Ahriman: Exile (27 page)

‘I know you.’

Silvanus thought Ahriman was about to embellish the statement, but only silence followed. He had a sudden urge to shiver.

‘Lord…’

‘I am not a lord. Once perhaps, but not now.’

Another silence lengthened. Silvanus swallowed, and glanced at the floor. Sweat was prickling across his back, and the dusty robes they had given him suddenly felt unbearably itchy against his skin. He had the feeling that if he were to look up he would find that Ahriman’s blue eyes would not have moved.

‘I wish you to navigate this ship.’

‘I have already–’

‘I wish you to navigate it to a particular location.’

Silvanus waited, and then chanced a glance up. Ahriman had tilted his head to one side, his eyes still fixed, waiting. Silvanus noticed a small spot of dried blood at the corner of Ahriman’s mouth.

He bit his lip. This was the moment; if he would not do what Ahriman wished then he was of no use, and he had no doubt that once he was of no use he would die. A quickly silenced part of him found that this choice made him very angry. He smiled, realised it was a grimace, smiled wider and then realised that smiling at a Traitor Space Marine was like grinning at a tiger.

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ nodded Silvanus. ‘Do you have navigational data for the location? Charts, rutters, puzzle cyphers?’

Ahriman slowly shook his head.

‘Then how, my lor…’ Silvanus coughed to mask the slip. ‘How can I navigate there?’

‘I have a path for you to follow,’ said Ahriman, and raised a hand. Silvanus flinched at the feeling of the armoured fingers on his scalp. An electrical prickle skittered over his skin. He suddenly felt that something very unpleasant was about to happen. He opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment the world vanished around him as the path poured into his mind.

It came in a cascade of light and sound. He heard music, and saw patterns form from golden threads of light. He smelt burning sugar, and heard whispers of voices fading in and out of hearing. It was like a nonsense song made out of every sensation. He felt it drag through his consciousness, pieces of imagery snagging like threads on thorns.

It lasted for a second. It lasted for an eternity. At some point he screamed.

Then it was done, and he found himself curled on the floor of his chamber, trembling. Above him Ahriman stared down, his eyes star-points of blue.

‘You see the path. You will take us there,’ said Ahriman.

Silvanus tried to speak, to say that he understood, but all he could do was nod.

XVI

Gathering

From a distance, the gathering looked like a scattering of gems glinting on a velvet field. Only as the distance closed – slowly, ever so slowly – did the stars become the teardrop fires of plasma engines. There were dozens of craft, perhaps hundreds, all rotating around a single point. It was like watching the lights of a city from the night sky; but here, each building was a ship.

As they moved closer, light began to catch the edges of towers and turrets. At the centre was a ship larger than all the rest. Its hull was red iron and narrowed to a point like a spearhead. Minarets and crystalline domes hung from its belly, while a city of silver towers rose into the void from its back. It had known other names, but to Ahriman it would only ever be the
Sycorax
.

‘A lot of ships for a dead Legion,’ grunted Astraeos. Ahriman turned his eyes from the images. He was only half concentrating; the rest of his mind was revolving through a sequence of thought patterns, pushing power into the arrangement of circles and lines scratched by Carmenta’s servitors into every floor and wall of the ship. That, and shutting out the dull ache from the wound in his side.

‘I thought only a few of your gene-kin survived?’ said Astraeos with a shrug that radiated disgust burning just beneath the surface. It reminded Ahriman of Kadin.

‘Only a few of us did,’ said Ahriman carefully and turned his eyes back to the images floating across the pict screens. ‘Many remain at my father’s side.’ He saw the grainy image of a trident-like vessel, its hull glimmering as if encrusted in jewels, then flicked to another: a grand cruiser with a broad nose of battered iron, its hull the blue of midnight. ‘These are not all true kin of the Thousand Sons. Others have answered Amon’s call. Renegades and fragments of other Legions and Chapters.’

‘Do they know what Amon intends?’

Ahriman shook his head.

‘Then why do they answer his call?’

‘Power,’ breathed Ahriman, still picking out the ships of different warbands; some whose names he knew, many which he did not. ‘Power burns bright in these realms. These others are carrion hoping to ride on the fires of Amon’s ascent. They do not care what that end is, only that they can feed on the warmth while it lasts.’

‘Look, more come,’ said Astraeos, nodding to a screen that had flared with static and then showed an image of two long-prowed ships sliding from the warp. Multi-coloured energy hung from them as the wound in the black sheet of stars closed behind them. Astraeos glanced again at Ahriman.

‘You are sure they will not detect our presence?’

Ahriman nodded but did not look up. Soon Carmenta would cut the power throughout the ship. The engines would go cold and they would drift towards the gathering on momentum alone, as black and cold as the void. While the ice clotted in the outer holds, Ahriman’s mind would keep turning, the formulae in his consciousness feeding the incantation that hid the presence of the ship from other minds. Scratched into the bones of the ship, the Sign of Thothmes had been expanded far beyond its original purpose. Ahriman thought of Magnus closing the sign over meetings of his inner circle, shielding their deliberations from the minds and eyes of others. The use he put it to now was far from what he could have imagined then.

Necessity changes everything
, he thought.

‘Another hour of burn, then darken the ship,’ he said.

Astraeos gave a nod, and he left Ahriman watching the fleet of his brother grow larger and closer.

Darkness fell across the ship and cold came with it. Ahriman could see temperature warnings flare at the edge of his helmet display as he approached the door to his chamber. There was no light except the glow of his eyepieces. He passed a servitor that was moving with determined slowness. Dark marks and blisters had spread across the exposed flesh of its arms and face. He could hear its gears squealing as they froze. The air had stopped circulating first and what remained had become dense and misted with ice particles from the last breaths of moisture. Everything was quiet, slowing like blood cooling in a corpse after the last beat of its heart.

We are become like the dead,
he thought, as he tasted blood and silver again. He could not feel the slivers in his chest any more, but he could taste their poison draining his mind.

He reached the circular hatch and pulled it open with a scream of frozen iron. The blackness within was absolute, and his helmet display created a scene of shapes formed in faded green. There were the bowls of oil for light, there the hard sleeping pallet, and there the chest. He moved to it, hesitating before he opened the lid. The objects lay within as they had before. He knelt and picked out the chipped scarab. He breathed slowly, feeling the weight of the gemstone in his palm. He felt something stir within its heart, a kernel of sympathetic memories unfolding into his mind.

There were pyramids of glass burning. There were animal shapes in grey armour wading through lakes of black water. There were…
He shut the memory off. He did not need to see it again. There was no lesson it could teach other than the lesson of pain.

He looked down. The helm looked back at him. Its dust-filmed eyes seemed black, and the marks beneath each eye looked like paths carved by tears. He paused, his hand halted halfway to reaching into the chest.

Am I right to come here?
The thought bubbled to the surface. He felt the doubt in his mind, the rolling surge of questions without end. He could hardly remember what he had been before the Rubric. No doubts, just the certainty of hubris.

He gave a short bark of laughter that echoed coldly in the chamber. It would always be a part of him now, a wound that would never heal.
I had to come, I am responsible. I cannot flee that truth no matter how far I run.

He reached down and touched the helm’s bronze faceplate. He waited, but no surge of memory came, no flowering of revelation; just the hardness of dusty metal beneath his fingers.

Do I even have the right to judge what Amon does?
He remembered the clear brightness of the belief that he would set everything right. Hope. A fool’s gold glinting in the palm of cruel fate. And yet… and yet…

The helm felt light in his hand. He had not realised he had picked it up. Dust fell from it, sparkling green in his augmented sight.

The prophecies and visions may be wrong. I may be wrong.
The words of daemons, of oracles, of faces glimpsed in dreams and visions rose in his memory.

You remember this path even though you shunned it…

Others will dare the paths you do not. It is fated…

Fate has come for you, Ahriman, as you feared it would and knew it must…

The Legion will die. It will become less than the dust that the Rubric made it…

I see lines of choice vanish into darkness and I cannot see their ends….

There may be another way. There may be a path not just of survival but of hope, of restoration, of redemption…
.

There is a choice.

He raised the helm until he could see the light of his eyes reflected in its dust-covered lenses.

Gas whispered out in a frozen cloud as he unfastened his helmet and dropped it to the deck. He was blind, wrapped in sudden darkness, as the cold crawled over his skin with frosted fingers. He gripped the other helm, and turned it by touch. He could feel ice crystals forming on his lips. The helm slid over his head and locked into place, with a hiss of pressurisation. He could smell the dust, a gritty taste on the first breath he took. The helmet display blinked to wakefulness. Pictograms flowed across his eyes in turquoise, amber and red. He turned his head, seeing the world again in bright white lines. He felt the stillness of certainty.

I am responsible,
he thought as he walked from the chamber.
I always was. For good or ill.

They would hit something soon, she was sure of it. That or something would detect them. It was only a matter of time, and as every nanosecond passed the probabilities slid further down towards an abyss of certainty. The
Titan Child
was deep within the gathering enemy fleet. Her shields were down, her reactors reduced to an ember glow, and her sensors running on so little power that she was almost blind. There were hundreds of ships out there. She had plotted a trajectory through them, but without power she was drifting on momentum alone, unable to move, a dead lump of metal.

A pair of cruisers cut across her path. One second they were not there and then they were looming into her awareness so close she could feel the heat wash of their engines. They dwarfed her. Once they might have been recognisable as ships of the Imperium, but those features had long been lost. Their hulls were bronzed, and chewed by battle scars like the face of a slave fighter. Piled structures shaped like faces rose from their hulls, and she could sense the waiting guns projecting from their mouths.

She felt calculations surge through her, estimating velocities and vectors. The bronze ships were getting closer. She would have to fire her engines soon. But her reactors were all but dead. The calculations spiralled on and the ships loomed closer.

She had to wake the reactors. Yes, that was the only way. Wake the reactors and let her heart beat again. Let her live again. She was paralysed, suffocating in the void, a dumb iron arrow thrown blind into oblivion.

You will not survive this
, came a voice in her soul.
We will die here. All will be lost. We will be become crippled shadows. Broken. Halved.

The cruisers slipped past her without a collision.

Somewhere she was breathing hard. She could feel a heart racing in rising panic. She tried to correct it, but the blood it pumped was roaring through her faster and faster.

Another ship slid past her, its engines burning into her half-blinded sensors. The risk calculations screamed again in her awareness. She was cold and blind and she would not survive this madness.

She had to waken, she had to… She must…

Ahriman has led us to this folly,
spoke the voice again.
He cannot be trusted. This time we will not survive.

What can I do? What must I do?

The answer did not come in words. She remembered the Mechanicus fleet coming, appearing in the night sky above her birth world. They had hidden the stars with iron. She remembered the vast cylinders of Titan drop-pods falling through the atmosphere like the fists of gods. The information links had filled with broken words and fragments of data, the screams of dying machines. She had watched and listened as her clan died, as the world which cradled them died. She had known what to do then, what she had to do for her
Titan Child
. They had screamed at her as she ran: streams of broken machine code, ciphers of anger and hurt and despair. She had listened to them all until they were too faint to hear any more. She knew they had died. The clan of mystics bonded to their machines had died screaming at her for her betrayal. All had hated her in those last moments, of that she was certain. But she had lived, and her other self, the iron creature of the void with a heart of fire, had lived as well.

She felt calm. Carefully, slowly, she eased power from her sensors to a communication array. She would only have enough for a signal no stronger than a murmur, but it would be enough to save her.

‘I am the
Titan Child
,’ she said in a whisper of signal code, ‘and I must speak to Lord Amon.’