Hellsreach - Aaron Dembski-Bowden [39]
‘Excuse me?’ she asked.
‘Useless to them, shall we say. It’s simple. You’re the liaison between a High Command that is too busy to care what happens here, too distant to make much difference even if it did care, and offworld forces that have no need or interest in playing nice with the grunts of the Guard. Does the Crone of Invigilata need to pass orders through you? Does Grimaldus? No. Neither group cares.’
‘The chain of command…’ she started, but trailed off.
‘The chain of command is a system both the Legio and the Templars are outside. And above, if they choose to be.’
‘I feel useless,’ she finally said. ‘And not just to them.’
He could see how much that admission cost her. He could also see that she didn’t seem such a haughty bitch when her defences were down. Just as Ryken drew breath to speak – and tell her a more polite version of his current thoughts – her desk vox-speaker buzzed.
‘Adjutant Quintus Cyria Tyro?’ asked a deep, resonant male voice.
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘Reclusiarch Grimaldus of the Black Templars. I must speak with you.’
The Crone of Invigilata floated in her fluid-filled coffin, appearing to listen to the muffled sounds outside.
In truth, she was paying little attention. The muted sounds of speech and movement belonged to a world of physicality that she barely remembered. Linked with Stormherald, the god-machine’s ever-present rumbling anger infected her like a chemical injected into her mind. Even in moments of peace, it was difficult to focus on anything but wrath.
To share a mind with Stormherald was to dwell within a maze of memories that were not her own. Stormherald had looked upon countless battlefields for hundreds of years before Princeps Zarha was even born. She had only to shut down the imagefinders that now served as her eyes, and as the hazy image of her milky surroundings faded to nothing, she could remember deserts she had never seen, wars she had never fought, glories she had never won.
Stormherald’s voice in her mind was an unrelenting murmur, a hum of quiet tension, like a low-burning fire. It challenged her, with wordless growls, to taste of the victories it had tasted for so long – to swim beneath the surface memories and surrender to them. Its spirit was a proud and indefatigable machine-soul, and it hungered not only for the fiery maelstrom of war, but also the cold exaltation of triumph. It felt the banners of past wars that hung from its metal skin, and it knew fierce, unbreakable pride.
‘My princeps,’ came a muffled voice.
Zarha activated her photoreceptors. Borrowed memories faded and vision returned. Strange, how the former were so much clearer than the latter, these days.
Hello, Valian.
‘Hello, Valian.’
‘My princeps, the adepts of the soul are reporting discontent within Stormherald’s heart. We are getting anomalous readings of ill-temper from the reactor core.’
We are angry, moderati. We yearn to bring the thunder down upon our foes.
‘We are angry, moderati. We yearn to bring the thunder down upon our foes.’
‘That is understandable, my princeps. You are… operating at peak capacity? You are sanguine?’
Are you querying if I am at risk of being consumed by Stormherald’s heart?
‘Are you querying if I am at risk of bekkrrssshhhhh heart?’
‘Maintenance adept,’ Valian Carsomir called to a robed tech-priest. ‘Attend to the princeps’s vocaliser unit.’ He turned back to his commander. ‘I trust you, my princeps. Forgive me for troubling you.’
There is nothing to forgive, Valian.
‘There is nothkkkrrrrrsssssssssh.’
That would become annoying after a while, she thought, but did not pulse the sentiment to her vocaliser. Your concern touches me, Valian.
‘Your concern touches me, Valian.’
But I am well.
‘Bkrsh I am well.’
The tech-adept stood by the side of Zarha’s amniotic tank. Mechanical arms slid from his robe and began to do their work.
Moderati Primus Valian Carsomir hesitated, before making the sign of the cog and returning to his station.
We will see battle soon, Valian. Grimaldus has promised it