The Death of Integrity by Guy Haley Page A

shielded,’ said Alanius.
    ‘They are disposable, Lord Sergeant Voldo, and they will last long enough to fulfil their purpose,’ Nuministon said. His voice, unlike the others, blared from his helmet speakers, violating the deathly peace of the hauler.
    ‘Deactivate your external helmet vox, magos. We are here as shadows. Do not announce our presence. Communicate via vox-caster only,’ said Voldo.
    There was a click as Nuministon obeyed without demur. Voldo was grateful, he had half-expected a refusal and an arrogant proclamation on the strength of the Machine-God and the power of the metal over the flesh. He had seen many men die painfully because they held fast to the convictions of one sect or another. In his long experience, providence and plate were better shields than conviction.
    ‘An oversight on my part. You have my apologies,’ said Nuministon.
    ‘We proceed. Brother Militor, hold position and cover our rear.’
    ‘Yes, brother-sergeant.’
    ‘I shall leave Brother Curzon with you,’ said Alanius.
    ‘That is wise,’ Voldo turned to face the two Space Marines, blood and bone armours stood shoulder to shoulder. ‘The two of you await my command,’ said Voldo. ‘You will cover and monitor this accessway. The nearest known brood chamber lies some way outside this vessel, but we are still deep in the genestealer’s primary habitation zone, and I will not leave our rear exposed.’
    ‘Yes brother-sergeant,’ said Militor.
    There was a rumble. The hulk shook. Flakes of corrosion fell down from the pipes along the ceiling. The Terminators’ massive torsos twisted atop rock-steady legs as they scanned the ceiling and walls. The tremor lasted twenty seconds or so, bringing with it the sounds of grinding metal and the impact of mass against mass before gradually subsiding.
    ‘What was that?’ said Azmael.
    ‘A hulk quake,’ said Voldo.
    ‘Level seven on the Meullin scale,’ said Clastrin.
    ‘Indeed,’ said Nuministon.
    ‘The agglomeration is unstable. Our bombardment will have redistributed its mass loading,’ said Clastrin. In any one place in the hulk the gravity was so low as to be non-existent. But gravity wells formed by active grav plates unevenly drew in loosened mass, there was the irregular motion of the hulk to accommodate, and then variance in its own localised gravity fields owing to the density of its constituent parts. All contributed to the violent shifting of the material trapped in the hulk. ‘A further peril.’
    ‘There will be more,’ said Eskerio.
    ‘In all probability, brother,’ said Clastrin.
    ‘Another reason to be on our way, fulfil our objectives and depart swiftly,’ said Voldo. ‘Brothers, on me.’
    In a long line the party clumped on down the corridor, alert to signs of the enemy, leaving Militor and Curzon alone in a lonely pool of suit-cast light.
    They gained the shaft without incident, their passage disturbed only the dust and the ghosts of the dead. Voldo kept an eye on the mapping and motion tracking equipments’ feeds as they progressed. Within his suit display, corridors sharpened as their equipment gained a grasp on the true form of their proximate environs. The auspex detected no signs of movement other than their own. Only the reconnaissance party showed up on the map. Each member was represented by a pulsing icon; the appropriate badge for their order – skull and nova, blood drop and chalice, and the skull and cog of Mars. Far to the rear of the line in the corridor Militor and Curzon’s markers throbbed. The life signs of Voldo’s men and feeds from their suit picters crowded the left of his visor screen, the tick-tick-tick of the rad-counter a metronomic beat to their advance.
    Voldo walked slowly but effortlessly, the great mass of the Terminator armour moved by its own motive systems. As such, its size required only a little more effort on his behalf than his usual plate; it was cumbersome but did not hinder him. His breath came easily, the