There Is Only War

by Various

  Corbis was standing over him. When he saw Grayvus was awake, his pale face cracked into a wide grin. ‘Sergeant.’

  Grayvus spat blood. ‘Corbis. You should have left me.’

  Corbis didn’t answer.

  Grayvus stared over at the enormous cavity that had opened in the ground behind them. The power station had been completely subsumed. What remained of it after the explosion had slid noisily into the hungry earth, tumbling down into the depths of the fractured landmass. Its destruction had opened a canyon across the face of Idos like a long, puckered scar, a fault line stemming from the site of the explosion and stretching for kilometres in both directions. Much of the city had been swallowed in the ensuing devastation. And the biomorph, too, along with most of the tyranid brood.

  Corbis dropped to his haunches beside the wounded sergeant. ‘What now, sergeant?’

  Grayvus put his hand on Corbis’s shoulder pauldron. ‘Now, brother? Now you may call yourself Adeptus Astartes.’

  Echoes Of The Tomb

  Sandy Mitchell

  If there’s one basic principle I’ve learned in over a century of rattling around the galaxy fighting the Emperor’s enemies (whenever I couldn’t avoid it), it’s ‘leave well alone’. Three simple words which have stood me in good stead over the years; judiciously applied they’ve made my commissarial duties a great deal easier than they might have been. Unfortunately it’s a phrase the Adeptus Mechanicus seems incapable of grasping, a failing which almost cost me my life.

  I suppose I’d better explain. By the end of 928 my undeserved reputation for heroism had grown to such a ridiculous level that I’d finally attracted the attention of the upper echelons of the Commissariat, who had decided that a man of my obvious talents was wasted in the posting to an obscure artillery unit I had so carefully aranged for myself in the hope of being able to sit out my lifetime of service to the Emperor a long way away from any actual fighting. As it turned out, by sheer bad luck I’d managed to put myself in harm’s way an inordinate number of times, emerging on every occasion trailing clouds of undeserved glory, so that to the sector at large I seemed to be the very epitome of the swashbuckling hero that commissars are generally considered not to be. (Most regiments regard us as something akin to the engineseers in the transport pool; sometimes necessary, occasionally useful, generally best avoided.)

  Accordingly I found myself transferred to a desk job at brigade headquarters, which at first seemed like a gift from the Emperor himself. I had a nice comfortable office, with an anteroom in which Jurgen, my aide, was able to lurk, deterring all but the most determined of visitors with his single-minded devotion to following orders as literally as possible and his paint-blistering body odour. For a while it seemed that my days of fleeing in terror from genestealers, Chaos cultists, and blood-maddened orks were over. But of course it was all too good to be true. The staff officers were delighted to discover that they had a bona fide hero among them (at least, so they believed), which meant every time they needed an independent commissar to accompany some particularly dangerous or foolhardy mission, they sent for me.

  Thanks to my finely-honed instinct for self-preservation I managed to make it back every time, though this which only encouraged them to think I was the greatest thing since Macharius, and just the man to send out on an even more dangerous assignment just as soon as they could think of something sufficiently lethal.

  Enough was enough, I decided, and hearing that someone was needed to liaise with an Astartes company which was campaigning alongside the Guard in a routine action to clear some heretics off an agriworld on the spinward fringes of our sector decided to volunteer for the job. After my last little jaunt, rescuing some hostages from an eldar pirate base, I thought a bit of quiet diplomacy would be just the change of pace I needed.

  ‘You don’t think you’ll find this sort of thing a little... tame?’ General Lokris, a genial old buffer I’d probably quite like if he didn’t keep trying to get me killed, asked, raising a shaggy white eyebrow in my direction. We were dining together in his private chambers, the skill of his chef more than making up for the tedium of his company, and I had a shrewd suspicion that this demonstration of his regard was intended to sway me into changing my mind. I took another mouthful of the salma, which was poached to perfection, to give myself time to formulate an acceptable answer.

  ‘Well it’s got to be more interesting than shuffling datafiles,’ I said, smiling ruefully. That fitted his mental image of Cain the Man of Action quite nicely, and he nodded sympathetically. ‘Besides,’ I went on, seeing no harm in laying it on with a trowel, ‘how often am I going to get the chance to go into battle alongside the Astartes?’ Never, if I had anything to do with it, but Lokris didn’t need to know that. He nodded eagerly at the prospect, quite enthused on my behalf, and took an extravagant pull at his wineglass to restore his composure.

  ‘Quite right, my boy. What an experience that would be.’ He sipped at his drink again, growing quietly contemplative. ‘By the Emperor, if I were a hundred years younger I’d volunteer myself.’

  ‘It’s not as though there’s anything urgent I need to do here,’ I went on. ‘Jurgen can take care of the routine stuff while I’m gone.’ I would have preferred to take him with me, of course, but I was uncomfortably aware of the impression he was bound to make on the genetically-enhanced supermen of the Astartes, and had no wish to undermine my credibility before the assignment had even begun. Besides, while he was here he could watch my back, making sure I wasn’t earmarked for any more suicide missions. I knew something was in the wind, which was why I’d seized on this diplomatic assignment so eagerly. For once, whatever Lokris and his cronies were planning they could leave me out of it.

  ‘You should reach the Viridian system in about a month,’ the general said. ‘I don’t suppose the heretics will be able to hold out for much longer than that, but even if they do you ought to be back here by around two hundred next year at the latest.’

  ‘Emperor willing,’ I said, making a mental note to spin the assignment out for longer than that if I could. He might not have a specific reason for wanting me back by then, but you never know.

  My first surprise was the transport ship I’d been assigned to. Instead of a troopship or a supply vessel, both of which I was intimately acquainted with after all my years of shuffling from one warzone to the next, I found my shuttle docking at a light freighter bearing the unmistakable sigil of the Adeptus Mechanicus. They seemed to be expecting me. There was an honour guard of their augmetically enhanced troopers lining the walls of the hanger bay, and a tech-priest with a wide smile and a couple of mechadendrites waving lazily over his shoulders was waiting at the bottom of the shuttle’s exit ramp. He stuck out a hand for me to shake as I descended, and on taking it I was surprised to find it was still unaugmented flesh.

  ‘Commissar Cain,’ he said. ‘Welcome aboard. I’m Magos Killian, leader of the expedition, and this really is a tremendous honour. We’ve heard all about you, of course, and I must say we’re thrilled to have you travelling with us.’

  ‘Expedition?’ I said, trying to ignore the sudden lurching sensation in the pit of my stomach. ‘I was under the impression I’ve been assigned to liaise between the guard units and the Reclaimers task force in the Viridia system.’

  ‘Didn’t they tell you?’ Confusion, exasperation and amusement chased themselves across Killian’s face. ‘Well, that’s the Munitorum for you, I suppose. We’re making a rendezvous with a Reclaimers battle-barge in the Interitus system, so some clerical drone obviously thought it would save you a bit of time to hitch a lift with us and transfer across when we meet them.’ He fished a data-slate from some recess of his immaculate white robes, and fiddled with it for a moment. ‘The next scheduled departure for Viridia is in another three weeks. Allowing for the wait before the barge arrives in orbit around Interitus Prime, you should be there about...’ he consulted the slate aga
in, making a couple of quick calculations as he did so, ‘about thirty-six hours ahead of them. If the warp currents are favourable, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or angry. On the one hand I’d be spending an extra three weeks on a roundabout voyage to Emperor-knew-where, but on the other that was three weeks I wouldn’t have to worry about Lokris and his friends trying to find some new and inventive way of getting me killed. On balance that was an acceptable trade-off, I felt. I smiled, and nodded with every appearance of polite interest I could summon up. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing all about this expedition of yours.’

  A servitor scuttled past me and up the ramp of the shuttle to retrieve my kitbag, which from habit I’d left lying where it was on the subconscious assumption that Jurgen would deal with it. Killian nodded with every indication of eagerness as we strolled past the line of tech-guards, every one of them immaculate, hellguns at the port. They looked formidible enough on parade, I found myself thinking, but I was by no means sure their fighting prowess would be a match for real Guardsmen.

  As it turned out I was to see for myself how effective they were before very long, and if I’d realised that at the time, and against how terrible a foe, I would certainly have thanked the tech-priest politely for his offer and bolted for the shuttle without a second thought. But of course I didn’t, so I simply strolled along beside him, blithely unaware that we were all on a voyage to perdition.

  Despite my forebodings the trip itself turned out to be remarkably pleasant. In striking contrast to the basic conditions aboard the troopships I was used to, the Omnissiah’s Blessing felt more like a luxury liner. I had a well-appointed stateroom assigned to me, with a couple of hovering cyber-skulls humming quietly in the corner with nothing better to do than scoot off to find anything I required, and the cuisine was first rate. A real surprise this, as in my experience tech-priests tend not to worry about that sort of thing, looking on the necessity of taking in regular nourishment as a distasteful reminder of their fleshly origins or some such nonsense. I’d been steeling myself to face a plateful of soylens viridiens or something equally unappetising the first time I wandered down to the mess hall, only to find a pleasantly appointed dining room which wouldn’t have looked out of place in a smart hotel, and was immediately assailed by the mouth-watering odour of sautéed grox.

  I was still enjoying my first meal aboard when Killian ambled over, a plate of grox and fresh vegetables in one hand, a large bowl of ackenberry sorbet in the other, and a steaming mug of recaf waving precariously from a mechadendrite. I gestured for him to join me, and after a few preliminary pleasantries he began to chat about their voyage.

  ‘No reason you shouldn’t at least know where we’re going,’ he said cheerfully, the unoccupied mechadendrite diving into the recesses of his robe for the data-slate. He placed it on the table and continued to manipulate the controls with the mechanical limb, while his real ones plied knife and fork with evident enthusiasm. A star chart appeared, the Viridian system just at the fringes of the display, and a small, sullen stellar revenant centred in the screen.

  ‘Looks inviting,’ I said, with heavy irony. To my surprise Killian chuckled.

  ‘Does rather, doesn’t it?’ he said, zooming the display so that the target system filled the screen. A handful of dark and airless worlds orbited the decaying star, seared to cinders when it went nova millions of years before, taking whatever life had existed there into oblivion before sinking back into the sullen, cooling ember about which the few surviving rocks still drifted.

  ‘This is the Interitus system,’ he said. ‘Well named, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ I nodded.

  ‘I can’t for the life of me see what you’d want there,’ I admitted. ‘Let alone why an Astartes Chapter would divert a battle-barge from a warzone to meet you.’

  Killian positively beamed, and pointed to the largest chunk of rock in the system.

  ‘This is Interitus Prime. The whole system was surveyed by explorators back in the twenty-eighth millennium. In the most cursory fashion I may add, if the surviving records are anything to go by.’

  ‘Your records go back that far?’ I couldn’t keep an edge of incredulity from my voice. That was the all but unimaginable golden age when the Emperor still walked among men and the Imperium was young and vigourous, its domination of the galaxy uncontested, instead of being riven by heresy and threatened on all sides by malevolent powers. Killian nodded.

  ‘Only in the most fragmentary form, of course. But there are still tantilising hints for those prepared to meditate for long enough upon them, and put their trust in the benevolence of the Omnissiah.’

  ‘And you think there’s something there worth going after,’ I said. There wasn’t much which would drag a ship full of cogboys halfway across the sector, and it wasn’t hard to guess which item on that very short list was the attraction here. ‘Some significant stash of archeotech perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Killian nodded, evidently pleased at my perspicacity. ‘We won’t know for sure until we get there, will we?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ I conceded, turning my attention to the desserts.

  The rest of the voyage passed pleasantly enough, although apart from Killian I had little to do with the tech-priests on board. For company I gravitated naturally to the tech-guards, with whom I had a little more in common, finding that despite their augmetic enhancements and a devotion to the Cult of the Machine which I found a trifle disconcerting (I’ve little enough patience with Emperor-botherers at the best of times, let alone ones who seem to think he runs on clockwork), they were as disciplined and professional in their way as any of the warriors I’d served with. Moreover they’d heard of me, and believed every word of my reputation. Their only drawback from my point of view was that they didn’t seem to have any currency, being some sort of vassals of the Adeptus Mechanicus, so there wasn’t much point in getting my tarot deck out. Their commanding officer, a Lieutenant Tarkus, was a keen regicide player however, and a hard opponent to beat, so I was able to keep my brain ticking over while the ship scuttled nervously through the warp towards whatever might be lurking at our destination.

  It was Tarkus who finally put my mind at rest about the battle barge; it seemed that, despite my obvious concerns, its formidable firepower wasn’t to be deployed in our defence.

  ‘Omnissiah no!’ he said, casually dispatching one of my lancers with a sudden flanking movement I should have seen coming. ‘It’s on its way to clean out the rebel base on Viridia Secundus.’ I nodded gravely, pretending I’d read the briefing slate about the tactical situation in the Viridia system. It seemed the heretics had taken control of more than just the main world, then. ‘They’re only hooking up with us long enough to transfer a squad of Space Marines over. And to pick you up, of course.’

  Well that was something, although a potential threat potent enough to require an Astartes squad to contain wasn’t to be taken all that lightly. I consoled myself with the reflection that it wasn’t my problem anyway, I’d be safe aboard one of the most powerful vessels in space and a long way away from Interitus Prime before anyone started to meddle with whatever chunk of archeotech the cogboys were after. I nodded judiciously, playing for time, and made a feint with a trooper hoping to draw his ecclesiarch out of position.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll feel safer having them around,’ I said blandly. ‘Can’t be too careful, after all.’ As I’d hoped, the half of his face which wasn’t made of metal coloured visibly as he considered the implied slur on his command, and he moved a little too hastily, creating an opening I should be able to exploit a couple of moves further on in the game.

  ‘I don’t see why that’d make a difference,’ he said, a little too levelly. ‘My boys can cope with anything the galaxy might throw at us.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ I said. ‘From what I’ve seen we could do with a few more like them in the
Guard.’ Tarkus nodded as I moved my portside citadel, setting up what I hoped would be a chance to win in another three turns. I waited until he was considering his response before adding: ‘But Magos Killian obviously doesn’t share my confidence.’

  Tarkus almost knocked his ecclesiarch over as he picked it up and moved it, blowing his only chance of blocking my next attack. His jaw clenched.

  ‘It’s not a question of confidence,’ he said. ‘There are... longstanding obligations.’

  I perked up at that, as you can imagine, although what sort of pact there might be between an Astartes Chapter and the Adeptus Mechanicus I was at a loss to understand. I don’t doubt that I would have been able to worm a little more out of Tarkus given time, but I decided not to press him any further that evening (having just set myself up for a comfortable win despite his superior skill at the game, and wanting to savour it), and by the time we’d agreed on for our next joust across the board he was already dead.

  ‘Well, there it is.’ Killian waved an expansive hand at the armourcrys window which dominated the far end of the ship’s lounge. Beyond it the dying star guttered fitfully, casting a dim blue glow over us which reminded me of autumn twilight. A slice of darkness distorted the glowing sphere, the bulk of the planet we’d come so far to reach rising up to take a bite out of it.

  The landscape below us was in darkness, but enough of the wan glow of the system’s primary leaked across the horizon for me to make out a blasted wasteland, cracked by heat almost impossible to imagine, and riven with impact craters. That alone was a testament to how old this place was, as it must have been left almost smooth by its fiery transformation; the pockmarking of its face would have been the work of aeons. Despite the awful bleakness of the prospect I couldn’t deny that it had a desolate grandeur to it, and a faint chill akin to awe touched my soul as I took it all in.