by Paul Kearney
‘We voted on it this afternoon. Timber has served us well hitherto and Throne knows there is no shortage of it on this world, but if things are to endure in this climate, then we must build in more durable material. I have commissioned an expedition to the foothills of the Zalidari Range. We must open more quarries and blaze a trail through there for the big loaders. The Ballansyr works are almost exhausted. Even Vanaheim had to admit that.’
Boros grunted, slapping a hand on the butt of his pistol. ‘Good. His reluctance to admit his limitations has curbed all sorts of projects. And his near monopoly of construction–’
Fennick held up a hand wearily. ‘I know, Boros. But there was a time when his company was the only place I could go to for any large enterprise. The walls, for instance.’
Boros frowned. ‘I am glad of our walls, my lord, but there are young officers even among my own command who deem them something of a luxury for a city as desperate for good stone as this one.’
‘Strange words from my guard commander, Boros.’
Boros shrugged. ‘The walls may have meant something once, but the beasts of the jungle have been thrown back many miles. It is the outlying farms that face them now, not this metropolis. The defences of Zalathras were ruinously expensive to build – they tied up our resources for the better part of twelve years. I wonder sometimes if our energies might not have been better spent elsewhere. Decent roads, for instance.’
‘There are always enemies to be defended against, not all of which are on this world, Boros.’
‘You do not have to tell me that,’ Boros said, touching the scars that marred his brown face. ‘But a third hive-spire, my lord? Is it really necessary? Perhaps we should save the resources and let the people throw up more towns outside the walls. After all, the planet is large enough for us all without cooping up millions within them.’
‘Here, they can be more easily controlled, Boros – that is the brutal truth of it,’ Fennick said, and his cold eyes flashed. ‘The manufactoria are all concentrated here, in Zalathras. Employment is here, order is here. The day will soon come when Zalathras shall be called upon to make its own contribution to the war effort of the Imperium – in materiel, in men… When that day comes, I do not intend that we shall be found wanting.’
‘The surrounding system is quiet now,’ Boros said stubbornly. ‘That is to say–’ He hesitated, and then looked down. ‘This is Ultramar, my lord, or near as damn it. The Adeptus Astartes guard this sector of the Fringe, not some Imperial militia.’ He smiled crookedly, and tapped his hand upon his own armoured chest. ‘Though there is something to be said for an honest militia.’
‘Ultramar,’ Fennick said in a low voice. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. But we are on the far fringes of that great realm, Boros, an outlying world which I am sure barely registers on the consciousness of the high lord who sits on Macragge.’
He looked down at the teeming city below, and the man-made hills that rose up from it, wreathed in the smoke of combustion and construction. Half a century before, it had been virgin jungle. Now it was this raw, seething metropolis. It never failed to amaze him, what men could do to a planet, given time and the will to succeed.
‘What I would give, Boros, to bring Zalidar to Macragge’s attention. To remind them that we exist. To see them here, even.’
‘The Ultramarines?’ Boros, too, lowered his voice, in something close to reverence. ‘Be careful what you wish for, Lucius. Not for nothing are they known as the Angels of Death.’
‘They are the guardians of mankind,’ Fennick said crisply.
‘When they retook Thrax they did not hesitate to issue the Exterminatus,’ Boros said stubbornly. ‘To erase the Chaos taint they scorched the planet down to the stone.’
‘I know,’ Fennick said quietly. ‘I was there too, my friend.’
But Boros was not done. ‘They are pitiless, the Adeptus Astartes. Let them watch over us by all means, but the day we see their kind set foot on our world there will be sorrow to follow. That is the way of things.’
‘We are building a whole new world for them here,’ Fennick persisted. ‘I would that they saw it for themselves, just once.’
‘I doubt they even know we exist.’
‘Oh, they know, Boros. We send shuttleloads of Zalidari goods to Macragge every few months, as is our duty as an Imperial world. We cannot compete with the long-established planets, like Quintarn or Tarentus, or beautiful Iax – but we make our contribution, all the same. Eight thousand tons of iron ore went out only last week, and tomorrow a grain shuttle will follow them. I trust that some of our foodstuffs have even ended up on the table of Marneus Calgar himself.’
‘Perhaps,’ Boros snorted. ‘But when I break my bread, I do not find myself marvelling about where it came from. I would be surprised if the Lord of Macragge, Throne be with him, is any different.’
Irritated, Fennick turned away from the high balcony overlooking the city. ‘What is this report you have to make, colonel?’ he demanded, sharp now, his eyes cold.
Boros stiffened. ‘I meant no disrespect, my lord.’
They looked at one another. Finally, Fennick laughed.
‘We have known each other long enough, you damn fool, that we can speak our minds freely – when we are alone together at least. Forgive my tone, Boros. Arguing in council is apt to sharpen a man’s tongue.
‘You and I remember when Zalathras was a mudbound settlement surrounded by a wood stockade, and beyond it the jungle shrieked and teemed with fear. What is it now, thirty years?’ He turned and smiled. ‘Long enough to wear away some of the formalities at least.’
Boros stumped towards him. With his right hand he snapped and unsnapped the strap that held his pistol holstered to his thigh. The tall-ceilinged chamber in which they stood made the gesture click out loud. Brutal Imperial architecture, grand but functional. Its design and dimensions were echoed on ten thousand other worlds across the galaxy, the imprimatur of the Imperium of Man. It seemed designed for giants – perhaps it once had been.
‘I remember when we both wore sergeant’s stripes, and were proud to wear them,’ Boros said.
‘I do not forget, Boros. I could never forget that,’ Fennick replied. The two stared at each other again, and then at nothing, the memories in the eyes of them both.
Finally Boros coughed, and grinned sheepishly.
‘I am about to complicate your day, my lord, and for nothing perhaps.’
‘Go on then. My day can fit one more complication in, I’m sure.’
‘There are rumours – barely more than that – coming from the border moons of the Chrisos System. A few outposts have fallen out of vox, and there is a claim that some addled enginseer picked up a strange signature on augur while on a sanctioned-trader bound out of Chrisannon.’
‘What kind of signature?’ Fennick asked. He was leaning over the long table that ran down the middle of the room. There, acid-etched into the hide of a jungle centaur, were the plans of his Zalathras –the city that currently existed, and the one that was still gestating. Upon the scaly hide of the map, roads yet unbuilt arced out towards satellite cities which at present were nothing more than stockaded hamlets. And all around the edge of the map, the deep jungle known on this world as the Tagus: unconquerable, perilous, source of both fear and wealth.
‘Something big,’ Boros said, still clicking his gunstrap. ‘It is probably nothing.’
‘The farther eastern outposts of the system were always at the limits of the vox’s capabilities. You know that, Boros,’ Fennick said irritably. ‘Messages are relayed from station to station, they get lost, or misunderstood…’ He stared at his guard commander’s restless fingers and Boros lifted his hand from his holster.
‘Is it the augur report?’
Boros nodded. ‘It bothers me. The enginseer said it was a passing pulse, no more, but it was big enough to be a large vess
el, or a lot of smaller ones. He might even have thought it to be a stray asteroid cluster, except that it seemed to alter speed and course. It was far out, but on course for the heart of the system. And, my lord, our enquiries show that no other Imperial ships were in the area at the time. That area of space is deserted, or at least it should be.’
‘Perhaps it was an asteroid cluster after all then… How far away?’
‘At normal cruising speed, many weeks, perhaps as long as two months from Zalidar.’
‘Perhaps we should wait awhile before jumping to conclusions,’ Fennick said dryly.
Boros bowed slightly. ‘I thought it best to draw it to your attention, just in case.’
Fennick’s eyes were ranging over the map on the tabletop. He seemed utterly absorbed by the representation of his city as it was, and as it could be.
‘Quite right,’ he muttered. ‘Was there anything else, Boros?’
‘No, my lord.’ The leather-armoured soldier hesitated. ‘But – well – I would like your authorisation for a long-range patrol of the system to be set up. I will need one frigate, no more, and the Hesiod is available. I checked.’
Fennick arched one black eyebrow. ‘You should perhaps be consulting Rear Admiral Glenck on a fleet matter, Boros.’
‘I did. He refused.’
Fennick straightened and looked Boros in the eye. ‘So you decided to step out of channels, eh? And play on our friendship.’
‘Yes,’ Boros said, thrusting out his jaw.
‘You think it is that important?’
‘I think, my lord, that the universe is a dangerous place, and as you have said yourself, not all enemies are of this world.’
‘But this is Ultramar, near as damn it.’
‘And the Ultramarines have many claims on their time.’
‘You have never liked Glenck, have you, Boros?’
Boros flushed slightly. Again, the outthrust jaw. Fennick had seen that expression on his friend’s face many times over the years.
‘He is a functionary, relegated to what he sees as a backwater, his career all but over. He may have been an effective officer once, but those days are past.’
Fennick smiled. ‘Harsh words. I wish I could disagree with them.’ He turned back to the map. ‘Very well, Boros. I trust your judgement. Your instincts have saved my hide more than once, Throne knows. You shall have your patrol, and let us hope it is all for nothing. I will issue an executive order. It will do the Hesiod’s crew good to see something of the outer system at any rate.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Boros bowed, and turned to leave, but Fennick held up a hand.
‘One thing, Boros. You know you are making an enemy of Glenck by doing this, don’t you?’
Boros shrugged. ‘He is not much of an enemy. We have faced down far worse, you and I.’
Then he left by the great double doors at the end of the chamber, his footsteps echoing off stone and plascrete as he went.
Three
The Chrisos System lay even further out towards the Eastern Fringe of the Imperium than Zalidar. This far from Ultramar, humankind paid lip service to the Imperium without giving it much other thought. To meet a member of the Astra Militarum – the Imperial Guard – was a nine-day wonder, and the Adeptus Astartes themselves were nothing more than figures out of legend.
On these far-flung border worlds, men conducted their own affairs, prayed to the Emperor to keep them safe from the denizens of the void that surrounded them, and plodded through their lives, hardy, self-sufficient, and unaware of the great convulsions and upheavals that went on in the more populous sectors of the Imperium.
Chrisannon was a large moon that orbited Chrisos in an elliptic loop. Its seasons were long and harsh, bitter year-long winters giving way to arid summers. But there was an abundance of life on the world. Tall, iron-hard trees with spiked leaves reared up in thickets and forests, and there were subterranean seas that came to the surface now and again in roaring torrents. Moss and lichen grew in mounds as large as hills, and were fed upon by teeming herds of grazing herbivores, squat, bone-headed beasts that the first human settlers of the moon had quickly tamed and used for both fodder and transport.
Predating on the herbivores was a variety of more dangerous animals – therapods with clashing jaws and whipping tails that could cleave a man in two, and small pack hunters that ran on four legs and had enormous ears, and jaws as long and narrow as a sword blade. And in the green skies above them, raptors whirled on translucent scaled wings, swooping down to seize the river snakes that teemed iridescent as jewels in the waters.
It was a dangerous, raw world, but by no means lethal to humankind, and in the last millennium many of the restless and desperate souls that inhabited the Imperium had come this way and had settled here, some by design, some by chance.
Now there were towns upon the moon, and even a primitive spaceport, the landing pads fashioned out of crushed stone, sealed by the black pitch that the natives crafted by burning the ironwood trees and collecting the residue.
There was trade with Chrisos, the planet that loomed huge in the morning and evening sky, and now and again an enterprising trader would bring a ship in even from far Zalidar, whose governor had nominal authority over the Chrisos System as well as his own.
A hard life for those who lived upon Chrisannon, then. But not a bad one. Men struggled through far worse existences in the bowels of hive cities up and down the galaxy, or upon the deadly surfaces of worlds where every day was a struggle for survival against inimical flora and fauna. Chrisannon had peace to run its own affairs, and the scattered settlements knew no true central authority. There was a vox system in the moon’s putative capital, Horesby, but communications out of the Eastern Fringe were proverbially bad, echoes of warp storms that raged in the void beyond the known galaxy sending disruptive ripples through the immaterium. Without a skilled astropath, one might as well set a paper boat to sail on a swollen river as try to get a message through to Ultramar and the Imperial-compliant worlds that surrounded it.
The green sky of the morning was paling into a peridot gleam, and Chrisos was becoming dull silver on the horizon as Gurian strode out towards the ironwood forests that were his hunting grounds. He was a short man, long in the arm, his black hair cropped to a bristle, and he carried a long-barrelled rifle at the trail. An old, kinetic weapon that fired snub-nosed rounds, it was highly decorated with silver studs along the black, gleaming stock, and the muzzle was wrapped in plastic against the damp of the morning.
Gurian was studying the ground, oblivious to the grandeur of the sunrise. In the long whipgrass he followed the dew-bright trails of the night, and smiled. Looking up, he peered into the darkness of the ironwoods before him. His head snapped up as he caught sight of a bright momentary flash in the sky above. A meteor, grazing the thick atmosphere of Chrisannon. He took it as a good omen, and toiled onwards, the grass sawing at his hide boots and soaking him to the knee.
Behind him, the lights of the little settlement from which he had come went out one by one as the light of the world grew around him. It was a perfect hunter’s morning, the air hanging still and cold as the moon’s long winter began to take a grip, the orbit of Chrisannon arcing away from the system’s only star.
The night before, the borealis had been a bright cascade of light that swooped clear across the sky, a harbinger of winter. And there had been thunder in the distance, though not a drop of rain had fallen. Gurian had watched the flashes on the horizon and listened to the dull boom of the thunderclaps for an hour while his family had slept soundly in the cabin behind him.
He strode on now with the easy, economical stride of a man who has been walking across open country all his life. A flight of wide-winged raptors took off out of the ironwoods ahead, squawking and screeching. He followed the trail in the wet grass, gaze moving up and down, sweeping across the hillside. Once, he
stopped and grasped a fistful of moss. He squeezed it against his mouth and sucked in the chill water it gave up, before tossing it aside.
Then he entered the shadows of the great trees.
It was much darker here. The ironwoods were like immense pillars of grey marble that soared up all around him, tall as towers. Their timber was as hard to work as stone, and as durable – and when it finally was made to burn it smouldered for days, glowing like molten metal, before melting into the black tar that was one of the chief exports of the moon.
Ironwood pitch could be turned into fuel, glue. It could be poured into moulds and then filed and sharpened when it had cooled. The shining black stock of Gurian’s rifle was made of ironpitch.
One day, the Imperium would wake up to this resource, and Chrisannon would take its place on the trade lanes of the Imperium, but for now the moon was just another forgotten frontier world. And that suited a man like Gurian just fine. As long as he could hunt, feed his family and drink moss-beer in the town tavern, he was content with his life. One horizon was enough for him. One world was all he needed.
The trail widened, but now it was more distinct. The tri-cloven hooves of the solitary bull-grazer he was tracking sank deep into the emerald moss of the forest floor. Here and there the beast had stripped a patch bare and chewed on the green vegetation for water, even as Gurian had. It was an old, lonely animal, cast out of the herd. Gurian’s bullet would end its wanderings, and he would harvest the choice cuts of the beast, the eyes and tongue and hump-fat.
The eyes, poached, were a delicacy on Chrisannon, the tongue a huge lump of fine protein, and the fat could be rendered down into oil and burned in lamps. The thick hide and sinews of the rest of the carcass rendered it almost unworkable without power tools. But the beasts of the forest would feast on it after Gurian was done.
He felt he was being watched as he picked his way through the immense trunks of the ironwoods. It was an odd feeling for one whose life had been spent in and out of the forest.