Inky black smoke gathered in the assassin’s hand and began to take on a familiar shape, but Haln was quickly on his feet, stepping between the hatch and his twitching charge. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Put that away. This isn’t the time.’
‘You don’t tell me what to do,’ hissed the killer. ‘I tell you.’
Haln let the exasperation show on his face. ‘My orders don’t come from you,’ he hissed. ‘They don’t even come from him. So back off, and let me do my job.’
The assassin muttered something foul and venomous under his breath, slinking away to the open window. His scarred hand was empty again, and his fingers toyed with the growth of unkempt stubble on his chin.
The scent of brimstone lingered in the air as Haln peered through a spy hole in the hatch and then cracked it open to allow a wiry deckhand to slip inside. She had a pict-slate in her hand. ‘Got you something,’ she explained, her accent thick with the heavy vowels that betrayed a tech-nomad upbringing. ‘Did just like you asked.’
When they had boarded the Walking City, Haln had paid this woman to slip a code-spike into a port on the maintenance level of the central interlingua, the Walking City’s core vox nexus, through which ran a steady stream of pirated data.
The woman’s employers, the mistresses of the city, were information brokers with great access to the decrepit digital networks in this part of the world. Haln could have paid them for the data he wanted, but that would have drawn too much attention. It was easier to steal it using a greedy cat’s-paw like the deckhand.
‘Give,’ demanded Haln, and he snatched the slate away. He leaned forward, allowing his right eye to open like a quartered fruit. Long ago, Haln had killed a Mechanicum adept for the optic implant and added it to his own repertoire of tools – it extruded a fine mechadendrite that wormed across the surface of the slate and into a connector slot.
Immediately, his forebrain was assailed by a storm of images and sounds, pieces of data captured in the net of scrapcode that had been lurking inside the spike. The demi-intelligent software device had sifted the torrent of raw data passing through the Walking City’s servers – much of it so grossly illegal that the mistresses would have been executed if they were known to possess it – and plucked out what Haln needed to complete his mission.
He drifted into a mechanically-induced fugue state, the data temporarily becoming his whole world. Much of it was useless, redundant or vague, but the valuable gems among the silt shone through. The trawl of data slowly confirmed what he had suspected from the start. The woman called Keeler, the target that they had missed at the sanctuary, was on the Hesperides orbital plate. Snatches of vox chatter, pieces of raw machine-code, probability percentiles, all of it accreted into a solid, high-order chance that Keeler was there. Confidence is strong, Haln told himself. This time we will have her.
But there was something else that rose out of the stolen data. An outlier.
For a moment Haln thought some programming anomaly had crept into his feed, but as the information presented itself he realised that it was what it appeared to be. Someone else was in the mix, following the same path, looking for the same thing.
He found a partial pict-capture from a monitor bird of a huge, muscular figure in robes, caught in the act of killing a man. Legiones Astartes. There was no doubt in Haln’s mind. Bereft of armour and guns, it appeared, but still very much a grave danger.
And the face… Haln knew that face. He had seen it before, back when he himself had worn a different aspect. The legionary had been clad in storm-shade wargear then, the decks of the starship Daggerline reverberating beneath his boots as he strode past the alcove where Haln stood. Not seeing him. Not knowing what he really was.
Haln got off the ship as soon as he could after that, learning that the legionary had another of his kind with him, a psyker whose gaze might pierce Haln’s otherwise flawless disguise. He kept out of sight, with no other choice but to let things take their course… That he had escaped the confrontation out beyond Eris had been a miracle.
But at least the legionary was alone this time. That shifted the odds against them from insurmountable to merely incredible.
‘There’s a problem,’ Haln began, his voice sounding slow and drawn out to his own ears as he disengaged from the data mass and returned himself to a more human thought-mode. ‘There may be a…’
He halted as he became aware of what was going on around him. Being inside the information cluster caused Haln to lose focus on the real world. Time could pass, events could occur right in front of him and he would remain only vaguely aware.
Haln’s face was wet. He reached up and wiped away hot specks of blood.
In the middle of the cabin, a slagged thing that was some repugnant fusion of a melted metal stool and a burned human body lay on its side, emitting high-pitched squeals as it cooled in the breeze from the window. What was left of a face there sat locked in freakish horror.
The assassin stood over his work, black smoke coiling back into his hand as a gun-shaped object deliquesced and vanished.
Haln blew out a breath, secretly pleased that the killer had sated his needs but also irritated at his lack of restraint. ‘You couldn’t wait? Now I’ll be forced to find a way to dispose of her that doesn’t draw notice.’
‘That’s one of the things you’re good at,’ whispered the assassin. ‘What is the problem?’
‘You have very poor impulse control.’
The killer shook his head, gesturing at the data-slate. ‘With that.’
‘I believe we have the target’s location. But there’s an added complication. A Space Marine is also on site. He may be there to protect the target.’
‘Oh.’ The assassin leaned in towards the burned corpse, until his face was almost touching the blackened bone of its skull. ‘I’ve killed that kind before.’ He looked away, glaring at Haln with glittering eyes. ‘More than once.’
Nineteen
Ask the question
Lucidity
The Gallery
Garro sat awkwardly on a chair that, while large, was still too small for a transhuman. He accepted a flask of water from Sindermann more out of ritual than actual thirst, and presently the iterator found a seat for himself, where he could look the legionary in the eye and consider him.
‘It makes me glad to see you alive,’ said the old man. ‘There were times when I wondered if you might have fallen victim to this damnable conflict.’
‘The war has tried to kill me. Many times,’ Garro allowed, one hand falling to rest atop his augmetic leg. ‘It’s taken pieces but not the whole.’
‘It is a war,’ Sindermann said, nodding gravely. ‘There are people out there who still think it is just a minor revolt. A thing that can be put down with the correct application of reasoning, gunfire and belligerence.’ We know otherwise. The unspoken coda hung in the air between them, and the moment stretched.
‘I am here to see Euphrati,’ Garro said, pushing out the words with some effort.
‘I know.’ The iterator nodded again. ‘But why do you need to, Captain?’
‘You of all men ask me that?’ Garro looked away, his gaze ranging around the room. The chamber they sat in was another part of the drain-way, walled off with pieces of repurposed decking and old girders. It was an anteroom of sorts, with an entrance at either end. One passage led back to the makeshift chapel, and the other vanished into an unlit tunnel. Sailcloth shrouds hung from the ceiling to pool on the floor, deadening the sound of distant atmosphere processors.
‘I can only imagine the things you have seen,’ Sindermann prompted. ‘I witnessed horror enough at Horus’ hands, and I would live a happy life if I never saw the like again. But you? You brought us back to Terra and then threw yourself into the fight anew.’
Garro eyed him. ‘I never did learn how you were able to leave the Somnus Citadel on Luna. I recall that the
Sisters of Silence were determined to hold you in custody for as long as they desired.’
The iterator smiled slightly. ‘Some of the Null Maidens have read the book. They understood. And dear Iacton played a role for us. We found our way out.’
The mention of the Luna Wolf veteran’s name cast a shadow over Garro’s thoughts for a brief moment. ‘Qruze was a great warrior, a better man. His loss is keenly felt.’
Sindermann pointed back towards the chapel. ‘I keep a sacrament lit in his name. He won’t be forgotten.’ He took a breath. ‘You still haven’t answered the question.’
Garro took a sip of the water, tasting the impurities in it, delaying the moment of his reply. Now he was here, he was reluctant to go forward. But eventually the words came, as he knew they would.
‘After the Eisenstein, after we made it to Sol… I thought I understood what my duty was. Before, it had been simple. Serve my Legion, my primarch, my Emperor, fight the crusade, bring about the golden age… But Mortarion and the Death Guard broke that covenant. The moment he allied with the Warmaster, my purpose was sundered. I lost my identity, do you see? Great pieces of who I was, stripped away or corrupted. And for a time, I clung to what was in front of me. I reached for the last thing I had left… My only compass was my honour, Sindermann. My only path was to do what was right.’
‘And so you have,’ said the iterator. ‘You took a warning to Lord Dorn and then to Terra. You saved many lives.’
A bleak mood settled on the legionary. ‘I believe now that the Emperor and the Sigillite already knew about the rebellion, even before we reached Terra. I carried that warning for nothing. Men were lost – good men like Kaleb Arin and Solun Decius – and for what? Because I did not stand and fight.’
‘And die?’ Sindermann snapped. ‘We all would have been destroyed, had you not taken us to the warp. Or worse!’
Garro shook off the moment of self-pity. ‘Aye, perhaps so. But it stings no less. And I wonder if it was my arrogance at play to believe that I would find new purpose when I shed the Fourteenth Legion’s colours. Was I a fool to take up Malcador’s offer of patronage? He promised me I would serve the Imperium, and I thought that would be enough.’
‘But what have you really done?’ The iterator’s question was plucked from Garro’s own thoughts.
‘I have passed back and forth across the stars through secretive byways, and by means that only the Sigillite understands,’ he said quietly. ‘I have dug up a dead man who lost his mind, stolen a loyal son from his brothers… These and many others, all to press-gang them into the same ghost army I now march with. For what? For a purpose whose design is beyond my ken? So that Malcador can have his grey legion for tomorrow’s wars? That is not what I hoped for. It is not who I wish to be.’
‘You are of purpose,’ intoned Sindermann, and the familiar words sent a chill down Garro’s spine. For a moment, it was as if he heard other voices speaking the words in synchrony with the old man. ‘The Saint told you that. And you believed that purpose was the one Malcador presented to you.’
‘It is not.’ It was the first time Garro had given voice to the nagging notion that had grown, slowly and surely, in the depths of his thoughts over the passing months. ‘Whatever great schema the Sigillite plans to assemble, I am not a part of his endgame. He confronted me on Titan, in the hall of the hidden fortress that even now he builds for his knights. I knew then. I am his tool. It is true that his purpose aligned with mine, for a while… but I look over my shoulder now and see that they diverged a long time ago.’
‘And you fear you will never find your way back.’
He nodded, his gaze dropping. ‘Euphrati… the Saint… gave me clarity once before. I need that again. If not… I will slip back to what I was that one day over Isstvan. A man who does not know himself.’
‘That will never…’ Garro’s head snapped up as he heard the strange echo-voice beneath Sindermann’s words, clear and distinct now. A woman’s voice.
‘Never be so,’ said Euphrati Keeler. She stood at the iterator’s shoulder, as if she had been there all along. Garro half-expected her to be bathed in some kind of ethereal radiance, but there was nothing of that – only a warm serenity that flowed from her peaceful smile. Sindermann mimicked her words, and the legionary realised that in some manner, she had been speaking through him.
Keeler saw the question in Garro’s eyes and shook her head. ‘No, no, Nathaniel. Nothing like that. But dear Kyril is elderly and he has not endured our fugitive life well. Sometimes I can help him. Strengthen him.’
Sindermann rose, colouring slightly. ‘I should let you two talk alone.’ He bowed to the woman. ‘Blessed,’ he said, and then walked away, pausing only a moment to pat Garro on the shoulder. ‘Captain. I am so glad you found your way back to us. This is meant to be.’
Garro accepted that without a word, and watched the iterator disappear through the blackout cloths, back into the church proper. ‘I’ve been looking for you for some time,’ he said, without turning back. ‘Often, I was so close I could swear I sensed your presence in the room as it faded.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I’m sorry that was necessary.’
He shot her a look. ‘You knew, then?’
‘That you sought me? I did. The time wasn’t right before.’ She took a step away, walking towards the dark tunnel. ‘No longer. We shall talk, Nathaniel. I will help you.’
Then he was alone, as the sound of a banned hymnal began in the nearby chamber.
Someone had taken the ruined shell of a passenger shuttle, ripped away the pilot space and the aft drive modules, and then by enthusiasm and a lot of molecular welding, bonded it to the edge of a yawning gap between two huge thermal runoffs. Dangling out into naked air over a sheer drop, the ramshackle cantina was a nexus for every lowlife chancer, petty criminal and thug who wanted to numb themselves against the unpleasant reality of life on Hesperides.
Haln nursed two fingers’ worth of something brackish and electric blue in a tumbler cut from the bottom of a water bottle. It tasted like spindle oil and ingesting too much of it in one go would have blinded a normal human, but he was only simulating the act of drinking. Occupying the sparse end of the cantina’s grubby steel bar, he kept watch on the place through a wireless link to the spare eye he cupped in his free hand. Now and then he would roll it back and forth across the countertop with the idle motion of someone who wasn’t looking for companionship or conversation.
His charge, the assassin, had changed his manner once again on the voyage up from the surface to the orbital plate. He was actually in a frame of behaviour that Haln would have been willing to call ‘lucid’, and the spy wondered if the horrific murder aboard the Walking City had aided with that. He dismissed the thought. The assassin was a short distance away, near a hololith tank showing a playlist of tawdry burlesques and sanctioned watchwire broadcasts. Mostly, though, he was pretending to be interested in the ranting of a stocky, rat-like man covered in shimmering electoos. The obvious social dynamics of the room revealed that the tattooed thug was in some position of authority here, and after slipping unnoticed into the cantina a few hours earlier, Haln and the assassin had swiftly built up a model of the power structure in this sordid little corner of the Emperor’s mighty Imperium.
The thug had recently ascended to the top of his gang through attrition, and not by his own guile. The termination of two of his closest allies had forced the tattooed man to become the leader, and it was abundantly clear to Haln he did not have the acumen for it. The thug talked again and again about the circumstances in which his comrades had perished, embellishing it a little more each time to make the story play like he had been its focus. Haln read through all that, of course, nodding along with the rest of the audience and laughing in the right places. The assassin was particularly good at this sort of subterfuge, even volunteering the occasional comment in an accent that passed muster. He was
like a different person now, and Haln hoped this version of him would stick around for a while.
The thug’s story wound round again and the broad strokes remained the same. A killer Space Marine, undoubtedly dispatched by personal order of Horus the Whoreson himself, had come to Hesperides to join up with the chanting religionist freaks living in the underlevels, clearly on a mission to kill, defile or eat those hardy souls who called the platform home, in the name of something or other unhallowed. The thug and his comrades had bravely set out to stand in their way, and despite a spirited fight that claimed the lives of all his friends, he alone had survived. His pyrrhic victory had been to chase the slavering monster into the underlevels, where it had either perished of its wounds or found safety with the god-lovers. If the Space Marine or the believers knew what was good for them, they’d stay there.
Haln ignored the gaping lapses in the story’s logic and sifted for facts. So the legionary was alive, and most likely with the target. But the location of the followers and their ‘church’ would be difficult to find. By the thug’s own admission, the body of the last man to know where it was had been thrown off the gantry and buried in the sky.
Then someone else mentioned that there were other followers who had come to this quadrant, and how it amused the gang greatly to kidnap and keep them chained up for beatings. There were suggestions that the captives be sold to harvesters in the nearby Mindano Plex, who reportedly paid good coin for fresh organs.
This was the information they needed. The assassin gave a pre-arranged signal, and at the next thing the tattooed thug said, Haln burst out laughing. He pocketed the spare eye, turned on the thug and told him how all the effluent he had been spouting for the last two hours made his brain ache. Missing nothing, Haln called out each and every point where the thug’s tissue of lies made no sense, giving special focus to the places where he had obviously covered up his own cowardice.
Garro Page 33
