by Dan Abnett
‘They now have another name, do they not, Major Baskevyl?’ asked Laksheema.
Baskevyl sighed and nodded.
‘There is reason to believe they may be called eagle stones, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Because of the Aigor Nine Nine One incident?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Which you were present for?’
‘Yes, I was.’
Laksheema looked at her data-slate.
‘You, and Major Kolea, whom I met yesterday, and two troopers, Maggs and Rerval?’
‘That’s correct, ma’am,’ said Baskevyl.
‘You heard a voice?’
Bask shook his head.
‘I did not, ma’am,’ he said. ‘The voice was only heard by Rerval and Gol. Uhm, Major Kolea.’
‘But you saw something?’
‘We fought something, ma’am. A daemonic shadow. It slew two of our party. We drove it off.’
‘Horrible,’ said Grae, wrinkling his face in disgust.
‘Afterwards,’ asked Laksheema, ‘did Gol relate what the voice had said?’
Don’t use his name like that, Baskevyl thought. Don’t talk about him like you know him.
‘He made a full report, to our commanding officer. To Militant Commander Gaunt,’ said Baskevyl. ‘He also told me what the voice had said.’
‘In private?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did Gol confide in you?’
‘Because I’m his friend,’ said Bask.
‘And what did Gol say it said, major?’
‘The voice… identified itself as the “voice of Sek”. It said, “Bring me the eagle stones”.’
‘And at the time, this meant nothing?’ asked Laksheema.
‘It meant nothing to anybody,’ said Fazekiel.
‘But then after that, during the boarding action?’ asked the inquisitor.
‘We found the damn stones had spilled out on the deck,’ said Domor. ‘In a pattern. Fapes… that’s Major Bask’s adjutant… he said they looked like an eagle. Wings spread.’
Laksheema turned to the bank of screens. She adjusted her wand again. The eight hololithic images copied themselves onto one screen, and formed into a pattern.
‘Like that?’ she asked.
‘Just like that,’ Domor nodded.
‘And from the shape, and prompted by your adjutant’s remark, you made the connection?’ Laksheema asked Baskevyl.
‘It’s just a guess,’ he said. ‘A gut feeling. A coincidence that made too much nasty sense.’
‘Are they here?’ asked Domor. ‘The actual stones?’
‘No,’ said Grae. ‘Versenginseer Etruin is examining the artefacts at the Mechanicus facility at–’
A soft buzzing blocked out the end of his sentence.
‘That’s vermilion, colonel,’ said Laksheema.
‘My apologies,’ said Grae.
‘There is another detail which lends weight to the proposition that these are the eagle stones prized and desired by the Archenemy,’ said Laksheema. ‘Your ship was spared.’
‘That’s in the report too,’ said Fazekiel stiffly.
‘You suffered a translation accident, and were helpless,’ said Laksheema. ‘You were overrun by enemy personnel. An enemy killship of significant displacement, the–’
She checked her slate.
‘–Tormageddon Monstrum Rex, had you at its mercy, but elected instead to destroy the Archenemy units boarding you. It then left you alone.’
‘The grace of the Emperor is strange and beyond our understanding,’ said Baskevyl. ‘He works in–’
‘Spare me the platitudes,’ said Laksheema. ‘An enemy battleship, not the most stable, restrained or logical entity in this universe, saved you and spared you. Does that not suggest there was something on board your vessel that was too valuable to annihilate?’
‘That’s one way of reading it,’ said Baskevyl.
‘It looks very much like it was ordered not to vaporise you,’ Laksheema continued. ‘Indeed, that it was ordered to protect said treasure, even from its own kind.’
‘It would take the command of a magister or the Archon himself to halt and control a killship of that aggressive magnitude,’ said Grae.
‘Then there is the matter of the broadcast,’ said Laksheema. ‘The broadcast made by the killship.’
‘I don’t know about any broadcast, ma’am,’ said Baskevyl.
‘The broadcast was intercepted by a Major… Rawne,’ said Laksheema. ‘By his vox-officer. It was translated by your asset, the Etogaur.’
‘I wasn’t aware of this,’ said Baskevyl.
‘Me neither,’ said Domor.
‘It’s in the mission report,’ said Fazekiel. ‘It was considered need-to-know only.’
‘It seems this Major Rawne has some appropriate notion of confidentiality,’ said Laksheema.
‘Domor and Baskevyl are cobalt-cleared now, inquisitor,’ said Grae.
Laksheema smiled. She looked at her data-slate and began to read. ‘Let’s see how far I get,’ she said. ‘The transcript of Mabbon Etogaur’s translation reads, “That which is born must live” or perhaps “That which was constructed must remain whole”. In full, “That which was made must remain whole… the offspring of the Great Master… all this shall be the will of he whose voice drowns out all others”.’
She glanced up at the cyberskull.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘All cobalt after all. Presumably because it is vague.’
‘What does it mean, “offspring”?’ asked Baskevyl.
‘According to your asset,’ said Laksheema, ‘that is open to interpretation. Allegedly, the word “offspring” can mean a thing made, or a child, or something spawned. It is the female noun, so it might refer to a female child, but apparently in the Archenemy tongue, things are female. Ships, as an example, are called “she”. In all likelihood, the statement refers to some construction of immense significance. My interrogators are pursuing the matter with the asset.’
‘Where is Mabbon?’ asked Baskevyl.
Laksheema replied, but the drone’s buzz obscured her words.
‘Do you know what the eagle stones are, ma’am?’ asked Fazekiel.
‘Undoubtedly xenos. Etruin is confident they match artefacts and cultural relics of the Kinebrach, a species that is known to have existed in the Khan Group until about ten thousand years ago.’
‘The age of the Great Crusade,’ said Fazekiel.
‘They persisted for a short while beyond that,’ said Laksheema. ‘Into the age of Heresy.’
‘But they no longer exist?’ asked Fazekiel.
‘Xenoarchaeologists believe they became extinct during that period.’
‘As a result of the Great Heresy?’ asked Baskevyl.
‘My dear major,’ said Laksheema, ‘you know full well how patchy our records of ancient history are. We have no idea what happened to them.’
‘I’ve heard the name, though,’ said Baskevyl. ‘When we were on Jago. The Kinebrach. They were the ones said to have built the fortress worlds.’
‘Oh, they didn’t build them,’ said Laksheema. ‘But they almost certainly used them.’
‘What are the stones for?’ asked Baskevyl.
‘We have no idea,’ said Laksheema. ‘Nor do we have any idea why the Archenemy considers them to be so valuable. But it is quite apparent they are held in high esteem. Your friend Gol is our most direct corroboration of that.’
She looked at the three of them.
‘Is there anything else you’d like to add?’ she asked. ‘Anything else you’d care to share? I advise you, in full view of Colonel Grae, that now is the time, in this convivial atmosphere. If it later transpires that you have withheld any pertinent information, your cobalt clearance and association with a militant commander will not be sufficient to shield you. If we are obliged to speak again, our discourse will be far less agreeable. Are we understood?’
They nodded.
‘Anyth
ing?’
Domor and Fazekiel shook their heads.
‘No, ma’am,’ said Baskevyl.
‘A moment,’ she said, and turned to Grae. The two exchanged a few remarks that were entirely screened by the drone’s aggravating buzz.
Laksheema looked back at them.
‘That will be all,’ she said.
They walked out into the stronghold’s courtyard. Savant Onabel had told them to wait, and that transport back to the billet would be arranged. Baskevyl was certain that meant they had several hours to wait. It was starting to rain. It wasn’t clear if the distant grumbling was thunder or a bombardment.
Baskevyl let out a deep, long breath. Fazekiel stood and fiddled obsessively with the buttons of her coat. Domor sat on a stone block and lit a lho-stick.
‘I’ll be happy for that to never happen again,’ he said.
Bask nodded.
‘I will talk Gaunt through it,’ said Fazekiel. ‘Relate what happened. Was it just me, or did either of you sense territorial gamesmanship here? The ordos, with their agenda, grinding against the Astra Militarum? Squabbling over how they divide information?’
‘I got that,’ said Baskevyl. ‘Grae was uncomfortable. This is clearly very big.’
‘I thought we were all on the same side,’ said Domor, exhaling a big puff of smoke. His hands were shaking.
‘We’re supposed to be,’ said Fazekiel.
‘But who pulls the most rank?’ asked Domor. ‘I mean, when it comes down to it? The Inquisition, or Astra Militarum high command?’
‘I would say the warmaster,’ said Baskevyl. ‘In the long run, no matter the clout of the ordos, the warmaster must have final authority. He’s the representative of the Emperor.’
Domor glowered.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘we should warn Gol as soon as we get back.’
‘Warn him?’ asked Baskevyl.
‘Well, we pretty much sold him down the river,’ said Domor. ‘Didn’t matter what we said or how we answered, Gol stayed in the frame. He was the poor feth it spoke to. Feth, right at the end there, what they were saying about him.’
Baskevyl looked at him.
‘What do you mean, “at the end”?’ he asked. ‘The drone was redacting them. We couldn’t–’
‘Feth me, Bask,’ said Domor, rising to his feet and grinding the butt of the lho-stick under his heel. ‘All these years serving with Verghast scratch company grunts, and you don’t watch mouths automatically?’
He tapped his augmetics.
‘Screw the fancy drone and its crypto-field,’ he said. ‘I was lip reading them the whole time. Second nature.’
‘What the feth did they say, Shoggy?’ asked Baskevyl.
‘That fancy bitch wants Gol. She told Grae as much. Says she wants him brought in right away, no arguments,’ replied Domor. ‘And from the look on Grae’s face, it wasn’t going to be a pleasant chat like the one we just had.’
NINETEEN: WEEDS
The yard in front of the Tanith billet was bustling. The munition resupply had finally arrived, in the form of three cargo-10 trucks in Munitorum drab. Hark, who had discovered that being the senior commissar attached to a militant commander carried more clout than being the senior commissar attached to a colonel, stood in discussion with the Munitorum adepts, processing the dockets. Spetnin, Theiss and Arcuda were supervising the men transferring the munitions off the flatbeds. Theiss and Elam had sand-bagged and dug-in one of the hab’s old washroom blocks as a dump, and ghosts were lugging the long boxes and crates down the path.
Gol Kolea sat on a hab doorstep, enjoying the pale sun that had emerged briefly between the day’s showers. In the makeshift kitchens nearby, the folk of the retinue had gathered to begin preparations for the ‘big feast’ Blenner had announced to celebrate Gaunt’s elevation. There was a lot of bustle and commotion, and a lot of laughter. Zwiel was lending a hand, and apparently seeing fit to bless every utensil and every ingredient. The children, bored by the work, had broken off to play, chasing through the ruined edges of the compound area, and playing skipping games in the yard. He could see Yoncy, skipping across ropes swung by two younger girls. He could hear them chanting, some weird sing-song thing that he’d been told was a play-yard song from Tanith. ‘The King of the Knives’. It sounded ominous, but then all the old scholam playsongs and nursery chants had darkness beneath their innocent words.
He watched Yoncy. Her shaved head was brutal, and she suddenly seemed bigger next to the smaller kids, almost ungainly. Tona had warned him. She was growing up now. She wasn’t really a child any more, no matter how she behaved. Maybe the haircut had been a good thing, though Gol knew she hated it. No more pigtails. No more pretending she was just a baby.
Nearby, the Colours band started to play, a practice session. The noise seemed to make Yoncy jump. She covered her ears with her hands, and scowled. The children playing with her laughed.
What kind of life was she going to have as she became a young woman? Gol wondered. She’d stay among the retinue, because it was her family. Then what? Gol didn’t see her following Dalin into the regiment. Would she just become one of the women folk? Would she marry some fine young lasman? It seemed like only yesterday she had been running around his feet and drawing him funny, simple pictures to pin over his bunk.
Gol reached into his jacket pocket and took out the last drawing she’d given him. He unfolded it and looked at it. It still gave him a chill. Just before the Aigor run, he’d eaten supper with Criid, Dalin and Yoncy. She’d done it for him then. Every detail of the Aigor horror was there: him and Bask and Luffrey, the two moons, the silo, the bad shadow.
How had she known that? Just another gruesome coincidence? The voice of Sek had reached Gol Kolea, and had threatened his offspring. If it could do that, then it could toy with the mind of a little girl. The idea disturbed him very much, that she could have been touched by that darkness. He would protect her, of course, if it ever came to it, but there was something about her that troubled him. He’d been estranged from both his children, but he’d managed to become close again with Dalin. But Dalin was a grown-up, and a lasman, and they had a connection. He loved Yoncy, but she always felt like a stranger. Remote from him.
It didn’t matter. She was his child. He would keep the bad shadow away from her.
‘Feth, but that haircut’s cruel.’
Gol looked up. Ban Daur had wandered up. He tucked the picture away.
‘Lice,’ he said. ‘Tona said it was for the best.’
Daur nodded.
‘They’ll all be like it in a day or two,’ said Gol. ‘Dozens of little shaven-headed children running about the place.’
Daur chuckled.
‘Poor thing,’ he said. ‘It makes her look like a little boy.’
Gol glanced at him.
‘Oh, no offence, Gol,’ he said.
‘None taken,’ said Gol.
‘Ironic, though,’ said Daur.
‘What’s ironic?’
Daur shrugged.
‘You know,’ he said. ‘Because of the misunderstanding.’
‘What misunderstanding, Ban?’
Daur sat down on the step next to him.
‘Elodie was telling me, oh, this is months ago. Back on Balhaut.’
‘Years, you mean?’
‘Right!’ Daur shook his head. ‘Elodie was asking around about me among the Verghast women. She wanted some dirt. Thought Zhukova and I had a thing.’
Gol raised his eyebrows.
‘We didn’t,’ said Daur, tutting at his look. ‘The point is, she was talking to the women about you, and asking if I’d known you back at Vervunhive, and it came out that several of them swore blind your kids were both boys.’
‘This is the women?’
‘Yes,’ said Daur, amused. ‘Galayda, I think. Honne, maybe. I don’t know. They were completely sure of it. Came as a shock when Elodie put them straight.’
‘They thought I had sons?’
�
��Yeah. You know how stories get all mangled up. Most people didn’t even know you had kids with the retinue for a long time. They were convinced you had lost two sons on Verghast. Gol?’
Daur looked at him.
‘Gol? Are you all right? Gol?’
Gol didn’t answer. A memory had just dug into his brain, like the sun coming out through rain, like something sprouting up out of the ground. Him and Livy, Throne love her. On the high wall of Vervunhive, the Panorama Walk where he’d proposed to her. One of their rare, precious visits. A special day. He’d saved up bonus pay to buy them passes. Up above the hive, taking in the view, mixing with the high-hivers out on their constitutionals. The looks they got from those snooty bastards…
Livy had put her hand on her belly. There was barely a bump to show.
‘It’s a boy,’ she had said.
That’s how she’d told him. He’d roared with joy. The snooty bastards had all turned to look. That’s how she’d told him.
About Dalin. It had to be. That’s how she’d told him that Dalin was on the way. That was the first time. Throne, his memory had been so buckled and ruined after Hagia. Gol could only remember some of his old life. Some small, bright details. The rest was a blur.
It’s a boy. He could hear her saying it. That’s how she’d told him.
Except there’d been the cart between them. The babycart with the baby in it. Dalin. He’d had to save extra, pay extra, almost a full half-fare, so they could bring the babycart too.
It’s a boy. And Dalin had been there, right there, already.
It’s a boy.
Gol felt as if he was going to fall over, even though he was already sitting down.
‘Gol, stop fething around. Are you all right?’
His head swam. He looked up and saw Daur staring at him. Daur had his hands on Gol’s shoulders, propping him up.
‘Gol? Feth it, you’re white as a sheet.’
‘A headache,’ he said. ‘I’m fine… Just a sudden headache.’
‘It looks like more than a fething headache,’ said Daur. ‘I thought you were going to keel over.’
‘I get them from time to time,’ Gol said. ‘You know, since…’
Daur nodded. The injuries Gol had taken on Phantine had been so severe, his recovery had been genuinely miraculous. Daur helped Gol up.