‘I have. It seems he took a wrong turn at the playback control room.’
‘Please escort him in, brother.’
One of the grand paired doors creaked inwards, disturbing the roost of herald-seraphim clustered over the lintel block with squawks of Thane, Thane. The Chapter Master of the Fists Exemplar held the door open and, with an oddly asynchronous click of metal ‘feet’ on the parquet tiles, Phaeton Laurentis scuttled towards the table.
There was almost nothing left of the magos who had been assigned to the Imperial Fists Second Company to study the extermination of the Ardamantuan chromes. The eye, perhaps, nestled in the centre of an insectile reconstruction of vox-thief pickups, mechanosensors and emotive carapace. That and the occasional quirk of personality. The rest was a reconstruction and, to Koorland’s mind, not one that the magos biologis, or anyone, could have deserved.
Laurentis circled the table on a tripod of articulated metal limbs that flicked up the skirts of ill-fitting robes, and distributed data packets with flicks of mechadendrites. His voice too was harshly synthesised.
‘You have begun to discuss the ork mysticus breed, correct?’ He pivoted his eyeball to Koorland, who nodded. ‘Good. Good. I apologise for my tardiness, Lord Commander, but I have studied this footage frame-by-frame one thousand and eleven times, and I have many demands on my time.’
‘As do we all,’ muttered Lansung.
Once, perhaps, Laurentis would have been human enough to note the not-so-subtle jab, but no longer. ‘As the Venerable Dreadnought-Marshal was cogent enough to recognise, the orks’ psykers are their weakness. The mind of each individual ork operates as a psychic dynamo of sorts, responsive to the ork’s mood and growing exponentially in power in the presence of other orks.’
‘The green roar,’ said Gibran, the hooded Paternoval Envoy of the Navis Nobilite, clearly more discomforted than the others by the psychic blank space generated by the knight abyssal. ‘We are familiar with the effect.’
‘The ork pyskers are able to absorb that power and release it in concentrated, directed form. As we observed on Ullanor, the harder we attack, the stronger the ork psychic field becomes. But as you have all seen…’ he gestured to the image frozen in greyscale on the pict-feed, ‘…the flow of power can be reversed.’
‘Potentially useful,’ said Vangorich, flicking through his packet, seemingly idly. ‘But we would have to draw these psykers out in order to exploit it, and the orks seem wiser than to let that happen. It didn’t happen on Ullanor.’
‘Which is why we must capture one for ourselves,’ said Koorland. ‘Ideally more than one.’
‘At least three, in fact,’ said Laurentis. ‘The Basilikon Astra and the work of the Grand Experiment have identified three ork colonies where the genotype of the mysticus subspecies has been confirmed. It is the opinion of my fellow magi biologi that the observed effect can be artificially induced. And targeted to destructive effect.’
‘An operation on this scale will require considerable manpower,’ said Lansung, with some of his usual bluster now he was on familiar ground. ‘And firepower. We are a council of twelve. We can’t in good conscience authorise that kind of operation without a full vote. Lord Verreault at least should be here to speak for the Astra Militarum.’
Tull and Gibran nodded gravely. Vangorich sat back in his chair and looked to the ceiling with a long sigh.
‘Let me be clear, so there can be no further misunderstandings.’ Koorland leaned forward. Everyone bar Vangorich and Kubik shifted noticeably back. ‘This is not a discussion. I do not ask for opinions and this is not a vote. There is no time to muster a fleet, and even if there were the unfortunate truth is that after Ullanor there is no longer the capacity to resource an expedition on that scale. We must learn to act quickly and decisively, which is why Deathwatch Kill-Teams Umbra, Stalker and Tigrus under the command of Sergeants Kjarvik, Tyris and Tulwei and supported by the Sisters of Silence have already been deployed to those worlds.’
‘Already. Deployed.’ Wienand enunciated each word as though they were too important to share a sentence.
‘You make it sound so ominous,’ said Vangorich.
‘Isn’t it?’ Wienand turned back to Koorland. ‘The Senatorum acknowledges the necessity of the Last Wall and the Deathwatch. And their effectiveness. But many of us, myself included, do not exactly like either. And now you appear to enjoy sole command of both? As I understand it you have even begun extending recruitment beyond those Chapters directly affected by the losses on Ullanor.’ She referred down to the extensive pile of handwritten notes in front of her. ‘Tyris and Tulwei are of the Raven Guard and the Storm Lords. Just how big is the Deathwatch now, Lord Commander? You can’t circumvent the Codex Astartes with loopholes.’
‘Must we have this same argument?’ said Vangorich.
‘Query,’ said Kubik, speaking in his harshly mechanised monotone for the first time since Thane had brought them all to their seats. ‘Objection has been raised to those of us not present, but what of those of us who are? Why are we here?’
‘Because I need ships. I need the best Navigators to pilot them and good men to crew them.’
As soon as Koorland said this, the atmosphere in the room changed. It became circumspect, the Lords each retreating to some private mental fief to survey its limits, what it held of value and, most importantly, what it was worth in trade. Koorland banished it back to the corners with a rap of his knuckles on the table. ‘I say again — this is not a request.’
‘It’s not that,’ said Lansung. He waved a pudgy hand vaguely. ‘There simply aren’t the ships to give you.’
‘The Autocephalax Eternal emerged from the most recent battle relatively unscathed. I will take everything. I can take no more from the Space Marine Chapters without blunting their own effectiveness.’
‘The damage to the flagship remains extensive, lord. Resources are scarce, and Mars has had… other priorities.’
‘The Synod of Mars is united in its support of Terra,’ Kubik interrupted, with a blurt of code. ‘But the Basilikon Astra suffered losses in the invasion of Ullanor and we too have few ships to offer.’
Koorland turned to the Chartist Speaker, Tull, who looked apologetically at something else and shrugged.
‘The Inquisition has ships,’ said Wienand, softly, filling Tull’s silence like a master rhetorician. ‘Experienced crews. The best Navigators in the Imperium.’
Gibran nodded, unasked-for confirmation that this was no exaggeration.
‘I will not give away control of the Deathwatch,’ said Koorland. ‘The Adeptus Astartes are not to be handed out like favours.’
‘You said yourself that the Deathwatch is too great a responsibility for one man. Even if we were to have faith in you to use them honourably, what of your successor as Lord Commander? What of theirs? No. Only the Inquisition can provide the proper authority for such a force, for it does not answer to one leader alone. I am but a representative of many, as is Veritus.’
Koorland rubbed the urge to snarl away on the back of his hand, and glanced sideways to Lady Brassanas who held his gaze with a frosty remove.
‘How many ships do you have?’
‘Several dozen operating from bases close enough to be contactable. Escorts all the way up to Black Ship class. They were built for transportion. I can’t promise it will be comfortable, but I have the capacity to transport several thousand men and their equipment wherever they need to go.’
Koorland let out a rasp of frustration. ‘Very well, inquisitor. As soon as this conference is over I will transfer full authority over the Deathwatch to the Inquisition. But these are my conditions. First, the Deathwatch is to be limited to Chapter-strength. Second, I retain the power to disband them when the current crisis is past. And third, with all respect, you are no military woman and the Inquisition is no military organisation. I will appoint a Space Marine to oversee all strategic aspects. Agreed?’