Fallen Angels

by Mike Lee

  Jonson folded his arms and stared at the fleet officers. ‘One thing more. As far as the fleet – indeed, the rest of the Legion – is concerned, the Invincible Reason and the ships of the battle group are withdrawing for refit and repair at Carnassus. We’ll be taking a number of damaged vessels along with us to maintain the ruse. Secrecy is vital. Horus is certain to have agents in the region keeping watch on us, and they must not suspect where we’re really headed until it’s too late to do anything about it. Is that clear?’

  The officers responded at once with nods and muttered assents. Nemiel and the Astartes said nothing. It went without saying that they would comply.

  The primarch nodded curtly. ‘The battle group will weigh anchor and depart for the system jump point in ten hours and forty-five minutes. All ongoing repairs, resupply efforts and equipment checks must be complete by that time. No exceptions.’

  Jonson turned his attention back to the hololith projector. ‘I expect by now that the Warmaster has despatched a raiding fleet to Diamat to begin plundering the necessary supplies,’ he said. ‘When we reach the Tanagra system, eight weeks from now, we need to arrive fully prepared to fight.’

  TWO

  THE TYRANNY OF NEGLECT

  Caliban

  In the 200th year of the Emperor’s Great Crusade

  THE TINY LOGIC engines in the brass holoscriptor whirred softly as they wrote data onto the portable memory core. Zahariel paused while the buffer emptied, taking the time to review the facts and figures stored in his own memory. When the indicator light set atop the ’scriptor flashed from amber to green, he continued his report.

  ‘Brother Luther’s planet-wide recruiting efforts continue to show a steady twenty per cent increase each training cycle; for the third time in a row we have had to increase the size of our training chapters to accommodate the new aspirants, and the Magos Apothecarium reports that our new screening model has dramatically reduced incidents of organ rejection among inductees. In fact, not a single fatality has been reported for the last two training cycles, and the magos is confident that this trend can continue indefinitely.’

  Zahariel straightened slightly, his hands clutched tightly behind his back and his head held high as he looked into the ’scriptor’s lens and imagined himself speaking directly to the primarch and his senior staff. ‘I am thus proud to present you with four thousand, two hundred and twelve new Astartes, ready to join their brothers in the Legion’s front-line chapters. This represents a certification rate of nearly ninety-eight per cent; an extraordinary achievement by the standards of any of the Emperor’s Legions. I am also pleased to report that the Magos Logistum has certified two thousand suits of new Mark IV armour, a hundred new suits of Tactical Dreadnought armour and two hundred of the new Thyrsis pattern jump packs for transhipment to the fleet from the forges at Mars. The manufactories here on Caliban are including two thousand new chainswords for the fleet armoury and twelve million rounds of bolt gun shells. We are expecting a shipment of armoured vehicles from the Mechanicum within the next two months, and will expedite the transhipment as soon as they have been certified. If all goes as planned, they will be accompanied from Caliban by two new divisions of Jaegers, who are performing their final training manoeuvres this month.’

  Zahariel paused for half a beat, going over the figures in his head to make sure he’d left nothing out. Satisfied, he nodded to the ’scriptor. ‘This concludes my report. By the time you receive this, we will have already begun our nineteenth training cycle. Brother Luther and the training masters concur that further reduction of the cycle time would only degrade the fitness of new recruits, so we’ve reached an optimal training time of twenty-four months, incorporating accelerated surgical implantation into an ongoing regimen of conditioning and instruction. Current projections indicate that we will have another five thousand new Astartes ready for battle by late 315. The Mechanicum has assured us that shipments of wargear will continue on an accelerated basis until you order otherwise.’

  His face sobered as he reached the final item of his report. ‘As a postscript, I regret to inform you that Master Remiel has taken his leave of the Legion at the age of one hundred and twelve. I am proud to say that he left on horseback, riding the Errant Road with lance in hand. All of us, especially Brother Luther, regrets his loss. We shall not see his like again. I trust this report finds you at the forefront of the Emperor’s Crusade, driving back the shadows of Old Night and adding to the glories of our venerable Legion. On behalf of Luther the rest of the training cadre, we remain your loyal and dutiful brothers in arms.’

  He bowed deeply to the ’scriptor. ‘Victoria ut Imperator. This is Brother-Librarian Zahariel, signing off.’

  Zahariel reached forward, shutting off the ’scriptor with a flick of a switch. The logic engines whirred and clattered, transferring the rest of the message to the memory core. As he listened to the machine work, he debated continuing further. Was he tempting the primarch’s wrath? There was no way to know. On the other hand, he thought ruefully, what was the worst that could happen if he did?

  The ’scriptor finished its work. He paused, composing his thoughts, then adjusted the dials on the face of the machine. As the machine clattered, setting up a new message header, Zahariel stepped back in front of the lens. When the amber light blinked twice, he said. ‘Appended message file, classification four-alpha, standard cipher. Recipient: primarch Lion El’Jonson, First Legion.’

  When the light turned green again, Zahariel took a deep breath and began his plea.

  ‘I beg your pardon in advance, my lord, and I hope you will not think me speaking out of turn, but I would be remiss in my duties if I didn’t make every effort to improve the fortunes of our Legion in these trying times.’ He hesitated, considering his words carefully.

  ‘Our training cadre has worked diligently for the last half-century, refining our recruiting and training procedures to meet the challenges that the Emperor has set for us. I believe that my reports – as well as the constant flow of warriors and supplies – testify to our dedication and success. We have achieved a degree of speed and efficiency unmatched by any other Legion, and we are rightly proud of our achievements. At this stage, our procedures have been well-established, and we have a highly-capable infrastructure in place to continue the induction process. What the Legion needs most is for veteran warriors to return home and share the experience they’ve gained over the last fifty years. By the same token, our brothers here on Caliban are acutely aware of the limited nature of their own experience, and are eager to hone their skills against the Emperor’s foes on the front line. This especially applies to Brother Luther, whom I believe would serve the Legion far better at your side than conducting recruiting drives here on Caliban.’

  Zahariel kept his face calm and composed, even as his mind struggled to find the perfect argument that would sway the primarch. ‘I think it fair to say that we have done all we can here, and it would be in the best interests of the Legion if we were rotated back to our parent chapters in the fleet. This goes particularly for Brother Luther, whose skills as a warrior and diplomat are well-known. If you were to summon just one of us back to your side, my lord, let it be him.’

  His hands, clasped behind his back, tightened into fists. There was more he wanted to say, but he feared that he had pressed his luck too much already. Zahariel bowed his head before the lens. ‘I hope that after you have reviewed my reports you will see the logic of my request. We all have a duty to the Emperor, my lord; all we ask is for the chance to fulfil it as we were meant to – defeating his enemies and redeeming the lost worlds of mankind.’

  Zahariel sketched another quick bow, and, lest he be tempted to speak further, he reached forward swiftly and switched off the recorder. Silence fell in the small office, broken only by the whir of the ’scriptor’s logic engines and the murmur of voices in the adjoining operations centre. Sighing faintly, the young Librarian turned away from the machine and surveyed the cramped, neatly-k
ept space, with its polished grey desk-cum-hololith unit and neat stacks of message cores containing status reports on everything from training schedules to munition production quotas. Beyond the desk, a tall, narrow window looked out past the Tower of Angels onto the southern sector of the Legion’s vast sprawl of armouries, barracks and training grounds. Tall spires rose out of the late-afternoon smog, navigation hazard lights blinking red and green through the haze. He looked out at the bustling activity, the energetic industry of war, and wondered what had become of old Master Remiel.

  There was a clatter of gears and the ’scriptor ejected the memory core. Zahariel plucked the small cylinder carefully from the socket and slipped it onto an ornate brass carrying tube marked with the heraldry of the Legion. Checking his internal chrono, he saw that he had just enough time to reach the detachment before they left for the embarkation field. He keyed his vox-bead and summoned a transport, then drew up the hood of his surplice and headed for the lifts on the opposite side of the operations centre. A sense of foreboding dogged his steps as he entered the lift and descended into the depths of the great mountain.

  Zahariel couldn’t say why the years had started to weigh on him of late. Most of the last half-century had passed swiftly indeed, lost in a whirlwind of hard work and seemingly endless iterations of recruitment strategies, training schemes and industrial expansion. Luther had seen at once that it wouldn’t be enough to simply accelerate the pace of training; fulfilling the primarch’s stated objectives demanded the creation of an enormous support structure that stretched across the entire planet. It was a herculean task, and at first Zahariel told himself that it was an honour that Jonson had chosen them for it.

  Luther involved himself in every aspect of planetary administration, from tithe structures to industrial and arcology construction, and Zahariel was drawn along in his wake. Luther depended on him more and more, leaving him to make decisions that affected the lives of tens of millions of people each day. At first, the sheer weight of his responsibilities horrified him. But he summoned up his courage and rose to the occasion, determined to redeem himself in the primarch’s eyes. Caliban’s forests dwindled, replaced by mines, refineries and industrial sprawls. Huge arcologies rose like man-made mountains across the landscape as the planet’s population swelled. Civilization spread across the globe, and the ranks of the Legion increased as Luther found ways to reduce the training cycle from eight years to only two. Meanwhile, reports of Jonson’s exploits made their way back to Caliban, swelling their hearts with pride as the Dark Angels marched from one victory to the next. Transport ships from hundreds of distant worlds carried battle honours and war trophies back to Aldurukh, testifying to the valour of the primarch and the Legion’s fighting chapters. The members of the training cadre admired each and every token sent back by their brothers and made comradely boasts of how they would exceed them all when Jonson summoned them back to the fighting.

  Yet the decades passed, and no summons came. Jonson had never returned to Caliban; two planned visits had been cancelled at the last moment, citing new orders from the Emperor or unexpected developments in the current campaign. With each passing year, Luther’s promise to the cadre in the castle courtyard sounded increasingly hollow, but not a warrior among them faulted him for it. If anything, their loyalty to Luther had increased during their exile. He shared their burdens and praised their successes, inspiring them by virtue of hard work, humility and personal charisma. Though they would deny it if asked, Zahariel believed that many of his brothers owed more loyalty to Luther than they did their distant primarch, and that worried him more and more as time went by.

  It was only in more private moments, travelling across Caliban on manufactory inspections or working long hours alongside Luther in the Grand Master’s sanctum, that Zahariel saw the turmoil in the great man’s eyes.

  News took a long time to reach Caliban these days, as the expeditionary fleets advanced farther and farther across the galaxy. Transports laden with plunder and trophies had grown less and less frequent of late. Then, recently, they’d received the news that the Emperor had named Horus Lupercal his Warmaster and left the crusading Legions to return to Terra. At first, Luther had hoped to keep the news quiet, but that had been folly. Before long all of their battle brothers had been talking about what had happened, and what it meant for them. None of them were fools. They could see that the Great Crusade was entering into its final phases, and their last chance for glory was slipping away forever.

  After several long minutes the lift deposited Zahariel at the base of the mountain, amidst the Legion’s cavernous vehicle assembly areas. Plasma torches hissed and sputtered as Techmarines and servitors laboured to repair severely damaged Rhinos and Predator tanks sent back to Caliban from the front lines. No sooner had he stepped from the lift chamber than a four-wheeled personal transport rolled smoothly out of the vehicle pool and stopped beside the Librarian. He stepped into the open-topped passenger compartment, large enough to accommodate two Astartes in full armour. ‘Sector forty-seven, training chapter five, main assembly grounds,’ he ordered the servitor in the driver’s compartment, and the transport set off at once, gathering speed as it made for one of the cavern’s transit tunnels.

  Zahariel’s thoughts wandered as they sped past ranks of armoured personnel carriers, tanks and assault vehicles. He turned the memory core over and over in his hands, wondering at the unease that lingered in the recesses of his mind. Not even Israfael’s meditative techniques had managed to blunt the sense of foreboding he felt. It was like a splinter beneath the skin, reminding him painfully of its presence and defying every attempt to pluck it out.

  He could not say why it was so important for Luther to return to Jonson’s side. They had all borne their exile with stoicism and dedication to duty, as any Astartes would, and Luther more than most. Of course, Zahariel knew why; the Legion’s second-in-command was seeking redemption for what he’d nearly done aboard the Invincible Reason. Luther had discovered the bomb that the Saroshi delegation had smuggled onboard the Dark Angels’ battle barge and had done nothing about it. For a brief time he’d let his jealousy of Lion El’Jonson’s achievements overcome his better nature, but at the last moment he’d come to his senses and tried to make things right. He and Zahariel had nearly died disposing of the Saroshi bomb, but somehow the primarch suspected Luther’s earlier lapse and had exiled him to Caliban. Now Luther worked to extirpate his guilt, but his efforts went unnoticed.

  Yet what other choice did Luther have? Even if he wanted to defy Jonson’s wishes, what options did he have? A demand for a fair accounting and a return to the front lines? To do that he would have to leave Caliban and seek out the primarch, in direct violation of Jonson’s orders, and that meant outright rebellion. Luther would never countenance such a thing. It was inconceivable.

  But if Jonson did nothing – if he let these loyal warriors sit here while the Crusade came to a close, it would leave a scar within their brotherhood that would never truly heal. Such wounds tended to fester over time, until the entire body became imperilled. It had happened on Caliban all the time, back in the old days.

  Zahariel reached up and rubbed his forehead as the transport exited the tunnel into the afternoon sunlight. He couldn’t imagine outright dissent within the Legion, but the thought still nagged at him.

  The Librarian clenched the message tube tightly. If he earned the primarch’s wrath, so be it. This was far more important.

  It took almost an hour to travel from the mountain to the chapter training facilities in sector forty-seven, passing through successive rings of defensive walls and checkpoints before pulling up at the edge of a broad parade ground surrounded on three sides by barracks, firing ranges and combat simulator centres.

  Zahariel sat bolt upright as the transport rolled to a stop, his brow creasing in a worried frown. The square was empty.

  He checked his chrono again. According to the embarkation schedule, there should be a thousand Astartes in ful
l combat gear waiting to board a transport for high orbit. ‘Wait here,’ he told the servitor, leaping from the idling vehicle and striding swiftly to the chapter master’s quarters. Zahariel keyed the door open and rushed into the ready room to find the chapter master conducting an informal briefing with his newly-trained squad leaders. The young Astartes turned at the Librarian’s approach, failing to conceal the bemused looks on their faces. ‘Chapter Master Astelan, what’s the meaning of this?’ Zahariel said, his voice calm but stern. ‘Your Astartes should be mustering for embarkation this very minute but the square is empty.’

  Astelan’s eyes narrowed on the advancing Librarian. He was one of the few Terrans serving with the Legion on Caliban, having been sent to Aldurukh some fifteen years after Luther and the rest of the training cadre. He was a veteran warrior who’d risen quickly to command of a chapter in the years following Jonson’s ascension to primarch and his sudden reassignment was every bit as baffling to Zahariel as his own. He presumed that Luther was aware of the circumstances, but if Astelan had been exiled from the expeditionary fleets like the rest of them, the Master of Caliban hadn’t made that fact public. Instead, he’d immediately assigned the Terran to lead one of the newly-reorganised training chapters, and treated Astelan with all the respect and esteem that he showed his other battle brothers. Luther’s charisma and leadership quickly won him over, and now Zahariel would be hard-pressed to name another member of the Legion more loyal to the Master of Caliban.

  ‘The muster was cancelled two hours ago,’ Astelan said in a deep voice. He had a bluff, square-jawed face and deep-set eyes shadowed by a brooding brow. A fine white scar bisected his right eyebrow and stretched across his forehead up to the edge of his scalp. When he’d arrived on Caliban he’d worn his hair in long, tightly-knotted braids, but within the first few days he’d shaved his scalp and kept it that way.