His hands are sore from the harvest work, but he has slept well and his spirits are good. Strong sunlight always lifts him.
He rises, says a prayer. In the whitewashed lean-to at the back of the hab, there’s a gravity shower. He pulls the cord and stands under its downpour. As he washes, he can hear her singing in the kitchen.
When he goes into the kitchen, dried and dressed, she’s not there. He can smell warm bread. The kitchen door is open, and sunlight streams in across the flagstones. She must have just stepped out for a moment. Stepped out to get eggs. He can smell the swartgrass straw on the warm air.
He sits down at the worn kitchen table.
‘It’s time to get to work, Oll.’
He looks up. There’s a man standing in the doorway, backlit by the sun so that Oll can’t see his face for shadow.
But Oll Persson knows him anyway. Oll touches the little symbol around his neck, an instinctive gesture of protection.
‘I said–’
‘I heard you. I’ll get there when I’m good and ready. My wife’s making breakfast.’
‘You’ll lose the light, Oll.’
‘My wife’s making breakfast.’
‘She isn’t, Oll.’
The man comes into the kitchen. He hasn’t changed. He wouldn’t though, would he? He never will. That confidence. That good-looking… charm.
‘I don’t recall inviting you in,’ says Oll.
‘No one ever does,’ replies the man. He helps himself to a cup of milk.
‘I’m not interested in this,’ Oll says firmly. ‘Whatever you’ve come to say, I’m not interested. You’ve wasted a trip. This is my life now.’
The man sits down facing him.
‘It isn’t, Oll.’
Oll sighs.
‘It’s great to see you again, John. Now get out of my hab.’
‘Don’t be like that, Oll. How’ve you been? Still pious and devoted?’
‘This is my life now, John.’
‘It isn’t,’ the man says.
‘Get out. I don’t want anything to do with anything.’
‘You don’t have a choice, I’m afraid. Sorry. Things have escalated a little.’
‘John–’ Oll almost growls the warning.
‘I’m serious. There aren’t many of us, Oll. You know that. You and me, we could set our hands on the table here, and count them off, and we’d still have fingers spare. There never were many of us. Now there are even fewer.’
Oll gets up.
‘John, listen. Let me be as plain as I can. I never had time for this. I never wanted to be part of anything. I don’t want to know what trouble you’ve brought to my door. I like you, John. Honestly, I do. But I hoped never to see you again. I just want to live my life.’
‘Don’t be greedy. You’ve lived several.’
‘John–’
‘Come on, Oll! You and me? Anatol Hive? Come on. The Panpacific? Tell me that doesn’t count for anything.’
‘It was a lifetime ago.’
‘Several. Several lifetimes.’
‘This is my life now.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
Oll glares at him.
‘I’d like you to go, John. Go. Now. Before my wife gets back from the coops.’
‘She’s not coming back from the coops, Oll. She never went out to the coops.’
‘Get out, John.’
‘This is your life, is it? This? An ex-soldier turned farmer? Retired to a life of bucolic harmony? Good honest toil in exchange for plain food and a good night’s rest? Really, Oll? This is your life?’
‘This is my life now.’
The man shakes his head.
‘And what will you do when you’ve had enough of that? Will you quit it and move on to something else? When you’re tired of farming, what next? Teaching? Button-making? Will you join the Navy? You might as well, you’ve been Army already. What will you do? An ex-soldier-farmer-widower?’
‘Widower?’ Oll snaps, flinching from the word as though it was buzzing in his face to sting him. ‘What are you talking about, widower?’
‘Oh, come on, Oll. Don’t make me do all the hard work. You know this. She’s not out at the coop. She’s not making you breakfast. She wasn’t in here just now singing. She never came to settle on Calth. She was gone, the poor love, before you ever joined the Army. Last time you joined the Army. Come on, Oll, your mind’s a bit mixed up. It’s the shock.’
‘Leave me alone, John.’
‘You know I’m right. You know it. I can see it in your face.’
‘Leave me alone.’
‘Come on. Think.’
Oll stares at him.
‘Are you in my head, John Grammaticus? Are you in my bloody head?’
‘I swear I’m not, Oll. I wouldn’t do that uninvited. This is all you. Trauma. It’ll pass.’
Oll sits down again.
‘What’s happening?’ he whispers.
‘I haven’t got much time. I’m not here long. Just talking to you is taking a huge effort. We need you, Oll.’
‘They sent you? I bet they did.’
‘Yes, they did. They did. But I didn’t mean them. I meant humans. The human race needs you, Oll. Everything’s gone to shit. So, so badly. You wouldn’t believe it. He’s going to lose, and if he loses, we all lose.’
‘Who’s going to lose?’ asks Oll.
‘Who do you think?’
‘What’s he going to lose?’
‘The war,’ says John. ‘This is it, Oll. This is the big one, the one we always talked about. The one that we always saw coming. It’s happening already. Bloody primarchs killing each other. And the latest round of executions happens here, today. Right here on Calth.
‘I don’t want any part of it. I never did.’
‘Tough shit, Oll. You’re one of the Perpetuals, whether you like it or not.’
‘I’m not like you, John.’
John Grammaticus sits back and smiles, pointing a finger at Oll.
‘No, you’re bloody not. I’m only what I am now thanks to xenos intervention. You, you’re still a true Perpetual. You’re still like him.’
‘I’m not. And I don’t have what you have. The talents. The psyk.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Maybe that’s why you’re important. Maybe you’re just important because you’re here. There are only three like us in the whole Five Hundred Worlds right now, and only one of them on Calth. Ground zero. That’s you. This is down to you. You don’t have a choice. This is down to you.’
‘Get someone else, John. Explain it to someone else.’
‘You know that doesn’t work. No one else is old enough. No one else understands as much. No one else has the… perspective. I tell anyone about this, they’ll just dismiss me as insane. And I don’t have time to spend another eighteen years in an asylum like last time I tried it. You’ve got to do this.’
‘Do what?’
‘Get out of here. They’re going to slide this world. An interstitial vortex. The old Immaterium sidestep. You’ve got to be ready to step through that door when it opens.’
‘And go where?’
It’s fallen dark outside. The sun’s gone in. Grammaticus looks up, and shivers.
‘You’ve got to get something, and you’ve got to bring it to me. Step through the door when it opens, and bring it to me. I’ll wait for you.’
He hesitates.
‘I’ll try my damnedest to wait for you, anyway.’
‘Where am I going, John?’
It’s getting dark so fast. Grammaticus shrugs.
‘We’re running out of time, Oll. With your permission, I’ll show you.’
‘Don’t you bloody d–’
Somewhere. It stinks of the warp, of burning void shields. The walls are polished ebony and etched ceramite, inlaid with crystal and ivory and rubies. Gold leaf edges the hatch frames. The place is so big. So very big. Vaults and chambers, dark and monumental, like the naves of cathedrals. Of a tomb. Of a necropolis catacomb. The ground is black marble.