by Gav Thorpe
And now the scarred, terrified people of Zephath thanked him for killing those that had almost wiped them from the face of their world. Their gratitude should have been a reward, but the relief in their voices was not matched in their eyes. Fear dominated all. And from some came the unspoken accusation: you brought this upon us.
Not Holguin. Not the Dark Angels. The Legiones Astartes. The gods of war that now used the worlds of mortals as their battleground.
And for what? For the Emperor?
Not here, not in Imperium Secundus. This was the realm of Sanguinius, the design of Roboute Guilliman. The Emperor was not here.
Holguin kept his thoughts to himself. He did no one justice to speak of his doubts. He was the leader of the Deathwing, the lauded veterans of the Legion and his loyalty, his bond to the primarch, was to be without blemish. For this reason he kept secret his fear that Imperium Secundus was worse than a mistake, it was a lie. For this reason he accepted the tearful thanks of the battered survivors with silent nods. For this reason he spoke in opposition to his liege only in private, and even then held back his greatest criticisms.
He was a soldier, and it was his duty to obey. This was the rock to which he clung while the tide of anarchy rose around him.
When the Lion called for the people of Zephath to put forward a council of leaders, Holguin brought their nominees to the camp of the primarch. Of the six, four were men of older years, the other two women of equally advanced age.
‘I see that you trust in the wisdom of your elders,’ he said to them as they disembarked from the Rhino.
‘Not really,’ replied one rheumy-eyed ancient. ‘All the younger folk tried to fight. Babes and grave-dodgers, we’re all that’s left.’
They looked in wonder and shock at their surroundings. Amongst the rubble of the city the Dark Angels had worked swiftly, combining prefabricated defences with fresh buildings erected from the ruins of the old. Foam-sprayed plascrete roads paved several square kilometres of central Numentis. Between them armoured transports acted as barracks and comms stations, while pod-dropped defence posts guarded the perimeter and landing pads brought in by Thunderhawk transporters hosted gunships coming and going on patrol sweeps.
The charnel towers had been toppled as a priority. Beyond their macabre image, they were surrounded by a tangible aura of despair that affected even the warriors of the First Legion. Mutterings about strange forces, haunted dreams and inexplicable occurrences were ruthlessly quashed by the Brother-Redemptors, but Holguin had heard the reports of the Librarians that the towers were psychically tainted – corrupted warp-beacons powered by terror, erected to call to something beyond the veil that separated realities. They had been nervous to say more, but in the last few years there was not a man in the Legion that had not come across those otherworldly forces, or some evidence of the bizarre existence that lay in the warp.
The remains contained in the towers had been given no more dignity than mass graves dug by tanks suited to building siege lines. Yet that was more than they had had before.
The charnel pits were guarded and quarantined, despite the protests from some of the Zephathians that they be allowed to mark remembrance for the fallen. The chance of disease spreading was too high for such sentiment, the chance of other contamination another risk to be avoided.
In their place, outposts consisting of drop-launched castellum strongholds had been seeded across the ruins, as much to act as buffers to the incoming refugees as a defence against aggression. From these prefabricated fortifications squads of Dark Angels enforced a two-kilometre exclusion cordon around the central encampment, ensuring a civilian-free firezone for those within the inner defences. Food and medical aid were passed out through these outposts, their distribution protected by legionaries to ensure that the unseemly scrambles did not degenerate into violence.
Order, the Lion had emphasised, had to be maintained at all costs.
All of this activity required no further input from the primarch, it was simply second nature to the Space Marines to create the border fortress according to doctrines laid down first by the Emperor and refined by their lord. The Lion busied himself with other matters, keeping his own counsel except to receive hourly reports from his senior officers.
Holguin ushered the tired Zephathian delegates through the clatter and smog of the ongoing fortification works. Even in this makeshift camp there was evidence of the pomp and grandeur of the Legion. Company, Chapter and Order banners of black, green, red and white flapped in the strong wind that blew across Numentis, now that there was no obstacle taller than a storey to block its progress. Pennants flapped on the vehicles, awnings and pavilions, reminiscent of the training fields of Caliban, and above bunkers that protected supply depots and augur stations.
The Lion’s headquarters were as grand as any palace, though far smaller. A Stormbird especially fitted with the most powerful strategic data systems and communications network formed the core. Black with the sigil of the Legion in gold across its wings and fuselage, it stood glowering on clawed landing feet, linked by armoured walkways to other vehicles acting as bunkers and strongpoints.
Two Glaive super-heavies flanked the entrance to the outer camp, in turn protected by a ring of Whirlwind mobile missile launchers in various patterns. Unlike the Mars-manufactured volkite weapons found in other Legions, the Glaives of the Dreadwing sported warp cannons designed by the Emperor’s greatest armourers, capable of creating dimensional rifts that tore apart their targets from within much like the annihilator cannon Redloss had unleashed at the traitor fortress.
Further to each side, point-defence emplacements with tarantula and rapier weapons systems were guarded by the towering forms of Dreadnoughts. Anti-aircraft batteries scoured the skies with inhuman eyes, though nothing flew there except by the command of the Lion. Even so, Primaris-Lightning fighters circled a kilometre above the camp, ready to intercept any threat.
Passing between the Glaives, several white-painted buildings came into view. Staffed by members of the apothecarion, the medicae facilities treated the Dark Angels casualties with light enough injuries not to require shipping to orbit. Not by coincidence were the portable forgeworks of the Techmarines erected on a neighbouring plot. The immediate need for bionic limbs and artificial organs necessitated close cooperation between the two specialist formations. He could smell blood on the wind, but doubted his unenhanced companions could make the distinction. Far more potent was the mixture of lubricants and fuel emanating from the armoury. The clatter of rivet guns and the hissing sparks of laswelders joined a background grumble of engines idling as generators.
The Zephathians did not know where to look, their gazes roaming everywhere, fluctuating between amazement and fear in near-equal measure. They flinched in unison as a pair of attack speeders screamed past, flying just a few metres above the camp.
Holguin could not imagine what they really made of the sights, smells and sounds. He was so used to such conditions that he did not give them a second thought.
A detachment fifty-strong of veterans in Terminator armour stood as honour guard to the Lion’s Stormbird transport. They came from Chapters across the force, their heraldry a mix of designs, but above them was raised the flag of the Deathwing, a red Legion symbol on black.
They parted as Holguin and his charges approached, the whine of their armour and heavy tread of feet like a greeting to the voted lieutenant’s ears. As he walked to the assault ramp of the Stormbird the Deathwing each pivoted in turn, raising their combi-bolters, autocannons and flamers in salute.
‘You are their commander?’ asked one of the women as she was helped onto the foot of the ramp by a man probably even older.
‘Sometimes,’ Holguin replied. Her scowl eloquently explained that this was an insufficient answer. She reminded the Deathwing commander of his father’s sister, a formidable woman despite physical frailty for much of her life. He shrugged, as close as his war-plate would allow. ‘It is complicated, and I do not
wish to keep the Lion waiting.’
She took this explanation with a sour look but said nothing more.
Within the Stormbird the benches and bulkheads that usually filled the main compartment had been cleared to create an open space. Mesh-clad lamps in the ceiling suffused the interior with a stark blue light, almost sterile in its brightness. It was far from the muted gloom of the audience chamber aboard the Honoured Deeds. This was a place of action, not contemplation – clinical and efficient.
Holguin much preferred it. His liege lord had a tendency, when left alone for too long, to dwell on matters in a manner that was not constructive. Holguin would never say that the Lion brooded. Not out loud, at least.
In this place, screens displayed strategic dispositions, servitors ready to dispense orders and decrypt incoming ciphers manned the communications stations and half a dozen hololithic projectors related constantly streamed data feeds from orbit and the plethora of patrols and overflights enmeshing much of Zephath in the Legion’s surveyor web.
There was no striving for an inner truth, only the ebb and flow of raw data to be sifted and acted upon. The starkness, the binary nature of it, seemed to reassure the Lion in a way that the company of his Space Marines could not.
He sat on a chair of plasteel, as large as his throne but less grandiose in design. Secondary monitors, interfaces, keypads and pict-feed lenses surrounded the command chair, bathing the primarch’s armour and face with a rainbow of lights that shifted swiftly across the spectrum.
He looked up as Holguin stepped across the threshold of the Stormbird, the delegates now clustered behind him like a litter of feeble young. The primarch looked at each of them in turn. They all flinched from that gaze, three of them dropping to a knee in deference. Only the woman that had attempted to interrogate Holguin was able to hold the Lion’s gaze for more than a moment, and even then her eyes flicked between the primarch and the floor.
‘You are now the ruling council of Zephath,’ said the primarch. ‘Congratulations would be misplaced. You have taken up a great responsibility. It will be your task to rebuild your world and make it fit for the Imperium.’
‘With your aid, we can do anything,’ said the old woman.
‘What is your name, elder?’ The Lion stood up, monitors and controls pads moving themselves out of his way as he stepped down from the interface throne.
‘Arisata, my lord. Arisata Drak Vergoef.’
‘You seem a capable woman, Arisata Drak Vergoef, but you have made an error. There will be no aid from me or my Legion.’
‘But this encampment…?’
‘A military necessity. No, not a necessity. A reflex. An instinct.’ The Lion sighed and paced forwards, forcing the delegates to part. ‘Some of the buildings we will leave for you. We can spare a few of our apothecarion auxilia. Everything else you will have to look to Lord Guilliman to provide.’
‘You cannot abandon us, my lord.’ Arisata stated it as a fact, not a plea. ‘We need you.’
‘Others need me more,’ the primarch replied. ‘I am the Lord Protector. You have been delivered from the invaders and there are other wars I must prosecute. Look to Macragge for aid.’
The Lion stood to one side at the top of the ramp, arms crossed, making clear his intention for them to leave. The members of the delegation were immobile, stunned. They stared open-mouthed at the primarch’s declaration, horrified by what they perceived as callousness though Holguin knew it well as simple Calibanite pragmatism. There was no special cause here, nothing that marked this world as more worthy of succour than any of the others ravaged by Lorgar and Angron’s demented crusade.
One of the delegates took a step forward, tears in his eyes. ‘But…’
‘Time to leave,’ said Holguin, ushering them all to the ramp. A couple looked as though they might protest further but the grim face of the primarch stalled their words. Only Arisata looked at the Lion as they passed and even she said nothing.
No sooner had they started down the ramp than the Lion was moving back to the interface chair, his mind already returning to strategic matters – if it had ever truly left them.
‘You will need to create a security force,’ Holguin told the Zephathians as he led them back through the camp. ‘Resources will be scarce, there will be fighting if you do not act swiftly. I will see that we leave some armaments for your militia.’
‘You would make us warlords,’ said one of the male elders. ‘Ruling by the gun?’
‘If you do not, one that is willing to do so will take your place,’ Holguin snapped back. ‘Your world is in dire need, your lofty virtues of representation and equality must be checked. You have the authority of the Triumvirate now. Use it. Fear of reprisal from Macragge will gain you some space. Lord Guilliman will despatch a relief ship or two. Do the best you can until they arrive.’
Though softly spoken, Arisata’s words dripped bitterness. ‘That’s it?’
‘We did not bring the World Eaters and Word Bearers to Zephath,’ Holguin reminded her.
‘Of course.’ She dropped her gaze. ‘But we did not bring this punishment on ourselves, either.’
They were nearly at the gate, the gigantic hulls of the super-heavies visible from where they were.
‘Blame Horus.’ Holguin quickly stepped ahead and turned, stopping them with a raised hand. ‘Look at me! Remember who it was that turned his hand against the Emperor – Horus. This war is his doing, no other. He sent the Word Bearers and the World Eaters to the Five Hundred Worlds – not the Lion, not Guilliman or Sanguinius. If you want to hate, then do so, but reserve your hatred for Horus.’
‘I will contact you,’ he muttered before he stalked away, somewhat ashamed at his outburst.
Though a giant by human proportion, Farith Redloss had to almost run to keep up with the long strides of his primarch. The Lion seemed agitated, more than usual, and his excessive pace was a symptom of his mood.
They followed a secondary conduit passage of the Honoured Deeds, having taken a conveyor down from the lower levels of the strategium decks. The Lion had to bend his neck in the confines of the corridor but it made little impact on his speed.
Holguin was there too, along with Stenius. They trailed behind Redloss, the rapid wheeze of the captain’s artificial breathing regulator making it appear that he would expire at any moment.
Redloss knew where they were going and the prospect chilled his thoughts. He had not been part of the expedition to Perditus, had played no part in the discovery of the device they simply referred to as ‘the artefact’.
Even so, he had talked to Corswain before departing for Macragge and knew something of the circumstances of its acquisition.
A chamber door slid open at a gesture from the Lion, parting to reveal a ruddily lit bay that had once been a magazine for the main bombardment cannon. The reinforced walls and single means of ingress and egress – the loading elevators had been closed up – made it the ideal place to stow the artefact.
The magazine had a high ceiling, nearly eighty metres up, supported by thick columns and reinforced vaults. Most of the space was taken up with vertiginous banks of Mechanicum machinery, stacked up on newly raised walkways and levels, filling the space with banks of dials and levers and flashing lights and coils of cabling and pipelines.
Gantries, steps and ladders were arranged around it. It was a perfect sphere of marbled black and dark grey, with flecks of gold that moved slowly across its surface.
Redloss knew that the thing could sense them. It was like hearing the distant scratching at a door, almost inaudible but gnawing and insistent. He hated coming here, but the Lion had insisted that his senior officers were acquainted with the warp device that identified itself as Tuchulcha.
Connected to Tuchulcha by several spinal implants, a servitor emerged from the shadows. It was a boy, probably no more than ten Terran years of age, but with the wrinkled, parchment-like skin of an elder. His eyes were yellow and glazed, his hair missing in clumps, scabs aro
und the corners of his mouth. The smell of urine and faeces was almost as unpleasant as the otherworldly presence of the device itself.
It was a bargain of practicality, Redloss reminded himself as the servitor-puppet tottered over to stand before the Lion. Without Tuchulcha the Dark Angels fleet would never have been able to pierce the ruinstorm and reach Macragge. It was obvious, and the Lion had warned as much, that the warp entity was serving its own alien needs, but the immediate need outweighed that longer-term risk.
Redloss wasn’t convinced by this reasoning and might even have spoken against the plan had he been at Perditus.
As it was, the deal was done and Tuchulcha had been moved from the Invincible Reason to the Honoured Deeds. There would be consequences – that much was tacitly agreed, but their nature was yet to be revealed.
‘Hello, Lion.’ The boy’s voice was a whisper, almost unheard over the hum of power lines and the clicking and clattering of engines. ‘I am sorry that you are unhappy.’
‘Stop that,’ snarled the primarch.
‘Are you not sad? I have been trying to learn expressions. Your face looks unhappy.’
‘I need you to find someone for me, Tuchulcha,’ the Lion said, changing his tone, feigning friendliness. As a device capable of flattening warp space and translating entire fleets in an instant, Tuchulcha could be fatally temperamental. So far it had not demonstrated the destructive potential of its abilities but the Lion had insisted that nobody antagonised the artefact.
‘Find someone, Lion?’ The boy-puppet cocked his head to one side. ‘Have you lost someone?’
‘Before the fleet arrived, there were ships in this star system,’ the Lion continued, measuring each word patiently. ‘They fled when we came here. The Navigators could see the wake of their warp jumps. Can you follow where they went?’
