Know No Fear

  He walks up to what’s left of the palace atrium. Selaton is waiting for him.

  ‘You killed it,’ Selaton notes.

  ‘I don’t agree with your definition.’

  ‘You sent it away, then. How did you do that?’

  ‘Luck. Luck of the very worst kind.’

  Ventanus glances back at the ruined gardens, the ragged walls, the rubble of the gate.

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ he says. ‘Cxir said other forces were coming. This place was hard to defend before. It will be impossible again. This was never a fortress.’

  ‘Agreed, but what about the data-engine?’ asks Selaton.

  ‘Good question.’

  Ventanus notices that his sergeant is holding a sack. He takes it from him and looks inside.

  It is full of black daggers. Ritual knives. Some are black metal, some glass, some knapped flint; some handles are wire, some leather, some snakeskin. Selaton has collected them from the brotherhood dead.

  ‘You used Cxir’s weapon against the daemon,’ says Selaton simply. ‘Theoretical: these blades work. Their own weapons work.’

  ‘You may be right,’ says Ventanus. He looks into the sack. The blades shine and glint in the shadows of the bag. ‘But I’m afraid these things are as toxic and dangerous as the monsters we want to use them against. Throw them away, Selaton. Drop them into a well. Put a grenade in the sack and hurl it into the ditch. We can’t start using these.’

  ‘But–’

  Ventanus looks at him.

  ‘Theoretical: that’s how it began with the XVII,’ he says. ‘Expedient use of an exotic weapon to turn back an unexpectedly resistant new foe. Strange daggers found in some xenos tomb or temple? What harm can they do? They cut daemon flesh. It’s worth the risk.’

  A look of utter distaste crosses Selaton’s face.

  ‘I’ll dispose of them, sir,’ he says.

  Ventanus walks to the stack room. He passes the chambers where Sydance is watching the magi trying to reconnect the vox.

  ‘Well fought,’ Sydance says, clasping his hand.

  ‘I was the thirteenth eldar this time,’ replies Ventanus, ‘but we won’t get that grace again. Is the vox up?’

  ‘They’re working on it. The datalink is still active. The server wants to see you.’

  ‘Good. I want to see her.’

  Ventanus enters the stack room. Tawren has disconnected herself from the chattering data-engine. One of her magi, Uldort, has taken her place in the MIU link to maintain processing.

  ‘Captain,’ Tawren says.

  ‘Server.’

  ‘This data-engine is not powerful enough to seize control of the grid,’ she says flatly. ‘Moreover, it is not powerful enough to run the grid.’

  ‘So that’s it?’ asks Ventanus. ‘Our contribution now is... to collate and supply data to the fleet until such time as we are exterminated?’

  ‘That will be the fate of Leptius Numinus,’ she agrees. ‘However, please place that contribution in context. This is the only loyalist data-engine at work on Calth. It is not just a vital source of data. It is the only source of data.’

  She shows him data-slate displays.

  ‘We have built a picture of resistance across the planet. It is broken and scattered, but it is fierce. Spread across hundreds of locations, as many as thirty thousand of your battle-brothers and two hundred thousand Army and Mechanicum warriors are still active. Coordinated, they can achieve more than if they remain uncoordinated.’

  ‘This palace can only provide coordination for a short time,’ says Ventanus. ‘The enemy is on its way.’

  ‘The picture is not totally dark, captain. About fifteen minutes ago, I made one profound discovery.’

  The memory of that revelation makes Tawren smile. It is bittersweet, almost painful to think of, and yet uplifting. She found Hesst’s gift. She found what he was working on when he died, what he hid so scrupulously so it would be safe until she uncovered it.

  ‘My predecessor,’ she says, ‘managed to configure a killcode to combat the enemy scrapcode sequence. He achieved this feat shortly before he died. It was an act of desperation and genius. It is a sublime and intuitive piece of coding, and only Hesst could have done it.’

  ‘We can use it to purge?’ asks Ventanus.

  ‘Hesst hid the killcode in a secure data-engine which he then closed off and sealed. The data-engine is the manifest cogitator of the cargo handling guild at the starport. It is in a secure bunker in the industrial zone between Numinus Starport and Lanshear landing grounds. It runs cargo operations for both ports, and thus is more than powerful enough to manage the dataload of the planetary weapons grid. As a civilian engine, it was not a primary military target. Hesst cleaned it with his killcode and then shut it away.’

  It was why he kept going until the very last moment, Tawren now realises. It was why he wouldn’t leave his post, even when the scrapcode had maimed his mind. He had to finish. He was determined to finish. He was hanging on as long as he could to get it done.

  ‘Can you control this engine remotely?’ asks Ventanus.

  ‘No, captain. I need direct MIU access to launch the killcode. Once I have purged a pathway into the system, I can create a new manifold and assume command of the grid.’

  ‘Getting to the port zone won’t be easy.’

  ‘Of course it won’t,’ she agrees. ‘There is an additional issue.’

  ‘Go on,’ says Ventanus.

  ‘The enemy is controlling the grid using a captured data-engine on one of the surviving orbital platforms. I can purge the system, but I cannot override that control. We need fleet assistance to target the platform.’

  He nods.

  ‘What about the engine here?’ he asks.

  ‘It must remain functional for the greatest period possible,’ Tawren replies. ‘Magos Uldort has volunteered to stay with the engine and keep it running as long as she can.’

  ‘It is a death sentence,’ says Ventanus, looking at the young magos at the MIU link. ‘The Word Bearers are coming.’

  ‘Calth is a death sentence, captain,’ the server replies. ‘All that matters is how we face it.’

  He is silent for a moment.

  ‘Prepare your staff for travel, server,’ he says. ‘See what you can do via the datalink to coordinate force response to support our assault on the port zone.’

  He walks back to the vox chamber. In the doorway, he tells Sydance, Selaton and Greavus to mobilise the forces.

  ‘We’re evacuating this site,’ he says. ‘We’re going back to the port. Gather as much punch as you can. Fighting vehicles especially. We’re going to have to cut our way into it.’

  ‘This doesn’t sound good,’ says Sydance.

  ‘It sounds like it sounds,’ says Ventanus. ‘It’s the only worthwhile practical we have left. I need that link. I need the vox. We’ll be wasting our time without fleet coordination. Tell the magi I need vox.’

  They move off, urgent. He waits. He thinks.

  Arook appears.

  ‘I’m staying,’ says the skitarii.

  ‘I could use you.’

  ‘My duty is to the Mechanicum, Ventanus. This data-engine needs to stay alive for as long as possible. You understand duty.’

  Ventanus nods. He holds out his hand.

  Arook looks at it for a moment, baffled by the unfamiliar business of social interaction.

  He grips Ventanus’s hand.

  ‘We march for Macragge,’ says Ventanus.

  ‘We stand for Mars,’ replies Arook. ‘It means the same thing.’

  They turn as Sullus approaches. The captain’s armour is badly scratched and dented. He is limping. It will take a long while for his bones to knit.

  ‘I will remain here too, Ventanus,’ he says. ‘The skitarii could use a few Legion guns. Right now, I’m not fit to march far. But I can stand and shoot.’

  Ventanus looks Sullus in the eyes.

  ‘Teus, this wasn’t your fault,’ he says.
‘It–’

  ‘This isn’t atonement, Remus,’ Sullus replies. ‘I don’t feel sorry for myself. This wasn’t anybody’s fault, but we’re all going to end up paying whatever we can. Take the port, win the grid, kill their fleet. Remember my name while you’re doing it.’

  ‘We have vox!’ Sydance yells.

  Ventanus takes the speaker horn the magos offers him.

  ‘This is Ventanus, commanding Leptius Numinus. Ventanus, Ventanus. Requesting priority encrypt link with the XIII Fleet. Respond.’

  ‘This is XIII Fleet flagship,’ the vox crackles. ‘Your authority codes are recognised. Stand by.’

  A new voice comes onto the link.

  ‘Remus.’

  ‘My primarch,’ says Ventanus.

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘I thought you had officers to run vox-nets for you, sir.’

  ‘I do. But just this once. I was worried that your surprise might stem from rumours of my death.’

  ‘That too, my primarch. It will boost spirits here to know that you are healthy.’

  The vox fizzles and whines.

  ‘I said, you’ve done a good day’s work, captain,’ says the vox. ‘The data you are sending is invaluable. Gage is coordinating our forces.’

  ‘It’s a bad day, sir.’

  ‘I can’t remember a worse one, Remus.’

  ‘This facility may not remain functional for very much longer, sir. Expect to lose the data feed in the next few hours. But we’re going to get the grid, sir. We’re going to retake the grid.’

  ‘Good news, Remus. It’s killing us. It’s killing the sun, too. I think the XVII want to kill everything that ever lived.’

  ‘It looks that way down here too, sir. Sir, this is important. We–’

  ‘The vox washes and crackles again.

  ‘–say again, Leptius. Say again. Ventanus, do you copy?’

  ‘Ventanus, sir. I read you. The interrupts are getting worse. Sir, we can’t complete our control of the grid unless the fleet can take out the orbital the enemy is running it from. We can purge their code once we’re in, but we can’t break it. The fleet needs to target and destroy their grid command location as a priority.’

  ‘Understood, Remus. A priority. Can you identify the target?’

  Ventanus looks at Sydance. Sydance hands him a data-slate.

  ‘I can, sir,’ says Ventanus.

  [mark: 14.01.01]

  ‘Remus? Say again!’ demands Guilliman. ‘Ventanus, respond! Respond! What is the target? What is the target?’

  He looks at the Master of Vox.

  ‘Vox lost, sir,’ says the Master of Vox. Electromagnetic screeches issue from the speakers.

  ‘Datalink from Leptius also just went down,’ says Gage.

  ‘Did we lose them?’ asks Guilliman. ‘Damn it, did we just lose Ventanus and his force?’

  ‘No, sir,’ says the Master of Vox. ‘It’s an interrupt. A severe interrupt.’

  ‘It’s the sun,’ says Empion.

  They all look at the main viewer.

  Bombarded by concentrated energy and laced with toxic, reactive heavy metals, the Veridian star is suffering a gross imbalance in its solar metabolism. Its natural, internal chain reactions and energetic processes have been disrupted and agitated. Its radiation levels are rising. Its output is visibly increasing as it starts to burn through its fuel resources at an unnaturally accelerated rate.

  Its blue-white wrath is growing more fierce, like a malignant light. A daemonic light. Black sunspot crusts seethe across its tortured surface. Staggering, lethal flares rip away from it in tongues of flame and lashing arcs of energy millions of kilometres across.

  It is going nova.

  [mark: 14.01.59]

  Thunder rolls.

  Out in the dismal fog of the channel, Oll steers the skiff through the black water, passing burning water craft that are half sunk, passing pale, ballooned corpses floating in the brown scum.

  He thinks there’s a boat behind them, a way behind. Another skiff or a launch. But it might just be the echo of their own engine in the fog.

  Krank is sleeping. Zybes sits staring off the bow. Katt and Graft are wherever their minds go to.

  Rane twitches, in the clutch of a nightmare. They have bundled him in blankets. He probably won’t recover from his ordeal.

  Oll takes out his compass, and checks the bearing as best he can.

  Thrascias. It still seems to be Thrascias. That used to be the word for the wind from the north-north-west, before the cardinal points of the compass rose were co-opted for other purposes and given more esoteric meanings. Thrascias. That’s what the Grekans called it. That’s what they called it when he sailed back across the sun-kissed waters to Thessaly in Iason’s crew, with a witch and a sheep-skin to show for their efforts. The Romanii, they called it Circius. Down in the oardecks of the galleys, he hadn’t much cared about the names of the winds they were rowing against. The Franks called it Nordvuestroni.

  Oll looks up. A star has suddenly appeared, visible even through the black fog and atmospheric filth. It is harsh, bright, blue-white. It is malevolent. A star of ill omen.

  It means the end is coming, and coming fast.

  But at least he now has a star to steer by.

  RUIN//STORM

  ‘Everything is an enemy.’

  – Guilliman, Notes Towards Martial Codification, 645.93.vi

  1

  [mark: 19.22.22]

  Above ground, it is raining. It has been raining for about seven hours without a break. The evaporated southern oceans, thrust into the upper atmosphere as steam, have returned, first as poison fog, and then as an apocalyptic deluge.

  The burning population centres steam and sizzle, their fires inextinguishable. The molten cores of city-graves glow in sinkholes hundreds of kilometres across. Craters and impact scars fill with water, from the most massive hive sinkhole to the smallest bullet pock-mark. Plains turn to mud, an ooze as dark as blood. River basins flood. The forested sweeps of Calth’s highlands and valley systems crackle and roar as they combust, fire-fronts a thousand kilometres broad.

  The rain forms a curtain as thick as the fog that preceded it.

  There is a plague of rainbows. The downpour combines with the swelling blue-white radiance of the terminal star to decorate every prospect, every ruined street, every burning hab-block, every fire-blackened forest, with a scintillating rainbow.

  4th Company moves underground.

  The fighting group built around the elements of 4th Company retraces Ventanus’s steps through the sub-branch of the arcology, along the safe route built in colonial times by the early governors.

  Despite subsidence from shock-damaged earth, which has split or slumped the tunnels in places, the passageways are intact and commodious. They offer an arterial that can take even the largest fighting vehicles.

  Long stretches of the tunnel system are partially flooded, with still more water sluicing down through broken pipes and drains, and running through clefts and cracks in the roof. The rain is getting in wherever it can. Men wade, up to their waists. Tanks and carriers glide, pressing through the silty black water like reptiles, their slow-moving hulls stirring up little, flowing wakes.

  Ventanus moves along at the front, with Vattian and the scouts. He leads the way, standard in hand.

  Two hours after they leave the palace, the data and vox links are finally restored, thanks to Magos Uldort’s unstinting efforts. From the datalink, Ventanus learns that several strikeforces are closing to conjunct with him at the port zone, including a major taskforce punching down from Sharud Province, the assembled remains of the 111th and 112th under the command of a sergeant called Anchise. On another day, in another history, Anchise’s efforts to rally, compose, turn, and redirect his forces would become the stuff of instruction text and legend.

  Today, on Calth, it is just another story of a man’s last hours alive.

  Ventanus hopes that Anchise’s force arrives in ti
me to render support. He doubts it will. The 4th is moving fast, and it cannot afford to wait or hesitate. Even if Anchise, or any of the other projected support units, make it through, there are still no guarantees. The port zone is in enemy hands. Numinus Port is a burning ruin, and Lanshear and the foundries have been overrun by the predatory hosts of Hol Beloth.

  Beloth circles from the south. Foedral Fell approaches from the north-west. Ventanus wonders how much longer Uldort’s valuable datalink can remain active.

  They have passed below the Shield Wall, and are drawing close to the service linkage where they will be obliged to surface, and move in the open.

  Ventanus stops briefly to talk to his unit leaders: Cyramica, commanding the skitarii strength; Colonel Sparzi of the Army; Sydance and the company sergeants, Vattian of the scout force.

  He has the battered golden standard in his hands as he talks to them. There are no orders, and no feeble efforts at oratory. He tells them how it is, and what has to be done. He tells them the practical, and he tells them what he expects from them.

  They say nothing. They nod.

  That’s all he needs.

  [mark: 19.29.37]

  They have what they need. They have their target. They have their practical.

  They are ready.

  It took the primarch about ten minutes to determine the target. Ten minutes. Thiel watched him work it out. Guilliman did it by eye, by observation, by consulting the reams of notes and scraps and stylus jottings he had scattered over the strategium.

  He had the resolution long before the datalink from Leptius was re-established.

  ‘It has to be a functioning facility,’ he reasoned. ‘It has to have a data-engine rating of at least, what, 46nCog? It needs to have an active datalink, which we can probably detect using back-trace. The Word Bearers have done such a good job of destroying platform facilities, it makes it easier to spot the ones they’ve deliberately left alone.’

  He pointed to the display.

  Zetsun Verid Yard.

  Then the practical had to be decided. Shipmaster Hommed recommended a ranged bombardment: primary spinals, lances. The Macragge’s Honour certainly has firepower enough. Gage seconded the suggestion. But if they didn’t make a direct kill with the first salvo, there was a real danger that the enemy could retaliate with the grid and finish the flagship.