care!”
Dios stared back at Solon blankly, and Solon fell forward to his hands and knees, tears welling
in his eyes.
“No one is coming,” he said again, this time more softly as despair washed over him. “No one is
coming.”
Dios stepped alongside him, putting his arm around Solon’s shoulders, and he felt all the tension
and fear within him well up. The tears ran freely, and Solon was glad that the hood of his exposure
suit hid them from the boy. After a few minutes, a calmness descended over Solon, and he took a
deep breath.
He looked up at Dios, who was peering at him in concern, and he gave the boy a smile.
Solon pushed himself wearily to his feet and checked the digi-compass beneath a flap of canvas
on his left arm, realigning himself with the direction of the Phorcys starport, which he guessed was
still a day and half’s hike away. Nodding to Dios, he set off again in that direction, but a tugging at
his belt gave him pause.
Dios was gesturing in the direction that the shuttle had taken.
“No, Dios. It wasn’t coming for us. I’m sorry, boy.” Still, the orphan was insistent, gesturing
more emphatically in the opposite direction that Solon had set off in.
With a sigh, he gave in, and turned back. Dios leapt forwards enthusiastically, grabbing hold of
his hand and dragging him through the snow, into the billowing ice storm.
They had moved perhaps a kilometre through the snow when the wind changed direction,
blowing the banks of fog and ice away to the west, leaving the view out in front suddenly clear.
Solon could see further than he had done for months, and he marvelled at the display of colour that
danced across the heavens.
It was called the Aurealis Skyllian, and it was said that the phenomenon occurred only under
specific atmospheric conditions. Solon had seen it only twice before in his lifetime, once when he
was a boy, a week after his father had died in a mining accident, and again on the first night he had
spent on the foreign and terrifying ice crawlers, just after he had been expelled from the guild. Both
times had been momentous occasions in his life, and this one would prove likewise, for there, on the
ice, a kilometre away, lit up by the eerie, heavenly light in the dark sky overhead, was the shuttle.
It was settling on the ice flow, and Solon again felt his spirits soar. They were stopping for them!
Even if they had not actually seen the two refugees tramping across the ice, it didn’t matter. What
mattered was that the shuttle was landing, and it was within their reach.
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A desperate fear that the shuttle would leave again before they reached it filled Solon, and again
he scooped up Dios in his arms, and began to plough his way through the snow.
Salvation had come, at last.
Thank the Emperor, thought Solon.
“The Idolator is inbound,” said Kol Badar’s voice, “touching down over the ridge to the north.”
“Good,” said Marduk.
The Land Raiders had outrun the downpour of xenos spores, and there had been no enemy
contact for almost an hour. Nevertheless, sensors indicated that the waves of inbound spores were
intensifying, and their spread widening.
“Be ready for disembarkation,” Marduk snapped at the warriors in the Land Raider. “Two
minutes and counting.”
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Baranov,” said Eustenov, the pilot of the Rapture, “they are pulling us in. Five minutes.”
The smuggler, rogue trader and sometimes blockade-runner leant forward over the back of his
pilot, peering into the blackness of space ahead, on the shadow-side of the doomed planet Perdus
Skylla. The sleek shape of the ship that the Rapture was to dock with could barely be seen, even at
this distance, and he shook his head, marvelling at the technology that concealed it. It was merely a
part of the surrounding darkness, though the bladed vales that protruded from its length like the fins
of a fish gleamed sharply as the forward lights of the Rapture swept across them.
Patting the clearly nervous pilot on the shoulder, Baranov turned and stalked towards the rear
compartment of his trading vessel, where members of the wealthy elite of Perdus Skylla were
housed. He took a deep breath, gathering himself, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Then, with a
casual, relaxed smile on his face, he placed his palm on the register panel beside the door-frame.
The portal slid silently aside and he strode confidently through.
The gathered nobles and upper guild officials were lounging on the low, cushioned couches
within, sipping from glasses filled with the finest amasec that Baranov could obtain. Each bottle had
cost him a small fortune, but it mattered not when compared with the price the Perdus Skyllans had
already paid him, and the wealth that he was promised from his employers.
Surgically enhanced beauties, the courtesans and mistresses of these fine, upstanding gentlemen,
were laughing gaily as they sipped from their high glasses, and gave each other venomous glances
behind their masters’ backs. The men were gathered in small groups, talking earnestly about
whatever they talked about, probably their latest guild takeover moves, or their strategies for the
future.
No one paid any mind to Baranov as he stood before them. He was as invisible as a servant, and
he cleared his throat to gain their attention.
“How far are we from the Imperial fleet, Baranov?” huffed a heavily jowled guild senator, and
the rogue trader held up a hand to forestall him.
“My most esteemed companions,” he said with a broad smile, his voice raised over the din of
chatter, “I come to inform you that we are nearing our destination. I hope that you have been
comfortable on your journey, and I apologise for any inconvenience that the turbulence we
experienced earlier caused you. Alas, it was a necessary inconvenience. It was as if the loathsome
xenos were determined to make your lives less comfortable, abominable creatures, all of them.”
Baranov raised a hand as murmuring rippled across the gathered group, and gasps came from
several of the courtesans.
“Have no fear, ladies and gentlemen, the bulk of the xenos fleet is attacking Perdus Skylla from
galactic east, on the far side of the planet. You were in little real danger, and my pilot, dear
Eustenov, is the finest pilot in the eastern quadrant. Only the best for such vaunted company,” he
said, bowing with a flourish.
The lie came easily to Baranov’s lips. In truth, the Rapture was lucky to have avoided
destruction, as several of the spores launched from the still distant tyranid hive fleets had come
perilously close to colliding with his ship. It had taken more luck than skill to avoid them.
“We will be docking in around two minutes,” said Baranov, checking the time on his wristpiece.
“It has been a pleasure to have such esteemed guests aboard the Rapture. Never before has
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such a fine group of individuals graced its humble decks, and I shall look back upon the service I
was able to perform with pleasure for many years to come.”
Many of the nobles refused even to look at him, but Baranov didn’t care.
“Many years to come indeed,” he said again, more softly, and bowing with a flourish, he
returned to the shuttle’s cockpit, thinking of what he would do with his new-found wealth.
“Hurry, Dios,” said Solon as he raced through the snow towards the landed shuttle. The effort of
carrying the boy had all but exhausted him, and now the boy was running along behind him, his eyes
wide with excitement and hope.
They were no more than fifty metres from the shuttle, and he could see the embarkation deck at
the rear of the fuselage lowering to the ground, beckoning him. Salvation!
With a burst of speed, Dios overtook him, laughing as he ran, but then the boy stopped short,
freezing in place. Laughing, Solon drew to a halt next to the boy, a smile on his lips.
“Isn’t it the most wonderful sight you’ve ever seen?” he breathed, his heart pumping from the
exertion.
Dios’s eyes were locked on something in the distance, something moving fast. Squinting
through the darkness, Solon could see four shapes moving rapidly across the ice flow, a white
backwash kicking up behind them.
“Interdiction forces?” said Solon, but the vehicles were not the uniform white of the moon’s
military forces. They were the colour of congealed blood, and a shiver ran down Solon’s spine as he
looked upon them. They were larger than any Interdiction vehicle he had ever seen, for even without
landmarks for reference to give the vehicles scale, he could see that they were massive.
Solon began to walk slowly towards the waiting shuttle, but a sudden wave of fear struck him,
and he dropped to his belly, dragging Dios down into the snow with him. Sponson-mounted
weaponry on the vehicles, which could only have been battle tanks, turned in their direction.
Solon and Dios watched with growing panic as the four battle tanks drew nearer, and they could
see that their hulls were covered in chains, spikes and blasphemous runes. Skulls were rammed onto
sharpened metal stakes that ran in ridges down the flanks of the massive machines, and strips of
parchment were plastered to their sides, half obscured by snow and ice.
The first of the tanks ground to a halt before the shuttle, and dark smoke rose from its exhaust
stacks. An assault ramp at the front of the vehicle slammed down on to the ice, and giants dressed in
red plate armour emerged.
Solon had only heard stories about the blessed Space Marines that protected humanity, and he
had never dreamed in his wildest fantasies that he would ever get a chance to lay eyes on the nighon
mythical warriors of the Emperor. They were the Emperor’s chosen, biologically enhanced
warriors that were as strong as ten men, armed with the most advanced weaponry the Adeptus
Mechanicus could provide, and armoured in heavy plate that could withstand a direct hit from a
Leman Russ battle tank, so it was said. They were the finest fighting force that the galaxy had ever
seen, and it was said that nothing could stand against them. Looking upon the divine warriors, Solon
could well believe it, though these warriors looked more like bloodthirsty butchers than holy
protectors of humanity.
“Angels of death,” he whispered.
In his childhood dreams he had pictured them armoured in faultless golden plate, with angelic
countenances and noble bearing. While such beliefs were clearly childish, Solon knew that there
was something horribly wrong here. He was desperate to believe that salvation had come to Perdus
Skylla, that the Emperor had dispatched his finest warriors to free the moon from alien invasion, but
these Space Marines filled him with dread.
The other monstrous tanks disgorged their cargo of Space Marines, and two of the massive
vehicles backed under the shuttle’s stubby wings. Locking clamps descended like umbilical cords,
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latching onto the immense tanks and lifting them up beneath its wings while the other pair
manoeuvred into position behind.
The first warriors stamped up the embarkation deck into the belly of the shuttle. One of them
paused on the ramp, consulting a hand-held tech-device. It turned in their direction, and Solon sank
down lower into the snow, barely daring to breathe.
A warrior with a helmet fashioned like a grinning death’s head spun to face them, and a fresh
wave of panic gripped Solon as he realised that they had been spotted. Other warriors turned in their
direction, and, raising their weapons before them, they began to march towards their position.
Sick with panic, Solon staggered to his feet, his heart thumping. He lifted his hands up before
him, to show that he was unarmed.
The Space Marines halted, though they did not lower their weapons. One of them, a lean warrior
whose head was bare to the elements, turned to the skull-helmed one, speaking something that Solon
could not hear. The warrior appeared to approve, nodding his head almost imperceptibly before
turning away and striding up the embarkation ramp towards the interior of the shuttle.
The barefaced warrior turned back towards Solon with a cold smile upon his noble face, and
Solon licked his lips uneasily. The other Space Marines turned away, but this one warrior remained
staring at them. Solon felt as if he was transfixed by the Space Marine’s gaze.
Then the man turned into a monster, and Solon felt his sanity fray.
“No,” he whispered, as the warrior grew, his shoulders bulking out and his hands extending into
talons. The warrior’s image flickered like a faulty pict screen, and for a moment Solon could see the
image of two beings overlapping each other, both inhabiting the same space. Although he knew
such a thing was impossible, and his rational mind baulked at what he was seeing, he could not
refute what he saw with his own eyes. The warrior was still there, lean and striding towards them
with an easy, relaxed grace, but there was something else… something horrific.
It was a hulking daemon from the pits of hell, and its hateful features overlaid the classically
handsome face of the Space Marine. Its eyes burnt with malice and the promise of pain, and its lips
curled back to expose hundreds of sharp teeth, arrayed in serried layers, one behind the other, all the
way to the back of its throat. Tall horns rose from its brow, and the air was thick and cloying where
it exhaled.
The two images became one, a bastard hybrid, and Solon, horrified beyond reason, began to
back away even as the daemonic hybrid creature began loping towards them.
“Run!” Solon roared, his paralysis giving way to abject terror.
Glancing over his shoulder, Solon saw that the hellish creature was gaining on them rapidly,
covering the ground with tremendous leaps, using its arms to steady itself with each landing.
These were not the Emperor’s divine angels, he thought; they couldn’t be. They were the flip
side of everything he had ever heard about them, and they were going to butcher him and Dios, after
all they that had struggled through.
Solon glanced back to see the daemon close behind them, its powerful legs bunched beneath it
as it prepared to launch itself upon them. Solon shoved Dios to the side as the creature leapt. It
would not get them both at once, but he knew that he was only delaying the inevitable, for neither of
them could hope to stand against such a creature.
Solon spun around to face the monster as it lunged towards him, staggering backwards in the
