by John French
He looked at her and thought he saw the ghost of a smile on her face.
‘There seemed to be no shortage of caffeine, though.’
‘Part of the family business,’ he said. ‘We held the transit monopoly on Kaderine Caffeine through Uranus orbits for twelve decades…’ He trailed off, realising that he was still standing by the open door.
‘Do you want some?’ asked Mersadie. ‘I think I made too much.’
‘No,’ he said, turning and closing the door. ‘No, I think I might want to try to sleep later, but thank you. Too much of that, and you won’t sleep for days.’
‘That’s what I am hoping…’ she said.
They lapsed into silence as he sat on one of the other chairs. She took another drink from her cup, and waited.
He opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say, but she spoke instead.
‘You want to know about her, don’t you? About Keeler.’
He closed his mouth, then nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You believe, don’t you? You are a follower of the Lectitio Divinitatus.’
‘My wife…’ he began, then paused, closing and opening his mouth. ‘No, not really, but…’
‘A dangerous thing to be part of a proscribed cult – even worse if your soul isn’t in it.’
‘I… Do you… Are you…’
‘Do I believe?’ she said. She smiled, took another sip from her cup, then gave a short laugh. ‘I have seen things… When you know the truth, does that leave room for faith or does it become fact?’
‘But Keeler,’ he asked, and heard the hunger in the words as they came from his mouth. ‘She is real then, you knew her?’
Mersadie looked at him for a long moment, and then put the cup down.
‘I owe you thanks, Master Vek, thanks and apologies that you do not have to accept. But I can’t offer you certainty. I can’t even offer hope.’
‘You said, though, that you needed to reach the Praetorian, that the saint… that Keeler–’
‘Do you know what the Crusade and the Betrayal have taught me?’ She was looking directly at him, now, and there was a hardness in her eyes. ‘We are small things, we humans. We mean very little. Our lives are narrow and short, and our dreams, even if noble, will not shift the stars in the sky. We are not the movers of this age. Horus is, and the Emperor. The choices and the hope and the ruin belong to them.’
Vek breathed in sharply. His hands twitched. Mersadie did not move.
‘I am sorry, Master Vek,’ she said. ‘You asked about Keeler, about what I am doing and why I am doing it. I thought you deserved an answer.’
‘But you talk of…’ He paused, the fear taking the sounds of the name from his tongue. ‘You talk of the Warmaster, not the saint.’
‘Because if there are arch-traitors and saints, then hope is their realm, the realm of cosmic change and slaughter and sorrow. They are the ones who will decide tomorrow, and if there are any tomorrows after that. We are human, Master Vek. Our lives only matter in quantity. We can dream and despair and cling on to what we have, but those things live only in us. Our hope is our own, and if the universe cares, it does so by accident. That is why people pray to the Emperor and call my old friend a saint. Because deep down, they know that they cannot change the great course of events.’
‘You have a very bleak view for someone claiming to be trying to help save the last fortress of humanity.’
‘I have seen Horus,’ she said. ‘I have heard his voice. One day everyone who can say that will be gone, and no one will remember. But I remember, and for years I have tried to hold on to that memory.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because it matters. What I saw mattered. Horus was greater and more noble and more terrible than any human could ever be. It was not just the armies, you see. It was not just his sons. It was that he was something beyond us, something that spoke like us and wore a face that was like ours, but was from another order of existence. He existed in a greater way. The smallest things he did, and choices he made could send cracks across the shell of life. He was a creature who turned, and half the galaxy turned with him…’
‘And burned,’ said Vek, and began to rise. He could feel a headache building at the edges of his eyes. This was not what he had come for, but it was his fault that he had come here at all.
‘I can’t lie to you,’ she said. ‘You have done too much for me not to tell you what I believe before you can choose what you believe. I can tell you that I am carrying information from my old friend, who is now the saint of a rogue cult that worships the Emperor as a god, a friend who spoke to me in dreams. You can hear that and believe that I am carrying a message from the divine to a primarch, that I am chosen, that this is something only I can do, that I do the will of the Emperor and that He protects us. You can believe that you are doing good, that it will mean that everything is going to be all right…’ She trailed off, shrugged. She looked very tired, he realised, drained in a way that he thought was deeper than a lack of sleep. She gave a half-smile. ‘Or you can believe that I am insane and dangerous. That it was the worst mistake of your life to help us, that it is all going to end badly. You can believe that, instead.’ She stood up and went to the samostill, and filled her cup again. ‘And all of those things might be true at the same time.’
‘But you believe…’ he said.
‘I know I need to do what I can. And yes, I believe… I believe that we are small, and that our dreams cannot change the stars. But sometimes our deeds can change the universe, even if it is only by accident. If you want to, you can find your hope in that.’
Vek found that he was smiling.
‘And that is enough?’
‘It is all we have,’ she said.
Vek stood, poured a cup of caffeine and winced. ‘I always hated this stuff.’ He stood, and went to the door.
He had his hand on the release and the door open when she spoke again.
‘Thank you, Master Vek.’
‘For what?’ he asked, half turning.
‘For believing.’
He was still for a moment, not certain if he did believe, but knowing that he had made his choice.
‘You should sleep,’ he said, and pulled the door shut behind him.
Battle-barge War Oath, Supra-Solar Gulf
‘They come,’ whispered Abaddon to himself as he watched the enemy close.
The grey-white ships did not come as a single fleet, but in a wild, pattern-less rush. First came the Blade of the Endless Horizon and its caste of torpedo frigates, burning on a spiralling path, loosing torpedoes seemingly at random, closing so fast that it seemed they would fly straight into the guns of Abaddon’s fleet. They did not. As the first salvoes from long-range batteries reached for them, they turned and scattered like droplets of water from forge-hot iron.
The twin strike cruisers Truth of the Wind and Storm Soul cut in. Running side by side, they dived towards the armada and then slammed out of their dives at the edge of the Sons of Horus’ range. They cut laterally, spiralling and dancing as explosions chased them.
Watching them in his helm display Abaddon remembered a story told by Yoden Croweaver of the VI. When ships would meet on the seas of Fenris, warriors would run the oars of the boats in full armour with weapons drawn, bounding from oar-haft to oar-haft as the sea rose and fell and their enemies watched. Even if one boat met twenty in a storm, still a lone warrior would run the oars. Abaddon had understood why.
‘To show their contempt of death,’ he had said. ‘To show that even if cut down by greater numbers they were still worthy of the life they led.’
Yoden had shrugged, and nodded.
‘Is there any other way to face death than by laughing?’
The torpedoes loosed from the first attack wave struck their targets. Explosions blossomed acros
s the armada’s lead ships. Fire and plasma ripped wounds in armoured skin. In a dozen warships, thousands died in the pinprick flashes that sparkled in Abaddon’s eyes.
‘No sign of the Lance of Heaven?’ he said into the vox.
‘None yet, brother,’ came the reply from Krushan. Abaddon had left helm command to the veteran line-captain.
‘She will come,’ replied Abaddon. ‘Commit as soon as she does.’
‘As you will it, brother.’
Abaddon cut the vox, but kept the sensor feed running in the corner of his right eye as he stalked into the teleportation chamber. A throng of black-armoured warriors greeted him with raised fists and weapons. These were his finest, the elite of the First Company: Justaerin, Reavers and Death Marked. All of them had fought at each other’s side for years before the war, and had thrived in the battles that came after. There was Sycar, his lieutenant and commander of the components that would strike at their target’s engines and power conduits, grinning at Ralkor with sharp, steel teeth; Tybar and his squad were fixing oath parchments to their bolters. Some wore talismans that showed they had founded alliances with one of the many faces of the powers of the warp.
Abaddon moved amongst them, returning their greetings with a nod, pausing to grip the hand and wrist of Gultaron, the young warrior still recovering from the wounds dealt to him in pursuit of the Wolves during Beta Garmon.
‘My captain,’ said Gultaron, bowing his head briefly. Abaddon moved on, feeling the pre-battle tension rising and spreading through the force like a thunderhead before the storm. He smiled inside his helm. This was his home. In these moments amongst these brothers and warriors he felt the universe align, become clear, become as it should be.
Urskar and Gedephron were standing together, serfs clustered around them as the last plates of their Cataphractii armour were slotted into place. The breeches of Urskar’s reaper cannon cycled as boxes of heavy rounds locked into its loader. His crimson helm glinted with silver-filled scars, an echo of the face beneath. Gedephron was snapping the power field of his power mace on and off, flexing his grip and shoulders.
They did not bow their heads as Abaddon approached, or show any sign of acknowledgement. They did not need to. They had fought at his side for longer than any other. They had saved his life and he theirs. He was their captain but they needed no sign to mark the bonds of respect and blood that bound them.
Abaddon was about to speak when he felt stillness ripple through the chamber. Gedephron’s head jerked up, the rest of his body motionless.
‘The dogs of ashes…’ he growled aloud. Abaddon turned, following his brother’s gaze. Layak and his blade slaves walked across the deck. The chatter and bark of voices quieted. Eyes followed the three Word Bearers. Abaddon waited, feeling the fire rise to his tongue and pulling his lips back from his teeth.
‘Why are you here?’
Layak paused, looked around slowly.
‘To face the enemy at your side,’ he said.
The room remained still. All it would take was the smallest gesture, not even a word, and the three Word Bearers would be dead on the deck. Again the question of why he had let Layak remain with him surfaced in Abaddon’s mind, and found no clear answer.
He turned his back on them without reply, and blinked the ship’s sensor feed so that it filled his right eye. The flash of explosions hundreds of kilometres in size replaced the sight of his brothers.
The White Scars were coming again, wheeling in, formations changing, ships moving between squadrons like birds spiralling on the wind. It was dazzling. Sixty-one ships in the outer shell of the armada had taken serious damage. This was the White Scars’ purpose, not to kill unless they had a chance, but to slice a thousand times so that the ships that struck the inner Solar System would be already bleeding, already weak. The privateers and vagabond ships that had split from the armada had drawn off much of the White Scars’ void-strength, but not enough. The grey-and-white ships had not taken the bait, but spun away, gathered and come back at the main bulk of Abaddon’s ships with fresh focus. That took vision and control that even the best Legion void commanders would struggle to wield. Abaddon could ill afford to let their strength bleed away before they reached their true objective. So they would bring this dance to an end.
Abaddon’s armada did not halt. If it deviated from its path, it would lose the advantages bought by the blood and sorcery that had let it emerge so far inside the sphere of the Solar System. So, it fought as it ploughed on, a single vast beast tormented by the bites of the falcons that now spun across its path.
‘That’s the problem with that Cthonian directness you so value – it works too well.’ Abaddon had let a spark of annoyance show on his face. Jubal Khan had just laughed and put a hand on his shoulder, as though they had known each other for decades. ‘You get so used to using it, you forget that it is not the only way to kill.’
Amongst the Sons of Horus ships in the outer layers of the armada, one vessel started to list. It was named the Aeolus, a heavy cruiser, Mars-forged and spear blade-hulled. Multiple torpedoes had slid through its shields and burst through its armoured flanks. Fire had spread through its starboard decks and compartments. Plumes of air flashed as they streamed through its void shields. Now it began to veer off course, engines stuttering and flaring. Its fleet sisters plunged on, not slowing as it struggled for direction and speed. The White Scars ships circled as the wounded Aeolus fell away from its siblings. Its engines fired again, burning with star-bright desperation, like a wounded animal falling behind the safety of the herd, fighting against the inevitable as its killers watched and circled.
But it wasn’t dying. It was bleeding, but its weakness was feigned.
The White Scars began to whirl inwards towards their kill. They drew together and now amongst them, like a ghost gathered from the dark, was a great vessel, its engines tracing a bright sickle in the stars.
‘The Lance of Heaven…’ breathed Abaddon, as he saw the battle-barge slide into sight. He thought of the Legion brothers that he had killed to see this sight, brothers slain on the Aeolus as fire roared through its decks and explosions tore its skin. He had killed those warriors, he knew. The enemy had held the knife but they had died because of him, for him, so that he could stand in this moment and see his opponent come from the ocean of night to meet him. There were wounds that could not be affected, prices that had to be paid in the only coin that mattered.
The Lance of Heaven held fire as it closed. The Aeolus rolled, its engines misfiring and sending it spinning like an arrow loosed from a broken bow.
The Lance of Heaven fired. Beams of plasma lashed across the night. The last of the Aeolus’ void shields vanished. The wheeling ships hurled ordnance at it. Blisters of molten metal formed and burst on its hull. The Lance of Heaven kept closing. Shorter-ranged batteries opened up. The Aeolus spun on. Chunks of debris arced from its sides.
Watching the exchange, Abaddon could almost see the White Scars’ need for the kill driving them on.
The Lance of Heaven curved close, burning hard to slice the fire of its broadside batteries across the Aeolus’ engines: a final slice to leave it stricken in the void. It was a cut too far.
‘Strike,’ Abaddon ordered.
The War Oath speared forwards. The ships of the armada that had shielded it parted. Power had built in its reactors, and the adepts of the New Mechanicum had held the fury of its plasma exchanges in balance until they screamed. Released, that power roared from its engines and plunged it towards the Lance of Heaven like a thunderbolt from a night sky. Heat and radiation killed hundreds on the engine decks. Three escort ships came with the War Oath, soaring wide to bracket their prey.
Too late, the White Scars ship broke off its attack run, and turned to dive back into the night. But the War Oath was already close enough. In the teleportarium, the air pulsed with static and ball lighting.
�
��For the Warmaster,’ said Abaddon into the vox, and the ranks of warriors gathered around him vanished in a flash of strobing light.
Warship Lance of Heaven, Supra-Solar Gulf
The warriors in black appeared out of a whirl of green lightning in the passages of the Lance of Heaven’s command castle. Abaddon felt sensation briefly drain from his limbs as reality slammed back into place around him. Gunfire met them as the teleport light vanished with a howl. Etheric blast waves ripped out, shrieking with the voices of human fear. The Sons of Horus fired back, blasting through defence turrets and bulkheads as they charged. There was no hesitation in their movements, no doubt. They read their surroundings and were moving and killing before the humans facing them had loosed more than a shot.
‘Forwards,’ called Abaddon, firing and moving with his brothers.
Squads clamped charges on to sealed bulkheads and spun aside as metal flashed to shrapnel and smoke. The men and women who opposed them were drilled and disciplined, recruited and bound to serve the White Scars with honour and skill at arms. But they were still mortal. Bodies exploded inside pressure suits as they were slammed into walls by explosions. Chain teeth carved through meat and bone. Blood slicked the decks. Bolt-rounds filled corridors with shrapnel and pulped bodies.
Within three minutes, strike forces had speared through the defences around critical locations across the Lance of Heaven’s command castle and engine decks. Abaddon reached the main doors to the bridge as Ralkor, his signal master, was attempting a violation of the machine-spirit governing its locks. Abaddon gave a single shake of his head and gestured with a digit of his power fist. Two Reaver squads ran forwards pulling charges from backpacks and belts. The charges locked in place as Abaddon took his next step. His mind was cold, the progress of the assault a breath of thoughts at the back of his awareness. Resistance had been low, far too low for a capital ship of this size.
The charges on the bridge doors detonated. Melta waves bored white-hot holes through the armour slabs a second before breaching charges cleaved through the warping metal. A squad of Terminators went through first, ramming through the cooling debris, firing as they advanced. Servitors and serf crew became shreds of meat under the hail of rounds. Abaddon followed in their wake, his helm display showing a scattering of threat runes that vanished as bolt-rounds and volkite beams found their marks. He reached the centre of the bridge as silence fell.