‘I am death,’ he whispered, ‘and I am coming for you.’

  Danakan let water into his small basin. As admiral, he was entitled to use as much as he wanted, but he felt that to be wrong when his crews’ supply was so strictly rationed, so ran only enough that he could scoop his hands into it and dash it onto his face. He blinked his eyes clear and dabbed the rest away with a towel.

  There was a noise behind him.

  He straightened and put the towel down.

  ‘It’s always disappointing,’ he said. ‘It’s never as refreshing as you want it to be. Always tepid. Stinks of chemicals. I would be glad of a glass of cold, pure water.’

  There was no reply.

  ‘I know it’s you, Juvenel.’

  Another small noise, that of a man shifting position. There was silence a moment, then Juvenel spoke.

  ‘Turn around, admiral.’

  Danakan anticipated the gun Juvenel had and lifted his hands.

  Juvenel was half hidden behind a wooden dressing screen near the admiral’s bed. He came out fully now he was detected. In one hand he held a bronzed laspistol chased with fine inlay. In the other he gripped a glass of spirits so hard his knuckles strained white beneath his skin.

  ‘I gave you that gun you’re pointing at me,’ said Danakan. He raised his eyebrows. ‘And that’s my amasec.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Juvenel, meaning it. ‘I need a drink.’

  ‘Murder is a difficult business,’ said Danakan.

  ‘Don’t be glib now, admiral, it’s beneath you.’

  ‘How did you get in here before me?’

  ‘Through the salvator passages. I think I’m going to post an extra guard at the other end.’

  Danakan looked down at the gun again. ‘Do you desire command so much you would kill me for it?’

  ‘It’s not about command,’ said Juvenel softly. ‘I mean, I want command, but I’d rather earn it. It’s about doing what’s right. I’d gladly have served you for the rest of my days. I have respected you for my entire career. I was patient after Teleope. I waited for you to come back, for so long, covering for you, helping you, waiting for the man I followed to show himself again.’

  Juvenel’s pain moved Danakan. ‘I’m recovering, Juvenel.’

  ‘You’re not. You put on a good act, but I can see the fear in you.’ Juvenel drained his glass, keeping his gun pointed at Danakan. ‘You’re afraid of making decisions. That’s not good. I’ve been lying awake wondering, what happens if Dante does not come back? Will you do your duty?’

  ‘We both know our orders,’ said Danakan.

  ‘We do. But only one of us will carry those orders out.’ He put down his glass. His hand was shaking. ‘This is harder than I thought it would be.’

  ‘You don’t have to do this. Dante has put me right. I know what I have to do. I am doing my best.’

  ‘Damn it, Seroen,’ Juvenel said. ‘Your best is not enough any more. If the Blood Angels come back this time, there will be another occasion, then another, then another, a string of hard choices that you will ultimately fail to take. Fortune can only save you for so long. Dante puts too much trust in you. If he fails today, I know you will not fire, the xenos cult will triumph, the tyranids will fall on these worlds and billions of people will die, because you can no longer take the long view. Death is too close to you.’

  ‘Very close.’

  ‘Please, admiral, don’t make this harder for me.’

  ‘Dante will succeed. There will be no need to condemn so many people to death.’

  ‘If the clock runs down? The lord commander has already given his judgement! It is not our place to decide, it is to follow orders. You have become weak. The hangman does not determine who gets to live or die, he only delivers the sentence.’

  ‘This hangman has developed a conscience.’

  ‘The galaxy is on fire. There’s no space for that any more. You are out of your time.’

  ‘Whereas you are the very picture of ruthlessness, convinced you are doing your duty yet shaking like a leaf on a tree stem. Next you will tell me Dante is old, and he is weak also.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Juvenel looked aside in torment, then back with fierce resolve. ‘But he has not been heard from since he went into the city. Augur captures show fiercer fighting than expected around the palace. Dante and the Lord Mephiston cannot be seen. And you won’t do anything. You won’t even send down a flight of fighters to help them.’

  ‘You can’t peel an apple with a hammer, Juvenel. The Space Marines are made for this kind of war. If Dante had wanted the city bombed into submission, that is what we would have done from the outset. His plan is to preserve life. So we must wait.’

  ‘I am going to have to kill you.’

  ‘You don’t, but you have already made up your mind.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you will do it,’ said Danakan. ‘I don’t care, you know.’

  ‘Weakness.’

  ‘It’s tiredness, Juvenel. I have had enough. I’ve seen too many people die. Dante wants me to watch many more, in the name of duty. I can’t. You’re a capable commander. I can’t think of anyone better to take over. You’ll do all right, until one day what happened to me will happen to you, if you are not killed first.’ Danakan straightened his uniform. ‘You will say it was suicide, I assume.’ He glanced upwards to the carvings decorating the ceiling. ‘And being clever, you will have dis­abled the surveillance in my quarters.’

  ‘I figured you’d want privacy for your death.’

  ‘What about Fresne?’

  ‘He’s a sneaky one,’ said Juvenel. ‘Got through the invasion of the ship, didn’t he? I’m sure he’ll understand.’

  ‘You sent him away?’

  ‘I didn’t. Somebody else had an important errand for him, though.’

  ‘Very wise. It’s not going to be easy for anyone to prove you killed me, but I warn you, you’ll always be under suspicion. Dante is not a fool.’

  ‘Then why don’t we make this simpler? End it yourself.’ Juvenel turned the gun round, grasping it by the barrel and holding out the grip to Danakan.

  Danakan laughed. ‘I have no desire to see you caught, Juvenel, because you are right. I am no longer suitable for command. But I don’t want to die very much, and I’ll be damned if I’ll make it easy for you. For every bold action, there must be a price.’

  Juvenel’s face hardened. He turned the gun back round and rested his finger on the trigger, and returned his aim to Danakan.

  ‘This is it then,’ said Danakan.

  ‘I am afraid so.’

  ‘Listen to me one last time,’ said Danakan. ‘If you do not hear from Dante immediately, do not be too hasty to open fire. The death of a city cannot be undone. If you are wrong, it will haunt you.’

  ‘I am not weak like you. I will do my duty.’

  ‘You are human. None of us are as strong as we wish we were. I can still hear them screaming. Soon you will too.’

  Juvenel stared into Danakan’s eyes.

  ‘Oh for the Emperor’s sake, Juvenel, just do it.’

  Juvenel’s finger convulsed on the trigger, squeezing it harshly. Even having intended to fire, the shot still surprised him. A flicker of ruby las-light left a smoking hole above Danakan’s heart.

  The admiral smiled.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  He fell down, still smiling. Juvenel walked over to him and nudged him with his foot, immediately regretting his lack of respect. He bent down and shut Danakan’s eyes, and felt for the non-existent pulse, doing it all gently, but it was too late. Juvenel felt worse about that nudge than the shot itself. He was not the man he had thought he was.

  He wiped the gun down and put it into Danakan’s hand, turned away from the corpse of his friend and marched towards the bridge.

  Mephiston went lower into the palace. Everywhere the windows were shuttered and the lights, where active, were dim. The cult had cemented their position of power on ­Ronenti, for the psychic spoor of his prey led him not into the obscure places under the city, but towards the throne room itself.

  The doors were open to him when he came. Utter blackness reigned until he stepped within and the crimson flames wreathing Vitarus flickeringly lit the hall. The throne room was small. In his life Mephiston had fought battles on the shoulders of statues made from mountains. He had saved and condemned cities that covered worlds. He had taken bridges as tall as the sky. He had liberated manufactories that swallowed continents. But as a monument to a single human ego, the hall was sufficient. Large statues of polished metal lined the walls. Artworks hung between them. A complicated, unlovely mosaic covered the floor wall to wall. The ceiling was too high to see clearly, but Mephiston’s superior eyesight discerned a similarly vulgar painting.

  The subject of these artworks was all the same man. Mephiston knew him from the intelligence reports on Ronenti: Olim Djell, the founder of the south’s ruling dynasty. His attempts at immortality were feeble. His house was dust. His memory was fading. A man could not build himself an eternal future.

  ‘Only service endures,’ said Mephiston. ‘We do what we must for the Imperium.’

  He walked into the centre of the room. Scarlet firelight glanced off pale, nearly human faces. Dozens of hybrids watched him. They could have passed as humans of minor genetic deviation, but compared to the dark-skinned Ronenti, their sickly hue stood out. They were hairless. All had the same furious frown, and noses that appeared wrinkled on first glance, but closer attention revealed to be oddly bumped. Only the most generous genetor would have regarded them as pure. Mephiston’s Space Marine senses could smell the alien on them. His psychic power laid the truth of their souls bare.

  Their robes rustled as they closed ranks behind Mephiston. Rarely had the Lord of Death seen so many late-generation hybrids in one place. That the aliens had been able to conceal themselves so long suggested divisions on Ronenti deeper than Jemmeni thought.

  The pool of uncertain light crawled up a set of steps leading to the throne. Here were the leaders. Upon the throne sat a monstrously fat genestealer. Scaling on its exoskeleton and a cloudiness to its eyes showed its great age. Its claws were flaky and lustreless. Mephiston regarded it as low threat, despite its huge size. Its intellect was sharp, and it peered at him with senses other than sight. In the mind of this being the cry of the cult was gathered and projected into the warp. Physically, it was past its best.

  Another of the crossbreeds stepped forward as Mephiston advanced, and interposed itself between him and the patriarch. It carried a tall staff topped with a stylised depiction of the Emperor, carved with four arms. A tall cowl rose from its collar, the shape mimicking the alien’s ribbed flesh.

  ‘Stop,’ the being said. Its voice was cold as the void. ‘Kneel before the avatar of the Four-Armed Emperor and we shall let you live.’

  ‘You know with whom you speak?’

  ‘You are an angel of the false Emperor. You are a weapon of hatred.’

  ‘Then you know I will not kneel, magos,’ said Mephiston.

  The creature’s eyes widened at the speaking of its title. Mephiston experienced an echo of surprise.

  ‘You are all called the same thing, on every world your corrupt seeds take root. You are the product of a template. Your enlightenment is engineered. I will not be able to convince you of this, because you are a slave. I know, because I have tried.’

  ‘If you kneel, we will save you,’ said the magos. ‘We welcome all. Salvation is for everyone. All you must do is accept the truth, and you will know it.’

  The genestealer leered at Mephiston. Its hollow-tipped tongue poked from its lipless mouth. A flare of interest washed from it.

  ‘I also know what form your salvation takes,’ said Mephiston. ‘I should not pity you, for your kind is wicked to the soul, but you have no choice. I feel the blind devotion in you. I taste the rankness of corruption. Know this before I kill you – it is not your fault, and if such a thing is possible, then I commend your stolen spirit to the protection of the Emperor.’

  ‘I have no interest in your god,’ said the magos. The static prickle of gathering warp power fogged the air between him and Mephiston.

  ‘The Emperor is not a god,’ said Mephiston. ‘All gods are lies.’

  Light burned around the magos’ staff, throwing out a stark illumin­ation onto the beings crowding the room. From around the throne four gene­stealers slunk, so-called purestrains, their features stamped with humanity’s genetic imprint. The nearly human creatures behind him were tensing to attack. They were late in the process of planetary subjugation. What individuality they had was disappearing. Their behaviour was becoming more tyranid than human.

  ‘Witness the power of a god, then, and see you are wrong before you die,’ said the magos.

  The magos vomited a roaring fountain of power from its eyes and mouth. Brilliant light splashed onto the crowd behind Mephiston, casting a forest of shadows from reaching limbs and outstretched knives. They screwed up their eyes against the light and shrieked at its brilliance, but advanced nevertheless.

  The light engulfed Mephiston completely. Every muscle in the magos’ body strained with the power coursing through it. The light cut out.

  Mephiston was gone.

  A satisfied mumbling went up from the crowd of hybrids. The purestrains hissed.

  ‘A worthy effort,’ Mephiston said. His voice echoed around the hall. The crowd looked about for him.

  He appeared in a blaze of red over their heads, held aloft by a spreading pair of wings made of crimson light. Power coursed through him and out of him, ruby lightning spearing into the crowd from his hands and feet. In his right hand a red lambency grew into a flaring brightness. A spear took shape, and he cast it from him at the bloated genestealer. The magos screamed a wordless challenge, and threw out a shield of light with a motion of his staff. The spear blazed through it, showering sparks, and slammed into the gene­stealer’s head, pinning it with crackling energies to the back of the throne. The spear stayed manifest for a few seconds, boiling the monster’s brains and reducing its eyes to hissing tears of jelly, before vanishing with a crackle of ozone-heavy air.

  The crowd wailed and screamed.

  Mephiston raised his hand. An expanding sphere of power blasted from him, flattening the genestealers. Darkness swelled around him, stealing away every photon of light, until even the xenos could not see.

  Mephiston’s voice filled the space.

  ‘I am the Lord of Death,’ he said. ‘No enemy of mankind can prevail against me. Nothing can.’

  The killing began.

  Juvenel returned to the bridge by a circuitous route, arriving as the counter was ticking down to four minutes. As soon as he entered, the senior crew officers stood.

  ‘Passing command to Flag-Lieutenant Juvenel.’

  ‘I apologise for my delay. Has the admiral not returned?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Captain Arturo.

  ‘Then I will oversee the conclusion of the operation, until he comes back. Send orders to your gunnery captains, gunnery command, to make ready for immediate bombardment. Pass orders that the fleet break apart and take anchor over their targets. Each craft is to begin attack as soon as it is within optimal weapons range.’

  If there was any hesitation on the part of the crew in counteracting the admiral’s order, they kept it to themselves. Whole sections of the command deck went into a controlled busyness as orders were passed down to all gunnery decks, then further on, deep into the layered chain of command from the most high to the lowest rating sweating in the magazine. ‘Two minutes, forty-eight seconds remaining,’ said the master of the hours.

  ‘Begin target acquisition,’ said Juvenel. ‘Bombardment shall commence on the outer city districts. Give the Blood Angels extra time to extract themselves, if they have survived. Keep attempting to contact them.’

  The chronograph counted down. Juvenel had his vox-operators try again and again to reach Dante’s command, with no result.

  His fingers drummed on the armrests of Danakan’s throne. At the last moment, he was beginning to doubt himself. Dante could still be alive on the surface. But the signs of fighting around the palace were much heavier than anticipated. The Space Marines had the best equipment of any Imperial armed force; if there was a way to contact the fleet, they would have.

  ‘Contact the Blood Angels ships,’ said Juvenel. ‘Tell them to ready their weapons for release on my command.’

  A few seconds passed. ‘Blood Angels vessels acknowledge request and stand ready.’

  Their readiness to open fire made Juvenel sit easier.

  ‘Gunnery decks ready,’ announced one gunnery officer.

  ‘Ventral turrets ready,’ said another.

  ‘Dorsal turrets ready.’

  ‘One minute remaining, sir,’ said the master of bombardment.

  ‘Roll the ship ninety-five degrees to port, prepare port batteries. Prepare turret arrays,’ said Juvenel.

  ‘The admiral requested ventral guns only.’

  ‘I am in command,’ said Juvenel.

  ‘Thirty seconds,’ said the master of the hours.

  ‘Any sign?’ He sat forward in the command throne. His hands tensed into fists.

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘Comb all frequencies again. Ask the Blood Angels ships if they have any notice of their surface force.’

  ‘Aye sir.’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘Primary cannon arrays primed and ready to fire,’ called gunnery command.

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Dorsal turrets ready.’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Ventral weapons ready.’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Begin firing sequences, all weapons,’ said Juvenel.

  ‘Three. Two. One.’

  The chronograph flashed amber and let out a short, shrill whistle.

 

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