Warhammer 40,000
Incident at Facility IX
Simon Pike
Imperial World: Abora – Segmentum Pacificus – 400 years after the Hegemon
The darkness hummed with the constant murmur of ancient machines, echoing solemnly from the depths, like the chanting of an old religion.
The stagnant air was lit dimly by tiny, blinking lights on dust-filmed control panels, and by the sickly green glow emanating from static screens. The artefact that was confined in this hollow abyss was as monstrously tall as the chasm was deep. Dark and monolithic, the intricate, sculpted form plunged down into pitch black depths. The circular walls around it were lined with metallic walkways with thin railings. The basic, plain, practical architecture of the dizzying shaft was in direct contrast to the ancient, florid and grotesque detail of the artefact, which stood in the artificial night like a subterranean basilica or a colossal sarcophagi.
The darkness here was alive. Alive with an invisible force, something like electricity or a silently howling wind, but comparable to neither. Alive with misunderstood, fleeting thoughts, whispers, promises, words that never existed. Alive with a feeling of absolute solitude, of dangling in a void, but with an awareness that spans impossible distances, with the shudder and the needling sensation that something is watching with invisible eyes and an unknowable intellect.
To linger in this abyssal shaft was to invite madness. For nearly four-hundred years it had been securely and jealously sealed, warded, and barred, only the most trusted allowed within for short periods at a time.
Now, someone was coming. Someone who had seen horrors from across the galaxy.
Someone who held the key.
The darkness stirred. The darkness expected. Invisible energies grew. Silent winds howled in the void.
Chapter 1 – Insurgents
Planetary Defence Force Outpost – Southern Arrator Valley
When Sergeant Mattius Rozen of the Aboran PDF walked into the gloomy mess hall, Private Hasken had her stub pistol pointed at Private Ridge's head.
The veteran Nytus, Rozen's second in command, was furious. "Secure that weapon, Hasken!" he roared, "what in the Emperor's name do you think you're doing?"
The rest of unit Six-Zero-Two snapped to attention. Hasken, her red-painted lips curled up into a smirk, lowered the weapon. "We were just messing with him, Sir," she said, turning and running a hand through her short, brown hair, "thing ain't even loaded."
Private Ridge breathed a poorly hidden sigh of relief as the weapon was removed from in front of him. He was tall and clean-cut with a boyish face. He had his hands up and his eyes opened wide. He was sitting at the mess table, a half-eaten breakfast in front of him.
Private Hein, who stood next to Hasken, spoke next. Hein was shirtless, revealing a wiry frame covered with shoddy gang ink, and an unhealthy red tinge to his pale skin. "Yeah, we was just messing with him, Sir," the soldier said through yellowed teeth, "ain't that right, new kid?" He punched Ridge on the shoulder, hard enough to hurt, but soft enough to seem playful.
Nytus was about to speak again but Sergeant Rozen cut in. Rozen was an imposing figure. He was tall and muscular, his head was shaved bald, and his metallic blue eyes were pale and distant. The left side of his head was a messy scar, and his left arm was a replacement, a skeletal cybernetic structure composed of dark green metal and tightly wrapped cords and wires. The laspistol at his hip and the lasgun in his right hand, as well as his helmet and his cybernetic arm, were all Imperial Guard issue, and bore the mark of the Aquila.
"Is this true, Private?" he said to Ridge. His voice was calm and quiet but cut through the room. The rowdy unit remained silent when he spoke.
Hasken and Hein looked at Ridge with blatantly false smiles as he considered his response. Finally, the young soldier lowered his arms and puffed out his chest in an effort to look composed. "Yes, Sir," he said with the smile of a boy that was desperate to fit in, "it was a joke … I was in on it," he added.
Nytus' hard gaze flicked between Hein and Hasken. He knew full well that these two were bullies, troublemakers, and, certainly in the case of Private Hein, from criminal backgrounds. He scratched at his weathered, unshaven face and thought. Tensions and emotions were running high, the sudden news of a looming threat of off-world invasion will do that, but Hasken should be taken off duty for this. Pointing a weapon, loaded or not, at a comrade in arms was an offence, an affront to the Imperial creed.
Rozen, however, didn't appear to want to take the matter further.
"Everyone calm down," he said, dropping the subject, "we have orders."
His unit obediently sat and pulled their chairs in around the mess table. The room was dimly lit, with a metallic finish to the walls and only plain cabinets, chairs and tables to break the monotony. Along one side of the room was a row of high, small windows that looked out onto a muddy bank thick with twisted roots and hanging leaves. The air inside the mess hall was warm. A single air-conditioning unit hummed frantically in the background, attempting to combat the humidity. From outside, the faint sounds of birdsong and insect calls could be heard.
Rozen stood at the head of the table, where he had just walked in from operations. As evidenced by his equipment and by his scars, he had once been in the Imperial Guard, and had fought off-world in the name of the Emperor. The rest of the unit were local, Aboran PDF, with dark grey-green flak uniforms and mostly inferior auto-weaponry. Despite this, they were decently skilled and well-trained, and one or two of them stood a chance of getting picked up the next time the Guard came looking for tithes.
Nytus stood next to Rozen. He was the veteran of the group, and the comms officer. He looked the part of an Aboran career soldier. Grizzled, serious, fit. On the other side of Rozen stood the huge, muscular form of Private Lander, heavy weapons specialist. His size and serious air gave him the appearance of a bouncer or a body guard. Around the table sat Privates Jagg, Kimura, Hasken, Ridge and Hein. Further back, away from the group, sat Private Edora.
She was the enigma of the unit. She sat with a far-off look on her face. Her blonde hair was tied back into a ponytail, and her pale beauty was striking, her smooth skin and fine bone structure far too delicate for a soldier of the PDF. Her flak-jacket was undone and her loose-fitting, PDF-issue vest revealed a tattoo across the top of her chest, just below the neck. It showed a phrase written in the languid text of the Aboran War-chant; a coded language created during the Multessan uprising fifty years ago, that had since become popular in body-art thanks to it's sharp and decorative lines.
The phrase read: Until the Black Ships Come.
"The Governor is calling all PDF units back to the main hives," Rozen began, reading from a data slate in his hand, where light green text flickered and scrolled on a dark green background. "But not us," he continued, "our orders are to travel to a location called Facility IX, in the Arrator Hills. This facility is imperative to the continued operation of the planet's orbital and domestic defences, and while it's location is classified and unknown to our enemy, Multessan insurgents have been detected in the Northern mountain ranges. We cannot risk the facility falling to the insurgents at this critical time." Rozen's brushed-metal eyes looked up from the slate. "There is an exact location on file in here that only I shall be privy to," he went on, "and I have been given full access to all of the facility's gates and secure locations. Our job is to scout it out and defend it, and wipe out any Multessan presence. Any questions?"
Private Jagg raised a hand. The unit sniper was handsome, with dark eyes and a relaxed demeanour. "Where are the Mutts coming from?" he said, using the civil war slang term for the Multessans. "How did they get over the mountains?"
Rozen looked at Nytus, who took up the question. "Command aren't sure," the comms officer said, "most likely answer is that they have coerced or allied with a faction with access to aircraft, then come in over the range while somehow avoiding auger detection. Another possibility is that they've been camped up there for years. They'd be easy enough to miss."
"How long we up there for?" said Hein next, strands of lank, blonde hair hanging down over his bony and pitted face. He picked some of today's breakfast out of his teeth.
"Until the insurgents are wiped out, or we're needed somewhere else," Nytus replied shortly.
"What does this facility do exactly?" said Hasken through narrowed, dusky eyes.
"That's classified," spoke Rozen simply. Hasken screwed up her face.
"Any civilians?" asked Jagg again.
"Some workers and a few administration officials," Nytus replied, "they have a worker's barracks up there. There also should be a private security team, but command don't trust them to keep the place secure. That's our job."
"...any of these workers, uh, female?" added Jagg, a smile appearing at the corner of his lips. There were a couple of laughs from around the table.
"Bet the Mutts have already had them, Jaggy," taunted Hasken from the far end of the table, her eyes narrowed wickedly, "they won't be interested in your limp weapon after they've spent some time with those animals."
"But shacking up with you every night is getting boring, Dana," Jagg shot back with fake sincerity.
Hasken flushed, "you liar!" she spat, "he's lying!" she added vehemently. "You couldn't handle me, Jagg..."
The mess room burst into taunts and laughter.
"Alright, alright, keep it professional," Nytus said sternly, raising his voice until the hubbub died down.
Sergeant Rozen let the silence hang in the air for a while, then, for emphasis, switched his lasgun into a patrol-ready grip. "Right, Six-Zero-Two," he said loudly, "you have your orders. Get up. Move it! Move out! Now! For the Emperor!"
His words chased them out of the room.
Road to Facility IX – Northern Arrator Foothills
A single, winding track of oddly yellow mud cut a twisted swathe through the dense, low jungles that stretched across the central continent. To the South, in the direction of the valley, the magnificent sweeping hillsides stretched between white peaks and a distant horizon. To the North the hills rose sharply into steep mountainsides of glistening pale stone dotted with clumps of broad-leafed fauna, peaks lost in the mists of bright clouds. The jungle was alive with sparkling rain and energetic wind. A bright, bountiful sun beamed down through gaps in the ever-changing clouds.
On the horizon, where a nearby hive-city should have been visible, a bulging mass of dark, tumultuous cloud hung instead. The nebula was a vast and ominous blot in an otherwise vibrant sky streaked with painted clouds and alive with a rainbow-haze that shimmered at the curve of the planet. Such a view made it difficult to believe that the world of Abora was on the brink of invasion.
The PDF transport was a black, ugly troop-carrier with six wheels and a grimacing front grille. The atmosphere inside it was close and heavy. The nine souls of Rozen's unit were crammed into the confined spaces of the rocking vehicle, jolting and jostling into each other as Nytus fought the steering, directing them over bumps and around tight corners where large, tropical leaves leaned down into the road.
On the passenger seat next to him, Sergeant Rozen was holding the ear-piece of Nytus' vox-caster to his ear.
"Any changes?" Nytus ventured. A light rain was spotting on the windscreen.
"Nothing," Rozen replied in a voice as anaemic as his complexion. "Same confusing chatter. Same distortion. I have no idea what's going on out there."
"Could be the storm," Nytus offered, nodding in the direction of the smear of black cloud across the horizon that could be seen through the side window of the cab.
Rozen glanced at it briefly, it looked like a great black fly hovering over the valley. He shook his head. "I think," he paused, "...I feel like it's more than that. Had this feeling for a while..."
Nytus returned his attention to the road, attempting to combat his feelings of unease by concentrating on the dangerous drive. Behind them, in the rear of the transport, the rest of the unit combated their own apprehensions in their own ways. Hein, Hasken and Kimura laughed at Ridge, who looked ready to throw up thanks to the bumpy ride. Lander sat still and stern, his massive jaw set, his serious eyes staring stoically ahead. Jagg reclined, adjusting the sights of his long-las that he held provocatively between his thighs. Edora swayed easily with the motion of the transport, her pretty blueish eyes staring blankly at the claustrophobic interior, the finger of her right hand subtly tracing shapes in the air. The expression on her face might have been a smile, but something about her made it almost impossible to tell.
"The facility should be around the next bend," Nytus called back at the troops, "be ready, just in case."
Gloved hands found weapon grips as the transport started to climb a steep incline. Faces became serious. The clicks of safeties being flicked off, and the clunks of ammo being checked, filled the cramped interior. Most of the unit were armed with autoguns, simple, cheap and effective weapons that fired solid ammunition. There were some exceptions.
"At the top here," Nytus said to Rozen as he glanced away from the road, looking at the map on the data slate that was mounted in the dashboard. "It should be coming into view."
Rozen put the vox-caster down and leaned forward in his seat.
The windscreen wipers smeared yellow muck across the screen as they came over the crest in the road. When the metal gate to Facility IX came into view, tall and gleaming in the afternoon sun, it was immediately clear that the Multessans had arrived before them.
"We've got company."
Nytus pointed as he caught sight of the figures. Some were attempting to climb, a group were clustered near the foot of the gate, and others stood guard, looking back down the track. Ramshackle bikes with flimsy passenger cars were parked around the sides of the road, tyre tracks could be seen leading up into the trails that disappeared into the high forests.
Rozen's pale eyes snapped alert, his cybernetic hand gripped the dash for stability as Nytus hit the brakes and slid the truck into a violent halt.
"Mutts!" yelled Rozen into the troop compartment behind him, lifting his lasgun. "Dismount and fan out! Open fire!"
The Multessans fired first. The rattling cough of the insurgents' shoddy weapons erupted over the hillside as solid ammunition shattered the windscreen and dinked off of the transport's bodywork. Rozen and Nytus ducked, shielding their eyes. The enemy were numerous, between twenty and thirty at a guess, clumped into groups near the tall, green gate that blocked the track. They were wearing ragged flak armour the colour of jaundice, damaged and faded through use and a difficult existence in the wilds. Some wore goggles or visors but there were no helmets, and all of them were shaved bald with heads smeared with pale grease-paint.
The stretch of open land between them and the PDF transport, where trucks would have parked or turned before the barred, sturdy gate, was suddenly alive with the heat and whip of flying bullets. Hasken, Edora, Ridge and Kimura slid down out of the back of the truck and thumped prone into the mud, using the slope of the crest as cover as they spread out, enemy gunfire zipping over their heads. The more substantial beat of the PDF's autoguns joined the cacophony of the gunfight as they opened fire. The mud around the feet of the insurgents near the gate erupted from bullet impacts and one or two bodies jerked sickeningly and fell. The Multessans faltered and spread out as they came under fire, taking cover behind the parked bikes or dropping prone. One of them threw an improvised frag but it fell short, the crunching detonation serving only to pelt the front of the PDF transport with falling mud and stones.
"For the Emperor!"
Rozen roared and stuck low as he brought his Guard-issue lasgun up and flicked the safety. He aimed through the shattered screen of the transport and squeezed the trigger. The stink and sensation of superheated air filled the cab as beams of impossibly bright photons flickered across the open land and struck mud and metal, flak armour and flesh. One las-shot penetrated a fuel tank on one of the bikes and the resulting explosion scattered bodies and filled the damp air with a gout of black smoke.
"Hey! Cover me!" yelled Hein at no one in particular, a wild look in his eyes. He pulled a set of dark goggles down and grit his yellowed teeth, then stomped out of cover. As he rounded the side of the transport he twisted the valve that caused the little flame to flicker and bob at the muzzle of his weapon. The promethium tanks strapped to his back weighed him down as he walked. His exposed arms, criss-crossed with badly-drawn gang tattoos, were glistening with a thick film of sweat.
Nytus had rolled out of the cab and was taking cover behind the transport's huge front wheel. Enemy gunfire pattered into the mud around him, and made dangerous, metallic sounds as it pinged off of the transport's front grille. "Go on!" he yelled up to Hein as the flamer-soldier strode past him, then Nytus pulled the pin on three frag grenades. He leaned out and tossed them around the side of the transport. They exploded seconds later, filling the humid air with flying dirt and blinding smoke.
"Here it comes!" slurred Hein into the frenetic air as bullets whipped past his ears and pelted the ground around his feet. He stepped out of the grenade smoke and pulled the bare metal of the stiff trigger with a bandage-wrapped finger, releasing the propellant into the flame and igniting the insurgents position with a blazing wall of stinking, searing, burning chemicals, the infernal gout melting armour and flesh, searing meat to the bone. Tortured screams rose over the gunfire. Surviving insurgents scattered. Nearby grass and leaves withered in the merciless heat.
Next, the thrumming, floor-pounding rhythm of a heavy-stubber echoed around the lush hillsides. Lander's deafening onslaught shook the battlefield, ensuring that the enemy could not regroup. He grunted and grimaced as he wielded the heavy, automatic weapon, the muscles of his huge arms tensed against the recoil, firing from the hip as he sprayed death. The weapon was so powerful that even the mighty Lander had to wear a specialised support harness so as to not be thrown violently from his feet every time he pulled the trigger. The rapid-fire slugs cut insurgents in half as they fled the sweeping wall of flames.
"We have them!" Rozen yelled into the micro-bead, "advance!"
He shouldered the transport's door and leapt down into the mud, then dashed forward and fell in step next to the advancing Lander. The sergeant unleashed zipping las-shots into the fray, glaring, blinding flashes in the drifting smoke. Behind them Nytus, Edora, Kimura, Hasken and Ridge pulled themselves up from their prone positions on the crest of the track and started to advance in steady unison, autoguns blazing.
"Mutt bastards!" cursed Hasken, her voice loud and her eyes frantic as she moved her sight from indistinct figure to indistinct figure in the smoke and fire and ozone. Edora advanced with her eyes wide, her weapon lovingly close to her cheek as she unleashed rhythmic bursts, the corners of her mouth quivering up into quick, fleeting smiles.
Rozen's voice came over the micro-bead again. "They're heading to the bikes," he said, "they're trying to escape into the jungle. Jagg?"
"On it," came Jagg's calm, almost gentle tone as he brought his long-las to bare from his position of cover at the rear of the transport truck. He peered calmly through the sights at the frantic, bobbing forms of the enemy as they mounted their rides and gunned the engines. They were firing blindly back in the general direction of the PDF, but had been surprised and out-gunned.
He squeezed the trigger and a lightning-fast las-round punched through the forehead of one of the insurgents, causing the body to jerk and fall into the billowing flamer smoke. Jagg moved the sight and squeezed again, putting a white-hot hole in an insurgent's chest, and then he squeezed again, and another Mutt stumbled from a glancing shot. The long-las hissed frantically as the barrel cooled. Tiny raindrops turned to vapour as they came to rest on the scalding gun housing. The picture through the rifle sight was beginning to warp with the heat-haze. Jagg squeezed the trigger and dropped one more. Other insurgents were running or riding madly into the trees, ill-disciplined and untrained.
Jagg's sights followed a fleeing enemy as he passed the tree-line, and suddenly his sharp circle of vision become a mess of blurred leaves, fleeting shapes and indistinct shadows. He lowered the rifle and scanned the battlefield. No one left to shoot.
"Everyone's dead or fled," he spoke into the micro-bead.
Then he breathed again.