The Horus Heresy: The Master of Mankind

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.’