“Trust me,” said Lemuel. “I know what I’m doing.”
“You keep saying that, but you never say what you’re going to do.”
“I won’t know until the time comes.”
“Well that’s reassuring.”
Lemuel didn’t reply, understanding the root of Camille’s harsh words. They moved through the crowds, avoiding the main thoroughfares of wide-wheeled trucks as they ferried soldiers and crew to the loading berths. Tall-sided hangars, storage silos and fuel towers made up the bulk of the port facilities, and they threaded a path between them as they wound towards the silver platforms built on the edge of the shoreline.
A dozen craft growled in their berths, the last to join the orbiting mass-conveyer. This would be their last chance to get off Prospero.
Lemuel led them towards the launch bays as two more craft climbed into the sky on shrieking columns of jetfire. Camille walked alongside Mahavastu’s palanquin, trying and failing to look decorous as the bulked-out servitors bore him without complaint. They made for an unusual spectacle, but one Lemuel hoped looked about right for passengers who had every right to be taking flight on the newly refitted Cypria Selene.
“This isn’t going to work,” said Camille.
“It’s going to work,” insisted Lemuel. “It has to work.”
“No it won’t. We’ll be stopped and we’ll be stuck on Prospero.”
“With that attitude we definitely will be,” snapped Lemuel, his patience wearing thin.
“Lemuel. Camille,” said Mahavastu from the palanquin. “I understand we are all under a lot of pressure here, but if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would both of you please shut the shirring hell up!”
Both Lemuel and Camille were brought up short, shocked at the old man’s language.
Lemuel looked up at Mahavastu, who seemed, if anything, more offended than them.
“I apologise for my profanity,” said Mahavastu, “but it seemed like the only way to restore calm. Sniping at each other is only going to end things badly for us all.”
Lemuel took a deep breath.
“You’re right,” he said. “I apologise, my dear.”
“I’m sorry, Lemuel,” said Camille.
Lemuel nodded and led the way downhill again. At last they reached the entrance to the shuttlecraft launch platforms. This time there was a security checkpoint, as not even the citizens of Prospero left such dangerous places unsecured. Spireguard manned the entrance to the shuttle areas, and blue-robed officials checked the identity of everyone going through to the launch platforms.
“Now we get to see if all that training was worth it,” said Camille.
Lemuel nodded. “Let’s hope I was a good student.”
They approached the checkpoint, and Lemuel handed over a sheaf of papers taken from one of Kallista’s notebooks to a bored-looking clerk. The words written there made no sense, but it would be easier if the mark couldn’t understand them.
The clerk frowned, and Lemuel took that as his cue.
“Lord Asoka Bindusara and Lady Kumaradevi Chandra to take ship to the Cypria Selene,” said Lemuel, projecting a confidence he didn’t feel into the man’s aura. “I am their humble servant and scrivener. Be so good as to indicate which of the waiting shuttles is the most regally appointed.”
Lemuel leaned in and whispered conspiratorially “My master has grown accustomed to the luxuries of Prospero. It wouldn’t be pleasant for anyone were we to be assigned a craft that wasn’t a damn palace, if you take my meaning.”
The clerk was still frowning at the words on the page. It wouldn’t take long for him to see past Lemuel’s bluff and understand he was looking at gibberish. Lemuel felt the man’s bureaucratic mind processing the letters before him and increased his manipulation of his aura. Siphoning off the sanguine and the bile, he crafted the impression that the documents were travel passes and berthing dockets for three passengers and their luggage.
The clerk gave up with Lemuel’s papers and consulted a data-slate of his own instead.
“I don’t see your names,” he said with officious satisfaction.
“Please, check again,” said Lemuel, edging closer as a trio of shuttles blasted off from the shoreline. He sensed Camille and Mahavastu’s panic behind him and increased his mental barrage. Even as he did so, he could feel that it wasn’t working.
Lemuel heard a gasp of surprise from behind him, and a soothing blanket of acceptance settled over him. From the glassy look that came into the clerk’s eyes, Lemuel saw it was affecting him too. Someone moved beside him and a woman’s voice said, “There has been a last minute addition to the passenger manifest, these are my guests aboard ship.”
Lemuel smiled as Chaiya rested her hand on the clerk’s arm, feeling her influence spreading through him. It seemed every native of Prospero enjoyed a measure of psychic power, and he wondered how he hadn’t noticed it before.
“Yes,” said the clerk, sounding unsure, but unable to say why. “I see that now.”
He nodded as Chaiya’s certainly increased, and he waved to the soldiers on either side of the gateway. The clerk stamped a lading billet for their steamer trunks and handed Lemuel four berthing disks, each with a stamped eye at its centre. Lemuel tried not to look as relieved as he felt.
“My lord thanks you,” he said as they swept through the gate.
No sooner were they hidden from sight of the clerk and his soldiers, than Camille threw herself into Chaiya’s arms and kissed her. They embraced until Mahavastu coughed discreetly.
“You came!” said Camille, tears smudging the make-up around her eyes.
“Of course I came,” said Chaiya. “You think I’d let you leave without me?”
“But last night—”
Chaiya shook her head. “Last night you blindsided me with all your doomsaying talk. And the idea that you were leaving scared me. I don’t want to leave Prospero, but if you think there’s something bad coming, that’s good enough for me. You’ve never been wrong before now. About anything. I love you and won’t be parted from you.”
Camille wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress, mining the fabric, but not caring.
“There is something bad coming, I know it,” she said.
“I believe you,” said Chaiya with a nervous laugh. “If you’re wrong we can always come back.”
Lemuel nodded towards the shuttle the clerk had assigned them.
“We’d better get moving,” he said. “Ours is one of the last to leave.”
Their ragtag group followed the directions of blue-coated ground crew towards the berth of a sleek lighter of gleaming silver. Its wide wings enfolded them in shadow as they passed beneath them, and its flat-bottomed cargo bay was slung beneath the berthing frame they had to climb to reach the crew ramp.
Lemuel allowed himself a small smile of success.
Camille and Chaiya laughed and giggled as they walked hand in hand towards the lighter.
Even Mahavastu wore a smile.
The smiles fell from all their faces as an urgent voice called out, “Stop. On the crew ramp, stay where you are.”
Lemuel’s heart turned to a lump of ice as he turned to see who had hailed them.
A captain in the Prospero Spireguard was leading a detachment of soldiers towards them.
“This looks bad,” he said.
“You have nothing to fear from me, Amon,” said Magnus. “You have been my most faithful servant since I first came to Prospero. I could never harm you.”
“With respect, my lord, I am sure young Uthizzar thought the same,” said Amon, picking his way gingerly through the wreckage of Magnus’ chambers. His grey hair was kept cropped close to his skull and his skin had the texture of aged vellum. He knelt beside Uthizzar’s body and placed his hand upon the cracked and seared breastplate.
The bodies of the Scarab Occult lay around Uthizzar, their bodies twisted in unnatural ways and their flesh blackened as though consumed in the same fire that had destroyed Ma
gnus’ library.
“Tell me what happened,” said Amon.
Magnus lowered his head, unwilling to meet his oldest friend’s gaze. The Captain of the 9th made no accusations—he didn’t need to. No accusation could carry greater guilt than Magnus placed upon himself. Almost a week had passed since he had killed Uthizzar, a week in which he had almost given in to his self-destructive urges and turned his powers upon himself.
Fearing the worst, others had tried to enter his chambers, but Magnus had kept them all at bay until now. Magnus looked down at the grotesquely crumpled body of Baleq Uthizzar and sighed with regret and loss.
“It was an unforgivable lapse and should never have happened,” he said, “but he knew too much and I could not let him leave.”
“Knew too much about what?”
“Come here,” said Magnus. “Let me show you.”
Amon rose and followed Magnus onto the balcony overlooking the white city of Tizca. Magnus read the wariness in Amon’s aura, and didn’t blame him. He would be a fool not be wary. In all the long years since they had first spoken, as tutor and pupil, Magnus had never thought of Amon as a fool.
Magnus looked towards the noonday sky.
“Fly the Great Ocean with me,” he said.
Amon nodded and closed his eyes, and Magnus let his body of light float free of his flesh. The concerns of the mortal world lessened, but could not be wholly ignored. Tizca transformed from a place of cool marble to a glittering jewel of light, the tens of thousands of shimmering soul-lights who called the city home like tiny lanterns.
“How fragile they are,” said Magnus, though there was no one yet to hear him.
The warm glow of Amon’s subtle body appeared next to him, and they flew into a sky of brilliant blue. The world around them deepened from blue to black, the stars pin-wheeling around them like darts of phosphor.
The blackness of space transformed into the swirling, multi-coloured chaos of the Great Ocean, and both travellers felt the welcome rush of pleasure as its currents flowed around their ethereal forms.
Magnus led the way, streaking through the swirling abyss towards a destination only he was capable of finding. Amon followed him, his dutiful friend and beloved son. At length, they came to the region of stillness he had seen a week ago.
He felt Amon’s horror as he beheld the vast fleet of ships, the slab-sided warships, the sleek strike cruisers and the monstrous monuments to destruction that were the Battle Barges. Hundreds of vessels drew ever closer to Prospero, ships of many flags and many allegiances, united with one shared purpose: annihilation.
Leading them was a feral blade of a ship, unsheathed to deliver the deathblow to its hated foe. Grey and fanged, it prowled the stars with carved eyes at its bladed prow piercing the depths of the Great Ocean with uncanny precision.
“Is that what I think it is?” asked Amon.
“It is,” confirmed Magnus.
They flew closer to the brutal vessel, the protective shields that kept void-predators at bay no match for travellers of such power. They passed through its layered voids, diving down through metre upon metre of adamantium hull plates, integrity fields and honeycombed bulkheads until they reached the heart of the ship.
The masters of this fleet gathered to plan the destruction of all that Magnus held dear, and the two sons of Prospero listened to their deliberations. Magnus was prepared for what he would hear, but Amon was not, and the flaring wash of his aetheric field sent a pulse of choleric energy through the ship’s crew.
“Why?” begged Amon.
“Because I was wrong.”
“About what?”
“Everything,” said Magnus. “All the things you taught me, I arrogantly assumed I already knew. You warned me of the gods of the warp and I laughed at you, calling you a superstitious old fool. Well I know better now, for I beheld such a being and thought I had the better of it, but I was wrong. I have done terrible things, Amon, but you must believe that I did them for the right reasons.”
Amon drifted down towards the master of this vessel and the steely-eyed killer in golden armour who stood next to him on a raised command dais. A group of identically armoured warriors stood at the base of the dais occupied by their leaders.
“The Council of Nikaea?” demanded Amon. “Were they right to name us warlocks?”
“I fear they may have been, though only now do I understand that.”
“And for that we are to suffer?”
Magnus nodded and flew up through the ironwork of the starship, exploding outwards into the seething cauldron of the Great Ocean. Amon flew at his side, and they hurtled back to Prospero, exhaling pent-up breaths as they opened their eyes and looked down on the reassuringly familiar vista of Tizca.
“And the Legion knows nothing of this?” asked Amon.
“Nothing,” said Magnus. “I have drawn a veil around Prospero. None see out, not even the Corvidae. Now the Thousand Sons must learn what it means to be blind.”
“So our punishment draws ever closer,” said Amon. “What happens when it gets here?”
“You are kind, old friend,” said Magnus. “It is my punishment.”
“Their axes will fall on the rest of us as well,” pointed out Amon. “I ask again; what will we do when they get here?”
“Nothing,” said Magnus. “There is nothing to do.”
“There is always something to do. We can destroy them before they even reach us,” hissed Amon, gripping Magnus’ arm.
Magnus shook his head saying, “This is not about whether we can defend ourselves against this threat. Of course we can. It is about whether we should.”
“Why should we not?” countered Amon. “We are the Thousand Sons and nothing is beyond us. No path is unknown to us and no destiny is hidden from us. Instruct the Corvidae to pierce the veils of the future. The Pavoni and Raptora can enhance our warriors’ prowess while the Pyrae burn our enemies and the Athanaeans read the minds of their commanders. When they come they will find us ready to fight.”
Magnus despaired, hearing only the urge to strike the first blow in Amon’s voice.
“Have you not heard what I have said?” he pleaded. “I do not strike because it is what the powers that have manipulated me since I came here want me to do. They want me to take arms against our doom, knowing that if I do it will only confirm everything those who hate and fear us have always believed.”
Amon looked out over the city, and his eyes took on a faraway look, tears of loss streaming down his cheeks.
“Before you came to Prospero, I had a recurring nightmare,” he said. “I dreamt that everything I held dear was swept away and destroyed. It plagued me for years, but on the day you arrived from the heavens like a comet, the dream stopped. I never had it again. I convinced myself it was nothing more than an ancestral memory of Old Night, but it wasn’t, I know that now. I foresaw this. The destruction of everything I hold dear is coming to pass.”
Amon closed his eyes and he gripped the balcony with white-knuckled fury.
“I may not be able to stop it,” he said, “but I am going to fight to protect my home, and if you ever held my friendship in any esteem, you would do the same.”
Magnus rounded on Amon.
“Despite everything I have done, my fate is my own,” Magnus said. “I am a loyal son of the Emperor, and I would never betray him, for I have already broken his heart and his greatest creation. I will accept my fate and though history may judge us traitors, we will know the truth. We will know we were loyal unto the end because we accepted our fate.”
* * *
The captain of the Spireguard stopped before him, and Lemuel reached out to soothe his aura. His terror made it difficult, but before he could reach out with any calming influence, he saw that the officer’s aura was not expecting trouble, but wracked with grief.
Lemuel looked more closely, recognising the breadth of the man’s shoulders, the immaculate pressing of the uniform and the gold hogging looped around his shoulde
rs.
The captain removed his helmet, and Lemuel dared hope this enterprise wasn’t doomed.
“Captain Vithara?” he said.
“Indeed, Master Gaumon,” said Captain Sokhem Vithara of the 15th Prosperine Assault Infantry. “I hoped I would see you before you left.”
“Before we left?” asked Lemuel, confused as to why they weren’t being frogmarched in manacles away from the lighter. The cargo bay doors were closing and they would be airborne in a matter of moments.
“Yes, I almost missed you because your names weren’t on any of the manifests.”
“No,” agreed Lemuel with a guilty smile, “they wouldn’t be.”
“Still, I’m glad I caught you.”
“You are?” asked Camille. “Why? What do you want?”
The young man struggled to find the right words, and in the end he gave up and just spoke in a confused torrent.
“I don’t know for sure what happened to Kallista, but I know she does not want to remain here,” he said, and Lemuel straggled to hold his composure in the face of the young man’s obvious grief. “She wants you to take her away from here.”
Lemuel exchanged a worried look with Camille.
“That could be difficult,” he said.
“I know, I’m not making any sense,” said Vithara, “but she said that she wanted to leave Prospero with her friends.”
“And she told you this?” asked Camille, enunciating each word carefully so there could be no misunderstanding. “After she died?”
Vithara’s face was a mask of indecision and incomprehension.
“I believe so,” he said. “I dreamed of Kallista last night, you see. She was sitting beside me in Fiorento Park and we watched the sunshine on the lake. We didn’t say anything, we just held each other. When the reveille bell woke me this morning, I found a note beside my bed telling me to be at the landing platforms at this exact time. I don’t remember writing the note, even though it was in my handwriting, but it was obviously Kallista’s words. She wanted me to be here, and she wanted me to give you this.”
[Horus Heresy 12] - A Thousand Sons Page 41
