The Beast Arises

Vangorich ignored the self-pity. ‘We know what we think of each other,’ he said.

Lansung toasted that with another swig. ‘That we do.’

‘Then you know that I’ve never doubted your skills in battle.’

‘Flatterer.’

‘So why are you being an idiot?’

Lansung finally looked up.

‘What do you think of Tull’s crusade?’ Vangorich asked.

‘It’s doomed.’

‘So why lead it? I never tagged you as suicidal.’

‘No choice,’ Lansung said. ‘If I don’t lead the fleet, I’m a coward.’

‘So?’

‘So?’

‘If the effort is doomed, what does it matter to you that you’re saving face? You’ll be dead.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘That you must stay. If Tull’s scheme fails, Terra will need something to hold the orks back until help arrives.’

‘You’re putting a lot of faith in a single flagship and her escorts.’

‘And her commander.’

Lansung looked thoughtful. He didn’t drink. ‘And if the Proletarian Crusade fails because the Autocephalax Eternal

left the civilian fleet to be slaughtered?’

‘With the number of ships involved, how much of a difference would the Autocephalax make?’

Lansung shrugged. ‘Some.’ He frowned. Vangorich watched him work out the vectors of the coming void war. ‘In the end,’ he said, ‘the fleet will get through or it won’t regardless of the Navy’s assistance.’

‘Then hold back. Live a bit longer.’

Eyes exhausted by failure, Lansung said, ‘And can I quote you, Grand Master, as having urged my cowardice?’

‘You mean your sanity.’

The Fields of Winged Victory had not been true fields for over fifteen hundred years. The last trace of greenery had burned during the Siege, and the area had been paved over with rockcrete during the reconstruction. The name retained some justification in the fact that this was one of the few large spaces of the Imperial Palace that was open to the sky. It covered over a thousand hectares, and its normal use was as one of the great parade and exercise grounds for Terra’s regiments of the Astra Militarum. Though the material of its surface was utilitarian, it was painted with giant reproductions of the regimental arms. It took a company’s worth of artisan serfs to keep the heraldry in good repair.

The Fields were lower than the surrounding regions of the Palace. As they walked down the Boulevard of the Militant Witness, Haas had a good perspective of the activity. The preparations for the myth the Proletarian Crusade would surely become were a wonder in their own right. The volunteers were pouring in by the thousands along roads feeding into the southern third of the Fields. Along the periphery, Administratum officers channelled the arrivals towards the hundreds of registration stations. The ranks of the stations took up the middle third of the Fields. From there, the recruits moved towards mustering points in the north section where shuttles took them off to the starports. Thence, they would be transported to the waiting ships in orbit.

Haas paused at the top of the descent. Awe robbed her of movement and breath. From this vantage point, she saw the shaping of a confused flood into ordered geometry. She was looking at a great army in the process of creation. Out of the street crowd came phalanx upon phalanx, each a thousand strong. She knew that most of the people below had never held a weapon, unless they had emerged from the underhives, for Mesring’s voice had reached there too. These were civilians, not soldiers. They had no training, nor would they receive any. There was no time. And yet, as the phalanxes moved turn by turn to the shuttles, the vision was one of military precision, of the individual transformed into a sublime war machine. The people were nothing as simple as cogs. Their incorporation into the greater being was at a much more intimate, more elementary level. Cogs were still components. Here, at the end of the process, the individual had ceased to be, its existence making way for a new, larger whole. A molecular alchemy.

Haas started walking again. She caught up to Kord. Stunned, he had slowed to a stumble. They had lost Baskaline in the flow of the crowd.

‘When is the embarkation?’ Haas asked.

‘It’s happening now. The Armada is launching tomorrow.’

I just came to see, Haas told herself. I just came to see. The refrain was weak. Even stronger than the physical current was the rush of purpose.