Know No Fear Page 3

  The T’Vanti seemed delighted by their achievement, and utterly oblivious to the eighty-nine thousand men it had cost them.

  Guilliman turns the stylus in his hand, thoughtful. It takes discipline to die in such numbers. It is one of the reasons that a bladed T’Vanti cordulus hangs on his compartment wall. He believes he has the most disciplined military force in the Imperium, and given the quality of the other Legions, that is quite a claim. Still, he is not sure even his Ultramarines would display such a deep degree of discipline, such a T’Vanti degree.

  ‘They will never have to,’ he reflects, out loud.

  Guilliman sits back. The seat flexes to support his armoured bulk. He is shaped like a man, but he is far more than that, far more than even the transhuman giants of his Legion. He is a primarch. There are only seventeen other beings like him left in the universe.

  He is the thirteenth son of mankind’s Emperor. He is the Master of the Ultramarines, the XIII Legion. He is one of the more human of his kind. Some are more like angels. Others are... otherwise.

  From a distance, one might mistake him for a man. Only when the distance closed would you realise he is more like a god.

  He is handsome, in a plain way. He is handsome the way a regent on an old coin is handsome, like a good sword is handsome. He is not handsome like a ritual weapon, the way Fulgrim is. He is not angelic, like Sanguinius. Not heartbreakingly angelic. None of them are that beautiful.

  There is a dutiful line to his jaw, like his good brother Dorn. They share a nobility. There is the great strength of Ferrus and the vitality of Mortarion. There is, sometimes, the rogue glint of the Khan in his eyes, or the solemnity of the Lion. In the architecture of his nose and brow there is, many claim, the energy and triumph of Horus Lupercal.

  There is none of the bitterness that shadows Corax, or the persecuted despair that haunts poor Konrad. There is never any of the deliberate mystery that obscures Alpharius or Magnus, and he is more open than that buried soul Vulkan. He is accomplished, very accomplished, even by the standards of the primarchs. He knows that the breadth of his accomplishments troubles his more single-minded brothers like Lorgar and Perturabo. He never displays the pitch of fury found in Angron, nor do his eyes ever ignite with the psychotic gleam of Russ.

  He is a high achiever. He knows this about himself. Sometimes it feels like a fault that he has to excuse to his brothers, but then he feels guilty for making excuses. Few of them really trust him, because, he feels, they always wonder what he’s going to get from any compact or cooperation. Fewer still like him: as friends, he counts only Dorn, Ferrus, Sanguinius and Horus.

  Some of his brothers are content to be the instruments of crusade they have become. Some of them don’t even pause to consider that is what they are. Angron, Russ, Ferrus, Perturabo… They are just weapons, and have no ambition beyond being weapons. They know their place, like Russ, and are content to keep to it, or they have no idea that any other role might be possible or desirable, like Angron.

  Guilliman believes that none of them were made to be just weapons. No war is meant to last forever. The Emperor, his father, has not raised disposable sons. Why would he have gifted them with such talents if they were destined to become redundant when the war is done?

  He turns the stylus in his hand and reads back what he has written. He writes a great deal. He codifies everything. Information is power. Technical theory is victory. He intends to compile and systemise it all. When the war is done, perhaps, he will have time to properly compose his archives of data into some formal codification.

  He uses a stylus by choice, recording in his own handwriting. The stylus marks directly onto the lumoplastek surface of his data-slate, but even so it is considered antiquated. Key plates seem impersonal, and vox-recorders or secretarial rubricators have never suited his process. He tried a thought-tap for a time, and one of the newer mnemo-quills, but they were both unsatisfactory. The stylus will stay.

  He turns it in his hand.

  His compartment is quiet. Through the vast, tinted armourglas doors behind him, he can see his Chapter Masters gathering for audience. They are waiting for his summons. There is a great deal to do. They think he’s idling, recording notes and not keeping his eye on the dataflow.

  It amuses him that they still underestimate him.

  He has been writing notes on T’Vanti war practices for seventeen minutes, but he has still noted and marked fifteen hundred data bulletins and updates that have tracked across the secondary screens to his left.

  He sees and reconciles everything.

  Information is victory.

  [mark: -61.25.22]

  The Chapter Masters await their primarch. From the antechamber, they can see him through the tinted armourglas of the doors. He sits like a commemorative statute in an otherwise empty chapel. Every now and then, his hand moves as he makes a notation on the hovering slate with his antique pen. The compartment, Guilliman’s compartment, is stark and bare. Steel-fold floors and adamantium-ribbed walls. The far end is a crystalflex wall through which orbital space is visible. Stars glitter. A glare comes up through the blackness from the radiant world below.

  Marius Gage is First Master. They’re not all here yet. Twelve have arrived so far, and that is, in itself, quite an assembly. By the day’s end, there will be twenty.

  The XIII Legion, largest of all the Legiones Astartes, is divided into Chapters, a throwback to the old regimental structures of the thunder warriors. Each Chapter is formed of ten companies. The basic unit currency is the company, a thousand legionaries, plus their support retinue, led by a senior captain. A company, Gage has often heard his primarch comment, is more than sufficient for most purposes. There is an old aphorism, popular in the XIII. It is, perhaps, boastful and arrogant, and there are certain opponents such as the greenskins and the eldar to which it does not apply, but it contains a basic estimation of truth:

  To take a town, send a legionary; to take a city, send a squad; to take a world, send a company; to take a culture, send a Chapter.

  Today, at Calth, twenty of the XIII’s twenty-five Chapters will conjunct for deployment. Two hundred companies. Two hundred thousand legionaries. The remainder will maintain garrison positions throughout the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar.

  Such a gathering is not unprecedented, but it is rare. The XIII hasn’t been oathed out in such numbers since the early days of the Great Crusade.

  And you can add to their mass the equivalent of five Chapters of the XVII, the Word Bearers.

  The level of overkill is almost comical. What exactly does the new Warmaster think the Ghaslakh xenohold has in its magazine?

  ‘I hope,’ says Kaen Atreus, Master of the 6th Chapter, ‘I hope,’ he says out loud, ‘we open up the heart of the biggest greenskin nest in known space.’

  ‘You hope for trouble?’ asks Gage, amused.

  ‘Remark 56.xxi,’ says Vared of the 11th. ‘Never wish for danger. Danger needs no help. There is no such thing as fate that can be tempted, but morale is never improved by an active lust for war.’

  Atreus scowls.

  ‘I would rather tempt a little fate,’ he says, ‘than waste my time for the glory of others.’

  ‘Which others have you in mind?’ Gage wonders.

  Atreus looks at him. A scar bisects his left eye and turns the corner of his mouth down. When he smiles, it is an act of stealth.

  ‘This compliance is designed to achieve two objectives, and neither of them is military,’ he says. ‘We’re to lend a little gloss to the clumsy reputation of the Word Bearers by operating in concert. And we’re to demonstrate the authority of Horus by jumping twenty full Chapters to his whim.’

  ‘Is this a theoretical or a practical assessment, Atreus?’ Banzor asks, and all the masters laugh.

  ‘You’ve seen the tactical audits. The Ghaslakh greenskins are a joke. There is some doubt they’ve even advanced to Golsoria. Their threat has been over-sold. I could take a company from the reserve and crus
h them in a week. This is about glorification and the demonstration of authority. This is about Horus throwing his weight around.’

  Some murmurs, many of agreement.

  ‘Horus Lupercal,’ says Marius Gage.

  ‘What?’ says Atreus.

  ‘Horus Lupercal,’ says Gage. ‘Or Primarch Horus, or Warmaster. You may not consider him a worthier being than our primarch, but the Emperor does, and has bestowed the rank. Even informally, among ourselves, like this, you will refer to him with respect. He’s Warmaster, Atreus, he’s our Warmaster, and if he says we go to war, we go to war.’

  Atreus stiffens, and then nods.

  ‘My apologies.’

  Gage nods back. He glances around. Fourteen Chapter Masters have gathered now. He turns to the doors.

  They open. Sub-deck hydraulic pistons pull them apart.

  ‘Enter,’ Guilliman calls. ‘I can see you fretting out there.’

  They enter, Gage leading. Their retinues and veterans remain outside.

  Guilliman does not look up. He makes another mark with his stylus. Data scrolls across hololithic plates, unobserved, to his left.

  Now they are in the compartment, the view through the crystalflex wall has become more spectacular. Below them, the vast hull of the flagship gleams in the sunlight as it extends away. Macragge’s Honour. Twenty-six kilometres of polished ceramite and steel armour. Flanking it, at lateral anchor marks, eighteen fleet barges, each one the size of a city, gleam like silver-blue blades. In tiers above, grav-anchored like moons, are shining troop ships, carriers, Mechanicum bulkers, cruisers and grand cruisers and battleships. The space between is thick with small ships and cargo traffic, zipping between holds and berths.

  Below, cargo-luggers raise hauls of materiel from the orbital platforms. They look like leafcutter ants, or scorpions bearing oversized prey in their claws.

  Below that, a frigate test cycles its engines in the nearest orbital slip.

  Below that, Calth, blue-white with reflected sunlight. Pinpricks mirror-flash in the glare: liftships coming up from the surface, catching the sun.

  Gage clears his throat.

  ‘We had no wish to disturb you, primarch, but–’

  ‘–there is much to do,’ Guilliman finishes. He glances at his First Master. ‘I have been watching the datastream, Marius. Did you think I hadn’t?’

  Gage smiles.

  ‘Never for a moment, sir.’

  A hundred labours, simultaneously. The primarch’s ability to multitask is almost frightening.

  ‘We wanted to make sure you’d caught every detail,’ says Empion of the 9th. Youngest of them. Newest of them. Gage covers a smile. The poor fool still hasn’t learned not to underestimate.

  ‘I believe I have, Empion,’ says Guilliman.

  ‘The Samothrace–’

  ‘Requires further engine certification,’ says Guilliman. ‘I have told Shipmaster Kulak to divert servitors from orbital slip 1123. Yes, Empion, I had seen that. I had seen that the Mlatus is eighty-two hundred tonnes overladen, and suggest the yard chiefs reassign the 41st Espandor to the High Ascent. The Erud Province muster is running six minutes behind schedule, so Ventanus needs to get Seneschal Arbute to increase handling rates at Numinus Port. Six minutes will expand over the next two days. Kolophraxis needs to get his ship in line. Caren Province is actually timing ahead of schedule, so compliments to Captain Taerone of the 135th, however I doubt he has accommodated the rainstorm predicted for later this afternoon, so he needs to be aware that surface conditions will deteriorate. Speaking of the 135th, there is a sergeant inbound. Thiel. He is marked for censure. Send him to me when he arrives.’

  ‘That’s a discipline matter that can be dealt with at master level, sir,’ says Antoli. The 13th is his, and the role falls to him.

  ‘Send him to me when he arrives,’ Guilliman repeats.

  Antoli glances at Gage.

  ‘Of course, my primarch.’

  Guilliman rises to his feet and looks at Antoli.

  ‘I just want to talk to him, Antoli. And, yes, Marius, I am micromanaging again. Indulge me. Loading an army is a precise but tedious occupation, and I would like a little diversion.’

  The masters smile.

  ‘Any show of our principal guests?’ Guilliman asks.

  ‘Primarch Lorgar’s fleet has been translating into the system since midnight, Calth standard,’ says Gage. ‘The first retinues are assembling. We understand the primarch is crossing the system terminator, inbound at high realspace velocity.’

  ‘So… sixteen hours out?’

  ‘Sixteen and a half,’ says Gage.

  ‘I was rounding down, like the Army does,’ says Guilliman. The men laugh. The primarch looks through the crystalflex wall. Amongst the rows of starships that glint like polished sword blades there is already a scattering of darker vessels, like bloodied weapons that await cleaning.

  The first of Lorgar’s warships, docking and manoeuvring, taking up their places in the line.

  ‘Hails have been received from the arriving captains and commanders,’ says Gage. ‘Erebus requests an audience at your convenience.’

  ‘He can wait a while,’ says Guilliman. ‘The man is quite deplorable. I’d rather we tolerated them all in one go.’

  His masters laugh again.

  ‘Such indiscretions are for our circle only,’ Guilliman reminds them. ‘This operation is designed to demonstrate the efficiency of the new era. It is entirely designed to glorify my brother Horus and reinforce his authority.’

  Guilliman looks at Atreus, who smiles, and Gage, who glances away.

  ‘Yes, I was listening, Marius. And here’s the thing. Atreus was right. This is show, and this is pomp, and this is, essentially, a waste of time. But – and here’s the thing – Horus is Warmaster. He deserves glorification, and his authority needs to be reinforced. Marius, meanwhile, was quite correct too, Atreus. You will refer to the Warmaster at all times with full respect.’

  ‘Yes, my primarch.’

  ‘One last matter,’ says Guilliman. ‘There was a vox signal interrupt six and half minutes ago. I have the details recorded. Probably solar flare distortion, but someone check, please. It sounded for all the world like singing.’

  [mark: -61.39.12]

  The interrupt is checked, and attributed to solar distortion. A vox artefact. The void forever creaks and whispers around the audible and electromagnetic ranges.

  Half an hour later, a rating aboard the Castorex reports hearing voices singing on a vox-link. Twenty minutes later, chanting blocks out the main orbital datafeed for eleven seconds. Its source is unidentified.

  An hour later, there are two more bursts, unsourced.

  An hour after that, Communication Control reports ‘a series of malfunction events’ and warns that ‘further communication disruption may be expected during the day until the problem is identified’.

  An hour after that, on the night side of Calth, the first of the bad dreams begins.

  [mark: -50.11.11]

  There are many clues. There are many portents. Given the extraordinary thoroughness with which the XIII Legion maintains its readiness, it might be considered tragic, or incompetent, that so few are heeded.

  The simple truth is that, in this instance, the Ultramarines do not know what to look for.

  Down on the surface of Calth, in the morning light, Tylos Rubio waits with his squad to board transports. They are all of the 21st Company, under Captain Gaius.

  Rubio’s head aches. There is a pain behind his eyes. He ignores it. He considers, briefly, mentioning it to an Apothecary, but he does not. They have gone without rest periods for several days during the preparation phase. It has not been possible to shut down higher mental functions and sleep, or at least remedially meditate.

  He puts the ache down to this, to background fatigue. It is just another frailty of human flesh that his transhuman biology will target and neutralise within an hour.

  It isn’t fatigue. Later, R
ubio will regret not mentioning his ailment. He will regret it more bitterly than anything else that happens on Calth. The remorse will hound him to his grave, many years later.

  After the death and the slaughter, after the firing and the killing, when fate has taken an extraordinary step and removed him from the field of war, when there is finally a moment to think, Tylos Rubio will realise that in his determination to follow the edicts of the Emperor, he ignored a vital warning sign.

  He is not alone. Amongst the two hundred thousand or so Ultramarines on or around Calth that day, there are hundreds of gifted individuals like him, all selflessly and obediently reduced to ordinary ranks. They all ignore the headaches.

  Unlike Rubio, few survive the event long enough to regret it.

  4

  [mark: -28.27.50]

  ‘I asked to join the advance,’ says Sorot Tchure. For the first time since their reunion, Luciel notes a discomfort in his friend’s disposition.

  And for the first time, he also reflects that they are not friends at all. What would be a better word? Comrades, perhaps?

  They have met once before, eight years previously. Happenstance drew their companies together in the defence of Hantovania Sebros, the last of the tower cities of Caskian. Side-by-side, for four Terran months, they fought off an insect species whose name or language they never learned. Comrades of circumstance.

  Circumstance makes decisions for us all.

  The simple truth, unglossed, is that the Legion Astartes XIII Ultramarines and the Legion Astartes XVII Word Bearers are not close. Despite their superficial similarities, they are worlds apart in terms of their organisation and combat ideology. They are as unlike each other as the primarchs who lead them.

  Any fool can see that the Emperor’s original purpose, in creating his Legions and his sons, was to generate a variety of fighting forces that would embellish and complement one another. Their various strengths and characters were supposed to shine in contrast. There is, in uniformity, weakness.