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Перевод

КНИГА ЧЕТВЕРТАЯ КРЕСТОВЫЙ ПОХОД

ВОСЕМНАДЦАТЬ

ОНИ СДЕЛАЛИ его гигантом. Еще долго после того, как он решил, что привык к трансформации, Захариил находил, что свойства его измененной физиологии все еще изумляли его. Это всегда были маленькие вещи. Он отмечал небольшие кусочки – замечал форму ладони, чувствовал пульсацию психической энергии в теле, или слышал ритм улучшенной крови текущей в его груди – и снова замечал, насколько он изменился. Когда-то он был человеком. Он был мужчиной, рожденным женщиной. Как все люди, он был стеснен физическими ограничениями своего тела, которые считал непреодолимыми. Его мускулы были слабы, его кости - хрупки, а его чувства - тусклы. He had expected his life to last him a matter of fifty or sixty years at most, in all likelihood not even that. On Caliban, there were so many dangers. Even the merest cut could become infected and prove to be a fatal wound. He had been only human, and to be human is to be slave to death by a thousand insignifi¬cant means. The Imperium had changed everything. On the day he had been initiated into the Order as a knight, his rebirth had been an entirely symbolic process. With the arrival of the Imperium, it had become literal and real. He had been made into a new man. His mind and body had both been altered, transformed into some¬thing more than human. Through the application of Imperial science and the marvels of gene-seed, he had been re-cast and re-created in a more warlike mould. Brother Israfael had inducted him into the Legion's Librarius, where he had learned of the warp, the haz¬ards and the power that could be wielded by those skilled in such things. He learned that he was such a man, gifted with powers beyond the normal ken of humans, and that he was duty bound to use his pow¬ers in service of the Emperor. He had taken his first steps along a road that could lead to incredible power, but his first forays into such things were small and nowhere near as amazing as his encounter with the Beast of Endriago. As much as his newfound abilities would forever mark him out as special amongst the Legion, he was first and foremost a warrior and it was in the crucible of combat that he would earn his renown. He was no longer an ordinary man, nor was he simply an extraordinary warrior. The Imperium had made him so much more. They had made him for war. He had become a god of battle, a member of the Astartes. He was a Space Marine, a Dark Angel. He served in the Great Crusade. He knew he was a small cog in a grander design, a walk-on part in the great drama of human history, but such notions did not trouble him, for the Imperium was a noble undertaking, a dream of a bet¬ter universe, and he was part of the martial arm that gave it substance. It was an optimistic time, a period of fine ideals. It was an age of discovery, and he was a part of it. The early days were great days. Afterwards, he would look back on them as the happiest of his life. He had a purpose. He had a mis¬sion. He was an instrument of the Emperor's will, preparing to wage wars for the betterment of human¬ity. Nor was he alone in these struggles. He did not do these things on his own. Throughout his transforma¬tion from man to superhuman, Nemiel was there beside him. The taletellers selected to accompany them from Caliban spoke of destiny, and Zahariel could only agree, for it seemed that he and Nemiel were fated to stand shoulder to shoulder throughout life's travails. From their earliest days on Caliban, their lives had always been linked, brothers even before they became angels. If anything, the process of becoming Astartes had only served to strengthen the bond between them. At times, it was as though one complete soul, split by accident of birth, was incarnated into two separate bodies. He and Nemiel continued to complement each other perfectly like pieces of the same puzzle: Zahariel, despite everything, still the idealist and Nemiel the impressionable pragmatist. Of the night beneath the Circle Chamber, neither spoke, understanding that to pick at that old wound would be to open a box of recrimination that could never be closed. It remained an unspoken barb in their friendship, always there between them, though Zahariel's recollections of that night were hazy at best and faded with every passing day. They were part of the first generation of Astartes to be recruited from Caliban. More tellingly, they were among the first to wear the Legion's new winged sword insignia at their shoulder, the first to call themselves 'Dark Angels'. Afterwards, this would set them apart from their peers. The older members of the Legion were all men from Terra who could remember a time before the Emperor's First Legion had borne the name 'Dark Angels', while those that came after Zahariel and Nemiel's generation had never known anything differ¬ent. For the moment though, a golden age lay ahead. Their days were brightened by the prospect of fight¬ing at the side of the Lion and Luther. They did their work as newly elevated angels well, assigned to serve in the Twenty-Second Chapter under the leadership of Chapter Master Hadariel. They served their Legion and the Imperium to the limit of their abilities. Caliban was in the past, and though they loved their homeworld and hoped to see it again one day, it was a distant dream. Their present, and their life in the Great Crusade, was all that truly mattered. Their first campaign was a time of great excitement, for this would be their chance to take the light of the Great Crusade to the wider galaxy, their first chance to prove their devotion and loyalty to the Emperor. Dark Angels from the Twenty-Second Chapter were to rendezvous with the 4th Imperial Expedition Fleet, currently at high anchor around a world catalogued as Four Three in the annals of the Crusade's record keep¬ers. To the planet's inhabitants, an advanced human cul¬ture that had managed to survive the long isolation of Old Night with much of their technology and society intact, their world had a different name. They called it Sarosh.

'So THIS is it?' said Nemiel. 'This is the reason we've crossed ten star systems? It doesn't look like much.' 'You should know by now that it doesn't matter what a world looks like,' Zahariel told him. 'Do you remember training on Helicon IV? I seem to recall you weren't too impressed with those worlds either until the shooting started.' 'That was different,' shrugged Nemiel. 'At least then there was the chance we'd see action. They were new worlds. Have you read the briefing files? They expect us to wait for months, twiddling our thumbs while some bureaucrat decides whether or not to declare the planet compliant. We're Dark Angels, Zahariel, not guard dogs. We were made for better than this.' They stood by a view-portal on the observation deck of the strike-cruiser, Wrath of Caliban. Through it, Zahariel could see the planet Sarosh, its size magnified by the enhancement technology cunningly concealed in the transparent substance of the portal window. While Nemiel seemed to regard the blue ball of a world with ill-disguised disdain, its beauty struck Zahariel at once. He saw an expanse of turquoise seas, the broad landmasses of the planet's continents presently hidden beneath a shifting layer of variegated cloud. Set against the black backdrop of space and sur¬rounded by distant shimmering stars, it could almost have been a round polished gemstone lying on a vel¬vet backcloth amid a scattering of tiny jewels. He had only seen a few worlds from orbit in his time with the Crusade, but Sarosh was certainly one of the most striking. 'I read the briefings,' he said. 'According to the reports, extensive areas of the planet are covered in woodland. I like the sound of that. It'll be good to be in the forest again, to visit a world that brings back memories of Caliban.' 'To do that it would have to be full of murderous predators, not to mention lethal plants and fungi,' snorted Nemiel. 'We've hardly been away for long enough for you to start getting nostalgic about Cal¬iban. But you weren't listening to what I've been saying about our mission. The point I've been mak¬ing is that there's no glory in it. They may call the 4th an expedition fleet, but really it's little better than a secondary deployment group. This is what they send in once the fighting is done and they need someone to see to the cleanup. They don't think we're ready yet.' 'I heard you,' said Zahariel, 'and I understand your point, but I see it differently. Don't take me wrong, I'd like nothing better than orders telling us we are about to be dropped into the middle of a firefight. You said it yourself. We're Dark Angels. We are made for war. But duty comes first, and, right now, it is our duty to watch over the planet of Sarosh as it is brought to compliance.' 'Duty,' said Nemiel rolling his eyes in sarcasm. 'It seems to me we've had this conversation before, about seven million times at the last count. All right, I concede the point. You're right and I'm wrong. I'll admit to anything, just so long as you don't launch into another long speech about duty. You could bore a man to death on almost any topic under the sun. I heard you delivering some supposedly stirring words to your squad yesterday. I pitied them.' 'It's called oratory,' Zahariel smiled, recognising a familiar argument. 'Don't you remember what it says in the Verbatim?'. "The arts of the warrior include not only the techniques of combat, nor simply the under¬standing of strategy and tactics, but also the study of every skill that may have bearing on the leadership of men in times of crisis.'" 'I remember it,' said Nemiel, his face growing sud¬denly stern. 'But you need to remember we are no longer in the Order. All that is behind us. The old ways are dead. I'm serious. They died the day the Emperor came to Caliban and we learned of the Lion's true nature. From that moment on, we became Dark Angels and we put the past behind us.' 'Excuse me, honoured masters?' a voice interrupted before Zahariel could reply. 'I hope you will forgive the intrusion.' Turning with Nemiel, Zahariel saw a seneschal standing behind them. The man wore a grey tabard over a black bodyglove, the tabard marked with the livery of the Dark Angels Legion. The seneschal dropped to one knee on the deck floor, his head bowed in respect. 'Chapter Master Hadariel sends his regards,' said the man, once Nemiel had given him the sign to speak. 'He reminds you that the transfer of command will take place onboard the flagship Invincible Reason in two hours' time. He emphasised that your presence is required at the ceremony, and that he expects you will comport yourselves in the best traditions of the Legion.' 'Our thanks to the Chapter Master,' said Nemiel. 'Assure him we will be there at the transfer, properly dressed as befits the ceremony. We understand the importance of paying full respects to our brother Legion.' The seneschal stood, bowed once more, and with¬drew. As the servant walked away, Nemiel turned to Zahariel with the ghost of a smile playing across his features. 'It seems the Chapter Master is anxious lest we embarrass him,' he said, quietly so the seneschal would not hear it. 'I wouldn't take it personally,' answered Zahariel. 'It is difficult for him. He is a great warrior, but he is not true Astartes. Even after all these years it must be hard to reconcile that fact, especially when we meet our brothers.' 'True,' said Nemiel as he made a sour face. 'We can only hope that the White Scars appreciate his efforts.' Zahariel raised his hand in quiet admonition. 'Care¬ful. Remember, our honour is at stake. If you say anything to offend them, it will reflect badly on Hadariel, our Chapter, and the Legion.' Nemiel shook his head. 'You worry too much. I've no intention of offending anyone, especially not the White Scars. They are our brothers and I have nothing but respect for them. Anyway, they had the right idea in leaving this planet and heading out to find real action. If I have cause for annoyance, it's that someone chose us to take up their duties as guard dogs in their stead.'

CHAPTER MASTER HADARIEL had briefed his senior officers around the wide table of the strategium on¬board the Wrath of Caliban nearly three weeks earlier. 'We have received new orders,' he had said. 'We are to split our strength. A portion of the Legion is to con¬tinue on to Pheonis, while the rest will go ahead to relieve the White Scars at a planet called Sarosh.' 'So, an emergency call for aid, then?' asked Damas. Always inclined to open his mouth before he thought things through, Company Master Damas was the first to speak. 'Our brother Astartes have bitten off more than they can chew, eh?' 'No,' said Hadariel, his face, like a mask, betraying no sign of emotion. 'From all accounts, the situation at Sarosh is peaceful. It is more a matter of the re-disposition of forces. We are being sent to Sarosh to enable the White Scars to be moved on to duties else¬where in the galaxy.' It was Nemiel who gave voice to the question form¬ing in the others' minds. 'Forgive me, Chapter Master, but it sounds like you are saying the White Scars are judged more important to the Crusade than the Dark Angels, that we're being shunted sideways to a quiet posting just so the Great Khan's followers will be free to find a real war.' True to form, Damas jumped to conclusions. 'The Lion would never agree to this!' Hadariel slapped his open hand down on the table, the noise like a gunshot. 'Silence! You speak out of turn, Master Damas. You show yourself too full of choler. One more outburst and I will relieve you of duty. Perhaps a few days' meditation would restore the balance of your humours.' 'My apologies, Chapter Master,' said Damas, bowing his head. 'I was in error.' 'Indeed you were, and, what of you, Brother Nemiel?' The Chapter Master's eyes turned like a laser. 'I would have thought you would know better. If I want your opinion on any subject, particularly as regards the interpretation of orders, I will ask for it. Is that under¬stood?' 'Perfectly, Chapter Master,' bowed Nemiel in a more grudging fashion. 'Good,' nodded Hadariel. 'As Damas says, you were both in error, probably more so than you realise. Our orders are from the Lion and Luther, and if our leaders tell us we can serve them best by travelling to Sarosh, we do not argue.'

'THIS IS A weighty duty,' said Shang Khan, the ranking leader among the White Scars. There is no glory in it and no Astartes would gladly seek out this task. It is an onerous chore thrust upon us. There is no battle to be won here. Or, at least, not any battle of the kind we were made for. And, without battle, we lack all pur¬pose. We are bereft. We are incomplete.' Shang Khan stood facing the Lion on the observa¬tion deck of the battlecruiser Invincible Reason, flagship of the 4th Imperial Expedition Fleet. Luther and a White Scar named Kurgis stood on either side of them as witnesses to the ceremony, while Astartes from both Legions, as well as a delegation of senior officers and dignitaries from various arms of the fleet, watched the exchange from a respectful distance. Zahariel watched with Nemiel as the solemn cere¬mony of welcome played out the last of its rites and their Legion accepted the task of maintaining law and order on Sarosh. 'Such is the way with duty,' continued Shang Khan. 'It weighs down on our shoulders, but we feel its weight more keenly in our souls. Brother, do you accept this burden?' The White Scar held out an ornate brass cylinder with a scroll rolled inside it. 'I accept it,' replied the Lion. He held out his hand and took the cylinder. 'By my life and by the lives of my men, I swear to do honour in this matter by my Legion and the Emperor. Let these words be wit¬nessed.' 'They are witnessed,' said Zahariel and his White Scar counterpart in unison. 'It is good,' nodded Shang Khan. The White Scar crossed his arms across his chest in the sign of the aquila, saluting Zahariel and his Chapter Master. 'You are well-met, Lion El'Jonson of the Dark Angels. On behalf of the White Scars Legion, I bid you welcome you to Sarosh.'

THEY CALLED IT a ceremony, but it hardly merited the title. To mark the transfer of command of the 4th Imperial Expedition Fleet from the White Scars to the Dark Angels, a scroll was passed from hand to hand and an oath was made. If anything, meagre as they were, the trappings of ceremony attached to the event outweighed the sub¬stance of the transfer itself. The 4th was one of the smaller expedition fleets of the Great Crusade, incorporating seven vessels in total: the flagship Invincible Reason, the troopships Noble Sinew and Bold Conveyor, the frigates Intrepid and Dauntless, the destroyer Arbalest, and the White Scars strike cruiser Swift Horseman, soon to be replaced by the Dark Angels' ship, Wrath of Caliban. The handover of control between the two Legions had been carried out with due respect and reverence, but in reality the fact that there was an Astartes contingent pre¬sent at all was something of an anomaly. Strictly speaking, the 4th was still a second-line fleet. Lacking the firepower, training or resources to mount a full-scale military campaign against a hostile world, its job was to oversee the transition to compliance among worlds that had already shown they were friendly to the Imperium's aims. With Sarosh, however, there had been problems. Initial contact with the planet had been made nearly a year earlier, and, on the surface, its people were friendly. They had welcomed the Imperium with open arms, loudly proclaiming their willingness to accept the Imperial Truth. Yet, in the twelve months since, little or no progress had been made in bringing the planet to compliance. There had been no violence, and no outright acts of resistance, but each of the procedures embarked upon by Imperial envoys to effect compliance had so far ended in abject failure. Each time a new initiative was launched, the Saroshi government promised to do everything in their power to ensure it would be a suc¬cess. And, each time, the promised support had failed to materialise. The government would make fulsome apologies. They would make excuses, citing misunderstandings caused by the differences in customs and language as the reason behind the impasse. They would blame the intransi¬gence of their own bureaucracy, claiming five thousand years of stable ordered society had left them with a bureaucratic system that was both enormously top-heavy and remarkably complex. Certainly, there seemed to be some truth in their claims. Experienced Imperial envoys, who had overseen the compliance of many worlds in their time, would shake their heads in despair whenever the vexing ques¬tion of the Saroshi bureaucracy was raised. The problem was that the bureaucrats of Sarosh were part-timers. The planet's laws allowed its citizens to set aside a generous part of their tax burden by agreeing to spend a proportion of their time working as bureaucrats. Accordingly, the latest planetary census, compiled at three-monthly intervals on Sarosh, indicated that twenty-five per cent of the adult population held some form of bureaucratic position, with the remainder com¬prising those who had failed to pass the planet's exacting Examination of Basic Bureaucratic Proficiency. Based on the same census data, that meant there were currently more than one hundred and eighty million bureaucrats working on Sarosh. With so many bureaucrats taking part in the process, Imperial envoys had found it almost impossible to get things done. It did not matter whether the planet's gov¬ernment agreed to a measure: for it to be put into practice it still had to navigate the apparently endless levels of local bureaucracy, including various pardoners, petition¬ers, notaries, exemptors, signatories, exegetists, resolutionists, codifiers, prescriptors and agens proxy. Worse, the system had grown so complicated in the course of the last five millennia, it was often the case that even the bureaucrats had no idea how to make it work. By common opinion among most of those charged with ensuring Sarosh was brought to compliance, in the last twelve months they had achieved almost nothing in the way of real progress. The planet was still as far from true compliance as it had been on the day it was first discov¬ered. The Swift Horseman had lain at high anchor above the planet through the entire process, as the fleet's envoys straggled to make sense of Sarosh's bureaucratic labyrinth. It was a hangover from the planet's initial dis¬covery, left behind in the hope that the presence of the Astartes might focus the minds of the Saroshi leaders and encourage diem to complete the process of compliance quickly. Instead, for twelve months, the White Scars had found they had to endure an extended period of enforced idle¬ness. It had not sat well with them. The fleet's senior commanders had grown to dread the weekly strategic briefings when Shang Khan would demand to know how much longer he and his men were to be expected to sit in space doing nothing. The White Scars leader seemed to reserve special contempt for Lord Governor-Elect Harlad Furst, the man assigned to oversee the Sarosh territories in the name of the Emperor once they were compliant. 'If these people are compliant, then certify that compliance so we can leave this place!' Shang Khan was heard to roar at the governor-elect on more than one occasion. 'If they are not compliant, tell me and we will go to war to show them their folly! You may choose it either way, just so long as you make a damn decision!' In truth, Lord Furst and his functionaries had not made the decision. In a bureaucratic masterstroke, they had continually put off reaching any final judge¬ment, utilising every excuse at their disposal in an attempt to delay the matter indefinitely, in precisely the kind of manoeuvring that often caused the Astartes to look with such disfavour on the growing non-military element accompanying the Crusade. In such a way, twelve months had passed unproductively while the White Scars had grown ever more frustrated until at last, a signal was sent to Lion El'Jonson requesting that he and his Dark Angels be assigned to stand watch over Sarosh for an interval of two months to allow the White Scars to be moved on to other duties. Meanwhile, a message was received by Lord Governor-Elect Furst pointedly reminding him that the 4th Imperial Expedition Fleet was needed else¬where and could not be expected to stay in orbit around Sarosh forever. The message instructed Furst that he had been granted a period of grace. He had two months to decide the question of the planet's compliance one way or another. If he failed to resolve the matter in that time he would be stripped of his governorship and it would fall to Lion El'Jonson to decide the fate of Sarosh as he saw fit.

LATER, ONCE THE ceremony was over, it came time for the inevitable social formalities. The Astartes and the assorted dignitaries began to mingle and talk, as attendants in fleet livery circulated amongst them bearing silver trays overburdened with wine and food. Always uncomfortable in such gatherings, Zahariel did his best to merge with the background. Before long, he was standing beside the wide vista of a panoramic view-portal, staring out at Sarosh slowly turning in the void, much as he had been a few hours earlier when he had stood with Nemiel on the Wrath of Caliban. Perhaps it spoke volumes of the peculiarities of the Dark Angels mindset, but at that moment he was struck most by how much larger the observation deck on the Invincible Reason was compared to the one on the Wrath of Caliban. Influenced in part by the monastic traditions of the Order, the Dark Angels tended to a spartan austerity in their ways. Every centimetre of space on a Dark Angels vessel was at a premium. From the fire control room overseeing operation of the ship's main batter¬ies, to the practice cages where the Astartes honed their skills, everything served a warlike purpose. In contrast, the interior of this ship put Zahariel more in mind of a nobleman's palace than it did a warship. He supposed there was an argument to be made that a ship should be decorated in keeping with the scope and wondrousness of the Imperium. Yet, to his eyes, to have layers of ornamentation choking almost every inner surface of the ship seemed overly elaborate, even ostentatious on a vessel made for war. Naturally, the Dark Angels' ships had their own share of decoration in an understated style, but the doors, walls and ceilings of the Invincible Reason were cluttered with gilded excesses. If a room was a conver¬sation between the architect who built it and the people who made use of it, this observation deck was currently shouting in a dozen competing and raucous voices. The deck was vast, with an immense vaulted ceiling reminiscent of the great ruined cathedrals of ancient Caliban. One entire wall was dominated by the view-portal that Zahariel was standing beside. More than sixty metres tall, the portal was composed of a number of tall arched panels like stained glass windows in some pagan house of worship. It was not so much the view-portal itself, but what it represented. The observation deck might be decorated in a manner in keeping with the Imperium's message, with frescos depicting some of its finest victories as well as mural portraits of every captain who had commanded the ship in her two hundred year history, but equally it resembled many of the places of idolatry that the people of Caliban had brought to ruin in the planet's earliest age. 'It looks like a joygirl's house of business,' said a gruff voice behind him, offering a different perspective. Zahariel's enhanced sense of hearing had warned him of the approach of a brother Astartes. He turned and saw Kurgis facing him, two goblets of wine held dwarfed like thimbles in the White Scar's hands. 'I'm sorry? I don't follow you, brother' 'This place,' Kurgis inclined his head, indicating the grand sweep of the observation deck around them. 'I was saying I think the same of it as you do, brother. There is too much glitter about it, too much that is golden. It is like the joygirl palaces in the cities of the Palatine, not a ship for warriors.' 'Am I so transparent?' asked Zahariel. 'How could you know what I was thinking? Are you one of your Legion's Librarians?' 'No,' said Kurgis. 'I'm no psyker. Some men are gifted when it comes to hiding their thoughts from others: you could watch their faces for a thousand years and you'd never know what they were thinking. Not you. I saw the sour look you gave this place as you glanced around. From that, I could guess what was in your mind.' 'It was an accurate guess,' conceded Zahariel. 'It helped that I could recognise the emotion. My thoughts were identical to yours on seeing this place. But enough of this, I have brought you a drink. When brothers meet, it is good they share wine and make a drinking oath.' Kurgis offered him one of the goblets, lifting the other up in a toast. 'To the Dark Angels,' said Kurgis, 'and to the Primarch Lion El'Jonson!' 'To the White Scars,' answered Zahariel, holding up his own goblet, 'and to the Primarch Jaghatai Khan!' They drained the goblets, and once he had finished his drink, Kurgis threw the goblet against a wall. The sound of the sharp crack as the metal cup shattered was greeted with a start by some of the dignitaries standing nearby. 'It is tradition,' explained the White Scar. 'For the words of a drinking oath to have value, you must break the cup so no one else can swear an oath on it.' He nodded in approval as Zahariel followed his exam¬ple, shattering his goblet against the same wall. 'You are well-met, brother. I wanted to talk to you, because we owe you our thanks.' 'Thanks?' said Zahariel. 'How so?' Kurgis indicated some of the other White Scars around the room. 'You have set us free, you and your brothers. I am only sorry that such noble warriors must take up our former position, keeping lonely watch over this miserable dung heap of a world.' 'We were happy to accept the assignment with good grace,' said Zahariel. 'It is a matter of duty.' 'Yes, it is duty,' said Kurgis, lifting a questioning eye¬brow, an expression that emphasised the network of thin honour scars criss-crossing his cheeks. 'But you are being diplomatic, brother. I know it. I am sure dissent¬ing voices were raised when you received your orders. The Dark Angels are too brave and resolute a Legion to accept such a command quietly. As Shang Khan said, it is a weighty duty and a hard one for Astartes to bear. We are warriors, all of us, the Emperor's finest. We should be roaming the galaxy, making war on our ene¬mies. Instead, we find ourselves forced to act as guard dogs.' He stopped speaking abruptly, and stared at Zahariel closely. 'What is it?' the White Scar asked. 'You are smiling. I have said something funny?' Zahariel shook his head. 'Not funny, no, it's just that your words reminded me of something a friend said earlier. He also said we were being treated like guard dogs.' 'He did? He is an intelligent man, this friend of yours.' Kurgis turned to look back at the wider room around them. 'You have brought a great many warriors with you, I understand? I only ask because I was surprised to see that your squads were led by your Chapter Master.' 'We are led by the Lion and Luther,' said Zahariel. 'I know, but your line officer is Sar Hadariel is it not?' Following the direction of the other man's gaze, Zahariel looked towards where Chapter Master Hadariel stood talking to Shang Kahn and some offi¬cers of the fleet. Shang and the warriors of his bodyguard were much taller than the Dark Angels Chapter Master, towering over him almost as much as Hadariel towered in his power armour over the ordinary human beings around him. Zahariel noticed that Hadariel was gesturing with his hands as he spoke, making large movements as though in an attempt to demonstrate that he was not intimi¬dated by the White Scars' physical presence. It was a scene Zahariel had observed many times before, and he was not sure Hadariel was even aware he was doing it. Not for the first time, he felt a surge of sympathy for his Chapter Master. In the time before the Emperor came to Caliban, Hadariel had been considered one of the most able battle knights in the Order. Zahariel remembered serving under him when they had made the final assault on the fortress of the Knights of Lupus. It had been a good victory, an important one in the history of Caliban, but the coming of the Imperium had been a mixed blessing for Hadariel. He had been chosen to join the Dark Angels Legion by the Astartes, but in common with a large proportion of that initial intake, he had been too old to benefit from the implantation of gene-seed. In its place, Hadariel and others like him, including Luther, had undergone an extensive series of surgical and chemical procedures designed to raise their strength, stamina and reflexes to superhuman levels. They were taller, stronger and quicker than normal men, but for all that they were not Astartes. They never could be. 'It must be hard to be a man like Hadariel,' said Kur¬gis. 'Yes,' agreed Zahariel. 'My commander is an exemplary warrior. Despite not possessing the gifts of a true Astartes he has climbed far in the Legion.' 'The Lion favours him from the old days?' Zahariel shook his head. 'The Lion does not play favourites. Hadariel became a Chapter Master purely on merit. If there is an element of sorrow to the situ¬ation it is that Hadariel has never seemed suited to the office.' 'What do you mean?' Zahariel wasn't sure how much to say, for Kurgis was of a different Legion to his own and the Dark Angels valued their privacy, yet he sensed that the White Scar was a warrior he could trust. 'In the years since his elevation, the mantle of leadership has sat poorly on Hadariel's shoulders. He clashes repeatedly with his officers and fellow Chapter Masters, and has a tendency to take issue with every imagined slight, as if he's convinced he is being subtly snubbed and insulted by all those around him.' 'I suspect it boils down to the fact that Hadariel had never received gene-seed.' 'Perhaps,' agreed Zahariel. 'Or perhaps his rise up the ranks has been fuelled as much by a desire to prove himself as by his devotion to the Imperial ideal.' Zahariel did not add that rumour had it that the Lion had spoken with him sternly on the matter of his fractiousness. No matter his successes, it appeared that Hadariel could not escape his inner conviction that he was being looked down upon because he was not full Astartes. 'It has always been Chapter Master Hadariel's way to take the lead whenever our Chapter is sent to a new theatre of operations,' said Zahariel. 'He likes to be able to see things for himself 'A wise practice,' nodded Kurgis. Kurgis glanced back towards the view of Sarosh through the portal, holding his gaze on the planet for long seconds as though weighing the words he was about to say. 'Don't trust them,' said the White Scar. 'Who?' 'The people of Sarosh,' Kurgis replied. He faced more fully towards the view-portal and indicated the planet. 'You haven't met them yet, brother, so I thought I should warn you. Don't trust them, and don't turn your back on them.' 'I thought they were peaceful? According to the brief¬ings, they have been welcoming from the first.' 'They have been,' agreed Kurgis, 'but still, I would not trust them, not if you have sense, brother. And, don't trust the briefings. Lord Governor-Elect Furst and his cronies have too much influence on what is written within them.' He turned momentarily to grimace towards a silver-haired, medal-festooned dignitary holding court among a sea of sycophants off to the side of the deck. 'That is the lord governor-elect?' asked Zahariel. 'In his day he was a great general,' shrugged Kurgis, 'or so they say. It happens sometimes. A man is made chieftain and, soon all that is important to him is his status. He becomes deaf to any voice that doesn't try to soothe and cosset him. Before long, he only listens to those who tell him what he wants to hear.' 'And that is what is happening on Sarosh?' 'Without a doubt,' said Kurgis, pursing his lips in frustration. 'If Furst had any sense he'd ask himself why the Saroshi are stalling. If they truly wish to be part of the Imperium, as they claim, you'd think they would be ready to move the very stars to satisfy our requirements. Instead, there are always more delays, more intransi¬gence. Don't misunderstand me, they are unfailingly polite, the Saroshi. Whenever a new problem arises with the compliance process, they throw their hands in the air and wail like women mourning an elder's death. To listen to them you'd think it was all accidents and bad luck. That is why I say don't trust them. Either they are intentionally putting off compliance, or they are the unluckiest people in the galaxy. And, I don't know about you, brother, but I don't believe in luck, neither good nor bad.' 'I agree,' said Zahariel. He scanned the crowd of fig¬ures spread throughout the observation deck for unfamiliar uniforms. 'I don't see any Saroshi at this gathering.' 'You'll see them tomorrow,' Kurgis told him. 'A cele¬bration is planned. The Saroshi intend to welcome your arrival on their world exactly as they welcomed our arrival a year ago. There will be a feast, entertain¬ments and the like, both here on the Invincible Reason and down below on Sarosh. I am sure it will be... con¬vivial. No doubt the Saroshi leaders will make many great promises. You will hear them tell you that com¬pliance is just around the corner. They will say they are working night and day to achieve the tasks the Imperium has set them. They will talk fulsomely of their newfound devotion to the Imperial cause, of how happy they are that you have come to rescue them from their ignorance. Do not believe it, brother. I have always held that the true worth of a man is demon¬strated by his actions, not his words. So far, by that mark, the Saroshi appear to possess no worth at all.' 'You suspect their motives, then?' asked Zahariel. 'Do you think the Saroshi are delaying compliance for a reason?' 'I don't know. There is a saying on my homeworld, "If a man follows wolf tracks, it is likely he will find a wolf." But I cannot offer you any proof of my suspi¬cions, brother. I simply thought I should warn you in the spirit of comradeship. Be wary of these people. Do not trust them. Soon enough, the White Scars will be gone from this place. Shang Khan has already ordered preparations to be made for us to get underway and head to our new duties. The Swift Horseman is to leave this system in four hours.' Kurgis smiled, though there was no humour to it. 'After that, you are on your own.'