Despite the furore, the crowds parted before Calder. Scribes and noblemen alike scrambled from his path as he made his way down the main artery of the cathedral-palace, Solaro trailing in his wake. Any not fast enough were shoved aside – if, gently. Cyber-cherubs followed at a discreet distance, artificial eyes recording everything.
‘I hate those things,’ Solaro murmured as they entered the transit platform. Both Primaris wore their helms, and spoke through the vox. ‘They should know better than to spy on us. It is almost heresy.’
‘They should know better than to do many things. And yet they do them all the same.’
Solaro laughed. ‘True enough.’ He looked at Calder. ‘They can’t tell us apart, you know. The humans, I mean.’
‘We’re human.’
‘Unaugmented humans.’
‘Are they colour-blind?’
Solaro studied him for a moment.
‘They can’t tell the difference between a Primaris and a brother of the First Founding.’
‘I suppose to a child, all giants look alike.’
Solaro grunted. ‘My brothers can tell the difference.’
‘As can mine. But then, we are not children.’ Calder looked at him. He wondered why Solaro was confiding in him. Perhaps it was simply that they were both Primaris. It was easier to talk to someone who understood, even if they wore a different heraldry. ‘They will accept you, in time. It might be decades, or centuries, but there will come a day when there is no difference between us.’
‘They think I am to replace them.’
‘You are. As every recruit is meant to replace a veteran.’
Solaro was silent for a moment. Then, ‘Have they accepted you?’
Calder didn’t reply. The transit platform juddered to a halt, and the doors opened. The hall beyond led directly to the Pulpit. The corridor was mostly glass, save for the marble floor. The glass was void-hardened, and the frames that held the panes looked like gold, but were actually made from a ferro-ceramite blend. The Pulpit extended off the side of the spire. It was a circular chamber, its outer walls studded with vox-antenna and aerial relays. From within, a voice could be sent from one side of the planet to the other, as well as to the vessels in orbit.
To either side, and above, the skies were visible, as well as the orbital docking platforms that stretched upwards into the black. Tiny motes that were ships moved across the heavens, seeking safe berths against the encroaching storm. Calder watched them for a moment. The docklands of Almace were not so large as some he’d seen – compared to those of Terra, they were barely there at all – but they were large enough to provide a tempting target for the enemy.
The docklands had their own defences – several wings of attack craft and macro-cannon batteries. Enough to see off a casual raid. There was no telling if they would survive what was coming. Calder had ordered several squads of Intercessors to lend their efforts to the defences. Hopefully, they would be enough.
Eamon’s guards were waiting for them at the end of the corridor. The Crusaders didn’t move as Calder approached. He stopped as they raised their shields and locked them together. He detected the slight hum of a power field. ‘I need to speak with him.’
They didn’t move. Nor did they speak. Tyre had mentioned something about a vow of silence, though he hadn’t given any particulars. Calder suspected he knew the reason. Behind him, he heard the sound of a combat blade being drawn from its sheath. The Crusaders tensed. Calder waved Solaro back. ‘No,’ he said.
He studied the Crusaders. A man and a woman this time, by their body language. Both tall, their forms hidden beneath carapace armour and heavy robes, and their faces obscured behind featureless helms. He didn’t want to kill them. He held up the data-spike. ‘I know,’ he said simply. ‘I know what he’s hiding. I would speak with him. Let me pass.’
The slightest of twitches was the only sign that they’d heard his words. His battleplate detected the faint murmur of an encrypted vox conversation, and he relaxed slightly. He knew that they would stand aside. A moment later, he was proven right. The shields parted. Calder glanced at Solaro. ‘Stay here.’
He stepped past the guards into the Pulpit. The chamber was circular, with a high, vaulted roof. The walls were covered in vox-recorders and relay equipment, and a dais occupied the centre of the floor. The dais was surrounded by a palisade of vox-casters, each manned by a robed acolyte. Several of these glanced fearfully at Calder as he entered, but Eamon waved them to stillness, as he completed his latest address to the planetary population. ‘And we will persevere, my friends. For that is our holy sovereign’s will. Have no doubt of that. The time of tribulation is upon us, and we will not be found wanting. Go in glory, my children, and stay in peace.’
The cardinal-governor stepped back, as a triumphal ode started up. A choir of acolytes began to sing into a set of smaller vox-casters just below the dais. As their voices swelled, Eamon joined Calder.
‘A good speech.’
‘I have some small skill in that regard, I admit.’ Eamon looked around. ‘That it should have come to this… I cannot help but feel this is the Emperor’s judgement upon us. Upon me.’
‘And have you done something to deserve His wrath?’
Eamon smiled bitterly. ‘A straightforward way of asking me what I’m hiding, lieutenant. Then, I expect no less from a son of Dorn.’ He paused. ‘You had one of your warriors follow me. To the crypts at the heart of this city.’ He glanced at Calder, as if expecting a denial.
Calder nodded. ‘I did.’ He held up the data-spike. ‘He recorded what he saw.’
Eamon looked away. His shoulders slumped, not with resignation but with something Calder thought might have been relief. ‘And?’ he asked, softly.
‘Answer my question.’
‘Or what?’ Eamon asked. There was no defiance there, Calder judged. Simply curiosity. As if Eamon wished to know all the facts before making a decision. It was as if he had been expecting this moment for a long time.
‘Or I will confine you to your quarters and breach the crypt. I have no more time for these games. I need to know what’s in there.’
‘You won’t kill me?’
‘To execute you at this juncture would be to risk a civil revolt. If this city falls, it will not be due to my foolishness.’ Calder looked down at him. ‘It would make things significantly easier if you were to simply tell me.’
Eamon laughed softly. ‘Yes. I expect so.’ He looked at the data-spike. ‘You were more cunning than I gave you credit for. Then, maybe this is the God-Emperor’s will.’ He sighed. ‘Answer me this – what are the chances of our survival at this moment? If all goes well.’
Calder answered immediately. ‘Forty-eight per cent.’
Eamon raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a bit higher than I expected.’ He shook his head. ‘And yet, not high enough to be a certainty. Very well.’ He looked at Calder. ‘I will take you to the Anchorite. And may the God-Emperor have mercy on my soul and yours.’
Almace, Primus Asteroid Facilities
It had taken a long time for the miners to decide on a spokesperson.
Karros found it heartening. The lack of a leader implied that this was no organised rebellion, but instead a populist revolt. So far, he had seen little to indicate that there was anything more sinister than unhappy labourers to blame for the situation. That meant it could be dealt with quickly.
The enforcers occupied the outer facilities while the miners had been allowed to maintain control of the inner facility and transit-paths. This arrangement sat well with neither side, but there was an equilibrium to it, so long as the Raven Guard occupied the middle ground. The factions had decided to meet in the no-man’s-land between the outer and inner facility – a labyrinth of gantries and causeways that stretched in all directions.
Karros stood on a platform at the heart of the web of st
eel, the commander of the enforcer detachment beside him. ‘They’re here,’ Regulator Galba said. Galba was a heavyset man, ill-shaped for the tight confines of the mining facilities. He gestured towards an approaching grav-shunt with his shock maul.
‘I am aware. I detected them some time ago,’ Karros said.
‘We should take them into custody as soon as they step onto this platform.’
Karros looked down at the man. ‘We will not.’
Galba shifted nervously. ‘I said that we should. Not that we would.’
Karros studied the man for a moment longer. He didn’t particularly care for Galba. The regulator was a brute and a simpleton, the perfect commander for a punishment garrison. But this was no longer a punishment garrison – it was the front line. He turned away as the shunt came to a stop. Spiros whistled softly. Karros glanced up. Figures in hazard suits and ash-cloaks crowded the highest gantries, just out of auspex range. Galba saw them a moment later. He cursed and groped for his sidearm.
‘Ambush. I knew it. Can’t trust these stinking–’
Karros silenced him with a gesture. ‘If it were an ambush, they would have already started shooting. Likely, they are here to prevent you from doing as you just suggested. Now be silent.’ He stepped forward to meet the miner’s representative. Startled, she stumbled and fell back. He looked down at her, scanning her features and comparing them to the pict-captures of facility labourers.
‘Reyes,’ he said. ‘Sedalia Reyes. Ore-loader, primus-class.’ She was dark, for a void-born. And compact. She wore an ore-loader’s bodyglove, and had a gear-belt cinched about her waist. A number of tools hung from it, including a plasma-cutter. The thin, blade-like device was meant for cutting through solid rock or metal. She also had an autogun slung across her shoulder.
She stared up at him, eyes wide. Karros reached out his hand. ‘I am Lieutenant Karros, of the Raven Guard.’
Reyes averted her eyes, as Karros drew her to her feet. ‘You’re… you’re bigger than I thought,’ she mumbled, as she adjusted the autogun. ‘I didn’t– I’ve never seen one of you before.’
‘I am considered small for my rank,’ Karros said.
She gawped at him. ‘What?’
‘Never mind.’ He paused. ‘You are brave to meet us in the open.’
‘Someone had to. My lord,’ she added, quickly. She straightened, and said, ‘What did you want to say to us?’
Karros let the red gaze of his helm play across the catwalks and gantries surrounding him, before answering. There were hundreds of them, now. Some young, some old. He knew that Spiros and the others could kill them all, if he gave the order. But to do so would be a waste, and required too much time. ‘The system is under attack. The enemies of man ride fast upon the gates of Almace. You stand between your world and the ships of the foe.’
‘Not my world,’ Reyes spat, suddenly defiant. ‘This here is my world. Just this. I’m void-born and bred.’
‘You are an Imperial citizen, rock-cur,’ Galba snarled, raising his shock maul. ‘And you will do a citizen’s duty!’
‘Quiet,’ Karros rumbled. Galba blanched and stepped back. Karros looked at Reyes. ‘They will take these facilities as well. Almace alone will not satisfy them.’
‘There’s thousands of leagues of tunnels,’ she said half-heartedly.
‘And how long can you hold out when you lose access to hydroponics and the hydrogen recyclers? Or when they begin exposing parts of the facility to the vacuum? We can survive that. You cannot.’ Karros released her. ‘If you wish to have any hope of survival, you will listen to me.’
‘What– what about our grievances?’
Karros paused. She was brave, if nothing else. ‘And what grievances would these be?’
‘They were going to abandon us,’ Reyes said. She glared at Galba as she spoke. ‘Seal the facility, destroy the generators and leave us to suffocate. That’s why we took over.’
‘Protocol demands–’ Galba began, his face flushed.
‘Protocol is suspended,’ Karros said. ‘You are both hereby seconded to my command, by order of the cardinal-governor.’ He boosted his vox. ‘You are all hereby placed under my authority. You are no longer miners or revolutionaries. You are soldiers. If you cannot fight, some other task will be found for you. But from this moment on, you answer to me. I will now give you a moment to voice any objections you might have.’
Galba coughed. ‘My lord, this is highly questionable. These rock-curs can’t–’
Karros gestured. Spiros caught Galba by the skull and twisted. The regulator gave a little squawk as his bones snapped. His boot-heels thudded against the floor as Spiros let him slump. Chayn and the others raised their boltguns, covering the remaining enforcers. Karros nodded. ‘Objections noted.’ He looked down at Reyes. ‘What about you?’
‘N-no, my lord,’ she whispered, staring at Galba’s body.
‘Good.’ He turned to the enforcers. ‘Which of you is second-in-command?’
One of them stepped forward, somewhat hesitantly. ‘Enforcer Desh, my lord,’ he said, with a shaky salute. Karros reached down and tore the sigil of rank from Galba’s sleeve. He extended the patch to Desh.
‘You are now Regulator Desh. Do a better job than your predecessor and you might even survive.’ He turned, letting his red gaze play across the crowded gantries. ‘That goes for all of you. Obey my orders and you may well live to continue your labours. Disobey and die – either at the hands of the enemy, or mine. Those are your only choices.’
He drew his bolt pistol and hefted it meaningfully.
‘I suggest you decide quickly.’
Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world
The bulkhead hissed open, releasing a gust of chill, stale air. Ancient recyclers kicked on, stirring the atmosphere. Calder followed Eamon into the dimly lit chamber, his auto-senses immediately registering a towering presence to his left. He turned, hand falling automatically to his sidearm. ‘You wanted to see what I have been hiding,’ Eamon said. ‘Here he is. Lieutenant Calder – meet the Anchorite.’
‘Welcome.’
The voice was at once awful and comforting. Calder paused, hand on his weapon, as the Anchorite, huge and monstrous, stepped into the light. The ancient Contemptor Dreadnought was a towering presence, bipedal and hulking, with only the basest resemblance to a human shape. A giant of ceramite and iron. A war machine from a forgotten age, its hull marked with sigils of purity and prayer scrolls. Its arms ended in two great, crushing claws that flexed and whined idly.
Calder stared. Contemptor Dreadnoughts were rare these days. The machine bore no heraldry, and no colours. It was grey and bare of all ornamentation. The ancient war machine observed him with glowing optical sensors, but made no move towards him. ‘You are a new thing, under the sun,’ it – he – rumbled. ‘Have all of the sons of Dorn grown so in stature over the centuries of my isolation?’
‘No. I – we – are a new breed. Or perhaps an old one, depending.’ Calder pulled his hand away from his bolt pistol. ‘Who are you?’
‘Young Eamon told you. I am the Anchorite.’
‘Your name.’
‘I have no name. The man I was – is dead. I am all that stands here. A humble bearer of words. Look. See.’ Lumens flickered to life, revealing the walls and the innumerable lines of script carved into them.
Calder looked from the walls to the Dreadnought. ‘Bearer of words,’ he said flatly. A sudden anger pulsed in him. He thought he knew now why Eamon had been so reluctant to reveal this particular secret. ‘A peculiar phrase.’ He looked at Eamon. ‘Explain. Now.’
‘Leave him, son of Dorn. This is not Eamon’s doing, nor the doing of his ancestors. They are and have been my captors – my hosts – for longer than you have been as you are. And not by their choice, I assure you.’
‘Who are you to assure me of anything? A n
ameless traitor, hidden in the heart of this city. By rights, I should execute you both.’ He tried to hold Eamon’s gaze, but the cardinal-governor shook his head and looked away.
‘Do you know what an anchorite is, boy?’
Something in the Dreadnought’s tone brought Calder up short. ‘I am not familiar with the term, no,’ he said, after a moment. A quick tactical analysis told him that if the Anchorite decided to attack, there was little he could do to harm the war machine. Listening was the best of bad options.
‘A man of faith, who confines himself so as to become closer to his god. That is what an anchorite is, and that is who I am.’
‘And who is your god?’ Calder asked.
‘Who do you think, boy?’ The Anchorite leaned close. ‘There is only one god in this universe, and He sits upon a throne of gold.’
Calder stared up at the Dreadnought, momentarily nonplussed. ‘What?’
‘The God-Emperor, boy. It’s in the title.’ The Anchorite made a sound that might have been a sigh. ‘Theology was never your Legion’s strong suit. Good at building, but not thinking, as Lorgar used to say.’ Another soft, hissing sigh. ‘Lorgar. Salvation and damnation in one. Poor, foolish Lorgar. He couldn’t see that it was a test – a test of our devotion. Of our faith. Then… none of us did.’
‘Except you?’ Calder asked.
‘Not even me. Not at first. I was as angry as any of them. I thought, how dare He deny us, His truest sons. How dare He cast our works into the dust. But things changed, at Calth.’ The Anchorite raised his talons, and studied them. ‘I saw what we were doing, down there in the dark, and thought it only just. An eye for an eye. The scions of Ultramar had torn down our temples and shattered our fanes – had put the faithful to the sword. Was it not just to seek recompense? To meet like with like?’
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