The Ultramarines Omnibus

by Graham McNeill

  Uriel’s head snapped up, shocked at the very idea and shocked at the ease with which Pasanius had voiced it.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Do you still feel that we are Space Marines of the Emperor?’ asked Pasanius.

  ‘Of course I do. Why should we not?’

  ‘Well, we were cast out, disgraced, and are no longer Ultramarines,’ continued Pasanius, staring vacantly into space, his voice wavering and unsure. ‘But are we still Space Marines? Do we still need to train like this? If we are not Space Marines, then what are we?’

  Pasanius lifted his head and met his gaze, and Uriel was surprised at the depths of anguish he saw. His former sergeant’s soul was bared and Uriel could see the terrible hurt it bore at their expulsion from the Chapter. He reached out and placed his hand on Pasanius’s unadorned shoulder guard.

  Uriel could understand his friend’s pain, once again feeling guilty that Pasanius shared the disgrace that should have been his and his alone.

  ‘We will always be Space Marines, my friend,’ affirmed Uriel. ‘And no matter what occurs, we will continue to observe the battle rituals of our Chapter. Wherever we are or whatever we do, we will always be warriors of the Emperor.’

  Pasanius nodded. ‘I know that,’ he said at last. ‘But at night, terrible doubts plague me and there is no one aboard this vessel I can confess to. Chaplain Clausel is not here and I cannot go to the shrine of the primarch and pray for guidance.’

  ‘You can talk to me, Pasanius, always. Are we not comrades in arms, battle-brothers and friends?’

  ‘Aye, Uriel, we will always be that, but you too are condemned alongside me. We are outcast and your words are like dust in the wind to me. I crave the spiritual guidance of one who is pure and unsullied by disgrace. I am sorry.’

  Uriel turned away from his friend, wishing he knew what to say, but he was no Chaplain and did not know the right words to bring Pasanius the solace he so obviously yearned for.

  But even as he struggled for words of reassurance, a treacherous voice within him wondered if Pasanius might be right.

  URIEL AND PASANIUS made their way back down through the bullet-riddled training building and the mangled remains of thirty-seven servitor-controlled opponents, their plastic and mesh bodies torn apart by the Space Marines’ mass-reactive bolter shells. Exiting the training building, they made their way through the packed gymnasia, heading towards one of the vessel’s many chapels of veneration. With their firing rites complete, their rigidly maintained routine now called for them to make obeisances to their primarch and the Emperor.

  The lights in the gymnasia began to dim, telling Uriel that the starship was close to entering its night-cycle, though true night and day were meaningless concepts aboard a starship. Despite that, Captain Laskaris enforced strictly timetabled lights out and reveille calls to more quickly acclimatise the passengers of Calth’s Pride to the onboard ship time. It was a common phenomenon that many soldiers had trouble adjusting to life aboard a space-faring vessel: the enforced claustrophobia along with dozens of other privations caused by ship-board life resulting in vastly increased instances of violence and disorder.

  But the regiments currently being transported within the ship’s gargantuan hull had been raised in Ultramar, and those trained within the military barracks of the Ultramarines’ realm were used to a far harsher discipline than that enforced by the ship’s crew and armsmen.

  The gymnasia was a vast, stone columned chamber, fully ninety metres from sanded floor to arched ceiling and at least a thousand wide. An entire regiment or more could comfortably train in shooting, close-quarter combat, infiltration, fighting in jungle terrain or the nightmare of city-fighting. These dedicated arenas were sectioned off throughout the gymnasia, fully realised environments where thousands of soldiers were receiving further training before reaching their intended warzone far in the galactic north-west. Row upon row of battle-flags hung from the ceiling, and huge anthracene statues of great heroes of Ultramar lined the walls. Stained-glass windows, lit from behind by flickering glow-globes, depicted the life of Roboute Guilliman as looped prayers in High Gothic echoed from flaring trumpets blown by alabaster angels mounted on every column.

  ‘Good men and women,’ noted Uriel as he watched a group of soldiers practising bayonet drills against one another.

  Despite their discipline, Uriel could see many of the training soldiers casting confused glances their way. He knew that their armour, bereft of the insignia of the Ultramarines, would no doubt be causing endless speculation amongst the regiments billeted within the ship.

  ‘Aye,’ nodded Pasanius. ‘The Macragge 808th. Most will have come from Agiselus.’

  ‘Then they will fight well,’ said Uriel. ‘A shame we cannot train with them. There is much they could learn and it would have been an honour for us to pass on our experience.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Pasanius. ‘Though I do not believe their officers would have counted it as such. I feel we may be a disappointment to many of them. A disgraced Space Marine is no hero: he is worthless, less than nothing.’

  Uriel glanced round at Pasanius, surprised by the venom in his tone.

  ‘Pasanius?’ he said.

  Pasanius shook his head, as though loosing a quiet unease, and smiled, though Uriel could see the falsity of it. ‘I am sorry, Uriel, my sleep was troubled. I’m not used to having so much of it. I keep waiting for a bellowing Chaplain Clausel to sound reveille.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Uriel, forcing a smile. ‘More than three hours of sleep a night is a luxury. Be careful you do not get too used to it, my friend.’

  ‘Not likely,’ said Pasanius, gloomily.

  URIEL KNELT BEFORE the dark marble statue of the Emperor, the flickering light from the hundreds of candles that filled the chapel reflecting a hundredfold on its smooth-finished surface. A fug of heavily scented smoke filled the upper reaches of the chapel from the many burners that lined the nave, smelling of nalwood and sandarac. Chanting priests, clutching prayer beads and burning tapers, paced the length of the chapel, muttering and raving silently to themselves while albino-skinned cherubs with flickering golden wings and cobalt-blue hair bobbed in the air above them, long lengths of prayer paper trailing from dispensers in their bellies.

  Uriel ignored them, holding the wire-wound hilt of his power sword in a two-handed grip while resting his hands on the gold quillons. The sword was unsheathed, point down on the floor, and Uriel rested his forehead on the carven skull of its pommel as he prayed.

  The sword was the last gift to him from Captain Idaeus, his former mentor, and though it had been broken on Pavonis – a lifetime ago it seemed now -Uriel had forged a new blade of his own before departing on the crusade to Tarsis Ultra and his eventual disgrace. He wondered what Idaeus would have made of his current situation and gave thanks that he was not here to see what had become of his protégé.

  Pasanius knelt beside him, eyes shut and lips moving in a silent benediction. Uriel found it hard to countenance the dark, brooding figure Pasanius had become since leaving the Fortress of Hera. True, they had been cast from the Chapter, their homeworld and battle-brothers, but they still had a duty to perform, an oath to fulfil, and a Space Marine never turned his back on such obligations, especially not an Ultramarine.

  Uriel knew that Pasanius was a warrior of courage and honour and just hoped that he had the strength of character to lift himself from this ill disposition, remembering sitting in a chapel not dissimilar to this in one of the medicae buildings on Tarsis Ultta, vexed by torments of his own. He also recalled the beautiful face of the Sister of the Order Hospitaller he had met there. Sister Joaniel Ledoyen she had been called, and she had spoken to him with a wisdom and clarity that had cut through his pain.

  Uriel had meant to return to the medicae building after the fighting, but had been too badly injured in the final assault on the hive ship to do anything other than rest as Apothecary Selenus struggled to remove the last traces of the
tyranid phage-cell poisoning from his bloodstream.

  When he had been well enough to move, it was already time to depart for Macragge, and he had not had the time to thank her for her simple kindness. He wondered what had become of her and how she had fared in the aftermath of the alien invasion. Wherever she was, Uriel wished her well.

  He finished his prayers, standing and kissing the blade of his sword before sheathing it in one economical motion. He bowed to the statue of the Emperor and made the sign of the aquila across his chest, glancing down at Pasanius as he continued to pray.

  He frowned as he noticed some odd marks protruding from the gorget of Pasanius’s armour. Standing above him, Uriel could see that the marks began at the nape of Pasanius’s neck before disappearing out of sight beneath his armour. The crusting of scar tissue told Uriel that they were wounds, recent wounds, instantly clotted by the Larraman cells within their bloodstream.

  But how had he come by such marks?

  Before Uriel could ask, he felt a presence behind him and turned to see one of the priests, a youngish man with haunted eyes, staring at him in rapt fascination.

  ‘Preacher,’ said Uriel, respectfully.

  ‘No, not yet!’ yelped the priest, twisting his prayer beads round and around his wrists in ever tighter loops. ‘No, no preacher am I. A poor cenobite, only, my angel of death.’

  Uriel could see the man’s palms were slick with blood and wondered what manner of order he belonged to. There were thousands of recognised sects within the Imperium and this man could belong to any one of them. He scanned the man’s robes for some clue, but his deep blue chasuble and scapular were unadorned save for their silver fastenings.

  ‘Can I help you with something?’ pressed Uriel as Pasanius rose to his feet and stood by his side.

  The man shook his head. ‘No,’ he cackled with a lopsided grin. ‘Already dead am I. The Omphalos Daemonium comes! I feel it pushing out from the inside of my skull. He will take me and everyone else for his infernal engine. Deadmorsels for his furnace, flesh for his table and blood for his chalice.’

  Uriel shared a sidelong glance at Pasanius and rolled his eyes, realising that the cenobite was utterly insane, a common complaint amongst the more zealous of the Emperor’s followers. Such unfortunates were deemed to exist on a level closer to the divine Emperor and allowed to roam free that their ravings might be grant some clue to the will of the Immortal Master of Mankind.

  ‘I thank you for your words, preacher,’ said Uriel, ‘but we have completed our devotions and must take our leave.’

  ‘No,’ said the cenobite emphatically.

  ‘No? What are you talking about?’ asked Uriel, beginning to lose patience with the lunatic priest. Like most of the Adeptus Astartes, the Ultramarines had a strained relationship with the priests of the Ministorum: the Space Marines’ belief that the Emperor was the mightiest mortal to bestride the galaxy, but a mortal nonetheless, diametrically opposed to the teachings of their Ecclesiarch.

  ‘Can you not hear it, son of Calth? Juddering along the bloodtracks, its hateful boxcars jolting along behind it?’

  ‘I don’t hear anything,’ said Uriel, stepping around the cenobite and marching towards the chapel’s iron door.

  ‘You will,’ promised the man.

  Uriel turned as a monotonous servitor’s voice crackled from the electrum-plated vox-units mounted in the shadows of the arched ceiling, announcing: ‘All hands prepare for warp translation. Warp translation in thirty seconds.’

  The cenobite laughed, spittle frothing at the corners of his mouth as he raised his torn forearms above his head. Blood ran from his opened wrists and spattered his face before rolling down his cheeks like ruby tears.

  He dropped to his knees and whispered, ‘Too late… the Lord of Skulls comes.’

  A spasm of sickness sheared along Uriel’s spine as the last words left the cenobite’s mouth and he stepped towards the man, ready to chastise him for uttering such blasphemies in this sanctified place.

  The lights in the chapel dimmed as the ship prepared for warp translation.

  Uriel dragged the young preacher to his feet.

  And the cenobite’s head exploded.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BLOOD GEYSERED IN slow motion from the ragged stump of the cenobite’s neck and Uriel pushed his spasming corpse away in disgust, backing away and wiping the sticky fluid from his face. The body remained upright, jerking and thrashing as though in the grip of a violent seizure. The cenobite’s arms flailed wildly, yet more blood flickering from his opened wrists and spattering the statuary and altar.

  Even as he stared in horrified fascination at the corpse’s lunatic dance, Uriel felt the familiar sensation of his primary stomach flipping as the ship jumped into the treacherous currents of the warp. He gripped one of the chapel’s pews as he felt a sudden dizziness, which vanished seconds later as his Lyman’s ear adjusted for the sudden spatial differentiation between dimensions.

  The hideous corpse continued to thrash and convulse, refusing to fall despite its lack of a head, and Uriel tasted the unmistakable sensation of warp-spawned witchery on the air. The man’s fellow priests wailed in terror, dropping to their knees and spilling prayers of protection and mercy from mouths open wide in horror. Some, made of sterner stuff, drew pistols from beneath their robes and aimed them at the dancing corpse.

  ‘No!’ shouted Uriel, drawing his sword and leaping towards the hideous revenant. It lunged towards him, arms outstretched, but a sweeping stroke of Uriel’s blade clove it from collarbone to pelvis and the shorn halves of the man fell to the marble floor, twitching, but mercifully free of whatever monstrous animation had possessed it before.

  ‘Guilliman’s blood!’ swore Pasanius, backing away from the dead cenobite and making the sign of the aquila over his chest. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Uriel, kneeling beside the corpse and wiping his blade on the cenobite’s chasuble as the lights in the chapel began flashing urgently. Wailing klaxons and ringing bells could be heard from beyond the chapel door.

  Uriel smoothly rose to his feet, saying, ‘But I have a feeling we’ll find out soon.’

  He turned and ran back to the chapel door, grabbing his bolter from the gun rack beside the entrance to the vestry. Pasanius scooped up his flamer and followed him out into the corridor, drawing up sharply as he saw what lay beyond the chapel door.

  BOTH MEN STOOD transfixed as the arched passageway before them swelled and rippled, as though in a diabolical heat haze, its dimensions swelling and distorting beyond the three known to man.

  ‘Imperator!’ breathed Pasanius in terror. ‘The Geller field must be failing. The warp is spilling in!’

  ‘And Emperor alone knows what else,’ said Uriel, his dread of the unknown terrors of the warp sending a shiver of fear along his spine. Without the Geller field to protect the ship from the predatory astral and daemonic creatures that swam in the haunted depths of the immaterium, all manner of foul entities would have free rein within the vessel’s halls, ethereal horrors and shadowy phantoms that could rip men to shreds before vanishing back into the warp.

  ‘Come on,’ shouted Uriel. ‘The gymnasia. We need to gamer as many soldiers as we can before it’s too late.’

  Uriel and Pasanius lurched their way along the passageway, stumbling like a pair of drunks as they fought to hold their equilibrium in the face of this spatial insanity. Screams and roars came from ahead, but Uriel found himself unable to pinpoint exactly where ahead was as sounds echoed and distorted wildly around him. The floors and ceilings of the stone passageways seemed to run fluid, swirling as though their very fabric was being unravelled before his eyes.

  The sound of a tolling bell rang out, ponderously slow and dolorous one second, tinny and ringing the next. Using the wall as a guide, though it was a treacherous one, the two Space Marines fought their way onwards, each step bringing fresh madness to their surroundings.

  Uriel thought he saw a
tall mountain, wreathed in smoke, form from the floor before it vanished and was replaced by a roiling sea of snapping mouths. But even that disappeared like a fever dream as soon as he tried to look upon it. He could see Pasanius was having similar difficulties, blinking and rubbing his eyes in disbelief.

  A grainy static filled Uriel’s vision and an insistent buzzing, like an approaching swarm of insects, filled his skull. He shook his head, trying to clear the distortion and unable to comprehend the things he saw before him.

  ‘How close are we?’ yelled Pasanius.

  Uriel steadied himself on a bulkhead, grateful for its transitory solidity, and shook his head again, though the movement made him want to vomit. ‘How can we tell? Everything changes the moment I look at it.’

  ‘I think we are almost there,’ said Pasanius, pointing to where the passageway widened into a marble-flagged atrium, though at present, it appeared that the chamber had been inverted, its domed ceiling swirling below their feet, its dimensions skewed completely out of true.

  Uriel nodded and pushed himself forward, an intense and nauseous sensation of vertigo seizing him as they stumbled into the flipped atrium. Uriel’s eyes told him he was crossing the floor, but he could tell that his every step found him crossing the shallow concave bowl of the inverted dome. His booted feet trod the shielded glass of the atrium’s dome that was all that lay between him and the warp.

  Uriel looked down through the dome, the nauseous sensation in his gut surging upwards, and he dropped to his knees, vomiting explosively across the glass. A sickly mass of bruised colours foamed and swirled beyond the glass, the very stuff of the warp itself, noxious and toxic to the eye. Its bilious malevolence went beyond its simple hideous appearance, violating some inner part of the human mind that dared not comprehend its nightmarish potential.

  Uriel found his eyes drawn to a loathsome stain of the warp, a vile, filthy sore of ash-stained yellow, he