Miracles - Nicholas Wolf

  Contents

  Cover

  MIRACLES

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  An Extract from ‘The Wicked and the Damned’

  A Black Library Publication

  eBook license

  MIRACLES

  Nicholas Wolf

  Chapter One

  ‘Jacen, would you like to say the blessing?’

  I’m jolted from another formless, grey daydream. Night-cycle is falling on Praxis Hive and I’ve spent the last sixteen hours on an assembly line. It takes me a moment to process what she’s said. The faint buzz of amasec isn’t helping. Well, not with this.

  Myra. Sweet, beautiful Myra. She’s staring expectantly at me, blue eyes encouraging me to pray. She’s always encouraging me to pray, especially in front of the children. The Emperor is our father after all, she says: they should learn about Him from their own father.

  ‘Of course,’ I say finally with a tired smile. We bow our heads over our plates: Markus, Arden and little Sophya, making the aquila over our chests. ‘Mighty Emperor, we thank You for Your blessings this day, for light You give us in the darkness. Please protect us from harm, and bless this food, that it might nourish our bodies so that we may continue our service to You.’ I pause. I never know how to end prayers. ‘Thank you,’ I say finally.

  I open my eyes. Myra is smiling. Markus and Arden are picking at their food. Sophya is still whispering, eyes closed, as though she’s speaking to the Emperor Himself.

  When she finishes we eat.

  Our rations are simple, but nutritious: reconstituted grox-meat, carbohydrate sticks and a grey fungus Myra has seasoned to make it somewhat palatable, along with vitamin-gel packets and anti-rad pills to stave off radiation sickness. The walls of our hab-unit are well lined, but the manufactorum overseers prefer to err on the side of caution.

  I eat ravenously. We all do. Markus and Arden, eight years old and growing almost too fast to believe, scoff down their food in between groaning about having the same meal for breakfast. Sophya, already so bright, eats happily, humming something to herself as she chews. Myra eats quickly so she can begin cleaning up the dishes.

  Outside the window I suddenly hear the tromping of boots, as familiar as the coming of night.

  ‘Third patrol tonight,’ I say absently, watching the enforcers through the slits in the window coverings. Within moments the procession of glowering black helmets passes by. ‘There were patrols all around the factory today, too.’

  ‘Why are there so many, papa?’ Sophya asks through a mouthful of vitamin-gel.

  I give her the best smile I can summon. ‘They’re here to keep us safe, starshine.’ I don’t mention that three patrols is out of the ordinary, even for our hab-block.

  ‘I heard they found another body down the street!’ Markus blurts out suddenly.

  ‘Yeah, and I heard his eyes were cut out, and full of bugs, and–’

  ‘Enough!’ I bark, harsher than I’d meant to. The room spins a little. I take a swallow of water to chase my guilt, grimacing at the metallic taste. ‘Honestly, where do you two even hear such nonsense?’

  The twins look at each other. I know that look. They’re trying to decide whether or not to lie. ‘At the schola,’ Arden admits finally.

  I snort and return to the food growing cold on my plate. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear from your little friends at schola,’ I lie. ‘And you’re scaring your sister.’

  Sophya gives me her best ‘I’m not scared’ face, but I can see the fear in her too-wide eyes. I can’t blame her. I’m scared, even if I can’t let it show.

  Myra gets up and begins collecting the dishes, brushing off the morbid talk with the ease of a parent used to quickly changing the subject. ‘Well, do you know what I heard today?’

  ‘What is that, my dear?’ I say quickly, likewise eager to speak of something else.

  ‘You remember Old Guryn?’

  Of course. Guryn Mansk, the blind Guardsman, had been begging down by the cathedral since I’d been a boy. ‘What of him?’

  Myra smiles as though in possession of a great secret. ‘He can see!’

  ‘Huh,’ I shrug, going back to my plate. ‘How did he afford bionics?’

  ‘No, not bionics,’ Myra urges, setting down the plate she’s washing. ‘It was a miracle.’

  I don’t mean to raise an eyebrow but I do. ‘A miracle?’

  ‘What happened, mama?’ Arden mumbles through a mouthful of food.

  Markus swallows his food first. ‘Yeah, tell us!’

  Myra sits down on the edge of the table. The children are instantly enraptured. She’s ten times the storyteller I’ll ever be. ‘Well, I was walking home from the cathedral, and I saw him there, dancing in the street. He said he’d seen an angel in a dream, and when he’d woken up he could see!’

  ‘An angel?’ Sophya squeaks.

  ‘An angel from the Emperor! Isn’t that exciting?’ she says, clapping her hands.

  She’s looking at me. Expecting an answer. Corroboration. Support. I take another sip of amasec to buy myself a few moments to think of something to say, something that isn’t callous or bleak.

  Suddenly I’m six years old again, at my father’s memorial service, standing in a room not ten feet from where I’m eating dinner.

  ‘The Emperor’s miracles are all around us,’ I say, remembering a piece of scripture someone had read. ‘And if you pray hard enough, miracles will happen to you.’

  The rest of the night passes quickly. I sit in my favourite chair, attempting to keep my eyes open until it’s time to put the children to bed. I fight the urge to finish my amasec because I know I’ll just pour another and I’ve already had too much. Myra reads to them from a pamphlet she got from the cathedral. Somehow, even at the end of the day, she never seems to lose her vigour.

  So like my own mother, before she’d lost her mind.

  Eventually Myra’s story of Sebastian Thor comes to a close and it’s time to put the children to bed. The boys protest, as they protest having to do anything besides run in circles and fight, but Myra tactfully guides them to their rooms with a mother’s gentle hand, far more effectively than I would have.

  I lead Sophya to her tiny sleeping alcove, and tuck her into bed. I go to extinguish the lumen. ‘Goodnight, starshine. Sleep well.’

  ‘Papa?’

  I turn.

  She’s quiet for a long moment, fidgeting with her tattered doll.

  How old was she when I made it for her? One? Two?

  ‘You won’t let the monsters get me, right? The ones Markus and Arden were talking about?’

  ‘Oh, starshine,’ I say, going to my knees beside her bed and taking her hand in mine. ‘There are no monsters here.’

  Her face scrunches up in thought. I can see her little mind turning it over, wondering whether or not to trust me. She’s clever, and more observant than I give her credit for. I still haven’t fully accepted that she’s not a baby.

  ‘Papa, would you pray to the Emperor for me?’

  ‘Sophya, you know you can pray to the Emperor whenever you want and He will hear you,’ I reply. It sounds like something Myra would say, except she’d sound like she actually believed it.

  ‘I know, but I want you to,’ she protests softly. ‘Please?’

  I concede, of course. How could I not? What kind of father wouldn’t pray over his scared little daughter?

  I close my eyes and make the aqu
ila over my heart. ‘Oh, glorious Emperor, enshrined on Holy Terra, I humbly beseech You, please let Your immortal light shine down on this bed, and keep it extra, extra safe so that my little girl can sleep tonight.’

  She opens one eye. ‘And no bad dreams,’ she interjects.

  I stifle a chuckle. ‘And please give her good dreams.’

  Sophya smiles. As far as prayers go it wasn’t one of my best, but it seemed to be sufficient. ‘Thanks, papa,’ she says, holding open her arms for a hug.

  I wrap her up in a long embrace. Outside I hear the stomping of steel-toed enforcer boots. And, in the distance, screaming.

  ‘The Emperor protects, my love,’ I whisper as I hold her tightly to my chest. ‘And so do I.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Shipment arriving. Dock Four,’ the servitor drones. ‘Courier tag 14782-241.’

  I’m already jogging towards the loading bay as a ground-hauler groans into the disembarkation hub. I’m never not jogging, running or sprinting somewhere, and I know where and when my shipments are coming in without some lobotomised bullhorn telling me. I’ve been working in this factory since I was thirteen years old, Terran standard, like my father before me.

  A Sentinel loading mech clanks towards the lumbering ground-hauler. Its cargo is comprised of battery chemicals and magnetic coils, osmium housing and steel canisters, as it is seven times per day, every single day until the galaxy ends: all the material required to manufacture lasgun power packs. The munitions produced on Entorum supply the Emperor’s armies across the sector. I’m but a miniscule cog in the process, destined to be replaced the moment I can no longer fulfil my duty, but I’m a competent cog, serving the Emperor in whatever limited capacity I’m able.

  I tap my data-slate, relaying the updated manifests to the central cogitator that’ll eventually feed the Mechanicus overseer, Magos Ghould, in charge of the manufactorum complex. A message flashes back, indicating that we’re twenty-seven minutes behind schedule for our next outbound shipment, and that as shipment supervisor I’m being held directly responsible.

  A percentage of your weekly rations is being deducted. Blessed are those who serve the Emperor in body and soul.

  ‘Let’s get those crates unloaded!’ I shout to the Sentinel pilot, heedless of my headache. ‘You three,’ I yell to the monotask loading servitors standing mutely nearby. ‘Housings and filaments to assembly line Gamma-426, plasma cells to Rho-86, and Delta-281 for overflow!’

  ‘Compliance,’ the machines drone in something approaching synchronicity, before stumbling off to complete their tasks.

  I sigh deeply, almost too deep, until I feel like my chest is going to explode. Everyone is working eighteen-hour shifts. I can’t remember the last time I slept more than a few hours. We’re working ourselves beyond exhaustion, and we’re still unable to satisfy our daily quota.

  Because of the disappearances.

  It’s a stupid term, one the local enforcers insist on using when they make their daily rounds to question us about the people who’ve gone missing, or, more commonly, turned up dead, mutilated or worse.

  Disappearances.

  The term seemed to imply that these people had simply vanished. Like my mother did. The truth, whatever it is, is far more sinister. I can feel it.

  ‘Jacen, I heard we’re going to miss our quota again.’

  I turn around. It’s Tobin. Good old Tobin. His sunken, bloodshot eyes resemble mine. We started working in the manufactorum at the same age, both orphans.

  ‘We’re behind a little,’ I lie. We’re actually predicted to miss our daily quota by thirty-two per cent, which is more than the acceptable lenience threshold by a considerable margin.

  He looks at me. By the Emperor, he looks bad. I can only imagine how I look. I’ve been avoiding looking in the mirror. ‘How are you holding up?’ he asks.

  ‘Well enough,’ I say through a yawn. ‘You?’

  I hear a soft thump in the distance. Several workers look up from our labour, but only for a moment. It’s all we can spare.

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘You tell me. How far behind are we? Really?’

  I check my data-slate again and rub my eyes. The headache I’ve been fighting all day throws a haymaker behind my eyes. ‘It would take a miracle at this point.’

  Tobin laughs mirthlessly. ‘Miracles don’t happen in Praxis Hive.’

  ‘Myra told me about that blind beggar down by the cathedral. You know, Guryn Mansk, the old Guardsman?’

  ‘Yeah, what about him?’

  ‘Apparently he can see now. Says he saw an angel,’ I smile weakly. ‘Sounds like a miracle to me.’

  Tobin looks at me strangely. ‘You didn’t hear?’

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  I stop. The blind Guardsman had been begging on the same corner by the cathedral since I was a boy. I pass him every day on my walk to the factory. I crawl back through the blurry smears of my memories: I can’t recall seeing him the last few days.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask hesitantly. Something in Tobin’s face tells me I don’t want to know.

  ‘I didn’t see it happen, just heard about it…’ Tobin says slowly. ‘People said he was running around screaming. Clawing at his eyes. Saying he’d killed someone. Stuff like that.’ He pauses. ‘Threw himself under a groundcar.’

  ‘Guryn wasn’t a murderer,’ I say firmly. ‘And he wasn’t crazy.’

  Tobin stares off into the distance. ‘Sometimes a man has to do what needs to be done,’ he says quietly to himself.

  Suddenly the ground shudders. Hard. Thousands of workers stop moving at once. I stand completely still for a moment, wondering if what I just felt was the throbbing of my feet or something else. Then I feel it again, a tremor passing through the ferrocrete floor.

  The shiver of adrenaline courses through me. ‘Everybody out!’ I shout.

  A klaxon belatedly begins to wail. Everyone who isn’t a servitor drops everything and stampedes for the factory exit. Magos Ghould’s voice blares from the servo-skulls swarming over our heads. No one listens. A massive explosion rocks the factory. The blast wave slaps me to the ground. Feet trample me. Tobin yells something. I hear the growl of flames before I feel the wall of heat rushing towards me.

  For the first time since I was a child I truly pray with all my heart and mind and soul. I pray to the Emperor because I don’t want to die, because I want to see my children again.

  But the Emperor doesn’t hear me, as I knew in my heart He wouldn’t.

  Ravenous flames engulf me, roaring so loud it drowns out the screaming of thousands of men burning to death.

  Chapter Three

  I’m awake.

  My eyes open. I’m sitting at my kitchen table. But it’s a different table, even though it’s the same kitchen. Different photographs on the walls. I get down from my chair. It’s taller than I remember.

  I look down at myself. I’m a little boy.

  The kitchen is dark but for a single dim lumen casting long, deep shadows. A fly buzzes past my head, stirring the rank, humid air. I hear a soft scrabbling sound in the darkness, a murmur, like a distant voice.

  ‘H-hello?’ I call quietly to the shadows.

  ‘Hello, Jacen,’ says a familiar voice.

  My mother steps into the lumen light.

  ‘M-mother?’ I stammer.

  She’s exactly as I remember her on the night she left, auburn hair pulled back, wearing a white dress. ‘Be at peace, Jacen,’ she says with a warm smile.

  I run up to her on the tiny legs of a six-year-old and throw my arms around her knees. She doesn’t smell like I remember, but I don’t care.

  ‘Mother,’ I say again. By the Emperor, just saying her name feels divine. ‘Mother… I’m… I was hurt. I think I’m dead.’

  ‘Be at peace, Jacen,’ she say
s again. ‘Do not be alarmed. You are not dead.’

  I look around the familiar walls of the hab-unit, exactly as I remembered them as a boy. ‘Am I dreaming?’

  ‘No.’

  I feel a creeping sensation of unease working itself up my spine. ‘You’re not my mother,’ I say. ‘My mother is dead.’

  ‘She is not dead,’ she replies sweetly. ‘Just… elsewhere.’

  ‘So what are you?’

  My mother smiles the type of smile she often did before the bad days, before the visions. ‘The Emperor sent me.’

  I peer at the thing claiming to be my mother. Her form blurs more the harder I stare at her, as though rebuking my mortal gaze. I think back to the local cathedral, to the stained glass windows depicting avatars of righteous fury vanquishing foul abominations in the name of the Emperor. As though reading my thoughts I suddenly see the suggestion of wings and a halo of holy light.

  I’m speaking to an angel.

  I fall to my knees and bow my head, unable to do anything but. ‘Holy Angel…’ I begin, having no conception of how I plan to finish my sentence. I resolve to press my forehead against the ground before it. Sweat drips into my eyes. Something buzzes past my ear.

  ‘Rise, Jacen,’ my mother commands. I obey. ‘Do not fear me. It is by the Emperor’s grace, through me, that you stand here at all.’

  ‘What do y–’

  Mother smiles. ‘I saved you from death today, in the manufactorum.’

  A miracle.

  Myra was right.

  ‘I… I don’t…’ I stammer. I sound ridiculous; I can’t tell if I’m speaking to my mother or an avatar of the Emperor. I’d care more if I weren’t so overwhelmed.

  ‘You were saved for a reason, my son,’ she says, putting a hand on my shoulder. ‘A purpose only you can fulfil.’

  ‘There must be some mistake,’ I say. ‘I can’t be… I mean, I’m not…’ I trail off. I’m not what? Worthy? Capable? I’m a husband who can barely stay sober enough to remain on his feet in the factory and tuck his kids into bed at night.