by Dan Abnett
I cursed the slowness of the craft, though in truth it skated across the mauve seas at better than thirty knots, and on several occasions tried to procure an ornithopter or air conveyance. But the Symbali are a nautical breed who place no faith in air travel. It was tortuous, and I was impatient. It had taken ten days to cross the empyrean from Lorches to Symbal Iota aboard a Navy frigate. Now it took half that time again to cross a distance infinitesimally smaller.
It was hot, and I spent my time below decks, reading data-slates. The sun and sea wind of Symbal burned my skin, used as it was to years of lamplit libraries. I took to wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat above my Administratus robes whenever I ventured out on deck, a detail my servitor Kalibane found relentlessly humorous.
On the fifth morning, Saint Bastian rose before us out of the violet waters, a pyramidal tower of volcanic flue dressed in jungle greenery. Even as we crossed the inlet from the trimaran to the shore by electric launch, turquoise seabirds mobbing over our heads, I could see no discernible sign of habitation. The thick coat of forestation came right down to the shore, revealing only a thin line of white beach at its hem.
The launch pulled into a cove where an ancient stone jetty jutted out from under the trees like an unfinished bridge. Kalibane, his bionic limbs whirring, carried my luggage onto the jetty and then helped me over. I stood there, sweating in my robes, leaning against my staff of office, batting away the beetles that circled in the stifling humidity of the cove.
There was no one there to greet me, though I had voxed word of my approach several times en route. I glanced back at the launch pilot, a dour Symbali, but he seemed not to know anything. Kalibane shambled down to the shore-end of the jetty and called my attention to a copper bell, verdigrised by time and the oceans, that hung from a hook on the end of the pier.
‘Ring it,’ I told him, and he did, cautiously, rapping his simian fingers against the metal dome. Then he glanced back at me, nervously, his optical implants clicking under his low brow-ridge as they refocused.
Two sisters of the Ecclesiarchy shortly appeared, their pure white robes as stiff and starched as the bicorn wimples they wore on their heads. They seemed to regard me with some amusement, and wordlessly ushered me to follow them.
I fell in step behind them, and Kalibane followed, carrying the luggage. We took a dirt path up through the jungle, which rose sharply and eventually became stepped. Sunlight flickered spears of light through the canopy above and the steaming air was full of exotic birdsong and the fidget of insects.
At a turn in the path, the Hospice of Saint Bastian Apostate suddenly stood before me. A great, stone-built edifice typical of the early Imperial naïve, its ancient flying buttresses and lower walls were clogged with vines and creepers. I could discern a main building of five storeys, an adjacent chapel, which looked the oldest part of the place, as well as outbuildings, kitchens and a walled garden. Above the wrought iron lych-gate stood a weathered statue of our beloved God-Emperor smiting the Archenemy. Inside the rusty gate, a well-tended path led through a trimmed lawn, punctured by tombstones and crypts. Stone angels and graven images of the Adeptus Astartes regarded me as I followed the sisters to the main door of the hospice.
I noticed then, fleetingly, that the windows of the two uppermost storeys were rigidly barred with iron grilles.
I left Kalibane outside with my possessions and crossed the threshold behind the sisters. The main atrium of the hospice was a dark and deliciously cool oasis of marble, with limestone pillars that rose up into the dim spaces of the high vault. My eyes lighted on the most marvellous triptych at the altar end, beneath a stained-glass oriole window, which I made observance to at once. In breadth, it was wider than a man’s spread arms, and showed three aspects of the saint. On the left, he roamed the wilderness, in apostasy, renouncing the daemons of the air and fire; on the right, he performed the miracle of the maimed souls. In the centre panel, his martyred body, draped in blue cloth, the nine bolter wounds clearly countable on his pallid flesh, he lay in the arms of a luminous and suitably mournful Emperor.
I looked up from my devotions to find the sisters gone. I could feel the subliminal chorus of a psychic choir mind-singing nearby. The cool air pulsed.
A figure stood behind me. Tall, sculptural, his starched robes as white as his smooth skin was black, he seemed to regard me with the same amusement that the sisters had shown.
I realised I was still wearing my straw hat. I removed it quickly, dropping it onto a pew, and took out the pict-slate of introduction Senior Malter had given me before I left Lorches.
‘I am Baptrice,’ he said, his voice low and genial. ‘Welcome to the saint’s hospice.’
‘Higher Administrator Medica Lemual Sark,’ I replied. ‘My dedicated function is as a recollector, posted lately to Lorches, Genovingia general group four-five-seven-seven decimal, as part of the campaign auxiliary clerical archive.’
‘Welcome, Lemual,’ he said. ‘A recollector. Indeed. We haven’t had one of your breed here before.’
I was uncertain quite what he meant, though in hindsight, the detail of his misunderstanding still chills me.
I said, ‘You were expecting me? I voxed messages ahead.’
‘We have no vox-caster here at the hospice,’ Baptrice replied. ‘What is outside does not concern us. Our work is focused on what is inside... Inside this building, inside ourselves. But do not be alarmed. You are not intruding. We welcome all who come here. We do not need notice of an arrival.’
I smiled politely at this enigmatic response, and tapped my fingers on my staff. I had hoped they would be ready for me, and have everything in place so that I could begin my work immediately. Once again, the leisurely pace of Symbal Iota was weighing me down.
‘I must, Brother Baptrice, proceed with all haste. I wish to begin my efforts at once.’
He nodded. ‘Of course. Almost all who come to Saint Bastian are eager to begin. Let me take you through and provide you with food and a place to bathe.’
‘I would rather just see Ebhoe. As soon as it is possible.’
He paused, as if mystified.
‘Ebhoe?’
‘Colonel Fege Ebhoe, late of the Twenty-Third Lammark Lancers. Please tell me he is still here! That he is still alive!’
‘He... is.’ Baptrice faltered, and looked over my pict-slate properly for the first time. Some sort of realisation crossed his noble face.
‘My apologies, Higher Sark. I misconstrued your purpose. I see now that you are an acting recollector, sent here on official business.’
‘Of course!’ I snapped. ‘What else would I be?’
‘A supplicant, coming here to find solace. An inmate. Those that arrive on the jetty and sound the bell are always that. We get no visitors except those who come to us for help.’
‘An... inmate?’ I repeated.
‘Don’t you know where you are?’ he asked. ‘This is the Hospice of Saint Bastian, a refuge for the insane.’
III
An asylum! Here was an inauspicious start to my mission. I had understood, from my research, that the Hospice of Saint Bastian was home to a holy order that offered sanctuary and comfort for those brave warriors of the Emperor’s legions who were too gravely wounded or disabled by war to continue in service. I knew the place took in the damaged and the lost from warzones all across the sector, but I truly had no notion that the damage they specialised in was wounds to the psyche and sanity. It was a hospice for the deranged, individuals who presented themselves at its gates voluntarily in hope of redemption.
Worst of all, Baptrice and the sisters had presumed me to be a supplicant! That damned straw hat had given me just the air of madness they were expecting. I was lucky not to have been unceremoniously strapped into a harness and placed in isolation.
On reflection, I realised I should have known. Bastian, that hallowed saint, was a madman who found sanity in the love of the Emperor, and who later cured, through miracles, the mentally infirm.
Baptrice pulled a bell cord, and novitiates appeared. Kalibane was escorted inside with my luggage. We were left alone in the atrium, as Baptrice went to make preparations. As we waited, a grizzled man with an old tangle of scar-tissue where his left arm had been crossed the hall. He was naked save for a weathered, empty ammunition belt strung around his torso. He looked at us dimly, his head nodding slightly. Then he padded on his way, and was lost from view.
Somewhere, distantly, I could hear sobbing, and an urgent voice repeating something over and over again. Hunched at my side, his knuckles resting on the flagstones, Kalibane glanced up at me anxiously, and I put a reassuring hand on his broad, hairy shoulder.
Figures appeared around us: haggard, tonsured men in long black ecclesiarch vestments, and more phantom sisters in their ice-white robes and horned cowls. They grouped in the shadows on either side of the atrium, and watched us silently. One of the men rehearsed silently from long ribbons of parchment that a boy-child played out for him from a studded casket. Another scribbled in a little chapbook with his quill. Another swung a brass censer around his feet, filling the air with dry, pungent incense.
Baptrice reappeared. ‘Brethren, bid welcome to Higher Administrator Sark, who has come to us on official business. You will show him every courtesy and cooperation.’
‘What official business?’ asked the old priest with the chapbook, looking up with gimlet eyes. Magnifying half-moon lenses were built into his nasal bone, and rosary beads hung around his dewlapped neck like a floral victory wreath.
‘A matter of recollection,’ I replied.
‘Pertaining to what?’ he pressed.
‘Brother Jardone is our archivist, Higher Sark. You will forgive his persistence.’ I nodded to Baptrice and smiled at the elderly Jardone, though no smile was returned.
‘I see we are kindred, Brother Jardone. Both of us devote ourselves to remembrance.’
He half-shrugged.
‘I am here to interview one of your... inmates. It may be that he holds within some facts that even now may save the lives of millions in the Genovingian group.’
Jardone closed his book and gazed at me, as if waiting for more. Senior Malter had charged me to say as little as I could of the pandemic, for news of such a calamity might spread unrest. But I felt I had to give them more.
‘Warmaster Rhyngold is commanding a major military excursion through the Genovingian group. A sickness, which has been named Uhlren’s Pox, is afflicting his garrisons. Study has shown it may bear comparison with a plague known as the Torment, which wasted Pirody some three decades past. One survivor of that epidemic resides here. If he can furnish me with any details of the incident, it may be productive in securing a cure.’
‘How bad is it, back on Genovingia?’ asked another old priest, the one with the censer.
‘It is... contained,’ I lied.
Jardone snorted. ‘Of course it is contained. That is why a higher administrator has come all this way. You ask the most foolish things, Brother Giraud.’
Another man now spoke. He was older than all, crooked and half-blind, his wrinkled pate dotted with liver spots. A flared ear-trumpet clung to the robes of his left shoulder with delicate mechanical legs. ‘I am concerned that questioning and a change to routine may disturb the serenity of the hospice. I do not want our residents upset in any way.’
‘Your comment is noted, Brother Niro,’ said Baptrice. ‘I’m sure Higher Sark will be discreet.’
‘Of course,’ I assured them.
It was late afternoon when Baptrice finally led me upstairs into the heart of the hospice. Kalibane followed us, lugging a few boxed items from my luggage. Ghostly, bicorned sisters watched us from every arch and shadow.
We proceeded from the stairs into a large chamber on the third floor. The air was close. Dozens of inmates lurked there, though none glanced at us. Some were clad in dingy, loose-fitting overalls, while others wore ancient fatigues and Imperial Guard dress. All rank pins, insignia and patches had been removed, and no one had belts or bootlaces. Two were intently playing regicide on an old tin board by the window. Another sat on the bare floor planks, rolling dice. Others mumbled to themselves or gazed into the distance blankly. The naked man we had seen in the atrium was crouching in a corner, loading spent shell cases into his ammunition belt. Many of the residents had old war wounds and scars, unsightly and grotesque.
‘Are they... safe?’ I whispered to Baptrice.
‘We allow the most stable freedom to move and use this common area. Of course, their medication is carefully monitored. But all who come here are “safe”, as all who come here come voluntarily. Some, of course, come here to escape the episodes that have made regular life impractical.’
None of this reassured me.
On the far side of the chamber, we entered a long corridor flanked by cell rooms. Some doors were shut, bolted from outside. Some had cage-bars locked over them. All had sliding spy-slits. There was a smell of disinfectant and ordure.
Someone, or something, was knocking quietly and repeatedly against one locked door we passed. From another we heard singing.
Some doors were open. I saw two novitiates sponge-bathing an ancient man who was strapped to his metal cot with fabric restraints. The old man was weeping piteously. In another room, where the door was open but the outer cage locked in place, we saw a large, heavily muscled man sitting in a ladder-back chair, gazing out through the bars. He was covered in tattoos: regimental emblems, mottoes, kill-scores. His eyes glowed with the most maniacal light. He had the tusks of some feral animal implanted in his lower jaw, so they hooked up over his upper lip.
As we passed, he leaped up and tried to reach through the bars at us. His powerful arm flexed and clenched. He issued a soft growl.
‘Behave, Ioq!’ Baptrice told him.
The cell next door to Ioq’s was our destination. The door was open, and a sister and a novitiate waited for us. The room beyond them was pitch-black. Baptrice spoke for a moment with the novitiate and the sister. He turned to me. ‘Ebhoe is reluctant, but the sister has convinced him it is right that he speaks with you. You may not go in. Please sit at the door.’ The novitiate brought up a stool, and I sat in the doorway, throwing out my robes over my knees. Kalibane dutifully opened my boxes and set up the transcribing artificer on its tripod stand.
I gazed into the blackness of the room, trying to make out shapes. I could see nothing.
‘Why is it dark in there?’
‘Ebhoe’s malady, his mental condition, is exacerbated by light. He demands darkness.’ Baptrice shrugged.
I nodded glumly and cleared my throat. ‘By the grace of the God-Emperor of Terra, I come here on His holy work. I identify myself as Lemual Sark, Higher Administrator Medica, assigned to Lorches Administratum.’
I glanced over at the artificer. It chattered quietly and extruded the start of a parchment transcription tape that I hoped would soon be long and informative. ‘I seek Fege Ebhoe, once a colonel with the Twenty-Third Lammark Lancers.’
Silence.
‘Colonel Ebhoe?’
A voice, thin as a knife, cold as a corpse, whispered out of the dark room. ‘I am he. What is your business?’
I leaned forwards. ‘I wish to discuss Pirody with you. The Torment you endured.’
‘I have nothing to say. I won’t remember anything.’
‘Come now, colonel. I’m sure you will if you try.’
‘You misunderstand. I didn’t say I “can’t”. I said I “won’t”.’
‘Deliberately?’
‘Just so. I refuse to.’
I wiped my mouth, and realised I was dry-tongued. ‘Why not, colonel?’
‘Pirody is why I’m here. Thirty-four years, trying to forget. I don’t want to start remembering now.’
Baptrice looked at me with a slightly helpless gesture. He seemed to be suggesting that it was done, and I should give up.
‘Men are dying on Genovingia from a plague we know as Uhlren’s
Pox. This pestilence bears all the hallmarks of the Torment. Anything you can tell me may help save lives.’
‘I couldn’t then. Fifty-nine thousand men died on Pirody. I couldn’t save them though I tried with every shred of my being. Why should that be different now?’
I gazed at the invisible source of the cold voice. ‘I cannot say for sure. But I believe it is worth trying.’
There was a long pause. The artificer whirred on idle. Kalibane coughed, and the machine recorded the sound with a little chatter of keys.
‘How many men?’
‘I’m sorry, colonel? What did you ask me?’
‘How many men are dying?’
I took a deep breath. ‘When I left Lorches, nine hundred were dead and another fifteen hundred infected. On Genovingia Minor, six thousand and twice that number ailing. On Adamanaxer Delta, two hundred, but it had barely begun there. On Genovingia itself... two and a half million.’
I heard Baptrice gasp in shock. I trusted he would keep this to himself. ‘Colonel?’
Nothing.
‘Colonel, please...’
Cold and cutting, the voice came again, sharper than before. ‘Pirody was a wasted place...’
IV
Pirody was a wasted place. We didn’t want to go there. But the Archenemy had taken the eastern continent and razed the hives, and the northern cities were imperilled.
Warmaster Getus sent us in. Forty thousand Lammark Lancers, virtually the full strength of the Lammark regiments. Twenty thousand Fancho armour men and their machines, and a full squad of Adeptus Astartes, the Doom Eagles, shining grey and red.
The place we were at was Pirody Polar. It was god knows how old. Cyclopean towers and columns of green marble, hewn in antique times by hands I’m not convinced were human. There was a strangeness to the geometry, the angles never seemed quite right.
It was as cold as a bastard. We had winter dress, thick white flak coats with fur hoods, but the ice got in the lasguns and dulled their charges, and the damned Fancho tanks were forever refusing to start. It was day, too: day all the time. There was no night, it was the wrong season. We were so far north. The darkest it got was dusk, when one of the two suns set briefly, and the sky turned flesh-pink. Then it would be daylight again. We’d been on and off for two months. Mainly long-range artillery duels, pounding the ice-drifts. No one could sleep because of the perpetual daylight. I know two men, one a Lammarkine, I’m not proud to say, who gouged out his eyes. The other was a Fancho.
