An angry screech of static filled the flight deck. The automated warning resumed.
‘You are entering restricted airspace. Remove yourselves or face destruction…’
‘No response,’ said Daelus. ‘I read increasing power output through weapons systems.’
‘Chapter Master Mansirius Thracian communicates with you, venerable machine systems of my Chapter. Confirm databridge and prepare to commence security net shutdown on my command after exchange of cyphers.’
A green flash emanated from the summit. A stripe of laser light sliced past the Overlord, clean of dispersion blur in the voided sky.
‘Troncus, you have taken us too far in!’ said Daelus.
The co-pilot shook his head and adjusted their course.
‘You are entering restricted airspace. Remove yourselves or face destruction by order of the Scythes of the Emperor. You are entering restricted airspace. Remove yourselves or face destruction by order of the Scythes of the Emperor.’
‘It will not heed me,’ said Thracian.
‘What are your orders, lord tetrarch?’ said Daelus. ‘Throne!’ he shouted before Felix could respond. Troncus jerked the stick of the ship so that it slewed dangerously to the side.
A ruby beam of light speared through the space where the ship had been.
‘Now that was a defence laser. I recommend withdrawal,’ said Daelus.
‘Do it.’ Felix stared out of the armourglass cockpit blister. The mountain loured at him as it receded.
‘My lords, a vox message from Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl,’ one of the mortal crew informed them ‘He is requesting the tetrarch’s presence and advising ground approach.’
‘There is a surprise,’ said Daelus sharply. ‘He is at the landing fields of Odessa Port. I could set down in the city instead.’
‘Join him,’ said Felix after a moment’s consideration. ‘Order our transports to put down the armour there also. The sooner we get this over with, the better.’
He didn’t know if he was referring to the mission or meeting again with his tormentor.
Odessa Port was in a worse state than the city. The tyranids had gone so far as to demolish many of its receptuculae and grind them up for their mineral content. Broad pits full of half-digested metal and rockcrete residue leached of calcium dotted the emptied ground. The landing fields themselves remained useable, and it was upon their broad plascrete expanse that Cawl’s craft squatted, huge and red.
‘It looks like the archmagos has already made himself at home,’ said Daelus, directing the Overlord to overfly the site.
Hundreds of fat cables snaked away from the underbelly of Cawl’s ship. In crude, mechanical aping of the tyranid consumption process, excavators dug sheer pits around the ship and were depositing the rubble excavated from them into machines. The machines spun grinding teeth to macerate the stone, swallowing the material deep into their guts where alchemical processes ripped it apart. From other mechanisms, attached by piping to the grinders, huge funnels periodically geysered clouds of gas harvested from the rock. Eight large-scale field projectors – four bolted to the rockcrete, four hovering under contra-gravity high overhead – screened off a perfect cube of space around the landing craft with a shimmering field. A sole Mechanicus Knight in the colours of House Taranis stalked the perimeter of the camp, while all around the ship, tech-priests in void gear guided remote sensing machines out onto the landing fields beyond the energy cube.
‘There is an atmosphere around Cawl’s lander,’ said Thracian.
‘Cawl is ambitious,’ said Felix. ‘He does nothing the simple way.’
‘Shall I put down within the field?’ Daelus asked.
Felix nodded. ‘As close as you can to the lander. Let’s not give the archmagos dominus the opportunity of avoiding me again.’
Cawl was waiting for Felix when the ramps of the Overlord dropped down and the Space Marines trooped out.
The space was freezing cold, and the atmospheric mix poor. Carbon dioxide predominated, with a heavy oxygen content and few of the other gases present on Terran analogue worlds. Felix’s transhuman system went into action to compensate. The high carbon dioxide component made him sluggish, but he eschewed the full measure of his wargear’s environmental protections and left his helm locked to his belt. He was acutely aware that everything he was and all the equipment he carried was due to Cawl. Looking through eyes that, although altered by Cawl’s technologies, he had at least been born with was preferable to peering out through helmet lenses designed and manufactured by the magos while yet more of Cawl’s inventions scribed data onto his retinas.
Cawl stood by the side of his lander, his followers bustling about him as if he were some immense vermiform queen and they his slave workers. The magos was more monstrous than Felix recalled, having enhanced himself further since their last meeting. But the smile half-hidden behind his face-piece, part mockery and all challenge, had not changed.
Felix suppressed a shudder as he approached. Somewhere deep inside him a small boy cried out. Everyone, he reflected, is afraid of something.
‘Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl, I am Tetrarch Decimus Androdinus Felix of the Realm of Ultramar, ruler of the Eastern Marches. I thank you for–’
Cawl held up a single metal finger, silencing Felix.
The magos clattered forwards. Breath whooshing from auxiliary breathing apparatus hidden under his robes turned to ice crystals on the air.
‘Primaris 10-079-983. I never forget a number,’ he said.
‘My name is–’
‘Decimus Felix, yes, I recall, of Laphis. Primaris warrior, then captain, then equerry. Hero of the Imperium, now lord of a shattered county.’ The magos’ torso sunk lower, so that his face was level with Felix’s own. Between patches of bluish flesh, tiny gears and pistons whirred. ‘I recall perfectly our more recent interactions. But I regard our original meetings most fondly. Our conversations were pleasant, and alleviated the ennui of my millennia-long labour. Thank you for that. You were such a spirited boy. I am glad that you have done so well. I knew you would go far.’
Felix frowned. ‘Thank you,’ he said reluctantly.
‘Not at all!’ said Cawl, cheerfully ignoring Felix’s discomfort. ‘It is a reward all its own when one sees one’s creations succeed.’
Felix’s annoyance increased. Cawl did not notice, but was peering past him at the Chosen of Vespator.
‘Now, who do we have here?’ he said, scanning each of them with wide-band auguries. ‘09-372-8872, 09-372-7643…’ he said, rattling off the numbers of Felix’s bodyguard.
‘My lord!’ Felix declaimed loudly, thinking now was his turn to interrupt. ‘May I introduce the Chosen of Vespator, my guardians and aides.’ He swept out his hand towards his Primaris Marines. ‘Veteran Sergeant Cominus, of the Sons of Orar, Techmarine Daelus of the Ultramarines, Techmarine Troncus of the Praetors of Ultramar, Veteran Brother Cadmus of the Scythes of the Emperor, Veteran Brother Tullio of the Novamarines, Veteran Brother Austen of the Doom Eagles, Veteran Brother Ixen of the Aquiloan Brotherhood, Veteran Brother Diamedes of the Silver Skulls, Apothecary Yansar of the Reborn, Epistolary Gathein of the Avenging Sons.’ He turned hard eyes upon the magos. ‘You will see that each of these warriors is a hero. Every one has distinguished himself in battle and upheld the highest precepts of the Codex Astartes in exemplary fashion. They are far more than numbers, Archmagos Dominus Cawl. They have names.’
Cawl chuckled good-humouredly. ‘Quite right, quite right. Of course they have names! Everything has a name. So good to see you all. I am proud of you, every one.’ Cawl rubbed various hands together and looked back to Felix. ‘Guilliman is quite the politician, isn’t he? These warriors are drawn from across the Ultramarines’ successors, and not all of them from the ten warden Chapters.’ Cawl clicked his tongue. The noise came out sharp as gunfire through his
voxmitter array.
‘A deliberate choice, my lord,’ said Felix. ‘To foster cooperation among my lord Guilliman’s sons.’
‘Naturally,’ said Cawl. He clattered forwards, passing along the line of Primaris Marines and peering at them. His attendant servo-skulls swooped and bobbed around them, bleeping and chiming excitedly. ‘Good service records. Excellent function. They turned out rather well, don’t you think?’
‘These are among the greatest warriors in–’
Again Cawl interrupted him. ‘I don’t mean just these men, though they are exemplars of the type. I mean the Primaris Marines. They came out rather well.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Cawl turned around like a serpent coiling. ‘Oh, Decimus,’ said Cawl admonishingly. ‘Let’s be civil. I realise that you bear me some ill will. The taking away of childhood. The sleep of methalon hyper-freeze, the pain of the procedures of apotheosis and, I admit,’ said Cawl, raising several limbs and his voice to forestall Felix’s objections, ‘that I was a very poor substitute father, although I did try my best. All of you are my children,’ he said to the others. ‘But come now, look at what we have achieved together, you and I.’ He punched his wizened organic left hand into the palm of his metallic right in time with his words and advanced on Felix. ‘The stabilisation of the Imperium. The return of the primarch. The creation of a whole new breed of Space Marine.’ He stopped at Felix’s side and looked away to the mountain. ‘And we have so much more to achieve here, today.’
‘If it is civility you expect, offer some in return. Tell me what exactly it is that you seek beneath Mount Pharos,’ said Felix.
‘Perhaps Chapter Master Thracian can answer that,’ said Cawl brightly, pointing at Thracian, who was by now approaching.
‘My lord archmagos dominus,’ Thracian said. He got down on bended knee and bowed his head. ‘Forgive my interruption, tetrarch, but I must give my thanks. Without the archmagos’ genius, my Chapter would be dead, our legacy lost. There is nothing I can do that will ever repay you.’
Cawl winked at Felix then peered down at his motivator unit. ‘Come, come,’ he said. ‘Get up, Chapter Master. If I were to be thanked for everything I’ve done it would take an embarrassing amount of time. Consider it my gift.’
‘I…’ Thracian began, thrown off by Cawl’s flippancy.
‘That’s right, get up,’ said Cawl. ‘It is to you that I owe thanks. This world is your demesne. I appreciate your allowing me to operate here. You should never kneel upon it.’
‘Yes,’ said Thracian. He paused. ‘Your offer…’ he began disbelievingly. ‘It was genuine?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Cawl opened up all three of his left arms to gesture at the landscape, his feet clattering on the rockcrete. ‘The healing of your world will be undertaken as soon as I have what I need. We wouldn’t wish to disturb the mountain’s spirit through clumsy efforts at restoration.’
‘Wait,’ said Felix. ‘You mean you intend to restore Sotha?’
‘I do,’ said Cawl.
‘That’s impossible,’ said Daelus.
‘You disappoint me, fellow acolyte of the Machine-God. Sotha is the middle ursine! It will be simple.’
Felix looked at Daelus. Daelus shrugged.
‘I repair tanks and make guns,’ he said. ‘I have no idea what he is talking about with his middle ursine.’
‘You are aware of Gul Du Lac’s Three Ursine Hypothesis, surely?’ Cawl addressed them all. ‘No? Someone? Really?’ he said in surprise at Felix’s blank look. ‘All right. Some education is required. Gul Du Lac was a scientist of ancient Earth,’ he said. ‘She was one of the thirteen Appollians who led mankind away from Terra tens of thousands of years ago, landing first on Luna. She was instrumental in determining the suitability of alien worlds for mankind’s habitation. Her greatest theorem posited that certain worlds occupy positions that enable life to flourish, the so-called Zonality Gul Du Lac. Position is the most important. This is familiar now, yes?’
‘No, my lord archmagos,’ Felix said.
‘Really? Then imagine if you will, as Gul Du Lac did all those centuries ago, three ursines.’
‘Three ursines?’ said Daelus.
‘Three ursines,’ repeated Cawl. ‘Each has gruel for his breakfast. The first ursine has gruel that is too hot, and goes hungry. The third ursine has gruel that is too cold, and rejects his repast. But the middle ursine!’ Cawl flourished an array of bionic limbs. ‘His gruel is just right. Gul Du Lac used this analogy to classify worlds. We see around us devastation, and assume all is lost. Indeed, it looks grim on the face of it. The tyranids take everything, life, gases, liquids, certain minerals, but all this is gone from the surface only.’
‘They do not mine, that is certain,’ said Daelus. ‘They do not delve. An Imperial settlement would take millennia to exhaust a world like this, even now.’
‘Exactly!’ exclaimed Cawl, as if Daelus was the star pupil in his class. ‘The tyranids are surface eaters, they strip a planet’s surface and move on. Sotha is an active world. As much water is locked up in the rocks of a world such as this as can be found in its oceans. Now, can anyone tell me where atmosphere comes from?’
Silence.
‘Come come now!’ said Cawl. ‘How can you learn if you do not think? You, Cominus, show your warriors why you wear a sergeant’s marks and they do not.’
‘Atmosphere is apportioned to a world during planetary formation,’ said Cominus.
Cawl made an equivocal noise. ‘To an extent. Atmosphere also comes from here.’ He stamped his foot on the ground. ‘It can be liberated from minerals as we are doing with the limestone bedrock of this area.’ He pointed at the machines belching out gas. ‘Alchemy gives an acceptable admixture of oxygen, although I lack sufficient nitrogen to make this air entirely healthy. Given a few hundred thousand years, Sotha’s vulcanism would cloak this world again with gases. Recall, if you will, the days of pre-terraformation Venus, whose own extreme volcanic activities gave it a crushing pressure and runaway heat inimical to all life.’
Again Daelus shrugged at Felix.
‘Speaking of life,’ Cawl went on, ‘this world looks dead, but it cannot be. Again, we must look beneath our feet. As I said, tyranids are surface feeders. In the stone of any living world is microbial life aplenty – although all higher forms are gone, and many of the bacteria down there could not survive up here on the surface, the uniqueness of Sotha’s genome is not entirely lost. So you see, not hopeless at all, even if we left things as they are – which I do not intend to, for what use is a world of rock, potential atmosphere and germs to the mighty Adeptus Astartes? None!’ he said, adding a flourish of mechanical arms to his speech. ‘If we add additional water and gases taken from the rest of the Sothan system, and reintroduce flora and fauna cloned from vault samples held in the Library of Ptolemy on Macragge, then I should think we could have a hydrological cycle within fifty years, a rudimentary ecosystem within a century, while something approaching full life could be restored within the course of three hundred and fifty years, give or take a century. No time at all!’
‘But it’s impossible,’ said Cominus. ‘Imperial policy is to abandon worlds devoured by the tyranids.’
‘And when did Imperial policy amount to anything?’ Cawl said dismissively. ‘Do you not listen? This world occupies the position of the middle ursine. The world is bare, yes?’
‘I agree, archmagos, but with all due respect–’ said Daelus.
‘But the position of this world has not changed,’ Cawl said, slapping the back of one metal hand into the palm of another. ‘The solar input remains the same. Solar input is the key factor in allowing life to arise, or successful terraforming of a dead world. Everything else will follow. Don’t you worry, Commander Thracian, all will be well.’
‘If this was that simple then why has it not been done before?’ said Felix.
>
‘Felix, Felix!’ said Cawl. ‘Nobody said it was simple. It is possible. But just because things are hard does not mean that they should not be attempted. Ask your genefather. The primarch knows that if a man has a will to do something, then nothing shall stop him. I am Belisarius Cawl! If I say a thing can be done, then it can be done, though it take me ten thousand years – and with all due respect to you, oh Son of Orar, compared to continuing the Emperor’s work and unravelling the secrets of blackstone, returning a benignly positioned rock such as this back to life is child’s play.’
Cawl began to walk towards the edge of the atmospheric field to get a better view of the mountain. He moved surprisingly quickly.
‘Does that mean you could return other worlds to life?’ Felix said, as he jogged to catch up.
‘Hmm? Here? Yes, yes, if that’s what you want. I am a little pressed for time, however. Although the technology I will share, if your tech-priests can comprehend it.’ His dismissiveness changed to humour as he smiled at Felix. ‘You should be able to grasp the science yourself. I tried to make you all as intelligent as I could.’
‘What will you receive in exchange for this labour?’
‘I’m not doing it for reward, Decimus,’ said Cawl. He halted right at the very edge of the field, close enough to extend various sensor limbs through the shimmering blue play of energy. A couple of his servo-skulls shot past him and out into the airless day. The ground shook as the Knight of Taranis continued its patrol. ‘I’m doing it because I can, and because it is the right thing to do. Whatever your feelings towards me, and I know that the primarch too is irritated with me, I am on your side. I want the Imperium to survive. I want it to flourish.’ Cawl fixed his eyes and numerous other sensing devices on the mountain. ‘It is for that reason I have come here. In the dark beneath Mount Pharos is, quite possibly, information that will allow me to save us all.’
Belisarius Cawl- the Great Work - Guy Haley Page 7