The Armour of Fate Read online

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  The Armour of Fate – Guy Haley

  About the Author

  An Extract from ‘Dark Imperium’

  A Black Library Publication

  eBook license

  The Armour of Fate

  Guy Haley

  The Armour of Fate hummed its secret tunes at all times, but they were most noticeable when all else was quiet, and nowhere was quieter on Macragge’s Honour than Roboute Guilliman’s scriptorium.

  No such thing as a silent suit of power armour existed. Even the specially adapted battleplate of Primaris Reivers emitted a toothache whine. Power armour carried a compact reactor, which made a noise. Fibre bundles contracting in their sleeves of plasteel made a noise. Servo motors at the major joints that worked in concert with the bundles and with the wearer’s limbs… They made a noise. As did the cogitator unit, the pharmacopoeia, the recycling plant, the nutrient dispenser, atmospheric filtration system, vox-comms system, and all the other various, miniaturised artefacts that were crammed into its armoured shell. In the library silence it was aggravatingly loud, boring through Roboute Guilliman’s concentration as steadily as a worm spoiling an apple.

  The primarch did not need to sleep. That was fortunate, because he thought it likely he would not manage with the sound of the armour’s workings buzzing through his skull. If he could lie down in it in the first place. It was bonded to him, impossible to remove, a situation he worked to remedy.

  ‘This armour is the work of genius, but it is damnably noisy,’ said Roboute Guilliman testily.

  ‘My lord?’ Captain Sicarius waited on him that evening, though he did not have to; Guilliman was more than capable of defending himself, and besides, Captain Sicarius could easily exempt himself from such duties. Nevertheless, he stood on guard by the entrance on the far side of the chamber, lost in his thoughts. Guilliman pitied the warrior. He had known Sicarius only a little before he vanished into the warp, but it was enough to notice that he had changed for the worse when he returned.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Guilliman. He tried to think. Upon a separate table set up in a recess, and crowding the shelves around it, was every work upon Adeptus Astartes power armour in existence, in multifarious formats. That subsection of his library alone was a trove of information any magos of Mars would kill to access, not that Guilliman would ever let such fanatics past the doorway.

  Sheaves of blueprints were scattered across the desk in front of him. He spotted something of interest written on one and reached for it, gritting his teeth against the purring of the suit. He always reached with his right hand. The integration points for the Hand of Dominion on his left made picking anything up nigh on impossible, even with the over gauntlet and its underslung bolter removed. Day-to-day tasks such as this were a struggle. His armoured fingers pushed at slick plastek. Ceramite skidded across the papers, knocking them to the ground in wafting flutters.

  ‘Oh, for the love of…’ he grumbled as he bent awkwardly to pick them up. The Armour of Fate was bulky. As its waist joint prevented him from flexing his spine and reaching the floor, he had to kneel. He reached for the scattered flimsies. Fingertips failed to grasp the sheets, sending them fleeing in small armadas over the polished floor. He growled in frustration, abandoned his task and stood, drawing a curious look from Sicarius.

  ‘I have the manual dexterity of a Legio Cybernetica battle automaton!’ Guilliman said. ‘Created by the Lord of All Mankind, master of the greatest armies in the Imperium, and I cannot pick up a plastek flimsy.’ He glared at the offending articles. ‘My greatest enemy.’

  There was a thoughtful quiet.

  ‘You are joking, my lord?’ said Sicarius.

  Guilliman looked at Sicarius. He had to turn all the way around to do so. The pauldrons, ornamental wings and large halo mounted on his back made it impossible for him to see over his shoulder. At least he had stopped knocking into things. There was that.

  ‘By the Throne, why am I expected to be serious at all times? Yes, Captain Sicarius, I am making light of my predicament. During the worst of the Great Crusade, I was known to make the occasional jest. Even after Terra fell. I did not spend my entire previous life writing deep thoughts into little notebooks, but sometimes dared to enjoy myself. I suppose that was not recorded in the hagiographies.’

  ‘Humour is not something you are renowned for, my lord.’

  ‘My time in this new age has revealed that to me amply.’ Guilliman held up his right hand and clenched it. One could not form a fist properly in power armour. Fingers could be clenched to punch effectively, but they would not curl inward fully. Plates and soft seals got in the way, holding the digits slightly away from the palm. If he squeezed hard to make them nestle, the ceramite squealed against itself, and he feared that he would break it. His right hand did nearly close, but for his left hand, which was wreathed with power plugs and interface ports, there was no chance. The inability to clench his fists properly frustrated him more than any other thing. Even more than the itches he could not scratch, and the impossibility of bathing.

  ‘There must be another way,’ he said, spreading his fingers again.

  ‘You wish me to fetch your scribes to collect your papers, my lord?’

  ‘I do not wish for you to fetch my scribes,’ he snapped. ‘I do not wish to watch them pick up things for me. I do not wish to be so helpless!’ He raised the hand that wore the outer power fist assembly. ‘In this armour I can crush the skull of an ork warlord, but I cannot lift a cup of recaff, nor hold a pen.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘This armour has to come off.’

  ‘But…’ said Sicarius, his doleful manner broken for the briefest second by a hint of surprise. ‘You told me you would die if you tried.’

  ‘That was what I was told by the aeldari prophetess. That does not necessarily mean it is true. What do you think I have been doing in here these last weeks?’ He gestured at the piles of flimsies.

  Sicarius shrugged. His armour too whined, causing Guilliman to grimace. ‘Studying, my lord. I do not question what.’ He paused again. ‘You spend a lot of time studying.’

  ‘This study has a singular purpose. This is the Armour of Fate, but while I wear it I am not in command of my own. It must be removed. I have learned how.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘I have, however, reached something of an impasse,’ Guilliman said. ‘All the secrets of the armour’s function are here.’ He rapped the table. That action, at least, was accomplished easily enough. ‘There is but one question that I do not know the answer to.’ He stared at intricate plans he had memorised already, his eyes darting over their lines as if he would spot something he had missed. ‘You may leave me, captain,’ he said. ‘I do not need you hovering over my shoulder constantly. When you go, take the others with you. No guard is required on my scriptorium this watch. I prefer to be alone.’

  ‘My lord.’ Sicarius dipped his head in acknowledgement.

  ‘And I apologise for my tone,’ said Guilliman, still testy. ‘I find this situation frustrating.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Sicarius withdrew, leaving Guilliman alone with the burden of the Armour of Fate and its infuriating noises.

  The last loyal son of the Emperor waited until he was sure the Victrix Guard had departed, using the time to put his things in as good an order as he could with his clumsy armoured hands, then set out for his quarters and the concealed lifter there.

  Astropath Prime Ultra Guidus Losenti was surprised to find Guilliman entering the hidden chambers of the Cawl Inferior.

  ‘Do you have a message for the Archmagos?’ asked Losenti.

 
‘No,’ said Guilliman bluntly.

  Losenti paused uncertainly. The blind stones nested in his eye sockets glinted in the ruddy light of the machine.

  ‘Do we have a new code then, my lord?’ he said, perturbed. ‘Has the Archmagos been in contact? I have sensed nothing. Did I miss something?’

  The look of alarm on Losenti’s face moved Guilliman, and shook him out of his irritation. If the astropath had missed a communique from the Archmagos, he would be useless. Guilliman had told Losenti in no uncertain terms when he volunteered that the only way he would leave the secret chambers would be as an honoured corpse.

  ‘You have done no wrong, astropath. Do not be afraid. I have no code nor any message to send, but I require you to wake the machine anyway, because I wish to speak with it.’

  Losenti was confused.

  ‘Very well. Then which code should I use? Should I use the code for message send?’

  ‘I do not want it to send this conversation to Cawl – beyond that I don’t care very much which code you use. Turn it on. Use the last one. Use the one before that. Just wake it up.’

  ‘Very well, my lord,’ said Losenti. ‘I will do as you wish.’ He placed his stave carefully upon the ground and raised his voice. ‘By the will of the Omnissiah, engage initiation sequence!’

  Guilliman waited impatiently as the machine went through its activation cycle. Once they had passed through the security protocols and their identities were confirmed, Losenti provided the last code Cawl had sent. After its delivery, the device went into action. Machinery spooled up to high activity. Doors slid up to reveal twenty severed heads installed in nutrient tanks within the walls of the chamber. Light pulsed along etheric circuit tracks. Guilliman steeled himself against the rising psychic pressure. Something about it sickened him.

  Losenti was far more affected by the machine’s spiritual radiation. Partway through its activation, Losenti departed with a bow, withdrawing behind the psychic shielding of his quarters, leaving Guilliman to face the discomfort of the activation process alone. The heads twitched and jiggled. The machines whined and thumped. The pressure grew. Every activation brought a different set of sensory illusions. This time, there were bright lights that strobed from unexpected places, and the smell of cut grasses drying in the sun. He felt himself stretch sideways, like his legs were anchored in one gravitic plane while his head was attracted by another set at ninety degrees. From somewhere, he heard children singing.

  It concluded as it always did, with a loud pop that sounded only inside his mind. The heads shuddered and were still. The noise dropped to a quiet, oiled clatter.

  Belisarius Cawl’s voice boomed from thin air. The mouths of the dead heads spoke along with his words, but the sound itself was generated from no particular place.

  ‘Greetings, Roboute Guilliman, last son of the Emperor of Mankind, Lord Imperial Regent,’ it said. Each time, the machine chose to greet Guilliman differently. Sometimes it was insolent in its over familiarity, sometimes it would regale him with every one of his titles. Sometimes it would deliver its message and shut off without another word. ‘Master of Ultramar,’ the Cawl Inferior continued, ‘Lord Commander, the Aveng–’

  ‘Silence,’ said Guilliman.

  The voice stopped. Fast-paced whooping and the shushety-shush sounds of pistons pumping beneath the primarch’s feet took its place.

  ‘Your order does not fall within my operating parameters,’ the Cawl Inferior said, with tones of sarcastic hurt. ‘You provide the code, I provide a structured set of responses activated by that code. That’s how it works, like a key in a lock. First of all, I must greet you, then I provide the edification. You have interrupted the greeting. We cannot proceed until it is delivered.’

  Guilliman took a deep breath. ‘I do not wish to hear the edification.’

  ‘Why?’ said the machine. It paused, as if it were thinking. ‘You have delivered this set of data before. I thought it was familiar,’ said the Cawl Inferior slyly. Its mannerisms were very much like those of its creator. ‘What do you want? If you wish to contact–’

  ‘I do not wish to contact the Archmagos. In fact, I expressly forbid you from sending the content of this conversation to him.’

  ‘I am bound to obey,’ said the machine, though Guilliman doubted it would. Something clunked in its innards. One of the heads shouted silent, nonsense words in its tank, then settled down again.

  ‘I want to ask you a question,’ said Guilliman. ‘Will I survive if I remove the Armour of Fate?’

  ‘That information is not contained within this unit.’

  A little of the Cawl Inferior’s machinic manner returned, though not enough to convince Guilliman it was a machine.

  ‘I sincerely doubt that,’ said Guilliman.

  ‘Invalid query,’ said the machine, then was silent. ‘Question incompatible with data cache unlock.’

  ‘I know you can understand me, Cawl Inferior,’ said Guilliman.

  ‘Of course I can understand you.’

  ‘Then answer my question,’ said Roboute Guilliman. ‘It is simple enough.’

  The Cawl Inferior let out an exasperated noise.

  ‘You make noises like a living being,’ said Guilliman. ‘You sigh and mumble like a scholum instructor confronted with a student who cannot grasp a simple concept. I know you think.’

  ‘Once, I would have asked you how you could possibly know what the noise of a frustrated teacher was, for I doubt you ever heard it,’ said the machine. ‘Now, I am not so sure. In reference to your analogy, I present to you a simple concept – you do not grasp it. The responses I can provide are limited to the subset of information the code activates within my datastore. I can provide no further enlightenment beyond that which I already contain.’

  ‘This conversation is not within that subset,’ Guilliman pointed out. ‘In fact, very few of our conversations are.’

  ‘You are ignorant of my sophistication and the genius of the Archmagos Belisarius Cawl. They fit well within the limits of my standard conversational subroutines.’

  ‘Yet you speak like a man, not a machine. You know you do – now answer my question!’ demanded the primarch.

  ‘I am not a man. I cannot think for myself, Lord Imperial Regent, as well you know, because I have told you repeatedly. What sentience I appear to possess is solely an illusion. A data ghost. If I were anything else, I would go against the greatest ban of the Cult Mechanicus, enshrined in the Crimson Accords at the time of the advent of the Omnissiah upon Mars – “Thou shalt not craft a machine with the mind of a man.” Such work is for the Machine-God alone. To facilitate a conduit for the inhabitance of a machine by one of the Machine-God’s holy spirits is the acme of the Mars mechanica. To fashion an ersatz soul is blasphemy, for such a thing emanates not from the triple god’s divine grace but is a vileness of human make.’

  ‘If anyone is going to break that ban, it would be Belisarius Cawl,’ said Guilliman.

  ‘That is a calumny. He would do no such thing,’ insisted the Cawl Inferior. ‘We have had this debate before. I am sure you have had the same argument with the Archmagos Belisarius Cawl also.’

  I have not, thought Guilliman, but I will most certainly be doing so next time he shows his face.

  ‘So, to answer your question,’ the Cawl Inferior continued, for it was as garrulous as its creator, ‘I cannot reply to your satisfaction. I simply do not know the answers to the questions you seek.’

  ‘I asked one question.’

  ‘There are always more. One question begets a host. That is the nature of the quest for knowledge. If there were but one question, mankind would already exist in a state of graceful wisdom. You ask me, “Will I survive the removal of the Armour of Fate?” If yes, the next question is, “How can this be accomplished?” The one after is, “Should I attempt it?” If my answer is no, then the next question wou
ld be, “Why not?” and so on and on. I do not know if you can safely remove the armour or not. For what it is worth, I am sorry.’

  ‘If what you say is true,’ said Guilliman wearily, ‘then you cannot feel sorrow.’

  ‘I cannot. But if I could, then I would, I assure you. I do not envy your quandary. Or would not, if I felt envy.’

  Guilliman’s lips thinned.

  ‘Very well. We are done here.’

  In the course of their usual conferences, the Cawl Inferior shut itself down. At Guilliman’s insistence, the actual Belisarius Cawl had installed a single master switch that Guilliman could use to turn off the device himself. He moved for this now.

  ‘Wait!’ said the Cawl Inferior, for despite its protestations of unlife, it seemed to enjoy its infrequent activations a great deal.

  ‘What?’ said Guilliman. He opened the steel front of the switch cabinet and rested his hand on the bar of the lever within. His armoured fingers barely fit on it.

  ‘There are others who might know this information.’

  ‘I know,’ said Guilliman. ‘I would have preferred an answer from you, but if I must, then I shall go to them. Until next time, machine.’

  ‘Your servant as always,’ said the Cawl Inferior, with enough of a tone of irony to make Guilliman doubt its sincerity completely.

  Guilliman pulled the lever to the device. The lights went out behind the heads. The dead faces ceased to gurn. The doors slid closed. The heavy sense of psychic activity lessened, though it would never disperse in that room.

  ‘Losenti,’ called Guilliman. ‘Come forth.’

  The triple-layered door to the astropath’s quarters opened. The astropath came out again.

  ‘My lord?’ he said.

  ‘I require a favour from you. A message.’

  ‘My lord. What do you wish to relay to the Archmagos?’ Losenti stood tall, a sign he was preparing himself to memorise the primarch’s words then consult the code board secreted in his rooms. Cawl had an identical Cawl Inferior upon his own vessel. Or so he said.