Servitors, haulers, deckers, overseers and foremen clogged companionways, thronged dizzyingly high gantries and lofty work platforms. This was industry. It was grind and solidity. This was Bastion.

Cullis was its prime-clave. A hard city, full of hard men, not just workers and engineers but military men, and it was their might and native arsenal that had afforded them choice.

No real opposition to a Legion, Bastion none the less represented an expenditure of time, a manoeuvring of resources – a surfeit that neither side was willing to commit. Armies were stretched the length and breadth of the galaxy as it was. Better to court its people with words and argument than risk turning Bastion into a wasteland that was no use to either faction.

Ortane Vorkellen knew this as he stepped onto the gangramp of his cutter, shielding his gaze against the dipping sun.

‘Smells of oil and metal,’ muttered Insk, his scrivener. ‘Should’ve brought rebreathers.’

‘And risk offending the natives,’ Vorkellen returned in a quiet voice, his painted smile pitched perfectly for the greeting party.

A gaggle of archivists, lex-savants and codifiers followed him and Insk down the ramp as they descended to the deck floor.

‘Greetings, travellers,’ uttered a moustachioed clave-noble. He towered over the visitors in a bespoke rigger, an exo-skeletal frame of bronze that added a metre to his height and bulked out his limbs with its chassis. Weapon mounts, ordinarily positioned at either shoulder and below the abdominals, were absent, a concession that this was to be a peaceful engagement. Likewise, the noble’s three marshals wore only ceremonial flash-sabres – no barb-whips, no rotor-threshers or other hand-held cannon. A high-marshal accompanied them, making five men in total.

The Bastionites were a people that appreciated all things martial. Perhaps that was why compliance had been so easy to achieve here, despite the world’s obvious military might – they respected strength and knew its measure well. Certainly Perturabo’s Legion had experienced harder-fought, longer campaigns than the one to assimilate Bastion and its annexe-worlds. They had simply recognised the power of the Space Marines and sworn fealty then and there without the expected siege. A contingent of Iron Warriors had been left behind, presumably to garrison the planet, but had left prior to the outbreak of the war with no reason given. Their primarch’s influence was still felt, however, in the statues of Perturabo that rose from the cities like spires.

‘Greetings from the clave,’ added the noble. His russet and silver jacket was pressed and pristine, perfectly accenting the polished bronze of his exo-rigger. His boots, fastened in the machine’s stirrups, were black and shining.

Vorkellen had never been to Bastion, but he had researched the world and its customs. He knew the clave represented the socio-political-martial inner circle of the world’s infrastructure and that every one of Bastion’s nine continents, be they ice-plain, desert flatland or mountain fastness, adhered to the will and guidance of a clave. A naturally occurring thermo-nuclear resource provided light and heat, heavily shielded and stockpiled in underground silos that ran throughout Bastion like arteries. Cullis was the capital and the prime-clave, which was why Vorkellen had travelled there for the negotiations.

‘My lord brings you greeting and honours the clave,’ he replied, bowing at the foot of the gangramp in the custom befitting obeisance to a clave-noble of Bastion. ‘Lord Horus conveys through me his gratitude at this meeting.’

The noble nodded. ‘It is received and noted by Cullis-Clave. Please follow.’ He turned then, his exo-rigger whirring with servos and pistons and pneumatics, and proceeded to clankacross the dock towards a great mechanised gate. It was magnificent on account of its size and the inner workings, displayed like a body’s perfect organs on a mortician’s slab. But it was ultimately artless and cold.

Vorkellen followed, his lackeys in tow. ‘You’ve prepared our petition?’ he asked Insk.

The scrivener proffered the data-slate to his master.

Vorkellen took it and proceeded to read. The guards, high-marshal and clave-noble paid them no heed, eyes front and marching to the rapidly approaching gate.

The visitors were shown into a long gallery festooned with banners and laurels.

‘This is where you’ll await audience with the clave-nobles,’ the high-marshal said.

As he was taking in the austere surroundings, Vorkellen asked, ‘Have the representatives from Terra arrived yet?’

‘They are delayed.’

‘Doubtless the Emperor would prefer a show of overwhelming force to bend the clave’s will.’

The high-marshal scowled. ‘You will get your opportunity to present your case to the clave in due course.’

‘Of course, sire. I merely hope to settle this matter of allegiance quickly,’ he replied contritely. A pity we cannot unleash the World Eaters on this place and raze it, he thought behind a strong smile that spoke of his sterling character and honourable ideals.

The high-marshal saluted – a gesture curiously similar to the old sign of Unification, a clenched fist striking the chest. ‘The clave convenes in two hours and thirteen minutes.’

Horus’s iterator smiled again, this time it was thinner, like an adder’s lipless mouth.

Even Erebus couldn’t pull this off as well as me, he thought, hubris overflowing.

‘We’ll be ready,’ he promised.

II

THE STORMBIRD’S SIDE hatch burst open with a well placed kick. The portal was drooling smoke as a broad, flame-limned silhouette filled it.

Arcadese was wearing his battle-helm and had the pilot’s body slung over his shoulder. The human was blood-stained, his fingers and hair blackened by soot.

The angle was wrong as he reached the hatch’s threshold. The Stormbird had hit nose-first, crumpling its cockpit and breaking off portions of wing. Fuselage and engine components lay scattered in the wake of their descent like entrails. A dozen fires ravaged the hull but they were burning out.

Arcadese leapt from the hatch, landing squarely a few metres from the wreck. The ground yielded underfoot and the Ultramarine sank a few centimetres. The lights and industry of Cullis were pinpricks on the horizon, no more than an hour’s march away. In the distance he could see the stilts lifting the platforms and rigs above the grey-brown ash sump surrounding it. It was a petro-chemical mulch, redolent of power plant refuse and engine yard effluvia.

He set the pilot down and returned to the ship.

‘Salamander,’ he called into the dissipating smoke. Emergency lighting flickered.

A figure emerged from the smog, another smaller one in his arms.

‘I’m here.’ The artificer was cradled in Heka’tan’s arms. Her eyes were red-ringed and stinging, and she coughed.

A word resolved in Arcadese’s mind when he saw her: Burden.

‘What of the others?’ Heka’tan asked, stomping into the light halo from the broken hatch.

‘One survivor. Outside. Where is your armour, brother?’

‘Within,’ said Heka’tan.

Arcadese reached for the woman. ‘Give her to me. Go retrieve your armour and our weapons. We may not be on neutral soil after all.’

Heka’tan handed the female over and headed back into the carnage of the ship.

III

AN AWKWARD SILENCE persisted between Arcadese and the artificer.

‘How will we get back?’ she asked at last.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Were we attacked?’

‘It appears likely.’

She glanced around the industrial sump fearfully. ‘Are we safe here?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Will we–’

‘Cease with your questions!’ The Ultramarine turned his steel gaze on her and Persephia shrank a little.