by William King
The world down there was better protected than any other planet in human history. There would not be a Second Battle of Earth if the terrible lords of the Imperium could help it. Even now, the sky was filled with satellite fortresses: great weapon installations with enough firepower to destroy battle fleets. The whole of sublunar space was crowded with warships. For once in his life, Ragnar felt insignificant.
Gabriella appeared by his side. She was wearing the full formal regalia of her House, a black tunic with the eye and wolf symbol of Belisarius was embossed on every button. Its epaulettes bore the mark of her status as a master Navigator. On the braided jacket were medals and emblems which doubtless told of her lineage and status. Some of them also contained powerful sensors. She had a dress sword and pistol on her belt.
Despite his polished armour and well maintained weapons, Ragnar felt almost slovenly beside her.
“It’s time,” she said. “The shuttle has docked with The Herald of Belisarius. We have been given permission to descend to the surface of the Earth.”
Ragnar felt almost nervous as he strode with her to the airlock. It slid open and a file of House troops garbed in uniforms only slightly less elaborate than Gabriella’s emerged. Their weapons looked serviceable and they moved with a precision that would not have shamed an elite unit of Imperial Guard. Their commander moved up to Gabriella and gave her a formal salute. He surprised Ragnar by giving him one too.
“Lady Gabriella, welcome home,” he said. “The Celestarch Elect sent my men to provide an honour guard. I would just like to say the honour is mine.”
Ragnar suppressed a smile. The officer was young with a wafer thin moustache that crept like a caterpillar along his upper lip. His hair was long. His features sharp, his lips thin. He was exactly the sort of soldier the Space Wolves were not.
“And you are?” Gabriella asked.
“Lieutenant Kyle, milady, at your service, now and always.”
“Well, lieutenant, I would be grateful if you could escort us the twenty steps from this airlock to the shuttle. I am keen to set foot on my home world again.”
“At once, milady,” The two rows of guards clicked their heels and swivelled, forming a corridor along which Ragnar and Gabriella walked into the airlock. Ragnar was about to strap himself into one of the military style bucket seats but Gabriella gestured for him to follow her. He passed through a second airlock into an infinitely more luxurious salon, decorated with the House insignia on the walls. The acceleration couches resembled huge, padded leather armchairs, far more plush than the military gear Ragnar was used to. The airlock swished closed behind them. Ragnar made sure it was sealed before strapping himself in.
“That was very formal,” he said eventually.
“Far more formal than most arrivals, I can assure you. But my father is dead and my aunt must be seen to make every effort to protect me. It was a message that protection is the order of the day.”
“I think the jokaero spider proves that she was right.”
“Indeed. What do you think of our House troopers?”
“They were very well dressed.”
“You do not think much of them as warriors then? You can speak as frankly as you like.”
“I think they would not last twenty seconds against a company of orks. They seem to have spent more time practising marching than fighting. Of course, that is just my opinion. I have not seen them fight.”
“They are merely security guards. You will meet the real warriors later. Perhaps they will impress you more.”
“You do not appear to think so.”
“I find my time at the Fang has changed me, Ragnar. Once I was impressed by men like them. That was before I spent time among Wolves. By the way, we will be met by some of your brethren on arrival.”
“I look forward to it,” said Ragnar. Through the porthole he could see the shuttle had already broken away from The Herald of Belisarius and had begun its descent to the surface of the glittering world below.
As they broke through the clouds, he saw they were heading towards what looked like a vast island separated from the rest of the world by barriers and towers at least a kilometre high. A fortress within a fortress, he thought — the fabled island enclave that was the Ghetto of the Navigators.
Ragnar stepped out into the light of a new day on a new world. He squinted in the bright sunlight. The air had a faint acrid chemical taint: partially from the exhausts of the shuttle but partially contained within the air itself. A faint shimmer rose from the plascrete. He strode down the exit ramp, in front of Gabriella. Then, he glanced around to make sure all was clear before signalling for her to follow. The honour guard had already begun to line up before them.
Ragnar noticed several small armoured vehicles nearby. An armoured figure, a head and shoulders taller than the locals, lounged against one of them. There was something about his posture that conveyed both an amused disdain, as well as a complete watchfulness of what went on around him. When he spotted Ragnar, he stood upright and strode purposefully forward. Ragnar was not in the least surprised to see that he was a Space Wolf, although many things about his appearance conveyed an impression of difference from the average battle-brother.
As he came closer, Ragnar could see that his hair was short but not cropped, and his moustache had been shaved pencil thin, in the style of the young officer who had greeted them on the ship. A faint smell of perfumed pomade surrounded him. Many strange amulets and pieces of jewellery were attached to his armour.
He smiled affably as Ragnar looked him over. Ragnar did not doubt that despite the man’s languid expression, he was studying him too.
“Greetings, son of Fenris,” said the stranger in the tongue of Ragnar’s homeworld. “Welcome to Holy Terra.”
The troopers had begun to hustle Gabriella into the largest and most heavily armoured of the waiting vehicles. Ragnar was about to follow when the stranger spoke. “Your duties as escort are done, Ragnar. You are to accompany me to the Belisarian Palace.”
The man was obviously a Space Wolf, but Ragnar felt a reluctance to part from Gabriella. Having seen her safely over such a great distance he wanted to escort her for the last small segment of her journey.
“She is safe now,” said the stranger. “Or at least as safe as any of her kind can ever be on the surface of this world,” He gestured at the sky. Sleek air vehicles hovered above them, doubtless part of the ongoing security operation.
“Her father was not safe,” said Ragnar. A pained expression passed over the other Marine’s face. “Was he?”
“Do you think your presence would have made any difference there, brother?”
“Perhaps.”
The stranger smiled. “I like to think mine might have as well, but alas duty called me elsewhere on that fatal day.”
There was a brief pause.
“I am Torin the Wayfarer,” he said.
“Ragnar Blackmane.”
“These are not matters that should be discussed openly. There are many with televisors who can read lips.”
“Can they also speak the tongue of Fenris?”
“Ragnar, you would be amazed at what a variety of skills can be found on ancient Terra. I have lived here almost twelve standard years and it still astonishes me.”
Gabriella had disappeared into the armoured car. Ragnar found he had fallen into step beside Torin as they headed for the smaller machine. Up close it looked like a smaller, sleeker version of an ork buggy. Although far more streamlined it had the same rugged look.
Torin vaulted into the open cockpit and Ragnar jumped in beside him. With a flick of a switch, a tinted bubble hood rose into place. Moments later he was pressed flat into his seat by the acceleration as they set off in pursuit of Gabriella’s vehicle. It took a few moments for Ragnar to realise that they were following just far enough away to be out of the blast radius of a rocket attack, but close enough to act if there was an attack. For all his easy manner, Torin appeared to be competent enough
. In fact, Ragnar had begun to suspect that he was more than competent. Instinctively Ragnar picked up on the deadliness of the man; it was a lethalness that was all the more effective for being partially concealed by his manner.
“That’s a little better,” said Torin. “The hood should protect us from casual snooping and this car has its own share of divinatory wards. We can speak a little more freely now.”
“Do you greet every ship that comes in?” Ragnar said, speaking loudly over the roar of the engine.
“Only the ones with new Wolfblades on them.”
“There must be few enough of those.”
“You are the first in five years. Any trouble on your way in?”
Ragnar told him of the jokaero spider. Torin did not seem in the least surprised. He simply cocked his head to one side without taking his attention away from his driving.
“Do you have any thoughts about it?” Ragnar asked eventually.
“Could have been anything from a jealous rival in the House to outsiders trying to destabilise a newly chosen Celestarch. Given Adrian Belisarius’s assassination, I think it would be best to assume the latter, but who can tell?”
Ragnar could tell from his scent and his manner that he did not want to say more under the present circumstances.
“What’s it like here?” said Ragnar. He had begun to study the massive buildings around them. They were far more ornate than anything he had seen on Fenris, or anywhere else for that matter. Great spires prodded the sky. Every centimetre of their ancient facades seemed to have been carved into elaborate patterns. Hundreds of statues lined the arches in their sides. Stone gargoyles and angel-winged saints stood sentry on the roofs. Lush vegetation was everywhere but it had none of the riotous uncontrolled life of the jungles Ragnar had seen. It appeared to have been tamed and cultivated, designed to add one more element to the carefully contrived beauty that surrounded them.
“It’s rather like what you see,” said Torin, guiding the buggy around a massive fountain with a flick of the control bars. Water spouted from a dragon’s mouth. Some trick of the light made it look like liquid fire. “Beautiful on the surface, but rotten underneath. Don’t ever, even for a second, doubt that this is the most dangerous world in the galaxy.”
“It does not look very dangerous. It appears quite peaceful compared to some of the worlds I have been.”
“Danger does not always come in the shape of orks with bolters, Ragnar. This world is where the elite of the Imperium have gathered. We are talking now of the most ruthless, ambitious, unscrupulous collection of rogues ever culled from a million planets. This is the place they have come to realise their ambitions, and on Terra they can, and will not let anything stand in their way. Not me, not you, not their own kin if need be.”
“I would have thought that on such a world, loyalty would be at a premium.”
“No one is loyal here, Ragnar. Trust no one save your battle-brothers.”
“Not even the Celestarch?”
“Particularly not her.”
“Why?”
“We are just another tool to her. One to be used when cunning, diplomacy and money fail. She feels no loyalty to us as individuals. As we are a link to the Space Wolves, we are an important ally. But we are disposable here, Ragnar.”
“You think?”
“I know. Don’t get me wrong, that does not mean she would sell our lives cheaply, or be glad to see us die. But if the circumstances were right, we would be sacrificed.”
“That does not sound right!”
“It’s exactly as it should be.”
“In what way?”
“The Celestarch is not responsible to us. She is responsible for House Belisarius and to its Elders. It is her duty to guard and protect the interests of her House, just as it is Logan Grimnar’s to do the same for the Wolves.”
“Surely it is Grimnar’s primary duty to be loyal to the Emperor?”
To Ragnar’s surprise, Torin laughed. “Ah, it does me good talking to you, lad. I was like you once, fresh from Fenris and the Fang. There are times when I think I have been too long on Terra. Of course, Grimnar’s first loyalty is to the Emperor, just as it is the Celestarch’s. Just as it is everybody’s here on Earth and in the Imperium. But you’d be surprised to see how often people use loyalty in a way that promotes their own interests.”
Ragnar was starting to feel a little uncomfortable with Torin’s attitude. It was not unlike some of the behaviour he had seen exhibited by the Wolf Lords. He did not doubt that Sigrid and Berek, for instance, both believed they acted in the best interests of the Chapter, and that their eventual ascension to the Wolf Throne would be assured. “You are a very cynical man, Brother Torin,” he said.
“Maybe, Brother Ragnar,” said Torin smiling, “or maybe I am just a realistic one. Keep an open mind until you have seen more.”
“I always try to,” They fell silent for a few minutes. Ragnar watched the magnificent buildings flow past. Generations of craftsmen seemed to have spent their entire working lives carving small sections of those walls. Even to Ragnar’s untrained eye, it was evident that the sculpture and fresco were masterpieces.
“When will we reach the Belisarius Palace?” Ragnar asked.
“Soon. You’re already inside the Belisarius estate. They own everything in this sector, from the spacefield to the shops to the residential buildings. It’s a measure of their wealth.”
“In what way?”
“Land on Terra is the most expensive in the Imperium. For the price of one square metre of any of this, you could buy a palace on a Hive World, or on most worlds of the Imperium if truth be told.”
“The sacred soil of Terra,” said Ragnar.
“The sacred and very expensive soil of Terra, Brother Ragnar. Thousands of lives have been lost for areas the size of a small farm on one of the islands on Fenris.”
“I thought wars were outlawed on Terra.”
Torin grinned. “Ragnar, look at this car, tell me what you see?”
“A fast manoeuvrable vehicle of more or less standard design.”
“Of more or less standard military design. It’s armoured against anything short of a krak grenade. It contains every form of protective counter-measure the Adeptus Mechanicus have at their disposal. It has a beacon for summoning aid from the palace. If Terra were peaceful do you think all of this would be necessary?”
Ragnar considered the point. “My briefing has begun, has it?”
“Good boy, Brother Ragnar, I knew you were quick.”
“I am not a boy, Brother Torin,” said Ragnar dangerously. Again, Torin grinned.
“No. I can see you are not. Even if you lack a Grey Hunter’s colours. I shall not forget that in the future. How did that come about anyway? You are not a Blood Claw, and you are not a Grey Hunter…”
Ragnar felt sure that the man beside him already knew the answers, and was taunting him. “You must know,” he said grimly.
“Let us assume for a moment that I do,” said Torin guiding the vehicle down a broad highway towards a massive building rising before them. They were on a flyover bridge that passed over a deep chasm surrounding the structure. Looking down, Ragnar could see that things were a little deceptive. The building appeared to recede into the depths below them. He could see lights burning in thousands of windows, and more bridges with traffic on them.
“Not everything makes it into the reports we get, believe me. Let’s assume I simply want to hear your own side of the story in your own words.”
“I will tell you when I am good and ready.”
“That is fair enough, brother. We have plenty of time. You and I will be seeing a lot of each other over the next few decades.”
The words had all the finality of a prison sentence. Ragnar realised that his fate was indeed sealed. Like it or not, he was stuck on Earth with this man and less than two dozen of his compatriots. The realisation settled on him with all the weight of the great armoured plasteel gateway that had drop
ped into place behind the buggy.
CHAPTER FIVE
“We are in the palace now, Ragnar. Be discreet. Choose every word with care unless you are certain you cannot be overheard,” said Torin. The buggy rolled to a halt in the courtyard beyond the gate. He could see that the guards had already emerged from the large armoured car, and were hustling Gabriella through an arched doorway.
Torin hit the button. The control levers slid into the dash and the tinted bubble roof retracted. Both Wolves pulled themselves out. Ragnar studied his surroundings carefully. They were in a massive atrium. Far overhead, an armour glass ceiling allowed natural light to play down into the hall. From where he stood he could see countless balconies rising up the inside of the building. In each wall was a massive translucent elevator shaft. Although Ragnar knew this place could not be nearly so massive as the Fang, it felt as if it was, and it was disorientating to a newcomer.
While the Fang felt like a base of battle-brothers, this felt more like a bazaar. Humans from all over the civilised galaxy thronged the place. He could see Catachans in green silk and pale Boreans in robes of whale fur. There were metal armoured men from the forge worlds of the Talean Rim. One incredibly obese man reclined on a suspensor palanquin while two beautiful naked girls fanned his shaved head, and sweating servants pulled him through the crush. Retainers in the elaborate uniform of Belisarius passed everywhere on their errands. Many possessed bionic eyes and prosthetic limbs. Some were armed.
The building was the product of a great artistic endeavour. The walls were carved with frescos. Gargoyles clutched glow-globes in their talons. Saints radiated light from their halos as they perched on platforms above the throng. Closer inspection told Ragnar that some of the statues had televisor eyes.