Lansung murmured an agreement, turning to shake more hands and mouth more small talk. He was still listening.
‘If Ardamantua turns into a disaster, sir, as you may suspect it might, it may well have long term effects on the security of the Terran Core.’
‘We can deal with anything—’
‘Sir, the problem as I perceive it… and, of course, I am only a mere political outsider… but the problem as I see it is a disagreement about how we deal with it. Certain… parties, certain quarters… they see things in different ways. When push comes to shove, they may well disagree with your proposals as to how to handle the matter. They may wish to employ alternative policies. They would fight you over the correct way to deal with Ardamantua and its fallout.’
Vangorich leaned closer so he could whisper, while Lansung shook hands.
‘That might be fatal. Your power bloc in the Twelve is unassailable, but others might be so desperate they would fight it anyway. Then what? Stagnation. Impasse. Brutal, political, internecine war amongst the High Lords. Paralysis. An inability for the Senatorum to act, to make policy of any sort… just when the Imperium is under threat? In short, my dear lord, my dear friend, the fact is if Ardamantua develops into the threat that it really could be, then it is not the right time for the High Lords of Terra to become locked in a pointless, hopeless battle with themselves, with each other. The Imperium must not be left so vulnerable, nor can such a vulnerability even be risked.’
Lansung looked at Vangorich again.
‘I may be a political outsider, my lord,’ said Vangorich, ‘and my seat and Officio may carry very little weight compared to the influence they used to bear. But I will not stand by and see the Imperium under such jeopardy of political paralysis. After all, if my Officio ever had any purpose, it is as the final safeguard against precisely that danger. And that, sir, is one of the two important reasons you need me as an ally.’
The audience around them was clapping more enthusiastically again. Lansung raised his hand to acknowledge them. His armsmen steered him towards the stage steps.
‘Oh, they love you,’ said Vangorich. ‘I’m not surprised. They’re stamping and shouting. They want you back on the podium for an encore.’
Lansung turned at the foot of the steps and looked back at Vangorich, who had stopped walking with him.
‘We’ll talk again, at your convenience,’ said Vangorich. ‘Soon. Now, go! Go on! Shoo! They want you up there!’
‘What is the second reason?’ asked Lansung.
‘My lord?’
‘You said there were two important reasons why I needed you as an ally,’ Lansung called out over the rising roar of the crowd. ‘What is the second reason?’
‘Very simple, my lord,’ said Vangorich. ‘You may not much want me as an ally. But you definitely do not want me as an enemy.’
Thirty
Laurentis regained consciousness. He knew at once he was pitifully injured. His neck, throat and chin were wet with the torrents of blood that were leaking from his ears and nose. There was pain in his joints and organs that he was sure would be crippling him into immobility if his nerves weren’t so dulled.
He hauled himself to his feet. The tech-adept was dead, and most of Laurentis’ apparatus flickered empty with equivalent lifelessness. Major Nyman lay sprawled on the chamber floor nearby, twitching and moaning.
A terrible noise rumbled from above ground. The whole structure shook from repeated detonations and impacts. Laurentis had lived through fearful events in the previous six weeks, and that had included the most appalling climatic upheavals and gravitation storms.
They had been nothing compared to this tumult.
Leaning on the oozing wall of the blisternest tunnel for support, he dragged his way towards the surface to see for himself what new ordeal had been visited upon them. Noise bursts continued to reverberate though the ruined nest. He could hear what seemed like gargantuan warhorns too, warhorns sounding out long, braying, raucous, apocalyptic notes.
The end of the world. The end of this world. It was about time. They had suffered enough.
Laurentis came out onto the surface, into the dank twilight and the rain, and cowered in the mouth of the tunnel. He gazed in wonder at the stockade and the world beyond. The moon filled the sky. The stockade was on fire and overrun. Around him, in the smoke and lashing rain, he could see figures in yellow, Imperial Fists, locked in furious battle, grossly outnumbered.
The place was swarming with orks.
Laurentis had never seen a living one close up. He had only examined preserved specimens brought back from the frontier. He didn’t really understand what he was looking at. Where had the orks come from? What part did they play in the disaster overwhelming Ardamantua? Were they another by-product threat that had spilled onto the planet because of the subspace realm, like the Chromes?
Laurentis struggled. He knew he was hurt, and that his mind wasn’t clear enough for reasoned consideration. The noises hurt so much. He wished he could make sense of it. Orks? Orks?
Slowly but surely, terror began to permeate his numbed body. The intellectual issues ebbed away. For the first time since he had faced down the Chrome warrior-form in the tunnel, he felt true mortal jeopardy.
In life, in the stinking flesh, the orks were colossal. Every single one of them was as big as a Space Marine. They simply radiated weight and power, from the huge knotted masses of their shoulders to their treelike forearms and wrecking-ball fists. Laurentis had never seen creatures express such manifest strength and density by simply existing. They were muscle and power, they were fury and rage, they were raw noise and brute strength. They were truly monsters.
They were armoured in metals and hides, but the armour was nothing like as crude as he had imagined it would be. Hauberks and shoulder guards were expertly woven from steel wire and reinforced animal skin or synthetic fibre fabrics. Seams were precise. The level of ornamentation was marvellous. Shields were studded and curved for impact resilience, and some of them smoked with heat and ozone, revealing they were self-powered with built-in kinetic fields. The weapons, clamped in prodigious fists, were the immense, burnished cleavers and swords of frost giants, not the crude blades of ogres. The huge-calibre firearms were of eccentric design yet superb craftsmanship.
The orks had dyed and painted their green flesh with powders and inks, making intricate tribal designs and motifs. Laurentis wished he could understand what each of the marks and stripes and hand-prints signified. There was something primevally shocking about an ork head dusted in white or pale blue powder, its eyes glistening, its mouth splitting open to expose splintered yellow tusks and rotting molars, its maw shocking pink and covered in spittle. It was an atavistic thing. The ork was the primordial predator that man had fled from when he had lived in caves. It was the beast, the uber-myth behind all other monsters. It was the murderous face of man’s oldest, purest terror.
The monsters barked, roared and bellowed as they attacked, their tusked, open jaws as massive as those of grox. They hacked and slammed their blades into the warriors of the shield-corps, ripping Adeptus Astartes ceramite plate asunder. Every blow resounded like a thunderclap, like a slap to the face. The rain sprayed off everything, bouncing off armour, helms and blades, mixing with blood, flooding the ground, splashing underfoot.