Garro

by James Swallow

  Among the gathering of the refugee Space Marines, Rubio saw other World Eaters of similar character to their captain, and with them warriors representing two more of the Legiones Astartes.

  Varren gestured to the closest of them. The legionaries in finely wrought plate of purple-hued ceramite, detailed with fine gold filigree and handsome artistic flourishes. ‘This is Rakishio, late of the Third Legion.’

  The Emperor’s Children had been declared enemies of the Imperium, but it still seemed strange for Rubio to think of them in that fashion. He had fought alongside Fulgrim’s sons in the past, and while they might have been peacocks in manner, they were strong in martial spirit. Rakishio and his battle-brothers bowed low, and Rubio saw the places where their purple armour had been badly damaged by bolter fire.

  ‘We remain so,’ said the other warrior. His voice was at once arch and sorrowful. ‘To our shame, our primarch no longer sees the Legion as bearing fealty to Great Terra and his father. We are marked by this betrayal, to our hearts.’

  ‘Did any other warriors from the Third escape Isstvan?’ said Garro. ‘Captain Saul Tarvitz was an honoured friend of mine. Does he live still?’

  Rakishio shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’ The warrior shared a brief look with the World Eater. ‘Brother-Captain Varren offered me and my men a way to avoid the high disgrace of our brethren. We took it. The only other alternative would have been to end our own lives.’

  ‘That might have been the better choice.’ The Custodian’s hand rested on the hilt of his sentinel blade, in a clear suggestion of forewarning. ‘The World Eaters and the Emperor’s Children both declared for Horus. But here we find you claiming otherwise.’

  Rakishio was about to reply, but others came forward from the shadows to answer for him. What Rubio had first thought to be more of Varren’s legionaries instead bore armour of white trimmed with red. Upon their pauldrons, as stark as blood, was the lightning-bolt sigil of the V Legion.

  ‘You are so quick to judge, Custodian.’ Rubio immediately recognised the coarse tones of a Chogorian accent. ‘Tell us, what judgement do you have for the White Scars?’

  For the first time, Rubio saw something like surprise on Khorarinn’s face. The riders of the White Scars had always been one of the Emperor’s most devoted and loyal Legions, and His son Jaghatai Khan had never once shown anything but unswerving allegiance, in his own unpredictable fashion.

  ‘We are all equally loyal,’ insisted Varren. ‘We would not be here if that was a lie.’

  Garro accepted this with a nod. ‘How did you come to gather, captain?’

  Varren gestured at the walls of the frigate around them. ‘Rakishio helped us secure an escape passage for the Daggerline and a few of the civilian ships. We picked up more refugee craft at the perimeter of the Isstvan System.’

  ‘The lucky ones…’ Rakishio said, grim-faced.

  ‘Then we set course for the Segmentum Solar. Short transits, at first. The warp was so turbulent, we could barely cover a dozen light years before the storms forced us back into normal space. But then we crossed paths with Hakeem and the rest of his warriors.’ Varren went on, explaining how Hakeem’s force had become becalmed and separated from their fleet in the warp. It was only blind chance that had brought them into the path of the Daggerline flotilla. Together, they had charted a new course and made for Terra.

  ‘I have never believed in fates or luck,’ noted Rakishio. ‘But if I were to do so, then perhaps such a force put the White Scars before us. Once Hakeem granted us the skills of his Techmarine, Harouk, we were able to repair critical damage to our navigational systems.’ The warrior gestured to one of Hakeem’s men, who wore the cog-and-skull sigil of the Legion’s technical savants.

  ‘We would not have made it this far without them,’ concluded Varren.

  Rubio saw the Custodian’s attitude shift as he stepped towards Hakeem and held out his arms, inclining his head in the manner of a traditional Chogorian greeting. ‘Sayan banu, hata Hakeem.’

  Hakeem seemed surprised, but responded in kind. ‘Sayan.’ A smile split his face. ‘You know our ways, Lord Khorarinn.’

  The Custodian nodded. ‘I once ran a Blood Game with the warriors of the Great Khan. I was impressed by the prowess of the White Scars.’

  Rubio said nothing. It was the first time he had seen the Custodian show anything approaching respect for a legionary, but he clearly had good reason. The Blood Games were an incredible test of a warrior’s skill and those who could participate in them deserved their accolades. Each game took place on Terra, a live exercise designed to test the defences of the Imperial Palace against assassins. The Custodian Guard used them to constantly assess their skills and seek out weak points in the Emperor’s aegis.

  Rubio saw Garro give a solemn nod, seizing on the moment as a way to find common ground for them all. ‘Cousins… Brothers. Whatever circumstances brought us together, we are all in agreement on one point. We stand on the right side of this accursed schism, and no matter what Legion insignia we wear, our oath to Terra and the Emperor remains supreme. So believe me when I say this, the matter of your homecoming will be dealt with in quick order, and with surety. Our enemy is out there. Our enemy is the Warmaster, and in unity we will face him.’

  ‘That is all we ask,’ said Rakishio, and Rubio did not need to exercise his psionic ability to know that he spoke for all assembled there.

  The meeting concluded, the Codicier turned back towards the shuttle. He took only a step before, for only the briefest moment, he felt something at the edge of his thoughts. The faintest shimmer of psychic shade, a tone of emotion that could have been… untruth?

  But then it was gone, and they were marching back towards the shuttle.

  Garro paced the length of his chambers, deep in thought. No one had spoken on the return trip from the Daggerline, Khorarinn’s stern visage remaining intractable, his thoughts unknown.

  There were more than enough variables in the situation with the civilian ships and the contingent of World Eaters, but with the addition of two more groups of warriors – one from a Legion known to be loyal, another from one known to have turned traitor – the matter had grown to new complexity.

  A heavy fist knocked twice on his hatch. ‘Who seeks me?’ asked Garro.

  ‘It is I.’ Rubio’s manner was troubled. Garro bade him enter, and the Codicier came close, speaking in low tones. ‘I need to talk to you. I made certain I went unseen. Khorarinn would doubtless wish to know if we were thought to be conspiring in secret.’

  ‘He sees sedition everywhere,’ Garro noted. ‘But then, that is his remit.’ He dismissed the thought. ‘On the shuttle, you seemed troubled. What is it, Rubio?’

  The Codicier frowned. ‘I believe we are being lied to. Aboard the Daggerline, just as we were leaving, I sensed deceit.’

  ‘From whom?’

  The frown deepened. ‘I’m not certain. It’s been a long time since I was called upon to use my abilities in a subtle manner, Garro. I’m out of practice. But someone in that room was desperate to hide a vital truth from us.’

  ‘Do what you can–’

  A strident chime sounded before Garro could say more. He stiffened, touching the vox-link in his gorget. An encrypted message was being transmitted to the machine-call module built into his wargear.

  ‘What is it?’ said Rubio.

  ‘Uncertain,’ said Garro. ‘Someone is attempting to reach me by breaking into my Legion vox-net…’ He gestured to Rubio to remain silent and spoke into the link. ‘Who contacts me?’

  Heavy with static, the growl of the White Scars warrior filtered through. ‘Captain Garro, it is I, Hakeem. Forgive this clandestine method of communication, but I must converse with you directly. Are you alone?’

  He gave Rubio a look. ‘We may speak in confidence.’

  ‘I must warn you,’ insisted Hakeem.
‘Things are not what they seem in the fleet. I contacted you in secret because I believe there are allies of the Warmaster at large among us.’

  Garro felt a chill run through him. ‘Why have you come to me with this, instead of speaking to Khorarinn?’

  He heard the scowl in the other warrior’s reply. ‘He may respect my brethren, but he is not of the Legions. The Custodian will not understand. But you were at Isstvan, Garro. You saw what happened there. You know full well what Horus is capable of. And you know this war is not a matter of black or white.’

  The White Scar’s words were, if anything, an understatement. ‘Indeed. Go on, kinsman.’

  ‘I believe that Macer Varren is an honest soul,’ said Hakeem. ‘He’s too blunt and forthright to hide any stripe of duplicity. But the World Eater is being duped by Rakishio and the Emperor’s Children. They are still following Fulgrim’s commands, I am certain of it.’

  Garro’s eyes widened. ‘You have proof of this?’

  ‘Not enough to take action. They call Rakishio “the shadowed”, and he’s far too adept at deceit to allow anything to incriminate him. But my brothers and I have been watching the Emperor’s Children over the course of our voyage. They’re planning something. They meet in secret aboard one of the tanker-transports in the fleet, the Mistral, and allow no one else aboard it. They call these meetings “lodges”.’

  ‘I have heard of such things,’ Garro said gravely. The lodges were at the root of Horus’ rebellion, secret gatherings spread from Legion to Legion, where new oaths could be sworn and the unspoken given voice. Garro had seen his own warriors drawn into these assemblies, and he knew full well that the Warmaster had used them to prepare his traitors for their insurrection against the Emperor.

  Hakeem went on. ‘Rakishio and his legionaries have been acting suspiciously since we arrived in the system. I fear that they may act soon, unless we move to prevent them.’ There was a moment of silence, and then Hakeem spoke again. ‘I must end this conversation. Be on your guard, Garro.’

  ‘Can it be so?’ muttered Rubio.

  The White Scar’s words were deeply disturbing. If such a thing was happening among the refugees, if Khorarinn were to learn of it… Garro had no doubt that the Custodian would use this revelation as a pretext for the most ruthless actions, and fate take whomever was caught in the crossfire. ‘This is a matter for caution,’ he said, thinking aloud.

  Rubio’s gaze turned inwards, considering. ‘We have to take control of this, and soon. Every moment we delay the refugee ships out here, lives are under threat. I reviewed the data-captures from the flotilla. The civilians and crew-serfs aboard are malnourished and sickly, their supplies depleted in their escape. If we do nothing, innocents will perish.’

  Garro eyed him. ‘And if we go forth with gun drawn and blade high? Khorarinn may show some esteem to the White Scars, but his finger lays heavily upon the trigger. He will be quick to kill, innocents or not. In his eyes, a perceived threat to the Emperor will excuse even the most extreme of deeds.’

  But then, as if mere mention of his name were enough to summon him like a creature of mythology, the Nolandia’s intercom crackled and the Custodian’s harsh snarl sounded through the ship. ‘Garro! Rubio! Report immediately to the strategium.’

  ‘What now?’ Rubio muttered. ‘Did he intercept Hakeem’s transmission?’

  ‘Whatever the cause,’ Garro told him, ‘it will not bode well.’

  They entered the compartment to find Khorarinn barking orders to the Nolandia’s weapons crew, jabbing his gold-armoured finger towards the flotilla rendered in the hololithic tank. ‘All gunnery crews are to remain at action stations until the order to stand down is given,’ he growled. ‘They will stay at their posts around the clock. We cannot allow our attention to slip. The danger remains.’

  Garro approached him, eyes hard. ‘Explain yourself, Custodian. Why does the Nolandia remain on combat alert?’

  ‘Officer of the vox, stand by to transmit by machine-call and hololith. I want every last vessel in that flotilla to hear my words. No exceptions.’ Khorarinn gave the order and then turned to Garro. ‘Pay attention, Death Guard. These words are for you as well as those refugees.’

  ‘And Hakeem?’ asked Rubio.

  ‘The White Scars will see the necessity of my orders,’ said the Custodian. The vox-officer nodded to him, and Khorarinn took a breath. ‘Attention, vessels of the Daggerline flotilla.’

  Garro glanced at the strategium’s great window ports, and beyond it the loose grouping of the refugee starships. The tension of the last few hours was suddenly pulled tight, close to breaking point.

  ‘All fleet ships will stand by to accept search operations,’ said Khorarinn. ‘Boarding parties will be dispatched from the Nolandia to each vessel in turn, to conduct deck-by-deck surveys. Only after these searches have been completed will your ships be permitted to cross the outer marker into the system.’

  Rubio shook his head. ‘It will take weeks to search every ship from bow to stern. Those people don’t have that much time!’

  Khorarinn’s commands continued. ‘This order is mandatory and cannot be refused. Any resistance will be met by lethal force. Operations will commence in three hours, Terran standard. Nolandia out.’

  Garro turned on the Custodian, his jaw set. ‘Is this your plan, then? To keep these people out here until they starve to death, and thus let the problem remove itself?’

  ‘If they wish to request aid supplies, they may do so. And if your heart bleeds so much, Garro, you and your psyker are welcome to go and fetch those supplies for them.’ Khorarinn turned away.

  ‘Those are the lives of the Emperor’s subjects you dismiss so easily!’

  The Custodian gave him a sideways glance. ‘Their lives are not my concern. Security is my concern. The protection of my Emperor and His throne. All else is of secondary importance.’

  The vox-officer looked up from his console. ‘Lords, there is an incoming hail from the Daggerline.’

  Rubio looked at the Custodian. ‘I imagine Captain Varren will not be silent on this.’

  Khorarinn directed his reply to the crewman. ‘I have no desire to speak with him. Hail denied.’

  Garro leaned closer, his voice low and cold, meeting Khorarinn’s stony gaze. ‘What you have done will sow panic and fear amongst the civilians. These are not soldiers who will salute and say nothing. They are common people, terrified and at their wits’ end. If you give them no choice, they will react poorly.’

  His words fell on stony ground. ‘You are here because I decided to keep you informed, not because I want your counsel. Don’t presume to tell me how to prosecute this mission.’

  Anger blazed in Garro’s eyes at the Custodian’s intransigence, but any retort died before he could give it voice, as an alert siren cut through the air.

  ‘What now?’ shouted Khorarinn. ‘Report!’

  Rubio stood over the hololithic scope. ‘Scry-sensors detect a power surge aboard one of the ships in the flotilla. Engines are going active. A single vessel is moving out of the formation, velocity increasing.’ His expression hardened and he turned to Garro. ‘It’s the tanker, the Mistral.’

  ‘Show me,’ snapped Garro.

  The hololith shifted to a view of the vessel. Burning sun-bright, the drive nozzles of the tanker-transport flared as it powered away from the flotilla. The Mistral was an ugly ship, heavy in girth and rounded. It resembled a giant artillery shell, pockmarked by docking ports and vent hatches. It was easily the mass of an Imperial frigate, but it wallowed into its turns, lacking the nimble motions of a warship.

  ‘The vessel’s command deck does not answer,’ said the vox-officer.

  Garro strode to the great windows at the fore of the strategium in time to see the Mistral surge forwards into the first sheets of beam fire from the drone gunnery platforms. The tanker took blows that ripp
ed into her feeble void shields, but it showed no signs of reducing speed. If anything, the attack seemed to goad the crew into pouring more power to the engines, in the wild hope of punching through the defence barrage.

  Below, lined up along the Nolandia’s dorsal hull, the warship’s multiple cannon turrets turned with lethal ease, shifting to place the fleeing vessel in their kill-zone.

  Garro spun, calling out, ‘Khorarinn, no!’

  The Custodian pushed past Rubio and strode across the strategium to the gunnery master’s station. Surveying the weapons display, he stabbed a finger at the icon representing the Mistral. ‘I want a firing solution on that craft. Prepare a full las-barrage. Engage at point-blank range!’

  ‘Custodian! Wait!’ Garro came across the chamber at a pace, his hand raised.

  Khorarinn’s expression was carved from stone. ‘The orders were quite clear, Garro. That ship is in open defiance of lawful commands. Its intentions are unknown. It is moving onto a course directly towards the core planets, and Terra.’

  ‘Damn you,’ spat Garro, and the legionary stepped away, activating his vox-link, opening a channel to the fleeing vessel. ‘Mistral, this is Battle-Captain Nathaniel Garro. Halt or you will be destroyed. You must cut your engines now!’

  Instinctively Rubio reached out with an invisible tendril of psionic presence, grasping through the void towards the fleeing craft, in the hope of sensing some shade of emotion from those on board.

  Something was there, but it was sickly, ink-dark and repellent.

  Rubio’s breath caught in his throat. ‘On the ship…’ His voice dropped to a whisper, so only Garro could hear him. ‘There’s a presence over there. Dark and lethal… Hiding itself. Hiding from me.’