‘Being busy is no excuse to make exceptions to protocol and chain of command,’ argued Kulik, though with little conviction. He dropped his voice so that only the first lieutenant could hear. ‘I do not answer to Lansung’s little lapdog, Admiral Acharya. He can shout at the coreward flotilla all he likes. We’re from rimward command and I take direct orders only from Admiral Price.’
‘Price is not favoured by the Lord High Admiral since his outburst at Caollon, sir.’ The lieutenant instinctively matched his commander’s informality with lowered voice. ‘If the rumours are true that Price intends to make the Colossus his flagship when he arrives, we would do well not to rile Acharya unduly beforehand. Forgive any forwardness on my part, but I’ve been caught between a feuding captain and flag-captain before and it was unpleasant. I’ve no desire to go one step further and be batted between warring admirals.’ He paused for a moment and glanced at the navigational display. ‘On top of that, I certainly would prefer it if you didn’t crash Colossus into anything.’
Kulik grunted a grudging affirmative.
‘Very good, sir,’ Lieutenant Shaffenbeck said, raising his voice. ‘Helm, lay in course to berth sigma-seven. Comms, relay the captain’s acceptance of orbital command’s new instructions. Also, please conduct the captain’s gratitude to the commander of Endeavour and extend invitation for him to join us at officers’ mess at his earliest convenience.’
Kulik coughed and raised his hand to his mouth to conceal a smile at this last impertinence. Shaffenbeck was like a mother sometimes, always keen for his captain to smooth ruffled feathers and make new friends.
Even so, after a four-year wilderness on space patrol some fresh conversation at the captain’s table would be very much welcomed.
Two
There were few settings more fitting for a war council than the Hall of Glories. A dome nearly five hundred feet across and three hundred high, buttressed and cross-vaulted like a castle tower, the Hall of Glories was the site, so it was claimed, of Rogal Dorn’s meetings with his fellow primarchs on the eve of the Siege of the Imperial Palace.
It struck Drakan Vangorich, Grand Master of Assassins, that a chamber known as the Hall of Glories might be filled with all kinds of tacky trophies and paraphernalia of past victories, but it was not. It was currently only dimly lit by a few bluish glow-strips, set in alcoves flanking each of three immense double doors. The walls were granite decorated with horizontal bands of Sivalik sandstone that had been carved with frescoes of warriors stretching back through the long annals of history and prehistory.
The first time Vangorich had come to the Hall of Glories he had marvelled at the sheer inventiveness of mankind’s ability to kill. The earliest figures had simple stakes hardened in fires, through various flint weapons, to the first matchlock guns and then warriors with faceted armour sporting the precursors to the lasguns of the Imperial Army. The last figures in the evolution of mankind’s warriors were tall, stave-bearing soldiers not unlike the Lucifer Blacks that had become famous during the Heresy War.
Vangorich had always wondered why the fresco did not contain images of the Adeptus Astartes, nor the Custodians that guarded the Emperor. Perhaps genetically engineered transhumans had not been part of the artist’s instruction, or perhaps their artificial nature rendered them disqualified from an expression of humanity’s martial history.
There were no banners or plaques to obscure the walls in celebration of past wars. Instead, the polished black and grey marble of the floor was inscribed with a spiralling line of names picked out in gilded letters: the names of places where the Emperor’s servants had fought and died. Not even victories, just planets and starships, orbital stations and drifting hulks, where blood had been shed in the cause of the Imperium and its immortal ruler.
Before the current crisis the list of battles had circled the massive hall thrice, many of them dating back to the Heresy War. Since events at Ardamantua the small army of masons and gilders had been working day and night to keep up with the litany of engagements. They had been dismissed for the war council, as had most of the functionaries and hangers-on associated with the High Lords, leaving just a few dozen record keepers, secretariats and minor members of the Senatorum Imperialis.
It irked Vangorich that he was amongst those that were now waiting in the hall, alongside a few of the less favoured High Lords. It irked him even as it favoured him in some ways. The lesser peons of Terra were the perfect cover for an Assassin. Vangorich was unremarkable in build or appearance, save for the duelling scar that slashed through the left side of his lips and chin, and curiously wide-set, dark eyes. His simple black attire — from short boots, stockings and breeches to coat and thin scarf — was not out of place amongst the drab robes and similar suits of the flunkies and scriptors that milled about waiting for the true High Lords to arrive.
Lansung’s manoeuvring had grown bolder and bolder over the last few weeks as, one by one, the other institutions that made up the Imperium — or were allied to it, in the case of the Adeptus Mechanicus — realised just how dependant they were on the benevolence of the Imperial Navy. The arrival of the Beast and the tide of battle driven before the xenos war leader had swallowed up whole star systems, and the reach of the orks seemed almost limitless. Dozens of worlds had fallen to the haphazard onslaught, and only the Navy could provide the means to stem the encroaching horde; only the Navy offered protection for important dignitaries with the means to flee before the green mass.
The Lord High Admiral had not been idle in despatching his forces to the aid of those loyal to him in the Senatorum, while those reluctant few whose support had been tardy found their outposts and convoys bereft of military support. Though the Adeptus Mechanicus had their own ships, and were essential to the maintenance of Lansung’s continued dominance, it appeared the Lord High Admiral and the Fabricator General had come to an arrangement of sorts. The Lord of Mars was happy for the Master of the Fleet to take the glory, while in secret they divided the spoils of their newly-founded partnership.
A distant sounding of a fanfare heralded the coming of the major players in the Senatorum Imperialis. A column of Lucifer Blacks two abreast, the bodyguard of the Imperial elite, advanced along the corridor approaching the Hall of Glories, the crash of their tread resounding in unison. Vangorich stopped himself from showing the contempt he felt at that moment. The original Lucifer Blacks had fought during the Unification and Heresy War and earned great distinction for their loyalty and expertise. The Imperial Guardsmen in the regiment that now bore their name were little more than highly-trained, well-equipped ornaments for the grandiose. While nominally they answered to Lord Commander Militant Verreault — an upright, credible veteran whom Vangorich actually admired — the truth was that Solar-General Sayitora hired them out like mercenaries in exchange for favour and physical reward.
Each Lucifer Black wore enamelled black carapace armour over a deep woven mesh of anti-ballistic threads. Those that entered the hall bore shock-glaives — long polearms with silvered blades. Tall helms and mirrored visors concealed their faces. Their presence, in such numbers, demonstrated not only Lansung’s personal resources but also signified unity between the Imperial Navy and the Astra Militarum.