‘Steady yourself,’ Ventanus warns him. ‘I’ll need you when the XVII come at us.’
Sullus spits out a snarl of a reply.
‘Then they’d better come soon!’ he snaps.
Ventanus leaves him to stew. The cultists renew their attacks. The outer walls of the palace are scarred with thousands of shot marks. Parts of some parapets have collapsed. There’s an endless supply of the black-robed figures. They keep rushing the gate bridge. The bridge is littered with enemy dead, and black figures have tumbled into the ditch in significant numbers.
Rockets squeal and lash up at the walls. Sparzi’s artillery tries to bracket the rocket launchers.
Ventanus has a growing concern about munitions supplies.
Ventanus locates Arook on a wall section beside the gate that is defended by the skitarii.
‘Any signal from outside?’ he asks.
‘No,’ says Arook.
‘And the server? Anything from her?’
‘No,’ says Arook. He seems slightly embarrassed.
Mortars tunk and cough behind them. Ventanus hears more rockets wailing in at the wall.
‘Can your men pinpoint the rocket sources? Sparzi’s guns need to end that pain fast before they bring the walls down.’
Arook nods.
‘I wonder how they found us so quickly?’ Arook murmurs as soon as he’s issued command blurts to his warriors.
‘Listening in to our comms?’ Ventanus suggests.
‘No chance,’ says Arook. ‘The skitarii emergency link is secure.’
‘Then just bad luck,’ says Ventanus. ‘There’s more than enough of that to go around today.’
The warp opens broad, black wings. Kor Phaeron manifests.
‘Explain your delay,’ he hisses. Creatures of unlight and the outside fidget and gibber around him.
Morpal Cxir, force commander, bows his head to his manifested superior. Dirty light from the warp-flask swaddles them both.
‘Resistance here, lord,’ Cxir says. ‘Leptius Numinus.’
‘I know it,’ replies Kor Phaeron. ‘A summer palace. No strategic importance. No tactical viability. Burn it. Move on.’
‘There is resistance, lord.’
The Black Cardinal exhales.
‘Your host is expected at the Shield Wall in two hours, Cxir. Do not waste effort and lives on a non-essential target that can be razed by orbital weapons later.’
‘With respect, lord,’ says Cxir. ‘I believe there is more to it.’
He gestures to the warriors grouped around him. One of them is Ulmor Nul, his tracker beast growling and straining at its leash.
‘Nul was pursuing an Ultramarines captain who was discovered fleeing the starport. He obtained an indelible scent. The track led here, to the palace.’
‘Just a survivor, running to the nearest place of shelter,’ remarks Kor Phaeron.
‘It is a very direct and deliberate route to take, lord,’ says Nul. ‘I believe the target has Mechanicum forces with him, and other survivors assembled into a reasonable fighting force.’
‘The defence of the palace complex is resolute,’ adds Cxir. ‘It is organised and purposeful. I believe it has tactical credibility. The XIII is trying to achieve something here.’
Kor Phaeron pauses. The Primordial Truth whispers around him, a hiss like waves breaking on an endless shoreline.
‘You are redirected, Cxir,’ he says. ‘Pursue this prosecution. Exterminate them.’
The chanting and drumming get louder. The next wave of cultists throws itself at the palace.
‘They’re wired,’ warns Greavus sharply.
Ventanus amps up his visor view. There are brotherhood warriors in the front ranks wearing bomb vests or carrying flasks and tubs of explosives.
‘Take them down before they reach the bridge!’ Ventanus orders. Marksmen on the wall line, some of them skitarii using needle laser weapons, start to pick off the bombers. Some detonate as they are brought down. One is caught at the far end of the bridge, his vest exploding with a huge, sickle-shaped rip of fire. Ventanus feels the ground shake.
‘They are renewing their efforts,’ says Sullus.
‘They are,’ Ventanus agrees.
‘Prelude to an attack by their Legiones Astartes, I’ll wager,’ says Sullus.
‘They’ll want to weaken the walls first,’ says Ventanus.
‘Let me take the fight to them!’ Sullus barks. ‘Practicaclass="underline" into the heart of them. Kill their leader. Break their focus.’
‘Theoreticaclass="underline" you die, and so do the men I’m fool enough to let you take with you. Munitions and strength are squandered. No.’
Sullus glares at Ventanus.
‘Do you doubt my courage?’ he asks.
‘In a way, I do,’ says Ventanus. ‘We know no fear, but I think, just now, you do.’
Sullus takes a furious step towards Ventanus.
‘I’ll break your back for that insult! I’m not afraid to die!’
‘I know you’re not, Sullus. But I think you’re afraid that our way of life is dying. That the universe as we understand it is dying. That’s what I’m afraid of.’
Sullus blinks.
‘Practicaclass="underline" loss of faith in our philosophy will lead to over-emphatic and reckless actions. Our combat efficiency will be lost. Our performance as warriors will suffer.’
Sullus swallows.
‘What if… Guilliman’s dead, Remus?’ he asks.
‘Then we avenge him, Teus.’
Sullus looks away.
‘Go find the server,’ Ventanus tells him. ‘Get an update on her progress. If they come at the walls, I want you to protect her.’
Sullus nods and strides away.
In the cavernous sub-basements of the palace, several levels underground, Tawren hears the dull crump of explosions from above ground. Trickles of dust skitter from the disturbed ceiling. She hears detonations, small-arms rattle, the steady tolling of artillery, the crazy ebb of chants and drums.
In chambers nearby, her magi are scrambling to reactivate the palace’s old high-cast system. The vox seems to be intact, but there is a singular lack of viable power.
With a skitarii aide, a female called Cyramica, Tawren has just gained entry to the ceramite-lined well under the palace centre where the data-engine and stacks are held. The data-engine is cold, off-line. She examines it, running her agile hand along its dusty, brown plastek casing. She peers into its inspection windows, observing the etched circuitry, the brass key systems. It is old, an old pattern, probably one of the first data-engines active on Calth at the time of first settlement. It employs Konor-Gantz sub-aetheric systems, and linear binaric cogitation. Old. Quite beautiful.
But not very potent. Tawren understands that the engine was only brought on-line when the governor was in residence at the palace, and then only as a back-up for state records.
‘It will have to be enough,’ she declares out loud. Cyramica glances at her.
Tawren calls in some of the magi, and they begin work on ignition and data-agitation. The engine has its own power supply, a Gysson fusion module set into the floor. The chamber grows warm as the module starts working.
‘If we had one of these for the vox-caster…’ remarks one of the magi.
‘Let us bring it to yield and then measure what it appreciates,’ suggests Tawren. ‘Its power output should be rated in excess of the engine’s needs, to cover all circumstances. Perhaps we can divert some energy to the vox once the engine is operational.’
The magos nods. Tawren has moved laterally around a problem that was confounding him.
Tawren oversees the work. Her gaze lingers on the MIU socket. She will, of course, have to plug herself in. When the time comes. If the engine is tainted with scrapcode, all her efforts may be for nothing, and she will die in the process. Die like Hesst, die the brain-death, the data-death. She remembers Hesst passing in her arms.