The Master of Mankind Read online

  They gathered in the Sigillite’s private sanctum, a tower that had thus far managed to evade the extensive reconstruction engineered by the Imperial Fists. Its ringed balcony was still open to the Terran night sky, and the shadows of great stone spheres drifted around the spire-top chamber in elliptical orbits, casting their shadows through the tall stained-glass windows. Nine primary globes drifted on heavy anti-gravitic suspensors, each one shaped of Albian whitestone. Dozens of secondary spheres, moons formed from dark basalt, orbited them in symbiotic turn, as though the tower’s highest chamber were the Sun at the heart of the Solar System.

  Malcador referred to it as his study. He liked to have select meetings here at the heart of a three-dimensional astrolabe, claiming it gave him a perspective too easily forgotten in the bowels of the Imperial Palace. He’d refused the tower’s reconstruction on the principle of needing somewhere ‘less militant, less miserable’ to think when he was alone. Despite Dorn’s rank as Praetorian of Terra, Malcador’s will had won through. It remained a rare needle of artisanal beauty in the Palace now reborn as a fortress.

  Several of the most powerful men and women of the loyal Imperium stood around the circular hololithic table in the heart of the tower-top librarium. They were surrounded by the priceless scrolls and relics of a hundred lost cultures, from the oldest of Old Earth to the many that had faded out of existence during the Dark Age of Technology. Wooden carvings, broken statue fragments of white stone and black rock, scrolls encased in stasis fields, pistols and rifles and swords long since given over to rust and the patina of time’s mercies – it was an eclectic collection to say the least.

  Six souls stood opposite one another. Six souls deciding the fate of an empire. Whatever was decided here would go on to be disseminated throughout the Imperium’s byzantine hierarchy, or sealed away behind seals and sanctions forever.

  Diocletian looked at each of the hierarchs in turn, gathered around a table with no sides, so that all were rendered equal: Fabricator Locum Trimejia of Mars; Malcador, the Imperial Regent; Primarch Rogal Dorn of the Imperial Fists; Kaeria, Oblivion Knight of the Silent Sisterhood; Captain-General Constantin Valdor of the Ten Thousand; and Diocletian himself.

  He had not seen the Mechanicum’s new high priestess before. Trimejia was a stick-thin revenant hooded and cowled in Martian red, showing nothing but her skeletal silver fingers at the ends of her robe’s sleeves and a featureless faceplate in the shadows of her hood. She spoke only through the vox-grilles of the three servo-skulls orbiting her on tethered, hazard-striped cables. Three voices in unison, all artificially female.

  ‘The Fabricator General requests word from the guardians of the Great Work.’

  ‘We bring word,’ Diocletian replied, gesturing to the World Eaters helm on the central table. ‘And evidence.’

  ‘The Adnector Primus no longer conveys reports to the Fabricator General,’ Trimejia pressed. ‘Zagreus Kane, blessings upon him, believes our representative in the Great Work has met his end in the course of service to the Omnissiah.’

  ‘Kane believes right,’ Diocletian replied. ‘The Mechanicum forces within the webway answer to their divisional overseers now. Adnector Primus Mendel was killed several days ago in the fall of a tunnel nexus.’

  ‘Inconvenient,’ said Trimejia’s three servo-skulls.

  ‘Tribune Endymion led a counter-attack to bring aid to the survivors. He recovered Mendel’s body.’

  ‘An irrelevancy,’ the tech-priestess blurted back. ‘His mortal remnants are of no value to the Mechanicum. At most, his organic matter will be reprocessed for servitor sustenance fluid packs.’

  Diocletian bared his teeth, resisting the urge to curse at the Martian witch. Good men and women had died in that counter-attack.

  Dorn, a warrior-king among the Space Marine Legions, wore no armour. In his pale robe he looked monastic and austere, radiating a halo of impatience. He had his battles to plan and fight. He had his own wounds to lick. The stern patrician of the Imperial Fists, adamant in his cold-eyed sincerity, never lifted his gaze from the Custodian and the Sister, side by side.

  ‘Report in full,’ he commanded them.

  Diocletian bristled at the order and caught sight of Kaeria’s subtle shift in posture. The Sister stood with her arms crossed over her breastplate, moving a single finger in a miniscule twitch. Her fingertip rested against the lightning bolt engraved on her bicep plating.

  ‘You think me blind to your coded warnings to one another, Oblivion Knight?’ Dorn asked Kaeria.

  Kaeria showed no sign of attempting a reply. Diocletian answered for her. ‘She was merely cautioning me against a show of temper at your presumption, Lord Dorn. Only one man may give me orders. You call that man “Father”.’

  The primarch watched them both, unblinking, before finally nodding with the curtest gesture of his head. ‘A thousand matters pull at my mind. Your point is made. Please continue.’

  ‘There is little to say,’ Diocletian admitted. ‘The last waves that struck the tunnels reaped a significant toll. All of the ground we claimed within Magnus’ Folly is swarming with the aetheric invaders, and we are being beaten back to the walls of the Impossible City. We can hold Calastar far more easily than we can maintain our grip on the outward tunnels. For now, the link between the webway and the Imperial Dungeon remains stable: the Mechanicum-made routes through the city’s catacombs remain sheathed in the Emperor’s protection and cleansed of aetheric activity.’

  ‘For how long?’ asked Dorn.

  Diocletian steeled himself. He gestured to the helm on the table, knowing it would offer a far finer explanation than mere words. ‘You know what this portends. The Traitor Legions have gained access to the webway. Behind them march silhouettes of Titans. We were already hard-pressed, but now our foes have multiplied. We are losing tunnels in Magnus’ Folly at a faster rate than ever before. We have lost our grip on the wider web and no longer have the numbers to advance. For now, the Impossible City’s catacombs are safe. We can hold the reconstructed walls of Calastar for as long as we must.’

  Malcador, silent until now, dipped his hooded head. ‘Where is Tribune Endymion?’

  You know, thought Diocletian. You know Kadai and Jasar have fallen. You know Ra is the last tribune. Ah, to catch one of your spies, you cunning creature. ‘Ra is engaged in battle,’ the Custodian said. ‘I am here in his stead.’

  During Diocletian’s retelling, as brief as it was, Dorn had moved to the wide windows, watching the great metal globes passing by in their elliptical drifts. The daylight sky was darkened by the passing of one of Terra’s orbital plates, leaving the primarch’s features in shadow. His face was stone, betraying no hint of emotion.

  Valdor said nothing. Trimejia was equally silent. Even her skulls had ceased their circling, now bobbing in the air by her shoulders, looking at Diocletian with eye sockets filled with sensoria needle clusters. The Sigillite leaned more heavily on his staff, making no attempt to reclaim control of the command briefing in the wake of Diocletian’s confession.

  Dorn turned from the window. Diocletian hated the sudden emotion that lifted the primarch’s features and brought light to his eyes.

  ‘If you need warriors,’ he began, ‘then my Legion…’

  ‘No.’ Diocletian said the word the very same moment that Kaeria signed a curt Negative.

  ‘No?’ As ever, Dorn was calm.

  ‘It is the Emperor’s will that the Imperial Fists remain outside the Dungeon.’

  ‘That was my father’s will when He had the Ten Thousand and the Sisterhood at full strength,’ Dorn countered. ‘When He is starved of soldiers and the Traitors mass within the webway, how can His command remain the same?’

  ‘How many of your Fists even remain on Terra?’ Diocletian countered. ‘Four companies? Five?’

  ‘I have several companies stationed in the event of rebellion from among t
he conquered territories.’

  ‘And the rest of your Legion, Rogal?’

  ‘Scattered across three segmentums, and principally deployed in the engagement spheres of the Solar War. Even so, I offer what I can spare.’

  ‘Which is next to nothing.’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘It is the Emperor’s will,’ Diocletian repeated, ‘that the Imperial Fists remain outside the Dungeon.’

  ‘Tell me why.’

  ‘I can only guess,’ said Diocletian. His gaze flicked downwards to the deactivated helm taken as a trophy.

  ‘You believe that my men cannot be trusted?’ Dorn replied, perfectly calm. ‘That they would turn their coats as Angron’s dogs turned?’

  ‘Trust,’ said Diocletian, laying into the word. ‘I am not free with my trust these nights, Rogal Dorn. If we could trust the warriors of the Legions, the galaxy wouldn’t be aflame and severed in two by a primarch’s ambition. I won’t argue with you, Praetorian. I merely bring the Emperor’s will back to the surface.’

  Dorn leaned his knuckles upon the table and breathed through closed teeth. Although all knew him as a soul of majestic composure, his dislike of Diocletian and the Ten Thousand’s secrecy was deeply etched across his being. Malcador’s exhalation was subtler, slower, somehow more tense. Only Trimejia showed no emotion whatsoever; her faceless visage was capable of none. Her hood dipped slightly. Something clicked behind her faceplate. The three skulls began drifting around her in a reversed orbit.

  ‘What of the Omnissiah?’ her three skulls asked in harmonic monotone.

  ‘He is unchanged. He remains enthroned and unmoving, unresponsive to any stimuli. He has not spoken since taking the Golden Throne. The forces He battles in the wake of Magnus’ ignorance are beyond reckoning. We know no more than we already knew.’

  ‘If He remains unspeaking,’ Dorn’s colourless voice enquired, ‘how has He requested more warriors?’

  ‘The Ten Thousand speaks for the Emperor,’ Diocletian replied at once.

  ‘We require more information,’ said Trimejia’s drifting servo-skulls. ‘More quantifiable data on the Omnissiah’s will. Speak. Enunciate. Explain.’

  ‘The Ten Thousand speaks for the Emperor. What we ask for is no different than if our lord asked Himself. It has ever been thus.’

  Silence reigned.

  Dorn looked back to the overcast sky. His voice was softened by the moment’s immensity.

  ‘Magnus, my brother, of all your mistakes this one is by far the most grievous.’ Once more he looked over his shoulder at Diocletian and Kaeria. ‘I see now why you came in person.’

  Diocletian nodded. ‘If the Traitors reach Terra–’

  ‘It is a matter of when, prefect, not if.’

  ‘As you say. When the Traitors reach Terra, Lord Dorn, you must be ready to defend the Palace without the Emperor’s guidance.’

  If Dorn was tormented by the notion, he showed no sign. The one implacable son, stone and stoicism in moments when all of his brothers would be fire, spite and honour.

  ‘I’d dared to hope the Emperor’s secret war was going well. The audacity of such optimism seems foolish in hindsight, does it not? That I dared to imagine, come the final day, we might only face annihilation from the skies above Terra, not from beneath its surface as well. Horus and his forces are already in Segmentum Solar. Now the Imperial Dungeon is at risk of falling. Tell me, Diocletian, could we lose this war before Horus even sets foot on Terra?’

  ‘Yes,’ Diocletian answered at once.

  ‘Is it likely?’

  ‘If all remains the same? Yes, we will lose. If our requisition demands for new warriors are not met? Yes, we will lose. If the enemy is further reinforced? Yes, we will lose.’

  ‘Then what is your plan? Where will you find these soldiers?’

  ‘I will aid them in this matter,’ Malcador said. ‘There are possibilities beyond the obvious.’

  Rogal Dorn, even calm, was relentless. ‘Does the Emperor’s edict of secrecy remain in force?’

  Kaeria signed a brief affirmation, to which Dorn nodded. ‘Then you are consigning any volunteers to death,’ said the primarch. ‘Sacrificing the Mechanicum’s servitors is understandable. Culling them, if necessary, is a loss but hardly immoral. Euthanising any human survivors you pull down into the webway is a far bleaker proposition.’

  Kaeria’s reply was nothing more than a glance to Diocletian and the subtlest gesture of one hand. The Custodian translated: ‘The Lady Kaeria’s point takes primacy here, Praetorian Dorn. We may not need to cull any survivors at all if we continue losing ground. The enemy will see us all dead, and your concerns of morality will be meaningless.’

  Dorn’s jaw tightened. ‘Listen to yourself, Diocletian. Hear the words you are speaking and the course you advocate.’

  Necessity overcomes morality, Kaeria’s hands signed in the air before her breastplate. Never without regret. Never without shame. Yet even immoral victory must outweigh moral defeat. The victor will have a chance to atone if conscience demands. The vanquished lose any such opportunity.

  ‘You quote my own brother at me?’ Dorn narrowed his gaze. ‘Roboute is not here, Oblivion Knight. Would that he were. In his absence, I am Lord Commander of the Imperium.’

  Diocletian resisted a flare of temper at the performance unfolding before his eyes. ‘This is base hypocrisy, Lord Dorn. How often have your Imperial Fists prided themselves on enduring conflicts that proved to be flesh-grinding stalemates to other forces? Now you object to the execution of… chaff… to keep the Emperor’s greatest secret. How is this even worth discussing?’

  Dorn’s armoured gauntlet crashed onto the central table, causing the hololithic image of the Sol System to jump and flicker. ‘We are speaking of more than my own sons. Their lives are coin I may spend as I see fit, but you have been underground for five long, long years, and the Ten Thousand isn’t the only force to have bled itself dry. This isn’t the Great Crusade, Custodian. You cannot annihilate loyal souls on a whim. The meaning of “necessity” has changed now that we draw near to the final days of this war, Diocletian.’

  The words echoed in the air between the gathered hierarchs, as solemn as any confession of guilt.

  We will not argue this matter, Kaeria signed, though even she seemed hesitant now.

  ‘We will gather the army required,’ said Diocletian. ‘With the Sigillite’s aid, if he sees fit to grant it. And I will bring your reservations to the Emperor when circumstance allows.’

  ‘That is all I ask,’ Dorn acquiesced with grim consent.

  Trimejia closed her left hand, summoning the servo-skulls to drift together and dock with the ports on her hunched spine. Malcador made no reply at all. Diocletian wondered how much of this the Sigillite had already known.

  ‘If that is all,’ said Malcador, ‘I believe we are finished here.’

  Trimejia vocalised a spurt of irritated code.

  ‘Is that an objection, archpriestess?’

  The docked servo-skulls thrummed, a chorus of skinless faces desperate to speak. ‘Mars,’ the three probes voiced at once. ‘The Mechanicum beseeches the Omnissiah for permission to retake Sacred Mars.’

  Dorn stiffened. ‘Not here,’ he said, curt and clear. ‘Not now.’

  ‘The Fabricator General is aware of your refusal, Praetorian. He bade me take my request directly to those waging war at the Omnissiah’s side.’

  She leaned closer to Kaeria and Diocletian, spindly and inhuman, so frail for one who commanded such authority. ‘Mars must be retaken.’

  Malcador’s staff thudded upon the floor. ‘Mars will be reconquered when we have the resources to do so.’

  Diocletian and Kaeria remained silent throughout the exchange. They shared a glance, hardly blind to the tension. Malcador’s gesture was a plain request for them to leave.

/>   ‘This meeting is concluded,’ said the Regent of Terra. ‘You have our gratitude, Sister, Custodian.’

  Before any of the hierarchs could argue otherwise, Diocletian and Kaeria strode from the room. There was a great deal yet to do before they could return to the Dungeon.

  Four

  Anomalies

  Bodies in the mist

  End of Empires

  Alpha-Rho-25 didn’t consider himself burdened by any particular degree of sentiment. Even so, there was a pang of loss as he came across the dead servitors. Whoever had constructed them had done so over many weeks, with painstaking care and expertise, to serve in the Omnissiah’s name. And now they were reduced to… this.

  Such a waste.

  As one of the Mechanicum Protectors assigned to the Unifiers, his role was simple. He was to stalk through the webway, overseeing the Mechanicum’s restoration work and shoring up their defences in the outward tunnels – that region known by the vanguard as Magnus’ Folly. It fell to him and those like him to defend the outskirts of the Impossible City and guard the Unifiers working in the tunnels leading deeper into the web. Now it fell to him to watch over the retreat.

  A decision that had been too long in coming, by the Protector’s analytic perceptions. Casualties had risen starkly in recent months. Too few defenders stretched too thin through far too many tunnels. Falling back to the defensible bastion offered by the Impossible City was the logical course of action.

  Alpha-Rho-25 had taken part in one thousand, six hundred and eighty-three individual skirmishes since being brought into the Imperial Dungeon five years before. His recordings of individual foes destroyed were accessible to the archpriests who coded his orders, but he didn’t like to review them himself or tally the totals. That kind of behaviour seemed close to self-satisfaction – what a full-blood human might call smugness – and therein lay danger. To be satisfied with oneself was to consider oneself perfect, to abandon all hope of refinement and improvement. A tragic delusion indeed. Perfection did not exist outside the Omnissiah Himself.