: the whole base looked as if it had been flung together in a short space of time and then left.

It was only when the drab grey walls turned to tar­nished metal that Boreas realised they had passed into the body of the landing craft at the centre of the web of corridors and rooms. Crude paintings and mottos had been daubed onto the walls. Stopping to examine them, Boreas felt his stomach tighten as he realised that they were poor imitations of the great murals of the central chapel in the Tower of Angels. Poorly rendered black fig­ures striding through gaudy yellow flames looked like the painting of the Cleansing of Aris.

'This is a mockery!' declared Zaul, as they gathered in a circular chamber. The ceiling was layered with flaking paint, the peeled picture a clumsy reproduction of the Salvation of the Lion, depicting the Dark Angels pri­march in the dark woods of Caliban, surrounded by knights. A figure of pure white was holding out his hand to the half-feral man. Boreas snorted in disgust when he recognised the figure as Luther, made out to be an angelic saviour.

'This borders on the worst kind of desecration,' Zaul rasped, raising his bolter and firing into the mural. Splin­ters of metal and sprays of dust cascaded down onto him, covering his bone-coloured armour in a fine layer of speckled colours. 'Such barbarity cannot be tolerated!'

'The Fallen did not paint these,' Boreas said, gazing up at the scarred scene above. Like the first, it was not sim­ply crude in its technique, but in composition and proportion. Only their actual content bore a vague resemblance to the paintings they imitated. 'Any one of us, though not artists, could replicate the great chapel more accurately. These were crafted by those who have never seen the originals. They were painted by the Lutherites' servants, based on descriptions and their mas­ters' memories.'

'Why?' Zaul demanded, swinging around to face Boreas, smoke still drifting from the muzzle of his bolter.

'As worship,' snarled Boreas. 'They idolise the Fallen, they have been corrupted by them and now worship not only them, but the twisted ideals they represent.'

'We should not tarry here,' Damas interrupted. 'You said to proceed to the control centre.'

'It should be that way,' Hephaestus said, pointing ahead and to the left. 'There should be a direct route from the central passages, just turn left when we reach a main corridor.'

'Proceed with more caution,' Boreas ordered, remem­bering the scattered concentrations of life signals the auspex has detected. 'The Lutherites could still be here.'

With one last glance at the heretical paintings, Zaul set off, Thumiel close behind him.

About a hundred metres further in, they came across a wide junction, with passages leading off in eight direc­tions. One was obviously the route to the landing craft's control centre, its walls daubed with all manner of graf­fiti deifying Luther and extolling the feats of the Fallen. The armoured doors at the far end were open, and Boreas caught glimpses of movement inside.

Thumiel had already seen it and moved forward quickly, bringing up the muzzle of the flamer. Two quick strides took him to the doorway and he opened fire, a sheet of flame engulfing the inside of the control room. High-pitched screams mingled with the crackling of the flames and a burning figure flailed into view. Damas's bolt pistol roared once and the flaming man's head exploded, hurling his carcass back into the room.

'We need a prisoner for information!' Boreas yelled as the rest of the squad launched themselves forward, weapons ready. 'Take one alive.'

As he burst into the chamber, Boreas saw that it was high and narrow, filled with banks of scorched, dead consoles, pools of burning flamer fuel scattered across the floors and walls. Charred and smoking bodies were scattered across the floor, crouched behind panels and chairs where the traitors had tried to take cover. Several still writhed around on the ground, howling in agony or their faces wracked with noiseless screams.

A few had survived and opened fire, shotgun shells and bullets smashing into Thumiel, the first who had entered. Zaul returned fire from behind his battle-brother, his fusillade smashing apart display panels, gouging through banks of dials and readouts and ripping through the bodies of three of the Fallen's servants.

There were two others alive, and Boreas quickly took them down with shots to their legs. Like the others, they were dressed in drab environment suits, their eyes wild behind the tinted visors of their face masks. One tried to raise his autogun to fire again, but before his finger closed on the trigger, Nestor had pulled out his combat knife and hurled it into the man's shoulder, causing the weapon to tumble from his grasp.

Boreas bolstered his pistol and strode towards them. They tried to crawl away, and backed up against a work­station topped with a cracked and sparking comms unit. Boreas grabbed the nearest by the pipe of his breather and dragged him up so that he was dangling off the ground. The other started inching away until Boreas stood on his injured leg, pulverising the bone and rip­ping a muffled scream from the man.

'External address. Where are they?' demanded Boreas, the skull visage of his helm a hand's breadth from the man's face.

He shook his head dumbly, his eyes casting to the left and right, but there was no avenue of escape, only five more vengeful Space Marines.

'Answer me!' Boreas yelled, the speakers in his helmet amplifying his words to a deafening bellow that caused the man to shake in the Chaplain's grip. 'What is your name?'

The prisoner glanced down at the other survivor, who shook his head vehemently.

'Don't say anything!' the man on the ground gasped through his breather. 'Remember our oaths!'

Boreas put the man down and pushed him back so that he was sprawled over the comms unit. Holding him there with one hand, he turned to the other rebel. He reached down and grabbed the man's shattered ankle and lifted him up like a child.

'Your friend will die quickly,' Boreas said, swinging his arm back and then forward, dashing the man's head against the bottom of the workstation, his neck snapping violently. Tossing the corpse aside, the Interrogator-Chaplain placed his hand around the throat of the lone survivor, crushing the air pipe of the breathing mask. 'You will die slowly.'

'Es... Escobar Venez!' the traitor shrieked. He fought lamely against the implacable strength of the Space Marine's grip for several seconds before giving up and flopping backwards again.

'I am Interrogator-Chaplain Boreas of the Dark Angels Chapter,' Boreas told him. 'I have the skill to cause a Space Marine to writhe in agony and tell me his deepest secrets, his darkest fears. It will take me mere moments to make you talk. There is no point resisting.'

'I don't want to die,' Venez said.

'It is too late for that,' Boreas told him. 'All that remains to be determined now is whether you die slowly and painfully, or you tell me everything I want to know and your torment will be ended quickly.'

'If I talk, it will be quick?' the traitor asked. Boreas nod­ded once.

Tears began to gather in Venez's face mask, welling up in the eye plates. He looked at Boreas, and then at the others, and then back at Boreas. With a sob, he gave a shallow nod. Boreas released him and stepped back. Glancing back, he saw Damas and Thumiel at the door, ready for attack. Zaul stood close by, intent on the pris­oner, his bolter aimed at the man's midriff. Hephaestus and Nestor stood a little further away.

'Where are your masters?' Boreas asked again.

'They left, a long time ago,' Venez told him. Twenty, maybe twenty-five days ago.'

'Where are they now?' Boreas said, leaning forward again, resting against the broken panel, towering over the rebel.

'I don't know for sure,' Venez replied. Boreas leaned closer, and Venez shrunk back. 'Piscina IV! They were heading to Piscina IV on the ship.'

'Which ship?' Zaul snapped from behind Boreas.

'The Saint Carthen,' said Venez, his stare not moving from the death-faced Chaplain.

'What are they doing on Piscina IV?' Boreas asked, try­ing to keep calm. Inside, he was furious and full of trepidation. As he had feared all along, his actions had taken him further and further from his prey, not closer.

'I don't know the details,' confessed Venez. 'But I over­head the masters talking about some sort of code - a failsafe code.'

'A failsafe code for what?' Boreas demanded. 'What did they need the code for?'

'I don't know!' screamed Venez, looking away and scrunching his eyes closed. 'Something to do with your keep, that's all I know.'

'Tell me everything!' Boreas hissed.

'I don't know what they planned, I swear!' the prisoner begged. 'The Saint Carthen took them to Piscina, and they knew you would chase it and not stop them.'

'What else?' Boreas asked, his skull-masked face a few centimetres from Venez's.

'They were going to wait for you to leave and go to your keep, that's all I know,' Venez sobbed. 'We were to delay you as long as possible. This whole outpost is just a ruse, to fool you and lure you further from them.'

'Who are they, what are their names?' Boreas demanded, Venez flinching at every word.

'Two groups... They came in two groups,' Venez bab­bled. 'We followed Lord Cypher, but we met others who came with the Saint Carthen. Sometimes they argued with each other, I think they had different plans. We didn't see them very often, they never spoke much when we were around. I don't think Lord Cypher knows about the failsafe plan, I think he is after something else in your keep. That's all I know, that's everything!'

Boreas's hand moved fast, his fingers driving through Venez's ribcage and rupturing his heart. Blood bubbled up his face as he slid to the ground. He thrashed around for a few seconds before his movements became more feeble, his accusing eyes locked on the Chaplain.

'Promises to traitors have no validity,' Boreas snarled before turning away. 'Die in pain.' Venez's fingers flapped ineffectually at the Interrogator-Chaplain's boot before he slid sideways and sprawled across the metal floor.

'We must leave now,' Hephaestus said heavily, stepping close to Boreas.

'Did you understand what he was talking about?' Boreas asked. Hephaestus looked away, saying nothing. 'Tell me!'

The Techmarine took a few paces away and then turned back to face them. They were all looking at him, even the two Space Marines at the door,

'The failsafe is a device built into the vaults of the keep,' the Techmarine explained, looking at his battle-brothers. 'It's called the annihilus. After the fighting over the basilica with the orks, it was decided when the new keep was constructed that it should never be allowed to fall into enemy hands. Since the only way the keep would fall were if the rest of the Piscina IV was also subjugated, it was also intended to deny the planet to any invader.'

'What do you mean?' Boreas asked, full of foreboding. 'How does this failsafe device deny a whole planet to the enemy?'

'It's a virus weapon,' Hephaestus answered flatly, star­ing directly at Boreas. His expressionless helmet told Boreas nothing, but the tone of the Techmarine's voice spoke volumes of the fear he was feeling now.

Boreas was stunned. He was about to say something and then stopped, the words meaningless. He tried to encapsulate his feelings, communicate the dread and the anger that was welling up inside him, but there was no way to express them.

'The keep under my command, our outpost on that world, contains a device designed to wipe out every liv­ing thing on the planet,' Boreas said flatly. He felt fatigued and numb. 'And I was not told of this?'

'You were not supposed to know of its existence unless it was absolutely necessary,' Hephaestus replied. 'The Grand Masters were quite specific with their orders.'

'And yet the Fallen, the worst of our enemies, came by this knowledge!' Boreas roared, striding towards the Techmarine. He yanked his crozius from his belt and thumbed the stud, its head blazing with cold blue light. Nestor's hand closed around his wrist as he swung his arm back for the strike.

'This will solve nothing,' the Apothecary said quietly. 'Inquiry, and if necessary justice, can wait until we have averted this disaster.'

Boreas stood there for a moment, Nestor's words seep­ing through the rage that boiled within his mind. Relaxing, the Chaplain nodded and the Apothecary released his grip. Boreas looked at the crozius, at the winged sword of its head. With a wordless snarl, he let it drop to the floor.

'Signal the Blade of Caliban to send a Thunderhawk, Brother-Techmarine,' he snarled and stalked towards the door, leaving the crozius on the floor next to the dying Venez.