Eisenhorn Omnibus by Dan Abnett
A WARHAMMER 40,000 OMNIBUS
EISENHORN
Dan Abnett
v1.2 (2011.11)
IT IS THE 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
YET EVEN IN his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperors will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.
TO BE A man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
XENOS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
MISSING IN ACTION
MALLEUS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
BACKCLOTH FOR A CROWN ADDITIONAL
HERETICUS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
INTRODUCTION
ONCE, WHEN ASKED where he got his ideas, David Mamet replied, ‘I think of them’. In a similar vein, when asked where she got her energy from, my daughter Lily answered, ‘Woolworths.’ Ba-dum tish!
Rather less quick-witted than either of them, I regularly struggle when I get asked about ideas and their origins, and usually come up with some old cobblers about ‘sometimes, if I’m on a train, things just occur to me…’ or ‘you never know when an idea’s going to hit you…’
Because you don’t. Owning, as I do, a mind as reliable and watertight as the average game of Ker-Plunk!, I have learned to become something of a note-taker. I jot stuff down, anything, everything, as it occurs to me – yes, on trains, or planes, or sofas, or seesaws, or the queue at Tesco – so I don’t lose it. I use notebooks, old envelopes, Post-its, the backs of shopping lists, the foreheads of passing children, whatever’s to hand. Then, when I actually need an idea, professionally speaking, I rifle through this scrap-head resource and eventually come up with something that makes me go ‘Oh, yeah, that’d work.’ Except, of course, for the occasions when I find something that makes me go, ‘What is that? A “B”? What’s that word? Did I write this?’
So I’m delighted to be able to say that in the case of Eisenhorn (which is the umbrella title we’ve given to the cycle of novels and linked short stories collected in this spiffy volume), I know exactly where the idea came from. Not me, that’s where.
There is a rather gorgeous painting that many of you, I’m sure, will be familiar with. It’s called Inquisitor Tannenberg, it’s by John Blanche, and it has been reproduced in various places, including the Inquis Exterminatus. Know the one? Guy with a scalp full of cables, a black fur coat, a double-headed eagle familiar on his shoulder, a gold-chased bolt pistol in his hand? Yes, it is good, isn’t it?
I’d been working for the Black Library for a few years, producing a variety of things, most notably the Gaunt’s Ghosts novels. So the grim nightmare of the far future, where there is only war and the galaxy’s alight and everyone’s got a headache, was pretty much my thing. The editors kept me fed with all the latest fluff and hot new supplements, just to keep me in the loop. And one day, they sent me this pile of photocopies: sketches, paste-ups, notes. There was going to be, they told me, a new game called Inquisitor, and they were so jazzed by the concepts and ideas coming out of the game’s development, they decided to send me all the stuff, hush-hush, in the hope that it might inspire me, Gaunt-wise.
As soon as I opened the package and started leafing through, I could see what they meant. This was a rich seam indeed, full of wonderful baroque material. Among the pages, along with a number of other very fine pictures, was a copy of John Blanche’s painting. And that was it. I picked up the phone, called Black Library and said, ‘Can I please write about this?’ Even though, truth be told, at that stage I didn’t know exactly what ‘this’ was.
They said yes (I think they sensed the enthusiasm in my voice). The idea was that if I could write the novel quickly enough, it could come out AT THE SAME TIME as the game launch, and everyone would look big and clever, like it had been planned that way all along.
I visited the Studio, and got great help and advice from the game developers, particularly Gav Thorpe. Then I got to work.
I think what inspired me about John’s painting was the aristocratic clothing: the rich black velvet of the sleeves, the engraved gold of the elegant weapon. This wasn’t about the battlefield, the front-line of mud and gas and behemoth engines. This was a glimpse behind the lines at the internal complexity of the Imperium. It offered a chance to explore what might be called the ‘domestic’ side of the Warhammer 40,000 universe: the daily, non-military, life – at work, at worship, at rest, at court, at slum-level. A chance to visit worlds that were not levelled by war, and see how the billions of Imperial citizens lived.
And also to find out what evils stalked them, even in the shadows of their own hive cities.
The novel turned into a trilogy that charts the career of a man. Other stories, two of which are collected here, lace into that trilogy and, for those who are interested, the exploits of several of these characters continue in the Ravenor novels that are my current concern.
Of course, if I ever work out whose idea it was to write these stories in the first person, I’ll be round their house with a baseball bat. The plot problems that caused…
Oh, hang on. That was me.
Dan Abnett
Maidstone, 9th August, 2004
XENOS
BY ORDER OF HIS MOST HOLY MAJESTY
THE GOD-EMPEROR OF TERRA
SEQUESTERED INQUISITORIAL DOSSIERS
AUTHORISED PERSONS ONLY
CASE FILE ii2:67B:AA6:Xad
Please enter your authority code > ********
Validating…
Thank you, Inquisitor. You may proceed.
VERBAL TRANSCRIPT OF PICT-RECORDED DOCUMENT
LOCATION: MAGINOR
DATE: 239.M41
RECOVERED FROM SERVITOR RECORDING MODULE
TRANSCRIBED BY SAVANT ELEDIX, ORDO HERETICUS
INQUISITORIAL DATA-LIBRARY FACULTY,
FIBOS SECUNDUS, 240.M41
[Pict-record white noise segues to] Darkness. Sounds of distant human pain. A flash of light [poss. las-fire?]. Sounds of running.
Pict-source moves, tracking, vibrating. Some stone walls, in close focus. Another flash, brighter, closer. Squeal of pain [source unknown]. An extremely bright flash [loss of picture].
[Image indistinct for 2 minutes 38 seconds; some background noise.]
A man [subject (i)] in long robes, calls out as he strides past close to the pict-source [speech unrecoverable]. Surroundings, dark stone [poss. tunnel? tomb?]. (i)’s identity unknown [partial face view only]. Pict-source moves in close behind (i), observing as (i) draws a force hammer from a thigh loop under his robe. Close up on (i)’s hands as he grips haft. Inquisitorial signet ring in plain view, (i) turns [face obscured by shadow], (i) speaks.
VOICE (i): Move in! Move in, in the name of all that’s holy! Come on and [words obliterated by sound-flash] bastard monster to death!
Further flashes of light, now clearly close las-impacts. Pict-source filters fail to block glare [white out].
[Image white out for 0 minutes 14 seconds; resolution slowly returning.] Passing in through the high stone entrance of some considerable chamber. Grey stone, rough hewn. Pict-source pans. Bodies in doorway, and also slumped down interior steps. Massive injuries, mangled. Stones wet with blood.
VOICE OFF [(i)?]: Where are you? Where are you? Show yourself!
Pict-source moves in. Two human shapes move past it to left, blurred [image-stall reveals one [subject (ii)] to be male, approx 40 years, heavy-set, wearing Imperial Guard-issue body plate [no insignia or idents], significant facial scarring [old], wielding belt-fed heavy stubber; other [subject (iii)] is female, approx 25 years, svelte, skin dyed blue, tattoos and body-glove armour of a Morituri Death Cultist initiate, wielding force blade [approx 45cm length].
Blurred shapes (ii) and (iii) move beyond pict-source. Pict-source pans round, establishing sidelong view of (ii) and (iii) engaged in rapid hand-to-hand warfare with adversaries on lower steps. Adversaries are heterogeneous mix: six humans with surgical/bionic implants, two mutants, three offensive servitors [see attached file record for stall-frame details], (ii) fires heavy stubber [sound track distorts].
Two human adversaries pulped [backwash smoke haze renders image partially indistinct], (iii) severs head of mutant, vaults backwards [transcriptional assumption – pict-source too slow to follow] and impales human adversary. Pict-source moves down [image jerky].
VOICE OFF: Maneesha! To the left! To the l—
Pict-source makes partial capture as (iii) is hit repeatedly by energy fire, (iii) convulses, explodes. Pict-source hit by blood mist [image fogs]. [Image wiped clear.] (ii) is yelling, moving ahead out of view, firing heavy stubber. Sudden crossfire laser effect [las-flare blinds pict-source optics].
[Various noise sources, indistinct voices, some screaming.]
[Image returns.] (i) is just ahead of pict-source, charging into wide, flat chamber lit by green chemical lamps [face illuminated by light for 0.3 seconds]. Subject (i) positively identified as Inquisitor Hetris Lugenbrau.
LUGENBRAU: Quixos! Quixos! I put it all to the sword and the cleansing flame! Now you, monster! Now you, bastard!
VOICE [unidentified]: I am here, Lugenbrau. Kharnagar awaits.
Lugenbrau (i) moves off-image. Pict-source pans. Image jerky. Body parts scattered on chamber floor [composite identifies subject (ii) as one of nine corpses]. Major detonation(s) nearby. Image shakes, pict-source falls sidelong.
[Image blank for 1 minute 7 seconds. Significant background noise.]
[Image returns.] Lugenbrau partly visible off frame left, engaged in combat. Afterglow-residue of force hammer blows remain burned on image for several seconds [image indistinct].
Pict-source turns to focus on Lugenbrau. Lugenbrau engaged in hand-to-hand combat with unknown foe. Movements too fast for pict-source to capture.
Blur. Human figures [identity unknown, poss. adversary troops] move in from right frame. Heads of human figures explode. Figures topple.
[White out. Pict-source blanked. Duration unknown.]
[Image returns, imperfect] Jerky shots of ground and wall. Refocus blurring. Pict-source reacquires Lugenbrau and adversary in combat [smoke fumes haze view]. Combat as before too rapid for pict-source to capture. Extensive background noise. Glowing line [believed to be blade weapon] impales Lugenbrau. Image shakes [some picture loss]. Lugenbrau immolates [image burns out].
[Pause/pict-blank of unknown duration.]
[Image returns.] Close up of face looking into pict-source. Identity unknown [subject (iv)]. (iv) is handsome, sculptural, smiling, eyes blank.
VOICE (iv): Hello, little thing. I am Cherubael.
Light flash.
Scream [believed to originate from pict-source].
[Image out. Recording ends.]
ONE
A cold coming.
Death in the dormant vaults.
Some puritanical reflections.
HUNTING THE RECIDIVIST Murdin Eyclone, I came to Hubris in the Dormant of 240.M41, as the Imperial sidereal calendar has it.
Dormant lasted eleven months of Hubris’s twenty-nine month lunar year, and the only signs of life were the custodians with their lighted poles and heat-gowns, patrolling the precincts of the hibernation tombs.
Within those sulking basalt and ceramite vaults, the grandees of Hubris slept, dreaming in crypts of aching ice, awaiting Thaw, the middle season between Dormant and Vital.
Even the air was frigid. Frost encrusted the tombs, and a thick cake of ice covered the featureless land. Above, star patterns twinkled in the curious, permanent night. One of them was Hubris’s sun, so far away now. Come Thaw, Hubris would spin into the warm embrace of its star again.
Then it would become a blazing globe. Now it was just a fuzz of light.
As my gun-cutter set down on the landing cross at Tomb Point, I had pulled on an internally heated bodyskin and swathes of sturdy, insulated foul weather gear, but still the perilous cold cut through me now. My eyes watered, and the tears froze on my lashes and cheeks. I remembered the details of the cultural brief my savant had prepared, and quickly lowered my frost visor, trembling as warm air began to circulate under the plastic mask.
Custodians, alerted to my arrival by astropathic hails, stood waiting for me at the base of the landing cross. Their lighted poles dipped in obeisance in the frozen night and the air steamed with the heat that bled from their cloaks. I nodded to them, showing their leader my badge of office. An ice-car awaited; a rust-coloured arrowhead tw
It carried me away from the landing cross and I left the winking signal lights and the serrated dagger-shape of my gun-cutter behind in the perpetual winter night.
The spiked tracks kicked up blizzards of rime behind us. Ahead, despite the lamps, the landscape was black and impenetrable. I rode with Lores Vibben and three custodians in a cabin lit only by the amber glow of the craft’s control panel. Heating vents recessed in the leather seats breathed out warm, stale air.
A custodian handed back a data-slate to Vibben. She looked at it cursorily and passed it on to me. I realised my frost visor was still down. I raised it and began to search my pockets for my eye glasses.
With a smile, Vibben produced them from within her own swaddled, insulated garb. I nodded thanks, put them on my nose and began to read.
I was just calling up the last plates of text when the ice-car halted.
‘Processional Two-Twelve,’ announced one of the custodians.
We dismounted, sliding our visors down into place.
Jewels of frost-flakes fluttered in the blackness about us, sparkling as they crossed through the ice-car’s lamp beams. I’ve heard of bitter cold. Emperor grace me I never feel it again. Biting, crippling, actually bitter to taste on the tongue. Every joint in my frame protested and creaked.
My hands and my mind were numb.
That was not good.
Processional Two-Twelve was a hibernation tomb at the west end of the great Imperial Avenue. It housed twelve thousand, one hundred and forty-two members of the Hubris ruling elite.
We approached the great monument, crunching up the black, frost-coated steps.
I halted. ‘Where are the tomb’s custodians?’
‘Making their rounds,’ I was told.
I glanced at Vibben and shook my head. She slid her hand into her fur-edged robes.
‘Knowing we approach?’ I urged, addressing the custodian again. ‘Knowing we expect to meet them?’
‘I will check,’ said the custodian, the one who had circulated the slate. He pushed on up the steps, the phosphor light on his pole bobbing.