Saturnine

by Dan Abnett

  ‘According to my pledge to the Praetorian,’ Cadwalder replied, ‘I go where you go.’

  Niborran tossed his cigar away, and swung the lasrifle off his shoulder.

  ‘Then you’ll be on the line,’ he said.

  * * *

  Those who had survived the frantic retreat from the Pons Solar took shelter in the yards and cage-ways behind the barrier wall. Medics moved through the gaggles of sprawled troops, and sutlers brought food pails, water and tepid samovars. Someone was singing. Hari thought it was probably a hopeless effort to drown out the noise of the assault. The wall battalions and defence systems had taken over the desperate repulse.

  Tle slept for a while, curled up in a gritty rockcrete corner. When he woke, the noise had not abated. He sat with his slate, trying to write down what he had witnessed. When, as he expected, he failed entirely to do that, he tried instead to write about the clarity he had found in the chaos. The importance of history, no matter how little truth lay in it. The clinical necessity of lies, from a soldier’s point of view He tried to explain, as simply as possible, the curative need for accounts of valour, even if they were inflated into fiction.

  He was not pleased with the result.

  He thought of Kyril Sindermann, and the pep talks the old man had delivered, with wry passion, to his early clutch of would-be remembrancers. The siege had already become an inescapable fact by then. Now here he was, caught up in a siege within a siege.

  He remembered Sindermann saying, ‘The historian’s first duties are sacrilege and the mocking of false gods. They are his indispensable instruments for establishing the truth.’ The old man had attributed that to some M2 mystic, but had clearly believed it. Hari had too. Now he found he believed it inside out. He had accepted it too literally, because it had been right and proper to do so. Reversing that was the sacrilege part. The false gods weren’t the heathen deities the Imperium had erased. They were concepts, such as literal documentation and scholarly detachment. A history of war, and this Last War especially, needed to understand, and engage with, the spirit of those who fought.

  He tried to write about that, but it sounded stupid, and lacking in any professional rigour. So he wrote down the story of the convoy ambush instead, just as Joseph had told it to him: the valiant soldier, Olly Piers, standing his ground, and then surviving through the grace of the Emperor, by merit of his unshakable faith. Hari used words like ‘daemons’, then thought better of it, deleted them, and replaced them with phrases such as ‘the Great Traitor’, or ‘the power of Horus’. It came out reading like a child’s fable. A parable.

  Then he wrote, in a similar fashion, a plain account of the stand at the Pons, while it was still fresh in his mind. Piers rallying the men around the banner. How they had stood before the face of the Emperor, and stared down the monstrous rage of the Great Traitor. How they had protected the Emperor’s image with their lives, mortal in the face of supermortal danger.

  He wanted to add a gloss, a few paragraphs explaining the mechanism of lies in these parables, how the symbolic values were far more important than any literal, eye-witness account.

  But a man had approached him.

  ‘Do you need restock?’ the man asked, standing over him. Teams had entered the yards, lugging long boxes of ammunition and energy cells for distribution. It was time to rearm. Weary troopers were calling out calibres and slot-gauges. The man, a trooper caked in dirt, had a clutch of las and hard-round magazines in his hands.

  ‘No,’ said Hari. Thank you.’

  ‘Are you… ?’ the man asked. ‘Are you the historian? The remembrancer?’

  ‘Uh, interrogator. Yes,’ said Hari.

  ‘My friend told me about you,’ the man said. He sat down on the dirty rockcrete beside Hari without being invited. ‘Joseph.’

  ‘Joseph Monday?’

  The man nodded. He put down his selection of magazines, and held out a dirty hand.

  ‘Willem Kordy (Thirty-Third Pan-Pac Lift Mobile),’ he said. Hari shook his hand.

  ‘Is he all right?’ asked Hari. ‘I haven’t seen him since we made it back inside.’

  Willem shrugged. ‘Are any of us all right?’ he asked.

  ‘I found him during the battle,’ said Hari. ‘He was weeping. Uncontrollable. I presumed it was the trauma of-‘

  ‘Nah, doubt it,’ said Willem. ‘We’ve been through a lot. Fourteenth line, that whole shit. Got here by walking through hell’s arsehole. I expect it was just release.’

  ‘Release?’

  ‘That this was ending. That death was close, and it would all stop.’ ‘He wanted death?’ asked Hari.

  ‘He wanted it to stop,’ the trooper replied. ‘We all come to that place, sooner or later. I’ve seen it. I remember it happened to Jen.’

  ‘Jen?’

  Willem shook his head. ‘We’ve seen a lot,’ he said.

  ‘I am trying to record accounts,’ said Hari. ‘Stories. It sounds like you have some.’

  ‘I haven’t got time to tell them,’ said Willem. His teammates were calling to him to hurry up. He got to his feet, and picked up the magazines. ‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘why bother? Why bother with stories?’

  ‘To create a history,’ said Hari. ‘To commit to the future by believing there can be one. And to help that future understand itself.’

  ‘So the future can remember us?’ Willem asked. ‘Remember me?’ ‘Yes.’

  ‘I like that,’ Willem admitted. ‘I like the idea that the future is watching me in its memories.’

  Hari looked down to quickly note the soldier’s phrase on his slate. When he looked up, Willem Kordy (33rd Pan-Pac Lift Mobile) had gone.

  Hari found Joseph Baako Monday in a nearby yard. He was sitting silently, gazing at the far wall. His weapon, and a restock of fresh magazines, lay by his feet, waiting.

  ‘You made it too?’ Joseph asked, looking up at Hari.

  ‘Why were you weeping?’ Hari asked.

  ‘Oh, because my angel had died,’ said Joseph.

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘I said to you,’ said Joseph, ‘no angel delivered me. The Emperor did not come, or send His spirit, in my hour of need after Line Fourteen, not like He came to the soldier in the story. But that was a mistake. I was wrong. I see that now. Angels take different forms. The spirit of the Emperor, it takes many different forms.’

  Hari sat down beside him, and took out his slate.

  ‘Lord Diaz was my angel,’ Joseph said. ‘He found me and the others. He brought us through the fire. He was the spirit of the Emperor, sent to us.’

  ‘Your angel?’

  ‘I saw him die,’ said Joseph. ‘Only when I watched him die, did I understand that. He was on the bridge. The last living man on the bridge. He fought everything that came at him. He fought until they killed him to make him stop fighting. He fought as they butchered him. I saw what they did to him, before he died, and after.’

  He looked at Hari.

  ‘I wept, because the spirit did not come for him,’ he said. ‘It made me think that there was no spirit, that my faith in the Throne was a stupid waste. But then we were at the flag, all around the banner. And the spirit came again, like it came to the soldier in the convoy. It struck down the butcher that would have murdered us.’

  ‘Who is Jen?’ Hari asked.

  Joseph looked surprised.

  ‘Jen Koder (Twenty-Second Kantium Hort),’ he said. ‘My friend. She died because her faith had failed. She was too tired, too hurt. She did not see, like I did not see at the time, that Lord Diaz was the Emperor come to us. Maybe she did not have the strength left, even if she did see that. But she had some strength. Enough to make sure the enemy did not take her life.’

  ‘Do you think what happened to us at the banner was a miracle?’ asked Hari.

  ‘What do you think, my friend?’

  ‘I don’t know what that was,’ said Hari.

  ‘I think there are mir
acles everywhere,’ said Joseph. ‘All around us, all the time. We just have to see them. Know to recognise them. And have the faith to believe in them. If we believe, we make them happen.’

  He looked at Hari.

  ‘You are writing all this down?’ he asked, and laughed.

  ‘It’s my job,’ said Hari. ‘Do you have a slate?’

  Joseph fumbled in the pockets of his litewka. He eventually brought out a battered, small-format dataslate, crusted in dirt.

  ‘It does not work,’ he said. ‘No link, no noospherics.’

  ‘But it can store, right?’ Hari asked. He took the man’s slate, and carefully transferred files across from his own device. ‘These are the accounts I’ve taken down,’ he said. ‘Share them with anyone you like. Add to them. Add your own. I think it would help people here to read them. And you asked about a book. A secret book you would like to read.’

  Joseph looked at him, curious.

  ‘There’s a copy of that there too,’ said Hari. ‘Share that as well, with as many people as you can. I think there’s a strength in it, and I know we all need as much strength as we can get.’

  Piers was in one of the cage-ways. He had the banner spread out on the ground, and was scrubbing it with a bristle-brush to remove some of the dirt and soot. Two other troopers, one male, one female, both as filthy as Piers, were sitting with him, using needles and threads from their uniform kits to sew up the shot holes.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Hari asked.

  Piers, on his hands and knees, looked up at Hari with a pained expression.

  ‘You could help,’ he said.

  ‘What’s Olly short for?’ Hari asked.

  ‘Why, boy?’

  I’m writing your story,’ said Hari. ‘I wanted to get your name right.’

  ‘I don’t have a story,’ Piers rumbled, and went back to scrubbing. ‘I have stories, plural. Many fine stories. But not a story. I am a complicated man. I will not be reduced or abbreviated.’

  ‘Except to Olly.’

  ‘Shut your hole, clever clogs.’

  ‘Is it Oliver?’

  ‘Pick up a brush, boy.’

  ‘Is it Olias?’

  ‘Give me strength…’

  ‘Is it Olaf?’

  ‘Is it?’ asked the man working nearby, laughing. ‘Is it Olaf?’

  ‘Shut your bloody noise, Pash, and stop encouraging him,’ Piers snapped over his shoulder. The two troopers grinned at him.

  ‘What is this story?’ the woman asked, rethreading her needle.

  ‘The exploits of Grenadier Piers,’ said Hari. ‘There are many parts to it. He’s been spreading them around. I’m surprised you haven’t heard any of them.’

  ‘I heard this one about a convoy,’ the woman said. ‘How the Emperor sent His spirit to save this brave soldier from daemons.’ She looked at Hari. ‘Are you his biographer, or something?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s the historian,’ said the other man. ‘Piers said about him, remember?’

  ‘Interrogator,’ said Hari.

  ‘I’m Bailee Grosser (Third Helvet),’ she said. ‘This is Pasha Cavaner (Eleventh Heavy Janissar).’

  Hari made a note. ‘Grosser… Cavaner…’

  ‘Put the regiments,’ she told him.

  ‘Why?’ asked Hari.

  ‘It matters,’ said Grosser.

  ‘It’s all we got,’ said Cavaner. ‘Put them in brackets.’

  ‘I’m just writing down accounts from everyone,’ said Hari. ‘Like what happened with this.’ He prodded the outstretched banner with his toe.

  ‘Don’t stand on His face, boy!’ Piers snapped.

  ‘I was there,’ said Cavaner.

  ‘You were?’ asked Hari. He didn’t recognise him, but then everybody had been caked in mud, and blood, and veiled in the abject terror of the moment.

  The man shrugged. ‘It was mad. We put the banner up. It was heavy. Blood all over it. But we stood before it. Stood in front of it, protecting Him with our lives.’

  Cavaner reached down, and patted the banner.

  ‘We stood in front of Him, and when evil came, we stood in its path, and the Emperor rewarded us for our faith, and struck evil down.’

  ‘Getting the banner up was actually my idea,’ said Hari.

  Cavaner frowned at him. ‘I don’t remember you being there,’ he said.

  ‘I was,’ said Hari.

  ‘Putting yourself in my story, are you?’ Piers growled.

  ‘No,’ said Hari. ‘Is it Oleander?’

  Piers sagged and sighed. He muttered something.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Hari.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Grosser.

  ‘I said, if you must know,’ said Piers, ‘it’s Ollanius.’

  Grosser and Cavaner burst out laughing.

  ‘Oh my life!’ giggled Grosser. That’s an old fart’s name! A grandad’s name!’

  ‘It was me grandaddy’s, as it happens,’ Piers protested. ‘An old family name. A good Uplander name. Stop bloody laughing.’ He looked up at Hari. ‘Don’t bloody write it down, boy!’

  ‘Why not?’ Hari asked.

  ‘Make a better one up!’ Piers said. He got to his feet. ‘Something more heroic. I’ve never bloody liked it. No hero was ever called bloody Ollanius. Put something better!’

  ‘Like?’

  Piers hesitated. ‘Olympos,’ he suggested.

  ‘I’m definitely not putting that,’ said Hari.

  ‘But it’s proper heroic!’ Piers objected.

  ‘I’m putting Ollanius,’ said Hari.

  ‘You little ball-bag. Why does it matter so much?’

  ‘Because there’s got to be some truth in it,’ said Hari. ‘Something to balance out the bullshit and the lies. Of which, let’s be fair, there’s plenty.’

  ‘Mythrus, Dame Death, she weren’t no bullshit,’ said Piers.

  ‘No one saw her,’ said Hari.

  ‘I saw her!’ Piers snapped.

  ‘I saw what she did,’ said Cavaner. He looked at Hari. ‘If you were there, like you claim you were, you must have too.’

  ‘I saw something I can’t explain,’ Hari admitted.

  There you go,’ said Piers, as if that answered everything.

  ‘And I grasp it now,’ Hari said to him.

  Piers simmered down a bit. He studied Hari’s face.

  ‘Do you?’ he asked.

  ‘I do,’ said Hari.

  Piers nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good, then.’ With some effort, he got back down on his knees, and began scrubbing the banner again. ‘But tell it right, if you’re telling it,’ he added. ‘What I’m saying is, do it justice. Make a proper tale out of it, eh? It wasn’t no banner, it was the Emperor Himself. In person. I stood before the Emperor on the battlefields of Terra, to protect Him. Put myself in harm’s way, for His sake. And it wasn’t no raving World Eater, neither. Make it… say it was the Great Traitor himself. Big, bad Lupercal.’

  ‘I’m not putting that,’ said Hari.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No one would ever believe it,’ said Hari.

  * * *

  Then the old grenadier says, They don’t have to believe it, they just have to like it. It just has to be inspiring.’ The young man thinks about this, and then types some more on his slate.

  None of them can see me. Not even the old grenadier this time. Perhaps he is too preoccupied mending the banner, or perhaps he can only see me in the heat of things, when his adrenaline is pumping.

  Or perhaps… Perhaps he can only see me when it matters. When it’s necessary.

  I don’t know what force or power decides such things. If asked, I would say fortune, but I am no expert, and I have not made a study of these transmundane concepts.

  And no one will ask me.

  I believe the young man’s efforts are worthwhile. I see now why the Lord Praetorian initiated the programme, and warran
ted the return of the remembrancer order. It has value, though I am not sure this is quite how Rogal imagined it. The act of recording history produces a sense of a future. It is, perhaps, the most optimistic thing anyone can do. We will always need to know where we have come from. We will always need to know that we are going somewhere.

  I would have liked to talk to the young man. I have many stories to tell. So very many. But he is not even aware of me, and the Custodian is not present to translate my hands. I had considered making the grenadier my proloquor, but it is clear he does not see me all the time, and besides, he does not know my thoughtmarks.

  I sit in the comer of the cage-way, and watch them for a few more minutes. Tsutomu has gone to the barrier wall, and I must join him. The enemy’s rage grows worse. I have composed myself. I am centred and ready for what will follow. Of all the stories in my long life, I think it will be the very last.

  I get up and walk away. They do not notice me depart. They did not notice me arrive.

  SIX

  * * *

  All

  Inevitable weapons

  From the pit

  Horus Aximand thought, for a second, that he could hear the slow breathing again.

  But it was Lord Commander Eidolon, as he strode towards them, teeth glittering, his throat sacs heaving and puffing like the goitre frills of some foul marsh amphibian.

  Aximand glanced at Abaddon. ‘Is this where he reneges?’ he asked softly.

  ‘I’ll gut him if he does,’ said Abaddon, with a cold simplicity that told Little Horus he meant it.

  ‘And I’ll hold him for you,’ said Kibre.

  Tormageddon snickered.

  ‘Brothers,’ said Eidolon, infrasonic tones thrumming behind his words. ‘Are you prepared?’

  ‘Take a wild guess,’ said Abaddon.

  Eidolon sniffed sullenly, and gazed beyond the four warriors of the Mournival. The deep canyon lay sixty kilometres from Epta war-stead, a split in the lip of the Himalazian plateau. High above them, above the walls of the ravine, the sky twisted and raged, a now almost permanent storm driven across the entire region by gross atmospheric disruption.

  Eyet-One-Tag’s artificers and magi had already hollowed the base of the canyon out, drilled the cavity like rotten molars, and raised the immense ramp platforms for the machines they had supplied. The ugly Terrax- and Plutona-pattern Termite assault drills, and their far larger and uglier kin, the Mantolith-pattern, lay on the sloping ramps, nose-bores down, aimed at the earth. Engines were being test-fired, drill heads and melta-cutter systems checked.