Perturabo: Hammer of Olympia

by Guy Haley

  ‘Are you hale?’ he asked.

  Fortreidon felt shaky, but signed that he was well. He felt no different, but he would have aged. He had seen men withered into helpless living cadavers. The hrud’s powers gave the lie to the supposed immortality of Space Marines.

  Fire was already taking root in the library. Captain Anabaxis stalked down the central way, grabbed Kellephon by the pauldron and yanked on it hard. Murder simmered in his voice. ‘Wait until the Tarantulas are set up, then burn it. Burn every last scrap of it. Bring them running.’

  ‘That’s not the plan, brother-captain,’ said Sergeant Zhalsk. ‘The primarch ordered us to advance and engage from the south.’

  ‘The plan’s changed,’ said Anabaxis. ‘We’ll draw them off our lord’s position. If we kill them here or there, he will not care, so long as they are dead. This is my judgement and you will obey.

  ‘Any more dissent from you, Zhalsk, and I’ll have you back in the line.’ He turned away from the Seventh Squad. ‘Hurry! Get the sentry guns in place. They’ll be coming here in force to save their stinking archives.’

  Anabaxis surveyed the hall, crammed from floor to ceiling with groaning shelves.

  ‘Scavengers,’ he said hatefully. He went to the library-burrow entrance, where three Space Marines worked swiftly to deploy a pair of twin-las Tarantulas. They were not working fast enough for Anabaxis’ liking. ‘Now, Demeos, now! Unless you want me to send you on point to bear the brunt of the temporal storm in place of these machines! Get them lined up on the far tunnel. We shall gun them down as they enter.’

  Whooping calls echoed from the far entrance.

  Udermais turned to shout back up the aisle. ‘Hurry! They are coming!’

  Anabaxis cursed. ‘Defensive positions. Kellephon, burn it now!’ Promethium washed out from the flamer, turning the small fires burning in the archive into a roaring blaze.

  Fortreidon took shelter between the stacks. Fire raged around him, heating his armour.

  Into the inferno the hrud came, shrieking woe, agitated by the loss of their books. They moved quickly, propelling themselves on one long arm and their two legs, deadly plasma fusils held in their free hands. There were at least a dozen of them, their entropic fields overlaying one another, buckling the air in front of them so that they appeared as if viewed from behind a fall of water.

  Fortreidon caught tiny, clear sights of them, but only ever parts, never the whole. Their long arms whipped about in a way no human limb could. Ghastly faces glared at him with unbounded hatred. Stinking robes covered their bodies. Fleeting sights - the hrud were deceptive shadows behind the glassy air for the most part. Even now he had little idea of what they actually looked like. All he had was a patchwork of glimpses.

  The Tarantulas’ machine-spirits registered the hrud’s presence and opened fire The laser shots hit the entropic fields of the enemy. Sped up past all physical constraints, the light exploded, tearing two of the creatures apart. The guns fired again. Another hrud went down less dramatically, four neat holes burned through its concealing layers.

  The Iron Warriors added their fire to that of the sentry guns, filling the archive with a wall of flaring mass-reactive rounds. To a warrior not experienced in combat against the hrud, such an expenditure of ammunition would have seemed overkill, but it was necessary. The room throbbed to the sound of bolts exploding prematurely. Propellant burned instantly. Bolts veered off course and impacted in the walls. The hrud neutralised or evaded so many of them. Arrogantly the xenos slowed, lowered their weapons and returned fire.

  A green bolt of phasic plasma whickered through the air, its track uncertain as it blinked in and out of existence. It materialised inside a warrior of Squad Nine, punching out through his backplate and pack in a spray of blood and steam. He exploded as his suit reactor failed, shrapnel from his demise cutting down one of his fellows.

  A furious exchange erupted. Iron Warriors fell all around Fortreidon. Shouts for aid struggled against the storm of bolter fire, though nobody cried out in pain - that was not the Iron Warriors’ way. Bolts whooshed through thickening air. Smoke billowed up off the burning hrud books, washing over the ceiling. Liquid-thick, it cascaded down to the floor when it encountered the walls of the room. Soon Fortreidon’s fellows were swallowed up in a black murk. Whether from hrud effect or the fire, the temperature rose intolerably high, triggering his suit alarms and driving Fortreidon from the meagre cover of the library stacks.

  He moved cautiously, relying on his helm overlay to see him through the smoke. Without his battleplate’s auto-senses he would have been blind. His armour kept the smoke outside, filling his lungs with pure air. Green blasts punched through the smoke one way, lascannon beams and bolt shots the other. Tourbillons twisted around the paths of each. His armour beeped a warning as a stray bolt-round spanked off one of his greaves.

  Fortreidon slowed, scanning the smoke apprehensively.

  A green flash, and something slammed into the side of his helm, showering his face with molten metal. His suit systems wailed. His vox fizzed and died. Smoke poured through the rent in his faceplate, and he gasped from the pain of his cooking flesh, unwittingly drawing a great lungful of poisoned air into his chest. It burned his lungs, and he choked. His multi-lung went into action, cramping his birth lungs as it unfolded, driving out the poisonous air. When he breathed again, it was with this blessed gift. He was no longer suffocating, though the air singed his throat still.

  Someone grabbed his elbow, and yanked him forwards.

  They passed under a ventilation shaft funnelling the smoke up out of the archive. The air on the far side was clearer. Fortreidon blinked. The mushy remains of dead hrud stained the floor. He threw himself down amidst them, panting hard.

  ‘Rest,’ said Meson Dentrophor. ‘Get your breath. Your vox-link is malfunctioning?’

  Fortreidon nodded dumbly.

  ‘Let us get your helmet off.’ Demrophor locked his bolter to his thigh and pulled out a hex key from his belt. Deftly he undid the bolts holding the remains of Fortreidon’s neck seals to his battleplate.

  ‘Mark II armour,’ he said disdainfully. He examined the wrecked helm, judged it unsalvagable and tossed it aside. ‘We are overdue a supply of the newer marks.’ He reached out and hauled Fortreidon to his feet. ‘Iron within,’ he said.

  ‘Iron without,’ responded Fortreidon. His throat felt full of razors.

  The fire was burning out in the archive. Iron Warriors stamped out of the thinning smoke victoriously, but a dozen at least lay dead. Apothecaries moved in from the rear, reductor blades spraying blood as they bit into flesh. Techmarines were already packing up the Tarantulas at the rear. Fortreidon coughed ropy phlegm, streaked black - blood, fyceline, fire, smoke and the spoilt stink of disintegrating hrud made the air barely breathable.

  ‘Move out!’ Captain Anabaxis’ voice boomed from his vox emitter. His helm crest was singed, and his armour smeared in soot and blood. ‘There are many more xenos to kill, and the primarch is waiting for his victory.’

  FOUR

  DIALECTICA

  800.M30

  LOCHOS, OLYMPIA

  There came a day when the tyrant-prince Adophus from Kardis visited Dammekos of Lochos. Dammekos wished to discuss alliance with his fellow ruler. Adophus had no intention of entering into any alliance, but the boy Perturabo’s repute had spread. Wanting to see the prodigy of Lochos himself, Adophus had accepted Dammekos’ invitation.

  He and Dammekos sat in matching thrones in the Great Library of Lochos. By that time, Perturabo had been with Dammekos a year and had grown greatly. Already he was the size of a youth in the last stages of childhood. In truth, he was only seven years old, though it would be a few more years before Perturabo calculated his actual age. For the entertainment of Adophus, he sat surrounded by a circle of learned men from both Kardis and Lochos, drawing quickly upon an easel with a steel-nibbed pen and ink.

  The year was hot, and the two tyrants sat surrounded by fram
es carrying wet sheets chilled by snow brought down from the mountaintops. Peons, the spoils of Olympia’s endless wars, wafted air cooled by the sheets over them with fans made of stonehawk feathers. Golden bowls piled with delicacies were situated at their sides. More slaves bearing tall amphorae of wine waited to refresh them. Adophus drank freely; it was among his many boastful claims that he could keep his wits when other men had drunk theirs away. Dammekos sipped sparingly and nibbled at an apple, making it last an uncommonly long time.

  ‘Among Perturabo’s many feats, I have a few favourites,’ said Dammekos conversationally. ‘Did you know, he learned the entirety of Hrastor of Epherium’s Dialectica by heart in a week, all fifty volumes? He then annotated them and sent them back to Hrastor.’

  ‘Really?’ said Adophus. He held up his goblet for more wine. It was duly filled.

  Dammekos nodded. ‘Hrastor came here himself, though he is well into his eighties and had vowed never to travel beyond the walls of Epherium again. Upon meeting Perturabo, he pronounced himself unimpressed. Thereafter the two of them engaged in debate for ten days. Hrastor said he had never met with such a keen mind. He offered to teach Perturabo at his gymnasium. Perturabo declined, after which Hrastor departed in ill spirits.’

  ‘A youth will never leave a home he is happy in, Dammekos. He must be pushed to excel. You indulge him, I suppose.’

  Dammekos frowned. ‘Happy? I doubt that he is ever happy. He is an intense boy. No, it was his choice. You see, he declined to go because he said Hrastor had nothing to teach him!’

  Adophus laughed loudly. The silence shivered with the noise. Many of the assembled wise men glanced at him distractedly, then turned their attention back to Perturabo’s drawing. They nodded and whispered to themselves, amazed at the boy’s skills.

  All part of the show, thought Adophus cynically.

  He kept an eye on Perturabo’s hands at all times, alive to the possibility of substitution. It was preposterous to think that this hulking man was a boy. The whole thing was a hoax, and Adophus was angry at the wasted visit.

  ‘Hrastor is a pompous ideologue. I am glad his ego took a nudge,’ said Adophus.

  ‘But it was not just Hrastor,’ said Dammekos. ‘Demonius, Adrakastor, Heplon… Every one of the Nine Sophists of Pellekontia. Well…’ he touched Adophus’ arm gently, ‘I exaggerate - it was those of the Nine that condescended to meet him. Your Antibus was one that declined to come. I can’t speak for him, but personally, I think the others are afraid of Perturabo. I apologise that I have no mind of such quality to demonstrate Perturabo’s thinking in the battle of wits. Wise men who are willing to stake their reputations on debate with him are becoming harder to find,’ he said, with transparently false regretfulness.

  ‘A pity,’ said Adophus with an equal lack of sincerity. He refused to be distracted, and kept his eyes and thoughts fixed on the boy.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. I managed to find someone. A priest of Faralkis. Priests give good sport - they have such a sense of rectitude.’

  ‘What kind of name is Perturabo anyway?’ said Adophus. ‘It’s not Olympian. It’s unseemly.’

  ‘Who knows what names the gods give their gifts?’ said Dammekos.

  ‘Don’t spin me that yam, Dammekos,’ said Adophus. ‘If you genuinely believe him to be a gift from the heights of Mount Telephus, I’ll give you the damn key to the Great Gates of Kardis myself.’

  Dammekos shrugged and took another mouselike bite of his apple. ‘The boy claims it is a name from Old Earth itself.’

  ‘Another myth,’ said Adophus. ‘I’d be careful. He could be a spy, a vanguard of the Black Judges maybe. My soothsayers say we are overdue a tribute visit.’

  ‘He is not of their make, I think. I believe that is… Ah,’ he said, motioning at the boy, ‘I see he is done.’

  Perturabo stood back from his work and examined it closely for a moment. Finding it satisfactory, he took it from its easel and brought it to the two lords, the back of the paper held towards the tyrant and the prince Adophus shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny of the boy’s ice-blue eyes.

  ‘Go on then, Perturabo, my boy, show our guest your work - don’t keep him waiting,’ said Dammekos.

  Perturabo flipped the sheet so that Adophus could see the drawing on the other side The prince leaned forwards in amazement. There was a perfect likeness of his own face, drawn in tight cross-hatched lines of ink. It was art in a style he had never seen before but which captured him uncannily. It would have taken a skilled artist a genius, hours to do the same A cold shiver ran down his back.

  ‘I do not believe it,’ he said. He glanced at Perturabo. ‘You did this in ten minutes?’

  ‘That is how long it took,’ said Perturabo. He looked at Dammekos, puzzled. ‘You were both watching. Ten minutes, as you asked, my lord.’

  ‘He is rather literal-minded, I’m afraid,’ said Dammekos apologetically. ‘There is no trickery here. Art is but one of his many talents. Already he is showing promise as an architect and an engineer, not to mention his abstract mathematical skills. It is in rhetoric that he excels, however.’

  Adophus looked at Perturabo doubtfully.

  ‘He really does come into his own in debate. Give him the picture Perturabo,’ said Dammekos. ‘It is a gift, Adophus.’

  Perturabo handed the prince the paper. Adophus tilted it from left to right. ‘The ink glistens. It is still wet. How was this done? Tell me, Dammekos, and I may forgive you for tricking me. The deception is a marvel. You may count me satisfied if you reveal your methods…’

  ‘I understand your suspicion,’ said Dammekos, ‘but I assure you that it is no trick. It was done exactly as you saw, by Perturabo in these last ten minutes. I will have him display his architectural drawings after the feast, as they are quite impressive, but I am sure this next demonstration will lay any doubt to rest that you may have regarding his intellectual ability.’ Dammekos clapped his hands. ‘Bring in the priest!’

  Perturabo took his leave without asking permission; though he was a man in appearance, he sauntered back to his chair with the awkward, insolent gait of an adolescent. The easel was whisked away. A moment later, a man with the flowing hair and multicoloured cloak of the Faralkian cult was brought in. He held his right arm up, the cloak folded over it decorously. He bowed to the tyrants.

  ‘My lords,’ he said, ‘I am the priest Rodask of Byzellion.’

  ‘You are here to debate with the boy,’ said Adophus.

  ‘No, my lord,’ said Rodask confidently. ‘I am here to convince him of the existence of the gods.’

  Adophus mouth quirked into a harsh smile. ‘A gift of the gods who does not believe in the gods? How droll, Dammekos.’

  ‘By all means begin,’ said Dammekos to the priest. He looked knowingly at Adophus and settled back into his chair.

  Rodask gave the crowd a beaming smile, the sort worn by men who are certain they have stumbled upon the singular truth of the universe ‘You are the one called Perturabo?’ he said. Rodask paced back and forth as he spoke, his arm held before him, the folds of his multicoloured cloak swaying.

  ‘I am,’ said the youth.

  ‘I hear it said you state there are no gods.’

  Perturabo shook his head. ‘I said that I have no proof that there are gods. That is not a statement of fact. It is a hypothesis.’

  ‘Do you admit you disregard the divine in saying so?’

  ‘I do no such thing,’ said Perturabo. His voice was still high, but assured. ‘I merely test your assumption that there are gods. If there are gods, then I will prove it to be so by testing this hypothesis, along with any other hypotheses that might arise from it by dint of a progression in sophistication of my theorising. Surely any god, if he exists, would be pleased by such effort. If they do exist, I shall take myself to their presence by climbing Mount Telephus, where I shall bow to them. If they do not exist, well, there is nothing to offend.’

  The crowd found this amusing. Perturabo scowled
at them. He had not intended to be funny.

  ‘The existence of the gods is self-substantiating,’ said the priest softly. ‘They require no proof. Their evidence is present all around us, in the stone of the ground, in the patterns of the rain, in the rising of the sun. What of yourself?’

  ‘The things you list are evidence of the things’ existence, not of their provenance, and less so of their exact ontological status,’ said Perturabo. ‘The things you see are real - the sun, the rain, myself. That is true.’

  ‘Do you hear, believers?’ the priest addressed the crowd. ‘Our prodigy acknowledges the work of the gods, but not the gods themselves. Consider this. A man has for sale a bolt of cloth made in a far away land which he has never visited nor indeed heard of. It was made by the hands of a person of whom he has no knowledge, speaking a language which he could not know, in a city of whose long and complex history he is entirely ignorant. You buy this cloth. Because you have not met the man who made it, does this mean the doth does not exist?’

  Perturabo shook his head. ‘Your reasoning is poor.’

  ‘How so?’ said the priest, his face a picture of open, holy innocence.

  ‘It is correct to assume that a bolt of doth is made by a human agent, because all bolts of doth we might come across are made by human beings. Ergo, it is reasonable that all bolts of doth are made by people and not, say, talking leonids.’

  The crowd laughed again. Perturabo found the reaction less offensive this time.

  ‘Our doth has been carried from trader to trader,’ he continued, ‘and at some point a human agent bought the doth from another human agent. Therefore, the existence of the initial manufacturer can ultimately be proven.’

  ‘So by extension, the rain is real, the sun is real, you are real, so the gods are real,’ said the priest. The crowd murmured appreciatively.

  ‘It is fallacious to carry that assumption to the rain,’ said Perturabo, ‘and say that supernatural entities are responsible. The first object - the rain - is produced by processes unknown to us, though I suspect that it is owing to the action of the sun upon the sea, and the condensation of the vapours produced therefrom in the atmosphere. The latter - the gods - are unknowable. We might well believe a man who met a man who bought doth in a city we do not personally know is telling the truth. It is another matter entirely to believe a man who says a man he knows knew a man who met a god.