Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds Read online

  ‘Is all well, palatine?’ Forna, the eldest of the four, asked, as she turned from her control alcove. Her battleplate hung loose on her shrunken frame and one of her eyes had been rendered milky by an old wound. She was bald, and litanies had been tattooed across her head and neck.

  ‘For the moment, Sister.’

  ‘And what of Yuliana? Has she fulfilled her penance?’ The other three women stopped and turned at this. The question hung on the air for a moment.

  Cern nodded. ‘Yes. Our sister has made her peace with the God-Emperor. May she lie still, in the grave she chose.’ Her stomach roiled as she spoke. Yuliana had not deserved her fate. Few condemned to a Penitent Engine did, in her opinion. But some sins could not be forgiven, no matter how much you might wish otherwise. ‘She reaped a glorious toll in fallen souls before she succumbed.’ In truth, Yuliana hadn’t dispatched as many of the foe as she’d hoped. It had been difficult to smuggle the war-engine out into the library by the secret ways – all now destroyed – and, in the end, she’d accounted for few of the renegades, though she’d killed dozens of their slave creatures.

  Forna sighed in relief, and turned back to her cogitator panel. ‘That is good, Sister. As she wanted, and we all prayed.’

  Cern looked at the chamber’s central viewscreen. ‘Have you managed to re-establish the vid-link with central command?’

  ‘Yes, palatine,’ one of the others said. ‘But it is not stable.’

  ‘As long as I can speak to the Crusader.’

  The viewscreen squawked and flickered. The screen flared, and Duran’s battered features appeared. The vid-feed wavered, cut by lines of static. Heb looked tired. ‘Sister. You still live.’ He sounded pleased. Cern laughed.

  ‘So do you.’

  ‘I’m as surprised as you are.’

  ‘What news, brother? How are things on your side of the city?’

  ‘They are at the doors. Estimates put them inside in three hours, maybe less.’

  Cern grimaced. ‘How did the lord deacon take the news?’

  Duran smiled. ‘Badly. He’s still weeping in a corner somewhere.’

  ‘Will you let them take him?’

  He snorted. ‘Of course not. I’ll remove his head myself, before then.’ He looked at something off screen. ‘According to what few reports I got before we sealed the doors, you’re in much the same situation.’

  ‘Yes. Though I suspect that we have more than a few hours. A day, perhaps. Unless they get creative.’ She paused. ‘Were you able to make contact with Almace?’

  Duran shook his head. ‘If help is coming, no one mentioned it.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘A fleet might be en route, for all I know. It won’t arrive in time for us. Maybe you…’

  ‘No. The God-Emperor has given us a task, and we will see it done. None of us will survive.’ If Forna or the others were disconcerted by this, they gave no sign.

  The lights flickered, and she heard a dull thump, far above. An explosion – a melta bomb, perhaps. She smiled mirthlessly. It would take more than that to get through those doors. ‘It will be finished soon, for good or ill.’ Duran’s image wavered and stabilised. The signal would be lost shortly. Too much atmospheric interference. Too many conflicting signals. ‘Duran – if we do not meet again…’ She fell silent, stumbling on the words.

  ‘It was an honour, Palatine Shalla Cern,’ Duran said.

  Cern smiled. ‘God-Emperor be with you, Crusader Pernik Duran.’

  ‘May He–’ Duran began. A moment later the signal disintegrated, and Cern was left staring at a black screen.

  ‘Yes, brother. May He be with us both,’ she said softly.

  Chapter Eight

  35:13:16

  Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world

  Hololithic maps swarmed about Calder in ever-increasing numbers. He was reminded of the strange breed of avian that infested the upper reaches of the city. The birds were small and ugly, and normally preyed on a native species of vole-like rodent that nested along the edges of the highest rooftops. They in turn were hunted by the cybernetic cherubs that infested the cathedrals and sanctuaries.

  But the birds also flocked in their hundreds across the plazas and boulevards of the lower city, feeding on the scraps of the food stalls there. They spun about the unwary, seeking to snatch food from their hands. As the maps snatched at his confidence.

  Almacia was not a hive city in the traditional sense. It was something less refined, more organic. It was akin to a vast cathedral, colonised by the vermin that lived in its walls. The city had spilled outwards and downwards from the central cathedral-palace over the course of slow centuries. Layer upon layer, stretching ever lower, until it sank new roots of rockcrete into the earth. A mountain made of gold and steel.

  The cathedral-palace formed the spine of the city. Its spires stretched high enough to pierce the atmosphere, allowing for suborbital docking – though that was only allowed rarely. Its foundations had originally been a hab-dome built over an immense aquifer. Those foundations had been strengthened over the centuries, turning the aquifer into a gigantic, industrial well, capable of feeding the city Almacia was to become. The cathedral-palace itself was a towering bastion, built in roundel layers – each ring comprising boulevard corridors, sanctuaries, gardens and hab-units.

  Originally meant as a place of quiet contemplation, it had become something more once the system had come fully under Ecclesiarchy control. From the rings had sprouted docking platforms, walkways, streets and plazas, all balanced on a network of causeways and viaducts that stretched down to the forested valleys far below. Along those stony routes had grown new places – temporary hab-shelters, water extractors and trading posts for those making the long journey from the highest places to the lowest.

  The foundations of the city – colloquially known as Low Town – were now a jungle of industrial slums and hab-blocks, encircling the few remaining knots of pitiful greenery. Beyond the edges of the slums, the hills and forests of Almace rose wild. There were other cities, other townships, mostly built up around a central landing zone or water extractors and ore-scraping facilities, but none was so large as Almacia. Atmospheric vessels of varying types and manufacture carried tithes and passengers from the outer rings of the habitable zone to the city.

  He gestured, calling up the map of the area designated as High Town. The oldest part, where the first hab-domes had been established, was situated about the crown of the cathedral-palace. It resembled a wheel, with the vast structure’s spires as its spokes. Within those wheels were small, concentric rings of pleasure gardens and noble residences, as well as the few licensed upper-class mercantile quarters, where the rich bought what the poor grew.

  On this map were highlighted a number of residences and holdings, all of some interest. Some provided ready-made observation posts or landing zones. Others belonged to families or individuals who were hostile to Eamon, or resistant to Calder’s plans for the city. Another gesture brought up the Administratum files of these individuals, in order of importance.

  Calder studied them for long moments. A series of pict-captures, recorded by the flocks of cyber-cherubs that roosted in the highest spires, flashed across the display in chronological order.

  ‘The work of Eamon’s spies?’

  Calder tensed, and turned. He hadn’t noticed Karros enter the strategium, despite his enhanced senses. Either he’d allowed himself to become distracted or Karros was simply that good at avoiding notice. Calder thought he knew which was more likely. He nodded to the Raven Guard lieutenant and said, ‘Yes. They have their uses.’

  ‘Ugly little creatures, though.’

  ‘Servitors are not known for their aesthetic value.’

  Karros smiled. ‘No. I suppose not.’ He joined Calder and looked up at the projection. ‘I know some of these faces. They are the ones calling for our heads, for daring to
suggest destroying their pleasure gardens and personal launch ports.’

  ‘The great and the good,’ Calder said. ‘This world, much like Terra, has an infestation of ornamental aristocracy. I am making note of those who might be of use – and those who might hinder us.’ He gestured to a pict-graph, representing the layered tangle of bloodlines that made up Almace’s gentry. ‘Which houses to develop relations with, and which to excise from the body politic.’

  Karros blinked. ‘And this… aids in the defence of the world?’

  ‘Strong foundations are necessary if you wish the wall to withstand the first blow.’ Calder looked at him. ‘Cities, worlds, systems… they fall because something undermines them. Some weakness, some flaw in the defence. Some flaw in their defenders, in the strategy, in the people themselves. My task is to eliminate as many flaws as possible in the time available.’ He looked back to the pict-graph. ‘Unfortunately, it is proving complicated. I had assumed that the Ecclesiarchy would not have such close ties to the local nobility.’

  ‘It has been several centuries,’ Karros said. ‘They are human, all said and done.’

  Calder snorted. ‘All too human.’ He shook his head. ‘So many of them.’

  ‘Holy bloods, they call them, on some worlds,’ Karros said. ‘Families tied to the Ecclesiarchy by blood or marriage. Crusader houses, many of them. The rest – aristocrats, like anywhere else.’

  ‘You don’t care for them.’

  The Raven Guard grunted. ‘More trouble than they’re worth. The Ecclesiarchy is labyrinthine enough – add in the schemes of noblemen and trading houses, and things become overly complicated.’ He paused. ‘Watch yourself with them, brother. Do not attempt to weave webs with spiders. We do not have time for subtlety. Cut straight and true.’

  ‘Do not worry, brother. I learned my art in the halls of Terra. They think themselves cunning, but they are as jackals to me – scavengers, and easy to predict.’

  Karros frowned, but did not press the issue. ‘Speaking of jackals, how did Eamon’s meeting with his council go?’

  ‘Why do you think I have this projection up?’ Calder said.

  Karros laughed. ‘That well, then?’

  ‘Gains were made, losses were taken.’

  ‘And did they take note of you, brother?’

  ‘Extensively.’ Calder paused. ‘But that is a worry for later.’ He shifted the projection to another set of data. Karros moved closer, studying a set of tactical projections.

  ‘How did you come by these?’

  Calder turned. ‘I used comparative analysis of fifty-seven recorded engagements by Imperial forces against similar raiding forces. In twenty-eight of those engagements, elements of the Word Bearers were noted as playing a significant strategic part.’

  ‘Have you ever fought them yourself?’

  Calder paused. ‘No.’

  Karros nodded. ‘They’re a slippery lot. Cunning. They think in circles. They’re not soldiers, not really. More like the canoness. You understand?’

  ‘No.’

  Karros looked at him. ‘Your problem is that you think of them as you think of us. But they are not us, Calder. They will not come at this world the way we would. There will be some similarities, of course. Some overlap in tactics. But at the end of the day, they do not measure victory as we do. And they do not believe in defeat.’ Karros tapped the side of his head. ‘Remember. They are not us.’

  Calder nodded, but said nothing. Karros was right, perhaps, but also wrong. The enemy were Space Marines. Whatever else, at their core, they were warriors of the Legiones Astartes. And they would fight like legionaries. They would fight as Calder would fight, as Karros would and Suboden. But he asked Karros’ advice regardless. ‘Tell me how they fight.’

  ‘The Word Bearers are misers. They rarely risk their own skins, if they can help it. They’ll send in chaff to soften the defences. They’ll drop them in their thousands on the city, and wait for them to die.’ Karros shook his head. ‘Then and only then will they come.’

  Calder nodded, filing the information away. It would be of use in compiling a strategic map of the campaign to come. ‘And on that note, what do you have to report?’

  Karros tapped the projection. ‘The potential landing zones have been dealt with. Those that could be rendered unsuitable, have been. The rest have been prepared.’

  Calder glanced at him. ‘Booby traps?’

  ‘Improvised explosives, in most cases. Whatever vessels land will suffer for it. They will not disembark unscathed.’

  Calder nodded. ‘Has Rukn reported in?’ The master of Suboden’s contingent of Scouts was a taciturn warrior, and old for a Scout. But effective, as well as swift.

  ‘Not yet. He’s on his way, though. The White Scars are no less efficient than we, for all their pageantry.’

  Calder smiled. ‘A good word for it.’

  Karros laughed. ‘Suboden would be the first to admit it. Like the Wolves, the Scars wear their barbarity as a mask. They pretend to be simple-minded reavers, when in reality they are anything but.’

  ‘Speaking of pretence, look at these, with your saboteur’s eye and tell me what you see.’ Calder gestured and the projection changed, becoming a two-dimensional schematic of the cathedral-palace. Lines of red and yellow formed, running up and down its length. ‘Yellow lines are transit conduits.’

  ‘And the red?’

  ‘Should not be there.’

  Karros frowned. ‘Secret passages?’

  ‘Hundreds of them.’

  Karros rubbed his chin. ‘Given the age and nature of this place, it is likely riddled with such things. What did Eamon say about them?’

  ‘That they didn’t exist.’

  Karros looked at him. ‘He lied?’

  ‘He gave it his best attempt,’ Calder said. ‘He is hiding something. There are dead spaces on these maps. Secret routes. Lift shafts.’

  ‘Escape routes?’ Karros said. He sounded intrigued.

  ‘I do not think so.’ Calder shook his head. ‘He is being evasive. It is infuriating.’

  ‘What do the records say?’

  Calder grunted. ‘They’re encrypted.’

  ‘Break the encryption.’

  Calder looked at him. Karros shrugged. ‘If he is hiding something, then we should find out, don’t you think?’

  Calder sighed. ‘I do not have time for mysteries, brother.’ He shook his head. ‘Why can nothing ever be simple?’

  ‘Because the universe is not simple. It is made from manifold complexities, all pushing and pulling against one another in ways we can but dimly perceive.’ Karros tapped a finger against Calder’s shoulder-plate. ‘My advice – don’t try. Be ready, be wary, but do not let it consume you. If there is treachery afoot, it will be revealed in due time. And if not, then it was never worth concerning yourself about in the first place.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I’m right. I am very good at this, as I said.’ Karros scratched his chin. ‘High Town is easily sealed off. The main thoroughfares are wide and readily defensible, from air and ground assault. Low Town is the issue.’

  ‘And if they take Low Town, they threaten the foundations of the upper city.’

  Karros blinked owlishly. ‘You think they’ll try to bring it down?’

  ‘I would. Take the Low, shatter the High, mop up what’s left.’

  Karros looked at him. ‘Destructive.’

  ‘Efficient,’ Calder said. ‘But if conquest is their aim, they’ll use the foundations to move upwards. They’ll take the causeways, the aeroports and landing pads, moving upwards wherever they meet the least resistance. We currently lack the manpower to defend the entirety of Low Town.’ He looked at Karros. ‘Suggestions?’

  Karros was silent for a moment. ‘You have not taken into account our greatest
resource – the population.’

  ‘Arming the population is not feasible. They lack training and discipline. Most will flee or hide.’

  ‘But there are those among them who will not.’

  Calder paused. ‘You mean the criminal gangs?’ Low Town was rife with crime. The gangs varied in size from a few individuals to more complex organisations, focused on inter-system smuggling or extortion. He had a compilation of the most recent reports on such activity, but had determined them to be low priority.

  ‘They may lack the discipline, but they’ll have a form of training and an existing network to exploit. The guilds as well – labourers, dockyards, the etherport – all have some form of organisation you can take advantage of.’ Karros brought up the files and illuminated grid sections on the map. ‘Look – here. Low Town has over thirty major criminal operations under observation.’

  ‘And each of them probably has the equivalent of a private army, willing and able to carry a weapon.’ Calder nodded. ‘A solid plan, brother. I will need to speak to the planetary magistrate at once.’ He routed a coded vox-pulse to one of the private ethercraft that Eamon had put at their disposal. A responding ping told him that the ship would be waiting for him in the nearest landing bay. He paused, and then glanced at Karros.

  ‘Do you wish to accompany me?’

  Karros smiled. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  Rukn leaned back and scraped the edge of his knife down the branch, stripping off the bark. He sat on a flat stone, overlooking the Saint’s Rest – a wide expanse of hard-packed, blackened earth, flattened over the centuries by thousands of landing craft. Trees hugged the edge of the expanse, and among them lay the hab-units and guidance towers of a tertiary landing zone. A single, suborbital telemetry array lurked to the north, angled towards the stars.

  Rukn’s bare arms were sinewy maps of scar tissue, and his face bore the traces of shrapnel and blade wounds. Three pale ritual slashes marked one tanned cheek, a sign of his ascension to manhood, many centuries past. He wore a warrior’s topknot, and his thick beard was bound into a single plait, held together by intricately carved bone rings.