Garro

by James Swallow

  Her every instinct was to kneel, and she fought to remain standing, her legs trembling. She had never been in the presence of a warrior of the Legiones Astartes before, only glimpsed them at a distance or in the still images of a pict-slate. But now, close enough to touch this one, she knew that all the stories of their menacing aura were true. This was a gene-engineered killer standing over her, a being created only for war. How could she ever have hoped to escape him? The turncoat Warmaster had thousands of such warriors at his command, so was it any wonder that one of them could come to end her with such ease?

  But for all the fear that gripped her, Katanoh Tallery was not ready to die in silence. ‘I am not a traitor,’ she whispered. ‘I am loyal!’ Shaking, she managed to draw herself up. It took all the effort she could muster to look the legionary in the eye. ‘You will not cloak this act in lies. I have done nothing against my Imperium, no matter what has been said against me!’ Tallery turned away, her hands trembling. She pulled at a golden chain about her wrist, hidden inside the cuff of her robe. From it dangled a tiny charm resembling the great symbol of the Imperial aquila, the two-headed eagle that looked both to the future and to the past. She took it between her fingers, as if to draw strength from its noble form. ‘The Emperor protects…’ The words became a prayer for deliverance. ‘The Emperor protects…’

  The stagnant air lay still for the passage of long, chilling moments. Then, with a hiss of pressure-seals, the legionary removed his helmet. ‘Look at me.’

  She did as she was told. The face behind the legionary’s dread helm was revealed to her. Flesh that was a map of healed wounds, old scars and the near-touch of death. And yet, those eyes. For all his fearsome aspect, the warrior’s eyes had a kindness in them.

  ‘The icon you wear about your wrist,’ he said. ‘The aquila. Where did you get it?’

  ‘What does that matter?’ Tallery’s answer was bitter and resigned. ‘If I am to be executed for a lie, what is any truth worth?’

  The tip of his great sword dropped towards the deck, and Tallery felt him take the full account of her. There was doubt on that scarred, ravaged face. He was not what she had expected. The warrior seemed almost human.

  ‘I am Nathaniel Garro,’ said the legionary. ‘Tell me your truth, scribe, and perhaps you will live to see tomorrow.’

  A jolt of emotion shocked through her, a sudden ray of hope piercing the darkness. ‘What… do you want to hear?’

  ‘Tell me why you are here,’ he said. ‘Tell me how this began.’

  It was, on reflection, remarkable how circumstances could change so radically after just one unexpected event. That was all that it had taken to begin the unravelling of Katanoh Tallery’s well-ordered world – the breaking of a single link in the chain of fate.

  The unanticipated ending of a life.

  She had been deep in her duties, as was her way. ‘Attention, servitor. Addendum number six-three-six-one-two-one. File Gamma. Protocol Omnia Majoris. Scribe Tallery recording – let it be known that the four hundred and ninth supply convoy to the Mertiol System has been diverted via the colony on Rocene due to anomalous stellar navigation hazards. This datum to be recorded and transmitted by astropathic medium to all relevant contact points, see sub-clause eight-alpha.’ She stood behind her operations lectern and pawed at the hololithic panels that appeared and disappeared around her, isolated in her cubicle among all the other hundreds of adepts hard at work.

  ‘Servitor confirms. Scribe Tallery.’

  She barely glanced at the mind-blank machine-slave, her attention turning to new sheets of photic parchment emerging from glass capsules, each deposited at her terminal by the chugging vacuum tubes running overhead. The tubes were a complex network, resembling the root system of a tree as if viewed from below. Capsules bulleted back and forth in endless volleys, carrying all kinds of data from station to station.

  ‘Stocks of class-two engine coolant modules for Javelin-variant attack speeders are to be increased from forty thousand extant to sixty-seven thousand, expedite immediate,’ she dictated smoothly, as a chattering ticker-tape spooled out a physical record of her words. ‘Refer and submit docket.’

  So the axiom of the great Terran Administratum held, there was no more serious task than the logistics of empire. In an Imperium that spanned not just planets and star systems, but an entire galaxy, the business of maintaining government, of financing war and peace, of keeping supply lines open, was an endless challenge. If the warriors of the Legiones Astartes were the fist of the Imperium, the Navigator Guild its eyes and the astropaths its voice, then the monolithic Administratum was the heart pumping vital lifeblood through its veins. Nothing moved from world to world, not a starship, not a man, not a morsel of food, without the great machine of the Administratum to manage it. And in a time of conflict, the vital responsibility of this office became even more important.

  Tallery gestured at the servitor to be certain she had its attention. ‘Record that battle salvage from engagements on Zhodon and Hellicore is now cleared for repurposing. Wrecks and deadships pending dispersal to primus forge worlds.’

  ‘Docket confirmed,’ the helot droned, and did as Tallery ordered.

  This was her life, this kingdom of numbers, and she was proud to be a part of it. One amongst many ranked scribes on Riga now working for the Departmento Munitorum, it was her task to see that the food, supplies and weapons passing through the orbital plate’s docks moved seamlessly across the vast span of the Emperor’s domain. It was a task that she was ideally suited for, with her natural eidetic memory.

  ‘Next item. You will request a signal confirmation from the proxy server array on Luna, refer to–’

  ‘Tallery!’

  Her concentration was broken as a hooded figure came barrelling towards her at a run. ‘Scribe Tallery,’ he piped, his manner urgent. ‘Your attention!’

  Confused by this disturbance, the machine-slave dithered, glancing back and forth between the two of them. ‘Please. Restate. Command.’

  ‘Dictation halt.’ Tallery told the servitor. She gave a deep sigh and glared at her colleague. ‘Kelkinod, you cannot simply interrupt me in the middle of–’

  ‘This is important,’ he snapped, putting the lie to her declaration. ‘Stop what you are doing!’ The impromptu appearance of Scribe-Adept Volo Kelkinod was never something that Tallery enjoyed. A fussy, self-absorbed man, he always seemed swamped by his official duty robes, in direct contrast to her rake-thin and somewhat angular aspect. Although they technically shared the same rank in the complex operational structure of the Departmento Munitorum, Kelkinod always spoke to her as though she were an inferior. He had an irritating habit of taking an interest in logistic operations that were nothing to do with him, offering so-called ‘advice’ that was never anything more than thinly veiled criticism. But that day, his usual querulous manner was absent. In its place, there was real panic.

  ‘What has happened?’ she asked, genuine concern rising in her thoughts.

  ‘It is my burden to bring grave news.’ Kelkinod’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Our honoured Adept Senioris, Curator Lonnd… He was found dead in his dormitorium this morning.

  ‘What?’ Tallery’s mouth dropped open in shock. ‘How?’

  Kelkinod’s hands found each other and twisted. ‘The medicae say it was heart failure.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘He did work so hard.’

  She took in the reality of it, and frowned. ‘Only in death does duty end.’

  The other scribe shot her a severe look. ‘And it does not end with Lonnd! Come with me. We must take steps.’ He beckoned her to follow him. ‘And do not speak of this. It is imperative that the workflow remains constant.’

  Curator Lonnd had only become notable by his absence in the Riga Munitorum complex. Given to sequestering himself in his private chambers for days at a time, Tallery’s superior was barely visi
ble to those who toiled under his orders. His existence was only confirmed to her by the steady tide of advisory notes and information requests that flowed from his data queue to hers. Or so it had been until today.

  The two scribes entered Lonnd’s cramped work chamber and peered into its gloomy shadows. Kelkinod made a noise of distress and dashed to the dead man’s lectern. ‘Look. Do you see? We have a problem. Lonnd’s work is piling up and we cannot allow it to bottleneck in this office.’ He gave a shudder. ‘The last thing any of us want is… an audit.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Tallery, with feeling. The stringency of the Administratum’s inspectors was legendary in its rigour and ruthlessness, and no one on Riga wanted to invite their presence there. ‘We should contact the centrum office, then. Inform them of the situation.’ She drew herself up, putting the sad matter of Lonnd’s death aside, already thinking of what might be done to expedite matters in its wake.

  ‘I have already done so,’ Kelkinod said, with an arch sniff. ‘A new curator will be dispatched from Terra to take up Lonnd’s post as soon as possible.’

  ‘Oh…’ She suddenly felt foolish. ‘I thought–’

  ‘You thought I was going to suggest you be promoted to take his place, is that it?’ The other scribe gave a sarcastic, snorting chuckle. ‘You forget yourself.’

  ‘I have more than enough experience,’ she insisted.

  ‘The man’s flesh is not even cold, Tallery!’ he retorted. ‘I hardly think it appropriate to brush him aside so swiftly.’

  ‘They turned you down for the post, didn’t they?’ The other scribe’s face took on colour, and she knew that her guess had been on the mark.

  He grimaced and moved to Lonnd’s wide desk, gesturing sharply at neat piles of data-slates and sheets of photic parchment. ‘Our late curator’s work in managing the movement of military hardware, starships and assorted materiel through Riga’s docks was… It is a vital cog in the battle to oppose the treachery of the Warmaster.’

  She chafed at his attempt to lecture her. ‘I am well aware of that,’ she snapped.

  ‘Then you also know that something as trivial as one man’s untimely demise cannot be allowed to slow the processing of our data. The flow of permissions, certifications and other sundry formulae must continue, in order to oil the gears of the Imperial bureaucracy. Without that, there will be–’

  ‘Chaos.’ Tallery nodded gravely. ‘Yes, of course.’

  Kelkinod’s hands knitted again and he showed a sly smile that made Tallery cringe. ‘I have been granted authority by the centrum office to shift all of your current assignments to your servitor adjunct for temporary processing.’

  ‘That half-witted cretin? I don’t want a brain-wiped menial blundering through my data queue!’ Suddenly, she had an idea of what was really going on here, of the true reason that Kelkinod had brought her to Lonnd’s office. He ignored her interruption. ‘You are now tasked with completing all of Curator Lonnd’s unfinished assignments, until such time as his replacement arrives on Riga.’

  She cast around, seeing a hill of paperwork piled atop the lectern. ‘For Throne’s sake, there must be two hundred incomplete dockets here!’

  ‘At the very least.’ He made a pinched face at her use of the near-profane oath. ‘So, I suggest you get started immediately.’ Kelkinod scurried out of the room before she could say more.

  Tallery scowled, and by force of habit her free hand went to her wrist, to the golden chain and the icon hidden beneath the cuff. ‘Emperor, give me strength,’ she whispered, quietly enough so that the vox-monitors in the room did not hear her.

  Garro studied the woman as she spoke, sifting her every word of her recollection for the slightest hint of mendacity. He found none. ‘This Curator Lonnd. Do you believe his death was unnatural?’

  ‘No. Well, at least, I didn’t at first,’ Tallery said, warily. ‘But now I look back over everything that has happened since then and I cannot help but wonder. Did Lonnd make the same mistake that I did? Was he silenced the way they want to silence me?’

  ‘Who are they?’

  She hesitated before speaking again. ‘It is complicated, my lord.’

  ‘In my experience, things usually are.’ Garro frowned. He did not add that his own circumstances were complex enough without becoming entwined with those of a wanted fugitive. But the legionary could not deny that he felt a compulsion to know more about the woman and the reasoning behind the death sentence that had been placed upon her head.

  Garro had come to the Riga Orbital Plate for his own reasons, troubled by motivations he found it hard to quantify. And now this; by rights, he should have left Tallery to the local peace officers to deal with and never got involved. But old instinct, that ingrained sense of the wrong and the unjust that was at the soul of his character, it came to the fore and demanded he be part of this. He had learned long ago never to argue with it, no matter where it took him. ‘Continue, then,’ he said.

  She gave a rueful smile, and briefly the fear that marbled the scribe’s aspect faded. Tallery did not seem like any kind of traitor-kin that Garro had crossed paths with before, but the warrior was not about to lower his guard until he was certain of her character. The enemy excels at betrayal, he reminded himself. He would offer trust if he could, but only if he were sure.

  ‘I suppose a warrior of the Legions would think my work to be dull and inconsequential,’ she began.

  ‘We all fight the war in our own way.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her head bobbed. ‘That is what I kept telling myself. But now I wonder if I have unwittingly served the enemy all along, and never known it. Have I become complicit by my own ignorance?’

  In the clouded skies above the dockyard, a raptor-like gunship drifted past, suspended high on plumes of jet thrust. Tallery flinched back towards the wall, but the machine dithered, its sensors probing at the air, before moving on to search another area. ‘It cannot see us down here,’ Garro told her. ‘The metal of the cargo modules disrupts any long-range scrying. Go on, scribe.’

  She swallowed hard. ‘The evidence was all there. In Lonnd’s dockets. One only had to know what to look for.’

  ‘Evidence of what?’

  Her expression turned bleak. ‘High treason.’

  ‘So you submit that the curator was working against the interests of the Imperium?’

  His accusation shocked her. ‘No! Oh no, not at all. He may never have known what was going on. The poor fool… I wish I could have been as blinkered as he was. Then none of this would have happened.’

  Garro looked up, watching the gunship recede. They still had time, before the machines would return to this quadrant. ‘I would hear everything,’ he said.

  The hours that Tallery had spent in Lonnd’s chambers soon turned into days. For each docket that she pursued, another three were uncovered. The work grew like weeds, every assignment or protocol sprouting into multiple additional tasks that each required her careful scrutiny.

  She ate sparingly, ordering menials to bring her rations to the chamber, leaving only to see to her bodily needs. Tallery quickly took to sleeping on the grox-hide couch tucked in the corner of the office, rather than return to her own quarters on the dormitory tiers. She soon lost track of time, day and night becoming abstract concepts in the windowless chamber.

  Lonnd’s data queue had fallen far behind, and it was a struggle to drag it back onto schedule. But she worked diligently to do so, knowing that a single erroneous docket could mean the difference between life and death to some distant colony world. A misplaced decimal point, and a food shipment would never arrive, a vital reinforcement would never be sent. Still, there seemed to be no end to it all.

  And so it was there, in the dark hours before dawn, that she found the first anomaly.

  To begin with, Tallery thought she was looking at a correlation error, perhaps an incorrect datum entered by some
other functionary who was not as conscientious as she. An auxiliary ship, a cargo lighter called the Shepherd of Borealis, was carrying the wrong amount of fuel for the mission profile to which it was assigned. It was a tiny mistake. One figure a point higher than it should have been. Easily corrected.

  And yet, something pricked at the scribe’s thoughts. The error nagged Tallery like a paper cut, raw and irritating. On an impulse she could not quite explain, she put aside her work and looked at the document again. She drilled down, following the line of permissions that the paperwork had taken to reach Curator Lonnd’s desk.

  To her horror, the mistake was not the only one. There were many more. And as she went deeper, as she looked more carefully, the number of anomalies Tallery discovered increased. She considered the likelihood that it could be the result of some programming error, something broken in the great wired network of cogitating devices that supported the work of the Estate Imperialis and the Munitorum.

  But such a failure would have been rooted out immediately, detected by the cohort of tech-adepts employed from the Mechanicum for just such duties. Even though there was still distrust between the nation states of Terra and their Mechanicum cousins from Mars, the legacy of disloyalty by the followers of the old Fabricator General, Tallery could not believe that they would so wilfully corrupt Riga’s systems. She dismissed the idea as foolish. The points of data were too well ordered to be random, too careful to be destructive in nature.

  The anomalies were indicators left behind by changes that had been made, deep in the complex, ever-shifting flow of information. Changes made in secret.

  Her assignments fell by the wayside as she became consumed by this new problem. What at first glance had seemed to be nothing more than a handful of small discrepancies was now forming into a disturbing, regular pattern. The errors were always in the same places. Shipping dockets and bills of lading. Navigational route advisories and scrapyard permissions. Secretly, quietly, hidden beneath the everyday running of Riga’s administration, someone had been using the orbital plate as a base for a wide-ranging, clandestine operation. The roots of this deed reached far beyond Riga, Terra and the Solar System. It touched countless Imperial worlds, and it was insidious in its ingenuity.