按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
far as their position； but there was no sense in being reckless。
The lights moved on and Honsou relaxed a fraction。 Routine had made the Imperial troops careless。 These last few months had
allowed him to study the circuits made by the patrol vehicles and plot their routes and timings。 The warp alone knew how long
these particular soldiers had been stationed on this planet； but it must have been a long time。 It was only natural that their alertness
would drop and patrol patterns would become predictable。 It was an inevitable price for long tours of duty and it would soon see
them dead。
Satisfied the patrol vehicle had moved on； he extended his fist once again； opening and shutting it three times in rapid succession。
They were too close to the spaceport to risk any form of vox communication。 Honsou heard muffled footfalls behind him and
turned as a figure in steeldust armour； chevroned with yellow and black； crept towards him。 Goran Delau； his second…incommand；
knelt beside him and nodded。 The newcomer's power armour was heavily modified and ornamented with skull…faced
rivets and brass mouldings of writhing faces cunningly worked into the edging of his shoulder guards。 A whining servo limb； like
a clawed digger arm； lolled over Delau's right shoulder； the ribbed grip sighing open and closed as though with breath of its own。
Honsou pointed to the sky then clenched his gauntleted fist again； hammering it into his palm。 Delau nodded and removed a crude
looking slate from the side of his bulky backpack； adjusting a brass dial on its front。 A red light flashed on the otherwise
featureless front panel； flickering for a second before becoming a steady； blood…red glow。
Delau raised his hands to the sky； the servo arm mimicking his movements。 Honsou could not hear his words； but knew that Delau
was offering his thanks that the Dark Gods had again given them a chance to strike back against the ancient enemy。
Honsou watched the red light on Goran's slate and marked this moment in his memory。 The targeting beacons they had spent the
last three months planting around the spaceport on this barren rock were all now active； shrieking their locations into space。
This was the most dangerous part of their mission。 The Imperials within the spaceport would now know that there were enemies
close。
If the favour of their Lords deserted them then they would all be dead soon。 He shrugged； the servo muscles in his armour whining
as they tried to match the gesture。 If it was the will of the gods that he should die here； then so be it。 He had asked nothing of them
and expected nothing in return。
He just hoped that if he was to die on this barren world it would be by the will of the gods； and not because of that madman
Kroeger。
PIERCING SHRIEKS FILLED the command centre of the Hope as Honsou's signal locators screamed into the sky。 Technicians
wrenched headsets from their ears at the din； and alarm sirens began wailing。
Adept Cycerin stared； ashen faced； at the runic display。 Bright dots of light pulsed on the map projected before him。 Each dot
indicated one of the orbital torpedo silos or air defence batteries； and operators hurriedly tried to contact the men stationed there to
ascertain what was happening。
Were they broadcasting？ Were they under attack？ What in the name of the Emperor was going on？
Cycerin returned to his monitoring station； placing his hands on the ridged； metal fixtures of the armrests。 Thin； wiry tendrils of
silver metal slithered from beneath his fingernails like gleaming worms and clicked into brass sockets on the ridges。 The adept
sighed； and his organic eye flickered behind a pale lid as information relayed from the multitude of surveyors and augurs
positioned around the spaceport flooded his senses through the technology of his mechadendrites。
Awareness flooded him； his mind…sense perceiving space and distance as vectors； ranges and coverage of ground。 His senses
reached into space； following the sweeps of the orbital augurs。 Information flowed through him； processed and compartmentalised
in the synthetic logic stacks of his augmented brain。 Even with his machine affinity； he could barely keep pace with the barrage of
sensory data。
There had to be something； this couldn't be happening without reason。 Logic dictated that there was a cause for this effect。
Something must be out of place…
There； in the north sector！ He narrowed his perceptions； shutting off areas of sensory retrieval that were extraneous to his search
and closing in on the anomaly。 Where there should have been washes of energy sweeping down from the mountains； there was
only black emptiness。 The surveyor stations on the northern slopes were silent； their auguries no longer active。 He immediately
saw that this left an open corridor； through which an enemy could approach undetected to the very perimeter of the base。
How had this not been seen？ Why had the operators here not reported such an unforgivable lapse in security？ The identity of the
surveyor station flashed up。
Sigma IV。
He cursed as he realised that the anomaly had been seen； but that the surveyor station's failure to report had been put down to
Graham McNeill ？Storm of Iron？
human error on the part of those within。 He swore again； uncharacteristically letting slip his emotionless demeanour； as yet more
sirens screeched around the control room。
Startled； Cycerin reopened his mind to other portions of his awareness and his breath caught in his throat as he felt the presence of
dozens of starships in orbit above Hydra Cordatus。 Inconceivable！ Where had these ships come from and why had they not been
detected before now？ Nothing should be able to enter even the outer edges of the system without them being aware of it… could
it？ Or was this another example of human error？ No； the logic engines would have screamed the place down many days ago if it
had detected this size of fleet approaching。 Somehow these starships had avoided detection by some of the rarest and most
precious equipment available to the Adeptus Mechanicus。
Briefly he wondered what technologies these ships had and how it worked； but shook his head at such irrelevance。 He had more
important things to worry about。 The defenders at the citadel must be warned that an invasion was imminent。 He opened the mindlink
to Arch Magos Amaethon's Machine Temple in the citadel and sent the psychic alert code。 The astropaths stationed there
would detect it and send a more powerful psychic distress call for aid to Hydra Cordatus。
Hurriedly he closed off his mind…link and withdrew his digital mechadendrites from the monitoring station； opening his eyes on a
scene of controlled efficiency。 System operators called to the torpedo outstations； authenticating launch codes and feeding their
operators firing solutions towards the collection of starships in orbit。 Time was of the essence now and they had to get the
torpedoes in the air。
Alert sirens would be ringing out in the pilots' barracks by now and soon there would be a swarm of aircraft in the air； ready to
meet whatever threat was approaching； and soldiers from the Jouran Dragoons were mustering even now to repel the attackers。
He had drilled the operators here for this eventuality time and time again； and now that it was happening for real； he was pleased
to note the calmness evinced by his staff。
'Adept Cycerin！' shouted one of the orbital monitoring operators。 'We have multiple signals detaching from several contacts in
orbit。'
'Identify them！' barked Cycerin。
The operator nodded； bowing his head to his station； running his finger down the slate beside his display。
'They're too fast for landing craft； I believe they are inbound orbital munitions。'
'Plot their vectors！ Quickly； man！' hissed Cycerin； though he feared he knew the answer already。
The man's hands danced across his slate； and green lines extended from the rapidly moving blips； reaching out to the
representation of the planet's surface。 Cycerin's vox…amp crackled in sudden fear as he saw the approach vectors of the incoming
bombs matched almost exactly the locator signals being broadcast from the torpedo launch silos。
'How…？' whispered the operator； his face ashen。
Cycerin lift