‘It is the greatest honour,’ the stern gentleman insisted.
‘Oh, I know.’ Ishaq started to bite his nails now they were clean. ‘The greatest.’
The older man seemed dubious. Ishaq thought he looked like a vulture disapproving of a potential meal, largely because it was still alive.
‘Thousands of archivists, sculptors, painters, pictographers, poets, playwrights have been sent. Tens of thousands have been rejected for lacking the thoroughness and flair that the Great Crusade deserves in its remembrancers.’
Ishaq made a noncommittal noise to encourage the hierarch to continue, while secretly musing over the number of artistic professions beginning with the letter “P”. Painters, pictographers, poets, playwrights...
‘So you see, to be chosen like this... You have to understand how fortunate you are.’
‘What about puppeteers?’ Ishaq asked.
‘I... what?’
‘Nothing. Never mind.’
‘Yes, well. I’m sure you can appreciate the gravity of the situation.’ The hierarch did his vulture-sneer again. Ishaq smiled back – his eyes brightened; a faint movement of his eyebrows suggested something delightfully wry; and a calculatedly cocksure amount of teeth were on display for a predatory moment – but the hierarch was neither female nor attracted to males, and that disinterest rather disarmed Ishaq’s best weapon.
‘Mr. Kadeen?’ the man said. ‘Are you taking this seriously? Do you wish to be shipped to Mars to end your years as a servitor?’
He really didn’t. If it came to a choice between paying for his crimes in the traditional manner or catching a transport ship halfway across the galaxy to serve as a remembrancer... Well, it wasn’t much of a choice at all. He wasn’t going to spend his life lobotomised into penal service.
So he assured the remembrancer hierarch that he was taking it very seriously indeed. Over the following two hours, he weaved a compelling fiction of interstellar ambition and an exploratory spirit that had suffered in the strangling confines of his birth-slums. Now, at last, he would be free to walk the stars, to gaze upon new suns, to chronicle the advance of mankind, to...
To lie through his teeth.
Ishaq, at thirty-five, was not an educated man, and he was fairly certain at several points he invented new words or mispronounced ones he’d only read before, but it did the trick. Three days later, his intermittent work as an imagist for almost-wealthy hive families and crime scene pictography was behind him – as was Terra itself and the shit-heap hive in which he’d been born.
Was it an honour, really? That all depended upon just where you were sent.
In the briefings, Ishaq had been hoping against hope for a posting that would actually mean something. While the major expeditionary fleets were already swollen with remembrancer hangers-on, there were still plenty of possible placements in the smaller fleets.
He might never get to lay eyes upon the Warmaster, or see his images depict the glory of a primarch like Fulgrim, but he’d not lost hold of the desperate, panicked hope that he’d be assigned to one of the Emperor’s so-called ‘glory Legions’. The Ultramarines, founders of the perfect empire... The Dark Angels, commanded by the consummate general... The Word Bearers, renowned for bringing the Emperor’s own wrath against enemy worlds...
At last, he’d been assigned. A full sprint through the order’s barracks had ensued, with remembrancers shoving past one another to reach the posted listings in the lobby. All dignity was cast aside in the rush – artists, poets, playwrights rioting against each other to see where in the galaxy they were being sent. Someone had even been stabbed during the crush of bodies – perhaps out of jealousy, since that imagist in particular had been assigned to a fleet commanded by the Emperor’s Children, and such a posting even among a modest fleet was worth its weight in gold.
There it was:
KADEEN, ISHAQ – IMAGIST 1,301st EXPEDITIONARY FLEET
What did that even mean? Were there even Legion forces with that fleet? He’d shouldered a young woman aside to use one of the barracks’ information terminals, and hammered in his keycode with trembling fingers.
Yes. Yes. Each line sent his heart beating faster.
1,301st Expeditionary Fleet.
Commanded by Fleetmaster Baloc Torvus.
3 Companies of XVII Legiones Astartes: Word Bearers.
Commanded by the Crimson Lord, Master of the Gal Vorbak.
Noted Citations: Honoured by the presence of the Emperor’s Custodian Guards, led by Aquillon Althas Nero Khai Marithamus... the name went on and on and on, but it didn’t matter.
He’d been posted to one of the most aggressive, renowned, largest Legions, responsible for more compliances in the last half a century than any other – and a fleet, minor or not, that was honoured to contain some of the Emperor’s own golden Custodes warriors. The images that could come from this... The fame... The attention...
Yes. Yes. YES.
‘Who were you posted to?’ he asked the girl next to him.
‘The 277th.’
‘Blood Angels?’
‘Raven Guard.’
He gave her a pitying smile and headed back to his room, making sure to tell everyone on the way back where he’d been assigned. This only backfired once, when a pretentious arse of a sculptor had sneeringly replied: ‘The Word Bearers? Yes, well, they’ve conquered much in recent years to make amends for their former flaws… but they’re not exactly the Sons of Horus, are they?’
The flight to join the 1,301st Expeditionary Fleet had lasted nineteen long, long months, during which Ishaq had slept with twenty-eight separate members of the transport ship’s crew, been slapped by three of them, taken almost 11,000 picts of tedious goings-on aboard the vessel, and passed out from ship-made alcohol more times than he could reliably remember.
He’d also lost a tooth in a fistfight with an angry husband, though he still claimed the moral victory in that one. Given all of this and the lifestyle that preceded it, it would be fair – but not entirely accurate – to assume that Ishaq Kadeen cared nothing for his work.
He didn’t consider himself lazy. It was just difficult to find things that inspired him, that was all.
The first pict he’d truly cared about had since done the rounds of the entire 1,301st fleet, and it was, in his own inestimable opinion, an absolute beauty. Already, it was being hailed as a masterpiece in the fleet’s archives, and he’d received a courier-brought note from the Crimson Lord himself, thanking him for the image.
When they’d arrived, dropping from a year and a half in the swirling tedium of the warp to approach the battlefleet, Ishaq had been unable to resist getting caught up in the moment.
With his picter rod in hand, about the size and heft of a cudgel, he’d aimed the eye lens at the view from the porthole, watching and recording the great warships drifting by.
And then, there it was. The grey-hulled fortress-flagship of Lord Argel Tal, silent and serene despite its world-breaking weapons array.
De Profundis. Ishaq’s new home.
Awe left his mouth slack as he clicked pict after pict. One of them – one of the very first he took – showed the warship abeam, slaved to a sharp perspective: a stone and steel bastion of Imperial might. Starlight cast raw glares across its dense armour plating, while a statue of the primarch jutted from the vessel’s spine – Lorgar, arms raised to the void, haloed by the system’s distant sun.
Click, went the picter, and Ishaq Kadeen fell in love with his work.
That had been three weeks ago. Three weeks spent waiting for inspiration to strike again. Three weeks spent waiting for today.