Legion (31 page)

The display revealed the surface of the planet in terms of mottled topographic imaging, and then overlaid that with a graphic of striated weather patterns. The world looked like a grey, flecked iris.

‘A backwater, in other words,’ said Alpharius, ‘and utterly hostile to human life. And yet…’ He paused again. ‘Enlarge.’

The display rapidly magnified a small section of the world and outlined it: a circular whorl of white vapour like an island in the streaked grey cloud mass.

‘In the southern hemisphere,’ Alpharius continued, ‘we read a zone three hundred kilometres in diameter that possesses a rudimentary human bearable atmosphere. What are the chances of that?’

‘What, indeed?’ Grammaticus replied.

‘Would you care to explain?’ asked Alpharius.

Grammaticus took another breath to steady himself and remain calm. ‘That is the venue. Elemental processors were activated there about five years ago, to prepare the area for your visit. They’ve barely had time to manufacture a decent micro-climate, but it’s sustainable enough.’

‘Atmospheric engineering?’ asked Herzog.

‘Yes, sir,’ Grammaticus replied.

‘Magnify specific,’ Alpharius instructed. The boxed image of the white vapour blinked half a dozen times as the scale enlarged, resolving details of cloud masses, and then individual formations, until the view looked down through wisps of trailing white cloud at surface details. Soneka peered hard. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be seeing: a range of hills, mountains perhaps, cold and grey, seen from directly above, and deep pockets of valley shadow. In the middle of the frame, nestled amongst the higher peaks, lay some sort of indistinct pattern, the outline of some structure.

‘I find this particularly interesting,’ said Alpharius. ‘This structure reminded me of something.’ He looked back at the port and raised his hand. ‘Display and compare archive record N6371.’

A second graphic box appeared beside the first, showing another orbital image, taken under different conditions. It was clearly another world. A network of graphic lines rapidly linked areas on both boxes, until it was evident that hundreds of contextual similarities had been identified. The boxes then shuffled and overlaid. The surface structures matched with an unnerving precision.

‘Archive N6371,’ said Alpharius, ‘is an orbital view of Mon Lo Harbour.’

There was a long silence.

‘A structure of that type was the epicentre of an atmospheric deluge that almost annihilated us,’ said Alpharius, ‘and you take us to its twin on a world where atmospheric manipulation is already underway.’

‘I can see how that looks bad,’ Grammaticus admitted.

‘John!’ Soneka hissed.

Grammaticus glanced at Alpharius, and bowed his head respectfully. ‘Forgive me, lord.’ He walked across to the port and stopped when he was close enough to point out individual details.

‘They are the same, because both worlds are halting sites,’ he said.

‘Define the term,’ demanded Pech.

‘Of course,’ said Grammaticus. ‘The Cabal is extremely old, and composed of various… what you would term
xenosbreeds.
They have no shared origin or homeworld. Since the earliest days, the time of their formation, they have been nomadic, moving from one world to the next, like the court circuits of the old kings of Terra.’

‘How long do they stay in one place?’ asked Omegon.

‘However long they want, sir,’ Grammaticus replied, ‘however long they need. Over the ages, they constructed halting sites on the many worlds that formed their long, orthotenic routes. Landing zones, you see? On some worlds, Nurth being a good example, local populations later inhabited the sites in ignorance of their original purpose.’

‘That implies a significant span of time,’ said Pech.

Grammaticus nodded sadly. ‘I need you to appreciate the duration and extent of the Cabal’s activities. The halting site at Mon Lo was constructed nearly twelve thousand years ago. The one here on Eolith is considerably older, about ninety thousand years. It was the Cabal’s previous visits to Nurth, and their understanding of the culture developing there, that caused them to select it as a place to demonstrate to you the—’

‘Wait,’ said Alpharius. ‘Did you just say ninety thousand years?’

‘Yes, lord primarch.’

Alpharius seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘Continue.’

‘I… I’ve rather lost my thread, sir,’ said Grammaticus. ‘There is little left that I can explain. The Cabal has prepared the venue, and you have come to meet with them. I suggest…’ He cleared his dry throat again, ‘I suggest you get on with it. I’m your key, sir. You must take me to the surface and—’

‘A moment,’ said Omegon. He broke from the rank of watching Astartes, and walked over to the observation port. For a moment, Soneka feared that the warrior was intent on doing some harm to Grammaticus, but instead, he stared pensively down at the dark world below them. He uncoupled his helm and removed it.

‘You’ve enticed us here, John Grammaticus,’ he said, ‘with vague stories of an impending cataclysm that threatens to engulf mankind and the cosmos, and the role we might take in preventing it. I would like to know a little more before this Legion commits to even a landing.’

Grammaticus laughed out loud.

Omegon looked down at him sharply.

‘I’m sorry, Lord Omegon,’ Grammaticus said, failing to stifle his giggles, ‘but you have brought an entire, militarised expedition fleet across parsecs on the basis of my “vague stories”. As I see it, you’re committed fairly comprehensively already. Stop prevaricating.’

Omegon glared down at the human. ‘First Captain Pech said you described the impending cataclysm as a war against Chaos.’

‘I did, sir,’ said Grammaticus, ‘though the war against Chaos has been raging since the galaxy’s infancy. However, the human species has now become the focus of the war, and the Imperium its chosen battlefield. The Cabal has farseen that what happens in the next few years will be pivotal to the destiny of all races.’

Omegon turned and looked back at the planet. ‘Pech related something else you said, back in heathen Mon Lo. He said you called what was coming “a great war against yourselves”. That would seem to describe a civil war, John Grammaticus.’

‘Yes, it would,’ said Grammaticus, still staring up at the giant.

‘Civil war in the Imperium is an impossibility,’ said Alpharius, walking forwards to join them. ‘It simply could not happen. The Emperor’s plan is—’

‘Utopian,’ Grammaticus cut in and finished boldly, ‘and therefore predicated to fall short of its goals.
Please.
The Alpha Legion is the most pragmatic and subtle of all the Legions. You are not blinded by Imperial dogma like the others. You are not hidebound by Guilliman’s ideals of conduct, or rooted in frenzied tribal tradition like Russ’s warriors, nor are you stalwart lapdogs like Dorn’s famous men, or berserk automatons like Angron’s monsters. You think for yourselves!’

‘That is the closest thing to heresy that has ever been spoken in my presence,’ said Alpharius quietly.

‘And that’s why you’re listening to me,’ said Grammaticus, with a grin. ‘You recognise the truth when you hear it. You only recruit the cleverest and brightest. You think for
yourselves
.’

He stood between the giants, rising to his scheme. Soneka smiled as he saw John Grammaticus’s confidence return.

‘The Emperor chases a Utopian ideal,’ Grammaticus announced, ‘which is fine as far as it goes. It ignites and drives the masses, it gives a soldier something to focus on, but perfection is only ever an ideal.’

‘We have considered these issues,’ said Pech quietly.

‘And?’ asked Grammaticus.

‘We have come to appreciate that Utopian goals are ultimately counter-intuitive to species survival,’ Pech replied.

‘No power can engender, or force to be engendered, a state of perfection,’ said another captain, ‘because perfection is an absolute that cannot be attained by an imperfect species.’

‘It is better to manage and maintain the flaws of man on an ongoing basis,’ said Pech.

Grammaticus bowed. ‘Thank you for that appraisal. I applaud you for your insight.’ He looked up at Alpharius. ‘Sir, the Imperium is about to implode. At the halting site on Eolith, the Cabal awaits to show you how best, as the first captain so eloquently put it, to manage and maintain the flaws of man.’

Alpharius let out a deep sigh. He gazed down at Grammaticus. ‘I wonder, years from now, will I regret not executing you at this moment?’

‘Civil war, sir,’ Grammaticus cautioned, ‘think of it.’

Alpharius shook his head. ‘I am. John, my brother primarchs have their feuds and rivalries, they bicker at times, and fall out with one another, the way any close kinsmen might. I’ve come to that family only lately, and already I know the fashion of it. Roboute, for example, despises me, and I ignore him. It may lead to bruises at some stage, but not blood. For a civil war to ignite, primarch would have to be drawn against primarch in blood. That would never happen, John. It is simply inconceivable. Now that the Warmaster leads us, we—’

‘Warmaster?’ asked Grammaticus sharply.

‘Horus Lupercal is Warmaster,’ Alpharius replied.

‘Since when?’ Grammaticus asked. There was a queasy look on his face suddenly.

‘Four months ago, after the Great Triumph on Ullanor. The Emperor retired from the Crusade and named his first son as Warmaster. I regret I could not attend the ceremony, but the retreat from Nurth and the business you presented to me was occupying my time. To be fair, I shun such occasions. I sent envoys.’

‘Horus is already Warmaster?’ Grammaticus whispered. He sat down heavily on the deck, and bowed his face. The massive Astartes looked down at him as if he was a child throwing a tantrum.

‘What’s the matter, John?’ asked Omegon.

‘Already,’ Grammaticus murmured, shaking his head. ‘So soon. Two years, he said, two years. We haven’t got two years.’

‘John?’

Grammaticus refused to look up at the Astartes around him. Soneka stepped forwards and scooped him back onto his feet. Grammaticus was trembling.

Wiping his mouth, Grammaticus looked up at Alpharius. ‘Horus is the catalyst. Please, lord, escort me to the venue. Take whatever retinue you choose. I will be your shibboleth. I will conduct you to the presence of the Cabal, as intermediary, and vouch for you. This is the way it has to be done. There is no more time. Horus is Warmaster. Oh, glory, Horus is
Warmaster
.’

‘Peto, conduct John back to his cell,’ Pech said.

Holding Grammaticus upright, Soneka replied with a firm nod.

Grammaticus began to struggle. ‘I have to go down first. I have to open the way!’ he cried.

Soneka placed him in a tight arm lock, and led him towards the hatch.

‘We will commit a landing party to the venue zone as soon as the fleet has arrived to support us,’ Alpharius said.

‘You’re wasting time!’ Grammaticus yelled, fighting with Soneka. ‘You’re wasting valuable time!’

‘Remove him,’ said Alpharius.

S
ONEKA PALMED THE
lock of the cell open and threw Grammaticus inside.

‘I don’t appreciate the bruises, John,’ he said, rubbing his arms.

‘You don’t appreciate anything, Peto,’ Grammaticus growled, getting to his feet. ‘Horus is Warmaster. Do you know what that means?’

Soneka shrugged.

‘It means that our timing is out! It means the war has already begun for all intents and purposes. Peto, you’ve got to help me. I need to get down there, down to the surface. I need to pave the way. The Alpha Legion mustn’t be allowed to go blundering in. It’ll ruin everything. The Cabal will not respond to military intimidation. Please, Peto.’

‘I can’t help you, John.’

+
Please, Peto!
+

Soneka recoiled as if he’d been stung. ‘Ow! Don’t do that again!’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ Grammaticus murmured. ‘I’m sorry, Peto. Look, you have to help me get down to the surface.’

‘The primarch has ordered otherwise. I can’t do that.’

‘Peto…’

‘I can’t!’

‘For Terra’s sake,’ Grammaticus said, sitting down on his cot. ‘The Alpha Legion has to be recruited before it’s too late, and I have to open the way.’

‘I have no leverage,’ Soneka said.

‘You hate it here!’

Soneka nodded. ‘Yes, I fugging do. I’ve never been so lonely in my life. I trust the Alpha Legion less and less, and I positively despise my fellow operatives. I don’t understand what I’ve become caught up in, but I loathe it, day after day.’

‘So help me!’

‘How?’

‘You’re in a position of trust! They
trust
you!’ Soneka shook his head. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry, John, I just can’t.’

‘Peto!’ Grammaticus yelled.

Peto waved his new hand and the hatch slammed shut, cutting Grammaticus off.

S
ONEKA WALKED BACK
down the grim iron corridors of the detention block. At the far end of the hallway, where he could no longer hear Grammaticus’s angry shouts and pounding fists, he leant against the wall and slid down into a crouch. ‘Peto?’

He hadn’t heard the cage doors slide open. He sprang up, rubbing his eyes.

‘Was he difficult?’ asked Pech. ‘Did he try his tricks on you?’

Soneka nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Are you all right?’ Pech asked. ‘Are you still up to the job? I can assign another operative to Grammaticus if you prefer.’

‘No, sir,’ Peto Soneka replied. ‘I can do this. You’ve given me a duty to perform, and I’ll see it through to the end.’

Ingo Pech nodded. ‘Do it,’ he said.

THREE

High anchor, 42 Hydra Tertius, fourteen hours later

A
N AUTOMATED VOICE
was blaring out across the principal embarkation deck of the carrier
Loudon
. ‘Move up to designated markers! Move up to designated markers! Boarding by company will commence in thirty-three zero minutes!’

Buzzers sounded, and the announcement repeated, fighting with the cacophony of machine noise and shouts echoing around the vast platform.

Swathed in cascades of steam and fanfared by raucous sirens, the next bank of drop-ships rose up from the service bays on the through-deck elevators, flight crews in russet overalls ran forwards to detach the undercarriage bolts with power ratchets, and servitors strutted up, tool limbs raised, to uncase and activate the autoguidance arrays built into bulges under the drop-ships’ cockpits. Overhead, the hangar’s primary hoist system swung a brace of hook-nosed escort fighters down the length of the deck to the stern catapult rails. There was a sudden, thunderous bellow of tank engines starting up. A row of forty, twin-barrelled assault tanks, drawn up along a line of thick yellow chevrons painted on the deck, began revving their turbines and snorting fumes from their exhausts, as service crews began to lower the cargo ramps of the massive bulk lifters.