Tallarn

by John French

  ‘No one can hear us,’ said Gatt.

  Kulok could hear the exhaustion in the words, and the tremble of anger hidden just beneath its surface.

  ‘We have to keep trying,’ said Kulok, as he pulled the hatch open.

  ‘Give the kid a break,’ said Sabir.

  ‘We have to–’ began Kulok, but Sabir cut him off.

  ‘We?’ Sabir’s lip twisted back from his yellow teeth. ‘When did you start to talk for everyone?’ He shook his head. ‘You’re not even supposed to be here, and now you are saying what we must do?’

  Kulok took a step towards the prefectus. Sabir flinched back, eyes widening. Kulok stopped.

  You’re not supposed to be here.

  It was true, of course. Kulok was in the shelter by luck rather than design. The shelter was one of the smaller ones, buried under one of the Sapphire City’s grand censoriums. He had been waiting in the second vestibule on the ground floor when the bombs fell. According to the city records, he owed tax and fines dating back over a decade. He had been avoiding the summons for the last year, but at last a magistrate had tired of Kulok’s protests. Bondsmen had come for him and made it clear that it did not matter that Kulok had seen service in the Crusade; he was coming with them whether he liked it or not. He owed those bondsmen his life.

  When the roof in the censorium had begun to shake, he had known what it was. He had been on the surface of Desh when the fleet had opened up on the fortress cities, and the memory of that moment pulled him from his seat as the sirens began to sound. He had not known that the bombardment was viral, but a fleet could reduce an unshielded city to rubble with less exotic weapons. He had found the entrance to the shelter, and was just through the door as the biohazard alarms added to the din. The hatch had locked behind him, and he had found himself starring into the eyes of the few others who had found safety. Most were scribes and officials, junior for the most part and all terrified. A few, like Sabir, had the trappings of authority, but not a trace of the will to use it. None of them had known what to do. All of them wanted someone to tell them what to do almost as much as they wanted it all to not be happening. Kulok had filled that need, though that did not stop some, like Sabir, resenting his assumed command.

  Kulok sighed and turned away from the prefectus.

  ‘I am just trying to get through this,’ said Kulok. ‘The astropath will die without help, and we won’t be far behind. We are a handful of people buried under a city. No one will come looking for us. Two weeks and we will be living in the dark listening to the last air hiss from the vents. That is, if the water systems keep working.’ He turned back to Sabir. ‘Do you like that idea? Does that calm your concerns about authority, Prefectus Sabir?’

  Sabir just stared back.

  Kulok shook his head. ‘Keep trying, please,’ he said to Gatt, and stepped towards the hatch.

  ‘It won’t work,’ said Gatt.

  Kulok turned back to look at the young man.

  ‘I said it before I started. This set is for surface use,’ said Gatt. ‘It just does not have the power to punch through the ground above.’

  Kulok said nothing for a moment. ‘And if it was on the surface?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Gatt exhaled and ran his hands through his hair. ‘Maybe. But it would depend how close the receiver was. If there was someone else close by or with a big receiver they might hear… But there might be no one to hear.’

  Kulok heard Sabir start to say something.

  ‘What about reaching the Sapphire City, or Zeffar?’ asked Kulok. ‘There were big shelters under those, military grade.’

  Gatt shook his head. ‘It’s six hundred kilometres to the Sapphire City, a thousand to Zeffar. The signal won’t make that.’

  Kulok nodded slowly, an idea hardening in his mind. ‘Get the vox into the armoured carrier vehicle.’

  Gatt frowned, then his eyes went wide.

  ‘You can’t go out,’ said Sabir.

  Kulok turned to look at the older man. There was fear in the prefectus’ watery eyes. They had all seen the atmospheric warning lights shining red above the outer hatches.

  ‘We must do this,’ said Kulok.

  ‘You will kill us!’

  ‘The vehicle ramp is airlocked,’ said Kulok calmly. ‘We have transport. No guns, but it’s enviro-sealed. There is a decontamination gate in the airlock. We probably have enough power to make all of those work.’

  ‘You can’t.’ A tremble of pleading edged Sabir’s voice, and the skin under his stubble was pale.

  ‘Two weeks, Sabir,’ said Kulok. ‘After that, we might as well open the doors and let whatever’s outside in. You can stay here with the rest. Look after the seer.’

  A red flush spread across Sabir’s cheeks as fear shifted back to anger. ‘Who says you are–’

  ‘I say, Sabir,’ said Kulok and watched the words sink in. ‘I say.’

  Lycus slept, and remembered.

  ‘There is nothing to discuss,’ he had said, and held his gaze steady. Above him the man on the throne of lapis shifted, and did not meet Lycus’ eye.

  The room had felt crowded even though it was large enough to hold several hundred. Golden fabric hung from the copper-lined ceiling, cutting the space into channels that led the eye to the windows which opened onto the views of the Crescent City beyond. Blue and green tiles covered the floor. The old man who sat on a green alabaster throne at the chamber’s centre was still, rigid with formality.

  Dellasarius, victor of the Tempest Conflagration, now governor militant of Tallarn, wore red armour shaped like the toned muscles of ancient heroes. Silver thunderbolts cut across the lacquered metal. Struts and pistons ran down his limbs, and every now and then a bellows hiss of air escaped from a vent in the side of his torso. Set behind a wide gorget, the governor’s face was blade thin. The only other flesh that was visible was Dellasarius’ right hand where his rings of office glittered from spider thin fingers. But it was his eyes that said more than anything else: grey and watery, they fixed on nothing, as if only wanting to see the world in glances. Dellasarius was a hero, Lycus knew that, but the governor looked as though mundanity had leeched away his past strength.

  A clutch of advisors – Lycus presumed that is what they were – stood around the throne. They all looked wealthy, soaked in fine fabrics, jewellery glinting on their fingers and necks. A few exchanged glances. Those that had looked at Lycus had done so for only an instant. He stood five paces from the base of the throne, his helmet under his right arm, his left hand resting on the pommel of the blade sheathed at his waist. Jagged ridges and gouges of battle damage ran under the yellow paint of Lycus’ armour. Glossy pleats of flesh twisted across his cheeks and his mouth was a twisted gash over broken teeth. Lycus could smell the mingled fear in the humans’ sweat. He did not like this, he never liked this. But it was a necessity. He had a rising concern that he was going to have to be everything they feared him to be.

  One of the crowd of advisors took a step forward, dared a glance at Lycus’ face, and then dropped his eyes. The man had a pinched pale face the colour of milk. His lips twisted before he spoke.

  ‘With all humbleness, my lord–’

  ‘I am not a lord.’ Lycus’ voice cut the man’s words like a sword blow. Silence filled the heartbeat after he spoke. Lycus nodded to the governor militant. ‘He is a lord.’

  The fabric of the advisor’s robes was trembling. Lycus noticed that the cloth was embroidered leaf patterns in iridescent turquoise on black. He presumed that the man was deciding how afraid he was of a Space Marine. The advisor licked his lips and opened his mouth.

  Not scared enough, thought Lycus.

  ‘With all humbleness,’ said the advisor again. The words were so honeyed they almost dripped from the man’s tongue. ‘There are a number of things that must be resolved before your request can be considered.’
/>
  Lycus remained silent. The advisor who had spoken licked his lips again.

  ‘My lord Dellasarius,’ said Lycus, turning his gaze slowly back to the governor militant. ‘Who are these people?’

  The governor militant looked around at the crowd of advisors, and then back to Lycus.

  ‘Representatives of the caliphers and trade dynasties of Tallarn,’ said Dellasarius. Lycus saw a flash of emotion ripple across the wrinkled skin. ‘They are concerned with the practical complexities of what you are saying.’

  ‘Loyalty is not complex,’ said Lycus.

  The governor’s eyes met Lycus’s gaze. He gave a small nod.

  ‘But its workings are,’ said a heap of a man smothered in saffron silk.

  Lycus looked at the man, and was surprised to see that there was no fear in the amber flecked eyes. The saffron-clad advisor gestured with a fat hand heavy with silver and gold.

  ‘What will it mean for this world? You say that we must mobilise and look to our defences. That we must expend resources fortifying our planet and our system.’

  The advisor opened both his hands as he made the final point, as if expressing honest sorrow. The other advisor, with the sour-milk face, filled the pause before Lycus could reply.

  ‘And you say that we must stand ready to send forces wherever you think they are needed.’

  Lycus nodded, allowing his left hand to shift to the pommel of his sword. ‘That is what you must do.’

  ‘We do not have those resources,’ said the pale-faced man with a grimace. Behind him there was a ripple of fabric and a trembling of jewels as the advisors nodded and muttered agreement.

  ‘Our coffers have run dry for years,’ said the fat man with a shrug. ‘Things are not what they were.’

  ‘Immaterial,’ said Lycus. His face had hardened. ‘Are you wilfully blind to what the galaxy has become? This was a primary-grade staging planet – a crusade hub. There are troops here, and weapons, and materiel.’

  The governor gave a small nod, but the fat man gave a brief laugh that sent his cheeks and chins shaking.

  Lycus felt a caustic tingle in his muscles, and took a careful breath to keep his anger chained.

  ‘Scraps. Mismatched units stranded here, equipment that has no operators, weapons that have no bullets, bullets that have no weapons.’

  ‘Sadurni…’ began Dellasarius. A little colour flushed into the governor’s withered face.

  Lycus turned, his entire presence now focused on the advisors. The crowd seemed to shrink, a low trembling running through the throng.

  ‘Are you saying that you cannot or that you will not serve your Emperor?’ Lycus’ voice was low, hard edged. As he spoke he readied himself, preparing his muscles to draw and fire his bolt pistol.

  Am I too late? The question rolled through him as the conditioned kill reflexes slotted into place. Is there something other than greed here? Have the agents of the traitors already been here? Are these people more than blind? Will this be like Cantaridine again?

  ‘No!’ roared Dellasarius. The governor was on his feet. ‘This world is loyal to Terra, and we shall–’

  The alarm screamed. The advisors froze. The noise intensified as siren after siren rose in chorus.

  The governor was standing where he had risen from his throne, his mouth opening. Lycus was two strides across the room before the second siren started. The advisors had not moved. They were standing, hands pressed against their ears.

  In Lycus’ mind, facts and instinct formed conclusions as his muscles pushed him forwards. The alarm was for an orbital bombardment. Munitions fired from orbit took time to cross a planet’s shell of air. But not much time. They would have minutes, if they were lucky.

  He seized the governor. The man’s puzzled expression twisted to shock as Lycus lifted him from the ground and turned towards the room’s doors. The advisors were moving now, running like silk-draped cattle. Lycus surged through them without breaking stride. The room’s doors were copper-plated plasteel, carved with base reliefs of vines curling through trees. Lycus felt the impact jolt through his body as his shoulder crumpled the doors and ripped them from their frames.

  ‘What is happening?’ gasped Dellasarius. Lycus was dragging him with him as he ran.

  ‘The enemy is here, lord,’ he said. Out beyond the high windows of the palace, the sky brightened with the light of fresh, false suns.

  ‘Marshal Lycus?’ the voice said nearby.

  He blinked, and the half of his mind that had fallen through the waking dream of the past meshed with the half that had remained awake. The room around him was small and bare. A lumen-globe shone with a dirty light above the only door. In the weeks since the bombardment, this had been his sanctuary in the few moments he took for rest. He was alone here, a last warrior of the VII Legion on Tallarn. No word had come from the Light of Inwit after the attack. That the strike cruiser might have survived was a possibility. That it might have reached the system edge, and even now be bringing word of the death of Tallarn to forces loyal to the Emperor, was also a possibility. Both seemed unlikely to Lycus. His brothers were dead, his ship lost, and he was alone amongst the remains of humanity on a dead world.

  ‘Marshal?’ came the voice again, and the chamber door hinged inwards. The human who stepped through was shivering despite the warm air. The man’s face was pale under a shaved scalp, his uniform ill-fitting and stained with dry sweat.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lycus.

  The aide stopped where he was and began twitching his weight from foot to foot. The man was coming down off a stim high. Lycus had noticed that a lot of the officers in the Rachab fortress had taken to using narcotics to counter the effects of fatigue.

  ‘The governor militant requests your presence,’ said the aide, carefully.

  Lycus watched the aide try to remain still, and then stood. His armour hummed to full life as he moved. His bolter came up with him and clamped to his thigh with a snap of magnetic force. He moved towards the door. The aide followed.

  ‘Where is the governor militant?’ asked Lycus as he ducked through the door.

  ‘In the main communication hub,’ said the aide, running to keep up. Lycus looked around at the man as he strode on.

  ‘The signal arrays have heard something,’ said the man. ‘Something new.’

  ‘Again,’ said Kulok, raising his voice over the growl of the vehicle’s power plant.

  Gatt shook his head and gestured at a gauge beside the drive column.

  ‘The power reserves are almost empty. We are draining the fuel.’

  The suit muffled Gatt’s words. Even through the internal vox, he had to raise his voice to be heard over the rumble of the carrier’s engine. The machine was a big beast with high sides and a blunt nose painted in white and blue. The rest of its slab metal hide had been a pale grey, stamped with the emblems of the Crescent City’s administration. It had been intended as an emergency transport for officials in the case of a mass riot. Its colours had reflected that purpose: a bold statement of authority in the face of anarchy. The heraldry had not lasted long after they reached the surface. After a few minutes of rolling through the fog drowned streets, Kulok had noticed grey sludge running down the glass of the vision slits. The air was dissolving the paint as it passed over them. He had not mentioned it to Gatt; the boy was rattled enough already.

  Kulok looked at the fuel gauge. They had drained the power reserves, and now were running everything off the engines. Most of the main tank was gone, and they would have to use the reserve to get them back to the shelter.

  ‘There is enough,’ he said. ‘Keep transmitting.’

  ‘What if we get lost?’ asked Gatt. ‘What if it takes us more fuel to get back than it took to get here?’

  Kulok looked at him for a long moment. He had stopped the carrier on top of a hill. Where exactly in the city they
were, he was not sure – possibly in the foot hills close to the Dawn Tower. They had moved through streets heaped with slime, sliding and skidding every few meters. The buildings had loomed through the fog, glass clinging to the empty eyes of windows. He had thought he had recognised a water fountain, its tiered pools brimming with black water. Twenty years he had walked the streets of the Crescent City, from the sprawl on the slopes of the mountains to the river forks. He knew its smells, and the feel of its stones beneath tyre and foot. But the Crescent City no longer existed. The buildings and streets no longer formed a city; they had become something else, a tangle of monoliths set to watch over the dead. The route back to the shelter only existed as set of memorised landmarks and distances in Kulok’s mind. If they ran low on fuel, or if he forgot the route, then they would die on the surface.

  ‘Send one more transmission,’ he said. ‘Then we move out.’

  Gatt looked at him, suddenly uncertain as Kulok sat back in the drive cradle.

  ‘One more?’ asked Gatt. ‘If no one has heard us yet–’

  ‘Just send it,’ said Kulok. If the boy was looking to protest again, Kulok did not see. He had closed his eyes, feeling the big frame of the carrier shake around him as the engines turned over.

  ‘This is the Crescent City censorium shelter. Please respond. We require assistance and evacuation. Survivors include senior administrators,’ Gatt paused. Static buzzed over the open vox. ‘Look, we have an old man dying, and the rest of us aren’t far behind. He is an astropath, not that that will make any difference, because you can’t hear this. There is no point to the message. You aren’t there! No one is there!’ He stopped. His finger still held on the transmission key for a second, then he released it. The static died. He turned to look at Kulok and shrugged as though to pre-empt whatever rebuke was coming.

  Kulok met the boy’s eyes. They were hard with defiance behind the fogged eyepieces.

  ‘Alright,’ said Kulok softly. ‘Alright…’ He reached out and punched a control. The engine noise cycled down to silence. ‘We wait an hour,’ said Kulok, ‘then move.’