The First Wall

by Gav Thorpe

  ‘What’s the matter, cousin?’

  ‘They spoke to me,’ she said quietly. The words came as a stammer as the magnitude of what had occurred hit her. ‘The conspirators. Tried to recruit me. I could have… What if I hadn’t…?’

  She tailed off, gaze dragged back to the corpses left beneath the careless sun. Already a cloud of flies was gathering. There would be maggots and other insects. No cleansing farewell in the endfires. Perhaps the integrity officers had already known about their secret. It seemed unlikely. Zenobi knew in her heart that the pile of dead was a direct consequence of her actions. She had never raised her lasgun, had not pulled her knife. With just a few words she had killed several hundred people.

  The thought numbed her.

  ‘You didn’t, and you wouldn’t,’ Menber said, grasping her arm to pull her along the roof with the rest of the squad. ‘You would never betray us.’

  The train jolted into movement, the snarl of immense engines throbbing along its length. It brought Zenobi’s thoughts back into focus. Those that had been snared by the lies of the Lectitio Divinitatus had been targeted for a reason. It was a virus, claiming the Emperor was a god. It eroded everything they fought for. And someone had been the first to whisper its untruths in the ears of Beta Platoon. The rot had been introduced, perhaps not even maliciously, but it was not her that had killed those men and women.

  Someone had corrupted their companions, knowingly risking them for their own ideals. It took just one traitor to taint everything around them. Zenobi steadied herself and looked at the other squad members, eyes resting on her cousin, and then past him, catching a glimpse of Kettai as he swung himself down to the ladder.

  It wasn’t her loyalty that she was worried about.

  A Custodian investigates

  Stand by your guns

  Berossus

  Palatine Arc quarantine zone, Barracks-C, two days since assault

  For three hours Amon Tauromachian had walked the halls and corri­dors of the quarantine force barracks to acclimatise himself to its layout and atmosphere. It was cramped for the Custodian, who had disrobed of his armour after an hour so that he could inspect some of the smaller spaces. Clad in an anti-ballistic tunic and nothing else, he returned once more to the kitchen where the manifestation had been encountered.

  He crouched before it, eyes closed, picturing the scene as it had been when the Imperial Army troopers had clustered into the tiled chamber. He had read their accounts and spoken to each of them in person, and could locate almost all of them within a metre or two of where they had likely been standing.

  He stood, head brushing the ceiling, eyes still closed, using his mind’s eye rather than any physical sense. Two forces, converging from each set of doors. Afraid, some of them had opened fire.

  Amon moved to the wall, fingers gently moving across the rough bricks and lines of mortar. The indentations where las-strikes had hit. Some from the left, most from the right. No grouping that he could discern.

  He backed away half a step, adding the strike pattern to his mental picture. Why here?

  He retreated a few more paces and opened his eyes, glaring at the silent brickwork. What was important about the kitchen?

  The first witness, Trooper Chastain, had confessed to sneaking into the mess facilities to procure an illicit off-shift meal. Cross-interrogation had revealed nothing amiss in his character or record. An opportunistic pilferer, but not an enemy of the Emperor.

  So why had the apparition appeared in the kitchen? Had Chastain’s guilty presence triggered something? Would any of them have been the wiser had not the hungry trooper entered at that time to encounter the manifestation?

  He let his mental gaze widen again, encompassing the whole garrison block and the kitchen’s place within it. It was a squat, ­unappealing building butting against the low quarantine wall around the Palatine Arc, now the plague slum nicknamed Poxville. The kitchen, one of three, was located in the south-west corner, closer to the outer wall than the others. Was that significant?

  As though controlling a pict-drone he cast his mind back to the corridors, retracing the steps of the troopers as they had come to the kitchen. A short journey, nothing of importance there.

  That was the moment Amon realised there was a blind spot. He’d paced out every passageway and room. There was a void of about four metres square next to the kitchens, right behind the wall.

  With quick strides he circumnavigated the mess area and came upon the officers’ quarters that were set behind it. A large, tattered banner hung on the far wall of the main hallway, which led to four individual officer dorms. The hallway was about four metres short.

  Amon carefully lifted the banner from its hook and set it aside. The wall was plasterboard, painted light grey like the rest of the barracks.

  He set his hand to the right side of the centreline and pushed. There was a tiny amount of give but nothing else happened. Moving to the left-hand side he did the same. This time there was a faint click and the wall section spun about on a central spindle, revealing a chamber beyond.

  His eyes pierced the darkness and took in the surrounds immediately. As soon as he saw what lay beyond the wall Amon activated his vox.

  ‘Signal Regent Malcador. Tell him that I need him to come to the quarantine barracks immediately.’

  It was an exceptionally humble shrine.

  Two crates had been covered with a rough canvas for an altar cloth. Upon this had been set two metal cups, battered from much use, the regimental inscriptions still clear on the sides – Mercio XXIV and Gallilus XXXI. A ewer of red liquid – cheap wine, Amon’s nose told him – sat between them. In front was neatly set a small cushion upon which had been placed a book.

  The book was little more than a sheaf of mismatched paper held together with thin wire. Two words were written on the front, in plain handwriting.

  ‘Lectitio Divinitatus,’ said Amon.

  ‘A fane of the Emperor,’ said Malcador, eyes passing over the rest of the room’s contents. Amon’s gaze followed his, taking in a few chairs in a circle, and some tall candlesticks likely looted from a senior officer’s belongings.

  ‘And this?’ Amon pointed to a stain upon the bare wall, directly behind where the apparition had been witnessed in the kitchen beyond. The rime had almost fully melted, leaving streaks down the brickwork. The floor beneath was also damp, bare ferrocrete darkened by the liquid.

  ‘That…’ Malcador cleared his throat and peered at the phenom­enon more closely. ‘That is not good news.’

  Amon sniffed the air, detecting old sweat, gun oil and boot polish, as well as the musky scent of the unlit candles and the sharp, ozone-like tang he always associated with the Emperor’s Regent.

  ‘It’s just water ice, nothing else.’

  ‘Yes, just ice,’ said Malcador, scratching his chin. ‘Created by a massive localised drop in temperature.’

  ‘But it’s between two large ovens on the other side,’ said Amon. He could picture them precisely, without even recourse to his helm’s special suite of visual systems.

  ‘Very localised.’ Malcador flipped open the small book, eyes scanning the pages.

  ‘We have known the cult of the Emperor has been active in the Imperial Army for some time – this is not a revelation,’ said Amon. ‘The Lectitio Divinitatus is even more widespread in the civilian population. Efforts to curb its influence were suspended when the siege began.’

  ‘Yes, resources better spent elsewhere. I recall being at the senate when such decisions were made.’

  ‘You disagree?’

  ‘I am unsure. The Lectitio Divinitatus could end up being an enormous distraction from the real problem.’

  ‘But…?’

  Malcador gestured towards the ice-soiled wall.

  ‘This is residue of psychic activity.’

  ‘Does not the Em
peror’s shield suppress such energies?’

  ‘Hence my concern,’ said Malcador as he met the Custodian’s gaze. ‘The fane and this are connected, but it is not clear how.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘That’s a rather complicated question, isn’t it, Amon?’ Malcador chuckled for a moment and then grew serious again. ‘It means a crack, a tiny crack in the telaethesic ward. Forced from the inside.’

  ‘There may be other instances that have gone undocumented. Perhaps even taken as signs of the Emperor’s divinity.’ Amon stepped outside the shrine room, his memories of the webway battles trying to surface at the thought of daemonic activity. ‘The captain-general must be informed.’

  ‘Valdor has many concerns, as does Lord Dorn. This will be brought to his attention during the hourly briefing as usual. And he will say that you must continue to investigate, because you only have evidence of one minor incident so far. Is this an isolated phenomenon or cause for wider concern?’

  ‘This worship of the Emperor is forbidden. Monarchia was destroyed and a whole Legion of Space Marines chastised for misplaced piety. The Emperor has made His thoughts on the matter very clear.’

  ‘I was at Monarchia too, I need no reminder of what the Emperor thinks about divinity,’ snapped Malcador. ‘And yet we cannot fight our own people at the same time as we combat Horus. Practicality necessitates some leeway.’

  ‘Leeway is just a euphemism for a weakness that can be exploited,’ said Amon.

  ‘Our war cares little for absolutes. The matter at hand requires careful examination. You cannot hope to find and prosecute every gathering of the Lectitio Divinitatus. Find out what is particular about this group. Why did the manifestation occur here?’

  ‘I think it obvious that the proximity to the assault of the Death Guard gives us some answer.’

  ‘But how widespread is the effect? Not every plague victim is found. Is there some other connection we can chase down?’

  ‘The cult is secretive. It will take a long time to make progress into its workings.’

  The Regent joined him in the hallway, staff tapping on the hard floor as he stepped past. The Lord of Terra stopped a few paces ahead of Amon and turned back to him.

  ‘There I may be of further assistance to you, Amon,’ said Malcador. ‘Someone with an… inside knowledge of such things.’

  Nagapor Territories, sixty days before assault

  A series of staccato machine bleeps over the voxmitters roused Zenobi from a half-slumber. She opened her eyes, still slumped against the back of the bench, and looked first towards the windows – still daytime, moving to evening. She sat up as her gaze passed over the others around her. All were looking at the speakers with some confusion, a loud hiss emanating from them.

  Brakes squealed into life, suddenly slowing the train. As a human wave, those standing tottered and swayed from the sudden loss of momentum, several troopers tripping over each other or benches, their swearing lost amid the laughter of their companions.

  The lights flickered and went out as the train came to a stop. The yellow light of late afternoon did little to illuminate the interior through the grimy windows.

  The voxmitters crackled again, and then came the voice of General-Captain Egwu.

  ‘There is a high risk of detection by orbital scan. All systems are being reduced to standby to dull our energy signature. Remain inside the ­carriages until further instruction.’

  A worried silence followed this pronouncement until Lieutenant Folami broke the stillness.

  ‘You can talk,’ she said with a shake of her head. ‘They won’t be able to hear us in space…’

  ‘This is all just a precaution,’ added Okoye, making his way between the benches. ‘Command have received word that a starship is passing over this sector. It is unlikely we will attract any attention, not when there are far more important targets to attack.’

  The mention of targets and attack did nothing to ease Zenobi’s concerns. She stood on the bench to look out the window, hoping to see something that might take her mind off the sudden stillness. The ancient dry seabed stretched for kilometres around them, nothing else in sight. It felt a blessing and a curse to be so isolated. It seemed unlikely that they would be discovered amongst the expanse of wilderness, but on the other hand any energy signature or vox signal detected would stand out like a guide flare at night.

  A flurry of movement drew her eye to the door at the far end of the cabin. The slash of scarlet announced the presence of an integrity officer. Another was prowling between the benches on the far side of the lattice that divided the length of the cabin.

  ‘Remember, be vigilant at all times,’ he told them as he started a slow patrol of the compartment, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Be aware of your companions, watch for any oddity in their mood. It takes only a moment for security to lapse and betrayal would see us destroyed.

  ‘As you are watchful, know also that you are being watched. Not by your brothers and sisters in arms, but by enemies masquerading as troopers loyal to Addaba. They will see your laxity and exploit it. They will appeal to your compassion and empathy and turn those virtues into weaknesses to be exploited.

  ‘It is not just our guns that will carry us to victory over those that would make slaves of our future generations – it is our resolve that will prove the greatest of weapons. If one of us flinches now, before we have even been tested, what will be their actions under fire?’

  The integrity officer stopped about two-thirds of the way along the carriage, almost level with Zenobi. His eyes were a startling blue, ­unusual amongst the folk of Addaba, and they were like daggers of ice as they passed momentarily over her. She held her nerve, reminding herself that she had no shame to bear, that she feared nothing from the scrutiny of that piercing gaze. The officer moved on.

  ‘Just sitting here, waiting for it to happen.’

  Zenobi turned her head to find Babak climbing up next to her. He was almost as short, his delicate, callus-free fingers fidgeting with the belt of his coveralls. She knew him as a spindle-wright, one of those who maintained the machines that made the parts for the production line.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ she said. ‘I think I’m ready for battle, but this isn’t that. No chance to fight back. Just waiting for a beam of light to come down and obliterate us.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Kettai from across the gap between benches. He looked relaxed, hands behind his head. ‘A ship’s not going to waste a lance strike on a train. Even if they spot us, it’ll just be cata­logued among all the other data.’

  ‘Starship surveyor expert, are you?’ said Babak.

  ‘It’s just sense, isn’t it?’ Kettai sat forward, hands moving to a pocket from which he produced a slender plastek flask. He pulled the stopper and offered the drink to them.

  Zenobi caught the smell of spirits. She had never drunk before and was curious, but now was not the time to give in to that temptation. She shook her head.

  ‘Isn’t that contraband?’ said Babak, his gaze flicking nervously around the carriage. ‘What if the integrity officers find out?’

  ‘It’s like the train and the starship,’ said Kettai with a shrug. ‘This isn’t important enough to bother them. Maybe Lieutenant Okoye will put me on latrine duties, but nobody is taking me out and putting a las-bolt in my head over some tei.’

  ‘Throat cut,’ said Babak. ‘Like those others. You’re not worth the las-bolt.’

  Kettai laughed and stoppered the flask before slipping it away. Zenobi noticed that he hadn’t actually taken a drink himself but said nothing.

  A sudden blast from the voxmitters made Zenobi jump, almost sending her sprawling from the bench. The engines grumbled into life and motors whined through the floor as the train started to get underway.

  ‘See, nothing to–’ started Kettai, but he was cut off by a
n announcement over the speakers.

  ‘Defence quarters! All active squads to their guns. All inactive squads assume protective positions.’

  A siren wail replaced the voice, its urgency setting Zenobi’s heart hammering against her ribs.

  ‘So much for not being spotted,’ said Kettai, heaving himself up from the floor.

  Zenobi’s diminutive stature made her an ideal gunner and she crawled up into the cupola while the others got ready behind her. Squads from the carriage on the opposite end of the gunnery car were coming in and moving to their positions too.

  She strapped herself into the gunnery chair, a single loop over her waist, and then pulled the lever that elevated her into the armourglass dome at the top of the car.

  In front of her on a pintle was a quad-barrelled autocannon. It was far too heavy to aim manually; instead her hand came to a control stick between her legs, a firing pin projecting from the top.

  ‘Engage traverse motors,’ she called back. She was answered by a whine of power and the stick juddered in her grip. A few test movements set the autocannons rising and falling and adjusting slightly to the left and right. Her feet found the pedals that rotated the entire gun assembly. ‘Engage rotary motors.’

  A test of the pedals sent her in a circle first to the left and then the right. She reached forward and flicked a switch, activating a grainy greenscreen display just in front of her – the gun imager. There was nothing to see except clouds, almost indiscernible among the flashes of static and the darkening sky.

  ‘Check ammo feeds disengaged.’

  ‘Ammo disengaged,’ came the reply from below, sounding oddly distant within the confines of the cupola. Zenobi depressed the ­firing stud. The autocannons clicked and clacked against their empty breeches.

  ‘Firing test complete. Engage ammo feeds.’

  There was a heavy crunch and scrape of metal as the four belt feeds were levered back into place within the turret mechanism. Zenobi’s thumb hovered over the firing pin. If she pushed it down, a stream of high explosive shells would be sent searing into the sky.