The robe was light grey, bereft of any insignia or design. Despite his physical bulk, this rendered him virtually invisible to his battle-brothers. He ranked beneath even the serfs and knaves. Only servitors were lower in the Chapter’s hierarchy, considered materiel rather than people.
He knelt on the floor of the Black Reclusiam, the chapel set aside for the Ravenwing on those rare occasions when they spent time in the Tower of Angels. The long benches were as old as his armour, the varnish peeled and cracked as he applied another coat of lacquer with a coarse brush. More varnish than wood remained, he thought.
It was the only time he and the other Black Knights were allowed in the Black Reclusiam. Amongst their many bans was sharing the devotionals and recitals conducted by Malcifer for the rest of the company.
He had expected penance, had even desired it. But this penance was like no other he had experienced. No Dark Angel could wholly avoid spending time in the penitentium now and then. Whether caught by the vagaries of the Chapter’s arcane lore or the notoriously fickle demands of the Chaplains – or worse still, the unflinching application of the Rites by Asmodai – it was expected that every battle-brother would spend time in the Reclusiam to acknowledge his sins. Time was spent transcribing the annals of the Chapter or reciting aloud canticles of doctrine and war-prayers. A few days, a week or two.
The Black Knights had disobeyed their Grand Master, the fact could not be denied. Even so, the Black Knights’ incarceration seemed harsh to Annael. From the moment they had returned to the Implacable Justice and presented themselves before Chaplain Malcifer and Grand Master Sammael they had been sentenced to penitent status indefinitely. Only on return to the Rock had they been permitted to perform duties outside the penitentium.
It was serf-work mainly. Scraping the algal build-up from the environmental humidifier intakes. Scrubbing walls and floors. Assisting the Techmarines with oily unguents that stained the fingers. Helping the refectora prepare the nutrigruel, carboloafs and vitamead for the warriors of the companies – nearly a thousand mouths to feed, with the Chapter wholly assembled for the first time in years. The penitents themselves ate in their solitary cells, forbidden from mixing with the other battle-brothers.
Most of it was drudgery, pure and simple. Some of it was dangerous, to a degree. Sabrael and Annael had been sent out into the void to chip ice crystals from a failed plasma exchange, protected by nothing more than antiquated environment suits, attached to the Rock by frayed tethers. Sabrael had quipped that their superiors wanted the Black Knights dead, but Annael had not shared his morbid humour.
The menial tasks were meant to give the penitents time to think on their transgressions and come to repent them. It was not punishment, but opportunity. Freed from the concerns of the battle-brothers, the penitents had the time to focus on their redemption.
So three-quarters of each day was spent. Another five hours were used for study and transcription, the absorption of knowledge, the repetition of the edicts and strictures the slabs on the road to understanding and absolution.
One hour was set aside for sleep and another for two meals and necessary hygienic matters. Annael was used to routine, every Dark Angel was. In that respect, the penance was nothing to endure.
What Annael hated most was the humiliation.
The details of the Black Knights’ crimes were not shared with any other, and any rumour would be ruthlessly crushed by the Chaplains. The good deed performed by Annael and his companions was unknown to the rest of the Chapter. All they saw were grey robes. Transgressors. Tainted and honourless. Annael was bidden by oath to offer no dispute to any accusation or insult levelled at him by his brothers. He was not to speak to them, not even the Supreme Grand Master. Only Malcifer was to communicate with the penitents, the voice and ears by which they would be guided back to their righteous place amongst the ranks of the Dark Angels.
This fact chafed Annael as much as the robe itself. They had saved Sabrael! Yet not a word was he allowed to utter in his defence, ashamed and dishonoured before all.
He had endured the curses of ‘turnword’, ‘sliptongue’, ‘slywound’ and ‘skainbreak’, and without reply. When Brother Varidetus had called him a ‘stinking oath-wretch’ and split his lip with a punch, Annael had accepted this pronouncement in silence. He would harbour no resentment to Varidetus – Annael had inflicted worse on penitents in his time. It was not only permitted, but expected. The punishment of the body went hand-in-hand with the vexation of the soul.
‘Your brush falls idle, Annael.’ Malcifer approached along the gap between the benches, his black robe dragging across the floor Annael had swept at the start of the day. He wore no mask, but his face was just as lifeless. The continual omission of ‘brother’ was another subtle but piercing chastisement. ‘I trust that you were so wrapped in sorrow for your abandoned brothers that it quite overwhelmed you.’
‘My abandoned brothers?’ Annael moved to stand up but a gesture from Malcifer kept him on his knees.
‘The First Company that you chose to ignore while you pursued your personal goal.’
‘I did not abandon them, but time was of the essence.’
‘It was indeed, but time does not twist at your behest any more than your superiors receive their orders from you. There was a mission, in which you were called upon to participate, and in your absence you brought greater risk to the lives of your battle-brothers.’
‘But we saved Sabrael!’ Finally Annael was able to speak the words out loud. It did not make him feel any better, now that the deed was done.
‘The result justifies the defiance, does it?’
Malcifer’s sharp words made Annael realise how petulant the protest sounded. The words seemed hollow, failing to capture the sentiment he had intended.
‘A brother’s life was directly threatened, Brother-Chaplain.’ How could he explain? How would Malcifer, the embodiment of discipline and adherence to the strictures of the Chapter, possibly understand? ‘Are we not meant to act to preserve our brothers?’
‘The matter was brought to the attention of Grand Master Sammael and he disapproved of any such act. You disobeyed not only his desire, but his direct command. You can claim no ignorance of the crime nor cite any reason that supercedes a superior’s order.’
‘How much longer must we pay penance?’ Annael asked, returning to his labour at a gesture from the Chaplain. ‘I am sorry that we had to disobey Master Sammael.’
‘You misunderstand the intent of your penance, Annael.’ Malcifer turned his back on the Space Marine but did not walk away. ‘It is not a punishment, to be meted out from me to you to balance a scale that has been skewed. This penance is for a crime that borders on treason, and save for execution no punishment could be weighed against such sin.’
‘So what must I do?’ Annael laid aside the brush and looked up with desperation. ‘I am sorry.’
‘A meaningless word.’ Malcifer looked back, brow creased with anger. ‘Your apology does not match the spirit in your heart, so save your tongue from the burn of platitudes.’
‘But I am sorry, Brother-Chaplain.’
‘Sorry is an expression of guilt. Your admittance of the facts of your transgression does not equate to repentance. Do you believe you would act differently if presented with the same situation again?’ Annael paused and Malcifer seized upon the hesitation. ‘Your equivocation speaks volumes more than carefully-crafted words! You do not regret your actions, and admit no wrong in them. Until you do so, you have not repented and so there can be no forgiveness.’
The Chaplain walked away up the aisle, head bowed in disappointment, hands clasped behind his back. Annael watched him depart, and only when he heard the hiss of the doors sealing closed did he snatch up the brush and throw it at the wall, spattering the bulkhead with red lacquer.
He instantly regretted the act. Someone – probably him – would have to cle
an up the mess, and he had defiled the sepulchre of the Ravenwing.
There was no point in simply telling Malcifer what he wanted to hear. The Chaplain was experienced enough to detect the slightest falsehood. Even if that were not the case, Annael could not bring himself to utter an untruth. He did not believe that rescuing Sabrael had been wrong, and events proved that. To admit otherwise would be a tremendous act of cowardice, for his principles but also for his friend.
Half-Life
The hissing, whirring machines, the stench of antibacterial agents and whitewashed walls meant that he was in an apothecarion. After a few seconds’ contemplation of this fact, analysing the background noise and vibrations, the smell, the sounds from beyond the glass door in front of him, Telemenus concluded that he had been returned to the Rock.
He could see himself – what was left of his body – in the door of a metal cabinet polished to a mirror-like finish. He was on a life-support stretcher, nothing more than a head, half a torso and his right arm. Where his guts and legs had been was a mess of tubes, pumps, blood-scrubbers and stimm-feeds.
The glow-globe above was a warm yellow, leaving blotches of darkness in his eyes when he looked away. It was strange to think that even his vision had been damaged, though he had suffered no blow to the head.
‘Such is the intricate nature of your physiology,’ the Emperor said. The Lord of Terra manifested Himself as a small star-like reflection of a sun, in the curved shade of the lamp beside the life-support cot. There was the faint hint of a skull at the centre of the miniature sun, while the Emperor’s corona swayed and flared like hair in a strong wind. ‘A finely honed but delicately balanced system. Without certain agents previously introduced into your bloodstream by organs that are now missing, your visual acuity has returned to that of a normal human.’
A figure appeared at the glass screen of the door – a serf in white orderly robes. He saw that Telemenus was awake, nodded encouragingly and then departed.
‘I was in stasis,’ Telemenus said, though he kept the words inside his head where only the Emperor could hear them. ‘I wonder what happened after Ulthor.’
‘Do not concern yourself with wider events. Your immediate fate must be of more concern. Your body is crippled but you must convince the Apothecaries that your mind is still fully functioning.’
With some effort, Telemenus moved his hand to his chest.
‘I will do all that I can to continue to serve. I swore an oath to fight for You until my death. I will cleave to that oath if I can.’
‘Your will is strong. That much is proven by the fact that you still live. Brother Ezekiel himself declared so. The Chapter makes use of even the most grievously wounded. Only despair will rob you of the chance to serve Me further.’
‘That You have chosen me banishes all despair, Master of Mankind. I take strength from Your indulgence. With Your wisdom to guide me and Your will to sustain me, there is no test I fear.’
There was more movement at the door and a white-robed Apothecary entered, followed by a Space Marine in the red tabard of the armoury – a Techmarine. Telemenus recognised both – the former from the Deathwing, the latter by the bionic appendage that had replaced his right arm and the plasma scars up the side of his face.
‘Brother Temraen, Brother Adrophius,’ he welcomed them. Telemenus smiled. ‘Excuse me for not standing.’
They took the joke with thin smiles, their lips at odds with the concern in their eyes. Telemenus regretted his flippancy, wondering if being so dismissive of his condition made him seem less stable.
‘How do you feel?’ asked Temraen.
It was an odd question. Telemenus hardly felt anything. There was not much left of him to feel. He decided that honesty was the best approach.
‘My hand is slightly numb,’ he said, waggling his fingers. ‘My eyesight has diminished also. Breathing seems laboured and I am fatigued.’
Temraen accepted this status report with a nod. He hummed a hymnal as he checked the gauges on the life-support cradle.
‘That is nothing unusual,’ the Apothecary said, making further notes on the data-slate in his hand. Telemenus desperately wanted to know what Temraen was writing, but said nothing, afraid that undue interest might be taken as paranoia. ‘The loss of your third lung and secondary heart will have that effect. I am compensating with mechanical and alchemical solutions, but we will have to wean you off their assistance eventually. You can function with what remains, but it is better to let your system adapt over time. Any side-effects of the suspended animation induction?’
‘No.’ Telemenus looked at Adrophius. ‘How can I be of assistance, brother-armourer?’
The Techmarine crouched and looked closely at the scars and scabs of Telemenus’s wounds. Expressionless, he stood again and received the Apothecary’s slate to study for a few seconds.
‘Difficult,’ said the Techmarine, though Telemenus did not know the question to which this was obviously the answer.
‘What is difficult, brother?’ asked Telemenus. He became sharply aware of the increased beep on one of the machines attached to him as his heart started to race. He turned his attention back to Temraen. ‘What have you been discussing?’
‘Apologies, brother,’ said Adrophius, focusing on Telemenus for the first time since entering the room, as if he had only just noticed him. The plasma scars on his face, a deep red weal from chin to ear, formed strange spirals as Adrophius smiled. ‘I have been assessing your suitability for prosthetic enhancement.’
‘Can you rebuild me?’ Telemenus asked. He knew that the armourium was capable of bionic wonders at times.
‘No,’ was the Techmarine’s blunt reply. ‘The arm is no problem, of course. Full lower limb replacement is possible. Artificial organs, perhaps with some gene-replacements, are always available. But not all together. Too much nerve and circulatory damage to sustain the cybernetic systems.’
‘Neural conductivity might also be an issue,’ said Temraen. ‘It would be too much for your brain to lay new pathways, especially after the infection you suffered. There was slight necrosis in your right hemisphere.’
‘Even if we could patch all of those augmetics and prosthetics together, your movement, your reaction times, your coordination will all be compromised.’
‘A danger to your battle-brothers,’ added Temraen. Telemenus was not thankful for the clarification but kept any bitterness he might feel suppressed.
‘What can you do?’ he asked. He caught the flicker of the Emperor in the corner of his eye and remained calm, fighting a rising desperation. ‘How can I continue to serve the Chapter? The Emperor? Only in death does duty end. I am not dead!’
‘If the damage were less extensive I am sure the Master of Recruits might have been able to make use of you,’ said Temraen. ‘I understand that your marksmanship is excellent. Perhaps there is still a training role for you, even if you can no longer demonstrate your skills physically.’
‘Stop listing things I can’t do!’ snapped Telemenus, losing his patience. He bit back another angry retort and tried to calm himself. ‘Tell me what I can do. Please.’
‘Gunnery, most likely,’ Adrophius told him. ‘You might never be able to pick up a bolter again, but that marksmanship can still be useful. We can map your neural systems onto a gunnery interface. Predator turret, perhaps? You are Deathwing, they are always looking for good gunners for their Land Raiders.’
‘A sponson gunner?’ Telemenus tried not to sound deflated. It was, after everything, a miracle he would be able to do anything.
‘Subject to a full evaluation,’ warned Temraen. ‘The Master of the Apothecarion will assess your suitability for return to battlefield duties.’
‘If not?’ Telemenus did not really want to know, but had to ask. Better to learn now what his fate might be.
‘Assignment to a warship gunnery position, if there is one
available,’ said Temraen. Being wired into the targeting systems of a strike cruiser’s weapon batteries was a dubious honour, but better than the Apothecary’s next suggestion. ‘Or maybe integration into the Rock’s defence array.’
‘I understand.’
There seemed to be nothing more to discuss and the two Space Marines left after Temraen had checked a few more of the life-sustaining systems.
‘I have to prepare for the worst,’ Telemenus said to the Emperor. ‘Oaths sworn demand that I accept whatever duties are assigned to me.’
‘A worthy outlook.’ The Emperor grew bright, moving along the blades of scalpels arranged in a row on a shelf just above Telemenus’s right shoulder. ‘Your tenacity and dedication are a credit. Be sure that the Master Apothecary sees that. The chance to fight at all is better than nothing.’
‘Better than death?’
‘You will know that only once you have experienced it.’
A mischievous thought crept into Telemenus’s head.
‘If anyone knows that, it is You. Imperator Mortis Rex. How was death for You?’
‘Painful,’ the Master of Mankind admitted. ‘But not without its benefits.’
The apparition of the Emperor shimmered into nothing, leaving Telemenus alone. The room felt flat without the presence of his creator. Grey and empty.
‘Only in death does duty end,’ Telemenus whispered out loud.
He looked up at the scalpels and the shelf they were on. He stretched out a hand, fingers clawing for the edge of the shelf. He knew the shelf would not take much to break, even in his weakened state, toppling the surgical knives within reach.
He withdrew his hand, disgusted with himself. He stared at the blank ceiling, trying to imagine what it would be like to be a gunner in one of the Rock’s batteries, never leaving the Tower of Angels, and in all likelihood never again seeing battle.
Eventually exhaustion, and perhaps more of Temraen’s coma-inducing elixirs, claimed him and he fell into a deep sleep.
The Unforgiven - Gav Thorpe Page 15