The Unremembered Empire

  Oberdeii looked up at Guilliman.

  ‘I hope you believe me, lord,’ he said.

  ‘I do.’

  Guilliman thought of the dreams he had just had, of renouncing his rule and living out his days in a careless pastoral idyll. The Pharos magnified things. It made truths and hopes seem very real. Just a night in its environs had given flesh to his private wishes of an end to duty and responsibility.

  ‘We have begun to notice things, patterns in our dreams,’ Oberdeii said. ‘We have learned to pay attention. Warsmith Dantioch, may blood be his honour, has told us that the Pharos here gives light upon an empathic vibration. This would account for much. We have all felt it. My worthy sergeant, Arkus, he had a dream. He dreamed that the Dark Angels were coming to Macragge. And lo! Two days later, this very thing happened. Captain Adallus, just two nights ago, had a dream of blood, and woke up calling out the name of Curze.’

  ‘Curze?’ asked Guilliman.

  ‘They saw it coming,’ the Lion said to Guilliman.

  ‘Thanks to this lighthouse,’ Guilliman said.

  ‘Thanks to this lighthouse and its xenos function,’ the Lion agreed.

  Guilliman looked to Oberdeii. ‘There is something more, isn’t there?’ he asked.

  ‘There most certainly is,’ said the Lion.

  ‘All in my company first thought that the dream of the Dark Angels was merely a coincidence,’ said Oberdeii, ‘but then the dream of Curze persuaded us there was more going on. Last night, my dear lord, I had a dream.’

  ‘Share with me its contents, son,’ said Guilliman. ‘Tell me of this dream you had.

  Oberdeii told him.

  Dawn was not far off, a cold and dismal dawn. Drab smoke wreathed the Castrum and the high towers of the Fortress, a legacy of the bloody night that was only now passing. Aircraft and ground forces from the Fortress continued to make systematic sweeps of the Civitas’s vast grid. Until they had found what they were looking for, there was no telling that the bloody night would become just a prequel to a bloodier day.

  John and Damon travelled south-east across Strayko into the neighbouring deme of Anomie, moving as best they could to avoid detection by the sweep patrols. A measure of martial law had been imposed to keep civilians off the streets.

  They were following John’s track on the damaged thoughts of Vulkan. The pre-dawn was a pale blue hour around them. The empty, stately streets of Anomie felt like they were underwater. It reminded John of his last meeting with the farseer.

  Every few minutes they were obliged to take shelter in an underwalk or beneath a portico as an Ultramarines search vehicle whined past overhead, or clattered across a junction in front of them.

  Neither of them was aware of the dark shadow trailing them from roof to roof.

  The more John considered the farseer’s plan, the more it made him agitated. It was enervating. It was entirely the type of duty he had longed to perform, for what felt like forever. It was a contradiction of the Cabal’s desires, a refutation of their philosophy and their control over him. John had a chance to fight, as a man, on the side of mankind.

  It was, however, not going to be easy. John hoped he had the skill, wit and determination to see it through. The Cabal wanted Vulkan dead, for they had foreseen the epic role he would play in the final war against Horus and the warp. He was destined to be one of the most stalwart defenders of Ancient Terra. The Cabal did not want him alive to perform that conspicuous role.

  Eldrad Ulthran had seen more. He had seen Vulkan’s insanity, the demented state forced upon the proud primarch by the foul Night Haunter. As it stood, Vulkan was already out of the game. He was in no state to fulfill his destiny as the Cabal had predicted it. If John took no further action, his mission would be deemed a technical success.

  The spear was a potent weapon. In the hands of a primarch, it could kill anything, even an unkillable being. In the hands of a Perpetual, however… Eldrad Ulthran’s proposition was that under those circumstances, a different result might be obtained. Empowered by the touch of a Perpetual, the spear might cure instead of kill.

  If John could strike the blow, then perhaps Vulkan might be restored. Rather than removing Vulkan from the war, John Grammaticus could repair and empower one of the Emperor’s most powerful sons and most important allies.

  There were obstacles to overcome. The presence of Curze, lurking somewhere in the Civitas, was a significant one. The Ultramarines and authorities of Macragge were another. Vulkan himself was a problem – how did one get close enough to stab an insane, hyperaggressive primarch?

  Then there was the Cabal, of course, and the agent they had sent to be John’s handler. John had known Damon Prytanis for a long time. They had never really been friends, but there was a lot of common ground between them. Though both Perpetuals, they were very different. John had always been very much the spy, the infiltrator, the covert operative who manipulated through disguise and dealt in information. Damon called himself a soldier, but he was a killer, pure and simple. He was an assassin, a taker of lives, and he did this with impunity. Damon Prytanis would not hesitate to take John’s life if he thought John was reneging on his mission.

  Or would he?

  As they walked, John glanced at Prytanis, watching the easy gait, the casual demeanor, the shabby fur coat and muddy boots, the affectless manner that actually covered a hard-wired combat readiness.

  There was doubt in Prytanis. There was misery. Like John, Prytanis had served too long, and against his own breed. John sensed in Damon Prytanis much of the resentment that was bottled up inside his own soul.

  A Storm Eagle flew overhead, circling slowly on whickering engines, probing the lanes and back-walks between habs and insulae with cool blue-white stablight beams.

  Damon and John ducked in under an arch, waiting for it to pass on.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ said John.

  ‘Sure. How I remain so effortlessly cool, while you’re a hectic jangle of tics and quirks? It’s because you’re a psyker, Johnny, and I’m a fighter.’

  ‘Well, not that, but thanks for the assessment.’ John paused. Then he said, ‘How do you live with it?’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Serving the Cabal?’

  Damon shrugged. ‘They pay well,’ he said.

  ‘I thought so too, but they’re using us as weapons against our own kind,’ John said simply.

  Damon made a face. It was an I-want-you-to-stop-talking face, a we’ve-had-this-pointless-conversation-a-hundred-times face.

  ‘You really are having a problem with this mission, aren’t you?’ Damon asked.

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘No,’ Damon replied. ‘Hell no.’

  He glanced out to see if the gunship had moved far enough away for them to get moving again. It had not. He pulled back inside the arch and scowled at John.

  ‘I agreed to serve them,’ he said. ‘I’m a soldier. I’m loyal. End of.’

  ‘I can read that you’re not,’ John replied.

  Damon jerked back, eyes widening in alarm. ‘Get out of my damn head, Grammaticus. I didn’t invite you in.’

  John held his hands up to show no intent.

  ‘I’m not trying. Besides, you’re warded against me,’ he remarked. ‘Very clever warp-magic, Damon. The Cabal’s not above using anything, is it? Whatever works?’

  Damon leaned back against the bricks, scratched his temple and sighed.

  ‘Look, John… If you want the truth, I am sick of it, sick of it all. I am sick of serving those xenos pricks. I hate the fact that humanity has to take the fall to save the cosmos. I’m like you in that. But I was also telling the truth just now. I agreed to serve. I’m a soldier. I’m loyal. They showed me the bigger picture and I accepted it. I didn’t like it, but I accepted it. They showed me the greater good. I’m a soldier, John. I understa
nd expediency, pragmatism and necessary evil.’

  ‘We were all soldiers, once,’ said John. ‘All that experience taught me was the power of comradeship.’

  Damon sniffed. ‘Yeah? Fine. I’ve got more heart than you think I have, Grammaticus. This whole thing hurts me more than you know. Maybe I’m not a soldier, then. Just a killer. An assassin. That’s how the Cabal has employed me these last few thousand years. I work well. I work wet. The first thing I ever killed was my own conscience. It was a mercy killing. You still have yours, Johnny, and I really pity you for that.’

  He grinned at John as if he had revealed some deep and profound truth.

  ‘Okay?’ he asked.

  John smiled at the use of the archaic slang. ‘You sound like Oll,’ he said.

  ‘That loser?’ asked Damon sourly. ‘Screw it, John. If you want to see what happens to a man when he listens to his conscience, then look at Ollanius-fugging-Persson. That surly old bastard could have used his gifts for good, but where is he?’

  John smiled, a blank kind of well-you-have-me-there look. He hoped to hell that the Cabal had not detected the risky clandestine efforts he had made to assist Oll Persson during the Calth disaster. Moreover, he hoped that they were blind to the new course that he had set Oll Persson upon. Unwillingly, Oll had embarked upon a thankless and thoroughly hazardous journey at John’s bidding, to do something John knew full well that the Cabal would abhor…

  That was why John hadn’t been able to do it himself. That’s why he’d had to recruit Oll.

  It seemed that they were both about to strike blows for mankind against the interests of the Cabal. This truly was an age of rebellion and revolt.

  Damon stared at John. He smiled, but there was very little warmth in the smile.

  ‘Let’s go, Johnny. You’ve had your moment. I get that you don’t like this any more. Sorry. That’s tough. “Boo hoo, too late,” as someone recently said. We’re going to do this. We going to do it properly, and square it away. We’re going to complete this damned mission if it kills us.’

  ‘It just might,’ John said.

  ‘Comes with the territory.’ Damon replied. ‘I’m ready. Always have been.’

  ‘What if I refuse, Damon?’ John asked.

  The gunship had moved on. Damon stepped onto the pavement. He looked back at John.

  ‘Why would you go and do a silly thing like that?’ he asked cheerfully. ‘Besides, I’m not going to let you refuse. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘I wish to serve,’ said Faffnr Bludbroder.

  ‘You have already served, brother,’ Verus Caspean assured him, ‘and served honourably.’

  Entering the Audience Hall of the Residency, Faffnr had bowed before the new First Master of the Ultramarines out of respect. He got off his knees, and there was some effort involved. He had to lean on his axe.

  ‘Curze left one of your pack dead, and put three more in the apothecarion,’ said Caspean. ‘You ought to be there too. Your service is–’

  ‘We are hunters,’ said Faffnr. ‘Curze must be stopped. Allow the able members of my pack permission to deploy into the town, and we will find him.’

  ‘For a re-match?’ asked Dolor, standing at Caspean’s side.

  Faffnr grunted.

  ‘Wolf, your valiant efforts are noted,’ said Caspean. ‘But we do not even know if Curze still lives.’

  ‘Have you seen his corpse?’ asked Faffnr.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then he still lives,’ said the pack-master.

  ‘I say you should allow the Wolf to assist you,’ said Euten. She stood to one side of the Legion commanders, her arms hugged around her, her face more pale and gaunt than ever.

  ‘The Space Wolves have displayed the most devoted and emotional loyalty to the rule of law,’ she said. ‘I owe them my life.’

  Faffnr looked at the Chamberlain Principal, and nodded in appreciation.

  ‘I would, however, wish that the pack-master saw to his wounds before he set to inflict the same upon others,’ she added.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Faffnr said.

  ‘You leave blood wherever you walk.’

  ‘I’ll allow you to hunt,’ said Caspean to Faffnr, ‘but you wait an hour for our first search sweeps to be finished. Let’s see what they pick up. If Curze is still out of our sight by then, the Wolves can join the hunt.’

  Caspean glanced over at Timur Gantulga who was waiting nearby, fronting a group of his own battle-brothers and Eeron Kleve’s Iron Hands.

  ‘The White Scar’s petition is also granted subject to similar conditions. It was astute reasoning that led you to see that Curze had switched from the Fortress to the Residency. Both you and the Wolves clearly have insight into his tactics.’

  ‘How reassuring should we find it that the Space Wolves and the White Scars think like Konrad Curze?’ asked Farith Redloss.

  Dolor looked at him sharply.

  ‘I mean to say,’ said Farith Redloss, ‘perhaps we can learn much from our more feral brothers.’

  ‘Like manners?’ suggested Dolor.

  ‘My lords! Lady Euten!’

  They turned to see Titus Prayto limping into the hall. His face was tight with pain. Like Faffnr Bludbroder, he had not spent anything like enough time in the apothecarion.

  ‘I bid you all come with me, quickly,’ he said directly.

  They followed him out of the hall and along a banner-lined terrace into the Reading Room of the Residency. The chamber was lined with glass-cased cabinets filled with books and slates.

  ‘Look,’ said Prayto.

  An odd glow had formed in one corner of the Reading Room. It was distinctly an other light, the displaced luminosity that accompanied the Pharos’s communication field. The curious light reflected eerily from the glass cases of the cabinets.

  ‘I believe that Warsmith Dantioch is attempting to retune the link,’ Titus said.

  ‘This is good news at least,’ said Caspean.

  ‘We must set up a watch, to see if contact improves,’ said Prayto, ‘and also have patrols tour the Residency and the Fortress. There were multiple location manifestations before stable contact was originally established.’

  The First Master was about to issue the instructions, but he stopped dead as the unworldly light washed over them with a brighter, flickering radiance.

  The field had expanded and suddenly resolved into greater clarity. A figure stood before them, half-manifested, like a shade of the dead walking at midnight. It was impossible to identify.

  ‘There, I knew it could be done,’ a voice said, from all around them. ‘Did I not say it could be done?’

  ‘Who is there?’ Caspean called out. ‘Who hails us from far away Sotha?’

  The communication field flickered, and then disappeared all together. The odd light drained from the Reading Room.

  Caspean, Dolor and the other Ultramarines officers looked to each other.

  ‘I’m afraid this process could take days or weeks to establish,’ said Prayto.

  ‘I do not comprehend this trickery,’ said Farith Redloss, ‘but perhaps–’

  ‘–no, no, not lost!’ the voice suddenly cut in, speaking out of the cabinets, out of the very books around them. ‘Not lost at all! Patience! The field must be stabilised, that is all! Just a small adjustment, and–’

  Silence.

  ‘That was Dantioch’s voice, I would swear it,’ said Dolor.

  ‘My Lord Dantioch? Warsmith?’ Caspean called out again. ‘This is Macragge! We hear you! We almost see you!’

  ‘–I insist it is not lost! I will not let it be lost–’ the voice boomed and cut away.

  Abruptly, the light returned.

  This time it was brighter and more steady. Everyone stepped back involuntarily as a portion of the Reading Room filled with the gleamin
g black mirror-stone of Primary Location Alpha, as if some ingenious mechanical scenery for a play had been rolled out across a stage.

  The clarity of the background was astonishing. They could almost feel the cool black rock and the soft air. The immediate foreground was slightly out of focus, creating a hazy cloud in the shape of a man or some man-thing.

  The focus popped. The figure resolved into perfect clarity to match the background.

  It was the warsmith, slumped uncomfortably upon his great wooden seat on the tuning floor. He appeared tired and haggard, propped up by his crude throne. He looked like the ancient monarch of a dying kingdom – the last of his line, waiting wearily in an abandoned throne room for his life, his rule and his name to become history.

  ‘There, as I said,’ the warsmith announced, ‘not lost at all. Sensitive, but not lost.’

  ‘My Lord Dantioch,’ Caspean said.

  ‘Well, I can’t do anything about the sensitivity,’ said Dantioch. ‘There is still so much about the process to learn and understand.’

  They realised that he was not addressing them. He was speaking to one side, to a person or persons not in the field.

  ‘My Lord Dantioch?’ Prayto called.

  The warsmith peered out of the field at them.

  ‘My Lord Prayto,’ he said. ‘It is good to see you. Transmission was disrupted for a while.’ Dantioch looked to his left. ‘Move to your right,’ they heard him say. ‘The focus is here. I see Prayto and others.’

  Other figures appeared beside him, repositioning themselves in the field: two Ultramarines, then a figure in yellow plate, unmistakably the Imperial Fist, Alexis Polux.

  ‘How is Polux there?’ Prayto exclaimed. ‘How–’

  His words died away.

  Roboute Guilliman and the Lion loomed into the field beside the seated warsmith.

  Everyone in the Reading Room dropped to their knees.

  ‘My friends and brothers on Macragge!’ said Dantioch. ‘Do not make me attempt an explanation, for it is too complex. In short, I am happy to confirm that your primarchs, along with the worthy Alexis Polux, are alive and here with me on Sotha.’