"The Horus Heresy: Horus Rising" - читать интересную книгу автора (Abnett Dan)

THREE

Replevin

Amongst the remembrancers

Raised to the four

THREE MONTHS AFTER the battle for the High City, the first of the remembrancers had joined the expedition fleet, brought directly from Terra by mass conveyance. Various chroniclers and recorders had, of course, been accompanying Imperial forces since the commencement of the Great Crusade, two hundred sidereal years earlier. But they had been individuals, mostly volunteers or accidental witnesses, gathered up like road dust on the advancing wheels of the crusader hosts, and the records they had made had been piecemeal and irregular. They had commemorated events by happenstance, sometimes inspired by their own artistic appetites, sometimes encouraged by the patronage of a particular primarch or lord commander, who thought it fit to have his deeds immortalised in verse or text or image or composition.

Returning to Terra after the victory of Ullanor, the Emperor had decided it was time a more formal and authoritative celebration of mankind's reunification be

undertaken. The fledgling Council of Terra evidently agreed wholeheartedly, for the bill inaugurating the foundation and sponsorship of the remembrancer order had been countersigned by no less a person than Malcador the Sigilite, First Lord of the Council. Recruited from all levels of Terran society - and from the societies of other key Imperial worlds - simply on the merit of their creative gifts, the remembrancers were quickly accredited and assigned, and despatched to join all the key expedition fleets active in the expanding Imperium.

At that time, according to War Council logs, there were four thousand two hundred and eighty-seven primary expedition fleets engaged upon the business of the crusade, as well as sixty thousand odd secondary deployment groups involved in compliance or occupation endeavours, with a further three hundred and seventy-two primary expeditions in regroup and refit, or resupplying as they awaited new tasking orders. Almost four point three million remembrancers were sent abroad in the first months following the ratification of the bill. 'Arm the bastards.’ Primarch Russ had been reported as saying, 'and they might win a few bloody worlds for us in between verses.'

Russ's sour attitude reflected well the demeanor of the martial class. From primarch down to common army soldier, there was a general unease about the Emperor's decision to quit the crusade campaign and retire to the solitude of his palace on Terra. No one had questioned the choice of First Primarch Horns as Warmaster to act in his stead. They simply questioned the need for a proxy at all.

The formation of the Council of Terra had come as more unpleasant news. Since the inception of the Great Crusade, the War Council, formed principally of the Emperor and the primarchs, had been the epicentre of

Imperial authority. Now, this new body supplanted it, taking up the reins of Imperial governance, a body composed of civilians instead of warriors. The War Council, left under Horus's leadership, effectively became relegated to a satellite status, its responsibilities focused on the campaign and the campaign alone.

For no crime of their own, the remembrancers, most of them eager and excited at the prospect of the work ahead, found themselves the focus of that discontent everywhere they went. They were not welcomed, and they found their commission hard to fulfil. Only later, when the eaxectro tributi administrators began to visit expedition fleets, did the discontent find a better, truer target to exercise itself upon.

So, three months after the battle of the High City, the remembrancers arrived to a cold welcome. None of them had known what to expect. Most had never been off-world before. They were virgin and innocent, over-eager and gauche. It didn't take long for them to become hardened and cynical at their reception.

When they arrived, the fleet of the 63rd Expedition still encircled the capital world. The process of replevin had begun, as the Imperial forces sectioned the 'Imperium', dismantled its mechanisms, and bestowed its various properties upon the Imperial commanders chosen to oversee its dispersal.

Aid ships were flocking down from the fleet to the surface, and hosts of the Imperial army had been deployed to effect police actions. Central resistance had collapsed almost overnight following the 'Emperor's' death, but fighting continued to spasm amongst some of the western cities, as well as on three of the other worlds in the system. Lord Commander Varvaras, an honourable, 'old school' veteran, was the commander of the army forces attached to the expedition fleet, and not for the first time he found himself organising an

effort to pick up the pieces behind an Astartes speartip. 'A body often twitches as it dies.’ he remarked philosophically to the Master of the Fleet. We're just making sure it's dead.’

The Warmaster had agreed to a state funeral for the 'Emperor'. He declared it only right and proper, and sympathetic to the desires of a people they wished to bring to compliance rather than crush wholesale. Voices were raised in objection, particularly as the ceremonial interment of Hastur Sejanus had only just taken place, along with the formal burials of the battle-brothers lost at the High City. Several Legion officers, including Abaddon himself, refused point blank to allow his forces to attend any funeral rites for the killer of Sejanus. The Warmaster understood this, but fortunately there were other Astartes amongst the expedition who could take their place.

Primarch Dorn, escorted by two companies of his Imperial Fists, the VII Legion, had been travelling with the 63rd Expedition for eight months, while Dorn conducted talks with the Warmaster about future War Council policies.

Because the Imperial Fists had taken no part in the annexation of the planet, Rogal Dorn agreed to have his companies stand tribute at the 'Emperor's' funeral. He did this so that the Luna Wolves would not have to tarnish their honour. Gleaming in their yellow plate, the Imperial Fists silently lined the route of the 'Emperor's' cortege as it wound its way through the battered avenues of the High City to the necropolis.

By order of the Warmaster, bending to the will of the chief captains and, most especially, the Mournival, no remembrancers were permitted to attend.

IGNACE KARKASY WANDERED into the retiring room and sniffed at a decanter of wine. He made a face.

'It's fresh opened.’ Keeler told him sourly.

'Yes, but local vintage.’ Karkasy replied. This petty little empire. No wonder it fell so easily. Any culture founded upon a wine so tragic shouldn't survive long.’

'It lasted five thousand years, through the limits of Old Night.’ Keeler said. 'I doubt the quality of its wine influenced its survival.’

Karkasy poured himself a glass, sipped it and frowned. 'All I can say is that Old Night must have seemed much longer here than it actually was.’

Euphrati Keeler shook her head and turned back to her work, cleaning and refitting a hand-held picter unit of very high quality.

'And then there's the matter of sweat.’ Karkasy said. He sat down on a lounger and put his feet up, settling the glass on his wide chest. He sipped again, grimacing, and rested his head back. Karkasy was a tall man, generously upholstered in flesh. His garments were expensive and well-tailored to suit his bulk. His round face was framed by a shock of black hair.

Keeler sighed and looked up from her work. The what?'

The sweat, dear Euphrati, the sweat! I have been observing the Astartes. Very big, aren't they? I mean to say, very big in every measurement by which one might quantify a man.’ They're Astartes, Ignace. What did you expect?' 'Not sweat, that's what. Not such a rank, pervasive reek. They are our immortal champions, after all. I expected them to smell rather better. Fragrant, like young gods.’ 'Ignace, I have no clue how you got certified.’ Karkasy grinned. 'Because of the beauty of my lyric, my dear, because of my mastery of words. Although that might be found wanting here. How may I begin...? 'The Astartes save us from the brink, the brink,

But oh my life how they stink, they stink.'

Karkasy sniggered, pleased with himself. He waited for a response, but Keeler was too occupied with her work.

'Dammit!' Keeler complained, throwing down her delicate tools. 'Servitor? Come here.’

One of the waiting servitors stalked up to her on thin, piston legs. She held out her picter. This mechanism is jammed. Take it for repair. And fetch me my spare units.’

Yes, mistress.’ the servitor croaked, taking the device. It plodded away. Keeler poured herself a glass of wine from the decanter and went to lean at the rail. Below, on the sub-deck, most of the expedition's other remembrancers were assembling for luncheon. Three hundred and fifty men and women gathered around formally laid tables, servitors moving amongst them, offering drinks. A gong was sounding.

'Is that lunch already?' Karkasy asked from the lounger.

'Yes.’ she said.

'And is it going to be one of the damned iterators hosting again?' he queried.

Yes. Sindermann yet again. The topic is promulgation of the living truth.’

Karkasy settled back and tapped his glass. 'I think I'll take luncheon here.’ he said.

'You're a bad man, Ignace.’ Keeler laughed. 'But I think I'll join you.’

Keeler sat down on the chaise facing him, and settled back. She was tall, lean-limbed and blonde, her face pale and slender. She wore chunky army boots and fatigue breeches, with a black combat jacket open to show a white vest, like a cadet officer, but the very masculinity of her chosen garb made her feminine beauty all the more apparent.

'I could write a whole epic about you.’ Karkasy said, gazing.

Keeler snorted. It had become a daily routine for him to make a pass at her.

'I've told you, I'm not interested in your wretched, pawing approaches.’

'Don't you like men?' he asked, tilting his reclined head on one side.

Why?'

You dress like one.’

'So do you. Do you like men?'

Karkasy made a pained expression and sat back again, fiddling with the glass on his chest. He stared up at the heroic figures painted on the roof of the mezzanine. He had no idea what they were supposed to represent. Some great act of triumph that clearly had involved a great deal of standing on the bodies of the slain with arms thrust into the sky whilst shouting.

'Is this how you expected it to be?' he asked quietly.

'What?'

When you were selected.’ he said. When they contacted me, I felt so...'

'So what?'

'So... proud, I suppose. I imagined so much. I thought I would set foot amongst the stars and become a part of mankind's finest moment. I thought I would be uplifted, and thus produce my finest works.’

And you're not?' Keeler asked.

The beloved warriors we've been sent here to glorify couldn't be less helpful if they tried.’

'I've had some success.’ Keeler said. 'I was down on the assembly deck earlier, and captured some fine images. I've put in a request to be allowed transit to the surface. I want to see the war-zone first-hand.’

'Good luck. They'll probably deny you. Every request for access I've made has been turned down.’

They're warriors, Ig. They've been warriors for a long time. They resent the likes of us. We're just passengers, along for the ride, univited.'

"Vou got your shots.’ he said.

Keeler nodded. They don't seem to mind me.’

That's because you dress like a man.’ he smiled.

The hatch slid open and a figure joined them in the quiet mezzanine chamber. Mersadie Oliton went direcdy to the table where the decanter sat, poured herself a drink, and knocked it back. Then she stood, silently, gazing out at the drifting stars beyond the barge's vast window ports.

'What's up with her now?' Karkasy ventured.

'Sadie?' Keeler asked, getting to her feet and setting her glass down. What happened?'

'Apparendy, I just offended someone.’ Oliton said quickly, pouring another drink.

'Offended? Who?' Keeler asked.

'Some haughty Marine bastard called Loken. Bastard!'

'You got time with Loken?' Karkasy asked, sitting up rapidly and swinging his feet to the deck. 'Loken? Tenth Company Captain Loken?'

'Yes.’ Oliton said. Why?'

'I've been trying to get near him for a month now.’ Karkasy said. 'Of all the captains, they say, he is the most steadfast, and he's to take Sejanus's place, according to the rumour mill. How did you get authorisation?'

'I didn't.’ Oliton said. 'I was finally given credentials for a brief interview with Captain Torgaddon, which I counted as no small success in itself, given the days I've spent petitioning to meet him, but I don't think he was in the mood to talk to me. When I went to see him at the appointed time, his equerry turned up instead and told me Torgaddon was busy. Torgaddon had sent the equerry to take me to see Loken. 'Token's got a good story," he said.’

'Was it a good story?' Keeler asked.

Mersadie nodded. 'Best I've heard, but I said something he didn't like, and he turned on me. Made me feel this small.’ She gestured with her hand, and then took another swig.

'Did he smell of sweat?' Karkasy asked.

'No. No, not at all. He smelled of oils. Very sweet and clean.’

'Can you get me an introduction?' asked Ignace Karkasy.

HE HEARD FOOTSTEPS, then a voice called his name. 'Garvi?'

Loken looked around from his sword drill and saw, through the bars of the cage, Nero Vipus framed in the doorway of the blade-school. Vipus was dressed in black breeches, boots and a loose vest, and his truncated arm was very evident. The missing hand had been bagged in sterile jelly, and nanotic serums injected to reform the wrist so it would accept an augmetic implant in a week or so. Loken could still see the scars where Vipus had used his chainsword to amputate his own hand.

"What?'

'Someone to see you.’ Vipus said.

'If it's another damn remembrancer-' Loken began.

Vipus shook his head. 'It's not. It's Captain Torgaddon.’

Loken lowered his blade and deactivated the practice cage as Vipus drew aside. The target dummies and armature blades went dead around him, and the upper hemisphere of the cage slid into the roof space as the lower hemisphere retracted into the deck beneath the mat. Tarik Torgaddon entered the blade-school chamber, dressed in fatigues and a long coat of silver mail. His features were saturnine, his hair black. He grinned

at Vipus as the latter slipped out past him. Torgaddon's grin was full of perfect white teeth.

Thanks, Vipus. How's the hand?'

'Mending, captain. Fit to be rebonded.’

That's good.’ said Torgaddon. Wipe your arse with the other one for a while, all right? Carry on.'

Vipus laughed and disappeared.

Torgaddon chuckled at his own quip and climbed the short steps to face Loken in the middle of the canvas mat. He paused at a blade rack outside the opened cage, selected a long-handled axe, and drew it out, hacking the air with it as he advanced.

'Hello, Garviel.’ he said. You've heard the rumour, I suppose?'

'I've heard all sorts of rumours, sir.’

'I mean the one about you. Take a guard.’

Loken tossed his practice blade onto the deck and quickly drew a tabar from the nearest rack. It was all-steel, blade and handle both, and the cutting edge of the axe head had a pronounced curve. He raised it in a hunting stance and took up position facing Torgaddon.

Torgaddon feinted, then smote in with two furious chops. Loken deflected Torgaddon's axe-head with the haft of his tabar, and the blade-school rang with chiming echoes. The smile had not left Torgaddon's face.

'So, this rumour...' he continued, circling.

This rumour.’ Loken nodded. 'Is it true?'

'No.’ said Torgaddon. Then he grinned impishly. 'Of course it bloody is! Or maybe it's not... No, it is.’ He laughed loudly at the mischief.

That's funny.’ said Loken.

'Oh, belt up and smile.’ Torgaddon hissed, and scythed in again, striking at Loken with two very nonstandard cross-swings that Loken had trouble dodging. He was forced to spin his body out of the way and land with his feet wide-braced.

'Interesting work.’ Loken said, circling again, his tabar low and loose. 'Are you, may I ask, just making these moves up?'

Torgaddon grinned. Taught to me by the Warmaster himself.’ he said, pacing around and allowing the long axe to spin in his fingers. The blade flashed in the glow of the down lighters aimed on the canvas.

He halted suddenly, and aimed the head of the axe at Loken. 'Don't you want this, Garviel? Terra, I put you up for this myself.’

'I'm honoured, sir. I thank you for that.’

'And it was seconded by Ekaddon.’

Loken raised his eyebrows.

'All right, no it wasn't. Ekaddon hates your guts, my friend.’

The feeling is mutual.’

That's the boy.’ Torgaddon roared, and lunged at Loken. Loken smashed the hack away, and counter-chopped, forcing Torgaddon to leap back onto the edges of the mat. 'Ekaddon's an arse.’ Torgaddon said, 'and he feels cheated you got there first.’

'I only-' Loken began.

Torgaddon raised a finger for silence. 'You got there first.’ he said quietly, not joking any more, 'and you saw the truth of it. Ekaddon can go hang, he's just smarting. Abaddon seconded you for this.’

The first captain?'

Torgaddon nodded. 'He was impressed. You beat him to the punch. Glory to Tenth. And the vote was decided by the Warmaster.’

Loken lowered his guard completely. The Warmaster?'

'He wants you in. Told me to tell you that himself. He appreciated your work. He admired your sense of honour. "Tarik," he said to me, "if anyone's going to take Sejanus's place, it should be Loken." That's what he said.’

'Did he?'

'No.’

Loken looked up. Torgaddon was coming at him with his axe high and whirling. Loken ducked, side-stepped, and thumped the butt of his tabar's haft into Torgad-don's side, causing Torgaddon to mis-step and stumble.

Torgaddon exploded in laughter. 'Yes! Yes, he did. Terra, you're too easy, Garvi. Too easy. The look on your face!'

Loken smiled thinly. Torgaddon looked at the axe in his hand, and then tossed it aside, as if suddenly bored with the whole thing. It landed with a clatter in the shadows off the mat.

'So what do you say?' Torgaddon asked. ЛУЪа! do I tell them? Are you in?'

'Sir, it would be the finest honour of my life.’ Loken said.

Torgaddon nodded and smiled. Yes, it would.’ he said, 'and here's your first lesson. You call me Tarik.’

IT WAS SAID that the iterators were selected via a process even more rigorous and scrupulous than the induction mechanisms of the Astartes. 'One man in a thousand might become a Legion warrior.’ so the sentiment went, 'but only one in a hundred thousand is fit to be an iterator.’

Loken could believe that. A prospective Astartes had to be sturdy, fit, genetically receptive, and ripe for enhancement. A chassis of meat and bone upon which a warrior could be built.

But to be an iterator, a person had to have certain rare gifts that belied enhancement. Insight, articulacy, political genius, keen intelligence. The latter could be boosted, either digitally or pharmaceutically, of course, and a mind could be tutored in history, ethic-politics and rhetoric. A person could be taught what to think,

and how to express that line of thought, but he couldn't be taught how to think.

Loken loved to watch the iterators at work. On occasions, he had delayed the withdrawal of his company so that he could follow their functionaries around conquered cities and watch as they addressed the crowds. It was like watching the sun come out across a field of wheat.

Kyril Sindermann was the finest iterator Loken had ever seen. Sindermann held the post of primary iterator in the 63rd Expedition, and was responsible for the shaping of the message. He had, it was well known, a deep and intimate friendship with the Warmaster, as well as the expedition master and the senior equerries. And his name was known by the Emperor himself.

Sindermann was finishing a briefing in the School of Iterators when Loken strayed into the audience hall, a long vault set deep in the belly of the Vengeful Spirit. Two thousand men and women, each dressed in the simple, beige robes of their office, sat in the banks of tiered seating, rapt by his every word.

To sum up, for I've been speaking far too long.’ Sindermann was saying, 'this recent episode allows us to observe genuine blood and sinew beneath the wordy skin of our philosophy. The truth we convey is the truth, because we say it is the truth. Is that enough?'

He shrugged.

'I don't believe so. "My truth is better than your truth" is a school-yard squabble, not the basis of a culture. "I am right, so you are wrong" is a syllogism that collapses as soon as one applies any of a number of fundamental ethical tools. I am right, ergo, you are wrong. We can't construct a constitution on that, and we cannot, should not, will not be persuaded to iterate on its basis. It would make us what?'

He looked out across his audience. A number of hands were raised.

There?'

'Liars.’

Sindermann smiled. His words were being amplified by the array of vox mics set around his podium, and his face magnified by picter onto the hololithic wall behind him. On the wall, his smile was three metres wide.

'I was thinking bullies, or demagogues, Memed, but "liars" is apt. In fact, it cuts deeper than my suggestions. Well done. Liars. That is the one thing we iterators can never allow ourselves to become.’

Sindermann took a sip of water before continuing. Loken, at the back of the hall, sat down in an empty seat. Sindermann was a tall man, tall for a non-Astartes at any rate, proudly upright, spare, his patrician head crowned by fine white hair. His eyebrows were black, like the chevron markings on a Luna Wolf shoulder plate. He had a commanding presence, but it was his voice that really mattered. Pitched deep, rounded, mellow, compassionate, it was the vocal tone that got every iterator candidate selected. A soft, delicious, clean voice that communicated reason and sincerity and trust. It was a voice worth searching through one hundred thousand people to find.

Truth and lies.’ Sindermann continued. Truth and lies. I'm on my hobby-horse now, you realise? Your supper will be delayed.’

A ripple of amusement washed across the hall.

'Great actions have shaped our society.’ Sindermann said. The greatest of these, physically, has been the Emperor's formal and complete unification of Terra, the outward sequel to which, this Great Crusade, we are now engaged upon. But the greatest, intellectually, has been our casting off of that heavy mantle called religion. Religion damned our species for thousands of years, from the lowest superstition to the highest conclaves of spiritual faith. It drove us to madness, to war,

to murder, it hung upon us like a disease, like a shackle ball. I'll tell you what religion was... No, you tell me. You, there?'

'Ignorance, sir.’

Thank you, Khanna. Ignorance. Since the earliest times, our species has striven to understand the workings of the cosmos, and where that understanding has failed, or fallen short, we have filled in the gaps, plastered over the discrepancies, with blind faith. Why does the sun go round the sky? I don't know, so I will attribute it to the efforts of a sun god with a golden chariot. Why do people die? I can't say, but I will choose to believe it is the murky business of a reaper who carries souls to some afterworld.’

His audience laughed. Sindermann got down off his podium and walked to the front steps of the stage, beyond the range of the vox mics. Though he dropped his voice low, its trained pitch, that practiced tool of all iterators, carried his words with perfect clarity, unen-hanced, throughout the chamber.

'Religious faith. Belief in daemons, belief in spirits, belief in an afterlife and all the other trappings of a preternatural existence, simply existed to make us all more comfortable and content in the face of a measureless cosmos. They were sops, bolsters for the soul, crutches for the intellect, prayers and lucky charms to help us through the darkness. But we have witnessed the cosmos now, my friends. We have passed amongst it. We have learned and understood the fabric of reality. We have seen the stars from behind, and found they have no clockwork mechanisms, no golden chariots carrying them abroad. We have realised there is no need for god, or any gods, and by extension no use any longer for daemons or devils or spirits. The greatest thing mankind ever did was to reinvent itself as a secular culture.’

His audience applauded this wholeheartedly. There were a few cheers of approval. Iterators were not simply schooled in the art of public speaking. They were trained in both sides of the business. Seeded amongst a crowd, iterators could whip it into enthusiasm with a few well-timed responses, or equally turn a rabble against the speaker. Iterators often mingled with audiences to bolster the effectiveness of the colleague actually speaking.

Sindermann turned away, as if finished, and then swung back again as the clapping petered out, his voice even softer and even more penetrating. 'But what of faith? Faith has a quality, even when religion has gone. We still need to believe in something, don't we? Here it is. The true purpose of mankind is to bear the torch of truth aloft and shine it, even into the darkest places. To share our forensic, unforgiving, liberating understanding with the dimmest reaches of the cosmos. To emancipate those shackled in ignorance. To free ourselves and others from false gods, and take our place at the apex of sentient life. That... that is what we may pour faith into. That is what we can harness our boundless faith to.’

More cheers and clapping. He wandered back to the podium. He rested his hands on the wooden rails of the lectern. 'These last months, we have quashed an entire culture. Make no mistake... we haven't brought them to heel or rendered them compliant. We have quashed them. Broken their backs. Set them to flame. I know this, because I know the Warmaster unleashed his Astartes in this action. Don't be coy about what they do. They are killers, but sanctioned. I see one now, one noble warrior, seated at the back of the hall.’

Faces turned back to crane at Loken. There was a flutter of applause.

Sindermann started clapping furiously. 'Better than that. He deserves better than that!' A huge, growing peal of clapping rose to the roof of the hall. Loken stood, and took it with an embarrassed bow.

The applause died away. The souls we have lately conquered believed in an Imperium, a rule of man.’ Sindermann said as soon as the last flutter had faded. 'Nevertheless, we killed their Emperor and forced them into submission. We burned their cities and scuppered their warships. Is all we have to say in response to their "why?" a feeble "I am right, so you are wrong"?'

He looked down, as if in thought. 'Yet we are. We are right. They are wrong. This simple, clean faith we must undertake to teach them. We are right. They are wrong. Why? Not because we say so. Because we know so! We will not say "I am right and you are wrong" because we have bested them in combat. We must proclaim it because we know it is the responsible truth. We cannot, should not, will not promulgate that idea for any other reason than we know, without hesitation, without doubt, without prejudice, that it is the truth, and upon that truth we bestow our faith. They are wrong. Their culture was constructed upon lies. We have brought them the keen edge of truth and enlightened them. On that basis, and that basis alone, go from here and iterate our message.’

He had to wait, smiling, until the uproar subsided. 'Your supper's getting cold. Dismissed.’

The student iterators began to file slowly out of the hall. Sindermann took another sip of water from the glass set upon his lectern and walked up the steps from the stage to where Loken was seated.

I 'Did you hear anything you liked?' he asked, sitting down beside Loken and smoothing the skirts of his robes. *You sound like a showman.’ Loken said, 'or a carnival peddler, advertising his wares.’

Sindermann crooked one black, black eyebrow. 'Sometimes, Garviel, that's precisely how I feel.'

Loken frowned. That you don't believe what you're selling?'

'Do you?'

'What am I selling?'

'Faith, through murder. Truth, through combat.’

'It's just combat. It has no meaning other than combat. The meaning has been decided long before I'm instructed to deliver it.’

'So as a warrior, you are without conscience?'

Loken shook his head. 'As a warrior, I am a man of conscience, and that conscience is directed by my faith in the Emperor. My faith in our cause, as you were just describing to the school, but as a weapon, I am without conscience. When activated for war, I set aside my personal considerations, and simply act. The value of my action has already been weighed by the greater conscience of our commander. I kill until I am told to stop, and in that period, I do not question the killing. To do so would be nonsense, and inappropriate. The commander has already made a determination for war, and all he expects of me is to prosecute it to the best of my abilities. A weapon doesn't question who it kills, or why. That isn't the point of weapons.’

Sindermann smiled. 'No it's not, and that's how it should be. I'm curious, though. I didn't think we had a tutorial scheduled for today.’

Beyond their duties as iterators, senior counsellors like Sindermann were expected to conduct programmes of education for the Astartes. This had been ordered by the Warmaster himself. The men of the Legion spent long periods in transit between wars, and the Warmaster insisted they use the time to develop their minds and expand their knowledge. 'Even the mightiest warriors should be schooled in areas beyond warfare.’ he had

ordained. There will come a time when war is over, and fighting done, and my warriors should prepare themselves for a life of peace. They must know of other things besides martial matters, or else find themselves obsolete.’

There's no tutorial scheduled.’ Loken said, 'but I wanted to talk with you, informally.’

'Indeed? What's on your mind?'

'A troubling thing...'

"You have been asked to join the Mournival.’ Sindermann said. Loken blinked.

'How did you know? Does everyone know?'

Sindermann grinned. 'Sejanus is gone, bless his bones. The Mournival lacks. Are you surprised they came to you?'

'I am.’

'I'm not. You chase Abaddon and Sedirae with your glories, Loken. The Warmaster has his eye on you. So does Dorn.’

'Primarch Dorn? Are you sure?'

'I have been told he admires your phlegmatic humour, Garviel. That's something, coming from a person like him.’

'I'm flattered.’

You should be. Now what's the problem?'

'Am I fit? Should I agree?'

Sindermann laughed. 'Have faith.’ he said.

There's something else.’ Loken said.

'Go on.’

'A remembrancer came to me today. Annoyed me deeply, to be truthful, but there was something she said. She said, "could we not have just left them alone?"'

'Who?'

These people. This Emperor.’

'Garviel, you know the answer to that.’

'When I was in the tower, facing that man-'

Sindermann frowned. The one who pretended to be the "Emperor"?'

"Yes. He said much the same thing. Quartes, from his Quantifications, teaches us that the galaxy is a broad space, and that much I have seen. If we encounter a person, a society in this cosmos that disagrees with us, but is sound of itself, what right do we have to destroy it? I mean... could we not just leave them be and ignore them? The galaxy is, after all, such a broad space.’

'What I've always liked about you, Garviel.’ Sindermann said, 'is your humanity. This has clearly played on your mind. Why haven't you spoken to me about it before?'

'I thought it would fade,' Loken admitted.

Sindermann rose to his feet, and beckoned Loken to follow him. They walked out of the audience chamber and along one of the great spinal hallways of the flagship, an arch-roofed, buttressed canyon three decks high, like the nave of an ancient cathedral fane elongated to a length of five kilometres. It was gloomy, and the glorious banners of Legions and companies and campaigns, some faded, or damaged by old battles, hung down from the roof at intervals. Tides of personnel stteamed along the hallway, their voices lifting an odd susurration into the vault, and Loken could see other flows of foot traffic in the illuminated galleries above, where the upper decks overlooked the main space.

'The first thing,' Sinderman said as they strolled along, 'is a simple bandage for your worries. You heard me essay this at length to the class and, in a way, you ventured a version of it just a moment ago when you spoke on the subject of conscience. You are a weapon, Garviel, an example of the finest instrument of destruction mankind has ever wrought. There must be no place inside you for doubt or question. You're right. Weapons should not think, they should only allow themselves to

be employed, for the decision to use them is not theirs to make. That decision must be made - with great and terrible care, and ethical consideration beyond our capacity to judge - by the primarchs and the commanders. The Warmaster, like the beloved Emperor before him, does not employ you lighdy. Only with a heavy heart and a certain determination does he unleash the Astartes. The Adeptus Astartes is the last resort, and is only ever used that way.’

Loken nodded.

This is what you must remember. Just because the Imperium has the Astartes, and thus the ability to defeat and, if necessary, annihilate any foe, that's not the reason it happens. We have developed the means to annihilate... We have developed warriors like you, Garviel... because it is necessary.’

A necessary evil?'

A necessary instrument. Right does not follow might. Mankind has a great, empirical truth to convey, a message to bring, for the good of all. Sometimes that message falls on unwilling ears. Sometimes that message is spurned and denied, as here. Then, and only then, thank the stars that we own the might to enforce it. We are mighty because we are right, Garviel. We are not right because we are mighty. Vile the hour when that reversal becomes our credo.’

They had turned off the spinal hallway and were walking along a lateral promenade now, towards the archive annex. Servitors waddled past, their upper limbs laden with books and data-slates.

'Whether our truth is right or not, must we always enforce it upon the unwilling? As the woman said, could we not just leave them to their own destinies, unmolested?'

*You are walking along the shores of a lake.’ Sindermann said. A boy is drowning. Do you let him drown

because he was foolish enough to fall into the water before he had learned to swim? Or do you fish him out, and teach him how to swim?'

Loken shrugged. The latter.’

'What if he fights you off as you attempt to save him, because he is afraid of you? Because he doesn't want to learn how to swim?'

'I save him anyway.’

They had stopped walking. Sindermann pressed his hand to the key plate set into the brass frame of a huge door, and allowed his palm to be read by the scrolling light. The door opened, exhaling like a mouth, gusting out climate-controlled air and a background hint of dust.

They stepped into the vault of Archive Chamber Three. Scholars, sphragists and metaphrasts worked in silence at the reading desks, summoning servitors to select volumes from the sealed stacks.

"What interests me about your concerns.’ Sindermann said, keeping his voice precisely low so that only Loken's enhanced hearing could follow it, 'is what they say about you. We have established you are a weapon, and that you don't need to think about what you do because the thinking is done for you. Yet you allow the human spark in you to worry, to fret and empathise. You retain the ability to consider the cosmos as a man would, not as an instrument might.’

'I see.’ Loken replied. You're saying I have forgotten my place. That I have overstepped the bounds of my function.’

'Oh no.’ Sindermann smiled. 'I'm saying you have found your place.’

'How so?' Loken asked.

Sindermann gestured to the stacks of books that rose, like towers, into the misty altitudes of the archive. High above, hovering servitors searched and retrieved ancient

texts sealed in plastek carriers, swarming across the cliff-faces of the library like honey bees.

'Regard the books.’ Sindermann said.

'Are there some I should read? Will you prepare a list for me?'

'Read them all. Read them again. Swallow the learning and ideas of our predecessors whole, for it can only improve you as a man, but if you do, you'll find that none of them holds an answer to still your doubts.’

Loken laughed, puzzled. Some of the metaphrasts nearby looked up from their study, annoyed at the interruption. They quickly looked down again when they saw the noise had issued from an Astartes.

*What is the Mournival, Garviel?' Sindermann whispered.

You know very well...'

'Humour me. Is it an official body? An organ of governance, formally ratified, a Legio rank?'

'Of course not. It is an informal honour. It has no official weight. Since the earliest era of our Legion there has been a Mournival. Four captains, those regarded by their peers to be...'

He paused.

The best?' Sindermann asked.

'My modesty is ashamed to use that word. The most appropriate. At any time, the Legion, in an unofficial manner quite separate from the chain of command, composes a Mournival. A confratern of four captains, preferably ones of markedly different aspects and humours, who act as the soul of the Legion.’

'And their job is to watch over the moral health of the Legion, isn't that so? To guide and shape its philosophy? And, most important of all, to stand beside the commander and be the voices he listens to before any others. To be the comrades and friends he can turn to privately, and talk out his concerns and troubles with

freely, before they ever become matters of state or Council.'

That is what the Mournival is supposed to do.’ Loken agreed.

Then it occurs to me, Garviel, that only a weapon which questions its use could be of any value in that role. To be a member of the Mournival, you need to have concerns. You need to have wit, and most certainly you need to have doubts. Do you know what a nay-smith is?'

'No.’

'In early Terran history, during the dominance of the Sumaturan dynasts, naysmiths were employed by the ruling classes. Their job was to disagree. To question everything. To consider any argument or policy and find fault with it, or articulate the counter position. They were highly valued.’

Той want me to become a naysmith?' Loken asked.

Sindermann shook his head. 'I want you to be you, Garviel. The Mournival needs your common sense and clarity. Sejanus was always the voice of reason, the measured balance between Abaddon's choler and Aximand's melancholic disdain. The balance is gone, and the Warmaster needs that balance now more than ever. You came to me this morning because you wanted my blessing. You wanted to know if you should accept the honour. By your own admission, Garviel, by the merit of your own doubts, you have answered your own question.’