by S P Cawkwell
‘I would not dream of it, my lord.’ Cirth stepped backwards and disappeared in a gout of flame. Karteitja maintained his stance for a while longer before he too was swallowed by the void.
Nathaniel Gall, as had been noted by so many of his peers, had a bit of a problem with tact, inasmuch as he possessed none at all. His ability to think about what he was saying before he said it was nonexistent and he frequently blurted out a question without stopping to consider whether it might be appropriate or not.
It was not a trait that Nicodemus found easy to deal with. And forced into continued proximity with the psyker, the young Silver Skulls warrior was wondering exactly what it was he had done to bring down this sentence upon his shoulders.
For the first day, he had been happy to answer Nathaniel’s endless questions about the Prognosticatum. Nicodemus had explained how the Silver Skulls were structured: the Chapter Master at the head of the military arm, and Vashiro overseeing the psychic battle-brothers and Chaplains who made up the Prognosticatum.
Those questions had been easy enough to answer and Nicodemus had been open and honest. There was little point in being anything else. He had been primed on many responses by Vashiro prior to departure and until the third day, everything that Nathaniel had asked him had been anticipated.
Then he had asked the one question that had taken Nicodemus completely by surprise.
‘Do you believe it? That the Prognosticators genuinely read the skeins of fate? That they read portents and predict the outcome of your engagements? That they divine the Emperor’s will? Do you believe it?’
They were blunt words that caused the psyker to fall silent. He might only have been a youth, barely out of his teens, but he suddenly felt the rush of thousands of years of tradition. How dare this scrawny human speak to him with such disrespect? Pride rushed to the surface and it took every ounce of self-control not to crush the worm with his bare fists.
‘Of course I do,’ he replied in due course.
‘Mmm,’ Nathaniel said. ‘I thought you might say that. Haven’t you ever thought that a Prognosticator might be misguided? What happens when your Prognosticators get it wrong?’
‘I am not the brother to whom you should be addressing these questions, psyker,’ Nicodemus replied, and there was ice in his voice. ‘My experience is not as broad as that of my brothers. I am but recently ascended to the ranks.’
‘Good point,’ said the psyker, completely unfazed by the chill attitude he was receiving. ‘I will go and speak with one of the other warriors. To whom do you feel my questions would be best directed?’
It was very tempting to point Nathaniel in Djul’s direction. Nicodemus suspected that where he had stayed his hand and not delivered any physical blow to the human, Djul would bodily evict Nathaniel’s crushed remains from the ship if he offered such an insult in his presence. The wrath of the Talriktug warrior would be beyond incandescent; something undoubtedly magnificent to behold. But Nicodemus still maintained compassion for those weaker than he was. He was only now starting to realise just how many people that encompassed.
For the sake of all of the Silver Skulls, he suggested Nathaniel speak to Reuben. Of Gileas’s squad, he seemed the most level-headed and approachable.
As he watched Nathaniel walk off, a pronounced limp causing him to move slowly down the corridor, Nicodemus felt a flicker of uncertainty. The psyker’s questions had been plentiful and he did not think he had said anything that might have painted the Prognosticatum in a bad light, but one comment the outspoken Nathaniel had made echoed in his ears.
What happens when your Prognosticators get it wrong?
Liandra Callis walked the corridors of the Prevision of Victory alone. She had long given up any pretence of rest. Sleep was not something that came easily to her, and it had not done for more years than she cared to remember. Her mind was always active and as a consequence there was very little that she missed.
She wandered without any of her companions out of deliberate choice. Her thoughts were manifold and she processed them far better when she was alone. She was confident that no harm could befall her aboard the vessel and she had quite consciously allowed the psyker to carry out his uniquely irritating brand of questioning before she moved in and continued the task. Nathaniel was difficult to handle, but she respected his power and the strength that he displayed. Every day was a struggle for a sanctioned psyker and Nathaniel bore his burden without complaint.
She had grown surprisingly fond of him. She was many years his senior of course, although countless juvenat treatments and augmetics had enabled her to maintain the look of a woman in her early thirties. Her true age was unknown to any but her closest allies and the Inquisition.
Nathaniel knew. But then he had been extraordinary. As had been the coincidence of his sister already being one of those among her retinue. And it had been coincidence that had brought them back together, no matter what spin she might have chosen to put on it.
Liandra Callis had something in common with the dour warriors of the Silver Skulls Chapter. She believed that the Emperor’s hand reached out and manipulated the course of fate far more frequently than others would believe. But she did not believe that things should happen only on His word. And that was where any harmony turned into discord.
She had shed the long, hooded coat that she typically favoured and reached up to run her fingers through her fair hair, which was beginning to grey at the temples. She chose to wear it cropped practically short for convenience and coupled with the confidence in her stride, there was something close to masculine in her overall manner. Clad in a black, sleeveless bodyglove, she prowled the corridors in silence.
The daughter of a noble house on the distant hive world of Siprix, Callis had demonstrated great articulacy and intelligence from an early age. Her education had been costly and had been worth every penny, or so her father had said.
Her father. He had been one of the first people she had investigated when she had been inducted into the Ordo Hereticus. She had investigated him, found him guilty of importing xenos technology to an underground movement of would-be seditionists and had arranged his execution within fifteen minutes. She had not regretted it. Not openly at least. But she had touched weakness in the wake of her father’s death when she had mourned the loss of all he had once been.
Weakness was not something she cared to display but she had learned that demonstrating compassion – if only cosmetically – could encourage people to talk far more freely than if they were intimidated, and torture was such a time-consuming affair. Consequently, her results were sometimes startling in the extreme. This, coupled with the fact that Liandra Callis could be as cold-hearted and cruel as her role demanded at the flick of an internal switch, had ensured her success.
‘Are you lost, inquisitor?’
The voice was a deep, sonorous rumble and she stopped, turning round to face the lone Space Marine who stood in the corridor behind her. Her excellent mental faculties immediately pulled his name to mind.
‘Not at all, Sergeant Ur’ten,’ she replied. ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I was merely familiarising myself with the layout of your marvellous ship. The Chapter Master did grant me security clearance to go wherever I needed to go.’ She spoke the last sentence a little defensively, but the warrior merely nodded.
‘As you wish.’
She watched him for a moment. Her prior research and simple powers of observation had listed this warrior as one of those she should investigate more closely. Fate or the Emperor’s hand had put him in her path. Opportunities such as this should not be ignored. ‘Perhaps you might tell me a little of its history as we walk?’
‘I would be glad to.’ He gave her a humourless smile and she hid the sudden shock at the sight of his sharpened incisors. That, combined with his choice to wear his hair long, made him seem like something savage; like he was some ancient beast of legend, not th
e noble warrior of countless battles that her reports had suggested. But Callis had lived long enough and made enough errors of judgement to know full well that first impressions were not always accurate.
‘Thank you, my lord.’
He made a grunt of acknowledgement and folded his massive arms across his great barrel chest. Beneath the surplice he wore, she could make out the distorted shape of the fused ribcage. She knew Space Marine biology enough to be aware that beneath its protective shell pulsed both familiar organs and others that were completely unique to the Adeptus Astartes. He was so inhuman, so very different to her.
Of course, Callis was far too well bred to stare at him. She had known many different Adeptus Astartes over the years and they never failed to impress her. What a marvel these creations were, she thought. What a weapon the God-Emperor, beloved by all, gave us when He breathed life into His Angels.
Gileas recounted some of the vessel’s noteworthy engagements as they walked together; an odd pairing. Standing not much higher than five feet tall, Callis was dwarfed by the giant at her side. She noted how he maintained a respectful distance between them, but always kept himself a few feet ahead of her. As was the case with all of the warriors aboard the vessel when they were not armoured, he carried only a bolt pistol secured in a holster at his thigh and a combat knife strapped to his shin.
‘You fight with the assault company, is that correct?’ It was a harmless enough question and Gileas nodded affirmation.
‘Aye,’ he replied. ‘That is usually the case. I am assigned to Eighth Company for the most part.’
‘But you are not out with them right now. Why is that?’
The warrior stopped and glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyebrows coming together in a look that was either surprise or displeasure. It was difficult to tell, particularly when his glittering dark-blue eyes gave away no emotion at all.
‘The Chapter Master ordered it,’ he replied. ‘And I obey my Lord Commander without question or selfishness of purpose.’
‘You would have preferred to be with your own company.’ She smiled. ‘There is no shame in that, surely, sergeant?’
‘None at all,’ he replied, this time not hesitating at all. ‘Of all the companies in the Chapter, the Eighth has been the one that has allowed me access to the most rewarding battle campaigns. With a jump pack and chainsword, I can find myself at the battle’s heart before it even truly starts to beat.’
For a fleeting moment, his face became animate and alive. Callis made a mental note that despite his frankly savage appearance, Gileas Ur’ten was evidently far more than just a weapon. Such knowledge was important.
‘You acquit yourself well, or so I have been led to understand. Your superiors speak highly of you.’
The stern facade returned and the moment of simple, open honesty seemed a distant dream. ‘Thank you for your words, inquisitor. I have always aimed to be the best that I can be. But I must temper that with the understanding that no matter how strong I may be, no matter how proficient with a blade I become or even how well I develop my skills as a strategist, there is always room for improvement.’
‘You strive for perfection?’
‘No, because perfection is the domain of the Emperor alone. As I said, I… we… simply strive to be the best that we can be. To desire more would render us unworthy of the honour of our station.’
‘And that is to be commended,’ said the inquisitor, unable to keep the smile from her face.
‘I am a son of Varsavia,’ Gileas continued. ‘And as such, you should know that my duty of care extends to you whilst we travel together. By tradition, the life of a guest is as the life of a brother. Honour demands that I serve the Inquisition as I would serve my Chapter while you are in our charge. Upon my oath, inquisitor.’
If she was startled by this open revelation of such a binding custom, it did not register in her expression. She merely inclined her head respectfully.
The two rounded a corner. They walked together in easy companionship through the ship and she absorbed it all. Idle glances took in far more information than she would admit to. Her ears listened with pleasure to the sounds of the tech-priests speaking arcane words to the ancient machinery they tended.
Gileas quietly and shrewdly pointed out persons of note and continued leading her onwards, beyond the bridge, through to the strategium, the mess area where the serfs ate – she was not surprised to see Curt there, smoking as always – and then in time back to the corridor where they had started.
His manners were impeccable, his courtesy perfect, and his level of eloquence surprised her. She had been led to understand that Gileas had been recruited from a tribe whose methods and lifestyle were cruel and harsh. But the warrior before her was articulate and clearly intelligent and his quiet pride and honesty were pleasing. Every question she asked him was answered without guile and no attempts were made to withhold anything from her. If she had been trying to interrogate him, however, she believed it might well have been difficult in the extreme.
She would have achieved it, of course, but it would have been a challenge.
As he strode away from her to continue with whatever chore it was that she had disturbed him from, the inquisitor smiled coolly. Gileas Ur’ten was a useful link in the chain. For all his pleasantries and obviously rehearsed stock responses, he had answered one of her seemingly innocuous questions in a manner that he had not even been aware of. She could read body language, even in a post-human warrior. She had seen the look of discomfort on his face, the hesitation in his movement and the careful tone of his voice when he had replied. Despite having spent an hour or so in his company, she had learned everything she needed to within a heartbeat.
‘Your faith is strong, Sergeant Ur’ten,’ she had said. ‘And of course, you honour the words of your Prognosticators like the rest of your Chapter.’
Then had come the tell-tale moment of uncertainty followed by his response.
‘Of course, inquisitor.’
Things had not improved much for the Sixth. While they had tightened the cordon around the walls, the price in blood was rising by the hour. There was little cover from the shelling, and despite the Siculean artillery chewing at the defenders on the crenellated walls, there was little they could do to silence the guns beyond. Teams of rebel saboteurs had also been hard at work with mines and improvised explosives and those ruins that still stood often offered sudden death rather than respite.
The situation had been further confounded when the rebels had opened the gates in order to unleash mobs of stimm-crazed slum gangers on the Imperial Guardsmen. Throughout the engagement, the Guard had taken hundreds of rebel lives, but there was something unnerving about ending the life of a youth who was barely out of childhood. The shots were fired in self-defence, but it brought little comfort to the Imperial Guardsmen who were, after all, only human.
‘These are just kids,’ Sergeant Cadoros growled during a respite in the attacks. It had followed a fairly predictable pattern so far; the rebels would attack, then scatter at the first sign they were being overwhelmed.
Particulate ferrocrete dust filled the air, the choking cloud all that remained of what had once been a bustling market. The zone had been levelled under the repeated onslaught of the Imperial Guard weapons and support vehicles. The traitors outnumbered the Guardsmen many times over, but lacked any sort of direction. Each gang seemed to operate completely independently of its fellows. It made them ineffective but nigh on impossible to predict and they were tenacious to say the least.
‘Ever thought they’re leading us into something worse?’ One of the Guardsmen nudged a nearby body with the toe of his boot. The corpse rolled over to reveal a girl of perhaps fourteen. She lay with her eyes open, staring into nothing. The scorch marks of a las burn marred her pale skin. The soldier’s face set in a stony scowl.
‘Stupid girl,’ observed Sergeant
Cadoros. ‘These children have been blinded to the Imperial creed by the words of heresy that have been whispered amongst them. Don’t let it get to you. They chose this fate for themselves. Think of their execution as a mercy. Far better they die and earn their redemption through blood, than to live in shame.’
‘I think…’
Whatever it was that the soldier was thinking was cut off by the sudden impact of a missile barely feet away from where he stood. The sergeant was thrown off his feet and flung backwards into the side of a largely collapsed building. He righted himself swiftly and brought his weapon to bear.
‘Another strike squad,’ came the shout. ‘And these ones are more prepared!’
More prepared turned out to mean the inclusion of several rocket tubes and a tripod-mounted stubber. A second shell screamed across the ruined commercia and detonated amongst a squad, hurling green-armoured bodies into the air.
‘Get to cover!’ Sergeant Cadoros bellowed. ‘Wherever you can find! And get those heavy weapons up front and centre! Move!’
Men had already thrown themselves into the cover of the ruined markets and were returning fire. The snap of las-fire and hollow thump of a grenade launcher at work joined the chatter of rebel weapons. The sergeant tapped two of his men on their armoured shoulders and gestured to a row of fire-blackened stalls. The roar of battle concealed the noise as the trio crashed through the brittle frames until they were within sight of the enemy. Six rebels crouched behind a train of overturned carts, two bearing the weight of shoulder-mounted launchers while a third manned a belt-fed cannon. The others tended to bulging packs of missiles and a box of heavy brass shells.