Suffer Not the Alien
A Deathwatch short story by Tim Peers
No ownership of or challenge to any copyrights is intended or implied.
Brother-Sergeant Antariel
was pinned, and it didn't look like reinforcements were on the way.
He was well versed in strategies for every conceivable tactical
situation, but on this the Codex Astartes was silent.
The damnable woman just
wouldn't stop talking.
He
stood by priceless Bantaxian crystal windows, holding an unused
champagne flute of similar value in an armoured hand comically too
large for it, as the toxic rains of Lyrian VII streamed down them.
Ordinary glass would have dissolved in moments under that onslaught,
and right now, Antariel would envy it. At least such a death would be
quicker and less painful than.. this. The woman's name was
Dame Ophelia Kyran Randal-Lyrantis, and Inquisitor Yolanda had
introduced them as soon as they had arrived at the Governor's
reception. The woman had stuck like a melta-charge to a Chimera, with
what felt like similar results.
As Dame Ophelia chattered,
telling him the latest gossip and details of the social lives of
every single dignitary in the room, Antariel cast a despairing glance
over at Inquisitor Yolanda. He had sworn to obey the orders of the
Ordo Xenos Inquisitor without question, but the wisdom of this course
was beyond him. The Inquisitor looked far more comfortable than he,
despite having replaced her usual Sabbat-Pattern form fitting power
armour with a massively voluminous dress. To see someone who was
usually such a beacon of Imperial might on the battlefield reduced to
an ungainly peacock twisted a part of Antariel's heart that he didn't
know he possessed. Only the Inquisitor's head was visible amongst
layers of cloth, jewels and feathers, but she had assured him that in
noble company, it was armour of its own sort.
The worst of it was, he
would remember every moment of this colossal waste of time. Even for
a Space Marine, Antariel was blessed- at least, it was usually a
blessing- with an exceptional, almost eidetic, memory. His ability to
recall facts had swiftly earned him the Deathwatch nickname 'Codex',
but right now it meant that for a century to come, he would remember
that Mikhail, Grand-Duke of Upper Spire A3, had an artificial leg
having lost the original in a card game with Rogue Trader Petraus
Lux.
Finally, mercifully, Yolanda
called him over, causing Ophelia to stop abruptly. He nodded to the
woman, and strode over the black marble floor- probably priceless as
well- towards the Inquisitor. She was a tall, imposing woman standing
a little over six feet. She barely came up to Antariel's shoulder.
“Ah, Brother-Sergeant!”
said Yolanda, beaming, “Might I present to you Governor Achilles
Damask, whose timely message alerted us to the Xenos threat on this
world?”
The Governor was a tall,
slim man, in stark contrast to most of the overstuffed nobles at the
reception. His black, pointed beard was impeccably trimmed and shot
through with the merest hint of grey, and he wore a simple, black
suit in an austere cut. Antariel recognised the bearing of a former
soldier. He favoured the man with a short, respectful nod.
“Governor.”
The Governor bowed deeply.
“Brother-Sergeant. A shame the rest of your team were unable to
join us.”
“They have already
departed on a new assignment.” said Antariel. “Inquisitor Yolanda
requested that I accompany her to this function before joining them.”
The Governor smiled, and
took a small sip of his ice-wine. “Surely an interminable bore for
a warrior of your stature, Brother-Sergeant. I humbly thank you for
your forbearance.”
“I am not required to
enjoy my assignments.” replied Antariel. “Merely to obey.”
A waiter-servitor rolled
over, bearing a tray of small, round delicacies that smelt faintly of
some sort of fish to the Marine's enhanced senses, though they had
been dusted with sweet spices. The Governor clapped his hands
together. “Excellent! My Lady Inquisitor, this is Denebrian Caviar,
part of a small shipment I received in gratitude for our efforts in
helping to equip the 327th Regiment at short notice. Of
course, the swift deaths those brave men and women will bring to the
enemies of the Most Holy Emperor is the greatest reward any man could
wish for, but I am sure you will enjoy this more immediately tangible
bounty.”
Yolanda took one with a look
of evident delight, and popped it into her mouth. Antariel simply
glared at the proffered plate. “An Astartes shall eat not for
pleasure, but only out of necessity. Food is a gift of Him on Terra
to keep our bodies hale and our arms strong, no more.”
“Of course, of course.”
said the Governor, amiably. “I would dearly love to partake myself,
but this is the last of the shipment and it would be a poor host who
put himself before his guests.” He waved his hand at the servitor,
which rolled smoothly away. Antariel watched the slave-device go on
its rounds of the room. There certainly were more guests than
servings, and many loudly and politely declined so that others could
have their share. They would probably boast equally loudly of their
generosity later.
“You certainly are very
accommodating to your guests, Governor.” said Yolanda with a
smile.”Tell me, how is your most recent settling in?”
The Governor stepped back in
evident shock. “My Lady? I.. I must admit I am unsure of what you
are referring to.”
“What, indeed?” said
Yolanda, the smile now broader on her face though absent from her
eyes. “Not 'who', after all. It is insidious, is it not? Which is
it now, full control, or merely a whisper in the back of your mind?
Perhaps it has integrated itself so completely that neither of you
know where one ends and the other begins?”
The entire room was watching
the scene, now, except for several guests who seemed to be struck by
a fit of coughing. Antariel scanned the room for potential weapons.
His bolt pistol had been left in a secure antechamber at the
Inquisitor's insistence, but there was a sturdy-looking carving knife
on a nearby table that looked like it could serve. Yolanda suddenly
let out a gasp, and bent double, retching.
“You will learn soon
enough!” hissed the Governor, all signs of his previous respectful
demeanour gone. The liveried guards stationed at the doors of the
banqueting hall now all had short-pattern lasrifles trained on
Antariel. Contemptible weapons, but dangerous in numbers. “Jaakatii
brain-worm, Inquisitor, the microscopic egg secreted deep in your
little treat. Soon, you will know-”
Yolanda abruptly
straightened, and seized the Governor by the jaw in a lightning fast
motion, choking off his words before his men could react. “Know? My
dear Governor, I am the Inquisition. There is nothing, nothing I do
not know!” She leaned in close to the stunned man, and for a
single, ludicrous moment Antariel thought she was going to kiss him.
Instead, she spat a dark, bloody gobbet into the Governor's mouth and
clamped it shut with terrible force. As the man writhed in her grasp,
crimson blood began to pour from his every orifice.
“For example,” said
Yolanda, so quietly that only Antariel, and possibly whatever was
left of the Governor, could hear, “I know that Jaakatii brain-worms
cannot penetrate a digestive tract lined with Jokaero nano-fibre, I
know exactly how long they take to gestate, and I know that they are
horribly, fatally jealous.”
They were almost certainly
dead, thought Antariel, even as he gauged the distance to the nearest
guard, but at least the Inquisitor had taken this small victory. At
that instant, as fingers whitened on triggers and the
Brother-Sergeant tensed to spring, the lights went out. The effect
was instantaneous. By the time fumbling hands had found the switch,
six men were dead and both Inquisitor and Marine were ensconced in
cover behind a heavy iron-wood table. It took Antariel a shameful
split-second longer than it should have to register that they had
been joined by Dame Ophelia.
“Brother-Sergeant” said
Yolanda conversationally as she snapped off rounds with a pilfered
short-las, “May I present Sister Famulous Ophelia of the Order of
the Key?”
“The lights?” said
Antariel, raking the advancing mass of xeno-tainted nobility with
burst fire.
“Just so.” said Ophelia,
all trace of the twittering Dame now gone. “These things see poorly
in the dark, it seems.”
Antariel realised that the
ornate broach on Yolanda's breast was glowing faintly, and even
through the din of the fire-fight he could detect a faint buzz from
the device. A short-range alert transmitter, then, but surely no
local force would reach them in time, for the situation was still
grim. They were outnumbered in the region of fifty to one, and armed
only with las weapons hard-wired to high yield fire. His captured
weapon and the Inquisitor's held barely thirty rounds between them.
The opposing masses were being reinforced by more guards streaming in
from the antechamber, though the corpse of their supposed leader now
cooled on the marble floor. Pinned down for the second time in one
day, thought Antariel.
Pinned down.. his memory
went to work.
There- the Duke of House
Decatiel, who breathed with the aid of a tank of hi-ox. A well-aimed
lasgun round, and he became a blazing fireball that scattered twenty
men in a screaming heap around him. Over there, the Dowager Duchess
Kandria, accompanied as always by a pampered cyber-mastiff with a
berserker trigger wired to her heartbeat. Another shot, and the
enraged beast rampaged through a nearby fire-team.
The power-cell of Patriarch
Garrik's cybernetic arm, notoriously unstable, went off like a frag
grenade with a clean hit. Finally, with his last five rounds, the
hairline crack in the great eastern window that the gossips said was
an accident waiting to happen proved to be just that. Toxic rains
blew in, and men melted.
Antariel dropped down behind
the rapidly disintegrating table. “I do like an attentive student.”
commented Ophelia.
“Much good it does us.”
grunted the Marine, sweeping up a large carving knife. “My Lady,
the south exit is unguarded. I will buy you all the time I can to
escape with the Sister.”
He vaulted the table, and
took a single stride before the world fell in. A huge, steaming,
black shape smashed through the vaulted ceiling of the banqueting
hall, retro-thrusters blazing like Vulkan's own hatred. Before the
clanging echo of its arrival had died away, the drop-pod's doors
crashed open, and the Deathwatch was there.
First, as always, was
Donatal, 'Breach'. Las-fire pinged harmlessly from his boarding
shield as he pounded down the ramp and stood fast, providing cover
for Trajan, 'Thundercloud', to brace his heavy bolter. The Dark Angel
said nothing, as always, but his weapon spoke for him, and the xenos
knew well its meaning. A mob of guards tried to rush the position,
but received a Hellfire shell for their efforts, dissolving where
they stood. From another egress point, Kendrak, 'Jinx', emerged. The
Red Scorpion strode boldly forwards, bolter blazing as he poured
dragonfire on the enemy before a shot punched clean through his
pauldron. Cursing, he rolled into cover as Veteran Walkus stepped out
from the rear of the pod, bearing a spare boltgun and helm. Walkus
had no nickname. None would stick.
Acid rain hissed from the
Blackshield's armour as he tossed the helm to Antariel. “Might want
this, Brother-Sergeant, weather's turned foul.”
Antariel caught the helm
mutely, and the hypno-block in his mind dissolved as he donned it.
The Genestealer cult they had come to eradicate had been detected too
soon, too precisely, for any normal Hive authority to achieve.
Despite publicly burning the bodies, Inquisitor Yolanda had secretly
studied the corpses of some of the slain hosts, and in several, found
the remains of the brain-worms. The creatures were clever, stealthy,
and jealous, and would brook no interference in their nest. No more
than a handful of Hybrids had been spawned before the Deathwatch had
arrived to slaughter them.
Of course, the creatures
were far too careful to challenge the Inquisition directly, but if a
single Inquisitor could be isolated and turned to their cause, what a
prize that would be! The xenos had moved carefully to achieve their
aim, and Yolanda, determined to find the root of the infestation, had
chosen to let them believe they had succeeded. The Deathwatch
Frigate, Indomitable Fire, had
left as scheduled, but in its wake had been a single drop-pod in an
orbital pattern, awaiting the Inquisitor's order to fire its descent
thrusters. The pod was powered-down and virtually undetectable as the
Kill-Team within relied on their armour and superhuman constitutions
for survival until the call to action. Finally, all knowledge of the
plan had been blocked from Antariel's mind by deep hypnosis, because
as Yolanda had said, “Astartes are peerless warriors, but hopeless
actors.”
All this
came to Antariel's mind in an instant, as he took the proffered
bolter and hooked into the assault force comm-net. A dull boom from
deep below heralded the first breach as Arbites Enforcers and the
Sisters of the Blazing Chalice began to storm the spire. The
xeno-hosts fell back from the hall in disarray as bolter fire flayed
them mercilessly, though the shredded remains of many of their number
would never stir again. In the brief quiet, Antariel turned back to
the Inquisitor, who had removed her ungainly, blood-stained dress to
reveal the slim-fit golden armour beneath.
“Insertion
complete, Lady Inquisitor. Local purgation forces advancing. Your
order?”
“Suffer
not the Alien to live, Brother-Sergeant.”
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