The Emperor Expects

by Gav Thorpe

‘Helm, you heard the command,’ snapped Kulik.

  ‘What about our pilots, sir?’ Shaffenbeck asked quietly. Kulik suppressed a swallow of regret and silently shook his head. ‘Understood, sir.’

  The last ships of the fleet were still making their attack runs when the star fort exploded. Its detonation tore a rent through space-time, engulfing half a dozen more capital ships with fronds of lethal energy, swallowing escorts, bombers and fighters whole. For a moment Kulik thought he heard a roar of pain, an outburst of primal anguish that clawed into the back of his head and twisted like a fist around his thoughts.

  Then the outer edge of the shockwave caught up with the Colossus.

  Twenty

  Terra – the Imperial Palace

  Fanfare did not begin to describe the conditions that greeted Admiral Lansung’s arrival. Pomp, ceremony, spectacle. Even these words would not convey the massive grandeur, the overbearing ostentation and carnival that engulfed the chambers of the Senatorum Imperialis as the minutes counted down to the arrival of the Lord High Admiral’s gun cutter.

  The Praetorian Way, which curved gently along the shoulder of a mountain from the Eastgate landing hall to a grandiose gatehouse, was lined by a thousand Lucifer Blacks in full armour on one side, and a thousand Naval armsmen on the other. Every tenth man bore a banner of title, naming a battle victory of the Imperial Navy. Behind both lines were trumpeters, drummers, hornsmen, chanters and chantresses. The instruments broke out into heady anthemic life, the voices of the choristers raised against the wind that blew across the Praetorian Way and snapped the flags atop the towers that reared above the proceedings.

  Sparkling with gilded decoration, the gun cutter descended. The effect must have been engineered, somehow, thought Vangorich as he watched the display from the entrance to the Senatorum Imperialis halls. The usual layer of mist around the peak from which Eastgate was partially built had been dispersed, as had the clouds that dominated the skies above the Imperial Palace. That in itself was no small endeavour, all for the vanity of one man.

  Around and in front of Vangorich stood the other High Lords. The past two weeks had been a fraught time, for the Senatorum in general and for Vangorich in particular. Wienand had gone missing, as had her aide-bodyguard and Beast Krule, who had been tailing her. There were a few whispers from within the Inquisition that Wienand had been found dead in her quarters, her corpse next to that of her attacker. Vangorich did not hold out any hope for his own operative, though he wondered what force Wienand’s enemies possessed that could best an experienced inquisitor and two of the most augmented warriors on Terra. The prospect of confronting such power unsettled Vangorich enough to stifle any opposition he might voice against the appointment of Wienand’s successor.

  It was fear of the unknown – the enemy Vangorich hated above all others – that had curbed the Grand Master’s plans. The Senatorum had been convened and Lord Veritus had quickly established himself as the new Inquisitorial Representative. His first declaration to the High Lords was that there would be inquisitors coming to Terra to look into all of the dealings of the Senatorum and its members, starting with the Officio Assassinorum.

  It was a clever move. It caused outrage, of course, that the Inquisition should impugn the honour of the noble High Lords, but the selection of the Assassins as the first target served a double purpose. Firstly, the other High Lords were largely united in their dislike for Vangorich and his organisation, and to see both humbled in this manner made the senators feel better. Secondly, it gave them notice to hide or destroy such records as needed to go missing; a tacit agreement between the Senatorum and the Inquisition that things were going to change but the High Lords would keep their heads as long as they had the decency to hide the evidence well and stop whatever it was they knew they had been doing wrong.

  Lansung, being physically removed from this burgeoning purge, had suffered neither the wrath of Veritus nor the more insidious doubts that had followed the Inquisitorial Representative’s pronouncements. In a way it was just what the Senatorum needed; enlightened self-interest had fallen by the wayside in the face of the orks, but Veritus had brought back the dog-eat-dog politics that allowed the Senatorum to function properly, if not efficiently.

  Vangorich glanced at the man himself, standing a few feet to the Assassin’s right. His stark powered suit was in the shadow of the great entrance arch, his face lit from beneath by the glow of the collar lamps, giving Veritus an even gaunter, draconian appearance. It was a powerful image; one that Vangorich filed away for possible future use. The Grand Master could barely believe that Veritus had turned up to his first Senatorum session in full armour, but the effect had not been lost on the other High Lords. Delving deeper, Vangorich had come to understand that the suit acted as a life support system as well as personal protection. Already schemes were in motion to find out if Veritus ever left the confines of that armour.

  The trumpeting, drumming and singing reached a crescendo, causing Vangorich to look along the length of the Praetorian Way to the twin landing spars of Eastgate. Lansung’s cutter, still magically gleaming, touched down on the upper of the two pads. From this distance, more than half a mile away, only small shapes could be made out as the Lord High Admiral descended from the cutter and boarded an open-topped ground-skimmer.

  The only news that had reached Terra concerning the admiral’s exploits had arrived two days earlier. Evidently Lansung’s flagship had somehow almost beaten the astropathic messages back to the Imperial capital. The brief communiqué had simply stated that Lansung’s efforts at Port Sanctus had been successful. That was all. No casualty figures, no breakdown of what he had actually achieved. Doubtless it was something worthwhile, a genuine victory, otherwise Lansung would not wish to deliver the news in person. Whatever announcement the Lord High Admiral was due to make certainly had the other High Lords excited, except for Veritus. The Inquisitorial Representative had not attended the latest councils to discuss the news and arrange the celebrations and honours about to commence; Vangorich envied him the luxury of choice.

  For all that good news from the war was welcome, the ongoing mood of the Senatorum was one of trepidation. Lansung’s return would lead to confrontation with Veritus, that much was certain. The Inquisition had the spiritual authority; Lansung had the temporal power. Even the Lord Commander and the Ecclesiarch, two of the most powerful men on the Senatorum, knew that they would be forced to choose one side or the other. For the smaller fish in the pond it was as if a shark and a sea serpent were about to start fighting – and nobody wanted to be swallowed by mistake.

  Lansung’s procession had reached the Praetorian Way. The armsmen and Lucifer Blacks fell in behind the cortége while the musical accolades continued. Vangorich noted with a sneer that ‘Hail the Saviour’ was being played; a massive aggrandisement, as the last time that piece had been played had been for the first Lord Commander, Roboute Guilliman.

  The parade continued until the echoes of the last rolling drum beats and uplifting chords faded between the Palace towers. At that moment, precisely choreographed, Lansung’s skimcar came alongside the steps to the temporary podium that had been erected a hundred feet from the entrance to the Senatorum buildings. The whistling of the wind and the snap of banners were the only sound in the still that followed, everybody’s attention on the bulky figure that heaved out of the hovering transport. With surprising nimbleness – shipboard life had shaved off some excess weight – Lansung ascended the steps while his honour guard formed alternating ranks in front of the dais.

  ‘It is with great pleasure and immense pride that I address you today,’ began Lansung. His voice emanated from dozens of vox-casters placed along the Praetorian Way and within the gatehouse. ‘Honoured troops, lords and ladies of the Senatorum, I bring news that will be welcomed across the Imperium. The ork menace, the darkness that has in recent months plagued our worlds and people, can be defeated!’

 
There was a rousing cheer from the Lucifer Blacks and armsmen. The High Lords remained silent. A simple bit of rhetoric left them needing more convincing. It seemed as though Lansung was addressing the troops in front of him more than the High Lords, and it was now that Vangorich saw what the Lord High Admiral was doing. He was deliberately placing the Senatorum to the side, his message intended for regimental commanders, fleet admirals and other high officers. He was talking directly to the masses of the Imperial Guard and Navy, not as a High Lord – an inefficient, privileged bureaucrat – but as one of them, a fighting man risking his life for the Emperor and the Imperium.

  Manoeuvring Lansung back to the fleet had lessened his power in the Senatorum, but had unwittingly increased his standing with the armed forces he wished to control.

  ‘This very day I bring news of a great victory won by the ships of the Imperial Navy.’ By some contrivance a flight of Naval craft chose this moment to perform a fly-past, screeching overhead not far from the gathering. Well-positioned Navy political officers with vid-capture teams were able to track the progress of the aircraft behind Lansung on his podium, an image that would soon find its way far beyond the confines of Terra. Lansung hooked his thumbs into his belt, causing the hanger of his sword to sway a little as he rocked back on his heels. ‘At Port Sanctus, an Imperial fleet led by myself and others of the Naval High Command bested a far more numerous flotilla of ork vessels and improvised installations cordoning the shipyards in that system. Not only was the strength of the ork fleet broken, but the bane of many worlds, that foe which even the great and noble Adeptus Astartes could not overcome, was finally defeated. Yes, brave citizens of the Imperium, your Navy has destroyed one of the so-called ork attack moons.’

  Even amongst the disciplined ranks of the Lucifer Blacks this caused a few heads to bob or turn in surprise. Amongst the High Lords, murmuring chatter broke out immediately. Vangorich heard a growl from Veritus. The inquisitor stepped out from the other Senatorum members and started marching towards the dais.

  Lansung did not appear worried. He had obviously received word of the changes occurring on Terra whilst en route back to the capital and it seemed to Vangorich that the admiral thought he might handle Veritus as he had Wienand. Vangorich allowed himself an inward smile at the thought of the rude awakening Lansung was about to receive if he thought he could deal and double-deal with the Inquisition now.

  ‘It is true,’ continued the admiral. ‘By force of arms, by bravery, by skill and by good command, these ork abominations can be defeated. If one can be destroyed, so can they all! The road ahead may be long, it may be dangerous and there may yet be setbacks, but I can say with all surety that the path to victory lies before us and it has been laid by the ships and crews of the Imperial Navy.’

  Veritus was at the bottom of the steps by this point, but Lansung was ignoring him, his speech in full stride.

  ‘It is without a moment of hesitation, a gram of reserve, that I can give full assurance to those benighted citizens living under the yoke of ork tyranny, and those of the Emperor’s loyal subjects who yet live under the dark fear of the coming greenskin menace, that salvation is coming. By my own hand have I struck a grievous blow to the enemy, and shall do so again at the soonest opportunity. I ask now for the support of the Emperor and his servants. To those that fight in the Imperial Guard, lend me your strength. To those that serve in the Imperial Navy, grant me your bravery. To those that toil in the manufactorums, on the agri-worlds and on the ship-fitting stations, give me your resolve. Between us th–’

  Veritus had started to ascend the steps. Rather than the fury Vangorich expected to see on the inquisitor’s face, which had seemed to be his permanent expression whilst with the other High Lords, Veritus appeared solemn. Lansung glanced down at the approaching man and there was a look of recognition between them.

  Recognition, not surprise. Damn, thought Vangorich, the two of them are in league. But it was not the arrival of his ally that caused Lansung to stop mid-speech.

  The world lurched.

  Vangorich kept his feet, but others close at hand fell to their knees or backsides. Pieces of masonry and a cloud of dust showered down onto the Praetorian Way from the spires and towers looming around the road. Veritus toppled backwards, the wooden steps splintering under the weight of his armour as he pitched with flailing arms towards the ground. Lansung held on desperately to the rail of the stage, flapping with his free arm.

  In the pit of his stomach, Vangorich felt the next shockwave. It was like nothing he had encountered before. It was, for a brief moment, like being torn inside out, though without any obvious sense of pain.

  Dizziness. Dislocation. Disorientation.

  Just in front of Vangorich, Mesring was on his hands and knees, vomiting copiously. Others were staggering back and forth, clutching hands to their heads or guts. The Lucifer Blacks and armsmen were scattered across the Praetorian Way like matchwood as the whole road bucked and ripped under their feet.

  Dull rumbling reverberated through the ground and walls. Alarms screamed and wailed inside the palaces. Adjutants and aides were squinting and grimacing as they held hands up to the comm-beads in their ears or stooped over vid-receivers.

  Vangorich needed no one else to tell him what was happening. He’d read the reports, studying them in excruciating detail while other High Lords had been content to digest the précis. As he felt reality twist again, he stumbled out of the shadow of the massive vaulted Palace gate tower and looked up into the skies. Around him, others were starting to do the same.

  He turned, looking from horizon to horizon. The day sky was alight with shooting stars. Streaks of white and silver fell as orbital stations and satellites plunged down Terra’s gravity well and were set afire by the atmosphere. Craning his neck, Vangorich looked directly up, into the patch of blue surrounded by the spires of the Imperial Palace. Something glinted above, bigger than anything else that had been in orbit. The sky had turned purple and green around it.

  Many miles above, uncaring of Lansung’s victory, his speeches or any of the petty politics that had allowed its arrival, a monstrous star fortress larger than anything previously recorded extruded itself into orbit.

  The Grand Master of the Officio Assassinorum had never known fear. At that moment, as he watched a false moon rip its way into existence above the Imperial capital, he felt a cold trickle of dread.

  About the Author

  Gav Thorpe is the author of the Horus Heresy novel Deliverance Lost, as well as the novellas Corax: Soulforge, Ravenlord and The Lion, which formed part of the New York Times bestselling collection The Primarchs. He is particularly well-known for his Dark Angels stories, including the Legacy of Caliban series. His Warhammer 40,000 repertoire further includes the Path of the Eldar series, the Horus Heresy audio dramas Raven’s Flight, Honour to the Dead and Raptor, and a multiplicity of short stories. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the End Times novel The Curse of Khaine, the Time of Legends trilogy, The Sundering, and much more besides. He lives and works in Nottingham.

  An extract from 13th Legion.

  The chamber hummed and vibrated with energy that coursed along the thick cables snaking across the low ceiling. Somewhere in the distance could be heard the steady thump-thump-thump of heavy machinery in operation. Glowglobes set at metre intervals around the metal walls of the square room illuminated the scene with a fitful, jaundiced light. With a creak the lock wheel on the door span slowly; thick metal bars to either side of the portal ground through their rusted brackets. The door swung open and a figure stepped inside, swathed in a long black greatcoat, the tall collar obscuring his face. As he paced into the light, his thin face caught the yellow glow giving him a sickly pallor. His dark eyes glanced back over his shoulder before he took another step forward, easing the door closed behind him.

  Suddenly the man stopped. His eyes snapped to the artefact stored in the middle of the room. It r
esembled a coffin, stood on end with a rat’s nest of wires springing from it to fasten to hastily rigged connectors that pierced the cabling on the ceiling. The glass front of the coffin lay in shards and splinters across the floor. Of what was contained within, there was no sign. Recovering from his initial shock, the man began to examine the sarcophagus, prodding with an inexpert finger at various dials set into its sides. He stepped back and stroked the fingers of a hand gloved in black velvet through his short goatee beard, brow furrowed in concentration, lips twisted in agitation.

  ‘Emperor-damned stasis chamber,’ he muttered to himself, looking around once more. ‘I should have got it consecrated by a tech-priest.’

  As he walked around to the back of the coffin his gaze was caught by a darker shadow in the top corner of the far wall. He peered closer and saw a ventilation duct. Its corroded grille had been twisted and torn, ripped to one side. Standing on tiptoe he pulled himself up to look into the opening: the faint light from the room illuminated a metre or so of a narrow shaft that swiftly sloped upwards and out of sight. Dropping back to the floor, he banged his fist against his thigh with a short frustrated gesture. He pulled the glove from his right hand and reached into a deep pocket inside his coat, pulling out a device the size of a clenched fist. As he stabbed a button on its surface, the light from the glowglobes caught on a golden ring on his index finger, inscribed with the device of an ‘I’ inset with a grinning skull.

  Raising the device to his lips, the man spoke.

  ‘Third day of Euphistles. I have returned to the stasis generator, which appears to have malfunctioned. The specimen has escaped. I will start immediate investigations to recover or eliminate it. I pray to the Emperor that I can recapture the monster. This mistake could cost us dearly.’