Ortane Vorkellen knew this as he stepped onto the gangramp of his cutter, shielding his gaze against the dipping sun.
Smells of oil and metal, muttered Insk, his scrivener. Shouldve brought rebreathers.
And risk offending the natives, Vorkellen returned in a quiet voice, his painted smile pitched perfectly for the greeting party.
A gaggle of archivists, lex-savants and codifiers followed him and Insk down the ramp as they descended to the deck floor.
Greetings, travellers, uttered a moustachioed clave-noble. He towered over the visitors in a bespoke rigger, an exo-skeletal frame of bronze that added a metre to his height and bulked out his limbs with its chassis. Weapon mounts, ordinarily positioned at either shoulder and below the abdominals, were absent, a concession that this was to be a peaceful engagement. Likewise, the nobles three marshals wore only ceremonial flash-sabres no barb-whips, no rotor-threshers or other hand-held cannon. A high-marshalaccompanied them, making five men in total.
The Bastionites were a people that appreciated all things martial. Perhaps that was why compliance had been so easy to achieve here, despite the worlds obvious military might they respected strength and knew its measure well. Certainly Perturabos Legion had experienced harder-fought, longer campaigns than the one to assimilate Bastion and its annexe-worlds. They had simply recognised the power of the Space Marines and sworn fealty then and there without the expected siege. A contingent of Iron Warriors had been left behind, presumably to garrison the planet, but had left prior to the outbreak of the war with no reason given. Their primarchs influence was still felt, however, in the statues of Perturabo that rose from the cities like spires.
Greetings from the clave, added the noble. His russet and silver jacket was pressed and pristine, perfectly accenting the polished bronze of his exo-rigger. His boots, fastened in the machines stirrups, were black and shining.
Vorkellen had never been to Bastion, but he had researched the world and its customs. He knew the clave represented the socio-political-martial inner circle of the worlds infrastructure and that every one of Bastions nine continents, be they ice-plain, desert flatland or mountain fastness, adhered to the will and guidance of a clave. A naturally occurring thermo-nuclear resource provided light and heat, heavily shielded and stockpiled in underground silos that ran throughout Bastion like arteries. Cullis was the capital and the prime-clave, which was why Vorkellen had travelled there for the negotiations.
My lord brings you greeting and honours the clave, he replied, bowing at the foot of the gangramp in the custom befitting obeisance to a clave-noble of Bastion. Lord Horus conveys through me his gratitude at this meeting.
The noble nodded. It is received and noted by Cullis-Clave. Please follow. He turned then, his exo-rigger whirring with servos and pistons and pneumatics, and proceeded to clank across the dock towards a great mechanised gate. It was magnificent on account of its size and the inner workings, displayed like a bodys perfect organs on a morticians slab. But it was ultimately artless and cold.
Vorkellen followed, his lackeys in tow. Youve prepared our petition? he asked Insk.
The scrivener proffered the data-slate to his master.
Vorkellen took it and proceeded to read. The guards, high-marshal and clave-noble paid them no heed, eyes front and marching to the rapidly approaching gate.
The visitors were shown into a long gallery festooned with banners and laurels.
This is where youll await audience with the clave-nobles, the high-marshal said.
As he was taking in the austere surroundings, Vorkellen asked, Have the representatives from Terra arrived yet?
They are delayed.
Doubtless the Emperor would prefer a show of overwhelming force to bend the claves will.
The high-marshal scowled. You will get your opportunity to present your case to the clave in due course.
Of course, sire. I merely hope to settle this matter of allegiance quickly, he replied contritely. A pity we cannot unleash the World Eaters on this place and raze it, he thought behind a strong smile that spoke of his sterling character and honourable ideals.
The high-marshal saluted a gesture curiously similar to the old sign of Unification, a clenched fist striking the chest. The clave convenes in two hours and thirteen minutes.
Horuss iterator smiled again, this time it was thinner, like an adders lipless mouth.
Even Erebus couldnt pull this off as well as me, he thought, hubris overflowing.
Well be ready, he promised.
II
The Stormbirds side hatch burst open with a well placed kick. The portal was drooling smoke as a broad, flame-limned silhouette filled it.
Arcadese was wearing his battle-helm and had the pilots body slung over his shoulder. The human was blood-stained, his fingers and hair blackened by soot.
The angle was wrong as he reached the hatchs threshold. The Stormbird had hit nose-first, crumpling its cockpit and breaking off portions of wing. Fuselage and engine components lay scattered in the wake of their descent like entrails. A dozen fires ravaged the hull but they were burning out.
Arcadese leapt from the hatch, landing squarely a few metres from the wreck. The ground yielded underfoot and the Ultramarine sank a few centimetres. The lights and industry of Cullis were pinpricks on the horizon, no more than an hours march away. In the distance he could see the stilts lifting the platforms and rigs above the grey-brown ash sump surrounding it. It was a petro-chemical mulch, redolent of power plant refuse and engine yard effluvia.
He set the pilot down and returned to the ship.
Salamander, he called into the dissipating smoke. Emergency lighting flickered.
A figure emerged from the smog, another smaller one in his arms.
Im here. The artificer was cradled in Hekatans arms. Her eyes were red-ringed and stinging, and she coughed.
A word resolved in Arcadeses mind when he saw her: Burden.
What of the others? Hekatan asked, stomping into the light halo from the broken hatch.
One survivor. Outside. Where is your armour, brother?
Within, said Hekatan.
Arcadese reached for the woman. Give her to me. Go retrieve your armour and our weapons. We may not be on neutral soil after all.
Hekatan handed the female over and headed back into the carnage of the ship.
III
An awkward silence persisted between Arcadese and the artificer.
How will we get back? she asked at last.
I dont know.
Were we attacked?
It appears likely.
She glanced around the industrial sump fearfully. Are we safe here?
I doubt it.
Will we
Cease with your questions! The Ultramarine turned his steel gaze on her and Persephia shrank a little.
Im sorry, she sobbed. I was trained to question
when I was asked to remember.
Arcadese looked away, his face like stone. Not any more, he stated flatly and resumed his vigil outside the broken ship.
IV
Arcadese was relieved when Hekatan emerged at the hatch carrying two bulky munitions crates. Each was Legion-stamped, the Eighteenth and Thirteenth respectively. He tossed them onto the ground, one after the other, and leapt out.
Hekatan frowned when he saw Persephia. Is she injured?
Shes human, brother that is all, Arcadese replied, busy with unlocking the crate. He smiled at the sleek, gunmetal stock, the spare clips cushioned in tight-fitting foam. Running his gauntleted hand across the bolter, he found the grip and tugged the weapon free.
Are you hurt? Hekatan asked the artificer.
Im fine, she snapped, whirling to face him. She wiped at her tears. Im fine. Just let me do my work.
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Arcadese was about to intercede when Hekatan stopped him. Leave her.
The Ultramarine snorted, shucking the bolter around his shoulder on its strap. Theres no threat out here, brother. He pointed towards Cullis. Our enemies are in there.
Hekatan had started to pull on the mesh under-layer of his power armour. He allowed Persephia to assist with some of the rear-mounted joints and clasps. These are peaceful negotiations, Arcadese.
You of all people should know the falsehood of that.
Hekatan didnt answer.
We are forgotten sons, you and I, Arcadese continued, you by the Imperium and I by my Legion. To be revived from a coma and faced with this
Nikaea, Isstvan V, our beloved Warmaster a traitor it is beyond comprehension. I should be at Calth with my father and brothers, not on this backwater world, playing diplomat.
Hekatan attached his greaves and chest plate in silence.
An incredulous grunt from the Ultramarine made the Salamander look up.
Dont you want vengeance? Arcadese asked.
He was referring to Isstvan and the massacre.
I dont know what I want. Duty will suffice for now.
Arcadese approximated a shrug and went to retrieve the prone pilot.
Leave him.
The Ultramarine stopped, looking to Hekatan for clarification.
Hes dead.
V
There was a jagged tear in the fuselage, fringed by incendiary burns. Ive seen a lot of downed ships. This looks like outside in rather than inside out.
Indeed, Hekatan replied. With Persephias help he was fully armoured, a forest-green monolith.
Arcadese was nearby and could barely contain his anger. We were shot down. He wanted retribution.
Hekatan could relate to that. Theres nothing we can do about it now.
What about her? Arcadese gestured to the artificer who stood a way back from the wreck, her head bowed.
Shes coming with us.
Shell slow us down.
Then consider it a mercy that no one else survived. The rest of the small crew were all dead. Ill carry her if needs be.
With an all human crew, the Stormbird had been retrofitted and re-appropriated as a diplomatic vessel, shedding armour and weapons for private chambers, archives and sleeping quarters. Considering the condition of the wreck, Hekatan wondered at the wisdom of those measures now.
This work,said Arcadese at length,does not honour warriors.
We are warriors no longer, Hekatan answered, tired of the Ultramarines dissatisfaction, and traced his finger down the jagged blast gouge.
Arcadese stalked off, ignoring the artificer. Do what your conscience dictates, brother.
Hekatan was no longer listening. He dwelled on the broken Stormbird. It reminded him of another damaged vessel, on another battlefield
They were fleeing the landing zone, Stormbirds little more than armoured pyres with his brothers inside.
He was being dragged. Lucidity eluded him, ears ringing with the sound of the blast.
Burned into his mind, Hekatan saw his father engulfed by fire and death. For a moment he panicked, and struggled against the two Salamanders hauling him.
Where is he? What happened? Why are we leaving?
He tried to get free but he was too weak. His armour was broken and bloody.
A beaked battle-helm, the forest-green streaked with arterial crimson, looked down at him. He is gone, brother.
What? No! Hekatan struggled again, but a jolt of pain from his injuries crippled his efforts. We have to go back.
There is no back. There is nothing there. Vulkan is gone.
Railing that they had to turn around, they had to find him, Hekatan passed out and saw only darkness.
Suddenly aware of being watched, Hekatan came to and looked around. A landman, one of the labour-claves that worked the sump farms at the periphery of Bastions major cities, stood watching him. He wore a rebreather, anti-rad coat and sumper-boots. In his left hand, he carried a tilling-stave used to test the depth of sump-ash.
The landman, never before looking upon such a warrior, nodded.
Persephia had gone after Arcadese. Hekatan nodded back, then went after them.
Negotiation
I
Relinquish your weapons, brother.
Hekatan kept his voice calm and level inside the gallery. Beyond it, through a vast stone doorway, was the auditorium where Bastions clave-nobles would hear their petition. As well as being sealed for the duration of the proceedings, weapons were strictly forbidden in the chamber.
It was a fact the Ultramarine didnt take well.
A Legiones Astartes does not surrender his arms. Prise my weapon from my cold, dead fingers that is the only way a warrior of Ultramar would give up his bolter, so says my Lord Guilliman.
And my Lord Vulkan counsels temperance in the face of impasse. That pragmatism not pride is the solution to seemingly irreconcilable discord. Hekatan unloaded his bolter clip and sprang a shell from the breech before handing it over to a sanctum-marshal. Relinquish it, Arcadese. We cannot negotiate armed and armoured. Nor can we go back.
The Stormbird was destroyed, and the march through the sump swamp had done nothing to improve Arcadeses mood, even though Hekatan had carried the artificer to speed their progress.
We will be defenceless.
Hekatan returned a carefully impassive expression. A warrior of the Legion is never defenceless, brother.
Cold, dead fingers, remember. I am an Angel of Death. I am death.
Heavier-armoured marshals entered the gallery and levelled rotator-cannons at the Ultramarine.
Arcadese drew his combat blade with a belligerent shriek of steel. To take arms against one is to take arms against all the Legiones Astartes!
A stern grip on his wrist brought more anger but stopped any potential bloodshed in the making.
Hekatans hold was unflinching. His red eyes blazed with captured fire. Think. Any killing here wont further our cause, it will end it
And us. Use the wisdom your father gave you.
Though reluctant, Arcadese saw sense and relented. Scowling at the relieved marshals, he relinquished his weapons.
He was about to move forwards into the auditorium when a pair of marshals blocked his path.
Arcadese glared at them.
Now what?
Your armour, too, said the high-marshal from behind him.
The Ultramarine shook his head and gave Hekatan a rueful look as he unclasped a gauntlet. This gets better.
Persephia moved in to assist him.
See that they are well tended, Arcadese said in a threatening undertone. The artificer merely nodded, carefully removing a vambrace.
The high-marshal looked on. Who speaks for the Imperium?
I will, said Arcadese. Hed removed his breastplate and pulled the torso portion of his mesh under-layer away. Grotesque bionics were revealed beneath, a legacy of Ullanor where hed fallen in battle to the greenskin. Hed been comatose and hadnt witnessed the Emperors last war, his greatest victory. Instead, hed awoken to a world that no longer made any sense.
Hekatan smiled, starting to remove his own battle-plate. Cant you tell hes the natural negotiator?
II
They stood before the clave-nobles wearing borrowed robes.
We are a sight to stir even the Sigillite to laughter, Arcadese had remarked upon their apotheosis to diplomats.
Persephia had rejoined them later, having disappeared with the equipment to ensure it was properly stored.
Though they still wore their boots and mesh leggings, the fact of being unarmoured still rankled at the Ultramarine and he took the artificer to one side when she returned. I need you to do
something for me
The rest of his request was lost to the sound of the great doors to the auditorium closing behind them.
After a loud, concussive boom, a quintet of sombre figures emerged in the sepulchral gloom. They were under-lit by a dimmed lantern array that cast haunting shadows over their faces, and seated on a dark balcony. In a gallery looking down on the auditorium floor and the petitioners was a host of shadow-veiled faces lesser nobles of Bastion, their politicians and leaders. Judges all.
In the darkness, the vast auditoriums form was only hinted at. Hekatan discerned more hard edges, square and functional. The air smelled of stone and steel. The chamber was much more than its name suggested. It had multiple levels, corridors and conduits. Labyrinthine, the auditorium was just a part, and a small one at that. The Salamanders gaze rested on the other petitioners.
Hard to believe Horus sent an iterator and not a Legion.
Arcadese looked over at the oleaginous men and women clustered around a besuited central figure. I thought the enemy had disbanded the remembrancers, like us.
Horus is a conqueror, brother. He wants his victories to become a part of history.
Aye, Arcadese agreed, bile rising in his throat at the sight of the craven humans, he seeks immortality, and to assert his cause is righteous.
Hekatan muttered, Tell that to my cold brothers on Isstvan.
The Ultramarine was only half-listening. His gaze went to a benighted balcony, high in the auditoriums vaults opposite the clave-nobles. Dont be sure the Warmaster hasnt sent warriors. Our ship didnt crash itself.
A brazier ignited with azure flame, ending the conversation on a tense note, and illuminated the form of the high-marshal standing in the middle of the auditorium floor.
All attend, he boomed, his voice augmented by a vox-hailer unit attached to his mouth like breathing apparatus. Senate is in session.
Arcadese scowled at the ceremony. Fighting the ork would be preferable to this. Take me back to Ullanor, he grumbled.
III
Vorkellen affected a serious and professional air. Inwardly, he was ecstatic. This was his battlefield, a war in which even against the Legion he had the surer footing.
Forgotten Sons - Nick Kyme Page 2