Fabius Bile: Clonelord Page 5

  Both had been high in the esteem of the 12th Millennial’s former commander, Kasperos Telmar. Savona, like Merix, had been one of his Joybound – his most trusted subordinates. Thalopsis had commanded his huntsmen – bikers, mostly, with a love of speed that bordered on the monomaniacal. In the centuries since Telmar’s death on Lugganath, Thalopsis had become the voice of the disaffected in what remained of the company. But it was Savona, though she had not been a member of the company at its inception, who was the true power in their ranks. She had left the bodies of her rivals littering a thousand worlds, as she slowly consolidated her control of the remains of a once-mighty warband.

  Fabius had indulged her in this. Savona was a mystery as yet unravelled, her origins unknown. There were mortal champions aplenty in Eyespace, but few rose to any prominence in the warbands of the Legions. That she had done so was proof of her determination, if not her skill. She stared at him sourly. Her eyes drifted towards his followers and widened.

  ‘You freed Diomat?’ she hissed incredulously. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t twist your head off, you sneering serpent.’

  ‘I’m sure he considered it.’ Fabius smiled. ‘As I’m sure you are reconsidering your current position.’

  ‘We are in control of this ship,’ Thalopsis said. ‘Whatever you think.’

  ‘My crew begs to differ,’ Fabius said, indicating his followers. ‘And there are more where they came from. Now, let us dispense with this pretence that you are anything other than a momentary inconvenience, and talk. What do you want?’

  ‘This ship,’ Thalopsis said. ‘And all aboard it. It is ours by right.’

  Fabius raised an eyebrow at that. He glanced at Savona, who looked away. That was good. She was distancing herself from Thalopsis already. He wondered whose idea this foolishness had been, and who had merely seen fit to take advantage of it. Was this another of her games, to rid herself of an inconvenient rival? If so, he had to applaud her. ‘And what right might that be? Certainly not salvage.’

  ‘You forced us to abandon the Quarzhazat – our flagship,’ Thalopsis snarled. ‘Our fleet was left to the mercies of the eldar, and our ­brothers as well.’

  ‘I don’t recall you offering to stay and extricate them, Thalopsis. And that cursed ship was dying, even as it fled.’ Fabius recalled the sounds of the flagship’s death-agonies, as the splinter-thin vessels of the eldar harried it across the stars. ‘Nor was it the inviolate citadel you seem to imagine that it was. Or had you forgotten the Harlequins?’

  Somehow, in some way he still had not fathomed, the capricious, colourful xenos clowns had boarded the Quarzhazat and run amok, even as the ship hurtled away from the wounded craftworld. What crew remained had died. Fabius and his followers had been forced to defend themselves time and again, until at last they’d rendezvoused with the Vesalius, and been able to abandon the dying flagship.

  The last he’d seen of the Quarzhazat, it had been in the process of succumbing to long-delayed annihilation, as its plasma engines overloaded and consumed it in iridescent fire. Sadly, that fire had not claimed the Harlequins as well.

  He’d caught sight of the strange xenos once or twice over the course of the intervening centuries. They drifted at the edges of his awareness, shadow­ing his movements down the long path of years. Their attentions were akin to an itch he couldn’t scratch – a constant, unceasing annoyance. But one he’d learned to live with. They had joined the ranks of his enemies and were worth no more consideration than the Dark Council of Sicarus, or the Lernaean Brotherhood. Or even the fool standing before him now.

  ‘The Harlequins were there for you, not us,’ Thalopsis said. ‘If we had handed you over then–’

  ‘You would have died then, as opposed to now. Surely you can muster some gratitude for that, at least. A few extra centuries of life is no small gift, Thalopsis.’

  ‘What gift? We are slaves.’

  ‘You are honoured guests.’

  ‘Whom you force to fight your battles.’

  ‘It is a host’s duty to provide entertainment.’ Fabius clasped his hands behind his back, Torment dangling loosely in his grip. ‘And I have, down the years.’ He lifted the sceptre and the two warriors drew back slightly. Both had felt its touch, more than once, and it was too much for even their excess-addled senses. ‘Indeed, in a few paltry hours, I shall provide more of it.’

  ‘Yes, another dead hulk, full of ghosts and dust.’ Thalopsis laughed bitterly. ‘Another broken path. The dead are boring, fleshcrafter – I demand live prey!’ He threw up a hand and his sycophants among those gathered behind the bulwark bellowed in support.

  ‘Hardly a hulk. A craftworld, rather. So ancient that it has no name. Think of the plunder, Thalopsis. Think of the spirit stones…’

  Thalopsis hesitated. Fabius could almost smell the greed radiating from him. Eldar spirit stones were a currency of sorts, among the warriors of the Emperor’s Children. Each glimmering stone held what was, for all intents and purposes, the soul of its wearer. And there was nothing the followers of Slaanesh enjoyed more than the ephemeral taste of a panicked soul. He had been assured more than once that it was a sensation both exquisite and unique, with no two spirit stones being the same. Some warriors would butcher a planet just to claim one, addicts that they were.

  Thalopsis, unfortunately, had a clearer head than most. ‘No. We’ve heard those promises before, fleshcrafter. You are generous with words, but a miser when it comes to action. You will keep the greatest bounty for yourself, as ever.’

  ‘And why shouldn’t I? What does one say, when faced with such ingratitude?’ He shook his head. ‘I have allowed you the freedom of my holdings and the right to plunder my stores to your greedy hearts’ content. I have healed your wounds, repaired your battleplate and put shells in your bolters and meat in your bellies. All I ask in return is the occasional favour. And for this, I am condemned?’ He stabbed the deck with Torment’s ferrule, metal clanging on metal.

  ‘Favours, he calls them,’ Savona said loudly. She extended her power maul in an accusatory gesture, playing to the crowd. ‘You spend our lives like bolter shells, old man, and deny us all but the simplest of comforts. Where are our slaves – our joytoys and fleshpots?’

  ‘A waste of precious resources,’ Fabius said offhandedly. ‘Besides, do I not provide entertainment enough even for your jaded appetites? I have created whole species to live, fight and die at your pleasure. I have devised new and ever more potent stimulants by the vat. I have unleashed you on archaeomarkets and exodite worlds to plunder at your whim, and still, you complain.’

  ‘We did not seek a nursemaid, but a leader,’ Thalopsis snarled. ‘We have no desire for the one, and if you will not the play the part of the other, then we shall take what we wish. And afterwards, we will feed your rancid carcass to the beasts that howl endlessly in the depths of this ship.’

  Fabius studied the leonine masked warrior. The threat was not idle. He’d known this day would come, and had prepared accordingly. A third of the would-be rebels were addicted to substances only he could provide. Perhaps Savona or, more likely, Thalopsis, had promised them an endless supply of narcotics, hidden in his apothecarium. But some of those he could see were already showing signs of withdrawal. Their ravaged systems would begin to shut down. They would be little threat then.

  But he had no time for such waiting games. They were drawing nearer to their destination with every passing hour, and he would need his full concentration for the task ahead. That meant ending this farce here and now.

  ‘Diomat.’

  The Contemptor Dreadnought moved swiftly through the crowd. His footsteps echoed resoundingly through the flesh market, like the drumbeat of doom. Mutants scattered from his path with fearful yelps. Diomat paid them little mind. His claws flexed as he drew near. ‘Thalopsis – betrayer. False friend. Long have I awaited this.’ His voice boomed out of the vox-broadcas
ters built into his chassis. ‘Long have I dreamed of crushing your skull in my claws, and casting your soul into whatever hell awaits you.’

  Savona ducked aside as the Dreadnought charged towards them. Fabius was confident that she would not interfere. Nor would the warriors watching from the bulwark. Some of them might consider it, but for all intents and purposes, this was an honour duel. And though they might have cast all other traditions into the dust, the concept of the duel was still sacrosanct among the sons of Fulgrim.

  Thalopsis’ hand flew to his blade, but not quickly enough. Diomat put on a sudden burst of speed. One long arm launched out, and his claws snapped shut on Thalopsis’ head, even as the latter swept his sword out, carving a scar across the Dreadnought’s chassis. There was a wet, crunching sound, and the renegade’s headless body collapsed in a heap.

  ‘I am Diomat.’ Diomat hurled the crushed remnants of Thalopsis’ head at the bulwark, and advanced towards it, claws working. ‘I stood at Walpurgis.’ One massive, mechanical foot lashed out, slamming into the wall of corpses. It toppled over with a soft sound as warriors scattered. ‘You know me.’ Not a shot was fired, nor protest made. They knew better.

  ‘Come,’ Diomat demanded. ‘Where is your courage now, brothers? Has it departed, along with my chains? To think that I was ever proud to stand among you puling curs.’ His curses echoed from gantry to gantry. But none answered them. Eventually, the Dreadnought fell silent, save for the rhythmic click of his claws.

  ‘Merix,’ Fabius called after a time, holding Savona’s gaze as he did so. She sneered at the other warrior as he approached, and Merix’s glare could’ve cut ice. ‘You will oversee the decimation. One in ten to be handed over to me, for summary judgement.’

  ‘A light sentence,’ Merix said. ‘Still, there are fewer than a hundred warriors left to the company. Are you sure it is wise?’

  ‘The ones you choose will accompany me on my expedition. Any who survive will be forgiven their trespasses and allowed to re-join the Twelfth Millennial.’ Fabius looked at Savona. ‘And you will lead them, my dear. Consider it penance, for encouraging Thalopsis in this foolishness.’

  Savona smiled, baring thin fangs. ‘I did nothing.’

  ‘I noticed. It is the only reason you are alive.’ He looked over the remains of the bulwark. ‘You wanted my attention. Well, now you have it.’ He looked at her. ‘The question is, what are you going to do with it?’

  ‘A good question,’ Merix murmured, as he and Savona watched the Chief Apothecary stride away. Already, the tensions of the rebellion were fading, drawn away even as the rest of the bulwark came down. ‘Why did you engineer this farce?’

  Savona chuckled. ‘I was growing tired of Thalopsis’ bluster.’

  ‘And without him, there is one less challenger to your authority. How many of my brothers have you killed, now? A dozen?’ Merix looked around. Mutants scrambled everywhere, cleaning up after their murderers. Arrian and the other Apothecaries moved among the dead like carrion birds, taking samples. The bodies of the dead would become provender for the crew, or would be added to the great flesh-vats that bubbled away eternally somewhere below them.

  ‘Not enough.’ She looked at him. ‘You’re in charge now.’

  Merix shrugged. ‘Only for the moment. Someone will rise to the occasion soon enough, of that I have no doubt. Perhaps even you.’

  ‘Legion will only follow Legion,’ she said with a frown. ‘They would follow you, if you gave a damn. Once, I think you did. You scrambled for power as much as any of us. What has become of you?’

  Merix said nothing for several moments. Then, ‘Oleander.’

  Savona laughed. ‘Oleander is dead. Or wishes he was, wherever he is.’

  ‘Oleander thought – as I once thought – that there was something yet to be salvaged in us. Some spark of who we once were, waiting to be nurtured back into a roaring flame. We are a dying phoenix, building our nest and waiting for the moment of pain that will see us reborn. But I think that moment has been and gone, and we missed it. All we are now – is this.’ He gestured to the corpses dangling from the gantries, or hanging from their stakes. ‘And soon, it will be as if we have never been anything else.’

  Savona sighed and tugged on a braid. ‘You are blinded by nostalgia, Merix. You do not see the future, only the past.’

  ‘And you do?’

  ‘I see many futures. Most of which do not involve you.’ She tapped his chest with her maul. The gesture was almost playful. ‘You were not with the Manflayer when he pierced the grove of crystal seers on Lugganath. I was. I saw… Well.’ She shrugged. ‘There is power yet in him. Not like the power that drove the Radiant King in his Joyful Repose. But power all the same. And I would know what it is.’

  ‘Destiny,’ Merix said, making the word sound like a curse.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Oleander thought so as well. And look where it got him.’

  ‘Oleander was a fool. Like you, he dreamed of the past. All of you do. You are trapped by it, even as you seek to escape it.’ She spat a glob of something acidic on the deck. ‘You think old thoughts, weighed down by old fears. You dream of fire, but give no thought to what comes after.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Merix said. He flexed his prosthetic hand. ‘Nothing comes after.’

  Savona shook her head and set her maul over her shoulder. ‘That you think that, is why it will consume you, in the end.’ She turned away. ‘Let me know when you’ve chosen those who are to accompany me into peril and death. I would speak with them beforehand.’

  Merix watched her pick her way gracefully across the field of corpses, but said nothing. She was right, in her way. But also wrong. There was nothing left for the Legions. They had condemned themselves to hell, and made themselves kings of its sulphurous expanse, all at the cost of their future. What they were was all that they would be – a dwindling, bitter remnant, increasingly irrelevant and ever more debased.

  He clenched his false hand, feeling it pull against his ravaged flesh. It vented sparks, as worn gears scraped against one another among the feathery strands of alien tissue growing between the cables and pistons. It ached all the time now, and the ache was spreading. Crawling through him like an invading force. The Chief Apothecary had done what he could, but the rot went too deep. It hurt, but the pain was good. Pain helped him focus. It helped keep him alert, against the false dreams that sought to wind their way through him. The whispers of half-seen shapes, seeking to beguile him down crooked roads.

  For a moment, faces pressed against the outer edges of his perception. Androgynous faces, murmuring, giggling, leering – poking and prodding at his determination. He blinked them away in irritation. The gods were impatient. They wanted a man to run when he would prefer to walk. ‘But you will have to wait for my soul. Until I am ready.’

  A Space Marine approached, his armour inscribed with line upon line of obscene Chemosian gutter-poetry. His name was Bellephus, formerly of the 214th Millennial. One of Savona’s followers, Merix recalled. Or he had been. Loyalties were more fluid these days. ‘Are we spared, then?’ he asked, tapping tunelessly against the hilt of his sword.

  Merix laughed bitterly. ‘You ought to know better than that, brother.’ He shook his head and started towards the crumbling bulwark. He had a decimation to conduct.

  ‘There is no such thing as mercy, among these evil stars.’

  Chapter four

  Lock And Key

  Fabius stalked through the dimly lit corridor, followed by a gaggle of vatborn. The huddled creatures snuffled and murmured quietly in their own tongue. That they had a language was a matter of some concern. He had not designed them to speak. He had not designed them to communicate at all. Nonetheless, they did. And had for centuries.

  ‘Life finds a way,’ he murmured to himself. A rule: life will persist, whatever the intentions of a hostile universe. His vatborn had
defied his expectations, becoming something more than he’d intended. Something greater. That alone would have been enough to convince him of the rightness of his path. Whatever happened, his creations would survive. The thought brought him a certain comfort.

  One of the vatborn gurgled a warning, and he nodded with a smile. ‘Yes, I know. They have been trailing us since the last bulkhead. Wary and watchful, your cousins. As we all must be to survive in this galaxy.’

  He could feel the eyes of his creations on him. The corridor had once been used for the transportation of heavy cargo to the upper holds. It was larger than most, with a thick canopy of conduits, pipes and ­bundled wires. The hull plates bulged like the uneven walls of a canyon, casting deep spills of shadow across the deck. He noted a number of lumens that had the look of having been tampered with.

  The conduits above him creaked and rustled. Quiet laughter, as if that of children, drifted down. Fabius stopped and looked up. He spied small shapes clambering through the canopy, watching him with eyes that caught the light and reflected it. ‘Tell her I am here, children,’ he said. The shapes vanished, as if startled.

  He chuckled. Like the vatborn, the first generations of his New Men had been unable to propagate themselves, save by his art. But things had changed. Things were still changing. Evolution in action. Life finding its way. Holds and chambers that had been empty for centuries now echoed with the murmur of voices and the cries of infants.

  Over the centuries, Fabius had populated frontier worlds with his New Men. Safely spinward from the core of the Imperium, hidden from the eyes of those who might do them harm. Since Paramar, he had learned a greater caution. His creations could not rule openly, as they had there. Not without risking everything he had worked to build.

  Not yet, at any rate.

  He came to a heavy bulkhead. It had been reinforced at some point in the recent past, likely during the recent coup. A servitor’s skull was wired into a nook set above. Optic sensors clicked and whirred within the withered features. A lumen-scanner occupied what remained of the mouth. Threads of sickly green light flared out, cascading over him, scanning the ident-markers of his battleplate. The bulkhead groaned open a few moments later, once his identity had been safely determined.