‘My lord Malfons died to preserve your office,’ said Verpall. ‘Do not insult us again.’
‘There, you see. A veiled threat. Another statement that forges my opinion the harder. You must listen to me. Do as I say and we shall have no difficulty between us. Tomorrow, we will proceed to the surface where you will be feted as the saviours that you are. Then, in the Senatorum Imperialis, you will renew your oaths of fealty to the Imperium. Then you shall be acknowledged as the Chapter Master of the Imperial Fists, Second Captain Koorland, with the full will of the Senatorum. After which, we shall formulate plans — with the backing of myself, the Lord Commander Militant, Lord High Admiral Lansung and the others — to end this crisis.’
The Chapter Masters looked to one another. Quesadra drummed three crimson fingers on the table, click click click.
‘What of the moon?’ asked Koorland.
‘Kubik desires it to be left intact.’
‘So Terra dances to Mars’ tune now?’ said Bohemond.
Udo gave him a hard stare. Bohemond returned it. ‘We have convened a meeting of the High Twelve,’ said Udo. ‘There its fate will be decided.’
‘I urge you, my lord, it must be destroyed,’ said Koorland.
‘Whether or not it will be is a matter for the Lords of Terra. You will maintain your blockade until the Navy gathers in sufficient force to take your place. If you perform this task, none shall set foot upon the moon. The Fabricator General has agreed to withdraw his armies for the time being. The moon is under your custodianship. Beyond that it is no longer your concern,’ said Udo evenly. ‘You have pulled the orks’ teeth. Bravo. It is time to let the organs of government decide the best course of action. Know this, lord Chapter Masters, this fleet of yours cannot be allowed to remain whole. Your Chapters shall each receive individual orders. With your might properly directed, we shall end the threat of this Beast once and for all. There shall be no more need for such,’ he lifted a hand, ‘charming displays of confraternity.’
The Space Marines shifted uneasily.
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Koorland hesitantly. ‘When you order its destruction, we shall be on hand to aid you in your task.’
‘There is one last item I must inform you of,’ continued Udo. ‘We cannot allow the news of the destruction of the Imperial Fists to be made public. Your return, Koorland, will be the proof of the indomitability of the Adeptus Astartes of Dorn’s line. You shall return from the dead to great fanfare, the orks cannot defeat you and so forth. I shall have a suitable story provided. You are only one, and that presents a problem. To circumvent this, each of you will provide from among your number Wall Guardians to man the Palace as the Imperial Fists always have.’
‘They are not Imperial Fists,’ said Quesadra.
‘They shall be dressed in the livery of the Imperial Fists,’ said Udo. ‘The populace shall know no different.’
‘Our men will never give up their colours!’ exclaimed Issachar.
‘There will be no honour? No mention of my brothers’ sacrifice?’ Koorland’s face went pale. ‘This is an outrage!’
‘This is politics, captain,’ said Udo. ‘In the aftermath of the moon’s arrival, to inform the people that the Imperial Fists are nigh-on extinct will send a wave of terror throughout the Imperium. Worse would be rumours, for they are pernicious and far harder to deal with than the shock of an announcement. Not a single word of this disaster must become public. You have my sympathy for your loss, captain, but there are practicalities to consider.’ Udo stood, holding up his hands to forestall disagreement. ‘You must forgive me. I return to the surface now. I have much to arrange.’
The Lord Commander bowed sharply, leaving the Space Marines to stare after him as his aides and constructs filed out in his wake.
‘We will not break the fleet,’ said Bohemond.
‘We cannot defy him,’ said Quesadra.
‘We can,’ said Verpall. ‘How can Udo possibly enforce the order? If we did refuse he could do nothing. He would be forced to back down and concoct some story that cast him in a favourable light.’
‘More politics,’ spat Bohemond.
‘I cannot condone that course of action,’ said Koorland. ‘It is close to heresy.’
‘We have no choice,’ said Issachar, ‘if we are to save the Imperium.’
‘A sentiment that has been voiced before,’ said Koorland. ‘Be careful of your thoughts, brother.’
Sixteen
The welcoming of heroes
The Praetorian Way resounded to cheers as the Space Marines marched from the East Gate Landing Hall towards the centre of the Imperial Palace: over three thousand of them, more than had been on Terra at one time for hundreds of years. Millions of citizens lined the route, waving flags bearing the badges of the Chapters. They roared and screamed their approbation, ecstatic at the sight of so many of the Angels of Death. The attack moon loured at them, its porcine face expressing a fury it was impotent to act upon. Aircraft shrieked overhead, pumping coloured smoke into the hazy atmosphere. Laud hailers sang out hymnals and prayers, and servo-skulls bearing vox-projectors roared out the names of the most distinguished battle-brothers, while others recited the Chapter histories of the Space Marines.
Giant screens along the route showed picts of dead orks and burning ships, intercut with the faces of Koorland and his fellow lords, their names and honours written in bold text beneath their images. Music blasted from a hundred places, until the words and melodies were unrecognisable as coherent sounds; they were sonic fragments, an overwhelming cacophony that outsang the loudest battle.
Never had Koorland heard a million voices scream as one, either in adulation or in pain. He went bareheaded at the High Lords’ request, crowned with a laurel wreath. Let the people see their saviour, they said. He envied the twenty sham Imperial Fists marching behind him, their helms locked in place, their audio dampers working at maximum capacity. Koorland kept his face forward. So many people, so many faces, all of them calling his name. Scented flakes of paper rained down on them from every side. It was intoxicating, and it should not be so. He had performed his duty, that was all. He would not allow himself to indulge his emotions. He would not allow himself the folly of pride.
They passed from tightly clustered buildings and into the killing field before the Palace walls. Four kilometres of bare rock, open to the sky. Daylight Wall dominated it, tinted a delicate rose by the rising sun. The Praetorian Way meekly burrowed its way through the East Gate, little more than a wormhole in the fabric of the wall in comparison to the defence’s massive size. The wall was stupefyingly tall. Here Koorland’s gene-seed ancestors had fought and died, protecting the Emperor from the gravest enemy of all. What he and his fellow Chapter Masters had accomplished was nothing by comparison. He reminded himself repeatedly of his own insignificance as they approached the soaring buttresses, towers, gun emplacements and gigantic statuary.
The crowds in the killing field were no less vocal, but free of the resonating plascrete canyons of the outer district the noise was bearable. Daylight Wall, in many senses his wall. Koorland had not seen it for so long. The East Gate reared up, mighty now he was before it, its revealed scale making the wall all the more titanic. The reflected heat of the early sun bounced from it, glinting from the polished armour of the Space Marine column. Koorland’s wargear gleamed newly. Not even his intention to keep his battle damage on show until his brothers were avenged had survived Udo’s blunt realpolitik. Issachar’s Chapter were the battered exception, their creed demanding they mark their wounds well.