The starboard hangar deck was a messy maze of landed gunships, load-bearing vehicles and cargo containers, populated by an army of servitors, tech-adepts and human crew going about their business. Thunderhawks were being loaded, their swooping wings weighted down by racks of missiles, while boxes of bolter shell belt-feeds were installed by the defensive turrets. All around was the rattle, the clang, the clank of heavy machinery, which was doing nothing positive for Ishaq’s hangover.
At the heart of the organised chaos was the eye of the storm, where space had been cleared for the scheduled arrival. Ishaq stood at the edge of the cleared zone – just one of many witnesses to the morning’s events. A glance to the left revealed a flock of other remembrancers: there was Marsin, a painter, scribbling in his sketchpad. Lueianna, a skinny and pale little thing who composed entire concerts around various flute arrangements. Hellic, who almost definitely owed Ishaq some money from the last time they played cards.
What did Hellic do? Was he a composer, as well? Ishaq wasn’t sure. Whatever his fellow remembrancer did to express himself, he was a piss-poor gambler.
The Blessed Lady was here, of course – standing out from her maids and companions in a gown of arterial red that looked more suited to a Terran ballroom than the greasy, oil-blackened deck of a warship. She looked no older than her late-twenties, though given how long she’d been with the fleet, rejuvenation surgery must have featured heavily in her recent past.
Ishaq lost a fair few minutes just watching her. She was dusky-skinned, not as dark as Ishaq himself, but clearly from a desert people, and it was easy to see why she was considered blessed. He’d never seen anyone move with the same slow, effortless grace, or smile with such subtle brilliance. Every time she shared a word with one of her entourage, she seemed to be smiling with endearing shyness at some secret joke between them.
Ishaq decided, then and there, that he wanted her.
For a moment, he was certain she turned to regard him. Wasn’t she said to be blind? Was that a facade? A rumour to enhance her mystique?
An honour guard from the Imperial Army had deigned to show its face, too. White-clad officers of the Euchar 54th stood in neat ranks, their formalwear impressive in its ornate finery. Each of the officers rested a gloved hand on a sabre sheathed at their sides, while their free hands remained nestled in the small of their backs as they stood at attention. In the middle of the front row, Ishaq made out the grizzled, half-bionic figure of General Arric Jesmetine.
The general had a fearsome reputation on the ship: all the talk passed around the remembrancers had Old Arric pinned as a tyrant and a taskmaster. They’d only crossed paths once before, in an upper deck corridor while the new remembrancer was scouting around for something to inspire him.
Jesmetine had been with the fleet for sixty years, and every month of it showed. He walked with a silver cane, and most of the right side of his body hummed and whirred with the bionics beneath the old man’s uniform. His beard was kept trimmed close to his haggard face, a fine pelt of white around a scowl like a slit in old leather.
‘You there,’ the general had said. ‘Are you lost?’
Well, no, he wasn’t lost. But nor was he supposed to be up here on the operations decks.
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
‘You’re a bad liar, son.’
This offended Ishaq a great deal, but he didn’t let it show. ‘Apparently so.’
‘You grin too much. If I had daughters, I’d kill you for ever going near them.’
‘With respect, sir, I’m not in the mood for a character assassination. And I am at least a little lost.’
‘See? Grinning again, you won’t charm me with that. Who are you?’
‘Ishaq Kadeen, official remembrancer.’ He liked the way that felt on the tongue, so he said it as often he could.
‘Oh.’ The old man cleared his throat with a sound like gargling gravel. ‘You’re not a poet by any chance, are you?’
‘No, sir. I’m an imagist.’
‘That’s a shame. The Blessed Lady has an ear for poetry. Though, hmm, it’s for the best if you never darken her door, I’m sure.’
This was before he knew who the Blessed Lady was, but that grumble alone was enough to make him vow to darken her door as soon as possible, whoever she might be.
‘So you’re hunting for picts to take?’
‘Guilty,’ Ishaq halted the grin before it reached his lips, ‘as charged.’
The old man scratched at his neat beard, fingers making scritch, scritch, scritch sounds against what was barely more than stubble. ‘This is a warship, you know. You can get in a lot of trouble wandering around like this. Go back to the lower decks, and wait for the Chaplain’s arrival like everyone else. You’ll get all your picts then.’
Ishaq considered that a fair deal, but as he turned to leave, he decided to push his luck a little more.
‘Sir?’
‘What?’ The old man was already walking away, cane tapping on the decking.
‘You don’t seem the merciless terror that the remembrancers have been told to fear.’
General Arric smiled, which made the slit in his face even less appealing. ‘That’s only because you’re not one of my men, Remembrancer Kadeen. Now get off the operations decks and back to the jury-rigged bar I know you little vermin are already setting up in the shadows of this blessed ship.’
‘It’s called the Cellar.’
‘How very apt,’ the old man huffed as he walked away.
So he’d waited eleven days, and true to both form and the general’s appraisal, he’d spent those eleven days in the bar.
Now he was here, after hauling his hungover carcass across to the main starboard hangar, waiting with the dregs and top brass alike for the Chaplain to arrive.
‘I thought the Crimson Lord was supposed to be here,’ he whispered to Marsin. The other remembrancer just shrugged, still taking notes and sketching vague figures.
The Astartes were here at least, though Ishaq took much less pleasure in their presence than he’d expected. Twenty of them in alclass="underline" grey statues in two ranks of ten, not a ghost of movement between any of them. Immense bolt pistols were clutched to the Word Bearers’ chests, while unpowered chainswords were kept at their sides. Scrolls and iconography marked them as warriors from the 37th Assault Company.
Ishaq kept abreast of deployment chatter: most of 37th Company were engaged on the world below, waging a compliance war alongside General Arric’s Euchar regiments.
He snapped several images of the towering, silent Astartes, but his angle was far from perfect, and the edge of frame was ruined by servitors stumbling around in the background. He supposed there should be something glorious and inspiring about the warriors, but he found it hard to swallow if he looked too long in their direction. They weren’t inspiring at all. Just... imposing. Distant. Cold.
‘Attention!’ the general barked.
Ishaq conceded to this by standing slightly straighter. The Euchar officers went ramrod-straight. The Astartes still didn’t move.
The gunship came into the hangar on a sedate drift, guidance thrusters gushing pressurised air as it hovered down. Crimson armour plating coated the Thunderhawk in dry scales, while heavy bolter turrets panned left and right – the servitors slaved to the guns’ systems ever-alert to threats.
Landing claws kissed the decking. At last, the boarding ramp lowered on squealing hydraulics. Ishaq clicked a pict of the gunship’s yawning maw.
From the hangar’s edge, more Astartes entered – five warriors clad in armour of a newer, more streamlined design than their grey brethren, painted in scarlet and silver, with black helms staring ahead. The remembrancers turned as one, whispering and muttering, variously taking picts, making notes and sketching what they saw.
Gal Vorbak, came the whisper from many mouths.
Leading them was a warrior with a black cloak draped over his shoulders, and his Legion symbol hidden beneath yellowed parchment scrolls depicting his deeds. He stalked past the gathered remembrancers, the joints of his Mark IV battle armour humming a smooth hymn. Skulls of slain alien warlords rattled against his dark ceramite as they dangled from iron chains.