Dark Imperium

by Guy Haley

  No, he thought.

  Theoretical, the Emperor became a god to protect humanity. Practical, He is a god.

  He is not a god, he thought.

  Theoretical, Guilliman thought savagely now, turning his anger against his traitorous mind. The Emperor was never a god, denied He was a god and has been wrongly elevated by men who see power and mistake it for divinity. Practical, the Emperor is not a god.

  ‘He is not a god,’ said Guilliman out loud. He could not countenance the thought. A being that cold and callous was not worthy of worship.

  Why, then, did the question dog him so?

  ‘My lord?’ asked Maxim. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘It is nothing,’ said Guilliman, coming to his senses. He looked towards the end of the cathedral where darkness held its secrets close. ‘I do not see anything, though the atmosphere suggests all is not well. Where is Mortarion’s device?’

  ‘The device is here. It will be at the high altar,’ said Tigurius, pointing to the uncertain gloom filling the cathedral’s exedra. ‘It hides itself from us in a cloak of bound shadow.’

  ‘There is something there,’ said Maxim. ‘I can feel it.’

  Guilliman looked down the cathedral’s long aisle. A kilometre of polished marble floor heaped with broken roof tiles were between his party and the exedra housing the altar. His armoured fist flicked a quick signal to the Sisters of Silence in battlemark, their simplified combat language. They bowed and moved quickly up the aisle. True to their name, they made no sound as they advanced, their armour silent and their feet noiseless on the wreckage of the church. Their silver plate vanished into the gloom holding the far transept to ransom.

  ‘Let them go ahead first,’ said Guilliman. ‘If there is illusion here, their unique gifts will tear it away.’

  They waited a while. The darkness did not lift, until a pulsed vox click came into the primarch’s helm. The shadows remained thick, hiding their secrets, the Sisters shrouded now also.

  ‘They have found it,’ said Guilliman. ‘Come.’

  Guilliman’s progress up the aisle was far less stealthy than the Sisters’. The shattering of roof tiles under his feet echoed loudly around the ruined cathedral. Twenty Librarians of half a dozen Chapters marched in solemn ranks behind him.

  They joined the Sisters at the foot of the steps leading up to the altar. They were metres away, but they could not see it.

  ‘It is here!’ gasped a Librarian. The hard emotional pressure of psychic power gathering strength pushed at the hind parts of the primarch’s brain as the Librarians of the Adeptus Astartes prepared their gifts in response to the hate they felt lurking in the cathedral.

  Behold, signed Sister-Commander Bellas. The weapon of the enemy.

  She went up a single marble step away from Guilliman, closer to the altar. With a sound like the collective death sighs of a dozen old women, the cloak of darkness blurred and fell aside.

  Atop the steps, before the grand altar, was a monstrous device, almost as tall as the cathedral ceiling. A three-legged timepiece of brass and glass and fiendish intention. Throughout its elongated frame, hollow globes held bubbling liquids of no understandable purpose. Three columns of madly spinning clockwork rotated about an axis that, if carefully observed, was not rooted in the material realm. At the top, three clock faces ran backwards. Each one had its own pendulum, and they swung back and forth in a complicated dance outside of the turning columns, barely missing their neighbours at the apex of their travel. Their weights were crescent axe heads made of steel sharp as convent whispers. The air screamed faintly as they swung.

  Within the open framework of the clock, dark energies moved sinuously, wrapping themselves around crackling cylinders and clockwork that would have seemed commonplace in any other setting. At the very centre, enmeshed in moving gears and impure psychic power, was a triangular menhir, roughly twelve metres high, composed of a greenish mineral similar to olivine. It stood impossibly inverted, balanced on its point, the mass of it held up by no more than a centimetre’s thickness of stone. It throbbed with the intensity of a migraine, a sluggish heartbeat of despair that sank into the soul. Set on red-rusted iron poles around the clock were three cast-bronze representations of Nurgle’s tri-lobed sigil. They vibrated with inner power, a shimmering heat haze coming off them.

  Where the cathedral had seemed silent, now it resounded to a rapid triple ticking and the groaning of gears, as if the clock, once noticed, could not hide its corrupting voice and was revealed in totality.

  This is an abomination, signed Sister-Commander Bellas. The servants of Chaos always choose to insult our holy lord where they can.

  Guilliman had made it a priority to re-establish the Sisters of Silence. He had gathered up the broken remnants of their order after arriving back on Terra. As the influence of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica had waxed and waned, their military arm had become less prominent over time. There had been comparatively many Sisters of Silence during the Great Crusade and the Heresy. Though numerous enough to play a role in the War of the Beast a thousand years after the Heresy, by the 41st millennium they had dwindled toward extinction. Those remaining were occupied aboard the Black Ships, hunting psykers and performing the crucial role of damping the abilities of the cargo. The militant orders of the Emperor’s day had been disbanded, diminished or lost to war. The last surviving few were scattered around the Imperium, most reduced to a handful of members. They fought on, here and there, but their glory days were a myth at best. They were unremembered by the people they had died to protect.

  After thousands of years of obscurity, when Guilliman returned the Sisters of Silence had come back willingly into the light, not because of who he was, but because of what he was. To them, he was a living saint.

  It had shocked Guilliman, that the Sisters of Silence worshipped his father as so many other misguided souls did. Not for the first time, he thought of his brother Lorgar.

  The clock loomed over the broken altar like a murderer over his victim. The great slab of exotic stone that had made the altar had been cloven in twain, and the walls behind it were deeply carved into with the three-ringed symbol of the Plague God. Arcane sigils gleamed with reflected witch light between them.

  A wooden statue of the Emperor holding out His arms in blessing hung above the altar still, but its head, feet and hands had been hacked off, and the wood was charred all down one side. To the statue’s right and left there were small alcoves, each containing representations of the loyal primarchs. For some reason these effigies were untouched. Most looked nothing like their subjects; Guilliman’s was laughably idealistic.

  With the Sisters standing by Guilliman he was protected from the greater part of the clock’s power, but still the sense of evil emanating from it curdled his stomach and made his hands tingle with an urge to violence. It pushed at his mind, voiceless whispers telling him to tear off his armour and abase himself in the squalor of the city’s ruin. Were it not for the Sisters forming a circle around it, he would have found it difficult to approach. He pushed back with his own formidable will, refusing to be cowed.

  ‘This is what my brother uses to defile the earth,’ he said with cold anger. ‘He who was most vocal at Nikaea against the Librarium.’

  It is the last on Espandor, signed the Sister-Commander. Such idols weaken the power of your father. Now we have struck down the one in Konor’s Reach, and that in the city of Rodosia, this is the sole remaining link to the Scourge Stars. Always, the things of the Plague God come in threes or sevens. If we destroy this, the malady that afflicts this world will be weakened. The daemons will have little power left to remain.

  ‘Mortarion is not here,’ said Guilliman.

  ‘No, my lord,’ said Tigurius. ‘If he were, we would sense him.’

  ‘Then it is time for me to be away from Espandor.’

  Guilliman had dearly wished to face his broth
er. The chances of meeting Mortarion upon Espandor had been slender, even though the daemon primarch had expended a great deal of effort in investing the cardinal world. He reminded himself he could not be impatient. This was but the first step. He would find his brother, and he would kill him. Patience used to come easier to him.

  ‘This machine will not succumb to demolition, as the one on Ardium did,’ said Maxim. ‘There is a hateful presence here. We must cage it with our minds before the clock can be destroyed.’

  ‘Array your warriors, Tigurius,’ said Guilliman. His hand grasped the hilt of his sword. ‘I shall put an end to this personally, with the Emperor’s own blade.’

  ‘Guardians of the Emperor, to the Imperial Regent,’ ordered Colquan.

  The Adeptus Custodes jogged from every part of the cathedral to form up around the primarch. The circle of Sisters of Silence turned inwards and they raised their executioner greatblades.

  As Guilliman prepared himself to approach the cursed artefact, shouts came from the far end of the church. The door opened a crack.

  ‘What is happening?’ the primarch called. His powerful voice echoed clearly down the length of the cathedral.

  ‘The tetrarch says your priest is here, my lord,’ one of the Victrix Guard voxed. ‘He insists I let him enter.’

  ‘Allow him,’ said Guilliman. He stepped away from the clock and released his sword handle. ‘It is, after all, his church,’ he said to himself.

  Militant-Apostolic Mathieu came into the cathedral with the same air of placid serenity he exhibited at all times, though he was caked in filth and a long cut marked his face under his left eye. Only when he drew closer did Guilliman notice the lines of anger on his face at the sight of the clock. Guilliman was surprised to see he wore no protective garb.

  ‘You are not safe here, militant-apostolic,’ the primarch said. ‘Disease lingers, and the power of the warp is strong.’

  ‘You are not afraid, my lord.’ Mathieu placed his hand on his heart and bowed his head. His plain, undecorated servo-skull buzzed around his head in solemn orbit. ‘Why should I be?’

  Guilliman looked at him critically. ‘I am a primarch, Mathieu. You are not.’

  ‘We are both protected by the Emperor. My faith shields me.’

  ‘Like it protected these people here?’ said Guilliman. He gestured at a heap of greening bones pinned under the fallen roof.

  Mathieu smiled. ‘Your father cannot be everywhere, my lord, and the faith of some is stronger than others. For the moment, your father protects me.’

  ‘Whether that is true or not,’ said Guilliman. ‘I would prefer it if you wore an environment suit. See, the Sisters and my Space Marines keep their helms sealed – even Maldovar Colquan and his Adeptus Custodes would not risk being in here without the correct filtration equipment. They are among the closest of all men to the Emperor, and made with great art. If they are cautious, so should you be.’

  Very few men would ignore a suggestion like that from the primarch, but Frater Mathieu shook his head.

  ‘I will be well. I have been fighting all day, and I am untouched. I am protected.’ He walked around the exedra. He drew dangerously close to the cursed clock. He made the sign of the aquila, but showed no sign of being affected by the malevolence radiating palpably from it.

  Guilliman scrutinised the priest carefully, waiting for signs of madness or disease. When Mathieu did not speak for some time, Guilliman’s hand shifted within the Hand of Dominion. He was close to sending the mental command via his battleplate’s nerve shunts that would bring it sparking into life. He relaxed when Mathieu knelt in the filth of the floor and bowed his head. There he prayed silently. The Sisters of Silence dipped their helms, as if in communion with him. Guilliman shared a glance with Colquan. The Custodian gave a small shrug that sent his ornate armour into a ripple of gold.

  His prayer done, Mathieu stood and genuflected towards the ruined wooden effigy of his god, then he turned to the Emperor’s last loyal son.

  ‘Where do they find such hate?’ he asked. ‘What could make them want to become like this? They have made themselves monsters.’

  The question brought a hard expression to Guilliman’s face. ‘Hatred is in the hearts of all men,’ the primarch said. ‘It is in my heart. I hate the Death Guard for abandoning reason and for what they have become. I hate my brothers for their betrayal. But I do not blame them. Most hate springs from fear, or shame, or despair. The traitors despair, I am sure. They must feel shame at what they have destroyed, and so they become more extreme in their hatred.’

  ‘You speak mercifully of the heretics,’ said Mathieu softly.

  ‘They shall find no mercy from me. They are what they are. But we must not forget that most of them were noble warriors, and were led down this path by others. Words from a beloved leader can twist a man’s heart. It was, I believe, the Emperor’s fault. If He had not lied…’ Guilliman’s voice trailed away. He frowned. He questioned himself if that were really true. Maybe nothing could have stopped what had happened. Then he remembered the throne room, and the light, and that vast, inhuman soul touching his.

  ‘Did He really lie?’ asked Mathieu into the silence. He was barely breathing, caught up in revelation of his god’s words.

  ‘Yes. Yes He did. He knew the true nature of the warp, but kept it to himself. I deduce He wanted to keep my brothers and I from temptation, but instead ignorance left us vulnerable to it. Horus was a good man before he turned. He was proud and arrogant, that is for sure, but he believed in our father’s dream of the Imperium, and the love between them was so strong.’ Guilliman looked at Mathieu solemnly. He had once believed that, he truly had. Now he lied just like his father had. ‘Chaos found a way to use Horus’ love and pervert it. My father made a miscalculation, and it cost us all dearly.’

  Mathieu let out the breath he was holding. ‘I marvel that you walked alongside the holy Emperor Himself, my lord. It is glorious to hear you speak of Him.’

  ‘I did,’ said Guilliman sadly. ‘I wish it could be so again.’ He had his own reasons for desiring that. He kept them to himself.

  Mathieu searched for the right thing to say. ‘Gods are not beholden to the same laws as mortal men are, my lord. His reasons for lying are beyond our ken, even yours.’

  Guilliman pulled a face at Mathieu.

  ‘Mathieu, you will not convince me that He is a god. He told me this Himself, many times. I spoke with Him like I speak with you now. The Emperor is remarkable, the pinnacle of humanity’s evolutionary path, and He has power that you and I cannot comprehend. But He was not and is not a god. He was a man. An exceptional man, but a man nonetheless. As a man, He made mistakes. As a man, He had his flaws.’

  ‘You are His son, my lord,’ said Mathieu. ‘You have said that you are not a man.’

  ‘I am not a normal man,’ said the primarch, ‘but I am still human, for all the many gifts the Emperor gave me, and so is the Emperor.’

  Mathieu paced around the darkness of the exedra, his sandals plashing in the shallow puddles on the marble as he looked up at the lofty clock.

  ‘If your father has the power of a god, does that not make Him one, whether He believed Himself to be so or not?’ he said. ‘The Emperor protects us. It is evident in the actions of His holy saints, who are the will of the Emperor made manifest, and the Legion of the Damned, who appear at battle’s forlorn hope, and in the Emperor’s Tarot, whose readings guide ordinary men day to day.’

  Guilliman thought back again to his meeting with his father. He did not like to revisit the memory; it was as if the memory forced itself on him rather than he actively sought to recall it. The thing in the cradle of the ancient machines, fed by loathsome technology. And then the golden light, and then the pain…

  Guilliman’s lips pressed thin. The display had been a form of control. The pain had been a form of control. He was tired of
being used.

  ‘He is not a god,’ he said.

  ‘He is to me. He is to trillions. Why will you not accept the truth?’

  ‘To me, He was a father.’ A distant, uncaring, heartless, manipulative father, he thought. ‘And a lord. I have died for Him once, and would again. That does not give Him divinity.’

  Coldness. That was the defining sensation of his meeting with the Emperor. Infinite, terrible coldness.

  He had approached the meeting with dread, fearing what he would find. Would his father be dead? Would He be insane? Would they even be able to talk? When he had been admitted to the throne room and approached the Golden Throne, he had done so as he had approached his foster father Konor’s funeral, willing it all to be right, drowning in certain grief. Between the time of the Emperor’s ascension to the throne and Guilliman’s own death, the Emperor had spoken to no one. How could anything have persisted for ten thousand years, he had thought. There was the wizened corpse surrounded by banks of groaning machinery, His sword upon His knee. Sorrow suffused everything. The sacrifice required to keep the Emperor alive sickened the primarch. If He were alive. He appeared dead. Guilliman had expected nothing.

  But He spoke.

  With words of light and fire, the Emperor had conferred with His returned primarch, the last of His finest creations.

  A creation. Not a son.

  The living Emperor had been an artful being, as skilled at hiding His thoughts as He was at reading those of others. What remained of Him was powerful beyond comprehension, but it lacked the subtlety He had had whilst He walked among men. Speaking with the Emperor had been like conversing with a star. The Emperor’s words burned him.

  What hurt most deeply was what went unsaid.

  The Emperor greeted Guilliman not as a father receives a son, but as a craftsmen who rediscovers a favourite tool that he thought lost. He behaved like a prisoner locked in an iron cage who is passed a rasp.

  Guilliman had no illusions. He was not the man who brought the rasp; he was the rasp.

  While the Emperor had walked abroad, He had cloaked His manipulations in love. He had let His primarchs call Him father; He had let them call themselves His sons. He had rarely spoken those words Himself, Guilliman now realised, and when He had He had done so without sincerity. Buffeted by the full might of the Emperor’s will unclothed in flesh, a cloak had been ripped from Guilliman’s eyes.