by William King
‘There would be an announcement,’ I said. ‘A day of mourning, at least.’
‘Not if they want to keep it from us.’
‘Why would they want to do that?’
‘You know as well as I do the effect that his death would have on morale.’
‘It’s good to see you are doing your bit to keep it up then. I am glad you are not one to give in to despair. Or help spread it.’
‘Damn!’ Anton said. He got up and kicked the bed. The metal of the frame rang. You could tell from his expression that he had hurt himself but was just too stubborn to admit it. ‘Finally, we had a competent commander in charge. Finally we were getting somewhere. Now this. It’s so bad even the Space Marines are deserting us.’
‘I would not say that too loudly if I were you,’ I said.
‘Why not? It’s true.’
He was right. The Death Spectres had departed. No one knew why or where. Or if they did they were not telling us. They had been summoned elsewhere or else were being dispatched.
‘For one, if you say it too loud, they’ll never adopt you into their Chapter. For another, a commissar might hear you and decide to put you on bullet-stopping duty.’
‘I don’t see one here,’ said Anton. ‘You planning on reporting me?’
‘The only thing I will report is your stupidity. You seem to be scaling new heights of it at the moment.’
Ivan whistled ironically to show what he thought about our bickering. The New Boy rushed into the room and said, ‘Macharius is here!’
‘In the building?’ Anton asked.
‘In Irongrad. He was flown in from the battle front. He’s at the Hospice of Saint Oberon.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Word just came in to Command. I heard one of the company scribes talking as he was on his way to give the report to the captain.’
‘You sure?’ Anton asked.
‘If you don’t believe me, go ask him yourself. Where is the hospice anyway? Isn’t that where the girls are?’
‘Yeah, it’s down by the cathedral, near the hive core-zone,’ Anton said. He picked up his lasgun. ‘I’m going down there.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘In case any of those Angel worshippers show up and…’ He looked embarrassed now.
‘And?’ I said, not willing to let him off the hook.
‘And so I can pray for him.’
‘You can do that just as well here,’ I said.
‘I’d feel better doing it there.’
Ivan stood up. ‘I’ll go with you.’
‘Me too,’ said the New Boy.
‘What about you, Leo? You coming?’ Anton asked. I considered it for a moment. After all, what difference would my presence down by the hospice make? I felt all three of them staring at me. There was something accusing in their gaze.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s go.’
Apparently we were not the only people with the idea. The square outside the Hospice of St Oberon was full of off-duty Guardsmen. There were thousands of them. We looked like an army about to lay siege to the place. Soldiers stood around and smoked and ate street food and talked in subdued voices. You would have thought we were all in the sick room of a dying relative from the expressions on everyone’s faces.
The hospice itself was a massive building made from an orange local stone. It looked more like a fortress than a hospital. It was twenty storeys high, low compared to the surrounding hab-blocks but massive all the same. It felt enormously solid. It seemed to have been designed to resist a siege or withstand a direct hit from heavy artillery.
There were Leman Russ tanks drawn up all around it and I could make out ratling snipers on the balconies and in among the metal angels that clutched the thick walls. It seemed that no chances were being taken with security. Soldiers on guard checked everyone who went into the building. The girls had not been exaggerating. It was a famous place apparently, with the best chirurgeons on the planet.
For once there were more than the statues of the Angel of Fire to look at. The entrance was a massive arch. On one side was the inevitable flame-winged angel ten times the height of a man. On the other side was a massive muscular warrior who looked more like a master-sergeant than a saint. In one hand he held a bolt pistol, in the other he held a blazing torch. His foot was on the neck of an ork. Five ork heads hung from his belt. He gazed on the Angel with a face rapt in worshipful contemplation. I was guessing this was the Blessed Oberon of local legend.
Looking around I saw many of the soldiers came from the same regiments. They were all part of the old Guard who had followed Macharius right from the beginning. They wore green uniforms with gold trim and their helmets were an odd shape, an odd, ancient-looking shape more suited to a tribe from a feral world. They had nose and cheek guards but left the lower half of the face visible at the front while sweeping all the way down the neck at the back. Many of them wore the lion’s head insignia of Macharius’s family on their gear.
There were soldiers of the Grey Legions of Asterion all in silver and grey, with their metal collars on their neck symbolising servitude to the Emperor. There were short solid men from Trask in the red and black of the Ninth Hussars. Some of them had brought their horses. They had just come from crowd control duty in the Cathedral Square. There were ogryns and ratlings and one or two commissars. I don’t know whether they were there out of respect for Macharius or to keep an eye on the rest of us. I am guessing it was the former but you never know.
There were moments when all conversation seemed to stop and everyone looked towards the great arched doorway. It was not silent. You could still hear the industrial noise of the hive city, the roar of the gas-jet flames, the wheezing bellow’s breath of the air-circulation systems, the distant rumble of the elevated railroads. It was odd and awe-inspiring to see so many quiet men with rapt faces, lost in thought, and you’ve got to remember that many of these were not the sort of men given over to brainwork. I think we were all wondering about Macharius, and his fate in an odd way was a mirror image of our own.
It was not difficult for us to empathise with him. Every soldier in a Guard regiment dwells on wounds and death at some point. Many of us have taken a hit and all of us have known someone who has. All of us dread that wound that will cripple us, leave us limbless or blinded. All of us fear it as much as death. Many of us have waited for comrades to die of their wounds. In that moment I think everyone present saw in Macharius a reflection of all the wounded brothers, friends and comrades we had lost, and all of us were waiting to see if we had lost another.
We waited for hours, but no word came. In the end we departed, summoned back to duty, still not knowing how things went with the Lord High Commander.
Our temporary captain of our temporary company summoned us into his august presence the next morning. All of us wondered what was going on. We could not think of anything we had done to earn his wrath but, as ever, the fact that we could not conjure up anything did not mean there were not reasons. It’s a rule in the Guard that they can always find a motive for punishment if they want.
The captain did not look annoyed when we entered his chamber. It was a large room that had once been some sort of scriptorium by the look of it. Dozens of desks lined the walls and dozens of clerks made notes in great ledgers still. This time they were probably totting up the ammunition we had used rather than the number of cogwheels shipped.
The captain was sitting on a great padded leather chair while his batman shaved his cheeks with a cut-throat razor. The usual cabal of junior officers preened themselves around him, admiring their reflections in the array of portable mirrors the batman had set up. Some of them had more gold on their epaulettes than I would get if I looted a bank vault.
‘Ah there you are, lads!’ he murmured as if delighted to see us. His voice was very quiet for an officer and you had to strain to hear him. I suspect that was the effect he desired. It made him stand out in an army where those in charge could be reliab
ly expected to boom, bellow and shout. We stood at attention and waited for him to clarify the situation. The batman towelled his face and the captain ran his hand over his tanned cheeks to check for any remaining stubble. A small tight smile told us he had not found any. He stroked his well-clipped moustache for a moment as if encouraging it to speak.
‘I have a special duty for you all,’ the moustache said. The captain’s lips did not seem to move so it must have been the whiskers speaking. We kept our faces stony. Special duty covers a multitude of potentially lethal options. I wondered if I was about to be volunteered for a suicide mission.
The captain obviously understood what was going through our minds. He was not nearly as dim as he chose to appear. He laughed his fruity laugh and murmured, ‘It’s nothing dreadful, I can assure you. In fact it is a very great honour. ‘
We looked at him and kept our mouths closed. ‘As you may know General Macharius was wounded while investigating the front lines at Pentegrad. He was inspecting our forward positions when a squad of heretic fanatics attacked. He managed to fight his way clear with some of his bodyguard.’
Macharius was famous for wanting to be where the action was, but I wondered that he had really gotten so close to the heretics that they had a chance to attack him personally.
‘He is well then, sir?’ Anton asked tentatively.
‘As well as a man with several bits of shrapnel and numerous heretic bullets embedded in his body can be expected to be, Private Antoniev,’ said the moustache.
‘He is not well then, sir?’ Anton said, not knowing when to leave well enough alone.
‘I have been assured by the Master Surgeon that he will make a full recovery. It takes more than a few wounds to put down a campaigner like the Lord High Commander. He’s had worse in the past and I dare say he will have worse in the future. I should know. I’ve taken a few such scratches myself in my time.’
‘Why are you telling us this, sir?’ I asked.
‘Because the surviving crew of the Indomitable has been assigned to guard the Lord High Commander personally. You are to be quartered within the Hospice of St Oberon forthwith and report for guard duty on the Lord High Commander’s ward immediately. Any further questions?’ His manner told us there had better not be.
‘Why us, sir?’ Anton asked. The captain sighed in a long-suffering manner.
‘The Lord High Commander personally decorated you. You are known to him. You have won great honour for the regiment and I know you will not let us down now.’
‘It will be an honour to defend the general, sir,’ said Anton. He sounded like he meant it.
‘And one well-deserved,’ said the captain. ‘You distinguished yourself in the taking of this city, and I am sure you will distinguish yourself again, if you are called upon to protect the Lord High Commander.’
‘We’ll do our best,’ said Anton. He actually looked pleased at the prospect of laying down his life to defend Macharius. I think in the back of his mind, he was already picturing a heroic last stand. For myself, I decided that it would not be a bad thing to be safe in the hospital away from pyromaniac priests and their suicidal disciples. The next time there might be no Death Spectres to save us.
‘Very good,’ said the captain. ‘Very good indeed. Mind your manners and don’t do anything to embarrass the regiment and you’ll find me very grateful.’
For myself I had very little doubt that he would forget about us as soon as we were out of his sight. Still, it was going to be nice, safe cushy billet, I thought. Little did I know.
We went to collect our gear. At least we knew how to find our way to the hospice.
‘There are worse places in this world,’ murmured Anton as we walked through the corridors of the hospice. He was right too.
We were on the upper levels of the building, where the very rich and very noble of the city would normally have been treated. The entire level had been cleared and given over to Macharius. Medical adepts came and went. High-ranking officers waited around and discussed strategy. Couriers and orderlies raced along the sumptuously carpeted corridors, trying to be both quiet and quick at the same time. We had just been given time to move into small private rooms on the lower floor before being sent up to start our duties.
We took up a position at the entrance to the ward, relieving some of the troops from Macharius’s own personal guard. They were easy to spot because of the lion-head pattern on their uniforms.
We checked the perimeter rooms of the ward ourselves and found only chirurgeons and nursing staff, all of whom had been cleared to be there. We did not get close to the sealed chamber in which Macharius lay. Tall, silent warriors of his personal guard watched us with cold eyes. They held their weapons at the ready. They were taking no chances.
I began to understand why we had been sent for. It would not do for just Macharius’s own regiment to be given the honour of guarding him. Every component of the army had to share in that honour. It would have been bad for morale otherwise.
The Understudy had given us a detailed briefing on our way over. Only authorised personnel were to be allowed past and they had to both show us their clearance documents and know the password which changed with every watch. If they did not we were to hold them. If they resisted we were to shoot them even if they had a general’s epaulettes.
The duty itself was eight hours of pure tedium. We stood there, weapons at the ready, and we checked papers. Every half-hour the Understudy returned to check on us. He moved from guard post to guard post on a constant loop. He seemed neither bored nor overwhelmed with interest. He performed his duties like an automaton. He could have been a machine animated by the ancient technical magic of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
When the corridors were clear and no one was in sight we chatted, as soldiers will under such circumstances wherever they are in the galaxy. We talked about women, and the places we had been and the people we had known. We kept our voices pitched low and we kept scanning the corridors as if we expected a horde of heretics to arrive at any moment. I was wondering if we would run into Anna or any of her friends.
‘Who would have thought we would end up here?’ Anton asked. ‘It’s like being at the centre of the world.’
He was excited. We had challenged generals. So far they had all had the proper documents and spoken the proper passwords. We had not been given the chance to shoot any of them for resisting arrest. It was probably just as well since that would likely have ended badly for us.
It was strange. The corridor was hushed and the rooms around us were quiet. Quieter than any place I had ever been. You could not tell that beyond the walls was the thunderous din of a hive city. The sound-proofing was that good. I realised that quiet was a luxury that the rich enjoyed. It did not thrill me too much. I missed the reassuring beat of the hive’s industrial heart. I wondered how the wounded Macharius felt about such things.
Our duties done, we returned to our rooms. The locals looked at us oddly as we made our way there. It felt as if everyone was simply waiting for something to happen. Everyone looked pale and tense as if they knew something we did not, were listening to some secret whispering voice that talked only to them and not to us. I told myself it was my imagination, that all I needed was some rest.
I stared out the armoured glass windows. The streets were unnaturally quiet. The crowds of waiting soldiers had gone now that it was certain that Macharius would live. They had other duties to perform than waiting in the plaza.
Sixteen
Something woke me. It seemed my head had barely hit the pillow and I had fallen into nightmares about flame-headed priests putting me in a cage. I looked at my chronometer. It was late in the night cycle for the hive. The external lights were dim. I pulled the curtains open. My shadow danced in the flickering illumination from the surrounding gas-lit buildings. There seemed to be a huge crowd gathered in the street below. I could see flickering lights down there too, as if naked flames were burning. I was still groggy from sleep when I noticed
a banging on the door. Some instinct made me uneasy. I snatched up my shotgun before I opened the door. Anton stood there, his face was pale. Ivan was behind him, dressed and armed.
‘What is it?’ I said.
‘The heretics are attacking.’
‘What?’ I repeated. ‘Attacking? Where?’
‘Everywhere. They are attacking Irongrad. A massive army dropped from orbit and relieved Pentegrad and it’s moving north from there. It’s smashed through Battlegroup Sejanus. More are dropping from space; they’re coming in from Karsk III and the asteroid fortresses. The city has risen against us. Bloody traitors.’
‘The whole city?’
‘Enough. The priests have got them all whipped up against us. The local nobs have decided to side with their old masters. They think they can beat us.’
‘Maybe they can,’ I said.
‘They’ll never beat the Imperium,’ Anton said.
‘That won’t matter to us if they kill us now.’
‘Point taken,’ Anton said.
‘Where did you hear all this?’
‘Couldn’t sleep so I went to have a smoke. Heard the comm boys gabbling.’
Ivan reached for his bottle, took a swig then picked up his lasgun from where it leaned against the wall. ‘It sounds like we’re going to be busy.’
I dressed and grabbed my gear. I heard booted feet running in the corridors. Everybody except us seemed in a hurry to get somewhere. I knew that soon enough someone would come along and let us know what to do.
As if summoned by the thought, the Understudy poked his head round the door. Corporal Hesse was with him. ‘Assemble, lads,’ the Understudy said. His face looked pallid but that might just have been the light. His voice was the same rasping monotone as always. ‘It looks like we’ve got some work to do. Looks like the priests have whipped up a mob and they are coming to get Macharius.’
He might have been telling us he had just gone for a short walk to buy a protein sandwich for all the emotion he showed. I took another look out the window and suddenly everything snapped into place. Massive crowds surged ever closer to the hospice. Priests with halos of flame clung to the sides of massive demolition vehicles and shouted encouragement to the vast surging crowd. It was like looking out at a sea of hate-filled flesh: of very foolish, hate-filled flesh.