by Guy Haley
The Chapter Masters looked to one another. Quesadra drummed three crimson fingers on the table, click click click.
‘What of the moon?’ asked Koorland.
‘Kubik desires it to be left intact.’
‘So Terra dances to Mars’ tune now?’ said Bohemond.
Udo gave him a hard stare. Bohemond returned it. ‘We have convened a meeting of the High Twelve,’ said Udo. ‘There its fate will be decided.’
‘I urge you, my lord, it must be destroyed,’ said Koorland.
‘Whether or not it will be is a matter for the Lords of Terra. You will maintain your blockade until the Navy gathers in sufficient force to take your place. If you perform this task, none shall set foot upon the moon. The Fabricator General has agreed to withdraw his armies for the time being. The moon is under your custodianship. Beyond that it is no longer your concern,’ said Udo evenly. ‘You have pulled the orks’ teeth. Bravo. It is time to let the organs of government decide the best course of action. Know this, lord Chapter Masters, this fleet of yours cannot be allowed to remain whole. Your Chapters shall each receive individual orders. With your might properly directed, we shall end the threat of this Beast once and for all. There shall be no more need for such,’ he lifted a hand, ‘charming displays of confraternity.’
The Space Marines shifted uneasily.
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Koorland hesitantly. ‘When you order its destruction, we shall be on hand to aid you in your task.’
‘There is one last item I must inform you of,’ continued Udo. ‘We cannot allow the news of the destruction of the Imperial Fists to be made public. Your return, Koorland, will be the proof of the indomitability of the Adeptus Astartes of Dorn’s line. You shall return from the dead to great fanfare, the orks cannot defeat you and so forth. I shall have a suitable story provided. You are only one, and that presents a problem. To circumvent this, each of you will provide from among your number Wall Guardians to man the Palace as the Imperial Fists always have.’
‘They are not Imperial Fists,’ said Quesadra.
‘They shall be dressed in the livery of the Imperial Fists,’ said Udo. ‘The populace shall know no different.’
‘Our men will never give up their colours!’ exclaimed Issachar.
‘There will be no honour? No mention of my brothers’ sacrifice?’ Koorland’s face went pale. ‘This is an outrage!’
‘This is politics, captain,’ said Udo. ‘In the aftermath of the moon’s arrival, to inform the people that the Imperial Fists are nigh-on extinct will send a wave of terror throughout the Imperium. Worse would be rumours, for they are pernicious and far harder to deal with than the shock of an announcement. Not a single word of this disaster must become public. You have my sympathy for your loss, captain, but there are practicalities to consider.’ Udo stood, holding up his hands to forestall disagreement. ‘You must forgive me. I return to the surface now. I have much to arrange.’
The Lord Commander bowed sharply, leaving the Space Marines to stare after him as his aides and constructs filed out in his wake.
‘We will not break the fleet,’ said Bohemond.
‘We cannot defy him,’ said Quesadra.
‘We can,’ said Verpall. ‘How can Udo possibly enforce the order? If we did refuse he could do nothing. He would be forced to back down and concoct some story that cast him in a favourable light.’
‘More politics,’ spat Bohemond.
‘I cannot condone that course of action,’ said Koorland. ‘It is close to heresy.’
‘We have no choice,’ said Issachar, ‘if we are to save the Imperium.’
‘A sentiment that has been voiced before,’ said Koorland. ‘Be careful of your thoughts, brother.’
Sixteen
The welcoming of heroes
The Praetorian Way resounded to cheers as the Space Marines marched from the East Gate Landing Hall towards the centre of the Imperial Palace: over three thousand of them, more than had been on Terra at one time for hundreds of years. Millions of citizens lined the route, waving flags bearing the badges of the Chapters. They roared and screamed their approbation, ecstatic at the sight of so many of the Angels of Death. The attack moon loured at them, its porcine face expressing a fury it was impotent to act upon. Aircraft shrieked overhead, pumping coloured smoke into the hazy atmosphere. Laud hailers sang out hymnals and prayers, and servo-skulls bearing vox-projectors roared out the names of the most distinguished battle-brothers, while others recited the Chapter histories of the Space Marines.
Giant screens along the route showed picts of dead orks and burning ships, intercut with the faces of Koorland and his fellow lords, their names and honours written in bold text beneath their images. Music blasted from a hundred places, until the words and melodies were unrecognisable as coherent sounds; they were sonic fragments, an overwhelming cacophony that outsang the loudest battle.
Never had Koorland heard a million voices scream as one, either in adulation or in pain. He went bareheaded at the High Lords’ request, crowned with a laurel wreath. Let the people see their saviour, they said. He envied the twenty sham Imperial Fists marching behind him, their helms locked in place, their audio dampers working at maximum capacity. Koorland kept his face forward. So many people, so many faces, all of them calling his name. Scented flakes of paper rained down on them from every side. It was intoxicating, and it should not be so. He had performed his duty, that was all. He would not allow himself to indulge his emotions. He would not allow himself the folly of pride.
They passed from tightly clustered buildings and into the killing field before the Palace walls. Four kilometres of bare rock, open to the sky. Daylight Wall dominated it, tinted a delicate rose by the rising sun. The Praetorian Way meekly burrowed its way through the East Gate, little more than a wormhole in the fabric of the wall in comparison to the defence’s massive size. The wall was stupefyingly tall. Here Koorland’s gene-seed ancestors had fought and died, protecting the Emperor from the gravest enemy of all. What he and his fellow Chapter Masters had accomplished was nothing by comparison. He reminded himself repeatedly of his own insignificance as they approached the soaring buttresses, towers, gun emplacements and gigantic statuary.
The crowds in the killing field were no less vocal, but free of the resonating plascrete canyons of the outer district the noise was bearable. Daylight Wall, in many senses his wall. Koorland had not seen it for so long. The East Gate reared up, mighty now he was before it, its revealed scale making the wall all the more titanic. The reflected heat of the early sun bounced from it, glinting from the polished armour of the Space Marine column. Koorland’s wargear gleamed newly. Not even his intention to keep his battle damage on show until his brothers were avenged had survived Udo’s blunt realpolitik. Issachar’s Chapter were the battered exception, their creed demanding they mark their wounds well.
Koorland marched towards the gate where the multi-lane Praetorian Way became a straight tunnel through the wall. To be coming home like this, alone, the bearer of half-truths and propagandic distortions, blunted the glory of their triumph over the orks. The moon was still in the sky. The wall stood strong in the face of its aggression, but scarring from its attacks opened up gaps all over the Palace’s skylines. Despite these reminders of vulnerability around them, the Senatorum Imperialis would doubtless go back to its infighting.
The blackness of the gate tunnel swallowed him, and the crowd’s jubilation was silenced. Shame dogged his footsteps and determination drove him on.
This state of affairs could not be allowed to persist. It was a thought that would not be quieted all the way through the giving of honours and renewal of fealty that took place in the Senatorum Imperialis at the end of their march.
After the ceremony was over, the highest of the high were ushered into a giant hall clad in ornately carved tiles of malachite and onyx. There an interminable feast began, booken
ded by pompous speeches. The food was quite exquisite, but Koorland was so invested in his problems he found himself insensible to the flavour. He filled himself as he had been trained to long ago, shovelling delicacies into his mouth to fuel his transhuman metabolism as if they were the lowest gruel. There were so many ingredients in each dish that a confusing amount of information flooded his brain via his neuroglottis, further darkening his mood.
After the feast came the reception, a grand and tedious party where Koorland was besieged by a stream of dignitaries that would not stop flowing. Their mouths dripped honeyed comments, a request or criticism behind every one. Koorland politely listened to his interlocutors, insisting he had no say in the policies of the Senatorum Imperialis, and that he had no intention of parlaying the assembled Chapters’ might into political influence. ‘I am a servant of the Emperor,’ and its variations became a phrase repeated as often as a battle catechism.
The High Twelve and many of the greatest of the lesser lords kept themselves distant from him. Those that attempted an approach shied away under Udo’s glowering. When Vangorich appeared at his side it was so unexpected that Koorland did not at first recognise him.
‘Good evening, Chapter Master,’ said a wiry man. He surveyed the room, not lifting his face to look at the Imperial Fist. Koorland prepared himself for the usual back and forth of insincere small talk and relentless probing, but something made him hesitate in returning the man’s greeting. He was armed only with a goblet of wine and a sardonic manner, but there was something about him, a mixture of poise, alertness and confidence that the others lacked and that signalled he was the most dangerous man in the room. Then he looked up, held out a hand, and Koorland knew him.
‘Drakan Vangorich,’ said Koorland.
Koorland’s giant fist engulfed Vangorich’s hand and they shook in the civilian manner, palm to palm.
‘I recognise you from our discussion. I thank you for your… recent good wishes.’
‘I am only happy they were well received,’ said Vangorich.
‘How could I not heed you? You are dangerous,’ said Koorland.
‘My, you are blunt. You don’t think these other fine ladies and gentlemen are?’ said Vangorich.
‘Not in the same way as you,’ said Koorland. ‘Not immediately. None of them would stand a chance against me in combat, but I suspect you might. And you also possess their political power. There are several of the greatest lords of the Space Marines in this chamber, but I think you are the most dangerous of us all.’
Vangorich shrugged slightly. He was small by unaltered human standards, and minute by those of the transhumans.
‘Correct again, Chapter Master. I suppose I am exceptionally dangerous. Shall I tell you another difference between myself and my fellow High Lords? You and I, Koorland, are on the same side.’
‘We are all on the same side,’ said Koorland. ‘The orks are on the other.’
‘Oh, Chapter Master, please!’ Vangorich tutted. Koorland noticed that when the Assassin spoke he hid his lips from prying eyes behind his goblet. ‘Don’t play the naïf with me. I’m a remarkably good judge of a man’s mood no matter their type. A necessary skill in my role. It is plain that you are not pleased nor are you satisfied by what you see here on Terra.’
‘I am not,’ admitted Koorland. ‘My brothers are all dead. I hold the men and women in this hall responsible.’
‘You are not alone in doing so. There are others of us who are frustrated by the failure of the Senatorum to contain the orks. Now that, Chapter Master, is why we are on the same side. I am sorry, by the way, about your brothers. There was one, Daylight, who was a passing acquaintance of mine.’
Koorland looked down at Vangorich hard. Daylight had been his company representative on Terra. ‘I have had enough of barbed words hidden in flattery. If you seek to goad me, I advise you to seek your sport elsewhere.’
‘I mean nothing ill by it,’ said Vangorich. ‘I will not say Daylight was my friend, but I spoke with him every day and I always regarded him well. He was an honourable man. It is a shame he realised his dream of going to war. It proved his end.’
‘War is our purpose. To die in battle is an honour.’ As Koorland said the words he doubted them. He remembered the devastation on Ardamantua. There had been little honour won there.
‘How refreshing,’ said Vangorich. ‘These others here, some few of them might hold such noble sentiments. Juskina Tull,’ he pointed out a tall woman in a complicated dress. She held herself aloof, and her face was blank of emotion. ‘She, for example, for all her delusions in initiating the Proletarian Crusade, her motives were at least pure – in part. Many of the rest of them cannot even claim that. They do not see beyond their own concerns, or they actively promote their own interests. Naturally, they all invoke the Emperor, and the good of the Imperium. But frankly it never ceases to amaze me how convenient it is that the will of the Emperor coincides with the aims of every High Lord, no matter how contradictory their statements appear when set one beside another.
‘See,’ said Vangorich, pointing. ‘The Provost, Zeck. He is perhaps a little overly concerned with his office. He is very good at his job, but too good to be effective on the council. Lord Commander Militant Verreault is at odds with Lord High Admiral Lansung, and is in Udo’s pocket. The telepaths Anwar and Sark are occupied so much with their own, vital efforts to keep the Imperium together that they are too easily swayed by quick solutions, whereas the Paternoval Envoy Gibran cannot be swayed at all.’ As he spoke, he indicated the High Lords one at a time. ‘Lansung is a brilliant military commander, but of all of them he is the most responsible for this sorry mess.’
‘His ship stood back while we attacked,’ said Koorland.
‘As it did when Tull’s Crusade went forward. I cannot think why. He has perhaps lost his self-belief. I’m sure his own follies were driven by the idea that he was the best man for the job. That only he knows the way to extend the Imperium’s reach. But his manoeuvring was nearly the end of us. They all think that they alone know the answer. Confidence and zealotry, a terrible mix. He hoarded his fleet when he should have attacked, all for the chance at an office he will now never hold. The Inquisition seeks to repair the machineries of government, but cannot agree with itself and falls to infighting.
‘The fat man there in three countesses’ worth of jewellery is Mesring, the Ecclesiarch. A less holy man I have rarely met. And let us not forget Kubik, of course, hiding away on Mars up to no good. He’s turning into something of a threat to the Imperium, between you and me. All the signs suggest he seeks to assert the supremacy of Mars over that of Terra.’ He sighed and waved his goblet around him, taking in all the dignitaries, toadies, servers, servitors and every other human being in the room. ‘A room full of agendas does not make for happy governance. It is, all things told, a sorry mess of a game.’
‘I cannot see this as a game, Grand Master.’
‘But it is a game, Koorland,’ said Vangorich. ‘A very serious game, but a game nonetheless.’
‘If all the pieces are compromised, then what is left?’ said Koorland.
‘What is left is you and I,’ said Vangorich, tapping a finger against Koorland’s chest eagle. ‘So we best hope you are successful in hauling our collective skins out of the fire. I do not wish to see the time come when the Imperium has to rely on the Grand Master of the Assassinorum. We are gardeners, we Assassins. A snip and a prune. We are not intended for the wholesale remodelling of government, or, the Emperor forfend, the wielding of power.’ He smiled innocently, his scar twisting his face. Unlike Udo’s disfigurement, it somehow made the Assassin appear even more genial.
For a man who protested his lack of interest in power, thought Koorland, he seemed remarkably adept at wielding it.
‘Ah, my goblet appears to be empty,’ said Vangorich. ‘This evening, I feel like drinking. This week has been taxing.’ He
rested a hand on Koorland’s vambrace, and said sotto voce, ‘Let us continue this some other time.’ Vangorich sauntered off, greeting men and women with a warmth shot through with insolence.
Thane came to his side. The Chapter Masters had been besieged by coteries of adepts, some of whom were there at Udo’s behest to keep them apart. But when a Space Marine in full battleplate chose to move through a room, people had no choice but to quickly remove themselves from his path.
‘I tire of their flattery and wheedling,’ said Thane.
‘This room is a vipers’ nest,’ said Koorland.
‘Aye, and Grand Master Vangorich is the biggest snake of all. Be wary of him, brother.’
‘A life of war, of bolt and blade, was preferable to this,’ said Koorland.
‘I agree. But Issachar has it right. We have a different kind of battle to fight now.’ The supplicants kept their distance from the Chapter Masters’ quiet conference, all save one: the fat man sealed into ceremonial ecclesiarchal robes so encrusted in jewels they were thick as battleplate, Ecclesiarch Mesring. He came over, sweating under the weight of his robes of office despite the four hollow-eyed, shaven-headed acolytes holding his train. A whole host of others trailed him: priests, scribes, and petitioners anxiously awaiting a moment to speak with him.
Mesring interrupted the Space Marines impolitely. ‘Chapter Masters! I come to offer my thanks. You do the Emperor’s duty. He is pleased.’
Koorland turned from his conversation with Thane. ‘You are Mesring, Ecclesiarch of the Adeptus Ministorum?’