‘The orks’ no less,’ said Kalkator. ‘If their technical prowess extends beyond firepower and propulsion then they have yet to show it here.’
Looking across the image of the Traitor Space Marine, Zerberyn addressed the other figure. ‘What is your condition, Epistolary?’
‘If you ask after me personally, then I must confess I have been better. The ork psyker aboard that carrier was uncommonly powerful. His effect on me was… intense. But I will recover. With Thane’s foresight Guilliman and Excelsior exited the battle at Vandis with minimal damage, but Paragon, Courageous and Implicit will require extensive repair. Of Paladin of Rubicae and Vindicator there remains no sign and no word. We had almost given up hope on you also, First Captain. We have been waiting for several hours.’
Marcarian gestured for and promptly received a data-slate, then tapped at it before turning to Zerberyn. ‘Real time confirmed and verified: translation plus twenty-two hours and eleven minutes.’ He handed the slate back to the serf. ‘See that Dantalion’s timepieces are updated.’
Zerberyn let out a rough breath.
If the orks’ teleportation capability ameliorated just some of the uncertainties of warp transit then it would be a decisive technological edge, far more so than the gravitational weaponry they had deployed at Vandis. The vagaries of the warp were the rate-limiting factor in any galaxy-scale endeavour. Fleets heading towards the same point from equidistant systems could never be relied upon to arrive even within days of one another. An astropathic message cast into the immaterium from Terra could make it to Alpha Centauri in a week or in a month, and could as easily reach distant Occludus first. It turned keeping track of thousands of active fleet and military elements and an evolving tactical situation played out over segmenta into a logistical nightmare: a challenge that would tax even the mind of a primarch.
‘If we are to remain here, then we must take advantage of the opportunity this presents us,’ said Zerberyn. ‘Orks do not settle, orks do not trade, and yet here they are. We must find out what they are up to here, and in such numbers. The orks appear content to ignore us for now.’
‘A desirable state of affairs given our current condition,’ Kalkator cut in.
‘Is there anything you can discern here, Epistolary?’ asked Zerberyn through gritted teeth.
‘The Emperor has granted me no further insight since our departure from Terra, but I have had little opportunity to meditate on the matter these last few days.’ Honorius sank back into what looked like a command throne and closed his eyes. ‘You have rank, First Captain. I am minded to agree with the warsmith, but I will support any decision you make.’
‘It is made, Epistolary.’
Kalkator emitted a long-suffering sigh. ‘On your own head be it.’
‘I do not ask for your approval.’
‘Good. Because I withhold it, little cousin. But Prax is our world, and if you insist on this course then I too must insist on accompanying you to the surface. Our chances of survival will not be aided by the deaths of you and your warriors.’
Zerberyn glowered. And why not? The greatest impossibility conceivable in his existence, as the decree of Roboute Guilliman and the legacy of Oriax Dantalion had always defined it, had already been borne out with the reformation of the VII Legion. Where was the line now? One more broken rule? Two? Was there still a line?
‘One squad each.’
‘Agreed.’
Kalkator’s pallid features drew into a smile. Zerberyn met the warsmith’s gaze, as cold and grey without as his true armour within.
Twelve
Drakan Vangorich knelt at the shrine to light a candle. There were more to choose between than would ordinarily be the case. The handful already lit burned low, wicks struggling to hold their heads above ever deepening pools of molten wax.
The chapel ordinary was an austere stone cell lacking even a window to distract one’s mind from communion with the God-Emperor. It was generally used by Palace servants and householders for their daily observances, but Vangorich found its asceticism useful. It made him look humble, civilised and discreet. He was, in fact, all of those things, but no one ever lit a candle or left a coin in a collection bowl to affirm their own virtues to themselves. It was an elaborate masquerade, a game in which no one played the part that their costumes dictated, a performance each and every day of his life so that the ever-circling Palace spies might see the Vangorich that Vangorich wished their masters to see. In so doing, he had allowed himself to become almost as hollow as the part he played.
Some habits were hard to break. Even now, with a twenty-four hour curfew of the entire Inner Palace in preparation for the day’s Senatorum business, he maintained the charade of piety.
Vangorich blew out the lighting taper and dropped the smouldering tip into a jar of sand.
Despite his reputation, he was not a creature of solitude. Any number of unfortunate incidents could befall an individual when he was alone. He was in a position to know. Krule was, of course, no more than thirty seconds away, and he himself was by no means defenceless. A man did not rise to become Grand Master of the Officio Assassinorum without possessing skills, but he also knew how far those skills could serve him. This was not a galaxy that rewarded the hubris of men.
Suddenly, he felt the unexpected and rather uncomfortable need to pray. He was a faithful man, of a kind, observant through rote if not from a true spirituality. He appeared to pray because it served him to be seen to pray.
As he generally made these shows of devotion prior to Senatorum meetings — the better to make oneself receptive to the will and wisdom of the God-Emperor — his thoughts had often revolved around upcoming business. Intelligence briefings on unredacted leaks of pre-agenda packets, comprehensively war-gamed conversational cues to feed the High Twelve. Often, but not always. The Imperium was vast, the Officio ever-busy. There had always been something with which to occupy his mind during a peaceful spell.
And yet for all the occasions that he had knelt here in this chapel and closed his eyes for the spies and vid-capture drones, he had never gone so far as to actually pray. It had never seemed necessary to carry the deception that far. He closed his eyes again.
This seemed to be the way most people went about it.
After a minute or two of stray thoughts, he became aware of the entry of another through the doorless stone arch that led into the chapel from the base of Daylight Wall.
His powers of observation were attuned rather than enhanced, a product of training, conditioning and — over the course of his career — natural selection. On this occasion however, no special talent was required. It was difficult to tread softly when one was half again the height of a normal man and encased like a warrior-knight of ancient Terra in plasteel and ceramite.
‘There is a curfew in force in this area, citizen,’ said Koorland, his voice, even unaugmented by helm or speaker, resonant and compelling.
Vangorich turned. He remained on his knees.
The Imperial Fist was magnificent in his armour. He was strength and grace, the expression on his face that which a small child might perceive upon a domineering but ultimately protective father. Through superhuman breadth alone he projected an aura of invincibility. Vangorich knew this to be false, but even so he felt it, and could understand why so many had faith in the power of the Adeptus Astartes to be the wall between humanity and its enemies. Koorland was a sight to stir the soul, to excite the subliminal with imagery of angels and immortals and god-kings armoured in gold.