The Omnibus - John French

by Warhammer 40K

  Umiel did not even seem to register the words, as though their value and meaning did not exist in his universe.

  ‘We have answered the call. Ten ships of our Chapters and twelve companies stand ready to honour the oaths. We did not come to bow and exchange words.’

  ‘I appreciate that, but understand this was not my will, nor do I claim leadership over this force.’

  ‘Who then?’ asked one of the other Space Marines.

  ‘That would be me,’ said a booming voice from the passage behind the Changeling.

  The Changeling turned to look, a perfect look of shock on Cordat’s stolen face. The Space Marines flinched for their weapons, and the Changeling felt them suppress the instinct to respond to surprise with violence.

  A figure was stalking down the boarding corridor, the segmented rings clanging under her tread. She was taller than both mortals and Space Marines. Back-slung legs of iron carried her with a bounding stride. Pistons slid smoothly beneath armour plates. Two sets of arms hung from her torso, each one held close, like the limbs of a mantid. At the centre of the torso – folded behind sheets of charcoal-grey armour – a wizened head looked out. White hair clung to the liver-spotted scalp, and the flesh of the face was wrinkled to the point that the mouth was only visible when it opened.

  ‘You are mine,’ she said, and showed a flash of polished jet teeth. ‘And yes, captain, this gathering, which you feel so unnecessary, is occurring because of me. Commodore Ishaf, I have already boarded and commandeered your ship as my own for the conflict.’

  On his palanquin, the commodore gestured and his bearers lowered him to the floor, where he bowed his head as deeply as he was able. Beside him, the Changeling and the rest of the officers knelt.

  ‘You are?’ asked the Space Marine in storm grey. The head in the machine turned, and the eyes were glints in their sockets.

  ‘I would have thought that was obvious, but I have never been entirely sure if your kind are as clever as you are good at killing things.’ The Space Marine did not move. ‘And there you were saying that words and signs and gestures are worthless, or something else equally vacuous in sentiment.’ She held her smile. ‘I am Lady Inquisitor Malkira, Warden of the Storm of the Emperor’s Wrath, and Convenor of the Third and Fifth Conclaves of Vohal, and I am the person to whom you will now – reluctantly – bend your knees.’

  She snarled the last words through clenched teeth. Umiel knelt, and the other four Space Marines followed him. Malkira watched them, lip curled, though whether in amusement, contempt, or habit the Changeling could not tell.

  ‘Now that we have got the tiresome business of who is bound to whom out of the way, you can all get off the floor.’ The Space Marines stood, and the servitors hoisted the commodore back into the air. ‘You are here because before you do exactly what I command, I need you to understand several things.’

  She had their total attention. The Changeling could feel the focus and uncertainty running off the mortals. Even the Space Marines were bending every part of their awareness to her. Around them, the boarding corridor creaked as one or both of the ships altered position fractionally.

  The Changeling noted the precision of Malkira’s arrival. The inquisitor had engineered every part of this situation to strip those present of authority and power. They stood nowhere, literally between places, the reason being that she had willed it so. It was a careful lesson, reflected the Changeling: you are mine now, to do with as I see fit.

  ‘This is it,’ she said. ‘The forces assembled here are all that will come. We cannot wait for any more to answer. You all have come because of oaths and pacts that your predecessors or gene ancestors made to people like me. In some cases those oaths were made to me personally hundreds of years ago. I know…’ The corner of her lip curled. ‘The years have been kind. Those oaths were made because of the possibility of what is now happening.’

  She sighed, and the plates of her exo-frame shifted.

  ‘There is no real time for history, or reasons. Suffice to say that an old evil has returned to the place that birthed it. We do not know what it intends, but we do not need to know. Our response, and our duty, is clear. We must destroy that evil at any cost.’ She paused, old eyes suddenly weary. ‘The enemy that we will face was created by the Imperium. They were once like you. They were once warriors. Do not let this give you pause. They are worse than traitors, they are abominations. Death is a mercy. Suffering without end should be their fate, but survival means more than retribution. And that is what we serve now. Mankind must survive, and for that this enemy must burn.’

  Every eye was on Malkira, every sense and mind absorbing the words she spoke. The Changeling could feel the moment it had been waiting for coming.

  ‘We make passage from here to a world called Prospero,’ said Malkira, ‘and once we have reached it we will enact the judgement of Exterminatus. No matter the cost, it must be done.’

  Umiel moved first, his right hand forming a fist over his left heart.

  ‘By our blood, and at the Emperor’s will, it shall be.’ He bowed his head. The other four Space Marines followed.

  The commodore’s flesh had drained of colour, but he nodded, then saluted.

  ‘We will do as you command, lady,’ he said, his voice stiff.

  The Changeling could sense the resolve and shock blending in the man’s heart and words. The mortal knew that what was happening would see him and his crew dead. They were weapons of the Inquisition now, and he was intelligent enough to know that few survived such service. Ignorance protected the realm of men. Even if they succeeded, all of them had begun the walk to execution.

  ‘Good,’ said Malkira. She turned and began to stalk back towards the far end of the corridor. ‘Be prepared to make warp transit within an hour.’ The commodore followed her, the palanquin servitors running to keep up.

  The Changeling lingered.

  Umiel and the rest of the Space Marine commanders waited a moment longer, then moved in the opposite direction. Already the corridor between the two ships was shaking as it readied to disengage. The rest of the mortal officers were hurrying to keep pace with the commodore’s palanquin.

  The Changeling spread its awareness out, and every instant of the passing seconds became like the whirl of intermeshing gears. Every glance, every movement, and every sound: it could feel them all. It knew no one was looking at it, that neither mortal nor Space Marine would glance towards it. It stood at a perfect blind spot: an intersection at which its sliver of the universe was utterly unseen.

  It dissolved its shape. Where Lieutenant Cordat had been, a spiral of light rose.

  It waited for a single second. It waited as Umiel glanced back from the rear of the group of Space Marines.

  It became a line of fire, and struck the Space Marine’s left eye. It burned through crystal, vitreous humour, and into the meat of the brain before a sound came from Umiel’s throat. The fire flashed through Umiel’s flesh, burning it to smoke.

  The fingers of Umiel’s armour flexed for an instant and then were still.

  The Changeling filled the space within the armour in an eyeblink. Its shape and face were not perfect, but they did not need to be. It had time before it needed to remove the helmet.

  ‘Umiel, does something vex thee?’ The blunt voice came across the vox built into the helm. The Changeling recognised the voice from memories that had been Umiel’s until three seconds before. The voice belonged to Castior, Captain of the Fifth Company of the Black Consuls. The other Space Marine had paused five strides from the Changeling. Had it heard something, or seen the spasming of Umiel’s hands?

  The Changeling shook his head, keeping its face turned away from Castior. The melted eyepiece reformed in its socket.

  ‘No, brother,’ said the Changeling with Umiel’s voice, and turned to fall in beside the Black Consul. They walked towards the strike cruiser waiting at the end of the boarding corridor. ‘Everything is as it should be.’

  XIII

>   GHOSTS

  The first ship descended as the sun drifted towards Prospero’s horizon. It came alone, scudding through the atmosphere. Then another followed, and another, and another. Ahriman watched them, and felt the minds within them, familiar and yet not.

  Welcome, brothers, he wanted to call to them. Welcome home.

  But he sent nothing, and kept his mind still and silent and waited. More ships arrived while the first landing craft and gunships were still streaks of heat in the sky.

  The Circle waited with him, sharing his silence, but not his calm. Disquiet buzzed in them like static charge. He felt Kiu’s mind begin to form a question.

  +We wait,+ sent Ahriman before Kiu could ask.

  +What do they intend?+ asked Gaumata.

  +I do not know,+ replied Ahriman without looking away from the sky. A gunship was plunging down towards them. Heat lit its wings, and the thrust from its engines formed banners trailing behind its body. It buzzed low and a boom rolled in its wake as it arced across the ruined city.

  +Friendly,+ sent Ctesias.

  The gunship came back around.

  Other craft were now thick above the city, brighter than the fading sun.

  A flicker of thought pulsed from Ahriman and the Rubricae across the city moved as one. Lines opened along spaces which had been streets and squares. For a moment Tizca appeared again, drawn in the light of the Rubricae’s eyes. The gunship swooped low, and Ctesias felt the minds within brushing over the city. Other landing craft were touching down across the city or at its edge.

  +Say nothing,+ sent Ahriman.

  The gunship slammed to a halt above the ruins of Occullum Square and hung, thrusters roaring. Backwash sent the air beneath it swimming and flickering as it sank to the ground. Ctesias could see the colour of the hull now: brushed silver and pitted bronze. Sigils glowed on its flanks. He watched their meanings change as he read them. The gunship’s ramp opened and several figures descended, weapons ready, caution rolling from them. Bronze bird claws and eyes of emerald covered their silvered armour. There were twelve of them, and Ahriman recognised one of them. The rest were warriors bred by another Legion. The silver-armoured figures came to a halt.

  +Ahriman?+ sent the figure at the centre of the silvered warband.

  +Credus,+ he replied.

  Credus’s mind flared, its light dimming and brightening.

  +It is you, but by the wheel of stars I did not believe it.+

  +Why have you come, Credus?+

  +I had a dream of you standing atop the Temple of Knowing. There were stars in the sky. You said nothing, but the stars moved and I understood that I needed to return here.+ His stream of thought halted, but Ahriman said nothing. Across the city no mind broke the silence. After a second he continued. +I do not know why I came here. I only know that I had to.+

  +But you are here now, and I am here, and your brothers are here. You are a warrior, Credus. A warrior comes to fight or serve. Which have you come for?+

  Credus turned his head to the surrounding lines of Rubricae.

  +I am not here to die, Ahriman.+

  +I am pleased.+

  Credus bowed his head. A ripple of surprise passed through the silver-clad warriors at his side. Ahriman looked up just as a landing ship in emerald and blue swung overhead and banked to set down on the edge of the city. The lights of descending craft were growing as the scream of thruster jets multiplied, and the exiled Thousand Sons filled the ruins of Tizca.

  +But why are you here, Ahriman?+ sent Credus as he raised his head again. +Why did you call?+

  +We should wait,+ sent Ahriman. +This is something all of you should know.+

  He waited as the sound rose and thrusters cut the darkening air.

  The Thousand Sons have not gathered since I destroyed them, he thought. Now we are not a Legion, and when we last saw this place we were different.

  He could feel the conflicting emotions of Ctesias and the rest of the Circle. They had sensed the minds of their brothers gathering out there in the dark. Not all of those who had come wanted to be there. Many would go when they knew what had drawn them back to the ruin of their first home. Some might even turn on him. He was no longer their master, and many were closer to enemies than brothers. Some were so changed that he barely recognised their minds. But he knew them all, and he felt the weight of their souls rise and blend into the shroud of pain around Prospero.

  At last a final craft dropped slowly from the sky, and silence fell. The curtains of aurora light had stilled. The lights of the orbiting ships were bright flecks against the smears of green and red and the failing day. The universe beyond the veil was holding its breath. Out in the city, Ahriman felt his brothers watch and wait.

  What were we when we last stood here? What are we now?

  He bent down, and took a handful of dust from the ground. It had begun to dry, but in his fingers it was still thick, like clay, like flesh. He ran it through his armoured fingers, watching it smear and squeeze across the remains of the blue lacquer. He looked up at the sea of dead and living.

  +Brothers.+ He sent the word, and felt the response like a breath of cold wind. +My brothers. You were called here. You were called and you came. Some of you for honour, some, no doubt, for hate.+ He hesitated and looked at the clod of grey earth in his hand. +It does not matter.+ He looked up. +Thank you. Thank you for answering the call.+

  +We did not come for you.+ The thought, a distant mental voice, cracked through the warp. Inside his helm, Ahriman frowned. He had almost recognised the thought voice. Almost, but not quite.

  +No,+ he replied. +You came because you felt that you had to be here, now, no matter the cost, or distance. You had to stand on this world at this moment.+

  He paused.

  One more step, he thought, just one more step.

  +This is the end,+ he sent at last, the sending simple and direct, like the voice of a friend rather than a warlord. +After this we will not be as we are now. We have known betrayal and tragedy and mistakes. But we have also known brotherhood. We have looked at the universe and its lies have burned us. But we have seen its beauty too, and known its truth. It has been a long road to this moment. Too long a road. But it will be the end. We have been laid low. Our own hands and the whims of fate have broken us. But this will be the end.+

  His eyelids slid shut for an instant inside his helm. On the edge of his awareness he could feel something pulling at his will, impatient, insistent.

  One more step…

  +I have come here to send Prospero to the fire.+ He opened his eyes and saw that clouds had begun to rise on the far side of the mountains. +This grave which was our cradle will become a pyre. Its flames will send me to the realm of our father, to the Planet of the Sorcerers. There I will undo all that has been done to us. I will remake us.+

  The silence rippled out and back like a shockwave through water.

  +This will happen. You have been called not because I willed it but because this is the death of all that was, and the start of all that will be. You are here because the death of the past called to you to witness it.+

  He shook his head, his eyes catching the unmoving Rubricae.

  +I ask nothing of you. I have taken too much from you already. If any wish to follow me, you may. If not then go, or stand vigil over what will happen here.+

  +And if they would stand against what you intend. What then?+

  The thought voice turned every eye to the darkness at the edge of the ruined square. Cords of purple fire ran through the air. The lines joined, forming a triangle which then folded into a space which was not there. A figure stepped through the triangular hole, and down to the ground. It was a Rubricae, but its armour was coal black and edged with gold. It came to a halt, its head turning slowly as its eyes ran across the gaze of its blue-clad kin. A second figure followed.

  Ahriman saw the black robes, and felt the warp heat of the marks stitched into the cloth. The figure stopped, and behind it the tunnel in reality folded out of
being. The black sorcerer looked at Ahriman, hand resting on the amber-capped pommel of his sword. Strength burned off the figure in cold sheets of lightless flame. Ahriman met the sorcerer’s gaze.

  +I knew you would be here,+ he sent.

  +Truly?+ The figure inclined his head, its aura flickering amused red for an instant.

  Ahriman shook his head. At the back of his mind he remembered a wound cut into nowhere. He saw the image of warriors stepping from the nothingness, firing as lightning spiralled through the air. Amongst them had been a warrior with an axe, the blade’s smile stained by the fire of the growing Rubric.

  Ahriman let out a slow breath. He had not seen it himself, of course. In that instant the Rubric had had full command of his mind and senses. The memory had been Sanakht’s. It had been the moment when the swordsman had saved Ahriman’s life.

  +Have you come to try to stop me again, Khayon?+

  Iskandar Khayon, Chosen of the Despoiler, Lord Vigilator of the Black Legion, and once a son of Magnus the Red, turned his gaze on the glowing eyes watching him from across the square and beyond.

  +I like your little warband,+ he sent.

  +You came alone,+ replied Ahriman after a heartbeat’s pause.

  +I am never alone, Ahriman. The smallest claw of the true Legion came with me, but they wait above.+

  Ahriman glanced up, his mind skimming upwards to the orbiting ships, but he could not pick out Khayon’s trace on any of them. When he looked down, Khayon had not moved.

  +You will not stand with me again, though?+

  +The Thousand Sons were no more for me a long time ago, Ahriman.+

  +Yet here you are, without your master…+

  +Abaddon is my brother, not my master, and the Black Legion are my kin now. I am here to honour a debt, not brotherhood.+ A brittle note edged the thought connection.

  Ahriman shook his head.

  +You were never one to be driven by guilt.+

  Khayon laughed once, the sound a sharp crack in the still air.