Fabius Bile: Clonelord Page 6

  Noise washed over him as he entered the repurposed bay beyond. It had once housed gunships and fighter-craft, he thought. All gone, now. Instead, it had become a communal gathering place for his New Men. A place of assembly for the disparate packs, where they could come without fear of the rivalries and feuds that characterised so much of their day-to-day interaction. And watching over them all, the eldest of the pack-leaders.

  ‘Igori,’ Fabius said, as the hatch cycled closed behind him.

  ‘You live, Benefactor. That is good. When you are dead, it is trouble­some.’ Igori crouched atop the rail of the observation deck, lined features knit in concentration. She glanced at him, one hand idly toying with her necklace of teeth. ‘Is all well?’

  ‘As well as ever,’ Fabius said. ‘I am given to understand that you and your packs collected a fine quota of glands. Most acceptable, my dear.’

  He came to join her at the rail, and looked down. The deck below had become the lair of his New Men – or at least one pack of such. They brawled with each other, or sat huddled in quiet conversation. Some sat taking care of their gear, stripping weapons or sharpening blades. One or two matched themselves against specially modified combat-servitors, or saw to the skinning and dressing of something they’d caught on the lower decks. While it might once have been human, it was no more than meat now.

  ‘They grow more skilled with every hunt,’ Igori said. ‘Soon, they will not need me at all.’ She sounded sad, somehow. Not afraid, as might be expected. Just… sad. ‘One of them will challenge me soon. And they will win.’ She looked at him. ‘Will you mourn me when I am gone, Benefactor?’

  Fabius hesitated. The question was unexpected. Unprecedented. He found himself nodding. ‘I will. But you will live on, in your children, and your children’s children. They carry your ferocity, your strength, in them. As you carry the strength I gifted to you, in years past.’

  She nodded. ‘She said you would say that.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I do not know her name. Only her voice and her face. She is ever-changing and unchanging, horned and hoofed like a Neverborn, but… not.’

  Fabius felt a chill. ‘You have… met this creature?’

  ‘I dream of her, sometimes. She calls you father.’

  Fabius frowned. ‘And what else does she say?’

  Igori tilted her head. The gesture was inhuman. Alien. ‘Nothing at all. We merely… walk together. She shows me things. Herself, I think. As a child. You are there. You are teaching her, Benefactor. As you have taught me.’

  ‘Yes.’ Then, more quietly. ‘Yes, I taught her. But I have not seen her in many centuries, save out of the corner of my eye, or in dreams.’

  Melusine. His first true creation. A being born of his flesh, and the bio-wombs of his design. Created even before his failed attempts to clone the primarchs, before the False Horus. Melusine, whose very presence had so terrified Fulgrim that he had snatched her away, into the underverse. Another crime among the many that his gene-father had committed against him, since they’d cast down the Loyalists’ standards at Isstvan.

  Whatever Melusine had been, she was not that now. She had spent too long in the forest of the night, and changed into something he hardly recognised. The last time she had seen him, she had come bearing a warning. True to form, it had either been too late or too early. He bore her no malice for it regardless. With Melusine, there was only ever regret.

  Igori looked at him. ‘Perhaps we dream the same dreams, Benefactor.’

  Fabius studied her for a moment. ‘Yes. Perhaps so.’ He pushed all thoughts of his former creation aside and looked down at the Gland-hounds. ‘I will need the Twins. They have the most experience with the sort of undertaking I have in mind, save yourself.’

  ‘Then I will go.’

  ‘No.’ Fabius shook his head.

  She frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I have commanded you thus. What other reason is needed?’ He looked at her, noting the set of her jaw and the heat in her eyes. The lioness, unfettered. ‘The Twins,’ he said again, holding her gaze. Eventually, she looked away with a terse nod. Fabius watched her for a moment longer and then turned away himself. A vague sense of unease permeated him, washing away the last vestiges of satisfaction. As he left the observation deck, he found Skalagrim awaiting him.

  ‘Arrian sent me to find you. We are nearing the gateway.’ The renegade glanced past Fabius, a frown on his scarred features. ‘Visiting your pets, then? How is the old girl?’

  Fabius looked at him. ‘Why not ask her yourself?’

  Skalagrim grimaced. ‘No, I think not. They bear me little love, those beasts.’

  ‘And why should they?’

  ‘They ape their betters. You ought to have taught them their place.’

  Fabius laughed. ‘I rather thought I had.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Skalagrim shook his head. ‘You know Abaddon has ordered that they be killed on sight. It has caused some consternation among those who value their… talents.’

  ‘What Ezekyle Abaddon orders is of little concern to me.’

  ‘Make it your concern,’ Skalagrim said. ‘Whatever is whispering into his ear has set itself against you – against us all. Soon enough, it might decide that he should seek us out and put an end to us, once and for all.’

  ‘And how do you know this, Skalagrim? I was under the impression you were no longer in contact with your former brothers.’

  ‘I keep my ears open, and you are not the only one owed favours by the great and the powerful. You are not the only fleshcrafter in the Eye, Fabius…’

  Fabius turned and thrust Torment’s head beneath Skalagrim’s chin. The sceptre throbbed in his grip, eager to unleash its energies on the Apothecary. Skalagrim froze. Fabius leaned close. ‘Chief Apothecary,’ he said.

  ‘Chief Apothecary,’ Skalagrim corrected.

  Fabius lowered Torment and turned away. ‘We are on expedition, Skalagrim. Discipline must be maintained. But do continue – you were saying?’

  ‘You have painted a target on us by your creation of those… things.’

  ‘You should be used to it. Come. If we are nearing the gateway, we must have Key.’

  Skalagrim grunted. ‘Another monster.’

  ‘Another tool. And one a good deal more useful than yourself.’

  The outer observation bay was one of a hundred such blisters lining the hull of the Vesalius. It was a rounded chamber, the voidward side of which was taken up by an immense series of viewports, resembling the stained-glass windows of a cathedral. Unlike Diomat’s prison, the bay had not been badly neglected. Instead, it still somewhat ­resembled the officer’s lounge it must have once been.

  That was not to say that there had not been changes, over the centuries. As Fabius and Skalagrim entered the bay, the nascent wraithbone that sheathed the walls and floor trembled, as if in fear. The pearly yellow substance covered every available surface, and stretched from wall to wall, in thin latticework of deceptively fragile-looking strands. Strange undulations and curving shapes spilled wild from the walls, or erupted from the floor, winding like roots among the half-buried conduits. Grown from samples taken from Lugganath, it had taken Fabius centuries to coax the xenos matter to flourish, even in this somewhat limited space.

  Further, what growth there was had only been accomplished with the aid of a special cadre of gardeners. Several of these individuals moved to greet the newcomers, as word of their arrival shivered through the psychoplastic jungle. They came accompanied, as always, by sound – a raw, heaving cloud of feedback, which scratched along the vox-link like rats scurrying through hollow walls. The wraithbone twisted into new and more unpleasant shapes about them as they came into view, its semi-solid substance running like melted wax. Their battleplate was equally warped and unnatural, more resembling a lunatic’s idea of insect carapace than the
functional armour it had once been.

  Every facet of their armour was daubed in garish colours – some of which were actively painful to Fabius’ enhanced vision. Only the most extravagant patterns and hues registered with the Kakophoni’s warped senses, and their armour had been modified accordingly. Rugose carvings decorated the surfaces of shoulder-plates, and strange flowering growths spilled down from the burst confines of gorgets and chest-plates. Power cables, pneumatic pumps and serpentine hoses hung from them like tabards. Vox-relays decorated the malformed helmets of some like techno-organic crowns.

  One stepped forward. Heavy pipes and sonic emitters hung from armour that was a patchwork of marks and styles. The battleplate had been crudely reinforced, extra plates attached by means of some glistening, cancerous growth, which pulsed in time to the slightest sound. His helmet was covered in barnacle clusters of broadcast amplifiers, and the grille resembled the jaws of a wild beast. Bloodshot eyes met Fabius’ own, through the shattered lenses of a mangled visor.

  ‘Lieutenant commander, you live… again,’ the Kakophoni pulsed.

  ‘Hello, Ramos. You and your brothers did not join the coup.’

  ‘Why would we? What does it matter to us who rules this ship?’ Ramos, Bull of the Eighth Millennial, spread heavy arms, and the air churned with a roiling growl. ‘Though, it must be said, on the whole, we prefer you to Thalopsis. He had no ear for music, that one.’

  Fabius was struck by Ramos’ erudition. When they’d met aboard Kasperos Telmar’s flagship, Ramos had been barely able to communicate. Now, it seemed he had relearned the art of conversation. The Noise Marine stroked the flat skull of one of the simian servants that he and his fellows had brought aboard. Void-adapted descendants of slaves taken during the Legion Wars, the ape-like creatures were ­singularly resistant to the auditory miasma their masters gave off.

  Hundreds of them inhabited the wraithbone grove that the Noise Marines now tended on Fabius’ behalf. They scampered and chattered among the pale solid foliage, shaping its pliable substance with quick gestures. Fabius watched them for a moment. ‘The wraithbone is still flourishing, I see.’

  ‘Our song aids its growth,’ Ramos said. ‘It listens and learns, spreading wherever we cast our voices.’ Fabius nodded, pleased. The wraithbone was essentially solidified warp energy, and through trial and error he had discovered that it could be manipulated by proper application of psychic force, such as the raging clamour that bled from the Kakophoni. Already, it was beginning to permeate the Vesalius’ structure, winding through the frigate like creeper vines and spreading across the hull.

  The vessel didn’t seem to mind the intrusion, thankfully. To the contrary, it seemed to welcome it. Somehow, in some way as yet ­unidentified by the few machine-priests still aboard, the wraithbone was improving the frigate’s functions, one by one. Then, hybrids were often stronger. Only time would tell what the Vesalius might become in a few centuries. Fabius was already considering the possibilities of a ceramite-wraithbone blend – a lighter, more reactive armour, ­capable of repairing itself.

  He pushed the thought aside before he could become lost in the possibilities. ‘Has it been quiet?’ he asked. Ramos nodded.

  ‘As the grave. It is at the grove’s heart, as ever. We leave it be, and it ignores us.’

  ‘And the wraithbone?’

  Ramos hesitated. ‘The wraithbone… talks to it, I think.’ The Noise Marine sounded almost uneasy, if such a thing were possible. ‘We leave it to its gardening, as you asked.’

  ‘Good. We near our destination. I will require your services when we arrive.’ Fabius stepped past Ramos and made his way deeper into the tangled mass of wraithbone. Skalagrim, Ramos and the others did not follow him. Even the void-born kept their distance. The air at the grove’s heart was clear of much of the sonic distortion that characterised the rest of the bay. Instead, it was filled with the soft rustle of growing wraithbone.

  Here were the circular grow-units where he had overseen the implantation of the wraithbone shards, from which it had spread across the bay. And among the humming units a thin, alien figure sat cross-legged, in a writhing field of wraithbone fronds.

  Fabius extended his hand towards it, in a courtly, if mocking, gesture. ‘Come, Key. It is time to once again fulfil your purpose.’ The lithe shape took the hand, and Fabius helped it to stand. It had been an eldar, once. A Corsair of the Sunblitz Brotherhood, taken for the information it held in its narrow skull, information that had allowed Fabius to plunder the hoarded knowledge of an undeserving species. But now, the creature he’d named Key served a different purpose. One that had occupied them both for the better part of several centuries.

  Wraithbone grew within it, permeating the porcelain flesh, encouraged by his careful attentions. Pale thorns studded its arms and cheeks, and a single, rough, curling horn-like extrusion sprouted from its skull and curved back over its head. Its eye sockets were occupied by thick tangles of psychoplastic, carved to resemble eyes. Old blood stained its limbs and the wasted frame beneath the loose robes it wore, congealing about the innumerable sensor filaments that erupted from its body. As it moved, the wraithbone moved with it, thickening beneath its feet, or rose up to touch its dangling hands, though it paid no heed.

  Key had no mind, now. Or at least, not in the traditional sense. Its cerebrum, like the rest of its body, had been utterly infested by wraithbone. It was a living psychic resonator – a skeleton key, for opening a certain type of lock. It followed him meekly as he escorted it out of the garden. Ramos and the other Kakophoni stepped aside, heads bowed, their noise levels dipping slightly as Key moved through their ranks.

  Skalagrim kept his distance as they made their way to the command deck. ‘They were frightened of it,’ he growled.

  ‘Respect, not fear. Unlike you, Ramos knows art when he sees it.’ Fabius glanced at Key’s blank features, free of all the hatred and pain that had once adorned them. Year by year, decade by decade, as the wraithbone spread through it, all that Key had been was stripped away. The xenos had, like many of those who served him, been repurposed into something more useful.

  The command deck was awash in noise when they arrived. A ship in motion was rarely silent. Bulkheads groaned and hull plates flexed in their framework. The Gladius-class vessel was old and had a belly­ful of complaints, which it manifested in a clangour of humming consoles and whining cogitators. Beneath the observation dais, the servitor-crew sat hunched in their control cradles.

  The bulk of the Vesalius’ functions were handled by the fleshy vat-grown automatons. Fabius preferred the precision of slaved minds, where possible. Those functions that could not be performed by the servitors were dealt with by members of the pale, wasted clan of mutants that were currently in control of the upper decks. Wars were fought between the subhuman clans for the right to serve on the command deck, and the pale worm-folk had been in ascendancy for centuries. They were descendants of the original bridge crew, appropriately enough, and wore the faded, frayed remnants of their ancestors’ uniforms with no small amount of pride.

  Both servitors and mutants were under the command of those few original officers whom Fabius had found worthy of augmentation. Officers such as the strategium overseer, Wolver, who greeted Fabius and Skalagrim as they stepped onto the observation deck. ‘The ­Vesalius is content,’ it said in a crackling monotone.

  Fabius took in the creature at a glance. Wolver was nothing less than an alembic twisted into a roughly human shape. A being of hard metal and thick glass, clad in a pristine naval uniform. A still-living brain glistened visibly within the skull, and human eyes peered out through the sockets of a brass death-mask. The vox-grille set between the lips of the mask pulsed again. ‘The Vesalius is content.’

  ‘Good.’ The symbiosis between overseer and vessel was impressive. If Wolver had any thoughts which were not shared by the Vesalius, and vice-versa, Fabius had seen little evidence
of it. ‘Has our presence been detected?’

  ‘Negative,’ Wolver crackled. It turned on its heel and marched back to the command throne that occupied the heart of the observation deck. Fabius followed, still leading Key. Arrian, Saqqara and the ­others, including Savona, were already there.

  ‘Excellent.’ Fabius looked up at the profusion of display screens which flickered along the far curve of the command deck. The largest of them, a cracked and sputtering oculus viewscreen the size of a fortress wall, showed a full forward outlook of their destination.

  The webway gate floated amid the broken fragments of a slain world. The latter was one of many planetary carcasses littering the Eye of Terror, the remnants of a fallen empire. So too was the immense edifice now silently tumbling through the empyrean. The gateway was wider across than the Vesalius, and taller as well. It resembled an antiquated doorway, surrounded by an ornate frame that was at once decoration and defensive emplacement. It spun slowly in place, propelled by the cosmic wind.

  Once a nexus-point of a pan-galactic empire, it was now a home to Neverborn. Daemons of all sizes, shapes and descriptions crawled across it. Countless thousands of obscene shapes, writhing, digging, squabbling among the alien perfection. He frowned, repulsed by the sight. But also pleased. Thus far, the daemonic horde did not appear to have noticed the vessel sliding towards them. ‘Your hexagrammatic wards are working as promised, Saqqara.’

  ‘For now,’ the Word Bearer said sourly. Key jerked its hand loose of Fabius’, and swayed towards Saqqara, carved eyes fixed on the crimson-armoured renegade. Saqqara met Key’s blank gaze without flinching. The former corsair’s pale fingers traced the Colchisian runes that marked his battleplate, its mouth moving silently. The Word Bearer endured its attentions stoically. For whatever reason, the creature seemed fascinated by him. It was as if he were a book it could not wait to begin reading anew.