by Guy Haley
‘Describe them to me.’
‘They were humanoid, lithe as eldar, swift, of mixed gender, neither male nor female. They had claws in place of their hands, and black, soulless eyes.’
‘And they came through a gate, you say?’
‘A gate made of flesh, with arms and legs.’
Meodric made a low noise. Bastoigne was yet of the Outer Third Circle, and was not privy to certain truths. Meodric knew what the warrior spoke of.
‘Where did this happen?’
‘In a square, by a palace, on a world where the sky was black.’
‘Did you recognise it?’
‘No. But I knew it.’ Bastoigne’s face was changed by doubt. ‘How can this be, lord Chaplain?’
‘The Emperor works through us in strange and unpredictable ways. Do not be afraid. Continue.’
Bastoigne swallowed and nodded. ‘In my dream, in the vision, I knew it as the world we sail to. Geratomro. I knew that as soon as I saw it. Is this blasphemy? I am but twenty years in the order.’
‘That depends.’
‘A black sword appeared to me, my lord. Wreathed in a pure light that the creatures shrank from. I am not worthy to bear it. Why do I see it in my sleep... I–’
Meodric held up his hand. ‘It is for others to decide your worth, brother. Was there anything more?’
‘Yes. Yes!’ Bastoigne’s eyes rose, and he looked into Meodric’s helm lenses. ‘A voice!’
‘And what did it say?’
‘It said, “Seek my light, so that it might banish the darkness.” Then I saw myself clawed down and laid open, and I died, but not before the most glorious light struck across the sky and slew the creatures, and threw apart their gateway, and they all fell to ruin.’
‘The end was in our favour?’
‘Assuredly yes. Victory, though I perished. What does it mean?’ His voice dropped to a whisper, not daring not contemplate the possibility. ‘Have I been touched by the Emperor? Can it be true?’
Meodric stared at him a moment. ‘That remains to be seen, brother. Wait here. When summoned, return to your cell immediately and pray until your duties recommence at first watch. Do not speak with anyone else of these dreams.’
‘There will be no penitence? Perhaps I am prideful, and dream myself better than I am.’
‘True vision and dreams are hard to tease apart. That is my task. Do not concern yourself over it. I will discuss matters with Sword Brother Adelard.’
Meodric was glad of his impassive helm. He had always been poor at hiding his emotions, especially regarding matters of faith, and now the light of revelation was upon him. He pushed his way back through the heavy curtains, letting them and the sound baffle fall back across the confessional chamber.
‘Well?’ said Adelard.
‘Leave us,’ said Meodric to his guard. They departed without comment. ‘It could be. Bastoigne shows no pride.’
‘Praise be!’ said Adelard.
‘You know of his visions?’
‘He dreams of the war we sail to, the rebellion on Geratomro. A possible incursion there.’
‘You have given no instruction yet as to the nature of this most great of enemies?’
‘No, of course not, and I would not until he is admitted to the Inner Circle, or must face this enemy in battle,’ said Adelard.
‘Then it is more likely that he is genuine. He dreams of the sword, Adelard.’
Adelard drew in a sharp breath.
‘He has heard the voice of the Emperor. He must be tested.’
‘Praise, praise, praise!’ said Adelard. He paused. ‘We should warn army group high command. As of yet, there is nothing untoward about this uprising. It is one of many, but if Bastoigne’s visions are true, we may be heading for disaster.’
‘We shall not speak of this,’ said Meodric firmly. ‘We shall tell Marshal Michaelus. Let the choice be his. My counsel to him will be to remain silent. If we inform high command, we shall expose them to the details of the unspeakable truth and bring many complications upon them. Furthermore, if we are believed, then the planet will likely be subject to exterminatus at great loss of life.’
‘But if it could be stopped sooner–’
‘Brother, this is meant to be.’ Meodric waited for Adelard to relax. ‘The Emperor demands we face the dark upon Geratomro blade to blade. This is His will. It is plain to me that He commands this threat must be met with steel and ceramite, not orbital bombardment.’
‘If the Emperor wills it,’ Adelard said.
‘There are preparations to be made. Tests. Bastoigne has many travails ahead of him before he can claim the Black Sword.’
‘I have every faith in him.’
‘Speak to no one of this. The invasion must go ahead as planned. Silence, brother. Let that be our watchword. Ave Imperator.’
‘Praise be.’
APPENDED NOTATION: GERATOMRAN RECONQUEST
++ADEPTUS TERRA SYSTEM CLASSIFICATION+++
Gerat System
Segmentum Tempestus
Chiros Sector
Agritha Subsector, f 2.723.2.444
STELLAR BODY: ‘Gerat’. Single Type L-V main sequence orange dwarf star [stable]
ORBITING BODIES:
Gerat I – Orbital distance: 0.2 AU. 0.01 Terramass. Moons: 3
Gerat II – Orbital distance: 0.8 AU. 0.8 Terramass. Moons: n/a.
Gerat III [ref. Geratomro, Gerat Prime]
Gerat IV – Orbital distance: 5.33 AU. Gas Giant; 1,000 Terramass. Moons: 46. Population 897,146 Lunar testing grounds. Mining platform. Gas extraction. Trade Guild post. Guild Captains freeport. House Ynnyg rogue trader concession.
Gerat V – Orbital distance: 6.88 AU. Gas Giant; 426 Terramass. Moons: 39. Population 2,001,765. Sublunar agricolae. Mining platform. Gas extraction. Fleet base. Marshalling grounds.
Gerat VI and VII – Orbital distance: 9 AU. Double planetary subsystem. Anomalous rocky super-worlds; 321 Combined Terramass. Toxic atmosphere.
Req. world: Gerat III [Geratomro, System Mundo Primus]
Orbital Distance: 0.9–1.0 AU.
Equatorial Temp.: 7–31c
1 G
1.1 Terramass.
Planetary Grade: Industrial world
DESIGNATED SYSTEM CAPITAL
Aestimare: Exactus secundus, optimare prime
Geography: Grade III temperate world [subclasses: arboreal, tundra, steppe, oceanic]
Imperial Planetary Commander: Missrine Huratal [traitora]
Status: Rebellion
Thought for the day: Turn not your back upon the Emperor, lest His light burn you when you seek to return.
Chapter Three
Combat drop
TRANSPORT BARGE ROAD OF STARS
GERATOMRO ORBIT
082398.M41
‘Emperor, lord of all mankind, protector of Terra, master of humanity, look upon me now,’ said Second Lieutenant Epperaliant.
At the sound of the prayer Honoured Lieutenant Colaron Artem Lo Bannick stopped his tests and deactivated his tac screens. The cessation of their irritating whine was a relief. He leaned back, closed his eyes. In the left emitter of his headset the calm exchanges of the deck officers and drop-ship pilots kept him informed of their deployment status. He focused on the human sound of Epperaliant’s prayer, trying to ignore the vox-dehumanised chatter of the men outside his tank.
‘Emperor, guiding light of mankind, protector of all, master of the stars, protect me now.’
At the long operations desk that took up most of the command deck’s left side, Epperaliant whispered his prayer. With the twinned emblems of Emperor and Omnissiah grasped in his left hand, he rocked to the rhythm of his words. All the ten-strong crew of the Baneblade prepared for battle according to their own habit. For most, that meant pray
er. Epperaliant’s was a Paragonian standard. Only a year ago every man in earshot would have joined in, but the days when their comrades in Cortein’s Honour were all from home were gone. The crew were chosen by the tank’s machine-spirit, its will divined mysteriously by the members of the Adeptus Mechanicus attached to their company, and so there were representatives of four worlds under Bannick’s command.
In his enginseer’s pit, Kolios attended to the soul of their tank. Not so long ago he had been a simple trooper. Selected by ritual and extensive testing, he had been inducted into the most rudimentary mysteries of the Omnissiah by the army group’s Adeptus Mechanicus contingent. He took his charge seriously, muttering machine cant as he tested each of the tank’s systems one by one, taking them through their rituals of awakening and stabilisation. It was not unknown for men like him to petition to join the Adeptus Mechanicus formally. They were rarely accepted.
Third Gunner Leonates and Third Loader Huwar Lo Ganlick checked over their own stations, responding to the short questions Kolios directed at them. While they were the lowliest of the gunnery crew, their equipment was nevertheless the most sophisticated: remote controls for the weaponry of the tank’s two sponsons. Consequently it was the most likely to malfunction. Ganlick muttered along with Epperaliant’s prayer. He was of Paragon, brought in from the regular tankers of the 42nd. Leonates was a transfer from the Atraxian 18th super-heavies. Despite their differing cultures they worked well together.
Bannick let his attention drift. There was plenty of time before the drop. He was in two minds if that was good or bad. The longer they had to wait, the longer he had to live. On the other hand, he wanted to get it over with. The thoughts chased themselves around his head. His eyes snapped open. He couldn’t wait passively like this. He sighed and undid his restraint harness.
The snap of Bannick’s clasps had Epperaliant looking up. His prayer stopped. Kolios looked at him then returned to his pre-battle checks.
‘Honoured lieutenant?’
‘Go back to your prayer, Epperaliant. I need to stretch my legs.’ Bannick smiled at his own joke. The tank was incredibly cramped. It was impossible to stand upright save in two places – under the turret ring, and halfway down the ladder leading to the lower deck. In that regard Bannick missed Mars Triumphant the most. An older, more sophisticated vehicle built on the Red Planet itself to the most ancient of patterns, its systems were more advanced and so had taken up less internal space, giving more to the crew.
Bannick patted Epperaliant on the shoulder. Along with himself and Meggen, they were the only survivors of Mars Triumphant’s destruction on Kalidar. Ganlick, Vorkosigen, Marsello, Ralt, Radden and Cortein himself, were all dead. Even five inches of plasteel and a platoon’s firepower were not enough to keep a man alive in the crucible of war.
‘More regiments of Paragon will be joining us on the surface,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Including the Lucky Eights. Six super-heavies from Paragon. Nothing can stand against us!’ He spoke with an optimism he did not feel. His stomach knotted inside him.
‘Sir,’ said Epperaliant. He ran his amulets through his fingers, his mind elsewhere.
‘It’ll be good to see some fresh faces. There’s the Four Hundred and Seventy-Seventh Foot too, raised a year after us.’
‘Maybe they have some news?’ said Ganlick.
‘No news is good news, we say on Atraxia,’ said Leonates. His accent was lilting and soft; pleasant, Bannick often thought.
‘Cheerful lot, you Atraxians,’ said Ganlick.
Bannick went below. The ladder foot opened up not far from the left sponson. The sound of its auto-loaders and servos whirred from the other side of the track unit as it was tested. Bannick made his way down to the corridor running the length of the tank, awkwardly placing his feet in the narrow width between the sled tracks leading from the magazine to the secondary armament – a demolisher cannon – mounted on the front.
He went aft first, passing the tank’s shrine to the Emperor and wall of honour next to it. Cortein’s Honour was new, forged on the fleet’s Ark Mechanicus only months previously, and so there was only one brass plaque on the wall bearing a name, and that name was his. For luck, he touched the plaque and the fresh scripts of blessing affixed to the wall beneath. Raw parchment from the army priests, deep red from the tech-adepts. The creeds of Omnissiah and Emperor were intertwined on a tank like Cortein’s Honour. It was no wonder so many super-heavy tank regiments were raised on Paragon, where both cults held equal sway.
The tank interior was always hot, but there, at the rear, so close to the ever grumbling reactor, it was hottest of all. His fingers marred the softened wax of the seals when he touched them. He wiped his hands on his trousers, pulled his medallions from under his vest, bowed his head before the shrine and kissed them both.
He went into the magazine. First Loader Dotrian Vaskigen was sat on an ammo case, playing cards with Gollph, the Bosovar savage.
‘Sir,’ said Vaskigen.
‘We play cards. Make Vaskigen less scared,’ said Gollph with a grin.
‘Your Gothic is improving, Gollph,’ said Bannick.
‘Hell, honoured lieutenant, there’s nothing much else for him to do round here,’ said Vaskigen. They had had their differences, these two, but were now fast friends. Bannick was glad for it.
‘You are both ready?’
‘Sure. Lift’s in good order.’ Vaskigen nodded backwards at the shell lift that carried the main armament’s huge rounds up to the turret. ‘Gollph’s ready too, aren’t you?’
‘Sure thing, sir,’ said Gollph. ‘I am very ready.’
‘Never thought I’d say it, but he’s a fine loader. Gets that shell sled up and down the gangway real quick, sir,’ said Vaskigen.
‘I learn quick,’ said Gollph fiercely, slapping his hand to his chest.
Like everyone on the tank, they were stripped to their vests. Sweat ran down their skin freely. Gollph’s pinker flesh was not as wet as Vaskigen’s.
‘Yes. Well. Drop soon. Stow those ammo crates. Get into your harnesses.’
‘Sure thing, sir. I winning anyway.’ Gollph laid his cards down. Vaskigen cursed as Gollph scooped up a pile of liquor ration chits.
Bannick nodded. Feeling like he was intruding, he left.
Down to the front, head bowed, hands careful of the sharp metal clips holding in the miles of looped power cable running in the coign of ceiling and wall at both sides of the cramped corridor. He popped his head into the second gunner’s station, Kalligen’s little room behind the demolisher.
‘Sir,’ said Kalligen around a tarabac stick.
‘How are you?’
‘Soiling myself,’ he said, honestly. He blew out a cloud of aromatic smoke. ‘I’ll get over it.’
‘And how is he?’ said Bannick, looking meaningfully down and lowering his voice.
‘Chem-Dog does what a Chem-Dog does. Not helpful intel for you, I know, but he’s not tried to steal anything off me for three watches, so I’m happy, so long as he stays on his nitrochem and off my gear,’ said Kalligen, loud enough for the driver to hear. Bannick’s attention strayed to the bottle of rough alcohol stashed in the webbing at Kalligen’s side.
Bannick withdrew. Kalligen ducked down and looked out. ‘Can you tell Kolios to tell Brasslock that the demolisher’s still pulling to the right? I told him after the last test but he hasn’t done anything about it. The tracking is off, I swear.’
‘I will. Have you tried asking it not to?’
‘Yeah. All that machine-spirit stuff. Prayers, oil, being nice to it, all that. I’d rather someone who knew what they were doing asked with a spanner in his hand, though.’
‘Can you climb out a moment? I want a word with Shoam.’
Kalligen unbuckled himself and slid out of the second gunner’s seat.
Bannick took a deep breath of the fuggy air.
Climbing in and over the gunner’s chair he poked his head into the driver’s station. It smelt bad in there. Shoam practically lived in his seat. Ganlick, the driver of Mars Triumphant, had been the same before he died, and that was not the only similarity the two men had shared, thought Bannick, as he saw Shoam’s nitrochem inhaler hanging by its straps from the wall. He remembered Ganlick’s fondness for gleece.
‘Why, if it isn’t our little lord of Paragon. Hello, sir.’ Karlok Shoam’s eyes glinted in the dark, lit by the pict screens and instrument panels. A slot of brighter light shone in through the viewing block. Shoam hunched below it.
‘Shoam. I thought I’d check on everyone,’ said Bannick. He rebuked himself. Why did he always feel he had to explain himself to the Savlar?
‘Got the frights? That normal,’ said Shoam. ‘We all gonna shake before a fight like this. Combat drop. Big risk. Never know if you’s gonna make it.’ He took up his respirator mask, hanging as ever from a strap at his neck, and pressed it to his face. There was a click and a hiss of gas from the bottle strapped to the wall. Shoam inhaled deeply.
‘Yes, well. If you need anything, let me know.’
‘Get me away from this? Nice quiet place, nice wife? No more fighting, no more killing?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Bannick.
‘Then I got all you could give in any case,’ said Shoam. ‘Better driving big brute like this than little Salamander I used to have. Safer in here.’
‘Right.’ Bannick paused, his eyes fixed on the bottle. ‘You’ll need to be sharp once we’re out.’
Shoam stroked his nitrochem mask. ‘This keep me sharp. If we die, it not be the fault of mine, nor the nitro, bossman.’
‘Don’t overdo it.’ Bannick had considered confiscating the mask and the Savlar’s chem supply, until he’d read about the horrifying side effects of withdrawal. Savlar had been known to go insane if deprived of their narcotic, and would attack anyone who came close. Honoured Captain Hannick had protested strongly at Shoam’s selection as the driver of Cortein’s Honour. His words had fallen on deaf augmetics. The machine-spirit had chosen him, said the machine priests, so Shoam had stayed. While Bannick had come to respect the Savlar’s skill as a driver, he doubted he would ever trust him. But then, Ganlick had been hooked on gleece, and Kalligen was going the same way. War left no man’s mind untouched. He knew he was prejudiced against the Savlar; he could not stop himself. He resolved to do better.