by William King
“You heard me.”
“Are you saying the two of them are in league?”
“I am suggesting it is possible. A gallant, naive young Space Wolf, fearing a threat to a young woman whose life he has already saved once, acts to save her from potential harm. It has a certain tragic romantic ring to it.”
“It seems very unlikely.”
“Ragnar, when you have been on Terra as long as I have, you will learn when it comes to Navigators’ plots nothing is too far-fetched to escape consideration. If Skorpeus wants Cezare dead, and there is a slight chance that you would do it, why would he not take the opportunity? He has nothing to lose, and everything to gain.”
Ragnar could see a certain logic to this. The question was did he really believe Ragnar was stupid enough to fall for it? He supposed that was also possible. “It seems to me that you are suggesting the Navigators think too highly of their own intelligence and too little of ours.”
“We are barbarians to them, Ragnar. Useful barbarians, but barbarians nonetheless. But do not underestimate them. The Navigators are, for the most part, as clever as they think they are. They would not survive otherwise. They are born and trained to conspiracy as we are born and trained to war.”
“That’s an interesting thought,” Ragnar could see that it was true too. Wild dangerous worlds like Fenris bred hardy warriors. Rich ancient ones would shape something else. A new idea lodged itself in his mind. It occurred to him that if the Navigators saw only what they expected to see when they looked at him, they were likely to continue to underestimate him. Very few foes were ever likely to do so on the field of battle but this was another arena entirely, and he needed to seize any advantage he could.
“You are looking duplicitous, old son.”
“Am I so transparent?”
“Only to a brother Wolf.”
“I was thinking that it would be well for them to continue looking at me and seeing a barbarian.”
“Indeed. And there is another thing you should never forget.”
“What is that?”
“You are a barbarian.”
“As are you.”
“I make no claims to be otherwise,” Ragnar doubted this, but was not about to say so.
“We come from the same place, Ragnar. We passed the same tests. We serve the same Chapter. I have not lost sight of that.”
He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. Perhaps he had been on Terra too long and it had seeped into his veins. It seemed unlikely to Ragnar but you could never tell. For all his cleverness and confidence, Torin did not seem entirely at ease in either of his two worlds.
“You really think Gabriella and Skorpeus might be in league?” he asked.
Torin’s smile flashed again, as if someone had hit a switch, but there was a hard malicious edge to it.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps he wants to get rid of a rival.”
Ragnar met his gaze and felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to rise again. “Kill her?”
“Kill her.”
“Then why go out of his way to recruit her?”
“Schemes within schemes, Ragnar. Perhaps he really does want to convince her to try and kill Cezare. Perhaps he wants to get her guard down. If one thing does not work, perhaps another one will. Also, the Navigators believe in keeping their friends close at hand and their enemies closer still.”
“A few minutes ago you were saying that she was in league with him. Now you are suggesting he might kill her.”
“One does not preclude either, Ragnar. Also, I did not say they were in league, I merely pointed out the possibility that they could be.”
“What do you suggest I do?”
“Is any of this really your business, brother?” His gaze was suddenly probing, and Ragnar sensed that all of Torin’s attention was focused on him. He could see what the older Wolf was getting at. His loyalties should be to his Chapter and to the Celestarch. He had no business letting them stray. He considered his feelings and thoughts carefully. He had saved Gabriella’s life, and he liked her. He was not about to stand by and let her be killed, if she was in any danger.
“I am making it my business,” he said eventually. Torin nodded as if he had expected nothing less.
“Well spoken,” he said. “But all you can do is keep your eyes and ears open. Don’t get too involved in any of this. Look at it like the Navigators do. Treat it as a game.”
Ragnar knew he was not capable of that. He was surprised that any Wolf could even suggest it. “It’s a game where the stakes are life and death.”
“Possibly,” said Torin, “but that’s the way it’s played here, and no one would have it any other way. And here’s one last piece of advice…”
“What’s that?”
“Remember that on Terra, you never have the whole picture.”
Ragnar was still thinking of a reply when the comm-net summoned them to the presence of Valkoth.
“We have another mission,” Valkoth said. His face was even more grim than usual, the lines on it even more pronounced.
“Pantheus talked?” Ragnar asked.
“They always talk eventually,” Valkoth said.
“What did he have to say?” Torin’s voice drawled almost like a Navigator’s.
“A lot of things. He says that money is being filtered from the Feraccis to the Brotherhood.”
“What?” asked Ragnar. “That makes no sense. The cult would have Cezare’s head on a spit if they could.”
“It does not make them any less useful to him, if they are killing his enemies,” said Torin. His words came out very quietly but they were perfectly audible. “What else did he say? Was there any proof?” Torin asked.
“Nothing the Celestarch could take to a Tribunal of the Houses. Cezare could simply say the man would say anything under torture and he would be right.”
Ragnar thought of the inquisitors he had known. “An inquisitor could find out the truth — one with psychic powers.”
“True, but the Houses would never let the Inquisition look at their business. There is no love lost between them and the Navigators. It would give the Inquisition too much leverage over them, and they still sniff the taint of heresy on the Navigators even after ten millennia,” There was something odd in Valkoth’s scent, Ragnar realised. It was as if the man was concealing something.
“You did not bring us here just because the fat man squawked about Cezare,” said Haegr. It was a surprisingly intelligent statement coming from him. Then he spoiled the effect by gnawing on a whole shank of beef. Seconds later he was crunching the bones with his fangs.
“You are correct,” said Valkoth. “I brought you here because the Celestarch has need of your services.”
“Good,” said Torin. “I could use a little excitement.”
“I thought you got that trimming your moustache,” said Haegr from around a mouthful of beef. “And admiring yourself in the mirror.”
“By Russ, a talking whale has snuck into your chamber while we were listening to you, Valkoth,” said Torin.
“A talking whale probably could creep in, given your level of alertness,” said Haegr. “I am surprised you can smell anything over the scent of your pomade.”
“Enough,” said Valkoth. His voice was soft but the command carried weight. Torin snapped shut his mouth almost involuntarily, and the retort on the tip of his tongue vanished forever. “There is work to be done.”
“What would you have us do?” Ragnar broke the sudden silence.
“Pantheus gave us the location of another nest of vipers,” said Valkoth. “You will go there and clean it out.”
“Where is it?” said Torin.
“The under city,” said Valkoth. “Deep down in the under city.”
The very tone of his voice made it sound ominous.
“You have scouted this out?” Torin asked. “It could be a trap.”
Valkoth’s lips twisted in what might have been a smile. “I am not a Blood Claw, Torin. Ou
r agents have already been through the area. The Brotherhood has been building up its forces there for weeks. We were going to have to do something about it eventually. They are too close now. They have a munitions dump and base camp right here beneath the navigators quarter.”
“I don’t like this. Things are moving too fast,” said Torin. “We are constantly reacting, not acting. It’s like we are following a path set out for us by someone else, and I think we can all guess who that someone else is. This is a huge distraction coming conveniently as the Houses jockey for the Navigator throne.”
Valkoth nodded almost imperceptibly. Ragnar could tell from his scent that he agreed with Torin but there was not much he could do. “Yes. But the threat is still there.”
“You two are being overcunning,” said Haegr. “It ill befits two true sons of Fenris. How can this be some huge plot? How could Cezare know that old Gorki was about to shuffle off to hell?”
Even Ragnar could answer that. “Perhaps he arranged that too.”
“There are many poisons that can simulate illness. If anyone can find a way of having them administered it is Cezare.”
“It’s a huge risk though, isn’t it?” said Ragnar.
“No one ever said Cezare lacked nerve,” said Torin.
“Whether you are right or wrong, Torin, you still have a mission to perform,” said Valkoth. “Let’s get to it.”
The corridor was dark and gloomy. The crumbling walls looked like they had been here since the first cities were built on the ancient soil of Terra. The air was filled with the scent of fungus, rot, polluted water and rust. Huge rats scurried away from them into the dark.
“I’ve been in more cheerful places,” said Ragnar. “This is a side of Terra the pilgrims never see.”
“I could have cheerfully lived out my life without seeing it myself,” said Torin fastidiously wiping a spot of muck from his shoulder-pad. He had been meticulously cleaning it ever since the water started to drip from the ceiling. Behind them a full company of House guards moved through the gloom. They were the best troops the House could muster. They would spearhead the attack. Valkoth remained above, guarding the Celestarch. Torin was their acting commander.
“This is not what I expected,” said Ragnar quietly as they moved along. The tainted water was ankle deep now. He wondered if anybody down here really drank it. Without the digestive system of a Space Marine they would most likely be poisoned or mutated within weeks. “This is more like a hive world. A run down hive world in a sector that has suffered a hundred-year industrial decline.”
Torin moved along, bolter held casually at the ready. He had taken the lead ever since they had been dropped off at the entrance shaft that led down into the depths of the Earth. “This is like no hive world you ever visited, Ragnar. There are hundreds of layers of buildings above us. Each of them represents a century of history or more. This part of Terra was built and overbuilt and then built on again. Parts of it were cannibalised to build the layers above, and what was left was slowly crushed down by the new stuff above. We’re walking through history. Some of these walls around us were built before the Emperor entered his golden throne. Much of these corridors were the same when Russ walked this earth, ten thousand years ago.”
“You sound like one of those guides who show pilgrims round old temples,” said Haegr, belching thunderously. “The ones who are always praising the wonders of Old Terra and trying to sell locks of the Emperor’s hair.”
“If they tried to sell you a sausage made from the flesh of Horus you would buy it,” said Torin. “Most likely eat it, too.”
“Hush,” said Haegr, raising his hand. At first Ragnar expected another joke, but the expression on Haegr’s face told him differently. He strained his ears to catch whatever it was the huge Marine was listening for.
Ragnar thought he heard something up ahead. Voices. They were nearing the inhabited area of this eerily empty zone. Good, he thought. He did not like the feeling of those tens of thousands of tons of plascrete pressing down above his head. They should do what they had been sent to do and get out. They were to cleanse this nest of cultists and seize their leaders for questioning if they could. Mostly they were to make an example of them, and make them think twice about striking at the Navigator Houses.
Ragnar questioned the wisdom of this course of action. These were men driven by relentless hate. Killing a few of them would only give them more reason to hate, and deepen their sense of grievance. Still, it was not his job to question the strategy of the Celestarch. It was his job to see that it was carried out.
Once again the numbers would be against them. The thought did not trouble Ragnar very much. Ten or a hundred to one, the odds did not matter. They would be much better armed and armoured and far faster and stronger than those they attacked. And they had the element of surprise. That was why they were sending in such a small force.
Torin signalled for the House troops to remain where they were. He gestured for the other Wolfblades to advance and scout out their goal.
Ragnar’s nostrils flared as he caught another scent. There were definitely people up ahead. His keen eyes picked out a disturbance in the surface of the water just ahead of Torin. His brother Wolfblade had already spotted it. He stepped over. There was something hidden just below the surface.
“Tripwire, Haegr,” he said. “Just in case you were too busy thinking about food to notice it.”
“Since even you could notice it, there is no reason why the ever-vigilant Haegr could not,” replied Haegr.
“No reason other than not having a brain to notice things with,” murmured Torin — so low that only the ears of a Wolf could have caught it. His caution had increased considerably now that they were near their objective.
Slowly but surely they by-passed and disarmed the tripwires. Other men would have failed to notice them in the dark, but Space Wolves were not like other men. Ahead of them more lights were visible. There was a smell of recycled methane, which was hardly surprising. An area like this could not be connected to the great electrical furnaces that fed power to the surface.
So much the better, Ragnar thought. Normal human sight would be far less efficient in the gloom than the ears and noses of the Marines. He felt a tension in his stomach as he prepared for combat. He knew that the folk they would soon encounter would be desperate, hard-bitten men. From what Valkoth had said, they had fled the surface of the world, and the ancient privileges of job and caste to come here. He knew too that they would be armed with the best weapons that could be stolen from the well-stocked armouries of Terra.
They emerged above a wide open space. Water dripped from the access tunnel in a slow turgid waterfall down into a polluted pool below.
Flickering gaslights lit the whole shady area. Ragnar took it all in with one long appalled glance. The ancient, crumbling caverns teemed with life. Here and there dozens of other tunnels entered the chamber. In their entrances were lean-tos made from salvaged steel and hardboard. A motley assortment of jerry built huts barnacled the walls and floor. Hundreds of armed men moved around. All of them wore cowled robes and the red and black armbands of the Brotherhood.
High atop a makeshift altar of welded pipes and plates of metal, a masked man bellowed a sermon of hatred to his avid listeners. He spoke of the evil mutants that lurked on the surface and sullied the sacred soil of Terra. He talked of the whore of commerce that was corrupting the values their ancestors had held dear. He talked of the evil that the Navigators concealed beneath the mask of loyalty and the robes of righteousness.
It was a fiery speech and passionate. Ragnar could see that it fanned the flames of hatred in the heart of every listener. The man was plainly telling his audience what they wanted to hear, he was playing on their fears and hatred and their resentment of the wealth and luxury enjoyed by the Navigators. It was easy to see that this was a spark that had found dry tinder. The men down here were exiles living the lives of rats in the walls of the world. They had nothing to lose. The
ir lives held little meaning even for themselves.
“Quite a little rat’s nest down here,” murmured Torin. “You’d think they were getting ready for a war.”
“Maybe they are,” said Ragnar. He’d seen enough rebellions and uprisings on other worlds to know that this was how they started. Heretics and fanatics had to have a hard core of warriors around which to build their insurgencies. They had to have weapons to provide to the dupes they conned into fighting with them, and to train the pitiful fools too. He had seen variants on the likes of this camp on a dozen worlds. It was a seed of disruption and heresy and it was his task to see that it never sprouted.
The little group down there might not look like much when you compared it to the massed forces that guarded this world, but there would be others like it. Even if there were not, such groups could so often be like the small pebbles that started avalanches. A world as densely populated as this one contained hordes of the poor, dispossessed and angry. Sometimes, it did not take much to turn that anger to rage, and then focus that rage on war. He had seen it happen many times before.
Even as the thought passed through his mind, the sheer audacity of the people below appalled him. This was Terra, the father world, the hub of the Imperium, the most sacred soil in the galaxy, and these men intended to profane it.
And why not? Most of them probably felt that they were doing nothing but cleansing the sacred soil of the unrighteous. He had heard that rhetoric countless times too. Without ever having heard his particular words, he could probably reconstruct the speech of the fanatical preacher down there. The alarming thing was that they were so close to the things he himself had been taught. It was one of the weaknesses of Imperial dogma, he thought, that the same words that could strengthen a community could also be used to undermine it. The robe of religion could conceal the form of the fanatic revolutionary just as easily as that of the loyal and devout citizen.
Now was not the time for philosophy. It was the time for action. He looked at Haegr and Torin. He knew they were thinking the same thing. It was time to summon the rest of the troops.
