Horusian Wars: Resurrection

by John French

  ‘You claim to know what she wanted?’

  Josef let out a long breath, then shook his head. The scar of his rating brand itched on his forehead, just as it always did at such moments.

  ‘Vengeance is not a worthy calling,’ said Josef.

  Covenant looked around sharply. Josef met the coldness in his master’s eyes without flinching. After a second Covenant gave a slight shake of his head, and placed the blade on the desk.

  ‘This is not about vengeance,’ he said. ‘This is about what it has always been about – protecting humanity from those whose power makes their flaws a danger to everything that the Emperor intended and fought to protect.’ He tapped the wood beside the crystal blade. ‘That is what this is about.’

  ‘As you say, my lord,’ said Josef, and bowed his head. ‘I take it that you have an idea of where you will begin?’

  ‘We are going to see an old warrior of truth,’ said Covenant.

  Josef waited, but no further response came, and after a second he bowed his head and began to move towards the door.

  ‘She did not die as she would have wanted,’ said Covenant. Josef turned. Covenant was still standing beside the desk, straight backed, the hard lines of his face as unmoving as the masks hanging on the dark wall above him. ‘She died as we all will,’ said Covenant softly, ‘bloody and alone.’

  Josef held his master’s gaze for a long moment, and then stepped through the door.

  ‘Am I to be unmade?’ Glavius-4-Rho asked the question after seven hundred and three minutes of silence. The woman called Severita looked up from where she knelt before the door to his cell. As soon as the question left his vox-speaker, he wished he had left it unasked.

  Weakness, he snarled at himself. The question held no merit other than to serve the instincts of his flesh. He should have remained silent.

  Severita looked at him. She had been resting her forehead on the pommel of a drawn sword since they had entered the cell, and had not moved until now. The henna ‘X’ marking her face was fading on her skin. A shadow of stubble grew on her scalp. Three-point-one-two millimetres of growth, Glavius-4-Rho estimated. Dust and ash clotted the scabs of the small cuts left by the battle. Her black bodyglove, hessian shift and armour plates still bore the scorches and gouges of battle. In fact, they bore the marks of many battles, not just the latest. Glavius-4-Rho was no artisan, but he could read the damage patterns of seventy-one separate violent incidents. It was as though the gear had been maintained, but the overt damage left. Like a tally. Like scars.

  ‘The inquisitor’s will is that you remain here,’ she said.

  ‘Your statement does not negate the possibility that my life state will be judged as requiring termination.’

  His full set of sensors focused on her face.

  ‘That will be as he wills it,’ she said.

  He paused, considering what the correct move in this interaction would be. The answer was almost certainly silence.

  ‘Do you function as his executioner?’ he asked, after a pause. Severita met his gaze, but did not answer. After a second, she bowed her head again.

  ‘I have been analysing the features of your attire,’ began Glavius-4-Rho. Severita looked up again. He noticed that her pupils were black pinpricks in the green of her irises. He pressed on.

  ‘I have observed the equipment you bear, and the qualities of your speech and physical comportment. You are a Sister of the Order of the Bloody Rose. I had extensive opportunity to observe members of the Adepta Sororitas during my duties in the tower-building. There are notable differences – your attire is non-standard to their type – but the material and forging of the partial armour plates you wear denote that they come from the Tancula forges, made to the requirements of the Convent Sanctorum on Ophelia Seven.’ He paused, his implants and data processing rituals trying to parse the lack of expression on her face, and the fact that she had not blinked since he began speaking. He cleared his vox shunts, then continued. ‘Your principle weapon, too, was made by the smiths of Gredus. Its blade…’

  ‘I am not of the Sisterhood,’ said Severita, and gave a single, abrupt shake of her head.

  ‘But the observable data puts that possibility at less than two-point-three-one per cent.’

  ‘I serve the inquisitor,’ she said. He noticed her fingers flex fractionally on the hilt of her sword. ‘That is what I am.’

  Silence came again. Glavius-4-Rho shifted his position. He had not been restrained, but he had not been able to effect full repairs to his systems and machine components. There was damage to the joints in his leg. The connections between his nerves and systems also needed cleansing and reconsecrating. He could not do those rituals here. That failure of devotion bothered him less than it should have, but then what did those breakdowns of duty matter now?

  ‘My existence should have terminated in the tower,’ he said. Severita looked up. A frown momentarily formed on her face. ‘I had a duty,’ he continued, hearing a crackle in his vox-modulation and wondering where it came from. ‘I had a duty to the spirits of the machines – I cared for their sanctity, for the knowledge that gave rise to them. The Omnissiah is a god that exists in all knowledge, and in all the devices that knowledge gives rise to. I… I failed in my ordained function. I let a part of the divinity of knowledge die. For that my existence should be unmade.’ He stopped, the stream of words cutting off, and leaving static popping from his speaker. ‘This is a matter I should not speak of. It is a thing that is not open to understanding.’

  Severita was still looking at him. He waited, unsure what would come next. Part of him wondered if it would be the edge of her sword severing his neck, or another vital component.

  ‘The inquisitor…’ she said at last, her voice controlled but without the abruptness he had recognised before. ‘He has a use for you.’

  Glavius-4-Rho cycled his optical lenses.

  ‘But I have failed in my function,’ he said. ‘What use could someone have for a broken tool?’

  ‘That is for him to say,’ she said.

  Enna stared at the candle. It sat on the floor before her, its light reflected in the armour glass of the viewport to her left. The pillar behind her back was plasteel, thick, cold and unyielding. It reached above her, curving over as part of the arched window out into the void beyond. The northern arc of Ero filled half the view, the lights of warships and stars the other half. Apart from her candle, the light from the planet and the glitter of ships and stars was the only light in the gallery. It was narrow, a long span of silence stretching along this portion of the Dionysia’s spine. The viewport lay at the far end of long walls hung with trophies taken from dozens of worlds: banners of alien silk, skulls of great beasts, sculptures in iridescent stone, pictures painted by the hand of creatures that had never known the existence of mankind, on and on, wrapped in quiet shadow, looking down at the empty floor of their prison.

  Enna had found the gallery by following her own feet through the ship. No one had tried to stop her; the crew that had seen her had bowed their heads respectfully, and the servitors had passed her without pause as they went about the rote tasks of their lives. The door to the gallery had been the first one that she had found barred to her. She had found a side hatch and broken its lock. The act had given her a brief twinge of pleasure, but that had vanished when she found what lay within. What had she expected? Secrets? Answers? Instead she had walked past the artefacts of vanity to the one source of light. When she had got close enough to see it was a viewport she had kept walking until she stood before it. Then she had sat, taken the candle from the pocket of her coat and lit it. That had been a while ago, and she had not moved since.

  The prickling of her skin told her that she was not alone. Her stillness became readiness in a blink. Muscles relaxed and tensed in a pattern that meant she could spring from her position in an instant. The poison needles and all her other dead
ly trinkets had been taken after she was brought on board the ship. She had only one weapon: an officer’s dagger that she had lifted from a passing crewman without him noticing. She had not even taken it with the intent to use it. She just felt better with a weapon, and stealing it had made her feel good for the second it took. If she was facing a serious threat now, the dagger was almost a token gesture, but it was too late to wish that she had brought something more substantial. Slowly, casually, she moved her gaze from the candle to the shadowed distance of the gallery.

  I have no intention of letting you stab me, Enna.+

  She came to her feet in a single snap of muscles. The stolen dagger was in her hand, blade reversed. Her eyes were wide. The voice that had spoken was in her skull, an echo without sound.

  I am sorry,+ said the thought-voice. Enna heard the echo of a feminine lilt, and something else, an impression of humour, as though the words had been said through a wry smile. +I would say that I did not mean to startle you, but that would be a lie.+

  ‘Show yourself!’ hissed Enna. Her skin was pricking, and she could taste metal and sugar on her tongue.

  Beginning on the right footing is important,+ said the voice in her thoughts. +Or so I am told. So I thought it best to start as we will – no doubt – go on.+

  A figure slid from the shadow into the thin light. A black robe hung from it, half hiding withered limbs that trailed in the empty air beneath it. Bulging machines and cables circled its shoulders, haloing its head in an arc of chromed metal. Sparks crackled around it as it moved. The air wrinkled and shimmered above its head. Its eyes were black pearls sunk in the pale folds of its face.

  It was a psyker, Enna knew, and a powerful one. She held herself poised, ready to move and slash, or throw the dagger. She could hit one of the thing’s eyes from here.

  That would be unnecessarily unpleasant for us both.+

  Get out of my head, witch. Enna formed the thought and let anger shout it through her skull.

  I felt that,+ said the voice. +I actually felt that. You are strong.+

  ‘Whatever you are, why ever you are here, go away now.’

  That is not possible. I have been putting this off, but Covenant – in his wisdom – has put things into motion that mean I cannot leave you to stare at a candle waiting for the universe to answer.+

  The psyker drifted closer. Snakes of ghost light fizzed over its robes and earthed in the deck. Its head turned slowly to look at the candle still burning on the deck at Enna’s feet.

  Even in a universe where billions die every minute, the loss of one soul still has the power to cut,+ sent the psyker.

  Enna blinked. The thought voice held no trace of amusement.

  What was she called?+ asked the psyker.

  ‘Idris,’ she said. ‘She was my mistress.’

  She was your friend.+

  Enna took a step back, and turned the dagger in her hand so that its blade was pointed at the psyker.

  ‘Stay out of my head,’ she growled.

  A crackle of sparks crawled across the machines ringing the psyker’s skull. For a moment Enna could not help thinking that the psyker was shrugging. Or laughing. Enna cleared her mind with a whip crack of will, and then poured a skin of focused loathing into her thoughts.

  You are certainly resistant,+ sent the psyker. +Capably so. Your mind and will are well trained. You have mental defences layered over telepathically-altered thought architecture. Impressive. Your mistress knew her business.+

  ‘You don’t go inside my head,’ snarled Enna, and tried to turn away. Her limbs did not move.

  I already am in your head,+ sent the psyker. +But I am not digging deeply. I could go deeper, but I am not sure you would survive. And I am sorry if you don’t like this, but I have to be satisfied of a few things before I can let you get back to your candle.+

  Enna gritted her teeth. She should have known it would come to this. She should have left the ship, just as she had wanted to as soon as the gunship had docked. Covenant was not her master. She should have found a way back to the planet’s surface or onto another ship. She should have found a way to track the creature that had taken the one fixed point in her universe and left her here, alone amongst strangers and enemies.

  You…’ began the psyker. +You are not alone, Enna. Not here. Not unless you wish it. Covenant just wants to be sure.+

  ‘What are you?’ she snarled. ‘Covenant’s pet witchling? Kept in a box until someone’s head needs ripping open, or their memories eating?’

  Yes, + sent the psyker. +Yes, that is exactly what I am.+

  ‘He sent you to test me,’ she growled. She forced her will into her limbs, pushing aside the thoughts that told her they could not move. Her hand holding the dagger shook. She cried out, snarling with frustration. ‘He sent you to see if I am what? An assassin? A traitor?’

  He sent me to talk to you.+

  ‘Why?’

  You served your mistress, and he is of a mind to take you into his service.+

  ‘But he has doubts?’

  He is an inquisitor,+ said the psyker, and Enna felt the force pressing into her thoughts grow in strength. Motes of light bubbled across her sight. Her hands were still trembling as she forced the weight of her thoughts against the presence in her head. +You served Inquisitor Idris for a decade. So much blood and ash, Enna…+

  ‘Get… out…’

  I am not stealing these thoughts. Those years are what you were thinking about before I entered this room. You are almost shouting your memories. That first operation on the Solar pilgrim route. The way that you felt after she ordered you to execute that cargo captain. You hated her so much at that moment. He was crying so much, and did not understand what had happened, or why he needed to…’

  Enna could see the image of the man sitting on the floor, tears rolling down his heavy cheeks. He thought he had survived. He thought he had saved his crew. She brought her pistol up to meet his tear-filled eyes. The memory swam, and the man’s face was the shrunken head of the psyker hovering in front of her. Enna’s muscles were vibrating under her skin. Sweat was pouring off her. She tasted blood on her tongue. She spat. The wad of red phlegm burned to ash as it flew towards the psyker.

  Now, now… like I say, you are shouting these memories. If you don’t want me to hear, then stop letting them fill your mind.+

  Enna felt a rage roar up from her core. She…

  She stopped. The acid feeling of anger receded. She watched the blaze of emotion fall down into the pit of her mind. It belonged to someone else, another person, not her. She was detached calm, the creator and destroyer of every feature of her consciousness. Idris had taught her this way of being, she remembered, and she let that memory bring her only calm.

  Better,+ sent the psyker. +You have a lot of control when you want to.+

  ‘That is what you are testing isn’t it, my control?’

  Your mistress died in front of you, without warning. A decade as the persecutor and acolyte of a woman like her leaves its mark, and loss is a void that can grow to eat the soul from within.+

  Enna nodded. In her mind she felt the psyker’s grip release. She shook her limbs. Spun the knife and tucked it into her sleeve.

  ‘I… I am in control. You can tell him that.’

  I will tell him what I have seen.+

  The psyker pivoted and began to drift away.

  ‘Is Covenant going after him?’

  Goldoran Talicto, you mean? The villain of the hour?+ Enna felt a twitch of something that might have been grim humour in the sending. +Yes, he is going after that creature. And he will bring him down. That is a certainty. Covenant will not let it be otherwise.+

  Enna bent down, picked up the candle and pinched out its flame.

  ‘Idris never mentioned him,’ she said, as a twist of smoke rose in the starlit gloom. ‘Covenant, I mean.
I heard her talk of other inquisitors once or twice, but never him. Not his name or even anything that could be him. I don’t even know how they knew each other.’

  Threads of static flicked around the psyker. The still air smelt of tallow smoke and ozone.

  Everyone has secrets,+ it sent, and pivoted away.

  ‘You can tell him that I will follow his will,’ said Enna.

  I was going to.+ The psyker drifted across the floor towards the distant door into the gallery. +I am Mylasa, by the way.+

  ‘Enna Gyrid.’

  I know.+

  Seven

  Kade Zecker watched ships come out of the night, and heard them scream. They spun, kilometre-long hulls tumbling over and over like arrows broken in mid-flight. Grey smoke oozed from their hulls, coiling against the sheet of stars. Holes dotted their skin, ringed by broken spars and torn armour plates. They did not look like the marks of weapons, or of meteor impacts. They looked like bites.

  And the screams went on and on, pouring from the speakers across the bridge, blaring across every frequency, crying with pleas for help and screams of rage…

  ‘You will all die…’

  ‘Please help. If you can hear… Oh. God Emperor, help…’

  ‘Help… die… please…’

  ‘Emperor… die…

  ‘Please…

  The bridge was still and empty. The light of the stars fell through the open viewports, glistening off…

  ‘Oh, God Emperor, help…

  Silent corridors, air hissing in the seal of her void suit as she pushed open a hatch and saw…

  ‘Please help…’

  The light of the stars beyond the bridge was a smear of nausea and neon…

  ‘Launch torpedoes,’ she said, and saw the deck officers look at her. ‘All ships, fuses set for internal detonation.’

  ‘Yes…’ The pause grew in the lieutenant’s voice. ‘Captain.’

  ‘Do it!’ she roared. ‘Burn them from the void.’

  The hatch opened, and the light of her suit pierced the dark, and she saw…