Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix

by Josh Reynolds

  Fulgrim snorted. ‘Clever, in a simple sort of way. Numbers?’

  ‘At the moment, Pandion still has more than enough men. But given the state of the treasury, and discontent in the ranks, probably not for long.’

  ‘Are they still loyal?’

  Abdemon shrugged. He’d spent several days touring the barracks with Frazer and his officers. What he’d seen hadn’t impressed him. And Frazer had waxed eloquent on the shortcomings of the gubernatorial army. ‘As loyal as anyone can be, under those circumstances. It’s the officers I’m worried about. The number of career officers has shrunk drastically in the past decade. The ones who are left are in senior command positions, thankfully. But the majority of junior officers are men who bought their commissions, and are loyal to their families first, and Pandion second. They’ll need to be watched.’

  ‘I assume Pyke is already doing just that.’ Fulgrim planted Fireblade point-first between his feet, and leaned his shoulder against the hilt. ‘How are Fabius’ investigations coming? I have not spoken to him since the incident in the city.’

  ‘He’s retreated to the centre of his web.’ Fabius hadn’t left his field apothecarium since the attempt on Fulgrim’s life. Abdemon had visited him only once, and that had been more than enough.

  Fulgrim looked at Abdemon sternly. ‘That is unworthy of you, lord commander.’

  ‘Unworthy, but true.’ Abdemon frowned. ‘He has taken over twelve thousand genetic samples, from all strata of society. No word on what he’s found, if anything. The nobility is complaining regularly.’ He’d seen the pile of missives himself. ‘Pyke’s pet killers have put paid to at least three attempts to kill him.’

  ‘Only three?’ Fulgrim waved aside Abdemon’s response. ‘I know, it’s not funny. Is Fabius aware of the attempts?’

  ‘He’s asked that the bodies be turned over to him.’

  Fulgrim pinched the bridge of his nose. A startlingly human gesture, Abdemon thought. ‘And what was Lady Pyke’s response to that rather ghoulish request?’

  ‘The bodies were in no condition to be turned over to anyone.’ Pyke had chuckled as she’d said it. She was more cold-blooded than she appeared. Abdemon put it down to that old Europan ruthlessness - an instinctual assumption of superiority that the ancient aristocratic lines, in particular, seemed possessed of.

  Fulgrim smiled. ‘The Primary Iterator is a singularly impressive woman.’

  Abdemon laughed. ‘Intimidating, I’d have said.’

  ‘We are the Emperor’s Children, Abdemon. We can’t be intimidated.’ Fulgrim looked up at the mosaics decorating the internal facings. His expression softened and Abdemon followed his gaze.

  ‘The Antarctic Clearance,’ he said. Mostly, he remembered the white. Everything had been white, even his armour. And cold. He remembered the sound of the wind, and the whine of bolter rounds streaking into the emptiness.

  ‘A difficult campaign?’ Fulgrim asked, his tone almost wistful.

  Abdemon hesitated, uncertain as to how to answer the question.

  ‘Not as such. Long. Gruelling, at times. The cold played havoc with our sensors.’

  ‘I wish…’ Fulgrim fell silent.

  Abdemon waited, but the primarch said nothing else. He studied the Phoenician surreptitiously, wondering if he should speak up. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard Fulgrim speak longingly of missed opportunities. It was as if he blamed himself for not being there, for not leading his sons to war. As if his presence might have prevented the casualties they took, or the disaster that had befallen them.

  Abdemon was forced to admit that there might be something to that. Fulgrim’s absence had been keenly felt, though none of them had truly understood what it meant. But he was here now, and the past was the past.

  ‘What?’ Fulgrim asked.

  Abdemon blinked, suddenly aware that he’d spoken out loud. He felt a moment of consternation, but pushed it aside. He cleared his throat. ‘I said, the past is the past. Only the future matters in the end.’

  Fulgrim smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps. But the past is the foundation for all that comes after. And its effects linger, whether we see them or not’

  ‘It didn’t go well, then?’ Pyke said, as Fulgrim sat down on a bench across from her. The gardens were quiet, this time of day. The usual gaggle of courtiers that infested the palace grounds had better things to do than wander among the sylvan glades, which suited Pyke just fine. She enjoyed having the gardens to herself.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Your expression. I take it Bucepholos wasn’t your man, after all?’

  ‘No.’ Fulgrim frowned. ‘But I wouldn’t put it past him to try something in the future.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I suppose it depends on how badly I frightened him.’

  Pyke refrained from commenting. She’d warned him against meeting with the patrician. Not out of any fear for his safety, but rather out of fear of what might come out of his mouth. Fulgrim had a way with words, but he was impulsive. One wrong word, one idle threat, and everything they’d begun to build might be endangered. She decided to change the subject. Your suspicions were correct, by the way. Someone is attempting to destabilise the agri-circle. Food tithes have been cut by a quarter.’

  Fulgrim nodded. ‘A lack of food coming in will affect the stability of Nova-Basilos and the wider continental government. That in turn will put pressure on Pandion, and through him, the patricians. The cracks will widen, rupturing into open revolt. The coastal enclaves are already considering it, if Bucepholos is any indication.’

  ‘And there’s no way to stop it.’

  ‘No. Not without instituting martial law. And I’m not sure I want to.’ Fulgrim leaned forward on his bench. ‘Only by seeing the cracks can I attempt to fix them. But that means allowing the destabilisation efforts to continue. I must know the source.’ He knocked on the map, spread across the table between them. ‘There is a single hand throwing these levers.’

  Pyke sat up, alert now. ‘You’re certain?’

  Fulgrim nodded. ‘I’ve seen it before - secret societies were rife on Chemos in my youth. Periods of unrest often see the formation of ad hoc brotherhoods, looking for some sense of control amid the confusion. Or to take advantage of it.’

  ‘And it’s not Bucepholos?’ She had thought as much earlier, before Corynth had convinced Fulgrim otherwise. Bucepholos wasn’t the type to overthrow a government. Not with force of arms, at any rate.

  ‘No,’ Fulgrim said. He stared at the map, as if trying to isolate the situation into its component parts. Pyke wondered at the expression on his face. Simultaneously frustrated and excited. He was enjoying it, like a child who’d learned a new game. A shiver ran through her. A child’s enthusiasm, slaved to a cogitator-like mind. Ruthless, efficient… Perfect in its clarity of purpose. Fulgrim attacked the problem from every angle, until a weak point revealed itself. Then his attentions focused with deadly precision - like a duellist exploiting a flaw in his opponent’s guard.

  ‘Representatives of the patricians have visited me over the past few days, looking for some advantage,’ Pyke said. She poured herself a glass of wine, and then one for Fulgrim. ‘Mostly trying to secure themselves an advantageous position in the new order. They appear to think that Pandion is living on borrowed time.’

  ‘He might well be,’ Fulgrim admitted.

  ‘Some of them even threatened me.’ She smiled at the look on his face. ‘Obliquely, of course. Nothing so forward as a sniper’s bullet They’re used to getting their way, in these matters. They have little understanding of the wider implications of our presence. Or, they might simply be that arrogant.’

  ‘Or both.’

  She nodded in agreement. ‘They’ll need to be dealt with. Harshly is my preference.’

  He looked at her, eyebrow raised. She shrugged. ‘They insulted me. I can have my people kill them, if you’d prefer.’

  Fulgrim laughed. ‘It may come to that. Though I’d like to leave some of them alive. A functioning ari
stocracy is necessary, at least at the outset.’

  ‘A careful dance, then,’ she said.

  ‘I am a fine dancer,’ Fulgrim said. ‘Acclaimed for my grace and agility.’ He preened slightly, and she couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘I never had the knack for it, myself. Perhaps you can teach me.’

  ‘I would be delighted.’ Fulgrim glanced at the map again. ‘I’ll send Kasperos and Grythan to inspect the agri-circle, I think. The landowners there require a gentler touch than those in the mountains.’ ‘I had another request,’ Pyke said.

  Fulgrim glanced at her. Pyke paused, considering her next words carefully. ‘I ask that you consider being more careful in the future.’

  ‘Careful?’

  ‘No more running after snipers. No more baiting assassins.’

  Fulgrim drew himself up. ‘I will not hide, Lady Golconda.’

  ‘I am not asking you to. But twice now, you’ve acted on instinct - pursuing your attackers, rather than waiting for support. You’re aggressive and impulsive when provoked. That is invaluable intelligence, for a certain sort of person.’

  Fulgrim’s expression didn’t change, but Pyke could feel the sudden tension radiating from him. She forced herself to remain calm. She had endured the anger of one of the Emperor’s sons before, and she could do so again.

  ‘And what sort of person is that?’ The words came out like the warning rumble of some great cat. Somewhere between a purr of invitation and a growl of reproach. ‘Have our enemies revealed themselves to you, Primary Iterator?’ He sat back, fingers interlaced. ‘Are their schemes suddenly laid bare before your keen insight?’

  His tone was mild, but the words were cutting. Almost petulant. She took a steadying breath, knowing that to say the wrong thing now was to lose him entirely. ‘That is not what I meant and you know it, Lord Fulgrim,’ she said, her voice even. ‘This latest attempt may very well have been a feint, to better gauge your capabilities.’

  ‘Or, it may have merely been the act of desperate men,’ Fulgrim said. The explosion wasn’t necessarily meant for me - it would have covered their escape and eradicated any evidence they might have left behind.’ He sighed and leaned back. ‘But…’ He hesitated. For a moment, his too-handsome features cracked, and Pyke glimpsed what lay beneath. Then, he was smiling again, his mask artfully rearranged. ‘But,’ he continued, ‘you may very well be right, my lady. Forgive me.’

  She nodded slowly. The primarchs were not human, she reminded herself. They were both more and less than that. But, like humans, they had their foibles. Fulgrim was arrogant, but it was an assumed arrogance. It was a mask he wore, a part he played. Soon enough, it might become the real thing. For now, it was simply another piece of armour. A way to protect himself from a galaxy all too quick to take advantage of his flaws.

  She knew his story. She knew all of their stories. A boyhood spent in hardship, forced to endure terrible privation and dangers that would have broken the sanity of a normal man. A slow, determined climb to conquest. It left little time for friendship, or for learning those lessons that made one a part of society. She smiled. ‘My late husband - one of them, I forget which - had a saying. Forgiveness is unnecessary between friends.’

  Fulgrim chuckled. ‘And are we friends then?’

  ‘If you like.’ She took a chance and patted his knee. Fulgrim laid his hand over hers.

  ‘A wise man, your husband.’ Fulgrim sat back. ‘I was betrothed, once,’ he continued idly. ‘Several times, actually. Political marriages, of course. Made to seal binding agreements, or open negotiations with certain executive dynasties.’

  Pyke didn’t reply. His tone had become sombre. A rare thing, for Fulgrim. The Phoenician seemed to always be smiling, laughing at some joke only he understood. But now, he seemed tired. He rubbed his face ‘I outlived them all, one way or another.’

  ‘Did you love them?’

  Fulgrim smiled slowly. ‘Some. I think. At first. After a time, I stopped. Love was a weakness I could ill afford in those days. A billion lives rested on my shoulders, and any hesitation on my part would have doomed them all irrevocably.’ He laughed softly. ‘Or so I told myself then.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now, I know it would have. There is no room for weakness in this galaxy. No room for imperfection.’ He set the cup aside and grimaced. ‘Poisoned, again.’

  ‘Yes. You’d think they’d learn.’ Pyke held up the decanter. She was surprised that he’d noticed. This particular toxin was fairly subtle. The people of Byzas had a way with poisons. Her servants would root out this poisoner as they had the others, and deal with them quietly and professionally. ‘That was a good vintage, as well. Shame.’

  ‘That word encompasses this entire situation. Have I made a mistake?’

  Pyke hesitated. Fulgrim’s dark eyes bored into her. She cleared her throat. ‘I don’t think so. A military response would’ve done more harm than good. This world has suffered enough. You’ve read the planetary survey reports. It isn’t just society that’s breaking down, but Byzas itself. It’s on the cusp of multiple disasters - runaway climate change, tectonic instability, even mass extinctions of native life.’

  She looked at him. ‘Of all your brothers, you are the only one who had to save a world, as well as its people. You were more than a warlord or a tyrant - you were a saviour. You raised your people up, and salvaged a half-dead world, making it over into something bearable, if not a paradise. And you will do so again. You are the Fire-Bringer, and you will burn away the old, so that the new might prosper.’ She rose. ‘Now, enough of this. What say we go find a new bottle of wine, and you teach me to dance.’

  Fulgrim smiled and rose to his feet. ‘Do you think you can keep up with me?’

  ‘I have so far.’

  Nine

  lives and opinions

  ‘Well, this is fun,’ Grythan Thorn said, as low-velocity projectiles flattened themselves against his power armour. ‘Should we return fire, do you think?’

  Kasperos Telmar shrugged. ‘The primarch said not to hurt them, if possible.’ The farmstead had been occupied by its former menials, and they didn’t seem inclined towards hospitality. Mostly, they seemed to want to shout revolutionary slogans through their purloined voxcasters and waste ammunition.

  A slug ricocheted off the side of his helmet, gouging a grey streak in the paint. His sensors registered the impact, and he sighed. ‘Though I fail to see how killing a few wouldn’t help settle the rest of them down.’

  ‘Peaceful negotiations, brother, remember?’ Thorn laughed. ‘As soon as they run out of ammunition, they’ll be in the mood to talk.’ The revolutionaries had turned the farmstead into a crude bastion, using whatever was to hand. It was by no means impregnable, but it was impressive, in a way. From a casual examination, Telmar had identified fifteen possible points of entry. The simplest would be to kick the main gate down.

  ‘I doubt that. Have you seen the state of them?’ Telmar frowned. ‘I knew it was bound to be bad, but this is monstrous. The rates of starvation alone are reprehensible. It’s no surprise they seized their moment when it came.’

  ‘If only it didn’t inconvenience us quite so much,’ Thorn said. He crossed his arms and glanced back towards what remained of the airship that had brought them here, to the outer rim of the agri-circle The aircraft burned merrily. Its etheric engines sparked still, amid the inferno. The crew was dead, more was the pity. A direct hit from a primitive artillery piece had knocked the craft out of the air, and killed everyone not lucky enough to be clad in ceramite. ‘I’m not walking back, I can tell you that.’

  ‘Lazy,’ Telmar murmured.

  ‘Not laziness. We are the Emperor’s chosen, Kasperos. We do not walk, like common menials. We soar like eagles or, failing that, lope like wolves. But walk - never. Think of what that would do to morale.’

  Telmar said nothing, content to listen and record the sounds of the fusillade Later, he thought he might put them to music. There w
as something pleasing to his ear in the primitive rhythms of gunfire It was almost… relaxing.

  He’d heard similar sounds often enough on Chemos as a child. His memories of that time were a confused jangle of impressions, scents and sounds, but he recalled the gunfire with startling clarity. The whine of low-velocity slugs hitting sheet metal, and the screaming that followed. Always the screaming.

  He remembered that he’d been alone when he’d been found by the Legion’s apothecaries. And he remembered the Spider’s voice, calm and reassuring. When had that changed? Or had it? Was it simply his perceptions that had changed?

  ‘You’re humming. Are you composing again?’

  ‘No,’ Telmar said, forcing the memories back. ‘I’m growing weary of this. Any chatter on the local vox-network? Has anyone figured out what’s going on?’

  ‘No. It appears to be spontaneous, whatever it is. Another sign of societal decay, I suppose. From the sound of it, it’s happening all over this area.’

  ‘Coordinated?’

  ‘Badly,’ Thorn replied.

  Telmar considered this. Lord Fulgrim had made mention of possible uprisings. If they were facing a true planetary revolt, as opposed to an isolated uprising, the primarch needed to know, and swiftly. Decision made, he gestured to Thorn. ‘Let us go introduce ourselves.’

  ‘I thought you said we weren’t to hurt them.’

  ‘Fulgrim said nothing about scaring them. And the sooner we do that, the sooner we can arrange transportation back to Nova-Basilos.’ Telmar started forward with a determined stride. His hand itched to feel the grip of the bolt pistol holstered on his hip. He considered firing a warning shot, and then dismissed the idea as impractical. No sense in wasting the ammunition, if there were more efficient means to hand.