The Emperor Expects

by Gav Thorpe

  Lansung had been explaining, in long-winded fashion, the latest fleet manoeuvres and despatches for thirty minutes and more. He was in full gush when a sharp crack of metal on wood interrupted proceedings.

  All eyes turned to Wienand, who had struck the table in front of her with the base of a heavy goblet. Lansung frowned and turned to the Inquisitorial Representative. Vangorich affected indifference, but was intrigued to find out how Wienand was going to play her next move.

  ‘Is there something amiss, Inquisitor Wienand?’

  ‘There certainly is, Lord High Admiral,’ Wienand replied as she stood up. ‘It seems that events are proceeding more swiftly than you would have us believe.’

  Lansung took umbrage at this accusation, his chins and cheeks wobbling with indignation.

  ‘I assure you, Madam Inquisitor, that Naval Command is fully abreast of the current situation and responding as swiftly as required and possible.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Wienand strode past Lansung and whispered something to one of the lexmechanics. One of the hololiths shifted focus, zooming in to the mustering zone at Lepidus Prime. ‘For several weeks now you have been telling us how you are gathering a sizeable fleet at Lepidus Prime. A considerable part of the segmentum fleet, in fact.’

  ‘That is true, Madam Wienand. What of it?’

  ‘And the reason for this accumulation of Naval power is to launch a counter-offensive against the orks on several fronts?’

  ‘That is so, as I have explained in detail previously.’

  ‘You have informed us that likely targets will be Syani, Locrastes, Asgarand and other systems in that vicinity, securing worlds towards the segmentum rim to divide the ork mass.’

  ‘That would appear to be the most likely route to victory as this time, yes. If you need me to reiterate any of the smaller details, to aid your understanding of these somewhat specialist matters, I could do so at your convenience. However, if you would allow me t–’

  ‘Lord High Admiral.’ Wienand’s voice was as sharp as a Lucifer Black’s glaive. ‘Is it not true that the greater part of this fleet has recently left Lepidus Prime?’

  Lansung looked at his aides, who met his glare with shaking heads and shrugs. ‘I do not believe so, Madam Inquisitor. Their orders–’

  ‘So there is not a large flotilla en route to Port Sanctus in the Vesperilles System?’

  Vangorich hid a smile with a fake yawn as he watched Lansung flail for a moment. Just for a second Vangorich thought the admiral would be stupid enough to deny this fact, which would allow Wienand to ask if he was indeed in control of the fleet or not. It was obvious that Wienand was not asking idle questions, but had intelligence to back up her claim. Lansung recognised this before uttering any denial. He instead opted for silence while he considered his position.

  ‘You are aware that Port Sanctus is currently an ork-held system, Lord High Admiral?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Lansung, grateful to be on more sure footing. ‘The shipyards there have managed to hold out against initial attacks, but they are sorely pressed.’

  ‘So Admiral Acharya is proceeding on your orders to liberate the docks at Port Sanctus?’

  ‘Acharya?’

  The single word betrayed Lansung’s utter ignorance of what had happened in Lepidus Prime. Vangorich could well imagine the whirl of thoughts going through the admiral’s head. How did Wienand know before him? Why had Acharya set course for Port Sanctus? If the attack failed, would Lansung be blamed? If the attack succeeded, would Lansung be able to take credit?

  These last two would weigh the most heavily, Vangorich guessed. He wasn’t sure how Wienand had managed to set Acharya in motion, and he would dearly like to know, but regardless of her methods the inquisitor now had Lansung trapped between two unknowable outcomes. If Lansung denied any knowledge of these manoeuvres, to insure himself against future failure, he gave up the pretence of being in control. If he took credit for them he was setting his fate on a course over which he could not exercise any control from Terra.

  ‘It seems my orders have reached the fleet earlier than I had expected,’ Lansung said after a few seconds – seconds that must have felt like hours to the cornered admiral. ‘I will be leaving shortly to take personal command of the attack at Port Sanctus. I was going to end today’s session with this announcement, of course, but you have somewhat spoilt my surprise.’

  ‘Surprise? I am sure the Senatorum does not like surprises, Admiral Lansung.’

  ‘An over-indulgence, perhaps. I have been a little carried away by the exciting prospect of action at last. Yes, I can announce that the true fight against the orks will commence upon my arrival. With Port Sanctus secured as a forward base once more, the offensive we have been discussing in recent conclaves will be able to proceed immediately.’

  Some of the High Lords greeted this news with claps, others were still confused, trying to catch up on everything that had developed over the course of the preceding minutes. A murmur broke out as the Ecclesiarch turned to his neighbours to loudly ask what was happening, while Lord Commander Militant Verreault limped out of the chamber shaking his head, trailed by officers and orderlies who glanced angrily back at their Naval counterparts.

  Lansung was forced to stand in front of them all, smiling stupidly.

  ‘Bravo!’ cried Vangorich, standing up. He met Wienand’s gaze for a moment and she allowed a twitch of a smile, acknowledging that that word of praise was directed at her. ‘Victory cannot be far off now.’

  Eight

  Nestrum – Mandeville point

  There was a slight increase in pressure as the airlock sealed, cutting off the landing bay from the chamber where Koorland and Laurentis looked back through the window at the departing shuttle. The inner door opened with a hiss, revealing a sharply uniformed Naval officer and two lines of armsmen with shotguns held in salute across their chests, their faces hidden behind silvered anti-dazzle visors.

  ‘Lieutenant Greydove, at your service.’ The officer clicked his heels and nodded his head. His hair was an unruly mane of blond, and a moustache of the same drooped past his chin. Almost as tall as Koorland but far more slender, the lieutenant moved with easy grace as he stepped back and gestured for the Space Marine and tech-priest to exit the airlock. ‘Welcome aboard the Achilles.’

  ‘Greydove?’ said Koorland as he stepped into the corridor. Fully armoured, he filled the main passage of the small patrol ship. At a bark from their sergeant the armsmen slapped hands to shotguns and turned to create a column on either side of the arrivals.

  ‘I’m from Ranesmud II, it’s something of a traditional name there,’ explained the ship’s commander. He noticed Laurentis turning the other way, heading aft. ‘Um, excuse me, magos, but your quarters are this way.’

  Laurentis did not stop or turn around, but the remnants of his head swivelled on his neck-bracing to face the lieutenant with a battery of sensor lenses and one unblinking human eye.

  ‘I wish to make inspections of this vessel’s warp engine systems and plasma reactor. Captain Koorland is an exceptionally valuable asset that cannot be endangered by any oversight of maintenance or execution.’

  ‘I assure you that my tech-priest, Kahibar, is highly c–’

  ‘Your ship is too small to qualify for a tech-priest of magos level and attendant support servitors, therefore I am superior in respect of your current enginseer. Do not feel any insult on his account, he will understand the situation.’

  ‘I insisted,’ Koorland said quietly. This argument seemed to forestall any of the lieutenant’s objections and Greydove visibly wilted.

  ‘Very well, I hope that all is in order, Captain Koorland.’ Greydove rallied, falling back on an overly stiff and formal tone to bolster his confidence. ‘I shall convey you to your quarters.’

  ‘The bridge, if you please, lieutenant,’ said Koorland. The Space Mar
ine started walking towards the prow, forcing Greydove to jog to keep up despite the officer’s long legs.

  ‘I, er, that is, the bridge is for Naval officers only,’ Greydove said. ‘Standing regulations, I’m afraid.’

  Koorland stopped and Greydove almost ran into the Space Marine. The armsmen came to a halt around them, bumping into each other in a clatter of carapace-armoured breastplates and vambraces. The Imperial Fist carefully placed a hand on Greydove’s shoulder.

  ‘I asked out of politeness,’ said Koorland. ‘Do not make me insist.’

  Greydove looked into Koorland’s eyes, perhaps seeking some hint of compromise or sympathy. His gaze met two grey points as uncaring and sharp as pieces of flint.

  ‘I see.’ Greydove glanced at the men around him. Any authority he might have hoped to keep was quickly evaporating like the sweat that now moistened his brow. He swallowed and drew himself up to his full height – impressive against the armsmen but ineffective when compared with Koorland’s bulk. ‘As commanding officer I extend an invitation to you to accompany me to the bridge.’

  ‘Good. I am happy to accept your invitation.’

  Greydove dithered for a moment, shifting from one foot to the other.

  ‘Honour guard, dismiss!’ he barked, catching the sergeant of the armsmen by surprise.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You heard the command, sergeant,’ Greydove said evenly. ‘I am sure Captain Koorland does not need a gaggle of armsmen following him around at every turn.’

  ‘Yessir!’ snapped the sergeant. He called his men to offer honours once more before they turned on their heels and marched back the way they had come.

  ‘I would appreciate it, captain,’ said Greydove when they were out of earshot, showing genuine anger, ‘if you would at least pretend that I am still in command of my own ship. Once you have been taken to the Sol System and departed I must still maintain discipline. You are undermining my authority. My orders permit me to restrain you if necessary, but that would be inadvisable for both of us, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It would,’ said Koorland. He bowed his head to acknowledge the lieutenant’s request. ‘Apologies for any problems my behaviour may have caused.’

  Mollified, Greydove once again clicked his heels and nodded in salute. He turned and led Koorland along the main passageway of the ship, two hundred feet to a set of steps that led up to a pair of hydraulically-locked doors. Two armsmen flanked the portal, which wheezed open at a word from one of them.

  Koorland followed Greydove inside. He noted two other officers – one manning the communications panel and another standing beside what appeared to be the sensor and weapons controls. A row of small screens flickered at waist height and altogether the bridge felt cramped, in marked contrast to the Chapter vessels on which Koorland had travelled for most of his life. The Space Marine stooped slightly to avoid banging his head on the pipework and girders that criss-crossed the ceiling.

  ‘Sir, I’ve been getting complaints from…’ The communications ensign fell silent as he noticed the armoured giant now standing in the middle of the command platform. The young officer self-consciously cleared his throat and continued. ‘Enginseer Kahibar is complaining about a surprise inspection, commander. I have no idea what he is talking about.’

  ‘Sir, we are registering an acceleration in the warp engine conduits,’ said the other officer before Greydove could respond to the first. ‘It looks as though our warp engines are coming on-line.’

  ‘I gave no such order,’ said Greydove.

  ‘That would be Magos Laurentis, I believe.’ Koorland’s voice sounded loud and flat in the close confines. He looked at the sensor ensign. ‘What range to the departing Adeptus Mechanicus vessel?’

  ‘Twenty thousand miles and increasing,’ the ensign replied automatically, responding to the raw authority of the Space Marine captain. The Naval officer glanced at Greydove for reassurance. ‘Um, commander, we received no signal to prepare for warp jump yet.’

  ‘Lieutenant Greydove, please have your Navigator report to the bridge,’ Koorland said quietly, standing beside the ship’s captain.

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because you have a change of orders, commander,’ Koorland said.

  The shrill whine of a warning siren cut off the lieutenant’s response as red lights flashed across the bridge.

  ‘Sir! Warp engines engaged!’

  ‘Thirty seconds to translation,’ barked a servitor just in front of Koorland and Greydove.

  ‘What upon the Throne is that damned tech-priest doing?’ the ship’s commander demanded, turning on Koorland.

  ‘A change of plans, commander. I am taking command of your ship.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’

  ‘I already have. Magos Laurentis is activating the warp drive and I am currently standing on the bridge giving the orders. Which part of this scenario suggests to you, lieutenant, that I am not in complete control of the situation?’

  Greydove opened his mouth dumbly a couple of times, searching for an answer. A desperate look creased his face.

  ‘Don’t make me assemble the armsmen, captain,’ the lieutenant said, trying to sound stern.

  ‘I will not think twice about killing your men,’ Koorland said, uttering the words deliberately and slowly so that he would not be misunderstood. ‘There is some chance that your men may succeed in pacifying me sufficiently for my return to Terra. They will not be able to do so without significant casualties.’

  The Space Marine tried to reassure Greydove, taking the lieutenant’s arm in a gentle grip.

  ‘I intend no harm to this vessel or its crew.’ Koorland straightened but did not turn as he heard the distinctive snick of a holster being unfastened. He looked Greydove in the eye. ‘Tell your ensign to secure his pistol, otherwise I will be forced to take it from him.’

  Koorland heard an exhalation, saw a slight nod from Greydove and then using the dim reflection on one of the communication screens watched the officer fasten the holster once more. ‘Good. We should avoid any rash actions at this moment.’

  ‘Translation in five seconds,’ warned the servitor monitoring the warp drive. ‘Four… Three… Two… One…’

  There was a lurch inside Koorland as reality and unreality momentarily occupied the same space. Every atom of his being fizzed for a few seconds and in the depths of his mind, somewhere near the base of his brain, a disturbing pressure forced its way into his thoughts.

  After ten seconds, the sensation had passed.

  ‘Translation successful,’ the servitor announced, rather unnecessarily. Had translation not been successful everybody aboard would know about it – or be dead.

  ‘I– I take it that you are not intending to travel to Terra?’ said Greydove.

  ‘That would be a waste of time, lieutenant. The Imperium is under threat and a suitable response is required. Honour demands that I continue the battle. I intend to rendezvous with my remaining brothers.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I was led to believe,’ Greydove dropped his voice to a whisper and glanced cautiously at the other men, ‘in greatest secrecy, that you were the last warrior of the Imperial Fists.’

  ‘We call it the Last Wall protocol. In the event that Terra should be under grave threat, perhaps even fallen, the sons of Dorn will come together to deal with the matter as one.’

  ‘But, excuse the question, if you are all dead, who is there to respond?’

  ‘The Imperial Fists Chapter may have been destroyed, but the old Legion will remember.’

  ‘The old Legion?’ Greydove was horrified by the concept. ‘But the Legions were broken apart by decree of the Emperor.’

  ‘Not the Emperor,’ snapped Koorland, more harshly than he had intended. He took a breath. ‘By Imperial decree, yes, but it was not from the lips of the Emperor that the decree came.
It matters not. The signal has been sent and I will wait for those who are fit to respond.’

  ‘But if you are not going to Terra, where are we heading?’

  ‘The last place our enemies would look for us. A place that lives long in the memory of the Legion. Tell your Navigator to chart a course for the Phall System.’

  Nine

  Port Sanctus – Vesperilles System

  After giving the order to translate, Rafal Kulik muttered a few lines of a prayer to the Emperor. He hated this moment, always had. Ever since his first voyage aboard the Furious Pilgrim and that fateful warp jump from Elixis, the process of translating had filled him with a physical sickness and an existential dread.

  At least he no longer threw up with each transition. That had been cured by an old recipe from one of the gun captains aboard the Invulnerable Faith, who had taken pity on a poorly young fourth lieutenant he had found evacuating his stomach in the solitude behind the plasma relay dampers. The remnants of an ash-and-ginger biscuit were still sitting in Kulik’s pocket, just in case of a resurgence of the ancient nemesis of nausea.

  ‘Dear Emperor, please ensure that my ship survives this unnatural voyage, that my crew are delivered from the grip of the warp, and that my soul carries with me into the world of my mother,’ whispered Kulik.

  Shaffenbeck was about twenty feet away, ostensibly to keep an eye on the junior officers, but Kulik caught the occasional glance in his direction too. The rest of the watch crew on the bridge knew well enough to give their commander adequate space at this delicate moment.

  For his part, Kulik was applying all the will he had not to stare at the transition countdown display, and occupied himself with an intimate inspection of the curlicued decoration of his sword hilt. Meanwhile the depths of his guts churned in anticipation of the shrieking wail of a siren that would warn of a Geller field failure or warp engine malfunction.

  Sweat was wetting his over-starched shirt and the soles of his feet were itching – a sure sign that something was going to go wrong.