Saturnine

by Dan Abnett

  This again. She showed him her papers.

  ‘I don’t care,’ he replied, shoving the warrant back into her hands. ‘The Bar’s no place for civilians or observers.’

  ‘I am very far away from anything,’ she shouted back. ‘I can’t see a thing. What are they even firing at?’

  He frowned at her. ‘The attack,’ he yelled. ‘Are you an idiot? The attack.’

  She couldn’t see any attack. She could see smoke, banks of it, streaming off the outworks, huge clouds of roiling black. A few sparks, little dots of light.

  Wait-

  She pulled out the scope Mandeep had lent her, and zoomed it into the distant line. The view was only slightly better. It was too fuzzy and she couldn’t stop her hands from jumping at every salvo. But in the confusion of the smoke, she could see the little sparks more clearly. She realised what she was looking at. Blizzards of las-fire, swarming around the outworks and the first wall, thousands of shots flickering out, and being returned.

  Ceris laughed. She’d been on the wall for fifteen minutes and hadn’t realised she was looking directly at a massive engagement. A battle, right there. Not a skirmish, a full-scale war front.

  ‘How do I get closer?’ she yelled at the man.

  He yelled back.

  ‘What?’ she shouted.

  ‘You don’t!’ he barked. ‘Throne’s sake, what are you? A fool? You’re not even safe here! You’re not supposed to be-‘

  ‘I’m allowed,’ she shouted back. ‘Approved! And I need to get closer!’

  Maybe the third wail, she thought. At least the third wall. Still a long way from the leading edge, but good enough. Get in among the troops, to watch them operate. See some Space Marines closer up. Witness something worthwhile she could document. Maybe even speak to them when the action lulled. Hear their experiences first hand. Perhaps… perhaps even glimpse the Great Angel. She’d heard he was here, commanding the repulse in person. Just to see him even from a distance.

  But not this distance. She couldn’t see much of anything from this distance. She might as well have stayed in the Sanctum and used her imagination.

  ‘I need to get down to the third wall,’ she shouted at the subaltern. ‘Please show me the way.’

  He look her by the arm.

  ‘Hey! You need to leave!’ the subaltern yelled. ‘This is not a safe.’

  ‘Get off!’ she snapped.

  He started to drag her along. ‘You can’t just stand there!’ he shouted. ‘Poking your head up for a look! The Bar’s rated mortalis from front to back! I’m having you escorted down to the back-bunkers.’

  She started to tell him what he could do with his back-bunkers. But something odd happened.

  The noise stopped. The crushing thunder surrounding them simply ceased. There was a perfect moment of quiet.

  Then she could hear ringing in her ears. Dull at first, then louder, like sounds from another room. Her face was wet.

  She was lying on her back.

  Sounds rushed back, muffled and soft. She sat up.

  Twenty metres away, an entire section of the wall was missing. It had simply vanished. All that remained was the rough, bitten edges of rockcrete, and the twisted ends of sheared rebar, still glowing. The wall top was shrouded in smoke. Everywhere there was grit, dust, lumps of rubble and shards of stone. As she sat up, pebbles and debris trickled off her jacket.

  She flinched, and cried out as another shell struck the wall, a hundred metres away. A vast cloud of flame, rising from a flash-burst into a slow toadstool. She felt the air bulge with pressure. More debris rained down. A guntower, six thousand tonnes of masonry, plate and cannon cradle, titled slowly, and then fill like an avalanche.

  Ceris got up. Her legs were rubbery. Her ears were so hurt, everything sounded like it was under water. She looked for the subaltern. He had been clutching her arm.

  Half of him was lying on the parapet to her left. Something, perhaps a sheet of fractured ceramite plate, thrown out by the impact at the speed of a bullet, had cut him in two. His head and most of one arm lay to her right. There was blood everywhere, the settling dust sticking to it like a film. It was all over her, the whole front of her, from head to toe, painted in it.

  Troops and medicae were rushing onto the wall top, yelling unintelligible muffled sounds, running to the fallen. They were all around. Men and women crumpled in the dust, blood pooling from crush and debris wounds. There had been three or four dozen people on the wall top when the shell hit. She was the only one who had got back on her feet.

  ‘Move,’ a voice said.

  She turned, swaying. The Blood Angel towered over her. He placed a huge, gauntleted hand around her shoulder to steer her away.

  ‘What?’ she said. Her own voice sounded dull and muted.

  ‘They have ranged the main line. You cannot stay here.’

  She nodded. She looked back at the subaltern.

  ‘He-‘

  ‘Move.’

  He led her off the wall top towards the rear defiles and blast-boxes. The injured were being brought in. Some were being carried. Some were walking unaided, but as though in trances. Some wept. Several were screaming. She saw facial wounds, burn injuries, medicae teams fighting to cinch off mangled limbs that were hissing arterial blood. Everyone was coated in dust, rescued and rescuers alike.

  ‘They have ranged the main line,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ asked the Blood Angel.

  ‘You said-‘

  ‘The foe is close to the outwork line,’ he said, his voice an expressionless crackle from his visor. ‘Artillery.’

  ‘But it’s so far away,’ she said.

  ‘If our wall-guns are firing, so are theirs. We both possess weapons of great range. Why are you here? You are not militia.’

  ‘I have no idea any more,’ Ceris replied. She looked up at him. ‘What’s your name, please?’

  ‘Zephon,’ he replied. He cocked his head, hearing something that all of the humans around him, including her, could not. Instinctively, he took her in his arms, pulled her to his chest, and turned to put his back towards the wall.

  The next shell hit a second later, and fire took everything away.

  * * *

  I am leaving now. I haven’t asked permission. I am my own permission. His grace fills me, as it always has done, and I know where I must go. I tell almost no one. No one will miss me or wonder where I am. It is hard to miss those who are never noticed. No one will come to the sanctuary asking for Krole with their hands or their mouths.

  I tell Aphone. My hands tell her. In my stead, she will lead the Raptor Guard. If my duty is failing, or His grace does not sustain me, she will almost certainly be Vigil Commander after me. I think she is perplexed by my departure. I say, my hands say, it is the right thing. Not just to serve, but to serve where one is most needed.

  I do not tell her the rest. My fingers are too clumsy to express the idea. Satisfaction. A fulfilment. Something more complicated than cold duty. The hollowness in me has always yearned for that. It is not vainglory, nor is it weary eagerness to meet certain death. Nothing is certain. Can I even explain it to myself? Not easily. I can justify it. The infamous Lupercal will suspect a ruse if the port is not adequately defended, and my kind is part of that defence. There will be daemons there. I also think, some proud part of me thinks, that it is not decided, no matter what Rogal has declared. We have won greater victories against worst odds.

  I have won greater victories.

  It is not vainglory. I am certain of that. If I fall, no one will remember me to heap plaudits on my name. No myths will form. My name won’t vanish, for it has scarcely ever been.

  I watch Aphone’s hands. Should she pick a unit and come with me?

  My hands say no. We cannot spare any main force. Later, He will seed us here.

  A squad then?

  My thoughtmark is insistent. No. I must arm now.

  She helps me
secure my hair, and clothes me in my artificer armour, piece by piece, the old, slow ritual. She hangs the voidsheen cloak around my shoulders, and pins it. We choose my instruments: Veracity, of course she will be with me to the end; Mortale, the aeldari sabre, as a second blade at my back; No Man’s Hand, the long dagger, for my hip, my arheotech pistol, long-snouted and ornate, older than the Imperium, which has never had a name, for it speaks for itself.

  Aphone looks at me, and nods. I realise she is actually looking at me. Seeing me That is so rare. One null to another. I have not really noticed the shape of her face before. This seeing is distressing. I fear, in that moment, she sees me so well she can see the truth. The secret Rogal struggles to keep. The coming danger. The impossibility. My selfish urge to do something that no one else can.

  If she does, she does not speak of it. She shakes out the folds of my cloak, smooths the fit across the shoulder.

  Then she embraces me. I don’t know what to do. Neither of us are used to this. Contact with another. Connection. We are all so used to being utterly alone. I hold her. Our embrace is tight, like frightened children. It lasts, perhaps, ten seconds. It is the most intimate moment of life.

  She steps back.

  Her hands say, Come back.

  Mine reply, I will.

  I walk the dark halls. My feet make no sound. In the gloom, the ancient statues pay me as much heed as any living thing has ever done. The soaring ouslite walls, monolithic, seem so permanent. I reach out and touch one, cold stone, my hand flat. This place will not fall. My fingers make the vow.

  The landing docks are quiet. I have sent a transmission, in orskode, to order the servitors to prepare a Talion for me. The gunship waits on a platform, underlit in the darkness, its flanks slate grey, the leaves of its prow retracted to expose the iris valve entry. The servitors are detaching the feed cables, and locking the munition hoppers, sliding them back into the hull recesses. They do not notice me.

  Then I see Tsutomu. He is sitting at the edge of the platform.

  I walk up to him. Only when I am very close does he react, belatedly seeing the grease-shadow in the air that he has been watching for,

  Why are you here, prefect? my hands enquire.

  ‘I am compelled,’ he says. ‘Like you, I think. We are both party to the same sad secret.’ I find it amusing that, even though he is looking at me, he, even he, can barely keep me in focus.

  We were both present, my hands agree.

  Then, you understand,’ he says.

  You were just a sentinel at the door, I mark.

  ‘And you were just a veil, but we were both there anyway.’

  I do understand. The Legio Custodes, they are not manufactured blood-warriors like those of the fine Legiones Astartes. They are intricate and individual expressions of His will, they are extensions of His grace. That is why they so often operate alone, autonomously, going precisely where they are needed.

  Where He wills them to be.

  Just as my lamed hands are the instruments I use to speak, they are the digits He uses to communicate. Tsutomu was not the prefect at the door that day by random assignment. Fate placed him, so he could overhear, just as I overheard.

  ‘My mind has dwelt on the matter since then,’ he says. ‘A certainty has formed. A-‘

  Compulsion? my hands finish.

  ‘Yes.’

  He has, of course, been monitoring the dock stations. He has seen my orskode command. We will go together, it seems.

  I turn to board. He is not following. He has lost track of me. I look back, and snap my fingers loudly.

  Come on then, my hands say.

  He nods, picks up his helm and his castellan axe, and walks up the ramp behind me.

  * * *

  ‘Damn the bastard,’ said Gaines Burtok. ‘Screw Him, screw His eyes. His plan? His dream? A dream of shit.’

  He sat back.

  ‘You did ask,’ he said, with a sneer.

  The cell was damp. The oppressive black stone glistened with moisture. The reek of the rusted slop bucket in the corner was wrenching.

  ‘I don’t think this is the kind of sentiment you wish to record,’ said Amon quietly.

  Keeler shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Should history be selective? Shouldn’t it be written by everyone in order to be true? Not just the victors?’

  ‘Or the High Elite?’ put in Burtok. He grinned. His teeth were tobacco brown.

  ‘Or them,’ Keeler nodded. She glanced at Amon. ‘I think the purpose is to record everything, without exercise of censor or mediation. As starting point, at least. Plus, this is the fifth interview, Custodian, and Mister Burtok is the first subject to provide us with anything like a vehement opinion on anything, even if it does make your hackles rise.’

  She looked back at the prisoner. Burtok was sitting on the cell’s soiled cot. She was sitting on the small chair that she had insisted Amon fetch from the guard post after the third interview and the third hour.

  ‘Your passionate distaste for the world,’ she said, ‘for society? Is that why you butchered those women?’

  Burtok nodded. ‘Indeed so, miss. An expression of my inner rage. My contempt for the conventions of this shit-hearted civilisation. A scream of anarchy. It was my life’s work, really. I conducted it for many years, until I was caught. My so-called crimes were a protest, an articulation of the rage so many people feel. I’m a political prisoner.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Amon.

  ‘You carried out these killings over thirty-five years,’ said Keeler.

  ‘One hundred and sixty-three, I did. They only found eight of them. Shall I talk about my methods?’

  Keeler raised her hand.

  ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Talk more about your protest. If it was a protest, how was it being made? You concealed the bodies of your victims. Only a few were discovered, by happenstance. Your statement, if it was a statement, was invisible.’

  Burtok tutted.

  ‘I thought you were smart, miss,’ he said. ‘They know. They shitting-well heard. The High Elite, they see everything.’

  ‘You keep using this phrase, “the High Elite”-‘

  The secret rulers of the world,’ said Burtok. ‘The ones of wealth and influence. High-born, inherited power, handed down through generations. A tiny minority, making decisions for the rest of us. He’s one of them. The most powerful of all. And now, not so secret. All their work down the ages has been to get Him to the top. Unassailable supremacy. Absolute power. Surrounded and guarded by His witches and His mind-priests. They treat us like cattle. Ninety-nine point nine per cent of the species, treated like livestock, to feed them and sustain them and get them where they want to be. And it’ll get worse. If you think we lack rights now, lack a voice, just wait.’

  ‘You seem very sure of these facts,’ said Keeler.

  ‘I’ve lived in this world,’ said Burtok. ‘Where have you been? You can see it everywhere. If this cell had a window, I’d invite you to look through it. This Palace? It’s obscene. The paraded wealth, the flaunting of grandeur. And yet, there are famines. Pestilence. Hives where the poor eat dirt. Nomad cities of beggars in the Asiat. Whole sectors of Europa without clean water. Infant mortality. How is that a great Imperium? A great dream? Shit on Him. Screw Him and His dream of shit. This serves only Him. Everyone else is an expendable slave.’

  ‘You don’t believe He’s a god, then?’ she asked.

  ‘I think He wants to be,’ said Burtok. ‘I’ve heard there are some who treat Him as such. That won’t last long. Another few generations, no one will remember what He used to be. Everyone will accept it. Do as you’re told, because He’s god. Do your duty, because He’s god. Die, because He’s god. Worship Him-‘

  ‘What was it that He used to be?’ asked Amon. It was the first question he’d asked any of the subjects.

  ‘You should know,’ said Burtok. ‘Weren’t you there? A warlord. A king. A conquer
or. Chasing power, bringing rivals into line by force. Unification? That’s a euphemism. Power grab. He’s strong, I grant you. Him and the High Elite. Unnatural strong.’

  ‘You acknowledge He has abilities that are beyond human,’ said Keeler. ‘But you do not accept Him as a divine being.’

  ‘He has wealth,’ said Burtok. ‘Wealth like His, you can create those abilities. Build technologies that run like magic. Make scourging demigods like him.’

  He gestured to the Custodian.

  ‘These days,’ Burtok said mournfully, ‘there’s few that can see it for what it is. See that truth. See beyond the global lie. Few who are as courageous as me to rage against it.’

  Keeler nodded.

  ‘Amon is a fearsome being,’ she said. ‘I am wary of him, his size, his splendour. You say these things without fear that, if what you say is true, he might strike you down for saying the unsayable.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of a little passing pain,’ said Burtok. ‘Let him strike me. I’ve been in here twenty years, isolation. How much worse could it be for me?’

  ‘I would invite you to look out of the window,’ said Keeler, ‘but as you point out, there isn’t one. And if you saw what was happening outside, around the walls of the city, I fear it would only convince you further that you were right.’

  She rose, and picked up her chair.

  ‘But I assure you, Mister Burtok, it can be very much worse, and it may soon be very much worse. The future you fear is not the future that is bearing down on us. Thank you for your candour.’

  ‘Won’t you stay?’ Burtok called. ‘I haven’t yet told you of my methods. The details of how I went about my protest-‘

  Amon looked back at him.

  ‘How was skinning your victims part of your statement?’ he asked.

  ‘That?’ Burtok shrugged. ‘Oh, that bit was just for fun.’

  * * *

  After five hours, the convoy came to a halt. A ten-minute rest, they were told. The troopers scrambled off the carriers to flex stiff joints, to urinate, or to empty the bottles they had urinated into along the way.

  It wasn’t clear where they were. A haze lay over them, a low and overcast sky that grew darker to the north. The area was rubble, as far as the eye could see. The ghost marks of streets. Burned-out wrecks of machines, military and civilian.