Saturnine

by Dan Abnett

  ‘Not for your own glory?’

  ‘Oh, that loo,’ said Little Horus. ‘Always, that too.’

  Argonis laughed involuntarily. Abaddon laughed too, to demonstrate that everything was safe and secure between them.

  ‘I need you to keep this close, for now,’ Abaddon said.

  ‘Then show me what this is,’ replied the equerry.

  * * *

  Falkus Kibre looked around, and narrowed his eyes as the three of them entered the command station.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ he hissed to Abaddon.

  ‘Go with,’ whispered Abaddon. ‘We need him.’

  Argonis had crossed to the hololith display that Eyet-One-Tag and her adepts had set up to review the assets. The adepts, twenty of them, stood to one side, as silent as the deadpan figure of Tormageddon, who had said nothing for hours.

  The equerry looked at the three-dimensional display. He raised his hand and folded the light to enlarge one image.

  ‘Three Donjon-class siege engines,’ said Eyet-One-Tag.

  ‘Good grief,’ Argonis breathed. ‘Abaddon, this is no minor operation.’

  He flicked up another image.

  ‘Twenty Terrax-pattern-‘ Eyet-One-Tag began.

  ‘Damn it!’ Argonis spat. These are major assets!’

  ‘Considerable,’ said the adept. ‘Especially when one factors in the support squadrons, menials and surveyor drones. A total of perhaps six thousand personnel. Though the secondary assets are rather more substantial.’

  She changed the images with a twitch of her head.

  ‘Eighteen hundred batteries, mixed artillery, heavy ordnance and petraries,’ she said, ‘plus munitions and teams. The sustained bombardments of the Europa Wall section and Western Projection Wall section represent an extensive materiel debt.’

  ‘Europa and Western Projection are two of the strongest wall-runs in the line,’ Argonis exclaimed. ‘You’re throwing us against them? Abaddon, you’re out of your mind! Three companies, even of our best, won’t be enough to break them!’

  ‘I agree,’ said Abaddon. ‘But I’m not going against Europa or Western Projection.’

  ‘But-‘

  ‘They’re distractions, Kinor. Loud and very big distractions.’

  Abaddon leaned past him, and rotated the chart display. He pointed to a spot on the wall.

  ‘This is my target,’ he said.

  ‘But that… that’s impenetrable too,’ said Argonis.

  ‘Not as much as you would think,’ said Abaddon. ‘Or as much as anyone would think. Especially the Praetorian. Our Lord of Iron has found a chink in his armour.’

  ‘Now do you appreciate why secrecy is paramount?’ asked Little Horus. The equerry nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said Aximand. He turned and wandered to the exit, stepping out into the cold air. His hands were shaking. What Argonis had described, the state of Lupercal’s mind… it had been hard to hear. That talk of listening to voices, speaking to things that weren’t there, or people who were long dead…

  Beside him, in the darkness, something breathed gently. When the lightning flashed its fitful glare, Aximand could plainly see he was alone.

  ‘Go away,’ he hissed. ‘Go away or tell me where. Name a place.’

  From behind him, in the station, he heard Argonis ask, ‘When exactly does this operation commence?’

  And Abaddon reply, ‘Any moment now.’

  A minute later, at the adept’s binharic cue, the sky lit up. To the north of Epta, cascades of fire as large as cities burst against the flanks of Europa and Western Projection. Once begun, the bombardment did not pause or cease.

  The insane roar of it, the thunder, sounded like the howls of a tormented god.

  * * *

  Amber ‘prepare’ runes lit on the forward bulkhead and along the ridges of the cabin’s armoured ceiling, but Niborran already knew, from the shift in engine note and the gentle dipping away to starboard, that they were commencing their final approach.

  He opened his despatch case, and put away the slates and papers he’d been reviewing during the journey. He’d been trying to assess an overview of the port’s current defensive capabilities and strengths, but

  his data reports were wildly contradictory and incomplete. Vox and noospheric connection in the Northern Magnifican had been patchy at best since the void collapse, and very little hard intel had come

  through to Bhab. Niborran didn’t even know who he’d be accepting zone command from. He didn’t know what he was dropping into. Except, of course, he did.

  He put that out of his mind. In the seats around him, officers and staff were stirring, and prepping, if necessary, for a hostile disembark when they reached the ground.

  His stomach and ears told him the ‘bird had begun dropping steeply. Combat approach. He opened his seat-window’s blast cover. Daylight, a creamish haze. They were still high up. As the ‘bird banked in a wide turn, the surface swung into view. The palace-city of Magnifican, an endless vista of towers, blocks, fabricatory complexes, plazas and highways. It rolled slowly below him. A few plumes of smoke, and occasional patches of damage in the street plan. Not as bad as he’d heard, or feared.

  The command Stormbird dropped lower, arcing west in what felt like a leisurely curve. He saw a distant blackness that looked like a mountain range, then realised it was an immense wall of smoke, a band some thirty or even forty kilometres wide. He gazed at it in shock for as long as it remained in view. North-east… That had to be, what? Boenition District? Tortestrian? In the name of Terra, a whole swathe of the city gone, on fire…

  Now they were passing over debris fields and the outlines of ruined streets. What was that? Could it be the remains of the Celestial City that adjoined the port, and served its needs? Surely not.

  The ‘bird banked north. The huge, rising curve of the Eternity Wall space port swung into view. Niborran had always loved the place. It was still impressive, even with its upper ridges and vast, ascending pylons hidden behind thick banks of atmospherics and smog. One of the great structures of the Imperial Palace, a monument of grand scale architectural engineering to rival the Lion’s Gate or the Palatine tower or the soaring superstructures of the Sanctum.

  It had been the site of his first footsteps on Terra, all those years ago. He’d been born in the rings of Saturn, and raised in the strict disciplines of the Saturnine Ordos. Then he’d come to Terra as a trained but green young officer, ready to take up his inaugural active command, and he’d stepped off the boat here at Eternity Wall Port, his first glimpse of Terra and the Palace. The port had seen him off, too, on his first combat lift as a young officer, Setuway 55th, heading out to join the crusader fleets. He’d come and gone many times since then, arriving and departing via the Lion’s Gate space port or Damocles, and once or twice through Eternity, but Eternity remained his favourite. It was the place where he felt he’d properly begun as a warrior. The place from which he’d first marched out to active war.

  The view distorted. The ‘bird had activated its voids. Low approach. Was it just a precaution? He saw puffs of brown smoke, and felt a slight judder. No, airbursts. They were taking fire from ground positions. Enemy anti-air batteries, off to the west, by his estimate, harrying anything that came across them.

  The overhead runes went red.

  In the seat in front of him, Brohn turned and looked back, grinning.

  ‘And I thought we’d get there in one piece,’ he said.

  ‘We will, Clem,’ Niborran replied.

  ‘Well, that’s half the battle,’ Brohn replied with a chuckle.

  Not even the half of it.

  The run had been surprisingly clean. Once they’d paced out though the Lion’s Gate, the air convoy had been obliged to skirt heavy fields of flak and anti-air over Marmax, and it had grown worse as they lengthened their stride and crossed the heart of Anterior. The ride had been a boneshaker. They hadn’t been able to climb, bec
ause the aegis limited their operation ceiling. They’d been obliged to run the storm. Twice. And Niborran had recognised the distinctive thump and jolt as the pilot had been forced to dispense anti-missile canisters. Niborran had heard, though it hadn’t been confirmed, that the convoy had lost two troop lifters crossing Anterior.

  Once they’d gone through the Ascensor Gate into Magnifican airspace, things had steadied. ‘Unless you’d been told,’ Clem Brohn had joked, ‘you wouldn’t even know there was a war on.’

  You would now. Niborran sat back, and checked his harness. They were picking up speed. Combat approach indeed: low and fast, and then a short, dead drop onto the landing zone at the very last second He’d always loved this part. It scared the living shit out of him every time.

  * * *

  ‘I’ve lost them,’ said Camba Diaz. Shiban nodded towards the south.

  ‘Low,’ he said. ‘One minute out.’

  Combat approach. The train of air transports, just black specks in the southern sky, had dropped, tracking in so low they were out of sight below the edge of Monsalvant’s landing platform. Diaz could see the anti-air well enough: stippling clusters of russet smoke pops that were turning the entire skyline into a leopard’s pelt.

  Shiban Khan looked to his second, Al-Nid Nazira of the Auxilla, and nodded. Nazira hurried away. They’d cleared the platform for landing safety, but the honour guard was waiting on the dock ramps ready to hurry into position.

  ‘How many is Niborran bringing?’ asked Diaz.

  ‘My guess, not enough,’ Shiban replied, ‘and probably fewer than he set out with.’

  They could suddenly hear the scream of burners. They took a step backwards into one of the blast alcoves used by ground crew.

  The huge, bat-delta of the Stormbird burst up into view over the lip of the platform, blotting out the sky. Its gear was already down, like the grasping talons of a stooping falcon. Its engines howled as the pilot slammed main power from forward thrust and lift to reverse and brake. Too much gun, and the huge craft would simply overshoot the platform and have nowhere to go, and no space to climb.

  It set down hard, spread wings bowing slightly on impact, the weight of it shivering the entire platform. Its engines shrieked to a new fury as they reached maximum reverse to suck in forward momentum. All the brake vanes on its wingline were vertical. The airframe shuddered, and it rolled to a halt and stood there as though it were panting. Vapour spewed from its aft vents. The piercing shriek of the overstressed engines began to die back.

  Shiban Khan clapped his hands. Captain Nazira ran the honour guard out of cover. They began to assemble on the foredeck. Sixty troopers, mixed units. Four of them struggled to raise the huge banner. It showed, in a sunburst, the Emperor Ascendant, rays of light streaming from His golden face to form a halo. The banner had become tangled by the jetwash.

  ‘Get it straight, damn it,’ Diaz muttered as he and Shiban strode forward, side by side. The boarding ramp of the Stormbird began to lower. The ‘bird was painted in an Excertus drab, a tawny brown that made Shiban think it was in its winter plumage. Lord General Niborran emerged, a tall, noble figure in a long storm coat. He put on his cap, and walked down the ramp to meet them, followed by one of his senior officers, and, Diaz noted with surprise, a Huscarl of the Imperial Fists Praetorian cadre.

  Diaz and Shiban halted, their fists to their chestplates. Shiban set his guan dao pole-arm upright at his side. He was an imposing figure, heavily augmented for a warrior of the V. On the flesh of his face and neck were the hard, pink lines of old scars, from both injuries and surgeries, that spoke of his exploits and the immense efforts that had been made to place him back in the field. Shiban had grown a beard, which Diaz presumed was an effort to disguise some of the repair-work scars, as though he was ashamed of augmetics, but the

  beard had odd seams in it, like tribal markings, where it had been unable to grow back across the worst scarring.

  ‘High Primary General, we are honoured,’ said Diaz. ‘Welcome to Eternity.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that a phrase to be reckoned with?’ Niborran replied, with a wry smile. He took the salute, then offered Diaz his hand. ‘Lord Diaz,’ he said, ‘I have to say, I am astonished to see you here.’

  ‘Fate takes us where it will, general,’ Diaz replied. He gestured to the White Scar at his side. ‘This is Shiban, khan of the ordu Fifth known as Tachseer.’

  Niborran nodded to the White Scar, and then started to say something to Diaz. His voice was instantly drowned out.

  The rest of the transport convoy was coming in, passing low overhead: heavy lift transports, bulk cargos, Thunderhawks, support gunships. Their shadows washed across the platform, each passing craft shaking the air with noise as it went over. They were heading low towards the combat hangars in the south face of the port, just half a kilometre beyond the platform. Two of the transports were trailing smoke. Over the thunder of thrust, Diaz could hear sirens starting to wail in the hangars as emergency crews scrambled to receive some less than perfect touchdowns.

  ‘You arrive in force,’ remarked Diaz.

  ‘Some force,’ replied Niborran. ‘All that could be gathered. Additional reinforcement will be arriving overground in the next day, Emperor willing. You had better bring me up to speed rapidly, lord. And begin with… how does the lord castellan of the Fourth Sphere come to be in command here at Eternity?’

  ‘You have misunderstood, general,’ said Diaz, ‘I am not in command. Shiban Khan is zone commander.’

  Niborran looked at the White Scar. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘My apologies.’ ‘I have effective seniority through rank,’ said Diaz, ‘but Shiban has precedence. He was running the port zone defence when I got here,and I saw no reason to disrupt the effective command structure he had established.’

  ‘We built what we could with what we had to hand,’ said Shiban. ‘Some troop elements that were stationed here at the beginning, but mostly companies, squads and even individuals that fled here after the lines collapsed in Magnifican. You will not find much uniformity.’

  ‘How many do you have, khan?’ Niborran asked.

  ‘Last count, eight thousand,’ said Shiban. ‘Mostly field infantry, Auxilia and militia. About four hundred main division Excertus, a little armour. And the port defence systems, of course.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Colonel Brohn, standing at Niborran’s side. ‘The lines collapsed in Magnifican?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Shiban, ‘on and after the eleventh. Everything in the Northern Reaches broke when Lion’s Gate Port fell. Mass enemy incursion followed systemic shield collapse. Most comm coverage was disrupted at that point too.’

  ‘No, go back,’ said Brohn.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Niborran, ‘this is my chief of staff, Clement Brohn.’ ‘Which lines?’ Brohn asked Shiban. His look was intense. ‘Which lines collapsed? Fourteenth? Fifteenth?’

  ‘All of them,’ replied Shiban.

  Brohn blinked.

  ‘As far as we can tell,’ said Diaz, ‘and I was out there, there is no longer any coordinated Imperial defence in the northern reaches of Magnifican. Perhaps nothing north of the Processional. Gold Fane’s gone. Angevin too, we think. There are some Army brigades active in the field, but they are principally fighting for survival.’

  ‘Shit,’ murmured Brohn.

  ‘We had no idea,’ said Niborran. ‘Bhab Bastion has no idea. Nothing’s coming through. They’re into Anterior, you see. Burning up toGorgon, Colossi, Vitrix, Callabar. I think Corbenic’s gone already. We didn’t realise it was this bad east of the Anterior Wall.’

  There was a long silence, stirred only by the port-side wind.

  ‘Do you stand ready to receive zone command, general?’ asked Diaz.

  Niborran cleared his throat.

  ‘There’ll be time for that, Diaz,’ he said. He looked at the ragged honour guard, who were trying to look as presentable as possible in their motley array of dirty uniforms. They
had finally got the grand banner unfurled. ‘Those men have been waiting patiently for a long time,’ he said. ‘Let me greet them and we can turn to business.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Shiban.

  * * *

  Niborran walked the proud line. He shook hands and exchanged a few words with each trooper in turn.

  ‘Your duty and vigil here will be remembered,’ he told them.

  ‘Getty Orheg (Sixteenth Arctic Hort),’ the next man said. Niborran glanced quizzically at Diaz.

  ‘It’s become a habit, general,’ Diaz said. ‘Since their units were fractured. I can’t seem to make them break it.’

  ‘I don’t think you should, lord,’ Niborran said.

  He turned to the next man.

  ‘Willem Kordy (Thirty-Third Pan-Pac Lift Mobile).’

  ‘That’s quite a banner, Willem Kordy (Thirty-Third Pan-Pac Lift Mobile),’ said Niborran.

  ‘We support Him, and He watches over us, sir,’ said Kordy, staring rigidly straight ahead.

  ‘As it should be, soldier,’ said Niborran. ‘Can you free one hand long enough to shake mine?’

  ‘It’s a little heavy, sir,’ said Kordy.

  Niborran reached out and gripped the banner pole with his lefthand, supplying enough support for Kordy to let go with his right and accept the handshake.

  ‘We’ll support Him together, what do you say, Kordy?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  * * *

  ‘Is he in charge now?’ asked Pasha Cavaner (11th Heavy Janissar). The command party had left the platform, and the honour guard was standing down and rolling in the banner.

  ‘That’s how I understand it,’ said Joseph Baako Monday (18th Regiment, Nordafrik Resistance Army). ‘I liked him. He asked me if I came from Setuway I live, and I said no, Endayu, but I know Setuway, and he told me he had done early service there, at Setuway, and he knows Endayu well. I wanted to ask where he had lost his eyes, but I didn’t dare.’

  ‘He’s the High Primary General,’ said Oxana Pell (Hort Borograd K). ‘The High Primary. They have sent us the supreme commander, no less.’ ‘He’s an old man,’ said Cavaner. ‘An old human man. We’ve had