Tawren opens her eyes.
‘Captain,’ she nods, an underlying, tremulous carrier signal clicking along behind her voice.
‘Our priority is the weapons grid, server. What progress have you made?’
‘I can confirm,’ she says calmly, ‘that this engine is not capable of either overriding control of the grid, or of managing the grid’s operation after an override. It is simply not powerful enough.’
‘Is there an alternative?’
‘I am attempting to decide that,’ she replies. ‘So far there does not appear to be a single, functioning data-engine on Calth rated sufficient for the job that is not also infected with the enemy scrapcode. For a definitive answer, however, you must wait until my final determination.’
‘How long will that take?’ asks Ventanus.
‘I do not know, captain,’ she replies.
Ventanus hears footsteps behind him, and looks around.
Selaton stands in the doorway.
‘You’d better come, sir,’ he says.
Ventanus nods.
‘Inform me the moment you have an answer,’ he says to Tawren, and exits.
Tawren drifts back into the dataverse. Her serenity is practised and deliberate. A server can manage far greater degrees of data manipulation whilst in a calm state of mind. In truth, she is fighting a core of anxiety.
With the data-engine active, she can see it all. Or, at least, she can see more of the situation’s totality than anyone except the enemy. She can see the truly frightening scale of the losses: the death toll, the crippling injury to the XIII Legion, the burning cities, the slaughtered populations, the devastated geography and the systematic annihilation of the fleet. Under any other circumstances, Calth would be considered a loss, and the battle a defeat.
The Ultramarines‘ characteristic determination is the only thing keeping them going: their fearless resolve to devise a new practical, to circumvent and outplay even hopeless odds.
These are worse than hopeless odds. Tawren can see that. She has a simultaneous dataview of the globe, and she can see that even the surviving loyalist forces are hard-pressed and dying, cornered, fighting off attack from all sides, slowly facing elimination. They are too scattered and too isolated. The enemy has superiority in every way.
This is extinction. The grid might have made a difference, but there is no way of accessing or controlling it.
This is extinction. This is the death of Calth. This is the end of the XIII Legion.
‘I thought you needed to see this,’ says Selaton. He leads Ventanus outside, onto the cratered lawns of the palace.
‘A prisoner?’ Ventanus asks dubiously.
Most of the enemy fled after the 4th ripped into them. Many stood their ground and fought to the death. But this one has accepted capture.
He is standing on the lawn by the broken fountain, guarded by four Ultramarines.
Ventanus leaves Selaton to his duties and approaches the Word Bearer. The warrior’s armour is dented and bloody. His face is smeared with gore. He looks at Ventanus, and almost seems to smile.
‘Name,’ says Ventanus.
‘Morpal Cxir,’ replies the Word Bearer.
One of the guarding Ultramarines shows Ventanus the weapons that the Word Bearer was carrying when he was captured. A broken boltgun. A large dagger made of black metal with a wire-wound handle. The dagger is curious. It looks ritualistic and ceremoniaclass="underline" less of a weapon and more a totem of status.
‘Were you the ranking officer?’ Ventanus asks.
‘I was in command,’ Cxir admits.
‘Any reason I shouldn’t just kill you, you bastard?’ Ventanus asks.
‘Because you still live by a code. Your Imperial truth. Your honour. Your ethics.’
‘All of which you have forgotten.’
‘All of which we have specifically renounced,’ Cxir corrects.
‘This is the old enmity?’ asks Ventanus.
Cxir laughs.
‘How typically arrogant! How characteristic of the Ultramar mindset. Yes, we slaked our dislike of you today. But that is not why we attacked Calth.’
‘Why then?’ asks Ventanus.
‘The galaxy is at war,’ replies Cxir. ‘A war against the False Emperor. We follow Horus.’
Ventanus doesn’t answer. It makes no sense, but the apparent senselessness must at least be set in the context of the day’s unimaginable events. He takes another look at the ritual knife. It is ugly. Its shape and design make him uncomfortable. He believes that the brotherhood cultists were carrying similar weapons. He slides it into his belt. He will show it to the server. Perhaps the data-engine can provide some illuminating information.
‘So the galaxy is at war?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
‘A civil war?’
‘The civil war,’ replies Cxir, as though proud of it.
‘Warmaster Horus has turned against the Emperor?’
Cxir nods.
‘News takes time to travel,’ he says convivially. ‘You will hear of it soon enough. Except you won’t. None of you. None of the XIII. Accept the fact that you have just hours to live.’
‘If you allowed yourself to become a captive just so you could try to threaten us,’ says Sullus, walking up to join them, ‘then you are a fool.’
‘I am not here to threaten you,’ says Cxir. ‘I would have preferred to have died, but I have a duty as commander. A duty to offer you terms.’
Sullus draws his sword.
‘Give me permission to silence this traitor,’ he says.
‘Wait,’ replies Ventanus. He looks at the Word Bearer. Cxir’s expression is scornful and confident.
‘He knows we won’t hurt him while he is a captive, Sullus,’ Ventanus says. ‘He has mocked us for it. He has mocked our civilised code and our principles. He taunts us for having humanitarian ethics. If that’s the worst thing he can say, let him.’
Sullus growls.
‘Seriously, Teus,’ says Ventanus, ‘he thinks that’s an insult? That we have moral standards and he does not?’
Cxir looks Ventanus in the eyes.
‘Your ethical stance is admirable, captain,’ he says. ‘Do not misunderstand me. We of the XVII admire you. We always have. There is much to be admired about the august Ultramarines. Your resolve. Your sense of duty. Your loyalty, especially. These comments are not intended to appear snide, captain. I am being genuine. What you stand for and represent is anathema to us, and we have taken arms against it. We will not rest until it is dead and overthrown. That does not prevent us, all the while, from admiring the strength with which you champion it.’
Cxir looks from Ventanus to Sullus and then back again.
‘You were everything we could not be,’ he says. ‘Then the truth was revealed to us. The Primordial Truth. And we realised that you were everything we should not be.’
‘His jabbering bores me,’ Sullus says to Ventanus.
‘You are creatures of honour and reason,’ says Cxir. ‘You understand terms. That is why I refrained from seizing a death I was happy to embrace, and undertook this humiliation. I have come to offer you terms.’
‘You have one minute to express them,’ says Ventanus.
‘In failing to take the palace and destroy you,’ Cxir begins, ‘I have disappointed my field commander. Leptius Numinus was identified as a primary target. Do you understand what I’m saying, captain? Just because you’ve defeated my force, it will not prevent others from coming. At the time of my capture, Commander Foedral Fell was advancing on Leptius with his battlehost. They can’t be long away. Fell will crush you. You barely broke my force. His is twenty times the size. And he is not a creature of honour, captain, not as you understand the principle. Surrender now. Surrender to me, and I will vouch on your behalf. You, your forces here, their lives will be spared.’