The Tales of the Emperasque: Part Ten
Continued from The Tales of the Emperasque: Part Nine.
0-046-001-M42
Terra was teetering on the brink. Hundreds of billions of menials, and tens of billions more adepts, across the entire globe had risen in anger at the proclamation that the Emperor had absorbed a daemon, demanding that the truth be told. No amount of reassuring by the High Lords was going to salve this, and they were smart enough to see it. Entire armies of Arbites had been mobilized in the hive cities where the local law enforcement had been unable to control the problem, which was very nearly a third of the planet. The mere thought that the Custodes themselves might be mobilized in the hives adjacent to the Palace had kept them quiet, but it was more than a thought now. Nearly a quarter of the gold-armored guardians had been dispatched to Hive Aleph Setr, which was nearly sharing a wall with the Palace at the base. The hive had calmed down within hours of their arrival, and the Custodes were fanning out to other hives now, with nearly two million Sororitas in support. The High Lords were, understandably, horrified at the possibility that the Emperor might return to find his throne world in ruins.
The sound of bolter shells and crackling flame echoed all throughout the elevated roads of Hive Beta Solar, as a squad of the Sororitas of the Order of the Sacred Rose advanced against a hail of detritus and stubber rounds. A pack of crazed zealots were hurtling missiles and bullets at them with complete abandon from atop a pile of wrecked aircars. The Sororitas had, wisely, donned their helmets before charging in, with a trio of arbitrators backing them up. The first power armor-clad Battle Sister took a paving tile square in the faceplate and stumbled back, but pressed on, a visible dent in her helmet. One of the Arbites paused his advance long enough to line up his riot gun on the pack of hoodlums, blasting his unfortunate victim back off the trashed vehicles. The frontmost Sororitas took advantage of the sudden decrease in incoming fire to jump the barrier, and land squarely on top of the wrecked car, which buckled near in half under her weight, pitching the rioters to the ground in a heap. Before the other four Battle Sisters could reach them with their sarrissas, the Arbites were on them, lashing out with their shock mauls and suppression shields. The rioters shrieked and tried to scramble off, but found their retreat cut off by the imposing mass of the Sororitas. One of the rioters broke free and charged the Sisters, screaming his anger. “You lying bitches will never take our faith from us! I’ll die in the Emperor’s true name!”
The screaming rioter reached the nearest Sister and lunged forward, but she effortlessly caught him with her augmented arms, and hurtled him clean off the elevated road. His screams echoed into nothing as he plummeted out of sight.
The Arbitrators finished constraining the rioters, and clipped their hands and feet to a bent lamppost on the roadside with the length of plastic one carried at his belt before turning to the Sororitas. “Battle Sisters, are you able to reestablish comms with the Precinct yet?” the leader asked, prying the plastic shield on his helmet up and wiping off a sheen of sweat. The senior Sororitas tapped the side of her helmet and nodded.
“Affirmative, Arbitrator. We have contact with your headquarters now. Can your vox not reach them?”
“Of course not,” the Arbitrator said coolly. “The voxes in your suits are far superior to our comm beads. Are there reinforcements available? We can’t transport a tenth of the prisoners we’ve captured so far.”
“Not as such. However…” the Sororitas trailed off, tilting her head as if listening to several conversations at once. “However, the Convent dispatchers have informed us that…oh my.”
“What?” the Arbitrator snapped. “Are they coming?”
“The Divine Emperor Himself is returning to Terra, to resume control of the planet.”
“Grand,” the Arbitrator muttered. He leaned down to the twitching prisoner at his feet and raised his voice. “Got that, heretic? The Emperor Himself will be judging you. Put your best face on.”
Nearly two hundred kilometers away, in the halls of the Imperial Palace, the newly appointed Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes walked quickly to the Hall of the Golden Throne, with packs of tense guards and Adeptus Terra workers scurrying all around him. From the tops of the towers, one could actually hear the screaming sirens of the Arbites Rhinos as they drove about the adjacent buildings and bridges, and the reports of casualties from the riots was spreading around the palace at the speed of bad news. The Senate of the High Lords had convened several times over the last few days, and though he was not among its members, the newly-minted Captain General knew enough to be worried. The Emperor Himself was returning, apparently after a successful campaign against the Orks on Zargh 3, and the news was sure to escalate the riots.
The High Lords had misjudged the extent to which society would revolt against the Emperor’s decision. The truly pious, the ones who accepted the High Lords’ words without question, and the vast majority of the military had rallied behind the Administratum, and struggled against the tide of discontent, but most of the planet’s population seemed enraged by the High Lords’ proclamations. Not all had risen against the Adeptus Terra, but trillions had, and gradually the entire globe was drowning in anarchy. Making things worse, entire families of the world’s obscenely wealthy aristocracy had apparently taken the initiative to decide that the world was ending, and that it was time to party. Nobles from nearly half the great families were flying into the wealthier spires, soaring serenely over the carnage below.
Now, the Captain-General, and the rest of the Senatorum Imperialis – even those who did not presently have a seat amongst the High Lords – were assembling before the Eternity Gate, where some very anxious-looking Inquisitors, a trio of Grey Knights, and five PDF and Guard Commanders were already fidgeting. The pair of Warhounds guarding the Gate were carefully keeping their weapons pointed anywhere but the cluster of hierarchs. There was only one man missing now, the final representative of the High Lords: the representative of the Chartist Captains. While they waited, the various politicos and warriors chatted amongst themselves.
“So you’re saying he actually fell into the hole?” the Lord Commander Militant asked of the PDF head honcho.
“Yep, fell in like the scummer he was,” the tattooed man replied, his voice somewhere in the range of being able to vibrate rocks on a tabletop. “So of course, the clever little moron jumped right in after him. I mean, how do you forget that YOU’RE the one who filled the hole with spiders? Of course he became acutely aware of his foolishness very quickly, but naturally it was far too late.”
“How does a man that dumb even live that long?” the Lord Commander asked aloud, and the PDF officer chuckled.
“Well, some men are just lucky. Of course he was right back to life in no time, but it was funny listening to his ghost whine for a few seconds.”
“What the HELL are you two talking about?” the Grey Knight asked irritably. “Coming back to life? What?”
“Nothing of importance, Lord Draigo,” the PDF officer said respectfully. “Just killing time until Commodore Romes arrives.”
“Yes, where is he, anyway?” Draigo asked of nobody in particular. “I know for a fact that his ship is here on-planet.”
“LOOK OUT BELOW!” a voice suddenly cried, and the crowd parted as the chartered Captain suddenly landed in their midst with a *clunk*. Several of the group drew weapons and trained them on the man, but before the hall could dissolve into gunfire, the Fabricator-General laughed.
“Romes, I see you haven’t lost your ability to make an entrance.”
“Shut the hell up, General,” the man came back, slowly tottering to his feet with audible creaking sounds. “Those rocket knees you gave me are far too sensitive. I tried to take two steps in a stairwell at a time and I nearly launched myself into the ceiling.”
“Oh, bitch, bitch, bitch,” the nearly robotic Fabricator-General said, waving one of his many, many metal tentacles about. “Most men would kill to have rocket knees.”
“My rocket knees are going to get me killed,” the balding Commodore said. Before the Magos could snap back with something witty, the doors slowly rumbled open.
The group quickly shut up and holstered their weapons, as a group of two hundred Techpriests walked out of the room, pushing carefully sealed crates. The group was trailed by a pair of servitors with a massive piece of golden metal embossed with the seal of Golden Throne in their augmented ogryn hands. The Captain-General nodded. “Just in time, I see. I was hoping we’d get the disassembly done today.”
“My Lord General?” one of the Techpriests asked of the Fabricator-General. “Will you be returning with us? We need to oversee the purge and reassembly of the Throne, and your experience will be vital.”
“Surely I will return with you, Magos, but not for a while yet,” the Fabricator-General said. “There is a meeting I must attend first.” The group of Imperial leaders followed the Captain-General through the Gate before the Companions could close it.
The room beyond was the riot of activity that Draigo remembered. He glanced over his shoulder to see that Haldebrandt and Valentine were still following, and indeed they were, Haldebrandt looking apprehensive to the point of illness, Valentine just looking resigned.
The psykers in the group started shifting and grumbling, some holding their heads. Sure enough, moments later, with a loud *crack* of displaced air and a burst of purple fog, the Emperor appeared. He glanced around a bit, watching the convoy of servitors and Techpriests carrying out the last bits of the Golden Throne, then settled his gaze on the assembled High Lords. “AH, THERE YOU ARE. RIGHT ON TIME.”
The Ecclesiarch bowed low, and most of the others followed suit immediately. “My Divine Emperor, you bless us with your presence again. We are at your entire disposal.”
“I HOPE SO; WHAT’S ALL THIS I HEAR ABOUT RIOTS NEARLY TEARING SOME HIVES APART?” the Emperor roared.
“The planetary population did not believe our statement that you had returned in the guise of a daemon, O Divine One,” the Ecclesiarch said contritely. “They have, after all, heard us say for millennia that the ways of Chaos are the most foul and corrupting in all of the galaxy. They think that we’re making a cover story about the Palace being attacked. The people are-”
“The people are scared and resentful,” the Grand Marshal Provost broke in. “Hell, most of the people we’ve fought so far aren’t even committing heresies, just property damage.”
“RESENTFUL FOR WHAT, PRECISELY?” the Emperor asked reasonably. An awkward silence followed his question.
“Imperial worlds across the entire galaxy have been taxed to the hilt to pay for the increasingly intense battles against the Tau, Tyranids, and Necrons, my Lord God,” the Chancellor said. “Resentment among the families of PDF troops who were tithed up to the Guard when they didn’t want to be is spreading. Quickly.”
“Under the circumstances, you can see why, I hope, my Emperor, the people are growing restless and angry. Then, we tell them a fantastic tale about how the Emperor, whose benevolent protection ensconces the Imperium, is now…inside a daemon, and well…the dam broke,” the Provost said nervously.
“I SEE. HOW DISAPPOINTING,” the Emperor said pensively. “I ASSUME THAT THE PDF AS WELL AS THE ARBITES HAVE BEEN MOBILIZED?”
“Indeed, my Lord God,” the PDF commander said, looking a bit overawed. “Most of the men are just hive gangers with a uniform and a little indoctrination, but they’re getting the job done, with the help of the regional law enforcement and the Sororitas.”
“THEN IT SEEMS I HAVE LITTLE CHOICE. HOW CLOSE ARE THE RIOTERS TO ACTUALLY SUCCEEDING?” the Emperor asked.
“They can’t really ‘succeed’ if they don’t have a goal, my Divine Emperor,” the Ecclesiarch said with trepidation. “There is nobody directing these hooligans, from what we can see.”
“I MEAN, HOW CLOSE ARE THEY TO ACTUALLY DESTABILIZING ANY OF THE HIVES?” the Emperor asked patiently.
“Some hives aren’t rioting at all, my Emperor,” the Provost said. “Others are on the brink of anarchy, and entire battalions of Arbites Enforcers have been sent in and lost.”
“THEN I THINK IT’S TIME FOR THE NUCLEAR OPTION, SUCH AS IT IS,” the Emperor said, eliciting some alarm from the assembled politicians. “DEPLOY ANY UNCOMMITTED ARBITES AND OTHER LAW, AND IF POSSIBLE, DISPATCH THE REMAINING SISTERS OF BATTLE TO SPEARHEAD POLICE ACTIONS IN ANY HIVES THAT NEED IT.”
“We shall, my Emperor, though I should say that there aren’t many more Arbites we can deploy that aren’t guarding prisons or courthouse Precincts,” the Provost said carefully.
“I SHOULD HOPE NOT, CONSIDERING THAT DEPLOYING THE ARBITES IS THE BEST MOVE YOU COULD MAKE AGAINST THE RIOTERS,” the Emperor thought/spoke. “THESE FORCES, HOWEVER, SHALL BE THE MERE VANGUARD. I AM SENDING THE CUSTODES INTO THE HIVES TO RESTORE ORDER.”
The cluster of people erupted in buzzing that the Emperor silenced with a single impatient glance. “I KNOW IT’S ALL BUT UNPRECIDENTED, AND I KNOW THAT THE CUSTODES, FOR ALL THEIR POWER, RARELY ACTUALLY ENTER BATTLE THEMSELVES, BUT IT NEEDS TO BE DONE. IT WILL SHOW THE PEOPLE THAT I AM STILL VERY MUCH ALIVE AND VERY MUCH IN CHARGE.”
“As you so will it, my Emperor,” the Captain-General said. “How many of the Custodes shall be dispatched?”
“AS MANY AS CAN BE SPARED FROM PALACE DEFENSE, PLUS HALF THE COMPANIONS,” the Emperor said, surprising the assembly. “I WILL BE PREPARING A SPEECH TO THE PLANET, TO BE READ AS SOON AS IT’S FINISHED. AFTER IT’S DONE, THE CUSTODES-LED FORCES WILL ADVANCE ON THE SEDITIOUS HIVES, AND TAKE CONTROL. I EXPECT SOME WILL STAND DOWN WHEN THEY HEAR MY SPEECH. THE REST WILL BE BROUGH AROUND TO A MORE PROPER WAY OF THINKING BY THE CUSTODES. THE SIGHT OF THE COMPANIONS PERSONALLY LEADING A CHARGE WILL BE ENOUGH TO COW SOME, THEIR TACTICAL SKILL WILL CULL THE REST.”
4-046-001-M42
Lord Primarch Vulkan was, Tu’Shan noted, not an easily distracted man. No sooner had he disembarked from his shuttle onto the Chalice of Fire than he had gone about the task of meeting his new officers. Nearly the entire Salamanders chapter was present, since they had all returned to Noctrurne after Armageddon.
He’Stan led the Primarch and his Chapter Master into the Chalice’s armory, where Vulkan could inspect the new armor they had made for him. Vulkan was speaking to the other two about the Emperor’s rescue. “I honestly don’t know how long the trench went. He just opened fire, and there it was. It was astounding.”
“I didn’t know what to expect when that Eldar informed us of the things the Emperor was doing behind the scenes,” Tu’Shan confessed. “The whole story was so unbelievable.”
“Understandable,” Vulkan nodded. The trio passed a lumbering guard servitor trudging the other way. “I had no idea what I was looking at the first time I saw him.”
“I wonder if we shall see him in person, when we arrive at Terra,” Tu’Shan wondered aloud. “I imagine we would. His summons was urgent.”
The three of them reached the armory, and Tu’Shan slid the hatch back. Vulkan stooped to walk through the hatchway and stepped in, taking in the familiar sights.
The Armory was arranged just as he had left it, if a bit worn. The carefully arranged sets of tools and racks of calibration tools had been shuffled around a bit by the previous users, and a whole rack of Mechanicum prayer scrolls were cluttering up one side wall. The central open space – a waste on a normal warship – was occupied by a low bench, with drawers tucked underneath. The ceiling was cluttered asymmetrically with track lights, each of which could be moved independently, and a few dangling power outlets on cords. The bench was lined down the middle with more outlets, and small sanding and air-compressing devices. There was no actual equipment on the bench, much to Vulkan’s approval: nothing got under his skin like sloppiness.
He’Stan walked past his Primarch to the sealed vault at the back of the armory where unworn suits of armor were kept. He tapped the activation runes and the hatch slid open. He glanced over his shoulder to see if Vulkan was following, but he wasn’t. Vulkan was standing at the middle of the workbench, idly rolling a tube of silicon gel between his fingers and tapping the runes on the calibration tool in front of him, lost in thought. After a moment, he glanced up at the two staring Salamanders and grinned self-consciously. “Sorry. It’s just good to be home.”
He’Stan nodded modestly. “Take your time, my Lord. We’re still days out from Terra.”
“Well not even I can be lost in nostalgia that long,” Vulkan said wryly, putting the lube and calipers away. He followed He’Stan and the Chapter Master to the door to the armor locker and stepped in. “Say, I like what you’ve done with the place.”
The Terminator suits of the Chapter, some undergoing minor repairs or upgrades, were stored in sanctified cradles on the sides of the room, with several inactive servitors lining the center, each with massive augmetic claws to lift the huge armor plates. A sculpted ceramite block stood alone in the back of the room, with the recovered Artefacts adorning it. Vulkan gravitated to the sculpture, and looked at each recovered Artefact in turn. “Let’s see…the Song, the Mantle, the Gauntlet, and the Spear. We’re in the Chalice…”
“…And the Eye is currently installed in orbit above Prometheus,” He’Stan finished. “The Song I recovered only weeks ago.”
“Interesting…” Vulkan said, hefting the Spear and balancing it experimentally. He grimaced. “I never did finish balancing this…I’ll have to tune it later.”
“If I may ask, your Lordship, what are the remaining three Artefacts?” Tu’Shan asked. He’Stan shot him a look of pure venom, but before he could say anything, the Primarch replied without looking.
“The Unbound Flame is an upgrade kit for a Terminator Suit. The Obsidian Chariot is a ship…I suspect Brother He’Stan already knows what the Engine of Woes is.”
“I do, though I can not for the life of me even begin to figure out where the hell it is,” He’Stan said. “I strongly suspect it to be a combat servitor you custom made, my Lord.”
“What? No,” Vulkan said, surprised. “It’s not a servitor at all.”
“Then…I see,” He’Stan said, crestfallen. Vulkan noticed and hastened to explain.
“Recall the prophesy, brother?”
“ ‘In an island of the neverending winter, the sons of the dragon keep the Engine of Woes. Never shall the sons of the Fire Drake defeat the sons of the dragon, until the sky is made hot again. The automatic arms of the Engine keep the sky company, and its activation will be the island’s end,’ ” He’Stan said from memory. “I assumed that to mean that the Engine was a combat servitor you had created, that it would be overrun by a cult, and that we would defeat the cult with the Engine.”
“Well, no,” Vulkan said, replacing the Spear. “I’ll cut to the chase, then. The Engine was a pair of the weapons taken from a wrecked Knight. The weapons could be mounted on the side turrets of a Land Raider, if its troop compartment were replaced with a larger engine and an improved suspension system.”
“Oh…” He’Stan looked positively heartbroken at the declaration that his interpretation of the Prophesies of the Book of Fire had been so grossly inaccurate. Tu’Shan leaned over to him while Vulkan was still engrossed with the sculpture.
“Take heart, brother. You did find one Artefact, that’s more than the prior forty Forgefathers did.”
“I suppose,” He’Stan said morosely. Tu’Shan’s voice hardened.
“Suck it up, Brother, you’re acting like an altar boy being chided for missing a line in a hymm."
He’Stan was on the verge of saying something stupid when Vulkan turned back to them. “Gentlemen, I am impressed with the extent to which my good old workshop was preserved. I crafted six of the Artefacts in these two rooms…so long ago.”
“If you so desire, Lord, you could wield them yourself, again,” Tu'Shan said, straightening up from his glowering friend.
“Oh?” Vulkan said, peaking one eyebrow curiously. “You have armor ready for me, do you?”
“We do indeed, Lord Vulkan,” Tu’Shan said, pointing towards the second of the two hatches out of the armory. Vulkan walked through into the third room of the armory, and his jaw dropped. A magnificent green and gold Terminator suit stood in the middle of the room, held in place by an internal lattice. A spotlight shone from directly overhead, casting shadows down the arms under the pauldrons. Vulkan slowly walked up to it and stared at the helmet. He clamped his hand over neck seal and popped it loose, then hefted it experimentally. He turned back to the two Salamanders who had followed him through, and smiled broadly.
“It is indeed good to be home.”
9-047-001-M42
Eight hours had passed since the Emperor had made the command for the Primarchs to return to Terra, and the Neverending, alongside the Dark Andgel and Blood Angel taskforces, were streaming in the Emperor’s wake. The trip would probably have not taken a week, though they had dropped off the civilians in the care of the Hospitallers on a Shrine world they had passed. Now, the convoy was streaming for Terra, answering their Emperor’s urgent call.
The ship was, above all, a Space Marine ship, and as such there was precious little aboard devoted to any sort of entertainment. A small lounge for the ship’s non-Astartes crew was provided, and little else. The five Primarchs aboard – Guilliman, Russ, Corax, Jaghatai, and El’Jonson – were gathered in one, listening to the ship’s eldest serving Marine – Dante – tell tales of the Imperium’s recent past.
“Naturally, the problems with the Eastern Fringe were exacerbated by the Tau, but it wasn’t that particular batch of xenos filth that was truly troubling us,” Dante said, leaning back against the wall in his armor.
“It was these Tyranid things I keep hearing about, I gather,” Russ said.
“Indeed it was, Lord. They came from bloody nowhere about three hundred years back and have been ripping the Imperium to shreds ever since. Nearly a thirtieth of the Imperium has been laid barren, though of course hundreds of billions of people have managed to escape worlds in the Hive’s path. The greater problem, for now, is the genestealers which precede them. They’re almost impossible for the average Imperial citizen to detect. A genescan can spot them instantly, and the most gravely mutated victims are instantly recognizable, but it’s still a problem, especially on feral worlds where there are no genescanners to use.”
“Troubling, indeed, though it seems that these…what did you call them? Necrotics? They seem the larger threat,” Guilliman said.
“Necrons, Lord Guilliman, and yes, I believe that they are. The Tyranids actively avoid them, such is their threat, and one-on-one, there is no deadlier force outside the Custodes,” Dante said heavily.
“I see. Obviously, the Emperor knows of the threat,” Guilliman said.
“Oh, naturally. He’s known for over a millennia. And the damn things are vulnerable if they’re still ‘sleeping,’ problem is that the largest of their Tomb worlds are outside the Astronomican’s light. That means that not only can we not reach them safely, but that they are at liberty to harvest all the other xenos out there for all their technology, souls, precious bodily fluids, whatever they harvest,” Dante said with disgust.
“Well…if I know my father, he’s probably hard at work creating a means for the Imperium to overcome the myriad foes it faces,” Roboute said. Jaghatai nodded.
“Oh yeah. That was something he insisted on, to his own detriment, once or twice.” Russ snorted.
“Beyond the obvious, you mean, brother?” he said grimly. Dante shifted uncomfortably.
Guilliman broke the awkward silence, his authoritarian voice effortlessly cutting through the pause. “I suspect that the Mechanicus will be heavily involved in his plan, whatever form it takes.”
“Probably,” Russ said with clear distrust in his accented voice. “I find them entirely distasteful, but they have obvious uses. I wonder, though, why the tone of his summons to return to Terra was so urgent. Surely his plans can wait a few days? At the rate we’re travelling the Warp, we’ll be at Terra in no time flat.”
“I got the feeling that his summons had more to do with Terra itself, brother,” Corax said, speaking up for the first time. “His message made mention of civil problems on the planet, didn’t it?”
“I was rather more excited by the addendum, myself,” Russ said. “Vulkan will beat us there by nearly a day, according to the message. I miss the bastard. He was the only one who ever laughed at my jokes because he thought they were funny instead of just for fraternization.”
“Oh, that hurts,” Jaghatai said crossing his hands over his heart dramatically.
“It’s so true, though,” Russ chuckled. Lion nodded sagely, which Russ didn’t fail to notice, shooting his brother a cool stare.
0-052-001-M42
Terra was on the verge now. The rebellions had spread, turning from simple riots and civil disorder to a full-on uprising in the heart of the Imperium. Entire hives were aflame, and the Inquisition itself had mobilized to protect the Astronomican, which had actually been threatened by a small army of enraged rioters. The Palace’s walls had not yet been breached, but there had been a few close calls, wherein whole platoons of Arbites and PDF had been forced to incinerate columns of rioters that had got too close. The Arbites forces stationed on Mars, Luna, and the other thirty void stations, planets, and moons in the Solar system were streaming now, descending in their red and gray starships to restore order to Terra. The Inquisitorial and Grey Knight forces that lingered in the system had been ordered to the Palace by the Emperor himself, to replace the outgoing Custodes, though even the Inquisitorial representatives of the Ordo Hereticus had been sortied a few times. Now, word was reaching the Emperor’s massive orange ears that even the wealthier hives were starting to revolt, along with some hives that the Custodes were assaulting.
True to his prediction, the fact that the Companions –his own guard – were leading the charge had calmed some of the rioters down; the heartfelt sermon delivered by the Ecclesiarch to the populace , written by the Emperor himself, had calmed many of the rest. Still, a wildfire in a lumberyard is hard to extinguish, and there were several hives that had been consumed entirely in the conflagration of heresy. There was no denying it now: while most of the rioters had just been terrified Imperial citizens, some were openly calling for the reborn Emperor’s death, claiming that he had betrayed everything for which the Imperium stood.
That, however, was the last thing on the Emperor’s mind, now. Mere moments before, his son Vulkan had strode into the Hall of the Throne, resplendent in his new armor, and bent the knee to his father.
“My Emperor, I am once more at your service,” he said, helmet tucked under his arm.
“RISE, MY SON. IT IS GOOD TO SEE YOU WELL AGAIN. ARE YOU FEELING BETTER?”
“I am indeed, Sire,” Vulkan said, replacing his helmet with a hiss of air. “I ask your forgiveness for my earlier comments.” He’Stan and Tu’Shan both stared at Vulkan, their mouths agape, but the Emperor merely smiled with his horrible mouth.
“AS I SAID BEFORE, VULKAN, THERE IS NOTHING TO FORGIVE. YOU WERE BEING TORTURED, WHAT DOES IT BEHOLD US TO HOLD YOU ACCOUNTABLE FOR YOUR TONE? I AM RATHER MORE INTERESTED IN WHAT YOU’VE GOT, THERE.”
“This, father, is a gift from my Battle Brothers, Forgefather He’Stan,” he said, pointing at the Forgefather, “and Chapter Regent Master Tu’Shan, Lord of the Drakes,” he said gesturing at the younger man in turn. “They belabored to create this work of art at your command, in fact.”
“IT’S A HELL OF A LOT BETTER THAN THE ONE I WAS WEARING AT THE END,” the Emperor roared, half-joking. “THOSE ARE FASCINATING ACCOUTREMENTS. ARE THEY THOSE ARTEFACTS OF YOURS?”
“Indeed, Sire. Not all, but enough to turn the tide of a battle. On that note,” Vulkan said, his voice darkening, “I saw hives aflame on my flight in. What’s going on here?”
“I SUSPECT THAT A TAINT, TOO LONG DISMISSED, IS SPREADING, MY SON,” the Emperor said angrily, “AND IT’S MY OWN DAMN FAULT.”
“Sire?” Vulkan prompted. “What do you mean?”
“THE RIOTS HAVE CEASED, FOR THE MOST PART. NOW, INSTEAD, WE HAVE SOMETHING FAR WORSE. ENTIRE HIVES BURN BECAUSE THE HIVERS ARE BURNING THEM. IT WASN’T THE INCENDIARY ZEAL OF THE BATTLE SISTERS THAT CAUSED THOSE FIRES,” the Emperor said, his tone grim.
“Why would the hivers burn themselves?” Vulkan asked, nonplussed.
“BECAUSE THEY’RE OUT OF CONTROL,” the Emperor said. “THEY’RE NOT IMPERIAL CITIZENS ANY MORE, THOSE BASTARDS. YOU, MY SON, WILL PERSONALLY LEAD THE ATTACK AGAINST THEM.”
“As you so will it, Sire, so it shall be,” Vulkan said. “I am still confused as to our foes’ behavior.”
“NOT FOR MUCH LONGER. GO. MY REMAINING COMPANIONS WILL JOIN YOU, AND WHATEVER ELEMENTS OF THE NAVY AND SALAMANDERS YOU BROUGHT WITH YOU,” the Emperor said. “INQUISITOR VALENTINE WILL INFORM YOU OF YOUR FOES.”
Vulkan nodded to acknowledge the dismissal, and turned on his heel, the other two Salamanders falling in behind him. The ranks of Custodes, PDF, Guardsmen, Salamanders, and Naval Provosts that had accompanied Vulkan to his father’s throne room stood to attention. Vulkan raised the Spear over his head and spoke. “Warriors of the Imperium, our orders are given. We are to descend into the hives that are still resisting the advance of the Arbites and Sororitas, and cleanse the heretics that have destroyed them. If there are innocents to be found, we will evacuate them, but the hivers are burning down their own homes now. Do what must be done.” He clipped the Spear back into its sling across his armor and gestured grandly towards the far end of the hallway. “Victoria, Vita, quod Vires ut Imperium! Ave Imperator!”
The Imperial column trooped out to one of the Palace’s many landing pads, marching straight up the boarding ramps into the waiting troop ships. Vulkan was marshaling the Companions, who were understandably unused to such boarding actions, when an Astartes in a model of armor he didn’t recognize walked up to him. Before Vulkan could say a word, the Marine held up a hand. “Lord Vulkan, an honor. Lord Draigo, Grey Knights.”
Vulkan gripped the proffered gauntlet. “Lord Draigo. Is there something I can do for you? I don’t remember seeing your units slated for deployment with mine.”
“Indeed not, Lord Vulkan. However, I’m offering my services nonetheless. I share the Emperor’s suspicions about the root cause of this riot,” the man said, tapping the side of his helmet. Vulkan caught the hint and gestured towards the gunship that he had chosen to carry his own men into battle.
“Then you’re welcome to share them with me en route, Lord Draigo. Does your title reflect leadership of your Chapter?” he asked, walking up the ramp.
“I am the Supreme Grand Master of the Grey Knights, Chamber Militant of the Ordos Malleus, armored fist of the Inquisition,” Draigo said, surprising Vulkan greatly. “And as far as all but a handful of other chapters of the Astartes know, we do not exist. The Lamenters, the Raven Guard, the Salamanders, the Space Wolves, the Ultramarines, the White scars…most First and Second Founding chapters at least know of us, but our policy until…literally days ago was to mindwipe all Astartes who knew of us. Such was the vital secrecy of our mission.”
“If you’re Malleus, then your missions is to…what, banish Warpspawn that breach the veil between dimensions?” Vulkan asked with perfectly concealed distaste.
Draigo raised his voice slightly to be heard over the engines. “Precisely, though we sortie against other threats as well. Since the Emperor desired that the Custodes be deployed directly against the rioters, my own Chapter was called into help defend the palace in their absence. We’re based off of the moon of Titan, so it was not a problem.”
“I see,” Vulkan said, dropping into a seat. The ramp lifted and the aircraft was off, turning slightly on the thrusters before accelerating off. The sensor package in Vulkan’s helmet came alive and displayed a myriad of contacts, linked directly into the gunship’s auspex. A group of five transports, being their own Thunderhawk Gunship, two Thunderhawk Transports, an Aquilla, and a Navy dropship, were visible, above the battle-streaked ruins of the streets below. The sensors flickered with other contacts, mostly Arbites and PDF vehicles on the group, rounding up prisoners or cleaning up rubble. The sensor package’s machine spirit popped up a new icon: an ETA timer. The timer was counting down from fifteen minutes.
Vulkan leaned back into his seat and took stock of the gunship’s other occupants. Besides himself and the Knight, there were five. He’Stan and Tu’Shan sat beside each other opposite the Primarch, and a Techmarine from Tu’Shan’s Honor Guard sat beside them. The other two wore the gold and red armor of the Companions, and were discussing something with exaggerated hand motions. Apparently, this was their first time in actual combat. Vulkan reflected that it was a sign of the changing times: in his days the Companions were selected from the Custodes with the MOST experience.
The door to the three-person cockpit was open, and a trio of Salamander serfs were flying the aircraft. Vulkan watched the city lights go flying by through the armorcrys window before turning back to Draigo. “So, Lord Driago, what exactly are we facing here? Why did the Emperor not want to tell me back at the Palace?”
“I can’t speculate as to the Emperor’s state of mind in the Palace, Lord Vulkan, but I would say that our foes are probably more than mere rioters,” Draigo said. “We noticed that the most dangerous riots, the ones where people were really get butchered, were in the hives adjacent to the Navigatrix Quarter.”
“The Navigators?” Vulkan asked in surprise. “Why would they be rioting? Their continued survival is utterly dependent on the Imperium’s.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea, Lord Vulkan. However, I suspect that the rioters themselves aren’t Navigators. Rather, the worst offenders looked to the Arbites like the wealthy residents of the hive spires immediately adjacent to the Navigator’s Quarter,” Draigo replied.
“Is the presence of the Warp-sorcery of the Navigators the reason for your own presence, Lord Draigo?” Vulkan asked. The timer on his helmet reached ten minutes. “No, Lord Vulkan,” the Grey Knight said. “But we do suspect the presence of sorcerers amongst the rioters. The Sororitas that went in reported seeing truly unholy things going on amongst the rioters.” Before he could explain the statement, the Aquilla-class shuttle leading the column of aircraft suddenly dove, releasing chaff. The rest of the aircraft dove to follow, and Vulkan gripped the metal piping next to his seat to keep his balance. Suddenly, one of the two Thunderhawk Transporter icons on his HUD shuddered and spun out of formation, clipping against a skybridge that send it spiraling into the glass side of a building. The serf pilots did their best, evading and juking their aircraft, but whatever had downed the transporter came after them. With a shriek of tearing metal, the gunship pitched onto its side, tossing He’Stan clean out of his seat to sprawl in the aisle. The co-pilot craned his head back over his shoulder and shouted.
“Get ready to bail, Lords, we’re not going to be able to land!” he yelled, his voice cracking under the strain.
“Bloody try!” one of the Companions yelled, struggling out of his seat and gripping the overhead storage rack. The pilot was trying, certainly, and the craft leveled off out of its dive, careening forward. A loud *spang* noise sounded from one side of the benighted gunship, and Vulkan set his teeth. The noise meant AA fire, bolters, probably stubbers too. The sound repeated itself, this time on the underside, and then it was like flying through a hailstorm. The sound of stubber slugs ricocheting off of the hull was constant, and the pilot growled aloud in frustration as the damaged port engine gave out entirely.
The man was on top of it, though, no doubt motivated by the presence of a Primarch in his cabin. He tilted the flaps of the ship’s atmospheric wings up to coast on the remaining engine, and pulled the switch to jettison the ancillary fuel and ammunition tanks from the underside of the gunship. The ship lurched upwards as the air tugged it level and its loss of weight tugged it up, and for one horrible moment it looked like the ship would crack in half under the stress. Vulkan clenched his hands around the metal bar, trying not to let his unease show. The gunner suddenly slapped a pair of red switches on his panel and squeezed the triggers on this sticks, and the cabin filled with the noise of the Thunder Cannon firing. The windows flared with the light of the Hellstrikes unleashing their payload onto some target below, and the polarized armorcrys windows turned black from the light of discharge.
The co-pilot turned back to the passengers. “This is as close as we can get, the air’s so full of shells you could walk to Mars! We’re dropping you behind the monorail annex, we just cleared it!” The pilot suited actions to words, lowering the sputtering craft down behind the crumbling builsing, but just as he hit the release for the aft ramp, the whole craft shook as a krak missile slammed into the other engine. The Thunderhawk gave out, dropping the last ten feet to bounce off the pavement.
Vulkan launched himself off of the ramp, slamming into the ground in his Terminator armor and spinning around to see He’Stan following him. Tu’Shan had been farther in the cabin, and stumbled out of the smoking wreck a moment later, clutching his and He’Stan’s bolters in both hands. Draigo was next out, with the unconscious gunner draped over his pauldrons. The Companions struggled out with the rest of the crew following, their arms full of the wargear and ammo boxes that had been stuffed into the storage rack. Vulkan turned back to the sight of the scorched monorail annex, its surfaces damaged by the Hellstrike. A small cluster of poorly-dressed skeletons with melted stubbers in their hands lay crumpled against a retaining wall. The red-cloaked Companions hefted their halberds and moved to either side of the small building that the Thunderhawk had crashed behind. The ship’s pilot stared at the crashed gunship and made the sign of the cogwheel, apparently in thanks for the thing lasting as long as it had. The co-pilot was a bit more pragmatic, dragging the unconscious gunner away from the burning wreck before the fuel tank exploded.
Draigo lifted his Nemesis pike and grabbed a satchel of frag grenades, slinging the strap under his belt and tightening it. Vulkan quickly stood and grabbed the shorter man’s shoulder. “Lord Draigo, this may be the last chance either of us get to discuss what the hell is over there. I know of no filthyaristocrat that can shoot down a gunship.” Draigo smirked humorlessly.
“Indeed. Nor a transporter.” The other three aircraft in the formation vanished in the distance, shooting clean over the wrecked monorail annex and turning around a massive hive spire that stretched into the sky like a man-made mountain.
The co-pilot finished carrying his wounded comrade and slapped a pressure bandage onto the gash on the gunner’s head. He’Stan dragged the armloads of equipment he and the Companions had salvaged over to where Vulkan was standing, wordlessly offering his Lord the meager bounty. Vulkan shook his head, then sighed and relented, grabbing a single-use flare gun and hanging it off the metal loop on the back of his mounted Storm Shield. Draigo continued, “The enemy we face is most likely corrupted, Lord Vulkan. Huge numbers of the world’s wealthy aristocrats were seen flying into these few hives before this madness began. My Chapter is composed entirely of psykers, Lord, and we can sense something deeply wrong here, as well. Still, I’m fairly sure it was krak missiles, not sorcery, that downed our aircraft.”
Vulkan snorted. “Really?” The crackling noise from the Thunderhawk was getting louder. The pilot finished his meditation and scampered over to where his co-pilot was tending to their gunner, and Tu’Shan hefted a multi-melta from the pile of weapons to join the rest of the group.
“Gentlemen, we have little choice, it seems, but to proceed. We can head towards wherever the AA fire came from, or we can proceed down the course we were following before.” Vulkan considered a moment.
“We deal with the AA. We can’t let any more Imperial forces fall into that trap,” Vulkan said decisively. The co-pilot looked up in shock.
“Sir, we’re barely ambulatory here. Kester will die if we try to move him.”
“Then call an Arbites medical unit in and stay here, serf,” Vulkan said, checking the charge on his Thunder Ballista and finding it full. “We must advance.”
IN PROGRESS