Throneworld

by Guy Haley

  ‘We impose the will of the Emperor, Drakan,’ said Wienand. ‘Our word is law.’

  ‘And I exist to ensure that people who say such things as a matter of habit do not take matters into their own hands. Isn’t it nice that we can all get on so well together?’ Vangorich said drily. ‘We do need to get on with each other. Frankly, you two and I are the only ones who seem to be keeping their head in all of this mess. Can you not put your differences aside? The future of the Imperium depends on it. Is it really that inconceivable that you both might be right? That Veritus here is correct to be wary of the alien.’

  Veritus began to speak, but Vangorich raised his voice and spoke over him.

  ‘And that Wienand is right in the utility of the xenos? Neither of these viewpoints are essentially contradictory. Perhaps, indeed, it is time to consider a certain amount of specialisation? Take a lead from my temples. One must select the correct tool for the job. This is a big galaxy – no one man or woman can hope to be fit for every task, even if they carry the Emperor’s seal. In your division you are behaving no less blindly or selfishly than the High Lords.’

  Veritus worked his jaw. Wienand stared down her nose at him.

  ‘So,’ said Vangorich. ‘Who’s first?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Wienand. ‘I shall agree to a detente.’

  ‘Veritus?’ said Vangorich.

  Veritus sneered. ‘And hand back power to you, I suppose? Your record so far has been pitiful, Wienand.’

  ‘On the contrary. You shall remain as the Inquisitorial Representative,’ said Wienand. ‘My return will raise questions. Open signs of dissent within our ranks will weaken our position. Matters are too delicate to confuse further with my return. The Inquisition must present a united front, outwardly at least. I shall be able to act more freely against the High Lords if I remain dead.’

  Vangorich smiled in relief, interleaved his fingers and cracked his knuckles.

  ‘Well then!’ he said.

  ‘Surprised, Veritus? You see, my lord,’ said Wienand, ‘it is not only you who has the interests of the Imperium at heart.’

  ‘Excellent!’ said Vangorich. ‘We must begin work immediately.’ He ushered them towards the door.

  ‘Be hasty,’ said the shadowseer. ‘Already the Primordial Annihilator works against you.’

  Vangorich got one final look at Lhaerial Rey before the door sealed, locking her away forever.

  Seven

  A conversation with Terra

  During their voyage across the Sol System, Koorland found his few moments of peace in the practice cages. With Issachar he sparred constantly, both of them guests of Bohemond. The physical exertion of combat pushed aside his grief and his anger. When not fighting, the lords of the Chapters conferred and feasted, making their plans against the orks.

  The Last Wall made all speed through the Sol System, sailing past mighty Jupiter and its glowering storm spots, on towards the asteroid belt and past it to the inner planets. From fleeing mercantile craft they first received detailed news of the situation at Terra, and of the disastrous Proletarian Crusade.

  The Sol System was ordinarily alive with shipping travelling from the Mandeville point to Terra. The Last Wall saw few vessels. Those ships that had come to the cradle of mankind had aborted their journeys, and lurked unsurely around the outer planets. The captains of the ships and the lords of minor colonies around the gas giants relayed further details. The moon had arrived at Terra unopposed, they said, crushing the throneworld’s orbital defences without trouble. The Navy was mostly absent. When the Crusade had been called, the minor Imperial Navy presence held back while millions of Imperial citizens were slaughtered. Worse still, the ships of Mars remained in port, the red world’s armies mustered but inactive. Astropathic messages to both Terra and Mars went unanswered.

  Koorland’s outrage grew. During the hours of swift travel from the Mandeville point to the inner system he remained in the cages. His sword clashed off Issachar’s twin axes. He fought instinctively, mind elsewhere. Several questions troubled him, and the answer to them all was more troubling still – the High Lords, the High Lords, the High Lords.

  He grunted hard, and swung at Issachar. The Excoriator dodged.

  ‘My lords.’

  Koorland drove another hard attack at Issachar, all his anger and frustration behind it.

  ‘My lords!’

  Issachar caught Koorland’s blow upon crossed axes.

  ‘A messenger,’ said Issachar, nodding past their locked weapons. He and Koorland were stripped to the waist. Issachar’s torso was as scarified as his face, his flesh a coded manual to the rituals of his Chapter.

  Koorland stepped back. Sweat poured off them both. A Black Templars bondsman stood by the doors, framed by the cage bars.

  ‘The High Lords have made contact, my lords,’ said the bondsman. He wore the weapons of a warrior, and had the physique to match. His attitude to Koorland was deferential without servility. There was pride in the hearts of the Black Templars’ men; they did not creep about as the servants of some Chapters did.

  ‘No news from Mars?’ said Koorland. He wiped down his face and naked torso with a towel handed to him by an arming servitor, and stepped out from the practice cage.

  ‘Alas, we have heard nothing from them, my lord.’

  ‘Continue our attempts to raise them. Have your astropaths and vox-officers make the implication the Last Wall may alter course to put into orbit around the forge world and investigate their silence. That will focus the tech-priests’ attention,’ said Koorland. ‘Have my armour prepared. I will speak with the High Lords garbed for war.’

  ‘Shall I inform my liege Bohemond?’

  ‘I shall speak to this representative alone,’ said Koorland.

  ‘My lord,’ said the bondsman, and departed.

  ‘If the High Lords contact us, we can rest easy that there is at least authority still upon Terra,’ said Issachar.

  ‘Yes, but whose?’ said Koorland. ‘And if the old authority, how effective can it be? The High Lords have proved nothing but their own incompetence.’

  ‘You are learning, Chapter Master Koorland.’

  While in the arming chamber Bohemond had provided him, Koorland was informed that the representative of the High Lords was now present via lithocast. Koorland did not hurry. Arming servitors and bondsmen clad him in his armour, polished now but still bearing the marks of the conflict on Ardamantua. While the men worked silent around him, bolting him into his battleplate, he thought on what he must say to the lords of all the Imperium. Politics. How he loathed them, all the worse as he lacked the detail to make an adequate tactical plan. Idle fantasies of usurping them and replacing their corrupt rule with that of the Space Marines played through his mind. But Space Marines were no less fallible than mortal men, and far more dangerous for the belief many of them had in their own rectitude. The galaxy had suffered enough already because of transhuman arrogance. He chastised himself inwardly. Issachar’s sentiments were infectious. He could not succumb to them.

  The last clasp of his armour fastened with a snap. The bondsmen oiled Koorland’s hair, set a cloak of rich red velvet about his shoulders, and he departed for the Chamber of Audience, high up on the Abhorrence’s superstructure. As befitted its purpose as a tool of diplomacy, the chamber was cavernous, possessing enough holoprojectors to accommodate the remote meetings of many hundreds of men. Only one awaited him, the slight phantom of an unremarkable man in the room’s centre, his full-size lithocast eerily lifelike.

  ‘My lord, my apologies for keeping you,’ said Koorland. The room swallowed his voice whole. His footsteps echoed sharply from the ornate walls.

  The representative of the High Lords waved away the apology. He was plainly dressed, small.

  ‘These are trying times. I have not been waiting long. Rather, it is my own eagerness to speak
with you that brings me to the lithocast chamber ahead of you, Second Captain Koorland.’

  ‘I am Chapter Master now,’ said Koorland.

  ‘Ah,’ said the man. His face expressed his concern, the long scar cutting across it wrinkling oddly. ‘Your losses were grave, we understand. Tell me, were there other survivors?’

  ‘They are dead,’ said Koorland icily. ‘You do not understand, I think. They are all dead, every one of my brothers. I am the last of the Imperial Fists. When I fall, the Chapter shall be no more.’

  ‘All of them are dead?’ said the man softly.

  ‘All.’

  The man nodded. ‘I feared as much. On hearing of your survival, some of my colleagues were more hopeful that others might have been retrieved, but…’ His demeanour changed. ‘We are forgetting ourselves, Chapter Master. I have yet to introduce myself. I am Drakan Vangorich, head of the Officio Assassinorum, and one of the High Lords of Terra, though sadly not one of the Twelve.’

  ‘You? You are the Lord of Assassins?’ said Koorland.

  ‘You cannot hide your incredulity. That is understandable.’ The man’s slight pleasure offended Koorland. ‘You have yet to grasp the diplomatic niceties of your new role. I do not look like a master of murderers, and intentionally so. If I looked like death himself, I would be performing my job poorly, would I not?’

  ‘Why have you been chosen to speak with me?’ Koorland’s mind raced. Battle. He must see this as battle. There were tactical considerations in the choice of his words. Koorland chose to be blunt. ‘Is this a warning?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose there is a warning in what I’m saying to you, Chapter Master,’ said Vangorich amiably. ‘But not the kind you are thinking of. Doubtless you believe my communication is meant to convey the power of the High Lords. At my command are killers who would tax and quite probably kill even you, should I command it. And it is true, the arrival of your fleet has caused as much consternation as it has celebration. But my warning is not of that sort. I ask that you pay attention to what I said regarding my appearance. Things are so very rarely as they seem.’

  ‘You are speaking obtusely.’

  ‘I really am not,’ said Vangorich.

  ‘Then tell me plainly, what is the High Lords’ message?’

  ‘There’s the crux of it. I am reasonably confident the High Lords’ message would be that you stay far away from Terra. They’d say this because you will provoke the orks, who for the four days since their ambassador was sent to us have done nothing. In fairness, the High Lords may genuinely fear provocation. What they really fear, however, is the threat to their power your – several thousand, is it? – Space Marines pose. Even at this late hour, they scheme still, and you are forcing them to act in concert. Nothing is more apt to form a concord among them than a challenge to their power from within the Imperium. A shame they do not categorise this ork invasion similarly. Terror is at the forefront of their minds, but behind it self-interest, ambition and envy still slide over one another, poisonous as serpents.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ said Koorland. ‘I requested, politely, that you speak plainly. Do not make me demand.’

  Vangorich pointed at Koorland somewhat impishly. ‘A little steel I see there, Chapter Master. Good. We are sorely in need of a man with steel. You must also learn a certain flexibility of mind. You see, I am not speaking to you on behalf of the High Lords at all. I am currently at the Inquisitorial Headquarters. I am afraid I am very much on a frolic of my own.’

  ‘I was expecting instruction. Plans. Disposition of the enemy.’

  ‘Very commendable. Instruction I can manage. I have with me one of my colleagues, Veritus, the Inquisitorial Representative to the Senatorum Imperialis, and one of the High Twelve. He and I unfortunately do not constitute a quorum, but Veritus has something our fellows in the Senatorum lack. He speaks with the voice of the Emperor.’

  The hololith blinked. A second figure appeared on the focusing platform alongside the one projecting Vangorich. An indefinably ancient man, encased in a suit of golden power armour.

  ‘I am Veritus, the Inquisitorial Representative, and one of the High Twelve,’ said the newcomer. ‘Will you heed my command, Chapter Master Koorland? Will you obey the word of the Emperor Himself?’

  Koorland’s relief at having made contact with some authority was undermined by the uneasy feeling a trap was opening before him. The Chapters were autonomous but even they could not deny a direct order from a High Lord. He must tread carefully. ‘State your orders, inquisitor.’

  ‘By the power vested in me,’ said Veritus, ‘the High Lords command that you bring your fleet immediately to Terra and smash the attack moon out of the sky.’

  ‘And why do you think we have come here, inquisitor? Has the Imperium become so divided that the sight of a fleet of Space Marines in response to a direct threat within the holy system of Sol inspires fear, and not relief? Our intention is to destroy the orks,’ said Koorland. ‘It is our only purpose.’

  ‘Then our aims accord,’ said Veritus guardedly.

  ‘Well, that was very dramatic,’ said Vangorich. ‘But there is some business to attend to. You will require help, lord Chapter Master. You must go to Mars, and winkle Fabricator General Kubik out from his hiding place. Set his feet on the path to war. The man sits in his palace surrounded by one of the mightiest armies in the galaxy, and he does nothing. We will advise you in what you must say to him.’ Vangorich glanced at Veritus. ‘But first, it is time to tell you exactly what has transpired since the tragedy at Ardamantua. Steady yourself – you will not be pleased by what I have to say.’

  Eight

  The calculation of suspicion

  Kubik addressed Koorland from the heart of the diagnostiad, the clicking mind of Mars. A kilometre-wide sphere excavated from the ground in untold ages past, its sides were a hive of thousands of individual cells, each containing the body of a magos wired directly into the Martian world-core. Their whispering never stopped. Once placed inside a cell, a magos left only when his unnaturally long life was worked out. Dark patches on the wall marked out an expired follower of the Omnissiah, like dead elements on a pict screen. Sometimes they might go for months without notice until servitor teams carefully cleared brown bones, failed cybernetics and ruined robes from the cavity, and prepared it for a new occupant. It was a networked mind, far more powerful than any cogitator in the galaxy. Retaining but a fragment of their individuality, the magi became one in thought and intent; the diagnostiad had known no dissension within itself for hundreds of years.

  There were few honours higher in the priesthood than to be elevated to the diagnostiad. To join the world-engine at the heart of the Martian empire was to commune with the Omnissiah himself.

  The office of Fabricator General was one of those few higher honours. Surrounded by thousands trapped in the ecstasy of mechanical undeath, it was an honour Kubik preferred.

  Kubik’s throne was a mighty affair, replete with data sockets, cogitator interface points, servo-skull docks and other, more esoteric devices that provided Kubik with a direct link to the mind of Mars. Backed by a giant brazen plaque depicting the machina opus, the throne occupied a dais raised on a spine in the heart of the sphere, a tall needle alight with the sparkings of the Motive Force, and set with the polished bones and preserved cybernetica of his predecessors. Like the arcane knowledge of the tech-priests, Kubik’s throne was founded on the bones of the past.

  At the Fabricator General’s insistence, Koorland spoke with Kubik from a private lithocast chamber aboard the Abhorrence. A perfect, life-size image of the Chapter Master was projected by his throne in a manner that meant only Kubik and the diagnostiad could see him. No other sentient was present in the sphere, and yet secrecy reigned even there. The instinct to hoard knowledge was the most power­ful a tech-priest possessed. Their mastery of technology was second only to their paranoia.


  ‘Well met, Chapter Master Koorland. Your return to Sol is timely. Without your arrival, Terra would surely be lost.’ Kubik selected a near-human voice from his editicore recollections, a rich, commanding voice, suggestive of masculinity and confidence. Entirely unlike Kubik’s original voice, now hundreds of years lost.

  ‘Greetings to you, Lord of Mars,’ said Koorland, and bowed. ‘We, the brothers of the Last Wall, come before you to ask for your aid and your wisdom.’

  The Space Marine was being deferential. Kubik wondered who had schooled him.

  ‘We move immediately upon the attack moon,’ said Koorland. ‘Surprise is our most potent weapon. We will fall on them, and smash them from the skies.’

  ‘So thought Juskina Tull, and her Proletarian Crusade ended in disaster.’ Kubik’s sub-processors kept his voice neutral, injecting elements of superiority, irony and calm into the vox-output.

  ‘We are the hammer of the Emperor, not a desperate rabble. We shall destroy the orks.’

  ‘I can only applaud your confidence, Chapter Master, but I insist on caution.’

  ‘And I can only query your lack of action,’ said Koorland.

  ‘It is no mystery,’ said Kubik. ‘Our ground forces are substantial here on Mars, but our fleets are not suitable for actions of this kind. We have few vessels within the system in any case. To throw our lot in with Juskina Tull would have resulted in the loss of valuable military units that might be better used elsewhere.’

  ‘What of your weapons arrays, your machines of great art? Surely there is something capable of destroying the moon upon Mars.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Kubik. ‘And using any of the Greater Weapons would have posed unconscionable risks to Holy Terra. Would you have us destroy the throneworld to save it?’