That danger was but one reason among many that the Third must come into its own, and sooner rather than later. His sons had been spent like bolt-rounds in his absence. A few here, a few there, but it all added up. The mathematics of attrition were inescapable And broken tools were soon replaced.
He would not let that happen to his sons. To his Legion. They would grow in strength, to rival the Legions of his brothers. The galaxy would be reminded of why they alone, of all the Emperor’s sons, bore the palatine aquila. And it would begin with Byzas. He would conquer with six blades, where his brothers might need a thousand. Their superiority - and his - would be undeniable, then.
A blurt of sound from the vox-system caught his ear. ‘My lord, we are entering orbit over Twenty-Eight One,’ Abdemon said, his voice shrouded in static.
Fulgrim lowered his sword. ‘Understood. Assemble the others in the disembarkation bay. I will meet you there shortly.’ He sheathed Fireblade with a flourish, and turned to bow to the busts of his foster-parents.
Fulgrim smiled.
‘The ascent commences.’
As the Pride of the Emperor transitioned into orbit, Primary Iterator Golconda Pyke felt the old, familiar sense of excitement. The game was set to begin, and she could not wait to make her first move. It had been some time since her last outing. Compliance was often established at spear-point, these days. Once, it had been a carefully choreographed dance of minds, pushing and pulling against one another. Now, the Great Crusade was a sea of iron, rolling over any shore that defied it.
But every sea had its limit. Soon, diplomacy would again be in vogue, though she feared she would be too old to enjoy it by then. It was no longer a game for people like her. It now belonged to younger iterators, with smooth voices and moderate opinions.
She glanced down at her hands. They were unlined, despite her age. She allowed few cracks in her facade, and those only for appearance. She had never been lovely, but careful application of age lent her beauty. The rejuvenation treatments that kept her in fighting trim would soon reach a point of diminishing returns. She had decided to lean into the curve and descend into obsolescence gracefully. After all that she had accomplished, she felt she had earned it.
Pyke looked up. The disembarkation bay was staggering in its immensity. Armies were meant to assemble in its cathedral-like interior, and waiting Stormbirds sat in ranks of three, wings folded. But there was no army here today, only a collection of musicians and a motley assortment of influential faces. The hum of many conversations warred with the music in the cavernous space.
It was a dolorous composition, and one she only vaguely recognised. Something from Chemos, she supposed, given the origins of the musicians. A drab little world, with equally sombre music. She listened politely for a time, and gestured for her hangers-on to applaud at the appropriate moments. Her popinjays - as Abdemon liked to call them - were mostly camouflage. Bright plumage, loud voices, silly opinions. They served to distract the unimportant and the foolish, so that she could see to things unhindered. They were more subdued than normal. Not unexpected, given the oppressiveness of their surroundings. Even her pet killers were nervous, though only someone who’d been around them as long as she had could tell.
Nervous or not, she felt better for having them close to hand. Diplomacy was a funny business. You never knew when you might need someone disposed of, efficiently and swiftly. A few bodies were always conducive to negotiations.
Pyke studied the other members of the delegation. There were a hundred of them in all. Lesser iterators, Administratum bureaucrats and military officers of various ranks and privileges. There were a few roguish sorts as well - men and women with warrants of trade, looking to secure economic or political ties with a newly compliant world.
They were all the invisible cogs of the machine that was the Great Crusade. Wars might be won by big guns, but someone had to requisition the ammunition. And someone else had to ensure that the guns and the ammunition both got made. Thousands upon thousands of moving parts, all acting in concert to one man’s will. She nodded politely to those worth the gesture, and safely ignored the rest.
Of those, only Herodotus Frazer seemed insulted. The current lord commander of the Archite Palatines had a high opinion of his strategic acumen, and was put out that she didn’t share it. He was also of the opinion that compliance was best achieved by the sword, and that anyone not wearing a uniform ought to stay out of it.
Grey-haired and thickly built, Frazer was more scar tissue than man, and, like her, on the cusp of his last decade in service. Word around the palace was that his replacement, a keen young officer named Fayle, was impatiently waiting for Frazer to hurry up and retire, or die. Frazer seemed inclined to do neither.
Pyke sighed, and turned an idle eye to the Stormbirds. She’d been around military transports often enough to recognise when they’d seen too much action, and too little maintenance. But they were functional, and several waited on the launch rails, wings extended. The heavy dropships were capable of both void and atmospheric flight, which made them useful for depositing murderous, genetically augmented killing machines as close to the enemy as possible. Or for transporting diplomatic envoys looking to make a very definite impression on their hosts.
It was an adroit reminder to the inhabitants of Byzas as to what awaited them, should they not agree with Fulgrim’s terms. What it lacked in subtlety, it made up for in effectiveness. Given what she knew of the military capabilities of the Continental Government of Byzas, ten of the gunships could pound them flat. Three were enough to make a point. She hoped they’d take the hint, if only for the sake of the vineyards.
The deck trembled beneath her feet, and the musicians abandoned their dirge for something a bit livelier. The Phoenician and his sons approached.
Abdemon led the way, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the other holding his helmet. His dark face was set and serious. Behind him, in loose formation, came the six Legionaries chosen by Fulgrim. She marked them off her mental checklist as they approached - Cyrius, Alkenex, Quin, Thorn, Telmar and, following a step behind, the Spider himself. While the others wore armour as ornate as it was sturdy, and moved with the lethal grace of stalking predators, Fabius’ war gear was unadorned and plain, and he stumped along with resigned determination. The only piece of equipment that had seen more care than absolutely necessary was the twitching medicae harness he wore. Its limbs and their assortment of blades, saws and syringes gleamed eerily, and she had the distinct, unwelcome impression that it was somehow aware of her scrutiny.
Her unease was forgotten as Fulgrim entered the bay. He cut a magnificent figure, she had to admit. Clad in amethyst-coloured armour, trimmed in gold, with a long scaled cloak of emerald green, he looked like a hero from some ancient myth cycle. The weapons he carried only enhanced that image - on one hip, Fireblade, the sword forged by the silver hands of a loving brother; on the other, Firebrand, a volkite charger that more resembled a work of art than a tool of death. The armour, she knew, was designed so as to give free rein to his inhuman agility. Sensible, given that he was the fastest of the Emperor’s sons, by all accounts. Capable of movements that the human eye simply could not track.
His pale, symmetrical features were framed exquisitely by a high collar of purple, and the great, stylised eagle’s wing sweeping up from his chest-plate over his left shoulder. Violet eyes, as deep as galactic wells, scanned the faces of those gathered in the bay, noting and fixing each. In that incredible memory, her face was saved for last. An honour, perhaps. Or maybe a challenge.
Either way, she stepped forward to meet it, as was her duty as Primary Iterator. She bowed respectfully, making a professional attempt to hide the bother it caused her. Great age came with great discomfort. ‘My lord Fulgrim, you honour us with your presence.’
‘Primary Iterator Pyke, a delight to see you again,’ Fulgrim said, bowing low over her. Pyke fought the familiar, almost overwhelming urge to fall to her knees as she looked up in
to those impossibly pristine features. She’d met primarchs before, and even berated one - an event she suspected had used up her quota of luck for the century. More than that, she had bent entire planets to her will with one well-placed word. Purely in terms of conquest, she ranked high among the warlords of the Great Crusade, though few would admit it.
Perhaps that was why Fulgrim had agreed to her request, so many months ago, to join the 28th Expedition. Then, maybe it was simply that they’d been without a proper iterator for some time There was more potential for advancement with the other expeditions, but Pyke was beyond such concerns at this late stage in her life.
Fulgrim turned, letting his gaze sweep over the others. He greeted them all by name, and spent a few moments with each, some longer than others. Through it all, Pyke watched him. Weighing his worth, seeing if what she’d heard was true. Each of the Emperor’s sons was different. Some were, to put it bluntly, more human than others.
Fulgrim was at once both human and not. Like a statue given life, but with a purpose all of its own. A purpose that had only become more focused in the intervening century since his rediscovery. A purpose almost - but not quite, not yet - at odds with the needs of the Imperial Army. As if aware of her thoughts, Fulgrim glanced at her, over the head of Lord Commander Frazer.
He was not a fool. He knew whom she truly reported to. She’d made little effort to hide it, seeing no need. Best to have all such things out in the open. Kept hidden, they only threatened to trip one up at the most inopportune times.
At last, he turned back towards her, and once again bowed deeply. ‘I trust Abdemon has seen to your needs adequately on the journey? My apologies for absenting myself, but there was much to be done in preparation for our grand endeavour.’
‘No apologies necessary, I assure you. We were well looked after.’
Fulgrim smiled, and Pyke felt her heart twitch. It was as if he were a sun, caged in flesh. Every smile, every laugh, was a flare of light and heat, striking to the very core of her. She would have to be careful around him, more so perhaps than she had been around the others. Like the sun, he might reduce her to cinders and never notice. ‘I would like you to accompany me personally,’ he said. ‘I feel it best that we present a unified front - militarily and diplomatically. Herodotus agrees - don’t you, Herodotus?’
‘You are in overall command, my lord,’ Frazer said, glaring daggers at Pyke Was he jealous, perhaps? The thought amused her. She smiled prettily at him, and was rewarded by a twitch of his eye. Lovely.
If Fulgrim noticed the exchange, he gave no sign. He extended his hand to her in a courtly gesture. Gingerly, she took it. This close she could feel the weight of his strength. Here was a being who could tear mountains apart with his bare hands, or swim through seas of boiling metal. It didn’t bear thinking about what he could do to her, if he so chose Despite that, his touch was light. She recalled how carefully Abdemon had held her wine glass, and wondered if the whole world were like that for Fulgrim.
‘Come. We shall take my personal vessel.’ He gestured towards one of the Stormbirds. Its wings had a larger span than that of its fellows, and they were curved in a graceful backwards sweep. Its prow had been modified to a hooked point, in contrast with the blunt snouts of the other vessels. Fulgrim preened slightly, as she and Frazer made appropriately appreciative noises. ‘I designed and constructed her myself in the armourium decks. She’s the fastest gunship in the expeditionary fleet.’
‘Is that important?’ Pyke asked.
Fulgrim laughed. ‘Only to me’
He led her towards the waiting gunship with stately aplomb. The assembled musicians began to play a slow, dignified piece. The music was tinged with melancholy, a hint of parting and sweet sorrows. Fulgrim apparently preferred it to the more triumphal arrangements common to these moments.
‘I confess some curiosity as to the nature of your preparations, Lord Fulgrim.’
‘I was reading the histories and works your people procured from Twenty-Eight One.’
‘All of them?’ Pyke was startled, though she hoped it didn’t show on her face. ‘There were over eight thousand separate volumes of history alone.’ The people were literate, almost egregiously so. Whatever could be written down, was.
‘And five thousand volumes of verse, most of which was concerned with rather tawdry agrarian imagery.’
Pyke laughed. ‘Yes, they do rather overestimate the appeal of bucolic activities, don’t they?’ She glanced up at him. ‘And what did you learn from your studies?’
‘There’s a vast gulf between poetry and reality.’ Fulgrim frowned. ‘Their dynastic system is beyond salvaging. There will be open revolt in one generation, perhaps two. The limited technological knowledge base left to them after Old Night is already degrading. In ten generations, they’ll be barbarians. In fifteen, barely human at all.’
‘But for the moment, they’re united under a semi-stable - if autocratic - government.’ Pyke patted his hand, in an almost motherly fashion. His armour was warm to the touch. ‘And we can work with that.’
‘I hope so,’ Fulgrim said, glancing down at her. ‘I am magnificent, but even I cannot fight a whole world on my own.’ He smiled. ‘Though, the temptation to try is almost overwhelming, I admit.’
Pyke eyed him as they reached the gunship’s boarding ramp. Was that a joke, or a warning? It was hard to tell with Fulgrim. ‘One word in the right ear is sharper than a thousand swords.’
‘And even a blunt blade can kill.’ Fulgrim gestured. ‘Our chariot awaits.’
* * *
The Firebird hurled itself into the void with a shriek of engines. Two more Stormbirds followed it, carrying the remainder of the delegation. Interceptors fanned out around the gunships in a loose formation. It was more for show than anything else. An empty gesture, to an inattentive audience.
Fulgrim and the others sat in a section of the Firebird’s crew compartment reserved for Fulgrim and his immediate subordinates. The roaring of the engines was only a dim rumble here, muted by a special baffle-field he’d designed as a boy. The field’s original purpose had been to protect the ears of deep-ore hauler crews on Chemos from the noise of their engines, but he’d adapted it for use in the Firebird easily enough.
The internal facings of the command compartment were decorated with delicately crafted mosaics, depicting representative scenes from the history of the Legion. One scene in particular drew Fulgrim’s eye - the Proximan Betrayal.
A defining moment for his sons, and one he’d missed. Insurrectionists armed with a Vortex weapon had almost killed the Emperor during the Proxima compliance ceremonies. Only the efforts of the Legion’s Sixteenth Cohort and the Legio Custodes had enabled the Emperor to escape the trap the rebels had laid for him. They had bought his life with their blood, and died to a man. The remainder of the Legion had made Proxima pay for the insult, eventually burning the planet to its bedrock from orbit.
The Emperor’s Children had earned the right to bear the palatine aquila for their efforts on Proxima. Another honour earned without him. Another victory, built on the bones of dead legionaries. Dead warriors who might not have died, had he been there.
Fulgrim glanced at Abdemon and the others, farther back in the compartment, wondering which of them might soon join the dead. Perhaps not now, but later. Death was an inevitability no legionary could resist. He quashed the thought before it could go any further. To contemplate inevitability was to surrender to it. And he had never been guilty of that.
Sometimes, he dreamed of Proxima. Of Luna, and Jupiter. Battles where a primarch might have made a difference. Where the Phoenician might have led his sons to less costly victories. But such dreams were folly, and worse. To gnaw at the past was to threaten the foundation of the future. Best to let it lie, and get on with the work ahead.
He activated the hololithic projector set into the compartment fixtures. A flickering representation of Twenty-Eight One sprang into being before him. He’d installed the hololith i
n order to better adapt his battle strategies to changing information on the ground. If one was to excel, no detail was too small to consider.
Byzas hung lonely and silent in the void, accompanied only by a single, permanent natural satellite. A telluric planet, ringed by a somnolent, high-density debris belt, it was the only planet in its system capable of sustaining terrestrial life unaided. Fulgrim studied the hololithic image of the system, accessing the data packets compiled by the early-stage Explorator teams.
The debris belt around the planet had once played host to extensive ferric ore extraction facilities, but those had long since gone dark. The lunar colonies had been given over to a similar purpose, but their extraction rate had fallen well below the average, due to the increased pressures of subsistence production.
The continental government still had access to a small fleet of ancient interstellar craft - three, according to the Explorators, and one had been in dry dock for a century. The remaining two were only rarely unleashed from their decrepit orbital docks, in order to transport materials and prisoners to the lunar colonies.
Fulgrim tapped the hololith, narrowing the scope of study. Byzas was singularly unlovely. Even at a distance, he could see the scars of atomic warfare stretching across the southern continent. There was a reason the Emperor had all but banned such weapons. An irradiated planet was a useless planet, save to the drones of the Mechanicum.
Another tap brought up a recording of the faint vox transmissions emanating from the planet’s surface. Barely powerful enough to reach past the debris belt. Another indication of rapid technological decline Fulgrim banished the flickering ribbons of static.
‘Entropy in action,’ he murmured as he returned to his study of the planet. ‘That orbital docking ring will succumb completely in a decade or less. The lunar colonies will be cut off and isolated. Some will perish in a few months, others will linger for years before finally going dark. An unpleasant fate.’
Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix Page 4
