Warhammer 40,000 - [Ciaphas Cain ss] - Old Soldiers Never Die Read online

  Warhammer 40,000

  It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

  Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants—and worse.

  To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

  Editorial Note:

  Of all the desperate situations faced by Cain, when he had no alternative but to do so, the defence of Lentonia in 938.M41 must surely be counted one of the strangest. Partly due to the nature of the foe, and partly due to the circumstances under which he found himself caught up in the events there.

  Editing this portion of his memoirs has been an equally atypical undertaking, since, for much of the events he describes, he was accompanied by an unusually reliable eye­witness, whose account I have used to supplement his own observations. I have also, in the interests of presenting as rounded a picture as possible, reluctantly incorporated a little additional material from the memoirs Jenit Sulla, which present as formi­dable a challenge to the patience of the reader as those I’ve been forced to use hitherto, and for which I feel obliged to apologise in advance.

  As ever, I have left Cain’s original account of events as close to how I found it as possible, keeping my own interpolations to a minimum, except for those I felt nec­essary to elucidate an obscure reference or otherwise clarify a potential ambiguity. Although, where Cain was concerned, ambiguity was often the most consistent thing about him.

  Amberley Vail, Ordo Xenos

  ONE

  Given the number of times what was supposed to be a straightfor­ward deployment turned out to be anything but, dropping me and the unit I was accompanying smack into the middle of a desperate struggle to survive, the knowledge that we’d arrived in the Lentonia system long after the war there had been brought to a victorious conclusion was a welcome change of pace. It wouldn’t have done to let my natural inclination to do handsprings and shout ‘Huzzah!’ show visibly, however, as I was popularly supposed to be the kind of idiot who’d relish the chance to put himself in harm’s way in the name of the Golden Throne, so I settled on a vaguely rueful air, as though disappointed at our good fortune. Not that I was exactly relishing the prospect of the next few weeks, which promised little beyond unrelieved tedium and finger food, but compared to the kind of excitement I was used to, I’d take boredom over bowel-clenching terror every time.

  Especially as I’d only just made it up the boarding ramp of the last ship out at embarkation, the swarm of tyranids on our tail almost filling the horizon.

  “I’m sure there are still a few pockets of resistance to mop up,” I said, privately resolving to discover where they were and make sure I avoided them.

  “Of course,” Colonel Kasteen said, running a finger around the collar of her dress uniform in the manner of someone suppressing the desire to unfasten it. Like most ice-worlders, she preferred shirt­sleeves for the most part, reserving the heavy greatcoats generally associated with Valhallan regiments for environments they were fit­ted to, and had chosen summer kit for the occasion; although the weather in the planetary capital seemed distinctly autumnal if you asked me. Dark grey clouds were scudding across a light grey sky mottled with flecks of blue, and the scent of recent rain had been the first thing to greet my nostrils as the boarding ramp of our shuttle extruded itself to lick the still-damp rockcrete of the pad, as if tenta­tively quenching its thirst.

  In the distance, across the wide expanse of the landing field, col­umns of steam marked the points where the rest of our heavy shuttles had grounded; the commandeered freighter we’d arrived on didn’t have nearly enough of its own to disembark an entire regiment, of course, but by this time the local traffic controllers had acquired sufficient experience of offloading large bodies of troops and their equipment to divert a veritable swarm of them to pick us up almost as soon as we’d reached orbit, and I’d made sure I was among the first wave to hit the ground. Something I always tried to do when the likelihood of meeting significant resistance was low, as it con­solidated my undeserved reputation for leading from the front, and gave me a head start in finding the most comfortable quarters wher­ever we were due to be billeted. “I imagine the regiments already here will be happy to catch their breath while we dot the ‘i’s and cross the ‘t’s. Who are they, anyway?”

  “Vostroyans, mostly,” I said, glancing at the data-slate my aide had just handed to me. Jurgen had tidied himself up too, insofar as that was possible, centering his helmet on his head[1] , and brushing most of the accumulated detritus from the ragged clumps of facial hair which more or less assembled themselves into a scurf-flecked beard. Despite these heroic efforts he seemed to have stopped some way short of actual ablutions, however, and I found myself falling into my usual habit of edging upwind of him as I spoke. “Three line regi­ments and an armour group. Plus the Tallarn 236th, who got here a couple of weeks ahead of the others, after being diverted on their way back to Coronus for reassignment. And a Valhallan unit for fire support.” I don’t mind admitting my voice took on a tinge of sur­prise at this point. “The 12th Field Artillery.” The regiment I’d begun my long and inglorious career with, some twenty years before.

  “Haven’t seen them since Gravalax,” Kasteen said, although whether she was pleased at the prospect of renewing the acquaintance or not was hard to tell, since she was fighting off another attempt at stran­gulation by her shirt collar at the time.

  “We’ve all come a long way since then,” I said, and the colonel nod­ded thoughtfully.

  “Thanks to you,” she replied. “If you hadn’t joined us when you did, we wouldn’t have lasted another week, never mind seven years up at the sharp end[2] .”

  “Any other commissar would have done the same,” I said, feeling unaccountably embarrassed for a moment, although I suppose many of my colleagues would have gone about the job in a rather more brutally straightforward manner. (And probably ended up on the wrong end of a friendly fire accident too, which is what tends to happen when you incur the displeasure of a large number of people with guns.) Kasteen looked as though she was about to take issue with that, but before she got the chance, Jurgen broke into the con­versation with a phlegm-laden attempt at a tactful cough.

  “I think that’s your escort, sir.” He sounded vagu
ely affronted at the notion, as if it somehow cast doubt on his own ability to ensure our safety, although, since the wretched planet was supposed to be paci­fied by this point, the matter was purely one of protocol in any case.

  “I think you’re right,” I agreed, as the small knot of vehicles drew closer. A ground car, too large, black and shiny to be military issue, was flanked by a couple of outriders on motorcycles, the pennons flying from poles affixed to the riders’ backs echoing the design of the smaller ones fluttering around the limousine. I didn’t recognise the heraldry, but it seemed to involve a great deal of gold thread, entangling an Imperial aquila like vines clambering up a wall. “Look more like Arbites[3] than soldiers.”

  “Governor’s household troops, sir,” Jurgen said, consulting the uniform guide in his data-slate, something I suppose I should have done myself before now; but in all fairness, I was familiar enough with those of the other Guard regiments among our task force, and the Lentonian militia were all either dead or confined to barracks, pending the purge of any who might have supported the wrong side in the recent insurrection. Anyone else in a uniform or carrying a gun would be fair game, or best avoided, depending on our relative numbers and firepower.

  “I thought they’d shot him,” I said.

  “That was the old one,” Kasteen said, a note of doubt entering her voice. Usually we had Major Broklaw to fill us in on these niggling little details, which he dutifully filleted from the brain-numbing morass of the Munitorum briefing materials, so the colonel and I didn’t have to wade through them ourselves. But Broklaw was still in orbit, waiting for the last shuttle down, to ensure our deployment went as smoothly as these things ever did[4] . “I heard they found a nephew or something to take over.”

  “Good for them,” I said, hoping he’d make a better fist of it than the last incumbent, who’d managed to rouse a placid and Emperor-fearing population to armed rebellion with almost indecent haste following his appointment. Truth to tell, I was still somewhat vague about the exact nature of their grievances, but if the erstwhile gover­nor ran true to form it probably had something to do with treating the tithing revenues as his personal cash box, and taking an exces­sive interest in other people’s wives, husbands, or farm animals[5] . All in all, Lentonia was probably better off without him; but letting the plebs get away with taking decisions like that for themselves would only lead to worse trouble later on, so, as usual, the Guard had been called in to restore order, and visit retribution on whoever it seemed most expedient to blame. And, of course, the local Chaos cults had all crawled out of the woodwork to join in the fun, although, if any­thing, they’d probably helped in the long run, providing a handy foe the Lentonians could feel good about uniting against, whatever their own differences.

  While we’d been mulling matters over, the car and its escort had pulled up at the foot of the boarding ramp, and the three of us walked down to meet it. The outriders saluted with simultaneous precision, the polarised visors of their helmets melding almost seamlessly with the glossy black body armour which encased them, and I found myself suppressing a sudden flare of unease as I returned the gesture with my best parade ground snap: it was like acknowledging a couple of chunks of animate shadow. The slighter of the two—whose build led me to suspect the presence of a woman inside the protective carapace, although without sight of the face behind the blank reflective plate it was hard to be sure—dismounted, revealing a holstered hellpistol at her waist, no doubt meant to supplement the carbine stowed just forward of the saddle and whatever lethal surprises had been installed on the bike itself. She (for the sake of argument) took a step towards the car, reaching out a hand, but before she could open the passenger door for us it popped from the inside, shoved hard by a young man with a shock of blond hair and a wide, welcoming grin.

  “It’s all right, Klarys, I’ve got it,” he said, sliding across the wide seat to make room for us. The anonymous trooper turned away, her body language making her affront at the breach of protocol per­fectly plain in spite of her concealed visage; sentiments I was certain Jurgen shared. The young man stuck out a hand to shake. “Jonas Worden, Planetary Governor. Call me Jona. I’ve had a lifetime’s worth of ‘Your excellency’ gash in the last few weeks.”

  Kasteen and I took in his worn groxhide jacket and utility cloth trousers, and looked at one another dubiously. He didn’t look like any of the Emperor’s anointed I’d ever met.

  “Ciaphas Cain,” I said, concealing my bewilderment with the ease of a lifetime of practice, and taking the proffered hand, making sure not to exert the full strength of my augmetic fingers. “No nickname, I’m afraid. But in my profession you tend not to make friends.”

  “Really?” The young man looked faintly surprised, then grinned, as if realising I was pulling his leg. “There’s a Valhallan officer calls you Cai. Sounds like a nickname to me.”

  “That would be Toren,” I said, before glancing back at Kasteen, who was being helped onto the overstuffed bench seat by the same prof­fered hand. “You remember Major Divas?” No one else I could think of ever used the familiar form of my given name, which was just as well, as I detested it; something Divas never quite managed to grasp, in spite of innumerable hints over the years.

  “Of course,” Kasteen said, while I settled into the seat opposite her and the young man, and wondered which of the polished wooden cabinets mounted on the walls concealed a decanter. “A fine officer.” She grinned at me, clearly enjoying my discomfiture.

  “You don’t look much like a governor,” I said, deciding to play the bluff man of action card. That usually went down well with civilians who thought they knew what sort of man I was, and I intended to use the technique a lot in the next few weeks; I still wasn’t exactly over­joyed about being dragged into a political junket, and was damned if I was going to be any more gracious about it than I had to be.

  “I don’t feel like one either,” Jona said, with disarming candour, and I found myself in some danger of liking him. “I used to glean news for the Light of Truth[6] , till some dungwit dragged me off to the palace.”

  “It can’t have been that much of a surprise,” I said. “If you were next in line...”

  Jona laughed. “Nowhere near it. My mother turned her back on the whole festering lot of ’em thirty years ago. Wouldn’t have been here if she hadn’t.”

  “I see,” I said, although I didn’t, quite. “There was still some bad feel­ing among the rest of the family, I take it.”

  “There surely is now.” He grinned. “Why do you think the Martial Law Council stuck me with the job?”

  “At a guess, because you’re the only member of the family who didn’t want it,” I said, and he nodded.

  “They were fighting over the throne like rats in a sack. I did some good pieces on it.” He started to pull out a battered data-slate, then thought better of it, no doubt correctly divining that they wouldn’t mean much to us anyway. “Power-broking, character assassination—a couple didn’t stop at character either. Sold a lot of sheets.” Then he sighed, the animation which had come over him slipping away again, and waved a disgusted-looking hand at our luxurious sur­roundings. “Now this. Your council’s got a poor sense of humour.”

  But a strong grasp of the practical, I thought. In my experience, the only people it’s safe to have in a position of power are the ones who don’t want to be there in the first place. Before I could say anything to that effect, however, my aide’s shadow filled the doorway, and his bouquet flowed out ahead of him to fill the car. Jona recoiled.

  “Jurgen,” I said diplomatically, “would you mind following us in the Salamander? I’m sure his ex—our host has enough to do without seeing us to our quarters when the meeting’s over.”

  “It’s no trouble,” the young man said, in the reflexively polite way of someone who knows you know they don’t mean it, still too stunned at Jurgen’s appearance to take umbrage at my near use of the term he detested. As the door slammed, following Jurgen’s “V
ery good, sir,” and something resembling a salute, he shook himself as though rousing from a stupor. “What was that?”

  “My aide,” I said, feeling no further explanation to be warranted. “Shouldn’t we be going?”

  “I suppose so,” Jona agreed. “Don’t you want to wait for him to unload your transport?”

  “He’ll catch up,” Kasteen assured him, knowing Jurgen’s robust atti­tude to anything with an engine, and clearly wondering how best to avoid the journey home.

  “If you’re sure.” The governor touched a vox control. “Back to the gas factory, Fossel.” He must have caught the questioning look between Kasteen and myself, because he added “the Concilium[7] ” for our ben­efit. The chauffeur, invisible behind a panel of one-way armourglass, rolled us smoothly into motion.

  Comfortable as the ride was, especially compared to being driven by Jurgen, and in spite of our host’s attempts to while away the jour­ney with polite conversation about my upcoming itinerary, I found it impossible to relax and enjoy our luxurious surroundings. Aside from the young man’s manifest eccentricity, meeting Imperial Guard officers from the starport in person hardly being the kind of thing planetary governors usually did, I was uncomfortably aware that his previous profession made him a shrewd judge of people, and more likely than most to see through the facade I generally presented to the galaxy. In addition to which, I’d been in enough vehicles like this to be well aware of what a tempting target they made. There were still malcontents on the loose, by Jona’s own admission, and even if they had no idea of who was inside the big shiny car, it was clearly someone of wealth and influence. Protecting it with no more than a pair of outriders was tantamount to towing a sign saying ‘Assassinate Me!’ so far as I could see; in fact I’d been the target of just such an attempt myself on Pererimunda, although, to be fair, on that occa­sion I’d been the unfortunate victim of a case of mistaken identity[8] .