Dan Abnett - Know no fear. The Battle of Calth

‘I see.’

He nods again, the smile flickering in and out. He raises a palm to his mouth, then laughs.

‘I see. Then very well. I should not have spoken that way.’

‘I should have been more circumspect,’ replies Guilliman. ‘I can see how it might have seemed.’

‘We’ll check our systems,’ says Lorgar. His smile is back. He nods again, as if convincing himself.

‘I should have been more circumspect,’ Guilliman insists.

‘No, you’re right. There is clearly a tension here that needs to be overcome. An expectation.’

Lorgar looks at him.

‘I’ll get to it. We’ll see if we can trace the code. And then we will meet, brother. In just a few hours now, we will meet, and everything will be put right.’

‘I look forward to it,’ says Guilliman. ‘We will stand side-by-side, we will take down this ork threat that our brother Warmaster has identified, and then history will be rewritten between us.’

‘I hope so.’

‘It will be so, brother. If I had not believed that the unfortunate rift between our Legions could not be healed by good society and the companionship of shared martial effort, I would not have agreed to this. We will be the best of allies, Lorgar. You and I, our mighty Legions. Horus will be pleased and the Emperor our father will smile, and old slights will be forgotten.’

Lorgar smiles.

‘They will be forgotten completely. They will be put to rest,’ he says.

‘Without delay,’ says Guilliman.

Criol Fowst sacrifices his last oblator. In the landing camps of the XVII and its army auxiliaries, landing camps that are spread across the surface of Calth, hundreds of majir just like Fowst are concluding similar sacrificial rituals.

The Brotherhood is chanting. So are the men and women of the Tzenvar Kaul, the Jeharwanate and the Kaul Mandori, the other three principal cult echelons.

At the orbital Watchtower, Server Uhl Kehal Hesst of the Mechanicum has switched from discretionary mode in order to pursue and eradicate the scrapcode issue. He will fail to do so. He will spend the rest of his life failing to do so.

The scrapcode issue is no longer resolvable by means of the Mechanicum.

The Octed is implanted.

Aeonid Thiel wakes. He only slipped into rest mode briefly. He was bored. He has been waiting a long while. No one has come.

He wakes because he is no longer alone in the fortieth deck anteroom.

He bows at once.

‘Are you Thiel?’ asks Guilliman.

‘Yes, lord,’ Thiel replies.

The primarch seems distracted. He can probably tell which weapons have been used and put back, which practice cages have been operated.

‘You’ve been waiting here for some time.’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘There’s a lot to do today. My attention has been elsewhere.’

It’s not an apology, it’s just a basic explanation. Thiel wants to say that he doesn’t really know why the primarch’s dealing with it at all, but he knows better than that.

‘Were you amusing yourself?’ asks Guilliman, taking a broadsword off a wall rack and examining its edge.

‘I… I decided to pass the time in practice,’ Thiel answers. ‘There are weapons here I am unfamiliar with. I thought that I might benefit from–’

Guilliman nods. The nod means shut up.

Thiel shuts up.

Guilliman studies the sword he is holding. He doesn’t look at Thiel. Thiel has risen to attention, waiting. His helmet, with its crude, red paint-wash to indicate censure, is tucked under his arm.

‘I didn’t come here for you,’ Guilliman says. ‘I came away to think. I forgot you were here.’

Thiel makes no comment.

‘That’s a depressing thought,’ says Guilliman, sliding the sword back onto the rack. ‘I forgot something. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share that unguarded confession with anybody.’

‘Of course, lord. Though I hardly blame you for forgetting me. I am a very minor detail.’

Now the primarch looks at him.

‘Two things to note there, sergeant. One is that there is no such thing as a minor detail. Information is victory. One cannot and should not dismiss any data as inconsequential until one is in a position to evaluate its significance, and that only comes with hindsight. So all detail is important until circumstances render it redundant.’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘What’s the second thing, Thiel?’

Aeonid Thiel hesitates slightly before answering.

‘By any scale of decency,’ he replies, ‘my infraction was reprehensible. I am, therefore, not a minor detail anyway.’

‘Quite,’ says Guilliman.

The primarch turns and looks up at the high ceiling of the chamber. There is a slight heat-haze distortion in the air above the practice cages that Thiel has spent the last hours overworking.

‘I think I may have offended him,’ says Guilliman.

‘Lord?’

Guilliman looks back at Thiel. He fixes him with a thoughtful gaze.

‘This is a day of great sensitivity,’ he says. ‘We’re building a part of the Imperium’s future as surely as if we were making a star system compliant. We’re cementing a relationship. Repairing a weakness. It’s political. The rift between XIII and XVII is a rift in the Imperial line. Horus knows that. That’s why he’s sewing it up, and we can all swallow our distaste over it.’

Guilliman rubs his cheekbone with his fingertips. He is pensive.

‘The future depends on the solidarity of the Legions,’ he says. ‘Where solidarity is weak, where it is lacking, it must be repaired or enforced. And this is forced. This is us getting along with each other for the greater good.’

Thiel chooses to remain silent.

‘He is so… changeable,’ Guilliman says. ‘He is so prone to extremes. Eager to please, quick to take offence. There is no middle to him. He’s so keen to be your best friend, and then, at the slightest perception of an insult, he’s angry with you. Furious. Offended. Like a child. If he wasn’t my brother, he’d be a political embarrassment and an impediment to the effective rule of the Imperium. I know what I’d do with him.’

‘I’m sure I could demonstrate how, lord,’ says Thiel, and then winces.

‘Was that a joke, sergeant?’

‘I may have just made a very unfortunate attempt at humour, lord,’ Thiel admits.

‘It was actually quite funny,’ says Guilliman.

He turns to leave.

‘Remain here. I’ll get to you in due course.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Trooper Persson,’ Graft calls as he whirrs up the track. The estuary wind is rising, swishing the swartgrass. There’s an empty, metal smell of cold water and mud. It will be night soon. The lights are coming on in and around the fortalice, and their reflections are bobbing on the black river.

‘Trooper Persson,’ the servitor calls.

It’s time to stop. The end of the day’s toil. Wash up, grace and supper. Oll is weary, but he’s about eight rows back from where he thought he’d be. Too much of the day spent looking up at the sky, at the running lights of ships. Too much of the day wasted watching the heavy landers glinting as they pass overhead.

Graft trundles up to him. The servitor’s huge bulk-extension upper limbs, built for ammo loading, have been replaced by basic cargo shifting arms.

‘Time to stop, Trooper Persson,’ Graft says.

Oll nods. They’ve done what they can with the light.

But he doesn’t feel like it’s time to stop. It feels like something’s about to start.

Ventanus and Selaton watch Arbute talking to another gang of labour guild officials. Behind them, a bulk-lander as huge and drab as a cliff face is slowly backing into a cargo silo. Oil stains shine on the rockcrete ground.