Ferrus Manus: The Gorgon of Medusa

by David Guymer

  Akurduana frowned down at the boy, his struggles reduced to a twitch and a groan as Tull withdrew his tools. 'I don't recognise the uniform. What regiment is he?'

  'He's not one of ours.'

  Akurduana looked at him in surprise. 'He's one of theirs?'

  'As I understand it this planet will fall in a week or two. So by the time this lad walks out of here he'll be an Imperial citizen. No, no.' He waved his bloody hands theatrically. 'You can thank me later.' He limped about a half-circle to receive a threaded monofilament needle. 'Both hands now. Either side of the wound. Then I'll close him up.'

  The legionary spread his hands as if he were about to obey, but then shook his head as though reminding himself of something important. 'I need to return to my Company. And you need to ready yours.'

  'It'll only take a couple of minutes.'

  'I respect your determination to save lives and ease suffering, but DuCaine is losing men as well. You are a colonel now—'

  'Lieutenant colonel.'

  'Lieutenant colonel. Your place is in the capitolis, as you've been ordered.'

  'These men aren't ready. And respectfully, whatever rank long service has earned me. I'm a medicae.'

  Akurduana frowned. 'I know you fear no reprimand from Chapter Master Cicerus, or even from DuCaine and clearly not from me. But sooner or later you will have to answer to Ferrus Manus.'

  Tull paused in his work, reliving for a moment the experience of silver eyes on his, and shuddered. Blinking, he switched the needle and thread to his left hand to wriggle out of the sudden tremor in his right. 'A couple of minutes, then we'll talk.'

  'Two minutes,' Akurduana agreed.

  Tull huffed out and leaned in.

  The smell of counterseptic hit his sinuses like a metal rod up each nostril. The boy's gut wound, framed by the lacquered purple and gold of Akurduana's gauntlets, was a thin red line through tissue that was uncannily bloodless and clean. Like the bodies in the war-picts. The tent flapped open again, and Tull glanced up in annoyance, expecting to see the almsman he had sent out making a belated return with his analgesist.

  His eyes narrowed.

  The almsman had indeed returned, but he was followed in by a soldier in bulky ablative carapace in the slashed ice-blue and grey of the Serranic Peltasts, and a pair of Gardinaal civilians. The first was an old man, at least ninety years old, though the relative ageing effects on divergent human strains and the possibility of rejuvenat therapies made that a lower estimate. The other was younger, a boy of between fifteen and twenty, staring glassily at nothing, presumably with the pain of the shoulder wound he clasped in one hand. Tull assessed it without thinking. A baton round. He'd live.

  'I'm busy with people who are actually dying, trooper. So unless one of them is about to be shot…'

  The soldier saluted. 'Sir. This gentleman said he has information for the commanding officer. Said it's urgent.'

  'Gentleman?' For a Serranic Peltast that was startlingly polite. 'All right, you've got my attention.'

  The elder of the two civilians stepped forward.

  He walked with a slight curve to his spine. His skin was liver-spotted and lined, his greenish eyes dulled by great age, but as he approached the operating trolley, Tull felt himself overwhelmed by the sensation that this was a man whose every word carried weight. He rubbed idly at an itching sensation in his temple and then, embarrassed by his earlier, casual dismissal, passed his needle to the attending almsman that he might offer his undivided attention now.

  'My name is Sylvyn Dekka.' The old man placed a quivering hand to his breast and bowed stiffly. 'High consul of the Gardinaal, representative of its High Lords and the Eleven Worlds.' He straightened. His grey hair was long and unkempt, tangling with a beard and with silvery tufts from his ears and nose A perfect square section had been cut from his beard. In its place a small black 'X' had been drawn, a red diode at its centre blinking, sensitive to the passage of Tull's gaze towards the man's eyes.

  Tull felt his face go slack, something blissful in his mind.

  'And we surrender.'

  NINE

  The Imperial ship was darker than he would have thought. It was cold too, the bitter kind that got into a man's skin, the glacial vastness of its inner spaces swirled with a dark ash that grated on the airways like frozen sand. It reminded Dekka of his secondment to the consulate on Undedmus. Shivering under artificial lights. Breathing artificial air. Waking each work cycle to the darkened neglect of an industrial winter. It took all his energy not to shiver now as he descended the hard metal ramp from the numbing power of the Oden Spear. Shivering only worsened the cold. And more than that, he did not want to look weak. It was only rarely desirable, to look weak, when one entered into negotiations, doubly so when one's position was weak. And if he had drawn anything from his interrogation of Moses Trurakk, and from his present company, then it was that the Imperials were profoundly intolerant of weakness.

  A sonorous metallic boom reverberated through the deck, up the bulkheads, ruffled the flocking banners, and ran up Dekka's spine as five thousand armoured gods made a sharp right turn.

  One impenetrable bloc parted along a previously unnoticed central plane to form a corridor, extending like a chasm from the foot of the ramp to the immense engraved arches at the far, far end of the hangar.

  All thoughts of shivering fled as he focused instead on resisting the need to gawp.

  The High Lords of Gardinaal valued nothing so highly as a military procession. Millions of men in precision blocks, standards fluttering. Then the armoured divisions, huge tanks bedecked with inspirational messages, superheavy tripod walkers so large that their footfalls had stirred the heart and brought power outages along the path of the procession. And then more men. Millions more. And the pride of the Gardinaal, the artillery, the atomic ballistari that had so devastated the first Imperial invaders, hauled by monstrous trucks to the cheers of a dutiful and ever-pliant populace. So vast were they that they could run for days. In fact, an understanding of the logistics involved in conducting a planet-circling procession made the display more impressive rather than less. When one considered that over the duration of the parade those millions upon millions of marching men would have been replaced by millions upon millions more, several times over.

  As of that second it had lost all power to impress, crushed under the weight of five thousand armoured gods.

  'Close your mouth, consul. Do not betray your years by drooling now.'

  Dekka stiffened as High Lord Strachaan tramped down from the gunship.

  The High Lord was no less formidable than the Imperials. Indeed, in his reliquary war suit, he was, by any objective measure, greater, but compared to their explicit perfection the exaggerated hydraulics and ossified armour of his tripedal armature seemed… crude. Every edge was hard, every quantum of energy produced sent a shudder through his scaffold, every adornment was functional. The moribund thing inside was smaller. He saw that now. The Imperial Lord Commander, DuCaine, had at first insisted that Strachaan be removed from his suit before being permitted aboard his gunship, until Dekka had patiently explained why that was impossible They had settled instead for impounding his pacifier protection detail on the surface, confiscating his banners, draining his gas canisters and removing his ammunition hoppers.

  Or most of them. Their understanding of beamer technology was surprisingly limited.

  Tobris Venn trailed shortly behind. His arm was crudely splinted and suspended in a sling. He had made no complaint. Dekka could not say that shooting his aide had not brought some pleasure, but it had been a necessity. Without a convincing wound, it would have been difficult to get close enough to the Imperial medicae station to use his powers. The young clerk turned a little towards High Lord Strachaan and gazed up, eyes almost closed, as if drawing actual energy from the closeness of his august master, oblivious to the twenty Iron Hands that had debarked the gunship immediately after them.

  They came fully armed and armoure
d, unspeaking, as if yet to be informed that the war had been left on Gardinaal Prime, their weapons a shade below instant kill shots.

  The art of diplomacy was alive and well in the Imperium of Man.

  'I remind you that this was your idea.' Strachaan's voice resonated harshly from augmitters situated behind a slatted facemask. His decayed human face was high up, shadowed from Dekka's view by the steel bars of his mask, an eyeless husk speckled with silver-grey. Like Dekka, he was old, unimaginably old, and though once counted amongst the highest of lords, even the dead could not endure forever. Today he was deemed expendable.

  The parallels aligned too closely for comfort.

  'If this fails…'

  The threat hung limply between them. Dekka's reward for success was a rescheduled appointment with the bio-reclamation centres on Primus. The High Lord would forgive him for not trembling at the personal consequences of failure.

  'The Imperials display a segregated command structure, much like our own orders and ministries.' Dekka nodded subtly to the varied banners and devices as he whispered into Strachaan's thoracic pickups.

  The left-hand bloc of warriors and three-quarters of those on the right were hulking brutes in black and silver and naked steel. The lenses of their eyes shone red. Their helms were grilled, like a muzzle on a savage dog. Steam coiled about the seals of their armour. The remainder, though fewer and less overtly threatening, were no less imperious for either trait. Proud warriors encased in purple war-plate with golden highlights and decorative silks. Champions in cobalt blue. Inscrutable giants in red and white, the power of their armoured frames rendered, if not into insignificance, then into second place by the vibrancy of their minds.

  'And yet, perversely, the primarch holds absolute authority. You have seen what the Imperium is capable of, my lord. You know that this is our only chance.'

  'We will succeed,' said Venn, with the supreme confidence of a child.

  Strachaan grumbled. 'We had better.'

  A smaller troop of Imperials marched towards them, down the corridor made by the two blocs of warriors. A group of three detached from the rest, a phalanx of brooding hulks in stupendously heavy armour, and strode to the ramp.

  'I am Gabriel Santar,' The warrior was pitted like an asteroid, his gaze as intense as an extinction-level event, his armour still carrying the marks of recent fighting, he had his helm clutched underarm, the ceramic straining softly against the pressure of a cold augmetic hand, 'first Captain of the Iron Hands Legion,' he gave the slighter figure to his left a sideways glance, 'and equerry to Ferrus Manus. As a gesture of good faith I have been recalled from the offensive to command your escort while you are aboard the Fist of Iron.' He looked up at Strachaan, lips pursed. His armour was bulkier than that of his companions, and he stood almost level with the High Lord's pectoral shield coils. 'And I will be the personal guarantor of his security.'

  The warrior whom Santar had briefly indicated took his cue to step forward. His features were quietly compelling, his armour replete with the forms of winged beasts and strange quadrupeds, spiralling calligraphy and gilt work like nothing that had ever before been seen on the Eleven Worlds. He nodded to Dekka, presented his hand to Strachaan, then laughed as he noted the immense claws and weapons assemblies that terminated the High Lord's three upper limbs.

  'Forgive me.'

  Santar muttered something under his breath.

  'Akurduana,' said the warrior, with an apologetic bow. 'Second Captain of the Emperor's Children Legion.'

  'We have met.' Dekka returned the bow.

  'Formalities,' Akurduana smiled, stepping back.

  All eyes turned to the third figure. Dekka knew him well from the consular transcripts, all that had emerged intact from those disastrous early negotiations with the Imperium. He deepened his bow, conscientiously reining in his mental powers. 'Librarian Amar. It is an honour to meet you, and to express to you my sympathies for the misunderstandings that have led us to where we now stand.'

  The Librarian looked slowly down, as if his gaze were a precious implement with the power to drill unhindered through cloth, flesh and bone. It was diamond-sharp, and despite the wards Dekka had set about his mind in preparation for this encounter he winced, and thought he saw Intep's thin lips twitch by way of a smile.

  'I will be watching you, warlock. Intently. I would advise you to attempt no repeat of your mind trickery here. Not on this ship. Not in the presence of the primarch.'

  'We are not so worldly as you men of the Imperium,' rumbled Strachaan. 'The abilities of the consular caste are routinely employed in negotiations amongst our own, abilities that we assumed you would have employed as well. It was not our intention to deceive. An efficient reunification of the Eleven Worlds of Gardinaal with the Imperium of Terra is all we ever desired.'

  Amar frowned distastefully at Dekka. 'And yet you bring another with you.'

  'See the brand on his jaw.' The High Lord's pneumatics hissed as his torso pivoted, a clunkily articulated limb deployed to jab at Dekka's face 'It is a mark of expiry. His value to the Gardinaal has been adjudged to have been exceeded by the burden his deterioration places on the state. His biological components and germ-line cells would already have been reprocessed for the next generation had your blockade of Gardinaal Prime not stranded his ship.'

  Dekka forced himself to bow. Amar and Santar watched him suspiciously. Akurduana shrugged and threw Strachaan a reassuring smile. No one bothered to look at Venn.

  'Come then,' Santar grunted. 'Ferrus Manus is not known for his patience.'

  Santar allowed his gaze to veer neither left nor right, his jaw working so hard to keep his face locked forward that he had to gnaw through a growing cramp. Distorted reflections of armoured figures flowed along the glass-panelled walls apace, breaking into streaks of colour against murals and thick basalt braces, only to re-form and weave after him anew. He grunted, eyes forward. The thump of his boots on the deckplates was reassuringly rhythmic and metallic. His Cataphractii plate purred like a restive beast, in such corollary to his own Medusan spirit that it was uncanny. But his genhanced powers of perception fed him everything. The squeak of the old consul's shoes, the tripartite tattoo of his master's tread. He ground his teeth, eyes forward.

  He recognised the battle construct that he and Demeter had faced in the battle for the fission station. He wondered briefly if he could take the Gardinaal on, before concluding reluctantly that he could not. He swallowed his pride. Eyes ahead. If it came to it, it would not be him alone.

  After leading the Gardinaal embassy through half a kilometre of the Fist of Iron's most breathtaking internal architecture, the procession arrived at a sweeping circular portal. Veneratii Urien and Harik Morn were there to meet them. Santar's honour guard spread out down the corridor.

  Morn tilted his head back. 'High Lord Strachaan.' The Gardinaal's suit emitted a hiss by way of a nod. 'You and your deputation may enter.'

  'My aide will remain here,' said the grey-haired old consul, Dekka. 'He is low caste. What we have to discuss with your primarch is not for his ears.'

  Santar frowned over to the reticent mortal who had not, he noted now, been involved in the opening round of introductions. Sensing his regard, the man turned, looking through him as though unable to focus his eyes. With a sick twisting of his guts, Santar was left with the feeling that he could see right through him too, as though he were paper held up against a light.

  He gave a derisive snort, more aggressive than he had intended. 'It's your embassy.' He threw a nod to Urien and Morn. Unable to reciprocate in full helms, the two Terminators simply moved aside, stomped about a half-circle until their backs were to him, and then grasped their side of an immense wheel mechanism in both hands. It was huge, too great for any mere Space Marine to operate alone.

  A growl burred through their helm augmitters, power servos whirring with the tremendous effort of forcing that wheel to turn. Once it began to move, however, the trick lay in stopping it. It spun out
of the grip of the two Terminators, a blurred ring of silver, until the locking mechanisms clicked and the weight of the portal itself edged it open, The air that escaped was cold as steel, dry as smoke.

  Urien and Morn stepped aside as Strachaan marched through the portal, forced into a stoop to contend with the lintel. Santar frowned at that, as if being greater in stature than the primarch were a personal slight. The consul, Dekka, thanked everyone, all smiles and soft words, tried to shake Santar's hand, then shook Akurduana's, before grim-faced Amar shepherded them all through. Urien and Morn heaved the door to after them.

  It shut with a heavy slam.

  Ferrus Manus did not rise. He willed himself to recline in his iron throne, squeezing and releasing the moulded armrests in time as the emissaries of the Gardinaal were escorted into his chambers. His gaze passed over the lesser mortal, frail and inconsequential, to the lord of the Gardinaal. He took in the detail of the shield coils and hazarded at their operation, the hyper-dense energy-reflective meta-material of his gross armature, assessed the output of his power cores, the effectiveness of his weapons, noted with deep ire at least a dozen that his legionaries had neglected to disable.

  His annoyance summoned a drilling pain in his head, and he released his death grip on one armrest in order to grind his knuckles into his brow. He glanced sideways.

  The great hammer, Forgebreaker, stood on the dais beside his throne, Its ebon haft was upright, inviting. Its head, moulded into the form of an eagle's wings, weighted it to the basalt flagstones. His palm itched. The living metal twisted and swam and keened softly like a nest of wyrms.

  The desire to break this thing that had so frustrated his chosen sons parted his fingers, his hand sliding up the armrest to within touching distance of his hammer's grip.

  The supplicants halted the prescribed distance from his throne.

  Dim illumination spilled from the trophy cabinets, washing their faces with thin grey light and the shadows of blades. They stared up at him. The size of him, the raw, intemperate might of him. And then, inevitably, they looked at his hands.