by Gav Thorpe
Falk had laughed at the plan, accusing Forrix of confusing the IV Legion with the Raven Guard. The Warsmith’s taunts were easy to ignore: he would likely soon be dead, his body, such as it remained, lost in the upper reaches of the space port.
Forrix checked his positional relay via a blinking dot and rangefinder in his visor display. They were two kilometres below and four hundred metres south-east of the final meeting point. It was too much to expect that all one thousand warriors assigned to the mission would evade detection, but Forrix hoped that he could gather a sizeable enough force before the defenders realised what the scattered Iron Warriors signified.
After that it would simply be a question of holding out for reinforcement. Would the dual attacks above and below reconnect with Forrix’s force in time, or would they be crushed by the sons of Dorn and their allies, trapped in the depths of the space port far from assistance?
Palatine Arc quarantine zone, Barracks-C, two days since assault
The quarters of the Imperial Army personnel had become the abode of giants. Three Custodians stood watch at the entrances to the main garrison block, barring all passage within. Those stationed at that section of the quarantine perimeter had been moved to a holding location deeper inside the Imperial Palace – to the relief of many of them.
Inside, at the mess hall where the apparition had been witnessed, the only figure that did not look out of place was Malcador, garbed in his robes of office, staff in hand. With him were Constantin Valdor, the commander of the Legio Custodes, and the primarch of the VII Legion, Rogal Dorn. They made their surroundings look like some strange undersized play-stage for children. Other elements of the Palace defences were of a ratio suitable for demigods so that Space Marines, primarchs and war engines could pass at will, but these hastily erected barracks were meant for mortal humans alone.
Dorn crouched inside the kitchen rather than stand with his head awkwardly cocked to one side, while Valdor had removed his high-plumed helm before ducking through the doors.
‘The Silent Sisterhood have been over every part of the barracks,’ said Valdor. ‘There is nothing psychic here.’
‘Yet four dozen men and women saw something in this place,’ replied Dorn. He glared at the spot of bare brick where the vision had appeared, thinking back to recent events on the Phalanx. He could barely countenance the threat of daemonic attack here, within the perimeter of the Palace walls.
‘Saw what?’ said Valdor. ‘Some reported a woman clad in robes of green leaves. Another confessed to seeing fist-sized flies bursting from the wall. Some claim the bricks turned to putrefying flesh, others a one-eyed monster with broken claws and the stench of faeces.’
‘Some kind of hallucinogenic toxin?’ suggested Dorn.
‘Possibly.’ Valdor looked around the rest of the chamber. ‘There is no central environmental system through which it could have been introduced. Something in the food perhaps.’
‘Why here? Why now? Mortarion’s Death Guard have been bombarding this sector for a month without relent, but there is nothing worth attacking here except lunatics and plague victims.’
‘Perhaps this is the point,’ said Valdor. ‘Sooner or later something has reached the quarantine zone. That gave rise to this… apparition?’
Malcador coughed, one hand raised to his mouth.
‘The both of you seem intent on dancing around the real subject at hand.’ The Regent stared at them, eyes regarding each equally for several seconds. ‘It was a daemon.’
‘Daemon?’ Dorn growled. ‘Impossible.’
‘Daemon. Neverborn. Nosferatus. Diabolarum. Nephilla.’ Malcador sat on one of the stools beside a preparation worktop. ‘Many names. All the same thing. A warp incursion.’
‘How?’ Valdor stepped towards the bare wall, a hand raised towards it. ‘The Emperor’s might shields us from attack of that kind.’
‘We have seen that the telaethesic ward is imperfect.’ Malcador looked at Rogal Dorn. ‘Your tainted brothers setting foot upon Terra being the most troublesome example. We must assume that the bombardment by the Death Guard and this arrival are connected. Perhaps it was unwise to gather all of the plague victims in restricted spaces. Such confinement concentrates their misery. It provides a… Think of it as a power source.’
‘Power source? A warp ritual, you mean?’ said Valdor. ‘Like the great slaughter that allowed the twisted primarchs to make planetfall?’
‘That would suggest assistance from within,’ Dorn said heavily. He turned his attention to Valdor. ‘I have every warrior I can muster stationed on the walls. I cannot spare any for patrols inside the Palace as well.’
‘I have few enough Custodians remaining after our withdrawal from the webway. However, I agree with you, this is a matter for my people.’
‘A proportionate response, Lord Valdor,’ said the Regent.
‘We should not let ourselves be too drawn on this issue, Malcador,’ added Dorn. ‘The Emperor will protect us against any dangerous assault from the netherworld.’
The Regent looked away at that moment, hand moving to his mouth as though to hide his reaction.
‘What do you know, Malcador? Are you holding back?’
The Sigillite scratched the side of his nose, his glance moving from Dorn to Valdor and then back again.
‘There was a time before when the telaethesic ward was broken.’
‘When?’ demanded the Imperial Fists primarch. ‘Why was I not told of this?’
‘You know of it,’ said Valdor, catching Malcador’s meaning. ‘When Magnus came before the Emperor, he broke through the psychic wards.’
‘I see.’ Dorn set his gaze on Malcador. ‘Do you think this is the work of Magnus?’
‘Doubtful.’ Malcador rubbed a thumb and finger together as he thought. ‘His last, uh, arrival was done by sheer force of will. It would require a similarly unsubtle concentration of effort.’
‘Yet you look concerned,’ said Valdor. ‘Is Magnus orchestrating a more insidious attack?’
‘I do not know,’ confessed Malcador.
‘It should be obvious enough,’ said Dorn. ‘I know little about the realm of the psychic but I do understand that a being as potent as the Crimson King would leave traces for one of your ability to detect.’
‘I…’ Malcador sighed heavily. ‘I do not know where Magnus is. I have felt his brothers, the ones touched by the enemy powers, but of the Lord of the Thousand Sons I sense nothing. He may not be on Terra.’
‘His legionaries are,’ said Dorn. ‘It seems unlikely he would release them to the command of Horus unaccompanied.’
‘I cannot give you an answer!’ Malcador stood, staff thudding on the tiles. ‘As I said, I do not know where Magnus is.’
Dorn took a moment to absorb this and decided there was nothing to be gained by pressing the Sigillite further. If news of Magnus surfaced, Malcador would be certain to share it.
‘In the absence of any obvious cause, what are we to do?’ the primarch asked his two companions.
‘I will have a Custodian investigate to see if any further action is required.’ Constantin Valdor regarded the Regent with a faint smile. ‘Is one Custodian proportionate enough?’
‘A perfect amount,’ Malcador replied. ‘Who do you have in mind?’
Karachee Flats, sixty-six days before assault
There was a bulky analogue chronometer mounted above each door of the carriage, though somewhat predictably their filigree-decorated hands told slightly different times. Zenobi found her attention drawn to them again and again, checking the passage of time. It was something she’d never been able to do before. Personal chronometers were expensive, only uphivers would have such things. Everyone else was ruled by the shift sirens, their personal observances and the routine of daily life. Zenobi had always known when it was ten minutes before the shift change warning siren because
her neighbour, an older lady named Babette, was a habitual singer and broke into a tune at the same time every day when she was washing her clothes in the ’tweenshift. That she could now break down her day by the minute was incredible and she found herself timing various activities to see how long they took. Three minutes to unpack and repack her basic combat kit; five minutes for a self-heating ration can to bring itself to full temperature; less than two minutes to devour the warm contents afterwards.
Several times Sergeant Alekzanda admonished her for being distracted, but her new fascination meant that she knew it was sometime around two thirty in the afternoon when the squeal of brakes brought the train to a long, slow halt. The lieutenants and sergeants barked chastisements as the troopers started to move towards the windows to investigate if anything could be seen outside.
‘Form ranks!’ came the call from the doorway as Captain Egwu entered.
The squads fell hastily into place by their benches, arms by their sides, eyes fixed on their commander. Egwu entered flanked by Jawaahir and another integrity officer. Two other officers loitered behind her in the door vestibule.
‘As of this time, I am assuming command of the Addaba Free Corps,’ Egwu announced. ‘My rank will be general-captain and I will have joint authority with Integrity High Officer Jawaahir. It is an honour to have been chosen for this position by my fellow officers.’
‘The vote was unanimous,’ Jawaahir interrupted with a smile.
‘Indeed, an honour,’ continued Egwu.
Before she could say anything else, a cheer erupted from the survivors of her company, a roll of congratulations and compliments. Egwu waited patiently for the ovation to subside, her expression oddly grim. When the last voices of celebration died away, she looked across the company, eyes moving from one officer to the next.
‘The corps will assemble to witness punishment,’ she said gravely. ‘Alternate squads will ascend to the roof. Others will disembark to view from the ground. Punishment will be enacted in twenty minutes.’
This pierced the mood instantly. Egwu and her escort advanced along the carriage, the ranks parting as she approached, until they had moved on to the next compartment. Lieutenant Okoye rounded on his platoon.
‘You heard our general-captain. First squad to the roof.’ The troopers bustled towards the gangway but were stopped by the lieutenant, who plucked a lasgun from beneath the bench and thrust it into the arms of the closest solder. ‘Armed. We are at war.’
They retrieved their lasguns, checked their power packs as they had been trained to do and then followed their sergeants in orderly fashion out of the doors and onto the roof.
Now that the train had stopped the ascent was less precarious. They led Epsilon Platoon up, meeting the first squad of Alpha Platoon halfway along the carriage. Zenobi found herself between Seleen and Menber. The crackle of the orbital attack to the north-east had not changed one bit in the hours since she had last been up there and her squad-companions marvelled at the display as she had done.
‘It’s been going like that for half a day now,’ said Menber. ‘How long can the Palace shields last?’
‘I heard the lieutenant say we should be in the Himalazia within two days,’ said Kettai from further along the roof. ‘Do you think they’ll last that long?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ This came from the Alpha sergeant. Zenobi didn’t know his name. ‘Bombardment might level the Palace but you need soldiers on foot to clear the ruins. The Emperor isn’t going to stand on top of the Sanctum Imperialis and let Horus drop bombs and plasma on His head, is He? There will be plenty of fighting before this is over.’
‘You sound eager,’ said Menber.
‘In the years from now, when my son and daughters have grown up, I want to look them in the eye and say I fought for them,’ the sergeant replied, his eyes drifting to the distant, unseen Palace. A half-smile danced on his lips. ‘I will tell them I was with the Addaba Free Corps, and I fought at the Imperial Palace to ensure they would never be the slaves of tyrants.’
‘The Free Corps!’ Zenobi shouted, swelling with pride, her fist punching the sky. A few others echoed her shout, but Menber gave her a quizzical look.
‘Remember what we were saying earlier? What the lieutenant told us?’ He dropped his voice and leaned closer. ‘Nobody’s going to make it back to Addaba. Nobody’s telling their kids or grandkids nothing.’
‘Maybe not,’ conceded Zenobi, ‘but our names, what we’re going to do, will be remembered for a long time.’
‘Careful, yeye,’ said Seleen. ‘Glory is an empty plate to feed from.’
‘I don’t want glory, I want to inspire,’ said Zenobi. It was the first time she had been able to articulate that particular ambition, but the words seemed to capture her feelings well enough. ‘Maybe someday a child in Addaba will read about Zenobi Adedeji and how she carried the banner of the company at the Imperial Palace, and maybe they’ll think that was worth something and maybe want to do something brave and strong too. I’ll be dead, I know that, but at least my life and death would mean something.’
‘Not many heroes on the line,’ said Kettai.
‘No, everyone that works the line is a hero,’ said Menber. ‘You don’t have to fight and kill to be a hero. Everyone still back at Addaba, manning the guns, heaving energy packs, pumping the water filters is a hero.’
‘Said like a true believer,’ said Kettai. ‘The recruiters really did their work on your family.’
Any retort was cut short by activity further down the train. One of the storage wagon doors opened, wheezing down on hydraulics to make a ramp to the grey soil. A procession of integrity officers appeared, several dozen of them. They descended in pairs, each carrying a body. Zenobi sucked in her breath as she saw them, dressed in Free Corps coveralls, their collars and fronts stained dark. The bodies were unceremoniously dumped in a pile about thirty metres from the train and the integrity officers returned but emerged minutes later with a fresh cargo of the dead.
Speculation whispered back and forth along the roofs, and from those squads closer to the action came the rumour that they could see the badges on the bodies – most seemed to be from Beta Platoon in Zenobi’s company, some from other platoons and two other companies. There had to be more than four hundred dead heaped together in the dust by the time the integrity officers were finished.
‘Throats cut,’ came the murmur along the line.
‘Not wasting ammunition,’ followed soon after.
Voxmitters crackled into life along the length of the train. The distortion in the voice that followed was so bad it took several seconds for Zenobi to decipher it as belonging to Jawaahir.
‘These are the dishonoured dead. They have been found harbouring intent that is against the cause to which we have all pledged ourselves. The rot of false belief had taken root in their hearts and was deep, but fortunately had not yet spread far amongst us.
‘In better times we might forgive such transgressions with milder punishment, but we are at war. Spare no sorrow for these traitors, for they would have doomed us and the cause for which we will fight. It is not for their beliefs that they have been punished, though they are at odds with our ideals. It is the disobedience and clandestine conspiracy that surrounds their actions that has taken them from the path of integrity. By allowing these forbidden ideas to foster, to indulge in the conceit of speculation, they have shown themselves to be untrustworthy in all matters. They have allowed themselves to give ear to false promises, to consider fantasies that would erode their dedication and courage.’
A score of integrity officers marched into view, two columns of ten; between them shambled half a dozen other figures. They were naked and even at this distance Zenobi could see they were bruised and bloody, eyes swollen shut, some limping, others holding broken arms awkwardly.
‘Their leaders. Had they been ignorant then punishment for n
egligence would be due. Worse, they were orchestrators of this dishonesty. Harbour no illusions, warriors of Addaba. The enemy has spies amongst us still. You were warned that elements dangerous to our cause were among you and yet these criminals not only protected lawbreakers, they encouraged them, sponsored their lies in an effort to further pollute our resolve.’
Feedback whined through the speakers. Zenobi winced, teeth gritted against the hideous noise. Jawaahir’s voice was replaced by a deeper tone – General-Captain Egwu’s.
‘Free Corps, attend for punishment,’ she ordered through the crackles of the voxmitters. Zenobi, like the thousands of others lining the roof, came to attention, lasgun at her side, the banner pole gripped tight in her right hand. ‘For the wilful spreading of enemy propaganda and other actions at odds with the cause of the Addaba Free Corps, these officers before you are condemned to summary execution.’
The naked men and women were compliant, spirits broken, as they were forced to their knees next to the mound of those they had led into deceit and death. The integrity officers stepped back and drew their pistols. One of the captives suddenly rose to his feet, fists balled. The report of pistol fire snapped through the air and he fell, half twisting from bullet impacts. Another volley rang out, felling those on their knees, puffs of blood exploding from their foreheads before they slumped into the dirt.
‘In forty-nine hours, we will reach the terminus of our journey,’ Jawaahir announced over the voxmitters. ‘You must remain vigilant for all deviancy. Failure to disclose transgressions is itself a crime against our integrity.’
These last words made Zenobi shudder. Menber must have felt her unease, for when they were dismissed, he turned to her.