Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

  Gernt was having his head shaved by one of his slaves. Oil made from the fruit of the strange trees that now grew in the ship’s hydroponics bay was smeared over his scalp and cheeks, before a straight razor marked with ugly sigils was scraped across his flesh. Another slave carefully reassembled his boltgun, murmuring prayers over each shell. ‘Is that you, captain?’ Gernt called out. ‘I can feel your disapproving glare from here.’

  ‘You shouldn’t let a slave assemble your weapon,’ Apis said as he joined them. ‘Or get close to your neck with a knife.’

  ‘Probably not,’ Gernt said, as he turned his head, and the slave carefully applied the ritual razor across his cheek and jaw, scraping away offending hairs. ‘Still, you really should let him shave you, brother. He’s a wonder with a razor, this one. If he had any spine, he’d make a fine killer.’ He chucked the slave under the chin affectionately. ‘Wouldn’t you, meat?’

  ‘As my lord wills,’ the slave murmured, haltingly. His body was marked with brands of ownership and servitude.

  ‘Very obliging,’ Saper said. Apis frowned. Slaves never lasted long when they caught Saper’s eye. He liked to break and bend them into more aesthetically pleasing shapes for the entertainment of those who shared his enthusiasms. Whole religions had sprung up below decks based around avoiding Saper’s notice.

  But he kept his foolishness off the battlefield, and that was all that mattered. Like Gernt, he was a satisfactory line soldier, capable of following orders or acting on his own initiative, depending on the circumstances. There were precious few soldiers left in the Legion these days.

  ‘He’s got that look, brother,’ Gernt said. Saper nodded.

  ‘Well, it has been several days since he last complained about the state of the Legion.’

  ‘True. One must vent choler, lest it choke one.’

  ‘Remember Ulum? He choked on his choler.’

  ‘I thought he choked on blood?’

  ‘Well, he was very angry about the blood.’

  ‘Are you two finished?’ Apis asked.

  ‘For the moment.’ Gernt borrowed Saper’s knife and examined his reflection in the blade. ‘Satisfactory. You may go, meat.’ The slave bobbed his head and hurried away. Gernt looked up at Apis. ‘Come to give us our marching orders, brother?’

  Apis turned and looked out across the bay, watching as several troop transports rumbled towards the assault landers. Vox-casters mounted on the hulls blared doleful, droning hymns to the Lord of All Things. ‘We’ll be accompanying Amatnim to the planet’s surface.’

  Saper chuckled. ‘You did well catching his eye, brother. We will go far, with him.’

  ‘That isn’t why I did it, brother.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Saper said. Gernt laughed.

  Apis looked at them. ‘Our Legion is dying, brothers.’

  ‘I told you,’ Gernt muttered. Saper sighed.

  ‘Be silent. I am being serious. The Urizen has abandoned us. Kor Phaeron, Erebus, the rest of the Dark Council, they war with one another while the galaxy burns around them. The Black Legion conquers new territories, the Death Guard march in the shadow of Mortarion’s wings, even the godsdamned Emperor’s Children seem more united now than they ever have been. And where are we? Where are the forerunners – those of us who saw the truth and embraced it earliest?’

  ‘I can’t speak for Saper, but I’m right here,’ Gernt said.

  ‘I’m slightly to the left of him,’ Saper added.

  Apis shook his head. ‘This is not the time for jokes, brothers.’

  ‘The universe is boiling in its own bile. Now is the perfect time.’ Gernt rose to his feet and idly cuffed the slave assembling his boltgun. ‘You’re doing it wrong. Go away.’ The slave scrambled away, whimpering. Gernt began to disassemble the weapon. ‘Why did you come down here, Apis? Are you worried? You should be. Saper and I are both worried – aren’t we, brother?’

  ‘I am distinctly uneasy with the current situation,’ Saper said. He drew a knife and tossed it into the deck, puncturing the metal with ease.

  ‘But that’s natural, isn’t it?’ Gernt looked around. ‘The gods keep us worried, so we keep to the path they have laid out for us. It’s the way of the galaxy.’

  ‘And what path is that?’ Apis said. ‘Where will our path take us?’

  ‘Ah. There it is. He thinks we’ve chosen the wrong side, brother,’ Gernt said. ‘Is that it? Should we have thrown our lot in with Lakmhu, then?’

  ‘No.’ Apis shook his head. ‘But Amatnim thinks he will throw in his lot with us.’

  Saper laughed. ‘That won’t happen this century.’

  ‘No,’ Apis agreed. ‘That is why I’m down here. Come with me.’

  They looked at one another, but followed him without question as he made his way towards the waiting gunships. Some of the craft were chained to the deck, like predatory beasts. They twitched and cycled their empty weapons at anyone who drew close. Others were relatively new, their machine-spirits as yet uncorrupted by exposure to the warp.

  Gernt leaned close. ‘What are we doing, captain?’

  Apis didn’t reply. He pointed towards a bulky craft studded with religious paraphernalia, its hull covered with barnacle-like censers. ‘There. The Dark Apostle’s gunship. You know the pilot?’

  ‘Yes. Decimo, of the Savage Tabernacle. Good pilot. Bad at everything else.’

  Apis nodded. ‘Do you see him?’

  Gernt turned, scanning the crowd of crew and warriors that moved to and fro among the launch plinths. ‘There,’ he said, indicating a small group of warriors standing nearby. They broke out in raucous laughter as one of them gesticulated, obviously embellishing some tale of glories past. ‘He’s the one flapping his mouth.’

  Apis glanced at Saper. ‘Fetch him.’

  Saper grinned and drew one of his knives. ‘In how many pieces?’

  ‘One, preferably. I just want to talk to him.’

  Saper frowned but loped towards the gathering. Gernt leaned close. ‘I ask again, captain – what are we doing?’

  Apis smiled. ‘Making sure we’re on the right path.’

  Almace, Primus asteroid facilities

  Lakmhu sat back in his restraint throne, his crozius across his knees. Around him, the gunship’s passenger compartment rattled and shook. Thick bands of incense wafted through the stultifying air and mutant serfs scuttled along the nave, checking the weapons and wargear of the Word Bearers seated to either side of the walkway.

  The gunship was one of two accompanying a trio of assault landers to the mining facilities. A small army, but an army nonetheless. Every warm body that could be spared had been roused and made ready to take the facilities. Once the main facility was under control, they’d spread to the others. Each would fall in turn, until the entire belt was under Amatnim’s control. Or, rather, under Lakmhu’s control. He smiled.

  A grunt caught his attention. His blade slave crouched nearby, glaring at nothing in particular. The creature had been agitated since its twin had died. He wondered if that was due more to the nature of the rituals used in its creation, or some lingering remnant of the man it had been. Either way, it was growing annoying. It refused to sit still, and instead paced blindly or snarled at anyone who got too close. Especially Yatl.

  Poor, ambitious Yatl. Lakmhu could read his aide’s uncertainty. Yatl had wisely said nothing, but he was smart enough to know that Lakmhu was already aware of his treachery. As was Amatnim. His hands closed about the haft of his crozius and he frowned.

  He glanced around the passenger compartment of the gunship. Fewer warriors than he would have liked. Amatnim had only given him a handful of true warriors to oversee the efforts of several hundred chattels but it would be enough. All of them were loyal to him, of course. He’d made certain of it. The only question was Yatl. And even that wasn’t so much a question of if,
as when and how.

  Lakmhu closed his eyes, and tried to centre himself. Meditation was another tool in the arsenal of the faithful. It helped order the mind and calm the spirit. Two things necessary for a man to successfully commune with the Primordial Truth.

  He listened as Neverborn whispered to him, just beyond the veil of consciousness. They showed him things, sometimes. Memories of a future that would never be, or predictions of a past that had never been. Lies mixed with truth, and truth leavened by lies. They scratched at the walls of his psyche, demanding entrance, pleading for aid, enticing and inviting. Little daemons, most of them. Even the strongest were but minor sparks compared to the great conflagrations he’d seen summoned by Erebus.

  But they could be useful nonetheless. They flocked to the black radiance of his soul, knowing that he could – he would – open the way for them, eventually. He could feel the soul-heat of his brothers as the Neverborn gathered about them as well. Word Bearers collected minor daemons the way a cur collected fleas. Most never even noticed the insubstantial parasites clinging to them.

  Amatnim had none. Lakmhu had often wondered why that was. Why daemons avoided him. Seemed to fear him, even. He’d concluded that the gods had marked the warlord, somehow. Either for greatness, or damnation. He wasn’t sure which, yet, but he knew which he preferred. He opened his eyes and found his blade slave watching him. He extended his hand and the creature snuffled at it. ‘He will pay for murdering your twin, never fear,’ he murmured. ‘For that blasphemy and all the rest.’

  The bulkhead at the other end of the compartment hissed open, admitting Yatl. ‘They’re ignoring our requests to land,’ he said, as he made his way down the nave of the compartment. ‘I do believe that Amatnim’s pet pirate overstated the welcome we would receive.’

  Lakmhu snorted. ‘If you had to defend this world and such unrest occurred, what would be your first instinct, brother?’

  ‘I would quash it. With prejudice.’

  ‘Exactly. There are Imperial Fists on this world – and White Scars. Neither are known for their soft feelings towards baseline meat.’ Amatnim had known. Lakmhu could feel it in his water. He’d known, and sent Lakmhu to die – or to expend his strength on a useless endeavour. But Lakmhu was determined to confound those expectations.

  He would take the facilities and hold them. He would make use of them. Perhaps even employ them somehow against Amatnim. He imagined asteroids jostled loose from the belt, hurtling into Almace’s atmosphere, and smiled. Wouldn’t that be a surprise for the conquering warlord?

  ‘Like as not, that facility is now an enemy fortress,’ he continued. ‘One we must take.’ Landing klaxons whined and Lakmhu pulled on his helm. The gunship began its descent.

  ‘So let us take it.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  85:40:00

  Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world

  Calder pushed the great doors to the chambers of the astropathic choir open, ignoring the agitated clicks of the entry-servitors whose routine he’d upset. He had no more patience for such ceremonies. His mind was akin to a box, filled to overflowing, its former order given over to confusion.

  Had Guilliman known, when he’d sent them here, that they would discover the Anchorite? Had he hoped that secret would remain hidden? Or perhaps the opposite? The primarch’s fraught relationship with the Ecclesiarchy was well known. Perhaps this was part of some greater gambit on the Lord Commander’s part.

  Calder didn’t know, and not knowing frustrated him. He was trained to see the patterns in such things, and yet this pattern defied logic. The existence of the Anchorite was a secret that might well destroy the Ecclesiarchy. Or, at the very least, shatter it into opposing camps – even more so than it already was.

  Maybe that was Guilliman’s aim.

  He shook his head, banishing the thought even as it occurred to him. Whatever Guilliman’s reasons, Calder was here now and knew the truth. His strategies would have to be adapted to compensate. If the Anchorite was the enemy’s goal, it gave him a point to defend. And he would do so, regardless of the cost.

  The choir-guard met him in the vestibule. There were ten of them, clad in heavy carapace armour, ornately decorated with the images of saints and cherubs and overflowing with purity scrolls. Each wore a thick cloak of Imperial purple and a helm wrought in the shape of an angel’s face. They levelled wicked-looking power glaives as he came to a halt.

  ‘Lower your weapons,’ a voice called out, from deeper in the chamber. ‘The lieutenant is expected.’ The guards stepped aside for Calder. He passed them without a backward glance.

  The chief astropath was waiting for him. She wore thick red robes over her frail form, and a crimson cloth over her ravaged eyes. If she had a name, she had not shared it, and he had not had the inclination to ask. ‘A belated welcome, my lord. You have not visited us in some time.’

  ‘My apologies,’ Calder said. ‘Other matters have demanded my attentions. Has there been any message from the Lord Commander?’

  She shook her head. ‘It is quiet, my lord. Save for an unpleasant scratching at the walls of our souls.’ Her smile slipped. ‘That particular sound is getting louder. Before long, we will not be able to risk lowering our defences.’

  ‘Nor would I ask you to do so, unless the need were great,’ Calder said. If the astropathic choir was compromised, they would be cut off entirely. He looked around the chamber, taking in her assistants and servants. The room felt crowded, despite its size. The walls were decorated with murals drawn from the life of the God-Emperor and His sons. Gold-skinned cherubs crouched in the rafters, murmuring softly to one another. Sanctified combat-servitors crouched in their sentry-alcoves, watching for any signs of warp-taint in the members of the choir.

  The chief astropath nodded. ‘You wish to send a final message? I cannot promise that it will reach its destination, but we will try.’

  ‘Yes. A request for reinforcements. I fear we may need them.’ He paused. ‘Has there been any word from Suboden Khan, or the system defence fleet?’

  ‘None, my lord. I hear echoes occasionally, of voices. Of messages yet to be sent. But nothing else.’ She leaned against her staff. ‘If they still live they are being very quiet.’

  Calder nodded. ‘If that is the case, perhaps it is for the best.’ If Suboden still lived, he would likely be making for Almace. Either way, he could not afford to factor the Silent Horseman into his strategy. An alert chimed in his ear. The vox crackled with a dozen voices. Somewhere far below, an alarm klaxon began to wail. One of the guards stepped into the chamber.

  ‘My lady – my lord. The enemy has been sighted just past the asteroid belt. We must seal these chambers in preparation for the siege.’

  ‘I will leave you to it, then.’ Calder turned towards the door.

  The chief astropath gestured. ‘Before you go, we have heard from the astropath assigned to the mining facilities, my lord. It seems your warriors have begun preparations for the enemy’s arrival. Lieutenant Karros wished to pass along his intentions to thin their numbers.’ She shook her head. ‘I think he will have his work cut out for him, myself.’

  Calder paused at the door. ‘We all will, my lady. We all will.’

  Almace, Primus asteroid facilities

  The landing bay was a utilitarian space, given over to the most basic of necessities – one of a dozen on this side of the facility. Once, ships would have been entering and exiting the bay in a near-constant stream. Now, ore-cutters sat in their berths, awaiting launch.

  Karros studied the vessels. They were of a size with a gunship, but less graceful, and little more than reinforced hull-bays, engine compartments and control pods. Each of these pods was inhabited by a servitor-pilot hardwired into the vessel’s systems. Each also had a small array of equipment designed to shatter debris or cut through wreckage.

  ‘The enginseers have rerouted backu
p power in each to the las-burners, as you requested,’ Reyes said, slapping the hull of the closest. Karros glanced at her. She looked exhausted but determined. That was good. He needed them determined. ‘We normally use them to cut through debris. But they’ll do some damage if they get close.’

  Karros nodded. Las-burners were little more than scaled-down versions of ship-mounted lances. If enough of them were aimed in the right direction, it’d be a good impression of a lance battery. ‘How many?’

  ‘A few hundred. The fuel cells burn out if we keep them running too hot for too long. The power you’d need to tear through an undamaged hull… might get one good shot, or two, depending.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Think it’ll be enough?’

  ‘No. But it doesn’t have to be. What we start, the orbital defences might be able to finish. And if not them, then the Capulus.’ Even then, by itself the strike cruiser would have little hope, but Karros saw no reason to say so.

  ‘And if not?’

  Karros looked over the ore-cutters, estimating the likelihood that any of it would work. From what he’d seen of the enemy fleet, precious few of their vessels were ships of the line. Most were repurposed merchantmen or barges, carrying troops and supplies for the ground forces. Those would be their targets. ‘Then we will have done our duty, and well.’

  She nodded, and fell silent. Then, hesitantly, ‘Why did you kill Galba?’

  The question didn’t surprise him. In fact, he’d been expecting it long before now. Perhaps she’d needed the time to gather her courage. ‘Galba was the face of oppression, was he not? You think about what you hate about this place, and it’s Galba’s face you see. Or saw. I made a strategic calculation designed to win you over.’ He looked down at her. ‘Did it work?’

  She laughed sourly. ‘Yeah. They loved that bit where his neck popped.’ She frowned. ‘You’d have killed every one of us, if we hadn’t backed down right then.’ It wasn’t a question, but he thought it deserved an answer regardless.

  ‘Yes. My orders were to deny the facilities and their resources to the enemy. If I couldn’t do it one way, I would have done it the other.’