Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds Read online

  The Imperial Navy was not, as a rule, fond of the subordinate role. Especially when it meant submitting to those they saw as intruders upon their demesnes. The void was their sea to ply, and they were protective of their independence. Kanim understood this well enough. It was much the same for he and his brothers. But independence had its place and its time, and this was neither.

  Kanim nodded. ‘As you judge best, my khan.’

  ‘I hear a hint of disapproval in your voice, shaman.’

  ‘Only a hint, my khan.’

  ‘See that it stays that way,’ Suboden grunted. He drew his tulwar and set it across his knees in preparation for what was to come. He doubted he would have to use it. There were few things more intimidating to officers of the Imperial Navy than the ships of the Adeptus Astartes. The White Scars battle-barge was far more advanced than any vessel in the system defence fleet. It was built to wage wars alone, in the deepest shadows of known space.

  By itself, the Silent Horseman could shatter the Navy’s remaining vessels. When paired with the rest of the ships under Suboden’s command, it would be a force to be feared. They would harry the foe, bleeding them of men and materiel as only a White Scar could. They would ride across the stars and laugh as they killed.

  Suboden forced the smile from his face as the captains of the system defence fleet were shown onto the bridge by a Chapter-serf. He studied them with hooded eyes, noting their nervousness. That was good. Nervous men were more apt to pay attention.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said.

  At the sound of his voice, they tensed. They were a motley handful, most well past retirement age, or too young for their command. Their records and commendations were listed on the projections that hovered about his throne. Jonas Keel, captain of Orlanda’s Wrath, had the most seniority. Captain Ogilvy, of the Crassus, was a retired commodore-captain, with almost a century of active military experience in her favour. In contrast, Captain Belmont, of the Drusus, was young – inexperienced, but with over a dozen commendations to his name. The captains of the frigates were much the same – a mix of old and young, veterans and aspirants.

  He was reminded of Armageddon, and his time with the fleets there. They had been bled white by the decades of war, and there had been too many beardless faces at the strategic briefings for his liking. Then, perhaps it was simply the way of things – the old gave way to the new. In time, warriors like him might be supplanted by those like Calder – better able to weather a rapidly changing universe.

  He pushed the thought to the back of his mind, wondering which of those before him would seize the moment and speak first. That would be the one he would need to convince. The others would follow, like good cattle. ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Speak up.’

  ‘Careful, you’ll frighten them,’ Kanim murmured in Khorchin, voice pitched low.

  Suboden gestured irritably. Keel coughed, straightened his coat and stepped forward. He stood ramrod straight, one fist pressed to his chest. ‘Keel, milord. I… ah…’

  Suboden waited for him to elaborate, but the man appeared to have forgotten what he was going to say. It didn’t matter. The White Scar sighed and leaned forward. ‘Greetings, Captain Keel. I welcome you, and these others, aboard my vessel. I thank you for agreeing to meet with me at such short notice.’

  It galled him, somewhat, to be polite. They knew why he was here and what he wanted. But he had to at least pretend to ask. Otherwise, they might prove obstreperous, and then he would have to kill some of them.

  Keel looked nervous. They all looked nervous. Suboden did not blame them. He knew he was an intimidating presence even when he was smiling. Perhaps especially when he was smiling. Kanim gave the captain a supportive nod, but Keel paid him little notice. His eyes were on Suboden and the heavy tulwar laying across his knees. That was good.

  ‘You are in command of the system defence fleet now,’ Suboden rumbled.

  Keel nodded jerkily. ‘I-I have that honour.’

  ‘It is good you think of it that way. I am told a brave man died to make it so.’ Suboden stroked the horsehide sheath that hid the tulwar’s killing edge. He looked past Keel, at the other captains. The fleet was pitifully small, by the standards of the Imperium. But it would do. Even the smallest blade could kill, in the right hands. ‘In any event, it doesn’t matter. As of this moment, I am taking command of the fleet. All vessels will obey my orders. Any captains who wish to submit their resignations may do so.’

  The captains looked at one another, startled, save for Keel, who looked… relieved? Suboden pushed the thought aside. ‘If you wish to surrender your responsibilities, be quick, though. I will brook no delay in setting course for Pergamon.’

  ‘You – ah – you cannot take command without orders from the cardinal-governor,’ Keel said, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else. Suboden stared at him, wondering if this was defiance or simply an excess of duty.

  ‘We have that.’

  ‘And the Ecumenical Council…’ Keel began, hesitantly.

  ‘Will agree, in their own time. But there is no time to wait for them to convene and voice that agreement. Thus, I meet with you.’ Suboden let his gaze rest on each of the captains in turn. Judging them. Weighing what he saw against the stories their records told. ‘Do any here wish to contest my orders?’

  Keel turned, studied the others, and then looked back at Suboden. ‘No, milord,’ he said. ‘They’ll follow you to the Eye and back, if you ask it.’ He stood straight and stiff, jaw set. In that moment, Suboden knew him for a good officer, whatever his earlier hesitancy. The burden of overall command lifted, Keel had instinctively fallen into the role of able second. Suboden knew he could count on the man to ride herd on the others and keep them in line. That boded well.

  ‘That is good. But luckily I do not think we have to travel that far to find the enemy.’ Suboden rose from his throne. ‘Back to your vessels. Make ready. We shall depart at the earliest opportunity.’ He turned to Kanim. ‘Go with them,’ he murmured in Khorchin. ‘Take their measure. I want to be certain that they’ll do as I say without hesitation.’

  Kanim nodded. ‘As you command, my khan.’ He thumped the deck with his staff. ‘Come, my friends. Allow me to escort you to the launch bay.’

  As they departed, Suboden turned. ‘Well, brother? What are your thoughts?’

  The commander of the Raven Guard cruiser Raven’s Valour stood just behind his command throne, frowning. The other Space Marine had observed his meeting with the captains in watchful silence, as was the way of his Chapter. Sometimes they were so quiet it set Suboden’s teeth on edge. He doubted Keel and the others had even noticed that the Raven Guard was there. ‘If we are to fight together we must know each other’s minds, Raquen.’

  Raquen was short for a Raven Guard. They tended to the tall end of the spectrum. But he had his Chapter’s pallid complexion and dark eyes. His head was shorn smooth, save for a flat Mohawk of grey hair. Old shrapnel scars pulled parts of his face in different directions. It made trying to read his expression difficult.

  ‘They are barely holding on,’ Raquen said flatly. ‘Their morale is shaken, their current commander is hesitant, and they have taken too many losses of late. They need a victory, or they’ll splinter at the first engagement.’

  Suboden nodded. ‘My thoughts exactly. Suggestions?’

  Raquen paused. Suboden gestured. ‘Speak up, brother. Now is the time to make your opinion known. Once we are on the hunt, I’ll have little patience for it.’

  ‘Little victories,’ Raquen said. ‘We pick the bones – follow the enemy, hit them when they’re distracted.’

  ‘Good. Those are my thoughts as well.’ Suboden leaned back, satisfied. It was good when commanders agreed on a course of action. Things would flow more smoothly. The less he had to take into consideration, the better. ‘You’ll take secondary command of the cruisers Crassus and Drusus, as well as
a third of the escorts. Orlanda’s Wrath will ride with the Silent Horseman and the remaining escorts. We’ll divide the fleet into two for the first engagement. Draw them in, and we’ll spear them in the flank.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘We break contact. Bleed them and draw off. We’ll split into smaller forces and scatter, only regrouping when necessary.’

  Raquen nodded slowly. ‘Take them piecemeal, rather than head-on.’ He rubbed his battered features. ‘Where do we start?’

  Suboden gestured to one of the hololithic projections that surrounded his command throne. ‘Where else? Pergamon. By the time we arrive, they’ll have taken that world, or broken themselves on it. Either way, they won’t be in any shape to resist.’

  He gave a tiger’s grin. ‘And then we will paint the stars with their blood.’

  Kanim only noticed Keel was missing when they reached the launch bay. Leaving the others in the hands of their escorts, he retraced his steps. It would be an inauspicious omen to lose one of their captains before they’d even set out.

  He found the mortal standing at an observation port. Great windows of void-hardened glass rose in high cathedral frames. Through them, the Stormseer could see frigates drifting like drowsy leviathans through the sea of stars. ‘Beautiful,’ Keel said softly.

  ‘Is it?’

  Keel jolted. ‘I– my apologies, lord, I did not…’ He gestured to the windows. ‘I was distracted by the view, I’m afraid. A failing of mine I have yet to correct.’

  Kanim waved him to silence. ‘No offence taken or meant, commodore-captain. I am sorry if I startled you.’ He stood in silence beside Keel for a moment. Then, ‘You comported yourself well. Suboden Khan is not often impressed.’

  ‘He did not seem impressed to me.’

  ‘You still have your head.’

  Keel laughed sourly. After a moment, he said, ‘We’re going back out there, aren’t we? You’re stripping the system bare and taking us into battle.’

  Kanim nodded. ‘We are.’

  ‘What about Almace?’

  ‘We are leaving the Imperial Fists strike cruiser Capulus and a complement of escorts. They know about defending worlds. Almace is in good hands.’

  Keel nodded. ‘Truth is, I’m relieved. I’m not… I wasn’t cut out for fleet command. A ship I can handle. You know where you’re at with a ship. Everyone does their job, and everyone lives to see another day. But a fleet – too much talking. Too much politicking. It feels like you have to oversee their ships, as well as your own.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know how Aldo did it, honestly.’

  ‘Aldo?’

  ‘Commodore-Captain Ware.’ Keel scrubbed a hand over his unshaven chin. ‘Good man. Good commander. I wish…’ He trailed off. ‘My apologies again, my lord. I shouldn’t have wandered off.’

  ‘Sometimes the spirits take us off the path, so that we might learn something new.’ Kanim gazed at Keel, and saw the ghosts of regret and yearning coil about him. The strands of the man’s fate were stretched almost taut. His destiny was close to being decided, whether he was aware of it or not. Part of the Stormseer was tempted to follow those strands back to their beginning, to read the story of the man before him. But there was no time for such idle diversions. Not now, not here.

  Keel looked up at him. ‘I think I’m too old to learn anything new.’ He looked around. ‘This is a fine vessel, though. I used to think Orlanda’s Wrath was the most beautiful ship this side of Mars, but this one outshines her.’ He paused. ‘Funny name, though.’

  Kanim chuckled. He was starting to see why a captain with as much seniority as Keel had never been promoted to command his own fleet before now. Keel made to apologise again, but Kanim waved it aside. ‘Originally, this vessel was dubbed the Plainsmaster,’ he said.

  ‘You changed the name?’ Keel sounded aghast. Kanim smiled. The Imperial Navy had many superstitions. Names featured heavily in many of them.

  ‘Sometimes, things change. In this case, it was in honour of the battles it waged in the sea of stars above Armageddon.’ He looked at Keel. ‘Under Suboden’s command, it fought alongside the ships of the Imperial Navy. We bloodied the hain–’ He paused, noticing the look of confusion on Keel’s face. ‘Orks,’ he clarified.

  ‘I don’t speak Khorchin.’

  ‘I did not expect you to do so.’ Kanim smiled. ‘We killed orks with your kind. Now we will kill other enemies. But only if you do as we say.’

  Keel nodded. ‘We’ll follow where you lead.’

  Kanim paused. ‘No hesitation. Is it so heavy a burden, then?’

  It was Keel’s turn to smile. There was precious little mirth in it. ‘As I said, I’m not cut out for command. A ship is about the limit of my competence.’

  ‘A man who knows his limits builds walls for himself.’

  Keel laughed. ‘Walls serve to keep the enemy at bay.’

  Kanim nodded. He was coming to like Keel. The man was no fool, and had few illusions as to his place in the scheme of things. Some might have called it a lack of confidence, but Kanim knew it to be anything but. Keel was a stone, set into a river. Whichever way the river went, the stone would not move. For better or worse, it held its place. As Keel would. He saw it now, more clearly than before.

  And he saw other things besides. The spirits whispered a word in his ear, and Kanim felt the prick of icy claws upon his soul. His smile did not falter, though suddenly he knew that Keel was not the only one coming to the end of his thread.

  For a moment, the air about him seemed red with the blood of the fallen. The moment passed, as quickly as it had come. But as they walked to the landing bay, Kanim could not help but tighten his grip on his staff, seeking comfort in its solidity.

  There was death on the air. Only time would tell whose.

  Chapter Seven

  30:00:16

  Odoacer System, spinward edge

  Prince Ganor Kabalevsky awoke suddenly, heart thudding. Panicked, he wondered where he was. But only for a moment. He felt the familiar throb of the engines through the hull, like a giant’s pulse. He was aboard his ship. His vessel, a Havoc-class frigate called Kabalevsky’s Wrath, hung at the outer edge of the Axim Cluster, near the system’s spinward edge. They had been docked at the wolfshead facilities there for a standard week, since their last run-in with the system defence fleet.

  Ganor had won the frigate in a card game, and had made it one of the most feared vessels in the outer sector. Twice, he’d fought his way out of traps set by the system defence fleet, trusting in the vessel’s firepower and speed to carry his crew to safety. This third time, however, they’d come closer than he liked.

  He looked around. His private quarters stank of spilled alcohol and sweat. He fumbled for the hjen pipe, longing to suck the sweet-smelling smoke into his lungs. It was the only thing that could calm him when he felt the way he did now. The pipe was empty, more was the pity. Annoyed, he swept it aside and clambered out of bed, ignoring the protests of his bedmates. He didn’t immediately recognise them. They weren’t members of his crew – they were from the facility, then.

  Wolfsheads were a fact of life in a system like Odoacer. Outlaw refuelling stations, run by renegade Mechanicus magi, or wildcat entrepreneurs. They purchased asteroids off the books, avoiding the notice of Administratum bureaucracy. They were willing to refit and repair private vessels for a price – sometimes money, but occasionally more esoteric prizes. Ganor and the other pirates who haunted the system’s fringes were only too willing to pay those prices to stay one step ahead of the system defence fleet.

  Shrugging into his robe, he snapped his fingers. ‘Get out.’ They protested in slurred voices. He sighed and reached for the shuriken pistol hanging in its holster from the bedpost. They scrambled out of bed and out of his quarters as he drew it. The xenos weapon felt pleasingly warm in his grip. Like his ship, he’d won it in a card ga
me.

  He laughed softly and looked around his quarters. They were a mess. Empty bottles and dirty clothes littered the floor. He dimly recalled having recently shot his servant. ‘That’d explain it, then,’ he murmured. He ran his palms over his shorn scalp and studied himself in the mirror that hung along the far wall.

  He was tall and spare, with an aristocratic bearing. Tattoos marked his face, neck and bare chest. He’d had them done by a renegade aeldari of his acquaintance – the same aeldari he’d won the pistol off, and a coat as well. The tattoos were special – good luck, or so the xenos had sworn. They bound Ganor’s soul to his flesh, or some such rot. He traced the swooping angles and curves idly, admiring himself.

  He was the very picture of Almacian aristocracy. He frowned. Only he wasn’t, not any longer. The Kabalevsky name had been one to conjure with, as the saying went, but now it was as dust. The familial holdings were gone, their titles bartered away to lesser clans. And all thanks to one man.

  ‘Eamon,’ he said, making the name sound like a curse. The cardinal-governor himself had signed the orders exiling Ganor and his family, banishing them from Almace. His father had died soon after, drowning himself in a bottle. His mother had faded to a shadow of her former self, until one day there had been nothing left of her at all. Just a body, sitting in a corner, murmuring to people who weren’t there.

  And all for what? Treason, they’d said. Was it treason to attempt to undo a gross error? The Ecclesiarchy had no right to the throne of Almace, whatever the law of bequest said. ‘It was ours,’ he murmured, staring at his reflection.

  It was yours.

  Ganor paused, as he always did when he heard the voice. It had been with him for as long as he could remember, though it had grown loud of late. His reflection seemed to smile at him.

  The throne is yours, by right. Almace is yours.

  ‘Yes.’ Idly, he traced his tattoos. He remembered the way the aeldari had grinned at him, and the look of surprise on its inhuman features as he’d shot it.