Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

Amatnim pulled a grenade from his belt. ‘Incendiary grenade. My own design. We shall reduce this place to ashes, and all its secrets with it. Now that I have seen it.’ He motioned to the doors. ‘Go, brother. Wouldn’t want you caught up in the purifying conflagration, would we?’

  ‘Amatnim…’ Lakmhu began.

  ‘Go, brother. We shall talk more, later.’ He could smell smoke. The burning had started again, now that the fighting was done. Every volume of lies in this place would be consigned to the flames, one at a time, before they departed.

  It would take time. But anything of importance did.

  Amatnim turned and tossed the grenade. There was a flash, a surge of heat.

  And then, the cleansing fire.

  Chapter Ten

  48:40:00

  Pergamon, Secundus-grade tithe world

  Ships burned like stars in the black.

  Soundless and furious, cruisers hammered at each other. Gun batteries filled the void with punishing light. Thousands died with every passing second.

  Suboden Khan laughed. It was a low, throaty sound, the purr of some great cat as it tasted the blood of its prey for the first time. He reclined in his command throne, hololithic data-feeds flickering about him. He paid them only the scantest attention. The vox-systems of his throne crackled with the voices of his captains.

  As he’d predicted, the enemy had decided to give chase to those few vessels that had escaped Pergamon. The hunters had strung their vessels out in a loose formation, the better to isolate their chosen prey. They had not been expecting an attack, and now they suffered for it as their quarry slid away into the dark.

  ‘Glorious,’ he said. On the bridge viewscreen, a vessel – not one of his – died a torturous death, spilling its innards across the starscape. ‘Glorious,’ he repeated, louder. He leaned forward. ‘If we but had a few more ships…’

  ‘It would still not be enough,’ Kanim said from behind him. ‘You know this, my khan. We have caught them by surprise, but only for the moment. They will turn on us soon and bite back.’

  Suboden tossed the Stormseer a sour look, but said nothing. Kanim was right. They had caught the foe by surprise, but that was all. The enemy were preoccupied with Pergamon and its orbital dockyards. The majority of their vessels were in formation to attack a planet, not defend against a hostile fleet. But they were already moving into position. New lines of fire were being drawn, and confusion was giving way to eagerness.

  For some warriors of the Adeptus Astartes, void-war was deemed an unpleasant necessity – a thing to be done, and quickly. But for others, it was as the sweetest of mare’s milk. Those Space Marines often came to command their own vessels. They plotted courses and manoeuvres the way their brothers plied a blade. There would be some of those on the other side. ‘How long?’ he murmured.

  ‘My khan?’

  ‘How long, shaman? How long do you think those captains have sailed the stars? Since Horus let himself be damned? Longer?’

  Kanim was silent for a moment. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Of course it matters. Look – there. Those ships, closing on our starboard. That’s an Einboldt formation. Archaic. Only the Iron Hands still use it with any regularity. Ships’ drives have changed some in the thousands of years since that formation was used.’ He barked an order and the Chapter-serfs on the bridge snapped into action.

  ‘We are stagnant, but they are worse,’ he continued, as the Silent Horseman’s great engines fired and the battle-barge began to come about. He tapped his head. ‘Frozen up here, not just in the way of things, but in the way of thinking about things. They are still fighting the last war. Always that war. But we have had many new wars, to learn many new ways of doing things.’ He raised his sheathed tulwar from his lap, in silent signal.

  The battle-barge shuddered, as its batteries roared. A frigate convulsed like a wounded beast, twisting on a ruptured core. Another ploughed on, soaking up the fire. It was tougher. Its time in hell had given it a thick skin. But even the thickest skin can be pierced. Another twitch of the tulwar, and the Silent Horseman galloped towards the enemy, prow first.

  Suboden heard an intake of breath from Kanim, and chuckled. ‘Be at peace, shaman. I have done this before.’

  ‘Ork vessels come apart like paper compared to these.’

  Suboden laughed. ‘Yes, they built them strong, in those days.’ He leaned forward, teeth bared, a predator on the hunt. ‘But we built them stronger still…’

  The moment of impact was loud. Klaxons screamed warnings. The bridge quaked. Sparks dripped from blown cogitators, and servitors squealed in their thrones. A flare of light filled the bridge viewscreen. The Silent Horseman shook as it tore through the burning cruiser. The battle-barge remained in one piece, its hull scorched and scored.

  Suboden sat back, satisfied. Damage estimates filled the vox. The battle-barge had suffered some structural damage, but not as much as it might.

  ‘A gamble,’ Kanim said. ‘One that could have cost us.’

  ‘But it didn’t,’ Suboden said. ‘War is a gamble, shaman. We wager heavily, and play the tiles we’re dealt.’ He gestured, and the projections about his throne shifted. Hull sensors mapped the battle, identifying allied vessels and a few enemy ones. Some of the ships facing them had haunted the space-lanes of the Imperium for generations. Suboden marked these as priority targets and relayed the data-packets to the rest of the fleet.

  Kanim watched him, frowning. ‘This is not the time for old grudges.’

  ‘It is the perfect time. Mark me – these will be the ones to pursue us, or to harry the refugees. If we can draw them off…’ The bridge shuddered. Another wave of klaxons added their voice to the cacophony. Suboden cursed. Void warfare carried with it certain inevitable difficulties – debris clouds were one. The death of a ship often momentarily blinded the sensors of its slayer – metaphorical blood in the eyes.

  As the glare cleared, he saw their attacker on the viewscreen, still at the edge of their firing range, drawing closer. A pattern of lights danced across the screen, and the Silent Horseman twitched in pain. The enemy ship slid through the carnage like a tiger, shouldering aside wreckage, guns thundering.

  It was a monstrous thing, grown fat and foul in the warp. Suboden stared at it, knowing in his hunter’s heart that it was the enemy flagship. The heart of their fleet, as the Silent Horseman was the heart of his.

  ‘Someone’s looking for a fair fight,’ Kanim said. ‘It’s a battle-barge. I think. Or it used to be.’ The Stormseer grimaced, as if gripped by a sudden illness. ‘Wind’s teeth, I can feel the wrongness of it from here. It’s a thing of madness, that ship. Better that it did not exist.’

  ‘I agree.’ Suboden licked his lips, considering. Possibilities played out in his mind. But only one course was truly viable. Only one made strategic and tactical sense. He growled softly and slumped. ‘We’ve got their attention. Time to turn tail.’

  ‘What if they don’t follow?’

  Suboden stroked his beard. ‘They will. We will give them reason enough.’ He raised his tulwar. ‘But for now, sound withdrawal. It is time to vanish into the tall grass.’

  Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world

  Calder moved briskly down the corridor, passing through the shafts of light that marked the high windows to either side. A knot of scribes scattered before him, whispering to one another. He heard every word, but did not react. They feared him enough already.

  As ever, the corridor was full of mortals, moving in all directions. The cathedral-palace never slept. The Ecclesiarchy was ever hard at work, saving the souls of the lost, or so they claimed. Calder shared Guilliman’s view of them. When he had last walked the world, before being put into stasis, the Ecclesiarchy was nothing more than a burgeoning cult.

  He stopped. For the first time since his arrival, he paused to study the statues that huddled in the a
lcoves beneath the windows. Saints and heroes he didn’t recognise, carved in marble, to adorn a corridor that only a few thousand people would see.

  What would Dorn make of this? he wondered. Would he share Guilliman’s opinion? Or would he see some value in this – in the Ecclesiarchy itself? Calder stepped closer to one of the statues. A man, clad in robes. Fierce looking.

  ‘Sebastian Thor.’

  Calder turned. Canoness Lorr stood nearby, watching him. He nodded respectfully. ‘Canoness. You have business with the cardinal-governor?’

  ‘Had.’ She came to stand beside him. ‘Do you know the story of Thor?’

  ‘I do.’

  She nodded. ‘There are some who think Eamon will follow in his footsteps. That he may well become Ecclesiarch, in time.’ She looked at him, her scarred features giving nothing away. For a human, Lorr was hard to read. ‘I have wondered – is that why the Risen Son sent you here?’

  ‘I was sent to defend this world. That is all I need to know.’

  Lorr looked back at the statue. ‘I do not believe you.’ She was silent for a moment. Then, ‘Your warriors have been asking questions. Disturbing the equilibrium of this place. It would be better if they did not.’

  ‘Better for who?’

  She didn’t reply. Calder studied her. Lorr had all but avoided him since his arrival. Tyre had been his main point of contact. Calder decided not to press the point. He could not afford to alienate the canoness at this juncture. So, instead, he returned his attentions to the statue. They stood in silence for several moments. Her reserve was impressive.

  ‘I offended you,’ she said after some time.

  ‘No.’

  Lorr grunted. ‘I am glad.’ She stepped back. ‘You should go. I have taken up enough of your time. The cardinal-governor will be waiting.’ She turned and continued on her way. He made no move to stop her. Only when she had lost herself in the crowded corridor did he continue on, still thinking on their confrontation.

  As before, Eamon was awaiting Calder in his chambers. The cardinal-governor reclined in a chair on the balcony, sipping a mug of recaff and studying a data-slate. ‘Good morning, lieutenant,’ he said in greeting, as his bodyguards closed the doors behind Calder. ‘I trust you had a pleasant evening.’

  Calder nodded. ‘Progress was made. Astropathic reports indicate that Suboden Khan has engaged the enemy near Pergamon.’

  Eamon set his data-slate aside. ‘And?’

  ‘Too soon to tell.’

  Eamon sat back. ‘I suppose a miraculous victory was too much to ask for.’

  ‘The battle has only just begun.’ Calder stood at ease, hands clasped behind his back. He spied several attendants standing silently, just out of view. The serfs avoided his gaze with studious reserve. They barely even acknowledged him. He wondered if adjustments had been made to them, or whether they were simply well trained.

  ‘I suppose so. The Ecumenical Council is demanding another meeting. I will not be able to put them off for long. The plans you submitted for approval are… extensive.’ He glanced up, and Calder noticed a solitary cyber-cherub crouched at the top of one of the chamber’s large bookshelves. The creature was branded with a mark he recognised from his files – not one of Eamon’s, then.

  ‘Not for approval,’ Calder said. ‘Merely to make you aware of what will be done.’ He was used to such word games. Eamon was attempting to exert a soft authority, likely for the benefit of whoever might be watching, via the cherub.

  Eamon sighed, somewhat theatrically. Again, for the benefit of the spy. Calder found it somewhat disconcerting how much of Eamon’s time consisted of such play-acting. The cardinal-governor walked a daily tightrope between tyranny and weakness.

  ‘I’m told you went to Low Town. Might I inquire as to the reason?’ Eamon set aside his mug and began to strip. Two of his attendants came to his aid, pulling off his robes and gently folding them. Beneath the robes, he wore a crimson bodyglove, studded with sensor nodes. Carefully, a third attendant helped him don a set of training armour. It resembled carapace armour, and had the weight, but little of the durability.

  ‘To speak to the planetary magistrate.’

  ‘Guill? Why?’ Eamon flexed his hands, as his attendants slid a pair of bracers over his forearms. ‘Some matter I should be aware of?’

  ‘We require reinforcements. I intend to get them.’

  ‘From Low Town?’

  ‘Low Town will be where the heaviest fighting takes place. It seemed appropriate to begin my efforts there.’ Calder watched as one of the attendants brought Eamon a blunted duelling sabre. ‘Have I interrupted something?’

  ‘No. I can do more than one thing at a time. One of my few skills.’ He whistled, and something lurched out of a corner, pulling aside a dust cover as it moved. It was a servitor, though of a higher quality than Calder was used to. This one was not one of the mass-produced, lobotomised labourers so common to the industrial sectors of the Imperium. Instead, it was a thing of grand artifice – narrow and murderous looking, with carefully balanced artificial limbs, and ornate carvings covering its armoured torso. The only bit of flesh visible was around its eyes, which peered out from behind a mask of wrought brass. It was studded with religious iconography, and its arms ended in short, blunt blades. Power cables and nutrient feeds emerged from its helm like braided hair and spilled down its back to a streamlined power unit.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ Eamon said.

  ‘It was a woman?’

  ‘Oh yes. One of the finest swordswomen ever produced by House Helmawr, of Necromunda. She ran afoul of an acquaintance of mine. She kept bad company, and was consigned to be made over into something more useful. They left her skills intact, but took everything else.’ Eamon presented his blade with a flourish, and the servitor copied the gesture with its bladed limbs. ‘She was a gift, from the aforementioned acquaintance. Even a cardinal-governor must keep his skills sharp, for all that I will never be allowed on a battlefield.’

  The servitor lunged. It was swifter than Calder had expected. But so was Eamon. He parried its blow and backed away. ‘So, you’re drafting criminals, then? Is that wise?’ He spoke without difficulty as he parried a second blow and riposted, driving the servitor back.

  ‘It is necessary.’

  ‘I hear that phrase too often for my liking.’

  Uncertain as to how to reply to such a comment, Calder settled for saying nothing at all. Eamon and the servitor continued their dance. From Calder’s perspective, the cardinal-governor was competent. Any Space Marine aspirant could have defeated him, but it would require some effort on their part. As far as normal humans went, he was exceedingly skilled.

  Calder himself was more than competent with the blade. He had learned the art of it from its greatest student, Sigismund. Or, rather, those trained by Sigismund. Instinctively, his hand fell to the hilt of his power sword as Eamon avoided a blow that would have spilled his intestines on the floor, had he been half a second slower and the blades not been blunted. ‘What else? How goes the landing zone preparations?’

  ‘All completed. Elements of the Raven Guard and the remaining White Scars have been dispatched to the other cities to aid in the defence efforts. Most will remain here, in support of my own Imperial Fists.’

  Eamon stopped. The servitor paused as well. He looked at Calder. ‘It sounds like you’ve already written off Joyner’s Rest and the other cities.’

  Calder nodded. ‘We lack the forces to defend every weak point. Therefore, we must choose. Almacia is the capital, and the only city with a functioning docking spire. It is unlikely that the enemy will devote more than a third of their resources to taking the rest of the planet. They will converge where the defence is strongest, in order to secure a quick victory. If we can hold Almacia, and maintain fleet coherency…’

  ‘Then we might stand a chance.’ Eamon chewed his
lip for a moment. ‘Are the odds truly stacked against us?’

  ‘They are.’

  Eamon laughed. ‘No false confidence, then?’

  ‘There is no purpose in obfuscating the obvious. A realistic appraisal of our chances is preferable to a well-intentioned lie. Only through accurate data can I make the proper projections.’

  ‘I see. I suppose you’ve used up all that politesse I noted earlier.’

  ‘I assumed it was not necessary between us, at this late date.’

  Eamon gestured and the servitor retreated to its alcove. He handed his sword to one of his servants and went back to his table. He sat down and poured himself a goblet of wine. ‘If that is the case, then I might well ask why you’ve been questioning my people about the schematics for the cathedral-palace.’ He looked at Calder over the rim of his goblet. ‘I thought we had already cleared all of that up.’

  Calder did not reply immediately. Lorr had asked him a similar question. He had expected Eamon to avoid the topic. He wondered if his meeting with Lorr had been as much happenstance as it had seemed, or whether it had been a probing strike. Was this simply another duel? The thought irritated him.

  ‘No. You refused to answer my questions so I sought the answers I required elsewhere.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They also refused to answer.’

  ‘Because there are no vaults. There are no hidden places here. And if there were, it would be my duty to defend them against any who might seek to open them.’ Eamon spoke carefully. Slowly. Calder weighed his tone and emphasis, and decided that Eamon was asking him to forget his question.

  ‘I was sent here to defend this world,’ he said with equal deliberation. ‘To do that, I must have access to every part of it. Every secret place and hidden route.’

  ‘And you have been granted that access.’ Eamon did not quite meet his gaze. Calder would have been impressed if he had. Few humans could, for any length of time. ‘Or are you accusing me of lying?’

  ‘Are you?’

  Eamon refilled his goblet. ‘Are you a worshipper of the God-Emperor, lieutenant?’