by David Guymer
And of the other kind, that less physical peril?
He licked dry lips, mentally crunching variables he had never before now had cause to quantify or weigh relative to others. He attacked his scheme of action from every angle, however improbable, assessing with force the firmness of every assumption on which it was founded until what remained was a bastion of solid calculation and impregnable logic.
He was an Exemplar.
Infallible.
He returned the headset to his ear and uncovered the pickup.
‘Send me the coordinates.’
Eleven
Prax – approach
Dantalion slid out of warp space into the dust-banded outer reaches of the Prax System like a jammed magazine ejected from an overheating boltgun. Proximity alert tocsins added a deep basso two-tone to the symphonic chorus of alarms. The auspex was still powering up, but proximity detection was a passive system, its workings founded upon the innate sense that certain metals possessed for metal. At the same time, triggered automatically by the completion of the translation cycle, the command deck’s blast shutters were rolling back.
Crew-serfs and Space Marines looked up from rebooting consoles and covered their eyes. The starlight was hard and bright, the guide lights of a monster voidship burning like a meteor shower off the bow. The garish yellow vessel was several times more massive than Dantalion and of eccentric design. Modules stuck out from a long central body, like landing booms on a seaplane but coming out at all angles and in various shapes and sizes. The slender main body widened at the neck to give a bulbous prow and, towards the stern, grew by stepwise tiers towards a garishly hazard-striped housing for the fierce orange cones of the drive exhaust. Sitting atop the drive housing, adding half again to the height of the stern, was a crescent moon, bent and crooked into a vile facsimile of a grinning orkoid face.
‘Thrusters!’ called Shipmaster Marcarian. ‘Hard port. Decompress starboard launch bays and fire macro-batteries. All the push we have.’
The ork ship pulled away slowly, port thrusters burning hard to win some traction over the vacuum. A lumpen module, riveted plates hatched yellow and black, swung out towards Dantalion’s starboard-side viewing ports, close enough for Zerberyn to see the alien pictographs scrawled onto its side. Then, the ship winked out, something darker than space rushing out to envelop it. Torpedoes and other mass-weapons winnowed through the hole left in real space.
‘Another ship inbound,’ called the seated hardline operator reporting from auspectoria. ‘Throne, they’re everywhere. Two thousand kilometres in-system. And another in convoy, the exact same spacing again.’
Zerberyn snarled. ‘As if surrendering ourselves to the Imperial Fists is not betrayal enough, we must contend with Iron Warriors treachery. Charge weapons and prepare to fire.’
‘Wait,’ said Marcarian, looking out of a port-side viewport at the next incoming ship. ‘No torpedo apertures, no flight decks, no weapon batteries that I can see except a handful of flak turrets, no energy spike on our scans to indicate they’re powering them up. I think that ship is unarmed.’
‘When did you ever see an unarmed ork ship?’
‘My point exactly. Helm, move us out of the path of the traffic. Five hundred kilometres to port. Auspectoria, commence scans for our brothers.’
‘Ayes’ acknowledged his instructions. Dantalion swung deeper into her portside yaw. The ork ships held true to their course.
‘Arrogant xenos,’ Zerberyn muttered, watching the unaugmented view through a viewport. The image booster screens around Strategium continued to snow. ‘They lack even the good sense to alter course to avoid our weapons.’
‘We are one ship, lord captain, and a damaged one at that. I would posit that they don’t consider us a threat.’
‘Then I posit that we purge them of that unwise presumption.’
‘Lords.’ Auspectoria again, the operative already swivelling his chair back around to point to the sensorium feed being relayed in précis to his monitor. Zerberyn and Marcarian joined him. The Space Marine towered above the two serfs, looking over the sloping bank of hardline wires into the din and confusion of the recovery work still ongoing around them. ‘Receivers are picking up a lot of vox-chatter. Numerical sequences, auto-broadcasts. Well over ten thousand ships, most of them concentrated here.’ He tapped the screen with his fingernail. ‘The third planet.’
‘Prax,’ said Zerberyn.
It was a guess: the last avenue of retreat for reactionaries and for mortals impelled to wage total war on inscrutable xenos-breeds and demi-gods. But it was an educated one.
‘Prax,’ the operator duly confirmed. ‘Archives list it as an agri-world and subsector governance hub. Limited orbital and dry-dock facilities, but nothing to permit shipping on this scale. Whatever the orks are using to coordinate so many vessels, they brought it in from elsewhere or built it themselves.’
‘Look at the disposition of these ships,’ said Marcarian, leaning over the serf’s shoulder to float his fingertip over the display. He turned to Zerberyn, ear-stud catching the green of the screen, and grinned. ‘Did your duty ever take you along the Eukrist Corridor, galactic east through the Flux with a layover at Angels’ Wake Munitorum star port?’
‘Humour me, shipmaster.’
Marcarian’s nerveless lips hung a smile. ‘It looked like this.’
‘A supply hub? An ork Administratum?’
‘Except orks don’t think that way,’ Marcarian continued. ‘They exploit the worlds they come to and then move on. Like at Ardamantua.’
‘They are building,’ said Zerberyn. A smile, slow and angry, began to spread and he turned it on Marcarian. ‘He must be close. The Beast. If not here, then somewhere near.’
Marcarian stumped again to the viewport and looked out. ‘I wonder what that symbol means. That crescent moon shape on their ships. Some kind of merchant class, do you think?’
A handset in the partially restored vox-turret blinked and chimed. The new duty liaison took the missive standing up and turned to face Zerberyn.
‘Incoming transmission from Palimodes, and from Guilliman. Coming through the hololith grid.’
Zerberyn was surprised to feel disappointed. In turbulent times, it was reassuring to know that the galaxy continued to rotate and the traitors would forever be traitors.
‘Patch them through,’ Marcarian ordered, and turned to face the display.
Power built up within the arcane suspension of coils and valves with a succession of etheric metal bangs, as though the device’s spirit railed against its reactivation so soon after translation. Tech-serfs stroked power distribution sliders and capacitance dials in a bid to soothe its anguish, and coaxed the weary machine to compliance. Two faces took shape within the loop projector. The face to the left of the static divider, cowled within a high grey hood, was familiar, even if the penetrating eyes looked pained and the ancient face drawn. Epistolary Honorius of Guilliman greeted Zerberyn’s image with a nod.
That other face, however…
Unconsciously Zerberyn drew himself to his full, impressive height, resolved to meet the image’s gaze like a Space Marine.
The stranger was dust pale and cadaverously thin, as though the withdrawal of the Emperor’s love had left him withered and bitter. His hollow cheeks made his sharp jawline cruel, and accentuated his high brow to something arch and not quite fully human. His eyes glinted like nails under the unforgiving light of his ship’s hololith projector.
‘It is good to talk face to face at last,’ said Kalkator.
Zerberyn had expected the traitor’s voice to match the forsaken character of his appearance, but it was surprisingly rich and powerful. It was a voice Zerberyn could well imagine sharing a field with the primarchs.
An unworthy flutter of jealousy – no, worse – of curiosity, disturbed the calm beating of his hearts.
> ‘Indeed, you are as pleasing a sight as the great garrison world of your forsaken brothers.’
‘It has been a long time devoid of our care,’ Kalkator replied. ‘Had this world still been defended by my brothers, then the situation would have been different.’
‘Had these worlds still been loyally defended by Iron Warriors,’ said Epistolary Honorius, eyes far away and long ago, ‘then many things would be different.’
‘It will have to serve, regardless,’ said Kalkator, turning back to Zerberyn. ‘Your ship will not survive another transit through the warp. Not without repairs. And mine will not survive without yours.’
‘We are sending a navigation packet,’ Honorius continued, gesturing to something or someone off-capture.
Marcarian limped to the nearest functioning terminal and activated it, telemetrics and data-icons turning his pale face green. ‘The eighth planet. An Ouranos-class ice giant with a ring system in a near-perpendicular orbit. The coordinates are for a geostationary position above the northern magnetic pole, inside the rings.’ He smiled, impressed. ‘I’m afraid the diffraction index of the magnetosphere and the rings is too much for our auspex.’
‘The orks’ no less,’ said Kalkator. ‘If their technical prowess extends beyond firepower and propulsion then they have yet to show it here.’
Looking across the image of the Traitor Space Marine, Zerberyn addressed the other figure. ‘What is your condition, Epistolary?’
‘If you ask after me personally, then I must confess I have been better. The ork psyker aboard that carrier was uncommonly powerful. His effect on me was… intense. But I will recover. With Thane’s foresight Guilliman and Excelsior exited the battle at Vandis with minimal damage, but Paragon, Courageous and Implicit will require extensive repair. Of Paladin of Rubicae and Vindicator there remains no sign and no word. We had almost given up hope on you also, First Captain. We have been waiting for several hours.’
Marcarian gestured for and promptly received a data-slate, then tapped at it before turning to Zerberyn. ‘Real time confirmed and verified: translation plus twenty-two hours and eleven minutes.’ He handed the slate back to the serf. ‘See that Dantalion’s timepieces are updated.’
Zerberyn let out a rough breath.
If the orks’ teleportation capability ameliorated just some of the uncertainties of warp transit then it would be a decisive technological edge, far more so than the gravitational weaponry they had deployed at Vandis. The vagaries of the warp were the rate-limiting factor in any galaxy-scale endeavour. Fleets heading towards the same point from equidistant systems could never be relied upon to arrive even within days of one another. An astropathic message cast into the immaterium from Terra could make it to Alpha Centauri in a week or in a month, and could as easily reach distant Occludus first. It turned keeping track of thousands of active fleet and military elements and an evolving tactical situation played out over segmenta into a logistical nightmare: a challenge that would tax even the mind of a primarch.
‘If we are to remain here, then we must take advantage of the opportunity this presents us,’ said Zerberyn. ‘Orks do not settle, orks do not trade, and yet here they are. We must find out what they are up to here, and in such numbers. The orks appear content to ignore us for now.’
‘A desirable state of affairs given our current condition,’ Kalkator cut in.
‘Is there anything you can discern here, Epistolary?’ asked Zerberyn through gritted teeth.
‘The Emperor has granted me no further insight since our departure from Terra, but I have had little opportunity to meditate on the matter these last few days.’ Honorius sank back into what looked like a command throne and closed his eyes. ‘You have rank, First Captain. I am minded to agree with the warsmith, but I will support any decision you make.’
‘It is made, Epistolary.’
Kalkator emitted a long-suffering sigh. ‘On your own head be it.’
‘I do not ask for your approval.’
‘Good. Because I withhold it, little cousin. But Prax is our world, and if you insist on this course then I too must insist on accompanying you to the surface. Our chances of survival will not be aided by the deaths of you and your warriors.’
Zerberyn glowered. And why not? The greatest impossibility conceivable in his existence, as the decree of Roboute Guilliman and the legacy of Oriax Dantalion had always defined it, had already been borne out with the reformation of the VII Legion. Where was the line now? One more broken rule? Two? Was there still a line?
‘One squad each.’
‘Agreed.’
Kalkator’s pallid features drew into a smile. Zerberyn met the warsmith’s gaze, as cold and grey without as his true armour within.
Twelve
Terra – the Imperial Palace
Drakan Vangorich knelt at the shrine to light a candle. There were more to choose between than would ordinarily be the case. The handful already lit burned low, wicks struggling to hold their heads above ever deepening pools of molten wax.
The chapel ordinary was an austere stone cell lacking even a window to distract one’s mind from communion with the God-Emperor. It was generally used by Palace servants and householders for their daily observances, but Vangorich found its asceticism useful. It made him look humble, civilised and discreet. He was, in fact, all of those things, but no one ever lit a candle or left a coin in a collection bowl to affirm their own virtues to themselves. It was an elaborate masquerade, a game in which no one played the part that their costumes dictated, a performance each and every day of his life so that the ever-circling Palace spies might see the Vangorich that Vangorich wished their masters to see. In so doing, he had allowed himself to become almost as hollow as the part he played.
Some habits were hard to break. Even now, with a twenty-four hour curfew of the entire Inner Palace in preparation for the day’s Senatorum business, he maintained the charade of piety.
Vangorich blew out the lighting taper and dropped the smouldering tip into a jar of sand.
Despite his reputation, he was not a creature of solitude. Any number of unfortunate incidents could befall an individual when he was alone. He was in a position to know. Krule was, of course, no more than thirty seconds away, and he himself was by no means defenceless. A man did not rise to become Grand Master of the Officio Assassinorum without possessing skills, but he also knew how far those skills could serve him. This was not a galaxy that rewarded the hubris of men.
Suddenly, he felt the unexpected and rather uncomfortable need to pray. He was a faithful man, of a kind, observant through rote if not from a true spirituality. He appeared to pray because it served him to be seen to pray.
As he generally made these shows of devotion prior to Senatorum meetings – the better to make oneself receptive to the will and wisdom of the God-Emperor – his thoughts had often revolved around upcoming business. Intelligence briefings on unredacted leaks of pre-agenda packets, comprehensively war-gamed conversational cues to feed the High Twelve. Often, but not always. The Imperium was vast, the Officio ever-busy. There had always been something with which to occupy his mind during a peaceful spell.
And yet for all the occasions that he had knelt here in this chapel and closed his eyes for the spies and vid-capture drones, he had never gone so far as to actually pray. It had never seemed necessary to carry the deception that far. He closed his eyes again.
This seemed to be the way most people went about it.
After a minute or two of stray thoughts, he became aware of the entry of another through the doorless stone arch that led into the chapel from the base of Daylight Wall.
His powers of observation were attuned rather than enhanced, a product of training, conditioning and – over the course of his career – natural selection. On this occasion however, no special talent was required. It was difficult to tread softly when one was half again the
height of a normal man and encased like a warrior-knight of ancient Terra in plasteel and ceramite.
‘There is a curfew in force in this area, citizen,’ said Koorland, his voice, even unaugmented by helm or speaker, resonant and compelling.
Vangorich turned. He remained on his knees.
The Imperial Fist was magnificent in his armour. He was strength and grace, the expression on his face that which a small child might perceive upon a domineering but ultimately protective father. Through superhuman breadth alone he projected an aura of invincibility. Vangorich knew this to be false, but even so he felt it, and could understand why so many had faith in the power of the Adeptus Astartes to be the wall between humanity and its enemies. Koorland was a sight to stir the soul, to excite the subliminal with imagery of angels and immortals and god-kings armoured in gold.
‘As a matter of fact I was just thinking about that,’ said Vangorich. ‘It’s reassuring that the Senatorum retains some ability to function when their best interests are served, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘My apologies, Grand Master,’ said Koorland, recognition easing the sternness from his features. ‘This is a simple shrine. Had I realised that you prayed here I would have made allowances.’
‘I’m surprised you recognised me,’ Vangorich smiled. ‘There are people I see every day who wouldn’t remember my face. It’s something I’m rather proud of.’
‘My apologies again,’ Koorland returned, humourless. ‘I do not forget a face.’
‘Or anything else, I suspect. I have a gift for recollection myself, though nothing like yours. You surpass me in almost every way conceivable, don’t you? As you were designed to surpass us all.’
