Dark Imperium: Godblight

by Guy Haley

  ‘Ask, and we shall see what I will tell,’ said Natasé.

  Guilliman paused. ‘What is a god?’ he asked. ‘What is the definition of divinity?’

  ‘Everything I have ever met that called itself a god has been my enemy,’ said Maxim. ‘That is good enough for me.’

  ‘Does that make your master your enemy also?’ said Natasé.

  ‘The Emperor denied always that He is a god,’ said Maxim.

  ‘Denied, but does He still? I believe that is the heart of the matter under discussion here,’ said Natasé. ‘Is that not so, lord regent?’

  Guilliman ignored his insinuation. ‘Clarify further, Codicier,’ the primarch said.

  ‘Power defines gods, but they are all false,’ said Maxim. ‘Falsehood is the essence of godhood. They are lies. They may seem to be divine to primitive minds in their ability to grant favour, but they are inimical to all mortal life. The gods of Chaos bring only horror. They see us as playthings, and would destroy us all in the end. They are evil, every one. Man needs no gods. The Emperor was right.’

  ‘Natasé?’ asked Guilliman.

  ‘Not all gods are evil,’ said Natasé. ‘You are wrong, Donas Maxim. And you speak only of the gods born out of the immaterium. You neglect the C’tan, the Yngir, we called them. They too were gods.’

  He sighed, collected himself, as if he were a schoolmaster about to deliver a much simplified lesson to children that would still not understand.

  ‘You are right when you say that power defines a god,’ he said. ‘­Temporal, spiritual, physical – it matters not.’ He fell silent a moment. ‘My people define godhood in several ways, but there are two broad categories. The gods of the othersea, who are reflections of what you call the materium, and the gods of the materium itself, who you know as the C’tan, though there are other, more ancient and even more terrible things than they. The gods of the materium are an essential part of its fabric – they are able to influence its structure, such is their intimate connection to it, but they are bound nevertheless by the laws of this reality. The gods of the warp are more ephemeral, and more diverse in type. Many are mere concentrations of feeling, some were once mortals themselves, before the belief of others changed them. The gods of my ancestors were of both sorts, I believe, though this is not the only philosophy propounded by my kind, and I have heard many heated debates on the subject. It is impossible to say now, for our gods were slain when we fell, and even if they could be asked, they would not know the truth of it, for the truth would change anyway, as it must, according to the beliefs of those who had faith in them.

  ‘Yet another kind are agglomerations of souls of those who were once living, or so say the Ynnari, whose supposed deity Ynnead was unleashed by the breaking of Biel-Tan. But who, in truth, can say? One, two, all or more of these things can be true at one moment, and may change at another. There are gods that eat gods, gods that are eternal, gods that were but now never were, and gods that come into being only to have existed for all time. The origins of gods are therefore impossible to catalogue. They have no histories but the histories people impose upon them. I would agree with your sorcerer here, to an extent. Puissance is the defining aspect of them.’ A grave expression crossed his face. ‘Faith is another, though this does not apply to all. Some beings do not require faith. But falsehood is not intrinsic to them all.’

  ‘Explain,’ said Guilliman.

  ‘The C’tan, as far as our legends attest, were essential components of creation – hungry, evil to mortal eyes, but part of it. They require no belief to live, in the same way the suns they devoured require no observer to be. Nor do the great four gods of Chaos, who have become so all-powerful they are in essence self-sustaining, though the faith of their followers makes them stronger. Nor does the Great Devourer, the mind of the tyranids, a being that is generated by the unthinking actions of its physical component parts, and that is perhaps greater than all the rest. Is that a god? Some of our philosophers argue so. Others vehemently disagree. But for other gods, lesser gods, faith is vital. Without faith, they collapse into formlessness, becoming non-sentient vortices of emotion. Unstable, they die.’

  ‘But if the people of the Imperium ceased to believe in the Emperor, He would not vanish,’ said Guilliman. ‘He has a physical presence, even now. He sits upon the Throne. By that measure, He is not a god.’

  ‘How can you be so sure, simply because He existed before He took to His Throne? You base your supposition on the idea that He was actually a man to begin with, and that He did not lie. You also suppose that what sits upon the Golden Throne still has a mortal life, and would persist should His worship cease,’ said Natasé. ‘Did I not say there are gods who were once mortals? These beings become focal points for belief, and belief begets faith, as the pure gods of the warp do, those that are consciousnesses which emerge from the othersea. The difference is, for gods who were something before they were gods…’

  Guilliman raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Hypothetically speaking,’ said Natasé smoothly, ‘not assuming that is what happened to your father – in cases like that there is an existing being to mould. Faith hangs from them, changes them, elevates them, if that is a correct word.’ Natasé smiled his thin, cruel smile. ‘We come to an unpalatable truth. To many of your people, primarch, son of the Emperor, you are a god. Because they believe in their billions, does that not make it true?’

  ‘A status I deny,’ said Guilliman icily. ‘I am no god.’

  ‘Deny it all you will,’ Natasé insisted. ‘Where you go, victory follows. Your presence inspires your people. In this age of storms, the very warp calms at your approach. How long is it until the first miracle is proclaimed in your name, and when that occurs how will you be able to say that you were not responsible for it? The incident on Parmenio with the girl, the way her power freed you from the grip of the enemy, drove back daemons, actions already being ascribed to your maker.’ Natasé paused. ‘But if divine, was it truly Him?’

  ‘Are you saying that was me?’

  ‘I am asking you to consider it.’

  ‘I have no psychic gift,’ said Guilliman.

  ‘It does not matter,’ said Natasé. ‘We are talking here not of sorcery, or what you refer to as psychic power, but of faith. Faith is the most powerful force in this galaxy. It requires no proof to convince. It grants conviction to those who believe. It brings hope to the hopeless, and where it flou­rishes, reality changes. A single mind connected strongly to the warp can bend the laws of our universe, but a billion minds, a trillion minds, all believing the same thing? It matters little if they are psykers or not. The influence of so many souls has a profound effect. My kind birthed a god. Perhaps now it is your turn.

  ‘Faith is your race’s greatest power. It is also the greatest peril to us all. It is the faith of every human being that moulds reality. Psychic power washes through our existence, heightening everything. It is their despair that threatens us. You have said to me before, Roboute Guilliman, that you will save my people, yet it is your people who are damning us all. They damn you, too. For all your will, how can your single soul stand against the collected belief of your species? You brought us here to ask if the Emperor is a god, for that is where this conversation is going, but the questions you should be asking yourself are, “Am I a god?” and “If I am a god, am I free?”’

  ‘That is not what I wish to know,’ said Guilliman. ‘For my status is in no doubt, in my eyes.’

  ‘You should consider it, nevertheless,’ said Natasé.

  ‘You cannot entertain this idea, my lord,’ said Maxim.

  Guilliman frowned. ‘It is your belief that the Emperor is a god, then?’

  ‘My belief is unimportant in the balance of belief,’ said Natasé. ‘It is reflected proportionally in what you call the empyrean. This is what I am trying to convey to you.’

  ‘How do you perceive the Emperor, wh
en you look into the warp?’

  ‘I see no god or man. I see the great light of your beacon. From it comes pain, and suffering,’ said Natasé, uneasy for once. ‘Who can tell if what I see in the light is true? Our lore tells us your master ever was chameleonic. Maybe He is truly dead. Perhaps if you turned off your machines, then the light would die. It is impossible to say. Every thread of the skein that leads to Him is burned to nothing. His path cannot be predicted. He cannot be looked upon directly. Some of my kind maintain that He is the great brake on your species, yet its only shield, that He is the poison to the galaxy that might save us all, that He is not one, but broken, fractured, and properly healed and with His power marshalled again could outmatch the great gods themselves. Others say He is nothing, that the light that burns so painfully over Terra is but an echo of a luminous being long gone. We must judge His worth to our species by inference alone.’

  ‘Maxim?’

  ‘He is a light, my lord, that is too bright to look at, as Natasé avers. He is a roaring beacon. He is a pillar of souls. His presence burns the spirit. He is singular, and obvious, yet too intense to perceive. On the few occasions I have dared turned my witch-sight near Him, I too have felt His pain. It scarred me. But I believe He is there. I have felt His regard on me.’

  ‘This is not a common action among Space Marine Librarians,’ said Guilliman.

  ‘As I understand it, no. All of us are trained to find the beacon, for we must occasionally serve as Navigators when the Chapter mutants fail, but His light is too much for us to gaze upon for long. Few dare to look closely. I have.’

  ‘I have heard Natasé’s opinion on this matter, but I ask you, Donas Maxim, to set aside your Chapter beliefs and tell me, is the Emperor a god?’

  Donas shook his head and shrugged. He looked perplexed, as if he could not understand the question. ‘He is the Emperor, my lord.’

  Guilliman looked to the book. ‘Lorgar was wrong about our creator. He was no god when I knew Him, but now…’ His voice faltered. ‘If He were truly a god, whatever we take that word to mean, what does it mean for our strategy? I cannot allow my own convictions to get in the way of truth, for only in knowing the truth can victory be secured. If I ignore the reality of the situation simply because it does not fit my own theoreticals, then I will fail. But contrarily, if I adopt this mode of thought as actual, and base all future practicals upon it, then what manner of victory will that deliver us? What kind of Imperium do I wish to see? I would rather it was one free of religion, and gods, and all their perfidy.’

  ‘Is it not enough to accept the Emperor’s power, my lord, and to countenance that He may be at work again in the Imperium?’ said Maxim. ‘Upon Parmenio we have seen evidence of that.’

  ‘We have seen evidence of something,’ said Guilliman. ‘Perhaps I have seen enough to discount the machinations of other powers. Maybe it is the Emperor.’

  ‘Caution is due,’ said Natasé. ‘Discerning the source of these phenomena is beyond me, and therefore the rest of your Concilia Psykana.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Guilliman. ‘On the one hand, I have the fervent belief of the militant-apostolic that my father fights at my right hand. On the other, we must be alert to possible manipulation.’ He looked at Natasé.

  ‘I understand your implication, but my people are not responsible, nor any others of my race,’ said Natasé. ‘So far as I am aware.’

  Guilliman was thoughtful a moment, then moved decisively. He bent over so he could reach the box and reactivate the stasis field, then flipped the lid shut.

  ‘Thank you both, you have given me much to think on. In the meantime, we have other problems to deal with.’

  ‘As my oath demands, I shall fulfil it, my lord primarch,’ said Natasé.

  ‘You may go, farseer. Codicier, please remain.’

  ‘My thanks, primarch. Donas Maxim,’ Natasé said to the Space Marine.

  Maxim gave the aeldari a nod of acknowledgement. The doors opened. Maxim caught a glimpse of the aeldari’s bodyguard waiting outside: four of them, black armour, bone-coloured inset masks and the tall plumes of the Dire Avengers warrior aspect. Allowing armed xenos to roam about the fleet was a source of consternation in all quarters. Maxim shared it.

  ‘My lord, is there something else I may help you with?’ said Maxim when the doors had closed.

  ‘There is nothing,’ said Guilliman. He stood, and so did Maxim. ‘A courtesy only, from me. I have heard that you are to cross the Rubicon Primaris soon, and I wanted to give you my good wishes for a safe transition, and a speedy recovery.’

  ‘I thank you for your concern, my lord. I hear the procedure is much safer now than it was.’

  ‘It is not entirely free of risk, I am afraid,’ said Guilliman. ‘Would that it were so. I commend your bravery in stepping forward.’

  ‘I do it so I may serve you better, my lord.’

  Guilliman nodded. He was turning to other affairs. Maxim felt a surge of thought patterns from his strange, engineered mind, and quickly disengaged from them. Guilliman went to his desk and began to reorder the papers and data devices there. Maxim recognised it as preparatory to undertaking a considerable amount of work. He used the same focusing technique himself.

  He wondered then how much of his character he owed to this ancient giant. Despite their conversation, he could half believe Guilliman were indeed a demigod.

  ‘When do you undergo the procedure?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Maxim.

  ‘Should you survive, then, I make the same offer to you as I did to Natasé, Donas. You too may return home, though you may find it easier to do so once the campaign here is over.’

  ‘It is a welcome thought. I have been in Ultramar since the Rift opened and cut my strike force off. I have brothers at home, and duties too long neglected. But I think not.’

  ‘Then I ask that you and your warriors accompany me further after we have crossed the Rift, and to whatever we may find there.’

  ‘Gladly, and with all my heart,’ said Maxim. ‘I will serve at your side for as long as I may, my lord, for what true son of yours has ever dreamed of anything other?’

  ‘Your devotion touches me. It weighs on me that it may mean your death.’

  Maxim bowed. ‘Death in service is what we aspire to.’

  ‘Sadly, I can offer that to all,’ said Guilliman. ‘Thank you, Codicier, that will be all.’

  The doors swung open to let him out. Maxim looked back before he passed out of the library, and saw the primarch staring thoughtfully at the box that contained Lorgar’s book.

  Chapter Six

  THE TATTLESLUG

  ‘Drat and botheration. Misery and woe,’ muttered Ku’Gath. He left his stirring to his minions and waddled through the courtyard, glumly mumbling, ignoring the cheery halloos of his nurglings and the droning reports of his plaguebearers. A few broken walls were all that was left of the hospital’s outer precincts, slumped like corpses under strangling vegetation that perished as quickly as it grew. The paving was lost beneath layers of toxic algae. Slicks of stinking waste dribbled through the mortar.

  ‘Where are you going, master, where are you bound?’ gibbered choruses of nurglings.

  ‘For a walk, curse you, not that it is any of your business!’ Ku’Gath blustered, and lumbered at them. The tiny imps screeched and made to run, but they could not escape, and burst like grapes under his dragging belly. Did he feel at all uplifted by this small, malicious act? No, he did not, not one jot.

  The lone Great Unclean One in the court wisely kept his peace. Ku’Gath Plaguefather excepted, the greater daemons of Nurgle were jolly beings, but the defeat at Parmenio had knocked their mirth squarely out. Ku’Gath had new lieutenants, sent by Nurgle’s manse-wards themselves to guard him, to replace his comrades languishing in the Great Garden, where they awaited rebirth. He did not trust these newcomers.
>
  Ku’Gath was being watched.

  ‘And I don’t need the likes of Rotigus to tell me that,’ he grumbled. He pushed his way through part of the remaining perimeter wall, toppling it into a mush of foamcrete and putrid vegetable matter. Chunks plopped into the mud.

  Out he went from the plague mill, down through the filthy camp of his daemon legion. The Hythian wetlands had overflowed, and turbid waters lapped at the bottom of the hills the mill commanded. Still grumbling, Ku’Gath slipped in, and began to wade.

  The noise of the daemon camp diminished quickly. He left behind the sombre count of the plaguebearers and the grating singing of nurglings, and a morose silence fell. The ground he traversed had been pasture for bovids, crossed by roads and dotted with human habitations. Now it was a sea of ooze, the farmland and the marsh wholly indistinguishable. The sole signs that mortals had dwelled there were the rusty stumps of wind turbines a mile or so away, and they were so choked with slimy vines it was difficult to tell what they had been.

  Ku’Gath’s choler was dampened by the swamp. Cool muck washed in through his open belly, bathing his intestines with filth. It was rather pleasant, and he almost began to feel upbeat; the thought of the new infections he might contract came close to bringing a smile to his lips. That just wouldn’t do, so he reminded himself of what was at stake until he was sufficiently miserable again.

  He paddled on, his huge bulk thrusting up a bow wave of muck, until he deemed the distance sufficient that he could perform his summoning unobserved. He stopped. He turned around. The roofless plague mill was lit red by the fire warming the cauldron, from which toxic vapours drifted. Gelid bioluminescence bathed the exterior and campfires burned for a mile or more beyond it, but away from the mill all was dark and drear, and would be until dawn came; then all would be dim and drear instead, which was only right.

  ‘These cursed mortals have no appreciation for the gifts we bring them,’ complained Ku’Gath, surveying the glories of the ooze sea. How could they could not see its beauty? He wondered at it, truly perplexed.