by David Guymer
The guardian was four metres tall, encased in golden artificer armour and wielding a halberd that was anything but ornamental. The Adeptus Custodes were crafted by the same artifice that had sired the primarchs, and though they were less than those demigods, they were still greater than the Adeptus Astartes. Seeing that being, Mesring felt the first stirrings of doubt at the enfeeblement of the God-Emperor.
‘You are not going to…’ hissed Mendelyev.
‘The Ecclesiarch has the authority.’
‘To make a request on behalf of another, not for himself. The Emperor’s tears are shed for His fallen warriors. They are for His warriors.’
‘He leaves me no choice. It cannot be His will for me to die like this. It cannot.’
An arch-cardinal in ostentatious white robes and jewelled mitre passed through the fug of incense and verse, dropped to one knee and kissed Mesring’s fingers. The memory of the last time Mesring had allowed that particular show of respect made his fists clench. The man’s name was Wilbran. His position of Emperor’s Chaplain was, naturally, a largely ceremonial one, but it carried tremendous prestige.
It occurred to Mesring that Wilbran’s would be high on any list of names to succeed him.
With a platitudinous greeting, the arch-cardinal stepped aside. Past him shuffled a lachrymal page with the wrung-out, worn-down look of a man who had grown old in spite of the chemical treatments belaying the onset of puberty and the death of innocence. He bore a silk cushion and on it a small golden reliquary. He prostrated himself and Wilbran opened the box. Inside was a vial, cut from a single piece of diamond, on a bed of scented tissue. It contained one droplet of glistening liquid.
Mesring’s breath caught as Wilbran lifted it reverentially and passed it to him.
The Emperor shed a tear for every one of His own that fell in battle. There was a priesthood dedicated to their collection, and just one had the power to heal a man of all wounds.
He took it, cotton-wool fingers fumbling with the stopper, and upended it over his desperate tongue.
He felt nothing.
The volume of liquid was so miniscule he did not even feel it hit his mouth. He was aware of the coiling in his gut, the fog in his brain, the thumping inside his ears. He scrunched his eyes and prayed to the Emperor to accept this one last chance to demonstrate His power. But he felt nothing. Nothing at all.
His grip tightened around the vial, and he pressed it to his forehead until it cut in.
He would not go quietly. He knew all the lies now.
And if a man as powerful as Mesring was going to fall, then the earth was damn well going to shake.
Three
Terra – the Imperial Palace
Check 0, 00:41:26
Lady Kavalanera Brassanas, knight abyssal of the Sisters of Silence, sat perfectly upright at the head of the table, hands on her armoured thighs. She was clad in antique crimson armour etched with ancient Terran designs, extinct languages, ideograms representative of concepts relevant to a mythic age. Parchment strips attached to the armour with wax seals decorated her body with an impenetrable, spiderish script. The collar of her battleplate was high, obscuring her mouth and nose and leaving only the dark-matter emptiness of her stare between her and the world. She was an untouchable, a blank, one in a trillion: a homozygous carrier of the mutant pariah gene that rendered her impervious to all forms of psyker assault. A useful trait, if an unnerving one to be around.
The High Lords, those that Koorland had demanded attend, adopted various manifestations of mental brace against the negative pressure of the woman’s mind, and the inexorable pull on their souls.
Juskina Tull and Fabricator General Kubik sat together along one side of the long table, with Admiral Lansung, Wienand and Gibran facing them on the other. Drakan Vangorich sat somewhere between attention and repose at the far end. Though not officially represented on the High Twelve, the Assassin had become as much a part of proceedings as the Lord Commander himself, and Koorland suspected that a few of his less informed peers had forgotten that they technically outranked him.
In spite of recent damage, the Clanium Library remained very much the overstuffed vanity project that Lansung had made of it. For all the Lord Admiral’s faults in matters of grand strategy and statecraft, however, given a small enough stage in which to operate he was a perfectly able military commander. The chronometric displays, hololiths, and loop projectors that had been installed at great expense in place of the books and other portable storage media that had previously filled the shelves actually, by accident or design, made for an excellent consultation chamber.
The snarling visage of an ork filled the big screens that surrounded the conference table, not frozen exactly but jerking from one millisecond to the next and then back again as though eager to be done but barred from moving on. A pair of fuzzy verticals ran though the image at the exact same spot on every display. The brute’s crusted nose and gaping mouth were up close to the capturing lens, its expression very much what one would expect from an ork having its skull crushed in a Black Templars Dreadnought’s power fist. With every twitch around the timepoint, the ork’s eyes were noticeably squashed closer together and then released back. Energetic emanations sparked from the cracks in the ork’s skull, generating strange, unsettling imagery on the data medium that became overt only when, as now, the playback was held.
Koorland was not at all surprised that everyone – barring Juskina Tull, he judged by her rapt expression – had already seen the Dzelenic IV footage. He was resigned to the fact that any information known to more than two people within the Palace’s walls quickly became common knowledge.
‘This,’ said Koorland, ‘as you are probably all by now aware, is live footage retrieved from a battle between a force of Black Templars under Venerable Magneric and an ork warband. It was returned to Terra at great cost by the Interdictor in the belief of her crew that what it shows is the weakness that we have all been looking for in the orks. Their psykers. We simply did not have the means to exploit this information until now.’
Ignoring the intrigued murmur from the Lords, Koorland reached across Lady Brassanas to depress the intercom switch set into a panel at the head of the table. ‘Brother Thane, have you located Magos Laurentis?’
‘I have. It seems he took a wrong turn at the playback control room.’
‘Please escort him in, brother.’
One of the grand paired doors creaked inwards, disturbing the roost of herald-seraphim clustered over the lintel block with squawks of Thane, Thane. The Chapter Master of the Fists Exemplar held the door open and, with an oddly asynchronous click of metal ‘feet’ on the parquet tiles, Phaeton Laurentis scuttled towards the table.
There was almost nothing left of the magos who had been assigned to the Imperial Fists Second Company to study the extermination of the Ardamantuan chromes. The eye, perhaps, nestled in the centre of an insectile reconstruction of vox-thief pickups, mechanosensors and emotive carapace. That and the occasional quirk of personality. The rest was a reconstruction and, to Koorland’s mind, not one that the magos biologis, or anyone, could have deserved.
Laurentis circled the table on a tripod of articulated metal limbs that flicked up the skirts of ill-fitting robes, and distributed data packets with flicks of mechadendrites. His voice too was harshly synthesised.
‘You have begun to discuss the ork mysticus breed, correct?’ He pivoted his eyeball to Koorland, who nodded. ‘Good. Good. I apologise for my tardiness, Lord Commander, but I have studied this footage frame-by-frame one thousand and eleven times, and I have many demands on my time.’
‘As do we all,’ muttered Lansung.
Once, perhaps, Laurentis would have been human enough to note the not-so-subtle jab, but no longer. ‘As the Venerable Dreadnought-Marshal was cogent enough to recognise, the orks’ psykers are their weakness. The mind of each individual ork operates a
s a psychic dynamo of sorts, responsive to the ork’s mood and growing exponentially in power in the presence of other orks.’
‘The green roar,’ said Gibran, the hooded Paternoval Envoy of the Navis Nobilite, clearly more discomforted than the others by the psychic blank space generated by the knight abyssal. ‘We are familiar with the effect.’
‘The ork pyskers are able to absorb that power and release it in concentrated, directed form. As we observed on Ullanor, the harder we attack, the stronger the ork psychic field becomes. But as you have all seen…’ he gestured to the image frozen in greyscale on the pict-feed, ‘…the flow of power can be reversed.’
‘Potentially useful,’ said Vangorich, flicking through his packet, seemingly idly. ‘But we would have to draw these psykers out in order to exploit it, and the orks seem wiser than to let that happen. It didn’t happen on Ullanor.’
‘Which is why we must capture one for ourselves,’ said Koorland. ‘Ideally more than one.’
‘At least three, in fact,’ said Laurentis. ‘The Basilikon Astra and the work of the Grand Experiment have identified three ork colonies where the genotype of the mysticus subspecies has been confirmed. It is the opinion of my fellow magi biologi that the observed effect can be artificially induced. And targeted to destructive effect.’
‘An operation on this scale will require considerable manpower,’ said Lansung, with some of his usual bluster now he was on familiar ground. ‘And firepower. We are a council of twelve. We can’t in good conscience authorise that kind of operation without a full vote. Lord Verreault at least should be here to speak for the Astra Militarum.’
Tull and Gibran nodded gravely. Vangorich sat back in his chair and looked to the ceiling with a long sigh.
‘Let me be clear, so there can be no further misunderstandings.’ Koorland leaned forward. Everyone bar Vangorich and Kubik shifted noticeably back. ‘This is not a discussion. I do not ask for opinions and this is not a vote. There is no time to muster a fleet, and even if there were the unfortunate truth is that after Ullanor there is no longer the capacity to resource an expedition on that scale. We must learn to act quickly and decisively, which is why Deathwatch Kill-Teams Umbra, Stalker and Tigrus under the command of Sergeants Kjarvik, Tyris and Tulwei and supported by the Sisters of Silence have already been deployed to those worlds.’
‘Already. Deployed.’ Wienand enunciated each word as though they were too important to share a sentence.
‘You make it sound so ominous,’ said Vangorich.
‘Isn’t it?’ Wienand turned back to Koorland. ‘The Senatorum acknowledges the necessity of the Last Wall and the Deathwatch. And their effectiveness. But many of us, myself included, do not exactly like either. And now you appear to enjoy sole command of both? As I understand it you have even begun extending recruitment beyond those Chapters directly affected by the losses on Ullanor.’ She referred down to the extensive pile of handwritten notes in front of her. ‘Tyris and Tulwei are of the Raven Guard and the Storm Lords. Just how big is the Deathwatch now, Lord Commander? You can’t circumvent the Codex Astartes with loopholes.’
‘Must we have this same argument?’ said Vangorich.
‘Query,’ said Kubik, speaking in his harshly mechanised monotone for the first time since Thane had brought them all to their seats. ‘Objection has been raised to those of us not present, but what of those of us who are? Why are we here?’
‘Because I need ships. I need the best Navigators to pilot them and good men to crew them.’
As soon as Koorland said this, the atmosphere in the room changed. It became circumspect, the Lords each retreating to some private mental fief to survey its limits, what it held of value and, most importantly, what it was worth in trade. Koorland banished it back to the corners with a rap of his knuckles on the table. ‘I say again – this is not a request.’
‘It’s not that,’ said Lansung. He waved a pudgy hand vaguely. ‘There simply aren’t the ships to give you.’
‘The Autocephalax Eternal emerged from the most recent battle relatively unscathed. I will take everything. I can take no more from the Space Marine Chapters without blunting their own effectiveness.’
‘The damage to the flagship remains extensive, lord. Resources are scarce, and Mars has had… other priorities.’
‘The Synod of Mars is united in its support of Terra,’ Kubik interrupted, with a blurt of code. ‘But the Basilikon Astra suffered losses in the invasion of Ullanor and we too have few ships to offer.’
Koorland turned to the Chartist Speaker, Tull, who looked apologetically at something else and shrugged.
‘The Inquisition has ships,’ said Wienand, softly, filling Tull’s silence like a master rhetorician. ‘Experienced crews. The best Navigators in the Imperium.’
Gibran nodded, unasked-for confirmation that this was no exaggeration.
‘I will not give away control of the Deathwatch,’ said Koorland. ‘The Adeptus Astartes are not to be handed out like favours.’
‘You said yourself that the Deathwatch is too great a responsibility for one man. Even if we were to have faith in you to use them honourably, what of your successor as Lord Commander? What of theirs? No. Only the Inquisition can provide the proper authority for such a force, for it does not answer to one leader alone. I am but a representative of many, as is Veritus.’
Koorland rubbed the urge to snarl away on the back of his hand, and glanced sideways to Lady Brassanas who held his gaze with a frosty remove.
‘How many ships do you have?’
‘Several dozen operating from bases close enough to be contactable. Escorts all the way up to Black Ship class. They were built for transportion. I can’t promise it will be comfortable, but I have the capacity to transport several thousand men and their equipment wherever they need to go.’
Koorland let out a rasp of frustration. ‘Very well, inquisitor. As soon as this conference is over I will transfer full authority over the Deathwatch to the Inquisition. But these are my conditions. First, the Deathwatch is to be limited to Chapter-strength. Second, I retain the power to disband them when the current crisis is past. And third, with all respect, you are no military woman and the Inquisition is no military organisation. I will appoint a Space Marine to oversee all strategic aspects. Agreed?’
‘Do you have someone in mind for the role?’
Koorland met Wienand’s calculating eyes, too old for her young-looking face, tried to tease out what the woman was thinking. Thane had been in effective charge of Deathwatch operations since Sacratus, and was clearly the best fit for the role, but Koorland knew as soon as the thought arose that Thane, his right hand, was too close to him to be acceptable. The same might also be said of Bohemond and the other commanders of the Last Wall. He realised that even by assessing potential candidates in such a way he was making a political appointment rather than an operational one. His genhanced mind was superbly crafted to multi-task, but being forced to play the High Lords’ game, when his intent on becoming one of them had been to force them to play his, got under the skin.
‘There will be someone proven in place to oversee the next phase of the operation.’
Wienand held his gaze for a moment, then smiled lightly. ‘Agreed, then.’
Everyone suddenly looked relaxed, as though disaster had been averted with a near miss and normal service resumed.
‘Kubik,’ Koorland said, drumming his fingers irritably on the tabletop. ‘How proceeds the Grand Experiment?’
‘Entirely at the discretion of the Senatorum.’
‘He means, does it work?’ said Vangorich.
‘There have been several successful trials on both Martian moons. The investigation of the Techmarines, Abathar and Gadreel, into the failed experiment to teleport the Veridi starbase from Terran orbit was most illuminating. As was Alquist Arouar’s experience handling gravitic technology in the fie
ld on Caldera. The tech-priest dominus has been removed from military duties and transferred to the Grand Experiment. It is the conclusion of the project trajectoriae and the diagnostiad that a planetary body could be moved if so required.’
‘Mars, I presume?’ said Vangorich.
‘A logical conclusion, given that it is the only planet with the power capacity and the subspace impellers currently in place.’
‘What of Terra?’ asked Lansung.
‘Impossible. The effect on the Astronomican beacon would be enormous, and inherently unqualifiable.’
That brought a condemned silence upon them all. For several seconds, the weightiness of their responsibilities became untenable. Better several seconds than not at all, Koorland thought, though too little too late all the same. After a moment, Wienand spoke again.
‘What happens when the Deathwatch return to Terra?’
Koorland shook his head. ‘Time is critical. Each kill-team will translate to separate coordinates. Three fleets from Terra will rendezvous with them there.’
‘To what end?’
Koorland was considering how fully to answer when he heard what sounded like a body of men approaching the Library with some haste from the direction of the Cardinals’ Wake. Thane heard it at the same time, then Vangorich, the Assassin turning towards the door.
‘It is early,’ said Koorland. ‘But it could be news from one of the kill-teams.’
He rose from his chair, just as the grand doors were flung inwards and a trilling flock of herald-seraphim burst through.
Mesring, they sang, scattering over the table and circling the data-stacks. Ecclesiarch of the Adeptus Ministorum.
Here to attend.
Here to attend.
Here to attend–
‘Vangorich!’ the Ecclesiarch bellowed, flapping drunkenly through the flock and clattering into the back of a trolleycart, spilling data-slates and scrolls all over the floor tiles. ‘I know you’re in here, you and your cronies. Heretics all!’ Loose wheels and weaker legs rattled along together for a few metres, while the Lords were still scraping back their chairs to obediently join with Koorland in rising.
