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  Exocytosis – James Swallow

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  Exocytosis

  James Swallow

  Dawn came to Zaramund in slow ranges of colour, yellowed streaks the shade of bruised flesh rising up across the vault of the sky and bringing with them gradual changes that crept across the dense, forested landscape.

  Calas Typhon stood upon the ridge above the encampment and watched it come, his helmet dangling at the end of his arm and the low, cold breeze plucking at the matted hair of his unkempt beard. He imagined himself a fixed point in space and time, around which the cycle of Zaramund moved endlessly, his presence changeless and constant.

  Dawn and dusk, night and day, these things were trivial and distant concepts to a legionary, trimmed from Typhon’s existence along with hundreds of other small human things that his kind lost when they were transformed. He had no need to sleep or to fuel his body in human ways, and it had been so long since he had known need of these things that they had become alien in concept. In his deep past, the man who was now First Captain of the Death Guard Legion had progressed through a state-change that irrevocably rewrote his physical nature.

  A dawning of my better self, he considered, with a brief, bleak smile.

  The moment of amusement guttered out like a snuffed candle as his usual dour mien replaced it. Typhon’s brow furrowed as he tried to grasp the ephemeral edges of the thought that had been tormenting him ever since they had arrived on Zaramund – even before that, if he were honest with himself. He could almost form the idea, but every time he reached for it, it retreated. It was like running his fingers through the flow of a river, seeking one single ebb of current. The truth was infuriatingly beyond his reach, a phantom retreating into the warp, and even after the hours Typhon had spent up here in isolation and self-reflection, it still escaped him.

  He let the moment of reverie crumble and his gaze tracked a heavy shuttle as it lifted off from one of the temporary landing pads on the south side of the encampment. The brick-shaped craft rose into the lightening sky on crackling thruster bells, carrying aboard it new components and equipment for the repairs to the Terminus Est and the other vessels in his flotilla. Typhon watched the shuttle shrink to a dot, and high above he picked out the constellation of bright morning stars that were his battle barge and its sister-ships, drifting up there in a low geostationary orbit.

  The warship had suffered greatly, and there had been a moment when Typhon feared that Zaramund might become her grave marker. But the fates had a way of confounding a warrior’s expectations. Instead of battle, the Terminus Est had found a safe harbour and an unusual welcome from a quarter that Typhon had never expected: Luther and his renegade Dark Angels, planting their standard next to that of the Warmaster Horus Lupercal…

  As much as this turn of events was welcome to the Death Guard, Typhon could not help but be suspicious of it. But then, was that not the nature of the sons of Barbarus? To distrust all that could not be seen and touched and broken?

  Typhon shook off the thought with a flick of his head, removing a gauntlet and raising a hand to run it over his close-cropped temple. Luther’s generosity was, like it or not, sorely needed by the First Captain and his Grave Wardens. Expedience overruled distrust.

  For the moment.

  The thought faded as Typhon’s fingers found a new lesion on his scalp, hidden in the greasy layers of his hair. He tried not to dwell upon it, but his hand slipped to the back of his neck where the mottling of his skin had begun several weeks earlier. There was a cluster of livid boils there, a triad of them that were strangely cold to the touch. Other marks elsewhere on his body, similar in kind but better hidden in the crevices of his musculature, were slowly growing more numerous.

  And yet, they caused him no pain. If anything, Typhon felt physically stronger than he ever had, as if he were improving with each passing day. Am I unwell? The question echoed in his mind, and it seemed ridiculous. Inconceivable! I am a Death Guard, the obdurate and unrelenting. There is no known toxin or sickness that can lay us low.

  He wanted to laugh off the thought, but it nagged at him. Typhon became aware of a few tiny, black flies circling his head, little things barely larger than motes of dust, and he swatted lazily at them as he spied a figure approaching up the incline of the ridge.

  The other Death Guard removed his helmet as he approached and halted a few metres away, giving a shallow bow. Hadrabulus Vioss was a captain of Typhon’s Grave Wardens, and his master’s right hand. ‘My lord,’ he began, ‘you have been vox-silent for some time. Your communications circuit registers as deactivated.’

  Typhon glanced down at his helm, then away. ‘I required some time to think, nothing more. What is it that you want, kinsman?’

  ‘Not I, First Captain.’ The Grave Warden’s shorn scalp bobbed. ‘The Dark Angel, Luther. He wishes to speak with you.’

  ‘Reasons?’

  Vioss’ lips thinned. ‘Are you asking me to guess?’

  Typhon made a gesture for him to continue, and his second-in-command took a breath.

  ‘I think he wants us to stand with him. To speak well of him, to the Warmaster.’

  ‘Luther is gauging the price he will ask in return for aiding us.’

  Vioss nodded. ‘Aye.’

  Typhon pushed away the thoughts that had been clouding his mind and took a step forward. The synthetic musculature beneath the heavy ceramite planes of his Terminator armour hissed gently, and he turned his helmet in his hands as he reactivated its systems.

  ‘He is a warrior of Caliban, after all,’ he added, after a long moment. ‘They all have a hunter’s eye for the calculations of warfare.’

  ‘We will owe him a debt,’ noted Vioss.

  ‘Indeed,’ Typhon allowed, and started down the ridge towards the camp. ‘But there are other scales that need to be balanced before his.’

  ‘There is much to be done,’ muttered Luther, his hooded gaze searching the hololithic chart table before him. Dull light from the display underlit his face and the low ceiling of the command chamber. Above the glassy surface of the table, renderings of nearby worlds turned along their orbital plots, and clusters of dark green arrowheads – indicators suggesting starship deployments – swam in the void zones between them. ‘If he’s out there… we need to be ready to meet him with force when the time comes.’

  ‘Corswain,’ said the Lord Cypher, considering the name. ‘If what the Death Guard told us was true, then allowing Typhon’s warriors to rest here may draw him to us.’

  Luther shot him a warning look. ‘Is that censure in your words, brother?’ Before Cypher could reply, he went on. ‘Use your gifts. If the Lion’s lapdog has our scent, we will build a snare for him when he comes.’

  ‘I have sensed nothing,’ admitted the psyker. He paused, then lowered his voice. ‘Perhaps you will enlighten me, lord. Perhaps you will tell me what it is we gain from aiding Mortarion’s men.’

  The answer, shaded with derision, slipped from the mouth of another Dark Angel who stood close by, his gaze lost in the hololithic display. ‘Such allies…’ The captain realised that he had spoken out of turn and bowed slightly. ‘Forgive me, Lord Luther. I did not mean to–’

  Luther cut him off with a blade-like motion of his hand. ‘Speak your mind, Vastobal.’

  Captain Vastobal took a breath, and then launched in. ‘The path you have chosen for us. It will be harder to walk it alone.’

  ‘But?’ Luther’s piercing gaze held him in place.

  ‘I question if these Death Guar
d are not what we need… but merely what we have.’

  ‘You think we would be better to abandon this world and seek out the Sons of Horus ourselves, is that it?’ Luther frowned. ‘Annexing Zaramund was just the first step. Typhon’s arrival was merely a fortunate confluence of events.’

  Vastobal hesitated, and Cypher spoke for him, anticipating the captain’s words. ‘He does not trust them. He believes the Death Guard have nothing with which to repay our generosity.’

  ‘Gratitude is not in their lexicon,’ added Vastobal.

  Luther was about to add something, but then an icon flickered into life on the chart table and a mech-voice announced an incoming vox-signal, a message sent from the repair camp that the Dark Angels had granted to Typhon’s men several weeks ago.

  ‘Speak of the beast…’ muttered Cypher.

  ‘Answer,’ Luther told the table’s machine-spirit, and the lines and shapes of the display reoriented themselves to form a three-dimensional avatar of the Death Guard First Captain, sketching him in from the waist upwards as if he were a spectre rising out of the horizontal screen.

  ‘Well met, Lord Luther,’ rasped Typhon, his face hidden behind the tarnished brass of his visor. Each of them silently noted the Death Guard’s mild insult by not facing the Dark Angels Grand Master bare-headed. ‘You wished to converse with me?’

  The question that dallied in all their minds was clearest on Vastobal’s face. What have they got to hide?

  ‘First Captain Typhon,’ said Luther, maintaining a neutral tone. ‘How go the repairs to your ships? My technologians inform me that the work proceeds apace.’

  Typhon’s mask bobbed. ‘We will be whole again very soon.’

  ‘We have several experienced Techmarines in our ranks,’ offered Cypher. ‘If it would expedite the situation, we can deploy a squad to you–’

  ‘No need.’ Typhon cut him off. ‘These are our craft. We know them best.’

  Luther leaned on the edge of the chart table, eye to eye with the hololith. ‘Cousin,’ he began. ‘You have been on Zaramund for over a month now. In all that time, you have turned down my every invitation for respite with us, my offers of serfs and brethren to aid you. You take only materiel and never venture beyond the walls of the encampment.’ He showed a wan smile. ‘I am beginning to think I have offended you in some manner.’

  ‘Not so,’ replied Typhon. ‘Your generosity is greatly appreciated, my lord. But the Death Guard do not easily accept charity. It is a flaw in our character.’ He paused, addressing them all. ‘And I would not wish for any incidence of disagreement to emerge between our two Legions.’

  ‘I do not follow,’ said the Cypher.

  Typhon’s masked face turned towards Zahariel. ‘After being hounded for so long by your brother Corswain, some of my warriors bear enmity towards the sons of Caliban. It would be unfortunate if a… misunderstanding were to occur.’

  The implication beneath the words was clear.

  ‘Corswain is no brother of ours,’ said Vastobal firmly. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Of course,’ allowed Typhon. ‘I will merely say, it is better that the repair work is done by my men alone. I ask you to respect that request.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Luther. ‘But I will expect to share a drink with you when all is done.’

  ‘There will be repayment, yes. Until then, Lord Luther. And once again, my gratitude to you.’ Typhon inclined his head and the hololith winked out.

  ‘He’s afraid his men will pick a fight with ours?’ Cypher fairly sneered the words.

  ‘A poor excuse,’ said Vastobal. ‘My lord, he is not being truthful with us. The Death Guard do not deserve the goodwill you are showing them.’

  ‘Oh?’ Luther gave him a cool glance. ‘Then by all means, captain, correct me.’

  Vastobal paused, realising once again that he had overstepped the mark. It was a trait he had never been able to expunge, and one that all too often led him into trouble. He pressed on, committed. ‘Allow me to surveil Typhon and his men. So that we may be certain of what they are doing inside the walls of that camp.’ He glanced at the Lord Cypher. ‘We have all heard the stories of what those behind the Warmaster’s banner are doing on other worlds…’ He drifted off, as if he were unwilling to say more.

  Luther and Zahariel exchanged a loaded look.

  ‘I would expect my centurions to act in the best interests of the Legion at all times,’ Luther said, ‘with care and discretion.’

  ‘No less,’ Vastobal agreed, accepting the unspoken order. He saluted Luther with a mailed fist to his breastplate, and stalked away across the command chamber.

  Hours passed. Typhon wandered through the camp, directionless and lost in his thoughts. He saw the work around him but did not really register it. His mind kept straying to distant questions.

  The ship-helots from the XIV Legion crews brought down from the fleet toiled tirelessly at their assignments, assembling and preparing replacement parts here on the surface before the shuttles took them up to the battleships. They worked in a sullen, careful rhythm, and those of them that did not have lobotomaic implants – the ones who still possessed something of a persona – passed the time with old plainsong remembered from the days of farming the harsh chem-fields of Barbarus. Their low voices drew distant memories from Typhon, back out of the poison mists of his past and into the present, but he dismissed them. It irritated him for reasons he could not articulate, like rough cloth rubbing over chafed skin.

  In his right hand he gripped the long haft of Manreaper, the power scythe that was the First Captain’s signature weapon, absently kneading the grip and letting its weight drag on his arm. The scythe acted like an anchor, pulling Typhon into the moment, keeping him grounded when his thoughts threatened to carry him away.

  It was hard for him to maintain his focus. More and more often, Typhon was finding himself drifting, a dark miasma buzzing coldly at the edges of his thoughts whenever his mind was supposed to be at rest. The subtle magnetic pull of it seemed strongest when he was aboard the Terminus Est, and then even stronger when the ship sailed the warp, as if out there in the churn of the empyrean a clarion was calling that sang only to him.

  A voice echoing from that other place.

  Typhon had come down to Zaramund partly to watch over the helots but also to put some distance between himself and the void. It had not worked. Day by day he felt less like the warrior he had been and more like a traveller inside his own skin.

  He thought about the sunrise he had witnessed, and the creeping motion of light and shadow that followed. A shift of similar magnitude was moving through him, he could sense it. A state-change that would bloom in fullness if only he would let go and allow it.

  And what then? Typhon had led his breakaway splinter fleet out from under his primarch’s shadow because he believed that he had a destiny of his own to fulfil. I always did, even when we were youths. Even at the beginning, before Mortarion’s father came for him. But now that path was coming into sharper focus, and Typhon was uncertain of where it would lead him.

  He took a deep breath and found it tasted odd – not from the air, but from the spittle in his mouth. He swallowed, halting his mind before it could wander again to thoughts of lesions blossoming on reddened skin and cold scales over oily flesh.

  The First Captain’s attention snagged on a pair of legionaries who crossed his sight at a jog, each of them carrying their bolters at the ready as they scrambled up an incline to sight over the walls of the camp and into the treeline beyond. Their boots thudded against the Mortalis-pattern structures of the prefabricated walls, kicking up puffs of displaced rust.

  Typhon went after them as another Death Guard – a veteran sergeant with a bulbous augmetic eye – followed the warriors to their post. ‘You,’ he commanded. ‘What is wrong here?’ No alarm had been sounded, but the actions of his men spoke to a warnin
g.

  The sergeant halted, covering a moment of surprise at seeing the First Captain before him. He gave a brisk salute and jerked his head towards the walls. ‘Lord Typhon. A minor incident, at the perimeter.’ He paused, gathering himself. ‘Civilians. We sighted a group of them on the scry-sensors approaching down the valley.’ The sergeant pointed into the distance. ‘The vox-tower contacted them, warned them off. They came anyway.’

  Typhon sensed the dark glitter at the edge of his vision once again, as if it were light flickering off the wings of resting insects. He walked with the sergeant, following him up the ramp. ‘What do they want here?’

  ‘Unclear.’ The sergeant pointed again as they reached the level of the ramparts. ‘Look there, lord.’

  Typhon planted Manreaper’s shaft on the platform at his feet and peered out at the gathering of people visible through the edges of the tree line. They were settling in by the side of the dirt road that led back towards civilisation.

  Some of them caught sight of him and they froze like prey animals caught in the savage gaze of a predator. On the wind, Typhon picked out their hushed murmurs and saw others coming together, whispering intently. One of them spoke into a hand-held communicator.

  At his side, the sergeant’s manner shifted and he let his bolter drop slightly.

  ‘Lord… a message from the vox-tower. The civilians have responded to our warning. They say they won’t leave.’ He gave his commander an odd look. ‘Not until they are allowed to speak to… to someone called Typhus.’

  The trees rendered Vastobal an emerald ghost.

  As dense as the forests on Caliban, the tall and slender trunks gathered in on one another in thick stands broken only by game trails and the occasional clearing. The gathering light of the day did not penetrate far through the canopy, and Vastobal was able to slip from one pool of shadow to another, barely disturbing the undergrowth despite the bulk of his power amour and the enveloping folds of his deep-green war-cloak.

  Alone and vox-silent, it had been easy for him to melt into the woods and make them his ally in concealment. Once he passed the line of perimeter sensors the Death Guard had seeded in the forest, he felt a warning pulse through his veins. They were acting as if Zaramund were enemy territory, a place annexed by the XIV Legion from an unwilling populace, rather than the gift of sanctuary it truly was.