Galaxy in Flames (14 page)

‘But for your unlikely presence at the death of the Warsinger, you would never have been granted this chance, Tarvitz,’ said Eidolon. ‘Understand it for the opportunity it represents.’

Tarvitz looked up at the lord commander sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Now you know what we are attempting, perhaps you are ready to become a part of this Legion’s future instead of simply one of its line officers.’

‘It is not without risk,’ Fabius pointed out, ‘but I could work such wonders upon your flesh. I can make you more than you are, I can bring you closer to perfection.’

‘Think of the alternative,’ said Eidolon. ‘You will fight and die knowing that you could have been so much more.’

Tarvitz looked at the two warriors before him, both Fulgrim’s chosen and both exemplars of the Legion’s relentless drive towards perfection.

He saw then that he was very, very far from perfection as they understood it, but for once welcomed such a failing, if failing it was.

‘No,’ he said, backing away. ‘This is… wrong. Can you not feel it?’

‘Very well,’ said Eidolon. ‘You have made your choice and it does not surprise me. So be it. You must leave now, but you are ordered not to speak of what you have seen here. Return to your men, Tarvitz. Isstvan III will be a tough fight.’

‘Yes, commander,’ said Tarvitz, relieved beyond measure to be leaving this chamber of horrors.

Tarvitz saluted and all but fled the laboratory, feeling as though the specimens suspended in the tanks were watching him as he went.

As he emerged into the brightness of the apothecarion, he could not shake the feeling that he had just been tested.

Whether he had passed or failed was another matter entirely.

SEVEN

The God Machine

A favour

Subterfuge

T
HE COLD SENSATION
snaking through Cassar’s mind was like an old friend, the touch of something reassuring. The metallic caress of the
Dies Irae
as its cortical interfaces meshed with his consciousness would have been terrifying to most people, but it was one of the few constants Moderati Titus Cassar had left in the galaxy.

That and the Lectitio Divinitatus.

The Titan’s bridge was dim, lit by ghostly readouts and telltales that lined the ornate bridge in hard greens and blues. The Mechanicum had been busy, sending cloaked adepts into the Titan, and the bridge was packed with equipment he didn’t yet know the purpose of. The deck crew manning the plasma reactor at the war machine’s heart had been readying the Titan for battle since the
Vengeful Spirit
arrived in the Isstvan system, and every indication was that the
Dies Irae
’s major systems were all functioning better than ever.

Cassar was glad of any advantage the war machine could get, but somewhere deep down he resented the thought of anyone else touching the Titan. The interface filaments coiled deeper into his scalp, sending an unexpected chill through him. The Titan’s systems lit up behind Cassar’s eyes as though they were a part of his own body. The plasma reactor was ticking over quietly, its pent-up energy ready to erupt into full battle order at his command.

‘Motivation systems are a little loose,’ he said to himself, tightening the pressure on the massive hydraulic rams in the Titan’s torso and legs.

‘Weapons hot, ammunition loaded,’ he said, knowing that it would take no more than a thought to unleash them.

He had come to regard the power and magnificence of the
Dies Irae
as the Emperor personified. Cassar had resisted the thought at first, mocking Jonah Aruken’s insistence that the Titan had a soul, but it had become more and more obvious why he had been chosen by the saint.

The Lectitio Divinitatus was under threat and the faithful had to be defended. He almost laughed aloud as the thought formed, but what he had seen on the Medicae deck had only deepened the strength of his conviction that he had chosen the right path.

The Titan was a symbol of that strength, an avatar of divine wrath, a god-machine that brought the Emperor’s judgment to the sinners of Isstvan.

‘The Emperor protects,’ whispered Cassar, his voice drifting down through the layers of readouts in his mind, ‘and he destroys.’

‘Does he now?’

Cassar snapped out of his thoughts and the Titan’s systems retreated beneath his consciousness. He looked up in sudden panic, but let out a relieved breath as he saw Moderati Aruken standing over him.

Aruken snapped a switch and the bridge lights flickered to life. ‘Be careful who hears you, Titus, now more than ever.’

‘I was running through pre-battle checks,’ said Cassar.

‘Of course you were, Titus. If Princeps Turnet hears you saying things like that you’ll be for it.’

‘My thoughts are my own, Jonah. Not even the princeps can deny me that.’

‘You really believe that? Come on, Titus. You know full well this cult stuff isn’t welcome. We were lucky on the Medicae deck, but this is bigger than you and me and it’s getting too dangerous.’

‘We can’t back away from it now,’ said Cassar, ‘not after what we saw.’

‘I’m not even sure what I saw,’ said Aruken defensively.

‘You’re joking, surely?’

‘No,’ insisted Aruken, ‘I’m not. Look, I’m telling you this because you’re a good man and the
Dies Irae
will suffer if you’re not here. She needs a good crew and you’re part of it.’

‘Don’t change the subject,’ said Cassar. ‘We both know that what we saw on the Medicae deck was a miracle. You have to accept that before the Emperor can enter your heart.’

‘Listen, I’ve been hearing some scuttlebutt on the deck, Titus,’ said Aruken, leaning closer. ‘Turnet’s been asking questions: about us. He’s asking about how deep this runs, as though we’re part of some hidden conspiracy. It’s as if he doesn’t trust us any more.’

‘Let him come.’

‘You don’t understand. When we’re in battle we’re a good team, and if we get… I don’t know… thrown in a cell or worse, that team gets broken up and there isn’t a better crew for the
Dies Irae
than us. Don’t let this saint business break that up. The Crusade will suffer for it.’

‘My faith won’t allow me to make compromises, Jonah.’

‘Well that’s all it is,’ snapped Aruken. ‘
Your
faith.’

‘No,’ said Titus, shaking his head. ‘It’s your faith too, Jonah, you just don’t know it yet.’

Aruken didn’t answer and slumped into his own command chair, nodding at the readouts in front of Cassar. ‘How’s she looking?’

‘Good. The reactor is ticking over smoothly and the targeting is reacting faster than I’ve seen it in a while. The Mechanicum adepts have been tinkering so there are a few more bells and whistles to play with.’

‘You say that as if it’s a bad thing, Titus. The Mechanicum know what they’re doing. Anyway, the latest news is that we’ve got twelve hours to go before the drop. We’re going in with the Death Guard on support duties. Princeps Turnet will brief us in a few hours, but it’s basically pounding the ground and scaring the shit out of the enemy. Sound good?’

‘It sounds like battle.’

‘It’s all the same thing for the
Dies Irae
when the bullets are flying,’ said Aruken.

‘T
HIS REMINDS ME
of why I was so proud,’ said Loken, looking at the speartip assembling on the
Vengeful Spirit
’s embarkation deck. ‘Joining the Mournival, and just to be a part of this.’

‘I am still proud,’ said Torgaddon. ‘This is my Legion. That hasn’t changed.’

Loken and Torgaddon, fully armoured and ready for the drop, stood at the head of a host of Astartes. More than a third of the Legion was there, thousands of warriors arrayed for war. Loken saw veterans alongside newly inducted novices, assault warriors with chainswords and bulky jump packs, and devastators hefting heavy bolters and lascannons.

Sergeant Lachost was speaking with his communications squad, making sure they understood the importance of keeping a link with the
Vengeful Spirit
once they were down in the Choral City.

Apothecary Vaddon was checking and re-checking his medical gear, the narthecium gauntlet with its cluster of probes and the reductor that would harvest gene-seeds from the fallen.

Iacton Qruze, who had been a captain for so long that he was as old as an Astartes could be and still count himself a warrior, was lecturing some of the more recent inductees on the past glories of the Legion that they had to live up to.

‘I’d be happier with the Tenth,’ said Loken, returning his attention to his friend.

‘And I with the Second,’ replied Torgaddon, ‘but we can’t always have what we want.’

‘Garvi!’ called a familiar voice. Loken turned and saw Nero Vipus approaching them, leaving the veterans of Locasta to continue their preparations for the drop. ‘Nero,’ said Loken, ‘good to have you with us.’ Vipus clapped Loken’s shoulder guard with the augmetic hand that had replaced the organic one he’d lost on Sixty-Three Nineteen. ‘I wouldn’t have missed this,’ he said.

‘I know what you mean,’ replied Loken. It had been a long time since they had lined up on the
Vengeful Spirit
as brothers, ready to fight the Emperor’s good fight. Nero Vipus and Loken were the oldest of friends, back from the barely remembered blur of training, and it was reassuring to have another familiar face alongside him.

‘Have you heard the reports from Isstvan Extremis?’ asked Vipus, his eyes alight.

‘Some of them.’

‘They say the enemy has got some kind of psychic leadership caste and that their soldiers are fanatics. My choler’s up just thinking about it.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Torgaddon. ‘I’m sure you’ll kill them all.’

‘It’s like Davin again,’ said Vipus, baring his teeth in a grimace of anticipation.

‘It’s not like Davin,’ said Loken. ‘It’s nothing at all like Davin.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s not a bloody swamp, for a start,’ interjected Torgaddon.

‘It would be an honour if you’d go into battle with Locasta, Garvi,’ said Vipus expectantly. ‘I have a space in the drop-pod.’

‘The honour is mine,’ replied Loken, taking his friend’s hand as a sudden thought occurred to him. ‘Count me in.’

He nodded to his friends and made his way through the bustling Astartes towards the solitary figure of Iacton Qruze. The Half-heard watched the preparations for war with undisguised envy and Loken felt a stab of sympathy for the venerable warrior. Qruze was an example of just how little even the Legion’s apothecaries knew of an Astartes’ physiology. His face was as battered and gnarled as ancient oak, but his body was as wolf-tough, honed by years of fighting and not yet made weary by age.

An Astartes was functionally immortal, meaning that only in death did duty end, and the thought sent a chill down Loken’s spine.

‘Loken,’ acknowledged Qruze as he saw him approach.

‘You’re not coming down to see the sights of the Sirenhold with us?’ asked Loken.

‘Alas, no,’ said Qruze. ‘I am to stay and await orders. I haven’t even got a place in the order of battle for the pacification force.’

‘If the Warmaster has no plans for you, Iacton, then I have something you could do for me,’ said Loken, ‘if you would do me the honour?’

Qruze’s eyes narrowed. ‘What sort of a favour?’

‘Nothing too arduous, I promise you.’

‘Then ask.’

‘There are some remembrancers aboard, you may have heard of them: Mersadie Oliton, Euphrati Keeler and Kyril Sindermann?’

‘Yes, I know of them,’ confirmed Qruze. ‘What of them?’

‘They are… friends of mine and I would consider it an honour if you were to seek them out and ask after them. Check on them and make sure that they are well.’

‘Why do these mortals matter to you, captain?’

‘They keep me honest, Iacton,’ smiled Loken, ‘and they remind me of everything we ought to be as Astartes.’

‘That I can understand, Loken,’ replied Qruze. ‘The Legion is changing, boy. I know you’ve heard. We bore you with this before, but I feel in my bones that there’s something big just over the horizon that we can’t see. If these people help keep us honest, then that’s good enough for me. Consider it done, Captain Loken.’

‘Thank you, Iacton,’ said Loken. ‘It means a lot to me.’

‘Don’t mention it boy,’ grinned Qruze. ‘Now get out of here and kill for the living.’

‘I will,’ promised Loken, taking Qruze’s wrist in the warrior’s grip.

‘Speartip units to posts,’ said the booming voice of the deck officer.

‘Good hunting in the Sirenhold,’ said Qruze. ‘Lupercal!’

‘Lupercal!’ echoed Loken.

As he jogged towards Locasta’s drop-pod, it almost felt as if the events of Davin were forgotten and Loken was just a warrior again, fighting a crusade that had to be won and an enemy that deserved to die.

It took war to make him feel like one of the Sons of Horus again.

‘T
O VICTORY
!’
SHOUTED
Lucius.

The Emperor’s Children were so certain of the perfection of their way of war that it was traditional to salute the victory before it was won. Tarvitz was not surprised that Lucius led the salute; many senior officers attended the pre-battle celebration and Lucius was keen to be noticed. The Astartes seated at the lavish banquet around him joined his salute, their cheers echoing from the alabaster walls of the banqueting hall. Captured banners, honoured weapons once carried by the Chosen of Fulgrim and murals of heroes despatching alien foes hung from the walls, glorious reminders of past victories.

The primarch himself was not present, thus it fell to Eidolon to take his place at the feast, exhorting his fellow Astartes to celebrate the coming victory. Lucius was equally vocal, leading his fellow warriors in toasts from golden chalices of fine wine.

Tarvitz set down his goblet and rose from the table.

‘Leaving already, Tarvitz?’ sneered Eidolon.

‘Yes!’ chimed in Lucius. ‘We’ve only just begun to celebrate!’

‘I’m sure you will do enough celebrating for both of us, Lucius,’ said Tarvitz. ‘I have matters to attend to before we make the drop.’