by Ben Counter, Guy Haley, Joshua Reynolds, Cavan Scott (epub)
‘Operational effectiveness,’ Ismail said. ‘In a month, the orks will have overrun this world.’ The Tallarn hesitated. Then, in a softer tone, he added, ‘I am sorry, hereditary-governor.’
‘He is, too,’ Harks said. ‘Hidden depths of pity, our angel of the desert.’ He spat.
‘Quiet, Harks,’ Mazarin said. ‘Go on, Master Ismail.’
‘With rapid redeployment, and adaptive strategies, operational effectiveness might be extended,’ Ismail said. ‘Given the calculations of the size of the enemy force, as passed on by the Obsidian Glaives, and my own estimation as to the defensive capabilities of the inner worlds in the Sanctus System, such a strategy will increase the statistical likelihood of a successful defence of Alaric Prime.’
‘Now ask him by how much,’ Harks muttered.
Mazarin didn’t bother to reprimand the psyker this time. ‘You are an intelligent man,’ he said, as the optic-skull circled Jensen slowly. ‘Your current strategy is untenable. A man who seeks to defend everything loses all, as the war-poets of Chogoris say. You must pull your forces back, abandon the other hives and concentrate on defending Hive Jensen.’
‘What – no,’ Jensen said. He shook his head. ‘No! That would mean condemning millions to death – we don’t have the means to evacuate one hive safely, let alone all of them.’
‘Who said anything about evacuating the hives?’ the woman in Mechanicus red trilled softly. She sang, rather than spoke, as if she were a life-size figurine from a music box. It was beautiful, but there was an artificial edge to it, as if a machine were trying to replicate a bird’s call. ‘Death comes swift or slow, but it comes all the same.’ She placed her hand on Mazarin’s shoulder and he patted it.
‘Thank you, Olympia. As ever, your wisdom cuts to the heart of things.’ Mazarin tapped his cane on the floor. ‘Master Ismail?’
Ismail looked at Jensen. ‘Ghul Jensen is doomed,’ he said bluntly, no trace of his earlier sympathy in his words. ‘As is Malaghai Morca and Squire’s Rest,’ he continued, naming two of the other planets in the Sanctus System. ‘But Alaric Prime can be saved. If it’s given enough time to ready its defences, it can weather the orks.’
Jensen didn’t bother to ask why. It was obvious – the Knight Worlds were valuable, but hive worlds were cheap, as were the lives of their populations. He swallowed and looked around the command bunker. Outside, he could hear the sound of the assault redoubling in intensity. Soon enough, the defence forces of Hive Morn would have to fall back, and then again and again. The same bloody story would be repeated over and over again at each hive, whether the orks chose to take them one at a time or all at once.
He’d known his world – the world he had ruled since his father had passed over the black river and into the Emperor’s hall – was dead the moment the first ork ship crashed on the plains, the heat of its descent turning the sands of the wastes to glass. But to abandon his people in such a fashion galled him. He could still save some of them – couldn’t he?
He looked around the bunker, trying to find a friendly face. The closest he came was Ismail. The warrior exuded calm, but not compassion. No, there was no hope there. He considered demanding an evacuation attempt of some sort, in return for his efforts, but the more pragmatic part of him knew that any guarantee the inquisitor gave him would be a lie. The orks were above as well as below, attacking the orbital defences. The conflict raging there was as effective a cage as any blockade. There would be no escape. Not for anyone. ‘What about you?’ he said.
‘What about us?’ Mazarin replied.
‘You say my world is doomed. That there is no escape. And yet here you are. Did you come to die with us?’ Even as he spat the question, he wondered if he could somehow save someone – his wives perhaps, his cousins, anyone. If there was a ship, he could save a few people at least. Even if he had to take it from its owner at the barrel of a gun.
He’d had vessels of his own, a small but expensive fleet of yachts, but both his and the ships owned by the ruling houses of the other hives had been pressed into service to bolster the orbital defences and were now so much as debris floating in the upper reaches of the stratosphere. Lightly armed as they had been, they hadn’t lasted long, though the crews had fought bravely.
‘Regrettably, my personal vessel was damaged during our arrival. The skies are even more dangerous than the ground.’ Mazarin cocked his head. ‘From orbit, your world rather resembles a piece of fruit surrounded by swarm upon swarm of flies. There is no way off of Ghul Jensen, I’m afraid. Not for any of us.’ He straightened. ‘That is why we must make it count, hereditary-governor. Do not let the death of your world be for nothing.’
Jensen’s hands curled into fists. ‘What do you suggest?’ he said, forcing the words out.
‘Redeploy all planetary forces not currently engaged with the orks to Hive Jensen,’ the Tallarn said, without hesitation. The bunker shuddered again. The sounds of ork artillery could be heard outside, hammering away at the emplacement. Men were dying, even now, to hold back the green tide.
‘What about the forces already engaged?’ he said, slowly, not wanting to hear the answer he knew was coming.
‘We should leave as soon as you are ready,’ Mazarin said. ‘Gather your command staff and all essential personnel. We have little time, and much yet to accomplish.’
House of Jensen, Gubernatorial Palace, Hive Jensen
Jensen stared out through the vast crystalline window that marked the outer edge of the palace gardens, his hands clasped behind his back. Around him, his command staff were hard at their tasks, barking orders into vox-transmitters, studying holographic maps, or talking quietly amongst themselves. His wives moved amongst them, overseeing the confusion so that Jensen didn’t have to.
The palace occupied the uppermost tier of the hive, just above the great hab-ring occupied by the minor aristocratic clans whose sons and daughters made up his command staff. He studied the massive enclosed gardens that spread out below him, each one dominated by a different colour of foliage and flower, and teeming with plants from the far-flung corners of the planet. Each of them had taken generations to coax into vibrancy and when they were gone, the galaxy would not see their like again.
His gaze was drawn upwards, towards the reflective surface of the solar collectors that lined the uppermost edge of the hive’s outer shell. The collectors gathered and filtered the light of the sun down through the hive like so many solar aqueducts, so that even the deepest levels of the underhive had some access to natural light. It had been his grandmother’s innovation, he recalled, crafted from older technologies which they could no longer make work. Hive Jensen relied on many such engines, and as the weeks and the siege went on, more and more of them ceased to function. Already, whole hab-rings were without light, heat and water, and he had been forced to divert precious resources to rigging up temporary water sumps so that his people would not die of thirst before they froze to death, or were killed by the orks. He closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped.
The redeployment had gone as planned. His authority was absolute, and his body doubles had proved their value yet again, allowing his people the illusion that he had not abandoned them but, rather, was sacrificing himself for a greater purpose. The military resources of each of the great hives had retreated through the subterranean darkways that stretched between hives and across the wide ashy wastes. Hive Jensen, the largest of the great hives, was now full to capacity. Its resources were stretched to the breaking point. Not that that would be the case for long.
The orks had finished with the rest of the planet in record time. The death-pyres of the other hives were visible from the weapons clusters of the outer shell, and the smoke of their passing still choked the atmosphere. Millions of lives, snuffed out and forgotten. The bulk of the ork forces had already turned their attentions towards Hive Jensen, looking for new opportunities for battle.
&n
bsp; He opened his eyes. The noise behind him had dimmed. He turned. Inquisitor Mazarin and Olympia moved through the crowd of officers and staff, who drew back to give them plenty of room. The old man was orbited as always by his servo-skulls, which rotated slowly as they hovered, seeing and recording the faces of everyone around them. Olympia stared straight ahead, her hands resting on the pommels of her swords. In the retreat from Hive Morn, Jensen had witnessed just how deadly the former skitarii tribune was with the blades.
‘Inquisitor Mazarin,’ Jensen said. The dull rush of conversation resumed as he spoke, but he knew they were being watched. The inquisitor had come to be regarded as something of a bird of ill-omen by Jensen’s officers.
‘I have come to compliment you, hereditary-governor. You are as efficient and as competent as promised,’ Mazarin said, through the vox-skull. ‘Master Ismail’s projections have been exceeded beyond my wildest fancies.’
‘Are you here just to compliment us for not dying as quickly as you estimated?’ Jensen said. His fingers twitched, and he was conscious of the weight of the blade on his hip and the pistol holstered opposite it. Olympia watched him, her perfect features twisting into a perfect smile.
‘Not solely, no,’ Mazarin said. ‘Master Ismail has done all he can to improve your defences, and the peculiar talents of Olympia, Harks and Mamluc-9 are – heh – wasted here in your palace, lovely as it is. The orks are even now scaling the outer shell of the hive, like rats seeking entrance to a store room. The lower hab-rings are already under attack. I humbly request that you allow me and my retinue the honour of assigning ourselves to the front. Master Ismail has estimated where the next attack will come, and I feel that our talents would be better put to use there.’
‘You will go with them?’ Jensen asked, startled. For the brief time he’d known the inquisitor, the man had not risked himself in open combat, leaving the bloody work to his subordinates. It wasn’t surprising; Mazarin was old, ancient even, and looked no more durable than a rotting branch hanging from a dying tree.
‘Of course,’ Mazarin rasped. ‘It has been a long time since I met the enemy openly, but I wager that I still recall how to do it. Once learned, never forgotten and all that.’
Jensen stared at him for a moment, trying to parse for any hidden meaning in those words. He had the natural suspicion of the Inquisition that every planetary governor cultivated; it was a survival instinct. And he was suspicious of this sudden change of heart. Why now? Was it simply the impatience of a man used to manipulating events from afar caught up in an unwinnable situation? But there seemed to be no hidden agenda where Mazarin was concerned. As the redeployment had proceeded the old man had overseen much of it, displaying a strategic acumen that was rivalled only by the most senior members of Jensen’s staff. And now that there were no more decisions to be made, and nothing to do but hold, fight and die, he seemed impatient for the latter. ‘What if I say no?’ he said, finally.
‘Why would you?’ Mazarin said. ‘You are angry with me, I can see it in your eyes.’ The optic-skull swooped closer, its red gaze boring into Jensen’s own. ‘And you have every right to be. I brought tidings of doom, and there are very few people who appreciate that. But if my discomfort would be a salve to your anger, then why deny me the joy of being messily dispatched by an ork?’
‘You have a point,’ Jensen said. He turned back to the window. ‘Do as you wish. If that wish is to die on the front lines rather than here, who am I to deny you?’
‘You are a most congenial host, Hereditary-Governor Jensen. My thanks,’ Mazarin said, bowing courteously. He turned and made his way back out, trailed by Olympia. Jensen watched their reflections recede, like ghosts vanishing into the light of the fires rising from below.
‘So, that’s it then?’ Harks said, pushing away from the wall as Mazarin and Olympia exited the gardens. ‘He’s going to let us fight, just like that?’
‘A wise man uses all of the resources available to him,’ Mazarin croaked. ‘And he is very wise, the hereditary-governor.’ He didn’t bother asking how Harks knew. He had grown used to the psyker’s eavesdropping, and had even profited from it on occasion. Indeed, they would not be on Ghul Jensen now, were it not for Harks’s inability to keep from spying on the thoughts of those around him.
‘But not too much so, otherwise he would have put a guard on our ship, rather than taking your word that it was out of commission. It’s ready to go when you are, by the way,’ Harks muttered. He frowned and rubbed his skull. ‘Which I assume will be soon, yes?’
‘As soon as we get what we came here for,’ Mazarin said. Then, ‘Has the girl been located?’
‘We have narrowed down her bio-signature to somewhere within the lower hab-ring,’ Olympia hummed softly. ‘Shall we find her?’
‘Not yet,’ Mazarin said. ‘Jensen is suspicious. We have our reason for being there. When the time comes, we will find her.’ He raised a hand, silencing Harks before he could speak. ‘And then, we will depart this sad, dying world.’
‘And until then?’ Harks asked.
‘We do exactly what I said we’d do, Harks. We fight.’
They left the palace, Harks keeping up a steady flow of complaints and muttered recriminations, and Olympia humming something which sounded like machine code. Mazarin stopped as they came to the great gates, carved from the last trees to have grown unaided in the bitter soil of Ghul Jensen. Scenes from the world’s founding and the erecting of the first hives had been carved into the surface of the towering gates. Mazarin stared up at them for a long time, his mechanical eyes recording every shape and whorl on the wood.
It was very lovely, he thought. It only seemed right that someone remember it.
As the servitor-guards that controlled the gates hauled them open with a squeal of abused wood and metal, a wave of heat entered, washing over Mazarin and the others. His servo-skulls wobbled in the air, buffeted by the almost solid gust of temperature. Harks was already sweating as they left the palace behind. The broad procession way beyond, its bulwarks topped by marble statues of ancient heroes of the Jensen line, afforded a picturesque view of the sloping descent of the hive. From Mazarin’s perspective, it was rather like a stack of ever-shrinking data-discs, and just as ill-balanced. The inner curve of the hive’s shell was highly reflective, so as to more easily bring warmth and light to the lowest hab-rings, and it seemed as if the hive city stretched forever in all directions. The fury of the fires reaching up from below were redoubled by those vast reflective surfaces as well, and they were the source of the heat, Mazarin knew.
The orks had broken through into the lower rings almost immediately, having grown experienced in shattering hives over the past weeks. But they had been held, and even thrown back in places, though not for long.
As they walked down the wide staircase that led to the main thoroughfare below the gubernatorial palace, Mazarin could see through the cracked and shattered sky-paths that stretched like a vast web of rockcrete and metal between the outer shell and the spire, and down into the inferno below, where the shapes of alien war machines struggled through a landscape rendered inhospitable even to the galaxy’s toughest breed of vermin.
The great pneumatic lifts which provided quick access between hab-rings for those allowed access to them were still working, and were being used to ferry troops and command staff between the upper levels of the spire and wherever the front line happened to be at that moment. The lifts were reinforced and would likely be standing long after the rest of the hive collapsed in on itself.
As they rode down, Mazarin watched the hive rise around him, taking note of which of the gun emplacements on the outer shell were still active. These were the only things keeping the bulk of the ork forces pinned on the wasteland outside. But they were isolated, and vulnerable to attack by those orks clever and suicidal enough to attempt to scale the shell, or surf the sea of anti-air flak to their target. Even as the lift
reached its destination, one of the gun emplacements far above exploded, casting a weird light over the trio as they stepped out. They traversed the sky-path that led to the emplacement, striding beneath the gazes of the ornate statues that lined the high rails that marked the edges of the path.
Mazarin had contacted the others as they descended, and saw Mamluc-9 sitting on an upturned fuel drum, briskly loading his shotgun. He hopped off his perch and fell in beside them.
‘Where’s Ismail?’ Mazarin asked as they moved through the crowd of soldiers moving back and forth between the primary and secondary rows of defences.
Mamluc-9 gestured with two fingers towards the highest point of the emplacement, where soldiers were firing at the orks. ‘Of course,’ Mazarin murmured. He waved a hand. ‘The rest of you, try and look busy. Mamluc-9, come with me.’
The masked man followed him up onto the emplacement, where Ismail was observing the enemy with cool detachment. They stood in silence for some time. Then, at last, as the orks mounted another assault, Ismail glanced at him.
‘This attack is a prelude,’ Ismail said. His autogun thundered, and down below, orks died. ‘The ones too eager or too stupid to obey orders. The others are waiting for something.’
‘And what would that be, Master Ismail?’
‘If I knew, I would have said,’ Ismail said.
Mazarin eyed the Tallarn for a moment, considering. Then he sighed slightly, the vox-skull amplifying the sound into a staticky hiss. Such disrespect from his subordinates was his lot, and it would be borne gracefully. ‘My apologies. Can you hold the line here?’
Ismail’s head turned slightly, the lenses of his helmet’s eyepieces reflecting the crimson eyes of the servo-skulls. He said nothing, but the meaning of the look was plain enough. Mazarin shook his head. ‘Again, my apologies – better to ask, can you hold for the time required?’