by Guy Haley
‘We are but one of dozens of Legios called. I do not wish you to focus on the size and majesty of Lord Dorn’s Great Muster, or to dwell on the importance of the actions being undertaken on all of the cluster’s worlds. You must focus upon your task, your role, and accomplish whatever mission is given you no matter how arduous it may seem.’
‘Why is she telling us this?’ Soranti Daha hissed at Abhani Lus Mohana. ‘This is always the way.’
‘The Machine-God has sent difficulties ahead to test us,’ said Toza Mindev. ‘The banalities of briefing are a cant to themselves, to program the mind with calm before battle.’
Esha Ani Mohana risked a glance back to glare at her underlings. ‘Quiet,’ she said. ‘The Great Mother speaks.’
The princeps of Second Maniple fell silent.
‘The situation around the Garmon Cluster is problematic,’ the Great Mother continued. ‘Since our arrival we have been attempting to attach ourselves to overall theatre command. We have been so far unsuccessful. We can find no legitimate central authority. There are hierarchies, but none worthy of fealty. So far we have identified eight different organisations claiming operational seniority.’
Others in the crowd of princeps murmured. Esha kept her eyes forward. There had been a time when she would have whispered during her mother’s briefing, but she had changed since the birth of her own daughter, more since the start of the war. This occasion demanded respect.
‘Elements from all over the Imperium are flooding into Beta-Garmon. If one command hierarchy is established, then we shall have the difficulty of renegotiating when another challenges it. There are no loyal primarchs in the entire subsector,’ Mohana Mankata Vi said. ‘Without them, my prognosis is that this situation will not stabilise. We lack the unity Horus’ leadership grants his armies. We do not have time to dicker over rights and roles. It is therefore my will that the Legio Solaria and its support group fight alone, until such time as a commander we might respect be appointed by the Emperor of Mankind.’
Maybe one already has been, thought Esha. It would be impossible to tell.
The news sat ill with the officers. They had expected a primarch. No one else could make this war a success.
‘All is not lost!’ said Mohana Mankata Vi. Her raised voice silenced her Legio. ‘Although we do not have an indication from Lord Dorn’s summons who we should follow, we do have the luxury of orders from the Throneworld itself. It is my hope that we are not alone in this, and that the Lord Commander exerts his will from distant Terra. It is a poor second best, and we shall see if it is effective, but for now, we at least have a target. We have our orders. We shall not stint effort to fulfill them until asked to do otherwise.’
The tactical hololith zoomed into a constellation of orbital docks clustered about one of Theta-Garmon’s moons. Scores of stepped cavities like inverted ziggurats were gouged deep into the rock. Between these macro-mines hundreds of lesser shafts stared out blackly upon the universe. The scars of levelled mountain ranges shone with a painful, reflected light. No longer a sphere, the moon was faceted as a lump of coal. The activities of mankind had eaten into it like a cancer, hollowing it out to such a degree it could not have been far from collapse. Its circumference was marked on the tacticarium as five thousand kilometres, a small world easily confined by mankind’s artifice. Wide, artificial rings where manufactoria clustered like parasites imprisoned it wholly. The moon still turned, pulling the rings with it. They were medical supports to counter the moon’s infirmity, the cure and the cause of the disease.
A number of points of interest were highlighted around the moon, tagged and spectrum-coded with threat levels and markers of tactical importance. All the complex variables of war boiled down to a handful of colourful runes.
‘This is Theta-Garmon Five-One,’ the Great Mother said. ‘It is commonly referred to as Iridium by the inhabitants of this system for the metalloid mined there. Somewhat unimaginative, but that is what we shall call it, for the sake of convenience.’
The view zoomed out. Several nearby orbitals were shaded red.
‘These facilities are held by the enemy and directly threaten the moon. The Warmaster has committed large numbers of god-engines to this system, and to this world in particular. The lack of bombardment by voidship suggests he wishes to keep the shipyards intact. This factor is in our favour. War decrees this will be an engine battle. Conflict continues within the interior of the facilities as it has for months. The traitors wish to end this siege, and it is on the surface, engine to engine, that the struggle for Theta-Garmon Five will be decided.’
Esha studied the tacticarium display. Horus’ forces had most of the orbitals in their hands. There was no way a single, understrength Legio could turn the tide of battle there and retake all of Theta-Garmon V’s orbitals, let alone the system. Her eyes flicked over the situation. They were going to be tasked with a stand and hold mission: take the moon, await reinforcement.
Mohana Mankata Vi confirmed her assessment a second later. ‘We cannot win this on our own. Our role is to take and defend Iridium against the Warmaster’s Titans. The facilities include alpha grade processing plants, ship component assembly lines and crew training collegia, but its true worth is in this infosphere node here.’
A pull-out pict of the construct in question blinked into the air.
‘This is one of a dozen similar cogitation nexus relay stations situated around Theta-Garmon Five.’ The relay shone brighter than its surroundings in the hololith. ‘This one, however, is different. Without this one in particular, the coordinating machine-spirits within this entire quadrant of Theta-Garmon Five’s orbit cannot communicate with each other. If this nexus is destroyed, the ship yards will suffer a drop in productivity of thirty-four per cent until such time as it can be replaced. This is our hostage against the traitors’ attacks. We are to secure this moon. Once it is entirely in our hands, we are to evacuate all high ranking Adeptus Mechanicus personnel from other facilities to its sanctuary. We hold it until further forces join us. This area will be cleared by the fleet.’ The red-shaded, graphical representations of the orbitals disappeared. ‘We will cede the majority of the territory to the enemy, then strike back in force. Iridium will be the bridgehead by which Theta-Garmon Five shall be reclaimed.’
The strategy was sound. There were not enough of the Legio Solaria to take so large an area, but more than enough to hold the moon.
‘Enemy assets include two demi-Legios,’ the Great Mother continued. ‘Legio Fureans is present in large numbers, estimated ninety-six god-engines.’
More murmured noise from the crowd.
‘Our own strength is eighty-two engines operational. Fureans’ allies increase the odds against us. Twenty-four engines of war support them.’
A queasy feeling wormed its way through Esha’s guts. She knew before her mother could say it who the second Legio was.
‘Rejoice my kin! We have the opportunity to remove a stain on our honour,’ the Great Mother said. ‘Imperial Hunters, it gives me such bitter pleasure to inform you that the Legio Vulpa fights at Theta-Garmon Five.’
Murmurs were replaced by roars of outrage. Second Maniple chattered. But for Esha sound receded. Her ears rang, deadening the shouts of the rest.
A chant was starting up around the room, issuing from mouths of steel, flesh and light.
‘Unto the hunt! Unto the hunt! Unto the hunt!’
‘Terent Harrtek,’ Esha said, her mouth dry.
‘The Death Stalkers! The damned Death Stalkers!’ Abhani Lus was saying. There was a depth of hatred there that disquieted Esha.
Jehani gave Esha a sideways look. ‘This war has a few gifts for us after all,’ she said. ‘I trust it will not prove difficult for you.’ She laughed loudly, a hideous, mirthless eruption of sound. It was a rare occurrence for her. Jehani and her blood-sisters were serious creatures.
‘The Ma
chine-God delivers us the chance for vengeance!’ Mindev whispered. ‘Rejoice, sisters!’
‘Remember, if he is present,’ hissed Jehani Jehan in Esha’s ear, grabbing her shoulder. ‘Legio first!’
Jehani let her go, leaving Esha staring straight ahead, alone in the vengeful crowd, thinking of the man she may have to face again.
Five
The Walls of the Tantamon
By the time Theta-Garmon V had grown from a glint in the heavens to a pregnant curve of green, weapons fire was already incoming to Battlegroup Solaria. The fleet spread out so that the larger ships were screened by a host of smaller craft. Las-beam strikes raised a colourful bow wave of void shield displacement flare from the armada. Several hours later, the first serious attack came as a storm of mass projectiles. Solid munitions peppered the fleet in an attempt to collapse their shields for the torpedoes coming behind.
The battlegroup opened fire as soon as the machine-spirits of the torpedoes awoke and made solid target locks. Short-range particle beam and laser cannon fire crossed the void, shooting down missiles before they could deliver their payloads. Controlled plasma explosions took out the densest clouds of unguided projectiles. It was tit-for-tat fire. The defences of Theta-Garmon were unlikely to bring down any vessel at such an extreme range, while Battlegroup Solaria did not open fire with its big guns to avoid damaging the prize. The enemy Legios’ fleets hung back on the far side of the gas giant. Their warships, like Solaria’s, were tasked with defending their Titan conveyors. Constant auspex scans assured them there were few other vessels in the sub-system. There were many vessels throughout Theta-Garmon, but they had no coherency. Without fleet support, Mohana Mankata Vi and her shipmasters assumed the enemy would not trust their transport ships to the sole protection of the Theta-Garmon defence network.
Many Imperial forces had come this way recently, and though Theta-Garmon V virtually belonged to the Legios Fureans and Vulpa, the rest of the system was hotly contested. By hasty agreement, allied fleet elements duelled with the traitor flotillas guarding Theta-Garmon’s other worlds, tying them up while Legio Solaria approached the great shipyards.
In void war, timing was all. The battle sphere was system-wide and riven with uncertainty. Unlooked for reinforcements could appear for either faction from any quarter. The battle was a patchy mess of skirmishes and was likely to stay that way, with no commander daring to leave his holdings open in case they were attacked. Threat and bluff were the orders of the day, and that allowed Legio Solaria’s approach.
Disunity on the side of the Imperium was expected. The Great Mother was surprised to see the traitors equally disorganised. Even so, Battlegroup Solaria was not allowed to approach unchallenged.
The call to arms klaxons blared in the Tantamon’s Halls of Communion. In each one, a dozen thrones mechanicum waited under red spotlights, shrouded with sterilising gases. They clung to polished steel rails, ready to release their holding clamps and drop into the warsuits at rest in the Galleries Transcendent, the most heavily armoured part of the Tantamon’s permanent structure, and the place where the tied Knights of the Legio were kept.
Baravi Hanto was prepared to fight. His moustaches and the small triangle of his black beard were freshly waxed. His hair was slicked back and parted well clear of his skull interface points. His uniform, though hidden beneath his battle garb, was immaculately pressed.
Hanto’s squire Dashiel fussed around the last seals of the combat suit, tightening the straps on the armour plates. Click buckles fastened greaves around the top of armoured boots, and vambraces around reinforced gloves. The boy worked as fast as he could, which was not fast enough. Hanto waited impatiently as Dashiel attached the breastplate to the backplate, then finally moved onto Hanto’s pauldrons. Upon these shoulder plates his colours were displayed. The left bore the markings of the Legio Solaria: a raptor’s footprint in a black, winged circle, upon a field of bone enclosed in dark red. The right carried a broken lance clasped in the talons of a blue eagle on white, which was the badge of House Procon Vi. A painted baronial crown hovering over the eagle proclaimed Hanto’s rank, while on a tilting plate hanging from his chest gleamed his personal badge of azure and argent lozenges with a mailed fist superimposed.
Dashiel fumbled the last snap catch. Hanto’s patience finally broke.
‘Get off, boy!’ Hanto snapped, shoving the squire aside. His attendant was the son of a distant cousin and too young even for an armiger warsuit. As the highest ranking of all the house’s attendants he was entitled to squire for Hanto. Unfortunately for him, Hanto thought, he was also the clumsiest. ‘Learn respect, learn diligence. You are showing neither!’ Hanto held his gloved finger up for emphasis close to the youth’s face. The squire flinched from it.
‘I-I-I-I am sorry, my lord baron,’ he stammered.
‘Don’t be sorry, be better,’ Hanto said, forcing the snap catch closed with one hand. ‘The others are ready!’ He swept his arm down the line of men waiting for battle, already suited and helmeted. ‘Get me my helm!’
The youth turned to the wall where Hanto’s wargear was stowed. The glass-fronted locker for his combat suit and body armour was empty. The helm still rested in a pool of light in a separate box over the top. As the youth reached for it, the pane shot up into the wall. He retrieved the helmet and handed it to his master.
‘My lord,’ he said with a bow.
‘About time,’ Hanto said as he rammed the helmet onto his head. Padding encased his skull. Amber plastek interposed itself between his eyes and the world. Seals took with a sudden sucking. Tiny claws clamped themselves around his skull socket. A peep sounded, his vox beads activated and the visor display fizzed into life, though it was as yet empty of information. He moved towards the throne mechanicum waiting for him in the shaft, but a lack of weight at his hip had him stop. ‘Pistol! Pistol! Where’s my bloody pistol?’ he roared.
‘Here, my lord.’ The boy fumbled Hanto’s gun belt around his waist. Hanto snatched the buckle from his hands and did it up himself while striding to his throne. He turned about and sat. With their leader in his place, the other Knights took their own seats. Hanto was sure they’d be sniggering behind their featureless helms. He was going to have to do something about the boy.
‘Engage systems. We march for the Legio!’ Hanto said, his voice amplified by his helmet.
‘House Procon Vi! Legio Solaria!’ His warriors shouted. ‘Unto the fire! Unto the hunt! Legio first!’
‘Legio first, house second. Engage,’ the baron commanded. His finger hovered over the release button like a threat. Retainers and servitors responded to the criticism manifest in the gesture and hurried forward to connect cables into the interface ports of Hanto’s suit. Twist locks clicked into place on his socket hard points. Delicate feather touches of questing wires slid into the ports at the back of his neck, bringing a momentary, tingling discomfort in his teeth. This quickly receded, to be replaced by a sense of intense anticipation, and he could not suppress a grin. His visor display burst into colourful life. The sense of his own body faded. Far below, he could hear his warsuit calling to him.
The klaxon blared, rousing his excitement.
Sacristans scuttled between displays, blurting machine noise at each other. Their leader was bent double, his spine unnaturally pronounced and head elevated on a metal neck with far too many vertebrae.
‘All connections operating at peak efficiency. Praise the Omnissiah!’
‘Drop,’ said the baron.
His finger stabbed down.
Brakes let go of his throne’s restraints and it went into freefall. Louvres opened in the pipe, venting gas from the tube and removing air drag, and he dropped faster.
He tested his infospheric link. For a fraction of a second he looked upon the engines of Legio Solaria’s Second and Fourth Maniples through the drop-ship’s auspex eyes. Four Warhound scout Titans, two Reavers. Their
hulls were dappled green and white, trim bronze, command heads and weapons cowls red, their banners red and ivory. The tiny figures of machine adepts preparing them for battle gave them scale, the smallest of them much bigger than his own Knight. Hanto felt like a king among men when he strode the field with human troopers, but here were gods to whom he was but a servant. A sharp pang of envy stabbed at his heart. If only he were permitted to pilot such a machine…
The sight was snatched away and the thought with it, the images conjured in his head replaced by rapidly cycling views of the ship’s exterior. Satisfied with his link to the wider infosphere, he shut down the connection and returned his attention to his surroundings. The throne continued to fall.
The ship shook hard enough to throw him about in his throne. The bombardment was intensifying.
Spinning red lights lined the last hundred metres of the drop chute. Grav cushioning caught the throne and it abruptly decelerated. Hanto clenched his jaw in preparation for the jarring connection with his Knight.
The edges of his Knight’s carapace access port sped past. The throne mechanicum slammed home. The hatch dropped hard. Atmosphere hissed into his cockpit, pressurising the interior. Lockbolts whined into place. Clamps slammed shut noisily around the throne’s base, and lights and screens came on all around him. He rested his hands upon emergency manual controls, but he never needed these. The true source of control in Imperial machines of that size was a mind impulse unit. By the miracles of ancient technology, Hanto’s consciousness ran out through cables, and with great anticipation of the battle to come, he linked with his Knight, Falcon.
The mind of his warsuit nuzzled into his, fitting it like glove to hand, and man and machine became one. His eyes looked upon a different world. He was a metal giant, with guns for fists. The heat of a plasma reactor replaced the beat of his heart.