‘I’m sure you have doubts.’
Zerberyn grunted. ‘You might say that.’
Doubts? How could he have anything but doubts? Unthinkable events were succeeding each other without pause. Traitor Space Marines walked the corridors of a vessel commanded by the sons of Dorn. They were not prisoners. They were not under guard. They had been invited, and they left freely.
And now the Fists Exemplar were going to follow the Traitors. Kalkator had made contact with an outpost under Iron Warriors control. Communications were fragmentary, but it appeared the planetoid had not yet come under ork attack. It was the best destination, despite a journey through the warp that would be longer than ideal, given the damage to the vessels. Kalkator said he could guarantee safe harbour for the Fists Exemplar. Zerberyn could not offer that from an Imperial base.
He wondered if even his ship alone could approach such a port with impunity. He thought not. Not now.
‘Are you questioning your choice?’ Kalkator asked.
‘Of our destination?’
‘No.’ Kalkator nodded to the viewport. ‘Of your actions.’
He should turn his back on the traitor. He should not answer at all. If he must answer, he should say No. Whatever that implied, at least it would not reveal indecision. Doubt. Weakness. Instead, he obeyed the spirit of the perverse, and he confided in Kalkator.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘How could I not?’
To Zerberyn’s surprise, he was glad of his response.
‘Exactly,’ Kalkator said. ‘How could you not?’ His scarred lips parted in a grim smile. He was a gargoyle, and worse. Zerberyn had seen him fight. He knew the brutality that lurked within the Iron Warrior. But the smile was one of understanding. ‘What were your options?’ Kalkator continued. ‘Kill your allies, or leave the world to the orks.’
‘The choice was impossible.’
‘Yet you made the correct one. The orks have lost a world, along with resources and supplies.’
Zerberyn glanced at the absence of Prax. ‘The population…’ he began. He stopped when he heard Kalkator snort.
‘What of them? Are they better off dead than under the orks?’ It was clear Kalkator found Zerberyn’s expression of concern ridiculous. His logic, though, was sound. ‘Die quickly or slowly. Those were their options. You gave them mercy.’ He snorted. ‘They were weak and didn’t deserve it. You were generous.’
‘The choice was impossible,’ Zerberyn agreed, trying to quieten his doubts.
‘I believe you have a better understanding of us now, then.’
‘What do you mean?’
Kalkator’s smile turned bitter. ‘You should come aboard the Palimodes. Peruse our librarium. Enlighten yourself. Learn the history of the Fourth Legion. It is a chronicle of impossible choices and thankless wars. While the other Legions reaped the glory and the murals, we struggled in the mud. Again and again and again, the hard decisions and sacrifice. Always sacrifice. And for what? Tell me honestly. You just struck an important blow for the Imperium. Do you expect gratitude?’
The answer came easily. ‘No.’
‘Condemnation, perhaps?’
Again, no hesitation. ‘Yes.’ He had ordered the killing of loyal forces.
‘And were you wrong?’
‘No.’ To his shock, even this answer was easy. No, he was not wrong. There had not truly been a choice at all. He had done what the war had made necessary. His doubts became anger at the injustice of being condemned for preserving the Imperium.
‘No, you were not wrong,’ said Kalkator. ‘And neither were we, time after time after time, until we finally realised our sacrifices were meaningless.’ He seemed about to say something else. Instead, he shook his head. ‘I must return to the Palimodes. We will speak again.’
Kalkator left. Zerberyn watched him go, thinking of sacrifice, feeling his anger grow into rage. Just before Kalkator disappeared through the librarium door, Zerberyn thought he heard the Iron Warrior’s voice once more. He could not have, because the sound seemed to be at his shoulder. It was less than a whisper, and more profound than a shout. It was a single word.
Brother.
Eight
‘They need more time?’ He was bleeding. His ship was bleeding. Rodolph started to laugh. Pain ripped through his torso and he stopped. At least his vision cleared again.
Groth was in vox-contact with Weylon Kale. ‘Yes, admiral,’ she said. ‘The shipmaster has heard from Chapter Master Koorland. They have made contact with the primarch.’ While she spoke, she kept her eyes on the tacticarium screens and the oculus. Another Mechanicus ship exploded, taking an ork attack ship with it but leaving a gap in the Finality’s flanking escort. ‘Full fire starboard,’ Groth ordered.
Rodolph reached for the vox-unit. ‘Shipmaster Kale,’ he said, ‘why is the strike force not extracting?’
‘The campaign is not finished,’ Kale answered. ‘The primarch is leading an assault to take Caldera back from the orks.’
Impossible, Rodolph thought. He stopped himself before speaking. He realised he was confronting two different impossibilities in Kale’s words. Purging the world of this ork army was one. Before long, the greenskins would destroy what was left of the Imperial fleet. Then there would be nothing to prevent overwhelming reinforcements from reaching planetside. The second impossibility was the presence of Vulkan.
He has been found. Rodolph had believed in the necessity of the mission. He had not believed in its success.
Vulkan has been found.
The impossible was true. His duty, therefore, was simple. He looked at Groth, who was waiting for him to perform that duty. He had no doubt she would have him declared unfit if he did not. She would be right to do so.
‘Tell Chapter Master Koorland we fight until victory,’ Rodolph told Kale.
‘Gladly. The Emperor guide your hand, admiral.’
Rodolph straightened. His heart skipped and hammered, strained by the stimms, yet he felt stronger. He swallowed his blood, tasting iron, tasting determination.
An ork ram ship punched through the corvette Sainted Blade. The Blade’s midsection disintegrated, her remains exploding just as the greenskin vessel was leaving the corpse behind. The blast was too much for the ram ship’s weaker rear shielding. Explosions worked their way forwards along its hull. The ork ship maintained its course for the Finality’s superstructure even as it began to come apart. It streaked over the battleship’s stern and travelled over the hull, slowing but inexorable.
‘Raise the bow!’ Rodolph shouted.
There was no evasion possible. He had his choice of disasters. He sought the lesser one.
The Finality lifted. Rodolph watched the oculus. The movement was imperceptible at first. The ram ship ate up the distance to the superstructure. Too slow, the admiral thought. He braced for the fire and the end.
Visible movement. Graceful. Massive. So gradual. The ram ship’s flight was low, very low. The spires of the hull made contact with the belly of the ork vessel. That was enough. Its nose dropped. Barely more than a fireball of travelling metal, it came down onto the Finality’s hull, striking a few hundred metres from the base of the superstructure.
Rodolph held the command pulpit and leaned against it just before impact. He remained standing as the hammer blow resounded through the battleship. The depth of the tremors told him how deep the wound was. The oculus showed everything forward of the superstructure disappear in the expanding firestorm. Across the bridge, the dull voices of servitors overlapped as they called out damage reports. Groth, face grim, tapped at the tacticarium screens until a clear summary emerged. Rodolph watched the casualty figures hit the tens of thousands and keep climbing. Power was down across two-thirds of the ship. The void shields collapsed. For close to half a minute they remained down, and ork cannon shells opened more gaps in the armour. When they returned, the shields were at less than forty per cent of their strength.