by Rob Sanders
Krule’s cap and visor fell away as he leapt from the top step up onto the podium. Villiers had made some attempt to go for his hanger but was struggling to get it clear of its scabbard. The Assassin fancied that with so little use but so much polish, the blade was stuck. Lansung backed away. There was no going for a blade for him. Horror sat simply on the Lord High Admiral’s broad face.
With a bound, Beast Krule leapt from the podium at Lansung. Like a predatory feline, Krule cleared Villiers and landed on the small island of fat flesh that was Admiral Lansung. Lansung crashed heavily to the deck. Beast Krule was on top of him. Boots in his sides. Knees in his mountainous chest. One murderous hand clutched a globed shoulder, while the other retracted in a hefty fist. The Assassin was spoiled for choice. Where to punch his plasteel-infused knuckles? Through the Admiral’s triple chins and through his spine? Through his ribcage to splatter his meaty heart? No, the Assassin decided. He would smash through the High Lord’s fat skull and mash the ambitions of a dangerous mind into the deck.
Beast Krule suddenly saw a collection of panic-strewn words spill from Lansung’s patrician lips. They were called as an order to those about him. To the closing Lucifer Blacks. To his flag staff. To Villiers and the officers of the Autocephalax Eternal. The Assassin sensed the importance of the order and somehow found his way back to the moment.
‘Firing protocol thirteen!’ the Lord High Admiral screamed. ‘For Throne’s sake: firing protocol thirteen!’
No more words, Beast Krule decided. The fist came down.
‘Hold!’ Drakan Vangorich called.
Obedience. Krule turned his fist aside, smashing its metallic force into the hangar deck.
‘What in damnation is “Firing protocol thirteen”?’ the Grand Master demanded.
The hololithic representation sizzled to darkness and from that darkness temple infocytes, sans-expediens and tacticians came forwards in deference. A wall section started to shudder to one side, revealing a small chamber in a lighter shade of twilight beyond. Esad Wire was strapped to a simulcra slab. His temple-crafted body was needled from head to toe with sensors. Lines ran into impulse links in the side of his skull and fibre threads into the flesh between his ears and eyes, interfacing with the holoptometric implants beyond.
The Assassin sat up, tearing the sensor needles and datalines from his body. The indoctranostic holosimulation was over. The frustration was clear on Wire’s face. The predator had not taken down his prey. He had failed in some way. His temple re-education – his murderous strategic orientation – had been halted by a furious Drakan Vangorich.
‘Again,’ Vangorich said, ‘what is this “Firing protocol thirteen”? That’s new. I haven’t heard of that.’
‘It’s a proxy,’ an infocyte volunteered. ‘Officio operatives aboard the battleship gave us the physical detailing. It’s not a recovered piece of intelligence. It’s a proxy created by the strategium.’
‘A proxy for what?’ Vangorich demanded.
A hooded tactician came forwards.
‘The hypothetical came out of the logistuary,’ the tactician said. She swiftly added, ‘Operative Wire’s encounter with an Inquisitorial tail at Tashkent factored in a greater range of eventualities for the logistas. Firing protocol thirteen is a proxy for a target behaviour based on logical extensions of those eventualities.’
‘Like?’ Vangorich said dangerously.
‘The knowedge of certain Officio Assassinorum installations and their locations,’ the tactician told him, ‘by involved and interconnected factions.’
‘Covert temple facilities?’
‘Such delicate information could be traded between numerous individuals and organisations – the Holy Inquisition, the Ecclesiarchy, the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Imperial Navy…’
‘So firing protocol thirteen in this context could be?’ Vangorich pressed.
‘The location of the Mount Vengeance Officio Assassinorum facility,’ the tactician told him.
‘Knowledge of this facility?’ Vangorich confirmed, briefly casting his gaze at a wounded-looking Wire.
‘It’s on a list of five possibilities,’ the tactician said. ‘The target’s behaviour would facilitate a stalemate scenario. The operative would be powerless to execute his mission with the target in possession of such information. If he attempted to do so, the battleship in the simulated scenario would fire its guns from orbit on this location. We have calculated, however, that the true nature of both the weapon’s discharge and the temple location would remain secret. The incident would be recorded as a regrettable accident.’
‘Well that’s a relief,’ Vangorich said sardonically. The import was lost on the tactician. The Grand Master was out of his throne and walking towards the egress-archway. He stopped and turned to the gathered temple staff. ‘I want this facility cleared of temple personnel, intelligence and equipment within the hour.’
‘Yes, Grand Master.’
‘Enough with simulations. Beast Krule,’ Vangorich said, ‘with me.’
Having removed the last of the impulse jacks from his head and the sensor needles from his flesh, Esad Wire followed his master out of the crypt-nexus.
‘What are we going to do?’ Esad Wire said.
‘We’re going to force the Lord High Admiral’s hand,’ Vangorich told him. ‘Gathering an armada in the Glaucasian Gulf will do nothing to protect the core systems from the xenos threat. What I wouldn’t give for a stalemate scenario out there.’
‘Where are we going?’ Esad Wire asked.
‘Somewhere the admiral’s great guns can’t reach us,’ Vangorich told his Assassin.
NINETEEN
Eidolica – Alcazar Astra
The company chapel was empty. That was the way Maximus Thane preferred it. His Fists Exemplar – from his captains and masters, to his battle-brothers and their Chapter serfs – were all were too busy with preparations for dusk. Thane’s desperate strategy had saved many Space Marine lives but had cost the Alcazar Astra dearly. Splits and rents in the thick plate of the void ramparts were only the beginning. The star fort had suffered serious structural damage and the generatorium had also experienced damage-inflicted failings. As ranking Adeptus Astartes aboard the star fort, however, it wasn’t Thane’s job to repair ceramite, replenish ammunition or audit the armoury. It wasn’t even his direct responsibility now to ensure that others performed those essential roles – he had given Sergeant Hoque temporary command of the Second Company.
It was Thane’s function to decide which strategy would best ensure the survival of Eidolica. Which strategy would inflict greatest damage on the invader. Which strategy – if any – could possibly combine both.
Even the Second Company’s chapel hadn’t escaped the damage and desolation. Without the artificial gravity and inertial dampeners that the star fort would have benefited from in the void, the chapel – like every other hallowed chamber in the fortress-monastery – had been turned almost on its side. Minor Chapter relics lay smashed on the floor about their cases. Statues had toppled and tapestries had fallen across the altar. Placing his helmet to one side, Thane cleared up as best he could.
Thane’s favourite artefact – one of the reasons he frequented the tiny chapel as much as he did – had also been damaged. Set in a shallow central column, between the altar and the narrow entrance archway, was a small stained-glass window. It depicted Rogal Dorn – not in battle or during the desperation of the Great Heresy, but at deliberation. The window pictured Dorn deep in thought, still clad in his golden armour.
It was the moment Dorn decided to break up his beloved Legion and embrace the Codex Astartes, creating numerous successor Chapters from his stalwart and loyal Imperial Fists. Thane loved the window not least because the Fists Exemplar had been created in that moment. Like all of the Imperial Fists Second Founding Chapters, their character came from the individuals making up their ran
ks. The Chapter crusaders and zealots gravitated to Sigismund, while to Alexis Polux went the younger, more impressionable brothers. Many of the attrition fighters that would make up the Excoriators had held the Palace walls during the siege of Terra and had found brotherhood with Demetrius Katafalque.
It was well known that the primarch and his genetic sons struggled with the decision to break up their Legion. There were some, however, that came around to Guilliman’s wisdom – as Dorn himself did at last – swifter than others. Captain Oriax Dantalion had spoken for the sense and necessity of such drastic action among the Imperial Fists early in the process. This had initially earned Dorn’s disappointment, and some said enmity. When Dorn himself searched his soul and reached the conclusion that the window illustrated, he remembered Dantalion’s earlier wisdom. He rewarded the captain with a Chapter of his own – made up of progressive battle-brothers not unlike himself. They were deemed exemplars of the new order, and named the Fists Exemplar by the primarch.
Looking at the window, Thane discovered that some of the fragile glass pieces had fallen free of their leadwork. Dorn’s depiction was now marred with hollows and missing sections. Many of the pieces had smashed on the flags of the small chapel during the firing of the engine column. Thane discovered, however, that one piece had survived intact. A section of yellow glass, representing a piece of the primarch’s sacred, golden plate. Picking it up and turning it about in the tips of his gauntlets, Thane slipped it delicately back into place.
As the archway door rose beyond, light from the corridor lamps blazed through the window. The illuminated window, bringing Rogal Dorn’s depiction to dazzling radiance, held Maximus Thane’s attention – so much so that he hardly noticed Brother Zerberyn enter the company chapel.
‘My lord,’ Zerberyn said, taking to his knee before the altar and kissing the ceramite knuckles of his gauntleted fist one after another.
‘Brother?’
‘My lord,’ Zerberyn said, getting up, ‘sentries report a strange disturbance at the east barbican lock.’
‘What kind of disturbance?’
‘Impacts on the outer doors,’ Zerberyn said, ‘like something trying to get in.’
‘No greenskin survives the attentions of Frankenthal’s Star,’ Thane averred.
‘The alien invader is much invested in terrible new technologies,’ the honorarius said. Thane nodded.
‘Have Sergeant Hoque meet me at the barbican with a squad,’ Thane said. ‘Then lock off the section interior bulkheads surrounding the barbican. If it is the invader, we’ll see to it that he won’t get far.’
‘Very good, my lord,’ Zerberyn said, and left Maximus Thane alone with Dorn once again.
Taking up his helmet and setting off for the East Transept, the captain encountered Sergeant Hoque en route past the company chapel. He marched with Hoque and his squad down to the barbican lock.
‘Opinion, brother?’ Thane put to Gaspar, the sentry whose post the barbican had been.
‘Sounded too measured and deliberate for the greenskins, sir,’ Gaspar said, but his boltgun was still aimed at the barbican portal. Thane waited. Behind them, the section bulkhead hatches began to lower.
Then they heard it. The sound of something smashing a great fist against the thick metal door. It didn’t sound like a rabid savage or alien invader.
‘Sergeant,’ Thane said, prompting Hoque and his men to form a gauntlet of gaping barrels in the barbican chamber. If their visitor was indeed hostile, Hoque and his men would ensure that its welcome would be brief. Thane put on his battle-helm. ‘Brother Gaspar, if you will.’
The sentry fired the airlock mechanism and the massive door began to rumble towards the ceiling. Blinding Eidolican daylight seared its way under the door and began to fill the barbican, prompting the auto-senses of the captain’s plate to respond and initiate optical filters.
As the portal shuddered open and the Fists Exemplar leant into their boltguns, a single silhouette appeared at the door. A black shape in a power-armoured suit waited for them. As the boltgun barrels lowered, the Adeptus Astartes framed in the blinding light of the doorway stepped inside. He was swiftly joined by several other battle-brothers in sealed plate.
‘Lower it,’ Thane commanded Brother Gaspar. As the armoured door lowered and the barbican turned to darkness, the filter optics of Thane’s helmet returned to normal spectra. Not fast enough for the captain, however, who promptly removed his helmet.
Before him stood a crusade marshal in the roasted midnight plate of the Black Templars. A skull-helmed Chaplain stood to his side, while two Sword Brethren flanked the pair with their power swords and crusader shields. The final member of the group was a Fists Exemplar captain, clad in the temperature-tarnished bare ceramite of the Chapter. As the captain took off his helm, Thane could see that it was Dentor of the Seventh.
‘It’s a relief to see you, captain,’ Thane told him.
‘Likewise, Maximus,’ Dentor replied.
As the Black Templars commander relieved himself of his burning helm, Dentor introduced him. ‘Captain Thane, this is Marshal Bohemond of the Vulpius Crusade.’
‘An honour, brother-captain,’ Bohemond offered.
‘Likewise, marshal,’ Thane said, ‘and a surprise: we sent out broad-range requests for fraternal assistance, but did not think you so close. You are, of course, warmly welcome to Alcazar Astra and a share of the honour to come. How many battle-brothers do you have at your command, marshal?’
Bohemond’s eyes were hard but understanding. He seemed to nod to himself.
‘Second captain,’ Dentor said, ‘the Marshal does not…’
‘Thank you, captain,’ Bohemond said, cutting him off. ‘You are ranking Adeptus Astartes here?’
‘I am.’
‘I wonder if we might speak alone, sir?’ The Black Templar’s eyes never left his Fists Exemplar opposite.
‘Of course, marshal,’ Thane said. ‘I know just the place.’
With the barbican re-secured and Bohemond’s men entertained, Thane led the Black Templar Marshal into the company chapel. It was closer than the oratorium and, with the daylight hours filled with repair and industry, still deserted. Bohemond fixed upon the stained glass representation of Dorn immediately. Falling down to his knees, he hammered his armoured fist into his breastplate at the four points of the crusader cross.
‘Beautiful,’ Bohemond said as he got back up.
‘Marshal,’ Maximus Thane said, staring across the altar, ‘I do not wish to break with ritual or tradition but my world turns. With night comes the enemy and an opportunity to avenge our fallen.’
‘I’ve seen your world,’ Bohemond said, ‘and the xenos attack moon hanging over it. Your black sands swarm with orks. They travel with the terminator. In their cunning they have become wise to your planet’s lethalities. Tomorrow, the enemy takes this fortress: from orbit it is plain to see.’
‘It is not as simple as that.’
‘Captain, it is every bit as simple as that,’ Bohemond told him.
‘I expected more from Sigismund’s crusaders,’ Thane told him. ‘It does not become a Templar to turn his cheek from the fight. You speak of odds. What are odds to a son of Dorn?’
‘It smarts, doesn’t it, captain?’ the Black Templar said as he wandered about the chapel. ‘I should know. You’re right: it does not become us. But our cheek is not turned. We are simply facing the other way. We are crusaders, and crusades are not won on single days or single worlds. And that is all Eidolica is: a single world with a single day.’
‘You speak cavalierly about our prospects, marshal,’ Thane said. ‘Why don’t you help us improve them?’
‘I already have,’ Bohemond replied. ‘My Thunderhawks pulled Captain Dentor and what was left of his company from the greenskin-drenched wilderness.’
‘You had no right, Templar,’ Tha
ne spat.
‘They would be dead now if I hadn’t.’
‘And what of the populations they were protecting? What is to become of them?’
‘Nothing, captain,’ Bohemond said, ‘for they are dead already.’
‘I need your men, Bohemond.’
‘You can’t have them,’ the Marshal said. ‘For they are needed elsewhere – as are yours, captain.’
‘Marshal…’
‘I have been where you are now,’ the Black Templar told him. ‘It is not easy for an Adeptus Astartes to turn and run, but as my castellan told me, it is merely a matter of perspective. There is running from and there is running to. We were at Aspiria, and yes, I could have sent my Templars to their deaths in the name of obstinacy and honour. But then I heard the call – as you hear now. Dorn’s call. I heard it in Imperial Navy recalls, in my battle-barge’s klaxons, in mortis-cries echoing across the immaterium. The call home, brother. Coreward.’
‘You are a crusader,’ Thane accused. ‘You call no world home. Eidolica is home to the Fists Exemplar.’
Bohemond smashed his fist against the plate of his chest.
‘No,’ the marshal hissed, ‘this is your home. You say your Eidolica needs you. I say your Imperium needs you. Do you have any idea how many astropathic calls for assistance I had to ignore to reach you, brother? Worlds die about us and sectors fall. This is not localised. The invader has not a conqueror’s eyes for your piecemeal world, captain. Eidolica is an afterthought – the enemy’s bloody gaze is fixed on the segmentum whole. What good can you do here?’
‘This is my world,’ Maximus Thane roared through the window at the marshal. ‘These are my people. This is my bastion.’
‘Your people are finished,’ Bohemond told him. He let the cold sentiment hang in the descending silence of the chapel. ‘Through no fault of your own or your commanders’, your world belongs to savages of the void. This was never a battle you could win. How long can you keep this up: fighting through the night and hiding in the light? How long will your armouries sustain you? A day? A week? And should you slaughter every living greenskin on the surface of your desert world, what then? The xenos attack moon will tear this tiny planet apart and feed it to its guardian star.’