False Gods

'They look like Astartesi'

'There's a resemblance, I'll give you that, but they're far too short,’

'They're wearing power armour… How is that possible?'

'If you keep quiet we might find out,’ said Torgad­don.

The warriors wheeled and formed up around a tall man wearing long red robes, whose features were half-flesh, half machine and whose eye was a blinking emerald gem. Walking with the aid of a golden cog-topped staff, he stepped onto the deck with the pleased expression of one who finds his expectations more than met.

The Auretian delegation made its way towards Horus, and Loken could sense the weight of history pressing in on this moment. This meeting was the very embodiment of what the Great Crusade represented: lost brothers from across the galaxy once again meet­ing in the spirit of companionship.

The red robed man bowed before the Warmaster and said, 'Do I have the honour of addressing the Warmas­ter Horus?'

'You do, sir, but please do not bow,’ replied Horus. 'The honour is mine,’

The man smiled, pleased at the courtesy. 'Then if you will permit me, I will introduce myself. I am Emory Salignac, Fabricator Consul to the Auretian Technoc­racy. On behalf of my people, may I be the first to welcome you to our worlds,’

Loken had seen Regulus's excitement at the sight of Salignac's augmetics, but upon hearing the full title of this new empire, his enthusiasm overcame the protocol of the moment.

'Consul,’ said Regulus, his voice blaring and unnat­ural. 'Do I understand that your society is founded on the knowledge of technical data?'

Horus turned to the adept of the Mechanicum and whispered something that Loken didn't hear, but Regu-lus nodded and took a step back.

'I apologise for the adept's forthright questions, but I hope you might forgive his outburst, given that our war­riors appear to share certain… similarities in their wargear.'

These are the warriors of the Brotherhood,’ explained Salignac. 'They are our protectors and our most elite sol­diers. It honours me to have them as my guardians here.'

'How is it they are armoured so similarly to my own warriors?'

Salignac appeared to be confused by the question and said, 'You expected something different, my lord Warmaster? The construct machines our ancestors brought with them from Terra are at the heart of our society and provide us with the boon of technology. Though advanced, they do tend towards a certain uniformity of creation,’

The silence that greeted the consul's words was brit­tle and fragile, and Horus held up his hand to still the inevitable outburst from Regulus.

'Construct machines?' asked Horus, a cold edge of steel in his voice. 'STC machines?'

'I believe that was their original designation, yes,’ agreed Salignac, lowering his staff and holding it towards the Warmaster. 'You have-'

Emory Salignac never got to finish his sentence as Horus took a step backward and drew his pistol. Loken saw the muzzle flash and watched Emory Sali-gnac's head explode as the bolt blew out the back of his skull.

'Yes,' said Mersadie Oliton. 'The staff was some kind of energy weapon that could have penetrated the War-master's armour. We've been told this,’

Loken shook his head. 'No, there was no weapon,’

'Of course there was,’ insisted Oliton, 'and when the consul's assassination attempt failed, his Brotherhood warriors attacked the Warmaster,’

Loken put down his bolter and said, 'Mersadie, forget what you have been told. There was no weapon, and after the Warmaster killed the consul, the Brotherhood only tried to escape. Their weapons were not loaded and they could not have fought us with any hope of success,’

They were unarmed?'

Yes,’

'So what did you do?'

'We killed them,’ said Loken. They were unarmed, but we were not. Abaddon's Justaerin cut half a dozen of them down before they even knew what had happened. I led Locasta forward and we gunned them down as they tried to board their ship,’

'But why?' asked Oliton, horrified at his casual description of such slaughter.

'Because the Warmaster ordered it,’

'No, I mean why would the Warmaster shoot the con­sul if he wasn't armed? It doesn't make any sense,’

'No, it doesn't,’ agreed Loken. 'I watched him kill the consul and I saw his face after we had killed the Broth­erhood warriors,’

'What did you see?'

Loken hesitated, as though not sure he should answer. At last he said, 'I saw him smile,’

'Smile?'

Yes,’ said Loken, 'as if the killings had been part of his plan all along. I don't know why, but Horus wants this war,’

Torgaddon followed the hooded warrior down the darkened companionway towards the empty reserve armoury chamber. Serghar Targost had called a lodge

meeting and Torgaddon was apprehensive, not liking the sensation one bit. He had attended only a single meeting since Davin, the quiet order no longer a place of relaxation for him. Though the Warmaster had been returned to them, the lodge's actions had smacked of subterfuge and such behaviour sat ill with Tarik Torgad­don.

The robed figure he followed was unknown to him, young and clearly in awe of the legendary Mournival offi­cer, which suited Torgaddon fine. The warrior had clearly only achieved full Astartes status recently, but Torgaddon knew that he would already be an experienced fighter. There was no room for inexperience among the Sons of Horas, the months of war on Aureus making veterans or corpses of those raised from the novitiate and scout aux­iliaries. The Brotherhood might not have the abilities of the Astartes, but the Technocracy could call on millions of them, and they fought with courage and honour.

It only made killing them all the harder. Fighting the megarachnids of Murder had been easy, their alien phys­iognomy repulsive to look upon and therefore easy to destroy.

The Brotherhood, though… they were so like the Sons of Horus that it was as though two Legions fought each other in some brutal civil war. Not one amongst the Legion had failed to experience a moment of pause at such a terrible image.

Torgaddon was saddened as he knew that, like the interex before them, the Brotherhood and the Auretian Technocracy would be destroyed.

A voice from the darkness ahead shook him from his sombre thoughts.

'Who approaches?'

Two souls,’ replied the young warrior.

'What are your names?' the figure asked, but Torgad­don did not recognise the voice.

'I can't say,’ said Torgaddon. 'Pass, friends,’

Torgaddon and the warrior passed the guardian of the portal and entered the reserve armoury. The vaulted chamber was much larger than the aft hold where meet­ings had commonly been held, and when he stepped into the flickering candlelit space, he could see why Tar-gost had chosen it.

Hundreds of warriors filled the armoury, each one hooded and holding a flickering candle. Serghar Targost, Ezekyle Abaddon, Horas Aximand and Maloghurst stood at the centre of the gathering; to one side of them stood First Chaplain Erebus.

Torgaddon looked around at the assembled Astartes and couldn't escape the