‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said the magos.
Eloqi grunted and took the proffered hand in his grip. A moment later he squealed and ripped away his hand as if stung.
‘A guarantee of your cooperation, guildmaster,’ said Unithrax, holding up a fingertip that glinted with a needlepoint in the low light.
‘What have you done?’ demanded Eloqi, looking at his wrist.
‘A neurotoxin, guildmaster. It is inactive at the moment, of no threat. However, should you disclose my presence or betray our cause in any way, you can be assured that the catalysing agent will be introduced into your system: air, food, water, all can be used.’
Aghast, Eloqi stared at the puncture mark on his wrist and then glared at the magos before stumbling from the cabin.
‘Was that really necessary?’ Omegon asked, cautioning himself not to get too close to the renegade magos. It was possible that the Order of the Dragon had a poison that would work on primarchs too. ‘You can be so unsubtle at times.’
‘Let us hope it is a needless precaution, but it is not without benefit,’ replied Unithrax. ‘When the Order of the Dragon takes control, the guilds will be of no further use. Better to lay the groundwork now and ease their disposal later. Before I leave, I have messages for you, from the Fabricator-General, concerning developments on Mars.’
‘I am sure you do,’ said Omegon. ‘I am sure you do.’
THE WALLS OF the passageway were lined with large panels of a dark grey material. Alpharius ran a hand over it, the sensors in his gauntlets conveying its smooth texture to his fingertips. Tiny temperature detectors told him it was cold to the touch. Slamming his fist into one of the panels, Alpharius noted hairline cracks appearing, radiating out from the impact.
‘Ceramite,’ he said. ‘Like our armour.’
‘Don’t touch anything,’ snapped Sergeant Dor. ‘Not without the primarch’s say-so. If something shoots at you, shoot back, but don’t do anything else without orders.’
‘Yes, sergeant,’ said Alpharius, regretting his action immediately. Curiosity was not a trait that would be rewarded in his current situation. He stepped back into the group of legionaries, realising he had drawn attention to himself.
Dor and his squad were the lead element, split into two five-man groups. Alongside Dor were Alpharius, Lukar, Velps, and Marko with the multi-melta. They had covered perhaps seventy metres of the passageway, which was lit by strips inserted into the angle between ceiling and walls, bathing the legionaries in an unwavering yellow glow.
‘Look at that,’ said Lukar, pointing to one of the ceramite slabs ahead. ‘Switch to thermal.’
Alpharius did so, a film of red falling over his vision as his armour’s auto-senses tracked through the frequencies to the infra-red end of the spectrum. Behind the panel Lukar had pointed at he could see a tracery of brighter lines.
‘Power cables,’ said Alpharius. ‘Sergeant?’
‘I see it,’ replied Dor, holding up his hand to signal the halt. ‘Commander, we have some kind of power conduit ahead.’
‘Understood.’ Agapito’s reply was immediate, his voice tense. ‘Await orders.’
‘Proceed thirty metres, Sergeant Dor.’ The primarch’s deep voice cut across the vox. ‘You will see a sealed door ahead of you. Wait by the door for further instructions.’
‘Affirmative, lord,’ replied Dor, waving his hand to set the squad moving again. ‘Keep an eye out for weapons systems.’
They had advanced only another five metres when a panel in the ceiling hinged open and a multi-barrelled gun dropped into view. Lukar was the first to react, unleashing a salvo from his bolter into the opening, the explosive shells tearing through a nest of cables. Sparks showered down and the weapon wilted on its mechanical arm, twitching fitfully.
‘If that’s the worst this place has to offer, this shouldn’t be too hard,’ said Lukar.
As if in response to his bravado, there was a shout of alarm from behind the squad, followed immediately by the crack of a laser bolt.
‘Eyes front!’ snapped Dor. ‘Not our problem. Keep advancing.’
The chatter of bolter fire and the distinctive crackle of a plasma gun echoed along the passageway as the squad continued on. As Corax had told them, they came upon a chamber a few metres wider than the corridor, bare except for a door in the opposite wall. The portal was slightly recessed into the ceramite, made of the same material. Alpharius could see no sign of a handle or lock, though his thermal vision showed several power cables leading into the sill around the door.
‘We just wait here?’ asked Velps. He pulled a melta-bomb from his belt and held it up. ‘This’ll burn through that door in no time.’
‘Don’t you do anything,’ said Dor, warning Velps back with a raised hand as the legionary took a step across the room.
Alpharius looked around the square chamber. Other than its dimensions there was nothing to mark it out from the passage that had led to it. The featurelessness of the corridor, the perfect uniformity of it, unsettled him. He was an Alpha Legionnaire and intimately knew the disorientating power of anonymity. It would be very easy to get lost in such a place, and Alpharius had no intention of ending his life in this bland but deadly warren of passages and rooms.
‘Perhaps we should mark our progress somehow, in case we get turned around,’ he suggested.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Dor.
Alpharius drew out his combat blade and etched a cross into the ceramite wall to his left.
‘If we see that again, we know we’ve come in a circle,’ he said.
They waited for several minutes. Alpharius looked back down the corridor and saw the other half of the squad a dozen metres behind, still in the corridor. The heat from the power packs of the following legionaries was building up, distorting the air with a haze. To Alpharius’s thermal vision the vents on the backpacks of the other legionaries were bright white.
‘Commander, we are giving off a high heat signature,’ said Alpharius. ‘The primarch said that the defence systems had thermal registers.’
‘Good point,’ replied Agapito. ‘All squads, set cooling systems to minimum. Reduce heat signatures.’
‘Negative, do not adjust heat signatures.’ Corax’s tone was quiet but terse. Alpharius realised the primarch had to be monitoring every squad communication, a considerable mental feat. ‘I need you to trigger the thermal sensors if necessary. Team two will shortly be in position. Their progress will trigger the first transformation. The door ahead of you will open in two minutes. Stand ready.’
IN THE ENTRY chamber, Corax had his eyes closed, the totality of his mind focused on picturing the mechanism of the Labyrinth and the positions of his squads. He had blocked out all input save for the constant narration that streamed across the command network into the communications bead in his ear.
Like a burglar examining the most complicated lock ever devised, the primarch imagined the interplay of revolving rooms, rising bridges, closing doorways and collapsing arches. The three forces had already begun to divide, combat squads directed through new openings to trigger the next transformation of the maze. With each random change, Corax’s plan evolved and solidified, as possible avenues of approach opened or were shut. He could not predict every movement of the Labyrinth, but he could respond swiftly to each development. The timing of each move had to be precise, and he snapped out orders in a clipped voice, redirecting the combat squads to where they were needed.
He blotted out the sound of gunfire and the rumble of mighty engines and immense pistons. He ignored the curses and warnings of his warriors. His sole purpose was the unpicking of the lock.
Twenty-three minutes and one hundred and seventeen metres after first entering the Labyrinth, the Raven Guard suffered a casualty. A legionary under Agapito’s command was struck in the chest by a laser bolt from an automated turret that had risen from the floor.
‘We have no Apothecary,’ the sergeant reported. ‘Mathan looks in a bad way.’