‘The Autocephalax Eternal will be at the forefront of this great endeavour,’ Lansung said. Though he sounded sick, the Great Chamber resounded with more celebration.
We’re doing it, Vangorich thought. We’re doing the work of the orks for them. And we’re cheering our own destruction.
‘What if the invasion fails?’ He heard himself making an effort he already knew was futile. ‘What then? If the bulk of the Terran regiments of the Astra Militarum are lost in this venture, what defences will remain?’
‘Your lack of faith troubles me, Grand Master,’ Tull said. ‘The Guard will return triumphant, and the orks will have been routed. There will be no need for defence.’
Do you really believe that? Vangorich wondered. Do you really think this fever dream will come to pass? Are you capable of seeing beyond the shift in the balance of power that you are orchestrating?
There were no answers. Whether Tull believed what she was saying or not no longer mattered. Vangorich could feel the machinery of the invasion already in motion. Tull had spoken, and conjured events into reality.
‘This course of action is a folly,’ Veritus said. ‘This obsession with the orks will only open the way for the true enemy.’
His words were swallowed in the applause for Tull. The rest of the Twelve didn’t acknowledge that he had spoken. Vangorich felt something that was not too distant from sympathy for the inquisitor. He might have Wienand on the defensive, but the man’s hand was weak. Insisting that the orks were not the primary threat would make him appear delusional. Veritus was clearly intelligent and driven by belief rather than political gain, yet his dogmatism was causing its own damage.
When the assembly dissolved, it was in a spirit of jubilation as ferocious as the initial excitement that had greeted Lansung’s victory. But there was an edge of hysteria, too. The hope was brittle. The investment in Tull’s plan was total, but the need to believe in it was even stronger than the belief itself.
When Vangorich left the dais, Veritus walked with him. The inquisitor’s style of interaction was as blunt as Wienand’s was subtle.
‘They are even greater fools than I supposed,’ Veritus said.
‘And?’
‘The path we are on will lead to disaster.’
‘The disaster is already here.’
‘A worse one, then.’
‘What would you recommend, Inquisitor Veritus? Do you see actions that either the Inquisition or the Officio could take that would alter the course that has been set? Would Speaker Tull’s death matter now?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘No, it wouldn’t.’ Too many of the other High Lords were invested in the Crusade. If Tull fell, one of her colleagues would turn her into a martyr and become the new face of the endeavour. ‘Or are you calling for the assassination of the entire Twelve? No, I don’t think you are.’
In this moment, though, Vangorich felt the temptation of that idea. He walked faster, leaving the other old predator behind.
As he left the Great Chamber, Vangorich forced himself not to clench his fists in frustration. Once again, he had been helpless to prevent madness piled atop catastrophe. The closest thing he had to hope was the latest report from Krule. If the arrival of the moon had Wienand even more determined to reach the Inquisitorial Fortress, then perhaps there was something there that might be worthy of actual hope. He detested being in the dark, but Wienand, at least, was sane.
Where did that leave the Officio? At best, assisting an effort about which Vangorich knew nothing. The so-called Proletarian Crusade would march ahead, and the avalanche of events would continue. He stalked towards his quarters, filled with dread and wishing for the punishment of fools.
Six
The Militant Fire was not a young ship. When Leander Narkissos had acquired her, five decades earlier, she had been showing her age. The Brutas-class cargo hauler had spent half a millennium making rimward runs, her fortunes declining with each successive owner. Narkissos’ immediate predecessor had not, technically, been a pirate, but the dividing line had been a thin one, and he had finally been forced to divest himself of his business and his ship before the Adeptus Arbites seized both. Narkissos had been starting out then, his trade in goods transportation just showing promising growth, but he had been a long way from wealthy. He was able to acquire the Fire on very favourable terms. He had set about restoring her pride.
He was pleased to think that he had done well by his ship. Fifty years of work, of endlessly pouring his profits back into renovations and improvements, and it was really only now that he believed the Militant Fire was living up to her name. She was not a large transport, so Narkissos specialised in the delicate and the expensive. The ship’s handsome lines and reborn lustre advertised his expertise. He fulfilled all promises, and as his reputation grew, it burnished the beauty of the Fire still further. Narkissos and his ship were an excellent team.
He was sorry that they were both going to die.
First Mate Demetria Kondos walked onto the bridge. Narkissos shook himself from his meditations on the coming end and rose from his command throne. Built into the bulkhead behind the throne was a small room that, with its book-lined walls, looked like a study, but was reserved for holding meetings with small numbers of privileged clients. Its ornamental status was also its vital function. It impressed the merchants he courted with its intimacy and sober elegance. It permitted quiet discussion in a location of high importance. It cemented deals. It served no command purpose on the Fire, yet it helped provide the means for the ship’s existence.
It was also a good location for Narkissos to have a private word without having to leave the bridge. He nodded to Kondos and she joined him in the chamber.
‘So?’ he asked.
‘The work is almost done. I won’t say that it’s doing much for morale.’
‘I can imagine.’ It wasn’t doing much for his, either. He had ordered the stripping out of all specialised stasis fields and containers. The cargo hold of the Militant Fire was being turned back into a multi-levelled empty space. ‘Can’t be helped. We’re going to be transporting personnel.’
‘If we had time to do it right…’
‘We don’t.’ The call from Terra had come while they were unloading at Mars. They had returned at full speed, reshaping the hold on the fly.
‘She deserves better.’ Kondos had an even longer history with the Fire than Narkissos. She had been part of the crew under the previous owner, and had been the lone member who had elected to stay on after the acquisition. Narkissos had been glad of her experience. It was colourful, and much of it not for official consumption. Narkissos cultivated a refined image, but trade in the Imperium could get rough. Kondos was good at spotting trouble before it happened, and just as good at dealing with it when it couldn’t be avoided. In initial meetings with potential clients, Narkissos was the portrait of elegant discretion. She was the face of weathered maturity and relaxed experience. If nothing ruffled her, then nothing was wrong. Together they were the guarantee that the cargo would be handled with sensitivity and security.
‘Yes, she does,’ Narkissos said. ‘But the treatment we’re giving the ship isn’t the big problem, is it?’
‘No. Her death is.’
‘And ours.’
Kondos shrugged. ‘No, that isn’t going over that well, either.’