He stared at the tight confines and panic gripped him, an irrational horror at the suffocating closeness of it all. He yearned for the clear skies of T’au.
Is this how it feels to be buried alive, he wondered? Is this how it feels to die, lost and alone and flawed, with nothing to recall your existence beyond a decaying body, not even fit for the purity of a funeral pyre?
For the first time in his life, Kais wished he could remember a few more sio’t meditations on the subject of peace.
Shas’la Du’o’tan was so busy thinking of her recent team mate La’Kais, so busy wondering abstractly how it must feel to have such unvented anger lurking inside one’s soul, so busy recalling his shadow-dwindled form as it wormed its way down into the ductwork nervous system of the gue’la warship, that she wasn’t fully watching where she, and the rest of the team, was going.
She turned a corner.
Something came out of the wall and ate her alive.
The vox clicked.
“...ll brothers hear m... eneral alert, general al...”
Captain Mho glanced at his five battlebrothers and armed his bolt pistol. They followed suit quickly, racking bolters and meltaguns with professional relish.
“...nemy in the air-ve... ng the ducts to infiltr... tay alert.”
Mito shot a look at Sergeant Tangiz, who shrugged. He thumbed his vox-caster.
“Mito here — guarding the generarium access-door. Please repeat, brother.”
“...rother-captain, there are tau i... rone-damned air du...”
“In the air ducts, sir.” Tangiz rumbled, huge frame twisting to stare at the various conduits and pipes lacing the ceiling. On a vessel this vast and ancient it was anyone’s guess what each intestinal tube contained. Mito rapped his knuckles against one experimentally.
“Understood, brother,” he voxed. “Stay in touch.”
Brother Iolux, Mito’s youngest squad member, tapped the barrel of his bolter against a wide sheet-steel recess above his head. “Should we breach one, brother-captain? Just in case?”
“Negative. This close to the generarium, who knows what’s contained in each duct? Are you prepared to strike the wrong one, brother?”
“As the Raven wills it, brother-captain. I am prepared to take the risk.”
Mito nodded to himself approvingly. “Your zeal does you credit, brother,” he said warmly, “as does your altruism. However, in this instance caution is our best recourse. It would not do to be responsible for destroying the very thing we are here to guard, selfless or not.”
“I understand, brother-captain.”
“Good. Audio pickup to full. First hint of movement, don’t spare the ammunition.”
The others acknowledged quickly and fell silent, listening intently, watching scanners for any signs of air movement. Mito flicked infra-red filters across his eye-lenses distractedly, disappointed by the lack of obvious targets. This whole operation had been deeply tedious; the sooner he and his company could return to Cortiz Pol and the Fortress Monastery, the sooner they might find action in campaign or crusade. A Marine’s place was in battle, bolter chattering, enemies screaming, not seconded aboard some navy vessel like a worn-out hunting dog, guarding his master’s least valuable possessions.
“Captain?” Tangiz voxed, staring at the auspex of his motion detector. “Something...”
“I have a contact also,” Iolux nodded, tilting his head to localise the sound.
“Give me a bearing, Tangiz.”
“Standby... It appears to be direct. Advancing along the corridor.”
“Not in the pipes?”
“Affirmative.”
“Range?” Mito raised his pistol and thumbed the activation rune on the hilt of his chainsword, blurring the teeth in a hungry smear of steel and a feral growl of energy. The others lifted their weapons, taking up firing positions.
“Twenty metres and closing.”
“I see nothing.”
“Detecting air movement.”
“Fifteen metres.”
“Nothing...”
“By the Raven, what is this?”
“Ten metres... Still closing...”
“There! I see it! At the corridor apex!”
Mito saw a flicker of movement and jerked his arm upwards to cover it. Whatever it was it was tiny — barely larger than one of the green carrion birds from Cortiz. It shifted along the ceiling of the tunnel, ducking through and between the coils of cabling and pipework with unreal precision.
“Servitor drone?” Iolux grunted.
“Too small. Too manoeuvrable.”
“Xeno.”
“Knock it down.”
Mito opened fire with a snarl, enjoying the shuddering recoil of the bolt pistol. A localised thunderstorm began as the rest of the squad joined him, barking weapons hurling smoke and flame tears into the corridor.
The small shape caromed and weaved, tumbling and dodging faster than any living thing could react. It swept from side to side, dipping low to the ground and then pirouetting upwards, coming to a dead halt, then streaking off in a random direction without appearing to accelerate.
The hallway surged. After ten seconds of the useless barrage the corridor was a wreck, shredded channels of bolter-craters spewing liquid metal and tight-knit cable-bundles, raising crumpled mountains across the walls and ceiling and gouging oceans from every surface. Melta ribbons left curious fronds of cooling metal-splash, smoke leeched from shredded bulkheads, strobing bolter fire sent flickering shadows capering and cackling across the devastation. It was madness.
Mito realised too late that the hovering object — whatever it was — had evaded every last shell, every last explosion and every last shimmering melta-stream. It moved impossibly, a tawny streak across the smoke and debris that anticipated and avoided every shot, drawing inexorably nearer to the Marines and the gateway that they guarded.
It barrelled from the smoke in a blur. Mito snarled in frustration and chopped downwards with the chainsword, putting all his energy and rage into that single arcing swing. And he would have made contact with the tiny drone, had it not chosen that exact moment to detonate.
Captain Mito of the Adeptus Astartes Raptors died in a haze of his own blood, howling in fury.
Kais dragged himself from the ruptured duct with a grunt and swung down into the corridor. Bits of grey-green armour, lined by slabs of flesh, littered the pulverised hallway. He clucked his tongue, impressed at the tiny drone’s destructive legacy. His circuitous journey through the ductway had led him, finally, to the doors of the vessel’s power core.
It had been a uniquely odd experience, deploying the little robot through an access hatch and feeding its non-sentient AI the simple commands it required. Kais had found it hard to not draw parallels between his own situation and the drone’s: both were mindless cogs in a rumbling machine, expected to do their duty without question or resentment. He almost envied the robot’s mindlessness. It could never be so tormented as was he.
“Breach doorway bulkhead, avoid damage.” As simple as that. Straightforward, unconflicting, uncomplicated and efficient. Everything he wasn’t.
Just as Lusha had watched his progress via the optics of his helmet, Kais could sneak inside the drone’s vision and ride, spellbound, as it lurked amongst the shadows of the corridors. It felt unusually like flying, and despite being curled foetally within a small duct nearby, Kais found it difficult to control the fluctuations of his stomach and balance as his vision recorded the dips and crests of the small machine’s progress.