Throne of light, p.22
Throne Of Light, page 22
‘Have you thought of telling her that?’
‘Are you actually mad, or are you an idiot?’ said Diomed. ‘You’ve seen her. She’d explode.’
‘At the moment she is angry with the Imperium’s most powerful man,’ countered Fabian.
‘Better she’s angry with a distant primarch. I’m sure she’s using Guilliman as something to rage against because he is safely far away. She knows.’ Her smooth forehead frowned. ‘I think.’
‘I’ll never understand women,’ said Fabian.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’
‘No, it’s supposed to be true,’ said Fabian. ‘I spent most of my life buried under paperwork. The sexes were separated stringently in my divisio. I barely even knew my own mother.’
‘There were no female adepts in your department?’
‘Oh, there were lots, but we were segregated. Last thing you want in a place like that is a population explosion. They added supplements to our food to keep us focused on our work, if you get my meaning.’
‘I see.’
‘You know,’ he said, ‘I would like to write this history myself. Can I interview you further? You’re a little more approachable than Athagey.’
‘Should we do it over dinner?’ she said with wide-eyed innocence that took Fabian in completely.
‘Well,’ he stammered. ‘If you–’
‘Don’t understand women but want to perform a little fieldwork so you can get to know us better, do you?’ Diomed said. ‘Have those drugs worn off? Looks that way.’
‘I–’ Fabian blushed.
The train car slowed. Points snickered under the cabin as it was shunted off onto a siding.
‘This is your stop. I’d revise your seduction technique. Better yet, stick to history completely,’ she said. The door opened. ‘It’s deck seventeen, section four-C. Vallia is in with the Munitorum liaisons and the like. If you get lost, just ask for the historitor. They all know her.’
‘Of course.’ Embarrassed, Fabian got out, but made himself turn back to face Diomed. ‘I am terribly sorry,’ he said from the small platform. ‘I meant no–’
‘Save it,’ she said. ‘And I’ll think about the interview. I’ll even think about dinner. Life’s too bleak to take offence, and much too short.’ She slammed her palm against the departure stud, and the car drove off, electric motors whining.
He watched it go, unsure of what to do.
Thoroughly off balance, Fabian went to find Serisa Vallia.
It took Fabian half an hour to search out the historitor. Her quarters were deep within the administrative zone of the ship, which in pre-Rift days had been some sort of magazine, if the markings trapped halfway between its warren of retrofitted floors were anything to go by. The adepts he ran into were overworked and ill-tempered, but gratifyingly, they recognised him for who he was, saluted and got out of his way.
He found Serisa Vallia’s door and knocked on it.
The voxmitter embedded in the wall by the door lock hissed.
‘Go away,’ she said. ‘Busy.’
The vox snapped off. He pressed the button again.
‘This is Historitor Majoris Fabian Guelphrain of the Founding Four. You will open this door, immediately.’ He stood up, then had second thoughts and pressed the button again. ‘That is an order,’ he said apologetically.
The door clattered away into the wall. A red-faced woman appeared. She wore a pair of Ardenian monoculars that magnified her pupils to comical size.
‘Historitor Guelphrain!’ she said, then snatched the visual aid away. ‘My apologies. Please. Come in. Come in.’ She backed up clumsily, knocking a pile of papers onto the floor. She cursed under her breath as she tried to pick them up.
The room was small. A cot took up most of the floor space. A small sink protruded from the wall by the door, making entry difficult. A desk filled nearly all of the rest of the space, leaving only a small passage between the furniture. Bookshelves secured to the wall by scavenged military mag-locks were piled high with untidy sheaves of paper.
‘They really have tucked you out of the way here,’ he said.
‘I upset Groupmistress Athagey,’ Vallia muttered.
‘Easily done,’ said Fabian. He looked down. ‘Let me help you with that,’ he said, getting down on his knees. As he helped pile the papers they bumped heads, mortifying Vallia.
‘I’m sorry. You shouldn’t be doing this. It’s my fault, sir.’
‘What shouldn’t I be doing?’ said Fabian.
‘Picking this up.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you are Fabian Guelphrain, the Fabian Guelphrain,’ she said. ‘A founder.’
‘And because of that I shouldn’t be on the floor, helping you pick up spilled papers?’
‘Well, no, I mean...’ She blushed.
Fabian sat back on his heels. ‘Once, I would have agreed with you. Before I was a historitor I was very full of myself, but when you are one Septicentio-grade paper shuffler among three hundred thousand, you cling to what little dignity you can find.’
‘What did you do before?’
Fabian handed her the last sheet of paper, got up, and offered her his hand.
‘Mostly ignored the pleas of dying worlds,’ he said. ‘Pompously. You?’
She took his hand and he pulled her up. ‘I was an instructor at the Academia Administratum of Sud Afrik,’ she said. ‘Comparative tithing, exacta calculation and interplanetary obligation. I got into trouble for my professorial thesis. They were going to execute me for economic heresy.’
Fabian nodded. ‘I had a forbidden pastime.’
‘What?’ she asked.
‘The truth,’ he explained. He looked around her room again, and gestured at the bed. ‘Can I sit?’
‘Yes, please,’ she said, and rushed to clear a space.
‘So,’ he said, once he was seated. ‘First of all, you know me, but I don’t know you. As the Logos has expanded, the notes on our operatives have got briefer.’
‘There’s not much to tell,’ she said. She sat on the chair at the desk. The quarters were so cramped their knees brushed. ‘I was saved days before my execution, shipped out from Terra to Battle Group Delphus, Fleet Sextus. I was trained by Edet Sukhima, who was trained by Viablo of the Four. Do you…?’
‘A good friend.’
‘Of course. I’ve been here for three years. Transferred from Delphus Sextus when it left Terra, then to Saint Aster Tertius, which is now Iolus Tertius. And I’ve done nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘This doesn’t look like nothing.’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve tried to assemble an account of the fleet’s actions. VanLeskus wouldn’t speak with me. Athagey gives no support to me. I’m on my own. The Logisticarum adepts are too harassed with other duties to help, but I’ve been speaking to whoever will listen to me. The Logos seal works better on some than on others, but I’ve not been able to gather any information to add to our primary brief. I’ve been off this ship twice.’
‘That’s disappointing,’ Fabian said, and frowned.
His words kindled a little fire in Vallia. ‘There’s only me. You’ve no idea how difficult it’s been working under these circumstances.’ She stopped. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean to–’
‘No, it’s fine,’ said Fabian. ‘Throughout Fleet Primus the Logos is respected, by the will of the Imperial Regent.’ He looked around the tiny cabin. ‘But his will only goes so far, mighty though it is. It’s no wonder you are dispirited.’ He got up. ‘Pack all this up.’
‘Am I being dismissed?’ she said.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I have fifteen other historitors with me. I am not here to judge your efforts to this point, but to make sure your future is a damn sight easier than your past has been. Guilliman has sent the Founding Four out to spread the Logos. Get your belongings. Things are changing, I’m starting with you.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
DEAD MAN’S QUARTERS
ANGEVIN’S TOMB
CALL TO WAR
Lucerne was put into quarters once occupied by a serf officer. It still contained the effects of the previous inhabitant: a greatcoat on the hook on the back of the door; an unfinished letter; a rack of candles before an idiosyncratic collection of idols; a series of miniature oil portraits on wooden board no bigger than Lucerne’s thumbnail. There were other articles spilled on the floor. A handful of things, each one deeply personal.
For Lucerne, the cabin was vexatiously small. His wound needed tending to, and he had concerns for his armour, but there was no space for it inside. That, at least, had been provided with a proper stand in the ship’s armoury, but he was suspicious of his hosts, and he did not trust them not to meddle with it.
The usually buoyant Lucerne found his humour deserting him as he perched on the tiny chair and attempted to fix his cheek in place with flesh-bond. Such fine medical work was beyond him, and he cursed as his fingers adhered and the flap of skin and muscle remained unattached. He looked at the damage in the dead man’s tiny mirror. His nose was squashed, yellow bruising spread all round his eye sockets. He could not judge if he had been a handsome man before, but he was certainly less so now.
He got his fingers free and shook his hands out. He could return to his men, and leave this band of fanatics be. They were fighting for the Emperor, at least, and extinction would claim them soon enough if they did not take Cawl’s Gift. What did it matter? But then he thought back to his conversation with Guilliman, and he realised that it mattered very much. The Primaris project was vital to the Imperium’s survival. Even one small group rejecting the new Space Marines posed a risk. And there were the crimes they had undoubtedly committed.
He sat back, gathering his wits and his emotions both, before attempting the dressing again. Someone rapped on the door.
‘Enter,’ Lucerne said.
The lock wheel spun, and the door squealed open. Basic maintenance was lacking wherever Lucerne looked. Beorhtnoth’s neophyte, Botho, came in. He was young still, without his final black carapace implant, but he carried himself like a veteran.
‘Neophyte Botho?’ said Lucerne.
The youth was shy, and only managed brief eye contact when he spoke.
‘I beg your leave, master, but I thought you might wish a little help with your wound.’
Lucerne searched the youth’s face for falsehood, but found none. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘A wound like this can be difficult to tend to oneself.’ He struggled to speak. His face burned with pain.
Botho nodded and came to Lucerne’s side in an almost apologetic way. Lucerne looked aside. The youth examined the injury with an experienced eye. He moved the flap around.
‘This looks worse than it is.’
‘Maybe. But I have little skill with the flesh-bond.’
‘Then I shall do it for you. Once the wound is closed, your Emperor’s gifts will heal you quickly.’
Lucerne picked up the dispenser.
Botho shook his head. ‘It must be cleansed first. Do you have an irrigator?’
Lucerne indicated a device on the desk with his eyes.
‘Is this necessary?’ he asked, as Botho rinsed out the wound.
‘Adeptus Astartes are resistant to infection, but I was taught that resistant is not the same as immune.’
‘Are you training to be an Apothecary?’
‘No, but I have had some training by the Apothecaries. Our crusades sometimes find themselves without medicae support. It is the duty of every neophyte to tend to the needs of his master, wounds included.’
Botho reached out for a box of sterile swabs, and used one to blot up the water. It came away pink.
‘Now I will take the flesh-bond, if I may, master.’
Lucerne held it up. Far more delicately than Lucerne could manage, Botho ran thin seams of the glue within and around the injury, then carefully pressed it closed.
‘What happened here, neophyte?’ asked Lucerne. ‘Where are the crusade’s Primaris reinforcements?’
‘We did not receive them, master,’ said Botho. He released Lucerne’s face, gave the wound one last critical look, then handed him a sheet of sterile, plastek flimsy. ‘This will not adhere to the flesh-bond. Hold the wound closed for three minutes, until the bond has set.’
Lucerne did as he was asked. ‘Thank you.’
Botho bowed. ‘It was nothing, my lord.’ When he stood straight again, he almost made to go, but halted himself. ‘My lord, I do not wish to speak out of turn, but you should leave. Go back to your ship. Forget us. Let us follow our own road to the Emperor’s light. Our path is nearly done. We will not live much longer.’
‘What happened here?’ Lucerne asked again. ‘What happened to Marshal Angevin?’
Botho looked away. ‘Just leave, my lord. It would be better for us all. Go back to your brothers.’
‘I am not going anywhere until this crusade accepts the will of the primarch.’
Botho bowed. ‘Then may the Emperor watch over you, master.’
Lucerne let him go. The nerves were cut in his cheek, he had no feeling there, and had to prod it with his fingers to make sure the bond had set and the wound was closed. He felt the stirring of the Belisarian Furnace. A few hours asleep under its influence and he would have nothing but a scar to remind him of the duel.
He did not have a few hours. Lying unconscious would be dangerous. He closed his eyes, meditating to still the implant.
When the heat in his chest subsided, he went to fetch his armour.
Lucerne moved unseen through the ship. So many of the subsystems were down and so few of its crew alive that he had little concern he would be seen.
The Black Templars were a fleet-based Chapter that rarely gathered together. Many of them fought in large company-sized forces, but there were numerous smaller warrior bands like the Angevin Crusade scattered across the galaxy. Although they maintained an unknown number of Chapter keeps, to act as armouries, training facilities, archives and the rest, each force needed to be completely self-sufficient, possessing everything to replenish their numbers, maintain their equipment and lay their dead to rest.
Sergeant Lucerne was on his way to the vessel’s mausoleum.
The corridors were dark. The few mortal crew members he encountered bowed their heads as he went by, and though his armour’s noise echoed loudly in the ship’s corridors and halls, none of the Adeptus Astartes came to challenge him.
The mausoleum was under the ship’s cathedrum. It had a hexagonal plan, with niches for bodies stacked twelve high. For the crusade’s most honoured dead, there were six sarcophagi arranged around the middle of the room, heads towards the centre, feet pointing to the walls. Their lids were flat, and the battle gear of the deceased was laid out on top, held in place by brass hoops. The lack of permanent decoration reflected the fluid nature of the crusades, as the bodies would one day be transferred to more permanent resting places. Three of the sarcophagi were occupied. Marshal Angevin’s armour lay on the one facing the door, sword clasped hilt up, with the point resting on his knees.
Lucerne used his armour’s sensorium to scan for vid-thieves. He found nothing. There was a honeycomb rack full of servo-skulls opposite the entrance, but every one of them was inert. The lack of power extended to the lumens. He lit a candelabra so he might better see, and by its uncertain light he examined Angevin’s armour.
The plates were broken, not repaired, the fragments held together by breach-sealant, paste and wires. The underlying layers were visible everywhere, and in three places broken right through to the undersuit. These points of damage were large, made of overlapping impacts, and the surroundings were deeply chipped. Lucerne had seen this kind of damage many times before; it was caused by boltgun fire. This was not unusual. The enemy’s fallen Space Marines used the same weapons as their erstwhile brothers.
But still he wondered who had fired the bolts.
Bones rattled in their sealed niches. The Cantatum Bellum trembled. The main drives were firing up. He felt the sure push of motion as the ship rose up and away. Contra-forces dragged at him. They were accelerating dangerously quickly.
He set the candelabra down and left the mausoleum in search of answers. In the wide corridor outside were only statues of the dead, eyes downcast. He tried his vox, but got no reply, either from the Black Templars or his own ship.
He ran down towards the command deck, and entered it unchallenged.
All the crusade were present. The last of the human officers went about their tasks. The oculus shutters were grinding closed, the asteroid belt dipping away below the bottom of the window. Holo displays were snapping on. On the main tactical view, he saw the Solemnity rising up behind them on an intercept course.
‘What is happening?’ Lucerne said.
‘Rejoice, brother,’ said one of the crusaders. Lucerne had been given none of their names. ‘We have a target, our crusade goes on.’
‘How?’ Lucerne said. ‘Where does this order come from?’
‘I have been given His guidance,’ said Mortian. ‘The Emperor calls us to battle.’
The unmistakable noise of the warp engines coming online shivered the command deck, followed by the unpleasantness of activating Geller fields.
‘You are going to make a jump? Here? That’s madness. We’re nowhere near a Mandeville point. Mass interference from the asteroids will tear us apart!’
