Pharos Read online

  That’s it. What a genius I am, thought Mericus, mocking himself at framing it so.

  But there was little natural about Mount Pharos. Apertures opened all over it, from holes the size of a man’s fist to gaping caverns that would accommodate a battle tank. They were important, apparently, and one of the duties of the colony was cutting back the undergrowth around the cave mouths. A never-ending task. Sothan trees grew fast. There was an organic uniformity to the holes, like the internal structures of a living being, and where they punctured the surface the warm grey stone of the mountain became a glossy, vitreous black.

  There was a smaller cave up there, right at the top, hidden by a huge rib of rock that leaned outward from the mountain. A landing pad perched precariously on the end of this promontory, while beside it a funicular railway ran from the base of the mountain all the way to the top.

  On the black crags of the summit, a fortification perched. Ostensibly it was an observatory, but it was built by the Legiones Astartes and so was more redoubt than research station.

  Mericus had preferred the mountain the way it had been, without keep, railway or landing pad. No one would ever suggest that the mountain had a personality, but the colonists attributed their feelings of well-being to the peak. Sticking a big castle on the top seemed an affront.

  Mericus rested his pack and his lasgun against the chain-link fence around that final empty lot. There Sothopolis stopped and the agricolum began. It was as clean as the line on the map it undoubtedly had been planned upon.

  The city agricolum occupied the remainder of the plain between sea and mountain. This was also new, established to feed the legionaries garrisoning the planet. Circles of crops stretched off in ordered rows, divided by dead-straight gravel tracks that shimmered in the heat. Each field had an automated drip-feed irrigation rig at the centre, their long arms driven by the sun. The fields framed Sothopolis with a patchwork of gentle Terran colours, crops as ancient as mankind and dragged across the stars with them. The agricolum was far more extensive than the city, for all that the fields did not stretch far. At the first risings of the mountain, the browns and yellows of earthly plants stopped. There the Aegida Castellum stood watch over the city, and the bright blue-green of Sotha’s vigorous native vegetation took over.

  Pretty as a picture, thought Mericus, breathing deeply of the fragrant morning air. He was content. Today he was not going to the fields or the forests. Today he was on military rotation, and he liked military rotation.

  Avians screeched in profusion over the cliffs where the mountain met the sea. A lighter grumbled up from the tiny spaceport. Mericus tracked the craft as it climbed above the height of the mountain towards the glint of the orbital. Day or night, the legionary base gleamed reassuringly up there, locked in geosynchronous orbit over Sothopolis.

  By any objective definition, Sotha was a paradise. The nine hundred families that serviced the outpost lived like kings. They had plenty of space, a gentle world, they ate fresh food. Their work was respected by the Legion. Their children grew up healthy and strong, and there was a pleasing lack of things trying to kill them.

  ‘What more could a man ask for?’ sighed Mericus contentedly.

  It wouldn’t last, he could see that. Things were changing. Until a couple of years ago, most of the colony had lived in rough hamlets on the lower mountain slopes. Sothopolis had been a three-block street, the agricolum had been a forest broken up by slash-and-burn fields.

  If the weed-grown lots that made up two-thirds of Sothopolis looked like over-planning, they were not. Nothing was needlessly built in the Five Hundred Worlds. One day, the planet’s restricted status would be lifted, colonists from overcrowded worlds would flood there, and the Sothans’ simple pastoral culture would be swept away.

  For a while, the newcomers would enjoy Sotha’s near-pristine nature, before smirching it with their lives. Man always brought his poisons with him; he couldn’t help it, it was in his nature. Not even Roboute Guilliman could prevent that.

  Mericus counted his blessings. For the moment, Sotha only occasionally took new people. The colony was small and could not quite sustain its numbers, and ten places had come up because of a shortfall in births. Sotha’s calm atmosphere seemed to put a brake on humanity’s overwhelming desire to multiply. Perhaps there were concerns about the genetic diversity of such a small group. Whatever the reason, Mericus had lucked out. Those sent to Sotha had been chosen from colonial applicants all over Ultramar. Mericus didn’t deserve it, he really didn’t. He was named for a mighty nation of Old Earth, so his father had confided in him in a rare moment of friendliness. Mericus didn’t believe he lived up to it.

  If he knew one thing he knew himself, and he was unstintingly honest in his appraisal. He had been many things, none of them exactly honourable – a gambler, a rogue. If he was not a thief, then he had come pretty damn close a few times. He was a little bit unreliable, a little bit insolent, and little bit too free with his affections. Nothing very bad, but not exactly the picture of upright Ultramarian morality either.

  Seven years ago after some bad business on Cliestro, the aftermath of which he had barely survived, he had decided to ship out to the frontier and make a new start. He had not in his wildest dreams expected a posting to somewhere like Sotha.

  An eight-wheeled, high-cabbed loader rumbled by, its long bed piled with quicktree trunks from the logging camps. He flapped the dust it kicked up away from his face.

  He checked his chronometer. If he left now, he would be on time for the rendezvous. More or less.

  He waited a few minutes more, because there was something he wanted to see, and right there was one of the best places to see it.

  The sun crept higher in the sky. The light struck the mountain’s peak just so.

  One by one, the dark, forbidding caverns honeycombing Mount Pharos’ surface lit up with rich, liquid light. No sound came with the mountain’s welcome to each new sunrise, but Mericus thought of it as a song. The effect that had earned Mount Pharos its name lasted less than half a minute, but in that time Sothopolis’ gentle rhythms stopped as all eyes went to the mountain.

  The amber light blinked out of each cave with a series of brilliant flashes starting at the bottom, finishing with the last below the new fortress-observatory.

  The caves returned to their dark, blank state.

  Mericus smiled broadly. Time to go.

  He hitched his rucksack onto his back, adjusted his helmet so it hung comfortably on his front, pulled a pair of non-regulation dark glasses out of a pouch on the webbing, and shouldered his lasgun.

  Sotha was a paradise all right, but its days were numbered. War gripped the heavens. One only had to look upwards, where space-time writhed beyond the perfect blue sky of Sotha’s day. At night the heavens glowed and the stars were blotted out. On the worst nights, sinuous, eye-watering patterns of unnatural colour tormented the soul.

  At night under the dread aurorae, the calming effect of the mountain vanished.

  Mericus’ dreams had grown dark of late.

  The Sothan First were scattered either side of a trail of beaten earth atop the south ridge, leading through stands of young quicktrees so thick you couldn’t put an arm between them.

  Tiny Jonno was the first to spot Mericus coming up the path from the plains.

  ‘Hey, everyone! Sergeant Giraldus is here. That’s all of us. Can we finally get going now?’ shouted Jonno.

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Trooper Hasquin. He was sat close to Tiny, tossing his knife into the earth, retrieving it, wiping it, and tossing it again.

  ‘Travelling,’ said Mericus. ‘Am I not a traveller wending my way along the journey of life like the rest of you worthy crew? Are we all not travellers?’

  ‘Got lost in the bush more like,’ grumbled Chelvan Quintus, a tall, bulky man whose hands were never free of field dirt. His hips were bulky with
pouches the size of saddlebags, each one housing a heavy bolter clip. Dorican, the weapon’s gunner, sat a few metres from his friend, rubbing gun oil into the squad’s massive heavy weapon with his similarly massive hands.

  ‘How could I get possibly get lost?’ said Mericus.

  Chelvan kicked at the dense brush around the clearing. ‘Damn trees are up already. Four months back I was on forestry rotation cutting them down right here, and here they are again, higher than our heads. Quicktree scrub all looks the same. Easy to get lost, and you aren’t from here.’

  ‘Easy for you, maybe. Chelvan, Sothan-born or not, my sense of direction is much better than yours. I got the omnibus as far as the Via Ultima Agrorum and walked the field roads.’ He let his rucksack slip to the ground, then his rifle. He interlaced his hands, pushed his palms out and stretched his back with audible pleasure. ‘The reason I am late is that it is such a glorious day and I took my time.’

  The others laughed. There were thirty of them in the auxilia platoon, divided into three squads of ten. Mericus was well liked. Lieutenant Vitellius looked up at the commotion from where he was deep in consultation with his other two sergeants. He caught Mericus’ eye and scowled.

  ‘I see the lieutenant’s seen you,’ said Jonno.

  ‘Sergeant Giraldus, get yourself up here!’

  Mericus’ squad made a series of catty ‘oohs’.

  ‘Now, now boys. Show some respect to our bold leader.’

  Mericus walked the trail, stepping over the outstretched legs of men chatting easily in the sun. There was only a token auxilia presence on Sotha, and so each Sothan male was expected to spend one third of the year under arms. Military service came easily to the Sothans, many of whom spent months alone in the forests and mountain pastures herding flocks of quarians.

  ‘Govenisk, Bolarion,’ said Mericus to the sergeants with Vitellius.

  ‘Where by Terra have you been?’

  ‘And good day to you, Lieutenant Vitellius.’

  ‘Rendezvous was 0630, Mericus. 0630!’

  Mericus lifted his chronometer to his eyes. ‘And now it is 0638. Hulio, come on. I was four minutes late.’

  ‘Dammit, Mericus, use the proper protocol when we’re out on duty,’ said Vitellius.

  ‘Grouchy today, sir? Well.’ He patted his backpack. ‘My squad is ready.’

  ‘I should have you up on charges. I should have you flogged for this.’

  Mericus raised an eyebrow.

  Vitellius had the decency to look abashed. ‘Look, it’s well within my power. Don’t push me.’

  ‘I don’t think your darling Seara would approve of such an action.’

  Vitellius’ face twisted in annoyance. ‘Don’t exploit our friendship. You’re killing any sense of discipline. Help me here, please! Just don’t be late again,’ Vitellius said, stalking off to the head of the column. ‘And get your section in order!’

  ‘As you command,’ said Mericus. ‘We march for Macragge.’ He turned back down the trail and hollered at his troop. ‘You heard the man – up, up everyone. We have a long walk ahead of us!’

  His men stood up, yawning in the hot sun.

  ‘I think he’s yearning for his regular units again, Mericus.’

  ‘The time has come once more to call me sergeant, Jonno.’

  ‘I think he’s yearning for his regular units again, sarge,’ said Jonno.

  ‘That’ll do,’ said Mericus. ‘Well now, that’s the problem with training the likes of us. We all know everyone. Even Vitellius is part of the community now. How are they supposed to maintain any sort of order?’

  ‘Remember when he arrived? What he was like when they sent him down from the castellum? He would have whipped you then,’ said Jonno.

  ‘Maybe he would,’ said Mericus. ‘He’s a good man though. Better than me.’

  ‘I hate troop rotation,’ said Chelvan. ‘I don’t see why they don’t get more soldier boys in, let us do the work we’re best suited to.’

  Mericus draped a comradely arm around Chelvan’s neck. ‘Because, dear Chelvan, this place is supposed to be a big secret. You know what “restricted” means?’

  ‘Sarge, I…’

  ‘It means,’ said Mericus, ‘that they don’t want a lot of curious types poking their noses into what’s going on here.’ He nodded up to the mountain. ‘A bunch of soldiers won’t help that, will it? How do you keep their mouths shut if you transfer them elsewhere? If you keep them here, how do you accommodate the swelling population when you ship new blood in to replace the old farts every man sadly yet inevitably becomes? Our lord and master on Macragge is keeping this place manageable and simple, and that means…’ He slapped Chelvan on the back. ‘Well, that means you, friend.’

  Chelvan scowled back. ‘I still hate it,’ he grumbled. ‘Pointless waste of time.’

  ‘You’re on your own there,’ laughed Morio, the youngest of them all. ‘I love it.’

  ‘Better this than scything back the brush on such a day. And if it weren’t for us there would be more regular army units here. The harvest would never be brought in,’ said Mericus.

  ‘Why not?’ said Chelvan.

  ‘Because, my small-brained friend, we’d be chasing soldiers off our daughters. Lucky for us there’s only a few of them, up in that fort,’ said Mericus.

  ‘You don’t have any daughters, sergeant,’ said Jonno.

  ‘It’s rather you we’re chasing off our daughters,’ said Pontian, a dark-haired man with a serious face.

  Mericus affected to look hurt. ‘Daughters? Please! I’m a gentleman.’ He grinned. ‘It’s your wives you have to worry about.’ He looked at his nine lads. All of them tanned, wiry Sothan-men. It was a testimony to the easy-going nature of the place how they’d accepted Mericus and his authority over them.

  ‘Come on! In a line, boys! We’re ready to go. Jonno, Aelius, you’re taking first shift helping Dorican and Chelvan carry Domitia.’

  Jonno and Aelius groaned and went to stand by the heavy bolter.

  ‘She’s really heavy, sarge!’ said Jonno. ‘I’ve the best eyes, send me up front.’

  ‘There’ll be nothing to see until we hit the mountain. It is heavy, yes, and that’s why you’re helping to carry it,’ he said. ‘Now shush.’

  Thirty soldiers and their leaders fell into line, packs on their backs and lasguns at the ready. In that moment, they went from a village outing to a proper military outfit. It was remarkable, thought Mericus.

  ‘Patrol!’ shouted Vitellius. ‘Prepare to move out.’

  ‘Where to?’ said Hasquin. The question was a ritual in Mericus’ squad, as were the replies.

  ‘Round the mountain, up the mountain, then back home again!’ sang out Jonno.

  ‘Why do they make us sleep in the barracks, when our own beds are only down the bloody hill?’ said Dorican, his voice deeper than the rest.

  ‘Because this week we’re in the army!’ all replied.

  ‘Sothan First Irregular Auxilia!’ shouted Vitellius.

  ‘Ho! Ho! Ho! Sothan First!’ they all replied.

  ‘Prepare to move out,’ said Vitellius.

  Jonno, Aelius, Chelvan and Dorican bent to the carrying handles on the heavy bolter. As they lifted it, Dorican used his free hand to slap the bipod into the stowed position.

  ‘Sothan First, move out!’ shouted Vitellius.

  The column began a slow march up the ridge towards the mountain, winding its way through stands of rapidly regenerating trees.

  ‘And so we go, off for another walk in the sunshine, carrying a lasgun,’ said Mericus contentedly.

  ‘If only it were a wineskin, eh, sarge?’

  ‘By the Emperor, beloved by all – aye to that, Tiny. Aye to that.’

  TEN

  Memorial’s ruin

  The Five Hundred

&
nbsp; Miracle

  ‘There is some minor damage to the upper halls. Magos Carantine’s servitor-drones are checking the fabric of the walls. Some cracking, I fear. What effect this has had on the function of the beacon is unknowable.’

  ‘I see you perfectly well, warsmith,’ said Captain Casmir.

  Dantioch had to agree, the effects of the damage appeared minimal. The ruins of the Chapel of Memorial filled the stage as it did whenever the Pharos was tuned to it, as real as if it occupied half the chamber of Primary Location Alpha and was not light years away. The black floor of the Pharos stopped, the chipped tiles of the chapel began. On the Macragge side of the divide it was night. Forests of candles flickered atop layered candlestands as tall as primarchs. Through the chapel’s open roof, Dantioch could see the angry red glow of the Ruinstorm, so much brighter there than at Sotha. Long use had made him an expert at reading the empathic field of the device. It fascinated and repulsed him equally, and he could scarcely believe it, but he could feel the anger of the sky. There was an overwhelming madness coming from the storm, the kind that would flood into him if he regarded it too closely. When he looked upon it he had an inkling of what had overcome his brothers, and so he did not.

  He could also read Casmir as easily as if he were a book. Today Valentus Dolor’s equerry was as warm as always towards the warsmith, but a guardedness had come over him when he had been told of their ranging efforts and Polux’s vision of Inwit.

  The warsmith shifted in the audience throne. Failing to find a position that lessened the pain of his crooked back, he forced himself to remain still. Two of the Invictarus guard waited by the broken arch of the chapel. They stood in perfect stillness at attention. That was a feat Dantioch could no longer hope to emulate.

  The warsmith’s body was wrecked, destroyed by his own kin. When he walked the pain was excruciating, but when he was still it was worse. Pain nibbled constantly at the edge of his psycho-conditioning. He felt as he had never expected to – like an old man used up by life. Only his will and the support of his battleplate allowed him to function at all. Iron within, iron without, he thought ironically. He would have laughed, but that was something else he had learned not to do too often, as it brought on racking coughs that ripped through his thorax in a storm of knives.