Fabius Bile: Clonelord Read online

  There were hundreds of nooks and crannies dug into the rugose walls – a necropolis of bones and bits of scavenged technology, none of it salvageable. The pirated lines of power cabling crawled across the walls and ceiling, spliced together with more enthusiasm than skill. Occasionally, sparks spattered down, cascading across his armour to dance across the uneven floor. He was led through a series of ragged curtains, made from body shrouds and rotting skins, and into a deep chamber.

  The chamber was filled with banks of salvaged flesh-vats and cloning tanks, arranged like statues in a primordial temple – he knew them all by sight. Somehow the mutants had managed to bring them down into the tunnels. Things writhed and thumped within some of the tanks, their forms hidden by soured nutrient gel. Jaws with too many teeth pressed against reinforced glass, like welcoming smiles. Fabius strode down the nave of monsters, his attentions drawn to the humming bio-unit which occupied the altar-point.

  He recognised it for what it was immediately. He’d had twenty of them constructed, according to a very specific set of criteria. One for each of the Emperor’s sons. It had taken him centuries to acquire the necessary genetic material for such an endeavour. He had consigned entire systems to the cauldron of war, just for a splash of old blood on a ragged cloth, or a bit of scrimshawed bone.

  ‘And I would do it again,’ he said. His voice echoed in the cavernous chamber. The mutants sank down with a sigh, their faces pressed to the floor. ‘I would do it all again, and better.’ He stopped and turned, study­ing his skewed reflection in a clone-tank, delaying the inevitable. A mouldering skeleton drifted within, bound in a web of calcified nutrient hoses. ‘I could have saved us, if only they’d listened. Our fathers abandoned us, but I could have brought them back. Made them whole, sane, healthy. We could have stepped back from the brink, shed ourselves of the weight of our sins. The Great Crusade could have begun again, as if it had never been interrupted.’

  Even as he said the words, he knew them for a lie. It had been nothing more than a dream. A last, desperate attempt to rectify all that had gone wrong. A necessary failure. It had shown him, once and for all, that there was no going back. The Great Crusade was over, and mankind was condemned to burn in a pyre of its own ignorance.

  He pressed his hand to the glass, studying his face. Not hollow with fatigue and pain, not yet. That would come soon enough. ‘I am – I was – the last crusader, and this was my city on the hill. The pinn­acle of renewal, cast down by barbarians. The banner of science, trod into the dust of ages by the boots of brute ignorance.’ He felt a stab of pain, not physical, but almost spiritual. An ache where his soul might’ve been, if he believed in such things.

  His reflection seemed to smile at him. The vox in his helmet ­crackled. He glanced down at it. When he looked back, it was not his face reflected in the greasy glass, but something else. He turned, but whatever it was, was not there. He could hear someone – something – singing, distantly, dimly. Either far away, or close by and quietly.

  Another trick. Another trap. A nearby generator groaned, as if on the point of cessation. He followed the sound to the final tank, occupying the end of the makeshift nave. The altar stone of this primitive temple. Had he been led here, just to find this?

  It was one of the ones he’d been forced to leave behind. And still functioning, somehow, thanks to the stolen power. ‘It is the nature of this universe that the old must give way before the new,’ he said softly. ‘All that was will be washed away, as the sands are taken by the sea. But some old things yet remain, unchanging and unchangeable, stubborn as the rock itself.’ Wonderingly, he touched the condensation-slick surface of the nutrient-vat. He rubbed the excess moisture away and jerked his hand back as the thing within shifted restlessly in its slumber, and turned too-perfect features towards him.

  It – he – was pale. Not in an unhealthy way, but like unpainted marble. Tiny, sturdy limbs, tucked against a narrow chest. There was a hint of violet beneath shuttered eyelids, and the thin hair on his head was as white as snow. A perfect infant, several months old, healthy and strong.

  Fabius hissed in recognition. ‘Fulgrim…’ he murmured. He wiped more condensation from the reinforced glass. That the infant primarch still persisted, after all this time, was all but impossible. He glanced down and saw that somehow the mutants had jury-rigged the power supply unit, hooking it directly to the mains. It was not getting much power, but just enough to keep the system running.

  ‘No wonder you haven’t matured,’ Fabius said softly. ‘It’s all they can do to keep you alive.’ He turned back to the mutants. The creatures were still kneeling in worship. Still murmuring their hymns to his benevolence. He felt a flicker of something that might have been pity. They had held faith with him, even after all this time. ‘But alive you are.’

  The power supply groaned again, sparks dancing along the salvaged cables. The tank flickered. It was dying. He thought he knew now why he had been led here – to witness the end of his creations’ futile efforts at preserving his legacy. He stepped back, uncertain. The nutrient-gel began to darken as oxygen seeped from it, and the filters that kept it sterile began to fail, one by one. The infant within began to twitch and thrash as it slowly suffocated. It would be dead in moments if power wasn’t restored.

  Good. It had lived too long already.

  He turned away, not wanting to see. It was the past. He could not go back. Not now. Even so, he did not wish to see the death of a dream. There was no satisfaction in this. Simply an ending, long overdue.

  ‘What is a kingdom, without a king?’ The voice hissed from the vox in his helmet, each word sinking into him like a blade. ‘What is an army, without a leader?’ Torment whined in his grip. ‘What are sons, without the father?’ The chirurgeon clicked as it detected a rise in his heart rate. ‘What is a dreamer, without the dream?’

  Fabius snarled and spun. Torment lashed out with a shriek of parting air. Reinforced glass cracked and burst, as fouling solution spewed from it. The tank emptied swiftly, and Fabius braced himself amid the noisome torrent. The infant was carried towards him on a wave of effluvia. He caught the half-awaked child gently, cushioning its fragile form against his chest.

  Fabius looked down at his burden. Dark, violet eyes gazed up at him, empty of all save innocent wonder. The baby was filthy, but still beautiful. That had been one of Fulgrim’s gifts – to look his best, even at his worst. Tiny hands clutched at him, seeking comfort. Fabius frowned and shook his head. ‘What now?’ he murmured.

  Fulgrim’s only reply was a wordless murmur of contentment.

  Part Two - Maelstrom

  Chapter eleven

  Into The Maelstrom

  ‘I do not like this,’ Arrian said softly.

  The command deck of the Vesalius was dimly lit, as the frigate prepared to depart Harmony’s orbit. The servitors hunched in their control cradles hummed to one another in muted binary, making minute changes to planned trajectories and tracking the Third Legion vessels that prowled nearby like watchful guardians. Eidolon was taking no chances.

  ‘Nor do I. But we have little choice in the matter.’ Fabius glanced at the other Apothecary. ‘Rest assured that I do not intend to accept fate passively, Arrian. Be watchful, and wary. And be ready.’ Docking reports echoed across the observation dais, as Third Legion gunships slid into hangar bays that had not seen use in centuries. For the first time in a long time, the Vesalius played host to a Legion battle-group.

  ‘For what?’ Arrian asked.

  ‘I don’t know yet.’ Fabius leaned forward, peering at the data feeds scrolling along the display. ‘Just be ready.’ He had decided against telling Arrian, or any of the others, about what he’d found in his old facilities. Secrets were more easily kept by one, than two, and he could not afford to allow Eidolon or any other member of his Legion learn of the nascent primarch, smuggled aboard and now safely hidden within the secret chambers of his labo
ratorium. At least, not until he knew what he was going to do with it.

  Uncertainty gnawed at him, in a way it had not since the close of the Heresy. By rights, he should have killed the thing as soon as he’d discovered it. Or simply left it to the darkness. But something had stayed his hand. Some subconscious impulse that he had, as yet, been unable to identify.

  He tried to push the thought aside, but it clung stubbornly to the surface of his mind. Upon returning to the Vesalius, he had scheduled regular sensor sweeps of the ship’s decks, keyed to certain frequencies. If there was anyone – anything – hiding on the frigate, he wanted to know about it.

  ‘You have not yet set course. Why?’

  Fabius turned from the hololithic display as Alkenex strode onto the command deck, trailed by several of his warriors. ‘And which course would you have me set?’ He gestured surreptitiously to Arrian, heading off any reaction on his part. The World Eater settled back, leaning against the rail of the observation platform, his arms crossed over his chest.

  They would leave Harmony well behind them, but not Eidolon’s influence. Alkenex had brought a substantial number of warriors with him – a hundred legionaries, culled from those now sworn to Eidolon’s service. They were blooded veterans of the Long War, and experienced pilgrims of Eyespace. Some, Fabius recognised from his brief time in command. Others, he knew only by reputation. Any one of them could have commanded his own warband. That they were here, now, and willingly subservient to Alkenex, spoke as to the importance the Lord Commander Primus placed on this mission, and its success.

  Alkenex studied the hololithic display. The star-map rotated slowly, as the coordinates Eidolon had provided were added to the Vesalius’ data-banks, and potential courses were plotted. ‘The planet is located in the Eastern Fringe. There are any number of routes one might take to reach that patch of stars. I have provided you with several.’

  ‘Yes, and most take us right through Imperial space. Even accounting for the vagaries of the warp, we will be exposed for longer than I like.’

  ‘Scared, Spider?’

  ‘Practical, Flavius. If you were to give me a more accurate heading…’

  Alkenex snorted. ‘No, I don’t think so. Get us to the Eastern Fringe, first. Then we’ll see how we go.’ Eidolon had only given over a general region. Alkenex had the exact coordinates in his head, and wasn’t planning on sharing them any earlier than he had to. A sound strategic decision, all things considered.

  ‘You don’t trust me.’

  ‘Do you trust me?’

  ‘Point taken, Flavius.’ Fabius tapped the controls, illuminating one of the plotted routes. ‘My earlier point, however, stands. We are not travelling in strength, or conducting a raid in force. Instead, we are one ship, moving swiftly. We cannot simply smash our way through any opposition, not without attracting undue attention.’

  ‘So what would you suggest?’

  ‘The Maelstrom is the surest route to our destination,’ Fabius said, indicating the star-map. ‘Unless, of course, you actually fancy fighting your way across two segmentums.’

  Alkenex ignored the jibe. ‘And you can navigate the vast expanse of the empyrean between here and there?’ he demanded.

  ‘Better, I can bypass it. Or most of it, at any rate.’ Fabius leaned over the controls and manipulated them, causing the holo-display to swell and shift in a scattering of data. ‘There are several functioning webway portals within this region of the Eye. I have made a study of them, and they will cut weeks off our travel time. Granted, the corresponding sections of the webway are compromised, but I’m confident we have the firepower and speed needed to traverse them safely.’ He glanced at Alkenex. ‘If you agree, we can set course now.’

  ‘How do I know that this isn’t a trick?’

  ‘You don’t, Flavius.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll have to trust me, on this matter, if no others.’

  ‘You ask the impossible, Spider.’

  ‘I’d settle for you to cease calling me Spider.’ Fabius rotated the display. ‘Look for yourself. This section of the webway network stretches between several existent hubs. There are transit portals akin to the one you used to find us all along this route. Most have been deactivated or otherwise rendered useless for our purposes. But a few are still active, if you have the know-how.’

  ‘Which you do.’

  Fabius smiled. ‘Of course. Eyespace is dangerous, even for the strongest fleets. A ship travelling alone – even a ship such as this – is easy prey for pirates and worse things. True, few pirates are likely to attack a Legion battle-barge or gun-barque, but a frigate such as this might prove all too tempting to certain parties.’

  Alkenex stared at the map. ‘How long?’

  ‘A few weeks, as I said. Depending on how navigable the sections are. It will take a few days to make the necessary modifications, but it will take that long to reach the first hub.’ Fabius tapped the controls, causing the image to stretch and skew into a diagnostic schematic of the ship. One of the chirurgeon’s limbs stretched out, brushing the image and causing it to rotate slowly. Fabius studied the schematic, calculations swimming across his mind’s eye. ‘I was intending to make these modifications sooner or later. I suppose I should thank you for giving me the impetus to do so now.’

  ‘Thank me by getting us to the Eastern Fringe in one piece.’ Alkenex gestured to one of his warriors. ‘This is Palos Gyr. My good right hand. He will remain here, as an observer.’ The warrior was short and sturdily built beneath his bruise-coloured battleplate. His helmet had been reinforced with bands of ceramite, including, inexplicably, across the visor. That one was marked with two intricately painted eyes – a beast’s eyes, Fabius noted. The false eyes met Fabius’ real ones as their owner saluted silently. ‘He doesn’t talk much. Then, he doesn’t need to.’

  ‘I’m sure I would have little interest in anything he had to say.’

  Palos’ hand dropped to the friction axe mag-clamped to his thigh. Fabius smiled. Alkenex waved the warrior back. ‘Ignore him, Palos. Our Spider might bare his fangs, but he lacks the venom to do any real harm.’

  ‘Then he should keep them to himself, lest I pluck them out.’ Palos’ voice was a basso rumble of discontent.

  Fabius laughed. ‘That has always been the problem with us. So quick to take offence over every slight, no matter how small.’ He looked at Alkenex. ‘We do not require an observer.’

  ‘And I say that you do,’ Alkenex said. ‘If this is a prelude to any sort of treachery, rest assured that Palos shall have your head.’ He set his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Until then, get to work, by all means.’

  Fabius frowned. ‘And what will you be doing while I am at my labours and Palos is occupying valuable space, Flavius?’

  Alkenex turned away. ‘Familiarising myself with this ship and its crew. If we are forced to defend ourselves, I would prefer to have first-hand knowledge of its capabilities.’

  ‘Very well. But know this… while you may have run of the ship, there are certain areas forbidden to you. Among them, my laboratorium.’

  Alkenex paused. ‘You seem to be under the misapprehension that you are in command here, Spider.’

  ‘No mistake, I assure you.’ Fabius turned from the display. ‘This is still my ship. This mission will not succeed without me. You are only here to ensure that I make it back safely.’

  Alkenex turned. ‘Another misapprehension. I am here to make sure that you do not betray your Legion yet again, Chief Apothecary.’

  ‘I’ll thank you to refer to me by my military rank, prefect. You might be outside of the chain of command, but your warriors are not. And I will not suffer your disrespect in front of them.’ Fabius let his hand rest on his needler and gestured to Palos, whose hands twitched, as if he were resisting the urge to draw his axe. ‘We must maintain proper discipline, Flavius. It is the key to our survival.’

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nbsp; Alkenex laughed bitterly. ‘To hear those words from you almost makes me willing to overlook your impertinence, Spider.’

  ‘I’ve asked you to stop calling me that.’

  ‘And I have refused.’ Alkenex’s hand fell to the hilt of his blade. For the first time, Fabius noticed the curious ring-shaped pommel, and the tassels of threadbare silk that were tied to it. He recognised the streamers as the remnants of a company banner, though which company he could not say.

  The moment stretched. Fabius let it. It was rare that he felt the urge to violence, these days. His mind had slipped into a clinical rut, where such savagery had little room to flourish. With his body new-grown and healthy, those urges had returned full force. He longed to feel the shock in his muscles, as he met a foe blade to blade, or the recoil of a boltgun. Those things were built into him, into all of them, on a genetic level.

  But instead of giving in, he sent a pulse of thought to the chirurgeon, activating an injection of mild calmatives, to balance out his humours. Sanguinity was called for here, not choler. As the cold flushed through his veins, he smiled genially. ‘Then we understand one another,’ he said, his voice mild.

  Alkenex let his hand slip from the hilt of his sword. ‘We do.’

  Fabius glanced at Palos. ‘Feel free to lurk in some unattended corner, if you like.’ Palos stalked to the side of the hololithic projector and crossed his arms. ‘Or there,’ Fabius said. ‘There is fine.’ When he’d turned back, Alkenex had already departed. He frowned and gestured to Arrian. ‘You have the watch. I have other matters which require attention.’

  At the heart of the bay, the Twins moved as one, mirror images of each other. Knives flashed, scraped and sprang apart as the two played. The other Gland-hounds had drawn back, giving them room. Igori watched proudly from the observation deck as her grandchildren met and spun away from each other below, without drawing blood.

  Any dog could bite. It took skill to bite without piercing flesh. And Maysha and Mayshana were skilled indeed. More skilled than Igori, or any of her generation had been at their age. The thought darkened her mood somewhat. She wondered which of them would take the lead, and challenge her. Mayshana was the more aggressive of the two, but she rarely acted without her brother’s support.