Текст книги "A Thousand Sons"

Автор книги: Грэм Макнилл

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“It is time,” said Magnus, “Ahzek, give me the Moon Wolf.”

Ahriman nodded and lifted the iron pendant from the book. The moon glittered silver in the cavern’s light, and the fangs of the wolf shone like icicles. He lowered the pendant into Magnus’ flattened palm, looping the chain over his outstretched fingers.

“This was given to me by Horus Lupercal on Bakheng,” said Magnus. “It was part of his armour, but a lucky shot broke it from his pauldron. He gave it to me as a keepsake of that war, and joked that it would guide me in times of darkness. He was egotistical even then.”

“Now we’ll see if he was right,” said Ahriman.

“Yes we will,” said Magnus, closing his eye and making a fist around the pendant. His breathing slowed, becoming shallower as he concentrated on the love he bore for his brother. Within moments, a swelling bloodstain appeared on Magnus’ shoulder and he groaned in pain.

“What in the name of the Great Ocean is that?” cried Phael Toron.

“A sympathetic wound,” said Amon. “A repercussion, a stigmata, call it what you will. We have little time; the Warmaster has already been wounded.”

“Toron,” hissed Ahriman, “you know your role. Fulfil your duty to your primarch.”

The athame twitched on Phael Toron’s palms, lifting up and twisting in the air until it hung directly over the primarch’s heart. The silver cord within the vervain crown unwound of its own accord and slithered over the edge of the altar to bind itself to the magnetised chain.

“I will travel the Great Ocean for nine days,” said Magnus through gritted teeth, and Ahriman was astonished. To travel for so long was unheard of. “No matter what occurs, do not break my connection to the aether.”

The five warriors surrounding Magnus shared a look of concern, but said nothing.

“You must not falter,” said Magnus. “Continue, or all this will be for nothing.”

Ahriman lowered his gaze and continued to read, not understanding the words or how he knew their pronunciation, but speaking them aloud just the same. His voice grew in volume, moving in counterpoint to the chanting of the Thralls.

“Now, Toron!” cried Magnus, and the athame plunged down, stabbing into the primarch’s chest. A red bloom of glittering, iridescent blood spilled from the wound. Instantaneously, the swirling light found its outlet, and searing white beams erupted from the mirrors and surged into the hilt of the athame.

Magnus arched his back with a terrible roar. His eye snapped open, its substance without pupil or iris, but awash with all manner of incredible colours.

“Horus, my brother!” cried Magnus, his voice laden with the echoes of the thousand souls fuelling his ascent. “I am coming to you!”

And a terrifying, angelic form shot up from Magnus’ body in a blazing column of light.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

She was my World/Whatever the Cost/The Price

LEMUEL WAS FRANTIC with worry. He couldn’t find Ahriman, and Camille was running out of time. A week that had started out so well had turned to one of the worst in the space of a couple of days. Two of his dearest friends were gravely ill, and a third was suffering at the hands of a master who used him without care for his wellbeing.

Events were spiralling out of control, all his grand ideas for what he had hoped to learn from the Thousand Sons as insubstantial as mist. He had learned a great deal, but what use was power when those you loved could slip away from you without warning?

He had shed too many tears for lost loved ones. He wasn’t going to shed any more.

Camille lay in a bed not dissimilar to Kallista’s, though without the variety of equipment hooked up to her cranium. Cuts and grazes had been dressed, and her lungs had been flushed of carbon, ash and trace elements of metal oxides. The wound in her side had been treated and dressed, and she had been declared physically fit and prescribed strong pain balms and three days of bed rest.

After what Ahriman had told him, Lemuel worried that Camille didn’t have three days.

He had begged Khalophis to find Ahriman, only to be told that Ahriman was “with the primarch” and could not be disturbed. Though Lemuel’s body clock was turned upside down, he guessed it was early morning. Looking at a chrono above the nurse’s station he saw that ten hours had passed since Khalophis had brought Camille in.

Still, Ahriman had not come or even acknowledged Lemuel’s calls for aid.

When he returned to Camille’s room, Lemuel found an attractive ebony-skinned woman sitting by her bed, holding her hand and mopping her brow with a cloth. The elegant sweep of the woman’s bone structure told Lemuel she was a native of Prospero.

“Chaiya?” he asked.

The woman nodded and favoured him with a nervous smile. “You must be Lemuel.”

“I am,” he said, rounding the bed and taking Chaiya’s hand. “Can we talk outside?”

Chaiya glanced over at Camille. “If there is something you wish to say concerning Camille’s health, I think you should tell her first, don’t you?”

“Under normal circumstances, I’d agree with you,” said Lemuel, “but two of my best friends have been admitted to this facility, and my usual good manners are in short supply. So please indulge me.”

“It’s all right, Lemuel,” said Camille. “You know me, if there’s news to be told, I’d rather hear it first-hand. Say what you have to say.”

Lemuel swallowed. Having to voice his suspicions to Camille’s lover was bad enough; admitting them to her face was almost too much to bear.

“The psychneuein I told you about, it turns out they lay their eggs in a rather unorthodox manner.”

Camille smiled, the muscles on her face relaxing.

“It’s okay,” she said, “none of them stung me. Khalophis kept me safe. If anything, you should be checking him out to see if he’s going to become a mother.”

Lemuel sat on the edge of the bed and shook his head. “That’s not how they reproduce, Camille. As I said, it’s rather unorthodox…”

He explained what Ahriman had told him of the reproductive cycle of the psychneuein, trying to emphasise that it wasn’t even certain that she was in any danger. Chaiya’s expression told him he wasn’t doing a very good job.

“You think that’s what this headache is?” she asked.

“It might be,” he said. “I don’t know. I hope not.”

“You hopenot? What kind of lame answer is that?” snapped Camille. “Get me a damn brain scan or something! If I’ve got some alien’s eggs in my head, I bloody well want to know about it.”

Lemuel nodded and said, “Of course. I’ll see what I can do.”

“No,” said Chaiya. “I’ll do it. I have friends in the Thousand Sons. It will be better if I ask.”

“Yes, yes,” nodded Lemuel. “That sounds wise. Very well, I’ll… I’ll wait here shall I?”

Chaiya leaned over and gave Camille a kiss.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said before heading out of the room. Left alone with Camille, Lemuel took a seat and smiled weakly, crossing his hands in his lap.

“I’ll never make a physician, will I?”

“With that bedside manner? Not anytime soon, no.”

“How’s your head anyway?”

“Still sore.”

“Oh.”

“I did get a bumpy ride in Khalophis’ speeder. I banged my head pretty good on the seat.”

“I’m sure that’s it then,” said Lemuel.

“Liar.”

“All right,” he snapped. “So what do you want me to say? That I think alien eggs are going to hatch in your head and eat your brain while you’re still alive? I’m sorry, I can’t say that.”

She watched him silently.

“Yeah, definitely need to work on that bedside manner,” she said.

Her forced humour broke the dam within him, and he buried his head in his hands and wept. Tears flowed freely and his chest heaved with sobs.

Camille sat up.

“Hey, I’m sorry, Lemuel, but I’m the one in bed here,” she said gently.

“I’m sorry,” he managed eventually. “You and Kallista, it’s too much. I can’t lose you both, I just can’t.”

“And you’re not damn well going to,” said Camille. “We’ll figure this out. If there’s going to be any tinkering done with my head, there’s probably no better planet to be on, is there?”

Lemuel wiped his wet eyes with a sleeve and smiled.

“I suppose not. You’re being very brave, you know that?”

“I amon some pretty strong meds, so I wouldn’t give me too much of the credit.”

“You’re braver than you think,” said Lemuel. “That counts for a lot. Believe me, I know.”

“Yeah, me and Kalli are going to be fine, you wait and see,” she said.

“Yes,” said Lemuel bitterly. “That’s all I ever do.”

Camille reached out and took his hand, letting her eyes drift closed.

“No,” she said. “That’s not true is it? You did all you could to save her.”

Lemuel pulled his hand free. “Don’t. Please.”

“It’s all right,” said Camille. “Tell me about Malika.”

HE BEGAN HESITANTLY, for it had been many years since he had spoken of Malika. The words were too tangled in grief to come easily, but he haltingly told Camille of the brightest, most beautiful woman in the world.

Her name was Malika, and they had met at a fund-raising dinner held by the Lord of the Sangha district to procure monies that would allow him to purchase a quarry’s worth of Proconnesus marble from the Anatolian peninsula to donate to the Imperial Masonic Guild. The current Guildmaster, Vadok Singh, had promised a prominent location for the statues that would be crafted from the blocks, perhaps even the Emperor’s Investiary, and rumour had it the commission had been awarded to no less a sculptor than Ostian Delafour.

Such things took money, and the wealthiest citizens of the district had been summoned to show their devotion financially. Lemuel was a rich man, and had built a sizeable estate, thanks to a combination of business acumen and the ability to read people’s auras to know when he was being played false. He owned property throughout Mobayi, and was well-liked, having turned much of his wealth to philanthropic works.

Malika was the daughter of the Lord of the Sangha district, and they had fallen in love that night beneath the stars and over a bottle of palm wine. They were married the following year, in a ceremony that cost more than many of the families living on Lemuel’s lands made in a year. Lemuel had never been happier, and as he spoke of the first seven years of marriage, his face lit up with golden memories.

The first signs of Malika’s diminishing health came with severe migraines, unexplainable blackouts and short-term memory loss. Physicians prescribed pain balms and rest, but nothing helped alleviate her symptoms. The diagnoses of the finest medical practitioners from all across the Nordafrik districts were sought, and eventually it came to light that Malika had developed a highly aggressive astrocytoma, a malignant brain tumour that he was told was incredibly difficult to treat.

Surgery alone could not control the tumour, as its cells had extended their cancer throughout her brain. Radiation therapy followed numerous surgical procedures alongside aggressive chemotherapy in an attempt to control any further tumour growth, but the physicians told Lemuel that the heterogeneous nature of her ailment was making it difficult to treat. As one cell type was destroyed, they said, others lurked in the wings to take over the job of destroying Malika’s brain.

Lemuel watched his wife fade away and there was nothing he could do about it. Such helplessness was anathema to him, and he turned to ever more esoteric methods in his attempts to save her, despite the futility of their likely effect. No treatment was too ridiculous, for Lemuel was willing to try anything to save his beloved wife.

Any chance was better than none.

Lemuel employed homeopathic and naturopathic experts to administer holistic courses of herbal treatments, while Ayurvedic practitioners placed equal emphasis on the wellbeing of her mind and spirit. Qi gong, acupuncture, controlled breathing, hypnosis and orthomolecular therapies were all tried, but none of them had any effect whatsoever.

Lemuel refused to give up. His researches had led him to the farthest corners of knowledge, and he uncovered many texts that spoke of forces beyond human understanding. In these books he recognised his own abilities and read of others that could heal the sick, raise the dead and call forth powers that were unearthly and abhorred.

That didn’t matter. He would do whatever it took to save his wife.

She begged him to stop, but he would not listen. She had made peace with her mortality, but Lemuel could not. He wept as he told Camille of how she had watched from their roof veranda as he left on an expedition to the mountains of the Himalazia in search of hidden masters said to have achieved mastery over body and mind.

If anyone could help, it would be them.

Laden with all his wealth, he and his followers travelled far into the mountains and almost died in the frozen winds that scoured these highest peaks. It proved to be a wasted journey; the builders of the Emperor’s palace had long since displaced any hidden masters that might once have lived in these mountains.

By the time he returned to Mobayi, Malika was dead.

“SHE WAS THE world to me,” said Lemuel as he finished his tale.

“I’m so sorry,” said Camille. “I never knew. I mean, I saw something of her when I touched you on Aghoru, but I didn’t know. Why did you never tell us about Malika?”

Lemuel shrugged.

“I don’t like telling people that she died,” he said. “The more people I tell, the more it sinks in that she’s really gone. It makes it more real and more unchangeable, somehow.”

“You think you can change that she died?”

“For a while I thought I could,” said Lemuel. “Some of the books I read spoke of bringing the dead back to life, but they were maddeningly vague. Nothing worked, but when the opportunity came to be selected for the Remembrancer Order, I jumped at the chance to petition the Thousand Sons.”

“Why the Thousand Sons?”

“I’d heard the rumours,” said Lemuel. “Hadn’t you?”

“I don’t listen to rumours,” said Camille, smiling. “I just start them.” Lemuel chuckled.

“Touché, my dear,” he said. “I spent a long time listening to rumours in my search for a cure for Malika, and I’d heard a great deal spoken about the sorcery of the Thousand Sons. I heard whispers of how a great many of them had been horribly afflicted with dreadful mutations, and of how Magnus had saved his Legion. I thought that if I could learn from them, I might learn how to bring Malika back.”

“Oh, Lemuel,” said Camille, taking his hand and kissing it. “Trust me, there’s no bringing anyone back. I know; I’ve touched the dead and I’ve listened to their lives. I’ve felt their love and their pain. But, through all of that, I’ve felt the joy they took in life when they were alive, the people they knew and loved. In the end, that’s the best anyone can hope for, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” agreed Lemuel, “but I tried so hard.”

“She knew that. Through everything, she knew you loved her and were trying to save her.”

“Could I give you something of hers?” asked Lemuel. “Maybe you could read it?”

“Of course, whatever I can do, Chaiya. You know that,” said Camille, her voice drowsy.

Lemuel frowned. “Did you just call me Chaiya?”

“Sure… why? That’s your… name…” said Camille. “Isn’t it… my love?”

Lemuel’s stomach lurched as Camille’s hand fell from his and her eyes widened. She gasped for air, and the entire left side of her face seemed to slip, as though invisible hands were moulding her flesh into a lopsided grimace.

“Oh, no! Camille! Camille!”

Her hands bunched into fists as they wrung the sheets on the bed, and her body stiffened with the force of the seizure. Her eyes stared with manic fury, and blood-flecked saliva drooled from the corner of her mouth. Camille’s face was a mask of wordless pleading, her entire body wracked with pain.

Lemuel turned towards the door.

“Help! Throne of Terra, help me please!” he yelled.

“CAN YOU SEE them?” asked Phosis T’kar.

“Yes,” replied Hathor Maat. “Seeing them isn’t the problem. It’s doing something about it that’s the problem.”

“Please,” begged Lemuel. “Whatever you can do.”

Camille’s room had become a hive of activity since he’d called for help. Chaiya had returned, not with medical staff or any form of imaging equipment, but with two captains of the Thousand Sons. She had introduced them as Phosis T’kar of the 2nd Fellowship and Hathor Maat of the 3rd.

Evidently she didhave friends in high places.

While Phosis T’kar held Camille motionless with the power of his mind, the absurdly pretty Hathor Maat placed his hands on either side of her skull. His eyes were closed, but from the motion of his pupils, it was clear he visualised with other senses.

“There are six of them, buried deep and growing fast,” he said. “Ugly white things. They’re not yet larval, but it won’t be long before they pupate.”

“Can you save her?” asked Chaiya, her voice as brittle as cracked crystal.

“What do you think we’re trying to do?” snapped Phosis T’kar.

“They’re cunning little bastards,” hissed Hathor Maat, twisting his head and moving his hands around Camille’s skull. “Organic tendrils, like anchors, are burrowing into the meat of the brain, tethering themselves to the nerve fibres. I need to burn them out slowly.”

“Burn them out?” asked Lemuel, horrified at the idea.

“Of course,” said Maat. “How else did you think I was going to do it? Now be quiet.”

Lemuel held onto Chaiya’s hand, and she to his. Though they had not met before today, they were united in their love for Camille. From the straining muscles in her neck and arms, Lemuel could tell that Camille’s body was trying to thrash out its agony on the bed, but Phosis T’kar kept her immobile without apparent effort.

“I see you,” said Hathor Maat, curling his finger as though hooking a fish. Lemuel smelled a sickly aroma of something burning.

“You’re hurting her!” he cried.

“I told you to be quiet,” barked Hathor Maat. “The tiniest fraction of a misstep and I may end up burning out the mechanism that allows her to breathe or pumps blood from her heart. I have its body and am slowly boiling it alive.”

He laughed with relish.

“Oh, you don’t like that do you?” he said. “Trying to dig your hooks in deeper, eh? Well, let’s see about that.”

Hathor Maat dug his fingers downwards, spreading the tips wide and smiling as the smell of burning meat grew stronger. He worked within Camille’s skull for over an hour before nodding to himself.

“One. Two. Three. And four… Got them,” he said.

“You got them all?” asked Lemuel.

“Don’t be foolish, that was just the tendrils of the first egg. They’re tenacious and aren’t going without a fight. It’s loose now, but we need to get it out fast before it reattaches. Phosis T’kar?”

“Got it,” said the Captain of the 2nd Fellowship.

Phosis T’kar placed his hand beside Camille’s ear and twisted his extended fingers as though attempting to pick the most complex of locks. His fingers were incredibly dextrous, and Lemuel held his breath as Phosis T’kar gradually drew his fingers back towards his palm.

“Inkosazana preserve us!” cried Lemuel as something wet and wriggling emerged from Camille’s ear. It looked like a spined slug, and its slimy body writhed as it was drawn forth by Phosis T’kar’s incredibly precise power.

The slug-like creature plopped down into a gleaming kidney bowl, leaving a sticky trail of blood and slime behind it. Just looking at it made Lemuel feel sick.

“Would you like to do the honours?” asked Phosis T’kar handing Lemuel the kidney bowl with a grin.

“Oh, absolutely,” replied Lemuel. He tipped the bowl and dropped the pre-larval psychneuein to the tiled floor of the medicae bay.

He stamped on it and ground it to a gooey paste with his heel.

“One down, five to go,” said Hathor Maat, his skin streaked in sweat. “Just as well I love a challenge.”

BEYOND THE PYRAMID of Apothecaries, a light rain fell over Tizca. Rain was uncommon over the city and its inhabitants came out onto the streets to feel it on their skin. Children played in the rain, and the streets echoed with squeals of delight as they splashed in puddles and stood beneath spouting gutters.

It continued for days, drowning the city every morning.

No one knew where it came from, for the techno-psychic arrays built into the mountains were normally an entirely reliable means of predicting and controlling the planet’s climate.

Some rain was, of course, necessary to keep the ecosystem in balance, but this was beyond anything the inhabitants of Tizca had ever experienced. The buildings glistened with rainwater and the streets flowed with gurgling rivers.

Questions were asked of the Thousand Sons, but no answer was forthcoming as to the cause of the unseasonable rains. Fully half the Legion’s captains were in absentia, and those who remained had no answer.

On the sixth day, an impromptu parade was held through Occullum Square where the crowd threw off its clothes and cavorted naked in the rain. Tizca had no standing force of enforcers, so elements of the Prospero Spireguard were deployed to return the deliriously naked dancers to their abodes. The seventh day saw several members of the parade fall ill with a deadly form of viral pneumonia, and the following morning riots broke out in front of the Pyramid of Apothecaries as frightened people demanded a vaccine. Sixty-three people died before the Spireguard restored order, and a sullen mood fell upon the city.

On the ninth day, the rains finally ceased, and the sun broke through the dark clouds that hung like disapproving judges over the heart of the city. A luminous beam of light shone down on Tizca, bathing it in golden radiance and striking the flaming urn atop the great column at the centre of Occullum Square.

Mahavastu Kallimakus wrote that it was like the light of heaven returning to Prospero.

DEEP WITHIN THE Reflecting Caves, that light retuned to its source.

Magnus opened his eye, and the athame withdrew from his flesh, its blade crumbling to dust as soon as it came into contact with the air. Ahriman let out a relieved sigh as Magnus sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the white slab and blinking furiously in the darkness.

Only the dim glow that swam in the walls illuminated the chamber. Of the thousand Thralls, only eighteen remained alive, though their bodies were gaunt and drained, the glow from their crystals faint and almost extinguished.

“My lord,” said Amon, coming forward with a goblet of water. “It is good to see you.”

Magnus nodded, and Ahriman saw how pale his skin had become. His long red hair was matted with sweat, and Ahriman thought he could see the writhing veins and pulsing organs beneath the primarch’s skin. That was a lie, for Ahriman had seen into the heart of Magnus, and there was nothing so mundane as liver, lungs or kidney within that immortal frame.

Phael Toron, Uthizzar and Auramagma crowded in, their joy at seeing Magnus returned beyond measure. Only Ahriman held back, his emotions mixed at what they had done. For nine long days they had stood vigil over their beloved primarch, neither eating nor sleeping nor partaking of food or water. No words had passed between them, and no communication had been attempted with their brothers on the surface.

“Was it worth it?” asked Ahriman. “Did you succeed?”

Magnus fixed him with his single eye, a dull orb of watery blue, and shook his head slowly.

“No, Ahzek, I think that I did not,” said Magnus. “Just as I attempted to save my brother from the abyss, others were ready to push him in.”

“Others?” snarled Auramagma. “Who?”

“A wretch named Erebus who serves my erstwhile brother, Lorgar, It seems the powers that seek to ensnare Horus Lupercal have already claimed some pieces on this board. The Word Bearers are already in thrall to Chaos.”

“Lorgar’s Legion have betrayed us also?” asked Phael Toron. “This treachery runs deeper than we could ever have imagined.”

“Chaos?” said Ahriman. “You use the term as if it were a name.”

“It is, my son,” said Magnus. “It is the Primordial Annihilator that has hidden in the blackest depths of the Great Ocean since the dawn of time, but which now moves with infinite patience to the surface. It is the enemy against which all must unite or the human race will be destroyed. The coming war is its means of achieving the end of all things.”

“Primordial Annihilator? I have never heard of such a thing,” said Ahriman.

“Nor had I until I faced Horus and Erebus,” said Magnus, and Ahriman was shocked to see the barest flicker in his primarch’s aura.

Magnus was lying to them. He hadknown of this Primordial Annihilator.

“So what do we do now?” asked Uthizzar. “Surely now we must warn the Emperor?”

Magnus hesitated before nodding slowly.

“Yes, we must,” he said. “If my father is forewarned, he can take arms against Horus before it is too late.”

“Why will he believe us?” asked Ahriman. “We have no proof.”

“I have the proof now,” sighed Magnus wearily. “Now return to your cult temples and await my summons. Amon, attend upon me; the rest of you may leave.”

The Captains of Fellowship turned and made their way towards the crystal steps that led out of the cave.

“Ahriman,” said Magnus, “bend all the power of the Corvidae to unravelling the strands of the future. We mustknow more of what is to come. Do you understand me?”

“I do, my lord,” replied Ahriman.

“Do whatever it takes,” said Magnus. “Whatever the cost may be.”

LEMUEL AWOKE TO find Ahriman standing over him. His mentor had a stern look in his eye, and Lemuel immediately felt the tension in the room. He stifled a yawn, realising he’d fallen asleep next to Kallista’s bed once again. Her eyes were closed, though it was hard to tell whether it was in sleep or unconsciousness. Camille sat across from him, her breathing still that of a sleeper.

Camille had recovered well from her ordeal with the psychneuein eggs, quickly returning to her normal, vivacious self.

“My lord?” he said. “What is it?”

Amon and Ankhu Anen stood behind Ahriman, making the room feel suddenly small. “You should leave, both of you,” Ahriman told him. “Leave? Why?”

“Because you will find what has to happen here unpleasant.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, rising from his chair and moving protectively towards Kallista. Camille woke and looked up, startled, as she saw Astartes filling the room.

“Lem?” she asked, immediately picking up on the tension. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said.

“I do not expect you to understand,” said Ahriman with real regret in his voice. “But events are in motion that require us to know of the future. Our normal methods of gathering such information are denied to us, so we must seek other avenues.”

“What are you going to do? I won’t let you hurt her.”

“I am sorry, Lemuel,” said Ahriman. “We have no choice. This hasto happen. Believe me, I wish it did not.”

Amon moved towards the bank of walnut-panelled machines and turned all the dials to the their middle positions. The light began to fade from the crackling, buzzing globes and the needles on the brass readouts nosed their way down.

“WHAT IS HE doing?” Camille wanted to know. “Lord Ahriman, please?”

Ahriman said nothing, his face betraying his unease.

“You wanted to know what this machine was for?” said Ankhu Anen, taking Lemuel’s arm. The giant Astartes easily pulled him away from Kallista’s side and handed him off to Ahriman. “It is an aetheric blocker. It isolates the subject’s mind from the Great Ocean. We used such devices to subdue our brothers when the flesh change came upon them. It was the only way to stop it. Your friend’s mind is locked open to its roaring tides, and, but for these devices, aetheric energy would be pouring into her.”

“Can you… shut her mind to it?” asked Camille, standing protectively beside her friend.

The Astartes said nothing, and Lemuel read the truth in their auras.

“They can,” he said, “but they won’t.”

“She should be dead already,” hissed Ankhu Anen, dragging Camille out of the way. “She has a unique link to future currents, and we must make use of all the tools available to us.”

“Tools? Is that all we’ve been to you?” asked Lemuel, struggling uselessly in Ahriman’s grip. “All this time, were you just using us?”

“It was not like that,” said Ahriman, casting a poisonous glance at Ankhu Anen.

“Yes it was,” said Lemuel. “I see that now. You think you’re so clever, but you’re blinded by your belief in the superiority of your knowledge. You can’t even contemplate that someone else might know better than you.”

“Because no one else does,” snapped Ahriman. “We do know better than anyone else.”

“Maybe you do, but maybe you don’t. What if there’s something you’re missing? What if there’s some little piece of the puzzle you don’t know about?”

“Be silent,” ordered Ankhu Anen. “ Weare the architects of fate, not you.”

“So what happens when you turn those machines off?” asked Camille, taking Lemuel’s hand as they realised the futility of resisting the Astartes physically.

“We will listen to what she has to say and we will learn of the future.”

“No, I won’t let you,” said Lemuel.

“No?” sneered Ankhu Anen. “Who are you to bark orders at us, little man? You think because Ahriman has taught you a few parlour tricks that you are one of us? You are mortals, your abilities and intellect are beneath our notice.”

“Ahriman, please!” begged Lemuel. “Don’t do this!”

“I’m sorry, Lemuel, but they are right. Kallista is dying anyway. At least this way her death will mean something.”

“That’s a lie!” shouted Lemuel. “If you do this, you’ll be killing her. You might as well put a bullet in her brain and be honest about it.”

Amon removed some of the contact points on Kallista’s skull and consulted the readouts on the aetheric blocker. He nodded to Ankhu Anen and said, “It is done. I have kept some of the blocks in place, but her mind is open to the aether now. Just a fraction, but it should be enough to generate divinatory activity.”

Kallista’s eyes fluttered open and she drew in a panicked breath as awareness was forced back to the surface of her consciousness. Her lips moved and breaths of hoarse air gusted from somewhere deep inside her. The temperature in the room fell sharply.

“A million shards of glass, a million times a million. All broken, all shattered glass. The eye in the glass. It sees and it knows, but it does nothing…”