The Emperor's Gift

by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

  ‘How many Inquisition vessels are en route?’

  ‘Impossible to know. It hardly matters, Hyperion. The evacuation of Guard regiments will be complete in a handful of days.’

  I looked at the occulus again, watching the slow drift of stars alongside the corpulent troop ship. The Runefyre was a pale reflection of our own vessel, keeping pace on the larger ship’s other side.

  ‘Today is going to be an interesting day,’ said Captain Castor.

  III

  We reached the transit point just over ten hours later. The Runefyre broke away in a sedate drift, putting minimum safe distance between itself and the Trident. The troop ship’s engines began to power up hotter, harder, in readiness to break into the realm between worlds.

  The transit point was, in reality, nothing more than a vast area of clear space past the outer world of Pelucidar. Routes in and out of solar systems frequently ended at such junctures away from the planets themselves – all the better for avoiding risk of collision between vessels in orbit, let alone the chance of Geller malfunction allowing a warp breach to infect a nearby world.

  ‘You have our thanks,’ voxed the Trident. ‘Priming warp engines now.’

  I sensed Castor watching me with a keen eye. ‘Orders?’

  ‘Prime weapons. Ready lance strikes at their engines.’ I looked back at him. ‘You’re the captain. Prepare to do whatever it is you do, but open a channel to the Runefyre first.’

  ‘Open, sir.’

  ‘This is Hyperion of the Grey Knights. To whom am I speaking?’

  Distortion couldn’t quite steal all identity from the voice. ‘I cannot help but notice you’re running out your guns, Bladebreaker.’

  ‘Rawthroat.’

  ‘The one and only. You sure you wish to fight this fight?’

  ‘The Karabela outclasses the Runefyre by any measurement, brother.’

  He laughed, distorting the link for a moment. ‘I didn’t ask who’d win the fight. I asked if you wanted to fight at all.’

  ‘You know I don’t.’ The Trident was powering up its engines, moments from tearing into the warp. ‘Rawthroat, these souls are consigned to death by the order of His Holy Majesty’s Inquisition.’

  ‘And yet they send you to here to pull the trigger, staining your conscience and absolving their own. You’re serving scum dressed as saviours, Bladebreaker. What honour do you find in that, I wonder?’

  ‘Enough pedantry. They’ve seen Sin Incarnate, and cannot be allowed to share the knowledge. I have to do this.’

  ‘Go ahead, then. Do what you feel is right, brother.’

  With the link silent, I turned to Castor. ‘Kill the Trident.’

  The captain leaned forwards in his throne. ‘Gunnery, all weapons lock on the troop ship’s engines. Await my order to fire.’

  As voices called out in acknowledgement and obedience, one rose above the affirmative clamour.

  ‘Captain, the Runefyre is priming its weapons batteries.’

  +Void shields,+ Malchadiel ordered.

  ‘Void shields, aye,’ answered one of the helmsmen, without realising where the order had originated.

  A transmission reached us from the Trident, suffering further interference distortion from our shields and its warp engines going live.

  ‘Karabela… We’re reading weapons lock from–’

  Castor spoke over the voice. ‘Fire.’

  IV

  I’ve never been comfortable with void war. I don’t like the helplessness, the feeling of your life in the hands of another, with destiny decided by machines and trajectories of cannonfire.

  The Trident never even had time to raise its void shields. Somehow, that made the massacre worse, though I couldn’t say why. They never had a chance, either way.

  ‘Make it quick,’ I said. ‘They deserve that, at least.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Chain reactions burst along its engine housings, triggering explosions deeper within the ship’s bloated hull. Contrary to the saga-poems, detonations in space are surprisingly sedate ruptures, with almost nothing in the way of light. Our lance strikes carved through the composite metals forming the most basic armour plating, pulling the ship apart from the rear. Its temperamental engines were the first things to go, bursting apart in a spray of wreckage. The Trident’s puncture wounds vented air, debris, crystallised coolant and flailing crew – and still we cut into it.

  The Karabela broke off after its first attack run, coming about in an arcing turn to finish what it had started. I kept the communication link open the entire time, listening to the Trident’s crew’s confusion become panic, and in turn become screaming. Duty demanded we never turn a blind eye to the horror in these deeds. Hearing their final moments was the least we could do.

  When silence reigned, the Karabela coasted through the wreckage and past the drifting hulk. The auspex return several minutes before opening fire had read four hundred thousand souls. Now, it read none.

  The Runefyre came alongside us at the end of our second strafing run. I was certain its greeting would come in the form of a weapons barrage. Instead, Rawthroat’s voice rasped over the vox.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d do it. We have all learned lessons today, eh? Remember this moment, Bladebreaker. Remember it well.’

  ‘I’m unlikely to forget it, Rawthroat.’

  ‘Good. Whatever happens in the days to come, remember that you were the ones to fire first.’

  TWENTY

  FAITH AND GUILT

  I

  We’d failed the Wolves’ test. They wouldn’t risk a single ship again.

  Imperial Guard landing craft rising from the surface turned the orbit above Armageddon thick with traffic, and we all saw what was coming. Under the pretence of organising the evacuation at the end of hostilities, Logan Grimnar was arranging for the bulky troop ships to make ready all at once. There would be no simple dispersion, allowing Inquisition vessels to prey upon those who must be silenced one at a time.

  He’d scatter them in one throw, knowing we lacked the firepower to bring them all down.

  ‘We may have had to surrender the population to your master’s cold claws,’ Rawthroat had said to me in the wake of the Trident’s destruction. ‘But several million heroes still draw breath in those troop ships. They deserve to live after what they’ve conquered.’

  At no point did I ever argue with him. What use would it be to tell him of the risks of apostasy, recidivism, and heresy from even one soldier who’d seen more than his fragile mind could handle? These men and women had looked into the eyes of things that should not be. With all the will in the world, an unknowable number of them were already tainted – be it through madness, enlightenment, or the cancer of corruption nestling in their hearts and minds from beholding absolute evil. Cults might rise. Worlds could fall. We acted to preserve lives, not merely keep secrets.

  And when had the notion of fairness ever entered into war? In the Inquisition’s long and bloody history, countless trillions had died to preserve the ordos’ secrets. In the greater scheme of the galaxy, no one would miss these poor soldiers. Even their loved ones would eventually die and be forgotten; within a single century, no soul would ever remember any of these unwilling martyrs.

  I told myself all of this, time and time again. As true as it was, it didn’t quieten my uneasy conscience.

  Annika and the others remained aboard the Karabela, as was their right. I didn’t have the authority to demand she leave. I wasn’t sure I wished her to, either – I had the creeping sense of disquiet that she’d do something foolish.

  She joined us in the strategium five days after the destruction of the Trident. Armageddon was devoid of off-worlders, beyond the Inquisition forces setting up and maintaining the work camps full of newly-sterilised Imperial citizens. Just looking at the dark stains of these false refugee encampments away from the empty cities left a bitter taste in the back of my mouth.

  The Space Wolves fleet had pulled back into high
orbit, making room for the Imperial Guard transports to cluster together. Our own vessels, still outnumbered, were forced to hang back from the formation work taking place.

  I could sense Annika trying to get my attention. She didn’t make a public point of it, but I could feel her thinking at me, as if it would establish a psychic connection. I kept my eyes on the occulus, watching the Space Wolves preparing to betray the Imperium of Man.

  +Inquisitor,+ I greeted her.

  ‘Hyperion.’ She was tense, but not quite nervous. ‘I wasn’t sure this would work. Could you hear me trying to reach you?’

  +Something like that. I’m surprised you stayed aboard.+

  ‘So am I.’

  +Aren’t you worried about being on one of our ships if this escalates beyond tension?+

  Annika smiled at me, and I felt the weight of judgement in her icy eyes. ‘You still don’t understand the Wolves, do you?’

  +No. Nor do they understand us. That’s why this will not end well.+

  The bridge doors rolled open to admit Malchadiel. He was walking easier now, after several long sessions of engineering and light surgery with Axium.

  As for Axium himself, I’d only seen him once since awakening, and that was to apologise for mangling his arm as I passed out. He forgave me without a second thought. His new arm seemed little different than the first, though he’d smithed the new one in the Karabela’s forges, rather than on Deimos. I could see the seam where the new arm met the old silver, but declined to mention it.

  On the bridge, Malchadiel paused at seeing Annika standing with me by the throne.

  ‘Inquisitor,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Mal.’

  ‘Your presence is a pleasant surprise.’

  Their awkward politeness was cut short by the vox. ‘This is Jarl Grimnar to the Inquisition vessels in orbit. Heed these words, all of you. Stand down from your murderous intentions, and this day ends without bloodshed. Any repetition of the Trident incident will be met with a degree of force you simply won’t survive. I take no pleasure issuing this threat, but you’ve forced our hands. Now, give me an acknowledgement that you’ve heard and understood this message.’

  Captain Castor breathed a low whistle. ‘If they really lose their temper, we won’t even have time to shit ourselves before we die. Even Lord Joros must recognise that.’

  Malchadiel’s eyes never left the occulus. ‘Don’t count on it, captain. Our lord is an ambitious man. How fine it would look on a roll of honour, to be the Grey Knight who stood firm in the Inquisition’s name against the deviant Wolves of Fenris.’

  +We’re in trouble,+ I sent.

  Malchadiel still didn’t look away. +Yes, brother. We are.+

  Lord Joros wasn’t the one to reply. Instead, a new voice crackled back over the vox, broadcast across the entire fleet.

  ‘Chapter Master Grimnar. I am Lord Inquisitor Kysnaros. At my right hand is Grand Master Joros of the Grey Knights Eighth Brotherhood. You are one man, Logan. One man protected by armour and misplaced pride. How many Wolves stand with you? Eighty? Ninety at most? Your fleet outnumbers us here, above this ruined world. But the Inquisition’s reach is long, and the fleet of a lone Adeptus Astartes Chapter is but a raindrop in the storm. What can you hope to achieve? We’ll still hunt down every ship that manages to flee, and when we do, entire worlds will have to burn in order to keep the secret from spreading even further. Every listening station that marked the ships’ passage. Every world where the ships dock. Billions and billions of lives, Grimnar. So I ask you, in all humility, to think carefully before you act. What you do here will decide the fate of more than these soldiers’ lives.’

  ‘Fool,’ breathed Annika.

  I turned to her. ‘This “Lord Inquisitor Kysnaros”, do you know him?’

  ‘Barely. I met him for the first time in the meetings to decide the population’s fate. We didn’t bond well, he and I.’

  I took a breath. ‘Be ready to prime weapons and raise void shields.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Castor replied.

  Grimnar’s reply was characteristically gruff. ‘These soldiers fought for the Imperium. The Imperium will not turn its back on them. Your choices are simple, witch-hunter. Stand down and survive to breed twisted little children of your own one day, or keep threatening us and learn the limits of a Wolf’s temper.’

  Kysnaros was seething down the link. He was a man unused to being disobeyed.

  ‘We are His Holy Majesty’s Inquisition, you grisly savage. Our authority is absolute. We know what is best for mankind’s realm. Your place is to obey. Nothing more.’

  ‘Such mighty words from a man with so few guns. These people are untainted, inquisitor. Let them go, and this ends here.’

  ‘I will tell you how this ends, Jarl Grimnar. It ends with you on your knees, as the first High King of Fenris to bare his throat to a foe’s blade. Refuse, and suffer the excommunication of your Chapter and the Exterminatus of your miserable home world.’

  My blood ran cold. No show of calm could entirely conceal my shock at those words.

  +That… That’s a threat beyond anything I’ve ever heard,+ sent Malchadiel.

  +He can’t be serious,+ I sent back.

  +No? He’s speaking a madman’s bluff, then.+

  Jarl Grimnar’s response was several moments in coming. ‘I admire a man with imagination. However, Kysnaros, the idiocy you speak will never reach fruition. I’m done sharing words with you, little hunter of warlocks. My fleet is making ready to move. We’ll not fire unless fired upon, so let your own consciences guide you.’

  In the silence that followed, I signalled to the several of the bridge crew in turn. ‘Arm all weapons, ready the void shields and prime engines for attack speed.’

  ‘The troop ships are powering their engines, sir.’

  The vox opened up again. ‘This is Grand Master Joros aboard the Fire of Dawn. All Grey Knights vessels, your targets are being uplinked now. Be ready to attack on my mark. Cripple your target, and move to the next. We can finish the remnants once they’re helpless.’

  Annika was leaning against the railing, watching the occulus. She hung her head with a sigh. Captain Castor stared at the hololithic image before his throne.

  ‘The Fire of Dawn has ordered us to cripple the troop ship Fortitude.’

  Annika’s silent voice was soft and strained. ‘Hyperion, we have to stop this.’

  +I have a Lord Inquisitor and my own Grand Master demanding it of me. Even my own conscience tells me the risk of taint is too great to allow these people to live. This is how the Inquisition has always worked. You of all people should know that.+

  ‘We’ve never purged loyal armies on this scale.’

  +You’re one inquisitor ordering me to cease. How many are aboard the Dawn, or the battleship Corel’s Hope, demanding that we open fire? A dozen? More?+

  She didn’t fight me. That battle had been fought and lost days ago, before the Trident burned. Now she just watched the occulus as keenly as the rest of the crew.

  ‘I’m almost glad Galeo and the others are already dead,’ I said aloud. ‘This will be a singularly dishonourable way to die.’

  II

  The first to fire was the frigate His Wrathful Choir. One of the Karabela’s sister ships, a match for us in size and speed, it opened up with a precision lance strike that spilled luminescence across the Tora’s Bastion’s starboard shielding.

  Troop carriers are toothless in a void battle. Some are built with reinforced armour and overcharged shield generators, but even they rarely carry an impressive armament. These fat whaleships were deployed from necessity when Armageddon first called for help, and were hardly prize examples of the shipwright’s craft.

  The Tora’s Bastion didn’t even fire back, despite outweighing its foe by a vast degree. Its thin void shields shimmered under the lance beam, spreading a sunburst of riotous colour and rendering the shields themselves visible to the naked eye while they absorbed the abuse.

 
; The Karabela accelerated away from our fleet, weapons locked on the sluggishly fleeing form of the Fortitude. No orders were necessary any more. Castor directed the ship’s actions from the control consoles on his throne’s armrests, paying heed to nothing beyond the hololithic overview casting its harsh white radiance across everyone’s faces.

  The Fortitude didn’t get far. As with the Bastion, its weak shields buckled and burst under close-range lance strikes. From there, it took Castor less than a minute to direct precise cutting beams through the labouring vessel’s engine decks.

  To cripple a ship and move on to another target sounds like a bloodless order. It isn’t, not by a long way. Even a small ship like the Karabela has a crew of over twenty thousand souls, and no matter how precise Castor’s cutting lances were, he was still sawing his way through the bowels of a ship carrying closer to half a million men and women.

  I felt them die. Only as a dim, tactile sound – the caress of a distant shout barely reaching the ears. The outpouring of hope, fear, loss and panic couldn’t be ignored by anyone with an iota of psychic sensitivity among the fleet. Even Annika, who was latently sensitive at best, had to grit her teeth.

  The Fire of Dawn and Corel’s Hope put all other destruction to shame. The true warships cut their way between the rising transports, immense weapon batteries screaming. They burst shields without effort, and smashed through the carrier vessels with nothing like the same precision our smaller vessels were showing.

  The Space wolves ship Runefyre was waiting for us when we drew closer to the next whaleship in line. It arced before us, thrusting ahead and over the surface of the transport Arkaine. Our guns slowed, then fell silent.

  Captain Castor was staring through narrowed eyes. ‘They’re fast, and their heading is impossible to predict. Every time I fire, I risk striking the Runefyre.’

  It was a scene being repeated across the fleet. Several of the troop transports were wallowing in high orbit, crippled before they could flee. Most of the others were thick with Space Wolves escorts, and while the smaller frigates were merely a risk to aiming, the larger Fenrisian cruisers made targeting all but impossible.