Garro

by James Swallow

  Garro remained silent for a long moment. When the Death Guard had turned from the Emperor, he and seventy other legionaries had commandeered the cruiser Eisenstein and escaped the horrors that followed. Months had passed since that day, but it seemed like an eternity. Garro had carried word of the insurrection, holding tightly to his oath to Emperor and Throne, but he had been judged by many for the deeds of his wayward primarch, and tainted with suspicion. The same suspicion that burned in Khorarinn’s eyes.

  ‘And this is why Malcador sent me here. To pass judgement upon them?’

  The Custodian frowned. ‘Given your experience, he considers your insight to carry some weight. You are to assist me in the evaluation of these refugees, but their ultimate fate will be decided by the Council of Terra.’

  There was no doubt in Garro’s mind that whatever the full scope of his orders were, the Custodian had already categorised the new arrivals as a threat. ‘You don’t trust them.’

  ‘I trust nothing but the Emperor’s word. This schism created by Horus means we no longer have the prospect of any other conviction. Insurrection corrodes such bonds.’ The Custodian fixed him with a gaze that shone with icy fire. ‘A battle line has been drawn across the galaxy. Anyone who comes from the Warmaster’s side is an enemy until proven otherwise.’

  ‘Do I fall within that description?’ demanded Garro. ‘Do you consider me unreliable because my former Legion betrayed the Emperor?’

  ‘You begin to understand.’ Khorarinn eyed him coldly.

  Garro met his gaze. ‘I am no traitor.’

  ‘History will judge that, just as these exiles will be judged. The Warmaster is a cunning enemy. It would be like him to send ships under cover of such a ruse, so he might infiltrate spies into the heart of the Imperium. His invasion is coming, Garro. It is unstoppable, like my hatred for his treachery.’ Khorarinn recovered the capsule and the hololith stuttered. He turned to leave, then hesitated. ‘While we speak, one other matter must be aired. The witch-mind, Rubio.’

  Garro scowled at the insulting descriptor. ‘Brother Rubio is a legionary. A Codicier–’

  ‘Such a rank no longer exists within the Legiones Astartes,’ Khorarinn broke in. ‘Malcador may have given you permission to flout the Emperor’s edict, but I will not tolerate it.’ He raised a mailed hand and pointed at the legionary. ‘Know this. If Rubio uses his damned powers in my presence, I will put him down.’

  Khorarinn strode away, leaving the open threat hanging in the air.

  Four

  Faithless

  Gathering the lost

  The Mistral

  ‘Those were his exact words?’

  Garro nodded. ‘The esteemed Custodian is not one to leave ambiguity in his statements.’

  Rubio grimaced, turning to glare out of the window of the cabin. ‘Khorarinn has no right to give me orders. He’s an arrogant martinet.’

  ‘The same has been said of the warriors of the Thirteenth Legion, in the past,’ offered Garro.

  Rubio rounded on him. ‘But I am not an Ultramarine, am I? I’m like you now. Knight Errant, a ghost in armour.’

  ‘True,’ said Garro. ‘But for now, stay out of his way. We are called to work with him, so we will. Khorarinn’s personal prejudices will cloud his judgement, so it is important we keep our own focus clear.’ Returning to the spartan quarters he and the Codicier had been granted aboard the Nolandia, Garro had relayed the scope of his conversation with the Custodian to Rubio. Like the former Death Guard, Rubio was troubled by what the revelation of the Daggerline and its ragtag fleet represented.

  The younger warrior paged through the contents of a data-slate, examining sensor reports from the first contact with the refugees. ‘This matter is more complex than it first appears. Look here. If this data is correct, the refugee ships have far more civilians on board than military personnel. Non-combatants, Garro. Men and women, families fleeing the collapse of Imperial rule before the Warmaster’s advance. These are the people we are oath-sworn to protect.’

  ‘I do not disagree. But Khorarinn does not see such delineations. In his eyes, all aboard those ships, whether they be Space Marines or base humans, are equally dangerous.’

  When Rubio spoke again, he was grim-faced. ‘Earlier, as I walked the corridors, I… overheard members of the Nolandia’s bridge crew discussing the mission. At the time I had no context for their words, but now I do. They spoke of Khorarinn, of how he has set actions in motion. He has already decided how this mission will play out.’

  Garro folded his arms across his chest. ‘Explain.’

  Rubio sighed. ‘The Custodian has placed standing orders with the shipmaster and the gunnery commander. A “zero option” to be employed if circumstances demand it.’

  ‘Again, he exceeds his remit.’ Garro’s jaw hardened.

  ‘If the Daggerline or any other of the refugee ships poses a threat, the Nolandia has been granted authority to destroy it, and every other vessel in the fleet.’

  ‘That would be a massacre,’ snapped the legionary. ‘The Nolandia is a Retribution-class battleship, a burner of worlds. A single frigate and a handful of freight barges would stand no chance against it.’ Garro’s blood ran cold as he remembered his own flight from rebellion aboard the Eisenstein and the moment his ship fell beneath the shadow of the great Phalanx. With someone like Khorarinn in command, he might never have lived to deliver his warning to the Imperium.

  Could it be that the Council of Terra were so afraid that they would be willing to let the Custodian kill a hundred thousand innocents, rather than risk the infiltration of a single spy? The question was chilling. It went against everything in the spirit of the Emperor’s bright, shining Imperium.

  ‘We cannot allow that to happen,’ said Garro firmly.

  ‘And yet…’ Rubio seemed unwilling to say the words. ‘There is a chance Khorarinn is right.’

  ‘A chance, Rubio. Not a certainty. This is the Imperium of Mankind, this is the domain of Sol and the Throneworld. We do not take life without cause. We draw the sword in necessity, in truth. We do not kill out of blind fear and prejudice!’

  The Codicier was silent for a long moment before he spoke again. ‘The rebellion is changing many things.’

  In the silence of the void, the Nolandia drew to a halt, station-keeping thrusters firing in great jets to place it abeam of the Daggerline and the exile flotilla. The battleship’s cannons swung into ready position with careful menace, dozens of domed turrets drawing clear firing solutions on the leading vessels.

  As a show of force, it was a theatrical gesture, but nevertheless a serious and uncompromising threat. The refugee ships had been corralled in this same zone of far-orbit space for some time, hemmed in by a cluster of gunship drones that tracked their every move. The arrival of the Nolandia and the aiming of its weapons only served to underline what the fleet captains already knew. For all intents and purposes, they were prisoners.

  The Daggerline drifted off the arrow-sharp bow of the battleship, directly in line of sight to the larger ship’s spinal-mount nova cannon. If fired, at this range even a near-miss from the Nolandia’s main gun would open up the frigate and boil its atmosphere into the dark in a matter of seconds. In return, the Daggerline’s full complement of weapons would need a warlord’s luck just to penetrate the bigger vessel’s void shields and strike a palpable hit.

  In another time, these ships would have welcomed each other as honoured comrades, the flotilla afforded escort to home dock. But there was rebellion now, civil war in full effect, and few could draw deep enough to find a fresh wellspring of trust.

  From the strategium’s vantage point, Khorarinn studied the loose, poorly ordered clustering of the refugee ships and worked at a small hololith with one gauntleted hand. He considered spreads of fire and torpedo barrage patterns, plotting the most efficient attack models for reducing the other craft to
whirling wreckage. With the element of surprise and no unforeseen events, he estimated it could be done in no more than five minutes.

  Khorarinn did not look up as the grey-armoured warriors entered the chamber. He had not summoned them, but neither could he bar them from the command centre. The presence of Garro and his witch-kin cohort were an impediment the Custodian would simply have to endure.

  ‘My lord?’ One of the Nolandia’s duty officers dared to raise his voice. ‘We are receiving a signal via ship-to-ship vox. A message from the Daggerline. They are hailing us and requesting direct communication.’

  ‘No reply,’ ordered Khorarinn. ‘Not yet. Let them wait.’

  ‘What purpose will that serve? They’ve been waiting out here for days,’ said Rubio. ‘Is that not long enough?’

  Khorarinn answered without meeting the psyker’s gaze. ‘It is important to enforce the lesson of who is in command here.’

  ‘That is very true,’ said Garro. Then in the next moment, the grey-armoured legionary was barking an order at the man who had spoken. ‘You, officer of the vox! Open a channel to the Daggerline, now!’

  Khorarinn turned sharply, glaring at Garro as he casually countermanded his orders, but it was too late to stop him.

  A gruff voice, all hard edges and broken stone, issued out of a brass speaker horn on the console. ‘Daggerline hears you, Nolandia. I would say “well met”, but your gun crews seem to have mistaken us for target drones.’ The timbre and set of his words betrayed him. The frigate’s commander was undoubtedly a legionary, as few humans would have dared to be so defiant in the face of such superiority. And yet, there was an edge of weariness in him that could not be hidden.

  ‘These are dangerous times,’ said Garro. ‘You will forgive us if we are cautious.’

  ‘Cautious, you say? As you wish. Who am I to judge if you feel threatened by a handful of tankers and cargo sloops.’ Garro smiled at the jibe, although he saw that Khorarinn found no such amusement in the cynical retort. ‘At any rate, we are ready to follow to Terra in your wake, at your convenience.’

  ‘I am Nathaniel Garro. Whom do I address?’ He leaned forwards, peering out at the starship.

  ‘Garro?’ He heard surprise. ‘They said that Typhon killed you…’

  ‘I do not meet my end easily.’

  That earned him a rough chuckle. ‘You speak to the poor fool who has become commander of this wayward fleet of the desperate and the weary. I am Macer Varren, former son of Angron.’

  ‘Former?’ echoed Garro.

  The reply was rancorous. ‘He tried to murder me. I would think that to be full indication that the bonds between my gene-father and I are severed.’

  Garro gave a quick nod to the vox-officer to mute the signal, and glanced at the others.

  ‘You know him?’ demanded Khorarinn.

  ‘By reputation,’ said Garro. ‘A company captain with a fearsome battle record. A frequent victor in the gladiatorial pits. A hard fighter, but said to be honourable with it.’

  Rubio raised an eyebrow. ‘A rare accolade for one of Angron’s berserkers.’

  The Custodian remained unimpressed. ‘I am not interested in his kill-count or his laurels.’ He glared at the vox-officer and ordered him to resume communications, addressing his next words to the fleet. ‘Captain Varren! I am Khorarinn of the Legio Custodes, leader of this mission. The Daggerline and all attached fleet elements are to maintain their position and remain with engines powered down. Disobedience will be met with immediate reprisal. Do you understand? You will not proceed to Terra.’

  Varren’s irritation was plain. ‘What idiocy is this? You hold us here as if we were enemies, threaten us?’

  Garro stepped forwards, but Khorarinn was already speaking. ‘Your status as friend or foe is unclear. The World Eaters have broken with Imperial rule and conspired against their Emperor. Your Legion is in league with the arch-traitor!’

  ‘Do you think I am ignorant of that fact?’ Varren’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘Why else would we be here? I defied my primarch to escape the shadow of his treachery! Do you have any understanding of what that means?’

  ‘It is clear that Varren and his cohorts have endured much to reach Terra,’ Garro broke in. ‘Something I know only too well. Perhaps if we were to speak face-to-face, matters will become clearer for all of us.’

  ‘We can take a shuttlecraft across to the Daggerline,’ suggested Rubio.

  The offer seemed to mollify the World Eater, at least for the moment. ‘Agreed. Come look me in the eye, if you dare to call me traitor.’

  ‘Vox-channel has been cut,’ reported the officer.

  Khorarinn fixed Garro with a hard gaze. ‘You had no right to make that offer.’

  ‘And you had no right to provoke him!’ Garro’s patience with the Custodian’s intractable manner was thinning by the moment. He took a breath. ‘But if you fear a trap may await us, you are free to remain on board the Nolandia.’

  Predictably, Khorarinn did not react well to the suggestion of weakness on his part. ‘Very well. Lead the way.’

  The Aquila shuttle hove through the void barrier across the open maw of the Daggerline’s landing bay, the crackling energetic membrane holding out the cold kiss of space, keeping the ship’s atmosphere in check. Khorarinn’s pilot put the craft down on a vacant platform with swift, practised ease. Discreetly concealed lascannons twitched beneath the eagle-like wings, tracking the figures gathered on deck below. The drop-ramp fell open and Garro was first to step down, with Rubio and the Custodian a step behind.

  Heavy shadows grew from all sides. The chilly air of the landing bay was thick with a sense of foreboding. Garro saw it in the eyes of the crew-serfs who clustered on the upper maintenance galleries to watch the arrival, all of them silent and morose. They were afraid of what word was to be brought to them. There could be no one in the refugee fleet who did not fear the choices that distant Terra might make.

  ‘Captain Garro. You don’t look like a dead man.’ A figure in war-plate detached from the cluster of armoured figures and strode towards them.

  ‘In many ways, kinsman, I am indeed a ghost.’ Garro kept his arms by his sides, doing his best to project a neutral aspect.

  Varren looked him up and down as he came closer. ‘I’ve never seen armour like yours before. Is that what a ghost wears into battle?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Huh.’ The World Eater seemed amused by his reply. He offered his hand in the old manner of greeting. Garro accepted it, and they clasped palm-to-wrist, each meeting the gaze of the other.

  Varren was every inch a warrior of the XII Legion. His white-and-blue power armour was weather-beaten and battle-worn, adorned with oath papers and honour-marks alongside savage gouges and impact points that were themselves tributes, of a kind. A heavy power sword with a spiked guard lay at his hip, within easy reach. It was a mute warning that he was not to be considered powerless here.

  The captain’s face was like a clenched fist, eyes deep-set and searing. Service studs and victory tattoos warred with lines of old scarring to tell the brutal story of his life. Garro felt Varren take the measure of him in return, in the long moment before the World Eater released his grip. ‘How is the leg? I heard you lost it against the warsingers. Damned augmetics never feel the same as meat and bone, do they?’

  ‘That is so,’ Garro agreed. ‘But it means I can walk, and if I can walk, I can fight.’

  ‘And if you can fight, you can win.’ Varren nodded towards the others at Garro’s side. ‘So who is this?’

  ‘Brother Rubio is my comrade. You’ve already spoken to Lord Khorarinn…’

  Varren deliberately ignored the Custodian, turning his gaze on the psyker instead. ‘A second spirit in ghost-grey? But I think you are no Death Guard. The mystery deepens.’

  ‘We both serve Lord Malcador,’
Rubio said tightly.

  ‘And is he the one who has kept us here?’

  Khorarinn broke his silence. ‘There is a civil war in progress, World Eater. And you wear the colours of the wrong side. Be thankful you were not blown out of space the moment you arrived.’

  The warrior’s dark eyes glittered with anger. ‘Such gratitude shown towards true sons of the Imperium! Men who refused to follow the path of rebellion, when their battle-brothers turned away as one. We kept to our oaths, Custodian. That should count for something.’

  ‘You would have done the same, had the circumstances been reversed,’ insisted Khorarinn.

  Varren gave a harsh laugh. ‘No, I would have just killed you and been done with it.’ He turned to Garro once more, those dark eyes searching for someone he could trust. ‘Our flight home was hard-fought, cousin. I lost many of my best men to Angron’s Devourers. But we followed your example and made the break.’

  Garro took in the other legionaries standing in the shadows nearby. ‘There were others who joined you?’

  ‘Aye. More perished than survived.’ Varren’s face creased in a frown. ‘A handful of World Eaters – loyalist World Eaters – remain with me aboard this ship.’

  But Garro’s genhanced sight picked out more liveries than just that of the XII, and Khorarinn saw it too.

  ‘Who else stands with you?’ snapped the Custodian. ‘I demand you reveal them to us!’

  Varren glared at Khorarinn, his lip curling at the command. Then he beckoned them to follow him. ‘Come meet them, then,’ he muttered. ‘Or remain here and cower by your shuttle if you suspect this is an ambush.’

  Rubio had sensed the other legionaries in the chamber from the moment he stepped off the shuttle, their minds guarded like flickering candles shrouded from the wind. He had deliberately kept his psionic abilities dormant, even though part of him longed to return to their full use once again. It was difficult for him to advance slowly back to the power and the might of a Codicier’s way, but Garro had warned him about the Custodian’s inflexible manner, and to openly display his talents would only add to the tension of the moment.