False Gods

by Graham McNeill

  ‘Yes you are.’

  ‘Well, maybe I am, but I have to get back to the Dies Irae before I’m missed. Princeps Turnet will have my hide if he finds out what I’ve been doing here.’

  The mighty war engines of the Legio Mortis stood sentinel over the Warmaster at the mouth of the valley, their bulk too enormous to allow them to enter. The crater looked more like the site of a military muster than a gathering of pilgrims and supplicants: tanks, trucks, flatbeds and mobile command vehicles having carried tens of thousands of people to this place over the past seven days.

  Together with the bizarre-looking locals, a huge portion of the Expeditionary fleet filled the crater with makeshift camps all around the Delphos. People had, in a wondrous outpouring of spontaneous feeling, made their way to where the Warmaster lay, and the scale of it still had the power to take Euphrati’s breath away. The steps of the temple were thick with offerings to the Warmaster, and she knew that many of the people here had given all they had in the hope that it might speed his recovery in some way.

  Keeler had a new passion in her life, but she was still an imagist at heart, and some of the picts she had taken here were amongst her finest work.

  ‘Yes, you’re right, we should go,’ she said, folding up her picter and hanging it around her neck. She ran her hand through her hair, still not used to how short it was now, but liking how it made her feel.

  ‘Have you thought about what you’re going to say tonight?’ asked Cassar as they made their way through the thronged site to the prayer meeting.

  ‘No, not really,’ she answered. ‘I never plan that far ahead. I just let the Emperor’s light fill me and then I speak from the heart.’

  Cassar nodded, hanging on her every word. She smiled.

  ‘You know, six months ago, I’d have laughed if anyone had said things like that around me.’

  ‘What things?’ asked Cassar.

  ‘About the Emperor,’ she said, fingering the silver eagle on a chain she kept tucked beneath her remembrancer’s robes. ‘But I guess a lot can happen to a person in that time.’

  ‘I guess so,’ agreed Cassar, making way for a group of Army soldiers. ‘The Emperor’s light is a powerful force, Euphrati.’

  As Keeler and Cassar drew level with the soldiers, a thick-necked bull of a man with a shaved head, slammed his shoulder into Cassar and pitched him to the ground.

  ‘Hey, watch where you’re going,’ snarled the soldier, looming over Cassar.

  Keeler stood over the fallen Cassar and shouted, ‘Piss off, you cretin, you hit him!’

  The soldier turned, backhanding his fist into Euphrati’s jaw, and she dropped to the ground, more shocked than hurt. She struggled to rise as blood filled her mouth, but a pair of hands gripped her shoulders and held her firm to the ground. Two soldiers held her down as the others started kicking the fallen Cassar.

  ‘Get off me!’ she yelled.

  ‘Shut up, bitch!’ said the first soldier. ‘You think we don’t know what you’re doing? Prayers and stuff to the Emperor? Horus is the one you should be giving thanks to.’

  Cassar rolled to his knees, blocking the kicks as best he could, but he was facing three trained soldiers and couldn’t block them all. He punched one in the groin and swayed away from a thick-soled boot aimed at his head, finally gaining his feet as a chopping hand struck him on the side of the neck.

  Keeler struggled in her captors’ grip, but they were too strong. One man reached down to tear the picter from around her neck and she bit his wrist as it came into range of her teeth. He yelped and ripped the picter from her as the other wrenched her head back by the roots of her hair.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ she screamed, struggling even harder as the soldier swung the picter by its strap and smashed it to pieces on the ground. Cassar was down on one knee, his face bloody and angry. He freed his pistol from its holster, but a knee connected with his face and knocked him insensible, the pistol clattering to the ground beside him.

  ‘Titus!’ shouted Keeler, fighting like a wildcat and finally managing to free one arm. She reached back and clawed her nails down the face of the man who held her. He screamed and released his grip on her, and she scrambled on her knees to the fallen pistol.

  ‘Get her!’ someone shouted. ‘Emperor loving witch!’

  She reached the pistol, hearing the thud of heavy impacts, and rolled onto her back. She held the gun out in front of her, ready to kill the next bastard that came near her.

  Then she saw that she wouldn’t have to kill anyone.

  Three of the soldiers were down, one was running for his life through the campsite and the last was held in the iron grip of an Astartes warrior. The soldier’s feet flailed a metre off the ground as the Astartes held him round the neck with one hand.

  ‘Five to one doesn’t seem very sporting now does it?’ asked the warrior, and Keeler saw that it was Captain Torgaddon, one of the Mournival. She remembered snapping some fine images of Torgaddon on the Vengeful Spirit and thinking that he was the handsomest of the Sons of Horus.

  Torgaddon ripped the name and unit badge from the struggling soldier’s uniform, before dropping him and saying, ‘You’ll be hearing from the Discipline Masters. Now get out of my sight before I kill you.’

  Keeler dropped the pistol and scooted over to her picter, cursing as she saw that it and the images contained within it were probably ruined. She pawed through the remains and lifted out the memory coil. If she could get this into the edit engine she kept in her billet quickly enough then perhaps she could save some of the images.

  Cassar groaned in pain and she felt a momentary pang of guilt that she’d gone for her smashed picter before him, but it soon passed.

  ‘Are you Keeler?’ asked Torgaddon as she slipped the memory coil into her robes.

  She looked up, surprised that he knew her name, and said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, offering his hand to help her to her feet. ‘You want to tell me what that was all about?’ he asked.

  She hesitated, not wanting to tell an Astartes warrior the real reason for the assault. ‘I don’t think they liked the images I was taking,’ she said.

  ‘Everyone’s a critic, eh?’ chuckled Torgaddon, but she could see that he didn’t believe her.

  ‘Yeah, but I need to get back to the ship to recover them.’

  ‘Well that’s a happy coincidence,’ said Torgaddon.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been asked to take you back to the Vengeful Spirit.’

  ‘You have? Why?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ asked Torgaddon. ‘You’re coming back with me.’

  ‘You can at least tell me who wants me back, can’t you?’

  ‘No, it’s top secret.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, not really, it’s Kyril Sindermann.’

  The idea of Sindermann sending an Astartes warrior to do his bidding seemed ludicrous to Keeler, and there could only be one reason why the venerable iterator wanted to speak to her. Ignace or Mersadie must have blabbed to him about her new faith, and she felt her anger grow at their unwillingness to understand her newfound truth.

  ‘So the Astartes are at the beck and call of the iterators now?’ she snapped.

  ‘Hardly,’ said Torgaddon. ‘It’s a favour to a friend and I think it might be in your own best interests to go back.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions, Miss Keeler,’ said Torgaddon, ‘and while that’s a trait that probably stands you in good stead as a remembrancer, it might be best for you to be quiet and listen for a change.’

  ‘Am I in trouble?’

  Torgaddon stirred the smashed remnants of her picter with his boot and said, ‘Let’s just say that someone wants to give you some lessons in pictography.’

  ‘THE EMPEROR KNEW he would need the greatest warriors to lead his armies,’ began Sejanus. ‘To lead such warriors as the Astartes needed commanders like gods. Commanders who were virtually i
ndestructible and could command superhuman warriors in the blink of an eye. They would be engineered to be leaders of men, mighty warlords whose martial prowess was only matched by the Emperor’s, each with his own particular skills.’

  ‘The primarchs.’

  ‘Indeed. Only beings of such magnitude could even think of conquering the galaxy. Can you imagine the hubris and will required even to contemplate such an endeavor? What manner of man could even consider it? Who but a primarch could be trusted with such a monumental task? No man, not even the Emperor, could achieve such a god-like undertaking alone. Hence you were created.’

  ‘To conquer the galaxy for humanity,’ said Horus.

  ‘No, not for humanity, for the Emperor,’ said Sejanus. ‘You already know in your heart what awaits you when the Great Crusade is over. You will become a gaoler who polices the Emperor’s regime while he ascends to godhood and abandons you all. What sort of reward is that for someone who conquered the galaxy?’

  ‘It is no reward at all,’ snarled Horus, hammering his hand into the side of the silver tank before him. The metal buckled and a hairline crack split the toughened glass under his assault. He could hear a desperate drumming from inside, and a hiss of escaping gas whined from the frosted panel of the tank.

  ‘Look around you, Horus,’ said Sejanus. ‘Do you think that the science of man alone could have created a being such as a primarch? If such technology existed, why not create a hundred Horuses, a thousand? No, a bargain was made that saw you emerge from its forging. I know, for the masters of the warp are as much your father as the Emperor.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Horus. ‘I won’t believe you. The primarchs are my brothers, the Emperor’s sons created from his own flesh and blood and each a part of him.’

  ‘Each a part of him, yes, but where did such power come from? He bargained with the gods of the warp for a measure of their power. That is what he invested in you, not his paltry human power.’

  ‘The gods of the warp? What are you talking about, Sejanus?’

  ‘The entities whose realm is being destroyed by the Emperor,’ said Sejanus. ‘Intelligences, xenos creatures, gods? Does it matter what terminology we use for them? They have such incredible power that they might as well be gods by your reckoning. They command the secrets of life and death and all that lies between. Experience, change, war and decay, they are all are part of the endless cycle of existence, and the gods of the warp hold dominion over them all. Their power flows through your veins and bestows incredible abilities upon you. The Emperor has long known of them and he came to them many centuries ago, offering friendship and devotion.’

  ‘He would never do such a thing!’ denied Horus.

  ‘You underestimate his lust for power, my friend,’ said Sejanus as they made their way back towards the steps that led down to the laboratory floor. ‘The gods of the warp are powerful, but they do not understand this material universe, and the Emperor was able to betray them, stealing away their power for himself. In creating you, he passed on but a tiny measure of that power.’

  Horus felt his breath come in short, painful bursts. He wanted to deny Sejanus’s words, but part of him knew that this was no lie. Like any man, his future was uncertain, but his past had always been his own. His glories and life had been forged with his own two hands, but even now, they were being stripped away from him by the Emperor’s treachery.

  ‘So we are tainted,’ whispered Horus. ‘All of us.’

  ‘Tainted, no,’ said Sejanus, shaking his head. ‘The power of the warp simply is. Used wisely and by a man of power it can be a weapon like no other. It can be mastered and it can be a powerful tool for one with the will to use it.’

  ‘Then why did the Emperor not use it well?’

  ‘Because he was weak,’ said Sejanus, leaning in close to Horus. ‘Unlike you, he lacked the will to master it, and the gods of the warp do not take kindly to those who betray them. The Emperor had taken a measure of their power for himself, but they struck back at him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You will see. With the power he stole from them, he was too powerful for them to attack directly, but they had foreseen a measure of his plans and they struck at what he needed most to realise those plans.’

  ‘The primarchs?’

  ‘The primarchs,’ agreed Sejanus, walking back down the length of walkway. Horus heard distant sirens blare and felt the air within the chamber become more agitated, as if a cold electric current whipped from molecule to molecule.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, as the sirens grew louder.

  ‘Justice,’ said Sejanus.

  The reflective surfaces of the tanks lit up as an actinic blue light appeared above them, and Horus looked up to see a blob of dirty light swirling into existence just below the ceiling. Like a miniature galaxy, it hung suspended above the silver incubation tanks, growing larger with every passing second. A powerful wind tugged at Horus and he hung onto the railing as a shrieking howl issued from the spreading vortex above him.

  ‘What is that?’ he shouted, working his way along the railing towards the stairs. ‘You know what it is, Horus,’ said Sejanus.

  ‘We have to get out of here.’

  ‘It’s too late for that,’ said Sejanus, taking his arm in an iron grip.

  ‘Take your hand off me, Sejanus,’ warned Horus, ‘or whatever your name is. I know you’re not Sejanus, so you might as well stop pretending.’

  Even as he spoke, he saw a group of armoured warriors rushing through the chamber’s doorway towards them. There were six of them, each with the build of an Astartes, but without a suit of battle plate, they were less bulked out and gigantic. They wore fabulously ornate gold breastplates decorated with eagles and lightning bolts, and each wore a tall, peaked helm of bronze with a red, horsehair plume. Scarlet cloaks billowed behind them in the cyclone that swept through the chamber. Long spears with boltguns slung beneath long, crackling blades were aimed at him, and he instantly recognised the warriors for what they were – the Custodian Guard, the Praetorians of the Emperor himself.

  ‘Halt, fiends and face thy judgement!’ shouted the lead warrior, aiming his guardian spear at Horus’s heart. Though the warrior wore an enclosing helm, Horus would have recognised his eyes and that voice anywhere.

  ‘Valdor!’ cried Horus. ‘Constantin Valdor. It’s me, it’s Horus.’

  ‘Be silent!’ shouted Valdor. ‘End this foul conjuration now!’

  Horus looked up at the ceiling, feeling the power contained within that swirling maelstrom tugging at him like the call of a long lost friend. He forced its siren song from his mind, dropped to the floor of the chamber and took a step forward.

  Popping blasts of light erupted from the Custodians’ spears, and Horus was forced to his knees by the hammering impacts of their shells. The howling gale swallowed the noise of the shots, and Horus cried out, not with pain, but with the knowledge that fellow warriors of the Imperium had fired upon him.

  More blasts struck him, tearing great chunks from his armour, but none was able to defeat its protection. The Custodians advanced in disciplined ranks, pouring their fire into him and keeping him pinned beneath its weight. Sejanus ducked behind the stairs, sparks and smoking chunks ripping from the metal as the explosive bolts tore through it.

  Horus roared in anger and surged to his feet, all thoughts of restraint forgotten as he found himself at the centre of the deafening storm. A bolt clipped his gorget and almost spun him around, but it was not enough to stop him. He ripped the guardian spear from the nearest Custodian and smashed his skull to splinters with a single blow from his fist.

  He reversed his grip on the spear and slashed the next Custodian from collarbone to groin, the two shorn halves swept up by the howling winds and vanishing into the crackling vortex. Another Custodian died as Horus rammed the spear through his chest and split him in two.

  A blade lanced for his head, but he shattered it with a swipe of his fist and ripped the arm from his attack
er with casual ease. Another Custodian died as Horus tore his head off in his mighty fist, blood gushing from the neck, as if from a geyser, as he tossed the severed head aside.

  Only Valdor remained, and Horus snarled as he rounded on the Chief Custodian. A blaze of light erupted from the barrel of Valdor’s guardian spear. Horus grunted at the impacts and raised his fist to strike Valdor down, hearing metal squeal and tear as the force of the hurricane reaching from the vortex above finally achieved its goal.

  Horus paused in his attack, suddenly terrified for the fate of those inside the tanks. He turned and saw one tank spewing gasses and screams as it was ripped from the ground, following others as they were torn from their moorings and swept upwards.

  Then time stopped and a blinding light filled the chamber.

  Horus felt warm honey flow through him, and he turned towards the source of the light: a shimmering golden giant of unimaginable majesty and beauty.

  Horus dropped to his knees in rapture at the sight. Who would not strive to worship so perfect a being? Power and certainty flowed from the figure, the secret mystery of creation at his fingertips, the answers to any question that could be asked there for the knowing, and the wisdom to know how to use them.

  He wore armour that gleamed a perfect gold, his features impossible to know, and his glory and power unmatched by any being in creation.

  The golden warrior moved as though in slow motion, raising his hand to halt the madness of the vortex with a gesture. The maelstrom was silenced, the tumbling incubation tanks suspended in mid air.

  The golden figure turned a puzzled gaze upon Horus.

  ‘I know you?’ he said, and Horus wept to hear such a perfect symphony of sound.

  ‘Yes,’ said Horus, unable to raise his voice above a whisper.

  The giant cocked his head to one side and said, ‘You would destroy my great works, but you will not succeed. I beg you, turn from this path or all will be lost.’

  Horus reached out towards the golden warrior as he turned his sad gaze to the incubation tanks held motionless above him, weighing the consequences of future events in the blink of an eye.