WORDL ENGINE (chapter 1: critique welcome)

[kurisawa]

WORLD ENGINE

Part I: Apertus

ONE

Obsidia System – Devos Sector – Ultima Segmentum – 2/071/925.M41

‘MY LIEGE, THIS is insane!’ Captain Artor Amhrad shouted into the vox-bead integrated into his ornate helm. Nearby, the volcanic lake vomited a geyser of lava into the ash-choked sky, radiating waves of carbon-vaporizing heat, growling like a mighty dragon. The heavens rejoined with ear-splitting shrieks of lightning.

‘The heathens cower up there, Captain Amhrad,’ Chapter Master Ultor Pendragus’s heroic voice was distorted through the vox by the warping heat and electromagnetic charge of the dense atmosphere. ‘Do you mean to let them get away?’

Artor stole a glance over the jagged ridge of basalt he was sheltering behind. Across the mountainside, a glimpse of dull steel through the roiling smog betrayed the position of the Chapter Master, not one hundred paces away.

‘That’s not what I mean, My Liege,’ voxed Artor. ‘We have finally located the sanctum. We can call in the ordnance to precede the assault.’

He glanced from the churning sea of magma beneath them to the slopes of igneous rock above. Squatting atop the mountain, Sanctum Imperialis Avalus glowered from within its cloaks of smoke and ash.

‘Artor, Artor,’ chuckled Ultor over the vox. ‘That would be too easy, and comms are restricted to close range anyway.’

‘We could send a runner back down to the drop-site, My Liege.’

Deafening claps of thunder reverberated through the tumultuous heavens, the fractured planet daring Artor to waste more time retracing the climb they had already achieved.

‘Remember why we are here, Artor; the holy relics hidden within the sanctum are too valuable to risk orbital bombardment.’

‘Surely the fiends have already taken them from this place, My Liege?’

‘Then why are they still here, fighting us across this damned world?’

‘You think the sisters have resisted them? The stasis seals are still intact?’

‘That’s exactly what I think, Captain, and that’s why we cannot bombard the sanctum. Our pious sisters in battle may well still be alive and in distress!’

Another angry explosion from the sea of magma showered Artor’s blue-steel suit of power armour with globules of tephra, scorching dark lines into the ceramite. He glanced up again at the fortress. Its obsidian walls towered straight up into the shrouded heavens, hundreds of metres tall, adorned with daemonic gargoyles, and the statues of righteous saints smiting them.

‘At least Thunderhawks, My Liege, even flying blind…’

‘No time. We must make the assault by ourselves, the old fashioned way,’ said the Chapter Master, and Artor could almost visualise the grin of anticipation breaking across the bearded face of his liege lord.

‘Who else is with you, My Liege?’

‘Just old Cadorius.’

‘The Wyvern, My Liege?’

‘First company were… ah… waylaid by a warband of the heathens to ensure I made it this far. That means your company are the first to the citadel, Artor: Glory to the Phoenix!’

Artor snorted, anticipating how annoyed Captain Agravain of First Company would feel about that. He reviewed the surviving Astral Knights of Third Company, sheltering from the wrath of the magma storm around the base of the mountain beneath the citadel walls. He had eighty eight men left standing. Hardly enough.

‘My Liege, are you sure…?’

‘Is the soothsayer with you, Artor?’ the Chapter Master cut him off.

Artor glanced across to Angharad Nirlem, head of the chapter’s order of Vaticinators. His grey bush of a beard was singed by the molten heat.

‘I’m looking at him, My Liege.’

‘Pray tell, what does he soothsay?’

Nirlem did not use a vox – he didn’t need to – but closed his sea-green eyes and frowned, deepening the wrinkles of his well-weathered scalp. He lurched across the pyroclastic rocks, slipping on the shingle of the mountainside toward Artor, leaning on his staff of meteoric iron. When he reached Artor he grabbed his shoulder plastron, eyes wide, and said, ‘He’s right! They are still alive inside – but there is not much time, yes, yes!’

Artor nodded then voxed, ‘My Liege, forgive my doubts…’

‘Oho Artor, no time for that! You were ever the cautious one, but now there is no time to wait. Let us teach these fiends the error of their ways. Charge!’

Artor repeated the order over the company channel, and the Adeptus Astartes gathered their weapons and marched up the treacherous slopes towards the fortress walls. Their company banner wilted in the heat, scorched in a hundred places. Upon the great flag soared a phoenix woven from golden flax set against a scarlet field, bearing in its talons a broadsword; Captain Artor’s personal heraldry, which was repeated upon his left shoulder plastron. He hefted his bolter across one shoulder and gripped his buzzing chainsword in his right gauntlet. The rugged blade of spinning diamantine teeth had already scored dozens of kills for him this long day.

A renewed storm of fire rained down on them, but not magma or tephra. Bolter shells and frag missiles roared down and exploded in the hillside amongst the struggling knights. The crashes were lost in the cauldron of volcanic violence and atmospheric storms. His men weathered the storm, stoically maintaining their march, and the fire was thankfully inaccurate.

Scorched and dented by the battle, the Astral Knights’ storm-grey battle plate still proudly presented upon their right shoulder plastrons the chapter heraldry of six bright stars set against a midnight sky: Three stars for their sacred oaths to honour the Emperor, their liege lord, and their gene-father, Rogal Dorn; and three more for the three virtues of the Astral Knight; honesty, courage and faith. Their left plastrons each bore their personal coats of arms – earned as clan warriors of their homeworld.

Artor offered praise to the Emperor for the sensor-blinding atmosphere of Obsidia, which prevented any kind of accuracy in all but close-range shooting from the heathens. Even targeters were thwarted by the molten temperatures and electromagnetic distortion.

A moment of stillness cleared in the storm, and a line of explosions erupted before him. Artor took cover behind a basalt boulder.

‘Auto-cannons!’ he yelled over the company vox.

‘Hell of a place for a sanctum!’ Artor shouted at Nirlem, who collapsed next to him.

‘I expect that is precisely why the relics were hidden here, yes, yes!’ said Nirlem, a manic gleam in his eye.

The ground heaved again beneath them, and Artor was gripped by a sudden premonition that the incessant seismic ruptures of the planet were about to swallow whole the fortress and its mountain. Then he recalled the engram-patch and that the improbable island was in fact floating just above and safely separated from the unstable planet surface, kept aloft by the ancient miracles of the Mechanicus; thermal-powered suspensors of awesome strength.

The ash clouds closed in and the enemy suppressing fire ceased. The Astral Knights renewed their blind march. Fifty metres from the fortress walls, they formed up behind their liege lord. Reclusiarch Alain Cadorius, the chapter’s chaplain primus, lurked nearby in his pitch battle plate, his helm a grimacing skull.

‘Look,’ Ultor pointed to the fortress walls and grinned, his wide-set eyes gleaming. ‘The heathens made it easy for us.’

Ultor did not wear a helm, trusting his multi-lung to protect him from the poisonous atmosphere. It was a matter of honour, and a display of disregard for the dangers. His golden crown sat upon his charcoal brow, dulled by centuries of warfare.

Artor followed his pointing finger. The portcullis and gates had been smashed asunder by the previous besiegers. The way into the sanctum was open.

‘My Liege, they are coming out to meet us!’ Artor said.

‘Aye, they mean to pretend some semblance of honour,’ the Chapter Master said. ‘Let us end that charade with haste!’

The Astral Knights of the Third Company roared a battle cry and loped up the hillside. Ahead, Artor watched the hated Word Bearers stride out from the fortress to fight them.

Armoured in battle plate stained the colour of arterial blood, the Chaos warriors chanted mantras in the insane languages of the warp-spawn. The hideous voices reached out to Artor, filtering through the cacophony of the volcanic storms. His skin crawled at the unnerving din, but with the psycho-indoctrination of the Adeptus Astartes, fear transformed into hatred.

The Astral Knights smashed into the Word Bearers, bolt-weapons exploding and chainswords clashing. Crimson warriors with bronze horns curling from their helms wrestled with silver-armoured knights. And the heavens roared approval with peals of thunder and lightning.

Chapter Master Ultor Pendragus led the charge, his great broadsword smiting heathen foes left and right as he advanced for the arched gateway beneath a defiled statue of the Holy God-Emperor. Brother Cadorius covered his liege lord’s shieldside, his Crozius Arcanum battle-mace rising and falling with mechanical rhythm, pulverising any foes that dared attempt the loathsome trick of blindsiding Ultor.

‘To the Dragon!’ yelled Artor. The Astral Knights formed a wedge and stormed their way up the aphanitic shingle, driving back the scarlet renegades.

Ultor, Cadorius, Artor and Nirlem powered their way through the sundered gateway and into the fortress, the knights of Third Company battling behind them. Passing through invisible repulsor fields, the retinal display icons inside Artor’s helm reported the plunge in temperature, and the blinding smog vanished to be replaced by the echoing darkness of a stone-walled hall.

Two more Word Bearers lumbered from the shadows, chain-axes swinging, but Cadorius smashed one of the giants to the flagstones while Nirlem closed his eyes and stretched out a palm. Exhorting the primal powers of the Annwn, he hurled the horned warrior into a wall, crushing the life from the fiend.

Reclusiarch Cadorius hissed through his skull-helm’s vox-grate, displaying his abhorrence for the soothsayer’s sorcery. Ultor turned to Artor, the grin still splitting his scorched beard.

‘To the dungeons with you, Artor. You must rescue the sisters!’

‘And you, My Liege?’

‘I have an appointment with a blasphemy in the keep. Cadorius, are you coming or not?’

‘I am with you, My Liege,’ Cadorius’s deep voice rumbled from his vox-grate.

A lofty hallway stretched away from the entrance into the bowels of the fortress, arched portals picketing either side. The battle between the knights and Chaos warriors spilled under the ruined gateway, shattering the moment of silence. Roars of hatred and screams of chain-axes split the darkness. Blood and mechanical fluids fountained. Stray bolt missiles shrieked about the hallway before exploding in the walls. In the madness, Nirlem dragged Artor to a flight of stone steps hidden behind a hefty doorway.

‘To the dungeons, yes, yes!’ he said.

They scrambled deeper into the darkness, Artor looking over his shoulder, aware that his knights were fighting for their lives.

‘Not much time!’

On the lower level, a dingy corridor marched into darkness and with the roars of battle left behind, Artor could hear a new sound. His blood curdled. They were screams. Artor activated the teeth of his chainsword and charged along the passageway, Nirlem striding behind, illuminating shadowy recesses with the jeweled tip of his staff.

Artor came to a doorway and witnessed the scene within, lit by the fires of wall-mounted braziers. Sisters lay chained to rockrete slabs, Word Bearers standing over them with lashes and hot irons. Whatever secrets they had tried for so long to torture out of the sisters were forgotten, as a black-helmed warrior moved from slab to slab, beheading each sister in turn with a double-bladed axe. The blade reared like a snake, a pale sister reciting prayers with her eyes closed beneath it. Artor could only watch as the blow fell, ending the pious damsel’s life.

Artor swung round his bolter, and Nirlem flanked him, pointing his own pistol. With a righteous roar they hurled mass-reactive fury into the dungeon, hammering each Chaos warrior in turn until his crimson armour ruptured and exploded from within, detonated by the bolts. The Word Bearers scrambled to return fire, several even leaping the stone slabs to try and close, but Artor and Nirlem maintained the torrents of destruction on full-automatic and soon the chamber was filled with cordite smoke and blackened corpses.

Artor rushed to the nearest slab, wincing at the state of the blood-drenched damsel.

‘I am alive,’ she whispered, ‘but the Canoness…’

Her eyes flicked to a doorway on the far side of the chamber.

‘Go,’ said Nirlem, ‘I will release the survivors, yes, yes!’

Artor nodded and dashed through the lingering haze from the firefight. He smashed down the door with an armoured boot to reveal a circular dungeon walled with moist stone. A lady dangled in its centre, chained by the wrists and dripping blood. Just as he detected the unnatural stink, a monster hissed at Artor, leaping from the shadows on his blindside.

Artor parried a swipe from an… appendage… the torturer was a mutated wretch. Its once proud battle plate of the Adeptus Astartes had buckled and deformed over millennia of exposure to the warp. The stench of putrefied ectoplasm assailed Artor’s nostrils even through the auto-senses of his helm. The abomination forced him back a step, three tentacles lashing from one side of its corrupted physique. He countered with a cross-swing from his chainsword, but it smashed into a monstrous claw that ended the creature’s left arm. The chitin was rugged enough to deflect even the diamantine jaws of his blade.

Artor stepped back again as the claw thrust for his neck, horrified to see a featureless blob comprised the mutant’s head. He bashed aside the mutant’s pincer, ducked another whipping tentacle, and scrutinised the thing, looking for a weakness.

‘The belly,’ gasped the sister. ‘Cut its cursed belly!’

Artor realised what she meant as he spotted a rent in the body armour of the mutant, revealing glistening horror within. A snakelike tongue slobbered from a maw in the thing’s abdomen. He suspected the pulsing orb in what should have been its chest cavity to be its eye. The tentacles lashed again, one slinking around his left vambrace. Coils of electric energy shrieked through the appendage and surged into Artor’s body. Psycho-indoctrinated to deal with pain, Artor gritted his teeth and shuddered. With monumental effort he wrenched his arm free of the grip and swung his chainsword again. The mutant sidled under the horizontal strike and circled, hissing from the body-mouth.

Artor made his decision. The mutant was too quick and bore too many weapons to achieve a clean strike. He placed his faith in his armour and the Emperor and lunged at the mutant.

Surprised by the straightforward attack, the mutant could only lash back like a cornered animal, scoring scratches and jolts of electrical pain through the knight’s armour. Artor thrust his chainsword and rammed the tip deep into the dark orb. It screamed like a banshee banished to the underworld, and viscous fluids bubbled from the eye. The mutant jerked in its death spasms, limbs flailing, its daemonic howl ripping through the darkness. Finally it crumpled and remained still.

Artor shrugged off his revulsion and crossed to the Canoness, supporting her in one powerful arm while he sliced the chains above her wrists with his sword. She sagged into his embrace. Her flaxen hair lay limp against her wan skin and her sapphire eyes stared up at his helm.

‘You saved us… Lord Knight,’ she whispered.

‘It is our creed,’ said Artor, resting the Canoness upon the flagstones. ‘I am Captain Artor Amhrad of the Astral Knights, at your service, My Lady.’

‘Sister Caelia, of the Order of Our Martyred Lady, and it is I who pledge my service to you.’

Artor knew mortals felt pain differently to him, and admired her composure despite the raw lash-wounds and electric burns marring her body. Her eyes flicked to the dungeon entrance.

‘You are the wizard?’

Artor glanced over his shoulder and saw Nirlem filling the doorway, half a dozen surviving maidens behind him. He nodded, the manic gleam in his eye.

‘One came, a long time ago, and read the Tarot to us. He spoke of your coming,’ she returned her long-lashed stare to Artor, registering the phoenix heraldry on his shoulder plastron.

‘The daemon prince came with his… minions,’ she threw a glare at the dead mutant in the corner of the dungeon, ‘to steal a sacred weapon. It believes the weapon is fated to destroy it, and wanted to break the prophecy.’

‘Is the prophecy true?’ said Artor.

‘It is time to find that out,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’

[kurisawa]

She led Artor down to a deeper part of the dungeon then, along echoing passageways and past dusty crypts. A formidable doorway ended a tunnel, forged of reinforced armaplas, and the translucent haze of a stasis field guarded the entrance.

‘This is what they wanted, the code to enter the vault,’ said Caelia, crossing to a rune-grid next to the recessed portal. ‘This is why they tortured us, and killed my Novitiates.’

‘I am sorry for your loss, Canoness Caelia.’

‘I give it to you freely now, but you must avenge that which we have suffered.’

‘I swear it upon my honour as an Astral Knight.’

She keyed the rune code and a sequence of clunks heralded the arcane mechanisms of the vault, dormant for millennia, were finally unlocking to reveal their treasure.

‘The entity they call the Tormentor is still up there,’ said Caelia, casting her eyes up to the low ceiling, ‘choose your weapon, knight, and banish it before it kills your master.’

Artor peeped into the dusty vault. In the darkness, altars haloed with blue repulsor fields bore ancient relics.

‘Choose?’ said Artor.

‘The Tarot said the weapon would choose you, but it is the same difference.’

‘I do not have time for games! Which is the weapon of the prophecy?’

‘The one that you choose, Sir Knight.’

Artor growled, fearing he could detect with his enhanced hearing the distant roars of a battle raging far away in the citadel. Nirlem appeared behind them in the vault, rubbing his beard, his eyes gleaming at so many ancient relics of the Holy Imperium gathered in one place.

‘No time to think about it, yes, yes!’ he said to Artor.

Artor huffed and scanned the artifacts hiding in the gloom of the vault. There were heavy tomes and delicate statues of the double-headed Aquila, which surely were worthless to him. There was a helm with a statuette of a dragon worked into its crown, and a shield with what looked like an ancient power-field generator at its hub. There was an axe – double-headed and too cumbersome for his preferred style of swordsmanship – and a truly ancient bolter, inscribed across its gilded carapace with hundreds of tiny lines of ancient text.

When he saw it, he knew it was the one, and shivered. Across the vault, its blade embedded in a plinth, a wide-bladed sword with quillons fashioned in the forms of a pair of nebulae bathed in the light of its repulsor field.

‘The Sable Sword,’ breathed Canoness Caelia, following his gaze. ‘You choose well, Lord Knight.’

Artor crossed the vault and pushed his hand through the preservation barrier, feeling the tingle as the energy pulsed through his power armour. He gripped the steel-bound hilt of the sword in his gauntleted hand. Caelia and Nirlem remained silent behind him. Artor tugged, and after a moment of resistance, the blade slid free, its hiss like the scream of a hunting eagle released.

The blade was onyx black, forged of some forbidden metal, and honed to razor edges. Artor turned and brandished the Sable Sword. Caelia bowed her head and whispered a prayer. Nirlem had closed his eyes, and was concentrating on some distant deed. His eyes snapped open.

‘To the keep: Destiny unfolds, yes, yes!’ he said. He grabbed Artor’s arm and for a second time dragged him on his harried journey.

Artor and Nirlem thundered into the towering atrium at the vertex of the keep and witnessed a battle in the balance. Cadorius rumbled battle-hymns as he waded through a torrent of wailing daemons. The shadow-skinned warp-spawn surrounded the black armoured Reclusiarch, striking with rapier claws and hissing through dagger-fanged maws. Deeper in the darkness, beyond the smashed pews and defaced statues of Imperial saints, Artor spotted the beasts’ conjurer.

A Dark Apostle, one of the fallen chaplains, skulked beneath clerestory windows opening to the storms of Obsidia outside. His armour tainted the colour of congealed blood, the blasphemer clutched the ultimate insult to the Holy God-Emperor; an Accursed Crozius, defaced to bear the eight-pointed star of the Chaos gods. From a swirling vortex invoked at the centre of the daemonic icon, yet another of the nightmares crawled into reality, hungering for souls to nourish its ethereal form.

A rank stench tore Artor’s attention to another direction, where a hunched thing whispered beneath its hooded robes, skeletal claws gesturing. Another warp-spawn, Artor concluded, but this one was different. Spectres wailed and thrashed above its faceless head, and the air emanating from it stank of magic.

‘I’ll deal with the sorcerer,’ said Nirlem, ‘You go to the Dragon, yes, yes!’

Artor switched his gaze to the dais at the far end of the hall. There, Ultor Pendragus dueled a towering abomination. The monster was forged of the very stuff of chaos, smoke and fire leaking from the armour plates fused to its molten hide. Great bat-like wings thrashed on its back and it stamped steel-clawed hooves as it fought the Chapter Master. Artor charged, brandishing the Sable Sword.

The daemon prince threw back its serpent head and screamed fury as Ultor’s broadsword slashed across its chest. Artor’s heart leapt, hoping that his liege lord had scored the killing blow. But a daemonic aura thwarted the Chapter Master’s blade, glowing a blinding crimson for a moment. Artor closed, smashing aside pews.

The daemon prince riposted, a halberd clutched in two massive claws cleaving the air in twain. Ultor Pendragus ducked under the sweep, sidling yet closer for another thrust at the abomination’s belly. The aura again deflected the blow, and in that moment, Artor saw what his liege lord could not. By fighting in close, trading blow for blow, the Chapter Master would never elude the monster’s cunning screen. But thus was ever the Chapter Master’s preferred style of swordfighting, of all the ninety-three styles memorised and perfected by the Astral Knights, and after centuries of success he was not about to change now. Artor stumbled, hesitating, knowing he had to warn his liege lord by vox but not daring to break his concentration in the focus of the brawl.

The monster’s snake-like jaws opened wide and it exhaled a stream of golden fire. Artor yelled. Ultor Pendragus did not wear a helm. It was his gesture to display ridicule for any threat that faced him. The warp-fire engulfed his chest and head. Artor set off at a charge again, only metres separating him from his liege lord. Ultor shrugged off the heat of the fire, but staggered a step, still blinded by the unexpected attack. The daemon prince pounced, slamming his halberd into the chest of the stunned Chapter Master. Ultor fell.

Ultor Pendragus, Chapter Master of the Astral Knights and victor over every foe the galaxy had thrown at him for over five hundred years, fell.

The Tormentor howled its triumph, the storms raging outside the fortress mingling with its inhuman voice, and swept its halberd down again. An executioner’s overhead strike cracked the paladin’s armour with a sickening crunch.

‘My Liege, no!’ bellowed Artor, mounting the steps of the dais.

The daemon prince whirled to face him, its dagger-fangs bared in a hellish grin, wychfires flaming in its jewel-like eyes. In the scant moments it had taken him to get to the dais, Artor felt he had acquired the measure of the beast, but he was cautious, taking a defensive posture and keeping his distance from the halberd. He heard mayhem at the other end of the hall, and hoped Nirlem and Cadorius were triumphing in their struggles: He could not suffer any distraction in this confrontation.

Artor and the beast stepped once, twice, circling. Artor feinted, whirling back a step as the halberd whistled past his helm. The abomination was fast, and the halberd was a hellforged blade. Ultor had been wise to fight inside its effective reach. They traded blows; probing strikes and parries, testing the others range and strength. Still they circled, Artor’s years of arduous training guiding his feet instinctively. Artor repeated his feint, but this time spun as the halberd slashed at him. He cut at an angle, low to high, with the Sable Sword, and his armour juddered with the impact, the servo-mechanisms struggling to compensate.

The daemon prince howled again, this time in agony. Artor grinned beneath his helm, witnessing one cleaved forearm of the beast incinerate into nothingness as it crashed onto the flagstones. The monster recoiled, clutching the halberd in its one remaining claw. Artor saw the shock of recognition in its eyes.

‘Yes, fiend, this is the Sable Sword: This is your destroyer!’

Artor advanced, sidestepping the halberd, which now heaved in clumsy arcs in the monster’s one-handed grip, and struck at a knee. The monster howled again. Artor had observed the limits of the daemon’s protective aura as it flickered and glowed during the duel with Ultor. He had seen the edges of its range, emanating from the centre of its chest, perhaps a mutated energy field from the abomination’s suit of armour.

Ultor. My liege lord, he remembered. I must finish this quickly.

Artor slashed another knee and leapt back as the daemon prince crashed forwards, presenting the back of its neck.

‘For the Emperor!’ yelled Artor, burying the black blade into the abomination’s neck. A cyclone of energy whipped around him, pierced by the deafening shrieks of the monster. All was fire and smoke and violence, and then it was gone, banished forever back to the hells where it was conceived, leaving only a bitter scream echoing in the aural-sensors of Artor’s helm.

Artor took a deep breath, checking on the icons of his retinal display, seeing reported in runes how exhausted his augmented body had become during the battle. He sagged to his knees beside Ultor Pendragus.

‘My Liege!’

The plaintive cry was the vox-voice of Cadorius, and Artor looked up to see the chaplain and Nirlem hurrying towards the dais, no trace left of the Dark Apostle or his daemonic minions. The sorcerer-spawn was banished too, but Artor was shocked at the gaunt, withered visage of the soothsayer.

‘Apothecary!’ Cadorius bellowed over the vox, ‘All companies in range and receiving, we need an apothecary in the keep now!’

Artor studied the ruined body of his Chapter Master, numb with shock. He removed his helmet, despite knowing this might reveal his tear-filled eyes. Nirlem staggered nearby, shadow-ringed eyes sunken in their sockets.

‘Throne damn you! Does anybody hear me?’ bellowed Cadorius again.

‘Artor…’ croaked a weak voice, and Cadorius silenced. Artor leaned closer. Ultor had spoken. His face, so handsome and vital in life, was a ruined mess of blood, but the whisper came again.

‘Artor, are you there?’

‘I am here, My Liege, you must hold on!’ Artor grabbed one of his gauntleted hands. ‘Help is coming!’

‘Artor, Artor, too late for that…’

Artor glanced up at the skull-face of Cadorius.

‘Did you slay the beast, Artor?’ wheezed Ultor.

‘It is banished,’ said Artor, ‘and you will heal!’

‘Good man, but now listen closely to me,’ whispered Ultor. ‘When my time has ended, I choose you to lead the chapter.’

‘My Liege,’ said Artor, shaking his head, ‘speak not of such things. Not yet!’

‘No,’ Ultor coughed and his splintered chest heaved. ‘Now is the only chance I have. You were ever the wise one, Artor. You must lead the chapter after me.’

‘I… I cannot accept… tradition… First Company…’

‘Promise it to me, Artor, while I can still hear you. Am I not your liege lord?’

Artor stared at Cadorius, squatting the other side of Ultor’s prone body. The Reclusiarch said nothing. His skull-helm betrayed nothing.

‘Promise it, Artor!’ Ultor spat bright blood and shuddered, ‘To your liege!’

‘Then I swear it, My Liege, if it comes to it.’

‘Then the Emperor may take me to his side at last,’ gasped Ultor. His chest shuddered again and blood gurgled in his throat.

‘My Liege? My Liege!’ Cadorius activated his vox again, ‘Astral Knights! Answer me!’

Artor clung to Ultor’s hand, trembling.

‘This is Morien,’ a voice crackled over the vox, heavily distorted. ‘Second Company are inside.’

‘Get to the keep!’ roared Cadorius, ‘and bring every damned apothecary you can. Our liege lord has fallen!’

[kurisawa]

TWO

Gaios System – Vidar Sector – Ultima Segmentum – 2/070/925.M41

‘ARE YOU SURE you want to do that, my dear?’ Voyus Hectorius leaned back from the glass table, set his skinny elbows upon the plush arms of his Gaiosian ox-hide chair, and pressed his palms together. His stony eyes squinted within his pinched face, scrutinising the quartz statuettes arrayed across the regicide board.

‘Hmmm,’ said Evēre, biting an undecorated fingernail on one hand while leaving a finger from the other touching her playing piece.

‘Remember, an exchange should only be forced if it leaves you in a superior position,’ persisted Hectorius, his voice an insipid drawl as cold as his eyes, ‘and I have already captured two of your retainers.’

Evēre shrugged and released the figurine, concluding her move.

Hectorius sloped forward and skated his retainer to capture Evēre’s piece. Evēre adjusted her starched cadet uniform. Her bulb of amasec remained untouched beside the Regicide board, the golden liquid twinkling in the dimmed glow-globes of Captain Hectorius’s private quarters.

‘Simplifying is to be recommended only if you wish to reach the endgame from a stronger position,’ Hectorius droned on. He took up his own bulb of amasec and swished the nectar around the crystal glass.

Evēre jumped her paladin onto the key square, stealing his retainer. The captain paused to run a hand through his thinning hair – bleached white to hide the grey – then glided his fortress across the board. He snatched up and brandished her paladin.

‘There, you see,’ Hectorius’s tongue flickered out to lick his thin lips. ‘You have lost your paladin for no gain, and now your defence is wide open.’

Evēre now leant forwards, chewing her lip.

‘I don’t see how you can reorganise before my fortress attacks your regent,’ Hectorius crowed.

Evēre cast a sidelong glance out of the armourcrys fenestra that comprised one whole wall of the captain’s quarters. Outside the Sword-class starship Rhenus, the serene void stretched away to infinity, painted with swirls of nebulae and spatters of stars. Planet Gaios Duos revolved beneath them, its continent-wide cyclones reflected dimly in the marblezoid ceiling inside the chamber. A surreptitious glance in the other direction informed Evēre that Hectorius had still left the sliding door to his sleeping quarters conspicuously open.

Evēre refocused her green eyes on the regicide board, took a deep breath, and swept her ecclesiarch in a long diagonal move to capture a retainer that Hectorius’s fortress had been defending only a moment ago. The move also placed his regent under execution threat.

Hectorius jerked in his seat, almost spilling his amasec.

‘Oh, a gambit…’ he whispered, then cut himself off.

Evēre now reclined and folded her arms. Hectorius stared at the regicide board for a long time. Evēre fought to prevent a smirk spreading across her lips. She said, ‘I believe that is regicide in three.’

Hectorius hissed and held up a hand, squinting.
Finally, he sighed and leant back again.
The thin smile returned.

‘You are learning very quickly, Evēre.’

‘Thank you, Lord Captain.’

‘Oh, please, Voyus is fine in here. We are not on duty now. You can… let your hair down a little, you know.’

Evēre touched her head to check her long black hair was still set in its tight ball above the nape of her neck. Hectorius took another sip of amasec, staring at the regicide board.

‘Yes, yes… very good. I see I shall have to set you sterner tests from now on.’

‘A test?’

‘Indeed. I wondered whether you would see the opportunity I left open for you.’

‘Well,’ Evēre took a deep breath, ‘your comments about how you were about to attack my regent were indeed… very testing.’

‘Oho ho…’ Hectorius waved a hand. ‘Won’t you try a little amasec, at least? It’s a classic Flaxian vintage.’

‘I’m on watch duty in two hours.’

‘Oh… well, two hours is plenty of time. Or perhaps I could change your shift with another of the officer cadets?’

‘I would not want preferential treatment, Lord Captain.’

‘Oho ho…’

The sombre warble of a servo-skull, floating on its suspensor motors near to the entrance to the quarters, disturbed them. Hectorius glided to his feet, taking his bulb of amasec with him, and sauntered towards the automaton. His maroon gown of Plenusian silks shuffled across the lavish carpet behind him. Hectorius stopped right before the glowing optical sensor set in the eye socket of the skull, so that only his face would be seen by the signaler; not the sleeping garments and slippers.

Evēre scowled at his back, stifling a shudder as she considered what she would probably have to do, eventually, if she was to be recommended for her own command.

‘I left explicit orders not to be disturbed except in case of emergency,’ Hectorius drawled into the vox set embedded in the servo-skull, then paused. Evēre could not hear whatever the officer of the watch was reporting to the commander.

‘What?’

The sharp tone made Evēre sit up straight.

‘Have you been drinking, man?’

She strained to catch any words from the tinny warble of the vox set.

‘Alright. Standby for orders,’ said Hectorius, ‘and this is not an emergency.’

He huffed.

‘What is it, Lord Captain?’ Evēre rose as Hectorius padded across the carpet towards an antique Fortressian teleocular, complete with manual adjustments for the lenses and its own brass tripod.

‘It had better not be a prank, that’s for sure,’ Hectorius mumbled, adjusting his contraption then bending and peering into the lens at one end.

‘Lord Captain?’

‘Apparently…’ said Hectorius, tweaking a dial, ‘The Gaios System has just gained another planet.’

‘I… I don’t understand.’

‘Impossible!’ Hectorius straightened. He checked adjustment runes along the positional array. Then he looked at Evēre.

‘Take a look at this, will you my dear?’

He gestured to the lens. Evēre frowned, then bowed to look.

‘Beyond Tertios, there, point-zero-zero-two degrees in the spinward quadrant. What do you see?’

‘Just a moment, Lord Captain,’ Evēre blinked and looked again. ‘That can’t be right. A meteor?’

‘That would be the biggest I’ve ever seen,’ said Hectorius. He turned and shuffled towards a hololithic console beside the drinks cabinet. He switched on the device and sorted through three-dimensional representations of the Gaios System. Little ghostly lights hovered above the projectors then disappeared, to be replaced by new configurations.

Evēre returned her gaze to the object magnified by the teleocular.

‘It’s moving,’ she commented.

‘Indeed,’ said Hectorius. ‘The watch officer said it was heading straight for Tertios.’

[kurisawa]

‘BELAY THAT LAST,’ Voyus Hectorius strolled onto the command dais of the Rhenus, returning salutes with a vague wave to the tactical crew sitting at the half dozen stations set around the circumference of the platform. Voidborne faces peered at their captain, ghastly in the azure glow of their cogitator screens. ‘Maintain current speed.’

‘Lord Captain?’ Evēre whirled from her monitoring station. ‘We won’t get there in time.’

‘In time for what, my dear?’

Evēre exhaled, maintaining her composure despite the captain’s inappropriate address. He was the captain of the Rhenus, and while the God-Emperor was master of the universe, so the saying went, a captain was still master of his ship.

‘The… the thing… It is closing very fast, Lord Captain, and…’

Hectorius slumped into his gilt veneered command throne, creasing his uniform of indigo velvet. The uniform’s golden epaulettes hunched over his shoulders as he sat, his pointed face jutting out between them like a vulture, deathly pale in the rays of a glow-globe positioned above his head. Evēre had often wondered why Hectorius did not buy a new dress suit to better fit his shrinking frame. Or indeed, why he did not partake in the usual health-revitalising juvenat habits of the officer class. He collected numerous – but less flamboyant – trinkets and gowns and other displays of wealth, after all.

Hectorius himself had once quipped that he liked to show an honest face to the menials, but Evēre had heard rumours among the cadets about dubious – and failed – investments leaving him impatient for his pension.

‘Lord Captain! I have Gaios Tertios waiting on the vox,’ Jan Jecetus stepped forward, stamped and stiffly saluted. The gangly cadet’s shock of fair hair glowed so white in the lume-light it matched Hectorius’s own bleached wisps. Evēre bristled at the interruption but relayed Hectorius’s orders down to the enginarium while Jan acted as an unnecessary conduit between the vox station and the captain.

Arranged in pews stretching either side of the long nave beyond the command dais, logisticians laboured, hard-wired into scores of cogitator stations. Patches of sallow skin between augmetic alterations and nerve-cables plugged into the backs of their skulls contended that they were once human. Mechanical eyes whirred in sutured sockets as the menials processed unending flows of data from the many systems of the one-point-six-kilometre long frigate. Robed tech-priests patrolled the pews, hurrying back and forth to the command dais with pertinent data anomalies.

Huge clerestory windows opened to the majesty of the void along either side of the cathedral-like bridge. The biggest, a circular armourcrys portal with scenes of famous naval battles painted in stained glass around its circumference, towered at the far end of the nave. And through this expansive lens, beyond the prow of the warship, the star-dusted cushion of space caressed the brown-green ball of Gaios Tertios, suspended in the centre of the Rhenus’s oculus.

‘Thank you, my man,’ Hectorius smiled at Jan.

Evēre narrowed her eyes at her fellow officer cadet. Jan had recently decided he was no longer speaking to Evēre, after she had turned down his third attempt to flirt with her while off-duty.

Hectorius fiddled with vox controls set into the wide arms of his throne.

‘This is the Rhenus,’ he drawled.

‘About time!’ barked a voice through vox-speakers set around the dais. It was heavily distorted but the gruff tone was unmistakable. ‘Whom am I addressing?’

Hectorius glanced at Jan. The cadet gulped and tugged at the collar of his cobalt-blue uniform and whispered, ‘General Maxim of the Flaxian barracks. There’s some sort of interference on the signal.’

Hectorius nodded and straightened in his throne. An Imperial Guard general heavily outranked a navy frigate captain, relatively. And they often sipped amasec in the same clubs as admirals.

‘This is Captain Voyus Hectorius of His Imperial Ship, the Rhenus. We are closing now, Lord General. Estimated arrival in…’ he glanced at Evēre this time.

‘Fourteen-point-three hours, Lord Captain,’ she said.

‘… just over fourteen hours.’

‘That’s not quick enough, man!’ shouted the general. ‘Where’s the damned navy when we need them? You realise I have five million men stationed on this damned farm of a planet? What if we need to evacuate?’

‘General, sir, oho ho… I believe it is important that we do not panic. The probability of the object actually colliding is infinitesimal, no?’

‘Update your damned data, Captain! This near miss could be catastrophic, and we still don’t know what it is. We damn well may need to get out of here in a hurry!’

The vox squelched as static interference clouded the signal.

‘Damn the Omnissiah!’ cursed the general, his voice fading almost to a whisper through the distortion. ‘I’ll vox back for confirmation.’

The signal cut completely.

‘What does he mean?’ Hectorius glared at Evēre.

She dashed to the hexagonal hololithic altar at the centre of the command dais and uploaded the latest information gathered by the logisticians.

‘Here, Lord Captain,’ she said, pulling a lightquill from her chest pocket and tracing a curve by hand through the three-dimensional display, pale orbs constructed of light representing the planets of the system. ‘The object is traveling in an arc. It’s like it is homing in on Tertios.’

‘Impossible,’ commented Hectorius.

Jan stamped a foot as if he were saluting. ‘It’s just the gravity of the star, surely, Lord Captain? We may be witnessing the capture of a new planet by the Gaios system.’

‘An escaped planet: Yes, that might be it,’ Hectorius nodded.

‘There were no alerts from sector command,’ Evēre frowned. ‘And look, the curve is arcing against the rotation. It would bend this way if it were simply settling into orbit. Besides, Planet Quintus is the nearer mass with effective gravity presence. According to the lexicanum astra geologicus, the object cannot be logically taking this path, if it is a simple meteor or escaped body, Lord Captain.’

Hectorius leant on one elbow while Evēre explained, then looked at Jan.

‘I… err…’ Jan shrugged.

‘Then what are you suggesting it is, my dear?’ Hectorius returned his vulture stare to her.

‘I don’t know, Lord Captain, but we should be prepared for the possibility that it will collide with Tertios.’

Evēre glanced out of the oculus at the end of the bridge.

‘Lord Captain, apart from the soldiers in the training barracks, there are over a billion farmers and their families… the livestock… we should accelerate.’

‘We are just a patrol and escort frigate, my dear, in case you haven’t noticed. What do you think we can do when we get there?’

Evēre took a moment to gather herself.

‘The guards have lighters but nothing to get onto once in orbit. If they can extend the life-support span of the transports, perhaps we can use our shuttles to somehow connect them to us, like an anchor chained to an ocean vessel, and pull them away until relief arrives.’

Hectorius set his skinny elbows on the arms of the throne and pressed his palms together.

‘Where is the rest of the squadron?’ he asked Jan.

The cadet consulted a data-slate.

‘Dacicus still at dock at Lentrel Prime – but will make all haste,’ he said, ‘the Trireme is in trans-warp, estimated thirty-seven hours. No word yet from the Fides Duniash, Lord Captain.’

Hectorius sighed.

‘How long do you think it will take to make these… arrangements, my dear?’

Evēre shook her head.

‘I haven’t computed it yet, Lord Captain, but… if we signal our intent to General Maxim and accelerate to full speed… I mean… we have to give it a try, Lord Captain?’

‘And what if we are caught in a collision with this… rock? I am not prepared to make a gambit of the Rhenus, my dear!’

‘I don’t think it is a rock, Lord Captain, but even so…’

A hooded astropath scaled the steps to the command dais and hesitated, leaning on a staff, a data-slate clasped in his hand. The clammy stench of the warp clung to the green robes of the cadaverous psychic, and beneath the hood his eyes were replaced with sutured sockets.

‘I’ll take that,’ said Jan, striding to the astropath and holding out a hand. ‘Oh. A communication.’

He looked up, eyes darting first to Evēre and then to Hectorius.

‘Well? What is it, man?’

‘From sector command at Vidar Polis,’ said Jan, tugging again at his collar. ‘We are ordered to approach at full speed and engage object if it turns out to be hostile.’

A cold silence descended onto the dais for a moment. Evēre did not move, staring at the metal grilled floor. Hectorius hissed.

‘Engage it! Do those fools know what we are dealing with here? We would be as a speck to a screaming comet!’

‘Yes sir, but sector command…’ Jan looked again at Evēre, unsure what to do.

‘I know, I know,’ hissed Hectorius, his bleached brows creasing. ‘Alright. All ahead full.’

‘All ahead full!’ Evēre grabbed an internal vox-caster at the tactical station and relayed the order to the enginarium.

‘Try to get me that general back.’

‘Yes, Lord Captain,’ Jan saluted again and turned to the vox station.

‘And do we have any idea of the true size of this thing yet? Anyone?’

Evēre finished with her course corrections and grabbed a data-slate waiting by her station.

‘Here, Lord Captain,’ she inserted it into a loading portal on the hololithic projector. ‘There’s some sort of interference on scanning, but the opti-aurers finally got a good pict-capture of it backlit as it passed by the Augran Nebula: At maximum magnification we might be able to… oh…’

Evēre took a step back from the projector, mouth open.

‘What by the Holy Throne...?’ Hectorius stood up and almost stumbled from his throne.

‘Lord Captain, I can’t raise… What in the doolies?’ Jan turned and dropped his data-slate.

A flickering image hovered above the hololithic projector, surrounded by pinkish light from the Augran nebula. It was vaguely spherical, but the shape was angular, constructed of geometric faces. It was black, so black Evēre thought for a moment the hololithic was misreading the pict-capture as space, but then streaks of malignant green energy flickered along its vertices, snaking all around the object. Evēre began analysing.

‘It’s an icosidodecahedron,’ she breathed.

‘A what, my dear?’

‘Identical vertices… twelve pentagonal faces, twenty triangular…’

‘What are you talking about, Evēre?’ Jan must have forgotten he was not speaking to her.

‘It’s a quasiregular polyhedron… that doesn’t just happen in planets, or meteors.’

‘It looks like a big emerald,’ commented Jan, ‘What are those bright green lines? Could it be a massive, massive jewel?’

Evēre scowled at him, ‘They don’t look like that naturally, you dolt. They have to be flux-grown or cut.’

‘What could cut a jewel that big?’ Hectorius shuffled towards the hololithic, gaping.

‘I’ve heard of daiselenite crystals growing two hundred metres across in the oceans of Pho, but this…’Evēre could not understand what she was looking at.

Hectorius recovered his wits.

‘Are these dimensions correct?’ he barked, looking at the data runes surrounding the image.

Evēre studied them and double-checked the magnification and distance. She shook her head.

‘Lord Captain, they are right, but…’

‘But what, my dear?’

‘This reading puts it as bigger than planet Tertios itself!’

She stared at the image once more. ‘It has to be artificial. It has to be…’

‘It is,’ said Jan, and they both turned to look at him. He had just received another report from a logistician. ‘It has some kind of engine.’

‘What do you mean, man?’

‘It just decelerated.’

[kurisawa]

THREE

Obsidia System – Devos Sector – Ultima Segmentum – 2/072/925.M41

‘IF ANY MAN here does abjure, let him speak now or forever hold his counsel,’ the husky timbre of Vaticinator Nirlem echoed across the hastily reordered atrium. The emaciated soothsayer’s staff of meteoric iron clanked on the flagstones as he hobbled upon the dais. He had removed his battle plate in favour of the traditional white robes of his order, and the consequences of his struggle with the sorcerer were even more observable. He had aged millennia, and there was a stoop to his posture.

Nine hundred Astral Knights clad in scarred battle plate filled the hall, and silence answered the venerable mystic’s challenge, underscored by the rumble of Obsidia’s relentless storms outside. Each of the chapter’s captains, helmets nestled in their right arms, fronted their assembled companies. Artor faced them from the dais, his banner draped about his shoulders like a mantle.

He battled to suppress the urge, but could not help glancing at the faces of Agravain of the First and Morien of the Second. Their faces were cast in stony recalcitrance, but they did not speak.

After a suitable interval Nirlem said, ‘Then I hereby propose Artor Amhrad to succeed as Chapter Master of our hallowed Astral Knights, and I will name him Liege Lord.’

Despite suffering the irreversible sapping of his life-vitality during his conflict with the sorcerer, Nirlem still channeled gravitas into his proclamation. He bestowed a stern solemnity upon the words, that contrasted with his habitual riddling.

‘I will recognise this ascension as witness for, and humble custodian of, the Holy God Emperor’s will,’ Reclusiarch Cadorius intoned the ritual words, ‘And I will name him Liege Lord.’

Artor waited. Next it was for the captains to complete the vote and swear their allegiance. There was a pause, and Artor felt his pulse quicken. Callum Agravain, the bearlike captain of the First Company, remained still. Beside him, Kell Morien trembled, the vulturine captain warring with some internal conflict. Artor knew that they grappled with the same shock he had felt following Ultor’s dying pronouncement. Behind Artor, their former chapter master lay upon an altar, his body draped in his former colours: a scarlet dragon rampant upon a horizontally divided field of lustrous green and pure white. It was the tradition of the Astral Knights to stay their mourning until their duties were in order.

The sacrament halted for a trice that seemed like decades to Artor, his heart thundering in his chest. He ached to speak, to move, but ritual bound his limbs fast. It was the lore of the chapter that the appointment could be challenged by the captains – indeed, their consensus was required for its legitimacy – but never in the chapter’s history had a true succession crisis occurred.

Eventually, Brother Noiran – Artor’s acting secondus of Third Company – stirred to take a step, but Agravain hissed and he halted. The captain of the First strode forward and bent to one knee.

‘I swear allegiance to Artor Amhrad, Chapter Master of the Astral Knights, and I will name him Liege Lord,’ he growled through his tangled beard, finally observing the protocol. It must always be the captain of the First to speak foremost.

Morien huffed and followed his example, kneeling and repeating the oath.

Then the other captains followed, and after them the knights of the entire chapter clattered to armoured knees. The ceremony proceeded, nine-hundred warriors genuflecting and vowing allegiance to their new monarch.

Nirlem came before Artor, cradling the simple crown that symbolised his command. Artor bowed and the soothsayer placed the circlet upon his head. Artor shivered. The fit was perfect, and it was lighter than he had expected. At the same time, Brother Gaherus clunked behind him on bionic legs, his augmetic appendages wheezing. The Forgelord removed Artor’s phoenix mantle and then his heraldic shoulder plastron. The replacement armour presented the double-headed Aquila cast in gold; the sigil of the Holy Emperor himself. The plastron was still damaged, a black wound burned deep into the armaplas by the daemon’s halberd. To Artor it was not ugly. It was his Emperor’s heraldry, and in donning it he proclaimed his lordship of the Astral Knights to the galaxy. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he crushed it before anyone would notice, and the ceremony continued.

‘We honour the Holy Emperor, the Primarch Rogal Dorn, and our liege lord!’ the knights bellowed in unison.

‘Honesty, courage, faith!’ they repeated after Nirlem’s incitement.

Artor kept his eyes bowed during the rites, but he detected a hesitation amongst the chanters, a lack of certitude, and a spark of resentment for Agravain and Morien flared within his gut.

The coronation completed, Artor raised his eyes once more and took in the glorious sight of the gathered knights. His knights. He spared Agravain and Morien his scrutiny, for now, and opened his mouth to speak.

‘Then it is done. I, Artor Amhrad, Son of Dorn, Son of our God-Emperor on Holy Terra, Chapter Master of the Astral Knights, accept your oaths. And let this be my first edict: We will accept the gracious invitation of Canoness Caelia. Our time of wandering is at an end, for now. We will rebuild the Sanctum Avalus, and make our bastion here, from whence we shall renew our eternal crusade.’

At the prompt, Caelia emerged from her position veiled behind a tapestry, and entered the dais. Her ivory gown captured what little light was thrown by the braziers, reflecting it in gliding serenity, as the leader of the Adepta Sororitas addressed the marines.

‘I honour Lord Artor Amhrad, master of the Astral Knights, our saviours. The Order of Our Martyred Lady is devastated, but my few surviving Sisters and I will remain in service, to minister to your blessed souls.’

They traded vows and exhortations, draped in ritual language, and the resolution was formalised. Throughout the exchanges, Artor’s mind strayed to the reluctance of Agravain and Morien, and how they had marred his glory.

[kurisawa]

When the ceremony finally ended, Artor whirled and stomped into a vestibule beyond the hall. The knights dispersed from the hall murmuring. The repairs to the sanctum would be toilsome, and they had the glorious fallen to bury and mourn. Brother Gaherus joined Artor in the small room, his mechanical limbs folded behind his power armour’s backpack.

‘My Liege,’ the Forgelord’s voice was gentle, which always contrasted so surprisingly with his heavily mechanised appearance. ‘Forgive me. I did not have time to repair Ultor’s armour… I mean… your armour, before the ceremony.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ sighed Artor, suddenly tired. He peered out of a high porthole at the roiling darkness of the sky. ‘I might keep the plastron like this.’

‘My Liege? It is… less efficient… this way.’

‘That may be so, my ever-practical brother, but I think it would be a fitting tribute to remember the Dragon by.’

Artor smiled and shook his head, remembering Ultor’s refusal to wear a helmet in battle. He frowned, realising that such bravado had probably killed him.

‘You are not the Dragon, and you should not try to emulate him, yes, yes!’ said a familiar yet decimated voice.

‘Not five minutes into my tenure and already you are telling me what to do?’ Artor turned and faced Nirlem, who had shuffled into the antechamber. Artor winced again, seeing the weakened state of the soothsayer’s physique. He no longer resembled a space marine. Brother Gaherus retired to leave them alone.

‘Advising, My Liege,’ said Nirlem, a grin spreading across cracked lips, ‘I may not fight so well now, but I can still teach you a thing or two of wisdom.’

Artor was about to reply when Cadorius stomped into the room and huffed. As ever, his skull-helm concealed his face. Artor exchanged a look of raised eyebrows with Nirlem.

‘Agravain and Morien are unhappy,’ announced Cadorius.

Artor scowled at the reminder.

‘What do I care of their choler? I am their Liege Lord now.’

‘You should care, My Liege,’ Cadorius turned and growled back. ‘They feel slighted, passed over. This is not how things should have happened!’

‘I am as surprised as anyone by the Dragon’s decision, Reclusiarch, but they had their chance to object during the proceedings, and they swore fealty to me!’

‘They were acting for the sake of chapter unity,’ said Cadorius. Artor spluttered for a moment.

‘And what about you, Reclusiarch? I remind you that you ordained my succession.’

Cadorius paused, and Artor heard him exhale through his vox-grate.

‘I… obeyed the last order of my Liege Lord,’ murmured the chaplain.

‘What is this? You do not believe in me either?’

‘I believe in the sacred will of the Holy Emperor and nothing else,’ Cadorius rounded on Nirlem, ‘and if I find out you have been tampering with the fates, I swear here and now there will be a reckoning between us, soothsayer!’

Artor gaped, as stunned as Nirlem by the accusation. Nirlem did not get an opportunity to reply as another marine entered. It was Codicier Sundic, prentice to Nirlem, a white tabard draped above his battle plate.

‘Forgive me, My Liege, but a distress signal was just received by the Tempestus in orbit.’

‘What is it?’ growled Cadorius.

‘The navy are responding to some anomaly in the Vidar Sector, and have sent a general request for support from the Adeptus Astartes. They don’t know what it is yet, but the Gaios system just went dark. Taskforces are en route from the Hawk Lords and the Ultramarines.’

‘The Sons of Guilliman,’ breathed Artor, sensing an opportunity.

‘Aye, My Liege, but we are closer. I wasn’t sure if we should respond. It could be nothing…’

‘When is it ever nothing, Brother Sundic?’ Nirlem said, his brow furrowed in concentration. The soothsayer whispered, ‘And it is just beginning.’

‘Then it is a chance! We make passage for Vidar,’ said Artor.

‘A chance for what?’ rumbled Cadorius, ‘this should be discussed in session with all the captains. And don’t tell me there is no time; that was always the Dragon’s trick.’

‘I do not need their permission, nor do I need yours, Cadorius. Do you forget the ceremony that we have just held?’

‘My Liege,’ said Cadorius, ‘Let the sons of Guilliman deal with it.’

‘Nay. We are the crusaders of Rogal Dorn and we shall show them how things are done.’

Cadorius growled but did not argue. He said, ‘There I share your sentiments, My Liege. But what of the repairs to the sanctum – our new home?’

Artor considered this for some moments, his inexplicable anger quieted after the Reclusiarch’s words.

‘We leave the Third, and we will make it an honour. Captain Noiran will oversee things here,’ Artor stepped towards Cadorius. ‘If it pleases you, Reclusiarch, your chapter master requests the Astral Knights muster for departure immediately.’

Cadorius hesitated, considering how to reply to Artor’s tone. Finally he clasped his fist to his chest in an authentic display of respect. He said, ‘Of course, My Liege. I will spread the order. Let us begin our first crusade under you!’

As Cadorius powered out of the chamber, Artor said to himself, ‘The first of many in a great legacy, I hope…’

[kurisawa]

FOUR

Gaios System – Vidar Sector – Ultima Segmentum – 2/073.5/925.M41

‘THIS CANNOT BE good, not good at all, but what is it doing?’ Jan Jecetus pondered out loud, peering through the oculus. Alert glow-globes bathed the command dais in a bloody glare.

The datascribes connected to the sensorium scratched their heads as each report coming back from the logisticians appeared as blizzard-like static on their cogitator screens. Engineers chattered to each other through the ship’s vox-web, the echoes of deck officers bawling at ratings ringing in the background.

‘An update, Evēre, if that is possible?’ drawled Hectorius from his throne.

Evēre turned stiffly, getting a sympathetic wince from her fellow cadets as she faced the captain.

‘Lord Captain, there is still some sort of interference preventing all scanning, but we have the optical sensors…’

She paused and glanced through the great armourcrys eye of the starship.

‘The… object appears to be holding stations at a distance of one-hundred-sixty-thousand kilometres from Gaios Tertios. We can’t tell if it is affecting the orbit of Tertios yet, but the planet still seems to be revolving at normal rate as I calculate it by eye…’

Hectorius raised an eyebrow at that last comment. Evēre pressed on.

‘So, I can’t tell what the density or gravity presence of the object is yet. Its presence must surely be having catastrophic impact on the environment of the planet – sea tides ruptured, weather patterns, everything…’

‘But it’s revolving as normal, my dear?’

‘As far as I can tell, Lord Captain, but…’

‘So there was no collision, and there may be no emergency, correct?’

‘Well… I think it must be exerting some kind of energy field to continue the rotation of the planet and counteract its own gravity presence. The general seemed to think this was an emergency, Lord Captain.’

‘The guards think everything in the void is an emergency, my dear, and the Flaxians are particularly jumpy. Then again, guardsmen are paid to generally die horribly in large quantities, oho ho…’

Hectorius switched his vulture glare to Officer-cadet Dagonet Leifus, whose ginger hair flopped in a disheveled mess that matched his creased uniform. He had been the last of the trainees to answer the summons to the bridge. He always was.

‘Any word from the surface yet, lad?’

Dagonet checked with the vox stations and then shook his head.

‘Err, nothing, Lord Captain. The jamming is acting as some kind of comms shroud too, I think.’

Evēre cleared her throat and took a step towards the command throne.

‘Lord Captain, we can see the guard lighters coming up from the surface and clustering around the orbital monitors. They are trying to evacuate! Surely you must order…’

Hectorius silenced her with a hiss, then said, ‘All cadets come here now. We conference.’

The three trainees – Evēre, Jan and Dagonet – obeyed. Hectorius whispered, ‘This is no training mission anymore. You can see we are dealing with some kind of new and unknown… crystalline meteorite here, and we are at a critical point, yes?’

They gulped and nodded.

‘So, I am suspending our proctorius status. You are to watch and learn from now on. All orders are to be issued by me. Is that understood?’

Evēre waited for one of the other two to speak first, but when they didn’t she cleared her throat again.

‘Lord Captain, with the deceleration and force projections we must assume there is an engine of some sort, and therefore sentience, and the comms jamming we have to assume is a hostile act of war… sector command ordered…’

‘You assume much, my dear,’ Hectorius interrupted. ‘Now listen to me. I will not have any of you interfering with the chain of command on this ship from now on. There are many reasons why I have kept the Rhenus intact for so many years, and one of these is the due exercise of caution. I will not let your youthful, reckless enthusiasm spoil my record in my final year!’

Evēre bit her lip but managed to keep quiet. The cadets took up flanking positions either side of the captain’s command throne. Jan tried to catch Evēre’s eye but she ignored him, watching through the oculus. The gargantuan polyhedron loomed over the planet, the strange pulses of ghostly light rippling along its vertices. She could also make out the tiny blocks shifting up into orbit from the surface – the lighters presumably packed with evacuating guardsmen.

‘Your orders, Lord Captain?’ a deck officer marched onto the dais.

‘Hold speed; continue trying to raise anyone you can from planet Tertios.’

‘I obey, Lord Captain.’

‘And get me word on the rest of the squadron.’

‘I obey, Lord Captain.’

Evēre shifted on the spot, tugged at her uniform collar, checked her hair. She looked at both of the other cadets, then out to the scene suspended in space before them. Finally she coughed.

‘Lord Captain, permission to monitor the pict-captures; I could be analysing its structure and nature, sir.’

Hectorius squinted at her.

‘If this is the first time it is categorised fully, the object might be named after you, Lord Captain, if I can gather enough information about it: The Hectorius Jewel Anomaly, perhaps?’

‘Oho ho, you are a clever one, my dear. Alright, permission granted, but do not interfere with bridge commands.’

‘Yes, Lord Captain. Dagonet, can you help?’

‘What did I just say, my dear?’

‘I’m sorry, Lord Captain; permission to request Cadet Leifus support.’

‘Permission granted.’

Dagonet joined Evēre at the cluster of monitor cogitators. Evēre started punching runes and studying the pict-grabs on the screens.

‘What are you trying to do?’ Dagonet hissed, ‘Annoying the old crone is usually my job!’

‘Just shut up and keep an eye on Tertios – there, that screen,’ Evēre pointed. ‘I’m going to watch what this thing does in time-staggered picts, and I don’t think our great mentor is up to the task of dealing with it – he’s too worried about missing his damned pension!’

‘Be careful, Evēre,’ said Dagonet. ‘This is your career, remember.’

‘Lord Captain!’ Jan’s voice echoed across the command dais from where he was standing beside a nest of datascribes at the sensorium. ‘The planetary defence monitors are moving into position.’

Too preoccupied to be angry that Hectorius had obviously now allowed Jan to continue in his role, Evēre stared at a pict-screen over Dagonet’s shoulder, which reflected the view from the oculus. It was true. The ponderous orbital weapons platforms were arcing around the globe to face the polyhedron.

‘Ah yes,’ Hectorius drawled. ‘You see, my dear, the guard themselves have defensive measures. Those gun platforms carry far superior firepower than our little frigate. That General Maxim is a damn fool for evacuating!’

Evēre was not sure why Hectorius was addressing this explanation to her, but she watched the fortresses floating into position. Though deadly to a battleship, they looked insignificant against the sheer mass of the leviathan that filled the void beyond the planet, like an angular maw opened wide to devour it whole.

A set of newer pict-captures came up on her monitor screen and she switched to maximum magnification.

‘Dagonet, look at this!’ she whispered. The ginger-haired cadet sidled over, his freckled jowls quivering.

‘Wow, they look like cities,’ he said.

Evēre bit her lip and stared. One triangular, continent-sized face of the polyhedron was covered with matrixes of what looked like structures, perhaps even monolithic buildings; pyramids and cubes and towers, set in regular patterns, straight line grids and concentric circles. It was the sign of a city; the sign of civilization. A newer pict-grab flashed up of the same sector and she magnified again. A massive pyramid reared from the centre of the face, towering over the other structures like the fin of a titanshark rising out of calm blackwaters. Its tip glowed with a baleful green light.

‘What’s that?’ said Dagonet.

‘I don’t… I’ve never seen…’ she checked the time-log on the pict and glanced up at the oculus that dominated the bridge.

‘Holy Throne!’ she said as realisation came to her.

[kurisawa]

A coruscating spike of green lightning lanced out from the polyhedron, bathing the dimmed bridge of the Rhenus with a lime glow that dispelled the scarlet alert lights. The cadets instinctively raised their hands to cover their eyes, but Evēre peeked.

The tongue of energy lashed out and caressed one of the defense monitors.

Evēre squeaked with shock. Dagonet cursed. Jan said, ‘What in the doolies?’

From the bridge of the Rhenus, it looked like a bouquet of flameflower had suddenly bloomed above planet Tertios, in the place where the defense monitor had been a moment before. But it soon faded, replaced by a cloud of inky smoke, and a glittering shower of shards – which Evēre knew must be fragments of the orbital.

‘It just destroyed a monitor – with one shot!’ Jan said, as the logisticians toiling beneath the command dais intensified their murmuring activity. Cogitators began spewing parchment punched with lines of data at alarming rates.

‘Report!’ said Captain Hectorius, his voice rising an octave. He pointed a finger at one of the scribes at the sensorium, who gulped.

‘I… I don’t know what happened, Lord Captain, I…’

‘Lord Captain,’ Evēre took one step towards the command throne and saluted. ‘The object has just attacked and destroyed the Imperial defense monitor using some sort of energy projection. The object’s construction and power source is unknown, but from the evidence we can assume it has a lance-primus-level strength weapon. Furthermore, I think I see a number of such weapons across its surface…’

‘Doolies! It just fired again!’ Jan interrupted, and everyone gaped at the oculus. Another orbiting weapons platform erupted in a beautiful fireball.

‘Lord Captain, we have to go to battle stations – we have to stop it!’ Evēre took yet another step towards him. Hectorius held up a hand and hissed.

‘Be quiet cadet! We are just a single ship, a frigate at that, and it’s a Throne-damned planet! Are we sure the optical sensors are functioning properly?’

‘They’re shooting back!’ Jan said. Evēre whirled and witnessed the eye-searing tracers of lance batteries mounted on the orbiting monitors spearing back to jab at the oblique face of the polyhedron. She rushed beside Jan. Dagonet caught up with her, breathless.

‘What effect?’ Evēre shouted at a scribe hunched over a cogitator screen.

‘I’m sorry ma’am, but scanning is still blocked.’

‘It’s shielded,’ said Dagonet, pointing at the armourcrys lens, and Evēre glanced up in time to see the super-powered laser beams from the orbital absorbed by an ephemeral energy shield surrounding the object, flickering a hazy blue.

‘Throne damn it!’ she said.

‘What do we do?’ Jan turned and grabbed her hands. They both glanced at Hectorius.

The captain squinted at the oculus.

‘Get me an auspex report,’ he said, ‘and contact the general again.’

‘Lord Captain,’ Evēre said, ‘the scanners don’t work, and we can’t reach the general. For all we know he could have been on that orbital!’

‘Oh?’ said Hectorius, gazing out of the Rhenus’s eye, ‘Damn fool!’

‘It’s firing again,’ reported Dagonet, and they returned their attention to the oculus. Another rippling surge of malevolent energy spat from the polyhedron, jagged like a fork of lightning – from a different face than the first, Evēre was sure of it – and before their eyes smashed through a third orbiting weapons platform like a tongue of fire incinerating parchment. At the range, it was difficult to appreciate the scale of power that Evēre knew, logically, to have just been displayed: An entire fortress, built to repel battleships, had just been atomised.

‘Throne, they’ve just knocked out the entire planet’s defenses!’ commented Jan.

‘Who has?’ said Evēre, studying the pict-grabs of the polyhedron. ‘What in the hells does it want?’

There was a roar of electro-noise from the cogitator pews, and several servitors hard-wired into their stations burst into flame. Menials with fire-repellers went to work while engineers tried to rescue flaps of flaming parchment and heat-warped data-slates.

‘What was that?’ said Hectorius. ‘Cadet Jecetus, report!’

‘I… I think they just communicated with us, Lord Captain!’

‘What?’

Before Jan could explain further, Evēre pointed a trembling finger at the oculus and said, ‘Look!’

One of the pentagonal faces of the polyhedron – a flat plane that must have been over thirty-thousand kilometres across by Evēre’s estimation, bigger even than the Xin Nishi Ocean of her homeworld – was swirling. A vortex of green energy gradually intensified, rippling across the glassy plane like a galaxy trapped beneath a sheet of ice. To Evēre it was hypnotic, and the scientific part of her mind was fascinated; it was like a mirror of celestial proportions reflecting a distant image – or a spinning, cyclopean eye slowly opening. And it was pointed directly at Gaios Tertios.

‘What is that? A warp gate?’ said Dagonet, scratching his messy hair.

‘I don’t know, but it is getting more intense,’ said Evēre, now bent over the cogitator and studying time-staggered pict-grabs.

Captain Hectorius had by now left his throne and wandered to the front of the command dais amongst the scribes.

‘In all my years, I have never seen anything…’

‘Lord Captain,’ said Evēre. ‘After the defense monitors, I think we can assume it is hostile…’

‘I think you’re right, my dear.’

‘The guard lighters, Lord Captain…’

‘We are too late for that!’ Hectorius stared out of the oculus. ‘I think it is time to leave.’

The captain jabbed a finger towards the tactical station, ‘Prepare to burn retros! We make for one-hundred-eighty rotation.’

‘Lord Captain,’ Evēre dashed before the captain, face to face. Hectorius hissed.

‘I have just about had enough of your bright ideas, my dear. Don’t you dare try to contradict me!’

‘Lord Captain, we are currently presenting a closing aspect to the object, if we turn tail now and show our engine flare, we will present an easy target – and we have seen the power of those lances. I suggest we go ahead and pass.’

‘Ahead?’

‘Yes, Lord Captain; we need to go abeam, give it as little chance to hit us as possible.’

More cogitator stations exploded into flames as logisticians ruptured under the bombardment of another data-assault. Hectorius shouted something to Evēre but it was lost in the racket. She frowned, trying to hear him over the clamor.

‘… Do it!’ she caught the captain’s last words and turned to relay the order to the enginarium.

‘Starboard fifteen degrees, rise twenty degrees, engines to battle speed!’

‘It was their communication again, Lord Commander!’ said Jan, when the din had died. Engineers in the nave beneath the dais pieced together scorched fragments of parchment while menials removed charred corpses of logisticians.

‘Holy Throne, look at that!’ said Dagonet.

Hectorius and Evēre dared to observe the leviathan once more, and their mouths dropped open.

‘What in the galaxy…?’ said Hectorius.

The vortex erupted from the pentagonal continent of the polyhedron in a fountain of rippling light, saturating the surface of planet Tertios from pole to pole. To the enraptured watchers aboard the Rhenus, it appeared as a monstrous lume-lamp beaming a cone of bilious light in a crescent across the planet. Coruscating energy writhed between the two celestial bodies, its power beyond the imagination of the observers to comprehend.

‘Report!’ barked Hectorius, but the datascribes could not answer.

Mesmerised by the baleful glare from the polyhedron, every soul aboard the command dais of the Rhenus watched. A sinister crack emanated from the axis of the energy pulse, gradually widening as the planet revolved. Where the once lustrous green surface emerged from beneath the crescent of projected energy, lifeless rock were the only remains, scorched like the coal face of an open mine.

‘Holy Throne,’ breathed Jan. ‘What is that?’

The sensorium was still impotent, and the unfolding tragedy was too gradual for the oculus to convey in its full magnitude to the watchers.

‘An extermination…’ breathed Evēre, staring at time-staggered pict-grabs on a cogitator screen. By studying the stop-pause sequence of images, she understood, and she trembled, unable to tear her gaze way. Her hands shook as if she were freezing cold.

Fault lines cracked open in the planet’s surface, crimson wounds of magma and eruptions of ash rising to its ruptured surface. The scoured landscape revealed itself in stages as Tertios rotated beneath the eyes of the opti-aurers. Evēre could not imagine the Armageddon that was unfolding on the surface. The distance was too great to show the snuffing out of life on an individual level, but the remains of the terrain left no doubt. Green kiloacres were obliterated by the beam, mountains leveled, seas evaporated. The green-brown abundance of Tertios inexorably withered to tomb dust before her eyes, kilometre by kilometre, under the energy-surge from the polyhedron, like the terminator line that advanced across a world, separating night from day.

‘Lord… Lord Captain, I have Master Gunner Treleavan on the voxnet,’ Dagonet finally broke the stunned silence.

Hectorius nodded and Dagonet initiated switches at the comms station.

‘Lord Captain, port and dorsal batteries primed ready to open fire, but we have no targeting data yet from the sensorium,’ the Master Gunner’s mechanical voice hissed from the vox-speakers. He had lost his original vocal organs, with most of his neck and both eyes, in a previous conflict. He continued in his monotone, ‘we can’t miss, even at this speed, but we are not yet within optimal range, Lord Captain.’

Hectorius looked nonplussed for a moment, gazing out of the oculus. With the time delay between the application of thrust and effect on the ship’s attitude, the polyhedron was only just now sliding away from the centre of the oculus and filling the portside clerestory windows. Hectorius cocked his head to one side.

‘Why are we still heading towards it?’ He whirled and pointed a clawlike finger at Evēre. ‘What have you done?’

Evēre gasped. ‘Lord Captain, you ordered…’

She stopped. She couldn’t remember exactly what he had said.

‘Burn retros!’ Hectorius shouted. ‘Full stop, now!’

Evēre grabbed a vox-caster, her hands trembling, when the announcement she was dreading came from Dagonet.

‘Lord Captain, I… I think it is going to fire at us!’

[kurisawa]

‘SECONDARY PHASE COMPLETED,’ reverberated the deep voice from the vocaliser unit of Controller Zyphor.

Phaeron Maleagant tilted his cranium and initialised the observation that Zyphor had actually injected a semblance of emotion into the report. He banished the idea to a sublevel memory synapse and observed the data streams cascading down the wall-screens of the Command Cryptdome.

A perfect semi-icosidodecahedron, the hollow dome nestled deep in the womb of the Osirion, beneath the surface projectors and flux generators, beneath the weapon forges and modular command nodes, deep below the power distributors and tomb complexes. The cryptdome measured five hundred regutrons across its diameter, exactly as Phaeron Maleagant had designed it.

Two hundred identical honour guards stood to perfect attention around the circumference of the dome – each equidistant from their silver-skulled neighbour. Maleagant recognized that the presence of his Immortals in the cryptdome was superfluous, and less than optimum efficiency. The implacable warriors had maintained their statuesque vigil for two thousand and seventeen years without once needing to protect their Phaeron with their gleaming gauss blasters or the heavy halberd blades that crowned the double-barreled weapons. But he had wanted someone there to witness this moment.

Reflecting in the soulless fires that smoldered within the Phaeron’s eye-orbs, millions of dancing runes conveyed the reality outside the polyhedron. Each face inside the semi-icosidodecahedron was a black mirror, the data streams saturating them like glowing green waterfalls. The entire glassy floor of the cryptdome, too, functioned as secondary screens, and more flickering rivers of runekeys gushed beneath the Phaeron’s feet. Maleagant’s eyes processed the data as optical input, but the millions of flowing runekeys informed him more quickly and efficiently than any picture or chart or aural report the status of nearspace, and the target planet.

Nearby, in the exact centre of the cryptdome, the hulking arachnoid form of Controller Zyphor hovered in the jade-tinted underglow of the control interface. Maleagant reviewed the time, sixty million years ago, when Zyphor had still inhabited a mechabody that resembled Necrontyr: An era before he had been de-resolved and reincarnated after so many wars that his mind had lost its essence. The review unlocked a subroutine in Maleagant’s ancient cortex simulators, of a time when he and Zyphor had been lords amongst a living race. They had drunk vinebrew and laughed together. Maleagant understood the social purpose of laughter in organic beings, and indeed the psychosomatic health benefits that occurred on a non-regular basis, but he could no longer recall what he and Zyphor had laughed at, nor why.

Beneath Zyphor’s metallic carapace, set into the smooth floor of the dome, a forest of jewels glittered. Each time one of Zyphor’s eight clawed limbs tweaked the reactive light beams projected vertically by the crystals, some distant system within the craft was activated or altered or resolved.

‘Planet purged of ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine-seven percent of all life,’ said Zyphor, exquisitely summarising the data torrents. Though the Phaeron stared at the screens inside the cryptdome, one byte of information dominated the primary cortex of his artificial mind.

The harvest had begun. Through the resonant vibrations of the orb set in the elegant crown of his staff of light, Maleagant could feel the coalescing energies reaped by his creation. Deep in the core of the craft, deeper even than the cryptdome, valleys of mountain-sized monoliths seethed and crackled with stolen force. After sixty million years, he felt the urge to laugh.

‘The trial is successful,’ he vocalised. ‘It functions.’

Phaeron Maleagant processed a sub-thought then. Perhaps he should have installed a throne in the cryptdome. Though his chosen form, a necrodermis of living metal carved with organic curves and twice the height of his bodyguards, did not require relief from fatigue, it might have been a nice touch.

‘I will initiate tertiary phase – a second sweep of the planet will complete the destruction,’ said Zyphor, his vocaliser oozing a trace of what Maleagant categorised as desire.

‘Negative,’ said Maleagant. ‘It is just bacterial life. To purge it will expend more energy than is… efficient.’

For several moments Zyphor stared at Maleagant through a dozen visual sensors embedded into the featureless block that was his head. Finally he said, ‘As you command, Mighty Phaeron.’

Another Necron teleported into the cryptdome, phasing into existence not far from the control interface pit. Maleagant inclined his wide head and registered that the newcomer was Princeling Semertekh.

Semertekh clanked around the cryptdome, observing data streams, his stooped skeleton leaning against the haft of his warscythe. Semertekh insisted that his form had never been de-resolved, and while Maleagant’s logic circuits noted that the odds of the princeling’s original mechabody surviving such a span were verging on the incredible, the patina of ages did indeed mar the silvered android, and his hunched stature did indeed echo the shape of their former species in life. The princeling’s cloak dragged behind him as he stalked, and Maleagant concluded that it was newer than the skeleton body, despite its tattered state, the blue dye that hid its original pigment having lost its sheen centuries earlier.

‘You have not ordered the assault,’ droned Semertekh.

‘The Osirion has proved more efficient than estimated,’ said Maleagant, caressing his staff of light. ‘Your legions are not required.’

Semertekh focused his dead eye-discs on a data stream. ‘Ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine-seven percent of all life is destroyed. There is nothing but sub-microbial matter left.’

‘It functions,’ intoned Zyphor, repeating Maleagant’s assessment, and this time definitely with a tone of triumph. ‘It destroys.’

Semertekh whirled and faced Maleagant. ‘I require specimens of more advanced lifeforms, Mighty Phaeron.’

‘There is a possibility they will evolve, given a few million years, Princeling,’ said Zyphor.

‘You have overreached the parameters, you mindless clot!’ hissed Semertekh, pointing a metallic claw at Zyphor. ‘You were to leave specimens for me!’

‘Princeling Semertekh,’ said Maleagant, ‘we have only just initiated this process. There will be other chances for you to undertake your… experiments.’

Semertekh hissed, but bowed in the ancient ways, tipping his conical headdress, and vocalised, ‘As you command, Mighty Phaeron.’

A cascade of runes reflected in one of the princeling’s eye-discs.

‘There is another presence,’ said Semertekh, gesturing to the screen.

‘A ship – of the same primitives that inhabited the planet,’ said Zyphor. One huge foreclaw jerked in infinitesimal movements above the crystal control mechanisms.

‘The planet’s defenses were destroyed in the primary phase,’ said Maleagant.

‘Correct. The ship is not from the planet. It may have been sent to observe us.’

Maleagant glanced at Semertekh. He said to Zyphor, ‘Disable it. Let the Princeling initialise his hunt.’

‘As you command, Mighty Phaeron.’

[kurisawa]

[place holder reply for chapter 5]

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[place holder reply for chapter 5 part 2]

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[placer holder reply for chapter 5 part 3]