by Henry Zou
‘You did. Is this going to set a precedent in relations between the Imperial High Command and the Inquisition?’ Khmer retorted.
‘Have it as you take it, sir.’
By this stage, Roth was less than an arm’s length away from the lord marshal. At two metres tall, the Inquisitor reared well above the shorter Khmer. The phalanx of provost marshals squared up and edged in. Their tower-length ballistic shields and shock mauls were held low but ready.
‘You needn’t have brought me a welcome party, lord marshal.’ Roth nodded at the provosts. The bodyguards were a subtle insult and one that the inquisitor could not let slip.
‘Just as you’ve brought yours.’ Khmer gestured at the man who had followed Roth down the ramp.
Bastiel Silverstein gestured back with a nonchalant wave. He was man on the spry side of forty. Whippet-thin and dressed in a waistcoat of finely tailored pirahnagator hide, he cut a sternly patrician figure. A scoped autogun was nestled in the crook of his left arm, a self-loading rifle painted in a camouflage of stylised foliage.
He stalked across the decking, looking unimpressed at the slab-shouldered provosts.
An Inquisitorial agent, thought Khmer. Probably another one of the many specialised pawns employed by the Conclave. As far as he was concerned, they weren’t soldiers and therefore weren’t to be trusted. He’d already had enough of the Inquisitorial circus troupe on board the Carthage to suffer any more.
‘I’m here to make one thing clear, inquisitor. I did not want you here. Nor did I want other members of your Conclave,’ the lord marshal stated.
‘Oh, very clear,’ Roth replied, unfazed.
Khmer continued. ‘Yet Warmaster Sonnen ordered the collaboration of the Medina Conclave with my general staff. In turn the Conclave has requested you. Keep out of way, and our cooperation will be smooth, clear?’
Obodiah Roth wiped the perspiration from his wire-frame shoulders with a square of linen. He appeared uninterested. Finally, he looked the Lord Marshal of the Medina Corridor square in the eyes and winked.
‘Can you fetch me a fresh towel?’
Lord Marshal Khmer stiffened. Unseen to anyone else, he gripped the timepiece in his hand hard, spider-webbing the glass lens. Both men, soldier and inquisitor, were guilty of a monumental temper, and things might have played differently had Forde Gurion not appeared at that moment.
‘Obodiah! Welcome, welcome,’ called Inquisitor Forde Gurion as he strode towards them, his augmetic legs clapping out an irregular rhythm.
‘Master Gurion,’ said Roth, bowing deeply to his elder.
The lord marshal cleared his throat. ‘Gurion. I was here to welcome our esteemed guest. We have come to a mutual agreement,’ he said with a reptilian smile at Roth. ‘I expect to see the Conclave at our command briefing this evening at sixth siren. Do not be late.’ And with that, Lord Marshal Khmer turned briskly with the practiced ease of a parade officer and marched away, flanked by his provosts.
‘I can see the partnership is blossoming,’ quipped Roth once the Imperial commander had disappeared into the roiling press of the docking bays.
Gurion shrugged wearily. ‘Diplomacy is not one of the lord marshal’s strong points but his efficiency is beyond reprove. We need officers of his mettle if we’re to see out this campaign.’
‘That bad?’
Gurion looked solemn. ‘Come, Obodiah. There is much you need to know.’
The stateroom assigned to Gurion might once have been lavish. A large apartment in the officers’ quarters, sections of the room had not been refurbished since the Carthage’s maiden voyage six thousand years ago. Inside, the light was a smoky orange from lanterns. The walls were draped with elaborate floral velvet, which were once vivid primary colours but had now faded to creams and tans. Towering wardrobes, recliners and chairs had twisted columns, broken pediments and heavy carvings. A harpsichord dominated the centre of the room, its wood hand-painted with thousands of nesting birds and stylised botany.
Inquisitor Roth paced over to the harpsichord where a map of the Medina theatre had been spread-eagled across its decorative lid. It was a cartographic antique, centuries old, depicting the three core worlds of Medina – Cantica, Kholpesh and Aridun – alongside their various satellite planets. Gurion’s handwritten notes and annotations marked the vellum surface.
‘We are losing the war,’ Gurion said from across the room. He placed a wafer plate onto the phonograph. Francesci’s Symphony of the Eldest Season crackled out of the flared trumpet cone. It was the same concerto that Gurion had played from their APC when they had incited the loyalist Counter-Revolution on Scarbarus eight years ago. Roth had only been freshly ordained then and Gurion had led the joint ordos operation. The strident compositions of Solomon Francesci reminded him of past loyalties.
‘Losing, or lost?’ Roth asked.
‘The rimward world of Naga was conquered five months ago. Since then, Chaos forces have pushed their advance onto the satellite and core planets of Medina.’
Gurion joined Roth by the strategy map. Under the smoky light of reading candles, Roth noticed for the first time how much his ordos senior had aged. Gurion looked drawn and grey. To Roth, the man had always been the scarred veteran of almost two centuries of service to the rosette. His spine had been broken and reinforced during the Fall of the Fifth Republic in the Corsican Subsector. Below the hips, his legs had been lost during the Orpheus Insurgency and replaced by augmetics of fluted copper skin and fibrous muscles of wiring. Yet he looked older than Roth remembered.
‘Naga is conquered. Ninvevah, Baybel and Tarsis. All satellite planets taken by Chaos,’ said Gurion as he indicated each planet on the map. ‘Imperial forces have retreated to a war of attrition on the core worlds of Medina – Cantica, Aridun and Kholpesh.’
‘How is the campaign faring on the core worlds then?’
‘Judging by manpower, supplies and enemy disposition, Imperial forces cannot hold the core worlds for more than three months.’
Roth’s expression darkened considerably. ‘Seems like we are wasting our effort here. Why doesn’t the military retreat and consolidate in the Bastion Stars?’
‘So High Command keeps telling me, but no. I am clearly of the opinion that if the enemy sought to claim the Bastion Stars, they would have circumvented the Medina Worlds entirely. This cluster of planets has no strategic relevance to the subsector.’
‘Then I don’t follow you,’ Roth admitted.
‘The Archenemy is fighting for a reason. It wants Medina for a reason. That’s why the Conclave was formed. Circumstance, logic and intelligence indicate that the Archenemy is seeking to claim the Old Kings of Medina. Come now, Roth, I don’t need to explain this to you.’
At this, Roth nodded slowly, raising an eyebrow. ‘“The Old Kings of Medina. Here be the relics of the Emperor’s cause. Wielded for the dominion of worlds and lost in the aperture of civilisation”,’ Roth recited, an old verse from Medina’s historical annals.
‘Yes, Obodiah. Our objective here is to gather and collaborate on a network of intelligence which will hopefully unveil the nature and exact location of these relics, and present them to the Imperial High Command,’ said Gurion.
Roth was not convinced. It seemed like they were clutching at straws.
The sliding screen of Gurion’s stateroom rolled back. A young woman entered, taking slow and measured steps across the carpet. She was suited in an egg-yellow bodyglove, an Inquisitorial rosette worn as a choker on her throat.
‘Ah, she arrives on time. This is Inquisitor Felyce Celeminé,’ said Gurion, introducing the newcomer with a welcoming sweep of his arm.
Roth bowed deeply and offered his hand.
‘Inquisitor Roth, it’s a pleasure. Lord Gurion has had nothing but praise for you,’ she said, folding Roth’s hand in both of hers.
Roth studied the newcomer with a
gentleman’s appraising eye. She was not tall, nor was she beautiful in the conventional sense. Rather, Inquisitor Celeminé was delicate, almost girl-like in stature. Her copper-blonde hair was cropped stylishly short and a lip ring tugged at the centre of her pout. She was, Roth decided, handsome in a demure and eccentric kind of way that verged on the bookish.
‘Oh he has? I think he’s been too liberal with his liquor then,’ Roth dismissed lightly.
‘Not at all. And a body’s got a right to be curious.’
‘Maybe you should keep that body in check, and remember to let go of my hand,’ smiled Roth.
Celeminé started and slid her hands away, chewing her lower lip in slight embarrassment.
Gurion cleared his throat. ‘Inquisitor Celeminé is newly ranked. I am confident in her abilities, but I hesitate to send her to Cantica and investigate alone. I want someone with experience with her, as we can’t afford to take chances. She will be your second.’
‘Settle down, sir. I haven’t agreed to this yet,’ said Roth.
Gurion, looking crestfallen, didn’t say a word as he crossed over to the harpsichord. He studied the map closely. Under the yielding light, his face looked weary and battered. It was a face of flat planes and corners, brows polished by fists and forceful blows. Slowly, it dawned on Roth that Lord Gurion was scarred and sharpened through two centuries of service to the Emperor. And yet, Roth had never seen his colleague so filled with such barely suppressed fear.
‘There will be a war council tonight. You will be there. After you know what I know, I trust you will do the right thing. I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t,’ said Gurion with conviction.
Chapter Two
The Council of Conclusions was the plenary organ of the entire Medina Campaign.
Present were the senior commanders of the Imperial Guard and Navy, representative officers of neighbouring regions and, of course, the inquisitors. Even the titanic form of a Space Marine was present, an envoy of the Stone Gauntlets Chapter as denoted by the markings on his shoulder plate. The Astartes settled in his dusk-red armour like a dormant fortress.
Far removed from the opulence and grandeur of a congressional council, this was a regular assembly of briefing and intelligence dissemination. The representatives of the Governate and other political bodies were not invited. It was no place for bureaucrats.
For this reason, the Council of Conclusions assembled in the war vault of the Carthage. It was a tactical chamber constructed specifically to house the most powerful military and political chieftains of the subsector.
The war vault was a domed chamber, armoured within the hammerhead prow of the cruiser. The walls and ceiling were of ribbed ceramite, sparse and spartan when compared to the haughty elegance of the Carthage’s design. The seating galleries were steel benches, forming U-shaped tiers around a hololithic projector. The chamber was unlit except for the ethereal glow of the projector. It was raw and reflected the blunt, unrelenting attitude of military leadership. Truly, this was the nerve centre of the entire war effort.
Inquisitor Roth had suited up in his Spathaen fighting-plate. He decided it would be prudent, considering the occasion. The chrome trauma-plates afforded him a degree of buoyancy against the disapproving glares of blade-faced military seniors.
The Council began with a detailed briefing of the war situation: production output, fuel, ammunition, food, a comprehensive analysis of casualties. The officers debated with each other in a terse, clipped military fashion, their words coming in tight bursts like gunfire. Roth was content to listen. From what he could gather, the situation was very bad indeed. It seemed the general consensus amongst the Council was that Medina was, for all intents and purposes, defeated. The remaining Imperial forces should be re-routed to shore up defences in the strategically vital Bastion Stars.
At one point, a Naval admiral stood up and brandished a scorched wad of papers for all to see.
‘This is the war journal of a captain of infantry, salvaged from the trenches of Ninvevah. It contains intelligence of Archenemy tactics prudent to our discussion.’
The officer opened the papers, tracing the words with his finger until he found the entry he was looking for.
‘“Day sixty-two. The Archenemy, perhaps by design, parade the captured civilians of Ninvevah before our positions daily. They execute them within sight of our trenches, arranging the bodies in ranks. By my count, the entire city is dead and arrayed before us. Among those who are not killed, stout, healthy young men are marched in slave columns towards an unknown fate. This is appalling, I very much want to go home.”’
As the admiral finished reading, there came a murmur of unease from the gallery. Even Roth, who had travelled widely, had never experienced war on such a scale.
‘The captain and his 161st were overwhelmed shortly thereafter. This journal was retrieved as the remaining Cantican forces withdrew from Ninvevah following a surge of Archenemy aggression,’ the admiral announced flatly before returning to his seat.
Then it was Forde Gurion’s turn to speak. The inquisitor rose slowly, looking imperious in a long cape of carbon-ceramic polyfibres. The loom-woven armour glowed brass under the light of the hololith.
‘Gentlemen, as you are well aware, our respective ordo have drawn together a Conclave in order to reveal and deny the objectives of the Archenemy in this subsector. Today, our Conclave is complete with our final member – Inquisitor Obodiah Roth.’
For a brief second, several dozen unfriendly eyes focused on Roth. Their distaste was palpable.
Gurion continued smoothly. ‘Further, our Conclavial Task Groups on Kholpesh and Aridun have been toiling ceaselessly these past months in analysing intelligence regarding the Old Kings of Medina.’
A voice called from the assembled officers. ‘And are you any closer to finding out what these mythical pieces are? Or where we can start digging them up with shovels and spades?’
Gurion shook his head politely. ‘As of yet, we know not their exact nature or location. We have, however, obtained new findings from collated data over the past several months. According to the sources, the origins of the Old Kings began no less than twelve thousand years ago, and no more than twenty. Across the span of the Pre-Imperial galaxies, many lost outposts of man were bequeathed with visitation from what the sources described as “Early Sentients”. The visitors brought with them their worship of the stars and constellations, as well as mathematics, astronomy and technology. In return, man adopted their worship of astronomical bodies.’
A Naval staff officer raised his hand. ‘What sources are these?’ he asked flatly, clearly unimpressed.
‘Old scriptures, folk literature, but most importantly intelligence briefings gathered during the initial War of Reclamation, when Imperial fleets first moved to reclaim the Medina Worlds. The fleet acknowledged that when the Early Sentients left the Medina Worlds for whatever reason, they left for their subjects a parting gift. It was a monument of worship. The gift was known by many names – the Old Kings, the Star Ancient, the Guardian of Medina. According to the intelligence gathered by the Naval Expeditionary Fleet, this monument would strike down the enemies of Medina, at a time of dire need.’
‘These gifts certainly didn’t help the Pre-Reclamation Medinians from fighting the Imperial Crusade. This is Imperial territory now, is it not? Didn’t we smash these barbarians thousands of years ago?’ another officer retorted.
Under the barrage of scepticism, Gurion kept his composure. ‘We can only ascertain, from archived scripture, that the Old Kings rest on one of the three core worlds. Historical experts postulate that the Old Kings were worshipped by Pre-Imperial Medinian culture, and to this effect it is believed that when the stars and the magnetic properties of the star system are in alignment, the Old Kings can be woken from their dormant state and be reborn as the “Star Kings”.’
There was a ripple of deri
sive laughter. Gurion, however, remained unfazed.
‘I have also come into possession of orbital reconnaissance photos detailing the mass excavations which have taken place across the surface of conquered worlds.’
He cued the grainy high-altitude reconnaissance pict. Roth squinted at the black and white hololith of excavation quarries that, judging by the comparative size of nearby terrain features, were a kilometre deep.
Gurion reviewed a slideshow of various picts. ‘It is our belief that the slaves collected post-invasion, are utilised in an immense mining effort on these worlds. This leads us to believe the Archenemy are actively searching.’
He zoomed out to show a high orbital shot of the several subjugated worlds. The Archenemy had been so voracious in their digging that they had gouged into the equator lines of the planets, like a series of zagging claw marks. Most of the excavation quarries seemed to navigate the entire circumference of a planet.
After a moment of contemplative silence, the lord marshal himself stood up. The scar tissue on his face was alive, twitching and livid as he spoke.
‘This is Chaos; they act without pattern or logic. We cannot hope to understand them, and certainly we cannot base our own campaign strategy around their madness. You mean to ask us to clutch at straws? To formulate a war plan because of some historical narrative?’
The marshal’s rebuttal was met with a raft of applause. Roth noticed that even the giant in power armour – the Space Marine – shifted his massive weight and leaned in, his broad features eager to hear Gurion’s response.
Roth would have brandished his Inquisitorial rosette then and there to remind Varuda of his authority. In truth, his fingers twitched to do so. But Gurion’s response reminded Roth how young and unlearned he was in comparison. There was no substitute for two centuries of experience or the cold, steady head of a veteran. With his composure unswayed, Gurion turned his wrists out in placation.
