Horusian Wars: Resurrection

by John French

  ‘Commander,’ said a voice close by. ‘Commander Zecker, please wake up.’

  She came awake with a start. Sweat drenched the uniform she had fallen asleep in. She blinked, breathed. The dream hovered just on the edge of her senses, half remembered and fading like the echo of a distant voice.

  An ensign stood at attention beside the bunk, face carefully set, eyes pointed at nothing in particular. Somewhere behind him, the blunt presence of her life-ward hovered at the edge of the cabin.

  She looked up at the ensign. The man was called Luco – young, just like all the rest of her wards, young and with his edges still to be knocked off.

  ‘Yes,’ she croaked, the aftertaste of the sun-liquor still on her tongue. ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘Apologies, commander, there is a situation.’

  Cold gripped her gut. She stood, noting the empty bottle on the table beside a heap of parchment dispatches.

  ‘Summarise,’ she said, and began to pull a fresh uniform on. Her eye found the spinning brass and ivory of the ship’s chrono. It was just past first division. Throne, she thought, what was happening that needed her wakened halfway through the dark-watch?

  ‘Spit it out, Mr Luco,’ she snapped. He blinked, shifted, straightening his back.

  ‘We have received a signal, ma’am,’ he said, his voice trailing off.

  ‘A fleet order? Has the commencement been brought forward?’

  ‘No,’ he said, hesitated again, and continued just before she was about to shout at him. ‘It’s not from the fleet. It was directed for the attention of the captain of the Valour’s Flame alone. For you.’

  ‘What does it say?’ she asked, buttoning up her coat to below her chin.

  ‘I don’t know, ma’am. Signals have locked it to your personal cipher.’ He held out his hand. A brass and jade cylinder sat on his open palm. Commander Zecker looked at it, and suddenly felt all the details of the ensign’s presence and nervousness freeze the blurred whirring of her mind.

  Luco’s hand was trembling beneath the message cylinder.

  ‘Who is it from?’ she asked carefully, eyes fixed on the cylinder still on his hand.

  ‘It…’ he began, and she heard his voice catch. She looked up at his eyes. ‘It is from an inquisitor.’

  For a long moment she did not move. At the back of her mind, the dream of dead ships shimmered into focus. Then she reached out and took the cylinder.

  It was not a fleet. That was too small a name for it. Ships crowded the orbits of Ero and the space close to it. Battleships hung at the centre of schools of escorts, gun towers and command bastions of armour rising from their spines, like great fortresses ripped from the earth and carried into the stars. Battlecruisers, assault barques and grand cruisers moved in battle groups that alone would have been enough to subdue planet systems. Troop and supply transports held close orbit above the planet, the space around them flickering with the firefly glimmer of shuttles and bulk lifters. Millions of troops were now held in the iron dark of the ships’ holds alongside war machines and weaponry. The planets of the Caradryad Sector and its neighbours had been drained of their populations to make this muster of strength. Hundreds of thousands of men and women who had never held a weapon before now waited to go to war beside hardened veterans.

  The ships of the Adeptus Mechanicus held to their own tight clusters. Within their holds, the Red Priests of Mars moved amongst the towering forms of Titans, buzzing their prayers to the Machine God as they scattered blessed oil over the silent shells of battle automata. In radiation-soaked prayer halls, skitarii waited in silence for the first step to be taken in this holy war against the enemies of the Omnissiah.

  And beside them – alone or in small squadrons – the ships of the Adeptus Astartes moved like lions amongst packs of wolves. Vessels from the Raven Guard and Red Seraphs had answered the Crusader call, and now waited with the rest of the host.

  From his position on the bridge of the Dionysia, Cleander von Castellan could see only part of the gathered might, but even that was a greater strength of arms than he had ever seen in one place.

  ‘Enough,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Will even this be enough?’

  His eyes moved from the pict and scanner images to the stain of light which ran across the distant void. Curdled swirls of red-threaded ochre and mottled purple rippled against the stars. A heat haze blur pulled light into streaks, and diluted empty black to muddy brown. That was what had brought this force to this place: the Caradryad Warp Fault and the three Storms of Judgement that spun along the edges of that nightmare zone. Billions had already died, and billions more still would, even if the might of the Crusade host could contain it.

  If it could contain it…

  Cleander knew more of what was happening to Caradryad than any of the military commanders who gathered at Ero. That was the bitter gift of serving an inquisitor; he had perspective, but that perspective bound him to his service. He could never leave the service of Covenant. What he had seen and learnt at the inquisitor’s side was a death sentence, just as the battles they were about to fight were a death sentence for all the warriors on the ships moving in the void above Ero. If the enemy did not kill them, the inquisitors would. One could not see the true face of the universe and live. Cleander felt his lips twitch in a half smile. Even he was only living on borrowed time.

  ‘Gunship away, and clear,’ said Void Mistress Ghast from behind him.

  Cleander shook himself and blinked.

  ‘Very good, Mistress Ghast,’ he said. ‘Light the engines. Full speed to the system edge. Set battle conditions through the ship.’ He pulled his smile wide. ‘Some of these war-cows might think it a good idea to try and stop us, so let’s try and live up to our reputations and make it difficult for them.’

  Ghast grinned by baring her chrome teeth.

  ‘Sir,’ she said, and then turned, voice booming from her augmetic throat. ‘Engines to three quarter output, vector to skim the orbital well, full power to shield, all stations to alert.’

  Return shouts echoed above the buzz of machines, and then the ship growled to life. The view beyond the viewport moved as the Dionysia nosed down. The cliff-like hull of the Lord Imperator slid downwards. The binaric buzz of the servitors grew and swelled. He could see lights flashing across the machine trenches.

  ‘Multiple auspex locks,’ called the signals officer. ‘Our movements are being queried by the Lord Imperator.’

  Cleander let the side of his mouth curl.

  ‘Please remind them of the authority under which we do everything,’ he paused, and grinned wider. ‘Come to think of it, remind them that, furthermore, my warrant of trade lets me do as I please, and wish them hearty thanks for their concern.’

  ‘We have three squadrons shifting onto our projected path,’ called another officer.

  ‘Accelerate to attack speed,’ boomed Ghast.

  Cleander watched the dagger shapes slide across their view. The ships were stacked so close around Ero’s near orbit that he could see the pinprick lights dotting their bridge castles.

  ‘The gunship has docked with the Valour’s Flame,’ said Viola quietly, coming to stand next to him on the command dais. He glanced around. Her jaw was set hard above the high collar of her coat.

  ‘You would not prefer to wait?’

  ‘At least until the ship Covenant is commandeering is under way,’ she said, ‘yes, I would prefer to wait until then before we leave him here.’

  ‘That was not his will, and you are normally very particular about obedience.’

  She did not reply.

  ‘Weapons active on three ships in near-space,’ came a call from the signals trench beneath the dais.

  ‘All right,’ said Cleander with a grin. The escorts crossing the ship’s path were growing larger. ‘Charge our guns, and give me firing locks.’

 
‘Is that wise?’ asked Viola.

  ‘We have a part to play before we cut loose on our errand,’ his smile twitched. ‘And they won’t fire.’

  ‘And us? You are just charging the guns for show?’

  ‘We have to make this look good,’ he said, then raised his voice. ‘Mistress Ghast, stand by.’

  She looked at him and gave a clicking nod. His crew, just like his ship, was a tool he had forged over the years of his career in the void. Those that knew him tended to think it an expression of his character: brash, unorthodox, and existing only for his caprice. Those very few who truly knew him knew that the Dionysia was simply a tool that had been shaped by its use. And the use he put it to was as a dancer, not a fighter.

  The ships were a wall of grey metal against the black.

  Cleander watched them grow in his eyes. Glints of light became tall towers venting engine gas into the void. Scratches in armour magnified to metre-deep gouges. The waiting barrels of guns were black circles that could have swallowed a Titan. The clamour of the bridge rose in volume, alerts overlapping with the drone of servitors and the shouts of officers. Cleander did not listen. The sound was irrelevant. He had chosen this path and he was following it.

  ‘Engines to full,’ he said.

  A second later the Dionysia shivered. The ships in front of them lurched closer.

  ‘Multiple auspex locks,’ called Ghast. ‘They are ready to fire.’

  ‘If they were going to, they would have.’

  Collision alerts blared through the bridge.

  ‘All stations brace for fire-roll!’ roared Ghast.

  Cleander looked at Ghast, and nodded.

  ‘Engine power to line thrusters. Full burn.’

  The view beyond the main viewport turned over. Force thumped through the Dionysia as it corkscrewed past the first escort. Cleander braced his feet against the throne behind him, but did not shift as the hull of the Navy escort raced past. It was so close that he could have picked out one of the escort’s portholes with a pistol shot. The Dionysia kept rolling, cutting between the vessels across their path. And then they were past and levelling out to a straight burn to the black of deep space.

  ‘Well done, Mistress Ghast,’ said Cleander with a grin. ‘A day’s additional pay to all the command officers, an extra hour deducted from all the ratings.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Ghast, returning his grin with a clack of her metal jaw.

  Cleander nodded and turned to step from the command dais. He needed to sleep before they jumped to the warp. Viola was standing at the edge of the dais. She raised an eyebrow and gave a single, small shake of her head.

  ‘You enjoyed that,’ she said.

  ‘I really did,’ he replied, and went to try to find his dreams.

  Commander Kade Zecker reached the hangar deck of the Valour’s Flame just as the crimson gunship touched the deck. The hangar was clear of all personnel except a quartet of servitors waiting with fuel lines and smoking censers. The shuttle’s thrusters fired, lowering the gunship onto the deck in a wash of heat and smoke. It settled, but its engines did not die.

  Ready for a quick lift-off, thought Zecker, as she watched the servitors rock in place, their lobotomised brains uncertain what to do. As though there was a threat here…

  A tremble shook her hand where it rested on the hilt of her sheathed sword. She tried to stay focused, to keep the questions and terror from crowding past the years of training.

  She waited, watching the gunship, the beat of her heart the rhythm of racing thoughts.

  Why was the Inquisition–

  The side door of the gunship slid back. Zecker tensed. Adrenaline was burning through her. Zecker’s eyes were wide and unblinking.

  She had been born on the moons of Aleusis, and had grown up knowing she would take on her family’s tithe to the Imperial Navy, that war and command were her birthright and her prison. Both had come, and with them the lessons of life and war in an Imperium that was never at peace. She had grown hard in the lives she had taken, as cold and distant from the end results of war as the stars that lit her every sight that was not of armour or metal. There had been promotions, and honours. She had seen millions die in a distant blink of light, and killed close enough that she had felt her enemy’s last breath. She had visited worlds that pilgrims spent decades and fortunes to try to reach, and heard the commands of lord admirals and the sermons of high cardinals.

  But she had never seen a member of the Inquisition.

  A figure jumped down from the open door of the gunship, straightened, walked towards her. He was tall, his face youthful beneath a topknot of black hair. Red armour encased his torso over a grey storm coat that reminded Zecker of a command officer’s. The hilt of a sword projected from behind his back, and a weapon mounted on his left shoulder panned across the hangar as he walked towards her. Her eyes could not look away from the triple-barred ‘I’ set in gold on his armour. She was aware that there were other figures exiting the gunship but her gaze did not shift, could not shift.

  ‘They can see your sins and the shape of your soul,’ said a memory of her tutor when she had still been young enough to want to be scared by stories. ‘They can weigh and judge any beneath the Golden Throne, and when they come it means only death, death and suffering.’

  He stopped three strides from her.

  Instinct brought her to attention.

  ‘Commander Kade Zecker,’ she said, hearing the words come from her dry throat. ‘Captain of the Valour’s Flame, officer commanding Aegyptus squadron, Battlefleet Bakka.’ She paused, then knelt. ‘The ship and its crew stand ready for your command, lord.’

  ‘Rise,’ said the inquisitor. She stood, holding herself at attention, her gaze fixed on the distance. ‘I am Covenant.’

  She did not know what to say, so said nothing.

  ‘At ease,’ he said. She relaxed her posture, but her limbs remained locked. She was aware that the other figures from the gunship had formed a loose group behind the inquisitor. She flicked her eyes at them for an instant. A man in the robes of a preacher; a shaven-headed woman in a hessian shift over an armoured bodyglove, a bolt pistol held in each hand; a spindly figure in the robes of a magos of the Mechanicus; a floating shape of black robes and wasted limbs; a dark-eyed woman in form-fitting armour and dark silk, staring back at Zecker with a mocking smile on her lips.

  She looked away.

  What have I done to bring this down on my ship? she thought. What do they want?

  ‘Have the actions specified in my signal been taken?’ asked Covenant.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ she replied. ‘All signals traffic from the ship has been shut down, and keyed to my command, and my command alone. Except for your transport, no other craft or personnel have left the vessel or come on board.’

  Covenant nodded, his gaze still on her. The weapon on his shoulder twitched its barrel across the space behind her.

  ‘My companions will need berths,’ he said, and stepped past her. ‘They will make themselves known to you if needed.’

  Zecker pivoted to follow Covenant. Behind them, the gunship’s engines powered down with a fading whine.

  ‘Lord…’ she began, her mind spinning. She had not known what to expect, but this man and his carnival of followers was not it. The figures of whispered tale and rumour were ones of awe, splinters of majesty and power that were somewhere between mortals and the god they served. Yet here was the reality. A man with eyes like hard night, a sword at his back, and a simple symbol, worked in gold to mark that he bore the authority of the Emperor himself. He was human, not a god, or a burning saint of judgement. That was almost worse.

  ‘Make the ship ready to break orbit, and wake your Navigator,’ said Covenant, striding towards the hangar bay doors. Zecker keyed the command console on her wrist. The blast doors to the interior of the ship began to peel op
en with a hiss of pistons. ‘There are to be no communications to any external parties. Nothing to the fleet, nothing to your superiors.’

  ‘It will be done, lord,’ she said, and heard the catch in her voice.

  Covenant glanced over his shoulder at her.

  ‘You have a question, commander?’ he asked.

  ‘No, lord…’ she began, and then felt the weak lie die on her tongue. ‘I just… I just don’t know why you are here.’

  He looked ahead, and the gun on his shoulder fixed her briefly with its sight and barrel.

  ‘There is a place I need to go,’ he said. ‘And you are going to take me there.’

  Eight

  The Navigator enclaves hung on the edge of Helt’s atmosphere. Flattened disks of towers and domes, from a distance they looked like the bodies of sea polyps cast in steel and silver. Kilometre-long spines reached down from their underside to touch the spires rising from the planet beneath. Only time and wealth beyond imagining could have created such structures, and only power that could strangle the Imperium could claim them as their private domains.

  Such was the power of the Navigators, though, reflected Cleander as he saw the enclaves grow beyond the shuttle’s canopy. Without them the flow of ships that crossed the galaxy with resources and warriors would cease. Others might rule the Imperium’s worlds, might control its industry, or command its armies, but without the Navigators there was no Imperium.

  He nudged the shuttle’s controls, and they began a long arc down towards one of the enclaves. He lowered their speed, focusing on keeping the small craft’s movements large and obvious. In the narrow cabin space behind the cockpit he heard Viola rise from one of the benches, and a second later she dropped into the co-pilot’s position. Cleander kept one eye on the blinking lights of the auspex, which was telling him that they were currently being scrutinised by one hundred and three scanning and weapons targeting systems. As soon as the shuttle had touched the void the auspex had begun to blare alerts, until he had shut them down. That was what happened when you came to the Bakka system, headquarters of the Imperial Navy for all of Segmentum Tempestus. Even here, far beyond the system’s outer belts of star forts, there were countless weapons platforms and system monitors watching the approach to every moon and planet. The fact that they had the right and authority to come here did not make them welcome.