False Gods

Horus leaned forward and wiped his gauntlet across the fogged glass of the first tank's hatch. He squinted against the brightness, straining to see what lay within. The light was blinding, a motion blurred shape within twisting like dark smoke in the wind.

Something saw him. Something moved closer.

'What do you mean?' asked Horus, fascinated by the strange, formless being that swam through the light of the tank. Its motion slowed, and it became a silhouette as it moved closer to the glass, its form settling into something more solid.

The tank hummed with power, as though the metal were barely able to contain the energy generated by the creature contained within it.

These are the Emperor's most secret geno-vaults beneath the Himalayan peaks,’ said Sejanus. This is where you were created,’

Horus wasn't listening. He was staring through the glass in amazement at a pair of liquid eyes that were the mirror of his own.

FIFTEEN

Revelations

Dissent

Scattering

In the two days since the Warmaster's departure, the Vengeful Spirit had become a ghost ship, the mighty ves­sel having haemorrhaged landers, carriers, skiffs and any other craft capable of making it to the surface to follow Horus to Davin.

This suited Ignace Karkasy fine as he marched with newfound purpose and practiced insouciance through the decks of the ship, a canvas satchel slung over one shoulder. Each time he passed a public area of the ship he would check for anyone watching and liberally spread a number of sheets of paper around on desks, tables and couches.

The ache in his shoulder was lessening the more copies of The Truth is All We Have he distributed from the satchel, each sheet bearing three of what he considered to be his most powerful works to date. Uncaring Gods was his personal favourite, unfavourably comparing the Astartes warriors to the ancient Titans of myth; a power­ful piece that he knew was worthy of a wider audience.

He knew he had to be careful with such works, but the passion burned in him too brightly to be contained.

He'd managed to get his hands on a cheap bulk printer with ridiculous ease, acquiring one from the first junkyard dog he'd approached with no more than a few moments' effort. It was not a good quality machine, or even one he would have looked twice at on Terra, but even so it had cost him the bulk of his winnings at merci merci. It was a poor thing, but it did the job, even though his billet now stank of printers' ink.

Humming quietly to himself, Karkasy continued through the civilian decks, coming at last to the Retreat, careful now that he was entering areas where he was known, and where there might be others around.

His fears were unfounded as the Retreat was empty, making it even more depressing and rundown-looking. One should never see a drinking establishment well lit, he thought, it just makes it look even sadder. He made his way through the Retreat, placing a couple of sheets on each table.

Karkasy froze as he heard the clink of a bottle on a glass, his hand outstretched to another table.

'What are you doing?' asked a cultured, but clearly drunk, female voice.

Karkasy turned and saw a bedraggled woman slumped in one of the booths at the far end of the Retreat, which explained why he hadn't seen her. She was in shadow, but he instantly recognised her as Petronella Vivar, the Warmaster's documentarist, though her appearance was a far cry from when he had last seen her on Davin.

No, that wasn't right, he remembered. He had seen her on the embarkation deck as the Astartes had returned with the Warmaster.

Obviously, the experience hadn't failed to leave its mark on her.

Those papers,’ she said. What are they?'

Karkasy guiltily dropped the sheets he had been hold­ing onto the tabletop and shifted the satchel so that it rested at his back.

'Nothing really,' he said, moving down the row of booths towards her. 'Just some poems I'd like people to read.' 'Poetry? Is it any good? I could use something uplift­ing.' He knew he should leave her to her maudlin solitude, but the egotist in him couldn't help but respond. 'Yes, I think they're some of my best,’ 'Can I read them?'

'I wouldn't right now, my dear' he said. 'Not if you're looking for something light. They're a bit dark,’

'A bit dark,’ she laughed, the sound harsh and ugly. You have no idea,’

'It's Vivar isn't it?' asked Karkasy, approaching her booth. That's your name isn't it?'

She looked up, and Karkasy, an expert in gauging lev­els of inebriation in others, saw that she was drunk to the point of insensibility. Three bottles sat drained on the table and a fourth lay in pieces on the floor.

Yes, that's me, Petronella Vivar,’ she said. 'Palatina Majoria of House Carpinus, writer and fraud… and, I think, very drunk,’ 'I can see that, but what do you mean by fraud?' 'Fraud,’ she slurred, taking another drink. 'I came here to tell the glory of Horus and the splendid brotherhood of the primarchs, you know? Told Horus when I met him that if he didn't let me do it he could go to hell. Thought I'd lost my chance right there and then, but he laughed!' 'He laughed?'

She nodded. Yes, laughed, but he let me do it anyway. Think he might have thought I'd be amusing to keep around or something. I thought Г was ready for any­thing,’

'And has it proved to be all you hoped it would be, my dear Petronella?'

'No, not really if I'm honest. Want a drink? I'll tell you about it,’

Karkasy nodded and fetched himself a glass from the bar before sitting across from her. She poured him some wine, getting more on the table than in the glass.

Thank you,' he said. 'So why is it not what you thought it would be? There's many a remembrancer would think such a position would be a documentarist's dream. Mersadie Oliton would have killed to land such a role.'

Who?'

'A friend of mine,’ explained Karkasy. 'She's also a doc-umentarist,’

'She wouldn't want it, trust me,’ said Petronella, and Karkasy could see that the puffiness around her eyes was due as much to tears as to alcohol. 'Some illusions are best kept. Everything I thought I knew… upside down, just like that! Trust me, she doesn't want this,’

'Oh, I think she might,’ said Karkasy, taking a drink.

She shook her head and took a closer look at him, as though seeing him for the first time.

'Who are you?' she asked suddenly. 'I don't know you,’

'My name is Ignace Karkasy,’ he said, puffing out his chest. 'Winner of the Ethiopic Laureate and-'

'Karkasy? I know that name…' she said, rubbing the heel of her palm against her temple as she sought to recall him. 'Wait, you're a poet aren't you?'

'I am indeed,’ he said. 'Do you know my work?'

She nodded. 'You write poetry. Bad poetry I think, I don't remember,’

Stung by her casual dismissal of his work, he resorted to petulance and said,