Angels of Caliban

by Gav Thorpe

  Zahariel watched this micro-political interplay with fascination, wondering how it would end and what had caused such fault lines to emerge and shift. The answer to the second question was perhaps answered when, two minutes after Griffayn had appeared, Lord Cypher entered the antechamber.

  The Guardian of the Order wore his full, ornate helm, still showing nothing of his features. He stepped to one side, heralding the entry of Luther. The Grand Master wore black powered plate fashioned for him by the Lion’s personal armourers, the overlapping bands and heavily riveted vambraces and greaves reminiscent of the early marks of Legiones Astartes armour. A cloak of striped pelt, white and red, hung from his shoulders, and the colours were repeated on a prominent shield-shaped besagew between the cuirass and left pauldron.

  His arrival signalled to Zahariel that it was time to join the company. The Mystai descended as Luther strode across the hall to greet Belath and his companions. By the time Zahariel had reached the bottom of the winding iron staircase, the Chapter Master was being ushered towards the main hall. The psykers waited to one side as Lord Cypher directed the remaining Dark Angels to follow their officers.

  Zahariel exchanged looks with his Mystai as the last of Belath’s Space Marines strode into the banqueting hall.

  +Asmodeus will sit with the officers, do not try to open up any of their thoughts,+ he sent, repeating the warning he had given twice already but feeling no guilt for labouring the point. +Work softly and smoothly through the others. If you cannot get a firm response from a light scan, move on and I will attend to it. Do not force your way in, nor try to prise free that which does not come easily.+

  They looked at him with the patient expressions of loyal followers that knew well what they had to do, enduring the lecture with good grace. Agitated by what might happen in the next hour or two, Zahariel had no patience in return.

  +The future of Caliban depends upon us, this night,+ he reminded them. +A stray move, a wrong step, and not only will the Order be damned – we condemn our world to an eternity of slavery. Are you prepared?+

  Their looks were more sincere now as they nodded their readiness.

  +Good.+ He half turned and waved to a group of serfs that had silently entered, each bearing a wide silver tray laden with goblets, half silver and half gold on each salver. +Now let us honour our guests in proper fashion.+

  The roar of plasma jets drowned out Galedan’s words as he hurried across the black landing apron of the launch port. Dust from the Stormbird’s downdraught whirled around the Chapter Master as he caught up with Astelan at the foot of the ramp.

  ‘What was that?’ the First Master asked with a shout.

  ‘A transmission from Lord Cypher,’ Galedan said again, leaning closer. ‘He says that Griffayn will likely keep his oaths to the Order.’

  ‘“Likely”? Was that the exact word he used? Not “very likely” or “most likely”?’

  ‘His actual word, First Master.’

  Astelan nodded his acceptance of the message and started up the ramp, Galedan at his heel. He stopped a few strides from the top, caught in two minds. This state of hesitation annoyed him, an unfamiliar sense of doubt creeping into his thoughts.

  ‘That will soften Sar Luther’s mood, I suspect,’ he said to Galedan. ‘If Griffayn has agreed to sit at the council table, Belath could follow.’

  ‘Isn’t that a good thing? More warriors to the cause, commanders at that. Wouldn’t we rather avoid having to take more prisoners?’

  Astelan grimaced, unseen behind the visored mask of his helm. It was imperative that he maintained his place within Luther’s inner circle. The inclusion of Griffayn and possibly Belath threatened that. Both were Calibanites, and neither thought kindly of Astelan. One he might be able to control, but both…

  He hurried up the last few metres of the ramp.

  ‘You are right. I am dead against taking more prisoners, Galedan. Dead against it.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  We have come

  Ultramar

  It was more of a rabble than a crowd, in Holguin’s opinion. He counted forty-three civilians pushing their way up to the checkpoint at the Porta Hera, shouting slogans, pumping fists wrapped with red towels and scarves.

  Holguin glanced at his companion. Vodun Badorum wore steel, silver and grey like the soldiers of the Praecental household he led, topped by a cobalt-blue cape. A plasma carbine hung from a sash across his chest, nestled against his hip.

  ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘Protesting.’

  ‘Why?’

  Badorum looked up in surprise. ‘Your new security measures mean that the grain mills only run at half-shift. The workers are on rationed bread at the moment. The blanket suppression of the civilian communications network has eliminated several popular entertainment frequencies. The red scarves signify that they have worked their hands to the bloody bone.’

  ‘What do you mean, “your security measures”?’

  ‘Our security measures, of course,’ Badorum said quickly.

  ‘That does not explain why they protest.’

  ‘Because they are unhappy. They wish us to know that. To send a message to the Triumvirate.’

  Holguin shook his head, confused by this. ‘To what end? Do they think that the emperor will change his mind on the whim of a few dozen individuals? They look like troublemakers to me.’

  ‘They are just ordinary folk who feel that they have been overlooked. They want to vent their anger a bit, but they’ll not cause any real trouble.’

  ‘They are already causing trouble.’ Holguin pointed to the Avenue of Heroes, where the leaders of the demonstration were remonstrating with Badorum’s men at the gate. It was clear they were demanding entry but such a thing was impossible. ‘They are also in violation of the edict against congregations of more than five persons in a public space.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Badorum, uncertain.

  ‘The presence of large bodies of people can conceal the activities of the rebels and their sympathisers,’ Holguin said sternly, annoyed that he should have to point out such an obvious fact to the commander of the household guard. It was no wonder Curze had come so close to the regent emperor with such weak-willed men guarding the Fortress of Hera. ‘They need to be dispersed immediately.’

  Again Badorum vacillated, his face radiating consternation.

  ‘If we let them just shout it out for a bit, they’ll go home soon. All we’ll do by forcing the issue is create more resentment.’

  ‘They need to learn discipline,’ Holguin said. ‘It is for their protection that the new security protocols have been implemented. Do they think that the edicts were passed for the sake of it? This unseemly act is selfishness of the highest order. I require you to disperse this illegal gathering. It is a threat to the security of the Imperial Triumvirate. If you do not take action, I will have to.’

  ‘By nonlethal means, of course,’ said Badorum, darting a worried glance towards Holguin.

  ‘“Nonlethal” does not feature in the vocabulary of the Legiones Astartes. Even when unarmed.’

  It was clear that Badorum had spent much time amongst warriors of the Ultramarines, comfortable around the giant legionaries in a way many others were not. But in that moment he looked like a lost child, his face paling as he realised Holguin was not joking.

  ‘This will only get worse,’ he warned, starting towards the gate. ‘We cannot arrest everyone that disagrees with the Lord Protector.’

  Holguin said nothing as he watched Badorum calling out to his men, waving furiously for them to follow him down to the gate.

  I’m sure we can, thought Holguin. He turned back up towards the Fortress of Hera, confident that Badorum would do what needed to be done.

  Representations of a different kind were being made in the audience hall of Sanguinius. The Lion paced back and forth before the throne of the Imperator Regis, iterating the events in Illyrium, each announcement accompanied by the crack of his fist into the pa
lm of his other hand.

  ‘Two megaloaders were driven into the shuttle port at Oxadius. Death toll, thirteen. More than fifty wounded. All civilian. Six bodies found flayed in the silva altum, blindfolded. Soldiers from the territorial militia, including a praetor-colonel. Senator Pilviora’s domicile was burned to the ground. Thankfully she was in Macragge Civitas at the time, making an appeal to this chamber for assistance.’

  ‘Enough,’ growled Guilliman. ‘A catalogue of atrocities. We understand.’

  ‘You do not,’ said the Lion. ‘In total, more than five hundred casualties, nearly half of them slain in just eight days since we instituted the clear-ground policy. Curze will not be lured into the open so easily. Attacks in the capital have increased five-fold. Seven of my warriors are in the apothecarion, another two have paid the ultimate price for doing their duty.’

  ‘What else would you do?’ asked Sanguinius. ‘It was your decision to withdraw from Illyrium altogether. Was that the wrong policy?’

  ‘It has been the wrong policy to placate Illyrium,’ the Lion replied. ‘The Illyrians have no loyalty to us at all. They shelter the dissidents, giving them succour and haven. These are not an alien foe, an enemy from the exterior, but an army that has simply been waiting for the opportunity to strike. Curze has given them that chance.’

  ‘There has still been no evidence that Curze is in Illyrium at all,’ countered Guilliman. ‘Or is still there if he ever was.’

  ‘You give no credit to coincidence any more than I do, brother,’ the Lion said, his manner becoming more diplomatic. ‘We know that Curze did not leave Macragge. He cannot be in Macragge Civitas, but he can achieve nothing elsewhere. The dissident nature of Illyrium gives him the perfect sanctuary. I would deny him that shelter, and rid Macragge of a cancer at the same time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Guilliman leaned forward, troubled by the Lion’s words.

  ‘Too long Illyrium has gone unpunished for its misdeeds. Even in the lifetime of your father, it was the birthplace of violence and discontent. There can be no cure for this infection at the heart of the Imperium, save complete excision.’

  ‘Illyrium is not a single entity – it is a place filled with people of many loyalties and manners,’ Guilliman said, fearing the direction of his brother’s argument. He looked to Sanguinius but the emperor said nothing. ‘You cannot condemn a whole state for the crimes of a few.’

  ‘Not a few!’ Spittle flew at the Lion’s outburst. ‘Illyrium is non-compliant by any terms of definition. Your planet, the capital of the Five Hundred Worlds, has harboured dissident elements since the inception of the Imperium! They are not your citizens, brother. They do not want to be your citizens and will not serve the Imperium. They betrayed and killed your father!’

  ‘How dare you bring mention of Konor to this debate?’ Guilliman snapped back. ‘He sought peace by all means. If I were to strike back in his memory it would not be justice, it would be revenge.’

  ‘You are weak,’ the Lion said with a shake of his head. ‘We fight for the future of mankind. There can be no forgiveness, no remorse.’

  ‘Make plain what you suggest, brother,’ said Sanguinius, knitting his fingers together beneath his chin.

  ‘Illyrium’s infrastructure is minimal, its resources scarce. The contribution to the Imperium is far outweighed by the resources spent trying to regain control and maintain authority.’ The Lion paused and stared at the regent emperor. ‘Orbital scouring. Measured, directed annihilation of all opposition within Illyrium.’

  Guilliman was out of his seat with a shout.

  ‘Insanity!’ He rounded on Sanguinius, appalled that his brother and emperor did not seem the least bit horrified by the suggestion. ‘This is no solution at all!’

  ‘A few million people are an anchor on our three Legions,’ the Lion continued relentlessly, ignoring Guilliman, his attention fixed on the emperor. ‘How many of the Five Hundred Worlds still burn because we have this constricting thornvine about our throats? Better to burn it to the root and be free of its grasp forever.’

  ‘A few million?’ Guilliman could hardly speak out of a gathering rage. ‘My people are not expendable at any cost.’

  ‘Your people?’ The Lion’s voice dropped, his eyes narrowed as he turned on the Lord Warden. ‘Your people? Are they not our people? And if not, if one of us may lay claim to their fealty above the others, is it not our brother upon the throne?’

  The Lion gestured towards Sanguinius, who was watching Guilliman with a hawk-like stare. The primarch of the Ultramarines had to draw deep on his reserves of patience and nerve, biting back the arguments that sprang to his lips.

  It was an impossible situation. Imperium Secundus worked only because he and the Lion had entrusted its rule to Sanguinius. Responsibilities had been divided between the three of them, but true authority resided with the Imperator Regis. It was Guilliman’s role as Lord Warden to enact the wishes of the Imperator Regis, not to define them, just as the Lion was bound by his oaths to obey Sanguinius’ commands on military matters.

  It would be overstepping the mark to defy Sanguinius openly, effectively placing Guilliman’s will over that of the Triumvirate. He could not believe that the Lion had deliberately manipulated him into this situation, but nonetheless his brother would certainly exploit any sign that Guilliman thought himself above the emperor. Sanguinius, already wary of the power thrust upon him, would not look kindly upon any intimation that he was simply being used as a puppet by Guilliman, regardless of his true intent.

  All this flashed through Guilliman’s mind in an instant. His answer sprang unbidden from his thoughts, his natural statesmanship saving him at the last.

  ‘I cannot argue on practical or theoretical grounds against my brother’s proposition,’ he said, addressing Sanguinius directly. His tone was calm, measured, seeking to enforce reflection and reason over reactionary instinct. ‘But on moral grounds I would argue that the eradication of four million citizens of the Imperium on the vague chance that Curze is amongst them is repugnant, and no action that would be undertaken by a leadership that professes to act on behalf of mankind’s best interests.’

  ‘How many of the Five Hundred Worlds resisted compliance?’ the Lion asked quietly. ‘How many came to the Imperium after bombardment, after you set your Legion upon them?’

  ‘Thirty-eight,’ Guilliman responded. ‘I remember each and every one clearly. Would you like me to list the names?’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘We would employ such tactics only after all other attempts at compliance had failed,’ Guilliman added sharply, tiring of his brother’s attacks. ‘All other attempts. Yet it seems you would take a battlecannon to swat a troublesome fly, brother. The consequences for Macragge, for this new Imperium, would be disastrous if we were to consider such a thing now. What gains would the lie-masters of Horus make from such heavy-handed tyranny?’

  In the next few moments Guilliman could see Imperium Secundus falling to tatters around him. If that was to be, it was to be. To persist with an abomination was worse than seeing his great hope crumble slowly.

  ‘I do not support this proposal,’ he said formally. He met Sanguinius’ enquiring gaze with a stare and swallowed hard. If he was to be accused as a kingmaker and puppetmaster, better to flex what political muscles he possessed. ‘If it is the will of our lord emperor to set starships against his own people, I will have no part of it. The Imperial Triumvirate will dissolve, and with it any semblance of moral authority to rule the Five Hundred Worlds, much less build a new Imperium of Man.’

  ‘Blackmail, brother?’ said the Lion.

  ‘Quiet.’ Sanguinius’ single word silenced the primarch of the Dark Angels, who glowered at Guilliman with arms crossed, jaw clenched.

  The Lord Regent sighed, gaze moving from one primarch to the other and back, weighing each of them, assessing their arguments.

  ‘There is no benefit in destroying Illyrium from orbit,’ Sanguinius declared. R
elief flooded Guilliman, though it was short-lived, as he sensed a caveat approaching. ‘I believe that Curze is behind this uprising, and with his removal the rebellion can be quashed by conventional and political means. Orbital strike does not guarantee the death of Curze.’

  The emperor stood up and directed his words at the Lion.

  ‘This is to be your sole objective, brother. Apprehend Curze and bring him to justice for his crimes. When that is accomplished, the Lord Warden can deal with Illyrium as needed.’

  ‘By what means, brother?’ asked the Lion.

  ‘Any necessary,’ replied Sanguinius. ‘Short of wiping out Illyrium from orbit, I want no more to be troubled by Curze and his venom.’

  Sanguinius signalled that the audience was over and strode from the hall, leaving Guilliman and the Lion facing each other in stony silence. Guilliman searched his brother’s expression for any sign of triumph but the Lion’s face was simply set with a determined scowl. Eventually the primarch of the Ultramarines returned to his chair.

  ‘What will you do next?’ he asked.

  ‘I do not need starships to scour Illyrium,’ the Lion replied.

  The flicker of fires lit the inside of the gutted buildings of Thiaphonis. Where had once been tax offices, logistaria halls and the trade forum, now stood a shanty of bivouacs. Many citizens had left, braving the storms to head south to the foothills, or east to the sprawling encampments a kilometre or two inside the picket of the Dark Angels.

  Tobias Pullis would not give up Illyria so easily, not to the traitors of the civitas and certainly not to off-worlder thugs. Even after the shelling, he had stayed. Life in the ruins of Thiaphonis was preferable to the humiliation of living on the dubious charity of Macragge Civitas. Here he was able to help others, the few thousand that remained. Metre by metre they would rebuild the town, with their bare hands when the fuel ran out. He wanted nothing from the city of Guilliman.

  He wrapped his mantle about his face and stood up, his space next to the fire quickly filled by Jerostius, freshly returned from his watch duty. From the broken window of the former scriptorium, he looked out across the broken remains of the stronghold that had been dropped on the town. The flare of arc-cutters was bright as the reclamation parties did their best to break up the huge construction during a lull in the snows. Children worked together to haul sledges piled with pieces of scavenged girder and pillars of ferrocrete.