Salvation's Reach

  It was built for close war. Its hull armour was pitted and scorched, and triple-thickness along the flanks and the prow. The prow cone was rutted with deep scars and healed damage. The Armaduke was of a dogged breed of Imperial ship that liked to get in tight with its foe, and was prepared to get hurt in order to kill an enemy.

  To Ibram Gaunt, closing towards it aboard one of the last inbound launches, the ship had the character of a pit-fighter, or a fighting dog. Its scar-tissue was proud and deliberate.

  Like the ritual marks of a blood-pacted soldier, he reflected.

  The plasma engines pulsed again. Hold doors began to seal, and cantilevered armour sections extended back into position. Gaunt’s craft was one of the last to enter the central landing bay before the main space doors shut. The swarm of small ships dispersed, either into the Armaduke to share its voyage, or away to planetside or the nearest orbital fortress. Formations of Fury- and Faustus-class attack craft had been circling the ship at a radius of five hundred kilometres to provide protection while she was exposed and vulnerable. Now they formed up to provide escort. Buoy lights blinked. Lines detached. Fleet tenders disengaged and rolled lazily away, like spent suitors or weary concubines. The Armaduke began to move.

  Initial acceleration was painfully slow, even at maximum plasma power. It was as though an attempt was being made to slide a building – a basilica, a temple hall – by getting an army of slaves to push it. The ship protested. Its hull plates groaned. Its decks settled and creaked. Its superstructure twitched under the application of vast motive power.

  The other ships at high anchor unhooded their lamps to salute the departing ship. Some were true giants of the fleet, grand cruisers and battleships six or seven kilometres long. Their vast shadows fell across the Armaduke as it accelerated along the line of anchorage. To them, it was a battered old relic, an orphan of the fleet they would most likely never see again.

  The Fury flight dropped in around the ship in escort formation. The plasma drives grew brighter, their flare reflecting off the noctilucent clouds below, creating a shimmering airglow. Mesospheric ionisation caused bowsprite lightning to dance and flicker along the Armaduke’s crenellated topside until the advancing ship passed into the exosphere and the wash of the magnetosphere’s currents swept the lightshow away.

  Stepping out of the launch into the excursion hold as the ship ran out, Gaunt sampled the odour of the vessel’s atmosphere. Every ship had its own flavour. He’d travelled on enough of them to know that. Hundreds – or sometimes thousands – of years of recirculation and atmospheric processing allowed things to accumulate in a ship’s lungs. Some smelled oddly sweet, others metallic, others rancid. You always got used to it. A ten- or twelve-week haul on a shiftship could get you used to anything. The Armaduke smelled of scorched fat, like grease in a kitchen’s chimney.

  He would get used to that. You could get used to the smell, the chemical tang of the recycled water, the oddly bland taste of shipboard food. You got used to the constant background grumble of the drives, to the odd noises from a vast superstructure constantly in tension. Once the drives were lit, the hull flexed; once the Geller Field was up and the ship had translated into the warp, the hull locked tight, like a well-muscled arm pumped and tensed. You got used to the acceleration sickness, the pervading cold, the odd, slippery displacement where the artificial gravity fields fluctuated and settled.

  Once translation had been achieved, you got used to the ports being shuttered. You got used to ignoring whatever was outside. You got used to the baleful screams of the Empyrean, the sounds of hail on the hull, or burning firestorms, or typhoon winds, of fingernails scratching at the port shutters. You got used to the whispers, the shudders and rattles, the inexplicable periods of half-power lighting, the distant subterranean banging, the dreams, the footsteps in empty corridors, the sense that you were plunging further and further into your own subconscious and burning up your sanity to fuel the trip.

  The one thing you never got used to was the scale. At high orbit, even with the vast extent of a planet close by for contrast, a starship seemed big. But as the planet dropped away to stern, first the size of an office globe, then a ball, until even the local sun was just a fleck of light no bigger than any other star, the embrace of the void became total. Space was endless and eternal, and the few suns no bigger than grains of salt. Alone in the bewildering emptiness, a starship was dwarfed, diminished until it was just a fragile metal casket alone in the monstrous prospect of night.

  The Armaduke was accelerating so robustly now that the fighter escort was struggling to match it. Course was locked for the system’s Mandeville point, where the warp engines would be started up to make an incision in the interstitial fabric of space. The warp awaited them.

  The crew and control spaces of a starship tended to be kept separate from the areas used for transported material and passengers, even on a military operation. The transporters and those they were transporting needed very little contact during a voyage.

  But the Armaduke was still twenty-six minutes from the translation point when Gaunt presented himself to the shipmaster. He did not come alone.

  ‘No entry at this time,’ said the midshipman manning the valve hatch. He had six armsmen with him, all with combat shot weapons for shipboard use.

  Gaunt showed the midshipman his documentation, documentation that clearly showed he was the commanding officer of the troop units under conveyance.

  ‘That’s all very well,’ said the midshipman, displaying that unerring knack of Navy types to avoid using Guard rank formalities, ‘but the shipmaster is preparing for commitment to translation. He can’t be interrupted. Perhaps in a week or so, he might find some time to–’

  ‘Perhaps he’s done it a thousand times before,’ said Gaunt’s companion, stepping out of the bulkhead shadows, ‘and doesn’t need to do more than authorise the bridge crew to execute. Perhaps he ought to bear in mind that his ship is a vital component of this action and not just a means of transportation. Perhaps you should open this hatch.’

  The midshipman went pale.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, his voice as small as a shiftship in the open void.

  The shipmaster’s name was Clemensew Spika. He had three Battlefleet commands behind him, but his career was in decline. A grizzled man of medium height, who conducted his command in full dress uniform, he was standing proudly at the gilded rail of the upper deck platform when they entered, gazing out across the bustling main bridge towards the vast forward viewer with a noble expression on his face. Gaunt wondered if he’d been standing there anyway, or if he’d struck the pose when he heard they were coming.

  He turned as they came up to him, looking Gaunt in the eye, then tilting his head up to look at the Silver Guard warrior beside him.

  ‘We are underway,’ he said. ‘Could this audience have waited?’

  ‘No,’ said Eadwine.

  ‘Is this translation especially problematic?’ asked Gaunt.

  ‘No,’ replied Spika. He gestured for them to follow him, and instructed his first officer to watch the steersmen. At the back of the upper deck was a small stateroom reserved for briefings or quiet counsel. Spika sat and indicated they should do the same. Eadwine remained standing.

  Apart from one wall panel that displayed a detailed summary of ship function, the room was decorated with painted sections framed in scrolled gilt. Each painted panel showed a different view of Khulan: the Regal Palace, the Waterfalls at Hypson, the Tombs at Kalil, the Imperial Lodge in High Askian, the Smarnian Basilica.

  ‘You understand how your vessel will be engaged in this venture?’ asked Eadwine. His augmetic rasp had little colour or tone.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Spika. ‘Rendezvous at Tavis Sun, resupply, then direct to the Marginals.’

  ‘I mean there,’ said Eadwine. ‘In the Marginals.’

  ‘Boarding action,’ said Spika. ‘I understand.’

  ‘You will be required to stay on station,’ said Gau
nt.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘There will be no fleet support,’ Gaunt added. ‘The Armaduke will be vulnerable.’

  ‘I know,’ repeated Spika.

  ‘There are several things we don’t know,’ said Eadwine. ‘The dangers are considerable. We will be running silently for the last realspace section. There will be navigational hazards. Clearance and manoeuvre will be restricted. The deployment will be multi-point. Sustained. We do not know what we will find inside the target structure.’

  ‘At all?’ asked Spika. ‘I understood that this mission was based on intelligence of–’

  ‘It is,’ said Gaunt. ‘But it is limited. It may be out of date.’

  ‘It may be a pack of lies,’ said Eadwine.

  ‘Encouraging,’ said Spika.

  ‘Depending on levels of opposition, you may be required to commit your armsmen,’ said Eadwine.

  ‘I wasn’t told that,’ said Spika.

  ‘Is it a problem?’

  ‘The armsmen of the Highness Ser Armaduke will fight for the life of the ship if necessary,’ said the shipmaster firmly. He paused. ‘But I have been given a complement of young recruits. Few have battle experience. I was given to expect that you would be doing the fighting.’

  Gaunt glanced at the towering Space Marine. Eadwine’s helm hung from his belt. He was looking with what resembled interest at the painting of the Waterfalls at Hypson.

  ‘The Navy has been economical with your briefing,’ said Eadwine. ‘What do you understand this mission to be about?’

  ‘About a matter of strategic importance,’ replied Spika. ‘Specifically, from my point of view, the opportunity to put this newly refitted ship and its young crew through a proper shakedown prior to re-certification.’

  Neither Gaunt nor Eadwine replied. Spika looked at them. There was something infinitely sad in his pale blue eyes, as if he had been trying for weeks now to overlook the obvious.

  ‘A cynic might, I suppose, interpret this differently,’ he said.

  ‘How might that go?’ asked Gaunt.

  ‘An expendable and not entirely void-worthy ship and a young crew of little experiential value,’ said Spika, ‘given into the charge of a man who will never make admiral now and who asks the wrong questions of his superiors. A mission that is so likely to end in disaster, only scraps can be risked.’

  ‘A good dose of cynicism is always healthy, I find,’ said Eadwine.

  ‘There were other clues,’ said Spika, a hardness in his voice. He looked at Gaunt. ‘I reviewed your file, those sections that were not restricted. Glorious moments early on, at Balhaut especially. Great favour. The achievements since have been considerable. I mean that. No one could fail to be impressed by your service record. But recognition has been scant since Balhaut. There is a sense that you have squandered great opportunities, and ended up achieving little credit for the expenditure of great courage and tenacity. Like me and my ship, you and your regiment are useful but disposable commodities.’

  ‘A good dose of cynicism is always healthy,’ replied Gaunt.

  ‘I don’t care who you are,’ rumbled Eadwine. ‘I don’t care if you’re the Warmaster himself. This is the Imperium of Mankind. We’re all of us disposable commodities.’

  The lights dipped. There was a shudder. The warp embraced them.

  ‘I hate that,’ said Larkin. He froze and refused to continue walking until the ship lights returned to their original brilliance. There was an underdeck tremor. A distant exhalation.

  ‘Worst part of any trip,’ he added. The lights came back up, a frosty glare in the low deck companionway. He started walking again.

  ‘The worst?’ asked Domor.

  ‘Yes,’ said Larkin. ‘Apart from getting there.’

  ‘All true,’ said Domor.

  They had reached the armoured hatchway of a hold space originally designed as a magazine for explosive ordnance. Rawne and Brostin were waiting for them.

  ‘I want a badge like that,’ said Larkin.

  ‘Well, you can’t have one,’ said Brostin. ‘It’s only for the kings.’

  ‘The kings can kiss my arse,’ said Larkin.

  Domor looked at Rawne.

  ‘This could continue all day, major,’ he said.

  ‘And it still wouldn’t become amusing,’ Rawne agreed.

  ‘Gaunt wants us to see him,’ said Domor. ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rawne. ‘Provided you’re who you say you are.’

  Larkin winked at Rawne.

  ‘Come on, Eli, these’d be pretty rubbish disguises, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Domor, a smile forming. ‘We forced our own faces to change shape?’

  ‘I’ve seen stranger things,’ said Rawne.

  ‘Nobody here is surprised,’ said Larkin.

  Rawne nodded to Brostin. The big man banged on the door, and then opened the outer hatch.

  ‘Coming in, two visitors,’ said Rawne over his microbead.

  ‘Read that.’

  A peephole slot in the inner door opened, and Rawne stood where the viewer could see his face.

  The inner hatch opened. Rawne took Domor and Larkin through.

  ‘Got anything he could use as a weapon?’ asked Rawne.

  ‘My rapier wit?’ suggested Larkin.

  Mabbon Etogaur was sitting on a folding bunk in one corner of the dank magazine compartment. The walls, deck and ceiling were reinforced ceramite, and the slot hatch for the loader mechanism had been welded shut. The prisoner was reading a trancemissionary pamphlet, one of a stack on his mattress. His right wrist was cuffed to a chain that was bolted to a floor pin.

  Varl was sitting on a stool in the opposite corner, his lasrifle across his knees. Cant was standing in another corner, nibbling at the quick of his thumbnail.

  Larkin and Domor came in and approached the etogaur.

  He looked up.

  ‘I don’t know you,’ he said.

  ‘No, but I had you in my crosshairs once,’ said Larkin.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Balhaut.’

  ‘Why didn’t you take the shot?’ asked Mabbon.

  ‘And miss a touching moment like this?’

  ‘That’s Domor, that’s Larkin,’ said Rawne, pointing.

  ‘Don’t tell him our damn names!’ Larkin hissed. ‘He might do all sorts of fethed-up magic shit with them!’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Mabbon.

  ‘He won’t,’ Rawne agreed.

  ‘He can’t,’ said Varl.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Larkin.

  ‘Because how else would I be the punchline for another of Varl’s jokes?’ asked Cant wearily.

  Larkin snorted.

  ‘He won’t because he’s cooperating,’ said Rawne, ignoring the others.

  ‘And if I did,’ said Mabbon, ‘Rawne would gut me.’

  ‘He does do that,’ Larkin nodded.

  ‘What did you need from me?’ asked Mabbon.

  ‘A consultation,’ said Domor. He had a sheaf of rolled papers under his arm, and a data-slate in his hand.

  ‘Go on,’ said Mabbon.

  Larkin took the pamphlet out of Mabbon’s hand and glanced at it.

  ‘Good read?’ he asked.

  ‘I enjoy the subject matter,’ said Mabbon.

  ‘A doctrine of conversion to the Imperial Creed?’ asked Larkin.

  ‘Fantasy,’ replied Mabbon.

  ‘He’d be a fething funny man if he didn’t scare the shit out of me,’ Larkin said to Rawne.

  ‘We’re leading the insertion effort,’ said Domor. ‘There’s training to be done, planning. We want to use transit time to get as ready as possible.’

  ‘Are you combat engineering?’ asked Mabbon.

  ‘Yes,’ said Domor. ‘Larks… Larkin, he’s marksman squad.’

  ‘I saw the lanyard.’

  ‘We want to go over the deck plans and schematics you’ve supplied so far. It may mean several hours work ov
er a period of days.’

  ‘I’ll try to build time into my schedule.’

  ‘Some of the plans are vague,’ said Larkin.

  ‘So are some of my memories. It’s all from memory.’

  ‘If you go through them a few times,’ said Rawne, ‘maybe you can firm things up.’

  The etogaur nodded.

  ‘If you go through them so many times you’re sick of them, maybe we’ll actually do this right,’ Rawne added.

  ‘I’ve no problem with that,’ said Mabbon. ‘I offered this to you. I want it to happen.’

  Domor showed him the data-slate.

  ‘We want to talk about this too,’ he said. ‘This firing mechanism. We need to mock some up for practice purposes. You say this is fairly standard?’

  ‘It’s representative of the sort of firing mechanisms and trigger systems you’re going to find,’ said Mabbon, studying the slate image.

  ‘It’s just mechanical,’ said Larkin.

  ‘It has to be. They can’t risk anything more… more complicated. They can’t risk using anything that might interfere with, or be interfered with by, the devices under development at the target location. It’s delicate. Any conflict in arcane processes or conjurations could be disastrous.’

  ‘So just mechanical?’ said Larkin.

  ‘Complex and very delicate. Very sensitive. But, yes. Just mechanical.’

  Larkin took the slate back.

  ‘It looks very… It looks very much like the sort of thing we use,’ he said. ‘It looks pretty standard.’

  ‘It’s the sort of trigger mechanism I would rig,’ Domor said.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mabbon. ‘Tried and tested Guard practice. This is the sort of thing I taught them how to do. And I learned it the same place you did.’

  Larkin looked at Domor. There was distaste on his face.

  ‘Go get the folding table,’ Rawne said to Varl. ‘Let’s look over these plans.’

  In berthing hold six, the lights stayed dim for a long time. When they came back up, it was without enthusiasm.

  The air was fuggy. Too many bodies, too much breathing, not enough decent atmospheric processing.

  ‘This is a dump,’ remarked Ree Perday. The cots were stacked three deep and close together. It was a forest of prone bodies. There was virtually no room to stow the band’s instruments.