False Gods (31 page)

‘You fear to seek answers?’ asked Sejanus angrily. ‘This is not the Horus I followed into battle for two centuries. The Horus I knew would not shirk from uncomfortable truths.’

‘Maybe not, but I still don’t want to see it,’ said Horus.

‘I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, my friend,’ said Sejanus. Horus looked up to see that he now stood in front of the door, wisps of freezing air gusting from its base as it slowly raised and the energy field dissipated. Flashing yellow lights swirled to either side of the door, but no one in the laboratory paid any attention as the door slid up into the paneled wall.

Dark knowledge lay beyond, of that Horus was certain, just as certainly as he knew that he could not ignore the temptation of discovering the secrets it kept hidden. He had to know what it concealed. Sejanus was right: it wasn’t in his nature to back away from anything, no matter what it was. He had faced all the terrors the galaxy had to show him and had not flinched. This would be no different. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Show me.’

Sejanus smiled and slapped his palm against Horus’s shoulder guard, saying, ‘I knew we could count on you, my friend. This will not be easy for you, but know that we would not show you this unless it was necessary.’

‘Do what you must,’ said Horus, shaking off the hand. For the briefest instant, Sejanus’s reflection blurred like a shimmering mask in the gleaming metal of the door, and Horus fancied he saw a reptilian grin on his friend’s face. ‘Let’s just get it done.’

They walked through the icy mist together, passing along a wide, steel-walled corridor that led to an identical door, which also slid into the ceiling as they approached.

The chamber beyond was perhaps half the size of the laboratory. Its walls were pristine and sterile, and it was empty of technicians and scientists. The floor was smooth concrete and the temperature cool rather than cold.

A raised central walkway ran the length of the chamber with ten large cylindrical tanks the size of boarding torpedoes lying flat to either side of it, long serial numbers stenciled on their flanks. Steam gusted from the top of each tank like breath. Beneath the serial numbers were the same mystical symbols he had seen on the door leading to this place.

Each tank was connected to a collection of strange machines, whose purpose Horus could not even begin to guess at. Their technologies were unlike anything he had ever seen, their construction beyond even his incredible intellect.

He climbed the metal stairs that led to the walkway, hearing strange sounds like fists on metal as he reached the top. Now atop the walkway, he could see that each tank had a wide hatchway at its end, with a wheel handle in its centre and a thick sheet of armoured glass above it.

Brilliant light flickered behind each block of glass and the very air thrummed with potential. Something about all this seemed dreadfully familiar to Horus and he felt an irresistible urge to know what lay within the tanks while simultaneously dreading what he might see.

‘What are these?’ he asked as he heard Sejanus climbing up behind him.

‘I’m not surprised you don’t remember. It’s been over two hundred years.’

Horus leaned forward and wiped his gauntlet across the fogged glass of the first tank’s hatch. He squinted against the brightness, straining to see what lay within. The light was blinding, a motion blurred shape within twisting like dark smoke in the wind.

Something saw him. Something moved closer.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Horus, fascinated by the strange, formless being that swam through the light of the tank. Its motion slowed, and it became a silhouette as it moved closer to the glass, its form settling into something more solid.

The tank hummed with power, as though the metal were barely able to contain the energy generated by the creature contained within it.

‘These are the Emperor’s most secret geno-vaults beneath the Himalayan peaks,’ said Sejanus. ‘This is where you were created.’

Horus wasn’t listening. He was staring through the glass in amazement at a pair of liquid eyes that were the mirror of his own.

FIFTEEN

Revelations

Dissent

Scattering

I
N
THE
TWO
days since the Warmaster’s departure, the
Vengeful Spirit
had become a ghost ship, the mighty vessel having hemorrhaged Landers, carriers, skiffs and any other craft capable of making it to the surface to follow Horus to Davin.

This suited Ignace Karkasy fine as he marched with newfound purpose and practiced insouciance through the decks of the ship, a canvas satchel slung over one shoulder. Each time he passed a public area of the ship he would check for anyone watching and liberally spread a number of sheets of paper around on desks, tables and couches.

The ache in his shoulder was lessening the more copies of
The Truth is All We Have
he distributed from the satchel, each sheet bearing three of what he considered to be his most powerful works to date.
Uncaring Gods
was his personal favorites, unfavorably comparing the Astartes warriors to the ancient Titans of myth; a powerful piece that he knew was worthy of a wider audience.

He knew he had to be careful with such works, but the passion burned in him too brightly to be contained.

He’d managed to get his hands on a cheap bulk printer with ridiculous ease, acquiring one from the first junkyard dog he’d approached with no more than a few moments’ effort. It was not a good quality machine, or even one he would have looked twice at on Terra, but even so it had cost him the bulk of his winnings at merci merci. It was a poor thing, but it did the job, even though his billet now stank of printers’ ink.

Humming quietly to himself, Karkasy continued through the civilian decks, coming at last to the Retreat, careful now that he was entering areas where he was known, and where there might be others around.

His fears were unfounded as the Retreat was empty, making it even more depressing and rundown-looking. One should never see a drinking establishment well lit, he thought, it just makes it look even sadder. He made his way through the Retreat, placing a couple of sheets on each table.

Karkasy froze as he heard the clink of a bottle on a glass, his hand outstretched to another table.

‘What are you doing?’ asked a cultured, but clearly drunk, female voice.

Karkasy turned and saw a bedraggled woman slumped in one of the booths at the far end of the Retreat, which explained why he hadn’t seen her. She was in shadow, but he instantly recognised her as Petronella Vivar, the Warmaster’s documentarist, though her appearance was a far cry from when he had last seen her on Davin.

No, that wasn’t right, he remembered. He had seen her on the embarkation deck as the Astartes had returned with the Warmaster.

Obviously, the experience hadn’t failed to leave its mark on her.

‘Those papers,’ she said. ‘What are they?’

Karkasy guiltily dropped the sheets he had been holding onto the tabletop and shifted the satchel so that it rested at his back.

‘Nothing really,’ he said, moving down the row of booths towards her. ‘Just some poems I’d like people to read.’

‘Poetry? Is it any good? I could use something uplifting.’ He knew he should leave her to her maudlin solitude, but the egotist in him couldn’t help but respond. ‘Yes, I think they’re some of my best.’

‘Can I read them?’

‘I wouldn’t right now, my dear,’ he said. ‘Not if you’re looking for something light. They’re a bit dark.’

‘A bit dark,’ she laughed, the sound harsh and ugly. ‘You have no idea.’

‘It’s Vivar isn’t it?’ asked Karkasy, approaching her booth. ‘That’s your name isn’t it?’

She looked up, and Karkasy, an expert in gauging levels of inebriation in others, saw that she was drunk to the point of insensibility. Three bottles sat drained on the table and a fourth lay in pieces on the floor.

‘Yes, that’s me, Petronella Vivar,’ she said. ‘Palatina Majoria of House Carpinus, writer and fraud… and, I think, very drunk.’

‘I can see that, but what do you mean by fraud?’

‘Fraud,’ she slurred, taking another drink. ‘I came here to tell the glory of Horus and the splendid brotherhood of the primarchs, you know? Told Horus when I met him that if he didn’t let me do it he could go to hell. Thought I’d lost my chance right there and then, but he laughed!’

‘He laughed?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, laughed, but he let me do it anyway. Think he might have thought I’d be amusing to keep around or something. I thought I was ready for anything.’

‘And has it proved to be all you hoped it would be, my dear Petronella?’

‘No, not really if I’m honest. Want a drink? I’ll tell you about it.’

Karkasy nodded and fetched himself a glass from the bar before sitting across from her. She poured him some wine, getting more on the table than in the glass.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘So why is it not what you thought it would be? There’s many a remembrancer would think such a position would be a documentarist’s dream. Mersadie Oliton would have killed to land such a role.’

‘Who?’

‘A friend of mine,’ explained Karkasy. ‘She’s also a documentarist.’

‘She wouldn’t want it, trust me,’ said Petronella, and Karkasy could see that the puffiness around her eyes was due as much to tears as to alcohol. ‘Some illusions are best kept. Everything I thought I knew… upside down, just like that! Trust me, she doesn’t want this.’

‘Oh, I think she might,’ said Karkasy, taking a drink.

She shook her head and took a closer look at him, as though seeing him for the first time.

‘Who are you?’ she asked suddenly. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘My name is Ignace Karkasy,’ he said, puffing out his chest. ‘Winner of the Ethiopic Laureate and—’

‘Karkasy? I know that name…’ she said, rubbing the heel of her palm against her temple as she sought to recall him. ‘Wait, you’re a poet aren’t you?’

‘I am indeed,’ he said. ‘Do you know my work?’

She nodded. ‘You write poetry. Bad poetry I think, I don’t remember.’

Stung by her casual dismissal of his work, he resorted to petulance and said, ‘Well what have you written that’s so bloody great? Can’t say I remember reading anything you’ve written.’

‘Ha! You’ll remember what I’m going to write, I’ll tell you that for nothing!’

‘Really?’ quipped Karkasy, gesturing at the empty bottles on the table. ‘And what might that be?
Memoirs of an Inebriated Socialite
?
Vengeful Spirits of the Vengeful Spirit
?’

‘You think you’re so clever, don’t you?’

‘I have my moments,’ said Karkasy, knowing that there wasn’t much challenge in scoring points over a drunken woman, but enjoying it nonetheless. Anyway, it would be pleasant to take this spoiled rich girl – who was complaining about the biggest break of her life – down a peg or two.

‘You don’t know anything,’ she snapped.

‘Don’t I?’ he asked. ‘Why don’t you illuminate me then?’

‘Fine! I will.’

And she told Ignace Karkasy the most incredible tale he’d ever heard in his life.

‘W
HY
DID
YOU
bring me here?’ asked Horus, backing away from the silver tank. The eyes on the other side of the glass watched him curiously, clearly aware of him in a way that everyone else they had encountered on this strange odyssey was not. Though he knew with utter certainty who those eyes belonged to, he couldn’t accept that this sterile chamber far beneath the earth was where the glory of his life had begun.

Raised on Cthonia under the black smog of the smelteries – that had been his home, his earliest memories a blur of confusing images and feelings. Nothing in his memory recalled this place or the awareness that must have grown within…

‘You have seen the ultimate goal of the Emperor, my friend,’ said Sejanus. ‘Now it is time for you to see how he began his quest for godhood.’

‘With the primarchs?’ said Horus. ‘That makes no sense.’

‘It makes perfect sense. You were to be his generals. Like unto gods, you would bestride planets and claim back the galaxy for him. You were a weapon, Horus, a weapon to be cast aside once blunted and past all usefulness.’

Horus turned from Sejanus and marched along the walkway, stopping periodically to peer through the glass of the tanks. He saw something different in each one, light and form indistinguishable, organisms like architecture, eyes and wheels turning in circles of fire. Power like nothing he had known was at work, and he could feel the potent energies surrounding and protecting the tanks, rippling across his skin like waves in the air.

He stopped by the tank with XI stenciled upon it and placed his hand against the smooth steel, feeling the untapped glories that might have lain ahead for what grew within, but knowing that they would never come to pass. He leaned forward to look within.

‘You know what happens here, Horus,’ said Sejanus. ‘You are not long for this place.’

‘Yes,’ said Horus. ‘There was an accident. We were lost, scattered across the stars until the Emperor discovered us.’

‘No,’ said Sejanus. ‘There was no accident.’ Horus turned from the glass, confused. ‘What are you talking about? Of course there was. We were hurled from Terra like leaves in a storm. I came to Cthonia, Russ to Fenris, Sanguinius to Baal and the others to the worlds they were raised on.’

‘No, you misunderstand me. I meant that it wasn’t an accident,’ said Sejanus. ‘Look around you. You know how far beneath the earth we are and you saw the protective wards carved on the doors that led here. What manner of accident do you think could reach into this facility and scatter you so far across the galaxy? And what were the chances of you all coming to rest on ancient homeworlds of humanity?’

Horus had no answer for him and leaned on the walkway’s railing taking deep breaths as Sejanus approached him. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I am suggesting nothing. I am telling you what happened.’

‘You are telling me nothing!’ roared Horus. ‘You fill my head with speculation and conjecture, but you tell me nothing concrete. Maybe I’m being stupid, I don’t know, so explain what you mean in plain words.’