In one fluid movement, Thane slammed a sickle mag home into the breech of his own Umbra-pattern boltgun. The Umbra was a venerable pattern, thought of as uncouth and archaic after the necessities of the Heresy. Despite lacking the finesse and refinements of other patterns, Thane found the Umbra to be a reliable and reassuringly bombastic bolter. A Chapter workhorse of a weapon.
‘This is Maximus Thane, captain of the Second Company, Fists Exemplar Chapter. The order is given…’
Thane leaned into the boltgun and picked out the first of the unfortunate green beasts to die: a pale monstrosity, brutally etched with scars and jangling with rings, tribal trinkets and piercings.
‘Fire.’
SIX
On the Feast Day of Deliverance, it was traditional for the Senatorum Imperialis to restrict its meetings to the Imperium’s most urgent business. The Imperial Palace was lifted by evensong; blessed incense was burned by the brazier and both Adeptus Custodes and Astartes attendants were required to adopt ceremonial attire. The cavernous halls and corridors of the Palace were decked with reverential tapestries and flocks of winged cherubim read from endless scrolls the lists of fallen notables and petitionaries. Prayers and benedictions were offered and armies of planetary ambassadors admitted in rotating attendances to witness ritual silences, followed by volley shots and a salute issued by honour guards of decorated Lucifer Blacks.
Beyond the urgent business of their own mighty bureaucracies, the High Lords of Terra were occasionally called to order during the solemnities and celebrations. The Samarkan hive plague had necessitated such measures, as had the mutiny at Zyracuse. Since the Ardamantuan Atrocity, the tedium of unscheduled council meetings had become a common distraction for the Senatorum Imperialis.
Today’s urgent business regarded the loss of the shrine worlds of the Jeronimus Fyodora cluster and that glittering jewel of piety, the cardinal world of Fleur-de-Fides. Most days there were reports of some kind of distant disaster. It had become almost commonplace. Such news — if reported publically — would have thrown Terra’s billions into a state of panic and mobilised thousands of interest groups and influentials.
It was agreed that this was not in the best interests of the Imperium. Instead the horror of such catastrophes was restricted to the staid and stuffy assemblages of the High Lords: informal meetings of the Twelve in which the great and good of Terra put such tragedies in context.
‘A great tragedy… indeed.’
‘I believe my confessor attended the college-cathedra at Fleur-de-Fides.’
‘A beautiful world: a real loss to the Imperium.’
‘Cardinal Creutzfeldt will be looking for another seat, I suppose.’
‘Isn’t Gilbersia part of the Fyodora Cluster? No, wait. I’m thinking of the Outer Trinities.’
‘Dreadful business…’
Loss of life, calculated by the billion, put unnecessary strain on the mind of the common Imperial citizen. The destruction of worlds, sometimes a score at a time, stoked patriotic notions of galacticism — and the suspicion that humanity was losing its grip of its precious empire among the stars.
The twelve men and women gathered in the Anesidoran Chapel did not deal in such sentimentalities. They were perpetually lost in a blizzard of decisions, quantifications and bureaucracy in which the considerations of bounty and starvation, war and peace, life and death, were measured by planet, by subsector and segmentum. In a galactic game with an unimaginable number of pieces in play, it wasn’t difficult for even the greatest minds and keenest ambitions of the Senatorum to become desensitised to the importance of individual details. Indeed, over time, even the most experienced of players tended to become blind to the board for the profusion of pieces. Within a parliament of such minds, even minor problems become exacerbated. In the kingdom of the deaf, dumb and blind, problems with small beginnings — small, at least, on a galactic scale — had a way of gathering irresistible momentum.
From their own legions of aides and overseers, the great Lords of Terra would have fragments of the same story. Some might have glimpsed certain characters amongst a greater cast; some a significant twist of the plot or timely reveal, nonsensical without knowledge of the events leading up to it; some might even have a narrative of doom laid before them but not know it. A tale with all the important words removed, a cloze exercise in fate… a puzzle of the calamity to come. What none of them had was the most essential feature of the story — the end.
Juskina Tull had colluded with her chartist captains to raise the price of passage and transportation between the segmentum core and the rimward sectors, but had not foreseen the decimation of her freighter fleets and the severance of ancient trade routes.
‘Fleur-de-Fides was a spiritual beacon in the darkness of the Outer Rim.’
‘To be sure.’
The Martian Kubik, Fabricator General and vox-piece for the Cult Mechanicus, had his own empire to look to. Can a man, even an augmeticised transhuman, serve two masters and serve them both equally? Kubik seemed to spend most of his time aboard his consular barge moving between Ancient Terra and the Red Planet, but in the cold corridors of his mechanical heart, Kubik answered only to the Omnissiah. During the Great Heresy, the two planets had been at war. The Heresy was long over and a cult confederacy — as strong as it was uneasy — had been re-established. As Fabricator General, it was Kubik’s faithful duty to serve the logic of the Machine God. Today, that logic dictated an alliance of mutual benefit. It did not preclude the action of respectful partners in their own interest. Never again would mighty Mars serve as the battered barbican to Fortress Terra. Kubik would see the Red Planet protected and its empire remain strong and ruthlessly efficient.
It was because of this that the Fabricator General had been made aware of the gateway threat of the xenos Chromes. Ruthless efficiency had secretly fed the Inquisition the selected data required to justify a Critical Situation Packet — despite the fact that Kubik himself then had to denounce its credibility for political advantage. Ruthless efficiency had placed the gifted magos Phaeton Laurentis with the Imperial Fists on Ardamantua, after the bombastic Chapter Master Cassus Mirhen predictably took up the cause. Ruthless efficiency would see the Mechanicus through a disaster that Kubik’s legion of logisticians had told him was inevitable. Ruthless efficiency would ensure that only the Machine God’s servants had the very best quality data and that the Martian empire would survive the coming storm.
‘Fleur-de-Fides was second only to Serenitrix in its global devotions.’
‘Is seat Serenitrix open?’
‘Serenitrix would be a good fit for Cardinal Creutzfeldt.’
Kubik exchanged programmed pleasantries with the freakish Sark and Anwar. Volquan Sark and Abdulias Anwar — Masters of the Astronomican and Adeptus Astra Telepathica respectively — were among the Imperium’s most powerful psykers. They were all but beings of a different plane. With Helad Gibran, Paternoval Envoy of the Navigator Families, they had helped weave the intricate web of immaterial translation routes and astrotelepathic conduits that overlaid the Imperium corporeal. Without their empyreal dominion and supporting networks, the Imperium would grind to a halt like a rust-fused piece of ancient machinery. If they hadn’t been so invested in seeking greater representation and influence for their mutant interests, they might have come to comprehend the ragged holes in their gossamer meshwork. They might have seen the speed at which the delicate fabric of the Imperium would unravel with the slaughter of their psychic servants across the rimward sectors. They might have understood the unscheduled disruption suffered by their dour League of Black Ships and the voracious hunger of an Astronomican-sustaining Emperor.