by Dan Abnett
‘This is…’ Emont whispered. ‘This is quite something. I hope you all understand you’re lucky to see this.’
‘See what?’ asked Sark.
‘The captain takes his oath of moment last of all. It will be heard and sworn to by two of his fellow captains, but, oh my goodness, the rest of the Mournival have come to hear him pledge.’
‘That’s the Mournival?’ Keeler asked, her picter shooting.
‘First Captain Abaddon, Captain Torgaddon, Captain Aximand, and with them Captains Sedirae and Targost,’ Emont breathed, afraid of raising his voice.
‘Which one is Abaddon?’ Keeler asked, aiming her picter.
LOKEN KNELT. ‘THERE was no need—’ he began.
‘We wanted to do this right,’ Torgaddon replied. ‘Luc?’
Luc Sedirae, Captain of the Thirteenth Company, took out the seal paper on which the oath of moment was written. ‘I am sent to hear you,’ he said.
‘And I am here to witness it,’ Targost said.
‘And we are here to keep you cheerful,’ Torgaddon added. Abaddon and Little Horus chuckled.
Neither Targost nor Sedirae were sons of Horus. Targost, Captain of the Seventh, was a blunt-faced man with a deep scar across his brow. Luc Sedirae, champion of so many wars, was a smiling rogue, blond and handsome, his eyes blue and bright, his mouth permanently half-open as if about to bite something. Sedirae raised the scrap of parchment.
‘Do you, Garviel Loken, accept your role in this? Do you promise to lead your men into the zone of war, and conduct them to glory, no matter the ferocity or ingenuity of the foe? Do you swear to crush the insurgents of Sixty-Three Nineteen, despite all they might throw at you? Do you pledge to do honour to the XVI Legion and the Emperor?’
Loken placed his hand on the bolter Targost held out.
‘On this matter and by this weapon, I swear.’
Sedirae nodded and handed the oath paper to Loken.
‘Kill for the living, brother,’ he said, ‘and kill for the dead.’ He turned to walk away. Targost holstered his bolter, made the sign of the aquila, and followed him.
Loken rose to his feet, securing his oath paper to the rim of his right shoulderguard.
‘Do this right, Garviel,’ Abaddon said.
‘I’m glad you told me that,’ Loken dead-panned. ‘I’d been considering making a mess of it.’
Abaddon hesitated, wrong-footed. Torgaddon and Aximand laughed.
‘He’s growing that thick skin already, Ezekyle,’ Aximand sniggered.
‘You walked into that,’ Torgaddon added.
‘I know, I know,’ Abaddon snapped. He glared at Loken. ‘Don’t let the commander down.’
‘Would I?’ Loken replied, and walked away to his stormbird.
‘OUR TIME’S UP,’ Emont said.
Keeler didn’t care. That last pict had been exceptional. The Mournival, Sedirae and Targost, all in a solemn group, Loken on his knees.
Emont conducted the remembrancers out of the embarkation deck space to an observation deck, adjacent to the launch port from which they could watch the stormbirds deploy. They could hear the rising note of the stormbird engines behind them, trembling the embarkation deck as they fired up in pre-launch test. The roaring dulled away as they walked down the long access tunnel, hatches closing one by one after them.
The observation deck was a long chamber, one side of which was a frame of armoured glass. The deck’s internal lighting had been switched low so that they could better see into the darkness outside.
It was an impressive view. They directly overlooked the yawning maw of the embarkation deck, a colossal hatch ringing with winking guide lights. The bulk of the flagship rose away above them, like a crenellated Gothic city. Beyond, lay the void itself.
Small service craft and cargo landers flitted past, some on local business, some heading out to other ships of the expedition fleet. Five of these could be seen from the observation deck, sleek monsters at high anchor several kilometres away. They were virtual silhouettes, but the distant sun caught them obliquely, and gave them hard, golden outlines along their ribbed upper hulls.
Below lay the world they orbited. Sixty-Three Nineteen. They were above its nightside, but there was a smoky grey crescent of radiance where the terminator crept forward. In the dark mass, Keeler could make out the faint light-glow of cities speckling the sleeping surface.
Impressive though the view was, she knew shots would be a waste of time. Between the glass, the distance and the odd light sources, resolution would be poor.
She found a seat away from the others, and began to review the picts she’d already taken, calling them up on the picter’s viewscreen.
‘May I see?’ asked a voice.
She looked up and had to peer in the deck’s gloom to identify the speaker. It was Sindermann, the Primary Iterator.
‘Of course,’ she said, rising to her feet and holding the picter so he could see the images as she thumbed them up one by one. He craned his head forward, curious.
‘You have a wonderful eye, Mistress Keeler. Oh, that one is particularly fine! The crew working so hard. I find it striking because it is so natural, candid, I suppose. So very much of our pictorial record is arch and formally posed.’
‘I like to get people when they’re not aware of me.’
‘This one is simply magnificent. You’ve captured Garviel perfectly there.’
‘You know him personally, sir?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘You called him by his forename, not by any honorific or rank.’
Sindermann smiled at her. ‘I think Captain Loken might be considered a friend of mine. I’d like to think so, anyway. You never can tell with an Astartes. They form relationships with mortals in a curious way, but we spend time together and discuss certain matters.’
‘You’re his mentor?’
‘His tutor. There is a great difference. I know things he does not, so I am able to expand his knowledge, but I do not presume to have influence over him. Oh, Mistress Keeler! This one is superb! The best, I should say.’
‘I thought so. I was very pleased with it.’
‘All of them together like that, and Garviel kneeling so humbly, and the way you’ve framed them against the company standard.’
‘That was just happenstance,’ Keeler said. ‘They chose what they were standing beside.’
Sindermann placed his hand gently upon hers. He seemed genuinely grateful for the chance to review her work. ‘That pict alone will become famous, I have no doubt. It will be reproduced in history texts for as long as the Imperium endures.’
‘It’s just a pict,’ she chided.
‘It is a witness. It is a perfect example of what the remembrancers can do. I have been reviewing some of the material produced by the remembrancers thus far, the material that’s been added to the expedition’s collective archive. Some of it is… patchy, shall I say? Ideal ammunition for those who claim the remembrancer project is a waste of time, funds and ship space, but some is outstanding, and I would class your work amongst that.’
‘You’re very kind.’
‘I am honest, mistress. And I believe that if mankind does not properly document and witness his achievements, then only half of this undertaking has been made. Speaking of honest, come with me.’
He led her back to the main group by the window. Another figure had joined them on the observation deck, and stood talking to Van Krasten. It was the equerry, Maloghurst, and he turned as they approached.
‘Kyril, do you want to tell them?’
‘You engineered it, equerry. The pleasure’s yours.’
Maloghurst nodded. ‘After some negotiation with the expedition seniors, it has been agreed that the six of you can follow the strike force to the surface and observe the venture. You will travel down with one of the ancillary support vessels.’
The remembrancers chorused their delight.
‘There’s been a lot of debate about allowing remembrance
rs to become embedded in the layers of military activity,’ Sindermann said, ‘particularly concerning the issue of civilian welfare in a warzone. There is also, if I may be quite frank, some concern about what you will see. The Astartes in war is a shocking, savage sight. Many believe that such images are not for public distribution, as they might paint a negative picture of the crusade.’
‘We both believe otherwise,’ Maloghurst said. ‘The truth can’t be wrong, even if it is ugly or shocking. We need to be clear about what we are doing, and how we are doing it, and allow persons such as yourselves to respond to it. That is the honesty on which a mature culture must be based. We also need to celebrate, and how can you celebrate the courage of the Astartes if you don’t see it? I believe in the strength of positive propaganda, thanks, in no small part, to Mistress Keeler here and her documenting of my own plight. There is a rallying power in images and reports of both Imperial victory and Imperial suffering. It communicates a common cause to bind and uplift our society.’
‘It helps,’ Sindermann put in, ‘that this is a low-key action. An unusual use of the Astartes in a policing role. It should be over in a day or so, with little collateral risk. However, I wish to emphasise that this is still dangerous. You will observe instruction at all times, and never stray from your protection detail. I am to accompany you – this was one of the stipulations made by the Warmaster. Listen to me and do as I say at all times.’
So we’re still to be vetted and controlled, Keeler thought. Shown only what they choose to show us. Never mind, this is still a great opportunity. One that I can’t believe Mersadie has missed.
‘Look!’ cried Borodin Flora.
They all turned.
The stormbirds were launching. Like giant steel darts they shot from the deck mouth, the sunlight catching their armoured flanks. Majestically, they turned in the darkness as they fell away, burners lighting up like blue coals as they dropped in formation towards the planet.
BRACING HIMSELF AGAINST the low, overhead handrails, Loken moved down the spinal aisle of the lead stormbird. Luna Wolves, impassive behind their visors, their weapons locked and stowed, sat in the rear-facing cage-seats either side of him. The bird rocked and shuddered as it cut its steep path through the upper atmosphere.
He reached the cockpit section and wrenched open the hatch to enter. Two flight officers sat back to back, facing wall panel consoles, and beyond them two pilot servitors lay, hardwired into forward-facing helm positions in the cone. The cockpit was dark, apart from the coloured glow of the instrumentation and the sheen of light coming in through the forward slit-ports.
‘Captain?’ one of the flight officers said, turning and looking up.
‘What’s the problem with the vox?’ Loken asked. ‘I’ve had several reports of comm faults from the men. Ghosting and chatter.’
‘We’re getting that too, sir,’ the officer said, his hands playing over his controls, ‘and I’m hearing similar reports from the other birds. We think it’s atmospherics.’
‘Disruption?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve checked with the flagship, and they haven’t picked up on it. It’s probably an acoustic echo from the surface.’
‘It seems to be getting worse,’ Loken said. He adjusted his helm and tried his link again. The static hiss was still there, but now it had shapes in it, like muffled words.
‘Is that language?’ he asked.
The officer shook his head. ‘Can’t tell, sir. It’s just reading as general interference. Perhaps we’re bouncing up broadcasts from one of the southern cities. Or maybe even army traffic.’
‘We need clean vox,’ Loken said. ‘Do something.’
The officer shrugged and adjusted several dials. ‘I can try purging the signal. I can wash it through the signal buffers. Maybe that will tidy up the channels.’
In Loken’s ears, there was a sudden, seething rush of static, and then things became quieter suddenly.
‘Better,’ he said. Then he paused. Now the hiss was gone, he could hear the voice. It was tiny, distant, impossibly quiet, but it was speaking proper words.
‘…only name you’ll hear…’
‘What is that?’ Loken asked. He strained to hear. The voice was so very far away, like a rustle of silk.
The flight officer craned his neck, listening to his own headphones. He made minute adjustments to his dials.
‘I might be able to…’ he began. A touch of his hand had suddenly cleaned the signal to audibility.
‘What in the name of Terra is that?’ he asked.
Loken listened. The voice, like a gust of dry, desert wind, said, ‘Samus. That’s the only name you’ll hear. Samus. It means the end and the death. Samus. I am Samus. Samus is all around you. Samus is the man beside you. Samus will gnaw upon your bones. Look out! Samus is here.’
The voice faded. The channel went dead and quiet, except for the occasional echo pop.
The flight officer took off his headset and looked at Loken. His face was wide-eyed and fearful. Loken recoiled slightly. He wasn’t made to deal with fear. The concept disgusted him.
‘I d-don’t know what that was,’ the flight officer said.
‘I do,’ said Loken. ‘Our enemy is trying to scare us.’
EIGHT
One-way war
Sindermann in grass and sand
Jubal
FOLLOWING THE ‘EMPEROR’S’ death and the fall of their ancient, centralised government, the insurgents had fled into the mountain massifs of the southern hemisphere, and occupied a fastness in a range of peaks, called the Whisperheads in the local language. The air was thin, for the altitude was very great. Dawn was coming up, and the mountains loomed as stern, misty steeples of pale green ice that reflected sun glare.
The stormbirds dropped from the edge of space, out of the sky’s dark blue mantle, trailing golden fire from their ablative surfaces. In the frugal habitations and villages in the foothills, the townsfolk, born into a culture of myth and superstition, saw the fiery marks in the dawn sky as an omen. Many fell to wailing and lamenting, or hurried to their village fanes.
The religious faith of Sixty-Three Nineteen, strong in the capital and the major cities, was distilled here into a more potent brew. These were impoverished backwaters, where the anachronistic beliefs of the society were heightened by a subsistence lifestyle and poor education. The Imperial army had already straggled to contain this primitive zealotry during its occupation. As the streaks of fire crossed the sky, they found themselves hard-pressed to control the mounting agitation in the villages.
The stormbirds set down, engines screaming, on a plateau of dry, white lava-rock five thousand metres below the caps of the highest peaks where the rebel fastness lay. They whirled up clouds of pumice grit from their jets as they crunched in.
The sky was white, and the peaks were white against them, and white cloud softened the air. A series of precipitous rifts and ice canyons dropped away behind the plateau, wreathed in smoke-cloud, and the lower peaks gleamed in the rising light.
Tenth Company clattered out into the sparse, chilly air, weapons ready. They came to martial order, and disembarked as smoothly as Loken could have wished.
But the vox was still disturbed. Every few minutes, ‘Samus’ chattered again, like a sigh upon the mountain wind.
Loken called the senior squad leaders to him as soon as he had landed: Vipus of Locasta, Jubal of Hellebore, Rassek of the Terminator squad, Talonus of Pithraes, Kairus of Walkyre, and eight more.
All grouped around, showing deference to Xavyer Jubal.
Loken, who had always read men well as a commander, needed none of his honed leadership skills to realise that Jubal wasn’t wearing Vipus’s elevation well. As the others of the Mournival had advised him, Loken had followed his gut and appointed Nero Vipus his proxy-commander, to serve when matters of state drew Loken apart from Tenth. Vipus was popular, but Jubal, as sergeant of the first squad, felt slighted. There was no rule that stated the sergeant of a company
’s first squad automatically followed in seniority. The sequencing was simply a numerical distinction, but there was a given order to things, and Jubal felt aggrieved. He had told Loken so, several times.
Loken remembered Little Horus’s words. ‘If you trust Vipus, make it Vipus. Never compromise. Jubal’s a big boy. He’ll get over it.’
‘Let’s do this, and quickly,’ Loken told his officers. ‘The Terminators have the lead here. Rassek?’
‘My squad is ready to serve, captain,’ Rassek replied curtly. Like all the men in his specialist squad, Sergeant Rassek wore the titanic armour of a Terminator, a variant only lately introduced into the arsenal of the Astartes. By dint of their primacy, and the fact that their primarch was Warmaster, the Luna Wolves had been amongst the first Legion to benefit from the issue of Terminator plate. Some entire Legions still lacked it. The armour was designed for heavy assault. Thickly plated and consequently exaggerated in its dimensions, a Terminator suit turned an Astartes warrior into a slow, cumbersome, but entirely unstoppable humanoid tank. An Astartes clad in Terminator plate gave up all his speed, dexterity, agility and range of movement. What he got in return was the ability to shrug off almost any ballistic attack.
Rassek towered over them in his armour, dwarfing them as a primarch dwarfs Astartes, or an Astartes dwarfs mortal men. Massive weapons systems were built into his shoulders, arms and gauntlets.
‘Lead off to the bridges and clear the way,’ Loken said. He paused. Now was a moment for gentle diplomacy. ‘Jubal, I want Hellebore to follow the Terminators in as the weight of the first strike.’
Jubal nodded, evidently pleased. The scowl of displeasure he had been wearing for weeks now lifted for a moment. All the officers were bare-headed for this briefing, despite the fact that the air was unbreathably thin by human standards. Their enhanced pulmonary systems didn’t even labour. Loken saw Nero Vipus smile, and knew he understood the significance of this instruction. Loken was offering Jubal some measure of glory, to reassure him he was not forgotten.
‘Let’s go to it!’ Loken cried. ‘Lupercal!’
‘Lupercal!’ the officers answered. They clamped their helms into place.
