Sky Falling
Part III
By author Perfidious Albion
For a long moment, no-one dared to speak. Then a thunderous barrage of cheers rang out from the exhilarated, exhausted Space Marines—the few hundred survivors of the previous carnage who had witnessed the Emperor's victory. They were both grateful to be alive and, frankly, surprised by it.
The master of mankind held up one hand. "Do not," he said. "This is not over."
The Astartes leapt to battle stances, hefting their weapons. Instinctively they surrounded the Emperor, covering him from angles of fire. Not that he needed it. They had just seen his strength. They knew how little he needed their protection. But this was not about strength. It was about loyalty to their sovereign liege.
"Many pardons, Sire," said Brother-Captain Lucius Mornum, his eyes scanning the area with the habit of a trained soldier. "What foe do we face?"
"A foe beyond any of you," said the Emperor softly.
That was when Vergilius realised:
The sense of teetering on the edge had not gone away with Canothrax's defeat. Indeed it had got stronger.
With Canothrax's demise, whatever foul power had been preventing the cataclysm outside from afflicting the inside of the temple was undone. The world shook. The walls fell. Pillars crumbled. Great chunks of masonry fell from the ceiling, only to be caught, suspended in the air by an effortless effort of the Emperor's will.
Streaks of black, green, red and purple slashed across the sky, more and more of them, propagating out from each other like cracks in glass just before it shattered. The cracks widened, joined up, connected to each other. And something gave way.
There was… something behind the cracks; something that the cracks were opening the way to. Vergilius's mind rebelled at the sight of it. It was wrong. That was all he could say. Wrong. It was black and blue and red and purple all at once, loud and quiet, furious and guileful, hard and soft, everything and nothing and anything the mind could conceive. A frothing ocean, enormous, deeper than the deepest abyss, ancient and seething with power and utterly insane.
Vergilius knew not what it was. All he knew was that it was madness. Evil and madness. That must be what the cracks are, he realised. Whatever was keeping THAT out of reality is breaking.
Despair, then, assailed the noble Astartes Brother-Captain. Vergilius Masimus had fought for the Emperor in a thousand battles. He did not fear to risk his life to safeguard the Emperor's dream of a golden future for mankind. But against this? What could he do about this?
It was like being out on a stormy sea and beholding a tsunami a hundred metres tall. It was of a scale greater than Man. All that men could do was scream into the howling of the wind and await the wave's destruction.
And then:
+NO.+
Thus spoke the Emperor, in a voice that was not a voice. It bypassed their ears and went straight into their souls. It was the Emperor's will, and it branded itself in white-hot fire into the iron of reality.
Falling masonry reversed paths. Flaming fissures in the ground knitted themselves back together. Fallen walls were rebuilt. Gashes of red and purple across the sky retreated from their spread and grew closer together, and the gaping black madness that lay behind them was squeezed away.
The Emperor spoke, and the black gates of Hell were slamming shut.
+NO. YOU DO NOT GET TO CLAIM THIS WORLD. I AM HERE, NOW.+
+YOU HAVE GROWN BRAZEN, ABOMINATIONS. FOOLISHLY BRAZEN. NORMALLY YOU WORK YOUR VILE MISCHIEF IN MY ABSENCE. NOW YOU DARE TRY THIS TO MY FACE?+
The ocean of nightmare, now visible through the wounds in the fabric of reality, churned and tumbled in reply.
And from that fathomless mass of darkness and despair, an enormous voice hissed. It was beyond Canothrax's, that voice. It was galaxies turning and dying, the stars burning out, the slow steady unravelling of everything beautiful and pure.
The planet cracked simply for hearing it, until a burning golden glow sealed the fissures shut. Vergilius could not comprehend it. Literally. It was too much for his mind. His soul screamed from sensory overload. He knew he would have burst like a ripe melon simply for hearing the voice, were it not for something that felt like a strong arm over him—a great protective force shielding him from the worst of its impact. Do not despair, said a soft voice in his mind, a gentle old man's voice, calm and familiar. You are human, and this thing will not have you. I shall not allow it.
He gained only the faintest impression of the depth, power and complexity of what it was saying. That impression sounded a little bit like this:
You dare? You dare, Anathema?! You mock me to my face after stealing from me my much-prized servant?
YOU are the trespasser on this world! came a second voice, as fearsome as the first. Where the first had been the slow guttering despair of the stars burning out in a great black universe, this voice held all the rage and fury of a thousand supernovas detonating at once around the burning hot accretion disc of a supermassive black hole. This planet is ours! You cannot interfere!
+IT IS NOT YOURS.+
The Emperor glared out at the gaps in the universe. He hovered over his Space Marines like an angel of myth. He had no wings, but to fly he did not need them. Sheer force of will kept him in flight. Coruscating lightning crackled around his fine golden armour. A halo of emerald-green fire emanated from his sun-like shining eyes.
The frothing, churning ocean of ancient black madness was met by a brilliant emerald-green light; and in that challenge, the light stood tall and unbowed, its head held high.
It was ours before you began to interfere, complained a third voice, a soft silky caress of agony and ecstasy and passionate intensity.
For which we shall crush that interference! roared the voice of rage.
+IT WAS NOT YOURS. THIS PLANET BELONGS TO THE HUMANS WHO LIVE ON IT. YOU ARE THE TRESPASSERS HERE.+
Vergilius scarcely understood the magnitude of the conversation. The earth-shaking voices were so huge and so beyond him that he could not stand up, let alone fight. He was one of the Emperor's Space Marines, who had gone forth boldly into battle against a Greater Daemon; and he found himself curled in a ball, clutching his knees like a child. It was not his fault he lacked the presence of mind. He was a mortal man; for Space Marines are mortal, no matter the arrogance of some of them. When reality itself was tumbling and being wrestled over, all that a mortal man could do was curl up tight and try not to die.
Still, he understood that. And his heart was lit by a warm glow of pride in his Emperor. This is the man I serve, he thought, and if he had died then and there, he would have died smiling.
Next came another terrible voice, fourth and final, if one does not count that of the Emperor. This was calmer than the others, colder, more polite; yet it was oily and insinuating, and behind the pleasant veneer, Vergilius thought he heard an amused disdain for all that were not itself. Some part of Vergilius that was not gibbering in terror thought it was the most dangerous of all.
Calm yourselves, my friends. Anathema—whatever the rights and wrongs of the matter, we do have a presence on this planet now, said the oily voice. Quite a strong foothold, in fact. You clearly desire us to relinquish it, while we do not desire to.
What would you give us in return? Perhaps a compromise. This world, for other worlds.
Ooh, I like that, said the third terrible voice, with a cruelly amused titter of glee.
+NO,+ said the Emperor in iron tones. +THAT IS NOT HOW THIS WORKS. I WILL NOT BARGAIN WITH YOU. I COMMAND. THIS WORLD IS NOT YOURS TO TAKE. NO HUMAN WORLD IS. YOU WILL RETREAT, OR I WILL FORCE YOU TO.+
The voice of supernova fury raged, and the voice of the dying of the stars snarled with spiteful hatred. But it was the cold and oily voice that Vergilius listened to, and that one spoke with soft menace.
So confident in your powers, Anathema, it oozed, all mockery and cruel insinuation. That has always been your way. Your arrogance. Have you ever contemplated whether you overestimate yourself? I do not think you have.
Try to remove us and you will fail, said the voice of whole galaxies of stars burning out and fading away into the everlasting dark.
+DO NOT PRETEND TO ME, ABOMINATIONS. I AM NOT EASILY DECEIVED. YOU ARE STRONG. BUT THERE IS A REASON YOU DO NOT ACT AGAINST ME DIRECTLY. YOU DO NOT YET HAVE THE STRENGTH TO DISSOLVE REALITY RIGHT WHERE I AM STANDING.+
+IF YOU DID, I WOULD BE DEAD ALREADY. SO WOULD THE LORD OF THE ORKS. AND YOU WOULD HAVE WON THIS WAR A VERY LONG TIME AGO.+
So sure of yourself. Has it not occurred to you that we have a reason to want you and your Imperium to survive? cackled the voice of pleasure and pain.
Speak carefully, warned the cool, oily voice to its sibling.
+YOU HATE ME. THERE IS NO REASON YOU WOULD DO THUS. IF YOU COULD COMMAND THE WARP TO SWALLOW ME UP, YOU WOULD HAVE.+
How little you know, laughed the oily voice. There was nothing of good humour in that laughter, just cruel anticipation.
Wonder of wonders, your own servant may be the cause of your downfall, purred the gleeful voice. But fear not! We, being the gracious gods we are, are planning to save you.
The Emperor stiffened when it said that.
+I DO NOT KNOW WHO YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT,+ he said finally.
Oh I think you do. Don't you remember her? Your closest co-conspirator, your lover, your best friend—your most beloved and most treacherous servant. You'd be most fascinated to hear what she has been getting up to. I certainly am!
The Emperor had stopped, for a time, when it mentioned this woman. Then he spoke again, and his voice of thunder was the law etched down in the stone of the universe with righteous contempt.
+IT IS USELESS TO ATTEMPT TO GOAD ME, ABOMINATION. I AM NOT AS GULLIBLE AS YOUR SLAVES. I WILL NOT FALL FOR YOUR LIES.+
+ERDA IS DEAD. EVEN IF SHE WERE ALIVE, WHAT YOU SPOKE WOULD STILL BE DECEIT, FOR WE BOTH KNOW YOU WOULD NEVER HELP ME AGAINST HER OR ANYONE. YOU DO NOT HATE HER NEARLY AS MUCH AS YOU HATE ME.+
Believe what you will, hummed the cold voice.
Your ignorance will decay, in good time. The spiteful voice sounded like it was looking forward to it.
Now crush him! came the bloodthirsty roar of rage.
All of a sudden the pressure redoubled. The world spun with a million crazed colours. The planet shook like a leaf in a storm. The lines of red and black and purple thrust wider, as if a huge and overpowering force was shoving against reality from the other side.
And against the darkness, the light did shine. The Emperor's golden form burst to brilliant light, brighter than when he fought the Greater Daemon. His eyes turned to twin stars, emerald-green and outshining the sun in a noon-day sky.
Cowering on the cold ground, hardly noticed, the Space Marines in their helmets retched, their senses utterly overcome by the godlike clashing of reality and unreality.
That figure of light glared up at the darkness from beyond reality, and put forth his hands. Spears of green lightning struck forth from the brilliant suns of his eyes, catching the wounds in the sky and cauterising them.
The four great terrible forces of darkness in the distance felt bigger—impossibly huge and threatening. But they also felt distant, as if they were reaching up from the bottom of a vast ocean to reach reality from far away. The Emperor was here—right here, right now. That, in the end, made the difference.
At his presence, the trembling in the earth stilled, the insane crash of kaleidoscopic colours was halted, and the gashes in reality started to scab over and away.
No!
No!
No!
No!
cried a chorus of spite, hate, agony, and the agony of thwarted ambition. Huge red and black and pink swirls of madness grew to fill the sky.
This planet will decay!
Death to the Anathema!
It is ours to torment!
It belongs to Chaos!
And the Emperor answered: +NO. IT BELONGS TO MANKIND.+
Sword-like beams of light, brighter than Lance fire, emanated from emerald-glowing eyes. The Emperor moved his head back and forth. The light of the eyes of the master of mankind surged across the sky, scourging the darkness, and the great ghostlike forms were burnt away.
Slowly, the cracks in reality started closing. With wonder, Vergilius watched the red and black and purple swirling sky turn back to blue, like the sky-blue of his armour.
You think this is done? growled the voice of dying stars, guttering out like candles. Think again, Anathema! You destroyed one of my Princes of the Gangrenous Garden, my greatest and most favoured servants! I shall have my revenge! I shall take from you as you have taken from me!
The four terrible voices screamed and snarled, all except the fourth, the cold voice, which just laughed, soft and menacing.
Then the crazed swirl of colours halted. The ground stopped shaking. The wounds in the sky shut.
The sun appeared again, yellow and shining, casting away the shadows. Vergilius wept for joy. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
The luminous figure of the Emperor sank to the ground. His feet touched the floor with nary a whisper. The psychic lightning storm he had conjured faded as if it had never been. The aura of brilliant light around him died away. The green lightning blaze of his eyes retreated, leaving their usual soft golden glow.
All of the surviving battle-brothers knelt at once.
Vergilius had seen Primarchs before. He had had the high honour of fighting near the Lady of the Dawn. He had seen the golden blur surge through armies of Orks too fast to see, leaving a trail of blood and decapitated green heads plopping onto the ground behind her, until she met the Warboss, a huge imposing figure of grotesque tusks, whirring machinery and a belt with trophy skulls of a dozen species. Aurora had battled him alone, a slim figure dwarfed by his enormity. They duelled until she skilfully twisted the weapon from his hand, drove her Power Sword into his chest and threw him down, the Warboss broken at her golden feet. Then and there, she stood before the remaining army of Orks, laughed at them, and dared them to take her if they dared.
He had thought he had known awe, then. But even she was a pale shadow of her father.
"Magnificent, Your Imperial Majesty," he said.
"Thank you," said the Emperor. He rested his head in his hands. He seemed suddenly very tired.
After what had just happened, Vergilius could hardly blame him. Vergilius made a sharp gesture of his hands, one of the symbols in Astartes sign language—known to all the Legions for times when vox was down and silence was key. His battle-brothers rushed to take up combat positions guarding their liege.
"I believe I speak for all of us," Vergilius said, noting he was the senior-most officer alive here, "when I say I am grateful, Sire."
"Think nothing of it."
That bewildered Vergilius. "Pardon me, Sire. How? No man of us could have slain that creature or closed that… whatever that was… that sought to claim this planet for their own. We could not have won without you. You saved all of our lives."
The Emperor levelled him with a penetrating golden stare.
"You could not have won," the Emperor agreed. "But you fought bravely, nonetheless. I saw your act with those guns. That was valiantly done."
Vergilius ducked his head, even though with his helmet the Emperor could not see his blush. "I do my duty to you, Sire. Nothing more."
"And I would say the same," said the Emperor. "As you swore oaths to me, I swore oaths to the human species, to serve and protect. No-one else in my Imperium could have fought that creature and prevailed. Yet it had to be fought. So it had to be me." He smiled, slightly, and the upturn of his lips was like the rising of the sun at dawn. "Would you not say that I was doing my duty, then?"
"You were." Vergilius conceded the point. He should have known not to argue against the master of mankind. "I humbly beg Your Imperial Majesty's pardon. If I may say, then: I am grateful that you did your duty."
"And I," said the Emperor, looking to all the men present, "am grateful that you did yours."
Each and every Astartes stood straighter at that remark.
This is the man I fight for, Vergilius thought again. He smiled.
"If I may say this too, Sire: I am proud to serve such a lord." There was a murmur of agreement from all of the Astartes present. "None of us will forget what you did today. Not ever. All of us will remember this moment for the rest of our lives."
"I know." The Emperor smiled sadly.
The world went fuzzy, for a second. Had he not been an Astartes, Vergilius would have stumbled. That was strange. He was a Space Marine. He almost never felt disorientation. What was that about? What had they just been discussing again?
Ah yes. "I believe I speak for all of us," Vergilius said, noting he was the senior-most officer alive here, "when I say I am grateful, Sire."
"Think nothing of it."
That bewildered Vergilius. "Pardon me, Sire. How? No man of us could have disabled the machine that was causing the strange atmospheric and seismic disturbances on this world, as you did. We could not have won without you. You saved all of our lives."
The Emperor levelled him with a penetrating golden stare.
"You could not have won," the Emperor agreed. "But you fought bravely, nonetheless. I saw your act with those guns. That was valiantly done."
Vergilius ducked his head, even though with his helmet the Emperor could not see his blush. "I do my duty to you, Sire. Nothing more."
"And I would say the same," said the Emperor. "As you swore oaths to me, I swore oaths to the human species, to serve and protect. You did not have the knowledge to disable that machine, but I did, and it had to be disabled. So it had to be me. Would you not say that I was doing my duty, then?"
"You were." Vergilius conceded the point. He should have known not to argue against the master of mankind. "I humbly beg Your Imperial Majesty's pardon. If I may say, then: I am grateful that you did your duty."
"And I," said the Emperor, looking to all the men present, "am grateful that you did yours."
Each and every Astartes stood straighter at that remark.
This is the man I fight for, Vergilius thought again. He smiled.
"If I may say this too, Sire: I am proud to serve such a lord." There was a murmur of agreement from all of the Astartes present. "None of us will forget what you did today. Not ever. All of us will remember this moment for the rest of our lives."
"I know." The Emperor looked away.
What? It was if the master of mankind was bashful or regretful. Vergilius did not understand why. He had just done a great and heroic thing. Was the Emperor perhaps as modest and uncomfortable with praise as his daughter Aurora was? Yes, that must be it. That would explain it.
"I am amazed that there even existed such a machine," said Battle-Brother Lucius Enricus, tactfully shifting the conversation to another topic. "Affecting an entire planet's geology and atmospheric composition on such a scale, and so quickly, too. It is extraordinary to think that such things can be made by human hands."
"Many wonders were made in the lost Golden Age. No doubt this one had some good purpose—rapid terraforming, most likely—before it was taken by our enemies and used for their evil purposes," Brother-Sergeant Pollux Quaerius said wisely. "We are most fortunate we had His Imperial Majesty here, who lived in those times, knew their ways and knew how to disable the terraforming machine without some catastrophic backlash."
The Emperor nodded benevolently. His lips, however, were curved slightly downward. Vergilius could not begin to guess why.
One of his brothers was less subtle. "Sire, is something wrong?"
The Space Marines drew their weapons. They prepared to guard the Emperor with their lives.
"No," said the Emperor quietly. "It is nothing. Merely the wistful thoughts of an old man. I… I wish things could have been different."
The Space Marines bowed low.
"So do we all, Your Majesty," said Brother-Sergeant Marcus Bibulus. "So do we all."
At that, the Emperor called the senior officers of the Legion together to his personal starship, the Gloriana-class battleship Bucephelus.
The Legion had suffered harshly on Tenebris IV. Four-thousand Astartes had died upon Tenebrian soil. It was a horrific toll, especially for a Legion the size of this one—never one of the big Legions to begin with. The Legion would recover, eventually. But it would be two decades or more before they came back to their old strength.
The companies like Vergilius's, at the vanguard of the force, had suffered the worst of it, because they had led the way and experienced the horrific slaughter in the temple, where that massive bio-engineered construct had slain thousands of Astartes. Some of those companies had suffered eighty percent losses or even greater. The companies that had been further behind had fared better. That was why two thirds of the Legion remained alive.
It had not been on the same scale as horrendous as the Siege of Vimy, the infamous battle that had killed forty-nine in fifty men of the XX Legion. It spoke to the horror of the situation that this grim comparison was something to be happy about.
Once the words were spoken commemorating the lives of the honoured dead, the Emperor spoke to Brother-Commander Philipus Corpula. Corpula's Power Armour was almost spotless. Few traces of mud and blood marred the pristine sky-blue. He had avoided the thickest of the fighting on Tenebris IV. Much unlike Gaius Valimens, he had always been more a strategist than a warrior, prone to commanding from the back line.
"Brother-Commander Corpula."
The named man snapped to attention. He placed his hand over his heart and knelt—a traditional Imperial salute that was given only ever to the Emperor, beloved by all. It spoke of utter, heartfelt devotion.
"Your Imperial Majesty," said the kneeling Space Marine.
"With Legion Master Valimens valiantly fallen in battle," said the Emperor, "and so many of his brother officers with him, you stand as the highest-ranking surviving officer of this Legion." The Emperor's voice was brisk, his face and tone expressionless.
"It is a heavy burden, Sire," said Corpula, lowering his eyes. "I am, of course, willing to serve Your Imperial Majesty in whatever way you see fit."
"Then serve me as Legion Master."
Queerly, the Emperor's golden eyes darted over to the group of survivors of that hellish moment in the temple, the group where Vergilius stood. Vergilius did not know why.
Corpula did not miss the glance. His brown eyes narrowed for a moment, while the Emperor was looking away. By the time the Emperor looked back at Corpula, he had cleared it from his expression.
The Emperor hesitated. Then he said in solemn tones: "Your brothers fought well, at the forefront. They showed commendable bravery even when it seemed without hope. They are fine men. Be proud of them. They made for a stellar vanguard."
Corpula bowed. "You honour us, Sire. We live to serve Your Imperial Majesty. If our service to you meets with your approval, my brothers and I are glad of heart, for it is all that we desire."