The Warmaster

Twelve: A Place Of Safety

Below him, through the heavy rain, Gol Kolea watched the Armaduke discharge its contents.

He was standing on an observation platform high on the ship’s superstructure. The platform had extended automatically when the ship’s hatches opened. Down below, like ants, slow trains of people processed down the covered gangways onto the dockside, and the dock’s heavy hoists swung down pallets laden with material and cargo.

He smelled cold air, faintly fogged with petrochemicals, and tasted rain. He felt the cold wind on his skin. It wasn’t home, because he’d never see that again, but it was a home. It reminded him of the high walls of Vervunhive.

In his life there, he’d only been up onto the top walls of the hive a few times. A man like him, a mine worker from the skirtlands of the superhive, seldom had reason or permission to visit such a commanding vantage. But he remembered the view well. His wife had loved it. When they had first been together, he had sometimes saved up bonus pay to afford a pass to the Panorama Walk, as a treat for her. He’d even proposed to her up there. That was an age ago, before the kids had come along.

The thought of his children pained him. Gol hated that he registered fear and pain every time they crossed his mind. Though it didn’t feel like it for a moment, it was ten years since he’d led the drop to Aigor 991 for the resupply. Ten years since he’d heard the voice. Ten whole years since the voice had told him he was a conduit for daemons, and that he had to fetch the eagle stones or his child would perish.

The terror of that day had lingered with him. He tried to put it out of his mind. When you fought in the front line against the Arch­­e­nemy, the Ruinous Powers tried to trick you and pollute you all the time. He’d told himself that’s all it was: a warp trick. He’d made a report to Gaunt too, about the voice and its demand, but not about everything. How could he report that? For the sake of his child, how could he admit he had been condemned.

Then there had been the incident in the hold during the boarding action. Baskevyl had told him all about it. It seemed likely they knew what ‘eagle stones’ were now. Bask’s theory, and the related accounts, had all been classified to be part of Gaunt’s formal report to high command. Now they were safe on Urdesh, the whole matter would be passed to the authorities, to people who knew what they were doing, not front-line grunts like him.

If the wretched things in the hold were the eagle stones, then they were apparently precious artefacts. It made sense that the accursed Anarch Sek would want them, and would try manipulation to get them. According to initial data, Sek was here on Urdesh, leading the enemy strengths. Well, you bastard. I’ve brought the stones to you, like you asked. You can leave me be now. Leave me and my children be. We’re not part of this any more.

‘Besides,’ he growled out loud at the rainy sky, ‘it’s been ten years.’

Kolea sighed.

He was high enough on the ship to see beyond the walls of the dock and out towards the city and the bay. It was a grey shape in the rain, a skyline dotted with lights. He didn’t know much about Urdesh, except that it was a forge world, and famous, and it produced good soldiers, some of whom he had fought alongside at Cirenholm. They hadn’t been the friendliest souls, but Kolea respected their military craft. The Urdeshi had been stubborn and proud, fighting for the spirit of this world, a world that had changed hands so many times and so often been a battleground. He got that. He understood the pride a man attached to his birth-hive.

It was a good view. A strong place. A landscape a man could connect with. Livy would have loved it, standing here in the rain, looking out…

‘Gol?’

He turned. Baskevyl was stepping out of the hatch to find him.

‘Where are we?’ asked Kolea.

‘About two-thirds discharged,’ replied Bask. ‘The Administratum has issued us with staging about ten kilometres away. The regiment and the retinue.’

‘Barrack housing?’ asked Kolea.

Baskevyl checked his data-slate. ‘No, residential habs.’

‘How so?’

‘Apparently the main Militarum camps are already full of troops waiting to ship out to the front line, but the city has been largely evacuated of civilians, so we’ve been assigned quarters in requisitioned hab blocks.’

‘Where is the front line?’ asked Kolea.

Baskevyl shrugged.

‘All right, let’s send some company leaders on ahead to check out the facilities. Criid, Kolosim, Pasha, Domor.’

‘Captain Criid, you mean?’ asked Bask.

‘Damn right. About time. Tell them to look the place over and draw up a decent dispersal order, so no one starts bickering about their billet. And let’s get Mkoll to sweep the venue and give us a security report.’

‘This isn’t the front line, I know that,’ Baskevyl smiled.

‘Never hurts,’ Kolea grinned back. ‘How many times have things changed overnight and bitten us on the arse?’

‘Gentlemen?’

They looked up from the data-slate as Commissar Fazekiel joined them. She pulled up the collar of her coat against the rain.

‘Medicae personnel have arrived to ship off our wounded. Those still not walking anyway.’

‘That’s not many is it?’ asked Kolea.

‘About a dozen. Raglon. Cant. Damn glad to have Daur back on his feet.’

‘Major Pasha too,’ said Kolea.

Fazekiel nodded. ‘I gather Spetnin and Zhukova are crestfallen. They were just getting used to running Pasha’s companies.’

‘What about the shipmaster?’ asked Baskevyl.

‘They’re moving him off to the Fleet infirmary at Eltath Watch,’ she said. ‘I’m frankly amazed the fether’s still alive.’

‘I’m amazed any of us are still alive,’ said Baskevyl.

‘There’s that,’ Fazekiel agreed. ‘Can you two spare a moment? We’ve got visitors, and I’d appreciate the moral support of some senior staff.’

‘Thoust leaving, soule?’ asked Ezra.

Sar Af glanced at him briefly, then finished instructing the servitor teams handling the equipment crates of the Adeptus Astartes. There was no sign in the hold of Eadwine or Holofurnace.

‘Good as gone,’ said Sar Af, walking over to Ezra once his instructions were given. ‘Duty is done, and I never stay put long.’

‘Gaunt, he will–’ Ezra began.

‘Eadwine sent him notice of our departure,’ said Sar Af. ‘We’ve tarried far too long on this mission. It was supposed to last six weeks.’

Ezra nodded.

‘Eadwine’s already gone,’ Sar Af added. ‘Gone to see the warmaster in person. The Snake’s left too. Apparently his brothers are engaged in the war here, and he’s gone to find them. He will be glad to see them again, and join with them in a new venture.’

‘And thee, soule?’ asked Ezra.

Sar Af grinned.

‘The Archenemy presses close,’ he said. ‘I smell killing to be done.’

He gestured at the reynbow strapped to Ezra’s shoulder.

‘Found your weapon, then?’

‘Broken, but I made mend of it,’ said Ezra.

‘Should get yourself a proper piece,’ said the White Scar. ‘Something that will stop a foe dead.’

‘This stops the foe,’ said Ezra.

Sar Af peered at him.

‘I’m not good at faces. Are you sad, Nihtgane?’

Ezra shook his head.

‘Uh, that’s good. Men can be too sentimental. They place unnecessary emotion on leave-taking and such. Parting is not an ending. Life is just the path ahead, so sometimes you leave things behind you.’

‘No sentiment,’ said Ezra. ‘It was a journey and we walked it.’

The White Scar nodded. With a twist, he uncoupled the lock of his right gauntlet and pulled the glove off to expose his bare hand.

‘That’s right, Nihtgane,’ he said. He held his hand out and Ezra clasped it.

‘Follow your path, Eszrah Ap Niht,’ Sar Af said. ‘Only you can walk it.’

He clamped his gauntlet back on, donned his war-helm with a hydraulic click, and followed the servitor team out of the hold without looking back.

‘You can show me the paperwork all you like,’ said Rawne, ‘S Company isn’t handing him over until I get word from my commanding officer.’

‘Your tone is borderline insolent, major,’ said Interrogator Sindre of the Ordo Hereticus. A heavy detail of Urdeshi storm troops filled the brig hatchway behind him.

‘Not for him,’ Varl told the interrogator. ‘There was definitely a silent “fething” before the word “paperwork”.’

Sindre had a very thin, pale face and very blue eyes. His black uniform was immaculate, unadorned except for the gold and ruby rosette on his back-turned lapel. He smiled. In the close, gloomy confines of the armoured brig, his soft voice sounded like a slow gas leak.

‘I appreciate the seriousness with which you uphold your duties, major,’ he said. ‘Custody of the prisoner is an alpha-rated duty. You are commended. But crusade high staff and the office of the ordos have agreed to his immediate transfer to secure Inquisition holding. The order was ratified by two lords militant and the senior secretary of the Inquisition here on Urdesh six hours before you even touched down.’

‘Gaunt didn’t signal anyone that the prisoner was still with us,’ said Rawne. He spoke slowly and sounded reasonable. His men knew that was always a warning sign. ‘I know for a fact,’ he said, ‘that the information he broadcast on approach in-system was extremely limited and contained no confidential information.’

‘A sensible move,’ replied Sindre. ‘The Archenemy is close, and it is listening. In fact, there is some consternation among upper staff that details of your extended mission have not yet been supplied. They are awaiting your superior’s full report.’

‘Which he will deliver in person for the same reasons of security,’ said Rawne.

‘We, however, made an assumption,’ said Sindre. ‘If Gaunt is alive after all, then the prisoner might be as well, etcetera, etcetera…’ ­Sindre shrugged and smiled. He seemed to smile a lot. ‘So,’ he said, ‘on the presumption he was, preparations for immediate handover and securement were made and authorised in advance. Just in case the animal had survived.’

‘Move aside,’ said Viktor Hark. He entered the brig chamber, pushing past Sindre’s security detail. They glared at him at first, then stood out of his path.

‘Gaunt has signed off, Rawne,’ said Hark. ‘He’s had assurances.’

‘Let me see,’ said Rawne.

Hark handed him a data-slate. Rawne read it carefully.

‘You know they’re just going to kill him,’ said Varl.

‘Varl…’ Hark growled.

‘Oh, but they are,’ said Varl. ‘He’s no use any more. He’s done what he was supposed to do. They won’t let him live, not a thing like him. They’ll burn him.’

Sindre smiled again. The Suicide Kings began to feel his smile was quite as alarming as Rawne’s reasonable tone.

‘Is that sympathy I hear?’ he asked. ‘One of your men sympathising with the fate of an Archenemy devil? If security is such a concern to you, Major Rawne, I would look to my own quickly.’

‘The prisoner is an asset,’ said Rawne. ‘That’s all my man here is worried about.’

‘Of course he is,’ said Sindre. ‘On that we agree. We’re not going to execute him. Not yet, anyway. Eventually, of course. But the ordos believes there is a great deal more that may be extracted from him. He has been cooperative so far, after all. He will be interviewed and examined extensively, for however long that takes. Whatever other truths he contains, they will be learned.’

‘Bring him out,’ said Rawne.

Varl stood back with a shake of his head. Bonin, Brostin, Cardass and Oysten walked back to the cell, and threw the bolts. After a few minutes spent running the standard body search, they brought Mabbon Etogaur out in shackles. With the Suicide Kings around him, Mabbon shuffled his way over to Rawne’s side.

Sindre looked at him with considerable distaste.

‘Storm troop,’ Sindre called out. ‘Take possession of the prisoner and prepare to move. Double file guard. Watch his every move.’

The Urdeshi storm troopers moved forwards.

‘S Company, Tanith First,’ said Sindre, ‘you are relieved of duty. Your vigilance and effort is appreciated.’

‘We stand relieved,’ replied Rawne.

The Urdeshi moved Mabbon towards the hatch. It was slow going because his stride was so abbreviated by the shackles.

‘Hey!’

They paused, and Sindre looked back. Varl had gone into the etogaur’s cell and reappeared holding a sheaf of cheap, tatty pamphlets and chapbooks.

‘These belong to him,’ he said, holding them out.

Interrogator Sindre took the pamphlets and flicked through them.

‘Trancemissionary texts,’ he mused, ‘and a copy of The Spheres of Longing.’

‘He reads them,’ said Varl.

Sindre handed them back.

‘No reading material is permitted,’ he said.

‘But they belong to him.’

‘Nothing belongs to him, trooper,’ said Sindre. ‘No rights, no possessions. And besides, he will have no need for reading matter. He will be… busy talking.’

Varl glanced at Rawne, and Rawne quietly shook his head. At the hatch, surrounded by the impassive storm troopers, Mabbon looked back over his shoulder and nodded very slightly to Varl.

‘You… you watch him,’ said Varl. ‘He’s a sly one, that pheguth.’

‘You take care of yourself, Sergeant Varl,’ said Mabbon. ‘We won’t meet again.’

‘You never know,’ said Varl.

‘I think I do,’ said Mabbon.

‘That’s enough. No talking,’ Sindre snapped at Mabbon. ‘Move.’

The storm troopers led him away.

Luna Fazekiel led Baskevyl and Kolea to the hatch of hold ninety.

‘Our visitors,’ she remarked sidelong.

A man in the plain, dark uniform of the Astra Militarum intelligence service was waiting for them, accompanied by a cowled representative of the Adeptus Mechanicus and a tall woman in a long storm coat who could only be from the ordos. A gang of Mechanicus servitors and several other aides and assistants waited in the corridor behind them, as well as intelligence service soldiers with plasma weapons. Elam, and a squad from his company, blocked them from the hatch door.

‘Ma’am,’ said Elam as the trio approached.

‘Are you in charge here?’ the intelligence officer asked Fazekiel. He was well made and handsome, with thick, dark hair, cut close, and greying at the temples.

‘We have been kept waiting,’ said the female inquisitor. ‘You have the authority to open this hold?’

As they had approached, Kolea had been struck by the woman’s appearance. She was tall and slender, and her head, with its shaved scalp, had the most feline, high-cheekboned profile he had seen on a human. She possessed the sort of attenuated, sculptural beauty he imagined of the fabled aeldari.

But as she turned to regard them, he saw it was reconstruction work. The entire upper part of her head that had been facing away from them was gone, from the philtrum up, replaced by intricate silver and gold augmetics, fashioned like some master-crafted weapon. Her mouth was real, and her eyes, presumably also real, gleamed in the complex golden sockets of her face. She had been rebuilt, and the surgeons and augmeticists had only been able to save the lower part of her face. Even that, Kolea fancied, was just a careful copy of what had once existed. The augmetic portion had obviously been destroyed beyond hope of reconstruction. It shocked him, and fascinated him. He was alarmed to realise that he almost found the intricate golden workings of her visage more beautiful than the perfect skin of her jaw.

‘My apologies,’ said Fazekiel. ‘Disembarkation after a long journey is a demanding process. We have authority to break the seals. I am Commissar Fazekiel. This is Major Kolea, and Major Baskevyl.’

‘Colonel Grae,’ said the intelligence officer. ‘With me, Versenginseer Lohl Etruin of the Adeptus Mechanicus and Sheeva Laksheema of the Ordo Xenos.’

The cowled adept twitched an actuator wand, and a small, plump woman stepped forwards from the entourage. She wore a simple robe and tabard, and her hair was tight curls of silver. She presented Faz­ekiel with a thick sheaf of papers.

‘Documentation for the receiver party,’ she said, looking up at Faz­ekiel. ‘It lists and accredits all personnel present, including the servitor crew and the savants.’

‘You are?’ asked Fazekiel.

‘My lead savant, Onabel,’ said Laksheema, ‘and her identity is not pertinent to this discussion. Please explain, I am concerned that the hold seal has been tampered with.’

‘We ran into trouble, ma’am,’ said Kolea.

‘The ship was boarded. We fought them off,’ said Fazekiel. ‘However, we were obliged to open and search all the ship compartments to ensure that no agents of the foe remained in hiding.’

‘Who opened it?’ asked Laksheema.

‘I did,’ said Baskevyl. ‘It was opened on my command.’

The cowled adept made a small, clicking, buzzing sound. Laksheema nodded.

‘I agree, Etriun,’ she said. She looked at Baskevyl. ‘Operational orders stated that the material recovered from Salvation’s Reach should remain sealed for the return voyage. There is potential danger and hazard to the untrained and uninformed.’

‘Operational orders that are now over ten years old,’ said Kolea.

‘As my colleague explained, ma’am,’ said Baskevyl, ‘circumstances changed. I thought it better to risk the potential hazard rather than risk even greater danger. A field decision.’

Laksheema stared at him. ‘A field decision,’ she said. ‘How very Astra Militarum. You are Baskevyl?’

‘Major Braden Baskevyl, Tanith First, ma’am.’

‘But you are Belladon born.’

‘My insignia gives me away,’ he replied, lightly.

‘No, your accent. When you opened the hold, Baskevyl, what did you find?’

‘Disruption to the cargo. Some contents shifted and spilled. I checked the area for signs of intruders, found none, and so immediately resealed the hold.’

‘Because?’ Laksheema asked.

‘Operational orders, ma’am,’ said Baskevyl.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Something else. I see it in your manner.’

Baskevyl glanced at Kolea.

‘One of the crates had spilled in a way I could not explain. Our asset had suggested that this particular set of items constitute perhaps the most valuable artefacts recovered during the raid. I touched nothing. I left them where they were and resealed the hold.’

The adept buzzed and warbled quietly again.

‘Indeed,’ Laksheema nodded. ‘Define “in a way I could not explain”, please, major.’

‘The crate contained stone tiles or tablets, ma’am,’ said Baskevyl, uncomfortably. ‘They had fallen, but arranged themselves in rows.’

‘Rows?’ echoed Grae.

Baskevyl gestured, to explain.

‘Perfect rows, sir,’ he said. ‘Perfectly aligned. It seemed to me very unlikely that they could just land like that.’

‘And you left them?’ asked Laksheema.

‘Yes.’

‘How did it make you feel?’ asked the stocky little savant.

‘Feel?’ replied Baskevyl. ‘I… I don’t know… My inclination was to pick them up, but I felt that was unwise.’

‘Anything else of note occur during the voyage?’ asked Grae.

‘Plenty,’ said Kolea. ‘It was a busy trip.’

‘That you’d like to relate, I mean,’ said Grae.

Baskevyl glanced at Kolea. Neither wanted to be the one to open the can of worms about the eagle stones and the voice. Besides, it was above their grade now, and part of the official mission report document.

‘There is a great deal you are not telling us, isn’t there?’ asked the inquisitor.

‘The mission report is long, complex and classified,’ said Baskevyl.

‘The details can’t circulate until the report has been presented to high command and the warmaster, and validated by them,’ said Kolea.

‘And the ordos do not warrant inclusion in that list?’ asked Laksheema.

‘It’s a matter of Militarum protocol–’ Baskevyl began.

‘Shall I tell you what I think of protocol?’ asked the inquisitor.

‘Our commanding officer is on his way right now to deliver the full report to staff,’ said Fazekiel quickly. ‘He’s presenting it in person. The details were considered too sensitive to commit to signal or other form that could be intercepted.’

‘This is… Gaunt?’ asked Laksheema.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘His reputation precedes him,’ remarked Grae.

‘Does it, sir?’ asked Kolea.

‘It does, major,’ said the intelligence officer. ‘Amplified considerably by death, which of course now proves to be incorrect. He has made quite a name for himself, posthumously. It is rare a man turns up alive to appreciate that.’

‘I’m sure the colonel-commissar will deliver the report in full to you too,’ said Fazekiel.

‘Of course he will,’ said Laksheema. ‘The warmaster has drawn up our working group to examine and identify the materials gathered. Full accounts must be collated from all involved, and all who had contact, as well as a detailed consideration of any events surrounding the mission that may be relevant.’

She looked at Kolea.

‘Even those which may not appear to the layman to be relevant,’ she added.

‘We will need full lists of everyone who had any contact with the items during recovery and storage,’ said Grae. ‘Anyone who was… exposed.’

Kolea nodded. ‘That’s quite a large number of personnel, sir.’

‘They will all be interviewed,’ said Grae.

The adept whirred.

‘Etruin asks who collated and indexed the material for the manifest.’

‘I did,’ said Fazekiel.

Laksheema nodded.

‘The manifest is very thorough. You have a keen preoccupation with detail, Commissar Fazekiel.’

‘I imagine that’s why Gaunt charged me with the duty, ma’am,’ Faz­ekiel replied.

‘You are methodical,’ Laksheema mused. ‘Obsessive compulsive. Has the condition been diagnosed and peer-reviewed?’

‘Has it… what?’ asked Fazekiel.

‘Shall we open the hatch?’ suggested Baskevyl. ‘You can take charge of it. We’ll be glad to see the back of this stuff.’

I know I will, thought Kolea.

A long column of cargo-8 trucks left the staging gates of plating dock eight and followed the old streets down the hill into Eltath. The rain had stopped, and the skies were puzzle-grey. Rainwater had collected in the potholes and ruts pitting the rockcrete roads, and the big wheels of the passing trucks sprayed it up in sheets.

The buildings of the quarter were old, and looked derelict. They had once been the headquarters and storehouses of merchants and shipping guilds, but war had emptied them long before, and they stood silent and often boarded. Time and weather had robbed some of roof tiles, and in places, there were vacant lots where the neighbouring buildings were propped with girder braces to prevent them slumping sideways into the mounds of rubble. The rubble was overgrown with lichen and creeper weeds. These were the sites of buildings lost to shelling and air raids. The spaces they left in the street frontages were like gaps in a row of teeth.

The motor column was carrying the first of the Tanith to their assigned billets. Tona Criid rode in the cab of the lead vehicle. She peered at the dismal buildings as they rumbled past.

‘When did the war here end?’ she asked.

‘The war hasn’t ended,’ replied the Urdeshi pool driver.

‘No, I mean the last war?’

‘Which last war?’ he asked, unhelpfully. He glanced at her. ‘Urdesh has been at war for decades. Conquest, occupation, liberation, reconquest. The whole system, contested since forever. One war followed by another, followed by another.’

‘But you endure?’ she asked.

‘What choice have we got? This is our world.’

Criid thought about that.

‘Forgive me for asking,’ said the driver after a while, his eyes on the road, ‘you’ve come here to fight, and you don’t know what the war is?’

‘That’s fairly normal,’ said Criid. ‘We just go where we’re sent, and we fight. Anyway, it’s the same war. The same war, everywhere.’

‘True, I suppose,’ the man replied.

They drove further through the old quarter. The streets were as lifeless as before. Criid began to notice material strung across the streets from building to building, like processional bunting. But it was sheets, ­carpets, old faded curtains, and other large stretches of canvas that hung limply in the damp air. The sheets hung so low in places, they brushed the tops of the moving trucks.

‘What’s that about?’ she asked, gesturing to the sheets.

‘Snipers,’ said the driver.

‘Snipers?’

‘We string the streets up with cloth like that to reduce any line of sight,’ the driver said. ‘It blocks the scoping opportunities for marksmen.’

‘There are snipers here?’ asked Criid.

‘From time to time,’ the man nodded. ‘The Archenemy is everywhere. Not so much here these days. The main fighting is in the south and the east. Those are whole different kinds of kill-zones. But the enemy sneaks in sometimes. Insurgents, suicide packs, infiltration units, sometimes bastards who have laid low in the bomb-wastes or the sewers since the last occupation. They like to cause trouble.’

Criid nodded. ‘Good to know,’ she said.

He glanced at her again.

‘Learn the habits now you’re here,’ he said. ‘Stay away from windows. Don’t loiter outdoors. And watch out for garbage or debris in roads or doorways. Derelict vehicles too. The bastards like to leave surprises around. Seldom a day goes past without a bomb.’

They reached a junction, and ground to a halt, waiting as heavy cargo transporters and armoured cars growled by, heading towards the docks.

Across the junction, Criid saw the end wall of an old manufactory. Someone, with some skill, had taken paint to it and daubed the words ‘the saint lives and is with us’ in huge red letters. Beside it was a crude but expressive image of a woman with a sword.

‘The Saint,’ said Criid.

‘Beati Sabbat, may she bless us and watch over us,’ said the driver.

‘Good to see that Urdesh is strong in faith at least,’ she said.

‘Not just a matter of faith,’ said the driver, putting the cargo-8 in gear and leading the convoy away again onto a long slope towards the garment district. ‘She’s here. Here with us.’

‘The Saint?’

‘Yes, lady.’

‘Saint Sabbat is here on Urdesh?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ said the driver. ‘Didn’t they tell you anything?’