by Paul Kearney
‘Which is why I issued the invitation personally,’ Fennick said, raising his voice a little – though the chatter around the table had fallen as the guests listened in on the exchange. ‘Your name, Rosquin – and Vanaheim’s too for that matter – were not connected to it. If there is any fallout from my… presumption, it will be on my head alone.’
Rosquin shared a look with Kurt Vanaheim opposite. He smiled a little. ‘So be it,’ he said.
When the plates were taken away they rose from the long table with glasses of the black cordial that had been fermented on Zalidar from the time of the first settlement – a bracing, bitter liqueur, which Fennick drank at a gulp, needing the astringency and fire of the alcohol in his brain. The party made its way to the great balcony that overlooked Zalathras, and they looked out at the warm night, the teeming lights of the city below. It was a sight that always calmed Fennick and put things into perspective.
He found Lascelle at his elbow, the perfumed courtesan left behind. The younger man sipped his black drink and grimaced. ‘Nothing more than jungle juice,’ he said. ‘I have never acquired a taste for it, not in ten years,’
‘Give it ten more. You’ll grow to love it,’ Fennick told him.
‘I would have done the same,’ Lascelle said, that cat-like smile upon his face.
‘What?’
‘Your invitation. It was reckless, impulsive. Men like Vanaheim and Rosquin would never have signed off on it, but it will sit well with the lower orders. The streets are still running with the rumour of it. Bravo, my lord Fennick. You still have the capacity to surprise.’
Fennick looked at him. Roman Lascelle was a hard man to quantify. The rake and the dandy were out there for all to see, but there was more behind that sneering face than met the eye. A kind of hunger that Fennick half understood.
Was it for fame? Glory? He did not care about money, except for how it served his purposes. And he possessed a name already, one widely respected across the Fringe and in Ultramar itself. If he chose, he could be more influential than anyone else in the room, but he did not play politics, except when it amused him to do so.
‘One must keep grasping at passing stars,’ Fennick told the younger man. ‘Otherwise–’
‘Otherwise a man dries out – as Ferdia Rosquin has,’ Lascelle said. ‘I understand you more than you know, my lord. You are no mere manager or accountant. You have a real passion for this primitive little world of ours. I respect that. Sometimes I wish I shared it. It would make life infinitely more diverting.’
‘You don’t much care for Zalidar, do you, Lascelle?’
Roman Lascelle stared into his black drink. ‘I am in exile here. Zalidar is my punishment, my prison. My father sent me to this world so that I might not disgrace his name in more important places.’
He shrugged, and emptied his glass, mouth twisting on the bitterness of it.
‘I had my suspicions.’
‘Rumour flies ahead of truth, every time,’ Lascelle said.
‘So why not engage with your gaolers?’ Fennick asked him. ‘Make something of yourself on Zalidar. You have the ability, I know that.’
Lascelle looked at him, mouth still twisted ruefully. ‘And try to be the son my father wants? I would not give him the satisfaction, Fennick. He packed me off here to rot, and rot I shall.’
‘Zalidar is too small for you – is that it?’
‘Something like that.’ Lascelle looked into his empty glass. ‘As you say, give it another ten years. Perhaps Zalidar will grow on me. Or perhaps I shall find something here to care about. Stranger things have happened.’
He stared out over the sea of lights that were Zalathras below, and beyond the cleared plains, the howling darkness of the Tagus, that limitless forest which encroached upon their world.
‘I hope you succeed, Fennick,’ he said. ‘I hope Marneus Calgar himself comes here, sets foot on our forgotten little planet. That is something I would like to see too. A glimpse of something greater.’
He patted Fennick on the shoulder, and, before the governor could reply, he was away, gliding through the congregated crowd at the balcony, ignoring the stares, the attempts to draw him into banter and conversation. Fennick watched him go, frowning.
Boros joined him, wiping the sweat off his broad face.
‘That popinjay,’ he said. ‘If he were less of a name, I’d have cut him down to size myself before now.’
‘You think you could, Boros?’ Fennick asked the colonel.
Boros snorted. ‘That whelp?’ Then his eyes fell. ‘Well, perhaps. He is damned quick with a blade and a sidearm, and I suppose I am not as young as I once was.’
Fennick smiled. ‘We are none of us as young as we once were. But that boy, Boros, is a better man than we think. I believe that, given the right circumstances, he could be a decent man.’
Boros laughed. ‘You surprise me, Lucius. Are you taking a shine to him?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. He’s the sort would set a city on fire to see how bright it would burn. He is made for other things.’
‘He’s a damn nuisance.’
‘Let us hope he finds some way to channel his energies before too long, or I fear he could become an enemy – and a fearsome one at that. And he would not become so out of spite, or conviction – but because to work alongside us would bore him.’
‘Well, let’s hope his gambling and his whoring keeps him fully occupied then,’ Boros said.
‘Indeed. We have troubles enough as it is.’
Boros snorted. ‘Troubles!’ He and Fennick looked at one another. Finally the governor smiled.
‘I know, my friend. Sometimes I forget what trouble truly is.’
‘They have never known it, not here,’ Boros said, his broad face cast in a sneer. ‘You and I have seen whole regiments seared to black meat by the flames of monsters, Lucius. The folk here – they have no idea of the reality of the Imperium. They think it all some kind of grand game for their amusement and enrichment. I sometimes wish–’
‘No,’ Fennick said quickly. ‘Do not wish for anything, Boros. Trouble always comes calling, in the end. There is no point in wishing for it to come sooner.’
Seven
‘We are somewhat scattered,’ the Lord of Macragge said mildly, looking at the multicoloured holographic map that floated above the plinth in the middle of the room. It turned slowly, in time with the slow convolutions of the spiral arm in which Ultramar floated.
A vast region of space, full of teeming worlds as bright as jewels, and between them the orbital fortresses of the Ultramarines, layer upon layer of them, set amid minefields, bristling with armaments, all protecting the trade lanes and serried worlds that owed Macragge their fealty.
And at the centre of them, Macragge itself, with its populous cities, its green coasts and howling mountains, its snowbound polar fortresses, as well as the immense donjon that housed their Chapter: the Fortress of Hera – with the Temple of Corrections and great Guilliman’s shrine at the heart of it.
A holy place, a place built to survive the convulsions of the ages. A place of pilgrimage, and an arsenal of war.
But they were a long way from Macragge now.
‘Second Company with the Victus task force is confident that their campaign will be brought to a successful close within four to five Terran months, my lord,’ Veteran Brother Orhan said. ‘The Deo Volante fleet with Third is still heavily engaged in the systems beyond Iax and will be for some considerable time. The traitor forces there are proving stubborn.’
‘Has Fabian asked for reinforcements?’ Calgar demanded at once.
‘No, my lord. He is confident that with the Guard divisions assigned he can mop up resistance on the cleansed worlds and still proceed with the offensive on schedule. Third has taken only minor casualties thus far and the Deo Volante reports that no capital-class enemy
ships have been encountered.’
‘Very good. What of Fifth?’
‘Fifth Company is still in close pursuit of the eldar craftworld Karan-Ske in open space beyond Bathor. Our last vox reports from Task Force Cestus suggest that the xenos will make a fight of it, but only on ground of their own choosing. They are displaying the fickle cunning of their species, with hit and run raids on the fleet, but as yet there has been no major engagement.’
‘There will not be,’ Calgar said. ‘Not if I know the eldar. They will draw Galenus out as far as they can before they stand and make a fight of it – that is their way.’
‘Shall I set a limit on the pursuit, my lord?’ Brother Orhan asked.
‘No. The Karan-Ske is a threat to our flank which cannot be ignored. Tell Galenus he is to pursue to the death.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘What of Second? Still no word from Sicarius?’
There was a pause, slight but perceptible. Orhan was chiding himself for a fault that was not his. Calgar smiled inwardly, though his face remained as impassive as always. Very little that went on in his mind showed upon his face. It was something that centuries of service had bred into him.
‘Second Company and Fleet Ignis Deus have sent no word in eleven Terran day-cycles, my lord. When they last reported, the bulk of the armada was on course for Golsoria, in the Fringe, still in desultory contact with that tau incursion.’
‘The tau are known for their facility with jamming communications. They are probably flooding the vox and degrading the signal,’ old Proxis said with a grunt. His hands shifted in the sleeves of his robe, as though his massive fists were clenching under the dark blue fabric.
‘Agreed,’ Calgar said. ‘There is no cause for concern as yet. The Ignis Deus fleet is strong enough to take on any force the tau care to throw at them. Sicarius will get something through, if he has to. Brother Orhan, what of Seventh?’
Orhan tapped some buttons on the plinth before him, and the bright holographic map shifted round.
‘Seventh Company holds its station four light years out from Prandium. Captain Ixion reports that the border with the Fringe is quiet, and he remains in a position to reinforce Second if called upon.’
‘He’d like that,’ Proxis growled with some humour. ‘How long have they been out there, Orhan?’
‘Some eight months, my lord.’
‘He’ll be getting bored, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Proxis said.
‘He will stay in reserve,’ Calgar said quietly. ‘He is the only reserve we have at the moment, barring Guard formations. And even they are based far to the galactic west. Signal Ixion this day, Orhan. Impress upon him the need to remain at full readiness. It is wearisome, but necessary.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
His mind juggled the various factors, the several campaigns that his beloved Chapter was engaged in. He saw in his mind’s eye the myriad fleets out there in the darkness, all intent on violence, all proceeding into the belly of war.
It was as it should be. The enemies that threatened Ultramar were all being met head on, far from the ordered realm which was his particular responsibility. Billions of men and women upon the worlds that comprised it knew little or nothing of the wars that were being fought on their behalf out in the spaces between the stars. That also was as it should be.
Thy will be done, he thought. And he bent his head in a moment of silent prayer, while in the briefing chamber around him the members of his staff stood silent also.
Marneus Augustus Calgar raised his head at last. The others stood stock still with the iron discipline of their kind. This was an informal briefing, and they were all in the deep-hooded robes that the Adeptus Astartes donned for prayer and contemplation. Towering shapes – giants, they would be, to a normal human being – they were like ancient statuary from a bygone age. The briefing chamber rose up around them in buttressed arches, like the space in some ancient temple of worship – but the walls and pillars were of titanium and ceramite, and the space thrummed with the low tenor of the drive engines.
They were on board Marneus Calgar’s personal transport, the Fidelis, and beyond these walls and bulkheads wheeled the infinite dark of the void.
Proxis broke the silence. As the Ancient of the honour guard he was one of the few in the Chapter who would speak in the presence of his Chapter Master as easily as he would with the lowliest neophyte – and Calgar valued him for that, amongst many other things.
‘The last time we were this far out in the Fringe, we were chasing Behemoth,’ he said, and he met Calgar’s eye. ‘It is a long way from Macragge, my lord.’
‘And yet we are still within the bounds of Ultramar as it was once understood,’ the Chapter Master answered. ‘I want to see for myself how the Fringe is faring, Proxis. The xenos destroyed so many worlds, but on others mankind is thriving. It will do them good to realise that the Imperium has not forgotten them.
‘I want to see for myself what has become of the Eastern Fringe in the last half-century. Our rebuilding of Ultramar’s heart is complete, but we have neglected this far corner of Imperial space. Too often, the only time men see the Adeptus Astartes on their world is when that world is on the brink of destruction. We are the guardians of mankind, and yet we are known as the Angels of Death.
‘I would not have the Ultramarines viewed that way. Guilliman would not have wished his descendants to be mere figures of terror. Other Chapters may see things differently. But in this, I adhere to the teachings of our primarch.’
Proxis bowed slightly. ‘My lord, I would never gainsay your wisdom. I only wish to point out that we are a single vessel, far from home in a remote region of the Imperium, and on board we carry the Chapter Master of the Ultramarines. That is a precious cargo.’
Calgar did allow a smile now. ‘What’s wrong, Proxis? Have you lost your taste for adventure?’
The Ancient cocked an eye at his Chapter Master. ‘Never. Lead on, lord, and whither thou goest, I goest.’ Then he quoted the old saying: ‘We are the Pilgrims, Master. We shall go always a little farther.’
They had fought together time out of mind. Proxis had been one of those who had carried Calgar from the smoking hecatomb of Cold Steel Ridge. Calgar simply nodded in response. No other words were necessary.
The Fidelis was a small craft by the standards of the Imperium. Less than half a mile long, the hull was based around the engineering compartment of a falchion-class destroyer, with the drives of that class. But it carried much more in the way of short-range armament. Batteries of lasburners dotted its hull, and it had a pair of torpedo tubes as well as an array of plasma cannons in its angular bow.
It had been designed for speed and endurance, and was only lightly armoured, though its generators were the most powerful that could be fitted in such a small hull, and provided power for a series of heavy void shields that could absorb a tremendous amount of punishment.
The human crew of the vessel numbered some eleven hundred, not counting the numerous servitors, and most of these lived their lives upon the ship. In the belly of the Fidelis were hydroponic farms and a small munitions manufactorum. It could, if needed, operate independently of the fleet and remain in deep space for months, even years. But it was designed primarily for swift inter-system travel, not combat. In the launch bays were half a dozen Thunderhawks and an array of unarmed shuttles, but though there was a hand-picked company of Astra Militarum on board, the only Adeptus Astartes were Marneus Calgar himself and his entourage: barely two dozen Space Marines in all.
The Fidelis was part ceremonial yacht, part command centre; its communications array was as powerful and well staffed as that of a capital ship and it had some of the best astropaths in the segmentum to back it up.
Usually it had a squadron of destroyers as escort, but Calgar had sent these off to reinforce a Guard offensive against the Fringe pirates some weeks ago, and
now the vessel travelled alone.
It was not unprecedented for the Chapter Master of the Ultramarines, Lord of Macragge, to travel with so little fanfare, but it was unusual, even within Ultramar itself.
Calgar preferred it that way, at least for now. His Chapter’s fighting companies were scattered all over that broad region of space of which he was suzerain, and he had been visiting what combat formations he could, both Adeptus Astartes and Astra Militarum, to gain first-hand intelligence of their various campaigns – and also, it had to be admitted, to boost morale. The Fidelis travelled faster alone in any case, and now that the destroyers had been left behind, its peerless Navigator, Geyr Van Brandt, could proceed on warp jumps without worrying about the other ships.
It was as good a time as any to nose out beyond the more well-travelled space lanes, and hear the pulse of the Astronomican grow ever fainter as they travelled into the sparse worlds of the Galactic East. There were planets out there that belonged to the Imperium in name only, whole systems that had been left to fend for themselves for decades.
Scattered news came through, of course, carried by traders and caught on vox, and there was some commerce with the border worlds. But no real interaction. The fading pulse of the distant Astronomican was one reason. The wars that had passed over the region were another. Hive Fleet Behemoth had scoured untold Fringe planets clean of human life, and although the Chapter had eradicated that filth, the scars remained.
We serve mankind, Calgar told himself. That is the Codex. Some Chapters come close to forgetting that. The Ultramarines will not. Not so long as I lead them, and the Emperor wills it.
The bridge of the Fidelis was a long nave-like space flanked by banks of cogitators, data screens and rank on rank of murmuring servitors. Calgar strode down it as one would down the length of a great planetbound cathedral, towards the dais at one end above which reared void-shielded viewports.
He was clad now in the plain suit of Mark VI armour that he wore on ship, with a long-familiar Corvus helm mag-locked to his hip. The ancient battle artefacts in which he had fought on battlefields beyond count were on display in the vessel’s chapel for all the crew to visit, attended by a pair of tech-priests whose sole task was to maintain and repair them, for they were priceless. The Gauntlets had been worn by Guilliman himself, and the artificer power armour was almost as old, repaired times beyond count, and reverenced as a relic from a bygone age. One did not strap on such holy objects in everyday use; they were reserved for the glory and cataclysm of war alone.