Saturnine

by Dan Abnett

  ‘Oh,’ said Arkhan Land.

  * * *

  ‘This one?’ asked Amon Tauromachian. Keeler nodded. Amon signailed to the sub-warden at the end of the block to open the cell door.

  ‘We have to start somewhere,’ said Keeler. ‘I propose to work in simple alphabetical order.’

  ‘This one is a murderer,’ said the Custodian. ‘Multiple homicides. Other, unsavoury crimes.’

  ‘Everyone in this place is profoundly guilty of something, Cuslodian,’ she said. ‘I am obliged to work with what I have.’

  The cell door began to grind open. The sound of sobbing echoed down the Blackstone’s cold, damp gallery from another cell.

  Keeler stepped into the opened cell. Amon hesitated, then followed her, bowing slightly to swing under the frame.

  ‘Edic Aarac?’ she said. ‘My name is Euphrati Keeler. I’ve come to interview you.’

  * * *

  Bulk landers and troop ships were lined up across the wide, wind-blown space of the Field of Winged Victory, north of the Palatine. Their loading ramps were open, hatches ratcheted wide like hungry beaks. Thousands of troops and support personnel were lining up to board, huddled in greatcoats, lugging weapons and kit-packs, chitching deployment notices.

  Cadwalder dismounted his jetbike, and pressed through the throng, his optics whirring as they hunted to make a facial recognition match, trough he was looking for features he knew well enough. The faces all around him were pinched with cold, squinting into the gale that was sweeping the field, a gale generated by the aegis weather systems,

  Cadwalder had always felt the Field of Winged Victory to be a significant place. From this massive parade ground, in the very shadow of the Palace, great musters and departures had been made, warriors assembling to set off into history, or to make it. The Great Crusade has begun here, so very long ago.

  It was a glorious place to return to, too. The field beneath the Pharos Tower had seen great heroes come home from victory, seen the mass parades that had honoured them, seen the shining laurels and citations bestowed on them.

  No one had returned to the field for a hundred days. With a sick heart, Cadwalder knew that none of the faces around him were destined to return here, ever.

  Cadwalder had carried the private burden of that knowledge with him since the meeting in the drum tower five days before. He’d set it out of his thoughts, to contain it. He’d only known because he’d been present, by chance. He had been trusted.

  But seeing the men and women marshalling for departure, he felt the weight of it return. He keenly understood his lord primarch’s secret grief. To spare just one…

  He spotted his quarry, on the ramp of a Stormbird painted in Excertus drab. He wasn’t too late. He had been concerned he might miss the departure of the first flights.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, approaching. Waiting troopers parted to let him through.

  Lord General Saul Niborran turned from the officers he had been chatting to. He wore a long storm coat and the cap of his old regiment.

  ‘My worthy Lord Cadwalder?’ he asked, frowning. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘General, I…’ Cadwalder hesitated. Now the moment was on him, he wasn’t sure what to say. Since Dorn had given him his instructions, he’d been concerned with the simple act of getting to the field in time. He didn’t know how to begin.

  ‘My lord general,’ said Cadwalder. ‘I must inform you there has been a small mistake…’

  * * *

  Hari Harr’s warrant got him a seat on one of the transports assembled at Aurum Gard. He’d been told the overland route would be gruelling. The convoy would have to go out of its way to avoid the battle zones in Anterior, and once it entered Magnifican via the Ballad Gate, there would be no guarantee of safety.

  The transport was a battered old Brontosan-pattern, the bulk cargo version of the Dracosan. There were eighteen in the convoy, showing signs of rust and age, the emblem of the Solar Auxilia flaking on their side-plates. A line of Aurox units formed the munition train, and six Garnodon tanks waited, engines coughing, to act as armour support.

  The air stank of exhaust fumes. The transports had been fitted with twin decks of cramped seating areas to maximise personnel conveyance. Men were loading on, jostling, laughing, shoving: Solar Auxilia, mainline Excertus squads, militia, service staff. It was rowdy, almost convivial. Troopers were passing flasks around, telling jokes, boasting of martial feats they were yet to accomplish. Hari perched on a bench seat at the back of the lower deck, squeezed against the hull. He wrote down a few observations on his slate. The mood. The camaraderie. The ebullience. Small details, like a man sewing his cap badge back on, another showing picts of his wife and children, explaining how safe they were in the Palatine shelters; the way they all, as a practised habit, stuffed their kitbags under the crude and uncomfortable bench seats, and then cradled their weapons in their arms like infants; the words of a song someone started to sing; the manner in which a pack of Solar Auxilia veterans ousted militia men, and claimed a block of benches for themselves; the smell of sweat, and of clothes that had been only superficially washed.

  A man sat down beside him, taking up too much space.

  ‘Piers’ he announced, offering a dirty hand. ‘You’re not a soldier, boy.’

  ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘What you doing here, then?’ the man asked. He was in his late fifties, over weight and solid, an Imperialis Auxilia trooper with a hugely bushy horseshoe moustache. Hari didn’t recognise the insignia on the man’s patched red greatcoat. He was clutching a bearskin shako, and had an antique plas-caliver that he rested upright between his splayed thighs. The hefty weapon was made bulkier still by the fat grenade launcher unit damped on as an under-barrel mount.

  ‘I’ve been sent to make reports,’ said Hari.

  ‘Reports?’ the man replied, brow crinkling in suspicion. ‘What, like conduct reports?’

  ‘No, uhm, for posterity,’ said Hari.

  ‘Oh,’ the man said, frowning, thinking about it. ‘Like a… what’sname… remembrancer.’

  ‘Very much like that,’ Hari agreed.

  ‘You’re young,’ said the man. His tone had altered. It had become slightly more avuncular. ‘You know what you’re getting into, don’t you, boy?’

  ‘The main warzone. I understand that.’

  ‘You’ve seen war, have you?’

  ‘Not up close.’

  ‘It’s not nice, boy.’

  ‘You’ve served have you? Seen action?’

  ‘Served? Oh yes! Olly Piers, corporal, Hundred and Fifth Tercio Upland Grenadiers. I’ve served me share. Dawn Gate. Helios retreat. Pons Magna, that were a one. Then Marmax, ‘course. That’s where I lost the leg.’

  Hari looked down at the man’s heavy and all too real legs.

  ‘Your leg?’

  The man guffawed. His breath was sour, almost as unpleasant as the onion-sweat reek of his armpits. ‘Oh, ball-bags, boy! Oh my life! If you want to see a war, and record stuff for posterity, there’s things you should know, like, for one, soldiers lie. All the time. Everything’s bravado. Lies and jokes. Jests and boasts. It’s all bluff, boy, to keep the spirits lifted. Reckon as I’ll die with a lie on me lips. Reckon you could take every man-jack in this fine and luxurious carrier, and not find a strand of truth in the lot of us.’

  ‘Duly noted,’ said Hari.

  ‘Aha ha ha!’ the man burst out. ‘Unless I’m lying.’

  ‘I have noted that too,’ said Hari.

  Hatches clanged shut. The men aboard cheered as one, uttering war-whoops and praise to the Emperor. The troops packed into the upper deck space stamped their feet, making the thin metal sub-floor shake and flex over Hari’s head. Now its engines were running, the entire carrier vibrated.

  ‘We’re off, boy!’ Piers yelled. He joined in with a rowdy song that was being sung by most of the personnel on board. By the time the lumbering carrier had cleared
the cavernous transport bunkers under Aurum Gard, and passed through the fortress’ chain of gates, he was asleep, his head dropped on Hari’s shoulder.

  The carrier trundled on its way. The vibration and the rumble of the engines didn’t ease. Re-circ systems were evidently broken, and the air quickly became close and foul. Excertus adjutants moved down the aisles between the tightly packed men, swaying for balance against the vehicle’s motion, hooking open the covers of the gun loops in the hull to improve ventilation. Despite the weight of the slumbering Piers pressing him against the hull, Hari found that, if he craned his head, he could peer out of the nearest slot, and glimpse fragments of the city rolling by: the redoubts and guntowers of Aurum, like tombs in the rain; the grey streets of Anterior, buildings empty or armoured, or both; the passing shadows of bridges and skyways; the deep nocturnal chasm of Nilgiri Himal Way, where it rose through a canyon of towers and manufactories like a river through a gorge. Hari could smell rain and tar, fyceline and exhaust. Every now and then, to the north, he saw sheet flashes in the sky, like summer lightning, though he knew that they weren’t. Twice in the first hour, the convoy halted, for no apparent reason, and they waited, engines idling, hearing men shout and argue outside.

  Piers slept through it all, compressing Hari into an involuntary body pillow. Hari had one arm free. Tentatively, without waking the corporal, he took out his slate and started to read back through old note files.

  Three hours into the journey, Hari found a file he had not put on the slate himself.

  * * *

  ‘I don’t understand, lord,’ said Niborran.

  ‘An error,’ said Cadwalder. ‘In assignment. My lord the Praetorian expresses his apologies.’

  Niborran smiled. They had boarded the Stormbird while it was being loaded, and sat alone in the seats at the back of the cabin. The brown leather upholstery of the flight seats was worn and cracked. The ‘bird was as old as Cadwalder.

  ‘With respect, the error’s yours, I think,’ the general said. He had an easy, fluid manner to him that Cadwalder had always liked. ‘I was dismissed, lord Huscarl. Removed from my post by the Great Khan himself.’

  ‘As I understand it,’ said Cadwalder, ‘that was a heated incident. You are a senior officer militant, with great tactical insight, and a valued member of the bastion’s command cadre.’

  ‘Well, that’s kind of you, lord,’ said Niborran, ‘but I won’t be going back.’

  ‘The dismissal was a lapse, general,’ said Cadwalder. The Praetorian has instructed me to tell you that he’d like you to return to your position. He thinks highly of you.’

  ‘You can tell him I’m grateful, Cadwalder, and flattered. But I have my posting.’

  ‘A clerical error-‘

  Niborran raised his hand, and smiled again. ‘I was done, Cadwalder. Honestly. Sixty years of service, the last dozen without a weapon in my hand. The Grand Borealis is a gruelling tour, I don’t need to tell you that. It burns the best of us out, and I was burned out. Harder than any front-line post. The Great Khan was right. I don’t want any special treatment. I put my name back in the system. Brohn did too. We requested line posts. I think it’s time I remembered I was a soldier.’

  ‘No one’s forgotten that, general.’

  ‘I think I have,’ said Niborran. ‘My deployment was selected by the War Courts. They’ve given me zone command. I’m delighted by that and I won’t back out of it. It’s where I want to be. At the front again fighting the fight, not orchestrating it. I want a last taste of active service, Lord Cladwalder. I’ve got nothing useful left to give to the cadre’.

  ‘Well, then, I will organise an assignment to the Anterior Wall, or to Marmax-‘

  Niborran stared at him. The general was frowning.

  ‘My lord… there’s something you’re not saying, isn’t there?’ he observed gently.

  ‘I can’t explain, general. I’m sorry. You will come with me now, and we’ll cover the necessary reassignments.’

  ‘Cadwalder, the port needs to be defended,’ said Niborran. ‘It’s a priority.’

  ‘It is, yes.’

  ‘And when I was selected for zone command there, I was overjoyed. There, of all places, command of what’s likely to be the most crucial fight of the next ten days. Maybe this whole show.’

  ‘Understood, general, but-‘

  Niborran sat back. His smile had faded. He took off his cap and his leather gloves.

  ‘I think I see what this is,’ he said sadly. ‘The Great Khan saw my shortcomings at the Grand Borealis. He could see I was done there. I accepted that. I did. But the Praetorian doesn’t think I’m fit for this either does he? He thinks I’m burned out full stop. That’s the clerical error you’re talking about.’

  ‘It’s not-‘

  ‘Don’t dance around, Cadwalder. Please,’ said Niborran. ‘It’s not dignified for you, and it shows me no respect. Just say it. Dorn thinks I’m old and washed out, and not fit to command a zone as vital as the port. Just out with it. I’m a grown-up.’

  Cadwalder hesitated. Then, in a low voice that only Niborran could hear, he exsplained. The port would and could not be held. It was going to sacrificed if necessary. The defence operation was for show only, necessary cover and distraction for another operation that Cadwalder wouldn’t name.

  Niborran listened impassively. The silver irises of his augmetic eyes dilated slightly.

  ‘A show?’ he whispered. Cadwalder nodded.

  ‘I’ve come here as a personal favour to my Lord Dorn,’ said the Huscarl. ‘He is stricken with… with regret over this matter, as it is. There is no choice, but he is bitter that he has been forced into such a deplorable tactical calculus. Then he learned of your posting. He doesn’t want to lose you.’

  Niborran sat quietly. He gazed down the cabin, watching the junior officers as they began to board.

  ‘Well,’ he said softly. ‘Not what I was imagining at all. I am flattered, truly, that he thinks so highly of me. That he’d jeopardise the confidence of what must be a critical operation to pull me out. Tell him I’m honoured and immensely grateful.’

  ‘You can tell him yourself when-‘

  Niborran reached out and clasped Cadwalder’s armoured hand.

  ‘I have to go now, Cadwalder,’ he said. ‘Do you think I can just disembark and watch these good men go on without me, now I know what I know? Could you do that?’

  ‘General, I-‘

  ‘I won’t be spared by sentiment. War doesn’t work that way. I have to go. The port needs the best defence, no matter what its strategic fate.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have told you,’ said Cadwalder.

  ‘Maybe not, but I’m strangely glad you did. I know my worth now and I know the odds. Few commanders ever get that luxury. Thank you, Lord Cadwalder. Now, you get off before the ramp shuts. And tell Lord Dorn I am thankful for his faith and his consideration. Maybe…’ Niborran chuckled slightly. ‘Maybe, if I’m as valuable as he thinks I am, I can win the unwinnable anyway.’

  Cadwalder breathed heavily. He wanted to argue. He considered picking Niborran up and physically removing him from the craft. He didn’t have to respect Niborran’s rank. Legion and Excertus were different branches, and Legion always took precedent. But his primarch had insisted, from day one, that loyalist victory had to be based on mutual regard and cooperation between command structures. It was an imperative. Niborran was about as senior as a human could be. No option seemed appropriate. Everything he might do seemed an unforgivable insult to Niborran’s uncomplicated heroism.

  Just... something about it, if it’s not too late. Safeguard him.

  The Praetorian’s instractions echoed in the Huscarl’s mind.

  ‘I know that look, Cadwalder,’ said Niborran. ‘Don’t keep trying, my lord. You’ve had your answer.’

  Cadwalder nodded. He got up.

  ‘Have a good war, lord Huscarl,’ said Niborran. ‘To your glory, and to the glo
ry of Him on Terra.’

  ‘And to yours, general,’ Cadwalder replied. He turned to the acceleration seats, built into the rear bulkhead of the cabin to accommodate Space Marines, and began to strap himself in.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Niborran.

  Do something about it. Safeguard him.

  ‘Coming with you,’ said Cadwalder.

  * * *

  The guns had begun to speak. All along the lines at Gorgon Bar, guntowers and watch bastions started to unleash into the towering, murky dust banks beyond the distant outworks. Wash-smoke pooled back from redoubts, and wreathed from casemate turrets. The noise and concussion was physically painful.

  Ceris Gonn had made her way up to the parapet line of the Bar’s central fortification. From the fighting step, she could see across kilometres of tiered defences: three further walls and the hazard-line of the outworks beyond, vanishing into the haze. The wall lines below her were packed with troops. She could make out the glint of red and yellow plate, a huge number of Legiones Astartes, along with the grey, drab and beige units of the Imperial Army. She wasn’t sure how anything could ever get through a defended fortification this massive.

  She was also disappointed. She’d wanted to get to the front, to see the front, but the true edge of Gorgon was kilometres away at the fighting line of the outworks and first wall. Her requests to move down from the principal fortress had been denied, despite her warrant.

  Then again, the scale of it numbed her: to stand at the lip of the bastion, to see the millions below her, to feel the deluge of the guns. She pulled up the hood of her quilted jacket. The noise and blast shock was unremitting. It hurt her teeth and her diaphragm. The air stank of something that smelled like burned plastic, a dry chemical odour that caught in her throat, and made her eyes run.

  Someone spoke to her. She turned. A subaltern of the Imperial Militia was staring at her, annoyed. She frowned, a hand to her ear. She couldn’t hear him over the constant, air-splitting thunder of the guns.

  ‘I said you can’t be up here!’ the man yelled.