Saturnine

by Dan Abnett

  The archway into the blockroom had been strung with gas curtains, for all the good they did. Colossi’s massive regulation system had been adjusted to increase internal air pressure in order to prevent gas penetration from outside, but that did nothing about the swarms inside, and only seemed to add to the suffering of the personnel. Everyone’s ears rang and thudded, everyone’s sinuses throbbed, everyone’s eyes ached. Agathe kept tasting blood in her mouth.

  She flashed her command seal at the sentries, parted the gas curtain and entered. Flies blew in with her. There were flies inside the room already. They swirled in the warm air, and settled on people and the fascias of consoles. The Great Khan, now acting commander of the Colossi repulse, stood beneath the main display, remonstrating with three of his men. The sight of him ordinarily filled her with dread – transhuman dread, they called it. He was so very much bigger than every other figure in the chamber. Today, the bulk of him seemed almost reassuring to her. She was comforted by the notion that they had mythical beasts of storybook proportion on their side too.

  She was also oddly calmed by the fact that there were flies settling on him as well. He was the only person present bareheaded and unmasked. Green and black dots crawled on his face, and in his beard, and trickled over the white curves of his armour. Not even demigods were spared the torment.

  She couldn’t hear his words, but the White Scars he was addressing were Stormseers. She knew the name of one: Naranbaatar, the leader of their kind. They were warriors, but they were shamans too, their armour strung with beads and fetish-charms. Agathe, her background pure military, had always felt uneasy about the use, by some Legiones Astartes, of psykana and aetheric craft. It smacked of a time humanity had left behind, of ignorance and superstition. But now, like the scale of the Great Khagan himself, the sight of them seemed reassuring. If Colossi was to hold, it needed sorcery. It needed magic to fight magic.

  Agathe didn’t know the right words. It seemed preposterous to think in such terms, but she had seen and heard what was at the door. The Stormseers worried her, though. They seemed devoted and serious, but everything they had conjured so far – again, such a term seemed wrong and stupid – had been inadequate. Whatever magic was clawing at the walls, it was far stronger than anything they could muster.

  Nearby, the captain-general of the Legio Custodes was briefing a quintet of his men. Like the Khan, Valdor and his men alarmed her, more giants in their midst. But Valdor brought a stoic calm, speaking low and dearly. She noticed that fewer flies swarmed on him and his golden warriors. Little carpets of dead insects crunched beneath their feet. It was said that each member of the Custodian Guard was a personification of the Emperor, a sliver of His supreme will made flesh and extended out into the world. Perhaps that aura of grace was anathema to the infestation.

  ‘Marshal.’

  She turned, clumsy and half-blind, and found herself facing Raldoron of the Blood Angels. He was First Captain of the IX Legion, and equerry to the Great Angel of Baal, no less. He had been sent to their lines m the previous days to oversee unit coordination. The besieged forces of the Palace were a raucous patchwork of mismatched assets drawn from any and all sources. They dearly needed glorious and admired champions like the First Captain to inspire unity, and foster cohesion.

  Glorious, she thought. Flies clustered on his beautiful armour like beads of oil.

  ‘My lord captain,’ she replied, speaking overloudly, because she knew how badly the hood muffled her voice.

  ‘You’ve brought the updates?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ she replied, fishing a dataslate from her coat. ‘Disposition of all forces on the walls and emplacements as of twenty minutes ago. Also, munition levels.’

  ‘Shield bearing?’ Raldoron asked.

  ‘We’re waiting on that,’ she said. ‘The tech-magi speak of fluctuation. They are trying to calculate a reasonable estimate. Should I deliver these to the Khagan?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Raldoron. ‘He’s occupied at present, and you are doubtless due back at your station.’

  ‘I am, lord,’ she said. ‘His seers look tired,’ she added.

  Raldoron followed her gaze. They stared at the Khan and his men, deep in discussion.

  ‘Not tired,’ said Raldoron. ‘Our kind does not tire. To me, their bearing tells of helplessness.’

  ‘Which is worse,’ said Agathe.

  ‘It is, marshal. The power of the Librarius varies from Legion to Legion. Some, indeed, eschew it entirely, like the Praetorian’s brave sons. I had always thought of the White Scars as more than just dabblers in the esoteric. I’ve seen them harness the elemental power of wild places to a degree that would have horrified any hardliner at Nikaea. I think of them as serious proponents of the controversial art.’

  ‘It speaks to their barbarian heritage,’ she said.

  Raldoron turned his visor to her, and stared with unyielding disdain.

  ‘A word of caution, marshal,’ he remarked. ‘Don’t let the Warhawk, or any of his men, hear you recite such truisms. The White Scars are painfully aware of the way those of oh-so-cultured Terra regard them. As savages. As uncouth heathens, feral in aspect, who barely deserve the honour of being of the Legions’

  ‘My pardon, lord, I meant no such thing-‘

  ‘The affect comes too easily, Agathe. The White Scars are not lauded as champions the way the Imperial Fists or Guilliman’s Legion are.’

  ‘Or yours, lord.’

  ‘Or mine. The human public does not hero them, or worship them as saviours. They think them wild and uncivilised. I know better, and would urge you to remember that. It is a reductive attitude. The White Scars represent a greater third of the legionaries holding this siege. They have come to Terra willingly, to a warfare that is alien to their ancient axioms of combat. And without them, we would be lost already.’

  ‘Again, my pardon, lord.’

  Raldoron nodded.

  ‘We’ll say no more on it,’ he murmured. ‘Though, please watch for such attitudes among your soldiers. We must preserve a unity of respect. No, Agathe, my meaning was that, for all their shamanic lore, the Khan’s Stormseers are outclassed. Environmental conditions are not conducive to their particular psykanic methods. And, of course, what intelligence we have suggests they are facing the very worst of such adepts’

  ‘It’s confirmed, then?’ she asked.

  ‘No, but more than reasonably likely. The Pale King’s Fourteenth drives at us still, but the aetheric tribulation we are enduring is not then work. The damned sons of Magnus work some black art in support of them.’

  ‘The Thousand Sons,’ she whispered.

  ‘Several of their sorcerous captains have been reported, perhaps orchestrating this atrocity from a distance. Ahriman, for one, allegedly. Of all the Legions, lost or loyal, the Fifteenth were the ones who took the concept of the Librarius to its furthest degree, and made it the axle-beam of their doctrine.’

  ‘We are damned, then,’ she said.

  ‘They are damned, Agathe,’ said Raldoron. ‘We are merely doomed.’

  * * *

  Fo, in his fluttering little bird-voice, told them of ages long dead, of things Keeler knew as only broken histories. The air in the grim, squalid cell seemed to thicken, as though Old Night had come to visit them and hear its story told.

  ‘There were so many monsters in those days,’ Fo said, ‘towering monsters of pride and arrogance and ambition. Poor Terra did not seem big enough to hold them all. Leaders, kings, despots, tyrants. Your Emperor was only one of them. But I understood His malevolence even then. It was singular.’

  ‘I would caution your remarks,’ said Amon tersely.

  ‘Why?’ asked Fo, amused. ‘What are you going to do to me? Lock me in a dungeon and deprive me of liberty for the rest of my… Oh, wait.’

  ‘Let him speak, Custodian,’ said Keeler. ‘Let him say whatever he likes. They are only words. The subjects we are speaking to here in t
he Blackstone need to be free to express themselves, or we will learn nothing of value. If they fear recrimination or prosecution, they will close their mouths.’

  Fo was staring at them both, as though amused.

  ‘I do not understand the relationship between the two of you,’ he said. ‘Prisoner and escort, which would make you, Euphrati, some kind of recidivist like me. Except you have been granted powers of interview, and the golden killer there shows you courtesy.’

  ‘Who we are doesn’t-‘ Keeler began.

  ‘It matters to me,’ said Fo. ‘It’s clear you’re a prisoner too. Yet you have a modicum of power. And you are very much Him. I feel it in you. You are deeply loyal to the tyrant, yet you have committed some crime, which the pair of you skirt around.’

  ‘Please, sir-‘

  ‘Between you,’ Fo chortled, ‘you seem to be a perfect symbol of this Imperium of Mankind. The terrifying warrior, inhuman, regal in his adornment and unswerving in his severity, paired with you, a kindly voice of reason, protesting liberty of speech and freedom of expression, striving to obtain some truth. There were so many like you, Euphrati, back in the old days, at the start. Reasonable-looking people saying reasonable-sounding things, strident in their belief in the righteousness of your master… Yet always with a transhuman terror at your shoulder, eager to strike.’

  Keeler breathed deeply to retain her calm exterior.

  ‘What was singular about Him?’ she asked.

  ‘That? Oh,’ Fo said, making a diffident little shrug. ‘I think, Euphrati, I think the others knew their flaws. Or cared little about them. Tang of Yndonesse was a zealot, and knew it. The artifice of faith was his uniting weapon. Belot… is his name still remembered? He was a warlord, and his interests were territorial gain by any means. Dame Venal sought to claim resources for her impoverished land, and spiralled into madness as she saw her own cruelty magnify, as she pursued her goals in the name of her people. Dume, aha, Dume. He was mad. Quite mad. But he fought for the security of his realm. He wanted to be left alone. Or so he told me.’

  Fo ignored her expression.

  ‘But the Emperor,’ he went on. ‘Your Emperor. Do you know, He took that name before He had an empire? That’s weapons-grade hubris. I thought Him just another warlord at first, scrabbling for His share, but something stood out about Him. He was clever, of course. More than that. A genius. And that mind of His, which could not be contained. His rise was meteoric, and would have been under any circumstances. But the terrible thing about Him, the singular thing, was that He thought He was right. Never a shred of doubt. His confidence was unimaginable.’

  Fo shuffled back on his cot.

  ‘We were all monsters. I was, I know. But I just liked to play. I had an ability with genetics, with biomech systems. I would concoct things, just to see where they went. Sometimes that horrified people, and I gained an unfortunate reputation. But whatever I did, I never planned to conquer the planet. I never set out to unify. I had no great plan. I was just playing.’

  He looked at Keeler.

  ‘I fled Terra when I saw that He did. You would either be part of His plan, or you would be removed. I’m sorry… illuminated. I fancied neither.’

  ‘You fled Terra, because you knew you would be punished for your crimes,’ said Amon.

  ‘Yes. Certainly, by His terms. For the only law was His. I saw what was coming. He would unify, for He had the power to do it, and such a lack of self-doubt to never question His intention or His means. I am named a monster, because of the things I made, but look what He has made.’

  ‘An Imperium,’ said Keeler.

  ‘Built on the shoulders of genetic transhumans,’ said Fo. ‘Brought to compliance… ah, there’s another telling word… by abominations far worse than anything I ever devised. Transhuman abominations capable of burning the galaxy down. Do you doubt me? Behold the world outside.’

  ‘This is pointless,’ said Amon.

  ‘You would say that, warrior,’ said Fo fiercely. ‘For you are Him. A part of Him, of His mind, His will. I might as well be talking to Him, face to face, and He never – I mean never – took criticism. He would never be questioned. And you, dear girl, looking at me with those questioning eyes, so are you. A part of Him. You were not made that way, but you are filled with His power. You’ve allowed that to happen. You think of Him as a god.’

  ‘I know He…’ she began. Her voice dropped. ‘I know what I know.’

  ‘You know what He wants you to know, dear.’

  The Emperor has denied every attempt,’ she said carefully, ‘to apotheosise Him.’

  ‘Let me share a secret with you, Euphrati,’ said Fo, leaning forward, beckoning to her. ‘There are no gods. That’s the first thing. If there were, they would operate in silent and measureless mystery, their ways too sublime for us to perceive. But there are those who would have you believe they are gods. Who, I should say, want to be gods. And the first step they take to that end? They deny themselves. They assume a humble attitude and declare, “I am not a god… even though you might think 1 am.” It is a psychological pathway to foster faith. I saw Him begin it all those years ago. I knew that, one day, He would be proclaimed a god. He is, after all, immensely powerful. He will become a god whether He likes it or not. Godhood is the ultimate tool of control. It is the pinnacle of tyranny. Faith drives your followers. Blind faith. You no longer have to make any sense at all, no longer have to justify your actions. You are followed blindly. If, like Him, you do not care to be criticised or doubted, it is a state to be wished for.’

  ‘He has denied-‘ Keeler began.

  ‘Yet you still believe! This is my point! The more He denies it, the more you believe! You do not judge the fact that He is, at heart, human, you embrace the lack of fact, because blind faith comforts you. Tell me, does He tell you, any of you, what His plan is? His scheme?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There you go. Because then you would understand. Anything that is easy enough to understand is not powerful enough to be worshipped. A history of religion should show you this.’

  ‘The Emperor is different,’ she said.

  ‘Only in that He is more, Euphrati,’ said Fo. ‘More powerful than any version of this lie that’s come along before.’

  He sighed wearily, and pulled the filthy blanket of his cot up around his legs.

  ‘Mankind, in my experience,’ he said, ‘and I think we can at least accept I have more experience of it than most… Mankind has proven to be pathologically incapable of learning from its own mistakes. It blithely remembers the witness of history, but it does not apply the knowledge it gains. The Age of Strife was a terrible thing, inflicted by man upon man. Those few of us who lived through it, and survived it, no matter what part we played, no matter what crimes we committed, we all looked on it during the last years of its horror and said never again. Never again can we do this to ourselves. Yet, mere centuries later, Terra is about to fall, Terra and the galaxy with it, at the hands of engineered humans turning against their creator. This siege, your war, it is self-inflicted.’

  His head dropped.

  ‘We should be better than this,’ he said quietly. ‘We never learn.’

  ‘Earlier, you said you knew how to end this,’ said Keeler. ‘A… weapon?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fo. ‘I have had a great deal of time to ruminate. I could build a weapon that would end this war and remove the threat. I would require access to extensive and advanced laboratory facilities.’

  ‘What kind of weapon?’ asked Amon.

  ‘Biomechanical,’ said Fo.

  ‘What kind of weapon specifically?’ the Custodian growled.

  ‘Oh,’ said Fo, ‘one you really won’t like.’

  * * *

  The Neverborn had fallen silent, all at once, and very suddenly. An uneasy quiet filled the halls and gunblocks of Colossi. The only sounds were the creak of the voids and the endless buzzing of the flies.

 
Agathe thought it would be a relief when the noise finally stopped, but it seemed worse somehow. The silence pressed in, and she felt claustrophobic. They had all been left alone with their thoughts, and the things they had seen, the daemons at the wall, were memories that began to stew and fester. As she walked her tour circuit, she became aware of the increasing distress among the men. They had been on station for hours, choking under their hoods, hearing horror, seeing nothing. Now, the silence was stretching out their wait, carving away what was left of their confidence, sweating out their courage, magnifying their dread.

  ‘He needs to be more visible,’ she said, very directly, to Raldoron, when she encountered him on the Seventeenth Platform.

  ‘Meaning?’ Raldoron asked.

  ‘Meaning the Khan.’

  ‘He is in vox conference with the Grand Borealis,’ Raldoron replied. ‘Negotiating the safe delivery of munition resupply.’

  ‘Once he’s done, then,’ said Agathe. ‘The sight of him inspires confidence. He should be walking the lines. I do not make the same visual impact.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Can you ask him that?’

  ‘Yes, marshal. I can communicate your request.’

  First Captain Raldoron had brought three of the White Scars Stormseers with him. They waited in a silent group behind him.

  ‘We were coming to find you,’ said Raldoron. ‘The seers need access.’

  ‘To? For?’

  ‘As I understand it, they are formulating some new initiative to drive off the foe. But we need to see. To assess why the assault has fallen silent.’

  ‘The observation ports-‘

  ‘No, commander,’ said one of the seers. ‘The open. The wall top.’

  ‘With respect, lord, no,’ she replied. ‘We have sealed Colossi behind the voids. Closed the gas shutters. I can’t allow-‘

  ‘The Khan has requested it,’ said Raldoron.

  Agathe shrugged, clumsy in her gas-gear. ‘Then why even ask me?’ she said.