The Emperor Expects

  Book 1 – I AM SLAUGHTER

  Book 2 – PREDATOR, PREY

  Fire sputters… The shame of our deaths and our heresies is done. They are behind us, like wretched phantoms. This is a new age, a strong age, an age of Imperium. Despite our losses, despite the fallen sons, despite the eternal silence of the Emperor, now watching over us in spirit instead of in person, we will endure. There will be no more war on such a perilous scale. There will be an end to wanton destruction. Yes, foes will come and enemies will arise. Our security will be threatened, but we will be ready, our mighty fists raised. There will be no great war to challenge us now. We will not be brought to the brink like that again…

  Echoes of future fates…

  Metamorphosis is the most powerful adaptation the universe possesses. The power of not only transformation but utter re-invention could be considered an evolutionary pinnacle. It is the ultimate change, from one state to another, triggered by pressure both internal and external.

  As a response to threat, metamorphosis allows prey to become predator; endangered to become survivor; sterile consumer to become reproductive producer. With complete transformation, a step-change in inherent qualities, single organisms can continue to thrive in previously adverse conditions.

  A sentient species or pan-system civilisation that is capable of metamorphosis – true metamorphosis from one state to a completely different state – is a force that can be met only with equal metamorphosis by its competitors; either the metamorphic euphemism of death or profound self-change.

  Those that cannot lift themselves above their past are doomed to be swallowed by it.

  One

  Lepidus Prime – orbital, 544.M32

  ‘Colossus, this is orbital command. I say again, change heading to six-three-eight, ascent forty-one. You are set on collision course with the Noble Voyager.’

  ‘Ignore her,’ said Captain Rafal Kulik. ‘Continue on course.’

  Kulik was a tall, heavy-set man with a face lined by years, though a life spent in warp space made any estimate of his true age impossible. His skin was dark brown, as were his eyes, though his hair was silvery grey, its tight coils straightened and parted formally by the application of much lotion and toil every morning.

  He wore his service uniform – epaulettes and cuffs of golden thread on a coat of deep blue, but no medals except for an aquila holding the badge of the Segmentum Solar, indicating Kulik’s rank as a flag-captain and patrol commander. His black boots were brightly polished. A sturdy boarding cutlass was held on a hanger at his waist, with a blocky service laspistol hung at the other hip.

  The atmosphere on the bridge was tense and quiet, sparked by the mood of the man who commanded the fate of everybody aboard the battleship. Kulik dominated proceedings with his presence. He stood square in the middle of the main command deck in a serene bubble of importance – genuine authority, not self-importance – while around him junior officers waited in anticipation of his next command and half-human servitors murmured and burbled a litany of reports from the battleship’s systems.

  The bridge was a flattened semicircle in shape, nearly eighty feet wide with a vaulted ceiling sixty feet high; a command deck at the bottom and two mezzanine-like observation and navigation decks above. A multi-part viewing display, which could be formatted to create a variety of screens and sub-screens, dominated the chamber. It currently showed two main split-screens with a schematic of the packed orbital berths around Lepidus Prime and a scrolling list of the capital ships currently identified in the system. Black Duke, Kingmaker, Emperor’s Fortitude, Vigilanti Eternus, Fortune’s Favour, Saviour of Delphis, Neptune, Argos, Uziel: a list of forty-six and still growing.

  The Colossus was a rare Oberon-class ship, fitted for extended solitary patrols. Her decks carried a mix of weapons batteries, high-powered lance turrets and flight bays. A dedicated tracking sensor and communications array for these systems and flight crews was manned by three officers on a sub-deck just in front of the captain’s empty command throne; beyond them was set a broad secondary display dedicated to the tactical disposition of the battleship’s flight assets.

  With a hiss of pneumatics, the main doors to Kulik’s right opened; the two armsmen sentries snapped to attention and presented their shotcannons. First Lieutenant Saul Shaffenbeck entered at a brisk pace. Shaffenbeck was prim, proper, tall and handsome like the stereotypical image of a Naval officer used by the recruiters, although somewhat in his later years now. His hair had lost none of its lustre, due to an illicit supply of dye, Kulik suspected, and though several years his captain’s senior the lieutenant moved with an energy and grace that gave him the appearance of a much younger man. Shaffenbeck had never applied for his commission as captain and was the longest-serving officer on the Colossus. He had never explained why he was content to remain a first officer rather than a commander, but Shaffenbeck’s natural calm and enviable experience made him a valuable aide; like his predecessors, Kulik was silently pleased Shaffenbeck had never sought further promotion.

  The captain noticed Shaffenbeck steal a glance towards the second lieutenant at the comms panel, Mister Hartnell, as he entered. It was the briefest look before Shaffenbeck sought Kulik’s permission to enter with a tilt of the head. Kulik granted permission with a nod in return. By the time Shaffenbeck was by his side Kulik had deciphered the lieutenants’ exchange of glances: having failed to convince his captain to change course as requested by orbital command, the officer of the watch, Mister Hartnell, had secretly sought support from the first lieutenant.

  ‘I do not remember requesting my first officer’s presence,’ said Kulik, not looking at his second-in-command but keeping his gaze on the main display.

  ‘I was monitoring communications, sir, and happened to overhear recent exchanges with orbital command. I felt it prudent to be on hand should we require sensitive manoeuvring.’

  ‘I’m sure that is entirely correct, lieutenant.’ Kulik looked sideways at his second and gave him a glance that conveyed that the captain knew exactly what was going on and was prepared to accept this white lie to avoid imminent debate, but would possibly raise the matter at a later opportunity. In return, Shaffenbeck’s slow blink and slight incline of the head transmitted equally well that he also knew exactly what was going on and was prepared to accept the consequences. Such a momentary exchange was possible only through a familiarity brought about by long years of extended, isolated patrol.

  Having swiftly and silently reached this understanding, and in doing so received tacit permission to speak to his captain about the current situation, Shaffenbeck cleared his throat.

  ‘It would seem, sir, that our current heading would bring us to an orbital berth that is presently occupied by the Noble Voyager.’

  ‘I believe what you meant to say, lieutenant, is that our current destination, an orbital berth suited to a battleship commanded by a flag-captain of fifteen true-years’ seniority, is currently occupied by a grand cruiser under the command of a three-year newcomer.’

  ‘And Captain Ellis has responded to the situation how, sir?’

  ‘He’s done nothing, directly.’ Kulik stiffened and looked directly at his second. ‘I know you think I’m simply being obstinate, Saul, but the situation is intolerable. The whole Lepidus System is overrun with Navy ships. The fact that Admiral Acharya’s fleet arrived earlier does not grant them preferential status. Orbital berths are designated by size of vessel, rank and seniority to ensure that the most important vessels and experienced commanders have better access to the supply tenders and orbital stations. Ellis must have cried to Acharya that I want him to move further out, and now the admiral is leaning on orbital. Orb
ital command are out of order saying that I must defer to the damned Noble Voyager!’

  Before the lieutenant could respond a fresh broadcast blared from the bridge’s speakers.

  ‘Commander of Colossus, this is orbital command. By order of Admiral Acharya, you are to stand-off orbital station, assuming berth designated sigma-seven. We are re-routing the Endeavour to accommodate this new heading.’

  ‘I understand completely, captain,’ said Shaffenbeck, and he seemed sincere. ‘However, it is hardly the fault of orbital command and your current course of action is more problematic for them than the source of your anger.’

  Kulik shook his head, but his mood was already softening, the irritation he felt salved by quiet words of reason.

  ‘The logistarius have a lot to deal with at the moment, sir,’ Shaffenbeck continued. ‘More than forty ships of the line plus twice as many escorts have mustered here, and from the general order signal we received we might expect as many again to join us over the coming weeks. Lord High Admiral Lansung seems to be bringing in almost everybody except the Fleet Solar to combat these latest ork attacks.’

  ‘Being busy is no excuse to make exceptions to protocol and chain of command,’ argued Kulik, though with little conviction. He dropped his voice so that only the first lieutenant could hear. ‘I do not answer to Lansung’s little lapdog, Admiral Acharya. He can shout at the coreward flotilla all he likes. We’re from rimward command and I take direct orders only from Admiral Price.’

  ‘Price is not favoured by the Lord High Admiral since his outburst at Caollon, sir.’ The lieutenant instinctively matched his commander’s informality with lowered voice. ‘If the rumours are true that Price intends to make the Colossus his flagship when he arrives, we would do well not to rile Acharya unduly beforehand. Forgive any forwardness on my part, but I’ve been caught between a feuding captain and flag-captain before and it was unpleasant. I’ve no desire to go one step further and be batted between warring admirals.’ He paused for a moment and glanced at the navigational display. ‘On top of that, I certainly would prefer it if you didn’t crash Colossus into anything.’

  Kulik grunted a grudging affirmative.

  ‘Very good, sir,’ Lieutenant Shaffenbeck said, raising his voice. ‘Helm, lay in course to berth sigma-seven. Comms, relay the captain’s acceptance of orbital command’s new instructions. Also, please conduct the captain’s gratitude to the commander of Endeavour and extend invitation for him to join us at officers’ mess at his earliest convenience.’

  Kulik coughed and raised his hand to his mouth to conceal a smile at this last impertinence. Shaffenbeck was like a mother sometimes, always keen for his captain to smooth ruffled feathers and make new friends.

  Even so, after a four-year wilderness on space patrol some fresh conversation at the captain’s table would be very much welcomed.

  Two

  Terra – the Imperial Palace

  There were few settings more fitting for a war council than the Hall of Glories. A dome nearly five hundred feet across and three hundred high, buttressed and cross-vaulted like a castle tower, the Hall of Glories was the site, so it was claimed, of Rogal Dorn’s meetings with his fellow primarchs on the eve of the Siege of the Imperial Palace.

  It struck Drakan Vangorich, Grand Master of Assassins, that a chamber known as the Hall of Glories might be filled with all kinds of tacky trophies and paraphernalia of past victories, but it was not. It was currently only dimly lit by a few bluish glow-strips, set in alcoves flanking each of three immense double doors. The walls were granite decorated with horizontal bands of Sivalik sandstone that had been carved with frescoes of warriors stretching back through the long annals of history and prehistory.

  The first time Vangorich had come to the Hall of Glories he had marvelled at the sheer inventiveness of mankind’s ability to kill. The earliest figures had simple stakes hardened in fires, through various flint weapons, to the first matchlock guns and then warriors with faceted armour sporting the precursors to the lasguns of the Imperial Army. The last figures in the evolution of mankind’s warriors were tall, stave-bearing soldiers not unlike the Lucifer Blacks that had become famous during the Heresy War.

  Vangorich had always wondered why the fresco did not contain images of the Adeptus Astartes, nor the Custodians that guarded the Emperor. Perhaps genetically engineered transhumans had not been part of the artist’s instruction, or perhaps their artificial nature rendered them disqualified from an expression of humanity’s martial history.

  There were no banners or plaques to obscure the walls in celebration of past wars. Instead, the polished black and grey marble of the floor was inscribed with a spiralling line of names picked out in gilded letters: the names of places where the Emperor’s servants had fought and died. Not even victories, just planets and starships, orbital stations and drifting hulks, where blood had been shed in the cause of the Imperium and its immortal ruler.

  Before the current crisis the list of battles had circled the massive hall thrice, many of them dating back to the Heresy War. Since events at Ardamantua the small army of masons and gilders had been working day and night to keep up with the litany of engagements. They had been dismissed for the war council, as had most of the functionaries and hangers-on associated with the High Lords, leaving just a few dozen record keepers, secretariats and minor members of the Senatorum Imperialis.

  It irked Vangorich that he was amongst those that were now waiting in the hall, alongside a few of the less favoured High Lords. It irked him even as it favoured him in some ways. The lesser peons of Terra were the perfect cover for an Assassin. Vangorich was unremarkable in build or appearance, save for the duelling scar that slashed through the left side of his lips and chin, and curiously wide-set, dark eyes. His simple black attire – from short boots, stockings and breeches to coat and thin scarf – was not out of place amongst the drab robes and similar suits of the flunkies and scriptors that milled about waiting for the true High Lords to arrive.

  Lansung’s manoeuvring had grown bolder and bolder over the last few weeks as, one by one, the other institutions that made up the Imperium – or were allied to it, in the case of the Adeptus Mechanicus – realised just how dependant they were on the benevolence of the Imperial Navy. The arrival of the Beast and the tide of battle driven before the xenos war leader had swallowed up whole star systems, and the reach of the orks seemed almost limitless. Dozens of worlds had fallen to the haphazard onslaught, and only the Navy could provide the means to stem the encroaching horde; only the Navy offered protection for important dignitaries with the means to flee before the green mass.

  The Lord High Admiral had not been idle in despatching his forces to the aid of those loyal to him in the Senatorum, while those reluctant few whose support had been tardy found their outposts and convoys bereft of military support. Though the Adeptus Mechanicus had their own ships, and were essential to the maintenance of Lansung’s continued dominance, it appeared the Lord High Admiral and the Fabricator General had come to an arrangement of sorts. The Lord of Mars was happy for the Master of the Fleet to take the glory, while in secret they divided the spoils of their newly-founded partnership.

  A distant sounding of a fanfare heralded the coming of the major players in the Senatorum Imperialis. A column of Lucifer Blacks two abreast, the bodyguard of the Imperial elite, advanced along the corridor approaching the Hall of Glories, the crash of their tread resounding in unison. Vangorich stopped himself from showing the contempt he felt at that moment. The original Lucifer Blacks had fought during the Unification and Heresy War and earned great distinction for their loyalty and expertise. The Imperial Guardsmen in the regiment that now bore their name were little more than highly-trained, well-equipped ornaments for the grandiose. While nominally they answered to Lord Commander Militant Verreault – an upright, credible veteran whom Vangorich actually admired – the truth was that Solar-General Sayitora hir
ed them out like mercenaries in exchange for favour and physical reward.

  Each Lucifer Black wore enamelled black carapace armour over a deep woven mesh of anti-ballistic threads. Those that entered the hall bore shock-glaives – long polearms with silvered blades. Tall helms and mirrored visors concealed their faces. Their presence, in such numbers, demonstrated not only Lansung’s personal resources but also signified unity between the Imperial Navy and the Astra Militarum.

  This was a dangerous thing to Vangorich and he was surprised the other High Lords had allowed it to come to pass, jeopardising their own positions. Such displays of cooperation would have been unthinkable a century ago. The Imperial Army had been disbanded, the Legiones Astartes broken asunder, to prevent any one individual wielding the overwhelming power of fleet and ground troops. Now Lansung was flouting such measures, using the ork attacks as an excuse to override the old arguments and objections to such hoarding of military force.

  Four hundred strong, the Lucifer Blacks split to move around the circumference of the large chamber, a score remaining by the open doors with blades raised to form an honour arch for the entering senators.

  Lansung was the last to arrive, a roll and crash of drums and the climax of the clarions announcing his presence. Above, amongst the smog of incense that hung constantly beneath the dome, vast chandeliers carved as flights of ribbon-trailing cherub-like figures holding burning torches blazed into light, banishing the gloom that had previously filled the room.

  Into this brightness stepped Lansung, the medals on his broad chest glinting, the gold of his brocade glistening.

  Though still corpulent, the Lord High Admiral’s considerable frame showed signs of being slowly eroded by his busy schedule of late. His jowls hung a little looser, his chins wobbled a little more with skin than fat. Vangorich estimated that Lansung had lost twenty, perhaps as much as twenty-five pounds, in recent weeks, and wondered whether the stress of such politicking was taking a toll in other ways. Whatever the cause, the loss of weight could not be overlooked. Certain compounds, toxins, stimulants and soporifics had to be administered in precise doses relating to the target’s body mass and Vangorich would have to take this into account if his plan for the coming conference did not bear fruit and more drastic measures became necessary.