Old Earth

by Nick Kyme

  ‘But that your mental trauma is yet to be fully accounted for,’ he concluded. ‘Wounds as severe as yours… They leave a mark, scars that go beyond the flesh.’

  ‘I assure you, Goran, if I need your ministration or counsel I shall ask for it.’ Aug looked him in the eye. ‘I mean that sincerely.’

  Gorgonson held his gaze, as if measuring Aug’s words and finding they held the appropriate weight of truth.

  He nodded. ‘Be sure that you do.’ He pulled away from the medi-slab, leaving Aug enough room to get up. ‘I am finished for now. But I want to see you back here after the council.’ He went to attend to his equipment, sighing at its patchwork nature and the level of disrepair. ‘It’s a miracle I can heal anything with this,’ he chuntered to himself. ‘At least we have plenty of hacksaws.’

  ‘Are you this diligent with all of your patients, Goran?’

  Gorgonson gave Aug a sideways look.

  ‘Only those I like,’ he replied.

  Aug smirked. ‘You don’t like any of them.’

  Gorgonson frowned, as he considered his answer. Then, shrugging, he said, ‘True.’

  Aug’s laughter echoed all the way from the apothecarion to the Iron Heart’s bridge.

  They were running dark, the ship as benighted as the void.

  Meduson stood on the command dais, slightly elevated above the rest of the bridge, ringed by an atoll of sparsely manned servitor pits and bare-bones crew stations. Apart from the dull glow of instrumentation and the ambient light of distant stars coming through the large, curved viewport at the bridge’s prow-facing aspect, the only other illumination issued from the four hololiths Meduson consulted.

  Each was a cone of hazy green light, projected from an array built into the forward half of the dais. Meduson stood in the middle, ­facing an arc of Iron Hands officers in simulated form. His arms were by his sides, fists tightly balled.

  He was late. A failure in the plasma drives. Unforeseen. Rectifiable, but not without incurring delay. The engines had been set to full burn, a risk on account of their magnified heat signature, but Meduson had clawed back a few days. Not enough, it seemed.

  ‘We cannot linger,’ said the ghost of Naduul Norsson. Even via the imperfect capture of the hololith array, the Iron Father of Atraxii had a stern disposition. His mouth was a pursed, thin line, his eyes perpetually narrowed, one of them irrevocably bloodshot.

  A partially flayed scalp, fraught with scarring, betrayed his battle history. Tufts of wiry hair stuck up from a pallid, shaven skull. He had not even set foot on Isstvan V, but bore the wounds of that battle nonetheless. Even the escape, the atmospheric engagement that had unfolded once the truth of Horus’ betrayal had been revealed, had been a massacre. Few ever spoke of that fight though, despite the thousands who had died.

  ‘Three days you have had us here,’ Raask Arkborne of Felg agreed. The Frater’s left ocular bionic constantly flared and refocused, the outward signs of dysfunction impossible to mask. His bionic arm lay across his chest, the elbow bent as if held by an invisible sling. Every few seconds, one of the fingers twitched, an involuntary misfire of the nerve/augmetic receptor interface.

  ‘Three days,’ said Kuleg Rawt of Clan Raukaan, the emphasis unnecessary. ‘Three days for the Sons of Horus to find us and kill us. They will be hunting after what we did on Hamart. Out for blood.’

  Next to the others, Rawt looked almost unscathed, possessing no obvious bionics. Beneath his armour was another matter, though. He had one hand on a long-hafted power axe, its ferrule resting against the deck, though that was lost in the haze of the dissolving hololithic feed which ended at Rawt’s greaves. He also wore the Eye of Vigilance on his breastplate, a dubious honour, justly given and now rightly besmirched. An eye, the eye, encircled by a cog signified that Rawt had once fought beside Horus. Now it served as a potent reminder of his vow to kill the Warmaster and deface the medal with the primarch’s treacherous blood.

  ‘I am surprised there is any left in your veins, Iron Father,’ snapped Meduson, instantly regretting both his tone and his words.

  The hololith of Rawt flickered angrily as if echoing the mood of the Iron Father.

  ‘And some believe your blood is overly hot, Meduson.’

  ‘You will address him as Warleader,’ snarled Lumak. He stood behind Meduson’s left shoulder, a hulking, glowering presence, utterly unapologetic.

  Rawt’s gaze and the gazes of the other Iron Fathers who had taken the reins from their former clan-fathers, slain during the massacre at Oqueth, turned on the Avernii captain.

  Meduson braced himself for the coming tirade, silently cursing Lumak and wondering if it was too late to simply push him from an airlock.

  No point, he realised, he would probably take up argument with the stars instead and incur the wrath of the void itself.

  To Meduson’s profound surprise, Rawt did not react. At least not with remonstration or rebuke. He acquiesced.

  ‘Apologies, Warleader,’ he said, his gaze lingering on Lumak before he looked back at Meduson. ‘I think I speak for all here present when I say the last few weeks have been fraught. After Oqueth, caution is only logical.’

  And natural, thought Meduson, realising logic was half the issue.

  The other two Iron Fathers nodded their assent.

  ‘I understand your concerns, Fraters. This is the largest gathering of Iron Hands and allied assets since…’ He paused, reluctant to commit to the name.

  ‘Isstvan,’ said the fourth figure, his voice distorted and distant. A jerking, crackling wraith, plagued by a weak signal. ‘The largest gathering since Isstvan.’

  Meduson turned to the hololith and nodded. ‘Yes, Frater Kernag. Since Isstvan.

  ‘But it is vital we meet,’ Meduson asserted, ‘and so I ask for forbearance, and two more days.’

  The hololiths nodded as one, Kernag’s dispersing to static as the unstable signal failed. The others lingered only a little longer, long enough for Rawt to say, ‘Two days, Warleader, or we shall have no choice but to abandon this place and reconvene at another.’

  The hololiths dissolved, plunging Meduson into darkness.

  He heard the incredulous frown in Lumak’s voice. ‘Can we reach the rendezvous in two days?’

  Meduson was already stalking from the bridge. ‘We must.’

  ‘They have picked up where the clan-fathers left off,’ said Meduson, his irritation focused on the middle distance.

  The heady atmosphere of the Iron Heart’s enginarium lay thick like an oily shroud. Far from peaceful, the great plasma drives thrummed with barely restrained power and gave the air an actinic tang.

  Aug could barely feel it, his physical senses inured to such stimulation. His mechanical sensors performed a detailed analysis that was consigned to the subconscious.

  ‘Don’t mistake their caution for disapproval,’ he said, attempting counsel, his eyes on a diagnostic readout from the main drive array. It glowed in the smoke-dark light, and cast the Iron Father’s shadow. Other shadows lurked in the darkness too, toiling menials and servitors without whose blood and sacrifice the Iron Heart could not function.

  Engine efficiency concerned Meduson, though, not the poor wretches doomed to exist in the ship’s deepest holds.

  Having altered the balance of various onboard systems, Aug allowed himself a self-indulgent smile as the plasma drives went from sub-optimal to near optimal – an overall performance gain of twenty-three per cent. Not easy, and it had diverted him from other important tasks, but it was done.

  ‘And you now have your two days,’ he announced triumphantly.

  Meduson nodded, pleased, and clapped Aug on the shoulder.

  ‘Fine work, Jebez. It is one less thing for the other Fraters to bemoan.’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Aug, his tone mockingly sober, ‘for it would not do for a Warleader to be
tardy.’

  Meduson raised an eyebrow as he frowned. ‘Don’t make me regret asking for your help, Jebez,’ he said, but with good humour.

  ‘I am your humble servant,’ said Aug, bowing. ‘Besides, you saved me the tedium of having to go all the way to the bridge when you accosted me at the very door.’

  Despite himself, Meduson laughed.

  ‘I meant to apologise, Jebez,’ he said, ‘for my earlier behaviour.’

  Aug looked nonplussed, setting down the data-slate. ‘To what are you referring, Shadrak?’

  ‘I know you know what I mean.’

  Aug gave a slow nod, feigning sudden understanding as if recalling a memory he had since dismissed as unimportant.

  Meduson saw through it.

  ‘It wounded you, to be spoken to in such a manner,’ he said. ‘It was unworthy of me, and you.’

  ‘Your burdens are singular, Shadrak,’ said Aug, a small, sad smile on his pallid lips. ‘In many ways, I gave them to you. But you are not alone. As Hand Elect, I can be more than just… inspiration.’

  Meduson considered that, and considered what else Aug might be saying.

  ‘You think me rash to want to attack the flotilla?’

  ‘It is…’ Aug weighed his words, ‘bold.’

  ‘And you believe the other Fraters will think so too.’

  ‘I believe they will need convincing.’

  Meduson gave a rueful snort. ‘And hence my dilemma. They should not have to be convinced. As Warleader, my word is an order. If it is to mean anything, then that order must be followed. And not just by those who agree with it, or can see its value.’

  ‘I meant no slight,’ said Aug quickly, raising his hand. ‘I only think it would be wise to consider the task before you.’

  Meduson turned, venting an exasperated breath. He took three paces forwards before turning back. ‘We have been here before, Jebez. Ruling by clan council.’

  ‘Ruling?’ asked Aug, his frown suggesting a deeper concern at the word.

  ‘Leadership,’ Meduson corrected himself, curt, agitated. ‘Is my meaning not clear?’

  ‘Ah…’ Aug began, ‘I am hesitant to reply, for fear of annoying you further. And what clan council? It is gone, slain in a single blow.’

  ‘They gather much like one, and speak as one,’ said Meduson, his anger only rising. ‘It is a yoke I must break, if we are to move forward.’

  ‘And where would you have us move to, Shadrak?’

  ‘To Terra, to Horus – to something more than this scurrying around in the shadows, this… piracy.’

  ‘You would challenge the Warmaster? That is more than boldness, Shadrak. It smacks of hubris.’

  ‘And why not? What is our purpose if it is not to reinforce the Throneworld or kill the one who slew our father? Vengeance or duty, I will take either at this point.’

  ‘It was Fulgrim who struck the blow,’ said Aug. ‘Would you kill him too?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Meduson without hesitation.

  ‘I refuse to believe our only options are to die in glory or live to see obsolescence.’

  ‘It is not glory I seek, Jebez, it is purpose. Meaning. Our father did not forge us to be scavengers.’

  Aug bowed his head a little, an attempt at contrition. ‘I fear I have done the opposite of what I intended, Shadrak. I only meant to say the Iron Fathers will be recalcitrant, and that you should prepare for their resistance.’

  Meduson sighed, irritated again that he had allowed the conversation to deteriorate as it had.

  I have disaffected him, he thought.

  ‘I am sorry, Jebez. I am fatigued, that is all.’

  ‘Perhaps you should see Goran?’

  ‘I will, I will,’ Meduson replied, swiftly dismissing Aug’s concerns. ‘I had hoped this would be easier.’

  ‘Without the clan-fathers?’ Aug guessed.

  Meduson gave a reluctant nod. ‘I would not have willed it this way, but yes. I harboured hopes we could speak with one voice, act with one fist.’

  ‘Your voice, your fist.’

  Meduson shook his head, resigned. ‘I can see no other way.’

  ‘Then know I shall help you see it done.’

  Aug held out his hand, and after a second’s hesitation, the two locked forearms in the manner of warriors.

  ‘One voice, one fist,’ said Meduson.

  ‘As one,’ echoed Aug.

  Nerrovorn had died long ago. An early casualty of the war, the world had been bombed almost out of existence, its population reduced to ash and dust. Its peoples had not resisted the War­master. They had barely known the galaxy had ripped in two, with the Emperor’s once noble sons fighting and killing each other for the spoils. Horus had made an example of them, as he had many worlds. Nerrovorn had been amongst the first. A statement of intent. An act of reckless, needless and senseless spite that turned a thriving agri planet into a desiccated hecatomb. No one set foot upon its tainted soil anymore, the Destroyers had seen to that. It possessed nothing of worth, save the grim reminder of the Warmaster’s casual wrath. Enough poison freighted its atmosphere to burn ceramite.

  Most vessels gave it a wide berth.

  A fleet lingered still, clinging to the edges of Nerrovorn’s fading gravity well, too large to submit and be dragged to the surface, too weak to drift off into the fathomless void. A graveyard, its ghosts the unquiet spirits of the tens of thousands of crew entombed within its ships.

  One of those vessels, a cruiser of considerable size called the Ardentine, drifted more or less intact. Several rents in the hull, the subsequent venting of essential air and the fatal failure of life-preserving systems formed the narrative of its demise. Its death had been short, perfunctory and without glory.

  Its crew’s attempts to cling to life had not succeeded – but then the crew of the Ardentine, hardy folk as they once were, had not hailed from Medusa.

  The Iron Hands had chosen and secured the ship swiftly, the blighted atmosphere of Nerrovorn the perfect baffle against inquisitive sensoria or long-range augurs. An old flight deck, its vessels futilely spent and having long since crashed earthwards or spiralled voidwards, could easily accommodate a significant gathering of offi­cers and their retinues.

  An auditorium of sorts was raised. Light, albeit sparse and flickering with unreliable power, flared anew. It cast long shadows over the serried occupants.

  They had come covertly, answering a heavily coded summons. A heightened prey instinct pervaded, and their arrival was staggered. Vulnerability was not a word readily employed in the Medusan tongue, but in recent times its use and meaning had become familiar.

  Gunships, landers, lighters, vessels of many designations had ­ferried their precious cargoes to the Ardentine, only to take flight almost as soon as they had arrived – haring back to larger craft lying in wait at the edge of the system, in the radiation pulse of Nerrovorn’s dying sun, or in the many volatile nebulas that blinded sensoria both within and without. Scattered across the void. Shattered across their once formidable ranks.

  Precautions had become mandatory. The sustained victories of Shadrak Meduson were thought a brief reprieve at best, and at worst, deluding tactics fraught with false security that led only to extinction.

  Yet they had gathered according to the Warleader’s desire, revenants haunting a ghost ship.

  And they glowered like cold and unquiet spirits, jealous of the living and eager to share their pain.

  Last to arrive, Meduson knew he had missed something as soon as he alighted from the gunship’s ramp with his council and Hand Elect. The glances of the Iron Fathers, however guarded, revealed much.

  Several months it had taken to bring this conclave about, several months of clandestine messages, dead drops, false communications and compartmentalised orders. Not just to his own battlegroup, but to any and all
battlegroups that knew the vox-frequencies and the codes. They might be shattered, these sons of lost and fallen primarchs, disparate in culture and tactical creed, but they shared a common language of sorts. It was one of survival. The necessary rigour of it all fell harshly on the faces of the Iron Fathers, captains, subalterns and other battle-leaders arrayed for Meduson’s pleasure.

  Fatigue plagued some. For others, weariness had a different root cause. A few were not truly present at all, having chosen to attend this council via hololithic interface. These attendees shimmered incorporeally like true ghosts amongst the assembly.

  All appeared expectant.

  ‘My brothers,’ Meduson began, hiding his annoyance at the discussions that had clearly taken place in his absence. He noticed that Rawt and the Iron Fathers he had spoken to two days ago aboard the Iron Heart had banded together. A silent cohort of disapproval, trying to be their slain clan-fathers. Others – the line officers, captains and lieutenants in the main, and some veteran sergeants – appeared less closed-off but all were waiting for the Warleader to disprove the arguments made against him in his absence.

  Meduson did not dispute free speech, far from it, but he wanted a fair hearing. He chose, as with so many supposed impasses, to tackle the matter head-on.

  ‘I apologise for my lateness, and I have no doubt words have been exchanged here without me to hear them.’ His voice echoed in the temporarily restored atmosphere of the ship, carrying across the night-dark flight deck with ease.

  A partial ring of his accusers, or so it seemed, waited before him. They stood in ranks, their retinues close by and armed. Suspicion would kill Meduson’s endeavour as quickly as any enemy.

  ‘And I shall hear them,’ he vowed, his gimlet gaze falling upon Rawt in particular. ‘But allow me first to say my piece.’

  Silence held briefly, somehow undercutting the lonely and ­ragged banners suspended from the vaulted ceiling. Each portrayed the faded glory of Nerrovorn, the association with the ship’s present occupants grimly ironic.

  ‘None shall gainsay you, Warleader,’ said Rawt, ‘but speak quickly, for every second we labour endangers us further.’