by Gav Thorpe
The reinforced plates of his armour rippled with projected light as he stepped back, fingers clenching and unclenching as he surveyed the Palace again.
‘There is only the one place,’ he said, gesturing to zoom the display to the middle of the Palace, where the two great loops of the Eternity Wall and Ultimate Wall met. It was both the weakest and the strongest point of the entire complex. If it were to fall, the entire fortress-city would be vulnerable; protected from both sides by immense fortifications, it would be death to any enemy that dared entry.
‘But you left a key in the lock, Rogal,’ said Perturabo. The display cycled closer, flickering with more static as the required data for the level of detail was unavailable. Even so, the edifice that drew his eye was plain to see, so tall that it made the surrounding walls and Palace seem like models though they were each ten kilometres tall and more. The lord of the Iron Warriors grimaced at the lack of recent reconnaissance. ‘The Lion’s Gate space port. All but part of the wall itself, like a growth on an artery. One cut here and Horus can move whatever he desires into the Palace.’
Yet failure would be costly, and victory only a little less so. The Lion’s Gate space port was an immense fortress in its own right, an orbit-piercing city protected by shields, cannons and hundreds of thousands of soldiers.
‘Perhaps an attack against the wall, after all,’ he said, panning the view to the north, drawing back to see more of the Imperial Palace.
No commander in their right mind would attempt a direct assault… Except that he was Perturabo, the Hammer of Olympia, and there was no wall he could not topple, even the defences of the Emperor’s Throneworld arranged by Rogal Dorn. He was tested on all sides, but the greatest challenge was the one written in stone and guns and force fields upon the mountains of Himalazia. There were only two outcomes possible. Dorn’s will prevailed, or Perturabo’s genius overcame it. This would be his legacy, the triumph that no other could take from him.
If it cost him every warrior in his Legion, that was a price worth paying.
Addaba Hive, Afrik, one hundred and seven days before assault
The shrill whistles of the officers set Zenobi’s heart racing with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Around her the crowd of recruits surged towards the opening gates of the transit station, but she resisted the pull and held her ground, not yet called to succumb to the tide and the journey that was about to begin.
The sun was bright, as always, gleaming from the hub-keep of Addaba Hive, the only home she had known in her seventeen years of life. The transport yard jutted from the flank of the huge city-mound about four hundred metres up from the surrounding plains. Above, dozens more landing pads and shuttleways played host to a steady stream of craft, coming and going from the near-cloudless skies and forming a double line to the east.
It was not so dissimilar to any other day, for Addaba had always been a desert-bound industrial city, incessantly hungry and thirsty for orbital drops and the product of distant hydrofarms. In return, the output of its dozens of immense manufactories had been taken to the space ports and beyond.
Until four days after Zenobi’s tenth birthday, when orders had come to cease production of the colony tractors and grain haulers that had poured by the thousand from Addaba’s production lines.
Tanks. The Emperor needed tanks, and Addaba would provide.
And along with that change of purpose had come the first rumours. The Great Crusade had stirred up an ancient enemy that was coming to Terra. An unknown xenos species had been discovered. Traitors within the Legiones Astartes had turned on the Emperor. Each tale had seemed more incredible than the last.
Then the first of the Imperial Fists watch teams had arrived to oversee the new production and the rumours were quashed, replaced with a simple statement. Warmaster Horus was a traitor. Terra had to prepare for invasion.
With that, the Standard Templates for Rhino armoured carriers and their variants were provided to the manufactories and Addaba became part of the war effort.
Seven years.
To some the war may have seemed a distant thing, but in Addaba it was a harsh, instant reality. For generations the factory-dynasties had served the Emperor, and their vassals had laboured for them on the production floors. Born to lowly labourers, Zenobi had nevertheless benefited from the scholasta, learning to read and write and conduct mathematics; skills that barely twenty years earlier had been restricted to the factory-dynasty members alone.
She had imagined herself as a shuttle pilot. She didn’t want to leave Terra, or Addaba, but did want to spend time outside of its manufactories. ‘Do well at maths, Zenobi,’ they’d told her, and she’d tried really hard. So hard sometimes her head had ached from numbers and equations, her studies at least two years ahead of the rest of the tutor-group.
All of that had stopped when the order for tanks arrived. The Emperor required armoured fighting vehicles, not shuttle pilots. And to meet His demands every able pair of hands was needed.
Zenobi looked across to the great chimney stacks that soared from the lower levels of the hive. Dormant. Always Addaba had been a place wreathed in oily smog, the plains stained rainbow hues at its feet even as the air sparkled with gases and exhaust smoke.
‘Strange, yes?’ She recognised the voice of Menber but didn’t turn towards her cousin. ‘Quiet.’
‘Dead.’
‘Not yet. Let’s say asleep.’ Menber laid a hand on her shoulder but still she did not turn away from her home.
Fourteen-hour shifts had been too much for children – even the Emperor was not that demanding. Eight hours a day had sufficed for Zenobi until she had turned fourteen, when it had increased to ten. On her eighteenth birthday, nine months away, she would have taken on full adult duties. The imminent arrival of Horus had spared her that.
Addaba was no longer sending out the wares of its manufactories; now it sent out its people. Millions of them had left over the preceding days.
‘Why didn’t they train us to drive the tanks we made?’ Zenobi asked, at last turning to her cousin, picking up her kitbag and lasgun. ‘We could have driven them in battle.’
‘That would have been too good,’ said Menber, grinning. Though taller than Zenobi – almost any man was – he shared her slight build and round face. His skin was marked by lesion scars from a bout of rustpox he’d suffered as an infant, so that his cheeks in particular looked to be stippled with paler brown.
‘Why bother?’ They both turned their heads to find Captain Egwu standing close at hand, arms crossed, her baton tapping her shoulder. While they were dressed in their light brown factory coveralls – newly decorated with regimental, company and platoon badges for Epsilon Platoon, First Company of the Addaba 64th Defence Corps – Yennu Egwu wore a trim uniform suit of deep blue, her dark curls braided tightly to allow a cap with a gold peak to sit on her abundant hair.
‘Overse– captain!’ Menber saluted, bringing his heels together smartly as he did so. Zenobi brought her hand up a second later, eyes directed to the ferrocrete at her feet.
‘Look at me, Trooper Adedeji.’
Zenobi met the captain’s dark gaze.
‘You asked a question. Do you want the answer?’
‘Yes… captain.’
Egwu tapped the end of her plain baton against the side of Zenobi’s lasgun.
‘It takes time to learn to drive a tank, trooper. Rogal Dorn, in his wisdom, concluded that our hours were better spent building them than being taught how to operate them. Other folk, menials and clerks of distant hives, contributed nothing to the direct war effort and so their time was best spent learning to be tank drivers, pilots and gunners.’
‘I understand, captain.’
‘You have been given basic infantry training, a lasgun and sufficient power packs for three hundred shots. It will take us several days to reach our placement. We do not know when we
will be called upon to engage the enemy. Until that time you will drill every day and hone your marksmanship, close-quarters combat skills and tactical knowledge.’
‘I look forward to improving myself, captain, and fighting for the cause.’
‘I know you do, Zenobi.’ A rare smile curved the captain’s full lips. ‘The Adedeji were amongst the first to dedicate themselves to our endeavour. Your tireless work on the production line is appreciated, and I expect will be duplicated on the line of battle.’
She looked at both of them and then cast her gaze towards the mass of humanity advancing slowly through the gates of the transit station. The quad rotors of large heli-transports thudded louder than the din of ten thousand conversations, muted by the kilometre that stretched between the group and the main landing site. Bladed craft lifted up, their places on the embarkation apron taken seconds later by a constant stream of descending heli-transports.
‘It defies belief, does it not?’ said Egwu. ‘Somewhere else, a hive like ours spent all its days making these transports. All over Terra, each part dedicated to the whole endeavour according to its capabilities and the designs of Rogal Dorn.’
‘By the will of the Emperor,’ added Menber.
‘By His will indeed were we set to our tasks,’ said Egwu. ‘Dorn’s was the hand, but His was the thought that moved it, and He has had mastery over us for our whole lives.’
‘And those of our ancestors, captain,’ said Zenobi. ‘Long the forges of Addaba have burned for the glory of the Emperor and the conquest of His domains.’
‘And now we fight to protect what is ours,’ said the captain.
They stood in silence and Zenobi contemplated the meaning of the course she was about to embark upon. The mobilisation confirmed that Horus was coming. There were quiet rumours that forces of the Warmaster had already reached the outer defences of the Solar System and been repelled. That had been followed by an increase in recruitment through the cradlespur, as the moment of truth came closer and closer.
‘Do you think we’ll see Addaba again?’ Menber asked the question that had been loitering at the back of Zenobi’s thoughts.
‘Unlikely,’ Egwu replied bluntly, crossing her arms once more. ‘Even if any of us survive this, what we are moving towards will change our lives and Terra forever. This is the end of an age but also the beginning of a new, brighter era.’
The thought cheered Zenobi and she nodded, taking a step forward, her renewed eagerness propelling her towards the transports.
‘A moment, Trooper Adedeji,’ said Egwu, holding out her baton. The captain turned and signalled to her staff, who were gathered a few metres away. Lieutenant Okoye broke away from the others, carrying a long pole swathed in a canvas tube. ‘This is for you.’
Zenobi stared wide-eyed as the lieutenant presented her with the standard.
‘The company colours,’ Egwu told her. Menber laughed and clapped Zenobi on the shoulder.
‘Congratulations, cousin, you’re going to carry our colours!’
Zenobi looked at the standard and then back at her captain.
‘Take it…’ said Egwu.
The trooper shouldered her lasgun and took the proffered banner, feeling the smoothness of the lightweight pole in her grip and the weight of the cloth furled beneath the plain canvas. She reached a hand towards the cover, but Okoye grabbed her wrist with a warning look.
‘Not yet,’ he said, pulling her hand away.
‘I am entrusting you with these colours, Zenobi, because I know that I can,’ said Egwu, laying a hand on her arm. ‘It is an honour and a responsibility. If you fall, another will take them up, but it is your privilege and duty never to lose this standard. Never.’
Her stare was intense and just for an instant Zenobi was afraid: afraid that she was not worthy, that she would not be equal to the task. The standard, like others that were being taken from the hive, had been made by the Sendafan tribes in their own workshops.
The rulers of the Imperium had not seen fit to provide colours for most of their newly raised regiments. What need did conscripted menials and drafted notaries have for martial pride? The meaning was obvious, despite the messages calling upon all citizens of Terra to be prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice: some sacrifices were more expected than others.
She stroked the concealing fabric, as if she could feel the stitches within, and from them the hours of care that had gone into the creation of the artefact. Days of work. Days rationed between the back-breaking stints on the line. Days huddled around smuggled lumen and naked flame, tired fingers working with thread and material scavenged from across the work shifts – not even yarn had been spared the all-consuming audit required by the Emperor’s war effort.
Perhaps Egwu read something of her doubts in her gaze and the captain’s grip on Zenobi’s arm tightened.
‘You more than any other know why we must fight. Our futures depend upon what we do next. Your family, your tribe, the people of Addaba and all of humanity will be led by our example. I trust you, Trooper Adedeji. Trust yourself too.’
‘I will, captain.’ Zenobi shifted her grip on the standard, holding it in the crook of her left arm with her lasgun so that she could pull up her hand in salute to the officer. ‘Thank you. I swear that I will not fail you, or our people.’
A simple plan
Family
A new commander
The Iron Blood, Terran near orbit, sixty-nine hours before assault
Arriving at the doors to Perturabo’s chamber, Kydomor Forrix was surprised to find that he was not alone in seeking audience with the primarch. Clad in full battle-plate and helm, the warrior that had been Barban Falk waited in the antechamber. Kroeger was there also, a hunched, hulking figure in Terminator armour who seemed on the verge of hurling himself at the closed portal. Each tread of his boots on the bare deck rang around the small room, accompanied by bull-like exhalations of frustration.
They both turned at Forrix’s approach. There was a glimmer of something through the lenses of Falk’s helm, while Kroeger’s gaze was a mixture of confusion and annoyance.
‘Why are you here, Falk?’ Forrix demanded, striding into the antechamber.
‘I am the Warsmith,’ the warrior replied. It sounded like Falk, tinged with the metallic ring of the external address system. Except for the studied enunciation, of someone taking care with every word issued. ‘Address me as such.’
‘There are a dozen warsmiths on this ship and its attendant flotilla,’ said Forrix with a curled lip. ‘Why do you assume the singular title? And you didn’t answer my question – what are you doing hanging at the Lord of Iron’s door like a hound waiting to be whipped by its master? Were you summoned?’
‘I heard word that you sought the primarch’s attention alone,’ Falk admitted.
‘Alone being the operative word.’
‘We are the Trident, we should speak as one with the primarch. Unless you are seeking singular audience in an effort to undermine our father’s confidence in me.’
‘It would be harder to undermine a child’s wall of bricks.’ Forrix turned his eye to Kroeger, who returned the attention with a belligerent stare. ‘And you?’
‘I followed him,’ replied Kroeger with a flick of the head towards Falk.
Forrix rolled his eyes and turned back to the great double doors that barred entry to the chamber. He moved towards the ocular security device set above them and looked up.
‘I am here to see the primarch,’ he announced.
His demand was met with a flat horn denying entry.
‘I have already tried entering,’ said Falk. ‘Do you think I would have waited here otherwise?’
Before Forrix could respond he was silenced by the grinding of bolts in the doorway. With a hydraulic hiss, the massive plasteel portals opened, a flickering stream of light bursting into the antecham
ber.
The hololith projector within was at full power, throwing the lord of the Legion into stark, shifting silhouette as he stepped slowly across a projected image of the Imperial Palace.
Forrix hurried forward, knowing no invitation would be issued. Kroeger and Falk followed on his heel. With a clank, the Iron Circle marched forward, shields and mauls raised. They turned in synchrony to form a line between their master and the Trident, each visitor targeted by the shoulder-mounted cannons of two automatons.
‘Lord Perturabo,’ said Falk. ‘It is your Trident, come to seek your orders.’
‘I haven’t,’ growled Forrix. ‘I’m here with a way to break the siege.’
Perturabo straightened, taller even than the mindless bodyguards he had created.
‘Really?’ Perturabo’s voice rumbled around the chamber, heavy with menace.
The automatons parted to form a path towards the primarch. It looked like a guard of honour but Forrix knew better. Hesitation would invite instant criticism so he strode forward, stopped a few paces from his lord and crashed a gauntleted fist against his chest plastron in salute.
‘The space port, Lord of Iron. At the Lion’s Gate.’
‘I have studied it in some detail.’ The primarch’s dark stare settled upon Forrix in the manner of a predator that had found its prey. ‘What have you seen that I have not?’
‘A mistake, Lord of Iron. Dorn’s overconfidence has left a flaw we can exploit.’
‘A mistake?’ Perturabo’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.
‘Leaving the space port intact so close to the wall is an error,’ Forrix said. He was committed now, and plunged on for good or ill. ‘If we can seize the port swiftly enough there will not be time to reinforce the defences separating it from the main wall.’
‘That is your plan?’ The primarch’s scorn was like knives scoring wounds in Forrix’s pride. ‘You think that a mistake? Dorn does not make mistakes! Seven years he has pondered every detail here. Nothing is in error. Nothing is where it is except by his design!’
