by Ben Counter
‘Captain Vorlov of the Boundless has also requested to accompany us, although you’ll find he is of a more placid demeanour.’
Cestus had heard of the vessel, and of Captain Vorlov. It was a warhorse ship of the fleet, its combat scars too numerous to count. Its star was in decline, as better, more powerful ships made their presence felt in the greater galaxy. Cestus suspected that the Boundless had been docked at Vangelis for some time, its role in the Great Crusade somewhat diminished, and that Captain Vorlov did not wish to submit to atrophy just yet.
‘Very well,’ said Cestus, deciding against rebuking the admiral. He had, after all, taken her ship for a mission of dubious reasoning. Her attitude, he told himself, was to be expected.
‘You have your heading, admiral. There is little time to lose.’
‘The Wrathful is the fastest vessel in the Segmentum Solar. If your enemy is out there in the void then we will catch him,’ Kaminska assured him, and whirled her command throne back around to her instrument panels.
ADMIRAL KAMINSKA BRISTLED furiously as the Astartes departed the bridge. She had come to Vangelis to effect repairs and take on supplies and replacement crew. She had been looking forward to a week or so of recuperation. Yet, at the word of the Emperor’s Angels, lord regents of the galaxy it seemed, she and her ship were pressed back into service with barely a moment’s notice. ‘By the authority of the Emperor of Mankind’, those words were an unbendable edict that Kaminska could not refuse. It was not that she resented serving – she was a dutiful soldier of the Imperium who had distinguished herself on numerous occasions for its greater glory – no, she took umbrage at the fact that this particular mission was fostered on hunches and, as far as she could tell, whimsy. It did not sit well with Kaminska, not at all.
‘Lord admiral, the escort squadron is in position,’ said Helmsmistress Athena Venkmyer. Her long hair was tied up severely, and her shoulders were forced to attention by the brocade of her uniform.
‘Good,’ Kaminska replied. ‘Screens down!’
The ring of viewscreens descended and glowed to life. The bright, hard gleam of Vangelis was visible from the assembly point, surrounded by a fuzzy shoal of lesser lights: satellite listening spires, fleets at anchor and orbital debris. A distant sun was a brighter point, automatically dimmed by the viewscreens’ limiters.
Icons blinked onto the screens, showing the positions of the other ships in the makeshift fleet. The four escorts – Fearless, Ferox, Ferocious and Fireblade – were flying in a slanted diamond around the Wrathful. The vessel of the Thousand Sons and Captain Mhotep, the Waning Moon, was a short distance away. Even at this distance, the Astartes craft was impressive, a sleek dart of red and gold. The Boundless, a cruiser like the Wrathful, but fitted out with decks for attack craft, was further out, still making its approach.
Satisfied that they were about ready to disembark, Admiral Kaminska flicked a control stud on the arm of her throne and the bridge vox-caster opened up. ‘Loose escort pattern, keep the Waning Moon in our lee. Advance to primary way point, plasma engines three-quarters.’
‘Three-quarters!’ came the yell from Helms-mate Lodan Kant at the engine helm.
‘Mister Orcadus, the Terraward end of the Tertiary Core Transit if you please,’ said Kaminska, having opened up a line to her principal Navigator.
‘At your word, lord admiral,’ was the dour response from the Navigator’s sanctum.
The Tertiary Core Transit was the most stable warp route from Segmentum Solar to the galactic south-east. It would take them to their destination expediently, and hopefully allow the Wrathful to gain some ground on whatever foes, real or imagined, awaited them in the void. It was also the route that any void-farer, if he or she did not want to take a four to five year detour, would take to arrive at the Calth system. The Astartes had been very specific about that. Admiral Kaminska would have liked to question it, but there was no bringing the Emperor’s Angels to account on such a triviality. She would defer to the Astartes’s order, since he was in charge. It would have been unseemly to do otherwise. Kaminska resolved to discover the truth later.
The Wrathful’s engines kicked in, banishing the admiral’s thoughts to the back of her mind. She could feel the vibration through the panelled floor of the bridge. The escort squadron moved into formation on the viewscreens, followed by the Waning Moon and the Boundless.
Whatever was out there, they would find out soon enough.
‘THERE IS AN energy trail here. It’s degraded but discernible,’ said Principal Navigator Orcadus’s voice from his inner sanctum on the Wrathful.
The Imperial ship and her fleet had reached the region of real space as indicated by the co-ordinates provided by Captain Cestus, the supposed site of the destruction of the Fist of Macragge, in short order. They found no sign of the Ultramarine vessel. There was merely a faint energy trace that matched the Fist of Macragge’s signature. Unlike battles on land, where evidence of a fight could be seen clearly and obviously, conflicts in space were not so easily identifiable. Wrecks drifted, ships could be caught and destroyed in black holes, space debris drawn into the gravity well of a passing moon or small planet, even solar wind could scatter the final proof of a battle ever having taken place. So it was that Kaminska had instructed her Navigator to search for whatever energy traces remained behind, those last vestiges of plasma engine discharge that lingered in spite of all other evidence dissipating due to the ravages of space.
‘By Saturn, the output must have been massive,’ Orcadus continued with rare emotion. ‘Whatever ship left this wake is gargantuan, admiral.’
‘It is possible to follow it then?’ Kaminska asked, swivelling in her command throne to regard Captain Cestus standing silently alongside her.
Orcadus’s reply was succinct.
‘Yes, admiral.’
‘Do it,’ Cestus told Kaminska grimly, his expression far away.
Kaminska scowled at what she perceived as arrogance, and returned to her original position.
‘Then do so. Set radar array to full power, Mister Orcadus. Take us onward.’
‘BROTHERHOOD,’ SAID ZADKIEL, ‘is power.’
Surrounded by novices in the sepulchral gloom of the cathedra, he loomed high above the assembly within a raised pulpit of black steel.
‘It is at the core of all authority in the known galaxy, and the source of humanity’s dominion. This is the Word of Lorgar, as it is written.’
‘As it is written,’ echoed the novices.
Over fifty Word Bearers had gathered for the seminary and knelt in supplication before their lord, wearing grey initiate robes over their crimson armour. The cathedral’s ceiling soared on stone-clad struts overhead, adding acoustic power to Zadkiel’s oratory, and the air was as still and cold as a vault. The floor, tiled with stone pages cut with passages from the Word, emphasised that this was a place of worship. It was the very thing that the Emperor had forbidden in his Legions. Idolatry and zealous faith had no place in the Master of Mankind’s new age of enlightenment, but here, in this place, and in the hearts of all Lorgar’s children, faith would be honed into a weapon.
One of the initiates stood among the congregation, indicating his desire to respond.
‘Speak,’ said Zadkiel, quelling his annoyance at the impromptu interruption.
‘Brother can turn on brother,’ said the novice, ‘and thus become weakened. Where, then, is such power?’
In the half-light, Zadkiel recognised Brother Ultis, a zealous youth with ambitious temperament.
‘That is the source of its true power, novice, for there is no greater rivalry than that which exists between siblings. Only then will one seek to undo the works of the other with such vehemence, giving every ounce of his being to claim victory,’ Zadkiel said, arrogantly, enjoying the feeling of superiority.
‘Upon gaining mastery over his kin, that brother will have forged a mighty army so as to overthrow him. He will have plumbed deep of his core and unleashed his hate, for
in no other way can such a victory be achieved.’
‘So you speak of hate,’ said Ultis, ‘and not brotherhood at all.’
Zadkiel smiled thinly to conceal his impatience.
‘They are two wings on the same eagle, equal elements of an identical source,’ Zadkiel explained. ‘We are at war with our brothers, make no mistake of that. In his short-sightedness, the Emperor has brought us to this inexorable fate. With our hate, our devotion to the credos of our primarch, the all-powerful Lorgar, we will achieve our victory.’
‘But the Emperor holds Terra, and in that surely there is strength,’ Ultis countered, forgetting himself.
‘The Emperor is brother to no one!’ cried Zadkiel, stepping forward as his words crushed Ultis’s challenge easily.
Silence persisted for a moment, Ultis shrinking back before his master as he was being chastened. None in the cathedral dared speak. All were cowed by Zadkiel’s obvious power.
‘He lurks in his dungeons on Terra,’ Zadkiel continued with greater zeal, but now addressing the entire congregation. ‘The aexectors and bureaucrats, the flock of Malcador, who run Terra’s regency, they shy away from all ties of brotherhood. They sit on a pedestal, above reproach, above their brothers, above even our noble Warmaster!’
The crowd roared in ascent, Ultis among them, kneeling once more.
‘Is that brotherhood?’
The novices roared again, gauntleted fists pounding the breast plates of their armour to emphasise their fervour.
‘These regents create a stale, meaningless world where all passion is dead and devotion is regarded as heresy!’ Zadkiel spat the words, and was suddenly aware of a presence in the shadows behind him.
One of the Furious Abyss’s crew, Helms-mate Sarkorov, a man with delicate data-probes instead of fingers, was patiently awaiting Zadkiel’s notice.
‘My apologies, lord,’ he said, once he had crossed the few metres between them, ‘but Navigator Esthemya has discovered a fleet of pursuing vectors in our wake.’
‘What fleet?’
‘Two cruisers, an escort squadron and an Astartes strike vessel.’
‘I see.’ Zadkiel turned back to the congregation. ‘Novices, you are dismissed,’ he said without ceremony.
The assembled Word Bearers departed in silence into the shadows around the edge of the cathedral, heading back to their cells to ruminate on the Word.
‘They are gaining ground, my lord,’ said Sarkorov once they were alone. ‘We are powerful, but these ships are smaller and outmatch us for speed.’
‘Then they will reach us before we arrive at the Tertiary Core Transit.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘They will, my lord. Should I instruct the magos to force the engines to maximum power? It is possible we could make warp before we are intercepted.’
‘No,’ said Zadkiel, after some thought. ‘Maintain course and keep me updated as to the fleet’s progress.’
‘Yes, sire,’ replied Sarkorov, saluting and then turning sharply to return to the bridge.
‘My Lord Zadkiel,’ said a voice from the gloom. It was Ultis, concealed by the shadows, but now stepping into the light at the centre of the cathedra.
‘Novice,’ said Zadkiel, ‘why have you not returned to your cell?’
‘I would speak with you, master, of the lessons imparted.’
‘Then illuminate me, novice.’ There was the slightest trace of amusement in Zadkiel’s tone.
‘The brothers of whom you spoke, you were referring to the primarchs,’ Ultis ventured.
‘Go on.’
‘Our current course will bring us into conflict with the Emperor. To the unenlightened observer, it would appear that the Emperor rules the galaxy and the throne of Terra cannot be usurped.’
‘What of the enlightened, novice, what do they see?’
‘That the Emperor’s power is wielded through his primarchs,’ Ultis said with growing conviction, ‘and by dividing them, the power of which you spoke is realised.’
Zadkiel’s silence bade Ultis to continue.
‘It is how Terra can be defeated, when Lorgar’s brothers join with him, when we bring war to those who will inevitably side with the Emperor. We will yoke our hatred and use it as a weapon, one that will not be denied!’
Zadkiel nodded sagely, suppressing a prickle of annoyance at this precocious, yet insightful, youth. Ultis, however, had overreached himself. Zadkiel saw the naked ambition in his eyes, the flame within that threatened to devour Zadkiel’s own.
‘I merely seek to understand the Word,’ Ultis added, exhaling his fervour.
‘And you shall, Ultis,’ Zadkiel replied, a plan forming in his mind. ‘You will be an important instrument in the breaking of Guilliman.’
‘I would be honoured, lord,’ said Ultis, bowing his head.
‘Truly blind men like Guilliman are few,’ Zadkiel counselled. ‘He believes religion and devotion to be a corrupting force, something to be abhorred and not embraced as we followers of the Word do. His pragmatic retardation is his greatest weakness and in his dogmatic ignorance we shall strike at the heart of his favoured Legion.’
Zadkiel spread his arms wide to encompass the cathedral, its high vaults and fluted columns, its pages of the Word, its altar and pulpit. ‘One day, Ultis, the whole galaxy will look like this.’
Ultis bowed once more.
‘Now, return to your cell and think on these lessons further.’ ‘Yes, my lord.’
Zadkiel watched the novice go. A great passage in the sermon of the Word was unfolding and Ultis would play his part. Zadkiel turned back to the pulpit, behind which was a simple altar. Zadkiel lit a candle there for the soul of Roboute Guilliman. Blind he might be, but he was a brother of sorts, and it was only right that his future death be commemorated.
ABOARD THE WRATHFUL, on one of the ship’s training decks, two World Eaters clashed furiously in a duelling pit. It was one of several arenas in a much wider gymnasium that was replete with dummies, weights and training mats. Weapon ranks lined the walls. The Astartes had brought their own stocks of training weapons with them, and sword-breakers, short-blades, bludgeons and spears were all in evidence. It appeared that the concept of simple training was anathema to the duelling sons of Angron. Amidst the storm of blades and unbridled blood-lust the World Eaters fought as if to the death.
Armed with unfettered chainaxes and stripped to the waist, wearing crimson training breeches and black boots, their muscled bodies revealed gruesome welts and long, jagged scars.
With a roar, they broke off for a moment, and began circling each other in the sunken chamber of the pit. White marble showed up dark splashes from where the gladiators had wounded each other early on in the contest. A narrow drain at the centre of the pit was already clogging with blood.
‘Such anger,’ Antiges commented, overlooking the contest from a seated position at the back of the auditorium before which it was staged.
‘They are Angron’s progeny,’ said Cestus, alongside him, ‘it is their way to be wrathful. Properly employed, their wrath is a useful tool.’
‘Yes, but their reputation is a dire one, as is their lord’s,’ replied Antiges, his expression stern. ‘I for one do not feel at ease with their presence on this ship.’
‘I have to concur with my brother, Captain Cestus,’ added Thestor, who was watching the show alongside Antiges. The burly Astartes was the biggest of the honour guard. Unsurprisingly, his bulk went well with his role of heavy weapons specialist. The rest of the honour guard were nearby, except for Saphrax, watching the ferocious display with mixed interest and disdain. Thestor echoed the thoughts of all his brothers when he next spoke.
‘Was it necessary to bring them with us at all?’ he asked, his gaze shifting back from his captain to watch the fight. ‘This is the business of the Ultramarines. What has it got to do with our Legion brothers?’
‘Thestor, do not be so narrow-minded as to think we do not need their aid,’ Cestus chastened the h
eavy-set Astartes, who glanced over at his captain. ‘We are a brotherhood: all of us. Though we each have our differences, the Emperor has seen fit for us to conquer the galaxy in his name together. The moment we seek our own personal glories, when we abandon solidarity for pride, is the moment when brotherhood will be shattered.’
Thestor regarded the floor when his captain had finished, shamed by his selfish remarks.
‘You may take your leave, Thestor,’ said Cestus. It wasn’t a request.
The big Astartes got to his feet and left the training arena.
‘I agree with you, Cestus, of course I do,’ said Antiges, once Thestor had gone, ‘but they are like savages.’
‘Are they, Antiges?’ Cestus challenged. ‘Are Brynngar and the wolves of Russ not savages, too? Do you hold them in such disregard also?’
‘Of course not,’ Antiges replied. ‘I have fought with the Space Wolves and know of their courage and honour. They are savages in their own way, yes, but the difference is that they are possessed of a noble spirit. These sons of Angron are blood-letters, pure and simple. They kill for the simple joy of it.’
‘We are all warriors,’ Cestus told him. ‘Each of us kills in the Emperor’s name.’
‘Not like them we don’t.’
‘They are Astartes,’ Cestus said, biting out his words, and turning on his battle-brother. ‘I will hear no more of this. You forget your place, Antiges.’
‘I apologise, captain. I spoke out of turn,’ Antiges replied after a moment of stunned silence. ‘I only meant to say that I do not approve of their methods or their deeds.’ At that, the Ultramarine turned back to watch the battle.
Cestus followed his battle-brother’s gaze. The Ultramarine captain did not know either of the World Eaters in the duelling pit. He knew precious little of their leader, Skraal. This was ritual combat. No slight, no besmirching of honour had occurred to bring it about. Yet it was bladed and deadly.
‘I do not, either,’ Cestus admitted, watching as one of the combatants nearly lost his arm to a wild swing of his opponent’s chainaxe.
