Lansung didn’t look up when Vangorich approached. ‘What do you want?’ he said.
The High Admiral slurred, but Vangorich doubted he was as drunk as he’d hoped to be by this point.
‘I want your help,’ the Grand Master said.
Lansung snorted. He took a drink from the bottle. It clunked hard against the table surface when he brought it back down. ‘Then you’re in an even sorrier state than I am. My condolences.’
Vangorich ignored the self-pity. ‘We know what we think of each other,’ he said.
Lansung toasted that with another swig. ‘That we do.’
‘Then you know that I’ve never doubted your skills in battle.’
‘Flatterer.’
‘So why are you being an idiot?’
Lansung finally looked up.
‘What do you think of Tull’s crusade?’ Vangorich asked.
‘It’s doomed.’
‘So why lead it? I never tagged you as suicidal.’
‘No choice,’ Lansung said. ‘If I don’t lead the fleet, I’m a coward.’
‘So?’
‘So?’
‘If the effort is doomed, what does it matter to you that you’re saving face? You’ll be dead.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘That you must stay. If Tull’s scheme fails, Terra will need something to hold the orks back until help arrives.’
‘You’re putting a lot of faith in a single flagship and her escorts.’
‘And her commander.’
Lansung looked thoughtful. He didn’t drink. ‘And if the Proletarian Crusade fails because the Autocephalax Eternal left the civilian fleet to be slaughtered?’
‘With the number of ships involved, how much of a difference would the Autocephalax make?’
Lansung shrugged. ‘Some.’ He frowned. Vangorich watched him work out the vectors of the coming void war. ‘In the end,’ he said, ‘the fleet will get through or it won’t regardless of the Navy’s assistance.’
‘Then hold back. Live a bit longer.’
Eyes exhausted by failure, Lansung said, ‘And can I quote you, Grand Master, as having urged my cowardice?’
‘You mean your sanity.’
The Fields of Winged Victory had not been true fields for over fifteen hundred years. The last trace of greenery had burned during the Siege, and the area had been paved over with rockcrete during the reconstruction. The name retained some justification in the fact that this was one of the few large spaces of the Imperial Palace that was open to the sky. It covered over a thousand hectares, and its normal use was as one of the great parade and exercise grounds for Terra’s regiments of the Astra Militarum. Though the material of its surface was utilitarian, it was painted with giant reproductions of the regimental arms. It took a company’s worth of artisan serfs to keep the heraldry in good repair.
The Fields were lower than the surrounding regions of the Palace. As they walked down the Boulevard of the Militant Witness, Haas had a good perspective of the activity. The preparations for the myth the Proletarian Crusade would surely become were a wonder in their own right. The volunteers were pouring in by the thousands along roads feeding into the southern third of the Fields. Along the periphery, Administratum officers channelled the arrivals towards the hundreds of registration stations. The ranks of the stations took up the middle third of the Fields. From there, the recruits moved towards mustering points in the north section where shuttles took them off to the starports. Thence, they would be transported to the waiting ships in orbit.
Haas paused at the top of the descent. Awe robbed her of movement and breath. From this vantage point, she saw the shaping of a confused flood into ordered geometry. She was looking at a great army in the process of creation. Out of the street crowd came phalanx upon phalanx, each a thousand strong. She knew that most of the people below had never held a weapon, unless they had emerged from the underhives, for Mesring’s voice had reached there too. These were civilians, not soldiers. They had no training, nor would they receive any. There was no time. And yet, as the phalanxes moved turn by turn to the shuttles, the vision was one of military precision, of the individual transformed into a sublime war machine. The people were nothing as simple as cogs. Their incorporation into the greater being was at a much more intimate, more elementary level. Cogs were still components. Here, at the end of the process, the individual had ceased to be, its existence making way for a new, larger whole. A molecular alchemy.
Haas started walking again. She caught up to Kord. Stunned, he had slowed to a stumble. They had lost Baskaline in the flow of the crowd.
‘When is the embarkation?’ Haas asked.
‘It’s happening now. The Armada is launching tomorrow.’
I just came to see, Haas told herself. I just came to see. The refrain was weak. Even stronger than the physical current was the rush of purpose.
For the first time in days, Haas no longer heard Mesring’s summons. Another voice spoke to the assembled volunteers. Massive pict screens, fifty metres on a side, rose above the edge of the Fields at regular intervals. They all showed the same recording. Juskina Tull towered over the recruits in all her magnificence. Mesring was the voice of the call, but hers was the voice, and hers was the face, of the Crusade itself. It was her vision that had been given material form. She wore robes of purest black, and a diagonal sash of deep crimson. She gave the impression of being in uniform, though the design did not belong to any regiment. She was regal, yet humbled by the people who were making her plan come to pass. She was imperious, her profile cold in its perfection. In her bearing, she was a colossus, presiding over the shifting formations of insects below. Her voice was the ringing iron of command. But in her words, she was welcoming, she was warmth, she was the delight of triumph.
‘Warriors of the Proletarian Crusade, I thank you for the struggle you are about to wage.’ She paused. Her smile became ferocious. ‘I thank you for the victory to come!’
The Fields of Winged Victory echoed with the roar. Haas had faced the great scream of the masses when the orks had arrived. Now she was swept up by their desperate challenge to the enemy. There was an edge of hysteria to the joy, but it was real all the same, and Haas joined in.
She and Kord were now a few steps away from the Administratum officials controlling the flow at the end of their street.
In the recording, the Speaker for the Chartist Captains paused, her smile becoming almost gentle. The illusion was perfect. It seemed to Haas that Tull really saw the masses, and listened to their cry, and waited for the people to have their moment. Then she spoke again.
‘You are not trained soldiers. But you are warriors. The ships that you will board are not warships. But they will wage war. And know that you will have at your side the strength of the Imperial Guard.’ She turned her head, as if focusing on a different group in the grounds below her projection. ‘Let yourselves be heard, heroes of the Astra Militarum! Granite Myrmidons! Auroran Rifles! Jupiter Storm! Eagles of Nazca! Orion Watch!’
As each regiment was called, another roar went up, from different regions of the Fields. The bulk of the Astra Militarum contingents were not mustering here. They were being transported directly from their barracks to the Armada. But entire companies from all of them were present. They were being attached to the civilian formations to give them direction and boost their bravado even more.
Haas understood the purpose behind the integration. She could see how perfectly orchestrated the operation was. And she found it very hard to care, because it was all necessary. If the Proletarian Crusade was to be successful, the participation had to be massive.
And it had to succeed, she thought. The consequences of failure were so dark that she couldn’t consider them. No one of faith would dare.
She barely noticed that they had passed the Administratum checkpoint and been channelled
towards a registration station three rows up and ten aisles over. The queue was long but moved steadily. Haas couldn’t take her eyes off Tull, couldn’t turn away from the message being vox-cast across the Fields of Winged Victory. She had difficulty remembering why she had come here in the first place. To observe? Really? What was she thinking?
What sort of faithless coward came to observe the heroes and martyrs, and then walked away?
She brought her hand to her belt. She tapped the handle of her shock maul. More than a weapon, it was her staff of office. It represented the task to which she had devoted her life. She had to be sure that she was not abandoning her duty for the sake of selfish adventure. She closed her eyes for a moment. She could still hear Tull’s speech, which had looped back to praise of the Chartist Captains. She was shielded, though, from the sight of the Speaker’s overwhelming charisma.
She knew what she wanted to do. She had to know that it was the right thing to do.
Movement ahead of her. Kord walking forward. Eyes still closed, she took another step. Still thinking.
‘You’re coming. You know you are,’ Kord said.
She kept her eyes shut. ‘I don’t know. I refuse to be derelict.’
‘When have I ever been?’
‘Never,’ she admitted.
‘I’m going because I…’ His voice trailed off.
A hush falling on all sides. Like a cold wind blowing over the Fields of Winged Victory. Tull’s voice carrying on, but sounding less convincing without the answering shouts. Sounding hollow.
Tull opened her eyes. Everyone was looking up. The blood had drained from Kord’s face. So had the fire in his eyes.
The ork moon had risen.
The sky over the Fields had no obstructions. There were very few other locations in the Imperial Palace where so much of the firmament was visible, on those rare occasions that the smog of Terra cleared away. This evening, the stars were out.
They were eclipsed by the fortress. It rode the heavens with brute arrogance, and made a mockery of the Emperor’s sacred home. Haas stared at the planetoid. Her heart swelled with a pure, sanctifying hatred.
She had her answer. She was going. She would tear the laughter from the throats of the orks. Even if she had to do it herself, she would bring darkness to that accursed moon.
Eleven
Terra – the Imperial Palace
They stood on the second cloister level of the Daylight Wall. Below them was the entrance to the chapel ordinary. The spaces between the columns were narrow, the vaults themselves masked by stained glass. Concealment was easy. The view below was clear.
‘Every day?’ Machtannin said.
‘We haven’t had long enough to tell if this is a habit of long standing. But since we began observations, yes.’
Machtannin looked to the west, to the corner and the northward arm of the cloister. The lower colonnade had wider spaces. The walk from the chapel ordinary to the Great Chamber would take the target down that route. Machtannin would have several brief opportunities for a shot. One would be enough.
There was some pedestrian traffic in the cloister’s lower level. Enough for witnesses, not enough for a hindrance. The upper gallery was deserted. No one had gone through in the last twenty-four hours, and Veritus had ensured privacy by locking the doors at both ends. Good.
‘Well?’ Veritus asked.
Machtannin nodded. ‘Making the kill and retreating should be simple enough.’ He stepped away from the vault, into the deeper shadows of the gallery’s exterior wall. ‘So we’re doing this.’
‘We don’t have the luxury of prevarication,’ Veritus said. ‘Time is limited and precious.’
‘But you aren’t sure he was behind the attempt on your life. That might have been Wienand’s move.’
‘I’m aware of that. I know this is not ideal. But it must be done. Assume that Grand Master Vangorich is not responsible for the attempt. He and Wienand are allies. That much is clear.’
‘Even so, the repercussions…’
‘We can weather them.’
‘Are we that sure of our positions?’
‘Not as sure as I would like to be,’ Veritus admitted. ‘But Vangorich is too dangerous. He is undisputed as Grand Master. The Officio Assassinorum has a unity of leadership and purpose that makes it too grave a threat to ignore. Decapitated, it will stagger before finding a new leader, and there may be internal strife.’
‘Making it easier to control.’
‘Exactly.’
Machtannin sighed.
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘there are times when it seems we are doing the work of the Ruinous Powers for them.’
Veritus closed on the younger man. The bulk of his power armour cast the other inquisitor into deeper shadow. ‘You will never utter those words again,’ he hissed.
Machtannin tensed. Veritus waited. They both knew there would be no violence here. Not because they must not draw attention to their location. Not because Veritus had the arsenal to overcome Machtannin’s greater speed. But because of the power of Veritus’ moral authority. And because their calling was too important.
‘Apologies,’ Machtannin said. ‘I won’t forget myself again.’
Veritus stepped back, satisfied. ‘I wish for a more straightforward path too,’ he said. ‘But remember that we have the purity of true purpose.’
Machtannin nodded. ‘I do.’
‘Good.’ He glanced back in the direction of the north cloister. ‘Make sure there are witnesses,’ he said, ‘and shoot when I’m walking with him. We need that doubt about whether he was the target.’ That was why he had insisted Machtannin use a sniper rifle. The attack had to look like a second attempt on his life.
‘In other words, you want me to miss.’
‘See that you don’t.’
He stopped at the chapel. He maintained the practice, forced to keep going through the steps of a pointless dance. The High Lords still had him watched, he was sure, if only as a matter of course. He doubted they were interested in the reports. Not now. There was only the Proletarian Crusade now, and the hopes that went with it. Juskina Tull had most of her peers so invested in her scheme, they needed it to work as badly as she did.
We all need it to work, Vangorich thought. Even those who don’t believe it will.
He performed his theatre of worship, and reflected on how badly he had failed the true object of his devotion. He mouthed what observers would think was a prayer. It was a whisper of apology to the Imperium.
When he left the Chapel, Veritus was coming down the colonnade. The inquisitor hailed him, and Vangorich waited.
‘We’re making this into a habit,’ he said when Veritus caught up.
‘A coincidence is not a habit.’
‘Oh.’ Not buying it. ‘You didn’t want to speak to me on a particular subject? No desire to unburden yourself about the Inquisition’s internal politics? No?’ Veritus looked straight ahead. Vangorich matched his pace. ‘What a shame. Then I’ll have to content myself with the simple pleasure of your company.’
They reached the corner and turned north.
The grey-brown dawn trickled through skylights to the courtyard.
‘A big day,’ Vangorich commented. The embarkation was almost complete. The launch of the Merchants’ Armada was imminent.
Veritus said, ‘A dark one.’
‘On that, we can agree.’
They walked past the first of the columns.
Machtannin looked through the sights of the rifle. He had been motionless since Vangorich had entered the chapel ordinary. His finger held the trigger. He did not approve of assassinations. They were distasteful, the province of the Officio Assassinorum. They were too merciful. Targets who did not know they were about to die escaped proper retribution. Machtannin preferred to hide in plain sight, face and dress
transformed to appear before the enemies of the Imperium in a guise that inspired confidence. There was a satisfying justice in making traitors feel the sting of betrayal themselves. He had undergone so many polymorphine treatments that his face now was an approximation of his original features. It was a small sacrifice. In exchange, he saw the look on the faces of the guilty as punishment came for them.
He wouldn’t see that here. But then Vangorich was no traitor. He was guilty of poor judgement. His mistakes were harming the Imperium, but he believed himself to be virtuous. He would die in that belief. Machtannin supposed he was worthy of that much mercy.
Vangorich and Veritus walked between the first set of columns. The shot was clear.
Veritus paused, as if struck by a sudden thought.
Vangorich walked another two steps, then stopped. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
Machtannin’s concentration narrowed to the centre of Vangorich’s forehead. His finger tightened.
The rifle was yanked from his grasp. The stock slammed his head backwards. He rolled into a crouch and jumped to his feet, blinking away the stun. A man stood in the shadows of the wall. He had bent the barrel of the rifle.
‘Throne save us from amateurs,’ the man said.
Strong, Machtannin thought. Maybe not fast. He leapt at the man, striking with enhanced reflexes. Speed was his weapon. He had once deflected a traitor’s bolter shell with the edge of his hand. He landed four blows to the side of the man’s neck before the other could even drop the gun.
It was like hitting a column.
The Assassin punched him in the chest. He was fast, too. The hit came before Machtannin could think to evade. Something crunched.
He entered a land of surprise. He was surprised that he wasn’t sent flying. He stumbled back from his opening. He tried to attack again, and was surprised when his legs didn’t obey his command. He was surprised when they folded up beneath him and he sat down hard. He was surprised to find he was holding his breath.
The Last Wall Page 9