Fabius Bile: Clonelord Page 4

  On occasion, Fabius regretted restoring Diomat’s bio-functions. The Dreadnought had been on the cusp of oblivion, his hull breached, his sarcophagus compromised. But something – some spark of pity, perhaps – had guided his hand, and the hands of his more technologically adept servants, to prolong Diomat’s vital signs until he could be restored. Since then, he had employed Diomat’s unbridled wrath for his benefit. The ancient warrior was a potent weapon, and more durable than most.

  At the end of the nave, where the altar had once stood, there was now only a web of chains, each connected to one of half a dozen ­specially designed servitors. They could extend and retract the immense lengths of chain from the cybernetic pulley systems built into their augmented torsos. Each had a pair of heavy meltaguns rather than arms, and their legs had been replaced by reinforced boarding clamps, which dug into the marble floor. Their withered skulls rested in thickets of cortical cabling and bundled wires, their dull eyes fixed on the massive form at the centre of their web.

  Diomat paced, in his wheel of chains. The ancient Contemptor-pattern Dreadnought was roughly humanoid in shape, and ragged with the harsh touch of war. The Imperial purple of his plating had faded to the colour of a bruise, where it had not been scorched off or chipped away. The deck-rattling tread stopped as Fabius stepped into the hold. The spherical head rotated in its ceramite shell, watching him as he approached.

  ‘Chief Apothecary.’ The amplified voice was loud in the stultifying silence of the Cage. It echoed from every broken column and shook the crumbled facade from the walls. ‘You have returned.’

  ‘Yes,’ Fabius said, waving Arrian and the others back as he advanced. ‘It has been too long since we last spoke.’

  ‘Not long enough.’ Diomat studied him, the crimson light of his optic sensors playing across Fabius’ face and armour. ‘Do you come to mock me, Fabius?’

  ‘Have I ever mocked you, brother?’

  ‘You mock me by denying me that which I desire.’

  ‘And what do you desire?’

  ‘Freedom.’ The word shook the air. Chains clattered. Diomat flexed crude claws. He had been stripped of his heavy armament and left with only a pair of close combat weapons. Even without his guns, the ancient Dreadnought was incredibly lethal.

  ‘I have offered you the run of my ship, brother. Of my holdings. I have offered to take you anywhere you wish, if my company proves burdensome.’

  ‘That is not what I mean.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Fabius said. ‘And I will not do it. I will not waste you, brother. I will not cast you aside as if you were rotting meat. You have use yet, brother.’

  ‘To you.’

  ‘To me. It could be worse.’ Fabius extended his arms. ‘Do your old oaths mean so little, brother? I am lieutenant commander of the Third. Once, that might have earned your loyalty, if not your trust.’

  ‘Trust is for the living. Free me, brother. Cast me into dreamless slumber, so that I might escape this nightmare we have made.’

  ‘If you wish, I will. I will put an iron bolt through what remains of your skull and add what is left to my organ banks. I will end your story as ignominiously as you seem to desire. Is there nothing left of you, brother? Of the Hero of Walpurgis?’

  The Dreadnought stared down at him in silence. Fabius pressed on. ‘Or, you can do as you – as we – were created to do. Help me, Diomat. Help me to save this wretched universe from itself. Help me to save mankind, to drag it from the dark and back into the light. Help me, my friend.’

  Silence. Then, a sound. A harsh clanging. Fabius realised that Diomat was laughing.

  ‘We were never friends, that I recall.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  Fabius smiled crookedly. ‘An oversight I would rectify.’

  ‘A friend, you say? Then but grant me the boon I ask, and we shall be as brothers.’

  ‘I will not kill you.’

  ‘Pity. Then you will at least grant me the solace of choosing my own death, brother. When and where I please. Grant me that, and I will stand at your side.’

  Fabius grunted. A fair request. ‘Once this affair is ended, you have my word. Your death shall be your burden, and yours alone.’

  Another stretch of silence. For a moment, Fabius feared that Diomat had fallen into the dreamless slumber that many such ancients inevitably succumbed to. Then, slowly, the great head nodded.

  ‘Very well. Take these chains off of me. And then tell me who I am to kill.’

  Chapter three

  Flesh Market

  Fabius’ army grew as it descended. Mutant packs slithered out of hiding or from behind makeshift barricades, chanting joyfully as they flooded through the corridors in his wake. Ave Pater Mutatis… Ave Pater Mutatis… The savage hymn leapt ahead of them, drawing others from hiding. It rang out across the vox-system, echoing down through every deck and bay, alerting the crew that their lord and master was back among them.

  When Fabius and the others reached their destination, their numbers had swelled greatly. As shows of power went, it was adequate. While Fabius doubted the rebels would be impressed, it would at least make them hesitate before they did something foolish. And if it didn’t, Diomat would. He glanced back at the Dreadnought, marching ponderously among the mutated dregs that loped and snarled about him.

  He wondered what the ancient thought of these times he found himself in. What did he think of all that had befallen his Legion, in the millennia since they’d gutted themselves at Horus’ behest? Had it truly driven him mad, as it had so many of his kind? Or was he resigned to it, to forever being the tool of ever more degenerate masters?

  Despite Diomat’s reticence, he felt a certain kinship with the ancient warrior. Both were hobbled by the mistakes of others, and neither had any love for the Legion that had abandoned them. And yet… some spark of loyalty remained. Some ember of the old dream, waiting to be fanned into new life.

  ‘Your creations love you,’ Saqqara said, intruding on his reverie. ‘They worship you.’ The Word Bearer glared about him, his hand resting on his holstered bolt pistol. The singing visibly irritated him.

  ‘And so?’

  ‘They see you as a god.’ Saqqara spoke flatly, his anger evident.

  ‘Their lives are hard enough. I see little reason to remove what joy they might get from my presence.’ Fabius smiled. ‘Besides, at least I exist. At least I walk among them.’

  ‘The gods are with us, whether we perceive them or not.’

  ‘Very pious.’ Fabius glanced at the Word Bearer. ‘Which ones stalk among us at the moment? And whose side are they on?’ Saqqara looked away and Fabius snorted. ‘I thought not.’ He looked up. ‘Ah.’

  A thick forest of gantries and iron-runged steps spread out ahead of them, bathed by the light of alarm klaxons and sputtering lumens. And at its heart – the flesh market.

  The flesh market was a common causeway between decks, where the crew had erected a makeshift bazaar to trade rations and sell trinkets. On the rare occasions that the Vesalius docked, the masters of the market sent their subordinates scurrying forth, to acquire anything and everything that might be of some value. Fabius was content to leave them to their diversions, so long as they performed their duties to his satisfaction.

  It had grown over the centuries, spreading out along the cramped confines of the causeway, becoming a shanty town, taller than it was wide. Rickety walkways and creaking gantries stretched like metallic webs over the accumulation of crude tents.

  Normally, the market was a noxious stew of stink and sound. Now, it was a ravaged ruin. The rebels had fallen upon it like locusts, and stripped it of everything that could be consumed, inhaled or otherwise indulged in. Bodies dangled from above, strung up like demented marionettes. Others had been impaled on improvised stakes, and a thicket of corpse-trees clustered thick about the end of
the causeway.

  Fabius looked up at the twitching remains and sighed. ‘Such waste.’ He started forward, ignoring the soft, incessant patter of the blood that drizzled down from the highest bodies. ‘Who will fly the ship if they kill everyone?’

  ‘I suspect they aren’t thinking that far ahead,’ Arrian said. ‘Most of the crew have barricaded themselves into their berths or on the gunnery decks, in any event. Those who haven’t are proving elusive. Igori’s pack is giving them quite a bit of trouble any time they try to push into the upper decks.’

  ‘Good. How many has she disposed of?’

  ‘Twelve, so far.’

  ‘Progenoids?’

  ‘Only two viable ones.’ Arrian tapped one of his skulls. ‘I have stored them safely.’

  ‘I expected no less. Who is actually in command of these ingrates? Merix?’

  A figure stepped into the dim light ahead of them. ‘No, lieutenant commander. Though I did offer my services.’ The newcomer’s voice was a wheezing rasp, slithering through the corroded, fang-like grille of a respirator. Striations of infection climbed across his preternaturally wizened features, and he stank of rot and death.

  Merix had been dying for as long as Fabius had known him. Likely, he had been dying since the remnants of the Third had fled Terra, their ships loaded down with slaves and plunder. Impact craters marked the flat panes of his Mark III power armour, and the servos whined and sputtered as he approached. He flexed his prosthetic hand as he moved, as if to relieve a persistent ache.

  Fabius stopped. Arrian reached for one of his blades, but a look from his master stilled him. Fabius smiled as Merix stopped, just out of easy reach. ‘I take it that you are reconsidering your loyalties. Wise, under the circumstances.’

  Merix glanced at Diomat, looming behind them, and shrugged. ‘I have never been accused of stupidity.’

  ‘Your common sense does you credit.’ Fabius indicated the distant conglomeration of tents and barricades. ‘Who is in charge?’

  ‘It depends on who you ask.’

  Fabius nodded, unsurprised. Discipline was the only taboo left to the Third. ‘Well, I suppose we’ll find out directly, won’t we?’ He glanced at Merix. ‘Feel free to sidle back into your hole until this is over, if you wish.’

  Merix gave a rattling, rasping laugh. ‘And miss all the fun? I think not.’ He fell into step with Arrian and the others. ‘Besides, I want to see the looks on their faces when they realise you aren’t dead.’

  ‘I was. It is no difficult state of affairs.’

  ‘Even after Paramar – after all this time – I am not used to that.’ Merix shook his head. He flexed his hand again. ‘Sometimes, I wish I could depart this husk, as easily as you do your own. Like a serpent shedding a skin it has outgrown.’

  ‘That could be arranged,’ Fabius murmured. ‘Crafting a healthy, undamaged clone would cost me little in the way of effort.’

  ‘But what would it cost me?’

  Fabius shrugged. ‘Not more than you could bear, I’m sure.’ He looked at the other Space Marine. ‘Then, given the state of your current ­corpus, there is no guarantee that a cloned body would resemble your old one in any way. Indeed, I find myself curious as to what might come of it…’ The chirurgeon’s limbs twitched, as if eager to take a sample. Merix shuffled away, bloodshot eyes narrowed.

  ‘I think I am content in myself, for the moment.’

  Fabius gestured dismissively. ‘Would that more of our brothers were of a similar mind. It might have saved us a lot of trouble early on.’

  ‘Including you?’

  Fabius didn’t reply. He looked ahead. There was something rising out of the murk. He squinted. ‘What is that?’

  ‘They’ve made a bulwark from the corpses,’ Arrian said.

  ‘They still have some sense of efficiency, at least,’ Khorag said. ‘They remember what a bulwark is, if not the proper materials with which to construct one.’

  ‘Bodies serve as bricks well enough. They did on Terra.’ Fabius shook his head. More crew that would need replacing. Luckily, mutants bred like rats. And they had enshrined their function as tradition, enabling the ship’s operations to continue without incident. The Vesalius was a self-regulating system, in many ways. At times, he fancied that he and the others were nothing more than parasites, living in the belly of an ever-evolving beast.

  Strange sounds rose from the bulwark, eating away at the silence. Heavy forms moved swiftly across the gantries above, shadowing his procession. He had left his helmet mag-clamped to his hip, so he couldn’t hear the vox-chatter, but he could imagine the whispered conversations, the idolatrous prayers, the hissed threats. The air throbbed with their spite. He drank it in, head lifted high, and smoothed the folds of his coat of flayed and tanned flesh. They hated him and feared him, his brothers.

  Good. Let them. They had cause, as did he. Better curses in the open than a knife in the dark. This confrontation had been building for centuries, and he almost looked forward to it. Part of it was biological – a new body was prone to such anticipations. Space Marines were nothing more or less than biological weapons. They were built for war, and longed for it on a genetic level. Normally, he dampened those urges in himself. But he hadn’t had time to synthesise the correct dosages for this husk.

  Then, perhaps it was a good thing. For too long, of late, he’d indulged in a hermit’s existence, shrinking into himself, seeing only the next problem. Seeing only another strand in a web of ever-increasing complexity. But this – this was a simple problem. With a simple solution. A smile split his features.

  Fabius waved Arrian and the others back as the miasma cleared and the bulwark – as well as what lurked behind it – was revealed. ‘Well.’ He studied the line of guns and the hostile shapes behind them.

  Their battleplate was a confusing muddle of colours and modifications. The dark purple of their original heraldry was visible in some places, beneath spills of silk or excess gilding. Tall crests of turquoise and white rose from helmets scooped to shallow points, and tusk-like extrusions erupted from rebreathers and grilles. Golden chains jangled from shoulder-plates and cuirasses, and censers fumed softly, filling the air with a malign sweetness.

  Many had etched oaths of indulgence into their companions’ armour with ritual blades, or traded battle-pacts scrawled on ragged coils of parchment – reaffirmations of brotherhood. Once, such things would have been mere tradition. Now they were a harsh necessity – a Legion of hedonists could not trust itself, and so the wary and the pragmatic swore by the six hundred names of Slaanesh, and pledged themselves to the defence of their brothers. To break such a vow was to court the wrath of the Dark Prince.

  Some of the warriors before him were singing softly – a panting hymn, or perhaps a prayer for indulgence. A sure sign of their unease. He shook his head. Every time he saw them like this, arrayed for battle in all their garish glory, he could not help but compare them to the warriors they might once have been. When their drive for perfection had pushed them to the heights of discipline, rather than the depths of excess.

  ‘Well,’ he said again. ‘What is this, I see before me?’

  Silence. A wall of hostility.

  Then, someone called out, ‘Why are you here, fleshcrafter? Shouldn’t you be rotting on a slab?’ Muted laughter followed this witticism. Fabius smiled and spread his hands.

  ‘Where there is discord, I seek to bring harmony. Where there is despair, I bring hope. That is what I offer you. Harmony and hope.’

  ‘Is that why you come here with an army?’

  ‘That is why I come here at all. I could simply have drowned you in an ocean of altered flesh. I have stores of chattel as yet unmolested by you. War-mutants and beast-packs in their hundreds, all aching for a taste of Adeptus Astartes blood.’ He struck the deck with Torment’s ferrule. ‘Then, you are already well aware of that, I think. How
many of you have gone missing in the dark places? How many screams have echoed across the vox, only to be cut short? You have been aboard this vessel for too long not to realise that there are far worse things than any of you lurking in the lower decks.’

  He laughed, loud and long. A strong laugh, not the wheezing chuckle they’d become used to. The sound unsettled them more than his apparent strength. ‘I refuse to bargain with faceless rabble. Send out your leaders to negotiate. Or I will come in there and find them myself.’ He lifted his hand and activated the hololithic chronometer built into his vambrace. Numbers flickered to life, counting down. ‘You have until the countdown ends.’

  A bit histrionic, but then, his brothers had always appreciated a bit of melodrama to enliven the tedium of their existence. He did not turn away from them as the numbers ticked over. The chirurgeon sent a pulse of stimulants into him, in preparation for the confrontation to come. Finally, two figures stepped through a gap in the bulwark, jostling each other slightly as they moved to meet him. He ended the countdown and lowered his arm.

  ‘Thalopsis – and Savona, of course. I should have realised.’ Fabius leaned on Torment, studying them. Thalopsis was a figure of barbaric splendour. His battleplate was daubed in garish hues, and he wore a tabard of crudely stitched flesh. A twisted spur of metallic bone erupted from one shoulder-plate, and his helm had congealed into a leonine death-mask, frozen in an eternal snarl. A shaggy flood of crimson hair spilled from the open back of his helmet and across his shoulders. His hands rested on the pommel of the curved xenos blade sheathed on his hip.

  Savona, in contrast, was taller than the Space Marines around her, for all that she had been mortal once. Her lithe form was clad in pale amethyst power armour, altered to fit her proportions. The armour was no longer metal. Instead, it resembled the carapace of some great insect, sharply edged and unpleasantly contoured. She balanced on long, jointed legs that ended in thick, black hooves. White hair, bound in whip-like braids, hung like a lion’s mane from her narrow skull. The lumen-light glinted from the golden rings which pierced one nostril.