The Beast Arises

Even across the medium of the hololithic transmitter, Kubik looked unsettled.

Vulkan said nothing, but moved to one end of the debating table as his commanders spread to either side. Vangorich tried not to think of it as an encircling manoeuvre, but he quickly reassessed his options and concluded that only two escape routes remained.

‘The full weight of Mars is being directed to support the assault of the lord primarch,’ Kubik’s voice buzzed from a vox-caster placed in front of his hazy image, ‘as swiftly as it can be mustered. Dominus Gerg Zhokuv is one of our best and most experienced commanders from the Taghmata.’

‘One of your best?’ said Vulkan.

‘The best!’ Kubik quickly answered. ‘His logistaria and strategic engrams date back to the Heresy War and earlier.’

‘The ships are ready?’ Vulkan demanded of Lansung.

The Lord High Admiral nodded without comment.

‘I have put out the call for the Frateris to assemble. Thousands of followers are ready to embark as soon…’ Mesring trailed off in the face of Vulkan’s unflinching stare.

‘That will not be necessary, Ecclesiarch.’ The primarch’s distaste for Mesring’s position made the title sound like a curse. ‘Your brand of zealotry will not serve our cause.’

Vangorich was so busy enjoying Mesring’s utter despondency that he almost missed a small reaction from Bohemond. The High Marshal glanced sideways at the primarch, and then fixed his gaze on a point on the ground for several heartbeats. Nobody else seemed to notice and Vangorich wondered what could prompt such a guilt reflex.

Tobris Ekharth, Master of the Administratum, cleared his throat. His eyes momentarily flicked from one High Lord to the next, seeking reassurance and receiving little, until they rested again on the sheaf of translucent datasheets in his quivering hands. He swallowed hard.

‘I… That is, my organisation…’ He sniffed, gripped his reports tighter and started again. The words burst forth in a breathless stream. ‘This whole process is without mandate or proper protocols, and is not in compliance with at least seventy-two per cent of the Senatorum Imperialis code, not least being the exclusion of required officials to make proper record and deliver due notification on the deliberations and ramifications of gatherings at which Imperial policy and the application of military resource of greater than regiment-strength or equivalent thereof has been debated.’

‘I am quite sure that half of those words were not in the correct order,’ said Odaenathus. ‘Are you objecting to something?’

‘This war,’ Ekharth blurted, ‘is illegal! Without proper authority. Of uncertain integrity.’ The next word was uttered with such contempt that it made Vangorich wince. ‘Unauthorised…’

‘You mentioned compliance,’ said Vulkan, folding his arms. ‘That word can mean many things. In one respect, it is something with which I am more familiar than any other in this chamber.’

‘I don’t understand,’ confessed Ekharth, looking to his companion High Lords for support or guidance.

Vangorich laughed gently and he felt their scrutiny and their antipathy. The Master of the Administratum glared at him.

‘What is so funny?’ Ekharth demanded.

‘You seek compliance, my dear Tobris.’ Vangorich looked across to Vulkan. ‘Worlds brought into the Imperial Truth during the Great Crusade were “compliant”. The lord primarch has several thousand Space Marines poised at his command, in orbit and on the surface of Terra. It is we that need to consider the nature of compliance.’

Silence followed for several seconds. Vulkan did not gainsay Vangorich’s assertion.

‘Good.’ The primarch nodded. ‘We are of one mind. Let us turn our efforts to Ullanor and the matter at hand. Now the war truly begins.’

Chapter Two

Ullanor — outer system

Peace is deception. It does not last. It cannot last. The enemy is always waiting. The fight is endless, relentless. A tide that rises. Even when it recedes it takes away. It erodes. Nagging, gnawing, grinding. Slowly, war after war, battle after battle, fight after fight, every grain dropping away, washed into nothingness. Peace is the breath between shouts. The inhalation before the gasp of pain or ecstasy. Why can we not forge peace? Forges make weapons. Only war, merciless and constant, is truth.

The Adeptus Astartes were in the vanguard.

As always.