The Beast Arises

The company passed through an archway and into the manufactorium. Two of its huge chimneys had fallen, crushing the upper storeys of the central structure. The Fists Exemplar entered a ruin of iron and rockcrete, the ground level a shattered jumble. Some columns still held up the vaults for a few metres, while others had snapped like bone, and the space between the floor and thousands of tonnes of rubble was less than two metres. Shattered pipes sprayed superheated steam and burning gases through the space. Torn electrical cables as thick as Thane’s arm sparked and twisted like agonised snakes. Forges thirty metres high, cracked open, spilled molten slag across the floor. The manufactorium was a death planet in miniature, and it offered the best route to break through to Thamarius and the interior of Pavonis Mons. The heavy weapons of the Mechanicus could not enter here.

‘This complex is highly unstable,’ Aloysian said.

‘I don’t plan on staying,’ said Thane.

‘And Van Auken could decide to bring it all down on our heads.’

‘More reason for speed. And to keep him distracted.’ Thane voxed the gunship pilots. ‘We must escalate, brothers. Keep the focus of the Mechanicus on the street.’

‘Acknowledged,’ said Preco, from among the answer clicks.

The Thunderhawks screamed over the avenue, unleashing streams of heavy bolter and lascannon fire, and flights of hellstrike missiles. The tank battle raged on. The roar of destruction was unending, the curtain of flame from the explosions impenetrable. Thane led the way through the burning and the wreckage of the manufactorium. The Fists Exemplar climbed over and under rubble, battering their way through iron doors knocked askew in their frames and through walls crumbling under strain. Behind them, collapses multiplied. A mountain was settling over their heads.

They advanced well beyond the level of the Mechanicus’ front lines in the avenue. Thane estimated less than a hundred metres separated them from the final approach to the Tharsis Gate.

There was no resistance.

As they reached an open space whose floor was covered in congealing metal, Aloysian said, ‘Chapter Master, where are the skitarii?’

It was too much to expect all the infantry to be caught up in the struggle in the road. ‘Auspex?’ Thane called.

‘Nothing…’ Kahagnis voxed from midway down the phalanx.

Thane did not like the hesitation. ‘Why are you uncertain?’

‘The readings are erratic. The interference is severe. When we—’

And then nothing descended. Nothing was white noise on the vox, white noise on the optics, and a shrieking howl. Blood filled Thane’s mouth and ears. Pain stabbed into his eyes with the thousand shards of a broken mirror.

Somewhere, there was a hum. It vibrated beneath hearing. It was sharper than a blade.

And then the smell of blood. The smell of butchery.

Two

Terra — The Imperial Palace

The ork moon attacked Terra with its presence. It was blockaded and nothing could emerge, yet its reality alone was enough. It orbited the planet, renewing fear across the globe as the people turned unwilling eyes up to witness every moonrise.

And the High Lords dithered. The High Lords schemed. At the sight of them, gathered on their dais, Koorland’s cheek muscles twitched with contempt and anger.

As he walked into the Great Chamber, the Imperial Fist’s boots crunched on the powdered marble fallen from the ceiling. Every time he entered the Chamber, he saw less of the space’s glory, and more of the damage. It was no less a symbol of the state of the Imperium than it had ever been. Friezes were cracked. The r ubble of the collapsed seating tiers had not been cleared away. The fractures in the dome turned the fresco of the Great Crusade into a bitter satire.

The damage to the huge statue of Rogal Dorn was minimal. The primarch was unbowed. He gazed down on the High Lords’ dais, and Koorland thought he read disgust in the lines of his face and in the implacable eyes. How could the Praetorian not be dismayed by what the High Lords of Terra had become?

Koorland shared that disgust. But he also shared in the shame. By ousting the Lord Guilliman, Udin Macht Udo, and becoming Lord Commander of the Imperium in his place, Koorland had erased the distance between himself and the High Lords. He was of their number now. Their failures were his too, compounding his others.

The Imperial Fists, gone except for himself. And yes, he had acted, yes, he had united the Successor Chapters. Yes, the sons of Dorn once again stood on the ramparts of the Imperial Palace. But to what end? The ork moon’s tumorous presence was still in the sky, a perpetual reminder of the beast that was bleeding the Imperium. The Council was as fractious as ever. And now, instead of progress towards even a hint of a way of moving against the orks, the fault lines in the Imperium were growing into

chasms.

A poor showing.