Текст книги "The Outcast Dead"

Автор книги: Грэм Макнилл

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THE HORUS HERESY

Graham McNeill

THE OUTCAST DEAD

The truth lies within

original release by unknown

edited by fractalnoise

v1.1 (2012.01)

The Horus Heresy

It is a time of legend.

Mighty heroes battle for the right to rule the galaxy. The vast armies of the Emperor of Earth have conquered the galaxy in a Great Crusade – the myriad alien races have been smashed by the Emperor’s elite warriors and wiped from the face of history.

The dawn of a new age of supremacy for humanity beckons.

Gleaming citadels of marble and gold celebrate the many victories of the Emperor. Triumphs are raised on a million worlds to record the epic deeds of his most powerful and deadly warriors.

First and foremost amongst these are the primarchs, superheroic beings who have led the Emperor’s armies of Space Marines in victory after victory. They are unstoppable and magnificent, the pinnacle of the Emperor’s genetic experimentation. The Space Marines are the mightiest human warriors the galaxy has ever known, each capable of besting a hundred normal men or more in combat.

Organised into vast armies of tens of thousands called Legions, the Space Marines and their primarch leaders conquer the galaxy in the name of the Emperor.

Chief amongst the primarchs is Horus, called the Glorious, the Brightest Star, favourite of the Emperor, and like a son unto him. He is the Warmaster, the commander-in-chief of the Emperor’s military might, subjugator of a thousand thousand worlds and conqueror of the galaxy. He is a warrior without peer, a diplomat supreme.

As the flames of war spread through the Imperium, mankind’s champions will all be put to the ultimate test.

CONTENTS

THE OUTCAST DEAD

The Horus Heresy

CONTENTS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

PROLOGUE

PART 1

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

PART 2

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

The City of Sight

NEMO ZHI-MENG Choirmaster of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica

ANIQ SARASHINA Mistress of the Scholastica Psykana

EVANDER GREGORAS Master of the Cryptaesthesians

KAI ZULANE Astropath seconded to Navigator House Castana

ATHENA DIYOS Astropath of the City of Sight

ABIR IBN KHALDUN Astropath of the City of Sight

The Outcast Dead

ATHARVA Adept Exemptus of the Thousand Sons

TAGORE Sergeant, 15th Company, World Eaters

SUBHA Warrior of the 15th Company, World Eaters

ASUBHA Warrior of the 15th Company, World Eaters

SEVERIAN Warrior of the 25th Company, Luna Wolves, The ‘Wolf’

ARGENTUS KIRON Warrior of the 28th Company, Emperor’s Children

The Hunters

YASU NAGASENA Seer Hunter of the Black Ships

KARTONO Bondsman to Yasu Nagasena

MAJOR GENERAL MAXIM GOLOVKA Commander of the Black Sentinels

SATURNALIA Warrior of the Legio Custodes

The Lords of Terra

ROGAL DORN Primarch of the Imperial Fists

The Petitioner’s City

PALLADIS NOVANDIO Priest of the Temple of Woe

ROXANNE CASTANA Supplicant of the Temple of Woe

BABU DHAKAL Clan lord of the Dhakal

GHOTA DHAKAL Enforcer

Wonders are many on Earth, and the greatest of these is Man, who rides the Great Ocean and makes his way through the deeps, through wind-swept valleys of perilous seas that surge and sway.

– Attributed to the Tragedean Sophocles, pre-M1

Dreams are mirrors in which are reflected the true character of the dreamer. What should happen when the individual face of the dreamer sees himself reflected in the collective dream mirror of all humanity?

– Aniq Sarashina, Oneirocritica Sarashina,Vol XXXV

Your vision will become clear only when you look into your heart. Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks inside, awakens.

– Nemo Zhi-Meng, Choirmaster of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica

From: Chirurgeon Bellan Tortega (BT), certified neuro-psychic attendant

To: Patriarch Verduchina XXVII, House Castana, Navis Nobilite

Observed period: Cycles 15-18

Subject: Zulane, Kai (KZ)

Evaluation summary: NON-FUNCTIONAL/POTENTIALLY SALVAGEABLE

Excerpted from 4423-4553: Full Case Notes to follow.

TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT BEGINS.

BT: Can you tell me what happened on the Argo?

KZ: No.

BT: No?

KZ: No.

BT: Why not?

KZ: I don’t want to.

BT: With respect, you are in no position to withhold anything you know. The incident involving the Argo represents a significant financial deficit for House Castana, not to mention the considerable loss of prestige with respect to the XIII Legion.

KZ: Take it up with Nemo. I was only loaned to Castana, I don’t care about their losses.

BT: You should. You should also know that my evaluation will play a significant part in deciding whether you can continue with House Castana. Or continue at all for that matter.

KZ: Like I said, I don’t care.

BT: Do you WANT to be sent to the hollow mountain?

KZ: Of course not. No sane person would.

BT: Then I would co-operate if I were you.

KZ: You don’t understand, it’s not about co-operation.

BT: Then enlighten me, Kai. What IS it about?

KZ: It’s about hearing ten thousand men and women die. It’s about hearing every single last thought as their bodies were torn apart by things. It’s about hearing the terror of people about to die every time I close my eyes. It’s about not putting myself through that nightmare again. [Subject breaks down. Three minutes of sobbing.]

BT: Are you finished?

KZ: For now.

BT: Then do you feel like talking about what happened?

KZ: Terra, no! Maybe someday, but even when I do, it won’t be with you.

BT: Why not?

KZ: Because you’re not here to help me.

BT: That’s EXACTLY why I’m here, Kai.

KZ: No it’s not, and stop calling me Kai as if we’re friends. Your only purpose in being here is to show the XIII Legion that House Castana can keep its house in order. I’m an embarrassment to your precious patriarch.

BT: No, you are part of the family. All Patriarch Verduchina wants is to help.

KZ: Then leave me alone. The Argo isn’t a memory I want to go back to. Not yet, maybe never.

BT: Confronting the past is the only way you can face the future. Surely you can see it’s not healthy to dwell on such macabre memories. Purge them and you can return to your duties.

KZ: You’re assuming I WANT to return to my duties.

BT: Don’t you?

KZ: [One minute pause] I don’t know.

TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT ENDS.

Addendum:

Sire, as this excerpt clearly shows, Kai Zulane displays classic symptoms of denial, paranoia and an inability to face the truth of his ordeal. It is my conclusion that he believes he is responsible for the events that led to the loss of the Argo, though the truth of this is for others, more qualified in the fields of multi-dimensional overlaps, to determine. However, I do not believe any individuals could live through so traumatic an experience without some psychic scarring, none of which is evident in Kai Zulane’s aetheric aura. I would, therefore, venture the opinion that Kai Zulane is not beyond recovery. Kai Zulane represents a significant investment in time and effort (both by House Castana and the Adeptus Astra Telepathica) and to simply ‘cut our losses’ and send him to the hollow mountain would, at this point, be premature.

In summary, it is my recommendation that Kai Zulane be returned to the auspices of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica for immediate rehabilitation. This will reaffirm our commitment to the XIII Legion, and effectively allow House Castana to pass the burden of responsibility elsewhere.

I remain your humble servant in all things, and can offer further clarifications, should they be required, on Kai Zulane’s psychic pathology at your convenience.

Bellan Tortega

Neuro-psychic attendant 343208543.

Antonius, do what the unctuous little chirurgeon says.

Throw Zulane back to the City of Sight.

He can be their problem instead of ours.

V.

It is the hour before dawn when the hunters come for them.

Nagasena checks his rifle, already knowing it is fully functional. On a day like today he needs the solace of things done in the right order. Too many of this newly emergent Imperium’s people rush around without taking the time to ensure they are properly prepared. Truth and order are Nagasena’s watchwords, for they provide a centre from which all other things can flow. He has learned this from the teachings of a wise man born in these parts in an age now long forgotten.

Those teachings survive only in scattered texts comprising gnomic aphorisms and proverbs, each one passed down from mentor to student over thousands of generations in secret script known only to a chosen few. Nagasena has lived his life by these teachings, and he feels they have guided him well. His life has been lived truthfully, and he has few regrets.

This day’s hunt will, he thinks, be one of them.

He uncoils from the cross-legged position in which he sits and slings his rifle across his shoulder. Around him, men come to their feet, energised by his sudden movement.

‘Is it time?’ asks Kartono, handing him a long bladed sword with just the barest hint of a curve. It is a wondrous weapon, sheathed in a scabbard of lacquered wood, jade and mother of pearl. A master of the metal arts crafted this blade to Nagasena’s exacting specifications, yet it is no sharper, no lighter or in any other way superior to the millions of sword blades churned out by the armouries of Terra. But it was crafted with love and an attention to detail that no machine can ever replicate.

Nagasena knows the weapon as Shoujiki, which means Honesty.

He nods respectfully to Kartono as Golovko approaches, bullish and bearing the scent of gun oil, sweat and lapping powder. In an elder age Nagasena’s ancestors would have considered him a barbarian, but now he is an honoured man. Golovko’s armour is bulky, cumbersome and designed to intimidate. His face looks much the same.

He gives no greeting and his lip curls in instinctive distaste as he sees Kartono.

‘We should have struck in the middle watches of the night,’ he says, as Nagasena slips his sword through the black sash tied at his waist. ‘We would have surprised them.’

‘It would make no difference what time we came,’ says Nagasena, smoothing out his long black hair and settling a long scalp-lock over his shoulder. ‘Such men as we hunt will never truly be at rest, and there will never be a best time to fight them. As soon as the first is taken, most likely even before then, the rest will be instantly alert and dangerous beyond imagining.’

‘We have three thousand soldiers,’ points out Golovko, as though numbers are all that matter at a time like this. ‘Black Sentinels, Attaman Janissaries, Lancers. Even the high and mighty Custodians sent a squad.’

‘And it may still prove to be insufficient,’ says Nagasena.

‘Against thirty?’ says Golovko, but Nagasena has already dismissed him from his thoughts.

He turns away from the bellicose general and moves through the assembled soldiers silently awaiting his signal. They are nervous, dislocated. Most of all, they are horrified that they are about to take up arms against those who fight in their name on worlds far distant from Terra.

Nagasena looks up at the building that houses the Crusader Host. It is known locally as the Preceptory, and it is a triumphant structure of rearing golden lions, fluted columns and warrior statuary, capped by a lightning-shot dome of black marble. Heroic imagery adorns the fresco of the pediment high above the portico, and the grand approach leading to the entrance is paved with enormous flagstones bearing the names of worlds the Legiones Astartes have brought to compliance.

Every day these flagstones are cut with fresh tallies, and Nagasena wonders how these men of war feel to see the litany of their brothers’ victories grow ever larger while they remain on Terra, ever more distant from the bloody edge of the Imperium’s frontier.

‘What are your orders, lord?’ asks Kartono.

His companion is unarmed, but needs no weapons to be lethal. His former masters trained him to such a high degree of lethality that he is a weapon himself. Many people dislike Kartono for reasons they can never quite articulate, but Nagasena has long since grown used to his presence. He looks at the soldiers, confident that they are well hidden in the warren of gilded avenues and columned processionals that garland this region of the Imperial Palace like jewellery around the neck of a favoured concubine.

Three thousand armed men await his signal to advance, and Nagasena knows that by giving that signal, many of those men will die. Maybe all of them. He relishes few of his hunts, but this one in particular sits ill with him. He wishes he were back in his mountain villa, where his only concerns are the mixing of paints and tending to his garden, but his likes and dislikes are immaterial here.

A mission has been set, and he is duty bound to obey. And though he does not like this order, he understands it.

‘Walk with me, Kartono,’ says Nagasena, stepping out onto the grand walkway of victories. Kartono trots after him, surprised at his master’s sudden movement. Nagasena hears Golovko through the vox bead situated in his ear and pulls it free. The man’s protests become tinny and distant.

‘They will know we are coming for sure now,’ says Kartono, and Nagasena nods.

‘Your presence alone will have alerted at least one of them,’ he says. ‘Did you really think so many armed men could approach a place like this without its occupants knowing of it?’

‘I suppose not,’ agrees Kartono, glancing over his shoulder. ‘The Major General will not be pleased. He will make trouble for us.’

‘That is a problem for another day,’ says Nagasena. ‘I will be sufficiently pleased if we live through this morning. It is highly likely we will die here.’

Kartono shakes his head. ‘You are fatalistic today.’

‘Perhaps,’ says Nagasena as they climb the first steps of the Preceptory. ‘I dislike rising before the sun. It feels impolite.’

Kartono knows his moods well. Nagasena has grown tired of hunting, but this task has been given to him by a man whose orders come with the highest authority. Refusal was not an option. He feels the chill of the day through his silken robes, but does not allow it to lessen his focus. Knowing that his armour would afford him little protection against the weapons of his prey, he did not have Kartono encase him within its lacquered plates of bonded ceramite and adamantine weave.

A figure steps into view on the portico above, and Nagasena feels his heart beat just a little quicker. He is tall and broad shouldered, as one would expect for a warrior genhanced to be the pinnacle of physicality, but there is a gracile quality to him that is unexpected. His hair is longer than is usual, tied in a short ponytail, and his face is broad, with the congenital flatness of features so common amongst his kind. Nagasena is reassured to see that he wears no armour, perhaps indicating that he has not come to fight. His robes are crimson, edged in ivory, and a jade scarab set in amber rests upon his chest.

The man watches as he and Kartono climb to the top of the steps, his face unreadable and without expression. No, that is not quite correct. There is a sadness to him, visible only in the tiniest descending curve at the corner of his lips and a tightness around his eyes. At last Nagasena reaches the top of the steps and stands before the man, who towers over him like the oni of legend. The oni were also said to dwell in the mountains, but the old myths told of ugly creatures possessing horned skulls and wide mouths filled with terrible fangs.

There is nothing ugly about this warrior; he is a perfect specimen.

‘Oni-ni-kanabo,’ whispers Kartono.

Nagasena nods at the aptness of the expression, but does not reply.

The warrior nods and says, ‘Oni with an iron club?’

‘It means to be invincible or unbeatable in battle,’ says Nagasena, trying to hide his surprise that the warrior knows this ancient tongue of Old Earth.

‘I am aware of that,’ says the warrior. ‘Another meaning is “strength upon strength” whereupon one’s innate power is bolstered by the manipulation of some kind of tool or external force. Very apt indeed.’

‘You are Atharva?’ asks Nagasena, now understanding how he can know their secret language.

‘I am Adeptus Exemptus Atharva of the XV Legion,’ confirms the warrior.

‘You know why we are here?’

‘Of course,’ says Atharva. ‘I expected you sooner.’

‘I would have been surprised if you had not.’

‘How many soldiers did you bring?’

‘Just over three thousand.’

Atharva mulls over the number. ‘My brothers will be insulted you came with so few. You should have brought more to be certain.’

‘Others thought such numbers sufficient.’

‘We shall see,’ observes Atharva, as though it is no more than an intellectual exercise they are considering and not a terrible, unthinkable waste of Imperial lives.

‘Will you fight us, Atharva?’ asks Nagasena. ‘I hope you will not.’

‘You brought your clade pet hoping it would dissuade me,’ replies Atharva, with a curt gesture towards Kartono, ‘but do you really think he can stop me from killing you?’

‘No, but I hoped his presence might give you pause.’

‘I will not fight you, Yasu Nagasena,’ says Atharva, and the sadness in his eyes is achingly visible. ‘But Tagore and his brothers will walk the Crimson Path before they allow themselves to be taken.’

Nagasena nods and says, ‘So be it.’

PROLOGUE

ABIR IBN KHALDUN exhaled cold air and saw myriad patterns in the swirling vapour of his breath, too many to examine fully, but diverting nonetheless. An inverted curve that augured danger, a genetically dense double helix that indicated the warriors of the Legiones Astartes, and a black planet whose civilisation had been ground to black sand by a cataclysmic war and the passage of uncounted aeons.

The mindhall was quiet, the metallic-tasting air still and cool, yet there was tension.

Understandable, but it made an already difficult communion that much harder.

The presence of the thousand-strong choir of astropaths surrounding Ibn Khaldun was like the sound of a distant ocean, or so he imagined. Ibn Khaldun had never heard any Terran bodies of water larger than the vast, basin cisterns carved within the lightless depths of the Urals and Alpine scarps, but he was an astropath and his life was swathed in metaphors.

Their psychic presence was dormant for now, a deep reservoir of energy he would use to distil the incoming vision from its raw state of chaotic imagery to a coherent message that could be easily understood.

‘Do you have communion yet?’ asked the Choirmaster, his voice sounding as though it came from impossibly far away, though he stood right next to Ibn Khaldun.

‘Give him time, Nemo,’ said Mistress Sarashina, her voice maternal and soothing. ‘We will know when the link is made. The astropaths of the Iron Hands are not subtle.’

‘I am aware of that, Aniq,’ replied the Choirmaster. ‘I trained most of them.’

‘Then you should know better than to rush this.’

‘ Iknow that well enough, but Lord Dorn is impatient for news of Ferrus Manus’s fleet. And he has a gun.’

‘No gun ever helped speed things up in a good way,’ said Sarashina.

Ibn Khaldun smiled inwardly at her gentle admonition, though the mention of the lord of the Imperial Fists reminded him how important this communion was to the Imperium.

Horus Lupercal’s treachery had overturned the natural order of the universe, and emissaries from the palace were shrill in their demands for verifiable information. Expeditionary fleets of Legiones Astartes, billions-strong armies of mortal soldiers and warfleets capable of planetary destruction were loose in the galaxy, and no one could be sure of their exact locations or to whom they owed their allegiance. News of world after world declaring for the Warmaster had reached Terra, but whether such stories were true or rebel lies was a mystery.

The old adage that in any war, the first casualty was truth was never more apt than during a civil war.

‘Is it dangerous to link over so great a distance?’ asked Maxim Golovko, and Ibn Khaldun sensed the man’s natural hostility in the flaring crimson of his aura. ‘Should we have Sentinels within the mindhall?’

Golovko was a killer of psykers, a gaoler and executioner all in one. His presence within the Whispering Tower was decreed by the new strictures laid down after the great conclave on Nikaea, and Ibn Khaldun suppressed a spike of resentment at its hypocrisy. Bitterness would only cloud his perceptions, and this was a time for clarity like no other.

‘No, Maxim,’ said Sarashina. ‘I am sure your presence alone will be sufficient.’

Golovko grunted in acknowledgement, oblivious to the veiled barb, and Ibn Khaldun shut out the man’s disruptive psyche.

Ibn Khaldun felt a growing disconnection to the individuals around him, as though he were floating in amniotic gel like the princeps of a Mechanicum war-engine. He understood the urgency of this communion, but took care to precisely enunciate his incubating mantras. Rushing to link with an astropath he didn’t know would be foolhardy beyond words, especially when they were halfway across the galaxy and hurtling through the warp.

En route to an unthinkable battle between warriors who had once stood shoulder to shoulder as brothers.

Not even the most prescient of the Vatichad seen thatcoming.

Ibn Khaldun’s heart rate increased as he sensed another mind enter the sealed chamber, a blaze of light too bright to look upon directly. The others sensed it at the same instant and every head turned to face the new arrival. This was an individual whose inner fire was like the blinding glare of a supernova captured at the first instant of detonation. Mercury-bright traceries filled his every limb, blood as light, flesh woven from incomprehensible energies and sheathed in layers of meat and muscle, skin and plate. Ibn Khaldun could see nothing of this individual’s face, for every molecule that made up his form was like a miniature galaxy swarming with incandescent stars.

Only one manner of being was fashioned with such exquisite beauty…

‘Lord Dorn?’ said the Choirmaster, surprise giving his voice a raised tone that turned his words into a question. ‘How did you…?’

‘None of the gates of Terra are barred to me, Choirmaster,’ said Dorn, and his words were like bright streamers ejected from the corona of a volatile star. They lingered long after he spoke, and Ibn Khaldun felt their power ripple outwards through the awe-struck choir.

‘This is a sealed ritual,’ protested the Choirmaster. ‘You should not be here.’

Dorn marched towards the centre of the mindhall, and Ibn Khaldun felt his skin prickle at the nearness of such a forceful, implacable psyche. The majority of mortal minds simmered with mundane clutter close to the surface, but Rogal Dorn’s mind was an impregnable fortress, hard-edged and unyielding of its secrets. No one learned anything from Dorn he did not want them to know.

‘My brothers are approaching Isstvan V,’ said Dorn. ‘I needto be here.’

‘Communion has yet to be established, Lord Dorn,’ said Sarashina, clearly understanding the futility of attempting to eject a primarch from the mindhall. ‘But if you are to stay, then you may only observe. Do not speak once the link is achieved.’

‘I do not need a lecture,’ said Dorn. ‘I know how astropathic communion works.’

‘If that were truly the case, then you would have respected the warding seal upon this chamber,’ said Sarashina, and Ibn Khaldun felt the momentary flare of anger from behind the monolithic walls of Rogal Dorn’s mind fortress. Almost immediately it was followed by a mellow glow of begrudged respect, though Ibn Khaldun sensed this only because Dorn allowedit to be sensed.

‘Point taken, Mistress Sarashina,’ said Dorn. ‘I will be silent. You have my word.’

Ibn Khaldun dragged his senses away from the primarch; a difficult feat in itself, for his presence had a gravity that drew in nearby minds. Instead, he splayed his mind outwards into the echoing space of the vast chamber in which he lay.

Fashioned in the form of a great amphitheatre the heart of the Whispering Tower, this chamber had been shaped by the ancient cognoscynthswho first raised the City of Sight, many thousands of years ago. Their unrivalled knowledge of psychically-attuned architecture had been hard-won in a long-forgotten age of devastating psi-wars, but their arts were long dead, and the skill of crafting such resonant structures had died with them.

Amid the blackened mindhalls of the City of Sight, the Whispering Tower reached the farthest into the gulfs of space between the stars, no matter what lofty claims the Emperor’s grand architects might make of the ornamented spires they had built around it.

A thousand high-ranking astropaths surrounded Ibn Khaldun, seated in ever-ascending tiers like the audience at some grotesque spectacle of dissection. Each telepath reclined in a contoured harness-throne, appearing as shimmering smears of light in Ibn Khaldun’s consciousness, and he sharpened his focus as a subtle change in the choir’s resonance tugged at the edge of his perceptions.

A message was being drawn towards the tower.

Whisper stones set within the ironclad walls shone with invisible light as they eased the passage of the incoming message, directing it towards the centre of the mindhall.

‘He’s here,’ said Ibn Khaldun, as the presence of the sending astropath swelled to fill the chamber like a surge tide. The sending was raw and unfocussed, a distant shout straining for someone to listen, and Ibn Khaldun folded his mind around it.

Like strangers fumbling to shake hands in a darkened room, their thoughts slowly meshed, and Ibn Khaldun gasped as he felt the hard texture of another’s mind rasping against the boundaries of his own. Rough and sharp, blunt and pugnacious, this sending was typical of astropaths who spent prolonged periods assigned to the Iron Hands. Cipher codes flashed before him in a complex series of colours and numbers, a necessary synesthesia that confirmed the identity of both astropaths before communion could begin.

‘You have it?’ asked the Choirmaster.

Khaldun didn’t answer. To grasp the thoughts of another mind from so far away demanded all his concentration. Fluctuations in the warp, random currents of aetheric energy, and the burbling chatter of a million overlapping echoes sought to break the link, but he held it firm.

As lovers gained a slow understanding of their partner’s rhythms and nuances, so too did the union of minds become easier. Though to call anything of this nature easywas to grossly understate its complexity. Ibn Khaldun felt the cold wastes of the immaterium all around him, roiling like a storm-tossed ocean. And like the oceans of Old Earth, it was home to creatures of all shapes and sizes. Ibn Khaldun sensed them swarming around the bright light of this communion like cautious predators circling potential prey.

‘I have communion,’ he said, ‘but I won’t be able to hold it for long.’

The spectral outline of somewhere far distant began to merge with Ibn Khaldun’s sensory interpretation of the mindhall, like a faulty picter broadcasting two separate images on the same screen. Ibn Khaldun recognised the hazy image of an astropath’s chamber aboard a starship, one that bore all the stripped-down aesthetic of the X Legion. Figures appeared around him, like faceless ghosts come to observe. They were mist-limned giants of burnished metal with flinty auras, angular lines and the cold taste of machines.

Yes, this was definitelya ship of the Iron Hands.

Ibn Khaldun ignored the additional presences and let the body of the message flow into him. It came in a rush of imagery, nonsensical and unintelligible, but that was only to be expected. The psychic song of the choir grew in concert with his efforts to process the message, and he drew upon the wellspring of energy they provided him. Will and mental fortitude could cohere simple messages sent from planetary distances, but one sent from so far away would need more power than any one individual could provide.

Khaldun was special, an astropath whose skills in metapsychic cognition could transform confused jumbles of obscure symbolism into a message that even a novitiate could decipher. As the raw, urgent thoughts of the expeditionary astropath spilled into his mindscape, his borrowed power smoothed their rough edges and let the substance of the message take shape.

Ibn Khaldun interpreted and extrapolated the images and sounds together, alloying astropathic shorthand with common allegorical references to extract the truth of the message. There was art in this, a beautiful mental ballet that was part intuition, part natural talent and part training. And just as no remembrancer of a creative mien could ever truly explain how they achieved mastery of their art, nor could Ibn Khaldun articulate how he brought sense from senselessness, meaning from chaos.

Words sprang from him, reformed from the encrypted symbolism in which they had been sent. ‘The world of black sand. Isstvan,’ he said. ‘The fifth planet. The Legion makes good speed. Lord Dorn’s retribution flies true, yet the sons of Medusa will strike before even the Ravens or the Lords of Nocturne. Lord Manus demands first blood and the head of the Phoenix.’

More of the message poured through, and Ibn Khaldun felt some of the astropaths in the tiers above him perish as their reserves of energy were expended. Such was the import of this message that losses amongst the choir had been deemed acceptable.

‘The Gorgon of Medusa will be the first warrior of the Emperor upon Isstvan. He will be the speartip that cleaves the heart of Horus Lupercal. He will be the avenger.’

Ibn Khaldun slumped back in his harness as the message abruptly ended, and allowed his breathing to return to normal. His mind began the tortuous process of re-ordering itself in the void left by communion’s end, but it would take many days rest to recover from this ordeal.

As always, he wanted to sit up and open his eyes, but the restraints of his harness and the sutured veil of skin over his empty eye sockets prevented him from doing either.