Legion (29 page)

‘All right, we’re moving out,’ Bronzi told his senior bashaw. ‘Wake ’em up and tell ’em where to go.’

Tche ran forwards, calling out instructions. The other bashaws became alert and started to relay them. The Jokers got to their feet obediently, gathering their kit and weapons. The Outremar troopers looked befuddled at the orders.

‘Get lively and move!’ Bronzi yelled at them. ‘Come on, girls, it’s time to go!’

Most of them, the Jokers included, had spent the last forty minutes watching a spectacle they would tell to their grandchildren. Titans and Hort armour, laying into the enemy with full military power, it was the stuff fireside tales were made of, the stuff that made grandpa or great-grandpa seem bigger than life.

An incredible sight, the Titans blasting all hell out of the landscape, slowly advancing into the vapour flume with the tanks of the Zanzibari Hort at their gigantic heels. Bronzi couldn’t begin to guess how many thousand tonnes of munitions had been delivered into the enemy ranks. If there was a Nurthene left alive, he’d be surprised. The Imperial Army, combined with a Titan Legion from Terra’s fraternal twin, Mars –
Emperor bless the Mechanicum! –
had done what it was designed to do. It had crushed, it had obliterated.

It had overwhelmed Nurth’s last ditch effort.

The great show had disappeared from view. The Titans and their support line of heavy tanks had vanished into the vapour’s haze. Bronzi could still hear them firing, still see the flash, and feel the distant overpressure thump of their detonations.

The Nurthene storm, the veil that had so comprehensively overwhelmed the earthwork line at dawn, was folding back and dissipating. Bronzi imagined fields of burning sand, littered with dead Nurthene and exploded reptile carcasses, imprinted with the smouldering footprints of Titan monsters.

‘Come on. Come on!’ he shouted. ‘Get off your arses, you idiots! Let’s move! Down the valley and west!’

He looked up.

He suddenly realised how black and lightless the day had become.

‘T
HE
N
URTHENE POSSESS
a device known as a Black Cube,’ Grammaticus said.

‘Explain the term,’ Pech insisted.

‘I can’t. I don’t understand it. I only know what it does. It’s a device, an ancient device. Older than you can conceive, a weapon constructed before the rise of man. The Cabal believes that they were used in ancient wars between the first-comer races, in the galaxy’s youth.’

‘Another portentous myth with no basis in—’ Herzog started to say.

‘Listen to me!’ Grammaticus cried out. He was using his voice at its most formidable and persuasive. There was no longer any time for restraint. He had to make them listen and understand. Modifying his tone and pitch with a skill finessed over centuries, he made Soneka start, and the Alpha legionnaires stare at him. ‘The Cabal believes there are no more than five of these infernal devices left in existence,’ he said. ‘It is a weapon of Chaos ritual. A Black Cube, once activated, manufactures a Black Dawn. From that point, no life on the planet is safe.’

‘How is a Cube activated?’ asked Pech.

‘By blood,’ said Grammaticus. ‘By the sacrifice of blood. Don’t you see, the Nurthene want you to kill them. They want you to slaughter them. That activates their weapon.’

A gust of foul wind swept around the rock bowl. Down in the bottom of the basin, the armouring Astartes and their operatives had stopped in the midst of their activities. Some had risen to their feet. They were listening too. ‘How do we stop it?’ asked Alpharius.

‘You can’t, not now,’ said Grammaticus. ‘Then what?’

‘You must abandon this enterprise,’ said Grammaticus. ‘You must quit this world immediately and retreat to a point of safety. There is still a chance to save the Alpha Legion. Furthermore, if you are persuasive enough, there is still a chance to save the expedition forces.’

‘Namatjira won’t just—’ Alpharius began.

‘You’re a primarch!’ snapped Grammaticus. ‘One of you is, at any rate. Use your influence, and even a Lord Commander will listen! Either that, or cut your losses and leave them to their doom. The important thing is… the Alpha Legion is far too valuable a resource to be lost in such a senseless manner.’

‘You’re here to save us, then, are you, John?’ asked Omegon.

‘Why do you care so much?’ asked Alpharius.

Grammaticus sighed. ‘Because I was sent here as an ambassador to open a dialogue between you and the Cabal. I’ve told you this already. I told it to Pech, I’ve said it until I’m sick of the words. The opportunity for subtle persuasion has gone. Come with me, flee this world, escape this doom, and I will take you to a place of revelation.’

‘I don’t run from a fight,’ said Alpharius. ‘I am committed. I don’t just cut my losses and walk away when I’m oathed to a moment.’

‘Don’t you?’

Grammaticus and the Astartes glanced at Soneka. ‘Did you speak, Peto?’ Pech asked. Soneka hesitated. ‘Yes. I said… I meant… that’s what you do. That’s what I’ve seen you do.’

Alpharius’s eyes narrowed. ‘Peto?’

‘Pragmatism, unsentimental pragmatism, seems to be your defining quality. I’m not, forgive me, I’m not questioning your honour or courage, but you do what you have to. You do whatever is necessary to accomplish the greater goal.’

Alpharius took a step towards him. ‘Have you suddenly become an expert on the Alpha legion’s military ethics?’

Soneka shook his head. ‘I only report what I’ve seen with my own eyes. Without qualm or reservation, you do whatever is necessary to win. The Dancers I left in the sand at Tel Utan will attest to that.’

‘You make us sound clinical and ruthless,’ said Alpharius.

‘You are the most effective fighting mechanisms Terra has ever produced,’ said Grammaticus behind him. ‘Is that so bad a description?’

There was a long silence, broken only by the breath of the noxious wind. Alpharius stared at Omegon, then nodded curtly. He turned to Herzog and Pech. ‘Signal the Legion to stand down and prepare for immediate withdrawal. Rapid evacuation pattern, unit by unit, standard reconstitution policy.’ Alpharius glanced at Grammaticus. ‘What is a safe distance?’

‘The edge of the system would be prudent,’ Grammaticus replied.

Alpharius turned back to his captains. ‘Standard reconstitution policy,’ he continued, ‘in the heliopause. Do it now.’

They both saluted and moved off urgently, muttering streams of orders into their suit mics.

‘Signal the Lord Commander, and tell him I will attend upon him in thirty minutes,’ Alpharius told Omegon. Then he turned to face Grammaticus.

Grammaticus looked up into the primarch’s eyes.

‘If it turns out that you have played us in any way, John,’ Alpharius said. ‘If this proves to be a trick or a ruse, I will personally oversee your execution, and then I will hunt out and exterminate your precious Cabal.’

‘That, sir, is entirely reasonable,’ replied John Grammaticus.

PART TWO

THE HALTING SITE

ONE

Vicinity of 42 Hydra, five months after the fall of Nurth

T
HE LOCK PLATE
beside the hatch knew his hand, read it with a soft blink of light, and the hatch slid open. He picked up the heavy canvas satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped through.

‘Good day to you, John,’ he said.

John Grammaticus smiled. ‘Hello, Peto. Is it another day already?’

‘Already indeed,’ replied Peto Soneka, putting the satchel down on the steel table.

‘One would hardly know,’ said Grammaticus, true to form. It had become a refrain between them, varying only slightly from day to day, a shorthand of comradeship.

The cell was crude, but large enough for a man to waste hours in it pacing up and down. A cot, two chairs, the table, a basin in the wall and a chemical toilet were its only features. There were no windows, and the lights were on permanently. After weeks of quiet complaint, Grammaticus had been allowed an eye-shade so that he could simulate night.

Soneka never closed the hatch behind him. It remained open for the duration of each visit, tantalisingly open. A deliberate psychological effect, he presumed. Soneka did not close the hatch behind him, because he had been
told
not to close the hatch behind him.

With its recycled air, the lingering scent of the toilet and the bad lights, the cell was charmless and unpleasant, but despite the environment he was required to live in, Grammaticus was always clean and respectable. They gave him a change of clothes every three days, and he washed at the basin. His beard had grown out bushy and grey in a distinguished manner, like an old general’s. They had not permitted him a razor.

Soneka opened the satchel and started to take out its contents.

‘What do we have today?’ asked Grammaticus, with false brightness.

‘Cold meat and cheese,’ Soneka told him, lifting out small parcels wrapped in waxed paper, ‘a jar of pickled capers, a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread and the usual vitamin supplements.’

‘A veritable feast,’ said Grammaticus.

‘The cheese is particularly welcome,’ Soneka agreed.

They sat down, on either side of the table, and began to share out the food. Soneka took two plates, two cups, two bowls, two paring knives and two spoons from the bag, and set the bag on the floor. Grammaticus used one of the knives to slice the block of rindy cheese and share it out. Soneka pulled the cork plug out of the wine bottle, and poured measures into the waiting cups. They moved around one another, dutiful and relaxed, like a married couple that know each other’s ways intuitively. Five months of shared meals would do that.

‘Did you sleep well?’ Soneka asked, passing one of the cups to Grammaticus.

‘Peto, I haven’t slept well in a thousand years,’ Grammaticus replied, ‘but I shan’t complain. I have reason to believe my mission is about to be completed.’

‘Really?’

Grammaticus took a bite of bread, sipped his wine as he munched, and placed the cup in the centre of the table between them. He pointed at it.

‘What?’ asked Soneka, adding a slice of cheese to his hunk of bread.

‘The ripples, Peto, the ripples.’

Some distant vibration, too subtle to be felt, was being transmitted up through the deck into the table and the cup. Tiny, concentric ripples pulsed out across the surface of the wine like a sensor pattern.

‘The drive rate has altered,’ said Grammaticus. ‘I think we’re firing the engines to retard towards translation.’

Soneka put a couple of fat capers in his mouth and nodded back with a grin. ‘We’ll be translating in the next hour. Nothing much gets past you, does it, John?’

Grammaticus, chewing another mouthful, raised his eyebrows sardonically.

W
HEN THEY WERE
done with the meal, Soneka refilled the satchel and nodded goodbye to Grammaticus. As he closed the hatch behind him, he saw Grammaticus staring back at him from his seat at the table.

Soneka felt his profound loneliness return the moment the hatch had sealed. Though he could not, in all fairness, describe Grammaticus as a friend, the Cabal’s agent was the closest approximation to real human company that Soneka had experienced in half a year.

Living amongst Astartes was a strange experience, and the novelty had long since worn off.

T
HE FIRST CAPTAIN
was rehearsing close combat techniques in his chambers. Dressed in a sleeveless bodyglove, he stepped and turned smoothly through a sequence of passes, blocks and ripostes using a hardwood practice sword. Around him, eight operatives echoed his moves in perfect unison. The matching precision was impressive to watch. Soneka stood in the hatchway for a while, observing the session, until Pech signalled a halt with a brief nod.

The operatives filed out past Soneka. One of them was Thaner, the man Bronzi had taken him to on that fateful night. Thaner acknowledged Soneka with a slight tilt of his head.

There was no camaraderie between operatives. Each of them existed in his own quiet, driven world of service and duty. Soneka had not expected to engage with the Astartes, for they were a breed apart, and the distinctions between them and regular humans perfectly obvious, but the behaviour of the operatives puzzled him. They were all human still, humans drawn together for a common purpose, but they shared nothing. Soneka had never known a company of men to remain so disparate. The normal habits of military comradeship were missing. No one ever spoke of who they had been or where they had come from; no one ever shared a drink or a humorous story. In their way, they seemed less human than the Astartes.

Pech beckoned Soneka over.

‘How is John today, Peto?’ he asked, placing his practice sword back on the rack.

‘Much the same as ever: contained, patient. He has deduced that we are at the point of arrival. That seems to have lifted his spirits slightly.’

Pech nodded. ‘Anything else?’

Soneka shrugged. ‘Yes, one thing. He didn’t ask me about Rukhsana today.’

‘No?’

‘I can’t remember a day in the last five months when he hasn’t. I always tell him he’ll be allowed to see her in time, but today, he didn’t ask.’

‘Well, at least you didn’t have to lie,’ Pech replied.

‘There is always that.’

Pech began to buckle on a pair of heavy boots. ‘I want you by my side for the next few days, Peto,’ he said. ‘Operations are about to begin, and I need you on hand to furnish me with any insight you might have concerning Grammaticus. You’ve spent more time with him than anyone else.’

‘I don’t pretend to know him,’ Soneka replied. ‘He hardly takes me into his confidence.’

‘None of us knows him,’ said Pech, pulling on a heavy, knee-length robe. He sighed. ‘Sometimes I wish we’d just ripped the secrets out of his head. Shere might have enjoyed that.’

Soneka was aware that the Alpha Legion had strenuously debated the best way to handle Grammaticus. It had been decided that it wasn’t prudent to risk damaging or killing their only link to the Cabal.

‘We have come all this way,’ Pech said, ‘and we still don’t know if he’s lying.’