'They've gone to a lot of trouble for just the two of us,' whispered Pasanius.
'I know, and how did they know we were here?'
'I suppose we'll find out soon enough,' said Pasanius. 'Looks like they're coming in.'
A sergeant with ocular implants integral to his helmet waved two squads forward. A heavy, square device was planted in the centre of the gate and a cable run back to the lead Chimera by a robed enginseer with a heavy backpack of hissing cogs and bronze instruments.
A flickering glow built around the box attached to the gate and a crackle of electrical discharge flared along the length of the fence. Barely had the glow faded than the soldiers were coming through, the magnetically sealed gates swinging open with a booted kick.
The red-clad soldiers spread out, moving in pairs to expertly envelop them in overlapping fields of fire.
'Clear!' shouted one soldier, and the cry was repeated by his opposite number.
Up close, Uriel saw that they were professional soldiers indeed. They kept a precise distance from their targets, while still remaining close enough for it to be impossible to miss if this encounter turned violent. None even seemed fazed by the fact that their guns were aimed at warriors who clearly had the bulk of Astartes.
The sergeant with the ocular implants came forward with his curved sword drawn, and Uriel could see that the weapon was a form of falcata, a single-edged blade that pitched forward towards the point. Such weapons were heavy and capable of delivering a blow with the power of an axe, yet with the precision and cutting edge of a sword. The hilt was hook-shaped with quillons in the shape of flaring eagle wings.
Using the tip of his blade, the sergeant hooked Pasanius's bolter away from him and gestured a soldier behind him to carry it away. The soldier struggled under the weight of the gun and Uriel watched as it was handed off to the eager looking enginseer.
The sergeant looked Uriel up and down, his face invisible behind a combination vox/rebreather attachment and his bionics. With their only gun taken away, the soldiers relaxed a fraction and Uriel felt his respect for them drop a notch, for Uriel still carried his sword. In any case, the soldiers should know that a Space Marine was as proficient a killer with his bare hands as he was with a weapon.
No one moved until the top hatch on one of the Chimeras opened and a slender figure in the uniform of an officer emerged. Uriel saw that it was a woman, a tall, long-limbed woman who dropped to the ground with the assured movements of someone used to being in the field.
She pulled off her helmet and ran a hand across her scalp. Her hair was dark and cut short, her features angular and chiselled. She marched from her Chimera, trailed by a shorter man bearing a portable vox-caster on his back.
Like every one of her soldiers, she too bore a sheathed falcata. A golden eagle medal shone brightly on her uniform jacket.
The woman halted beside her sergeant, clearly surprised to see two such warriors standing before her. To her credit, her surprise lasted for only the briefest of seconds.
'Who are you?' she asked.
'I am Uriel Ventris and this is Pasanius Lysane,' answered Uriel.
'You are Adeptus Astartes?'
It was asked as a rhetorical question, but Uriel nodded and said, 'We are Ultramarines.'
Again, Uriel saw surprise, but just as quickly it was masked. 'Ultramarines? You are a long way from home. How did you come to be here?'
'With respect,' said Uriel, 'we do not even know where here is. What planet is this?'
Ignoring Uriel's question, the female officer said, 'You are trespassing on prohibited ground, Uriel Ventris. To enter Khaturian carries a penalty of death.'
Uriel shared a shocked look with Pasanius. The sheer physical presence and legendary prowess of a Space Marine was enough to render most mortals speechless with awe and reverence, but this woman seemed unconcerned that she faced two of the Emperor's finest.
Anger touched Uriel and he took a step forward.
Immediately, a host of lasguns snapped up, and the soldiers' posture of vigilance was instantly restored.
'We are Space Marines of the Emperor,' snarled Uriel, the frustrations of the time they had spent exiled from the Chapter boiling to the surface. He gripped the hilt of his sword and said, 'We are warriors of the Fourth Company of the Ultramarines Chapter and you will show us some damned respect!'
The woman did not flinch from Uriel's outburst, but her hand flashed to her falcata.
'If you were to try to draw that weapon, I could cut you down before it was halfway drawn,' promised Uriel.
'And you would be dead a moment later,' she promised.
'Maybe so, but at least I would have silenced your insolent tongue,' snapped Uriel.
He felt a restraining hand on his arm and turned to see Pasanius, a look of resigned amusement in his eyes.
'Remember when I asked you how we were going to play this?' asked Pasanius 'You said, ''Carefully''. Does this fit any definition of careful?'
Uriel's anger vanished and he smiled at the absurdity of his behaviour in the face of so much firepower. He released his sword hilt and returned his gaze to the female officer, who glared furiously at him with her hand still held firmly on the grip of her weapon.
Pasanius stepped between her and Uriel. 'Look, before this gets out of hand and someone gets killed, let's everyone take a breath and we'll start again. We are strangers on this world and didn't know that to come here was forbidden. We're just trying to get back to our Chapter and could really use your help. Can you at least tell us what planet we're on and who's in charge?'
The woman relaxed a fraction and released her weapon. She took a deep breath, smoothed the front of her uniform jacket and laced her hands behind her back.
'Very well,' she said. 'I am Colonel Verena Kain, commanding officer of the Achaman Falcatas, and this world is called Salinas.'
'Who's in charge?'
'Governor Leto Barbaden is the Imperial Commander of this world,' said Colonel Kain.
'Can you take us to him?' asked Uriel.
'You'll have to travel under armed escort until your identities can be verified.'
'Verified?' asked Uriel. 'You don't believe we are Adeptus Astartes? Are you blind?'
'Trust me,' snapped Kain. 'I have spent decades fighting the Emperor's enemies, and some of them looked just like you, so you'll forgive me if I don't entirely trust that you are all you seem.'
Uriel was about to retort when Pasanius said, 'Colonel Kain has a point, Uriel. Come on, what does it matter anyway? We're going where we need to go.'
'I suppose so,' said Uriel.
'You'll travel in the back of a Chimera,' said Kain, gauging their bulk. 'It will be cramped, but you can squeeze in I'm sure.'
'Indeed,' said Pasanius, leading Uriel forward under the watchful gaze and lasguns of the Guardsmen.
As they marched towards the waiting Chimeras, Pasanius turned to address Colonel Kain one last time. 'One other thing,' he said. 'What year is it?'
FOUR
The light coming through his threadbare curtains and the sound of the city coming to life woke Pascal Blaise long before he heard the metal door to his home banging open. He rolled over and reached under his pillow for the pistol that was never more than an arm's length away from him. He checked the load and flicked off the safety catch as he heard excited voices from downstairs.
From the tone of the voices and the lack of further commotion, he knew it wasn't Daron Nisato's enforcers kicking down the door, but didn't put away his pistol just yet. These were uncertain times and the deadly games he and the Sons of Salinas were playing demanded caution.
He ran a hand over his shaved scalp and tugged at the twin forks of his braided beard, as he always did when thinking. He recognised the voices below; one belonged to Cawlen Hurq, his shadow and bodyguard, the other to Rykard Ustel, one of his intelligence gatherers.
Pascal rolled his head, loosening muscles that had cramped during the night. He was alone and the
room smelled faintly of engine oil, but that was inevitable given that it was sheeted with plates cannibalised from the rusted hulk of a Leman Russ battle tank.
Satisfied that there was no immediate danger, Pascal slipped from the bed and pulled on his clothes, a faded grey work tunic and a wide leather belt. He pulled on his boots and was lacing them up when he heard a soft double knock at his door.
'Come in, Cawlen,' he said, his voice strong and authoritative. It was a voice used to giving commands, but had once been more used to calling out tithe numbers, accounts and scribe roll calls.
Cawlen Hurq pushed open the door and nodded respectfully towards him, his every motion controlled and unencumbered by unnecessary effort. He was a big man, broad of shoulder and threateningly built. Nature had made him unsuited for any role in life other than the infliction of violence. Like Pascal, Cawlen wore a simple tunic, but he also carried a short-barrelled lascarbine and bore a scabbarded blade at his hip.
'Rykard Ustel's here,' he said.
'I heard,' said Pascal. 'What does he want?'
'He's got word of troop movements.'
'And he has to bring it to me this early?' asked Pascal irritably.
'It's the Screaming Eagles,' said Cawlen, 'in company strength.'
Pascal's irritation vanished along with any lingering tiredness. The Screaming Eagles were the most hated of all the Imperial forces on Salinas. Their reputation for brutality and indiscriminate violence was well deserved and everyone on Salinas had cause to hate them for what they had done to Khaturian.
'It gets better,' said Cawlen.
'How?'
'Kain's leading them.'
Pascal finished tying his boots and rose from his bed. Verena Kain.
'Oh, but it would be sweet to take that black-hearted bitch down.'
'That's what I thought,' agreed Cawlen with a wicked grin. 'Where are they?'
'Rykard said they set off towards the north,' said Cawlen. 'Said it looked like they were heading towards the Killing Ground.'
'Do we have anyone there?'
'No; at least we shouldn't.'
'Then why is she leading a company there?'
'Who knows, but Rykard said they didn't have any supply vehicles with them, so they'll be back soon. We should get shooters in place.'
Pascal nodded. 'Send runners to the ambush cells. Six teams of missiles. We'll assemble at the Iron Angel and deploy from there. Go.'
Cawlen nodded and left the room, leaving Pascal alone once more.
Pascal felt his heart race at the thought of striking back at the Screaming Eagles. He fought to control his excitement, knowing that a cool head was needed here. Emotional men made mistakes and he was not a man given to displays of emotion, considering them a waste of energy.
He paced the room, thinking through the situation, unlocking talents for analysis that had once served him well in the ranks of the Imperial Administratum, a duty that seemed a lifetime ago.
Pascal Blaise had been a scribe overseer in the office of Governor Shaara, a cog in the ever-turning machine that was the Imperial bureaucracy of Salinas in the days before the Achaman Falcatas had come. Though other planets in the system had seethed with turmoil and unrest, Governor Shaara had kept Salinas free of malcontents and rabble-rousers in the belief that they could ride out this time of troubles.
How wrong he had turned out to be.
Tarred with the same brush as the system's other worlds, the hammer of the Imperial Guard had fallen, on Salinas with no less ferocity and force as it had on the others. Governor Shaara had been executed the day the Falcatas had landed and his officers rounded up in detention camps while the Departmento Munitorum officials decided what was to be done with them.
Pascal Blaise had been part of the delegation chosen from among the surviving administrative personnel to approach Colonel Leto Barbaden, the commander of the Imperial forces moving across the surface of Salinas, to protest at the unnecessary nature of these measures.
The memories of that day were burned forever on Pascal Blaise's mind. No sooner had they spoken against the harshness of the Falcatas and the loyalty of their former governor than a detachment of soldiers, men and women that Pascal later learned were Barbaden's 8th Company known as the Screaming Eagles, had surrounded them.
Colonel Barbaden had spoken of the treachery that infected the system and of how he had heard the same protests of innocence from the lips of every leader on the rebellious worlds.
Then the shooting had begun.
Pascal reached towards the puckered scar tissue at his chest where the first las-bolt had struck him. A second had grazed the side of his head and he had fallen into a black pit of pain and unconsciousness. When he had awoken, he was in a long trench, freshly dug outside the palace walls, which was filled with corpses. He had recognised the faces of his fellow delegates and the horror and injustice of their murder allowed him to plumb reserves of strength and endurance that he had not known he possessed.
Bleeding and on the verge of collapse, he had climbed from the mass grave and lurched through the shot-and-scream-filled darkness until he found his way to the nearest house of healing, where his strength had finally given out.
He remembered nothing of the next few days except pain and the sedative highs of medication. A week after his shooting, he had risen from his bed to hear the sounds of Imperial Guard tanks rumbling through the streets of his city and the tramp of marching feet as red-clad soldiers of the Achaman Falcatas rounded up suspected traitors.
Hatred filled him and, in that moment, the administrative overseer he had once been died and the warrior he became was born. Within a month of the Falcatas arrival, the newly formed Sons of Salinas made its first gesture of defiance, planting a bomb that had killed several senior officers of the Falcatas.
Under the charismatic and fiery Sylvanus Thayer, the Sons of Salinas had enjoyed initial successes and had seriously hampered the work of the Falcatas in securing Salinas.
It couldn't last.
Against the relentless force of the Imperial Guard and the ruthlessness of Leto Barbaden, the Sons of Salinas could not hope to prevail. After the horror of the Killing Ground, Sylvanus Thayer had led the vengeful Sons of Salinas into a pitched battle, a battle they could not hope to win, and the flower of their world's manhood had been wiped out.
Pascal had pleaded with Sylvanus not to meet the Falcatas in open battle, telling him over and over that the destruction of Khaturian had been designed to draw him into such a reckless act, but his leader's fury at the massacre could not be restrained.
And, they had died, pounded by artillery, ground over by tanks and finished off by infantry.
Men called Sylvanus Thayer a hero, but Pascal knew the man was a fool. Blinded by rage and the need for vengeance, he had not seen the trap that Barbaden had laid for him. Or if he had seen it, he had not cared.
Pascal Blaise had rallied the survivors and taught them the value of caution and secrecy. He had taught them that they were not the almighty avenging force that Thayer had told them they were, but the trickle of water that, over time, would split the rock.
Thus the war of the Sons of Salinas had continued.
There were no grand gestures of defiance, but small attacks that gradually wore down the soldiers who occupied their cities and whose former colonel sat in the Governor's palace.
A knock at the door drew Pascal from his bitter reveries and he looked up to see Cawlen Hurq standing at the door once again.
'You coming?' he asked.
'Yes,' said Pascal, lifting his ash-grey storm cloak.
He smiled and dropped the cloak, opening the gun-metal footlocker beside his bed and reaching for the cunningly disguised switch that opened the secret compartment at its base. Pascal lifted the false bottom and drew out a carefully folded bundle of green and gold cloth.
He swept up the double wrapped cloak of the Sons of Salinas and fastened it to the buckles at his shoulder and chest.
Cawle
n nodded appreciatively.
Pascal bolstered his pistol and grinned to his bodyguard. 'If we're going to kill Verena Kain, it's only fitting she should know who her executioners are.'
High in the mountains above the dead city, the Lord of the Unfleshed sat with the rest of his brethren in the midst of a forest of tall trees. Mist clung to the ground and the wet sensation of it around the exposed musculature was strange and unusual. The softness of the ground beneath him was a joy and the cold air in his lungs the sweetest elixir.
He had never known such things, his every breath before now coated with toxic filth from the belching refineries that covered the desolate plains of the Iron Men's world.
They had brought down another two of the beasts that lived in the pastures below a towering escarpment of rock and dragged them into the concealment of the forest. The carcasses lay torn apart and bleeding in a ring of the Unfleshed. The Lord of the Unfleshed tore meat from the bone with his teeth, the hind leg of one of the animals clutched in one meaty fist.
The meat was like nothing he had tasted before, fresh, bloody and full of goodness. All he could remember eating was the spoiled meat of the dead or the chemically disfigured, the fatty bodies of the ones they had found in the flesh camps of the Iron Men.
The thought that there could be another way to live had never entered the Lord of the Unfleshed's mind, for what other life was there? Fragmentary visions of his life before, like images on the shards of a broken mirror pricked his mind from time to time, but he had always turned from them.
Sometimes, when the pain and exhaustion of his existence grew too great to bear, he would travel deep into the ashen mountains and bask in the smoggy peaks wreathed in caustic pollutants that would send him into the deepest slumbers, where he could cling to the last of his remembrances.
There his body would rest, and he could reach the dreams of another life, another way of living.
Were they memories? He didn't know, but he liked to think so.
He would see a woman's face, kind and full of unconditional love. He hoped she was his mother, but had no memory of her beyond this sight. She would speak to him, but he never heard the words. All he saw was how beautiful she was and how much she cared for him.
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