Old Earth

by Nick Kyme

  Nuros stopped. He stopped moving, he stopped breathing; even his thoughts ground to stasis.

  ‘Nuros,’ said Norn urgently, noticing the same sudden reaction among every Salamander in the hold capable of hearing the vox. ‘What is the Unbound Flame?’

  Otath had already ramped the engines to maximum as they speared for the ship identifying itself as the Vulcanis.

  ‘It is the primarch…’ Nuros breathed. ‘Vulkan lives.’

  The Iron Heart burned. Fire suppression servitors roved the bridge, tireless as the ship trembled against the enemy’s barrage.

  Meduson and the other legionaries had mag-locked their boots to the command dais. The mortal crew had no such facility and clung to consoles or shuddering guide rails as they staggered across the deck.

  The tactical hololith flickered, went down and then stuttered back into life again. A bank of cogitators exploded, throwing uniformed men and women backwards. A servitor lurched from its alcove to retrieve the bodies. Sparks cascaded from the ceiling. The fire was contained. The battery continued.

  ‘Shipmaster,’ growled Meduson, a long cut down his forehead crafting a jagged red tributary.

  The shipmaster lived, but held his left arm close to his body, the limb broken.

  ‘Portside shields are failing, lord.’

  ‘How far out are their reinforcements?’

  ‘Within weapons range in minutes, lord.’

  ‘Aug,’ said Meduson, absorbing the scene of carnage playing out across the oculus. Ships on both sides had been badly gouged. Streams of fuel and other fluids hung in the void like a slick. Cold detonations bloomed, silent, deadly. Void distortion raged across both fleets like heavy static.

  A carefully and meticulously planned raid had turned into an attritional slugfest.

  Meduson cursed finding the plans. He recognised them for a trap, a poisoned feast from Marr that he had gladly accepted. Now he was choking on it.

  ‘Aug,’ Meduson repeated, firmer, louder.

  ‘I have contact,’ Aug replied, as a voice cut through a deluge of vox interference.

  ‘Red Talon engaging,’ said Autek Mor, his fearsome timbre unmistakable.

  ‘The other Fraters?’ asked Aug, not waiting for Meduson, having adjudged that speed preceded protocol.

  ‘Are engaging at my order.’

  Mechosa shared a worried glance with Meduson, but the Warleader nodded.

  Aug gave second signal.

  ‘Confirmed,’ said Mor in a deathly rasp befitting his grim reputation.

  The vox cut off as Mor ended the exchange.

  A second fleet of Iron Hands vessels appeared at the edge of the hololith. They had stalked the Sons of Horus ships at the coreward edge of the flotilla and now that the enemy had turned were free to bombard their rear aspects.

  Two enemy ships died swiftly, scythed apart and then sundered by reactor overloads. Twin supernovas blazed magnesium-bright, lighting up the void in an ephemeral nuclear sunrise.

  The Red Talon, surging aggressively at the fore of the chasing ships, killed them both.

  Meduson could imagine Mor carving a mental tally mark for each one, but was glad to be the beneficiary of the Iron Father’s wrath rather than its recipient.

  The Iron Heart weathered the next barrage, and the next.

  With Mor as their brutal killing edge, the other Fraters had little to do but threaten and apply the finishing blow to already crippled ships. It was enough.

  Even with their reinforcements, the Sons of Horus disengaged. Several ships stayed behind to secure the escape of the others, and were badly punished for their heroism. It left a bad taste in Meduson’s mouth, even though he knew this was how it had to end.

  Mor wanted to pursue, and even voxed his intentions, but both the Saurod and Unyielding Glory were badly bleeding. No ship of the Iron Hands vanguard had come away unscathed, and without the other Fraters, who had no appetite for sadism, Mor would have traded an advantageous position for a disadvantageous one. And so he relented, prowling at the edge of the battered Iron Hands fleet instead.

  On the bridge of the Iron Heart, the klaxons screamed on even as the crew slumped into grateful silence.

  They had survived. They had won, but it was not the manner of victory that Meduson had wanted.

  Several enemy ships drifted inert, a few thousand kilometres­ away. Their wounds polluted the void, bleeding bodies and micro-wreckage.

  ‘Shall I send in boarding parties, Warleader?’ Mechosa asked after the warning klaxons had been silenced by Aug. ‘That many supply ships…’

  His words died on his lips as he made eye contact with Aug.

  ‘They are empty, brother,’ said the Frater, his mood downcast. ‘Marr will have seen to it.’

  ‘A reconnoitring of the stricken vessels might yet yield–’

  ‘No,’ said Meduson, flatly. ‘That’s what he wants, for us to bleed ourselves white fighting his murder-gangs and kill-squads. Make no mistake, captain, his ravenous dogs are aboard those ships. I’ll not make further sacrifice by committing men to them. Arm vortex torpedoes, every ship in the vanguard. I want nothing left. Not even atoms.’

  Meduson stalked from the bridge as Mechosa took command and relayed the order.

  ‘Warleader,’ Aug began. ‘Shadrak.’

  Meduson paused as he reached the blast doors that led off the bridge.

  ‘It was a good victory,’ said Aug. ‘Hard fought, but good.’

  ‘The first of many,’ Meduson said after a moment and then carried on.

  Twelve

  Reckonings, of Drakes and Gorgons

  Meduson had stripped out of his armour and stood naked in an ablutions cell, letting the steam scour his skin.

  Scars ran the length of his body, their reflection in the glass like some grim and frenzied topography. They mapped his deeds and conquests, and Meduson knew every ugly one of them. He emerged after several hours, his skin red and aglow, a fine veneer of water vapour dappling both flesh and metal.

  He donned robes and padded barefoot across the cold floor. His armour stood before him, black and as badly scarred as its wearer, mounted on a simple armature.

  Meduson left the ablutions chamber, passing through a heat field that instantly dried his skin and then an archway into his quarters. The strategium table remained as he had left it, the data-slates and maps still upon it somehow mocking.

  He cursed his own pride for believing the ‘gift’ he had found on Hamart. The other Fraters would think it foolish too. An audience with them and a renewed debate as to the next course of action would not be far off. After they had licked their wounds, what ­precious few they had sustained, they would issue a summons. That was fine; Meduson had his own questions for them. For now, the fleet had scattered again, running in the shadows like nothing had changed.

  Except it had.

  They had fought the Sons of Horus and won. Hard fought, just as Aug had said, but they had still won. Not a raid or a hit-and-run ambush – an attack, a battle.

  ‘He was trying to kill you again,’ said a familiar voice. Meduson had forgotten he had left the door to his quarters open.

  ‘You realise that, of course,’ said Aug. ‘And he failed. Again.’

  ‘I do,’ said Meduson, and began gathering up the war plans on his strategium table.

  ‘I don’t think he cares how it happens, either. Only that there’s a body and it’s yours. This is dangerous, Shadrak, and not just for you.’

  Meduson paused his mindless chore.

  ‘You refer to the Legion?’

  ‘Not a Legion, not yet, but the nascent possibility of one. Pride will see it undone.’

  Meduson turned to face him.

  ‘You mean my pride, specifically. You recall we won, Aug?’

  Aug shook his head, rueful. ‘Tyb
alt Marr is a thorn in all of our sides, but he has marked you for especial attention. I worry that your growing obsession with him, and his with you, could undo what we are striving so hard to achieve – to weld back together a Legion, for us to bring purpose and meaning back to the Iron Tenth.’

  ‘What is it you think I have been doing all of these months, Aug?’ said Meduson, exasperated. ‘Every raid, every sabotage – it is to draw him out. He hunts us. Can you not see that? Marr is only bent on my destruction because he knows it will signal the end of all this. Without me, there is no Legion. We have won a great victory, but it isn’t over.’

  Aug frowned, taken aback by the Warleader’s words. ‘Is that what you truly believe? You told me you did not want this. That you would serve only because others would not. This is precisely what worries me.’

  ‘It has not changed. I am resolved as I ever was to discard the mantle of Warleader when stability returns to the Legion and a better candidate can be found. Or do you think Autek Mor a ­worthy replacement?’

  ‘Of course not,’ replied Aug, scowling at the very idea. ‘But Marr is under your skin, brother.’

  ‘And the flesh is weak, I suppose.’

  ‘You turn our credo against us very easily, Shadrak.’

  Meduson exhaled his frustration and vented what remained of his anger.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jebez. I do not mean to. You say I have changed. I have. I see a future for us, for the Iron Tenth, that does not end in isolation and secession from the Imperium. I believe I can bring that future about. I believe only I can do it, but not alone. I need allies in this.’

  ‘You have them, but don’t squander their fealty in a vainglorious quest to kill Tybalt Marr.’

  ‘It will come to a reckoning, Aug. Him or us.’

  Aug nodded sadly.

  ‘Perhaps it will,’ he said, before changing subject. ‘Gorgonson has readied casualty reports for the Iron Heart. The rest of the vessels in the fleet are trickling in more numbers. Arkul Theld is dead.’

  ‘I see,’ said Meduson, grim. He had liked the old captain. More­over, Theld had been one of his staunchest supporters. It weakened his position and would make what came next even harder. Even off the back of a victory. ‘Does the Unyielding Glory have a replacement officer?’

  ‘A veteran sergeant, Clan Ungavaar.’

  ‘And so we continue to erode. Who is the Iron Father on that ship?’

  ‘Gaeln Krenn, an adherent of the late Aan Kolver.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Meduson with acidic sarcasm, weighing up what the consequences of that would be. A low-ranking officer would almost certainly defer to his Iron Father on matters of clan politics, and Krenn would be of a similar mind to Rawt, Kernag and the others.

  ‘I need to meet with them,’ said Meduson, decided.

  ‘The Fraters?’

  ‘Them first. Then everyone.’

  Aug nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll take the appropriate steps.’

  ‘Thank you, Aug. You are my Hand Elect.’

  ‘I am whatever you need me to be, Warleader,’ said Aug, and left.

  The door ground shut in his wake, it, like so much else in this alliance, feeling the strain.

  Meduson began to don his armour, first dragging the bodyglove over his weary flesh. Over the last few months, he had become quite adept at the process, having had to learn to do it himself. Armouring serfs were in short supply. Everything was in short supply. Gorgonson had occasionally assisted, but the Apothecary had more important duties to attend to and would only remind Meduson of their recent losses. He could at least stave that off for a short while.

  Sitting down on a stool to attach his boots and greaves, he raised Mechosa on the vox. He needed to gather the council again, and plan the next engagement. The data from Hamart had proven costly, but it had not been false. Perhaps there was yet a way to utilise it.

  ‘Warleader, Nuros has returned,’ Mechosa began before he could speak, uncharacteristically animated.

  ‘And?’ asked Meduson, realising there must be more.

  ‘He is not alone, Warleader.’

  ‘You are being unusually unforthcoming, captain.’

  ‘I apologise, Warleader, but you must see this yourself. He awaits in aft docking bay sigma-eight.’

  ‘The docking bay?’

  ‘Yes. We all do.’

  Meduson looked down at the scattered pieces of war-plate and the half armour left on the armature, looking like an unfinished statue.

  Gorgonson’s assistance would have been greatly appreciated in that moment.

  ‘I am adept, but not miraculous…’ he muttered.

  ‘Warleader?’ asked Mechosa, evidently having overheard.

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  Sighing, Meduson took his cuirass, affixed it as quickly as he could and left the rest behind.

  A crowd had gathered in the docking bay, large enough that as the blast doors opened Meduson met the armoured back and shoulders of a fellow Iron Hands legionary.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  The cavernous chamber, usually only the haunt of the spartan maintenance crews at large on the Iron Heart, had become thronged with legionaries, deckhands and what few armsmen the ship still retained. Only the servitors continued about their duties, although even they were hampered by the masses.

  The Iron Hand standing sentry turned.

  ‘Warleader,’ he said, deferential but with the same tremor of excitement in his voice that had affected Mechosa. ‘It is beyond all hope.’

  Meduson tried to look past the huddled bodies mildly jostling with each other to catch a glimpse of something close to the intake ramps. He noticed a pair of gunships, both drake-green and battle-scarred, and assumed they belonged to Nuros.

  ‘Where is Nuros?’ he asked.

  The sentry pointed towards the heart of the crowd. ‘With him. They all are.’

  Meduson scowled, and began to push through the bodies. They yielded easily enough, most were mortal after all, but Meduson could only see as far as a ring of black-armoured Iron Hands who surrounded something or someone.

  At last, Lumak put his head up and Meduson caught his eye. The Clan Avernii captain bulled a path, and urged Meduson on with great sweeping gestures of his arms.

  ‘Stand aside,’ he bellowed, and the mortals scattered, though only reluctantly. ‘Stand aside for the Warleader!’

  Meduson met him halfway, surprised when Lumak clasped his forearm in a firm lock.

  ‘Brother?’ ventured Meduson. Out of his full armour, he looked slighter than the burly Avernii. ‘What is happening here? Why are so many gathered?’

  ‘Follow me,’ Lumak said, releasing his grip and forging a way through. As they reached the outer ring of Iron Hands, the guards parted and Meduson saw what everyone was striving to get a glimpse of.

  ‘They come to witness a miracle,’ said Lumak, and though those words sounded ludicrous coming out of the veteran’s mouth, Meduson believed them.

  Nuros was here. So too were his brothers. Each of them knelt, heads bowed, the solemn oaths of their volcanic home world murmuring on their lips. Only three of the Drakes had stayed on their feet. Meduson didn’t recognise them.

  As he entered the circle, the reek of ash and cinder struck him like a fist. It was heady, but he couldn’t decide if it was that or the one to whom the Drakes paid homage which caused his hearts to quicken.

  Eyes, red as burning calderas, regarded him. A face like sculpted onyx and carrying the wisdom of ages gave a knowing smile. He rose, this titan, he of the fiery gaze and the statuesque features. A blacksmith’s son, so the legend said, an immortal so the rumours had it.

  Never had Meduson felt so inadequate, reminded painfully of his half armour and hurried appearance.

  ‘Primarch…’ he uttered, barely forming the word. It
hurt his neck to crane it so much. At least he could meet the figure’s gaze, even if he could not hold it. How could he hope to with those infernos boring into him, judging, measuring as only one such as he ever could.

  ‘Warleader,’ came the reply, a voice almost chasmal in its depth, practically resonant.

  Meduson blinked for the first time in several minutes. He could scarcely believe his own words even as they left his mouth.

  ‘Vulkan… You’re alive.’

  Meduson had not yet dressed, not fully. He sat in half armour, more dishevelled than imperious. Still, it was that or ask the primarch to wait.

  Vulkan sat opposite, his posthuman stature eclipsing that of the partially plated Warleader. He looked around.

  ‘What is this place?’ he asked, his voice deeper and even more resonant in the echoing chamber.

  ‘A former triumph hall, now given over to a strategium. I thought it appropriate.’

  Statues stood at arms along both walls of the musty chamber, describing champions of the Legion and ancient Medusa. Banners hung from the ceiling, a little threadbare, dust motes cascading from old fabric as they bowed to the pressure of the air recyclers.

  Meduson had reverently moved a few of the statues, the lighter ones, to make room for star charts, route maps and ship schemata. Half-empty ammunition crates sat in well-raided stacks in the corners, belt feeds, bullets and bolt shells. Promethium tanks nestled alongside. Some of the larger, reinforced crates had served as stools, judging by their scuffed appearance and overall positioning relative to the strategium table.

  Vulkan’s eyes lingered on the statues, the grimness of each stony countenance, half hidden in shadow, apparently beguiling.

  ‘I knew them,’ he said, his tone slightly melancholic. ‘Some of them. It was early in the Crusade. A different age it feels like now.’

  Meduson held his tongue, unsure what he could possibly say that wouldn’t sound facile or trite.

  Overhead, a yellow lumen strip flickered and Vulkan looked up.

  ‘Unreinforced, battered, bleeding and despite all that you persist,’ he said, returning his gaze to the Warleader. ‘Impressive. I knew my brother had tenacious sons, but I had not appreciated just how tenacious.’