Salvation's Reach

FIVE Highness Ser Armaduke

At midnight, local time, a new star woke in the skies above Anzimar. The city’s population was hurrying to attend the day’s Sabbat Libera Nos service, which had been held in the temples of the Beati every midnight since the Crusade began, in the hope of vouchsafing a brighter tomorrow. Some of the hundreds of thousands of citizens bustling from their homes, or even their beds, or suspending their labour, at that time may have turned their eyes skywards, for since the very origin of the species, mankind has entertained the notion that some ineffable source of providence may look down upon us. The upward glances were vain, involuntary wishes to glimpse the face of salvation.

No one saw the star light up. The smog that night was as thick as rockcrete.

Ship bells rang. At high anchor at the edge of the mesopause, the Imperial Tempest-class frigate Highness Ser Armaduke lit its plasma engines. The drives ignited with a pulsing fibrillation before calming into a less intense, steady glow.

Below the ship lay the troposphere and the stratosphere. The shadow of the terminator lay heavily across Menazoid Sigma, and the smog atmospherics were so dense there were no visible light concentrations from the night-side hives. Part of the world was in sunlight. The foetid clouds, brown and cream, looked like infected brain tissue.

Small ships buzzed around the Armaduke like flies around a carcass. Fleet tenders nestled in close to its flanks. Launches, lighters, cargo boats and shuttles zipped in and out. The Armaduke’s hatches were all wide open, like the beaks of impatient hatchlings. Entire sections of the frigate’s densely armoured hull plate had been peeled back or retracted to permit access. The old ship, ancient and weathered, looked undignified, like a grandam mamzel caught with her skirts hoisted.

Above the ship lay the exosphere. The vacuum was like a clear but imperfect crystal, a window onto the hard blackness of out-system space and the distant glimmer of tiny, malicious stars.

The Highness Ser Armaduke was an old ship. It was an artefact of considerable size. All ships of the fleet were large. The Armaduke measured a kilometre and a half from prow to stern, and a third of that dimension abeam across the fins. Its realspace displacement was six point two megatonnes, and it carried thirty-two thousand, four hundred and eleven lives, including the entire Tanith First and its regimental retinue. It was like a slice cut from a hive, formed into a spearhead shape and mounted on engines.

It was built for close war. Its hull armour was pitted and scorched, and triple-thickness along the flanks and the prow. The prow cone was rutted with deep scars and healed damage. The Armaduke was of a dogged breed of Imperial ship that liked to get in tight with its foe, and was prepared to get hurt in order to kill an enemy.

To Ibram Gaunt, closing towards it aboard one of the last inbound launches, the ship had the character of a pit-fighter, or a fighting dog. Its scar-tissue was proud and deliberate.

Like the ritual marks of a blood-pacted soldier, he reflected.

The plasma engines pulsed again. Hold doors began to seal, and cantilevered armour sections extended back into position. Gaunt’s craft was one of the last to enter the central landing bay before the main space doors shut. The swarm of small ships dispersed, either into the Armaduke to share its voyage, or away to planetside or the nearest orbital fortress. Formations of Fury- and Faustus-class attack craft had been circling the ship at a radius of five hundred kilometres to provide protection while she was exposed and vulnerable. Now they formed up to provide escort. Buoy lights blinked. Lines detached. Fleet tenders disengaged and rolled lazily away, like spent suitors or weary concubines. The Armaduke began to move.

Initial acceleration was painfully slow, even at maximum plasma power. It was as though an attempt was being made to slide a building – a basilica, a temple hall – by getting an army of slaves to push it. The ship protested. Its hull plates groaned. Its decks settled and creaked. Its superstructure twitched under the application of vast motive power.

The other ships at high anchor unhooded their lamps to salute the departing ship. Some were true giants of the fleet, grand cruisers and battleships six or seven kilometres long. Their vast shadows fell across the Armaduke as it accelerated along the line of anchorage. To them, it was a battered old relic, an orphan of the fleet they would most likely never see again.

The Fury flight dropped in around the ship in escort formation. The plasma drives grew brighter, their flare reflecting off the noctilucent clouds below, creating a shimmering airglow. Mesospheric ionisation caused bowsprite lightning to dance and flicker along the Armaduke’s crenellated topside until the advancing ship passed into the exosphere and the wash of the magnetosphere’s currents swept the lightshow away.

Stepping out of the launch into the excursion hold as the ship ran out, Gaunt sampled the odour of the vessel’s atmosphere. Every ship had its own flavour. He’d travelled on enough of them to know that. Hundreds – or sometimes thousands – of years of recirculation and atmospheric processing allowed things to accumulate in a ship’s lungs. Some smelled oddly sweet, others metallic, others rancid. You always got used to it. A ten- or twelve-week haul on a shiftship could get you used to anything. The Armaduke smelled of scorched fat, like grease in a kitchen’s chimney.

He would get used to that. You could get used to the smell, the chemical tang of the recycled water, the oddly bland taste of shipboard food. You got used to the constant background grumble of the drives, to the odd noises from a vast superstructure constantly in tension. Once the drives were lit, the hull flexed; once the Geller Field was up and the ship had translated into the warp, the hull locked tight, like a well-muscled arm pumped and tensed. You got used to the acceleration sickness, the pervading cold, the odd, slippery displacement where the artificial gravity fields fluctuated and settled.

Once translation had been achieved, you got used to the ports being shuttered. You got used to ignoring whatever was outside. You got used to the baleful screams of the Empyrean, the sounds of hail on the hull, or burning firestorms, or typhoon winds, of fingernails scratching at the port shutters. You got used to the whispers, the shudders and rattles, the inexplicable periods of half-power lighting, the distant subterranean banging, the dreams, the footsteps in empty corridors, the sense that you were plunging further and further into your own subconscious and burning up your sanity to fuel the trip.

The one thing you never got used to was the scale. At high orbit, even with the vast extent of a planet close by for contrast, a starship seemed big. But as the planet dropped away to stern, first the size of an office globe, then a ball, until even the local sun was just a fleck of light no bigger than any other star, the embrace of the void became total. Space was endless and eternal, and the few suns no bigger than grains of salt. Alone in the bewildering emptiness, a starship was dwarfed, diminished until it was just a fragile metal casket alone in the monstrous prospect of night.

The Armaduke was accelerating so robustly now that the fighter escort was struggling to match it. Course was locked for the system’s Mandeville point, where the warp engines would be started up to make an incision in the interstitial fabric of space. The warp awaited them.

The crew and control spaces of a starship tended to be kept separate from the areas used for transported material and passengers, even on a military operation. The transporters and those they were transporting needed very little contact during a voyage.

But the Armaduke was still twenty-six minutes from the translation point when Gaunt presented himself to the shipmaster. He did not come alone.

‘No entry at this time,’ said the midshipman manning the valve hatch. He had six armsmen with him, all with combat shot weapons for shipboard use.

Gaunt showed the midshipman his documentation, documentation that clearly showed he was the commanding officer of the troop units under conveyance.

‘That’s all very well,’ said the midshipman, displaying that unerring knack of Navy types to avoid using Guard rank formalities, ‘but the shipmaster is preparing for commitment to translation. He can’t be interrupted. Perhaps in a week or so, he might find some time to–’

‘Perhaps he’s done it a thousand times before,’ said Gaunt’s companion, stepping out of the bulkhead shadows, ‘and doesn’t need to do more than authorise the bridge crew to execute. Perhaps he ought to bear in mind that his ship is a vital component of this action and not just a means of transportation. Perhaps you should open this hatch.’

The midshipman went pale.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said, his voice as small as a shiftship in the open void.

The shipmaster’s name was Clemensew Spika. He had three Battlefleet commands behind him, but his career was in decline. A grizzled man of medium height, who conducted his command in full dress uniform, he was standing proudly at the gilded rail of the upper deck platform when they entered, gazing out across the bustling main bridge towards the vast forward viewer with a noble expression on his face. Gaunt wondered if he’d been standing there anyway, or if he’d struck the pose when he heard they were coming.

He turned as they came up to him, looking Gaunt in the eye, then tilting his head up to look at the Silver Guard warrior beside him.

‘We are underway,’ he said. ‘Could this audience have waited?’

‘No,’ said Eadwine.

‘Is this translation especially problematic?’ asked Gaunt.

‘No,’ replied Spika. He gestured for them to follow him, and instructed his first officer to watch the steersmen. At the back of the upper deck was a small stateroom reserved for briefings or quiet counsel. Spika sat and indicated they should do the same. Eadwine remained standing.

Apart from one wall panel that displayed a detailed summary of ship function, the room was decorated with painted sections framed in scrolled gilt. Each painted panel showed a different view of Khulan: the Regal Palace, the Waterfalls at Hypson, the Tombs at Kalil, the Imperial Lodge in High Askian, the Smarnian Basilica.

‘You understand how your vessel will be engaged in this venture?’ asked Eadwine. His augmetic rasp had little colour or tone.

‘Of course,’ replied Spika. ‘Rendezvous at Tavis Sun, resupply, then direct to the Marginals.’

‘I mean there,’ said Eadwine. ‘In the Marginals.’

‘Boarding action,’ said Spika. ‘I understand.’

‘You will be required to stay on station,’ said Gaunt.

‘I know.’

‘There will be no fleet support,’ Gaunt added. ‘The Armaduke will be vulnerable.’

‘I know,’ repeated Spika.

‘There are several things we don’t know,’ said Eadwine. ‘The dangers are considerable. We will be running silently for the last realspace section. There will be navigational hazards. Clearance and manoeuvre will be restricted. The deployment will be multi-point. Sustained. We do not know what we will find inside the target structure.’

‘At all?’ asked Spika. ‘I understood that this mission was based on intelligence of–’

‘It is,’ said Gaunt. ‘But it is limited. It may be out of date.’

‘It may be a pack of lies,’ said Eadwine.

‘Encouraging,’ said Spika.

‘Depending on levels of opposition, you may be required to commit your armsmen,’ said Eadwine.

‘I wasn’t told that,’ said Spika.

‘Is it a problem?’

‘The armsmen of the Highness Ser Armaduke will fight for the life of the ship if necessary,’ said the shipmaster firmly. He paused. ‘But I have been given a complement of young recruits. Few have battle experience. I was given to expect that you would be doing the fighting.’

Gaunt glanced at the towering Space Marine. Eadwine’s helm hung from his belt. He was looking with what resembled interest at the painting of the Waterfalls at Hypson.

‘The Navy has been economical with your briefing,’ said Eadwine. ‘What do you understand this mission to be about?’

‘About a matter of strategic importance,’ replied Spika. ‘Specifically, from my point of view, the opportunity to put this newly refitted ship and its young crew through a proper shakedown prior to re-certification.’

Neither Gaunt nor Eadwine replied. Spika looked at them. There was something infinitely sad in his pale blue eyes, as if he had been trying for weeks now to overlook the obvious.

‘A cynic might, I suppose, interpret this differently,’ he said.

‘How might that go?’ asked Gaunt.

‘An expendable and not entirely void-worthy ship and a young crew of little experiential value,’ said Spika, ‘given into the charge of a man who will never make admiral now and who asks the wrong questions of his superiors. A mission that is so likely to end in disaster, only scraps can be risked.’

‘A good dose of cynicism is always healthy, I find,’ said Eadwine.

‘There were other clues,’ said Spika, a hardness in his voice. He looked at Gaunt. ‘I reviewed your file, those sections that were not restricted. Glorious moments early on, at Balhaut especially. Great favour. The achievements since have been considerable. I mean that. No one could fail to be impressed by your service record. But recognition has been scant since Balhaut. There is a sense that you have squandered great opportunities, and ended up achieving little credit for the expenditure of great courage and tenacity. Like me and my ship, you and your regiment are useful but disposable commodities.’

‘A good dose of cynicism is always healthy,’ replied Gaunt.

‘I don’t care who you are,’ rumbled Eadwine. ‘I don’t care if you’re the Warmaster himself. This is the Imperium of Mankind. We’re all of us disposable commodities.’

The lights dipped. There was a shudder. The warp embraced them.

‘I hate that,’ said Larkin. He froze and refused to continue walking until the ship lights returned to their original brilliance. There was an underdeck tremor. A distant exhalation.

‘Worst part of any trip,’ he added. The lights came back up, a frosty glare in the low deck companionway. He started walking again.

‘The worst?’ asked Domor.

‘Yes,’ said Larkin. ‘Apart from getting there.’

‘All true,’ said Domor.

They had reached the armoured hatchway of a hold space originally designed as a magazine for explosive ordnance. Rawne and Brostin were waiting for them.

‘I want a badge like that,’ said Larkin.

‘Well, you can’t have one,’ said Brostin. ‘It’s only for the kings.’

‘The kings can kiss my arse,’ said Larkin.

Domor looked at Rawne.

‘This could continue all day, major,’ he said.

‘And it still wouldn’t become amusing,’ Rawne agreed.

‘Gaunt wants us to see him,’ said Domor. ‘Is that all right?’

‘Yes,’ said Rawne. ‘Provided you’re who you say you are.’

Larkin winked at Rawne.

‘Come on, Eli, these’d be pretty rubbish disguises, wouldn’t they?’

‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Domor, a smile forming. ‘We forced our own faces to change shape?’

‘I’ve seen stranger things,’ said Rawne.

‘Nobody here is surprised,’ said Larkin.

Rawne nodded to Brostin. The big man banged on the door, and then opened the outer hatch.

‘Coming in, two visitors,’ said Rawne over his microbead.

‘Read that.’

A peephole slot in the inner door opened, and Rawne stood where the viewer could see his face.

The inner hatch opened. Rawne took Domor and Larkin through.

‘Got anything he could use as a weapon?’ asked Rawne.

‘My rapier wit?’ suggested Larkin.

Mabbon Etogaur was sitting on a folding bunk in one corner of the dank magazine compartment. The walls, deck and ceiling were reinforced ceramite, and the slot hatch for the loader mechanism had been welded shut. The prisoner was reading a trancemissionary pamphlet, one of a stack on his mattress. His right wrist was cuffed to a chain that was bolted to a floor pin.

Varl was sitting on a stool in the opposite corner, his lasrifle across his knees. Cant was standing in another corner, nibbling at the quick of his thumbnail.

Larkin and Domor came in and approached the etogaur.

He looked up.

‘I don’t know you,’ he said.

‘No, but I had you in my crosshairs once,’ said Larkin.

‘Where?’

‘Balhaut.’

‘Why didn’t you take the shot?’ asked Mabbon.

‘And miss a touching moment like this?’

‘That’s Domor, that’s Larkin,’ said Rawne, pointing.

‘Don’t tell him our damn names!’ Larkin hissed. ‘He might do all sorts of fethed-up magic shit with them!’

‘I won’t,’ said Mabbon.

‘He won’t,’ Rawne agreed.

‘He can’t,’ said Varl.

‘Why not?’ asked Larkin.

‘Because how else would I be the punchline for another of Varl’s jokes?’ asked Cant wearily.

Larkin snorted.

‘He won’t because he’s cooperating,’ said Rawne, ignoring the others.

‘And if I did,’ said Mabbon, ‘Rawne would gut me.’

‘He does do that,’ Larkin nodded.

‘What did you need from me?’ asked Mabbon.

‘A consultation,’ said Domor. He had a sheaf of rolled papers under his arm, and a data-slate in his hand.

‘Go on,’ said Mabbon.

Larkin took the pamphlet out of Mabbon’s hand and glanced at it.

‘Good read?’ he asked.

‘I enjoy the subject matter,’ said Mabbon.

‘A doctrine of conversion to the Imperial Creed?’ asked Larkin.

‘Fantasy,’ replied Mabbon.

‘He’d be a fething funny man if he didn’t scare the shit out of me,’ Larkin said to Rawne.

‘We’re leading the insertion effort,’ said Domor. ‘There’s training to be done, planning. We want to use transit time to get as ready as possible.’

‘Are you combat engineering?’ asked Mabbon.

‘Yes,’ said Domor. ‘Larks… Larkin, he’s marksman squad.’

‘I saw the lanyard.’

‘We want to go over the deck plans and schematics you’ve supplied so far. It may mean several hours work over a period of days.’

‘I’ll try to build time into my schedule.’

‘Some of the plans are vague,’ said Larkin.

‘So are some of my memories. It’s all from memory.’

‘If you go through them a few times,’ said Rawne, ‘maybe you can firm things up.’

The etogaur nodded.

‘If you go through them so many times you’re sick of them, maybe we’ll actually do this right,’ Rawne added.

‘I’ve no problem with that,’ said Mabbon. ‘I offered this to you. I want it to happen.’

Domor showed him the data-slate.

‘We want to talk about this too,’ he said. ‘This firing mechanism. We need to mock some up for practice purposes. You say this is fairly standard?’

‘It’s representative of the sort of firing mechanisms and trigger systems you’re going to find,’ said Mabbon, studying the slate image.

‘It’s just mechanical,’ said Larkin.

‘It has to be. They can’t risk anything more… more complicated. They can’t risk using anything that might interfere with, or be interfered with by, the devices under development at the target location. It’s delicate. Any conflict in arcane processes or conjurations could be disastrous.’

‘So just mechanical?’ said Larkin.

‘Complex and very delicate. Very sensitive. But, yes. Just mechanical.’

Larkin took the slate back.

‘It looks very… It looks very much like the sort of thing we use,’ he said. ‘It looks pretty standard.’

‘It’s the sort of trigger mechanism I would rig,’ Domor said.

‘Of course,’ said Mabbon. ‘Tried and tested Guard practice. This is the sort of thing I taught them how to do. And I learned it the same place you did.’

Larkin looked at Domor. There was distaste on his face.

‘Go get the folding table,’ Rawne said to Varl. ‘Let’s look over these plans.’

In berthing hold six, the lights stayed dim for a long time. When they came back up, it was without enthusiasm.

The air was fuggy. Too many bodies, too much breathing, not enough decent atmospheric processing.

‘This is a dump,’ remarked Ree Perday. The cots were stacked three deep and close together. It was a forest of prone bodies. There was virtually no room to stow the band’s instruments.

‘Well, it’s our dump,’ said Bandmaster Yerolemew. moving through the rows. He tapped an empty bunk with his baton.

‘Who’s not here?’

‘Pol Cohran, sergeant major,’ said Gorus.

‘Where is he?’

‘Acceleration sickness, sergeant major,’ said Perday.

‘Cohran doesn’t get acceleration sickness,’ said Yerolemew.

‘He does this time,’ said Erish.

‘White as an undershirt,’ muttered Gorus.

‘Not one of your undershirts,’ said Perday.

‘Settle down,’ said the bandmaster.

‘Maybe the bandsman needs to see a medicae?’ asked Commissar Blenner. He’d been watching from the end of a bunk row.

‘Didn’t see you there, sir!’ snapped Yerolemew, straightening fast. The others began to move.

‘Please don’t,’ said Blenner, coming forwards. He took off his cap. It always took the sting out, he thought, when the cap came off. ‘This isn’t an official inspection. I just came to greet you, make sure you were stowed.’

‘That’s kind of you, sir,’ said Yerolemew.

‘I can afford to be kind now, sergeant,’ said Blenner. ‘You can pay me back later by behaving yourselves.’

He crooked an eyebrow to the crowd and got a little chuckle.

‘You’ll find I’m a pretty fair sort, generally. Come to me in good faith and I’ll always hear you out. Thank your lucky stars my name’s not Hark.’

More laughter, and it was genuine.

‘Anything to report so far? The facilities suiting your needs?’

‘Pardon me, sir,’ said Perday, ‘but there’s precious little room to store our instruments.’

‘No, there isn’t, is there?’ said Blenner glancing around. ‘Gaunt said something about storing them… where was it now? Airgate sixty.’

Still more laughter, some of it outraged.

‘I know, I know!’ said Blenner. ‘No respect, is there? No respect for the simple, pure, uplifting decency that is a colours band. Am I right?’

It seemed he was.

‘I tell you what we’re going to do,’ he said. ‘This mission, it’s pretty vital. It’s dangerous too, I won’t lie. But what we’re going to do is spend the time proving that a marching unit is indispensable to the regiment. Indispensable! As soldiers and as musicians, you’re going to prove your worth.’

That got a big cheer.

‘Fury of Belladon!’ Blenner tossed in for good measure, and circled his raised hand like a potentate on a balcony taking a march-past.

As they began to settle again, he turned to the sergeant major.

‘I was looking for your commanding officer,’ said Blenner.

‘I can show you to his quarters,’ Yerolemew replied. ‘I was just settling the company.’

‘You carry on, sergeant major,’ said Blenner. ‘I’m sure somebody else can show me. That young girl, for example. She seems very accommodating.’

‘Perday?’ called Yerolemew.

‘Sir, yes, sir!’

‘Kindly show Commissar Blenner through to Captain Wilder’s quarters.’

Perday jumped up.

‘This way, sir,’ she said.

She led him off the bustling berthing deck and onto a rather more gloomy corridor where the officers had been given cabins. The deck was a mesh. Below, there was a maintenance trench and a sluice.

‘What’s your name, trooper?’ asked Blenner.

‘Ree Perday, sir.’

‘Ree. Ree. And what’s that short for?’

‘Uhm, Ree, sir.’

‘I see,’ said Blenner. Not one to be deflected, he pressed on. ‘And where are you from, Ree Perday?’

‘Belladon, sir.’

‘Yes, silly of me to ask.’

In the shadow of a maintenance hatch in the trench below, the thing with Pol Cohran’s face watched them pass overhead. He had hidden so he could relax the tension in his face again. Bones clacked as cranial kinesis reasserted Cohran’s visage.

‘What was that?’ asked Blenner.

‘I didn’t hear anything, sir,’ said Perday.

‘I hope it wasn’t rats,’ said Blenner. ‘I do hate rats.’

‘Oh, yes, sir.’

‘Especially when you spot them leaving the ship first.’

Perday laughed, and knocked on a cabin door. It was open.

‘Sir? Captain?’ she called. She peered inside.

‘Oh, Throne,’ he heard her say.

Blenner pushed past her. The cabin was small and unfriendly. Wilder was sprawled on the deck. He’d been sick at least once. The smell of amasec was pungent.

Blenner rolled him over. He was bonelessly limp, but he was still breathing. There were fumes coming off him you could have lit with a lucifer.

‘Oh, you bloody idiot,’ Blenner muttered.

‘What do we do, sir?’ asked Perday.

‘Go get a mop, Perday, and a pail of water,’ said Blenner. ‘Don’t tell anybody why. When you come back, watch the door and don’t let anybody in.’

She looked at him, helpless and anxious.

‘Go on.’

She hurried out.

Blenner sighed, and then hoisted Wilder up and carried him over to the bunk. He groaned in his stupor.

‘I could just shoot you for this, you realise that?’ said Blenner.

Wilder opened his eyes, but there wasn’t much of anything in there.

‘You’re a bloody fool,’ said Blenner. ‘I gave you a chance tonight, and you’ve already screwed it up. There’s going to come a point when I can’t help you any more, do you understand?’

Wilder closed his eyes.

‘Can’t and won’t,’ said Blenner.

Perday reappeared.

‘Where’s the mop, girl?’ Blenner asked.

‘Sir, I was just looking for one, sir, but I thought you should know. Company inspection, sir. Company inspection right now.’

‘Throne, Wilder, you’ll be the death of me,’ said Blenner. He got up.

‘Perday, use the jug of water there, and get a spare shirt or vest out of his holdall. Try to mop up this mess. Quickly, now.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Blenner put his cap on and went to the cabin door. Baskevyl, Sloman and Edur had just appeared at the end of the corridor; walking, talking.

‘Blenner,’ said Edur. ‘I was going to invite you to join us, but I couldn’t find you.’

‘I was already inspecting,’ Blenner said. He pulled the cabin door shut behind him, so they couldn’t see in past him.

‘Inspecting?’ asked Edur.

‘More a meet and greet. I didn’t know a surprise formal was due?’

‘Standard Belladon practice to spring a surprise on a new intake during the first thirty-six hours,’ said Baskevyl.

‘Perhaps you should familiarise me with some standard Belladon practice,’ said Blenner. ‘Seeing as the Belladon are my special responsibility.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Baskevyl. ‘I didn’t mean to cut you out of the process. I should have consulted you.’

‘No harm done.’

‘Would you like to walk in with us now? Maybe Captain Wilder too?’

Blenner pulled a face. He dropped his voice and leaned in close.

‘There’s a slight problem,’ he said. ‘The captain’s been struck down with a nasty bout of acceleration sickness.’

‘Really?’ said Baskevyl.

‘Nasty.’ Blenner nodded. ‘It’s widespread, actually. More than one bandsman has got it. I’ll be sending for a medicae to give everyone a check. The thing is, Wilder could join us, but he looks like death warmed over, and frankly I don’t want him losing face by seeming weak in front of the men.’

‘Quite right,’ said Sloman.

‘Here’s an idea,’ said Blenner, his voice still low. ‘Why don’t we do this inspection once I’ve had everybody checked? Give them a fighting chance to turn out properly on a first show. I mean, come on, between us, they’re not going to get a fighting chance to do anything much more impressive, are they?’

Sloman laughed. Baskevyl tried not to.

‘That’s good policy, I think,’ said Edur solemnly. ‘This time tomorrow, maybe?’

They went back the way they’d come.

Blenner stepped into the cabin. He breathed deeply, and quickly necked one of Dorden’s pills. Perday had done a good job of washing the deck. She was bagging the shirt she’d used for laundry.

‘You’re a kind man, sir,’ she said. ‘You said you were fair and you clearly mean it. Others would have hung the captain out for this.’

‘Don’t tell me that,’ said Blenner. He pointed at Wilder. ‘Tell him that when he wakes up tomorrow morning.’

‘The shipmaster seems reliable?’ asked Lord Militant Cybon. ‘This Spika? He was the Navy’s choice.’

‘He seemed agreeable enough,’ said Gaunt. ‘Sanguine.’

Cybon nodded.

‘Amasec?’

‘I’ll take a small one, sir.’

Cybon’s staterooms were some of the most comfortable passenger apartments on the Armaduke. Gaunt believed a senior helm officer had been rehoused to accommodate the lord militant for the voyage. Gaunt had opted for a standard officer’s quarters of the lower deck beside the other Tanith seniors.

‘Should I have seen him? He knows I’m aboard,’ said Cybon as his aide marched off to get some amasec. The lord militant eased his augmetic frame down into a reclining flight throne. The chamber’s desk was alive with hololithic displays. Cybon liked his information fresh and frequently renewed.

‘I think I made the right noises,’ said Gaunt, taking the small amasec that the aide offered him. The glass was from the lord militant’s own travelling case. There was a small rook crest etched on the crystal.

‘He knows you’re aboard, but it’s not general news,’ Gaunt went on. ‘And you’ll be leaving us when we rendezvous with the fleet at Tavis Sun. So Spika needs to get used to me being the voice of authority.’

Cybon nodded and sipped his amasec pensively.

‘You took a Space Marine with you?’

‘Eadwine. Of the Silver Guard.’

‘Sensible. That’ll put the wind up him at least.’

There was a long pause.

‘Times are changing, Gaunt,’ said Cybon. His augmetic voice was a soft rumble.

‘Sir?’

‘It’s been a long time since Balhaut. Moods change. Fortunes shift. People go in and out of favour.’

‘This has always been my experience, sir,’ Gaunt said. ‘Were you saying this in relation to anything particular?’

Cybon shrugged. Augmetics hissed. He steepled his fingers around his glass, gazing at it. ‘You and I were ascendant at the same time, Gaunt. Before Balhaut. Under Slaydo. It was a good time for us. We were connected.’

‘We were. I don’t feel I’ve been unfairly treated since.’

‘I don’t feel you have either,’ said Cybon. ‘You made your bed. You looked at the opportunities, and you decided to stay in the field. You’ve made the best of that choice. Throne knows, some part of me wishes I’d made similar choices at certain points in my career.’

‘Your career and command are enviable, sir. And it’s far from over.’

Cybon nodded.

‘If this mission goes well, Gaunt, it could mean a lot. It could mean a lot for the cause, but also for you, and for everyone who supported the effort.’

‘Which would include the Warmaster.’

‘Naturally. But I doubt he’s paid close attention to this one. Do you know how many missions he is required to scrutinise and approve every day? Across the sector? Come on. This is one raid, part of a sequence, in a corner of the Sabbat Worlds not seen as directly strategic. If it fails, it’s forgotten. If it succeeds…’

‘It could make a man’s career?’

‘It could make the careers of many men, Gaunt. It could alter the emphasis of operations. It could provoke a… an overhaul. A much needed overhaul.’

‘I see.’

Cybon wiped his lips with the back of his finger.

‘I will remember you for this, Gaunt. I will credit you where credit is needed. I hope you will do the same.’

‘Of course.’

Cybon looked at Gaunt. ‘It’s already begun, you know?’ he said.

‘Sir?’

‘Four weeks ago, unadjusted, the first attack. There have been seven more since. In the space of these six months, sidereal, twenty-eight raids will take place at selected locations across the trailing portions of the Sabbat Worlds. All of them will work according to the philosophy cooked up by you and Mercure. The tactics. The clues left. The information broadcast. Some of those transmissions are very authentic.’

‘They’re as authentic as we could make them,’ said Gaunt.

‘Twenty-eight raids,’ said Cybon. ‘It’s not even a massive commitment of men and materiel. Nothing so grand the Warmaster has to approve resourcing. The coordination, that’s the clever part. It’s smoke and mirrors.’

‘It’s mostly smoke and mirrors, sir,’ said Gaunt. ‘The effect will be very diluted if we don’t pull off this attack.’

‘Then that’s what you’d better do, isn’t it?’ said Cybon.

Meritous Felyx Chass had taken a seat in the corner of Gaunt’s quarters and was reading a data-slate. He got up when Gaunt walked in. Gaunt gestured to him to sit again.

‘Ravenor,’ said Chass, indicating the book. ‘I’ve never been particularly taken with his work.’

‘Really?’ said Gaunt.

‘He died badly, didn’t he?’

Gaunt shrugged. ‘What matters is what he did first,’ he said. He sat down at his desk. Maddalena Darebeloved was a silent presence in the far corner.

‘You can always wait outside,’ said Gaunt.

‘He doesn’t leave my sight,’ she replied.

‘I have a problem here,’ said Gaunt. ‘You tell me you’re my son. That’s both a surprise and a hindrance to a man in my particular circumstance.’

‘I don’t mean to be a–’

‘What do you mean to be?’ asked Gaunt.

‘My mother thinks it would benefit me, as a future leader of House Chass, to learn from you.’

‘Learn what? How to fight? Honour? Duty? You can learn all that from her.’

‘My mother?’

‘No, her,’ said Gaunt, pointing at the lifeguard. ‘But let’s talk about your mother for a moment. According to you, you’re her first and only son. That makes you heir to the House. Why is she risking your life like this? First sons, sometimes second sons too, they’re kept closeted in protective custody to safeguard the bloodline. Getting sent out into the Imperium is usually the fate of subsequent offspring.’

‘Verghastite philosophy is somewhat different–’ Maddalena began.

‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ said Gaunt. He was immediately annoyed with himself for snapping. He didn’t know what it was, but the lifeguard really got under his skin.

‘House Chass has always believed in experiential improvement,’ said Chass. ‘To see the Imperium, to learn about it, to learn from my father, these are all things that will benefit me when I finally take my place.’

‘Your mother has never travelled, not as far as I know.’

‘She would have,’ said Chass. ‘But she may be required to assume the House sooner than expected. My grandfather is ill.’

‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’

Gaunt got up, and began to pace thoughtfully. ‘I’m afraid I think this is about prestige,’ he said. ‘You associate with the famous war hero of Vervunhive, and earn some glory of your own, you’ll go back as more than just a popular heir to the House. That kind of borrowed gloss will get you a planetary seat, a governorship. I think House Chass has great ambitions to fulfil through you.’

‘You are dismayingly arrogant,’ said Maddalena.

‘Just tell me I’m not also right,’ said Gaunt.

There was a knock at the door. Maddalena instinctively reached towards her sidearm.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Gaunt. ‘Enter!’

Beltayn came in, with Nahum Ludd and Trooper Dalin.

‘You sent for these men, sir?’ he asked.

‘I did. Come in. You might as well stay and hear this too, Beltayn.’

Chass had risen to his feet. Both Ludd and Dalin looked at him, curious.

‘This, I have just discovered, is my son,’ Gaunt said. He ignored their looks of surprise. ‘I didn’t know I had a son, and now I find myself compromised by the knowledge. This is a risky mission, and potentially none of us may come back. Taking the son I’ve just met along on what could be a suicidal venture hardly seems like the greatest exercise in parental responsibility.’

Gaunt looked at Ludd and Dalin.

‘However, I could hardly leave him behind on Menazoid Sigma either. He wants to join us. He wants to serve with us. That’s a reasonably admirable ambition.’

‘I don’t want special treatment,’ said Chass.

‘Good, because you’re not getting any,’ said Gaunt. ‘Ludd, I hate to add to your existing workload, but I want you to prepare and process enlistment papers. If he wants to be a Guardsman, it had better be official.’

‘And I take it you want me to keep an eye on him too, sir?’ asked Ludd.

‘No. Not at all,’ said Gaunt. ‘I want you to keep an eye on her.’ He pointed to Maddalena.

‘The young Lord Chass here,’ said Gaunt, ‘is noble born. He has a bodyguard. A good one. It’s the only special favour I’ll show him, allowing her to remain. She can look after him, but she will not get in the way of operations. The moment she does, you can remove her. My full authority. You can shoot her, if needs be.’

‘He can try,’ said Maddalena.

‘Ludd is an Imperial commissar,’ Gaunt said to her. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t even think bad things about him.’

He turned back to the others.

‘His lordship must not compromise my decision making, especially not on this mission. I cannot, will not, worry about him, or second guess my choices because of him. Dalin, you’re about his age, so I want you to show him the ropes. There’s no time for basic and induction. Let him shadow you, and teach him what he needs. I ask this as a favour, not a command. When the real fighting starts, we’ll be keeping him away from the brunt of it.’

‘I want to–’ Chass began.

‘Enough,’ said Gaunt. ‘Show him the ropes, please, Dalin. But I don’t want him even compromising your duties as adjutant. He eats and sleeps like any common lasman.’

‘He should receive a rank,’ said Maddalena. ‘Some privilege for–’

‘If he wants to learn from me,’ said Gaunt, ‘he can do exactly what I did and start from the bottom. Take it or leave it. You asked for this, so don’t complain now you’ve got it. If he doesn’t like it, he can leave us at the fleet rendezvous and go home to his mother.’

He looked at them.

‘That’s all,’ he said.

Mkoll, chief scout of the Tanith First, prowled silently through the vast and dark cargo decks of the Armaduke. He was hunting.

The engines rumbled distantly. He hadn’t set out to look for anything in particular. He just wanted to get the lay of the land, learn the geography of the ship. Just in case.

He also wanted to get his equilibrium settled as fast as possible. Ship time unsettled him. He got through it by walking, and learning every obscure corner of whatever craft he was aboard. It was a form of meditation.

Half an hour into his first walk around, crossing a vehicle deck where mission equipment was secured under lash lines and the air smelled of disinfectant, he’d first seen the bird. It was moving through the cargo galleries, swooping from one set of hold rafters to the next. It looked as lost and as trapped as he felt.

He set to following it. It was big. A twin-headed eagle. At first, he wondered if it was some kind of vision, but it was real enough. He’d been told the intake had brought a psyber animal aboard with them. A mascot. It had evidently got loose.

It kept apace of him. He followed it through two of the small holds, then around an engineering deck where the few servitors didn’t seem to notice it. It avoided the busy spaces, the troop decks, the vast and heated furnace rooms of the drive chambers where hundreds of crewmen toiled like slaves.

Like him, it sought the lonely parts of the ship.

He wondered how he could catch it without harming it. If it stayed loose, it could get lost or trapped, and die of starvation. The death of an aquila on the eve of a mission would not be the best omen.

Mkoll followed the bird into a vast hold space that had been left empty. Junk and spare plating had been piled up there. He heard a voice call out.

The eagle turned, surprised, and then immediately followed the voice down.

It settled on a metal spar beside two figures. They were sitting right out in the middle of the empty space, perched on scrap metal, a small fire burning in an oil can.

One of the men was Ezra Night. He was permitting his companion to examine the function of his reynbow.

Ezra saw Mkoll, and called out.

‘Histye soule! Come join herein.’

Mkoll walked over to the fire.

The other figure lowered the reynbow and looked Mkoll up and down. He was a Space Marine of the White Scars Chapter. He was in full plate, his helm on the deck by his left foot.

‘You are the master of the scouts?’ he asked. ‘I’ve heard all about you. Sit.’