The Damnation of Pythos

by David Annandale

  ‘Where did you come from?’ he asked.

  ‘The world is lost now,’ Ske Vris answered. ‘So is its name. That is well. It was a false home. It did not test us.’

  ‘You think that is what Pythos is doing?’

  Ske Vris nodded, her smile huge. ‘It welcomed us with fury, as we knew it would. We must earn our home here. We will be tested every day. This is right. This is the way of faith.’

  Faith. The word haunted him. It rose everywhere Kanshell turned. Since the first night on Pythos, it had become harder for him to dismiss it as he knew he should. Tanaura had offered him its reassurance after the death of Georg Paert. He knew he should accept that he had hallucinated. That was to be expected in a region where the boundary with the immaterium was ragged. But the insistent reality of what he had seen refused to be banished. And in the presence of evil miracles, what recourse was there, Tanaura had asked him, but faith? Did he think the simple application of force, no matter how great, was the solution?

  Faith. Here it was again. He looked into the radiant face of Ske Vris. He felt a desperate hunger. This woman had lost hundreds of her fellows over the course of this day, yet she was staring towards the future with something much stronger than hope: confidence. Kanshell wondered what it would take to shake this being.

  Nothing, he suspected. He was looking at a woman whose faith was an impervious shield. Perhaps it was even stronger than Tanaura’s. She was frightened, whereas Ske Vris was glowing from the events of the day.

  ‘Why?’ Kanshell asked. ‘Why is it necessary that you be tested?’

  ‘To be made strong. We have to be strong to complete our work.’

  ‘What work is that?’

  Ske Vris looked up to the sealed heavens. She raised her arms high in welcome. ‘That revelation is yet to come.’ She paused, basking in the ineffable. She lowered her arms and her eyes were somehow even more joyful than before. ‘It will come here,’ she said. ‘Soon. So my master says.’

  ‘Your master?’

  Ske Vris pointed to one of the robed figures. He was near the landing pad, observing the debate between Atticus and the colonists’ representative. Even in the falling night, he was easy to pick out. He stood at least a head taller than most of his fellows, who kept a respectful distance from him.

  ‘What is his name?’ Kanshell asked.

  ‘I have yet to earn the right to speak it.’

  Kanshell looked at Ske Vris’s attire again. The woman’s tunic was longer than those worn by most of the other colonists. It also had a short hood. Kanshell saw a link between it and the dark robes. ‘You are a religious apprentice?’ he asked.

  ‘A novitiate. Yes.’

  Kanshell hesitated before speaking. Then he realised that he must. If he did not, he would be admitting the defeat of what he knew to be the truth. ‘You are wrong to stay,’ he said. ‘You have been led here by a delusion. There is nothing to worship. There are no gods.’

  Ske Vris’s smile did not falter. ‘You think so? Are you sure?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘How do you come by this certainty?’

  ‘The Emperor has revealed the truth to all mankind.’ And that includes you, doesn’t it?

  ‘What is a revealed truth except a gift from the divine?’ Ske Vris asked.

  ‘No,’ Kanshell stammered. ‘No, that isn’t right. It… I…’ he trailed off. His will to buttress his position leaked away.

  ‘Yes?’ Ske Vris prompted.

  ‘Nothing. You’re wrong, though.’ Kanshell could hear how weak his argument sounded.

  His distress must have been visible. Ske Vris grasped his shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. ‘I think we will have more to say to one another in the days ahead, my friend.’

  ‘You really plan to stay.’

  Ske Vris laughed. ‘It is not a question of planning. This is home! This is destiny!’

  Darras watched the spectacle on the landing pad. This is theatre, he thought, disgusted. The humans were done up for show. They were ragged, but there was pomp and ceremony and pride in their motley. They should have been humble, but though they expressed gratitude, they radiated entitlement, as if the Iron Hands were the ones who had just arrived and were being welcomed as guests to Pythos. The answers he had received to the questions he had put to over a dozen of the refugees only reinforced that impression.

  Galba joined him beside Unbending. ‘Any luck?’

  Darras gave a short bark of a laugh. ‘I ask who they are, they tell me they’re pilgrims. Pilgrims from where? From lies, coming to truth. From which planet? They have crossed into the realm of the truth, and so the past, like all lies, no longer exists for them. And when I ask how they got here…’

  ‘They were transported on the wings of faith,’ Galba finished.

  ‘Exactly.’ Darras snorted. ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Nonsense that they appear to believe.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right, then. We rescued fools instead of liars. I consider the day well spent.’ He waved his arm, taking in the base and the crowded slope beyond. ‘These are your works, too, brother. Look upon them.’

  ‘I didn’t advocate for this.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ he conceded. ‘But are you disappointed?’ He watched Galba carefully. He was not surprised when the other sergeant shook his head. Galba was being honest with both of them, and that was good. But it bothered Darras how much influence the Raven Guard and the Salamanders, Khi’dem in particular, were having on Galba. His battle-brother was drifting from the machinic path. ‘You think we did the right thing, don’t you?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Where is the worth in this carnival?’

  ‘That has yet to be seen. But the honourable choice is not necessarily a utilitarian one.’

  ‘Nor is it necessarily the right one. I didn’t ask if you thought we had chosen the honourable path. We did, without question. But there is more than one form of honour. Today, we honoured the flesh. Is our Legion in the habit of doing so?’

  ‘I don’t need to be instructed in our tenets.’

  Darras pretended he had not heard. ‘The flesh is weak, brother.’ He left unspoken the fact that so little of Galba’s had been pared away. ‘It makes bad choices. It is corruptible.’

  ‘I know,’ Galba said softly.

  ‘I think you are listening to yours too much.’ When Galba said nothing, Darras continued. ‘Strategy and reason are the paths that honour the machine. When reason is abandoned, betrayal follows.’

  Galba’s eyes flared with anger. Good. ‘Are you accusing me of something?’

  ‘No. Just reminding you of who we are.’

  She knew who had entered her chamber. The insanity of the warp filled her world to the point that she barely had any awareness of her own body. But the presence that had arrived was powerful. Its hard, unforgiving reality countered the blandishments of the immaterium. ‘Hello, captain,’ Erephren said.

  ‘Mistress Erephren.’

  ‘They aren’t leaving, are they?’

  ‘They are not.’

  ‘How could they, even if they wanted to?’

  ‘Some repairs might be possible. The planet Kylix is just capable of supporting life. It is a harsh world, but not a mad one. We could transport them to the empty ships in orbit.’

  ‘That does not sound like a fit duty for the Iron Hands.’

  The electronic grating was eloquent with the captain’s disgust. ‘It does not. Nor is playing nursemaid to these fools. I hope you will provide my salvation.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Give me a target, mistress. Find us a mission.’

  She sighed. ‘I wish I could.’

  ‘Your sight is failing you?’

  ‘No. The problem is the warp. I have never seen such storms. We cannot travel it. No one can.’
r />   ‘When did this begin?’

  ‘Just after our return. We are trapped here until the storms subside.’

  The presence was silent.

  ‘Lord?’ Erephren asked.

  ‘I was thinking,’ Atticus said, ‘how much I distrust coincidences.’

  ‘Can the enemy have the power to cause warp storms?’

  ‘No. No. That is impossible.’ There was the sound of his heavy bootsteps. ‘Do what you can,’ he said.

  ‘The moment I see a path for us to take, I will let you know.’

  ‘I can ask no more.’ The presence began to withdraw, taking its reality away.

  ‘Captain,’ Erephren called.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want to thank you,’ she said. ‘The confidence you place in me is a great honour.’

  ‘It is only right,’ he answered. ‘We find ourselves in unique circumstances. We must rely upon each other. We are more alike than you realise, mistress.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘We are tools, you and I. We have been moulded. To accomplish our duties to the fullest, we have surrendered almost everything that once made us human. We have become weapons, and nothing more. We are unfit for anything else. That is our price, and that is our great honour.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. Renewed strength of duty flooded her system.

  The bombardment was sporadic, but it did not end. The Vindicators lit the jungle with a slow, emphatic beat of fire. Galba found Khi’dem standing beside Medusan Strength. ‘Are you pleased with yourself?’ he asked.

  ‘I am grateful to your company,’ Khi’dem answered. ‘I am glad the right thing was done. I am not gloating, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I hope you are right that this was necessary.’

  ‘How can you doubt it?’

  ‘The cost.’

  ‘I mourn the losses. I do not take them lightly. Our numbers have been reduced still further as well.’

  ‘And what has this price bought us?’

  ‘The right to call ourselves defenders of the Imperium. Brother-sergeant, if you weigh today only by military gain, you are making a mistake.’

  Galba laughed softly. ‘I knew you were going to say that.’

  ‘Then you knew the truth. You felt it.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Galba doubted it. The refrain of are they worth it? still troubled him. ‘And what is the new truth? What do we do with these people now that we have saved them?’

  ‘We are responsible for them.’

  ‘You are being vague.’

  ‘I do not command this company.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Galba did not try to hide his bitterness. Medusan Strength thundered again. Galba pointed to the sudden glow of destruction in the trees. ‘Look upon your works, brother.’ He was conscious of echoing Darras. Was he shifting blame? Was there blame at all? He did not know. ‘Every expenditure of a shell is in answer to your desire.’

  ‘No. It is the expression of your choice. The correct one.’

  ‘Then you are pleased.’

  ‘I am relieved.’

  Galba snorted. ‘As you will. Your relief will no doubt be buttressed by the news I bring.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘As we are saddled with the responsibility of these mortals, we begin construction of a more permanent settlement tomorrow.’

  Khi’dem was silent. After a moment, Galba noticed he was shaking. ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.

  Khi’dem shook his head, then burst into laughter. ‘I’m sorry, brother,’ he gasped out.

  ‘Do enlighten me.’

  Khi’dem mastered himself, but when he spoke, Galba could hear the laugh forcing itself to surface again. ‘I have lived to see the Iron Hands build a village. This is indeed a rare day.’ Then the fit was upon him again.

  Galba knew he should be offended. He found he could not summon the indignation. Instead, he saw the irony, and the corner of his mouth began to twitch up. When had there last been laughter in the company? He could not remember. Laughter had been drained from the galaxy. But Khi’dem had summoned it. The noise was defiance hurled into the night, and now Galba joined in, and it felt right.

  The reason was unimportant. The worth was in the act itself.

  Two more serfs died during the night. One ran into the jungle. His devoured remains were found as the work began. The other lay behind the armoury. He had inserted his hands between his jaws.

  He had found the strength to pull his own head apart.

  Ten

  The touch of the numinous

  Not a crusade

  Intelligence

  The construction began with more destruction. The low plateau near the site of the column was chosen as the site of the settlement. The colonists clamoured for that spot. Atticus agreed that it was the most defensible position. It was also strategically useful. From this location, it would be possible to extend the pacified zone to the anomaly itself.

  ‘The Salamanders may have been right about stability,’ Darras said to Galba as they organised the work details.

  ‘They know how to hold ground,’ Galba admitted.

  The plateau was cleared by more firebombing by Iron Flame. The bombardment was intense. The fires rose high enough to be visible from the base. They glowed and flickered beneath a cloud of smoke that spread beneath the clouds, turning the grey of Pythos’s sky to a dirty black. The gunship circled the plateau, using cannons and missiles to gouge an encircling trench. A strip of trees was left standing between the trench and the top of the plateau. This narrow, circular forest would be the source of raw material.

  When the fires died, the Iron Hands escorted a group of colonists, a few hundred strong, back the way they had come only the day before. The pilgrimage was more organised, less of a pell-mell flight. The group was limited to a size that was easily defended. Even so, there were casualties. Three more battle-brothers and fifteen colonists died on the way there. Another five mortals were taken by predators that dared to venture onto the top of the plateau.

  Temporary barricades were brought down from the Veritas Ferrum. They were used to create a secure zone on the west end of the plateau. In that zone, the felling of the trees began. The massive trunks were cut into uniform sections, and the erection of a permanent palisade began.

  The Iron Hands provided security. They blasted down the largest of the trees. The construction of the settlement itself was entirely in the hands of the colonists, but a large contingent of serfs was tasked to aid the process. The serfs had the skills needed to build a stronghold quickly. They had the recent experience.

  They needed to be kept occupied.

  Kanshell was among those sent to the plateau. He had, with Galba’s permission, volunteered. He had been aboard the Veritas in Harmartia. He had been spared several nights on Pythos. The journey back through the warp had been a bad one, filled with nightmares. He had put that down to his fear of returning to the planet. The first night back had been tolerable, perhaps because of the overcrowding on the base. The sheer numbers were a source of reassurance.

  And yet the deaths had occurred. Two people had somehow found a way to be alone and meet the terror.

  Poor judgement had left them vulnerable to hallucinations, and they had killed themselves. This was clearly explained to all.

  Kanshell thought of Georg Paert, and of the eyes that screamed. And he doubted.

  Tanaura tried to speak with him. Kanshell brushed her off. He was clinging to the Imperial Truth with all the rational force that remained to him. He did not want her undermining that. So he asked for the work. Back-breaking labour, he hoped, would exhaust him to the point of instant, dreamless sleep come the night.

  No sun broke through the clouds. There was nothing by which he could monitor the passing of the day except the gradual tempering
of the light. He imagined it was failing faster than it was. He tried to will it to be slower than it was. He threw himself into the work, hauling logs, lashing them together, raising the wall. He worked as if his body would use up the energy his mind needed to worry. He could tell that he was not the only one who had taken this quest. The faces of the other serfs mirrored his determination. Their eyes were haunted. Their jaws were set, the tendons of their necks standing out with tension.

  The colonists, by contrast, were celebrating. They had begun singing again as they had during the march from the base. Unlike the day before, there was more than one melody in the air. Kanshell thought the songs were matched to particular activities – for walking, for the hewing of wood, for building. The words were unintelligible, but the tone was clear enough. It was always triumphant. Kanshell suspected the songs were hymns of praise. The colonists were more joyful than was rational. They were being buoyed by the wings of superstitious belief. He disapproved.

  He envied.

  Along the circumference of the plateau were a number of low mounds. They had been invisible prior to the deforestation. They were set back about twenty metres from the edge and were no more than about four metres high. The tops of the mounds were level, rough circles ten metres in diameter. One was contained within the initial secure zone. The colonists not working on the wall were busy constructing a framework on the top of the mound. The structure went up quickly. It was square, with a peaked roof.

  Kanshell paused in his work of hacking a log into a spiked shaft. He watched a colonist clamber up to the top of the building’s roof. In the centre, the woman fixed one of the ornate staffs of the priest caste. Ske Vris stood at the base of the mound, calling encouragement and approval as the woman finished her work. She climbed back down to her applause.

  A massive figure passed in front of Kanshell and marched over to Ske Vris. It was Darras. The sergeant towered over the novitiate, who looked up at him with a smile. Kanshell watched them speak. Their words did not reach him over the noise of the construction. Ske Vris listened to the legionary, then shook her head, still smiling. She pointed to the structure, then spoke for a few moments. Her gestures were expansive. She finished with her arms spread wide enough to embrace the world. She bowed, inviting Darras to precede her to the doorway. Darras strode up the rise. He ducked to look inside the door. Then he turned and walked away, his hand gesture to Ske Vris as dismissive as a shrug. The colonist remained at a half bow before Darras’s retreating back.