Plague Harvest

by Cavan Scott

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Roj shouted into the cab and slid down to the ground, crying out as his ankle gave way beneath him. He hit the ground, sending new waves of pain shooting through his body.

  But that didn’t matter. He needed to get to safety.

  He had no idea how he did it, limping through the flames. Instinct took over. One minute he was trapped in a world of black smoke and confusion and the next he was outside, the rain cooling his skin. He hobbled away from the shed, just as the first barrel went up, igniting the rest. The shed disintegrated into razor-sharp shards, a massive fireball rising majestically into the sky. The shockwave plucked Roj from his feet, throwing him clear of the blast. He rolled, broken stalks scratching his arm, his face, before finally coming to a halt, gasping for breath. When he looked up, the fire had already spread to the crop.

  He needed to get out of here, to get help. They could lose everything. In a daze, Roj scrambled to his feet and stumbled away from the blaze. As he fled, he was sure he could still hear Mattias singing in the heart of the fire.

  TWO

  Librarian Vabion of the Ultramarines soared above the fields of Orath, the wind rushing through his tightly cropped grey hair. Throwing his arms out wide, he allowed himself to be lost in the moment, raising his head against the warmth of the sun. He was happy, truly happy, the sweet smell of the countryside filling his lungs.

  A shadow crossed in front of the sun.

  Vabion opened his eyes, glancing down at the crops. As he watched, the stalks withered, seeds flying from rotten pods. A song wafted over the breeze, discordant, incongruous – and Vabion was falling, the sorghum rushing up to greet him, the stink of death choking him as he fell. Crying out, he threw up his arms to break his fall, preparing for the inevitable crack of bones as he smacked into the ground…

  Vabion jolted in his seat, his eyes snapping open behind his helm. He was back above the fields of Orath, not flying through the sky as in his vision, but safe in the confines of a Land Speeder.

  ‘Sir, are you well?’

  The Librarian turned to face the owner of the voice. The Space Marine’s power armour was polished silver, a skull-headed raptor emblazoned across an oversized pauldron – the livery of the Doom Eagles, his current companions here on Orath.

  ‘Quite well, thank you Brother Ritan,’ Vabion replied, keeping his voice steady.

  ‘You cried out,’ Ritan informed him, obviously unwilling to let the matter drop. Who did the steersman think he was talking to? Vabion was an Ultramarine with 600 years of experience. The Doom Eagle had yet to reach his second century. He needed to show some respect.

  ‘I suggest you concentrate on piloting this Speeder, brother.’

  The Doom Eagle fell into a brooding silence. He had some sense at least. Besides, Vabion had more to worry about than an impertinent pup. The veracity of his vision had unsettled him. Where had it come from? One minute he had been meditating, using the journey from Fort Garm to commune with the Emperor, and the next…

  In all his years, Vabion had never experienced something so vivid.

  ‘Coming up on the listening post, Ritan.’

  A voice crackled over the vox, broadcast automatically through Vabion’s helm. The Librarian looked up, watching the towers of Fort Kerberos, his home for more than two centuries, loom into view.

  ‘Yes, I see it Kerna,’ Ritan snapped back, gunning the engine just a fraction more. ‘You are cleared to proceed.’

  ‘Good of you to say so.’

  The vox cut off.

  ‘One day, Kerna…’ Ritan muttered beneath his breath. The Space Marine’s meaning was obvious.

  ‘You do not like Brother Kerna, do you, Ritan?’ Vabion observed, enjoying the way the Doom Eagle shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘He is a good warrior,’ Ritan replied, gunning the engine slightly.

  ‘Which doesn’t answer my question.’

  Ritan just glowered ahead.

  ‘I’ve seen many Space Marines pass through these garrisons, Ritan. A new squadron every six months, different Chapters every time.’

  ‘It must be fascinating,’ Ritan rumbled, his sarcasm obvious.

  ‘It is,’ Vabion insisted, a smile playing across his lips. ‘The chance to work alongside so many Chapters is rare. You see the differences as well as the similarities. The tenacity of the Aurora, the piety of the White Consuls. All born of Ultramar, all following their own path. And then there’s your own Chapter, The Doom Eagles of Gathis II.’

  ‘What of us?’ Ritan bristled.

  ‘So pragmatic, so driven. Your acceptance of your own mortality is extraordinary.’

  ‘Only in accepting the inevitable can we find strength,’ Ritan growled, recalling the litanies learnt as a neophyte. ‘Only through death can we live.’

  Vabion nodded. ‘Indeed. And your doctrines also speak of detaching yourself from glory, honour and jealousy, do they not?’ He let silence reign for a second or two, before adding: ‘You could learn much from Kerna.’

  ‘As I have said, he is a…’

  ‘…good warrior, yes,’ Vabion interrupted, ‘but he has seen much. In the short time I have known Kerna, I’ve realised that his only ambition is to serve.’

  ‘We are Doom Eagles,’ Ritan insisted flatly. ‘We exist only to spare others from grief.’

  Yes, thought Vabion ruefully, and you must think me as green as a new recruit. Your service is no vocation, Ritan. It is a career. You long for prestige, nothing more. That is why your tour of duty here on Orath is such torture, so far from the glory of battle. But your presence here is vital, whether you believe it or not.

  Vabion expected Ritan to sit fuming at his controls, put firmly in his place, but the young Doom Eagle surprised him: ‘May I ask you a question, Librarian?’

  It depends what it is, Vabion considered.

  ‘Of course, Brother.’

  ‘Why Orath?’

  Vabion answered the question with a sharp laugh. Over two hundred years of serving on the planet and no one had dared asked him the question. Perhaps there was more to this cub after all.

  He turned to regard his brother. ‘Why would an Ultramarine allow himself to be stationed on a distant agri-world for two centuries? Well, Orath may be distant, but the listening posts located at Forts Garm and Kerberos offer great strategic value.’

  How easily the lies came after all this time.

  ‘As you know, I monitor and analyse any communications we intercept, looking for patterns, key phrases.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Ritan interjected, ‘but you fought at the battle of Necran against the Tyranid Hive, the siege of Ashira.’

  ‘To reclaim the reliquary of Marius Gage. That was a good battle.’

  ‘Good? It has already passed into legend. The advance of the Fifth across the Janivan pass. Thousands of greenskins slaughtered.’

  ‘You have done your research, Brother Ritan.’

  ‘Your reputation precedes you, Librarian – and yet you give it all up to become permanent custodian of two listening posts.’

  Vabion’s eyes climbed the array of auguries that stretched before them. ‘We do our duty, wherever that leads us.’

  Now it was Ritan’s turn to doubt his companion’s words.

  ‘And why a revolving garrison of Space Marines? Why not station Imperial Guards here?’

  Vabion’s smile faded. He knew he should not have started this, should not have baited the Doom Eagle. A mistake. Once the questions began, they would never stop. Let Ritan think what he will. Let him consider Vabion’s posting to Orath a punishment for some past indiscretion, but let it drop.

  ‘Why waste the resources…’

  Vabion raised a hand, gazing out on the swaying crops. ‘Orath provides an opportunity for training. For contemplation.’

  As far as he was concerned t
he conversation was over, although Ritan obviously thought differently: ‘What do Space Marines need with…’

  Vabion talked over him, noticing something in the distance. ‘Ritan, break off from your approach.’

  ‘What?’ his battle-brother replied. ‘I was about to request for the gates to open.’

  ‘The gates can wait. We need to sweep the area around the bastion. No more than a kilometre from the battlements.’

  ‘Librarian,’ Ritan began, his frustration barely kept in check. ‘Sergeant Artorius is expecting…’

  Vabion thumbed the vox-bead on the side of his helm.

  ‘Vabion to Kerberos, we are performing a visual check of the fort’s vicinity. Please inform Sergeant Artorius that we will be delayed.’

  ‘Message received, Vabion,’ came the response. ‘Do you require assistance?’

  ‘Negative,’ the Librarian replied abruptly, scanning the horizon even as the Land Speeder banked to the right. ‘Vabion out.’

  ‘What are we looking for?’ Ritan asked, accepting the new orders with little grace but, thankfully, no further argument.

  ‘I will know when I see it,’ replied Vabion, praying to the Emperor that he was wrong.

  The murmur of Space Marines at prayer echoed through Fort Kerberos. As he walked the hushed corridors of the central keep, Brother Meleki wondered if the tower had been designed so that the sounds of devotions would travel along the low vaulted ceilings, to remind the faithful of why they served. He certainly had never experienced a place like this, his squad’s home for the next six months. Such a sizeable fortress for so few occupants. Of course, he hadn’t questioned the posting – unlike Ritan, who had as always made his feelings known.

  ‘I do not understand why we are here,’ Meleki’s battle-brother had announced during maintenance rituals on their first day on Orath. ‘Blasphemous forces swarm across the Imperium, threatening to overrun entire systems, and they send us here. A paltry world in an insignificant corner of the galaxy.’

  ‘Orath is a lot of things, but insignificant is not one of them,’ Kerna had argued, beginning to strip his bolter in the armoury. ‘Cereal production running to millions of acres. Livestock farming on an industrial scale.’

  Ritan had rolled his eyes.

  ‘The Imperial Guard relies on the supplies from this paltry world,’ Kerna had concluded.

  ‘Then why doesn’t the Guard protect it?’ Ritan spat in response.

  Meleki had watched his brothers quarrel in silence. At two hundred years, Ritan was barely older than himself, but Kerna had seen centuries of battle. A livid scar, slashed across his face, twisted his mouth into a permanent grin. He wore it well, a reminder that a battle could be lost with a moment’s hesitation – a lesson that the ork responsible for the injury had learnt to its cost.

  Meleki knew that some of the younger Space Marines in the Fists of the Fallen found Kerna’s frozen expression unsettling. Many who rose up the ranks of the Eighth Company believed that a smile had no place on the face of a Doom Eagle. A smile spoke of joy. Frivolity. Anathema to the Scions of Gathis II. Doom Eagles were born of loss, forged by the realisation that all things – including their own existence – must come to an end. Even though he had only recently been promoted from the Scout corps, Meleki was fully aware that other Chapters viewed them as fatalists, obsessed with their own extinction. That was not true. Yes, a Doom Eagle was fully aware that death may strike at any moment, but this realisation only served to empower them. Oblivion held no sway over them. They embraced the long shadow of their own mortality. Turned it against their enemies.

  When you acknowledged that life was finite, your need to serve burned all the stronger. Every second of every minute of every hour was important – vital. Nothing could be wasted, so that when you finally fell you knew your life had been worthwhile.

  Meleki understood this was the reason Ritan grumbled as he ran through his weapon checks. It wasn’t heresy or insubordination, but impatience. He was eager to prove his devotion.

  The same desire burned deep in his own chest, but Meleki accepted that it wasn’t his place to analyse every posting, no matter how unusual. Doom Eagles served. Doom Eagles died. That was the way of things.

  ‘Use this time,’ Sergeant Artorius had advised during their first briefing. ‘Learn how to work as a unit, to understand how each of your battle-brothers operate. Discover each other’s strengths so that we endure no weakness.’

  Even then Ritan had complained, under his breath, of course. Even he wouldn’t dare question the sergeant.

  Artorius’s briefing had provided all the information they needed to know. ‘The squad is split between two permanent garrisons,’ he explained, a hololith of the planet hovering behind him, ‘Fort Kerberos, here in the north, and Fort Garm in the southern hemisphere.’

  Even the position of the bastions was peculiar. If Meleki could dig through the centre of the planet, he would emerge in Fort Garm. The citadels were the perfect mirror images of each other – hangars, dormitories, weapon stores and apothecarions surrounding a central keep festooned with augury arrays.

  ‘Each fort is maintained by five Space Marines, two pilots and one Techmarine,’ Artorius had continued, acknowledging Brother Jerius, the red-armoured giant standing at the back of the company. ‘I will be stationed here at Kerberos, but will travel between the two bases to monitor progress.’

  ‘And what of the Ultramarine?’ Ritan piped up, drawing a glare from Kerna.

  ‘Librarian Vabion has his work and we have ours.’ The sergeant’s tone informed Ritan that there would be no more questions. ‘At times, you may be assigned to accompany him back and forth from Garm.’

  ‘To protect him from what?’ Sedeca, another of their number, had muttered, not wanting to attract the sergeant’s attention.

  ‘Boredom probably,’ Ritan had answered. ‘That’s all this place will bring.’

  Only if we have to listen to your whinging, Meleki had thought, but kept his mouth shut. No use in making enemies in his own squad.

  The murmured devotions mixed with a chorus of clicks and beeps as Meleki approached the Listening Chamber. Here the data from the auguries was gathered and processed. The listening posts on Orath monitored communication channels, the servitors slaved to the cogitators in the Chamber searching for key phrases and suspicious patterns.

  They weren’t alone. Techmarine Jerius was also in the Chamber, hard at work at one of the many consoles that lined the room. Glyphs from the displays reflected against the Techmarine’s dark red helm. Meleki had never seen Jerius’s face. No one had, save maybe Kerna and Sergeant Artorius. As always there were stories – that the Thunderhawk crash that had taken both the Techmarine’s legs had also ravaged his countenance so badly that Jerius chose to hide it beneath the helm. Meleki gave the rumour little credence. Such affectation smacked of vanity, which was not part of the Techmarine’s make-up. Jerius was as black and white as they came, living his life to the letter of the codex; no deviation, no compromise. It was more likely that the Techmarine didn’t remove his helm because he considered it a waste of time and energy. Why remove something you might need at a moment’s notice, even here in a half-deserted bastion?

  ‘Brother Jerius,’ Meleki began, barely even noticing the lines of servitors silently toiling away over their consoles, ‘it is time for our training session.’

  Jerius didn’t acknowledge Meleki’s presence. There was no malice in the act; the Techmarine simply hadn’t finished the task at hand. From what little Meleki knew about the augury systems, the Techmarine was running a diagnosis check on the main mast. He had manually realigned the surveyors before morning firing rites and was ensuring that the cogitators were receiving the correct data streams.

  Finally, when satisfied, Jerius turned to his younger battle-brother.

  ‘You are early,’ he stated, his flat delivery neit
her suggesting that this was desirable nor an inconvenience.

  ‘I could return later,’ Meleki replied.

  ‘No,’ Jerius simply said, rising to his feet, servo-arms folding automatically behind him. ‘It is time.’

  Meleki’s gaze fell across the servitors. ‘Has there been any unusual activity?’

  ‘Negative,’ Jerius said, double-checking the display he had been using. ‘Interplanetary traffic within acceptable parameters.’

  His work in the chamber done, Jerius started for the entrance, the motors in his mechanical legs whirring softly with every step. Legend had it that Jerius had designed his replacement limbs himself. Meleki could well believe it. The Techmarine was forever upgrading his augmetics, making adjustments, replacing components. The Techmarine’s work was never done. He could always find something to improve, which was exactly why Meleki had been pleased when Jerius agreed to walk him through the workings of the Stormtalons. He couldn’t ask for a better teacher.

  Meleki started after the Techmarine. ‘Today we examine the targeting array?’

  ‘One of the primary systems on any gunship,’ Jerius replied. ‘A pilot cannot rely on automated auspex alone. If a fault developed–’

  Jerius was cut off as a black-cloaked serf appeared around the corner of the corridor and barrelled straight into the Techmarine.

  ‘A t-thousand apologies, my lord,’ the serf stammered, wincing in anticipation of a blow that never came.

  ‘Look where you are going,’ Jerius snapped, no doubt glowering behind his helm.

  The serf bowed low. ‘I will, sir. You have my word.’

  ‘I would rather a clear path,’ Jerius barked and the serf, realising he was still stupidly standing in the Techmarine’s way, nearly tripped on his cloak as he scampered to the side.

  ‘I am sorry, my lord.’

  Jerius didn’t respond, but marched off, pistons hissing with typical efficiency.

  Meleki stopped to regard the serf. ‘What is your name?’

  A look of panic flashed across the serf’s sallow features.

  ‘F-falk, my lord,’ he stuttered.