[Space Marine Battles 01] - Rynn's World Read online

  If the nearest of the Space Marines had heard the exchange—and of course they had, for their powers of hearing went far beyond those of a normal man— they showed no sign of interest. Both they and the Chosen remained as still as marble sculptures, awaiting the arrival of the Chaplains and the members of the Chapter Council.

  Savales and his wealthy charges soon reached a set of shallow wooden stairs that led up into the small terrace. The Ordinator stopped beside them and helped Lady Maia up the first few steps, more out of propriety than anything else. The lady clearly had no need of a man’s steadying arm, but took it anyway, no doubt as a point of etiquette.

  “Your party shall have an excellent view of the proceedings from here, ma’am,” said Savales to her back as she stepped through the doorway at the top.

  And it will keep you all penned in very nicely, he thought to himself. No one must interfere with the procession.

  Once the last of the entourage from the capital had climbed the stairs, Savales ascended them himself and found most of the nobles already seated in the well-cushioned ebonwood chairs that had been laid out for them. A handful of the Chapter’s most junior serfs stood silently in the shadows at the back, awaiting any command Savales might deign to give. As he looked along the front row, Savales saw that the chair closest to Lady Maia remained curiously empty. Standing in front of it, looking slightly put out, was Viscount Isopho, Minister of Trade, senior representative for the Province of Dorado.

  “I don’t understand, Maia,” he said, absentmindedly addressing her as if no one else were within earshot. “It is quite clearly my seat. Why in blazes—”

  Lady Maia threw him the kind of smile that Savales judged she must have used countless times to get her own way. It was dazzling and absolutely filled with promise. “My dear, gallant Nilo,” she said. “Your close company is always a great blessing, as I’ve expressed before. But I had hoped Ordinator Savales might sit beside me today, unless you feel that you can explain the various elements of the procession better than he.”

  The viscount, a slim, dapper, thickly-moustached man in his mid-fifties, threw Savales a brief, hard glance. He was obviously incensed that the governor wished him to defer to someone who was still, technically, a member of the peasant class, no matter what Savales’ status within these hallowed walls might be. After a few seconds the viscount mustered a fairly convincing smile of his own, bowed to the lady, and said, “As you wish, of course.” Then he turned towards Savales, walked down the row of seats towards him, and said, “Might one of your people bring another chair, Ordinator?”

  Secretary Mylos, who was seated at the near end of the front row, leapt to his feet. “There’s no need for that, sir,” he said. “Please, take mine. I’ll be quite content to sit with the other aides in the second row.”

  Isopho muttered something vaguely appreciative to Mylos, and dropped himself into the seat, dropping his smile at the same time.

  Savales noticed Lady Maia gesturing to him and, with some reluctance, for he had no wish to talk during the procession, took the proffered seat next to her. On his right sat Margravine Lyotsa of Macarro Province, a slightly plump woman who was beaming with enthusiasm for the whole affair. “Do you think the Chapter Master might wave to us as he passes?” she asked Savales.

  It was a preposterous question, and Savales fought to hold back a sharp retort. Did the woman think this some kind of carnival? Instead, he feigned an apologetic tone and answered, “I shouldn’t think so, my lady. In truth, the Day of Foundation is a time of great solemnity and reflection, not celebration. As I tried to impress on your honoured personage during the journey here, we who bask in the glory of the Crimson Fists this day must make ourselves all but invisible during their observances. To draw undue attention, to interfere in even the smallest of ways, so much as a well-meaning wave of your hand, for example, would be a very grave insult to the honour of our protectors. We must conduct ourselves just as if we were in the Great Basilica. One refrains from calling out to Archbishop Galenda during his famous sermons, does one not?”

  The margravine looked horrified at the thought. “By the Golden Throne,” she huffed, “I would never… Your point is well taken, Ordinator. I shall be as invisible as my countenance allows.”

  Savales wasn’t sure what she meant, but it hardly mattered. He was pleased to see the expression on her round face settle into something more appropriate to the solemnity of the occasion. It was then that he felt the lightest touch of fingertips on the back of his left hand and turned to face Lady Maia again.

  “How long will they stand immobile like this?” the governor asked him, looking out at the rigid Space Marines. “Not one of them has so much as twitched a muscle since we arrived. If not for their breath on the air, I would swear those suits of armour were empty.”

  As Savales listened to her, he eased the old brass chronometer from his pocket and stared at its face in confusion.

  It must be broken, he thought. This cannot be correct.

  But no, one hand was still ticking off the seconds as steadily as it had always done. The chronometer was an ancient piece, inherited from old Kondris, and it had not dropped a second in all the years Savales had owned it. What its elegant metal hands told him now was that something must be wrong. He watched more seconds tick off, filled with a mounting sense of unease.

  The morning procession should have started by now. And Lord Kantor, as Ramir Savales knew better than anyone else, was never late.

  The great domed and pillared hall of the Strategium was quiet, but it was far from empty. Only two of the heavy, square-cut onyx chairs arranged around the massive crystal table at its centre remained unoccupied.

  Where the devil are they, thought Cortez? He had been the third member of the council to arrive, and now he was becoming restless.

  He had passed Hammond’s message to the Chapter Master in the nave of the Reclusiam, and had watched the words take effect. The Chapter Master had reacted exactly as Cortez had known he would: calm, controlled, only the slight narrowing of his eyes betraying a hint of anger that news of the attack on Badlanding should reach Arx Tyrannus now, on this of all days. Inconvenient, yes, but none who had faced the might of the greenskins before and survived would dare to take such news lightly. The message’s significance could not be ignored. Like a thunderstorm gathering on the horizon, its charge building on the wind, it seemed the threat of a major war here in the Loki Sector was closer than it had been in over a millennium.

  Orks!

  Give or take a dozen light-years, Badlanding essentially lay on a straight line between the Rynnstar system and the domain of Charadon, a star cluster that was absolutely infested with the savage beasts. If the transmission from the struggling commissar was to be believed, and a Waaagh was indeed gaining momentum on the fringes of the sector, then the Crimson Fists were the only force within a year’s warp travel that had a chance of reacting in time and with the appropriate level of force. Founding Day or not, action in the face of a major Waaagh could not be postponed.

  So where in blazes are you, Pedro, thought Cortez?

  He drummed his gauntleted fingers on the table, the sound cutting sharply across a tense silence. A few of the other council members glared over at him in irritation.

  “What?” he said in a challenging tone, but he stopped drumming.

  After another minute of silence, he said, “If we have to wait much longer I think I’ll chair the meeting myself.”

  Raphael Acastus, Master of Siege, Captain of the 9th Company, snorted out a laugh. No one took the comment seriously. Cortez was famously impatient and rarely disinclined to express it. But Drigo Alvez, Master of the Shield, Captain of 2nd Company, saw a chance to knock Cortez down a peg. He met his gaze and said, “Actually, Alessio, that duty would fall to me. Still, I commend your enthusiasm. If only you could channel it into sitting still…”

  A few of the other captains raised half-smiles at this. Cortez grunted. He and Alvez had no great love
of each other. The 2nd Company captain was as dour and over-starched a Space Marine as Cortez had ever met, unimaginative in the extreme, but it was these very qualities that apparently inspired the Chapter Master’s confidence in him. Besides, Alvez was wrong. It was, in fact, Eustace Mendoza, Master of the Librarius, who would preside over the Strategium in the event of the Chapter Master’s absence. And if Mendoza were absent, the duty would fall to High Chaplain Tomasi.

  For a moment, Cortez considered pointing this out, but before he spoke, his eyes flicked towards the old Librarian, and he noticed that Mendoza was looking straight back at him. The Librarian held his gaze, giving a barely perceptible shake of his head.

  In Cortez’s mind, the powerful psyker placed three words.

  Leave it, brother.

  Cortez responded with a tiny shrug and resumed drumming his fingers on the tabletop, once again drawing the eyes of the others toward him.

  Ishmael Icario, Master of Shadows, Captain of the 10th Company, laughed aloud. “Alessio,” he said, “of every battle-brother I have ever known, none are as restless as you. Chapter Master Traegus said it best, I think. Only in the absolute stillness of the body and the complete silencing of the voice can we hear the truth of our inner thoughts, and so hearing, know ourselves that much the better.”

  Cortez threw Icario a dangerous look.

  Algernon Traegus had been the controversial sixteenth Chapter Master of the Crimson Fists, a particular favourite of Icario’s, judging by the frequency with which the Scout captain quoted the late Master’s writings. Many of the older members of the Chapter were wary of Traegus’ teachings. It was Traegus who had initiated the controversial breeding programmes—programmes by which the Chapter’s failed aspirants, those who had survived the trials and had not been rendered sterile, were bred with women of suitable genetic stock in the hope of creating male offspring strong enough to swell the ranks of the Chapter one day as full Astartes.

  Unfortunately, the results had been unpredictable and disappointing.

  Upon his accession, the seventeenth Chapter Master, Klede Sargo, had immediately halted his predecessor’s plan, and no Chapter Master had attempted to revive it since.

  Responding to Icario, Cortez said, “I can hear my inner voice fine, brother. It speaks with the volume of a thunderstorm, and right now, it tells me there are xenos to kill. The sooner we engage them, the better.”

  “And so we shall,” answered a sonorous voice from the far side of the hall. The words echoed for a moment, bouncing back from the frescoed inner surface of the dome. The seated Astartes twisted and saw Pedro Kantor closing two massive ebonwood doors. They rose to their feet as the Chapter Master turned and descended the steps of the main aisle, walking between steeply tiered rows of white marble benches, down onto the Strategium floor. With a long, easy stride, as if his heavy power armour weighed little more than cloth, he crossed to the onyx throne at the head of the table and seated himself, gesturing for the others to do likewise. The chair beneath him detected his weight as he sat, and gear assemblies sunk into the floor groaned and rattled as they pulled him in towards the table’s edge.

  The Chapter Master rested his heavy vambraces on the gently glowing crystal surface, meshed his armoured fingers together and leaned forward. “My apologies, brothers, for keeping you waiting these extra moments. I wished to talk to the Monitor directly, and to send word to Ordinator Savales that there would be a slight delay to the day’s proceedings. You all know by now the reason this impromptu session has been called.”

  Captain Acastus stared pointedly at the only onyx chair which remained empty. “Shall the High Chaplain not be joining us, my lord? Should we not wait for him?”

  Kantor angled his head towards Acastus, and said, “The great majority of this day’s responsibilities fall on Tomasi’s shoulders, certainly far more than fall on mine. He cannot be distracted before the Miracle of the Blood. I will apprise him later of what is said here, but we will hear Brother Adon’s report without him.”

  Having said this, Kantor nodded to a member of the assembly who, on appearance alone, truly stood out among the rest. This was the Forgemaster, Javier Adon, Master of the Technicarum, the Chapter’s supreme Techmarine. His great affinity with the machine-spirits was all too evident in the clash of meat and metal that he had become. His armour bore the iconography of both the Chapter and the Adeptus Mechanicus, and the powerful servo-arms which sprouted from his back gave him something of the aspect of a mighty mechanical arachnid. When he spoke, the sound reverberated from a grille that masked the lower half of his face, and his words emerged in a rasping, grating mechanical buzz without tone or inflection.

  “Assembled brothers,” he began. “At 07:58hrs on this Day of Foundation, our near-space communications array received and decoded a pulse-burst signal with an Omega-level Imperial encryption key. The signal was broadcast repeatedly at fifteen-second intervals, originating from a commercial transport that slid from the warp two astronomical units outside the orbit of Phraecos.”

  One of Adon’s mechanical appendages swung up and over his right shoulder with a whirring sound. It slotted a thick, digit-mounted data plug into a socket set in the table’s rim and pressed it home with an audible click. At once, the quartz tabletop began to glow brighter, to pulsate with light, and a ghostly hololithic view of the local star system manifested in the air above it.

  The assembled Astartes raised their eyes.

  “The transmitting vessel’s identicode has been verified,” Adon continued. “The ship is known as the Videnhaus and is properly registered. There is no reason to doubt the veracity of her transmission, though the encryption was added later by the ship’s captain. The original message, we now know, was transmitted raw from the planet Badlanding.”

  “And the content of that transmission?” asked Ashor Drakken, Captain of 3rd Company, Master of the Line.

  There was a short burst of static, and the voice of Commissar Alhaus Baldur filled the air. “There won’t be time to broadcast again,” said the voice, “so this is it…”

  Forgemaster Adon played the message in its entirety while the others listened with rapt attention. By the end of it, Cortez could barely sit still. Hearing it for the second time, he found his urge to ship out for Badlanding was even stronger. Battle beckoned him.

  “That is all,” said Adon when the commissar’s voice stopped. “There is no more.”

  “It is enough in any case,” said Cortez. He locked eyes with Kantor. “Send my Fourth Company, lord. Badlanding will be purged of the greenskin taint. We will descend on them like holy fire.”

  “Send the Seventh,” said Caldimus Ortiz, Master of the Gates, with equal passion. “If not alone, then in support of Brother-Captain Cortez.”

  Kantor unlocked his fingers and raised both hands into the air, calling for calm. The captains always vied with each other for the honour of deployment. He expected no less, but his decision would, as always, be based on tactical analysis. He did not play favourites, despite his friendship with Alessio Cortez.

  “Forgemaster, show us Badlanding in relation to Rynn’s World. And give me an estimate of travel time, both best and worst case scenarios.”

  Javier Adon remained still, but above the table the ghostly view of the Rynnstar system zoomed out with dizzying speed to show the relative positions of both Rynnstar and Freiya, the K-type star around which Badlanding orbited. Figures began to scroll down past each of the tiny flickering points of light.

  After a moment, the figures stopped scrolling, and Adon said, “If the warp is calm, and the tides and eddies favour us, one of our cruisers could reach high orbit around the target planet in approximately three hundred and sixty-eight standard hours.”

  “That’s almost two weeks,” growled Cortez. “The greenskins might have moved on by then. We should mobilise at once!”

  “If the warp is turbulent,” Adon continued, “and the tides are against us, the journey could take many times longer. A worst-cas
e scenario is beyond my ability to accurately calculate with the information I currently have. Perhaps the Master of the Librarius would offer comment.”

  Eustace Mendoza angled his head towards Pedro Kantor. “Local warpflow appears relatively untroubled at this time. The Librarius has detected no significant disturbances that would present a problem to travel.”

  As he watched and listened, Cortez had the feeling that Mendoza was preoccupied with something else, and it wasn’t just the Day of Foundation. In the shadowed corridors of the fortress-monastery, it was cautiously whispered that some of the other Librarians had been reporting dark omens with increasing frequency. Was the master psyker holding something back?

  An impressive figure seated on the Chapter Master’s immediate right cleared his throat, drawing all eyes in his direction. His power armour was highly ornate, and his left pauldron, rather than bearing any form of company-centric iconography, was fashioned into a great silver eagle with two heads. This was Ceval Ranparre, Master of the Fleet, Hero of Hesperidon.

  “Two weeks then,” he said. “Trust me, Chapter Master, as you have always done. I can get a force to Badlanding in that time, ill tides or otherwise. If you will permit it, I shall send The Crusader. Of all our fleet, she is the most reliable when a swift warp transit is of the essence.”

  Kantor accepted the suggestion with a nod. “Then I shall focus my attention on who is to go.”

  “The Fourth,” said Cortez again. “There is no time to debate it, not if we are to make any kind of difference to Commissar Baldur and his remaining men.”

  Drigo Alvez snorted derisively at this. Cortez knew as well as anyone that the Imperial forces on Badlanding were almost certainly dead to a man.

  Kantor cast his eyes around the assembled leaders. He laid his palms flat on the table and pushed himself to his feet. With his weight no longer on the black throne, the servos jerked into action again and moved the chair out from under the table. Standing there like a vision of ancient glory, an echo of the primarch remembered from the time of the Great Crusade, the Chapter Master towered over the rest of the council.