Descent of Angels

by Mitchel Scanlon

  ‘I know, but your line officer is Sar Hadariel is it not?’

  Following the direction of the other man’s gaze, Zahariel looked towards where Chapter Master Hadariel stood talking to Shang Kahn and some officers of the fleet.

  Shang and the warriors of his bodyguard were much taller than the Dark Angels Chapter Master, towering over him almost as much as Hadariel towered in his power armour over the ordinary human beings around him.

  Zahariel noticed that Hadariel was gesturing with his hands as he spoke, making large movements as though in an attempt to demonstrate that he was not intimidated by the White Scars’ physical presence. It was a scene Zahariel had observed many times before, and he was not sure Hadariel was even aware he was doing it.

  Not for the first time, he felt a surge of sympathy for his Chapter Master. In the time before the Emperor came to Caliban, Hadariel had been considered one of the most able battle knights in the Order. Zahariel remembered serving under him when they had made the final assault on the fortress of the Knights of Lupus.

  It had been a good victory, an important one in the history of Caliban, but the coming of the Imperium had been a mixed blessing for Hadariel. He had been chosen to join the Dark Angels Legion by the Astartes, but in common with a large proportion of that initial intake, he had been too old to benefit from the implantation of gene-seed.

  In its place, Hadariel and others like him, including Luther, had undergone an extensive series of surgical and chemical procedures designed to raise their strength, stamina and reflexes to superhuman levels. They were taller, stronger and quicker than normal men, but for all that they were not Astartes. They never could be.

  ‘It must be hard to be a man like Hadariel,’ said Kurgis.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Zahariel. ‘My commander is an exemplary warrior. Despite not possessing the gifts of a true Astartes he has climbed far in the Legion.’

  ‘The Lion favours him from the old days?’

  Zahariel shook his head. ‘The Lion does not play favourites. Hadariel became a Chapter Master purely on merit. If there is an element of sorrow to the situation it is that Hadariel has never seemed suited to the office.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Zahariel wasn’t sure how much to say, for Kurgis was of a different Legion to his own and the Dark Angels valued their privacy, yet he sensed that the White Scar was a warrior he could trust. ‘In the years since his elevation, the mantle of leadership has sat poorly on Hadariel’s shoulders. He clashes repeatedly with his officers and fellow Chapter Masters, and has a tendency to take issue with every imagined slight, as if he’s convinced he is being subtly snubbed and insulted by all those around him.’

  ‘I suspect it boils down to the fact that Hadariel had never received gene-seed.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ agreed Zahariel. ‘Or perhaps his rise up the ranks has been fuelled as much by a desire to prove himself as by his devotion to the Imperial ideal.’

  Zahariel did not add that rumour had it that the Lion had spoken with him sternly on the matter of his fractiousness. No matter his successes, it appeared that Hadariel could not escape his inner conviction that he was being looked down upon because he was not full Astartes.

  ‘It has always been Chapter Master Hadariel’s way to take the lead whenever our Chapter is sent to a new theatre of operations,’ said Zahariel. ‘He likes to be able to see things for himself.’

  ‘A wise practice,’ nodded Kurgis.

  Kurgis glanced back towards the view of Sarosh through the portal, holding his gaze on the planet for long seconds as though weighing the words he was about to say.

  ‘Don’t trust them,’ said the White Scar.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The people of Sarosh,’ Kurgis replied. He faced more fully towards the view-portal and indicated the planet. ‘You haven’t met them yet, brother, so I thought I should warn you. Don’t trust them, and don’t turn your back on them.’

  ‘I thought they were peaceful? According to the briefings, they have been welcoming from the first.’

  ‘They have been,’ agreed Kurgis, ‘but still, I would not trust them, not if you have sense, brother. And, don’t trust the briefings. Lord Governor-Elect Furst and his cronies have too much influence on what is written within them.’

  He turned momentarily to grimace towards a silver-haired, medal-festooned dignitary holding court among a sea of sycophants off to the side of the deck.

  ‘That is the lord governor-elect?’ asked Zahariel.

  ‘In his day he was a great general,’ shrugged Kurgis, ‘or so they say. It happens sometimes. A man is made chieftain and, soon all that is important to him is his status. He becomes deaf to any voice that doesn’t try to soothe and cosset him. Before long, he only listens to those who tell him what he wants to hear.’

  ‘And that is what is happening on Sarosh?’

  ‘Without a doubt,’ said Kurgis, pursing his lips in frustration. ‘If Furst had any sense he’d ask himself why the Saroshi are stalling. If they truly wish to be part of the Imperium, as they claim, you’d think they would be ready to move the very stars to satisfy our requirements. Instead, there are always more delays, more intransigence. Don’t misunderstand me, they are unfailingly polite, the Saroshi. Whenever a new problem arises with the compliance process, they throw their hands in the air and wail like women mourning an elder’s death. To listen to them you’d think it was all accidents and bad luck. That is why I say don’t trust them. Either they are intentionally putting off compliance, or they are the unluckiest people in the galaxy. And, I don’t know about you, brother, but I don’t believe in luck, neither good nor bad.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Zahariel. He scanned the crowd of figures spread throughout the observation deck for unfamiliar uniforms. ‘I don’t see any Saroshi at this gathering.’

  ‘You’ll see them tomorrow,’ Kurgis told him. ‘A celebration is planned. The Saroshi intend to welcome your arrival on their world exactly as they welcomed our arrival a year ago. There will be a feast, entertainments and the like, both here on the Invincible Reason and down below on Sarosh. I am sure it will be… convivial. No doubt the Saroshi leaders will make many great promises. You will hear them tell you that compliance is just around the corner. They will say they are working night and day to achieve the tasks the Imperium has set them. They will talk fulsomely of their newfound devotion to the Imperial cause, of how happy they are that you have come to rescue them from their ignorance. Do not believe it, brother. I have always held that the true worth of a man is demonstrated by his actions, not his words. So far, by that mark, the Saroshi appear to possess no worth at all.’

  ‘You suspect their motives, then?’ asked Zahariel. ‘Do you think the Saroshi are delaying compliance for a reason?’

  ‘I don’t know. There is a saying on my homeworld, “If a man follows wolf tracks, it is likely he will find a wolf.” But I cannot offer you any proof of my suspicions, brother. I simply thought I should warn you in the spirit of comradeship. Be wary of these people. Do not trust them. Soon enough, the White Scars will be gone from this place. Shang Khan has already ordered preparations to be made for us to get underway and head to our new duties. The Swift Horseman is to leave this system in four hours.’

  Kurgis smiled, though there was no humour to it.

  ‘After that, you are on your own.’

  NINETEEN

  ‘WHAT ARE THEY like, your angels?’ Dusan asked her, his face hidden beneath an unblinking golden mask. ‘To hear their taletellers, the Dark Angels are fierce and warlike giants. They walk astride the stars and rain down destruction. Have they come to destroy us? Should we fear them?’

  ‘There is nothing for you to fear,’ replied Rhianna Sorel, inwardly cursing the Calibanite tale-spinners and their excesses. She almost frowned, but she reminded herself that Dusan could see her face even if she could not see his.

  ‘Yes, the Dark Angels make war on the Emperor’s enemies, but that does not include the peopl
e of Sarosh. You are part of the Imperium. You are our brothers.’

  ‘That is reassuring,’ said Dusan. He turned and gestured to the city with a sweep of his arm. ‘We have taken such pains to prepare for their arrival, to greet them. It would be a tragedy if they had come here to destroy all this. The city is beautiful, is it not? Is it worthy of your image-maker?’

  ‘It is more than worthy,’ she said, holding up the pict-recorder she wore on a strap across her shoulder. ‘With your permission, I’d like to take some picts before the light changes. They’ll give me some reference to work from later when I am composing.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  They stood on a balcony overlooking the city of Shaloul, planetary capital of Sarosh. It had been nearly twelve months since Rhianna had come to Sarosh, but in that time she had rarely been allowed to journey to the planet’s surface. Despite the amicable attitude of the local people and the apparent benevolence of their culture, officially this world was not yet compliant. It was clear that the Imperial commanders were loath to let civilians down to the planet any more than they had to, though Rhianna suspected that the leaders of the Astartes had played at least some role in blocking civilian requests for access. She had no idea if the situation was the same in every fleet of the Crusade, but the Astartes with the 4th seemed to resent any attempt to record native societies in their pre-Imperial states.

  Rhianna was a composer. She had been told that the folk songs of Sarosh were characterised by haunting melodies incorporating the sounds of several traditional types of musical instrument that were unique to this world, but all her information came second-hand from conversations with Imperial Army troopers who had visited the planet more regularly than she had.

  So far, she had heard nothing of Sarosh’s music herself. She had some idea in mind of a symphony combining Saroshi folk melodies with the bombastic musical forms that were currently the height of fashion in the Imperium. Until she heard the melodies, however, she had no way of knowing whether the idea was viable.

  For the moment, she satisfied herself by taking picts of the city in search of inspiration.

  Dusan was right. It was beautiful.

  The sun was setting, and in response to the imminent fall of night the city began to show itself in its most alluring aspect as the glow-globes were lit. Unlike other cities, Shaloul did not possess any form of communal street-lighting system. Instead, by order of the city fathers, the inhabitants were furnished with three floating glow-globes each, to light their way whenever they left their houses.

  Man, woman or child, every citizen of Shaloul was accompanied by the bright hovering globes when they went outside. The effect from Rhianna’s vantage on the balcony, as thousands of people walked to the city’s eateries and drinking places, or simply stepped out for an evening stroll, was astonishing.

  The entire city appeared to be alive with distant, bobbing points of floating light like a gently eddying sea of earthbound stars. It was extraordinary, but it was only one of the city’s diverse wonders.

  In contrast to many of the other settlements she had seen, whether on Terra or elsewhere in the galaxy, Shaloul was not crowded. It was a city of open horizons.

  Nor was it dirty. From the first instant she laid eyes on it, it was plain that Shaloul was a city designed for ease of living. It was a place of wide boulevards and broad public spaces, of parks and greenery, of inspiring monuments and grand palaces.

  Rhianna was accustomed to hive-cities, to the press and squalor of hab-life, to every dwelling being built in uncomfortably close proximity to its neighbours. Shaloul couldn’t have been more different.

  It seemed a kinder, more contented place than any she had known before.

  The Saroshi claimed their society had not known war for more than a thousand years, and certainly the architecture of their cities indicated nothing to disprove their claims. No walls enclosed the city’s perimeter and she had seen no obvious defences or fortifications.

  On the few brief occasions when she had been given permission to visit the city, Rhianna had experienced none of the vague unease and nebulous sense of menace she usually felt when she explored the streets of an unknown city for the first time.

  The streets of Sarosh felt safe and secure.

  Perhaps it was the harmonious, well-ordered nature of Saroshi society that caused the Astartes to look with suspicion on any attempts to record it. To all intents and purposes, the city of Shaloul appeared to be a perfect place to live. So did the rest of Sarosh, for that matter. Perhaps the Astartes feared the comparisons that would inevitably be made between the past and the present, once the Imperium was granted its wish and the planet was made compliant.

  It occurred to her that these were curious thoughts. She was as much a servant of the Imperium as the Astartes, yet she found herself almost doubting her mission. These people appeared perfectly happy with their lives. What right did they have to change them?

  It was the city, she told herself. The place was bewitching. It wasn’t just the floating lights and the architecture. It was everything about it. The walls on either side of the balcony they were standing on were covered in a climbing plant with lustrous green-black leaves and brilliant purple flowers. It produced a heady scent, an intoxicating musk that mixed with the night air and seemed to have a calming, restive quality. It was easy to think of this world as paradise.

  ‘You are content?’ Dusan asked her.

  ‘Content?’

  He pointed to the pict-recorder in her hands.

  ‘You have stopped operating your machine. You have all that you need?’

  ‘I have,’ she said, ‘but this machine records more than images. It can also record sound. I had hoped to hear some examples of your music.’

  ‘My music?’

  It was impossible to see Dusan’s face beneath the mask, but the questioning note in his voice was obvious, as was his unfamiliarity with the grammatical forms of Gothic. ‘This is a metaphor, perhaps? I am not a musician.’

  ‘I meant the music of your culture,’ explained Rhianna. ‘I have been told it is exquisite. I was hoping to hear some.’

  ‘There will be musicians at the festival tonight,’ said Dusan. ‘In celebration of the Dark Angels’ arrival, our leaders have decreed a planet-wide holiday. I am sure you will hear music worthy of recording once we join the celebrations. Does this news please you?’

  ‘Yes, it pleases me,’ answered Rhianna.

  She had noticed there tended to be a stilted quality to conversations with the Saroshi as they grappled with the nuances of a newly learned language. On some worlds visited by the Crusade there had been an adverse reaction among the local inhabitants when they were told that the Imperium expected them to learn Gothic and use it in all government business.

  On Sarosh, though, they had warmly embraced the official Imperial language. Rhianna had already seen a few street signs on Shaloul written in Gothic, and she had been told that some of the great works of Saroshi literature were in the process of being translated.

  It was another sign of the goodwill the local people had shown to the Imperium from the arrival of the first Imperial ships in orbit around their planet. Again, it brought home to her just how ridiculous the current situation was. Despite the warmth with which Saroshi society had greeted the Imperium, their planet had so far been denied the certification of compliance.

  She had heard much muttering on fleet ships about Sarosh’s bureaucracy, but it seemed to her that Imperial bureaucracy was every bit as invidious. Time and again, the Saroshi had shown they were a friendly and peaceful people, eager to take up their place in the broader brotherhood of humanity.

  How could anyone find reasons to distrust them?

  DON’T TRUST THEM, Kurgis had told him. After less than a day spent in orbit around the planet of Sarosh, Zahariel felt there was every indication that the White Scar had given him good advice about its people.

  He did not have any evidence to confirm it. It was more a
gut feeling, a presentiment born of his awakening psychic potential.

  If Zahariel had been called upon to give his opinion of the Saroshi, he could have cited precious little in the way of precedent to explain his distrust. Ordinarily he was inclined to be trusting. He was an honourable man, and it was one of his flaws that he occasionally fell into the trap of believing that everyone else was as honourable as he was.

  Nemiel was the one with the suspicious mind, forever questioning the motives of those around him. Zahariel took individuals as he found them. He had a soldier’s innate dislike of hypocrisy and double-talk. Yet, with nothing to support his reaction, he found he distrusted the Saroshi from the moment he met them.

  Perhaps it was the masks that did it.

  It was the cultural norm for all adults and children on Sarosh to continually wear masks. Excepting their most intimate and private moments, the Saroshi went masked at all times, not just in public, but in their homes as well. Zahariel had heard tell of many surprising customs among the peoples of re-discovered worlds, but the Saroshi practice of mask-wearing was easily the most remarkable he had encountered.

  The masks were rigid and made of gold. Covering the wearer’s face entirely, but not the ears or the rest of the head, each mask was shaped to show the same handsome and stylised facial features, identical for both men and women. They reminded Zahariel of the ceramic death-masks created in some cultures, cast from the faces of the recently deceased.

  He had always found such death-masks to have a sense of emptiness about them. They recorded the dimensions and features of the face in question, but after death they were unable to record the true nature of their subject. There was something vital missing, a lack of expression and detail that reduced the death-mask almost to the level of caricature.

  It was the same with the masks of Sarosh. Zahariel was sure that a poet would probably find some manner of poetic metaphor in the fact that the Saroshi confronted life from behind a mask, but he saw only a culture accustomed to keeping things hidden.

  Zahariel was no poet, but he understood that the face was an essential tool of human communication; it revealed its owner’s thoughts and moods by a thousand minute signs. In communicating with the Saroshi, however, the Imperium was denied this source of information, and was forced to make do with blank, permanently smiling facades.